The worst of it was that Buteau himself became subject to odious fits of temper. The land was suffering from a terrible drought, not a drop of rain having fallen for six weeks; and he would come in with his fists clenched, made ill by the sight of the spoilt crops—the stunted barley, the shrivelled oats, and the wheat, which was already scorched up before coming into ear. He actually suffered as if he had been part of the crops themselves; his stomach shrank, his limbs were racked with cramps, he dwindled and pined away with anxiety and anger. In this state he, one morning, came to loggerheads with Françoise for the first time. It was hot, and after washing at the well, he had left part of his shirt hanging out behind. As he was sitting down to eat his soup, Françoise, on coming forward to help him, observed it. Then she burst out, reddening all over:
"Tuck your shirt in, do! It's disgusting!"
He was in a bad humour already, and now flew into a passion.
"God's truth! Haven't you done picking me to pieces yet? Don't look, if it offends you. One would think you had some lewd fancy in your head from the way you jaw about it!"
She reddened still more, and began to stammer; while Lise injudiciously added:
"He's right. You end by plaguing one. Go elsewhere if one can't be at home in one's own house."
"Quite so; I will go elsewhere," said Françoise savagely, banging the door after her as she went out.
But on the following day Buteau was once more pleasant, conciliatory, and jocular. During the night the sky had clouded over, and for twelve hours a fine, warm, penetrating rain had fallen; one of those summer rains that freshen up the country. He had opened the window, which looked on to the plain, and since daybreak he had stood at it with his hands in his pockets, radiant, and watching the stream pour down, while he repeated:
"Now we're gentlefolks, since the blessed God is doing our work for us. Ah! thunder and blazes! The days spent like this, idling about, are a lot better than those when one wears oneself out for no return."
The rain still came streaming down slowly, softly, and endlessly. He could hear thirsting, riverless, and springless La Beauce drinking this water. 'Twas one vast murmur, a universal gurgling, full of comfort. Everything absorbed the moisture, everything bloomed anew under the shower. The wheat was regaining its youthful healthfulness; it was sturdy and upright now, bearing on high the ears which would swell mightily and burst with meal. Buteau, like the soil, like the wheat, drank in at every pore, feeling cheerful, refreshed, and restored to health, ever returning to his post at the window, and shouting: