And his life went on as in the past.  Nothing was changed, except that his son, Cesaire, slept in the cemetery.

What could he, an old man, do?  He could work no longer; he was now good for nothing except to swallow the soup prepared by his daughter-in-law.  And he did swallow it in silence, morning and evening, watching with an eye of rage, the little boy also taking soup, right opposite him, at the other side of the table.  Then he went out, prowled about the fields in the fashion of a vagabond, went hiding behind the barns, where he slept for an hour or two, as if he were afraid of being seen, and then he came back at the approach of night.

But Celeste’s mind began to be occupied by graver anxieties.  The grounds needed a man to look after them and work them.  Somebody should be there always to go through the fields, not a mere hired laborer, but a big cultivator, a master, who would know the business and have the care of the farm.  A lone woman could not manage the farming, watch the price of corn, and direct the sale and purchase of cattle.  Then ideas came into her head, simple practical ideas, which she had turned over in her head at night.  She could not marry again before the end of the year, and it was necessary at once to take care of pressing interests, immediate interests.

Only one man could extricate her from embarrassment, Victor Lecoq, the father of her child.  He was strong and well acquainted with farming business; with a little money in his pocket, he would make an excellent cultivator.  She was aware of his skill, having known him while he was working on his parents’ farm.

So, one morning, seeing him passing along the road with a cart of dung, she went out to meet him.  When he perceived her, he drew up his horses and she said to him, as if she had met him the night before: 

“Good morrow, Victor—­are you quite well, the same as ever?”

He replied: 

“I’m quite well, the same as ever—­and how are you?”

“Oh, I’d be all right, only that I’m alone in the house, which bothers me on account of the grounds.”

Then they remained chatting for a long time, leaning against the wheel of the heavy cart.  The man every now and then lifted up his cap to scratch his forehead, and began thinking, while she, with flushed cheeks, went on talking warmly, told him about her views, her plans, her projects for the future.  In the end, he said, in a low tone: 

“Yes, it can be done.”

She opened her hand like a countryman clinching a bargain, and asked: 

“Is it agreed?”

He pressed her outstretched hand.

“’Tis agreed.”

“’Tis fixed, then, for Sunday next?”

“’Tis fixed for Sunday next.”

“Well, good morning, Victor.”

“Good morning, Madame Houlbreque.”

PART III

This Sunday was the day of the village festival, the annual festival in honor of the patron saint, which in Normandy is called the assembly.