The Conquest of Plassans (Les Rougon-Macquart Book 4) by Émile Zola Page A

builder will see to it.’
    The priest stopped talking about repairs then. He stood there quietly looking at the gardens down below. Mouret, leaning on his elbows next to him, did not dare to withdraw in case it seemed impolite. And he was completely won over when his tenant said quietly, after a pause:
    ‘You have a lovely garden, Monsieur.’
    ‘Oh, nothing out of the ordinary,’ he replied. ‘There were some very fine trees that I had to have taken down, you couldn’t grow anything in the shade beneath them. Well, what can you do? You have to think of what’s useful. This bit of land is enough for us—we have enough vegetables for the whole season.’
    The abbé, surprised, asked him to elaborate. The garden was one of those old provincial gardens, enclosed by arbours and neatly quartered by large box hedges. In the middle was a narrow pond with no water in it. One quarter only was for flowers. In the other three, which had fruit trees planted at each corner, grew some magnificent cabbages and splendid lettuces. The paths were maintained in the conventional fashion with yellow sand.
    ‘It’s a little paradise,’ repeated Abbé Faujas.
    ‘Well, of course there are disadvantages,’ said Mouret, pretending he didn’t have enormous satisfaction at hearing such praise for his house and garden. ‘For example, you must have noticed that we are on a slope here. The gardens are in terraces. So Monsieur Rastoil’s is lower than mine, and mine is also lower than the garden at the sub-prefecture. The rain causes a great deal of damage. Then—and this is even more disagreeable—the people from the sub-prefecture can see into my place, the more so because they have built that terrace overlooking my wall. It’s true that I can see into Monsieur Rastoil’s garden, but that’s poor compensation, I assure you, since I never concern myself with what anyone else is doing.’
    The priest seemed to be listening sympathetically, nodding, not asking any questions. He watched his landlord gesturing with his hands as he explained.
    ‘Now there is one more thing that annoys me,’ continued the latter, pointing to an alley that ran along the bottom of the garden. ‘Do you see that little lane in between two high walls? It’s the Impasse des Chevillottes, leading to the tradesman’s gate which opens on to the property belonging to the sub-prefecture. All the neighbouring houses have a gate giving on to the Impasse and there are strangecomings and goings all the time… I’ve got children so I’ve had a couple of nails put in and had mine properly blocked up.’
    He winked at the priest, perhaps hoping he might enquire as to the nature of these strange comings and goings. But the priest didn’t flinch; he examined the Impasse des Chevillottes without manifesting any further curiosity, before shifting his quiet gaze back to the Mourets’ garden. Down below in her usual place Marthe was hemming table napkins. At first she had looked up abruptly on hearing the voices. Then, astonished to see her husband at the second-floor window keeping company with the priest, she had gone back to her work. She seemed no longer aware of their presence. Yet Mouret had raised his voice, as though unconsciously showing off, delighted at managing at last to get into this apartment, which had up until now remained so obstinately shut. From time to time the priest let his unruffled gaze fall upon the woman, whose slanting nape and abundant black hair tied in a chignon were all that was visible to him.
    There was a silence. Abbé Faujas still did not seem inclined to come away from the window. Now he appeared to be studying the neighbour’s flower beds. Monsieur Rastoil’s garden was set out in the English style, with little paths and small lawns, intersected by small
corbeilles
of flowers. At the bottom was a rotunda with trees and beneath them a table and some rustic chairs.
    ‘Monsieur Rastoil is very rich,’ Mouret went on, following the