Complete Works of Emile Zola (340 page)

‘He probably has a yet greater dislike to priests,’ said another of the company with a sneer.

For some time Madame Rougon appeared quite unconscious of the scandal which was occupying the attention of the town. She preserved a smiling face and ignored the allusions which were made before her. One day, however, after a long visit from Monsieur Delangre, she arrived at her daughter’s house looking greatly distressed, her eyes filled with tears.

‘Ah, my dear!’ she cried, clasping Marthe in her arms, ‘what is this that I have just heard? Can your husband really have so far forgotten himself so as to have raised his hand against you? It is all a pack of falsehoods, isn’t it? I have given it the strongest denial. I know Mou­ret. He has been badly brought up, but he is not a wicked man.’

Marthe blushed. She was overcome by that embarrass­ment and shame which she experienced every time this subject was alluded to in her presence.

‘Ah! madame will never complain!’ cried Rose with her customary boldness. ‘I should have come and informed you a long time ago if I had not been afraid of madame being angry with me.’

The old lady let her hands fall with an expression of extreme grief and surprise.

‘It is really true, then,’ she exclaimed, ‘that he beats you! Oh, the wretch! the wretch!’

Thereupon she began to weep.

‘For me to have lived to
my
age to see such things! A man whom we have overwhelmed with kindnesses ever since his father’s death, when he was only a little clerk with us! It was Rougon who desired your marriage. I told him more than once that Mouret looked like a scoundrel. He has never treated us well; and he only came to live at Plassans for the sake of setting us at defiance with the few sous he has got together. Thank heaven, we stand in no need of him; we are richer than he is, and it is that which annoys him. He is very mean-spirited, and so jealous that he has always refused to set foot in my drawing-room. He knows he would burst with envy there. But I won’t leave you in the power of such a monster, my dear. There are laws, happily.’ ‘Oh don’t be uneasy! There has been much exaggeration, I assure you,’ said Marthe, who was growing more and more ill at ease.

‘You see that she is trying to defend him!’ cried the cook.

At this moment, Abbé Faujas and Trouche, who had been conferring together at the bottom of the garden, came up, attracted by the sound of the conversation.

‘I am a most unhappy mother, your reverence,’ said Madame Rougon piteously. ‘I have only one daughter near me now, and I hear she is weeping her eyes out from ill-treatment. But you live in the same house, and I beg you to protect and console her.’

The Abbé fixed his eyes upon the old woman, as though he were trying to guess the real meaning of this sudden manifestation of distress.

‘I have just seen some one whom I would rather not name,’ she continued, returning the Abbé’s glance. ‘This person has quite alarmed me. God knows that I don’t want to do anything to injure my son-in-law! But it is my duty — is it not? — to defend my daughter’s interests. Well, my son-in-law is a wretch; he ill-treats his wife, he scandalises the whole town, and mixes himself up in all sorts of dirty affairs. You will see that he will also compromise himself in political matters when the elections come on. The last time it was he who put himself at the head of the riff-raff of the suburbs. It will kill me, your reverence!’

‘Monsieur Mouret would not allow anybody to make remarks to him about his conduct,’ the Abbé at last ventured to say.

‘But I can’t abandon my daughter to such a man!’ cried Madame Rougon. ‘I will not allow it that we should be dis­honoured. Justice is not made for dogs.’

Trouche, who was swaying himself about, took advantage of a momentary pause to exclaim:

‘Monsieur Mouret is mad!’

The words seemed to fall with all the force of a blow from a club, and everybody looked at the speaker.

‘I mean that he has a weak head,’ continued Trouche. ‘You’ve only got to look at his eyes. I may tell you that I don’t feel particularly easy myself. There was a man at Besançon who adored his daughter, but he murdered her one night without knowing what he was doing.’

‘The master has been cracked for a long time past,’ said Rose.

‘But this is frightful!’ cried Madame Rougon. ‘Really, I fear you may be right. The last time I saw him he had a most extraordinary expression on his face. He never had very sharp wits. Ah! my poor dear, promise to confide everything to me. I shall not be able to sleep quietly after this. Listen to me now; at the first sign of any extravagant conduct on your husband’s part, don’t hesitate, don’t run
any further risk — madmen must be placed in confinement.’

After this speech, she went off. When Trouche was again alone with Abbé Faujas, he gave one of those unpleasant grins that exposed his black teeth to view.

‘Our landlady will owe me a big taper,’ he said. ‘She will be able to kick about at nights as much as she likes.’

The priest, with his face quite ashy and his eyes turned to the ground, made no reply. Then he shrugged his shoulders and went off to read his breviary under the arbour at the bottom of the garden.

CHAPTER XVIII

On Sundays Mouret, like many of the other retired traders of Plassans, used to take a stroll about the town. It was on Sundays only that he now emerged from that lonely seclusion in which he buried himself, overcome by a sort of shame. And his Sunday outing was gone through quite mechani­cally. In the morning he shaved himself, put on a clean shirt, and brushed his coat and hat; then, after breakfast, without quite knowing how, he found himself in the street, walking along slowly, with his hands behind his back and looking very sedate and neat.

As he was leaving his house one Sunday, he saw Rose talking with much animation to Monsieur Rastoil’s cook on the pathway of the Rue Balande. The two servants became silent when they caught sight of him. They looked at him with such a peculiar expression that he felt behind him to ascertain whether his handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket. When he reached the Place of the Sub-Prefecture he turned his head, looked back, and saw them still standing in the same place. Rose was imitating the reeling of a drunken man, while the president’s cook was laughing loudly.

‘I am walking too quickly and they are making fun of me,’ thought Mouret.

He thereupon slackened his pace. As he passed through the Rue de la Banne towards the market, the shopkeepers ran to their doors and watched him curiously. He gave a little nod to the butcher, who looked confused and did not return the salutation. The baker’s wife, to whom he raised his hat, seemed quite alarmed and hastily stepped backwards. The greengrocer, the pastrycook and the grocer pointed him out to each other from opposite sides of the street. As he went along there was ever excitement behind him, people clustered together in groups, and a great deal of talking, mingled with laughs and grins, ensued.

‘Did you notice how quickly he was walking?’

‘Yes, indeed, when he wanted to stride across the gutter he almost jumped.’

‘It is said that they are all like that.’

‘I felt quite frightened. Why is he allowed to come out? It oughtn’t to be permitted.’

Mouret was beginning to feel timid, and dared not venture to look round again. He experienced a vague uneasiness, though he could not feel quite sure that it was about himself that the people were all talking. He quickened his steps and began to swing his arms about. He regretted that he had put on his old overcoat, a hazel-coloured one and no longer of a fashionable cut. When he reached the market-place, he hesitated for a moment, and then boldly strode into the midst of the greengrocers’ stalls. The mere sight of him caused quite a commotion there.

All the housewives of Plassans formed in a line about his path, the market-women stood up by their stalls, with their hands on their hips, and stared hard at him. People even pushed one another to get a sight of him, and some of the women mounted on to the benches in the corn-market. Mouret still further quickened his steps and tried to disengage himself from the crowd, not as yet able to believe that it was he who was causing all this excitement.

‘Well, anyone would think that his arms were windmill sails,’ said a peasant-woman who was selling fruit.

‘He flies on like a shot; he nearly upset my stall,’ ex­claimed another woman, a greengrocer.

‘Stop him! stop him!’ the millers cried facetiously. Then Mouret, overcome by curiosity, halted and rose on tip­toes to see what was the matter. He imagined that someone had just been detected thieving. But a loud burst of laughter broke out from the crowd, and there were shouts and hisses, all sorts of calls and cries.

‘There’s no harm in him; don’t hurt him.’

‘Ah! I’m not so sure of that. I shouldn’t like to trust myself too near him. He gets up in the night and strangles people.’

‘He certainly looks a bad one.’

‘Has it come upon him suddenly?’

‘Yes, indeed, all at once. And he used to be so kind and gentle! I’m going away; all this distresses me. Here are the three sous for the turnips.’

Mouret had just recognised Olympe in the midst of a group of women, and he went towards her. She had been buying some magnificent peaches, which she carried in a very fashion­able-looking handbag. And she was evidently relating some very moving story, for all the gossips around her were break­ing out into exclamations and clasping their hands with expressions of pity.

‘Then,’ said she, ‘he caught her by the hair, and he would have cut her throat with a razor which was lying on the chest of drawers if we hadn’t arrived just in time to prevent the murder. But don’t say anything to her about it: it would only bring her more trouble.’

‘What trouble?’ asked Mouret in amazement. The listeners hurried away, and Olympe assumed an expression of careful watchfulness as, in her turn, she warily slipped off, saying:

‘Don’t excite yourself, Monsieur Mouret. You had better go back home.’

Mouret took refuge in a little lane that led to the Cours Sauvaire. Thereupon the shouts increased in violence, and for a few moments he was pursued by the angry uproar of the market-folk.

‘What is the matter with them to-day?’ he wondered. ‘Could it be me that they were jeering at? But I never heard my name mentioned. Something out of the common must have happened.’

He then took off his hat and examined it, imagining that perhaps some street lad had thrown a handful of mud at it. It was all right, however, and there was nothing fastened on to his coat-tails. This examination soothed him a little, and he resumed his sedate walk through the silent lane, and quietly turned on to the Cours Sauvaire.

The usual groups of friends were sitting on the benches there.

‘Hallo! here’s Mouret!’ cried the retired captain, with an expression of great astonishment.

The liveliest curiosity became manifest on the sleepy faces of the others. They stretched out their necks without rising from their seats, while Mouret stood in front of them. They examined him minutely from head to foot.

‘Ah! you are taking a little stroll?’ said the captain, who seemed the boldest.

‘Yes, just a short stroll,’ replied Mouret, in a listless fashion. ‘It’s a very fine day.’

The company exchanged meaning smiles. They were feeling chilly and the sky had just become overcast.

‘Very fine,’ said a retired tanner; ‘you are easily pleased. It is true, however, that you are already wearing winter clothes. What a funny overcoat that is of yours!’

The smiles now grew into grins and titters. A sudden idea seemed to strike Mouret.

‘Just look and tell me,’ said he, suddenly turning round, ‘have I got a sun on my back?’

The retired almond-dealers could no longer keep serious, but burst into loud laughter. The captain, who was the jester of the company, winked.

‘A sun?’ he asked, ‘where? I can only see a moon.’ The others shook with laughter. They thought the captain excessively witty.

‘A moon?’ said Mouret; ‘be kind enough to remove it. It has caused me much inconvenience.’

The captain gave him three or four taps on the back, and then exclaimed:

‘There, you are rid of it now. But it must, indeed, be extremely inconvenient to have a moon on one’s back. You are not looking very well.’

‘I am not very well,’ Mouret replied in his listless indifferent way.

Then, imagining that he heard a titter, he added: ‘But I am very well taken care of at home. My wife is very kind and attentive, and quite spoils me. But I need rest, and that is the reason why I don’t come out now as I used to do. Directly I am better, I shall look after business again.’

‘But they say it is your wife who is not very well,’ inter­rupted the retired tanner bluntly.

‘My wife! There is nothing the matter with her! It is a pack of falsehoods! There is nothing the matter with her — nothing at all. People say things against us because — be­cause we keep quietly at home. Ill, indeed! my wife! She is very strong, and never even has so much the matter with her as — as a headache.’

He went on speaking in short sentences, stammering and hesitating in the uneasy way of a man who is telling false­hoods; full too of the embarrassment of a whilom gossip who has become tongue-tied. The retired traders shook their heads with pitying looks, and the captain tapped his forehead with his finger. A former hatter of the suburbs who had scrutinised Mouret from his cravat to the bottom button of his overcoat, was now absorbed in the examination of his boots. The lace of the one on the left foot had come undone, and this seemed to the hatter a most extraordinary circum­stance. He nudged his neighbours’ elbows, and winked as he called their attention to the loosened lace. Soon the whole bench had eyes for nothing else but the lace. It was the last proof. The men shrugged their shoulders in a way that seemed to imply that they had lost their last spark of hope.

‘Mouret,’ said the captain, in a paternal fashion,
‘
fasten up your boot-lace.’

Mouret glanced at his feet, but did not seem to under­stand; and he went on talking. Then, as no one replied, he became silent, and after standing there for a moment or two longer he quietly continued his walk.