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

direction of the priest’s gaze. ‘His garden costs him a fortune. The waterfall, out of view over there behind the trees, cost more than three hundred francs. And not a single vegetable, nothing but flowers. At one time the ladies even talked of cutting down the fruit trees; that would be nothing short of murder, for the pear trees are superb. Bah! He’s right to organize his garden to suit himself, if he’s got the wherewithal!’
    And as the priest was still silent, he continued, turning to him: ‘You know Monsieur Rastoil, don’t you? He takes a walk every morning under the trees from eight till nine. A stout man, rather short and bald, clean-shaven and with a head as round as a ball! It was his sixtieth birthday at the beginning of August, I think. He’s been president of our civil tribunal for nearly twenty years. They say he’s a good sort of fellow. We don’t have much to do with each other. Good morning, good evening, and that’s it.’
    He stopped, seeing several people go down the steps of the house next door and make their way to the trees at the bottom.
    ‘Oh, that’s right,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘It’s Tuesday today… They are having dinner at the Rastoils’.’
    Faujas had not been able to restrain a slight movement. He had leaned out for a better view. Two priests walking beside two tall girls seemed to be of particular interest to him.
    ‘Do you know who those gentlemen are?’ Mouret asked.
    And when Faujas made a vague gesture:
    ‘They were crossing the Rue Balande just when we met… The tall young man who is between the young Rastoil girls is Abbé Surin, our bishop’s secretary. They say he’s a very nice lad. I see him playing shuttlecock with these two girls in the summer… The elderly man you see just behind them is one of our assistant bishops, Abbé Fenil. He’s the director of the seminary. A formidable man, sharp and thrusting. I’m sorry he’s not turning round. You would see his eyes… I’m surprised you don’t know these gentlemen.’
    ‘I don’t go out very much,’ the priest replied; ‘I don’t have much to do with anyone in the town.’
    ‘Oh, but you should! You must often be bored… Well, Monsieur, one couldn’t in all fairness accuse you of being nosey. Good heavens, you’ve been here a month and you don’t even know that Monsieur Rastoil entertains people to dinner every Tuesday! How could you not notice that from this window!’
    Mouret chuckled. He was making fun of the priest. Then, in confidential tones:
    ‘See that tall old gentleman accompanying Madame Rastoil? Yes, that thin one, the man with the wide-brimmed hat. That’s Monsieur de Bourdeu, the former prefect of the Drôme, made redundant by the 1848 Revolution. * I bet you didn’t know him either?… And Monsieur Maffre, the justice of the peace? That man all in white, with his eyes popping out of his head, bringing up the rear with Monsieur Rastoil. Well, there’s no excuse not to know about him. He’s the honorary canon of Saint-Saturnin… Between you and me, people accuse him of killing his wife with his cruelty and greed.’
    He stopped, looked the priest straight in the eyes and said abruptly in his jocular tone:
    ‘You must forgive me, Monsieur, but I am not a religious man.’
    The priest again made a vague gesture with his hand, the gesturethat was his answer to everything, and dispensed him from any further clarification.
    ‘No, I’m not a religious man,’ Mouret went on in the same jocular tone. ‘We must allow everybody their freedoms, mustn’t we?… The Rastoils go to church. You must have seen the mother and daughters at Saint-Saturnin. They are your parishioners… Those poor girls! Angéline, the eldest, is well over twenty-six; the other one, Aurélie, will soon be twenty-four. And they’re no beauties, with their sallow faces and sulky looks. The worst thing is that the elder of the two has to be married off first. They will find someone in the end,