‘Pass me the vinegar, you fool … No, that’s the oil. Oh no, you’re not going to pass out too, are you?’
And indeed, Eugène was going weak at the knees. He had to sit down on a chair where he remained, lost in his thoughts, not daring to look at his sister-in-law.
By the time Jean entered the kitchen, it was smelling of vinegar. There was a pool of blood on the floor and blood was still flowing through Tati’s greying hair. She opened her eyes, gave a long sigh and called out, as if she knew he would be there:
‘Jean! Don’t let them cut off my hair.’
She was hardly recognizable. She seemed fatter and for a moment he thought her head had swollen. But it was just the redness of the blood that made her look strange.
‘Some water!’ he ordered.
They obeyed him. Félicie went to fetch towels from the bedroom next door.
If the gendarmes had appeared at that moment, Eugène would have sighed:
‘I’m giving myself up.’
Françoise had simply started crying. Félicie felt sick. The lock-keeper, intrigued, was watching the house from a distance, hesitating to start stumping over.
‘I can’t see where it is,’ muttered Jean.
And Tati:
‘Ouch! You’re hurting me! Can’t you see you’re pulling my skin off!’
Her hair was matted with blood. He tried to find the wound without success.
‘You’ll have to cut it off,’ said Françoise again, possibly unaware of what she was saying.
Tati could not have been as badly injured as all that, since she replied in her most vicious voice:
‘I’ll cut yours off! Just you wait.’
And Jean announced:
‘It’s nothing really. A cut, about two centimetres long. It’s bleeding a lot, but I don’t think it’s deep.’
‘Help me up, Jean.’
‘You don’t have to rush away,’ Françoise now suggested. ‘Take your time to get over it. Have a little glass of something. Félicie, go and fetch the bottle.’
‘Don’t you imagine I’ll ever drink anything in your house again!’
Already the situation appeared less tragic. Eugène was recovering his spirits, and as his daughter put a bottle on the table, he helped himself to a large glassful.
Tati was determined to get to her feet.
‘Help me up, Jean.’
And Françoise:
‘It’s your fault as well. If you hadn’t pulled my hair, like a … like a …’
She hesitated to use insulting words to a woman who had just fainted.
‘A what?’
‘Nothing. Let it go. Eugène didn’t mean to … And as for our father, he’s got a perfect right …’
‘Jean, hold me up, I think I might fall. I can feel my head thumping.’
‘Come along, then.’
Without Couderc? She was still hesitating and turned to look at him. But she felt really unwell. She was afraid of fainting again.
‘I’m going now. But they can just wait and see …’
Once outside, he saw tears start from her eyes. Tears of anger and frustration.
‘Is there still blood on my face?’
‘Hardly any.’
‘People will wonder.’
She was walking more quickly, turning her head away whenever they passed a man fishing.
The two cows had finally made it over the bridge and were standing, bemused, in front of the house, as if reluctant to go into the kitchen through the open door.
