Complete Works of Emile Zola (651 page)

“What! you are going to get married! Ah! that’s very nice, little girl!”

And he remained deaf to all allusions, exaggerating his air of a silly old boozer who got drunk on liqueurs, the moment money was mentioned before him.

Madame Josserand had the idea to invite him one evening together with Auguste, the bridegroom elect. Perhaps the sight of the young man would decide him. The step was heroical, for the family did not like exhibiting the uncle, always fearing that he would give people a bad impression of them. He had, however, behaved pretty well; his waistcoat alone had a big syrupy stain, which it had obtained no doubt in some café. But when his sister questioned him, after Auguste had taken his departure, and asked him what he thought of the young fellow, he answered without involving himself:

“Charming, charming.”

This would never do. It was a pressing matter. Therefore, Madame Josserand determined to plainly place the position of affairs before him.

“As we are by ourselves,” resumed she, “we may as well take advantage of it. Leave us, my darlings; we want to have some talk with your uncle. You, Berthe, just look after Saturnin, and see that he does not take the lock off the door again.”

Saturnin, ever since they had been busy about his sister’s marriage, hiding everything from him, had taken to wandering about the rooms, an anxious look in his eyes, and scenting that there was something up; and he imagined most diabolical things which gave the family awful frights.

“I have obtained every information,” said the mother, when she had shut herself in with the father and the uncle. “This is the position of the Vabres.”

And she went into long details of figures. Old Vabre had brought half a million with him from Versailles. If the house had cost him three hundred thousand francs, he had two hundred thousand left, which, during the twelve years that had past had been producing interest. Moreover, he received each year twenty-two thousand francs in rent; and, as he lived with the Duveyriers, scarcely spending anything at all, he must consequently be altogether worth five or six hundred thousand francs, besides the house. Thus, there were some very handsome expectations on that side.

“Has he no vices, then?” asked uncle Bachelard. “I thought he speculated at the Bourse.”

But Madame Josserand cried out. Such a quiet old gentleman, and occupied on such a great task! That one, at least, had shown himself capable of putting a fortune by; and she smiled bitterly as she looked at her husband, who bowed his head.

As for Monsieur Vabre’s three children, Auguste, Clotilde and Théophile, they had each had a hundred thousand francs on their mother’s death. Théophile, after some ruinous enterprises, was living as best he could on the crumbs of this inheritance. Clotilde, with no other passion than her piano, had probably invested her share. And Auguste had purchased the business on the ground floor and gone in for the silk trade with his hundred thousand francs which he had long kept in reserve.

“And the old fellow naturally gives nothing to his children when they marry,” observed the uncle.

Well! he did not much like giving, that was a fact which was unfortunately indisputable. When Clotilde married, he had undertaken to give a dowry of eighty thousand francs; but Duveyrier had never received more than ten thousand, and he did not demand the balance, he even kept his father-in-law, flattering his avarice, no doubt with the hope of one day securing all his fortune. In the same way, after promising Théophile fifty thousand francs at the time of his marriage with Valérie, the old gentleman had commenced by merely paying the interest, then had not forked out even a single sou from his cashbox, and had even got to the point of demanding the rent, which the couple paid him, for fear of being struck out of his will. Therefore, it would not do to count too much on the fifty thousand francs Auguste was to receive in his turn, on the signing of his marriage contract; they would have no reason to complain if his father let him have the warehouse on the ground floor for a few years free of rent.

“Well!” declared Bachelard, “it is always hard on the parents. Dowries are never really paid.”

“Lot us return to Auguste,” continued Madame Josserand. “I have told you his expectations, and the only danger comes from the Duveyriers, whom Berthe will do well to watch very closely, if she enters the family. At the present moment, Auguste, after purchasing the business for sixty thousand francs, has started with the other forty thousand. Only, the sum is not sufficient; besides which, he is single, and requires a wife; that is why he wishes to marry. Berthe is pretty, he already sees her in his counting-house; and as for the dowry, fifty thousand francs are a respectable sum which has decided him.”

Uncle Bachelard did not so much as blink his eyes. He ended by saying in a tender-hearted way that he had dreamed of something better. And he commenced to pick the future husband to pieces: a charming fellow, certainly; but too old, a great deal too old, thirty-three years and over;
besides which, always ill, his face distorted by neuralgia; in short, a sorry object, not near lively enough for trade.

“Have you another?” asked Madame Josserand, whoso patience was wearing out. “I searched all Paris before finding him.”

However, she did not deceive herself much. She too picked him to pieces.

“Oh! he is not a phoenix, in fact I think him a bit of a fool. Besides which, I mistrust those men who have never had any youth and who do not risk a stride in life without thinking about it for years beforehand. On leaving college, where his headaches prevented him completing his studies, he remained for fifteen years a mere clerk before daring to touch his hundred thousand francs, the interest of which, it seems, his father was cheating him out of all the time. No, no, he is not up to much.”

Monsieur Josserand, who until then had kept silent, ventured an observation.

“But, my dear, why insist so obstinately on this marriage? If the young man’s health is so bad — “

“Oh! it is not bad health that need prevent it,” interrupted Bachelard. “Berthe would find no difficulty in marrying again.”

“However, if he is incapable,” resumed the father, “if he is likely to make our daughter unhappy — “

“Unhappy!” cried Madame Josserand. “Say at once that I throw my child at the head of the first-comer! We are among ourselves, we discuss him: he is this, he is that, not young, not handsome, not intelligent. We just talk the matter over, do we not?
it is but natural. Only, he is very well, we shall never find a better; and, shall I tell you?
it is a most unexpected match for Berthe. I was about to give up all hope, on my word of honour!”

She rose to her feet. Monsieur Josserand, reduced to silence, pushed back his chair.

“I have only one fear,” continued she, making a resolute stand before her brother, “and that is that he may break it off, if he is not paid the dowry on the day the contract is to be signed. It is easy to understand, he is in want of money — “

But at this moment a hot breathing, which she heard behind her, caused her to turn round. Saturnin was there, passing his head round the partly opened door, his eyes glaring like a wolf’s as he listened to what was being said. And it created quite a panic, for he had stolen a spit from the kitchen, to spit the geese, said he. Uncle Bachelard, feeling very uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking, availed himself of the general alarm.

“Don’t disturb yourselves,” cried he from the ante-room. “I’m off, I’ve an appointment at midnight, with one of my customers, who’s come specially from Brazil.”

When they had succeeded in getting Saturnin to bed, Madame Josserand, exasperated, declared that it was impossible to keep him any longer. He would end by doing some one an injury, if he was not shut up in a madhouse. Life was unbearable with him always to be kept in hiding. His sisters would never get married, so long as he was there to disgust and frighten people.

“Wait a bit longer,” murmured Monsieur Josserand, whose heart bled at the thought of this separation.

“No, no!” declared the mother, “I do not want him to spit me in the end! I had brought my brother to the point, I was about to get him to do something. Never mind! we will go with Berthe tomorrow to his own place, and we will see if he will have the cheek to escape from his promises. Besides, Berthe owes her godfather a visit. It is only proper.”

On the morrow, all three, the mother, the father, and the daughter, paid an official visit to the uncle’s warehouses, which occupied the basement and the ground floor of an enormous house in the Rue d’Enghien. Large vans blocked up the entrance. A gang of packers were nailing up cases in the covered courtyard; and, through open bays, one caught glimpses of piles of merchandise, dried vegetables and remnants of silk, stationery and tallow, all the accumulations of the thousand commissions given by the customers, and of the purchases risked in advance at times when prices were low. Bachelard was there with his big red nose, his eye still sparkling from the intoxication of the night before, but with his intelligence clear, his instinct and his luck returning the moment he found himself again before his books.

“Hallo! you here!” said he, greatly annoyed.

And he received them in a little closet, from which he watched his men through a window.

“I have brought Berthe to see you,” explained Madame Josserand. “She knows what she owes you.”

Then, when the young girl, after kissing her uncle, had, on a glance from her mother, returned to look at the goods in the courtyard, the latter resolutely broached the subject.

“Listen, Narcisse, this is how we are situated. Counting on your kindness of heart and on your promises, I have engaged to give a dowry of fifty thousand francs. If I do not give it, the marriage will be broken off. It would be a disgrace, things having gone as far as they have. You cannot leave us in such an embarrassing position.”

But a vacant look had come into Bachelard’s eyes; and he stuttered, as though very drunk:

“Eh? what? you’ve promised. You should never promise; it’s a bad thing to promise.”

He pleaded poverty. For instance, he had bought a whole stock of horsehair, thinking that the price of horsehair would go up; but not at all, the price had fallen lower still, and he had been obliged to dispatch them at a loss. And he pounced on his books, opened his ledgers, and insisted on showing the invoices. It was ruination.

“Nonsense!” Monsieur Josserand ended by saying, completely out of patience. “I know your business; you make no end of money, and you would be rolling in wealth if you did not squander it in the way you do. I ask you for nothing myself. It was Eléonore who persisted in applying to you. But allow me to tell you, Bachelard, that you have been fooling us. Every Saturday for fifteen years past, when I come to look over your books for you, you are for ever promising me — “

The uncle interrupted him, and violently slapped himself on the chest.

“I promise?
impossible! No, no; let me alone, you’ll see. I don’t like being asked, it annoys me — it makes me ill. You’ll see one day.”

Madame Josserand herself could get nothing further out of him. He shook their hands, wiped away a tear, talked of his soul and of his love for the family, imploring them not to worry him any more, and swearing before heaven that they would never repent it. He knew his duty; he would perform it to the uttermost. Later on, Berthe would know how her uncle loved her.

“And what about the dotal insurance,” asked he in his natural tone of voice, “the fifty thousand francs you had insured the little one for?”

Madame Josserand shrugged her shoulders.

“It has been dead and buried for fourteen years past. You have been told twenty times already, that when the fourth premium fell due, we were unable to pay the two thousand francs.”

“That doesn’t matter,” murmured he with a wink, “the thing is to talk of this insurance to the family, and then get time for paying the dowry. One never pays a dowry.”

Monsieur Josserand rose indignantly.

“What! that is all you can find to say?
”

But the uncle mistook his meaning, and went on to show that it was quite a usual thing.

“Never, I tell you! One gives something on account, and then merely pays the interest. Look at Monsieur Vabre himself. Did our father ever pay you Eléonore’s dowry?
why, no, of course not. Every one sticks to his money;
it’s only natural!”

“In short, you advise me to commit a most abominable action!” cried Monsieur Josserand. “I should lie, it would be a forgery to produce the policy of that insurance — “

Madame Josserand stopped him. The idea suggested by her brother had rendered her grave. She was surprised she had not thought of it herself.

“Dear me! how excited you become, my dear. Narcisse has not told you to forge anything.”

“Of course not,” murmured the uncle. “There is no occasion to show any documents.”

“It is simply a question of gaining time,” continued she. “Promise the dowry, we shall always manage to give it later on.”

Then the worthy man’s conscience spoke out. No! he refused; he would not again venture on such a precipice. They were always taking advantage of his complacency, to get him to agree little by little to things which afterwards made him ill, so deeply did they wound his feelings. As he had no dowry to give, he could not promise one.

Bachelard was strumming on the little window with his fingers and whistling a march, as though to show his great contempt for such scruples. Madame Josserand had listened to her husband, her face all pale with an anger which had been slowly rousing, and which suddenly exploded.

“Well! sir, as this is how you look at it, this marriage shall take place. It was my daughter’s last chance. I will cut my hand off sooner than she shall lose it. So much the worse for the others! One becomes capable of anything at last.”

“So, madame, you would commit murder to get your daughter married?
”

She rose to her full height.

“Yes!” said she furiously.

Then she smiled. The uncle had to quell the storm. What was the use of wrangling?
It was far better to agree together. And, still trembling from the quarrel, bewildered and worn out, Monsieur Josserand ended by promising to talk the matter over with Duveyrier, on whom everything depended, according to Madame Josserand. Only, to get hold of the counsellor when he was in a good humour, the uncle offered to put his brother-in-law in the way of meeting him at a house where he could refuse nothing.