Complete Works of Emile Zola (1639 page)

Poor Delaveau never suspected that she who was destroying his hopes and poisoning his life was living day by day beside him, was his adored Fernande, his beautiful wife, who was lying asleep so near him; and that while in thick smoke and in the noise and heat of the workshops and the furnaces in the Pit he was doing his best to wring money out of the toil of the workmen, she was loitering in fresh toilettes under the shady trees of Guerdache, scattering money to the four winds to gratify her fancies, and with her little white teeth was cracking and swallowing, as she might have done sugar-plums, hundreds of thousands of francs, which a thousand workmen were making for her amid the reverberations of the great steam-hammers; and that on that very night, while, with his eyes wide open in the darkness, he was torturing himself by thinking how he could obtain and pay the sums he owed, the cause of his trouble was sleeping at his side. He could feel her as she lay dreaming over the pleasures of the past day, which had exhausted her. Then his thoughts reverted to his industrial battle. Fernande, he thought, was a mere irresponsible child, whose whims he ought to humor. She was his idol, the object of his worship. So at last he fell asleep and dreamed that under the Pit there were inimical and diabolical forces eating into the very soil, so that all the works would in the end cave in and be engulfed some night when there should come a frightful storm and hurricane.

During the following day Fernande thought much of the fears that her husband had expressed to her. Making all allowance for what she believed to be his love of hoarding money and his hatred of luxurious enjoyments, she shivered with apprehension when she thought that there was any possibility of coming disaster. If Boisgelin were rained, what would become of her? It would not only put an end to her present delicious life — a life such as she had always wished for, in contrast to the poverty she had suffered in her early days, when she wore shoes down at heel and worked for hard masters — but it meant a return to Paris, conquered by fate, living in a cheap apartment in some obscure part of the city, on the pay of some small employment for Delaveau, which might enable him to exist, while she would fall back into the economy, the meanness of a working-man’s housekeeping. No — no! she would never consent! She would not let her golden prey be snatched from her, but would hold on to her triumph with all her might, with all the hungry strength of her exacting nature. In her, under all her delicate beauty, there was the ferocity of a she-wolf, with its fierce instincts for blood. She was resolved to give up nothing, to enjoy her pleasures to the very end. No one should take them from her or compromise her in any way. Those filthy black works, which held the mighty hammers she heard going day and night to forge pleasure for her, she despised as places in which were concealed disgraceful things connected with her life. As for the workmen who were burning their skins in the flames of this
inferno
that she might lead a life of fresh and happy indolence, she looked upon them somewhat as domestic animals that were feeding her, or saving her from fatigue. Never had she set her dainty feet on the rough floor of the halls; never had she taken the smallest interest in the human herd that daily passed her door, ground down by accursed labor. But this herd belonged to her; those works were hers, and the idea that her source of fortune could be dried up by the ruin of the works revolted her and put her in an attitude of war, as if an attack had been made upon her own person. And that was why she considered any one who did injury to the Pit as her personal enemy, a dangerous evil-doer whom she would try by every means imaginable to get rid of. Thus her hatred of Luc had gone on increasing ever since the first time they met at that breakfast at Guerdache, when, with her woman’s instinct, she had discerned in him the man who would stand in her way. She had always been opposed to him; and now he was threatening to destroy the Pit and to fling her back into her old disgusting condition of mediocrity. If she let him go on she foresaw the end of her own happiness, for he would rob her of all she loved in life. And as graceful and as delicate as she appeared, she burned with the fury of a murderess, thought only of how she might get rid of him, and planned catastrophes by which she might crush him.

It was now eight months since Josine, in a last night of tender love, had come to Luc’s house to say farewell to him after his terrible walk along the Rue de Brias. The result of their interviews was Josine’s pregnancy. She had been five months with child, and Ragu did not discover it until one night, when he was drunk and tried to beat her, then she defended herself in such a way that he began to comprehend her condition and what she apprehended.

He accused her in the vilest language.. He had his own reasons for believing that her child could not be his. Had he not said he would never suffer a string to be tied round his paw? Then whose could the babe be?

But Josine, as pale as death, with her soft and honest eyes fixed on his drunken face, would not answer him. She was astonished, indeed, to see him so excited, since every day for some time past he had threatened to turn her out into the streets, saying he should be glad to get rid of her, and any man might pick her up who wanted her. He himself had been running after other women, as he had done formerly, seducing any working-girl willing to listen to him, or women roving in the dirty alleys of Beauclair.

In vain in his rage he struck her, and screamed:

“It’s not mine! You won’t dare say that it’s mine!”

Finally, without removing her eyes from his, she answered:

“No! it is not yours! I’ll not tell you the father’s name. You have no right to know it, for you have told me twenty times that you had had me long enough, and that I had better look out for somebody else.”

He seemed as if he would kill her. He kicked her and struck her. She saved herself with great difficulty; but he was drunk, and often missed his aim.

He became a prey to frightful jealousy. The wife whom he had been threatening to turn out into the streets was now watched and kept as far as possible in seclusion. He went into paroxyms of rage if he saw her speaking to any other man. He ill-treated her; he tried to murder her, and ever in his fury he repeated the same words: “Tell me his name! Tell me his name! And then, I swear, I’ll do nothing more to you.”

But she would not give way. She bore his blows and insults, only saying, gently and truthfully:

“There is no need for you to know his name. It is no concern of yours.”

Ragu had never suspected Luc. Such an idea had not occurred to him. No one but Sœurette had ever seen Josine leaving Luc’s house after one of their interviews. He tried to find out who it could be among his comrades. But in vain he watched, questioned, and inquired. His ill success made him more and more angry.

Josine kept herself meantime in strict seclusion. She feared the consequences for Luc should their secret be discovered.

But chance revealed it to him. One day he came upon a group of women to whom La Toupe was relating that her brother’s wife was pregnant, and she accompanied this information with a flood of venomous, abominable assertions. Luc stood and listened, his heart beating against his ribs. He never caught sight of Josine now, except occasionally, when in search of Nanet she came up to La Crêcherie. She happened to come on that day. Some one told her that Monsieur Luc had overheard the accusations of her sister-in-law. She saw him troubled and excited, and longed to be able to tell him the truth. By a slight gesture she let him know the secret of his paternity. But that day they could not exchange a single word. Luc, greatly moved, went home happy and satisfied. Before long he heard of Ragu’s jealousy, of his violence, and of the strict watch he kept over his wife. But Josine was now his in virtue of the tie which would bind them to each other, and the day must come, he thought, when he could claim her.

Meantime he suffered terribly from knowing that Josine was insulted, ill-treated, and in constant peril. It was unbearable to think of leaving her in the brutal hands of such a monster as Ragu, when he would have liked to transplant her into a paradise of tender love, and honor her as his wife and the mother of his children.

But what could he do when she would not see or speak to him, because she feared to endanger his life, should suspicion fall on him?

One dark evening he hid himself in the shadow of a wall in a corner of the wretched street of old Beauclair called the Rue des Trois Lunes, and was finally able to stop Josine as she passed by.

“Oh, Luc!” she cried; “is that you? How rash, my friend! I beg of you to give me one kiss, and then leave quickly.”

But he seized her by the waist, and whispered, eagerly: “No — no, Josine. I want to tell you something. You are suffering too much, and it is wicked of me to leave you to such misery, you who are so dear and so precious to me. Hear me, Josine. I have come to take you home with me, and you must go. In my house you shall be considered as my wife, loved, honored, and happy.”

For a moment she let him clasp her, and then freed herself.

“Oh, Luc! what are you saying? Have you so little sense? Would you have me go with you? Great Heaven! when it would bring on you the greatest perils? It is I who would be criminal in that case. I would never consent to put any difficulty in the way of the work you are trying to accomplish. Leave quickly. They may kill me, but I will never tell your name!”

In vain he tried to convince her of the uselessness of such a sacrifice.

“Will you never come back to me? Will your child never be my child, openly acknowledged?”

Softly she answered: “I will come to you on the day when you have need of me; when I shall not impede your ‘work, or draw you into danger. Then our child will give us new strength.”

And as they parted she comforted him by saying: “Ah, Luc! don’t pity me too much; I am very strong, and I am very happy.”

“You are my wife. I loved you from the day that I first saw you, so poor, so lovely. And if you will not tell my name, I will never tell yours. I will keep it as an object of secret worship until the day when we may proclaim our love.”

“Oh, Luc! how good you are, how wise you are, and how happy we shall be when that time comes!”

“It is you, Josine, who are wise and good. And it is as the result of my having helped you that evening that we shall be happy together some day, and make others happy, too!”

Then they parted. She went back proudly to her daily martyrdom, while he walked away into the darkness, to resume his fight and win his victory.

But a few weeks later an accident put Josine’s secret into Fernande’s hands. Fernande knew Ragu, whose return to the Pit had made some stir, and, after he came back, Delaveau affected to think much of him, and to push him forward, and had promised him that he should be a master-puddler, and sometimes gave him extra money, though his conduct was abominable. Fernande knew what was going on in Ragu’s household, for he had no idea of concealment, but poured out filthy accusations against his wife to every one. And all the workmen in the shops were asking one another who was the fellow who would be the father of the expected child? The question was even discussed in the office of the manager, and Delaveau had said before Fernande that such talk was a great annoyance to him, and that Ragu was so incensed about the thing, and so mad with jealousy, that he would work like a maniac when he did work, but sometimes would not work at all for several days, now rushing furiously at his work and rabbling the metal in fusion like a madman who feels an impulse to strike and kill, while at other times he refused to touch a tool.

One winter morning at an early breakfast, when Delaveau had gone for three days to Paris, Fernande began questioning her maid, who had brought her some tea and toast. Nise was present, sitting quietly, like a good little girl, drinking her cup of milk, but casting eyes of longing at her mother’s tea, tea being a luxury forbidden her.

“Is it true, Félicie, that there is more trouble between Ragu and his wife? My washerwoman tells me that Ragu has half killed her this time.”

“I don’t know, madame, but that report may be exaggerated, for I saw Josine pass the house just now, and she did not look more cast down than she does usually.”

A silence ensued, and then the maid, as she left the room, added:

“That is not to say that he will not kill her sure, some day, for he tells everybody that’s what he means to do.” Again there was silence. Fernande went on eating slowly, without saying a word, in a dark reverie, when Nise, in the midst of the oppressive quiet of a winter morning, began thinking aloud and humming to herself: “Josine’s real husband is not Ragu; ‘tis the head of La Crêcherie — Monsieur Luc, Monsieur Luc, Monsieur Luc, Monsieur Luc!”

Her mother raised her eyes in amazement, and looked at her fixedly, and said:

“Who told you so? Why do you say that?”

But disconcerted at having sung these words without intending it, Nise stuck her nose into her cup of milk, and tried to look innocent.

“Oh! I did not mean anything. I don’t know why.”

“Do you mean to tell me, you little story-teller, that you don’t know who told you? What you were singing could not have come out of your own head; somebody must have told you.”

Nise, more and more troubled, seeing herself falling into a bad scrape, which might bring her into difficulties, persisted in saying, in the quietest way possible, in spite of evidence:

“I assure you, mamma, that one often sings of things without knowing why, just because they come into one’s head.”

As Fernande looked at her steadily, surprised to see her so expert in falsehood, a sudden idea struck her.

“Nanet told you what you were singing; it must have been Nanet.”

Nise cast her eyes down; it was Nanet. But she was afraid of being scolded and even punished as she had been on the day when her mother had caught her with Paul Boisgelin and Louise Mazelle coming back from La Crêcherie through the wall. She tried to tell another falsehood.

“Oh! not Nanet! You know I never see Nanet any more since you forbade me.”