The Wooden Shoes
The old priest was mumbling the last words of his sermon over the white caps of the peasant women, and the rough or greasy heads of the men. The large baskets of the farmers’ wives who had come from a distance to attend Mass were on the ground beside them, and the heavy heat of a July day caused them all to exhale a smell like that of cattle, or of a flock of sheep, and the cocks could be heard crowing through the large open door, as well as the lowing of the cows in a neighbouring field. From time to time a breath of wind, charged with the perfume of the fields, swept in through the main entrance, fluttered the ribbons in the women’s hats, and made the little yellow candle flames on the altar tremble.
“As God wishes. Amen!” the priest said. Then he ceased, opened a book, and, as he did every week, began to give notice to his flock of all the small parish events for the following week. He was an old man with white hair who had been in the parish for over forty years, and from the pulpit was in the habit of discoursing familiarly to them all; so he went on: “I recommend Désiré Vallin, who is very ill, to your prayers, and also La Paumelle, who is recovering very slowly from her confinement.”
He had forgotten the rest, and so he looked for the slips of paper which were put away in a breviary. At last he found two and continued: “I will not have the lads and the girls come into the church yard in the evening, as they do; otherwise I shall inform the rural policeman. Monsieur Césaire Omont would like to find a respectable girl as servant.” He thought for a few moments, and then added: “That is all, my brethren, and I wish that all of you may find the Divine mercy.” And he came down from the pulpit, to finish Mass.
When the Malandains had returned to their thatched cottage, which was the last in the village of La Sablière, on the road to Fourville, the father, a thin, wrinkled old peasant, sat down at the table, while his wife took the saucepan off the fire, and Adélaïde, the daughter, took the glasses and plates out of the sideboard. Then the father said: “I think that place at Maître Omont’s ought to be a good one, as he is a widower and his daughter-in-law does not like him. He is all alone and has money. I think it would be a good thing to send Adélaïde there.”
His wife put the black saucepan on to the table, took the lid off, and while the steam, which smelled strongly of cabbage, rose into the air she pondered on the suggestion. Presently the old man continued: “He has got some money, that is certain, but anyone going there ought to be very sharp, and Adélaïde is not that at all.”
His wife replied: “I might go and see, all the same,” and turning to her daughter, a strapping, silly looking girl with yellow hair and fat, red cheeks like apples, she said: “Do you hear, you great silly? You are to go to Maître Omont’s and offer yourself as his servant, and you will do whatever he tells you.”
The girl began to laugh in a foolish manner, without replying, and then the three began their dinner. In a few minutes, the father continued: “Listen to me, girl, and try not to make a mistake about what I am going to say to you.” And slowly and minutely he laid down for her her line of conduct, anticipating the minutest details, and preparing her for the conquest of an old widower who was on unfriendly terms with his family. The mother ceased eating to listen to him, and she sat there, with her fork in her hand, looking at her husband and her daughter by turns, and following every word with concentrated and silent attention, while Adélaïde remained listless, docile, and stupid, with vague and wandering eyes.
As soon as their meal was over, her mother made her put her cap on, and they both started off to see Monsieur Césaire Omont. He lived in a small, brick house adjoining his tenants’ cottages, for he had retired, and was living by subdividing and letting his land.
He was about fifty-five years old, and was stout, jovial, and rough-mannered, as rich men often are. He laughed and shouted loud enough to make the walls fall down, drank brandy and cider by the glassful, and was said to be still of an amorous disposition, in spite of his age. He liked to walk about his fields with his hands behind his back, digging his wooden shoes into the fat soil, looking at the sprouting corn or the flowering colza with the eye of a retired farmer, at his ease, who likes to see the crops but does not trouble himself about them any longer. People used to say of him: “There is a
