Complete Works of Emile Zola (737 page)

Mouret’s excitement subsided at once; he thanked the baron, but without any of his usual enthusiasm; and the latter saw him turn his eyes towards the door of the next room, again seized with the secret anxiety which he was concealing. However, De Vallagnosc had come up, understanding that they had finished talking business. He stood close to them, listening to the baron, who was murmuring with the gallant air of an old man who had seen life:

“I say, I fancy they’re taking their revenge.”

“Who?” asked Mouret, embarrassed.

“Why, the women. They’re getting tired of belonging to you; you now belong to them, my dear fellow; it’s only just!”

He joked him, well aware of the young man’s notorious love affairs: the mansion bought for the actress, the enormous sums squandered with girls picked up in private supper rooms, amused him as an excuse for the follies he had formerly committed himself. His old experience rejoiced.

“Really, I don’t understand,” repeated Mouret.

“Oh! you understand well enough. They always get the last word In fact, I said to myself: It isn’t possible, he’s boasting, be can’t be so strong as that! And there you are! Bleed the women, work them as you would a coal mine, and what for? In order that they may work you afterwards, and force you to refund at last! Take care, for they’ll draw more blood and money from you than you have ever sucked from them.”

He laughed louder still; and De Vallagnosc was also grinning, without, however, saying a word.

“Dear me! one must have a taste of everything,” confessed Mouret, at last, pretending to laugh as well. “Money is so stupid, if it isn’t spent.”

“As for that, I agree with you,” resumed the baron. “Enjoy yourself, my dear fellow, I’ll not be the one to preach to you, nor to tremble for the great interests we have confided to your care. Everyone must sow his wild oats, and his head is generally clearer afterwards. Besides, there’s nothing unpleasant in ruining one’s self when one feels capable of building up another fortune. But if money is nothing, there are certain sufferings—”

He stopped, his smile became sad, former sufferings presented themselves amid the irony of his skepticism. He had watched the duel between Henriette and Mouret with the curiosity of one who still felt greatly interested in other people’s love battles; and he felt that the crisis had arrived, he guessed the drama, well acquainted with the story of this Denise, whom he had seen in the ante-room.

“Oh! as for suffering, that’s not in my line,” said Mouret, in a tone of bravado. “It’s quite enough to pay.”

The baron looked at him for a moment without speaking. Without wishing to insist on his discreet allusion he added, slowly—”Don’t make yourself worse than you are! You’ll lose something else besides your money at that game. Yes, you’ll lose a part of yourself, my dear fellow.” He stopped, again laughing, to ask, “That often happens, doesn’t it, Monsieur de Vallagnosc?”

“So they say, baron,” the young man simply replied. Just at this moment the door was opened. Mouret, who was going to reply, slightly started. The three men turned round. It was Madame Desforges, looking very gay, putting her head through the doorway to call, in a hurried voice —

“Monsieur Mouret! Monsieur Mouret!” Then, when she perceived the three men, she added, “Oh! you’ll excuse me, won’t you, gentlemen? I’m going to take Monsieur Mouret away for a minute. The least he can do, as he has sold me a frightful mantle, is to give me the benefit of his experience. This girl is a stupid, without the least idea. Come, come! I’m waiting for you.”

He hesitated, undecided, flinching before the scene he could foresee. But he had to obey. The baron said to him, with his air at once paternal and mocking, “Go, my dear fellow, go, madame wants you.”

Mouret followed her. The door closed, and he thought he could hear De Vallagnosc’s grin stifled by the hangings. His courage was entirely exhausted. Since Henriette had quitted the drawing-room, and he knew Denise was alone in the house in jealous hands, he had experienced a growing anxiety, a nervous torment, which made him listen from time to time as if suddenly startled by a distant sound of weeping. What could this woman invent to torture her? And his whole love, this love which surprised him even now, went out to the young girl like a support and a consolation. Never had he loved her so strongly, with that charm so powerful in suffering. His former affections, his love for Henriette herself — so delicate, so handsome, the possession of whom was so flattering to his pride — had never been more than agreeable pastimes, frequently a calculation, in which he sought nothing but a profitable pleasure. He used quietly to leave his mistresses and go home to bed, happy in his bachelor liberty, without a regret or a care on his mind; whilst now his heart beat with anguish, his life was taken, he no longer enjoyed the forgetfulness of sleep in his great, solitary bed. Denise was his only thought. Even at this moment she was the sole object of his anxiety, and he was telling himself that he preferred to be there to protect her, notwithstanding his fear of some regrettable scene with the other one.

At first, they both crossed the bedroom, silent and empty. Then Madame Desforges, pushing open a door, entered the dressing-room, followed by Mouret. It was a rather large room, hung with red silk, furnished with a marble toilet table and a large wardrobe with three compartments and great glass doors. As the window looked into the yard, it was already rather dark, and the two nickel-plated gas burners on either side of the wardrobe had been lighted.

“Now, let’s see,” said Henriette, “perhaps we shall get on better.”

On entering, Mouret had found Denise standing upright, middle of the bright light. She was very pale, modestly dressed in a cashmere jacket, and a black hat, and was holding on one arm the mantle bought at The Ladies’ Paradise. When she saw the young man her hands slightly trembled.

“I wish Monsieur Mouret to judge,” resumed Henriette. “Just help me, mademoiselle.”

And Denise, approaching, had to give her the mantle. She had already placed some pins on the shoulders, the part that did not fit. Henriette turned round to look at herself in the glass.

“Is it possible? Speak frankly.”

“It really is a failure, madame,” said Mouret, to cut the matter short. “It’s very simple; the young lady will take your measure, and we will make you another.”

“No, I want this one, I want it immediately,” resumed she, with vivacity. “But it’s too narrow across the chest, and it forms a ruck at the back between the shoulders.” Then, in her sharpest voice, she added: “It’s no use you standing looking at me, mademoiselle, that won’t make it any better! Try and find a remedy. It’s your business.”

Denise again commenced to place the pins, without saying a word. That went on for some time: she had to pass from one shoulder to the other, and was even obliged to go almost on her knees, to pull the mantle down in front. Above her placing herself entirely in Denise’s hands, Madame Desforges gave her face the harsh expression of a mistress exceedingly difficult to please. Delighted to lower the young girl to this servant’s work, she gave her sharp and brief orders, watching for the least sign of suffering on Mouret’s face.

“Put a pin here! No! not there, here, near the sleeve. You don’t seem to understand! That isn’t it, there’s the ruck showing again. Take care, you’re pricking me now!”

Twice had Mouret vainly attempted to interfere, to put an end to this scene. His heart was beating violently from this humiliation of his love; and he loved Denise more than ever, with a deep tenderness, in the presence of her admirably silent and patient attitude. If the young girl’s hands still trembled somewhat, at being treated in this way before his face, she accepted the necessities of her position with the proud resignation of a courageous girl. When Madame Desforges found they were not likely to betray themselves, she tried another way, she commenced to smile on Mouret, treating him openly as her lover. The pins having run short, she said to him:

“Look, my dear, in the ivory box on the dressing-table. Really! it’s empty? Kindly see on the chimney-piece in the bedroom; you know, at the corner of the looking-glass.”

She spoke as if he were quite at home, in the habit of sleeping there, and knew where to find everything, even the brushes and combs. When he brought back a few pins, she took them one by one, and forced him to stay near her, looking at him and speaking low.

“I don’t fancy I’m hump-backed. Give me your hand, feel my shoulders, just to please me. Am I really made like that?”

Denise slowly raised her eyes, paler than ever, and set about placing the pins in silence. Mouret could only see her blonde tresses, twisted at the back of her delicate neck; but by the slight shudder which was raising them, he thought he could perceive the uneasiness and shame of her face. Now, she would certainly repulse him, and send him back to this woman, who did not conceal her connection even before strangers. Brutal thoughts came into his head, he could have struck Henriette. How was he to stop her talk? How should he tell Denise that he adored her, that she alone existed for him at this moment, and that he was ready to sacrifice for her all his former affections? The worst of women would not have indulged in the equivocal familiarities of this well-born lady. He took his hand away, and drew back, saying:

“You are wrong to go so far, madame, since I myself consider the garment to be a failure.”

One of the gas-burners was hissing, and in the stuffy, moist air of the room, nothing else was heard but this ardent breath. The looking-glasses threw large sheets of light on the red silk hangings, on which were dancing the shadows of the two women. A bottle of verbena, of which the cork had been left out, spread a vague odor, something like that of a fading bouquet.

“There, madame, I can do no more,” said Denise, at last, rising up.

She felt thoroughly worn out. Twice she had run the pins in her fingers, as if blinded, her eyes in a mist. Was he in the plot? Had he sent for her, to avenge himself for her refusal, by showing that other women loved him? And this thought chilled her; she never remembered to have stood in need of so much courage, not even during the terrible hours of her life when she wanted for bread. It was comparatively nothing to be humiliated, but to see him almost in the arms of another woman, as if she had not been there! Henriette looked at herself in the glass, and once more broke out into harsh words.

“But it’s absurd, mademoiselle. It fits worse than ever. Just look how tight it is across the chest. I look like a wet nurse.”

Denise, losing all patience, made a rather unfortunate remark. “You are slightly stout, madame. We cannot make you thinner than you are.”

“Stout! stout!” exclaimed Henriette, who now turned pale in her turn. “You’re becoming insolent, mademoiselle. Really, I should advise you to criticize others!”

They both stood looking at each other, face to face, trembling. There was now neither lady or shop-girl. They were simply two women, made equal by their rivalry. The one had violently taken off the mantle and cast it on a chair, whilst the other was throwing oil the dressing-table the few pins she had in her hands.

“What astonishes me,” resumed Henriette,” is that Monsieur Mouret should tolerate such insolence. I thought, sir, that you were more particular about your employees.”

Denise had again assumed her brave, calm manner. She gently replied: “If Monsieur Mouret keeps me, it’s because he has no fault to find. I am ready to apologize to you, if he wishes it.”

Mouret was listening, excited by this quarrel, unable to find a word to put a stop to it. He had a great horror of these explanations between women, their asperity wounding his sense of elegance and gracefulness. Henriette wished to force him to say something in condemnation of the young girl; and, as he remained mute, still undecided, she stung him with a final insult:

“Very good, sir. It seems that I must suffer the insolence of your mistresses in my own house even! A girl you’ve picked up out of the gutter!”

Two big tears gushed from Denise’s eyes. She had kept them back for some time, but her whole being succumbed beneath this last insult. When he saw her weeping like that, without the slightest attempt at retaliation, with a silent, despairing dignity, Mouret no longer hesitated, his heart went out towards her in an immense burst of tenderness. He took her hands in his and stammered:

“Go away immediately, my child, and forget this house!”

Henriette, perfectly amazed, choking with anger, stood looking at them.

“Wait a minute,” continued he, folding up the mantle himself, “take this garment away. Madame can buy another elsewhere. And pray don’t cry any more. You know how much I esteem you.”

He went with her to the door, which he closed after her. She had not said a word; but a pink flame had colored her cheeks, whilst her eyes were wet with fresh tears, tears of a delicious sweetness. Henriette, who was suffocating, had taken out her handkerchief and was crushing her lips with it. This was a total overthrowing of her calculations, she herself had been caught in the trap she had laid. She was mortified with herself for having pushed the matter too far, tortured with jealousy. To be abandoned for such a creature as that! To see herself disdained before her! Her pride suffered more than her love.

“So, it’s that girl that you love?” said she, painfully, when they were alone.

Mouret did not reply at once; he was walking about from the window to the door, as if absorbed by some violent emotion. At last he stopped, and very politely, in a voice which he tried to render cold, he replied with simplicity: “Yes, madame.”

The gas burner was still hissing in the stifling air of the dressing-room. But the reflex of the glasses were no longer traversed by dancing shadows, the room seemed bare, of a heavy dullness. Henriette suddenly dropped on a chair, twisting her handkerchief in her febrile fingers, repeating amidst her sobs:

“Good heavens! How miserable I am!”

He stood looking at her for several seconds, and then went away quietly. She, left all alone, wept on in silence, before the pins scattered over the dressing-table and the floor.