"At all events," said he, with his hoarse laugh, "I know how I am ruining myself." Then he broke off to indulge in a muttered curse. During the last few minutes, as the vehicle rolled along, he had been trying to make out what was going on by the road-side some distance off. Although it was Sunday, he had sent a recently-purchased hay-making machine, on a new system, to turn a cutting of lucern, which required immediate attention. The farm-hand, being off his guard, and not recognising his master in this strange vehicle approaching, was making fun of the machine in company with three peasants whom he had stopped on the way. "There," said he, "that's a nice old tin-pot thing. It creaks like an old pulley, breaks the grass to bits, and poisons it. On my word, three sheep have already died of it."
The peasants, meanwhile, sneered and examined the hay-making machine as if it were some strange, spiteful animal. One of them even said: "All these things are devilish inventions to ruin poor folks. What will our wives do when people are able to make hay without them?"
"A precious lot the masters care about that," resumed the farm-hand, launching out a kick at the machine. "Ugh! you beast!"
Hourdequin had heard him, and popping his head and shoulders out of the vehicle, he shouted: "Go back to the farm, Zéphyrin, get your wages, and take yourself off."
The farm-hand stood stupefied, while the three peasants went off, indulging in insulting laughter and loudly audible jests.
"There," said Hourdequin, throwing himself back on the seat. "You saw them. That's the state in which they are. One might imagine that improved machinery burnt their fingers. Besides, they treat me as if I were a townsman. They take less trouble with my land than with other people's, saying that I can afford to pay higher prices; and they are supported by my neighbours, who accuse me of getting the country folk into idle ways. They even assert that if there were many like me, the farmers would no longer be able to get their work done as they used to."
The gig now reached the foot of the hill, and was entering Rognes by the Bazoches-le-Doyen road, when the deputy perceived the Abbé Godard coming out of Macqueron's shop, where he had breakfasted that morning after mass. Monsieur de Chédeville's election worries once more took possession of him, and he asked: "How about the religious feeling in our country districts?"
"Oh! there's an outward show, but nothing at the bottom of it," carelessly replied Hourdequin, who certainly made no outward show himself. He stopped at the tavern kept by Macqueron, who was standing at the door with the priest, and he introduced his assessor, who was wearing a greasy old overcoat. Cœlina, looking very neat in her print dress, ran up, pushing forward her daughter Berthe, the pride of the family, who was genteelly clad in a silk dress, with narrow mauve stripes.
Meanwhile, the village, which had been in a dead-alive state, as if every one had been made lazy by so fine a Sunday, woke up in its surprise at this unusual visit. Peasants appeared on the thresholds, and children peeped out from behind their mothers' skirts. At the Lengaignes' especially there was much hurrying to and fro, and the husband was craning his head out, with his razor in his hand, while his wife, Flore, stopped weighing twopenny worth of tobacco to press her face against the window-pane, both of them being extremely vexed at seeing the gentleman get down at their rival's door. Little by little people came round, and a crowd collected, the whole of Rognes being by this time aware of the important event.
Addressing the deputy, Macqueron, who was flushed and embarrassed, exclaimed: "This is, indeed, an honour, sir."