house of God.
A dog had begun to follow the procession; they threw sweets to it, and it frisked round their feet.
The church-door was open. By the altar stood the priest, a tall fellow, slim and strong, with red hair. He too was a Dentu, the child’s uncle, another brother of the father. And he duly bestowed the name of Prosper-César upon his nephew, who began to cry when he tasted the symbolic salt.
When the ceremony was over, the family waited on the steps while the priest took off his surplice; then they started off once more. They went fast now, for there was the prospect of dinner before them. A crowd of urchins followed, and whenever a handful of sweets was thrown to them they struggled furiously; they fought hand to hand and pulled one another’s hair; even the dog dashed into the fight for the sweets, more stubborn than the children who tugged at his tail and ears and paws.
The nurse was tired; she turned to the priest walking beside her, and said: “How’d it be, sir, if you was to carry your nevvy for a stretch? Ah’m that cramped in the belly, ah’d like a bit of a rest, like.”
The priest took the child in his arms, the white clothes making a broad white stripe over the black cassock. He was embarrassed by the little burden, not knowing how to carry it or set it down. Everyone laughed, and one of the grandmothers shouted: “Aren’t ye ever sorry, passon, that ye’ll never have one of your own?”
The priest made no answer. He went forward with long strides, gazing intently at the blue-eyed baby, longing to kiss the rounded cheeks. He could no longer restrain the impulse; raising the child to his face, he gave it a long kiss.
The father shouted: “Hey there, passon, if ye’d like one, ye’ve only to say so.”
They began to jest, after the fashion of peasants.
As soon as they were seated at table, the rough peasant merriment broke out like a tempest. The two other sons were also to marry soon; their sweethearts were present, invited just for the meal; the guests perpetually alluded to the future generations foreshadowed by these unions.
Their words were coarse and pungent; the blushing girls giggled, the men guffawed. They shouted and beat upon the table with their fists. The father and grandfather were not behindhand with scandalous suggestions. The mother smiled; the old women took their share in the fun and thrust in obscene remarks.
The priest, inured to these rustic orgies, sat quietly beside the nurse, tickling his nephew’s little mouth. He seemed surprised at the child’s appearance, as though he had never noticed it. He contemplated it with deliberate intentness, with dreamy gravity, and a tenderness arose in his heart, a strange, unknown tenderness, sharp and a little melancholy, for the frail little creature that was his brother’s son.
He heard nothing, saw nothing, but stared at the child. He wanted to take him once more upon his knees, for still in his breast and in his heart he retained the soft pressure of the infant’s body, as when he carried him back from the church.
He was touched by that scrap of humanity as by an ineffable mystery of which he had never before thought, a mystery sacred and august, a new spirit made flesh, the great mystery of newborn life, of wakening love, of the undying race of humanity going on forever and ever.
The nurse was eating; her eyes shone in her red face. She was worried by the child, who prevented her from getting comfortably near the table.
“Give him to me,” said the priest; “I’m not hungry.” And he took the child. Then everything around him faded and disappeared; his eyes were fixed on the chubby pink face. Little by little the warmth of the tiny body penetrated through the shawls and the cassock to his legs, like a caress, so light, so good, so pure, so sweet, that his eyes filled with tears.
The noise of the revellers became terrific. The child, disturbed by the uproar, began to cry.
A voice sang out: “Hey there, passon, feed your baby.”
And a burst of laughter shook the room. But the mother had risen; she took her son and carried him into the next room. She came back a few minutes later announcing that he was fast asleep in his cradle.
The meal went on. From time to time men and women went out into the yard, then returned and sat down again. The meat, the vegetables, the cider, and the wine coursed down their throats, swelled their bellies, excited their spirits.
Night was falling when the coffee came in.
Long before then the priest had vanished, his absence arousing no surprise.
At last the young mother rose to see if the child were still asleep. It was dark now. She entered the room on tiptoe, and advanced with arms outstretched, so as not to knock against the furniture. But a strange noise made her stop, and she hurried out again in a fright, sure that she had heard someone move. Pale and trembling, she regained the dining room and told her story. The men rose noisily, drunk and angry, and the father, a lamp in his hand, rushed out.
The priest was on his knees beside the cradle, sobbing. His forehead rested on the pillow, beside the child’s head.
Coco
Throughout the neighbourhood the Lucases’ farm was known as the “Métairie,” no one could say why. The peasants no doubt connected this word “Métairie” with an idea of wealth and size, for the farm was certainly the largest, most prosperous, and best-managed in the district.
The yard was very large, and was encircled by five rows of magnificent trees, planted to shelter the short delicate apple trees from the strong wind of the plain. It contained long tile-roofed buildings in which the hay and grain were stored, fine cowsheds built of flints, stabling for thirty horses, and a dwelling-house of red brick,
