Complete Works of Emile Zola (530 page)

“There, eat away, my dear!” she said. “You walk too much; it is that which makes you feel so empty! There! have you enough? Do you want any more?”

Thus speaking, she watched him with a tender and anxious look. He, with his round, dumpy figure, leaned over the basin, devouring a sippet with each mouthful of broth. His face, usually yellow with freckles, was becoming quite red with the warmth of the steam which circled round him.

“Heavens!” he muttered, “what grand juice! What do you put in it?”

“Wait a minute,” she said; “if you like leeks — “

However, as she turned round she suddenly caught sight of her mistress. She raised an exclamation, and then, like Zephyrin, seemed turned to stone. But a moment afterwards she poured forth a torrent of excuses.

“It’s my share, madame — oh, it’s my share! I would not have taken any more soup, I swear it! I told him, ‘If you would like to have my bowl of soup, you can have it.’ Come, speak up, Zephyrin; you know that was how it came about!”

The mistress remained silent, and the servant grew uneasy, thinking she was annoyed. Then in quavering tones she continued:

“Oh, he was dying of hunger, madame; he stole a raw carrot for me! They feed him so badly! And then, you know, he had walked goodness knows where all along the river-side. I’m sure, madame, you would have told me yourself to give him some broth!”

Gazing at the little soldier, who sat with his mouth full, not daring to swallow, Helene felt she could no longer remain stern. So she quietly said:

“Well, well, my girl, whenever the lad is hungry you must keep him to dinner — that’s all. I give you permission”

Face to face with them, she had again felt within her that tender feeling which once already had banished all thoughts of rigor from her mind. They were so happy in that kitchen! The cotton curtain, drawn half-way, gave free entry to the sunset beams. The burnished copper pans set the end wall all aglow, lending a rosy tint to the twilight lingering in the room. And there, in the golden shade, the lovers’ little round faces shone out, peaceful and radiant, like moons. Their love was instinct with such calm certainty that no neglect was even shown in keeping the kitchen utensils in their wonted good order. It blossomed amidst the savory odors of the cooking-stove, which heightened their appetites and nourished their hearts.

“Mamma,” asked Jeanne, one evening after considerable meditation, “why is it Rosalie’s cousin never kisses her?”

“And why should they kiss one another?” asked Helene in her turn. “They will kiss on their birthdays.”

CHAPTER VII.

The soup had just been served on the following Tuesday evening, when Helene, after listening attentively, exclaimed:

“What a downpour! Don’t you hear? My poor friends, you will get drenched to-night!”

“Oh, it’s only a few drops,” said the Abbe quietly, though his old cassock was already wet about the shoulders.

“I’ve got a good distance to go,” said Monsieur Rambaud. “But I shall return home on foot all the same; I like it. Besides, I have my umbrella.”

Jeanne was reflecting as she gazed gravely on her last spoonful of vermicelli; and at last her thoughts took shape in words: “Rosalie said you wouldn’t come because of the wretched weather; but mamma said you would come. You are very kind; you always come.”

A smile lit up all their faces. Helene addressed a nod of affectionate approval to the two brothers. Out of doors the rain was falling with a dull roar, and violent gusts of wind beat angrily against the window-shutters. Winter seemed to have returned. Rosalie had carefully drawn the red repp curtains; and the small, cosy dining-room, illumined by the steady light of the white hanging-lamp, looked, amidst the buffeting of the storm, a picture of pleasant, affectionate intimacy. On the mahogany sideboard some china reflected the quiet light; and amidst all this indoor peacefulness the four diners leisurely conversed, awaiting the good pleasure of the servant-maid, as they sat round the table, where all, if simple, was exquisitely clean.

“Oh! you are waiting; so much the worse!” said Rosalie familiarly, as she entered with a dish. “These are fillets of sole
au gratin
for Monsieur Rambaud; they require to be lifted just at the last moment.”

Monsieur Rambaud pretended to be a gourmand, in order to amuse Jeanne, and give pleasure to Rosalie, who was very proud of her accomplishments as a cook. He turned towards her with the question: “By the way, what have you got for us to-day? You are always bringing in some surprise or other when I am no longer hungry.”

“Oh,” said she in reply, “there are three dishes as usual, and no more. After the sole you will have a leg of mutton and then some Brussels sprouts. Yes, that’s the truth; there will be nothing else.”

From the corner of his eye Monsieur Rambaud glanced towards Jeanne. The child was boiling over with glee, her hands over her mouth to restrain her laughter, while she shook her head, as though to insinuate that the maid was deceiving them. Monsieur Rambaud thereupon clacked his tongue as though in doubt, and Rosalie pretended great indignation.

“You don’t believe me because Mademoiselle Jeanne laughs so,” said she. “Ah, very well! believe what you like. Stint yourself, and see if you won’t have a craving for food when you get home.”

When the maid had left the room, Jeanne, laughing yet more loudly, was seized with a longing to speak out.

“You are really too greedy!” she began. “I myself went into the kitchen — “ However, she left her sentence unfinished: “No, no, I won’t tell; it isn’t right, is it, mamma? There’s nothing more — nothing at all! I only laughed to cheat you.”

This interlude was re-enacted every Tuesday with the same unvarying success. Helene was touched by the kindliness with which Monsieur Rambaud lent himself to the fun; she was well aware that, with Provencal frugality, he had long limited his daily fare to an anchovy and half-a-dozen olives. As for Abbe Jouve, he never knew what he was eating, and his blunders and forgetfulness supplied an inexhaustible fund of amusement. Jeanne, meditating some prank in this respect, was even now stealthily watching him with her glittering eyes.

“How nice this whiting is!” she said to him, after they had all been served.

“Very nice, my dear,” he answered. “Bless me, you are right — it is whiting; I thought it was turbot.”

And then, as every one laughed, he guilelessly asked why. Rosalie, who had just come into the room again, seemed very much hurt, and burst out:

“A fine thing indeed! The priest in my native place knew much better what he was eating. He could tell the age of the fowl he was carving to a week or so, and didn’t require to go into the kitchen to find out what there was for dinner. No, the smell was quite sufficient. Goodness gracious! had I been in the service of a priest like your reverence, I should not know yet even how to turn an omelet.”

The Abbe hastened to excuse himself with an embarrassed air, as though his inability to appreciate the delights of the table was a failing he despaired of curing. But, as he said, he had too many other things to think about.

“There! that is a leg of mutton!” exclaimed Rosalie, as she placed on the table the joint referred to.

Everybody once more indulged in a peal of laughter, the Abbe Jouve being the first to do so. He bent forward to look, his little eyes twinkling with glee.

“Yes, certainly,” said he; “it is a leg of mutton. I think I should have known it.”

Despite this remark, there was something about the Abbe that day which betokened unusual absent-mindedness. He ate quickly, with the haste of a man who is bored by a long stay at table, and lunches standing when at home. And, having finished, himself, he would wait the convenience of the others, plunged in deep thought, and simply smiling in reply to the questions put to him. At every moment he cast on his brother a look in which encouragement and uneasiness were mingled. Nor did Monsieur Rambaud seen possessed of his wonted tranquillity that evening; but his agitation manifested itself in a craving to talk and fidget on his chair, which seemed rather inconsistent with his quiet disposition. When the Brussels sprouts had disappeared, there was a delay in the appearance of the dessert, and a spell of silence ensued. Out of doors the rain was beating down with still greater force, rattling noisily against the house. The dining-room was rather close, and it suddenly dawned on Helene that there was something strange in the air — that the two brothers had some worry of which they did not care to speak. She looked at them anxiously, and at last spoke:

“Dear, dear! What dreadful rain! isn’t it? It seems to be influencing both of you, for you look out of sorts.”

They protested, however, that such was not the case, doing their utmost to clear her mind of the notion. And as Rosalie now made her appearance with an immense dish, Monsieur Rambaud exclaimed, as though to veil his emotion: “What did I say! Still another surprise!”

The surprise of the day was some vanilla cream, one of the cook’s triumphs. And thus it was a sight to see her broad, silent grin, as she deposited her burden on the table. Jeanne shouted and clapped her hands.

“I knew it, I knew it! I saw the eggs in the kitchen!”

“But I have no more appetite,” declared Monsieur Rambaud, with a look of despair. “I could not eat any of it!”

Thereupon Rosalie became grave, full of suppressed wrath. With a dignified air, she remarked: “Oh, indeed! A cream which I made specially for you! Well, well! just try not to eat any of it — yes, try!”

He had to give in and accept a large helping of the cream. Meanwhile the Abbe remained thoughtful. He rolled up his napkin and rose before the dessert had come to an end, as was frequently his custom. For a little while he walked about, with his head hanging down; and when Helene in her turn quitted the table, he cast at Monsieur Rambaud a look of intelligence, and led the young woman into the bedroom.[*] The door being left open behind them, they could almost immediately afterwards be heard conversing together, though the words which they slowly exchanged were indistinguishable.

[*] Helene’s frequent use of her bedroom may seem strange to the English reader who has never been in France. But in the
petite bourgeoisie
the bedchamber is often the cosiest of the whole suite of rooms, and whilst indoors, when not superintending her servant, it is in the bedroom that madame will spend most of her time. Here, too, she will receive friends of either sex, and, the French being far less prudish than ourselves, nobody considers that there is anything wrong or indelicate in the practice.

“Oh, do make haste!” said Jeanne to Monsieur Rambaud, who seemed incapable of finishing a biscuit. “I want to show you my work.”

However, he evinced no haste, though when Rosalie began to clear the table it became necessary for him to leave his chair.

“Wait a little! wait a little!” he murmured, as the child strove to drag him towards the bedroom, And, overcome with embarrassment and timidity, he retreated from the doorway. Then, as the Abbe raised his voice, such sudden weakness came over him that he had to sit down again at the table. From his pocket he drew a newspaper.

“Now,” said he, “I’m going to make you a little coach.”

Jeanne at once abandoned her intention of entering the adjoining room. Monsieur Rambaud always amazed her by his skill in turning a sheet of paper into all sorts of playthings. Chickens, boats, bishops’ mitres, carts, and cages, were all evolved under his fingers. That day, however, so tremulous were his hands that he was unable to perfect anything. He lowered his head whenever the faintest sound came from the adjacent room. Nevertheless, Jeanne took interest in watching him, and leaned on the table at his side.

“Now,” said she, “you must make a chicken to harness to the carriage.”

Meantime, within the bedroom, Abbe Jouve remained standing in the shadow thrown by the lamp-shade upon the floor. Helene had sat down in her usual place in front of the round table; and, as on Tuesdays she refrained from ceremony with her friends, she had taken up her needlework, and, in the circular glare of light, only her white hands could be seen sewing a child’s cap.

“Jeanne gives you no further worry, does she?” asked the Abbe.

Helene shook her head before making a reply.

“Doctor Deberle seems quite satisfied,” said she. “But the poor darling is still very nervous. Yesterday I found her in her chair in a fainting fit.”

“She needs exercise,” resumed the priest. “You stay indoors far too much; you should follow the example of other folks and go about more than you do.”

He ceased speaking, and silence followed. He now, without doubt, had what he had been seeking, — a suitable inlet for his discourse; but the moment for speaking came, and he was still communing with himself. Taking a chair, he sat down at Helene’s side.

“Hearken to me, my dear child,” he began. “For some time past I have wished to talk with you seriously. The life you are leading here can entail no good results. A convent existence such as yours is not consistent with your years; and this abandonment of worldly pleasures is as injurious to your child as it is to yourself. You are risking many dangers — dangers to health, ay, and other dangers, too.”

Helene raised her head with an expression of astonishment. “What do you mean, my friend?” she asked.

“Dear me! I know the world but little,” continued the priest, with some slight embarrassment, “yet I know very well that a woman incurs great risk when she remains without a protecting arm. To speak frankly, you keep to your own company too much, and this seclusion in which you hide yourself is not healthful, believe me. A day must come when you will suffer from it.”

“But I make no complaint; I am very happy as I am,” she exclaimed with spirit.

The old priest gently shook his large head.

“Yes, yes, that is all very well. You feel completely happy. I know all that. Only, on the downhill path of a lonely, dreamy life, you never know where you are going. Oh! I understand you perfectly; you are incapable of doing any wrong. But sooner or later you might lose your peace of mind. Some morning, when it is too late, you will find that blank which you now leave in your life filled by some painful feeling not to be confessed.”