Complete Works of Emile Zola (339 page)

Madame Faujas, seeing her so unwell, persuaded her to go to rest early, accompanied her to her room and put her to bed. Mouret, who had a key of the bedroom, had already retired to his office, where he spent his evenings. When Marthe, covered up to her chin with the blankets, said that she was quite warm and felt better, Madame Faujas went to blow out the candle that she might be better able to sleep; but at this Marthe sprang up in fear and cried out beseech­ingly:

‘No! no! don’t put out the light! Put it on the drawers so that I can see it. I should die if I were left in the dark.’

Then, with staring eyes, trembling as though at the recol­lection of some dreadful tragedy, she murmured in tones of terrified pity: ‘Oh, it is horrible! it is horrible!’

She fell back upon the pillow and seemed to drop asleep, and Madame Faujas then silently left the room. That evening the whole house was in bed by ten o’clock. As Rose went upstairs, she noticed that Mouret was still in his office. She peeped through the key-hole and saw him asleep there with his head on the table, and a kitchen-candle smoking dismally by his side.

‘Well, I won’t wake him,’ she said to herself as she con­tinued her journey upstairs. ‘Let him get a stiff neck, if he likes.’

About midnight, when the whole house was wrapped in slumber, cries were heard proceeding from the first floor. At first they were but wails, but they soon grew into loud howls, like the hoarse, choking calls of one who is being murdered, Abbé Faujas, awaking with a start, called his mother, who scarcely gave herself time to slip on a petticoat before she went to knock at Rose’s door.

‘Come down immediately!’ she said, ‘I’m afraid Madame Mouret is being murdered.’

The screams became louder than ever. The whole house was soon astir. Olympe with her shoulders simply hidden by a kerchief, made her appearance with Trouche, who had only just returned home, slightly intoxicated. Rose hastened down­stairs, followed by the lodgers.

‘Open the door, madame, open the door!’ she cried ex­citedly, hammering with her fist on Madame Mouret’s door.

Deep sighs alone answered her; then there was the sound of a body falling, and a terrible struggle seemed to be taking place on the floor in the midst of overturned furniture. The walls shook with repeated heavy blows, and a sound like a death-rattle passed under the door, so terrible that the Faujases and the Trouches turned pale as they looked at each other.

‘Her husband is murdering her,’ murmured Olympe.

‘Yes, you are right; the brute is killing her,’ said the cook. ‘I saw him pretending to be asleep when I came up to bed. But he was planning it all then.’

She once more thundered on the door with both her fists, repeating:

‘Open the door, sir! We shall go for the police if you don’t. Oh, the scoundrel! he will end his days on the scaf­fold!’

Then the groans and cries began again. Trouche declared that the blackguard must be bleeding the poor lady like a fowl.

‘We must do something more than knock at the door,’ said Abbé Faujas, coming forward. ‘Wait a moment.’

He put one of his broad shoulders to the door and with a slow persistent effort forced it open. The women then rushed into the room, where the most extraordinary spectacle met their eyes.

Marthe, her night-dress torn, lay panting on the floor, bruised, scratched, and bleeding. Her dishevelled hair was twined round the leg of a chair, and her hands had so firmly gripped hold of the chest of drawers, that it was pulled from its place and now stood in front of the door. Mouret was standing in a corner, holding the candle and gazing at his wife with an expression of stupefaction.

Abbé Faujas had to push the chest of drawers on one side.

‘You are a monster!’ cried Rose, rushing up to Mouret and shaking her fist at him. ‘To treat a woman like that! He would have killed her, if we hadn’t come in time to prevent him.’

Madame Faujas and Olympe bent down over Marthe.

‘Poor dear!’ said the former. ‘She had a presentiment of something this evening. She was quite frightened.’

‘Where are you hurt?’ asked Olympe. ‘There is nothing broken, is there? Look at her shoulder, it’s quite black; and her knee is dreadfully grazed. Make yourself easy; we are with you, and we will protect you.’

But Marthe was now simply wailing like a child. While the two women were examining her, forgetting that there were men in the room, the Abbé quietly put the furniture in order. Then Rose helped Madame Faujas and Olympe to carry Marthe back to bed, and when they had done so and had knotted up her hair, they lingered for a moment, looking curiously round the room and waiting for explanations. Mouret still stood in the same corner holding the candle, as though petrified by what he had seen.

‘I assure you,’ he said, ‘that I didn’t hurt her; I didn’t touch her with the tip of my finger even.’

‘You’ve been waiting for your opportunity this month past,’ cried Rose in a fury; ‘we all know that well enough; we have watched you. The dear lady was quite expecting your brutality. Don’t tell lies about it; they put me quite beside myself!’

The other women cast threatening glances at him, though they did not feel at liberty to speak to him in the same way as Rose had done.

‘I assure you,’ repeated Mouret in a gentle voice, ‘that I did not strike her. I was just about to get into bed, but the moment I touched the candle, which was standing on the drawers, she awoke with a start, stretched out her arms with a cry, and then began to beat her forehead with her fists and tear her flesh with her nails.’

The cook shook her head furiously.

‘Why didn’t you open the door?’ she cried; ‘we knocked loud enough.’

‘I assure you that I have done nothing,’ he reiterated still more gently than before. ‘I could not tell what was the matter with her. She threw herself upon the floor, bit her­self and leapt about so violently as almost to break the furniture. I did not dare to go near her; I was quite overcome. I twice called to you to come in, but she was screaming so loudly that she must have prevented you from hearing me. I was in a terrible fright, but I have done nothing, I assure you.’

‘Oh yes! She’s been beating herself, hasn’t she?’ jeered Rose.

Then, addressing herself to Madame Faujas, she added:

‘He threw his stick out of the window, no doubt, when he heard us coming.’

Mouret at last put the candle back upon the chest of drawers and seated himself on a chair, with his hands upon his knees. He made no further attempt to defend himself, but gazed with stupefaction at the women who were shaking their skinny arms in front of the bed. Trouche had exchanged a glance with Abbé Faujas. That poor fellow, Mouret, certainly had no very ferocious appearance as he sat there in his nightgown, with a yellow handkerchief tied round his bald head. However, the others all closed round the bed and looked at Marthe, who, with distorted face, seemed to be waking from a dream.

‘What is the matter, Rose?’ she asked. ‘What are all these people doing here? I am quite exhausted. Ask them to leave me in peace.’

Rose hesitated for a moment.

‘Your husband is in the room, madame,’ she said at last. ‘Aren’t you afraid to remain alone with him?’

Marthe looked at her in astonishment.

‘No, no; not at all,’ she replied. ‘Go away; I am very sleepy.
’

Thereupon the five people quitted the room, leaving Mouret seated on the chair, staring blankly towards the bed.

‘He won’t be able to fasten the door again,’ the cook ex­claimed as she went back upstairs. ‘At the very first sound I shall fly down and be at him. I shall go to bed with my things on. Did you hear what stories the dear lady told to prevent him from appearing such a brute? She would let herself be murdered rather than accuse him. What a hypo­critical face he has, hasn’t he?’

The three women remained for a few moments on the landing of the second floor, holding their candlesticks the while. No punishment, said they, would be severe enough for such a man. Then they separated. The house fell into its wonted quietness, and the remainder of the night passed off peacefully. The next morning, when the three women eagerly referred to the terrible scene, they found Marthe nervous, shamefaced and confused. She gave them no answer but cut the conversation short. When she was alone she sent for a workman to come and mend the door. Madame Faujas and Olympe came to the conclusion that Madame Mouret’s reticence was caused by a desire to avoid scandal.

The next day, Easter Day, Marthe tasted at Saint-Saturnin’s all the sweetness of an awakening of the soul amidst the triumphant joys of the Resurrection. The gloom of Good Friday was swept away by the brightness of Easter; the church was decked in white, and was full of perfume and light, as though for the celebration of some divine nuptials; the voices of the choir-boys sounded flute-like, and Marthe, amidst their songs of joyful praise, felt transported by even more thrilling, overwhelming sensations than during the celebration of the crucifixion. She returned home with glistening eyes and hot dry tongue, and sat up late, talking with a gaiety that was unusual in her. Mouret was already in bed when she at last went upstairs. About midnight, terrible cries again echoed through the house.

The scene that had taken place two days previously was repeated: only on this occasion, at the first knock, Mouret came in his night-gown and with distracted face to open the door. Marthe, still dressed, was lying on her stomach, sobbing violently and beating her head against the foot of the bed. The bodice of her dress looked as though it had been torn open, and there were two big scratches on her throat.

‘He has tried to strangle her this time!’ exclaimed Rose.

The women undressed her. Mouret, after opening the door, had got back into bed, trembling all over and as pale as a sheet. He made no attempt to defend himself; he did not even appear to hear the indignant remarks that were made about him, but simply covered himself up and lay close to the wall. Similar scenes now took place at irregular intervals. The house lived in a state of fear lest a crime should be committed; and, at the slightest noise, the occupants of the second floor were astir. Marthe, however, still avoided all allusions to the matter, and absolutely for­bade Rose to prepare a folding bed for Mouret in his office. When the morning came, it seemed to take away from her the very recollection of the scene of the night.

However, it was gradually reported about the neigh­bourhood that strange things happened at the Mourets’. It was said that the husband belaboured his wife every night with a bludgeon. Rose had made Madame Faujas and Olympe swear that they would say nothing on the sub­ject, as her mistress seemingly wished to keep silence upon it; but she herself, by her expressions of pity and her allusions and her reservations, materially contributed to set afloat amongst the tradesmen the stories that became current. The butcher, who was a great jester, asserted that Mouret had thrashed his wife on account of the priest, but the green­grocer’s wife defended ‘the poor lady,’ who was, she de­clared, an innocent lamb quite incapable of doing any wrong. The baker’s spouse, on the other hand, considered that Mouret was one of those men who ill-treat their wives for mere pleasure and amusement. In the market-place people raised their eyes to heaven when they spoke of the matter, and referred to Marthe in the same terms of caressing endearment that they would have used in speaking of a sick child. Whenever Olympe went to buy a pound of cherries or a basket of strawberries, the conversation inevitably turned upon the Mourets, and for a quarter of an hour there was a stream of sympathetic remarks.

‘Well, and how are things getting on in your house?’

‘Oh, don’t speak of it! She is weeping her life away. It is most pitiable. One could almost wish to see her die.’

‘She came to buy some anchovies the other day, and I noticed that one of her cheeks was scratched.’

‘Oh, yes! he nearly kills her! If you could only see her body as I have seen it! It is nothing but one big sore. When she is down on the ground he kicks her with his heels. I am in constant fear of finding in the morning that he has split her head open during the night.’

‘It must be very unpleasant for you, living in such a house. I should go somewhere else, if I were in your place. It would make me quite ill to be mixed up with such horrors every night.’

‘But what would become of the poor woman? She is so refined and gentle! We stay on for her sake — five sous, isn’t it, this pound of cherries?’

‘Yes; five sous. Well, it’s very good of you; you show a kind heart.’

This story of a husband who waited till midnight to fall upon his wife with a bludgeon excited the greatest interest amongst the gossips of the market-place. There were further terrible details every day. One pious woman asserted that Mouret was possessed by an evil spirit, and that he seized his wife by the neck with his teeth with such violence that Abbé Faujas was obliged to make the sign of the cross three times in the air with his left thumb before the monster could be made to let go his hold. Then, she added, Mouret fell to the ground like a great lump, and a huge black rat leapt out of his mouth and vanished, though not the slightest hole could be discovered in the flooring. The tripe-seller at the corner of the Rue Taravelle terrified the neighbourhood by promulgating the theory that ‘the scoundrel had perhaps been bitten by a mad dog.’

The story, however, was not credited among the higher classes of the inhabitants of Plassans. When it was mooted about the Cours Sauvaire it afforded the retired traders much amusement, as they sat on the benches there, basking in the warm May sun.

‘Mouret is quite incapable of beating his wife,’ said the retired almond-dealers; ‘he looks as though he had had a whipping himself, and he no longer even comes out for a turn on the promenade. His wife must be keeping him on dry bread.’

‘One can never tell,’ said a retired captain. ‘I knew an officer in my regiment whose wife used to box his ears for a mere yes or no. That went on for ten years. Then one day she took it into her head to kick him; but that made him quite furious and he nearly strangled her. Perhaps Mouret has the same dislike to being kicked as my friend had.’