The Debacle - Emile Zola [232]
‘These are all things we shouldn’t be talking about,’ Fouchard went on prudently. ‘Your good health and good night.’
They finished the second bottle. Prosper had come back from the stable and gave a hand with loading on to the barrow, in the place of the two dead sheep, the loaves that Silvine had put in a sack. But he didn’t even answer, and turned his back when his brother and the two others went off, disappearing with the barrow into the snow and saying:
‘Good night, see you again soon!’
The next day, while Fouchard was alone after lunch, he saw Goliath himself come in, tall, big and pink-faced as ever, with his imperturbable smile. If this sudden appearance gave him a shock he didn’t show anything but just blinked, as the man came over and vigorously shook his hand.
‘Good morning, Monsieur Fouchard.’
Only then did Fouchard appear to recognize him.
‘Oh, fancy, it’s you, my boy!… Oh, you’ve filled out a bit. You are getting fat, aren’t you?’
He had a good look at him; he was wearing a sort of cape of coarse blue cloth and a cap of the same material, and looking prosperous and pleased with himself. Of course he had no German accent, but spoke the thick, slow speech of the peasants of that region.
‘Oh yes, it’s me, Monsieur Fouchard. I didn’t want to pass this way without saying hallo to you.’
The old man stayed on his guard. What was this fellow up to, coming here? Had he heard about the guerrillas coming to the farm yesterday? He would have to watch it. All the same, as he was coming very civilly it would be best to be polite in return.
‘Well, my boy, as you are so kind we must have a drink.’
He put himself out to go and find two glasses and a bottle. All this wine being drunk made his heard bleed, but you must know when to give something away in the interests of business. So the scene of the night before began all over again, and they toasted each other with the same gestures and the same words.
‘Your good health, Monsieur Fouchard.’
‘And yours, my boy.’
Then Goliath calmly made himself at home. He looked about him like a man enjoying seeing old scenes again, but made no reference to the past, nor, for that matter, to the present. The conversation turned to the severe cold which was going to make work hard on the land; fortunately there was a good side to snow, it killed the pests. He did show just the slightest unhappiness when he spoke of the sullen hatred or mingled contempt and fear that had been shown him in other homes in Remilly. After all, We all have our own country, don’t we, and it’s only natural that you should serve your country according to your lights. But in France there were some things they had funny ideas about. The old man watched him talking so glibly and being so conciliatory and told himself that this good fellow, with his big jolly face, had certainly not come with evil intentions.
‘So you’re all on your own today, Monsieur Fouchard?’
‘Oh no, Silvine is out there feeding the cows… Do you want to see Silvine?’
A smile spread over Goliath’s face.
‘Yes of course I do… To tell you the truth, I came because of Silvine.’
Old Fouchard jumped up at once, very relieved, and shouted at the top of his voice:
‘Silvine! Silvine! Someone to see you!’
And off he went, now quite reassured, as she was there and could protect the house. If a man can let that thing master him for so long, after all these years, he’s done for.
Silvine was not surprised to see Goliath when she came in. He did not get up from his chair, but sat looking at her with his bland smile, though he was just a little ill at ease. She had been expecting him, and all she did was stop just inside the door, and her whole being stiffened. Chariot ran in after her and hid in her skirts, taken aback to see a man he didn’t know.
There was an awkward silence for a few seconds, and then Goliath broke the silence in honeyed tones:
‘So this is the kid?’
‘Yes.’ Silvine’s voice was hard.
Silence fell again. He had left in the seventh month of her pregnancy and so knew he had a child, but he was