JEAN scarcely closed his eyes that night; his windows were open and the croaking of the frogs made the darkness far more clamorous than daylight. The cocks crowed incessantly, and their mistaken salutations of the milky light that came down from the stars caused their voices to grow fainter and fainter with fatigue as daybreak approached. The cocks in the village sent out the call, and the reply came back from the neighbouring farms one after another: A cry repeated by a thousand sentinels.... Jean lay awake, vaguely muttering this line. The windows framed squares of deep blue, choked with stars. He got up and stood with bare feet looking out at them; he called them by their names; but the problem that had arisen the day before still gently agitated his mind. Had he dealt with it metaphysically, or by a carefully worked out system of self-consolation? Certainly those of the Masters who believed were the rulers of their class. But did Chateaubriand ever hesitate to risk his chances of salvation for a caress? And how many times did Barbey d'Aurevilly betray the Son of Man for a kiss? Were not their triumphs measured by the extent to which they betrayed God?
After daybreak the outrageous squealing of some little pigs kept Jean awake; he closed the shutters in order that no one might look in upon him. On the pavement just outside, Madame Bourideys, who kept a haberdashery shop, stopped Noémi d'Artiailh to ask her whether she had breakfasted. From behind the shutters Jean gazed greedily at Noémi; she was seventeen; her head, with its brown ringlets like an angel by a Spanish painter, seemed unsuited to such a compact body. But Jean loved the contrast between her firm, rather badly proportioned figure and her seraphic features which made all the ladies call her "as pretty as a picture." A shade too thickset for a Raphael Madonna, she awakened both the best and the worst in Jean; she induced high thoughts and incited low gratifications. There was a sheen upon her throat and breast, and shadowy lashes intensified the modesty of long dark eyelids. A vague look of childish purity still hovered about her features. Then came her surprisingly strong boyish hands, and the calves of her legs that, had they not been pressed into laced boots, would have gone straight down to her heels.
Jean Péloueyre watched his angel slyly; Cadette's grandson could look at her openly whenever he liked; handsome boys, even of the peasant class, had the right to look at any girl that pleased them. Jean hardly dared to breathe in the puffs of air that blew across his face when her muslin dress brushed his chair in church; a delicious odour of soap and fresh linen. He sighed as he put on yesterday's shirt (it was also the day before yesterday's); his body wasn't worth wasting any time over. He used a minute jug of water and a tiny basin so that he could shut the lid of the stand without breaking them. He went into the garden to sit under the lime tree, and instead of saying his prayers he read a newspaper in order to hide his face from Cadette's grandson. The brute was whistling gaily, there was a red carnation behind his ear, and his blue trousers were belted in tightly at his waist. He had the radiance and robustness of a young cock, and Jean hated him and detested himself for his hatred. There was no consolation in the knowledge that this boy would soon turn into a gross peasant, for another just like him would then be watering the lettuces, just as there would be other white butterflies like those now fluttering in the sunlight. "Oh, God," Jean said to himself, "my thoughts this morning are even uglier than my face!"
From the house came the flute-like voice of the priest. What intrigue had brought him at this hour of the morning? It wasn't the time for his daily visit, and in any case how dared he risk an encounter with Fernand Cazenave who was always furious at the sight of a priest? From behind the lime tree Jean watched Fernand taking his customary five minutes' constitutional before meals. His mother followed, gasping for breath: a rotund bust supporting a majestic head; a stupendous machine of a body, awkward from long use, but obedient to the wishes of the adored son. It was as though he had set it in motion simply by pressing a button. The Councillor waited for its approach; he wiped his dripping forehead and the leather band in his straw hat. He was perspiring horribly under his alpaca coat, and a frown wrinkled his colourless face from which two steely eyes gazed ignorantly upon the world. It was his mother's custom to clear his way through life for him, and she treated people like branches obstructing his path. She was reputed to have said: "If Fernand marries, my daughter-in-law will die." But no daughter-in-law cared to take the chance; would any young woman have undertaken to look after a man of settled habits, over fifty, and still accustomed to the attentions of a nurse? The Angelus rang out and vibrated in the blazing atmosphere. Jean heard the councillor muttering: "Blast those bells!"
Jean's aunt and Fernand were already seated at table with their napkins about their necks when he slipped in silently and took his place. M. Jêrome was also late and sank into an attitude that suggested great timidity. But his eyes shone as he declared that the priest had detained him. Father and son sat, heads sunk between shoulders, waiting for the usual outburst; it came with the mutton. Fernand was helped first and, with fork in air, he interrogated the maternal countenance. Félicité tried a piece, put it back on her plate, and uttered a single word: "Overdone." The Cazenaves pushed away their plates simultaneously and Cadette emerged from the kitchen with a wailing defence of her handiwork—a useless uproar, for the Councillor proceeded to appease the clamourings of his stomach by devouring the overdone meat. More than satisfied, he asked to be forgiven for not having gone at once to greet his Uncle Péloueyre. He had seen an ecclesiastical hat in the vestibule and his uncle knew that the sight of a priest caused him physical horror. M. Jêrome addressed his son in a colourless voice, without raising his eyes from his plate: "He came to talk to me about you, Jean; does it surprise you that he wants you to get married?" Fernand remarked with a sneer that the priest must have been joking. "Why?" asked his uncle, "Jean is twenty-two!" Then Fernand broke out: What had this ecclesiastic got to do with it! By what right did he put his nose into their family affairs? But his whisper as to whether after all Jean could marry, drew a frantic signal of warning from his mother who felt that this was going too far. "It would be very nice for Jean to marry," she said, "this house needs a mistress. Oh, of course, young women have peculiar ideas, and no doubt Jêrome's mechanical existence would have to be somewhat changed." Fernand, cooled by his mother's reprimand, declared that Jean could of course found a family, but wouldn't he make himself miserable by so doing? The dear boy already had the habits and whims of an old bachelor. Aunt Félicité hinted that her brother would be well advised, in any such event, not to live with the young people. Naturally it would be a severe blow, and she spoke of the numerous occasions when Jean had been on the point of departing for school, his tickets taken, his box packed, and the cab at the door; at the last moment his father had always been unable to let him go.
Jean felt certain that this idea of marriage was all an invention of his father for the annoyance of the Cazenaves, but he experienced a vague uneasiness; he remembered those October evenings and the old-fashioned landau that should have carried him across the Bazadais to the pious establishment where the children of Les Landes dream of playtime over their dictionaries. His trunk, the former property of a great-uncle, still retained some of its flowered paper lining. M. Jêrome had wept on those occasions, pretending that a stroke was imminent; always a coward when it came to the distressful moment of separation. It was in all probability after the last of these frustrated departures that the poor man had laid down rules for his hours of silence, destined always to be troubled by the suffering presence of his little son. And so it was that Jean studied with the priest till he was fifteen, and only went to school in order to matriculate.
What could be the meaning of this sudden madness to marry him off? Jean remembered his father's strange talk the day before, in the garden; but there had been nothing in it to worry about. His cousin's question as to whether he was capable of marriage kept running through his head. It was stupid of the Cazenaves to take the joke seriously. And now he heard them demanding to know the name of the young woman who had been chosen for him. M. Jêrome's siesta, however, relieved him of the necessity of replying, and the Cazenaves wandered out into the garden in spite of the scorching heat; Jean watched them in conference.
M. Jêrome was awakened by the noise of their departure and as soon as Jean heard the shuffling of slippers he penetrated the drug-laden atmosphere of his father's room. In this place which smelt for all the world like a laboratory, Jean learned that he was, in absolute seriousness, to be given a wife, Noémi d'Artiailh. He saw his body in the mirror, as dry and shrivelled as a piece of scorched heather on the heath, and he stuttered out: "She won't have me!" The astonishing reply caused him to tremble: "She's been sounded and is quite willing." The d'Artiailhs were in the seventh heaven, and could scarcely believe their good fortune. But Jean shook his head, and with outstretched hands seemed to be warding off what surely was a delusion: a young girl in his arms, and of her own free will. Noémi, who walked past him at High Mass; Noémi, into whose dark, flower-like eyes he had never permitted himself to gaze! When the air stirred by her passage down the nave of the church caressed his cheek, it was the nearest thing to a kiss he had ever known. Meanwhile, his father declared himself to be of the same mind as the priest. The Péloueyres were to found a family, so that nothing might go to Aunt Félicité or Fernand Cazenave, and M. Jêrome added: "You know, Jean, when the priest wants something he is generally in dead earned about it." Jean smiled a wry smile, and his lips trembled as he said, "I would disgust her." His father did not think of protecting; he himself had never been loved, and it never occurred to him that his son could know such happiness, so he complacently enumerated the virtues of Noémi, upon whom the priest's choice had fallen—she was a splendid example to the parish. She belonged to a family who never looked for physical enjoyment in married life. She would be a dutiful wife, obedient to God and her husband, one of those mothers who are still to be found, whose ignorance in spite of innumerable confinements remains unenlightened. M. Jêrome gave a nervous little cough, and in a softer voice he said: "Once you are married, and thus protected from the Cazenaves, I can die in peace."
The priest wanted to avoid all delay, and Jean would be able to see Noémi the next day. She would be waiting for him after lunch at the presbytery, and Mme. d'Artiailh would find an excuse for leaving them alone together. M. Jêrome began to speak rapidly, in order to combat Jean's refusal. The prospect of a discussion unnerved him slightly, and made his fingers tremble. Jean was speechless with terror, and filled with shame at finding himself in such a state. Had not the moment come for him to shake off his slavery and become a Master? This was his chance to break the chains that held him back from manhood! A vague gesture of consent escaped him, and his father's nervous discourse came to an end. Afterwards, when thinking of this moment in which his fate had been settled, he admitted to himself that the deciding factor had been those ten half-understood pages of Nietzsche. He made his escape now, leaving M. Jêrome mystified at an easy victory, and burning to carry the good news to the priest.
By the time Jean reached the bottom of the stairs he was getting used to the extraordinary thing that had happened to him. He experienced ever so slightly the feeling that he was no longer quite chaste; it became clear that the days of his purity were numbered, and he looked steadfastly into the dark eyes of an image, boldly evoked. Ah! He could have fainted! Then a desire to bathe himself caused him to summon Cadette, for, as is generally the case in that Gironde country, the Péloueyre bath was full of potatoes.