Complete Works of Emile Zola (1657 page)

Judge Gaume and Abbé Marie were still expected, but the Mazelles could not refrain from at once setting their case before the sub-prefect and the mayor. Ought they to submit to an unreasonable caprice in the case of their own child?

“You will understand, Monsieur Châtelard,” said Mazelle, with an uneasy look of importance, “that besides the annoyance we shall feel at such a marriage, it may have an unfortunate effect upon society; we feel the weight of our responsibility towards the leading people of our class. We are going down into the depths.”

They were sitting in the shade perfumed by climbing roses, before a table on which was a beautiful cloth embroidered in colors; little cakes were set upon it; and Châtelard, always correctly dressed, and still handsome, notwithstanding his age, smiled one of his discreet but ironical smiles.

“But we are already in the depths, dear Monsieur Mazelle. You would do wrong to bring trouble on yourself in order to spare the government, the administration, or even society; for don’t you see that all these things nowadays exist only in name.... Of course I am your subprefect still, and my friend Gourier is still your mayor. Only behind our backs there is no longer any real and solid government; we are mere phantoms. It is just the same with the rich and powerful; their power and their wealth are more and more impaired every day by this new organization of labor; so do not take the trouble to defend them, for they themselves, yielding to the general vertigo, are becoming active agents in the revolution. Come! come! You need not resist; I advise you to give up.”

He was fond of indulging in this kind of pleasantry, which always frightened the good
bourgeois
of Beauclair. It gave him a chance to say what he thought under cover of a joke, for he was convinced that the old world was coming to an end, and that a new world would be created out of its ruins. In Paris important events were taking place — the old edifice was falling to pieces stone after stone, making room for a new temporary structure which outlined the future city of justice and peace.

These things all proved to him that he had been always right, and he was glad to stay forgotten in this little corner of one of the French provinces, where he did as little governing as possible, feeling sure as he watched events that he would die as he had wished to die, with the system under which he had lived so many years, putting up with its defects like a cheerful and philosophic man of the world.

The Mazelles grew pale. Mazelle, while his wife lay back in her chair with her eyes fixed on the cakes, cried:

“Really? — do you think we are already in so much danger? I knew that there was some talk of reducing the interest on government securities.”

“Government securities,” resumed Châtelard, quietly, “government securities will be done away with in the next twenty years, or at least some conversion will gradually absorb them, and leave nothing for the bondholders. They are talking of some project of the kind now.” Madame Mazelle gave what might have seemed to be her last sigh.

“Oh, we shall be dead, I trust, before that time. We could not bear to see such infamies. It is our poor daughter who would have to suffer, which is another reason for wishing her to make a good marriage.”

But the pitiless Châtelard went on to say:

“
There are no more good marriages, that is, rich marriages, to be depended upon, for there will be no more inheritance. That is almost settled already. In future every married pair will have to carve out their own fortune. And whether your daughter Louise marries the son of a
bourgeois
or the son of a laborer, their capital will be just the same — love, if they are so fortunate as to love each other, and activity in the work they do in life, if they have capacity and are not lazy.”

There was complete silence. They heard the wings of a little bird fluttering among the roses.

“Then this,” said Mazelle, at last, “is your opinion and the advice you give us, Monsieur Châtelard? You think we may accept this Lucien Bonnaire as our son-in-law?”

“Good gracious, yes! The world will turn round all the same, I assure you; and if the two young folks love each other, you are sure of making two happy people at least.”

Gourier thus far had said nothing. He felt very uncomfortable at having been called to settle such a question, when his own son, despairing of his consent, had at one time gone to live with Ma Bleue among the rocks — Ma Bleue, that wild girl whom he now sheltered in his
bourgeois
home. And he did not conceal his embarrassment.

“It is true. The best thing to be done is to marry them. When parents too strenuously oppose a marriage, young people run off, and then — Ah! what times we are living in now!”

He raised his arms to heaven, and it needed all the ascendency of Châtelard to prevent him from falling into a fit of black melancholy. Dissipation in his younger days had brought on him premature old age, with a constant tendency to fall asleep. He would sleep at the table or anywhere, in the course of conversation, even out-of-doors when he was walking. And he concluded with the resigned air of some old manager of a once flourishing business when conquered by events:

“After all, what would you have? After us the deluge! as many people like us now say. Our day is over.” As he said this Judge Gaume arrived, but he was very late. His legs were swollen, and he walked with difficulty even with the help of a cane. He was nearly seventy, and was looking forward to his retirement with secret disgust for those laws of human justice which he dealt out to others for so many years, confining himself to a strict interpretation of the written code, like some priests who have lost their faith but cling to dogma. In his own home the tragedy of love and treachery had been pitilessly repeated. After the death of his wife, who had committed suicide before his eyes, when she had confessed her guilt, his misfortunes were completed by the conduct of his daughter Lucille, the wife of Captain Jollivet. Her husband had been killed by her lover, with whom she afterwards eloped. It was a horrible story. Whether Captain Jollivet fell in a personal encounter with the young man, or whether he was killed by a knife thrown at him by the latter, was never known.

A frightful storm broke over the poor judge; his daughter had eloped, and the police were in search of her; his son-in-law had been found lying in a pool of blood, and was buried with a knife wound in his heart. The judge remained alone, no one of his family being left but Lucille’s son André, a boy of sixteen, a delicate, affectionate lad, sad heritage of an unhappy marriage. He was the object of his grandfather’s love and tender care. It was enough, the judge thought. Fate could not justly inflict more punishment upon him for the mother’s and the daughter’s crimes. And he asked himself how he could provide a future settlement in life for this young man, where he could be assured of faithful love and of strict justice, and might restore his race to happiness and virtue.

When he was told of the subject in question, and when Mazelle had asked his opinion as to a marriage between Louise and Lucien Bonnaire, Judge Gaume immediately said:

“Let them be married at once if they love each other so much that they are ready to brave all obstacles and take the consequences of opposition in their families. Love alone promotes happiness.”

Then he regretted having thus opened his heart; it seemed to him as if his words were a confession of how his own life had been embittered; he was now about to die, clinging to what was false, his rigid sense of justice, his cold austerity. He resumed:

“You need not wait for the Abbé Marie. I have just met him, and he asked me to beg you to excuse him. He was hastening to the church to get the holy oil and to administer extreme unction to old Madame Jollivet, my son-in-law’s aunt, who is on her death-bed. Poor old abbé! he will lose in her one of his few remaining penitents. There were tears in his eyes.”

“One good thing is that we have got rid of our
cures”
said Gourier, who was bitter against priests. “We should now have the republic to ourselves if they did not try to take it away from us. It is they who incite the common people to overturn the present government and to try to get the mastery.”

“Poor Abbé Marie,” repeated Châtelard, sympathetically. “I am sorry to see his church so empty; and you are right, Madame Mazelle, to continue to send him flowers for the altar of the Virgin.”

Silence once more ensued. The sad remembrance of the unhappy priest passed like a shade between them and the sunshine, with its perfume of roses. When the abbé lost Leonore he had been bereft of his dearest and most faithful parishioner. Madame Mazelle was still left, but she was not a real believer; what interested her in religion was its adornments, as is the case with many another woman of her class in the
bourgeoisie
. The abbé well knew what would be his own fate. Some day he would be found dead before the altar, among the ruins of the roof of his church, which had been out of repair for years, but which he had not had money to restore. In the mayor’s house and in the sub-prefecture there were no funds to be had for such a purpose. He had tried to interest his parishioners, but, in spite of his exertions, he could obtain only an insufficient sum. Now he had given up hoping to make the repairs; he expected the roof to fall, and went on with the usual services, not appearing to be aware of what every one else apprehended, namely, that the roof would fall upon his head. His church grew more and more empty. God seemed to have forgotten him. He expected and wished to die when the house of God should crumble to pieces. He hoped to be crushed with the weight of the great crucifix suspended from the wall. Then they would have the same tomb in the earth, which, in the end, makes restitution of all things.

Madame Mazelle was now too much absorbed by her own troubles to interest herself greatly about Abbé Marie. If nothing intervened to relieve her from her difficulties she began to fear that she should fall really ill, she who had enjoyed so much tender care and petting when she had been a victim to the nameless malady, which had been one of the pleasures of her existence. As all her expected guests except Abbé Marie were present, she rose from her chair to pour out tea, which smoked in her beautiful thin porcelain cups, while a ray of sunshine gilded the little cakes placed on plates of cut glass. She shook her large head placidly. But she was not yet convinced.

“You are right, my friends,” said she. “We are coming to the end of the world; yet I cannot make up my mind about this marriage.”

“We will wait a while longer,” said Mazelle; “perhaps we may wear out Louise’s patience.”

But, to the astonishment of her parents, Louise appeared before them, standing at the entrance of the arbor in the sunshine among the roses. They had supposed she was in her own room, in her invalid’s chair, suffering from that nameless malady that a loving and beloved husband alone can cure, according to Dr. Novarre’s prescription. She suspected they were met to decide upon her fate, and had merely slipped on a white dressing-gown, with little red flowers on it, and fastened up her beautiful dark hair. She had come down in haste, trembling with excited feeling, and was lovely, with her delicate face, in which her eyes (set a little obliquely) beamed brightly, for even grief could not dim their native lustre and gayety. She had overheard her parents’ last words.

“Ah, mamma! ah, papa!” she cried, “what do I hear you saying? Do you think my love for Lucien is the passing fancy of a little girl? I have already told you, and I tell you again, I want Lucien, and I will have Lucien for my husband.”

Mazelle, already half conquered when this bright vision appeared, was still debating the question.

“But, my poor child, just think! Our fortune, which will all come to you, is already in danger, and you may find yourself some day without a penny.”

“Try to understand the situation,” interposed Madame Mazelle. “With our money, even if our fortune should be somewhat impaired, you may yet make an excellent marriage.”

Then Louise burst out with the utmost vehemence.

“I don’t care for your money! You can keep your money! If you gave it to me Lucien would not have me. Your money! what do we want with it? What’s the good of money? It does not create love or make people happy. Lucien will earn our bread, and I will help him, if there is any need for my help. It will be delightful!”

She uttered this with such youthful hope and enthusiasm that the Mazelles, who were a little in dread lest she should lose her reason, thought only of calming her, and at once gave in. They were, indeed, not the kind of people to have held out long, for they prized too much their own tranquillity. As they drank their tea Sub-prefect Châtelard, Mayor Gourier, and Judge Gaume smiled with some embarrassment, for they felt that the fearless avowal of love made by this reckless young person swept over them as a wind might over straws. What could not be cured would have to be endured.

Châtelard wound up the conference with an air of good-natured mockery, which was not very sympathetic.

“Our friend Gourier is right. All is over for us. What we have now to do is to obey the children.”

The wedding festivities on the marriage of Louise Mazelle and Lucien Bonnaire took place a month later. Châtelard, for his own particular amusement, persuaded his friend Gourier to give a ball at his house on the wedding-night, as if to do honor to their old friends the Mazelles. For his own part, he thought it a good joke to make the
bourgeoisie
of Beauclair dance at this wedding, which was symbolical of the advancement of the working - classes. It was amusing to think that they would dance over the wrecks of authority in the mayor’s house, which by degrees would become a communal mansion, where the office of the mayor would be to form a bond of union between various social groups. The hall was dressed very luxuriously. There was music and singing, as there had been at the wedding of Nise and Nanet. There was also shouting when the bride and bridegroom appeared, Lucien looking so sturdy and strong, with his comrades from La Crêcherie, Louise so delicate and excitable, escorted by all the
beau monde
of Beauclair, whose presence her parents had requested, as a sort of last protestation against this union. Only it happened that these pretensions were swamped by the flood of their social inferiors; and catching the spirit of general joyfulness, which was more and more rapturously expressed, they were conquered and lost their social prejudices, so that out of this occasion sprang other marriages between the lads and lasses of the two hostile classes. Once more love was triumphant — all-powerful love, which inflames all the earth and bears it onward towards a happy future.