"Everything's going on all right, I hope?"
"Quite so, thank you," replied Berthe, annoyed, and feeling quite crushed.
The Lengaignes were the heroes of the day, and the Macquerons felt that their noses were put out of joint. Cœlina angrily compared the sallow scrawniness of her daughter, whose face was already wrinkled, with the sleek and rosy beauty of the other girl. Was it just that that hussy, who gave herself up to men from morning till night, should look so fresh and bright, when a virtuous maiden grew as faded and wan in her lonely bed as if she had had three confinements? No, indeed, virtue went unrewarded, and it wasn't worth while for a girl to remain living an honest life with her parents! All the vintage parties greeted Suzanne enthusiastically. She kissed the children who had grown taller, and she stirred the old folks' hearts by reminding them of the past. What does it matter what one may be, as long as one has succeeded and is independent of other people's patronage? And Suzanne, said the peasants, showed that she had a good heart by not despising her family, and by coming back to see her old friends now that she had grown rich.
At the first stroke of noon they all sat down to eat their bread and cheese. On a line with the tops of the stakes you saw rows of women's heads covered with blue kerchiefs. None of them had any appetite, however, for they had been stuffing themselves with grapes ever since daybreak. Their throats were sticky with the sugary juice; their bellies, as round and swollen as barrels, rumbled with the purgative effects of what they had swallowed. Already at every minute some girl or other was obliged to retire behind a hedge. The others naturally laughed, and the men got up and guffawed jocosely as the girls went past them. It was a scene of general merriment, quite free from all constraint.
They were just finishing their bread and cheese when Macqueron came in sight on the road at the foot of the hill-side, accompanied by the Abbé Madeline. Then Suzanne was abruptly forgotten, and all eyes were turned upon the priest. To tell the truth, he did not create a very favourable impression. He was as lank as a pike-staff, and gloomy and ascetic-looking. However, he bowed in front of each vineyard, and said a pleasant word or two to every one, so that the peasants ended by finding him very polite and gentle. He evidently hadn't got any will of his own; they meant to make him do as they pleased. It would be easier to deal with him than with that cross-grained, cantankerous Abbé Godard! As he passed on, they joked and grew merry again behind his back. Soon he reached the top of the hill, and then, a prey to vague fear and gloomy melancholy, he stood motionless, gazing upon the vast grey plain of La Beauce. The big bright eyes of this mountain-born priest filled with tears as he thought of the narrow hill-bound landscapes of the gorges of Auvergne.
Buteau's vines were close to him. Lise and Françoise were gathering the grapes, while Hyacinthe, who had not failed to bring his father with him, had already got tipsy with the grape juice which he had swallowed while pretending to empty the small baskets into the large ones. The grapes were fermenting inside him, puffing him out with such a volume of gas that it sought escape from every aperture. The presence of the priest, too, seemed to excite him.
"You dirty brute!" Buteau cried to him, "can't you at least wait till his reverence has gone away?"
Hyacinthe, however, would not submit to the reprimand; assuming the air of a man who could be as refined as he chose, he replied:
"I'm not doing it on his account; I'm doing it to please myself."