Complete Works of Emile Zola (746 page)

“It’s something fearful. This fellow was walking in the middle of the road, quite at home. I called out, and he at once threw himself under the wheels!”

A house-painter, who had run up, brush in hand, from a neighboring house, then said, in a sharp voice, amidst the clamor: “Don’t excite yourself. I saw him, he threw himself under. He jumped in, head first. Another unfortunate tired of life, no doubt.”

Others spoke up, and all agreed upon it being a case of suicide, whilst the policeman pulled out his book and made his entry. Several ladies, very pale, got out quickly, and ran away without looking back, filled with horror by the soft shaking which had stirred them up when the omnibus passed over the body. Denise approached, attracted by a practical pity, which prompted her to interest herself in all sorts of street accidents, wounded dogs, horses down, and tillers falling off roofs. And she immediately recognized the unfortunate fellow who had fainted away, his clothes covered with mud.

“It’s Monsieur Robineau,” cried she, in her grievous astonishment.

The policeman at once questioned the young girl, and she gave his name, profession, and address. Thanks to the driver’s energy, the omnibus had twisted round, and thus only Robineau’s legs had gone under the wheels, but it was to be feared that they were both broken. Four men carried the wounded draper to a chemist’s shop in the Rue Gaillon, whilst the omnibus slowly resumed its journey.

“My stars!” said the driver, whipping up his horses, “I’ve done a famous day’s work.”

Denise followed Robineau into the chemist’s. The latter, waiting for a doctor who could not be found, declared there was no immediate danger, and that the wounded man had better be taken home, as he lived in the neighborhood. A lad started off to the police-station to order a stretcher, and Denise had the happy thought of going on in front and preparing Madame Robineau for this frightful blow. But she had the greatest trouble in the world to get into the street through the crowd, which was struggling before the door. This crowd, attracted by death, was increasing every minute; men, women, and children stood on tip-toe, and held their own amidst a brutal pushing, and each new comer had his version of the accident, so that at last it was said to be a husband pitched out of the window by his wife’s lover.

In the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, Denise perceived Madame Robineau on the threshold of the silk warehouse. This gave her a pretext for stopping, and she talked on for a moment, trying to find a way of breaking the terrible news. The shop presented the disorderly, abandoned appearance of the last struggles of a dying business. It was the inevitable end of the great battle of the silks; the Paris Paradise had crushed its rival by a fresh reduction of a sou; it was now sold at four francs nineteen sous, Gaujean’s silk had found its Waterloo. For the last two months Robineau, reduced to all sorts of shifts, had been leading a fearful life, trying to prevent a declaration of bankruptcy.

“I’ve just seen your husband pass through the Place Gaillon,” murmured Denise, who had now entered the shop.

Madame Robineau, whom a secret anxiety seemed to be continually attracting towards the street, said quickly: “Ah, just now, wasn’t it? I’m waiting for him, he ought to be back; Monsieur Gaujean came up this morning, and they have gone out together.”

She was still charming, delicate, and gay; but her advanced state of pregnancy gave her a fatigued look, and she was more frightened, more bewildered than ever, by these business matters, which she did not understand, and which were all going wrong. As she often said, what was the use of it all? Would it not be better to live quietly in some small house, and be contented with modest fare?

“My dear child,” resumed she with her smile, which was becoming sadder, “we have nothing to conceal from you. Things are not going on well, and my poor darling is worried to death. Today this Gaujean has been tormenting him about some bills overdue. I was dying with anxiety at being left here all alone.”

And she was returning to the door when Denise stopped her, having heard the noise of the crowd and guessing that it was the wounded man being brought along, surrounded by a mob of idlers anxious to see the end of the, affair. Then, with a parched throat, unable to find the consoling words she would have wished, she had to explain the matter.

“Don’t be anxious, there’s no immediate danger. I’ve seen Monsieur Robineau, he has met with an accident. They are just bringing him home, pray don’t be frightened.”

The poor woman listened to her, white as a sheet, without clearly understanding. The street was full of people, the drivers of the impeded cabs were swearing, the men had laid down the stretcher before the shop in order to open both glass doors.

“It was an accident,” continued Denise, resolved to conceal the attempt at suicide. “He was on the pavement and slipped under the wheels of an omnibus. Only his feet were hurt. They’ve sent for a doctor. There’s no need to be anxious.”

A shudder passed over Madame Robineau. She set up an inarticulate cry, then ceased talking and ran to the stretcher, drawing the covering away with her trembling hands. The men who had brought Robineau were waiting to take him away as soon as the doctor arrived. They dared not touch him, who had come round again, and whose sufferings were frightful at the slightest movement. When he saw his wife his eyes filled with tears. She embraced him, and stood looking fixedly at him, and weeping. In the street the tumult was increasing; the people pressed forward as at a theatre, with glistening eyes; some work-girls, escaped from a shop, were almost pushing through the windows eager to see what was going on. In order to avoid this feverish curiosity, and thinking, besides, that it was not right to leave the shop open, Denise decided on letting the metallic shutters down. She went and turned the winch, the wheels of which gave out a plaintive cry, the sheets of iron slowly descended, like the heavy draperies of a curtain falling on the catastrophe of a fifth act. When she went in again, after closing the little round door in the shutters, she found Madame Robineau still clasping her husband in her arms, in the half-light which came from the two stars cut in the shutters. The ruined shop seemed to be gliding into nothingness, the two stars alone glittered on this sudden and brutal catastrophe of the streets of Paris.

At last Madame Robineau recovered her speech. “Oh, my darling! — oh, my darling! my darling!”

This was all she could say, and he, suffocated, confessed himself with a cry of remorse when he saw her kneeling thus before him. When he did not move he only felt the burning lead of his legs.

“Forgive me, I must have been mad. When the lawyer told me before Gaujean that the posters would be put up tomorrow, I saw flames dancing before me as if the walls were burning. After that I remember nothing else. I came down the Rue de la Michodière — it seemed that The Paradise people were laughing at me, that immense house seemed to crush me. So, when the omnibus came up, I thought of Lhomme and his arm, and threw myself underneath the omnibus.”

Madame Robineau had slowly fallen on to the floor, horrified by this confession. Heavens! he had tried to kill himself. She seized the hand of her young friend, who leant over towards her quite overcome. The wounded man, exhausted by emotion, had just fainted away again; and the doctor not having arrived, two men went all over the neighborhood for him. The doorkeeper belonging to the house had gone off in his turn to look for him.

“Pray, don’t be anxious,” repeated Denise, mechanically, herself also sobbing.

Then Madame Robineau, seated on the floor, with her head against the stretcher, her cheek placed on the mattress where her husband was lying, relieved her heart. “Oh! I must tell you. It’s all for me he wanted to die. He’s always saying, “I’ve robbed you; it was not my money.” And at night he dreams of this money, waking up covered with perspiration, calling himself an incapable fellow, saying that those who have no head for business ought not to risk other people’s money. You know he has always been nervous, his brain tormented. He finished by conjuring up things that frightened me. He saw me in the street in tatters, begging, his darling wife, whom he loved so tenderly, whom he longed to see rich and happy.” But on turning round, she noticed he had opened his eyes; and she continued in a trembling voice: “My darling, why have you done this? You must think me very wicked! I assure you, I don’t care if we are ruined. So long as we are together, we shall never be unhappy. Let them take everything, and we will go away somewhere, where you won’t hear any more about them. You can still work; you’ll see how happy we shall be!”

She placed her forehead near her husband’s pale face, and both were silent, in the emotion of their anguish. There was a pause. The shop seemed to be sleeping, benumbed by the pale night which enveloped it; whilst behind the thin shutters could be heard the noises of the street, the life of the busy city, the rumble of the vehicles, and the hustling and pushing of the passing crowd. At last Denise, who went every minute to glance through the hall door, came back, exclaiming: “Here’s the doctor!”

He was a young fellow, with bright eyes, whom the doorkeeper had found and brought in. He preferred to examine the poor man before they put him to bed. Only one of his legs, the left one, was broken above the ankle; it was a simple fracture, no serious complication appeared likely to result from it. And they were about to carry the stretcher into the back-room when Gaujean arrived. He came to give them an account of a last attempt to settle matters, an attempt which had failed; the declaration of bankruptcy was definite.

“Dear me,” murmured he, “what’s the matter?”

In a few words, Denise informed him. Then he stopped, feeling rather awkward, while Robineau said, in a feeble voice: “I don’t bear you any ill-will, but all this is partly your fault.”

“Well, my dear fellow,” replied Gaujean, “it wanted stronger men than us. You know I’m not in a much better state than you.”

They raised the stretcher; Robineau still found strength to say: “No, no, stronger fellows than us would have given way as we have. I can understand such obstinate old men as Bourras and Baudu standing out, but you and I, who are young, who had accepted the new style of things! No, Gaujean, it’s the last of a world.”

They carried him off. Madame Robineau embraced Denise with an eagerness in which there was almost a feeling of joy, to have at last got rid of all those worrying business matters. And, as Gaujean went away with the young girl, he confessed to her that this poor devil of a Robineau was right. It was idiotic to try and struggle against The Ladies’ Paradise. He personally felt himself lost, if he did not give in. Last night, in fact, he had secretly made a proposal to Hutin, who was just leaving for Lyons. But he felt very doubtful, and tried to interest Denise in the matter, aware, no doubt, of her powerfulness.

“My word,” said he, “so much the worse for the manufacturers! Everyone would laugh at me if I ruined myself in fighting for other people’s benefit, when these fellows are struggling who shall make at the cheapest price! As you said some time ago, the manufacturers have only to follow the march of progress by a better organization and new methods. Everything will come all right; it suffices that the public are satisfied.”

Denise smiled and replied: “Go and say that to Monsieur Mouret himself. Your visit will please him, and he’s not the man to display any rancor, if you offer him even a centime profit per yard.”

Madame Baudu died in January, on a bright sunny afternoon. For some weeks she had been unable to go down into the shop that a charwoman now looked after. She was in bed, propped up by the pillows. Nothing but her eyes seemed to be living in her white face, and, her head erect, she kept them obstinately fixed on The Ladies’ Paradise opposite, through the small curtains of the windows. Baudu, himself suffering from this obsession, from the despairing fixity of her gaze, sometimes wanted to draw the large curtains to. But she stopped him with an imploring gesture, obstinately desirous of seeing the monster shop till the last moment. It had now robbed her of everything, her business, her daughter; she herself had gradually died away with The Old Elbeuf, losing a part of her life as the shop lost its customers; the day it succumbed, she had no more breath left. When she felt she was dying, she still found the strength to insist on her husband opening the two windows. It was very mild, a bright ray of sun gilded The Ladies’ Paradise, whilst the bedroom of their old house shivered in the shade. Madame Baudu lay with her fixed gaze, absorbed by the vision of the triumphal monument, the clear, limpid windows, behind which a gallop of millions was passing. Slowly her eyes grew dim, invaded by darkness; and when they at last sunk in death, they remained wide open, still looking, drowned in tears.

Once more the ruined traders of the district followed the funeral procession. There were the brothers Vanpouille, pale at the thought of their December bills, paid by a supreme effort which they would never be able to repeat. Bédoré, with his sister, leant on his cane, so full of worry and anxiety that his liver complaint was getting worse every day. Deslignières had had a fit, Piot and Rivoire walked on in silence, with downcast looks, like men entirely played out. They dared not question each other about those who had disappeared, Quinette, Mademoiselle Tatin, and others, who were sinking, ruined, swept away by this disastrous flood; without counting Robineau, still in bed, with his broken leg. But they pointed with an especial air of interest to the new tradesmen attacked by the plague; the perfumer Grognet, the milliner Madame Chadeuil, Lacassagne, the flower maker, and Naud, the bootmaker, still standing firm, but seized by the anxiety of the evil, which would doubtless sweep them away in their turn. Baudu walked along behind the hearse with the same heavy, stolid step as when he had followed his daughter; whilst at the back of a mourning coach could be seen Bourras’s sparkling eyes under his bushy eyebrows, and his hair of a snowy white.

Denise was in great trouble. For the last fifteen days she had been worn out with fatigue and anxiety; she had been obliged to put Pépé to school, and had been running about for Jean, who was so stricken with the pastrycook’s niece, that he had implored his sister to go and ask her hand in marriage. Then her aunt’s death, these repeated catastrophes had quite overwhelmed the young girl. Mouret again offered his services, giving her leave to do what she liked for her uncle and the others. One morning she had an interview with him, at the news that Bourras was turned into the street, and that Baudu was going to shut up shop. Then she went out after breakfast in the hope of comforting these two, at least.