Complete Works of Emile Zola (799 page)

Just then Madame Bouland herself descended the stairs to say that matters were becoming much worse. ‘Have you decided?’ she inquired. ‘The lady is sinking.’

Thereupon, with one of those sudden impulses which disconcerted people, Cazenove threw his arms about Lazare, kissed him, and exclaimed: ‘Listen, I will try to save them both.... And if they succumb — well, I shall be yet more grieved than yourself, for I shall take it to be my own fault.’

Excepting Chanteau, who in his turn embraced his son, they all went upstairs together. Cazenove desired it. Louise was fully conscious, but very low. She offered no objection to a doctor now; her sufferings were too great. When he began to speak to her she simply answered: ‘Kill me; kill me at once.’

There came a cruel and affecting scene. It was one of those dread hours when life and death wrestle together, when human science and skill battle to overcome and correct the errors of Nature. More than once did the Doctor pause, fearing a fatal issue. The patient’s agony was terrible, but at last science triumphed, and a child was born. It was a boy.

Lazare, who had turned his face to the wall, was sobbing, and burst out into tears. He had been a prey to the keenest mental torture during the progress of the operations, and he thought despairingly that it would be preferable for them all to die rather than to continue living if such intense agony was to be mingled with life.

But Pauline bent over Louise and kissed her on the fore­head.

‘Come and kiss her!’ she said to her cousin.

He came and stooped down over his wife; but he shud­dered when his lips touched her brow, which was moist with icy perspiration. Louise lay there with her eyes closed, and seemed to be no longer breathing. Lazare leaned against the wall at the foot of the bed, trying to stifle his sobs.

‘I am afraid the child is dead,’ said the Doctor.

The baby, indeed, had given utterance to none of the usual shrill calls. It was a very small infant of a deathly hue.

‘We might try the effect of friction and inflation,’ the Doctor continued; ‘but I’m afraid it would only be time wasted. And the mother stands in need of all my attention.’

Pauline heard him.

‘Give me the child!’ she exclaimed. ‘I will try what I can do. If I don’t manage to make it breathe, it will be that I have no more breath left myself.’ Thereupon she carried the infant into the next room, the room which had once been Madame Chanteau’s, taking with her a bottle of brandy and some flannel. She laid the poor wee creature in an arm-chair before a blazing fire; and then, having steeped a piece of flannel in a saucer of brandy, she knelt down and rubbed it without a pause, quite regardless of the cramp that gradually stiffened her arm. It was so small a child, and looked so wretched and fragile, that she feared lest she might kill it by rubbing it too hard. And so she passed the flannel back­wards and forwards with a gentle, almost caressing motion, like the constant brushing of a bird’s wing. Then she turned the child over, and tried to recall each of its tiny limbs to life. But it still lay there motionless. Though the friction seemed to impart a little warmth, the infant’s chest remained shrunken, uninflated, and it even seemed to grow darker in colour.

Then, without evincing any repugnance, Pauline pressed her mouth to its tiny, rigid lips, and drawing long, slow breaths she strove to adapt the force of her lungs to the capacity of those little compressed organs into which the air had been unable to make its way. She was obliged to stop every now and then, when her breath grew exhausted; but, after inhaling a fresh supply, she turned to her task again. Her blood mounted to her head, and her ears began to buzz; she even became a little giddy. Nevertheless she still perse­vered, striving to inflate the baby’s lungs for more than half an hour, without being encouraged by the least result. She vainly tried to make the ribs play by pressing them very gently with her fingers. But nothing seemed to do the least good, and anyone else would have abandoned in despair this apparently impossible resurrection. Pauline, however, brought maternal perseverance to her task, the obstinate insistence of a mother who is determined that her child shall live, and at last she felt that the poor wee body was stirring, that its tiny lips moved slightly beneath her own.

For nearly an hour she had remained alone in that room, absorbed in the anguish of that struggle with death, and forgetful of all else. That faint sign of life, that transitory tremor of the little lips, filled her with fresh courage. She had recourse to friction again, and every other minute she resumed her attempt at inflation, employing the two processes alternately without any regard for her own exhaustion. She felt a growing craving to conquer and pro­duce life. For a moment she feared she had been mistaken, for it again seemed that her lips were only pressing lifeless ones. But she became conscious of another rapid con­traction. Little by little the air was forcing its way into the child’s lungs; she could feel it being sucked from her and returned, and she even fancied she could detect the little heart beginning to beat. Her mouth never left the tiny lips; she shared her life with that little creature; they had only one breath between them in that wonderful resurrection, a slow, continuous exchange of breath going from one to the other as if they had a common soul. Pauline’s lips were soiled, for the child had scarcely been cleansed, but her joy at having saved it prevented any feeling of disgust. She began to inhale a warm pungency of life, which intoxi­cated her; and when, at last, the baby broke out into a feeble, plaintive wail, she fell back from the chair on to the floor, stirred to the depths of her being.

The big fire was blazing brightly, filling the room with cheerful light. Pauline remained on the floor in front of the baby, whom she had not yet examined. What a poor, frail mite it was! All her own robust vigour rose up in rebellious protest as she thought what a wretched puny son Louise had given to Lazare. She felt keen regret for her own wasted life. She herself would never be a mother! She was young and strong, and healthy and beautiful, but of what avail was all that? The fulness of life was not for her. And she wept for the child that she would never have.

Meantime the poor, frail little creature that she had revived to existence was still wailing and writhing on the chair, and Pauline began to fear that it might fall upon the floor. Her pity was aroused at the sight of such uncomeliness and weakness. She would at least do what she could for it; she would help it to continue living, as she had had the happiness of helping it into life. So she took it upon her knees and did what she could for it, while still shedding tears, in which were mingled sorrow for her own lonesome fate and pity for the misery of all living creatures.

Madame Bouland, whom she called, came to help her to wash the baby. They wrapped it in warm flannels and then laid it in the bed, till the cradle should be prepared for it. Madame Bouland was astonished to find it alive, and examined it carefully. It seemed well formed, she said, but its frailty would make it difficult to rear. Then she hurried off again to Louise, who still remained in a very critical condition.

As Pauline was again taking up her position at the baby’s side Lazare, who had been informed of the miracle his cousin had accomplished, entered the room.

‘Come and look at him!’ said Pauline, with much emotion. But as he drew near he began to tremble, and exclaimed:

‘What! you have laid him in that bed!’

He had shuddered as he entered. That room, so long unused, so full of mournful associations and so rarely entered, was now warm and bright, enlivened by the crackling of the fire. Each article of furniture was still in its accustomed position, and the clock still marked twenty-three minutes to eight. No one had occupied that chamber, now prepared for Madame Bouland, since his mother had died there. And it was in that very bed where she had passed away — in that sacred, awful bed — that he saw his own son restored to life, looking so tiny as he lay among the spreading coverings.

‘Does it displease you?’ Pauline asked in surprise.

He shook his head. He could not speak for emotion. At last he stammered:

‘I was thinking of mamma. She has gone, and now here is another who will go away as she went. Why, then, did he come?’

His words were cut short by a burst of sobbing. His terror and his disgust of life broke out in spite of all the efforts he had made to restrain himself since Louise’s terrible delivery. When he had touched his baby’s brow with his lips, he hastily stepped back, for he had fancied that he could feel the infant’s skull giving way beneath his touch. He was filled with remorseful despondency at the sight of the poor, frail little thing.

‘Don’t distress yourself!’ said Pauline, by way of cheering him. ‘We’ll make a fine young fellow of him. It doesn’t at all matter that he is small now.’

He looked at her, and, utterly upset as he was, a full confession escaped from his heart:

‘It is again to you that we owe his life! Am I des­tined, then, to be always under obligations to you?’

‘To me!’ she exclaimed. ‘I have done nothing more than Madame Bouland would have done if I hadn’t happened to be here.’

He silenced her with a wave of his hand.

‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘that I am so base that I cannot understand that I owe everything to you? Ever since you first came into this house you have never ceased to sacrifice yourself. I will say nothing now about your money, but you still loved me yourself when you gave me to Louise. I know it now quite well. Ah! if you only knew the shame I feel when I look at you and recollect! You would have given your very life-blood, you were always kind and cheerful, even at the very time when I was crushing down your heart. Ah, yes! you were right; cheerfulness and kindliness are everything; all else is mere delusion!’

She tried to interrupt him, but he continued in a louder voice:

‘What a fool I made of myself with all my disbelief and boasting, and all the pessimism which I paraded out of vanity and fear! It was I who spoilt our lives — yours and my own, and those of the whole family. Yes! you were the only sensible one amongst us! Life becomes so easy when everyone in a family is cheerful and affectionate, and each lives for the others. If the world is to die of misery, at any rate let it die cheerfully, and in sympathy with itself!’

Pauline smiled at the violence of his language, and caught hold of his hands.

‘Come! come!’ she said, ‘don’t excite yourself! Now that you see I was right, you are cured, and all will go well.’

‘Ah! I don’t know that! I am talking like this just now, because there are times when the truth will force itself out, even in spite of one’s self. But to-morrow I shall slip back into all my old torment. One can’t change one’s nature! No, no! Things will go no better. On the contrary, they will gradually get worse and worse. You know that as well as I do. It is my own stupidity that enrages me.’

She drew him gently towards her, and said to him in her grave way:

‘You are neither foolish nor base; you are unfortunate. Kiss me, Lazare.’

They exchanged a kiss before that poor little babe, who seemed to be asleep. It was the kiss of brother and sister, untainted by the slightest breath of the passion which had glowed within them only the day before.

The dawn was breaking, a soft grey dawn. Cazenove came to look at the baby, and was astonished to find it doing so well. He determined to take it back into the other room, for he felt that he could now answer for Louise. When the little creature was brought to its mother, she looked at it with a feeble smile, then closed her eyes and fell into deep and restorative slumber. The window had been slightly opened, and a delicious freshness, like a very breath of life, streamed in from the sea. They all stood for a moment motionless, worn out, but very happy, beside the bed in which the young mother was sleeping. Then, with silent tread, they left the room, leaving Madame Bouland to watch over her.

The Doctor, however, did not go away till nearly eight o’clock. He was very hungry, and Lazare and Pauline them­selves were famished, so Véronique prepared some coffee and an omelet. Downstairs they found Chanteau, whom they had all forgotten, sleeping soundly in his chair. Nothing had been touched since the previous evening, and the room reeked with the acrid smoke of the lamp, which was still burning. Pauline jokingly remarked that the table, on which the plates and dishes had remained, was already laid for them. She swept up the crumbs and made the things a little tidier. Then, as the coffee took some little time to prepare, they attacked the cold veal, joking the while about the dinner that had been so unpleasantly interrupted. Now that all danger was over, they were as merry as children.

‘You will hardly believe it,’ Chanteau exclaimed, beam­ing, ‘but I slept without being asleep. I was very angry that nobody came down to give me any news, but I felt no uneasi­ness, for I dreamt that all was going on well.’

His delight increased when he saw Abbé Horteur enter the room. The priest had come across after saying Mass. Chanteau joked him merrily.

‘Ah! here you are at last! You deserted me in a nice way last night! Are you frightened of babies, then?’

The priest defended himself from this charge by telling them how he had one night delivered a poor woman on the high-road and baptized her child. Then he accepted a small glass of curaçoa.

Bright sunshine was gilding the yard when Dr. Cazenove at last took his departure. As Lazare and Pauline walked with him to the gate, he whispered to the latter:

‘You are not going away to-day?’

She remained for a moment silent, then raised her big dreamy eyes, and seemed to be looking far away into the future.

‘No!’ she answered; ‘I must wait.’

CHAPTER XI

After an abominable month of May, June set in with very warm weather. Westerly gales had been blowing for the last three weeks, storms had devastated the coast, swept away masses of the cliffs, swallowed up boats, and killed many people; but now the broad blue sky, the satiny sea, and the bright hot days were infinitely pleasant and enjoyable.