Complete Works of Emile Zola (658 page)

In the drawing-room, Campardon, still restless, began to excuse himself.

“On my word of honour! the happy idea was not mine. It is Rose who wished to be reconciled. Every morning, for more than a week past, she has been saying to me: ‘Now, go and fetch her.’ So I ended by fetching you.”

And, as though he had felt the necessity of convincing Octave, he took him up to the window.

“Well! women are women. It bothered me, because I have a dread of rows. One on the right, the other on the left, there was no squabbling possible. But I had to give in. Rose says we shall be far happier thus. Anyhow, we will try. It depends on these two, now, to make my life comfortable.”

Meanwhile, Rose and Gasparine had seated themselves side by side on the sofa. They were talking of the past, of the days lived at Plassans, with good papa Domergue. Rose’s complexion was then livid, and she had the slender limbs of a young girl sickly from her birth; whilst Gasparine, who was a woman at fifteen, was tall and crummy, with beautiful eyes. Looking at each other now, they seemed different people, the one so freshly plump in her enforced chastity, the other dried up by the life of nervous passion which was consuming her. For a moment, Gasparine suffered from her yellow face and her poor dress in the presence of Rose, arrayed in silk, and hiding beneath folds of lace the delicate softness of her white neck. But she mastered this twinge of jealousy, she at once accepted the position of a poor relation on her knees before her cousin’s elegance and grace.

“And your health?” asked she in a low voice. “Achille spoke to me about it. Is it no better?”

“No, no,” replied Rose in a melancholy tone. “You see, I eat, I look very well. But it gets no better, it will never get any better.”

As she began to cry, Gasparine, in her turn, took her in her arms, and pressed her against her flat and ardent breast, whilst Campardon hastened to console them.

“Why do you cry?” asked she maternally. “The main thing is that you do not suffer. What does it matter, if you have always people about you to love you?”

Rose was becoming calmer, and already smiling amidst her tears. Then the architect, carried away by his feelings, clasped them both in the same embrace, kissing them alternately, and stammering:

“Yes, yes, we will love each other very much, we will love you such a deal, my poor little duck. You will see how well everything will go, now that we are united.”

And, turning towards Octave, he added:

“Ah! my dear fellow, people may talk, there is nothing after all like family ties!”

The end of the evening was delightful. Campardon, who usually fell asleep on leaving the table if he remained at home, recovered all his artist’s gaiety, the old jokes and the broad songs of the School of Fine Arts. When, towards eleven o’clock, Gasparine prepared to leave, Rose insisted on accompanying her to the door, in spite of the difficulty she experienced in walking that day;
and, leaning over the balustrade, in the grave silence of the staircase, she called after her:

“Come and see us often!”

On the morrow, Octave, being interested, tried to make the cousin talk at “The Ladies’ Paradise,” whilst they were receiving a consignment of linen goods together. But she answered curtly, and he felt that she was hostile, annoyed at his having been a witness the evening before. Moreover, she did not like him; she even displayed a sort of rancour towards him in their business relations. For a long time past she had seen through his game in connection with the mistress, and she assisted at his assiduous courtship with black looks and a contemptuous curl of the lips, which at times troubled him. Whenever that tall devil of a girl thrust her skinny hands between them, he experienced the decided and disagreeable sensation that Madame Hédouin would never be his.

Octave had given himself six months, however, and though scarcely four had passed, he was becoming impatient. Every morning he asked himself whether he should not hurry matters forward, seeing the little progress he had made in the affections of this woman, always so icy and gentle. She had ended, however, by showing a real esteem for him, won over by his enlarged ideas, his dreams of vast modern warehouses discharging millions of merchandise into the streets of Paris. Often, when her husband was not there, and she opened the correspondence with the young man of a morning, she would detain him beside her and consult him, profiting a great deal by his advice, and a sort of commercial intimacy was thus gradually established between them. Their hands met amidst bundles of invoices, their breaths mingled as they added up columns of figures, and they yielded to moments of emotion before the open cash-box after some extra fortunate receipts. He even took advantage of these occasions, his tactics being now to reach her heart through her good trader’s nature, and to conquer her on a day of weakness, in the midst of the great emotion occasioned by some unexpected sale. So he remained on the watch for some surprising occurrence which should deliver her up to him. The moment he no longer kept her talking of business, she at once resumed her quiet authoritative way, politely giving him his instructions, the same as she did to the shopmen; and she managed the establishment with her beautiful woman’s frigidity, wearing a man’s little necktie round her throat resembling an ancient statue’s, and a quiet, tight-fitting dress invariably black.

About this time, Monsieur Hédouin, having fallen ill, went to pass a season at Vichy to take the waters. Octave, to speak frankly, was delighted. Though as cold as marble, Madame Hédouin would become more tender-hearted during her enforced widowhood. But he fruitlessly awaited a quiver, a languidness of desire. Never had she been so active, her head so free, her eye so clear. Up at break of day, she received the consignments herself in the basement, her pen behind her ear, in the busy manner of a clerk. She was everywhere, upstairs and down, in the linen department and in the silk one, superintending the display and the sales; and she moved peacefully about, without even catching so much as a speck of dust, amidst those piles of bales with which the too small warehouse was bursting. When he met her in the middle of some narrow passage, between a wall of woollens and a pile of napkins, Octave would stand in an awkward way on one side, that she might be pressed for a second against his breast; but she passed by so occupied that he scarcely felt her dress touch him. He was greatly troubled, too, by Mademoiselle Gasparine’s eyes, the harsh look of which he always found fixed upon them at such moments.

At heart, though, the young man did not despair. At times he thought he had reached the goal, and was already arranging his mode of living for the near day when he would be the lover of his employer’s wife. He had kept up his connection with Marie to help him to wait patiently; only, though she was convenient and cost him nothing, she might perhaps one day become irksome, with her faithfulness of a beaten cur. Therefore, at the same time that he took her in his arms on the nights when he felt dull, he would be thinking of a way of breaking off with her. To do so abruptly seemed to him to be worse than foolish. One holiday morning, when about to rejoin his neighbour’s wife, the neighbour himself having gone out early, the idea had at length come to him of restoring Marie to Jules, of sending them in a loving way into each other’s arms, so that he might withdraw with a clear conscience. It was moreover a good action, the touching side of which relieved him of all remorse. He waited a while, however, not wishing to find himself without a female companion of some kind.

At the Campardons’ another complication was occupying Octave’s mind. He felt that the moment was arriving when he would have to take his meals elsewhere. For three weeks past, Gasparine had been making herself quite at home there, with an authority daily increasing. At first she had begun by coming every evening; then she had appeared at lunch; and, in spite of her work at the shop, she was commencing to take charge of everything, of Angèle’s education and of the household affairs. Rose was for ever repeating in Campardon’s presence:

“Ah! if Gasparine only lived with us!”

But each time the architect, blushing with conscientious scruples, and tormented with shame, cried out:

“No, no; it cannot be. Besides, where would you put her to sleep?”

And he explained that they would have to give his study as a bedroom to their cousin, whilst he would move his table and plans into the drawing-room. It would certainly not inconvenience him in the least; he would perhaps decide to make the alteration one day, for he had no need of a drawing-room, and his study was becoming too cramped for all the work he had in hand. Only, Gasparine might very well remain as she was. What need was there to live all in a heap?

“When one is comfortable,” repeated he to Octave, “it is a mistake to wish to be better.”

About that time, he was obliged to go and spend two days at Evreux. He was worried about the work in hand at the bishop’s palace. He had yielded to the bishop’s desires without a credit having been opened for the purpose, and the construction of the range for the new kitchens and of the heating apparatus threatened to amount to a very large figure, which it would be impossible to include in the cost of repairs. Besides that, the pulpit, for which three thousand francs had been granted, would come to ten thousand at the least. He wished to talk the matter over with the bishop, so as to take certain precautions.

Rose was only expecting him to return on the Sunday night. He arrived in the middle of lunch, and his sudden entrance caused quite a scare. Gasparine was seated at the table, between Octave and Angèle. They pretended to be all at their ease;
but there reigned a certain air of mystery. Lisa had closed the drawing-room door at a despairing gesture from her mistress, whilst the cousin kicked beneath the furniture some pieces of paper that were lying about. When Campardon talked of changing his things, they stopped him.

“Wait a while. Have a cup of coffee, as you lunched at Evreux.”

At length, as he noticed Rose’s embarrassment, she went and threw her arms round his neck.

“My dear, you must not scold me. If you had not returned till this evening, you would have found everything straight.”

She tremblingly opened the doors, and took him into the drawing-room and the study. A mahogany bedstead, brought that morning by a furniture dealer, occupied the place of the drawing-table, which had been moved into the middle of the adjoining room; but as yet nothing had been put straight, portfolios were knocking about amongst some of Gasparine’s clothes, the Virgin with the Bleeding Heart was lying against the wall, kept in position by a new wash-stand.

“It was a surprise,” murmured Madame Campardon, her heart bursting, as she hid her face in her husband’s waistcoat.

He, deeply moved, looked about him. He said nothing, and avoided encountering Octave’s eyes. Then, Gasparine asked in her sharp voice:

“Does it annoy you, cousin?
It is Rose who pestered me. But if you think I am in the way, it is not too late for me to leave.”

“Oh! cousin!” at length exclaimed the architect “All that Rose does is well done.”

And the latter having burst out sobbing on his breast, he added:

“Come, my duck, how foolish of you to cry! I am very pleased. You wish to have your cousin with you, well! have your cousin with you. Everything suits me. Now do not cry any more! See! I kiss you like I love you, so much! so much!”

He devoured her with caresses. Then, Rose, who melted into tears for a word, but who smiled at once, in the midst of her sobs, was consoled. She kissed him ill her turn, on his beard, saying to him gently:

“You were harsh. Kiss her also.”

Campardon kissed Gasparine. They called Angèle, who had been looking on from the dining-room, her eyes bright and her mouth wide open; and she had to kiss her also. Octave had moved away, having arrived at the conclusion that they were becoming far too loving in that family. He had noticed with surprise Lisa’s respectful attitude and smiling attentiveness towards Gasparine. She was decidedly an intelligent girl, that hussy with the blue eyelids!

Meanwhile, the architect had taken off his coat, and whistling and singing, as lively as a boy, he spent the afternoon in arranging the cousin’s room. The latter helped him, pushing the furniture with him into its place, unpacking the bed linen, and shaking the clothes; whilst Rose sitting down through fear of tiring herself, gave them advice, such as placing the washstand here and the bed there, as being more convenient for every one. Then, Octave understood that his presence interfered with the free expansion of their hearts; he felt he was one too many in such an united family, so he mentioned that he was going to dine out that evening. Moreover, he had made up his mind: on the morrow, he would thank Madame Campardon for her kind hospitality, and invent some story for no longer trespassing upon it.

Towards five o’clock, as he was regretting that he did not know where to find Trublot, he had the idea to go and ask the Pichons for some dinner, so as not to pass the evening alone. But, on entering their apartments, he found himself in the midst of a deplorable family scene. The Vuillaumes were there, trembling with rage and indignation.

“It is disgraceful, sir!” the mother was saying, standing up with her arm thrust out towards her son-in-law, who was sitting on a chair in a state of collapse. “You gave me your word of honour.”

“And you,” added the father, causing his daughter to draw back tremblingly as far as the sideboard, “do not try to defend him, you are quite as guilty. Do you wish to die of hunger!”

Madame Vuillaume had put on her bonnet and shawl again.

“Good-bye!” uttered she in a solemn tone. “We will at least not encourage your dissoluteness by our presence. As you no longer pay the least attention to our wishes, we have nothing to detain us here. Good-bye!”

And, as through force of habit her son-in-law rose to accompany them, she added:

“Do not trouble yourself, we shall be able to find the omnibus very well without you. Pass first, Monsieur Vuillaume. Let them eat their dinner, and much good may it do them, for they won’t always have one!”