Complete Works of Emile Zola (685 page)

At length, as they sat side by side one evening examining some invoices beneath the scorching flame of a gas-jet, she said slowly:

“I have spoken to my uncle, Monsieur Octave. He consents, so we will buy the house. Only — “

He interrupted her joyfully to exclaim:

“Then the Vabres are done for!”

She smiled, and murmured reproachfully:

“Do you detest them, then? It is not proper on your part; you are the last who should wish them ill.”

She had never spoken to him of his relations with Berthe. This sudden allusion embarrassed him immensely, without his exactly knowing why. He blushed and tried to stammer out some explanation.

“No, no, it does not concern me,” resumed she, still smiling and very calm. “Excuse me, it quite escaped me; I never intended to speak to you on the subject. You are young. So much the worse for those who are willing, is it not so? It is the place of the husbands to guard their wives, when the latter are unable to guard themselves.”

He experienced a sensation of relief, on understanding that she was not angry. He had often dreaded a coldness on her part if she came to know of his former connection.

“You interrupted me, Monsieur Octave,” resumed she, gravely. “I was about to add that if I purchase the next house, and thus double the importance of my business, it will be impossible for me to remain single. I shall be obliged to marry again.”

Octave sat lost in astonishment. What! she already had a husband in view, and he was in ignorance of it! He at once felt that his position there was compromised.

“My uncle,” continued she, “told me so himself. Oh, there is no hurry just yet. I have only been eight months in mourning; I shall wait till the autumn. Only, in trade one must put one’s heart on one side, and consider the necessities of the situation. A man is absolutely necessary here.”

She discussed all this calmly, like a matter of business, and he gazed on her regular and healthy beauty, on her pure complexion beneath her neatly arranged black hair. Then he regretted not having, since her widowhood, renewed the effort to become her lover.

“It is always a very serious matter,” stammered he; “it requires reflection.”

No doubt, she was quite of that opinion. And she spoke of her age.

“I am already old; I am five years older than you, Monsieur Octave — “

Deeply agitated, yet thinking he understood, he interrupted her, and seizing hold of her hands, he repeated:

“Oh, madame! oh, madame!”

But she rose from her seat and released herself. Then she turned down the gas.

“No, that’s enough for today. You have some very good ideas, and it is natural I should think of you to put them into execution. Only there will be a deal of worry; we must thoroughly study the project. I know that at heart you are very serious. Think the matter over on your side, and I will think it over on mine. That is why I have named it to you. We can talk about it again later on.”

And things remained thus for weeks. The establishment continued just the same as usual. As Madame Hédouin always maintained her smiling serenity when in Octave’s company, without an allusion to the slightest tender feeling, he affected on his side a similar peace of mind, and he ended by becoming like her, healthfully happy, placing his confidence in the logic of things. She often repeated that sensible things always happened of themselves. Therefore she was never in a hurry. The gossip which commenced to circulate respecting her intimacy with the young man did not in the least affect her. They waited.

In the Rue de Choiseul, therefore, the entire house vowed that the marriage was as good as accomplished. Octave had given up his room to lodge in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin near “The Ladies’ Paradise.” He no longer visited any one, neither the Campardons, nor the Duveyriers, who were quite shocked at the scandal of his amours. Monsieur Gourd himself, whenever he saw him, pretended not to recognise him so as to avoid having to bow. Only Marie and Madame Juzeur, on the mornings when they met him in the neighbourhood, went and stood a moment in some doorway to have a chat with him. Madame Juzeur, who passionately questioned him respecting Madame Hédouin, tried to persuade him to call upon her, so as to be able to talk the matter over nicely; and Marie, who was greatly distressed, complaining of again being in the family way, and who told him of Jules’s amazement and of her parents’ terrible anger. Then, when the rumour of his marriage became more persistent, Octave was surprised to receive a low bow from Monsieur Gourd. Campardon, without exactly making friends again, gave him a cordial nod across the street; whilst Duveyrier, calling one evening to buy some gloves, showed himself most amiable. The entire house was beginning to pardon him.

Moreover, the house had resumed its course of middle-class respectability. Behind the mahogany doors fresh abysses of virtue were forming. The gentleman on the third floor came to work one night a week; the other Madame Campardon passed by with her rigid principles; the maid-servants displayed dazzlingly white aprons; and, in the lukewarm silence of the staircase, the pianos alone, on every floor, gave vent to the same waltzes, a distant, and, so to say, religious music.

However, the uneasiness caused by the adulterous act was still there, imperceptible to uneducated people, but most disagreeable to those of refined morals. Auguste obstinately persisted in not taking his wife back, and so long as Berthe lived with her parents, the scandal would not be effaced, there would ever linger a material vestige of it. None of the tenants, moreover, publicly related the true version of the story, which would have been awkward for everybody. Of a common accord, without even agreeing together, it had been decided to say that the quarrel between Auguste and Berthe was on account of the ten thousand francs, a mere question of money. This was far more decent. This being understood, there was no harm in talking of the matter before young ladies. Would the parents pay, or would they not? And the drama became quite simple, for not an inhabitant of the neighbourhood was surprised or indignant at the idea that money matters could be the cause of blows in a family. It is true that in reality this pleasant arrangement did not prevent things being as they were; and, in spite of its calm in the presence of misfortune, the house cruelly suffered in its dignity.

It was Duveyrier especially who, as landlord, carried the burden of this persistent and unmerited misfortune. For some time past Clarisse had been torturing him to such a pitch, that he would at times come home to his wife to weep. But the scandal of the adultery had struck him to the heart; he saw, said he, the passers-by look at his house from top to bottom, that house which his father-in-law and he had striven to decorate with every domestic virtue; and as this sort of thing could not be allowed to last, he talked of purifying the building for his personal honour. Therefore, he urged Auguste, in the name of public decency, to become reconciled with his wife. Unfortunately Auguste resisted, backed up in his rage by Théophile and Valérie, who had definitely installed themselves at the pay-desk, and who were delighted with the existing discord. Then as matters were going badly at Lyons, and the silk warehouse was in jeopardy for want of capital, Duveyrier conceived a practical idea. The Josserands were probably longing to get rid of their daughter: the thing to do was to offer to take her back, but only on condition that they paid the dowry of fifty thousand francs. Perhaps uncle Bachelard would yield to their entreaties and give the money. At first, Auguste violently refused to be a party to any such arrangement; even were the sum a hundred thousand francs, he would not think it sufficient. Then, becoming very anxious as his April payments drew near, he had given in to the counsellor’s arguments, as the latter pleaded the cause of morality and spoke merely of a good action to be done.

When they were agreed, Clotilde selected the Abbé Mauduit for negotiator. It was a delicate matter, only a priest could interfere in it without compromising himself. It so happened, that the reverend man was deeply grieved by the deplorable catastrophes which had befallen one of the most interesting households of his parish; and he had already offered his advice, his experience, and his authority, to put an end to a scandal at which the enemies of religion might take delight. However, when Clotilde spoke to him of the dowry, asking him to be the bearer of Auguste’s conditions to the Josserands, he bowed his head, and maintained a painful silence.

“It is money due that my brother asks for,” repeated she. “It is no bargain, understand. Moreover, my brother insists upon it.”

“It is necessary and I will go,” said the priest at length.

The Josserands had been expecting the proposal for days, Valérie must have spoken of it, all the tenants were discussing the affair: were they so hard up as to be forced to keep their daughter? would they be able to obtain the fifty thousand francs to get rid of her? Since the question had reached this point, Madame Josserand had been in a constant rage. What! after having had such trouble to marry Berthe at first, she now had to marry her a second time! Everything was upset, the dowry was again demanded, all the money worries were going to commence afresh! Never before had a mother had such a task to go through twice over. And all owing to the fault of that silly fool, whose stupidity went so far as to make her forget her duty.

The house was becoming a hell upon earth; Berthe suffered a continual torture, for even her sister Hortense, furious at no longer sleeping alone, never uttered a sentence without introducing some insulting allusion into it. She was even reproached with the food she ate. When one had a husband somewhere, it was all the same very funny that one should go and share one’s parents’ meals, which were already too sparing. Then, the young woman, in despair, would sob in corners, accusing herself of being a coward, but unable to pick up sufficient courage to go downstairs and throw herself at Auguste’s feet, and say:

“Here! beat me, I cannot be more unhappy than I am.”

Monsieur Josserand alone showed some affection for his child. But that child’s faults and tears were killing him; he was dying through the cruelties of the family, with an unlimited holiday from business, spent mostly in bed. Doctor Juillerat who attended him, talked of a decomposition of the blood: it was a dissolution of the entire system, during which each organ was attacked, one after the other.

“When you have made your father die of grief, perhaps you will be satisfied!” cried the mother.

And Berthe scarcely dared enter the invalid’s room. Directly the father and daughter met, they wept together, and did each other a great deal of harm.

At length, Madame Josserand came to a grand decision: she invited uncle Bachelard, resolved to humiliate herself once more. She would have given the fifty thousand francs out of her own pocket, if she had possessed them, so as not to have to keep that big married girl, whose presence dishonoured her Tuesday receptions. But she had learnt some shocking things about the uncle, and if he did not do as she wished, she intended, once for all, to give him a bit of her mind.

During dinner, Bachelard behaved in a most abominable manner. He had arrived in an advanced stage of intoxication; for, since he had lost Fifi, he had fallen into the lowest depths of vice. Fortunately, Madame Josserand had not invited any one else, for fear of losing their esteem. He fell asleep at dessert whilst relating some of his drivelling old rake’s very mixed stories, and they were obliged to wake him up to take him into Monsieur Josserand’s room. Everything had been prepared there with a view of acting on the old drunkard’s feelings: before the father’s bed were two arm-chairs, one for the mother, the other for the uncle. Berthe and Hortense would stand up. One would see whether the uncle would again dare to deny his promises in the face of a dying man, in such a sad room, dimly lighted by a smoky lamp.

“Narcisse,” said Madame Josserand, “the situation is a grave one — “

And, slowly and solemnly, she explained this situation, her daughter’s regrettable misfortune, the husband’s revolting venality, the painful resolution she had been obliged to come to of giving the fifty thousand francs, so as to put a stop to the scandal which covered the family with shame. Then she severely continued:

“Remember what you promised, Narcisse. On the evening of the signing of the marriage contract, you again slapped your chest and swore that Berthe might rely on her uncle’s affection. Well! where is this affection?
the moment has arrived to display it. Monsieur Josserand, join me in showing him his duty, if your weak state of health will allow you to do so.”

In spite of his great repugnance, the father murmured, out of love for his daughter:

“It is true; you promised, Bachelard. Come, before I leave you for ever, do me the pleasure of behaving as you should.”

But Berthe and Hortense, in the hope of working upon the uncle’s feelings, had filled his glass once too often. He was in such a fuddled condition, that one could not even take advantage of him.

“Eh?
what?” stuttered he, without having the least necessity for exaggerating his intoxication. “Never promise — Don’t understand — Tell me again, Eléonore.”

The latter recommenced her story, made weeping Berthe embrace him, beseeched him for the sake of her husband’s health, and proved to him that in giving the fifty thousand francs, he would be fulfilling a sacred duty. Then, as he began to doze off again, without appearing to be in the least affected by the sight of the invalid or of the chamber of sickness, she abruptly broke out into the most violent language.

“Listen! Narcisse, this sort of thing has been lasting too long — you’re a scoundrel! I know of all your beastly goings-on. You’ve just married your mistress to Gueulin, and you’ve given them fifty thousand francs, the very amount you promised us. Ah! it’s decent; little Gueulin plays a pretty part in it all! And you, you’re worse still, you take the bread from our mouth, you prostitute your fortune, yes! you prostitute it, by robbing us of money which was ours for the sake of that harlot!”

Never before had she relieved her feelings to such an extent. Hortense busied herself with her father’s medicine, so as not to show her embarrassment. Monsieur Josserand, who was made far worse by this scene, tossed about on his pillow, and murmured in a trembling voice: