Complete Works of Emile Zola (668 page)

“Ten minutes past eleven! — damnation! damnation!” suddenly exclaimed Auguste, who never swore.

But at that very moment the ladies returned. Berthe had on a delicious dress of pink silk, embroidered over with white jet; whilst her sister, always in blue, and her mother, always in mauve, still wore their glaring and laboriously obtained costumes, altered every season. Madame Josserand, broad and imposing, entered first, so as at once to nip in the bud the reproaches which all three had just foreseen, at a council held at the end of the street, her son-in-law would begin to make. She even deigned to explain that they were late through having loitered before the shop-windows. But Auguste, who was very pale, did not utter a single complaint;
he answered curtly;
it was evident he was keeping it in and waiting. For a moment longer, the mother, who felt the coming storm through her great knowledge of domestic broils, tried to intimidate him;
then she was obliged to go upstairs, merely adding:

“Good night, my child. And sleep well, you know, if you wish to live long.”

Directly she had gone, Auguste, losing all patience, forgetting that Octave and Saturnin were present, withdrew a crumpled paper from his pocket, and thrust it under Berthe’s nose, whilst he stammered out:

“What’s that?”

Berthe had not even had time to take her bonnet off. She turned very red.

“That?” said she, “why, it’s a bill!”

“Yes, a bill! and for false hair, too! Is it possible? for hair? as though you had none left on your head! But that’s not all. You’ve paid the bill; tell me, what did you pay it with?”

The young woman, becoming more and more confused, ended by replying:

“With my own money, of course!”

“Your money! but you haven’t any. Some one must have given you some, or else you have taken it from here. And, listen! I know all: you’re in debt. I will tolerate what you like; but no debts, understand me, no debts! — never!”

And he put into these words all the horror of a prudent fellow, all his commercial integrity, which consisted in never owing anything. For a long while he relieved his pent-up feelings, reproaching his wife with her constant goings-out, her visits all over Paris, her dresses, her luxury, which he could not provide for. Was it sensible for people in their position to stop out till eleven o’clock at night, with pink silk dresses embroidered with white jet?
When one had such tastes as those, one should bring five hundred thousand francs as a marriage portion. Moreover, he knew who was the guilty one; it was the silly mother who brought up her daughters to squander fortunes, without even being able to give them so much as a chemise on their wedding-day.

“Don’t say a word against mamma!” cried Berthe, raising her head and thoroughly exasperated at last. “No one can reproach her with anything; she has done her duty. And your family, it’s a nice one! People who killed their father!”

Octave had buried himself in his tickets, and pretended not to hear. But he followed the quarrel from out of the corner of his eye, and especially watched Saturnin, who was all in a tremble, and had left off rubbing the glass, his fists clenched, his eyes glaring, ready to spring at the husband’s throat.

“Let us leave our families alone,” resumed the latter. “We have quite enough with our own home. Listen! you must alter your ways, for I will not give another sou for all this tomfoolery. Oh! I have quite made up my mind. Your place is here at the till, in a quiet dress, like a woman who has some respect for herself. And if you incur any more debts, we’ll see.”

Berthe was almost stifling, in presence of that brutal husband’s foot set down upon her habits, her pleasures, and her dresses. It was the extinction of all she loved, of all she had dreamed of when marrying. But, with a woman’s tactics, she hid the wound from which her heart was bleeding; she gave a pretext to the passion which was swelling her face, and repeated more violently than ever:

“I will not permit you to insult mamma!”

Auguste shrugged his shoulders.

“Your mother! Listen! you’re like her, you’re quite ugly, when you put yourself in that state. Yes, I scarcely know you; it is she herself. On my word, it quite frightens me!”

At this, Berthe calmed down, and, looking him full in the face, exclaimed:

“Only go and tell mamma what you were saying just now, and see how quickly she’ll show you the door.”

“Ah! she’ll show me the door!” yelled the husband, in a fury. “Well, then! I’ll go up and tell her at once.”

And he did indeed move towards the door. It was time he went, for Saturnin, with his wolf-like eyes, was treacherously advancing to strangle him from behind. The young woman had dropped into a chair, where she was murmuring in a low voice:

“Ah! good heavens! I’d take care not to marry him, if I had my choice over again!”

Upstairs, Monsieur Josserand, greatly surprised, answered the door, Adèle having just gone up to bed. As he was then preparing to pass the night in addressing wrappers, in spite of the ill-health he had lately been complaining of, it was with a certain embarrassment, a shame at being found out, that he ushered his son-in-law into the dining-room;
and he spoke of some pressing work, a copy of the last inventory of the Saint-Joseph glass factory. But, when Auguste deliberately accused his daughter, reproaching her with running into debt, relating all the quarrel brought about by the matter of the false hair, the poor old man’s hands were seized with a nervous trembling. Struck to the heart, he could only manage to stammer out a few words, whilst his eyes filled with tears. His daughter in debt, living as he had lived himself, in the midst of constant matrimonial squabbles! All the unhappiness of his life was then going to be gone through again in the person of his daughter! And another fear almost froze him on his chair: he dreaded every minute to hear his son-in-law broach the money question, demand the dowry, and call him a thief. No doubt the young man knew everything, as he burst in upon them at past eleven o’clock at night.

“My wife is going to bed,” stammered he, his head in a whirl. “It is useless to disturb her, is it not? I am really amazed at the things you have told me! Poor Berthe is not wicked though, I assure you. Be indulgent. I will speak to her. As for ourselves, my dear Auguste, we have done nothing, I think, which can displease you.”

And he sounded him, so to speak, with his glance, already reassured, as he saw that he could know nothing as yet, when Madame Josserand appeared on the threshold of the bedroom. She was in her night-gown, all white and terrible. Auguste, though greatly excited, drew back. No doubt she had been listening at the door, for she commenced with a direct thrust.

“It’s not your ten thousand francs you’ve come for, I suppose? There are still two months before the time they become due. And in two months time we will pay them to you, sir. We don’t die to get out of our engagements.”

This superb assurance completely overwhelmed Monsieur Josserand. However, Madame Josserand continued dumbfounding her son-in-law by the most extraordinary declarations, without allowing him time to speak.

“You’re by no means smart, sir. When you’ve made Berthe ill, you’ll have to call in the doctor, and that will occasion some expense at the chemist’s, and it will still be you who’ll have to pay. A little while ago, I went off, when I saw that you were bent on making a fool of yourself. Do as you like! Beat your wife, my maternal heart is easy, for God is watching, and retribution is never long in coming!”

At length, Auguste was able to state his grievances. He returned to the constant goings-out, the dresses, and was even so bold as to condemn the way in which Berthe had been brought up. Madame Josserand listened to him with an air of supreme contempt. Then when he had finished, she retorted:

“What you say is so absurd that it does not deserve an answer, my dear fellow! I’ve my conscience, and that suffices me. A man to whom I confided an angel! I’ll have nothing more to do with the matter, as I’m insulted. Settle it between yourselves.”

“But your daughter will end by deceiving me, madame!” exclaimed Auguste, again overcome with passion.

Madame Josserand, who was going off, turned round, and looked him full in the face.

“You’re doing all you can to bring such a thing about, sir.”

And she retired into her room, with the dignity of a colossal triple-breasted Ceres draped in white.

The father kept Auguste a few minutes longer. He was conciliatory, giving him to understand that with women it was best to put up with everything, and finally sent him off calmed, and resolved to forgive. But when the poor old man found himself alone again in the dining-room, seated in front of his little lamp, he burst into tears. It was all over;
there was no longer any happiness; he would never have time enough of a night to address sufficient wrappers to enable him to assist his daughter clandestinely. The thought that his child might run into debt crushed him like some personal fault. And he felt ill; he had just received another blow; strength would fail him one of those nights. At length, restraining his tears, he painfully recommenced his work.

Downstairs in the shop, her face buried in her hands, Berthe had remained for a while immovable. After putting up the shutters, the porter had returned to the basement. Then Octave thought he might approach the young woman. Ever since the husband’s departure, Saturnin had been making signs to him over his sister’s head, as though inviting him to console her. Now, he was beaming and multiplied his winks; fearing that he was not understood, he emphasised his advice by blowing kisses into space, with a child’s overflowing effusion.

“What! you want me to kiss her?” asked Octave by signs.

“Yes, yes,” replied the madman, with an enthusiastic nod of the head.

And, when he beheld the young man smiling before his sister, who had noticed nothing, he seated himself on the floor, behind a counter, hiding, so as not to be in their way. In the profound silence of the closed warehouse the gas-jets were still burning with tall flames. There reigned a death-like peacefulness, a closeness of atmosphere mingled with the unsavoury odour of the dressed silk.

“Do not take it so much to heart, madame, I beg of you,” said Octave, in his caressing tones.

She started at finding him so close to her.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Octave. It is not my fault that you assisted at this painful scene. And I must ask you to excuse my husband, for he could not have been very well this evening. You know that in all families there are little unpleasantnesses — “

Sobs choked her utterance. The mere idea of extenuating her husband’s faults before the world had brought on a copious flood of tears, which quite unnerved her. Saturnin raised his anxious face on a level with the counter; but he dived down again, directly he saw Octave take hold of his sister’s hand.

“I beg of you, madame, summon up a little courage,” said the assistant.

“No, I cannot help it,” stammered she. “You were there , — you heard everything. For ninety-five francs’ worth of hair! As though all women did nor wear false hair now! But he knows nothing — he understands nothing. He knows no more about women than the Grand Turk; he has never had anything to do with them, no never, Monsieur Octave! Ah! I am very miserable!”

She said all this in her feverish spite. A man whom she pretended she had married for love, and who would soon allow her to go without a chemise! Did she not fulfil her duties?
Had he the least negligence to reproach her with?
If he had not flown into a passion on the day when she asked him for some hair, she would never have been reduced to the necessity of paying for it out of her own pocket! And for the least thing there was the same story over again; she could never express a wish, desire the most insignificant article of dress, without coming into contact with his ferocious sullenness. She naturally had her pride, so she no longer asked for anything, preferring to go without necessaries rather than humiliate herself to no purpose. Thus, for a fortnight past, she had been ardently longing for a fancy set of ornaments which she had seen with her mother in a jeweller’s window in the Palais-Royal.

“You know, three stars in paste for the hair. Oh! a mere trifle — a hundred francs, I think. Well! although I spoke of them from morning till night, don’t imagine that my husband understood!”

Octave would never have dared to hope for such an opportunity. He hastened matters.

“Yes, yes, I know. You mentioned the subject several times in my presence. And, dear me! madame, your parents received me so well; you yourself have welcomed me so kindly, that I thought I might venture — “

As he spoke he withdrew from his pocket an oblong box, in which the three stars were sparkling on some cotton wool. Berthe had risen from her seat, deeply affected.

“But it is impossible, sir. I will not — you were very wrong indeed.”

He pretended to be very simple, inventing various pretexts. In the South such things were done constantly. And, besides, the ornaments were of no value whatever. She had turned quite rosy, and was no longer weeping, whilst her eyes, fixed on the box, acquired a fresh lustre from the sparkling of the imitation gems.

“I beg of you, madame. Just to show me that you are satisfied with my work.”

“No really, Monsieur Octave; do not insist. You pain me.”

Saturnin had reappeared, and he looked at the jewels in ecstasy, as though he were beholding some reliquary. But his sharp ear heard Auguste’s returning footsteps. He warned Berthe by making a slight noise with his tongue. Then the latter came to a decision just as her husband was about to enter.

“Well! listen,” murmured she rapidly, popping the box into her pocket, “I’ll say that my sister Hortense made me a present of them.”

Auguste gave orders for the gas to be turned out, and then went up with her to bed, without saying a word about the quarrel, delighted at heart at finding her all right again and very lively, as though nothing had taken place between them. The warehouse became wrapped in intense darkness; and, just as Octave was also retiring, he felt hot hands squeezing his own almost sufficient to crush them in the obscurity. It was Saturnin, who slept in the basement.