Complete Works of Emile Zola (664 page)

“Ah, well!” said the architect, gaily, “I should like to be in their shoes. It would not take long. One makes three equal shares, each takes his own, and there you are!”

Madame Juzeur leant over the balusters, then raised her head, and made sure that no one else was on the stairs. At length, lowering her voice, she observed:

“And if they did not find what they expected? There are rumours about.”

The architect opened his eyes wide with amazement. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Pooh! mere gossip! Old Vabre was a miser who hid his savings in worsted stockings. And he went off, as he had an appointment at Saint-Roch with the Abbé Mauduit.

“My wife complains of you,” said he to Octave, looking back, after going down three stairs. “Call in and have a chat with her now and then.”

Madame Juzeur detained the young man a moment.

“And I, how you neglect me! I thought you loved me a little. When you come, I will let you taste a liqueur from the West Indies, oh! something delicious!”

He promised to call on her, and hastened to reach the vestibule. But, before arriving at the little door communicating between the shop and the porch, he was again obliged to pass through a whole group of servants, who were distributing the dying man’s belongings. So much for Madame Clotilde, so much for Monsieur Auguste, so much for Monsieur Théophile. Clémence boldly gave the figures; she knew the amount for certain, for Hippolyte had told it to her, and he had seen the money in a drawer. Julie however disputed it. Lisa related how her first master, an old gentleman, had bilked her by dying without even leaving her his dirty linen; whilst Adèle, her mouth wide open and swinging her arms, was listening to all these stories of inheritances, which tumbled down gigantic piles of five franc pieces before her. And, out on the pavement, Monsieur Gourd, looking very solemn, was talking with the stationer opposite. In his eyes, the landlord was already dead.

“What interests me,” said he, “is to know who will have the house. They have divided everything, very good! but the house, they cannot cut it into three.”

Octave at length entered the warehouse. The first person he beheld, seated at the cashier’s desk, was Madame Josserand under arms, polished up and laced, and her hair already done. Close beside her, Berthe, who had no doubt come down in haste, in the charming deshabille of a dressing-gown, appeared to be very excited. But they stopped talking on catching sight of him, and the mother looked at him with a terrible eye.

“So, sir,” said she, “it is thus that you love the firm? You enter into the plots of my daughter’s enemies.”

He wished to defend himself, and state the facts of the case. But she prevented him from speaking, she accused him of having spent the night with the Duveyriers, looking for the will, to insert all sorts of things in it. And, as he laughed, asking what interest he could have had in doing such a thing, she resumed:

“Your own interest, your own interest. In short! sir, you should have hastened to inform us, as God was good enough to make you a witness of the occurrence. When one thinks that, had it not been for me, my daughter would still have been in ignorance of it! Yes, she would have been despoiled, had I not rushed downstairs the moment I heard the news. Eh! your interest, your interest, sir, who knows?
Though Madame Duveyrier is very faded, yet some people not over particular may still find her good enough perhaps.”

“Oh! mamma!” said Berthe, “Clotilde who is so virtuous!”

But Madame Josserand shrugged her shoulders pityingly.

“Pooh! you know very well people will do anything for money!”

Octave was obliged to relate to them all the circumstances of the attack. They exchanged glances: as the mother said, there had evidently been manœuvres. Clotilde was really too kind to wish to spare her relations emotions! However, they let the young man start on his work, though still having their doubts as to his conduct in the matter. Their lively explanation continued.

“And who will pay the fifty thousand francs agreed upon in the contract?” said Madame Josserand. “We are not likely to see a single one of them when he is dead and buried.”

“Oh! the fifty thousand francs!” murmured Berthe in an embarrassed way. “You know he only agreed as we did to pay ten thousand francs every six months. The time is not up yet, the best thing is to wait.”

“Wait! wait till he comes back and brings them to you, I suppose! You great blockhead, do you want to be robbed?
No, no! you must demand them at once out of the estate. As for us, we are still alive, thank goodness! It is not known whether we shall pay or not; but with him it is another thing, as he is dead he must pay.”

And she made her daughter swear not to yield, for she had never given any one the right to take her for a fool. Whilst fanning her anger, she now and again turned an ear towards the ceiling, as though she wished to overhear what was taking place at the Duveyriers’ on the first floor, in spite of the “entresol
”
floor which intervened. The old fellow’s bed-chamber was, as nearly as possible, just over her head. Auguste had at once gone up to his father, on learning from her what had taken place. But that did not ease her, she longed to be there herself, imagining the most complicated plots.

“Go up too!” she ended by exclaiming, in a cry from her heart. “Auguste is too weak, they are sure to be taking him in again!”

Then, Berthe went off upstairs. Octave, who was arranging the display in the window, had listened to what they said. When he found himself alone with Madame Josserand, and saw her moving in the direction of the door, he asked her, in the hope of a holiday, whether it would not be proper to close the warehouse.

“Whatever for?” inquired she. “Wait till he is dead. It is not worth while losing a day’s sale.”

Then, as he folded a remnant of poppy-coloured silk, she added, to soften the harshness of her words:

“Only, you may as well, I think, not put any red in the window.”

Up on the first floor, Berthe found Auguste with his father. The room had in no way changed since the day before; it was still dampish, and silent, save for the same long and painful death rattle. The old man on the bed continued perfectly rigid, in a complete annihilation of all feeling and movement. The oak box filled with tickets still littered the table; not an article of furniture seemed to have been moved, or even opened. The Duveyriers, however, appeared to be more dejected, tired out by a sleepless night, an anxious twinge in their eyelids, their minds a prey to a continuous pre-occupation. As early as seven o’clock, they had sent Hippolyte to fetch their son Gustave from the Lycée Bonaparte; and the youngster, a thin and precocious youth of sixteen, was there, in all the flutter of that unexpected holiday to be spent in the company of a dying man.

“Ah! my dear, what a frightful visitation!” said Clotilde, going up to and embracing Berthe.

“Why not have informed us of it?”
asked the latter, with her mother’s affected pout. “We were there to help you to bear it.”

Auguste, with a glance, begged her to keep silent. The moment for quarrelling had not arrived. They could wait. Doctor Juillerat, who had already been once, was to call again; but he still gave no hope, the patient would not live through the day. Auguste was informing his wife of this, when Théophile and Valérie entered in their turn. Clotilde at once advanced to meet them, and repeated as she embraced Valérie:

“What a frightful visitation, my dear!”

But Théophile was in a state of great excitement. “So, now,” said he, without even lowering his voice, “when one’s father is dying one only hears of it through the charcoal-dealer. Did you then require time to rifle his pockets?
”

Duveyrier rose up indignantly. But Clotilde motioned him aside, whilst she answered her brother very gently:

“Unhappy man! is our father’s death agony not even sacred to you?
Look at him, behold your work; yes, it is you who have brought him to this, by refusing to pay your overdue rent.”

Valérie burst out laughing.

“Come,” said she, “you are not speaking seriously.”

“What! not speaking seriously!” resumed Clotilde, filled with indignation. “You know how much he liked to collect his rents. Had you really wished to kill him, you could not have acted in a better way.”

And they came to high words, they reciprocally accused one another of wishing to lay hands on the estate, when Auguste, still sullen and calm, requested them to recollect where they were.

“Keep quiet! You have plenty of time. It is not decent at such a moment.”

Then the others, admitting the justice of this observation, settled themselves around the bed. A deep silence ensued; again nothing but the death-rattle was heard in the moist atmosphere of the room. Berthe and Auguste were at the dying man’s feet; Valérie and Théophile, being the last comers, had been obliged to seat themselves at the table, some distance off; whilst Clotilde was at the head of the bed, with her husband behind her; and she had pushed her son Gustave, whom the old man adored, close up against the edge of the mattresses. They now all looked at one another, without exchanging a word. But the bright eyes, the tightly-compressed lips, told of the hidden thoughts, the surmises full of anxiety and irritation, which were passing in the pale-faced heads of those next-of-kin, with their red and swollen eyelids. The sight of the collegian, so close to the bed, especially exasperated the two young couples; for it was self-evident that the Duveyriers were counting on Gustave’s presence to influence the grandfather’s affections if he recovered consciousness.

Moreover, this manœuvre was a proof that in all probability no will existed; and the Vabres glanced covertly at the old iron safe which the retired notary had brought with him from Versailles and had had fixed in the wall of his bed-chamber. He had a mania for shutting up all sorts of things inside it. No doubt, the Duveyriers had hastened to ransack this safe during the night. Théophile had the idea of laying a trap for them to compel them to speak.

“I say,” he at length went and whispered in the counsellor’s ear, “suppose we send for the notary. Papa may wish to alter his will.”

Duveyrier did not at first hear. As he felt excessively bored in that room, he had allowed his thoughts all through the night to revert to Clarisse. The wisest thing would decidedly be to make it up with his wife; but then the other was so funny, when she threw her chemise over her head, with the gesture of a street-arab; and with his vague glance fixed on the dying man, he still had visions of her, and would have given everything to have had her with him again. Théophile was obliged to repeat his question.

“I have questioned Monsieur Renaudin,” at length answered the counsellor in a bewildered way.” There is no will.”

“But here?”

“No more here than at the notary’s.”

Théophile looked at Auguste; was it not sufficiently evident? the Duveyrier had searched everything. Clotilde saw the glance, and was greatly irritated with her husband. What was the matter with him? was grief sending him to sleep? And she added:

“Papa has no doubt done what he thought right. We shall learn it only too soon, heaven knows!”

She burst into tears. Valérie and Berthe, affected by her grief, also started off, sobbing gently. Théophile had returned to his chair on tip-toe. He knew what he wished to know. If his father regained consciousness, he would certainly not allow the Duveyriers to take advantage of their hobbledehoy of a son to get the lion’s share. But as he sat down, he saw his brother Auguste wipe his eyes, and this affected him so much that he also nearly choked: the thought of death came to him, he would perhaps die of the same illness, it was abominable. Then the whole family wept, except Gustave, who could not cry. He was struck with consternation, he looked on the ground, and tried to make his breathing keep time with the rattle, for the sake of doing something, the same as he was made to walk in step at his gymnastic lessons.

Meanwhile, the hours passed away. At eleven o’clock they had a diversion, Doctor Juillerat again calling. The patient’s condition was becoming worse and worse, it was now even doubtful whether he would be able to recognize his children before dying. And the sobbing started afresh, when Clémence announced the Abbé Mauduit. Clotilde, who rose to meet him, was the first to receive his consolations. He appeared to be deeply affected by the family visitation; he had an encouraging word for each. Then, with much tact, he talked of the rights of religion, insinuating that they should not let that soul pass away without the succour of the Church.

“I had thought of it,” murmured Clotilde.

But Théophile raised objections. Their father was not at all religious; he had at one time very advanced ideas, for he was a reader of Voltaire’s works; in short, the best thing was to do nothing, as they were unable to consult him. In the heat of the discussion, he even added:

“It is as though you brought the sacrament to that piece of furniture.”

The three women compelled him to leave off. They were all trembling with emotion, and said that the priest was right, whilst they excused themselves for not having sent for him before, through the confusion in which the catastrophe had plunged them. Monsieur Vabre would certainly have consented had he been able to speak, for he had a horror of acting different to other people. Moreover, the ladies would take the responsibility on their own shoulders.

“It should be done if only on account of the neighbours,” repeated Clotilde.

“No doubt,” said the Abbé Mauduit, who hastened to give his approval. “A man of your father’s position should set a good example.”

Auguste had no opinion either way. But Duveyrier, aroused from his recollections of Clarisse, whose way of putting on her stockings with one leg in the air he was just then thinking of, energetically demanded the sacraments. They were absolutely necessary; not a member of the family should die without them. Doctor Juillerat, who had discreetly moved on one side, hiding his freethinker’s disdain, then went up to the priest, and said familiarly to him, in a whisper, the same as to a colleague often encountered under similar circumstances: