Complete Works of Emile Zola (670 page)

“It must be found though,” said he. “Perhaps you borrowed it of Rachel, and have forgotten doing so.”

Berthe felt greatly hurt at this.

“Accuse me of cooking the accounts! Ah! you are nice!”

Everything started from that, and they soon came to high words. Auguste, in spite of his desire to purchase peace at a dear price, became aggressive, excited by the sight of the rabbit, the leg of mutton and the cauliflowers, beside himself before that pile of food, which she was going to thrust all at once under her parents’ noses. He looked through the account-book expressing astonishment at almost every item. It was incredible! she must be in league with the servant to make something on the marketing.

“I! I!” exclaimed the young woman thoroughly exasperated;
“
I in league with the servant! But it’s you, sir, who pay her to spy upon me! Yes, I am for ever feeling her about me, I can’t move a step without encountering her eyes. Ah! she may watch me through the key-hole, when I’m changing my underlinen. I do no harm, and I don’t care a straw for your system of police. Only, don’t you dare to reproach me with being in league with her.”

This unexpected attack quite dumbfounded the husband for a moment. Rachel turned round still holding the leg of mutton; and, placing her hand upon her heart, she protested.

“Oh! madame, how can you think so?
I who respect madame so much!”

“She’s mad!” said Auguste shrugging his shoulders. “Don’t take the trouble to defend yourself, my girl. She’s mad!”

But a noise behind his back caused him some anxiety. It was Saturnin who had violently thrown down one of the half polished shoes to fly to his sister’s assistance. With a terrible expression in his face and his fists clenched, he stuttered out that he would strangle the dirty rascal, if he again called her mad. Thoroughly frightened, Auguste sought refuge behind the filter, calling out:

“It’s really become unbearable; I can no longer make a remark to you without his thrusting himself in between us! I allowed him to come here, but he must leave me alone! He’s another nice present of your mother’s! She was frightened to death of him, and so she saddled him on me, preferring to see me murdered in her stead. Thanks for nothing! He’s got a knife now. Do make him desist!”

Berthe disarmed her brother and calmed him with a look, whilst Auguste, who had turned very pale, continued to mumble angry words. Always knives being caught up? An injury is so soon done; and, with a madman, one could do nothing, justice would even refuse to avenge it! In short, it was not proper to make a body-guard of such a brother, rendering a husband powerless, even in circumstances of the most legitimate indignation, and going as far as forcing him to submit to his shame.

“You’ve no tact, sir,” declared Berthe disdainfully. “A gentleman would not discuss such matters in a kitchen.”

And she withdrew to her room, slamming the doors behind her. Rachel had returned to the roaster, as though no longer hearing the quarrel between her master and mistress. Through an excess of discretion, like a girl who kept herself in her place even when she knew everything, she did not follow madame with her eyes when the latter left the room; and she allowed her master to stamp about for a full minute, without venturing on the least change of features. Besides, her master hastened off after her mistress almost directly. Then, Rachel, still unmoved, was able to put the rabbit on the fire.

“Do understand, my dear,” said Auguste to Berthe, whom he had rejoined in the bedroom, “it was not in reference to you that I spoke, it was for that girl who robs us. Those twenty sous ought certainly to be found.”

The young woman trembled nervously with exasperation. She looked him full in the face, very pale and resolute.

“Will you leave off bothering me about your twenty sous? It’s not twenty sous I want, it’s five hundred francs a month. Yes, five hundred francs for my dress. Ah! you discuss money matters in the kitchen, before the servant! Well! that has decided me to discuss them also! I’ve been restraining myself for a long time past. I want five hundred francs.”

He stood aghast at such a demand. And she commenced the grand quarrel which, during twenty years, her mother had picked with her father, regularly every fortnight. Did he expect to see her walk about barefoot? When one married a woman, one should at least arrange to clothe and feed her decently. She would sooner beg than resign herself to such a pauper existence! It was not her fault, if he proved incapable of managing his business properly;
oh! yes, incapable, without ideas or initiative, only knowing how to split farthings into four. A man who ought to have made it his glory to acquire a fortune quickly, so as to dress her like a queen, and make the people of “The Ladies’ Paradise” die with rage! But no! with such a poor head as his, bankruptcy was sure to come sooner or later. And from this flow of words emerged the respect, the furious appetite for money, all that worship of wealth, the adoration of which she had learnt in her own family, when beholding the mean tricks to which one stoops, merely to appear to possess it.

“Five hundred francs!” said Auguste at length. “I would sooner shut up the shop.”

She looked at him coldly.

“You refuse. Very well, I will run up bills.”

“More debts, you wretched woman!”

In a sudden violent movement, he seized her by the arms, and pushed her against the wall. Then, without a cry, choking with passion, she ran and opened the window, as though to throw herself out; but she retraced her steps, and pushing him in her turn towards the door, turned him out of the room gasping:

“Go away, or I shall do you an injury!”

And she noisily pushed the bolt behind his back. For a moment he listened and hesitated. Then, he hastened to go down to the warehouse, again seized with terror, as he beheld Saturnin’s eyes gleaming in the shadow, the noise of the short struggle having brought him from the kitchen.

Downstairs, Octave, who was selling silk handkerchiefs to an old lady, at once noticed his agitated appearance. The assistant looked at him out of the corner of his eye as he feverishly paced up and down before the counters. When the customer had gone, Auguste’s heart quite overflowed.

“My dear fellow, she’s going mad,” said he, without naming his wife. “She has shut herself in. You ought to oblige me by going up and speaking to her. I fear an accident, on my word of honour, I do!”

The young man pretended to hesitate. It was such a delicate matter! Finally, he agreed to do so out of pure devotion. Upstairs, he found Saturnin keeping guard before Berthe’s door. On hearing footsteps, the madman uttered a menacing grunt. But, when he recognised the assistant, his face brightened.

“Ah! yes, you,” murmured he. “You’re all right. She mustn’t cry. Be nice, say something to her. And you know, stop there. There’s no danger. I’m here. If the servant tries to peep, I’ll settle her.”

And he squatted down on the floor, guarding the door. As he still held one of his brother-in-law’s boots, he commenced to polish it, to pass away the time.

Octave made up his mind to knock. No answer, not a sound. Then, he gave his name. The bolt was at once drawn. And, opening the door slightly, Berthe begged him to enter. Then, she closed and bolted it again with a nervous hand.

“I don’t mind you,” said she; “but I won’t have him!”

She paced the room, carried away by passion, going from the bedstead to the window, which still remained open. And she muttered disconnected sentences: he might entertain her parents at dinner, if he liked; yes, he could account to them for her absence, for she would not appear at the table; she would sooner die! Besides, she preferred to go to bed. With her feverish hands, she already began to tear off the quilt, shake up the pillows, and turn down the sheet, forgetful of Octave’s presence to the extent that she was about to unhook her dress. Then, she jumped to another idea.

“Just fancy! He beat me, beat me, beat me! And only because, ashamed of always going about in rags, I asked him for five hundred francs!”

Octave, standing up in the middle of the room, tried to find some conciliating words. She was wrong to allow it to upset her so much. Everything would come right again. And he ended by timidly offering her assistance.

“If you are worried about any bill, why not apply to your friends? I should be so pleased! Oh! simply a loan. You could return it to me some other time.”

She looked at him. After a pause, she replied:

“Never! it cannot be. What would people think, Monsieur Octave?
”

Her refusal was so decided, that there was no further question of money. But her anger seemed to have left her. She breathed heavily, and bathed her face; and she looked quite pale, very calm, rather wearied, with large resolute eyes. Standing before her, he felt himself overcome by that timidity of love, which he held in such contempt. Never before had he loved so ardently; the strength of his desire communicated an awkwardness to his charms of a handsome assistant. Whilst continuing to advise a reconciliation in vague phrases, he was reasoning clearly in his own mind, asking himself if he ought not to take her in his arms; but the fear of being again repulsed made him hesitate. She, without uttering a word, continued to look at him with her decided air, her forehead contracted by a faint wrinkle.

“Really!” he stammeringly continued, “you must be patient. Your husband is not a bad fellow, if you only go the right way to work with him, he will give you whatever you ask for.”

And beneath the emptiness of these words, they both felt the same thought take possession of them. They were alone, free, safe from all surprise, with the door bolted. This security, the close warmth of the room, exercised its influence on them. Yet he did not dare; the feminine side of his nature, his womanly feeling refined him in that moment of passion to the point of making him the woman in their encounter. Then, as though recollecting one of her former lessons, Berthe dropped her handkerchief.

“Oh! thank you,” said she to the young man who picked it up.

Their fingers touched, they were drawn closer together by that momentary contact. Now, she smiled tenderly, and gave an easy suppleness to her form, as she recollected that men detest sticks. It would never do to act the simpleton, one must permit a little playfulness without seeming to do so, if one would hook one’s fish.

“Night is coming on,” resumed she, going and pushing the window to.

He followed her, and there, in the shadow of the curtains, she allowed him to take her hand. She laughed louder, bewildering him with her ringing tones, enveloping him with her pretty gestures; and, as he at length became bolder, she threw back her head, displaying her neck, her young and delicate neck all quivering with her gaiety. Distracted by the sight, he kissed her under the chin.

“Oh! Monsieur Octave!” said she in confusion, making a pretence of prettily putting him back into his place.

His moment of triumph had come, but it was no sooner over than all the ferocious disdain of woman, which was hidden beneath his air of wheedling adoration, returned. And when Berthe rose up, without strength in her wrists, and her face contracted by a pang, her utter contempt for man was thrown into the dark glance which she cast upon him. The room was wrapped in complete silence. One only heard Saturnin, on the other side of the door, polishing the husband’s boot with a regular movement of the brush.

Octave’s thoughts reverted to Valérie and Madame Hédouin. At last, he was something more than little Pichon’s lover! It seemed like a rehabilitation in his own eyes. Then, encountering Berthe’s uneasy glance, he experienced a slight sense of shame, and kissed her with extreme gentleness. She was resuming her air of resolute recklessness, and with a gesture, seemed to say: “What’s done can’t be undone.” But she afterwards experienced the necessity of giving expression to a melancholy thought.

“Ah! If you had only married me!” murmured she.

He felt surprised, almost uneasy; but this did not prevent him from replying, as he kissed her again:

“Oh! yes, how nice it would have been!”

That evening, the dinner with the Josserands was most delightful, Berthe had never shown herself so gentle. She did not say a word of the quarrel to her parents, she received her husband with an air of submission. The latter, delighted, took Octave aside to thank him; and he imparted so much warmth into the proceeding, pressing his hands and displaying such a lively gratitude, that the young man felt quite embarrassed. Moreover, they one and all overwhelmed him with marks of their affection. Saturnin, who behaved very well at table, looked at him with approving eyes. Hortense on her part deigned to listen to him, whilst Madame Josserand, full of maternal encouragement, kept filling his glass.

“Dear me! yes,” said Berthe at dessert, “I intend to resume my painting. For a long time past I have been wanting to decorate a cup for Auguste.”

The latter was deeply moved at this loving conjugal thought. Ever since the soup, Octave had kept his foot on the young woman’s under the table; it was like a taking of possession in the midst of this little middle-class gathering. Yet, Berthe was not without a secret uneasiness before Rachel, whose eyes she always found looking her through and through. Was it then visible? The girl was decidedly one to be sent away or else to be bought over.

Monsieur Josserand, who was near his daughter, finished soothing her by passing her nineteen francs done up in paper under the tablecloth. He bent down and whispered in her car:

“You know, they come from my little work. If you owe anything, you must pay it.”

Then, between her father who nudged her knee, and her lover who gently rubbed her boot, she felt quite happy. Life would now be delightful. And they united in throwing aside all reserve, enjoying the pleasure of a family gathering, unmarred by a single quarrel. In truth, it was hardly natural, something must have brought them luck. Auguste, alone, had his eyes half closed, suffering from a headache, which he had moreover expected after so many emotions. Towards nine o’clock he was even obliged to retire to bed.

CHAPTER XIII