Complete Works of Emile Zola (155 page)

When the young couple thus found themselves driven to bay at La Noiraude, they determined to flee to Paris. There they would be out of the way of Louise’s songs, out of the Way of Genevièves canticles, and their daughter’s serious face. The two months of anguish that they had just spent, had made their solitude unbearable. Since James still gave them three or four weeks’ peace, they wanted to spend this time in trying to forget their grief, or in looking for some happy chance event. As soon as Lucy was quite well, they set out, about the middle of March.

CHAPTER XII.

FOR nearly five years the little house in the Rue de Boulogne had been unoccupied. William had never wished to let it, intending always to come and spend a few months in it in the winter. Soon after his marriage, he had sent an old servant from La Noiraude to look after it in the capacity of lodge-man. The old fellow lived in a sort of superior sentry-box built of red bricks by the side of the gate at the entrance from the street. All he had to do was to open the windows one morning a week, and let a little fresh air into the rooms. It was a sort of sinecure for the old servant as a reward for his long services.

Having received notice of the coming of his master and mistress the evening before, he had spent a part of the night in dusting the furniture, and when William and Madeleine arrived they found a fire lighted in every room. These blazing hearths were a pleasant surprise, and seemed to fill the old retreat with the comfortable warmth of former days. During the journey from Véteuil to, Paris, they had felt a secret pang of pain at the thought of coming back to this little house, where a few months of their past life had been spent in such happy seclusion; they remembered the last, few weeks of their stay, with its hours of sorrowful anxiety, and they dreaded to awaken the bitterness of their memories, as they had already done in their country house near to La Noiraude. Thus they seemed surprised and delighted with the cheeriness of their, home, for the nearer they had approached Paris, the more gloomy and desolate had their’ excited imagination expected to find it. One thing only occurred to mar William’s happiness; on entering their bed: room he saw James’s portrait, which the old housekeeper must have discovered in some comer, hanging against the wall. He tore it down hastily and threw it into the bottom of a wardrobe before Madeleine came up.

Yet, the young couple had no intention of isolating themselves in this little house. These snug rooms, which they had chosen before, as a secluded nest in which to cradle their budding love, now seemed too small to hold them both. They would always be treading on each other’s heels, almost living in each other’s arms. Their whole nature revolted to-day at the sight of these little sofas, where, in the old days, they had sat so happy in each other’s embraces. They had come to Paris fully determined never to stay at home, and to drown their thoughts out of doors;
their wish was to mix in the crowds and to feel themselves as much separated as possible. The very next day they went to call on the De Rieus, who lived close by in the Rue la Bruyère. They were not at home, but the same night their friends returned their call.

The three came in the usual order, Hélène leaning on Tiburce’s arm, and the husband last. Monsieur de Rieu seemed unwell; he had long been a martyr to disease of the liver; but his face, though yellow and shrunk with his complaint, had lost none of its haughty scornfulness, and his eyes twinkled as ironically as ever. Tiburce, who had entirely shaken off his provincial rusticity, had the bored and irritated air of a man engaged in an irksome duty; his face, with its thin lips, did not even attempt to conceal a sort of fury, and a secret desire to be brutal. As for Hélène, she was so changed that William and Madeleine could not restrain an exclamation of surprise when they saw her. She seemed to have lost all pride in herself and to have entirely given up the use of her paints and powders. She was no longer a child’s doll transformed into an old woman, with paint bedaubed cheeks, and hysterical simpers: she was a poor wretch whose grey hairs and wrinkled face showed but too clearly the coarse and shameful melancholy at her heart. The excessive use of pomades and toilet requisites had played sad havoc with her complexion; her sickly face was all covered with blotches, her eyes had become quite bloated and her lips were as flabby as if they had been pounded. You might have thought that the mask she had worn had fallen off, and that the real face was now appearing from under the borrowed features. And the worst was that this face still preserved some of the painful graces of the mask; for the half-washed wrinkles still retained the rosy tints of the unguents, and the faded hair was streaked with threads of various colours. Hélène was hardly forty-five, and she seemed to be quite sixty. She had apparently lost too her giddiness and her maidenish gracefulness; full of shrinking fear, and with every finer feeling deadened, she looked round as if she were in continual dread of being beaten.

As they came into the room, Tiburce rushed towards William with that effusive demonstration of friendship which he always showed him. Fancying that Hélène, who had just left his arm, was not moving aside quickly enough to let him pass, he trod on her dress, and looked at her angrily, as he gave her a somewhat rude shove. The little woman who was paying her compliments to Madeleine and making her one of her old childish bows, went and crouched in a chair by the wall with a frightened expression on her face, forgetting completely to finish her compliment and assuming her previous look of stupor. Monsieur de Rieu had taken in the whole of this rapid scene, the push Tiburce had given to his wife, and the terrified movement of the latter; but he stood with his eyes half-closed, and a pleasant smile on his lips, as if he had seen nothing.

Everybody sat down. After a few minutes of general conversation about the dreariness of the country in the winter and the pleasures to be found in Paris at this time of the year, William proposed to Tiburce that they should go and smoke a cigar in the next room. The sight of Hélène really distressed him. When the ladies were alone with Monsieur de Rieu, they could not find what to say. The old man seated in a big arm-chair, with his hands crossed on his knees, was looking straight in front of him with that vague expression peculiar to deaf people, whose thoughts never seem to be troubled by any noise; he even appeared to have forgotten where he was. At times, he would gently lower his eyelids, and a little sharp glance would escape from the corner of his eyes, with singular irony, and fasten itself on the face of the two women who had no suspicion that they were being subjected to this scrutiny.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Hélène, in spite of herself, made a remark about Tiburce. All she could talk about now was this young fellow who had her completely under his thumb. Everything brought her back to this topic, for she had soon exhausted all other subjects, and she always returned after a certain number of sentences to the life of terror and pleasure that her lover led her. In her moral debasement, she had gradually lost sight of that self-respect, that sort of modesty which hardly ever leaves a woman and is the result of her prudence and pride, that sense of decency which forbids her to confess her shame openly. This woman, on the contrary, took a delight in laying bare every detail of her intimacy with Tiburce; she unbosomed herself to the first-comer, with no consciousness of her infamy, and perfectly contented, provided she was talking about the man who was now everything to her. It was quite enough for her if she was allowed to confess her sins without being interrupted too much; then she plunged with exquisite delight into the story of her debauch, passing on of her own accord to shameful confessions, and seeming to wallow in her own words, forgetful that she was speaking to anyone. The truth was she was speaking for herself alone, in order to re-live the filthy pleasures she was relating.

She told Madeleine everything. A simple sentence served as a pretext for passing from their trivial chat to the confession of her adultery, and she did this so naturally that Madeleine was able to listen to her story without a frown. When she had mentioned Tiburce’s name as a lover whom her friend must have known of for years, she added in a snivelling tone:

“Oh! my dear, I am cruelly punished. This man, who used to be so tender and affectionate, has become cruel and unfeeling — He beats me. I know that is a shameful confession to have to make, but I am so wretched, and I feel such a need of consolation. How lucky you are to have never gone astray and to be able to live in peace! But poor me! I have to endure all the torments of hell — You saw how Tiburce pushed me just now. He will kill me perhaps one of these days.”

Yet she thoroughly enjoyed her sorrows, and her voice had an undertone of pleasure as she spoke of the blows she received. It was easy to see that nothing in the world would have induced her to change her life of martyrdom for the existence of chaste tranquillity whose joys she pretended to sigh for. This was an easy way of expressing herself, for her sham repentance permitted her to relate her story at length, and the recital caused her nervous shocks and excitements which made her feel more deeply the bitter pleasures of her life. She cared very little about baring her wounds, provided she was talking on her favourite topic; she even delighted in magnifying the horribleness of her position, and in setting up as a victim, since this gave her license to pity herself. If anybody was complaisant enough to listen to her she would whine like this for hours, regretting the days of her innocence which were too far off to be recalled, and plunging into her mire with the gratification of a beast which licks the hand that strikes it.

Although she spoke in a low tone, Madeleine was afraid that Monsieur de Rieu might hear. Hélène caught her looking at him with an uneasy expression.

“Oh! don’t be afraid,” she continued, in a more distinct voice and with calm cynicism. “My husband cannot hear me — I am much more to be pitied than he is. He knows nothing, and he never sees my tears which I carefully conceal from him. In his presence, I always appear smiling, even when Tiburce treats me to his face as the vilest of women. Even yesterday, he slapped me on the cheek in my own drawing-room, because I found fault with him for running after girls. This slap made quite a noise, and yet Monsieur de Rieu, who was bending over the fire, did not turn round till a few seconds after. He never moved a muscle of his face, for he had heard nothing. Although my cheek quite burned I pretended to be smiling — There is no need to stop talking. Look at him, he is half asleep.”

Indeed, Monsieur de Rieu did seem to be partly asleep, yet his half-closed eyes were shooting out keen glances all the time. By the twitching of his fingers that were crossed together on his knees a closer observer would have guessed that his thoughts must be occupied with some secret and delightful topic. No doubt, he was reading on his wife’s lips the story of the slap.

Madeleine thought it her duty to show some compassion for her friend out of politeness. She expressed astonishment that Tiburce’s love should have waned so quickly.

“I really cannot account for his unkindness,” replied Hélène. “He loves me still, I am sure — But there are times when he behaves very badly — Still, I am devoted to him; I have already exerted myself a good deal on his behalf in order to give him the position in Paris that he deserves; it is true that some unexplainable bad luck has attended my efforts so far — I am old. Do you think he only loves me out of interest?
”

Of course, Madeleine said that she could not imagine such a thing.

“This thought grieves me very much,” continued Madame de Rieu, hypocritically, for she knew perfectly well how things stood.

Tiburce had not shrunk from telling her the truth, and she was not blind to the fact that he only intended to use her as a tool. Yet she cared very little for this, provided she could only get payment out of him for her services. But she had not yet sunk so low as to confess openly that she was willing to purchase the young man’s love rather than not have it. She was attached to the fellow with the passion of a woman at the change of life, who finds herself, at this critical period, subject to the feelings of excitement incident to puberty. He had become indispensable, and, if he left her, she would probably not find another lover so obliging. She would have kept him at the price of any shame or sacrifice.

“I wish I could be of service to him,” she continued, following almost consciously the thread of her thoughts. “Perhaps, he would be grateful, I still hope — You have found me very much changed, have you not? I have no energy left to spruce myself up. I suffer so!”

She sank back, limp and nerveless, into her chair. The truth was that debauch had made her so worn out that she never felt more than half-awake. She had lost all interest in everything, even in her toilet. The very woman who had made a vigorous struggle against the advances of age, now felt a disinclination even to wash her hands. She would sit for days together, listless and unoccupied, ruminating like an animal on the pleasures of the previous day and dreaming of those she would enjoy the next. The lewd beast only remained, the woman was dying out in her, with her desire to please, her longing to appear always young and to be always loved. So long as Tiburce satisfied the gluttonous passions of her old age, she demanded from him neither affection nor compliments. Her only idea was to keep him in her arms, and she had no thoughts now of making him her slave with her smiles, her affectations and her painted face: she reckoned that her vile passions and her filthy debasement would be enough to attach him to her.

Madeleine looked at her with sorrowful pity. She could not fathom the bottom of this vile sink of iniquity, and she fancied that it was Tiburce’s brutal conduct alone that caused this ruin of body and mind. Thus she could not restrain from declaring indignantly:

“Why, a man like that ought to be driven out of the house!”

Hélène raised her head with a scared look on her face.

“Driven out, driven out!” she stammered with secret terror, as if her friend had spoken of cutting off one of her legs.