Complete Works of Emile Zola (54 page)

After a pause, Revertégat went on:

“Listen, I can give you another instance. The anecdote contains quite a cruel comedy, in which Roumieu gave proof of rare artfulness. A man named Richard, who had amassed several hundred thousand francs in business, retired, and went to live with a worthy couple who nursed him and enlivened his old age. In exchange for their affectionate attentions, the retired merchant had promised to leave them his fortune. They lived on in this expectation; they had several children whom they hoped to establish well in life. But Roumieu happened to pass by, and soon became Richard’s intimate friend; he would take him occasionally into the country, and secretly obtained complete mastery over him. The family which had received the retired merchant suspected nothing; they continued to nurse him and await the inheritance.

“During fifteen years they lived thus, quite easy in their minds, forming plans for the future, and feeling certain of being happy and rich. Richard died, and on the morrow Roumieu was found to have inherited his property, to the great surprise and grief of this family, swindled both in its affections and its interest.

“Such is the hunter after inheritances. When he moves one cannot hear the sound of his claws upon the ground; his bounds are too rapid to be measured: he has already sucked his prey dry before ho has been observed to be upon it.”

Fine felt filled with disgust.

“No, no,” she said, “I will never go and ask money of such a man. Don’t you know another, uncle?”

“All usurers are alike, my poor child,” replied the gaoler; “they all have some indelible stain on their lives. I know an old skinflint who has more than a million, and who lives alone in a dirty tumble-down house. Guillaume buries himself out of sight in his foul den. The damp is rotting the walls; the floor is not even paved, but is a sort of muck-heap consisting of mud and filth; cobwebs hang from the ceiling, the dust lies thick over everything, while a dull lugubrious light penetrates through the window-panes which are coated thick with dirt. The old miser seems to sleep amidst impurities, like the waiting spider sleeps in the centre of his web on tire beam. When some prey becomes entangled in the nets he has spread, he draws it to him and sucks it dry of its life’s blood. His food consists solely of vegetables cooked in plain water, and he never satisfies his hunger. He clothes himself in rags and leads the life of a leprous beggar. And all this is for the sake of keeping the money he has already accumulated, and of adding unceasingly to his store. He only lends at cent per cent.”

Fine turned pale at the picture her uncle was setting before her.

“Guillaume has friends, however, who extol his piety,” continued the gaoler. “He believes in neither Heaven nor Hell, and would sell the Saviour a second time if he had the opportunity; but he has been clever enough to sham great devoutness, and this piece of acting has won him the esteem of certain narrow minds. He may be met dragging himself about the churches, kneeling behind every pillar, using gallons of holy water.

“Inquire throughout the town, ask anyone what good action this saintly person has ever done. He worships the Almighty, it is said; but he robs his fellow-man. It’s impossible to name a single creature he has ever assisted. He lends at an usurious rate, he has never given a copper in charity. Were some poor wretch to be dying at his door, he wouldn’t take him a crust of bread nor a glass of water. If he enjoys any kind of esteem, it’s because he has stolen it, the same as everything else he possesses.”

Revertégat stopped and looked at his niece, scarcely knowing whether he should continue.

“And you would be simple enough to apply to such a man?” said he at last. “I cannot tell you everything, I cannot speak of his vices, for the old scoundrel has ignoble ones. At times, he forgets his avarice to satisfy his lust. There are shocking stories told of him — “

“Enough!” cried Marius energetically.

Fine, confused and dismayed, bowed her head, having lost all courage and hope.

“I see money is too dear,” the young man resumed, “and that one must sell oneself to obtain it. Ah! if I only had the time to earn the sum we require by hard work!”

Then all three remained silent, unable to find a means of salvation.

CHAPTER XVIII

IN WHICH THERE IS A GLIMMER OF HOPE

THE following morning, Marius, urged on by necessity, decided on calling on M. de Girousse.

He had been thinking of applying to the old Count ever since he had been in search of money, but had always refrained from doing so on account of the nobleman’s original bluntness. He felt ashamed to own his poverty and blushed at the thought of having to confess to what use he proposed putting the amount he was asking for. Nothing seemed more painful to him than to be compelled to take any third party into his confidence in regard to his brother’s escape, and M. de Girousse frightened him more than anyone else.

When the young man called, the mansion was closed, the Count having just left for Lambesc. His errand was so disagreeable to him that he was almost glad at finding no one at home. He remained on the Cours irresolute, not daring to go to Lambesc and in despair at being reduced to inaction.

As he advanced along one of the paths quite upset and with his eyes wandering vaguely about him, he met Fine. It was seven o’clock in the morning. The flower-girl with her best clothes on, had a small travelling bag in her hand and appeared all smiles and determination.

“Where are you off to?” he inquired, with surprise.

“I am going to Marseille,” she answered.

He looked at her curiously, asking for an explanation with his eyes.

“I can tell you nothing,” she continued. “I have a plan, but am afraid of failure. I shall return tonight. Come, never despair!”

Marius accompanied Fine to the diligence. When the heavy vehicle set out, he followed it for a long time with his eyes; this carriage bore away his last hope and would bring him back joy or anguish. Up to the evening he watched all the diligences coming in, until at length there remained only one to arrive, and Fine had not yet returned.

The young man, devoured by impatience, walked nervously backward and forward, trembling lest the flower-girl should not return until the following day. In his trouble as to what this last attempt might be, he felt he had not the courage to pass another whole night of uncertainty and anxiety. He walked about the Cours shivering, and a prey to a sort of nightmare.

At last, he perceived the diligence in the distance in the centre of the Rotunda Square. When he heard the wheels rumbling on the stones his heart beat violently. He set his back against a tree and watched the travellers stepping out one by one.

All at once he felt as if rooted to the spot. He had seen the tall form and sad, pale face of Abbé Chastanier appear at one of the open doors of the vehicle, almost opposite to him. When the abbé was on the pavement he extended his hand and helped out a young lady who was none other than Mademoiselle Blanche de Cazalis.

Fine lightly sprang to the ground behind her, without making use of the step. She was beaming with smiles.

The two travellers, guided by Fine, went off in the direction of the Hôtel des Princes. Marius, who had remained in the shades of early evening, followed them in a mechanical manner, at a loss to understand, as if stultified.

Fine remained ten minutes in the hotel at most. As she left she caught sight of the young man, and ran towards him in a fit of delight.

“I succeeded in bringing them here,” she exclaimed clapping her hands; and now I trust they will obtain what I want. Tomorrow we shall be fixed.”

Then she took Marius’ arm and gave him an account of her journey.

The previous evening she had been struck by something the young man had said about regretting he had not the time before him to earn the amount he required by work. On the other hand the anecdotes her uncle had related, had shown her that it would be impossible to find a money-lender or usurer disposed to be reasonable. The matter was therefore reduced to one of gaining time, of delaying as long as possible the moment when Philippe would be attached to the pillory. What terrified them was this public exhibition, and the infamy it carried with it, by handing over the condemned to the sneers and insults of the mob.

From that moment the young girl’s plan was formed; it was a bold plan which would perhaps succeed by reason of its audacity. Her intention had been to go straight to M. Cazalis’ to penetrate as far as his niece and describe the picture of the public exhibition of Philippe, pointing out how insulting such a sight would be for her. She would persuade her to lend assistance and both would go and implore the deputy to intercede. If M. de Cazalis would not consent to ask for pardon he would perhaps try to obtain a postponement.

Fine, however, did not reason out her plans. It seemed to her impossible that Blanche’s uncle could resist her tears. She had faith in her devotedness.

The poor child was dreaming with her eyes wide open in hoping that M. de Cazalis would relent at the last moment. This proud and obstinate man had meant to cover Philippe with infamy, and he would have allowed no obstacle to be placed in the way of his vengeance. Had she found herself in his path she would have been crushed, she would have expended her brightest smiles and most touching tears in pure loss.

Fortunately for her she was assisted by circumstances. When she called at the deputy’s mansion on the Cours Bonaparte, she was informed that M. de Cazalis had just left for Paris on business connected with his political position. She then asked to see Mademoiselle Blanche and was told, in a sort of vague manner, that the young lady was absent, that she was travelling.

The flower-girl felt very much embarrassed, but she was obliged to withdraw and to go and think matters over in the street. All her plans were upset, this absence of the uncle and niece deprived her of the support on which she had relied, and she had not a single friend to whom she could appeal. She was determined, however, that she would not lose her last hope and return to Aix as sick at heart as on the previous evening, after having made a useless journey.

All at once she thought of Abbé Chastanier. Marius had often spoken to her of the old priest. She knew how good and devoted he was. Perhaps he might be able to give her some valuable information.

She found him at the house of his sister, the old invalided workwoman, and unbosoming herself to him, explained in a few words the reason of her journey to Marseille. The priest listened to her with lively concern.

“It is heaven that has sent you here,” he answered. “I think, under circumstances such as these, that I may violate the secret that has been entrusted to me. Mademoiselle Blanche is not travelling. Her uncle, wishing to hide her condition and being unable to take her to Paris, has rented a cottage for her in the village of Saint Henri. She is living there with a companion. M. de Cazalis, who has received me back into his good graces and begged me to visit her frequently, has given me considerable power over her. Shall I take you to this poor child, whom you will find very much altered and broken down?”

Fine accepted joyfully.

Blanche turned quite pale when she saw the flower-girl, and began to shed warm tears. There was a large bluish circle round her eyes, the blood had fled from her lips and her cheeks were like white wax. One saw that a terrible cry, the cry of truth, rose within her and made her stagger.

When Fine, in a sweet voice, accompanied by tender caresses, had made her understand that she could perhaps save Philippe from supreme humiliation, she stood straight up, and said in a broken voice:

“I am ready, dispose of me. I hear a child speaking to me unceasingly of its father. I would fain appease the anger of this poor little creature which is yet unborn.”

“Well,” continued Fine, warmly, “assist us in our work of deliverance. I am certain you will obtain at least a respite if you make the attempt.”

“But,” observed Abbé Chastanier, “Mademoiselle Blanche cannot go to Aix alone. I must accompany her. I know that if M. de Cazalis hears of this journey, he will load me with bitter reproaches. I accept, however, the responsibility of what I am doing, in the belief that I am acting as an upright man.”

As soon as the flower-girl had obtained this consent, she hardly allowed the old man and young girl sufficient time to get a few things together for the journey. She returned to Marseille with them, pushed them into the diligence and it was thus that she brought them triumphantly into Aix.

The following day Blanche was to pay a visit to the President of the bench of judges who had passed sentence on Philippe.

When Fine had concluded her story, Marius embraced her warmly on both checks, a proceeding that made a bloom of pink overspread the young girl’s forehead.

CHAPTER XIX

A RESPITE

FINE called on Blanche and Abbé Chastanier the next morning. She wished to accompany them to the door of the President’s residence, so as to learn the result of their application without a moment’s delay.

Marius, who understood that his presence would be painful to Mademoiselle de Cazalis, began strolling about the Cours like a soul in trouble, and followed the priest and two young girls at a distance. When the supplicants had gone upstairs, the flower-girl perceived the young man and signed to him to come and join her. They both waited, agitated and anxious, without exchanging a word.

The President received Blanche with great commiseration. He understood that she had received the cruellest of blows in this unfortunate business. The poor child could not speak; at the first words she began to sob, and all her supplicating being begged for pity, infinitely better than her prayers could have done.

It was Abbé Chastanier who had to explain their presence and present their petition.

“Sir,” said he to the President, “we come with joined hands. Mademoiselle de Cazalis is already broken down by the misfortunes that have overwhelmed her. She implores you for pity’s sake to spare her fresh humiliation.”