Complete Works of Emile Zola (1625 page)

“What’s the matter?” said Luc.

“Oh! it is Nanet again,” said Sœurette; “he went over yonder to the Pit, though I had expressly forbidden him. I have just heard that yesterday he took all these other children with him, and that they even scrambled over the wall.”

In fact, at one corner of the land belonging to La Crêcherie there was a low wall which separated it from land belonging to the Pit. There was also an old door that opened from a corner of it into the garden of Delaveau. It was only bolted, but since all intercourse had ceased between the Pit and La Crêcherie the bolt had never been drawn.

Nanet protested vehemently.

“It is not true that we all got over the wall. I got over it by myself, and I opened the door for the others.”

Luc, who was not pleased, grew angry.

“You know very well,” he said, “that you have been forbidden more than ten times to go there. You will end by bringing us all into great trouble. I tell you, and I tell the other children, that it was very naughty — very naughty, indeed.”

Nanet listened with wide-open eyes. He was sorry to have caused Monsieur Luc annoyance, for he was a good little fellow, after all; but he did not understand the situation. He had climbed over the wall and let the other children into M. Delaveau’s garden, because Nise Delaveau that afternoon had had some other children, Paul Boisgelin, Louise Mazelle, and a lot of other little
bourgeois,
who were very amusing, and they had all had a good time playing together. He said that Nise Delaveau was a very nice little girl.

“Why was it so naughty?” he repeated, with an astonished air. “We did not hurt any one; we had a good time playing together.”

And he told how they found children there, and gave a true account of all that they had done and of the playthings. He told how they had not hurt the flowers, nor thrown stones upon the flower-beds.

“Nise is very good to us,” said he at last. “She is very fond of me, and I have been fond of her ever since that day we played together.”

Luc tried not to smile, but his heart was moved, and a vision rose before him of these two children, born in different walks of life, fraternizing under the trees, playing and laughing together, unconscious of the hatred and the rivalry which existed between their fathers. Would the future peace of the town flourish under such as they?

“I dare say,” said he, “that Nise is charming, and that you all get along well together; but you must understand that she ought to stay on her own grounds and you ought to stay on yours, so that no one may have any cause to complain of you.”

Sœurette, under the influence of this infantine innocence, looked at them with no signs of displeasure in her eyes. She forgave them in her heart, and said, gently:

“Come, my little ones, I know you will not do it again, because if you do we shall be sorry.”

When Lenfant and Yvonnot at last took leave, and carried off Arsène and Olympe, Eugenie and Nicolas, who had taken part in the games, and who left with great regret, Luc thought of going home, his day’s visit to La Crêcherie being over. But he remembered that he had first promised to see Josine, and he resolved to go round by her house before returning to his own. His morning had been a pleasant one, and he was going home with his heart throbbing with hope. In the first place, that day the club-house, with its glazed tiles and the few ornaments that decorated it, had given him a cheerful impression of prosperity, as he saw it in the brightness of a sunny day. The workshops were all busy, the stores began to be full to overflowing with provisions.

Then, too, he nourished the hope of seeing the peasants of Combettes form an association, increase their experience, and secure a triumph, giving breadstuffs in exchange for tools and machines. It was also a sight which gave cheerful promise for the future to see the schools, to see the garden so joyous with its flock of little children, who, before long, would be the men and women of the future town. And now, as he walked through its rising street, he saw little white houses springing up everywhere in plots of verdure. He had in him the spirit of a constructor, and he experienced fresh pleasure as he saw each new building added to the rest, and enlarging this town that he had begun to build but yesterday. Had he not found his mission? These things, these beings, were they not to rise up and gather themselves together at his will? He felt strong enough to make the very stones rise up at his word, and become human dwellings and public edifices, in which truth, justice, and fraternity should find a home. Of course, he was at present only sowing the seed; he was only laying a foundation; he was proceeding cautiously at the beginning. But on certain unhappy days he had a vision of his future city, and his heart seemed to sing within him.

The house occupied by Ragu and Josine, which had been one of the first built, was near the park of La Crêcherie. It stood between the houses of Bonnaire and Bourron. As Luc went up the street, he saw in the distance, at an angle of the sidewalk, a group of gossips, talking with great animation, and soon recognized among them Madame Bonnaire and Madame Bourron, who seemed to be holding forth to Madame Fauchard, who, like her husband, had come over to La Crêcherie that morning to see if the new works were the Land of Cockaigne — the Utopia that people were talking, about. With her sharp voice and her stiff gestures, Madame Bonnaire, “La Toupe,” as her neighbors still called her, did not embellish the scene. Always dissatisfied, always out of humor with her surroundings, and never happy, she ruined her own life and spoiled the peace of others. She had at first seemed glad that her husband had found employment at La Crêcherie; but after having dreamed of a large share in the profits, she grew angry at the prospect of having to wait some time for the realization of her dream; and her great grievance was that she had not as yet been able to buy herself a watch, which she had coveted for many years. Babette Bourron, on the contrary, was constantly delighted, and had much to say as to the advantages of her residence at La Crêcherie, being especially glad that her husband no longer came home tipsy at night with Ragu. And between the two stood Madame Fauchard, thinner, sadder, and more dolorous than ever. She stood perplexed, rather inclined to think, with La Toupe, that all was going to rack and ruin, so thoroughly was she convinced that there could be no happiness for her in this world.

The sight of La Toupe and the wife of Fauchard gossiping together with an air of discontent was disagreeable to Luc. His happy frame of mind was spoiled, for he was quite aware of the trouble that women were likely to make in the future organization of labor, justice, and fraternity. They were all-powerful. It was by them, and for them, that he had hoped to found his town, and his courage weakened when he met with women opposed to his views, bad women, or women merely obstructive, who instead of giving him the help he had expected, might become the destructive element that would destroy everything. He passed the group of gossips with a bow, while the women ceased their conversation with anxious faces, as if they had been caught doing something wrong.

When Luc went into the little house where Ragu and his wife lived, he found Josine sitting sewing by an open window. But her work had fallen on her lap, and she was lost in so deep a reverie that she did not hear him enter. Her eyes were far away. For a moment he stood still and looked at her. She was no longer a poor girl wandering about the streets, hungry and ill-clad, with a pinched face, expressive of suffering, framed by her loose hair. She was now twenty-one. She was charming in her simple frock of blue calico. Her figure was slight and supple, but no longer thin. And her beautiful chestnut hair, as soft as silk, set off her charming face, not quite so round as formerly, and her laughing blue eyes. She had a little mouth, and her complexion was like a rose. She sat there among her habitual surroundings, in her dining-room, so clean, so neat, so cheerful, furnished with varnished pine wood. It was her favorite sitting-room in the little house which she had entered so happily as its mistress, which for three years she had taken so much pleasure in adorning and caring for.

What was Josine thinking about, with her pale face so very sad? After Bonnaire had persuaded Ragu to come with him and join the association of workmen at La Crêcherie, she had fancied herself released from all her troubles. Thenceforward she would have a charming little house of her own, enough to live on, and Ragu would reform as soon as he had no more vexations in the works; and her hopes of good fortune had not been disappointed. Ragu had married her by the especial desire of Sœurette, though she did not experience that happiness in her marriage that she should have done had it taken place earlier in their relations. She did not even accept Ragu until she had consulted Luc, whom she looked up to as her god, her savior, her master; and in his heart he smothered, under feelings of holy joy, the throb of anguish he experienced when she asked for his permission; there was one moment of sharp pain and then he gave his consent. For was it not the best possible solution of her situation? She could marry no man but Ragu, and now he wished to marry her. Luc felt that he ought to be glad for her sake, and he felt the same regard for her after her marriage as he had done before, always greeting her with a smile whenever they met, as if he wished to ask if she were happy. And she felt his smile in the depths of her poor heart, which was breaking for lack of love and tenderness.

Josine felt a slight chill, as she sat wrapped in sad thoughts, as if something in the air had startled her. She turned and saw Luc, who was smiling in his usual affectionate, but not quite natural, way.

“My dear girl,” said he, “I am here because Ragu tells me that you are very uncomfortable in this house; that it is exposed to every blast that sweeps over the plain, and that the wind has broken three panes in the window of your bedroom.”

She heard him with a look of confusion and surprise; she did not like to contradict her husband, nor did she like to tell him a lie.

“Yes, Monsieur Luc,” she said, “one of the panes is broken, but I am not sure that the wind did it. It is true that when the wind blows over the plain we get our full share of it.”

Her voice trembled. She could not prevent two big tears from rolling down her cheeks. It was Ragu who, in a fit of rage, had broken the window-panes, in an effort to throw everything out-of-doors.

“How is this, Josine; are you crying? Let us see; speak; tell me everything. You know I am your friend.” And he seated himself near her, much moved, for he took his part in her sorrow. But she had dried her tears.

“No, no,” she said; “it is nothing. I beg your pardon. You find me at an unfortunate moment, when I am disposed to be unreasonable and sorrowful.”

She struggled in vain; at last he heard her confession. Ragu was not becoming accustomed to a life of order, peace, and slow, continual effort to attain a more comfortable livelihood. He seemed to have a yearning for the wretchedness and suffering in which he had lived as a wage-earner, grumbling at his employer, but accustomed to his state of slavery, finding consolation for it all at the
cabaret
, in drunkenness and in an outpouring of impotent words. He regretted the old dark and dirty workshops, the underhanded war with his foreman, the noisy bouts with his fellow-workmen, all those abominable days of hatred that ended at home in beating wife and children. So, having begun with pleasantries, he ended with accusations. He called La Crêcherie a great barracks, a prison, in which there was no longer any liberty, not even that of drinking a drop too much if a man chose to do so. Up to the present time workmen there were earning no more than they did at the Pit, and had all sorts of anxieties. They worried lest the thing might not prove a success, or lest nothing should be coming to them on the day when the profits were divided. For two months past very unpleasant rumors had been rife about it. It was said that that year it would be necessary to “tighten the belt,” because of the purchase of new machinery. Then, again, the cooperative stores sometimes did not work satisfactorily. They would occasionally send you potatoes when you had ordered kerosene, or else they would forget you, and you might have to go three or four times to the store before you got what you wanted. In this manner Ragu sometimes sneered and sometimes raged at La Crêcherie. He called it a beastly barracks, from which he hoped to escape just as soon as he could.

There was a painful silence when Josine had told Luc this. He became gloomy, for he knew that there was some truth at the bottom of it all. There were always inevitable grindings in a machine that was still new. And especially the rumors afloat about the difficulties of the present year had all the more effect upon Luc because he was growing apprehensive that he might have to ask his workmen to make certain sacrifices, so that he might not compromise the prosperity of the undertaking.

“And Bourron complains like Ragu, does he not?” he asked. “But you have never heard Bonnaire?”

Josine had answered in the negative by a sign of her head, when through the open window were heard the voices of the three women, who were standing on the sidewalk. It was La Toupe, who was snarling like a crazy woman at La Crêcherie, impelled by her propensity to bite and rage. Although Bonnaire said nothing, being a reasonable man, whose good sense led him to await the result of the experiment, his wife’s tongue sufficed to stir up all the gossiping women in the rising town. And Luc hard her making Fauchard’s wife unhappy by announcing the impending ruin of La Crêcherie.

“So, then, Josine,” said Luc, speaking slowly, “you are not happy?”

Again she wanted to protest.

“Oh! Monsieur Luc, how could I be anything but happy, when you have done so much for me?”

But her strength failed her, and two big tears gathered in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

“Now, you see, Josine, that you are not happy.”

“I am not happy, it is true, Monsieur Luc; but there is nothing that you can do about it; it is not your fault. You have been like a providence to me; but what can be done if nothing occurs to change the heart of that unfortunate fellow?... He is going to the bad again. He can no longer bear Nanet; he came near breaking up all our things last evening; and he beat me because he said that the boy did not come up to his expectations.... Don’t trouble yourself about me, Monsieur Luc. These things are my own affair. I promise you to let them give me as little pain as possible.”