Goundran had allowed him to paint the green shutters:
'Never, never shall I forget it . , .' she sobbed.
'Houi, why did I mention paint!' muttered Goundran.
Eusebe was waiting when they finally reached
home. He had wandered into the house uninvited,
bringing with him a bottle of vintage wine: 'The
most perfect ever born of my grapes/ he informed
them, cas warm and soft as the flesh of a girl. No,
no, I alone will remove the cork, I alone wili violate
this exquisite virgin!5
Marie got out the glasses, shaking her head, the
more senile he grew the more lecherous his fancies.
Eusebe lifted his brimming glass: 'May the gods
protect you, my superb young hero. And do not
forget that I christened you with wine long ago when
you were a squealing infant, that I made the little
red mark on your brow.'
'Enough of such talk!' exclaimed Marie, turning
pale, for she was a peasant and superstitious.
Why, oh, why had he come, the old sinner of a
man? And now that he had come why would he not
leave them. But no, he must plump himself down on
a chair, without doubt intending to finish the bottle.
And the kitchen to sweep and the dinner to cook —
queer to be thinking of such everyday things — and
those ruthless, pointing hands of the clock, never
still, always moving and always pointing.
*A long time have I known you/ babbled Eusebe,
his eye growing somewhat watery and tender, 'tell
me, do you remember the wonderful day when I
took you to feast on grapes in my vineyards? Yes, and
do you remember the more wonderful day when I
made you a present of your first pair of sandals?
And dp you . . . .3
Marie suddenly cut him short: 'Eusebe, you must
go, there is work to be done.'
'Ah, well,5 he sighed, CI am old, blind and lame.
460