Complete Works of Emile Zola (681 page)

“You run away from me,” said he. “Are you then angry with me?”

“Angry?” repeated she, “why should I be angry? Ah! they may quarrel and eat each other up if they like, it doesn’t matter to me!”

She was speaking of her relations. And she at once gave vent to her old rancour against Berthe, making at first simply allusions so as to sound the young man; then, when she felt he was secretly weary of his mistress, being still exasperated with the night’s proceedings, she no longer restrained herself, but poured out her heart. To think that that woman had accused her of selling herself — she, who never accepted a sou, not even a present! Yes, though, a few flowers at times, some bunches of violets. And now everybody knew which of the two was the one to sell herself. She had prophesied that one day it would be known how much she could be bought for.

“It cost you more than a bunch of violets, did it not?” asked she.

“Yes, yes,” murmured he basely.

In his turn he let out some disagreeable things about Berthe, saying that she was spiteful, and even making her out to be too fat, as though seeking to avenge himself for the worry she was causing him. He had been waiting all day for her husband’s seconds, and he was then returning home to see if any one had called. It was a most stupid adventure; she might very well have prevented this duel taking place. He ended by relating all that had occurred at their ridiculous meeting — their quarrel, then Auguste’s arrival on the scene, before they had even exchanged a caress.

“On all I hold most sacred,” said he, “I had not even touched her.”

Valérie laughed, and was getting quite excited. She gradually yielded to the tender intimacy of this exchange of confidences, drawing nearer to Octave as though to some female friend who knew all. At times, a devotee coming from the church disturbed them; then the door gently closed to again, and they once more found themselves alone in the drum, hung with green baize, as though in the innermost recesses of some discreet and religious asylum.

“I scarcely know why I live with such people,” resumed she, returning to the subject of her relations. “Oh! no doubt, I am not free from reproach on my side. But, frankly, I cannot feel any remorse, they affect me so little. And
yet if I were to tell you how much love bores me!”

“Come now, not so much as all that!” said Octave gaily.

“People are not always as silly as we were yesterday. There are blissful moments.”

Then she confessed herself. It was not entirely the hatred she felt for her husband, the continual fever which shook his frame, his impotence, nor yet his perpetual blubbering like a little boy, which had caused her to misbehave herself six months after her marriage; no, she often did it involuntarily, solely because her head got filled with things of which she was unable to explain the why and the wherefore. Everything gave way; she became quite ill, and could almost kill herself. Then, as there was nothing to restrain her, she might as well take that leap as another.

“But really now, do you never have a nice time of it?” again asked Octave.

“Well, never like people describe,” replied she.

He looked at her full of a pitying sympathy. All for nothing, and without the least pleasure. It was certainly not worth the trouble she gave herself, in her continual fear of being caught. And he especially felt a certain relief to his pride, for he had always suffered a little at heart from her old disdain. He recalled the circumstance to her.

“You remember, after one of your attacks?”

“Oh! yes, I remember. Still, I did not dislike you;
but listen! it is far better as it is, we should be detesting each other now.”

She gave him her little gloved hand. He squeezed it, as he repeated:

“You are right, it is better as it is. Really, one only cares for the women one has had nothing to do with.”

It was quite a blissful moment. They stood for a while hand in hand, deeply affected. Then, without another word, they pushed open the padded door of the church, inside which she had left her son Camille in care of the woman who let out the chairs. The child had fallen asleep. She mads him kneel down, and did the same herself for a minute, burying her face in her hands, as though in the midst of a fervent prayer. And she was rising to her feet when Abbé Mauduit, who was coming from a confessional, greeted her with a paternal smile.

Octave had simply passed through the church. When he returned home every one was on the alert. Trublot alone, who was dreaming in the cab, did not see him. Tradespeople standing at their doors looked at him gravely. The stationer opposite was still surveying the front of the house, as though to search the very stones; but the charcoal-dealer and the greengrocer had already become calmer, and the neighbourhood was relapsing into its chilly dignity. In the doorway as Octave passed, Lisa, who was gossiping with Adèle, had to content herself with merely staring at him; and both resumed their complaints of the dear price of poultry beneath the stern look of Monsieur Gourd, who bowed to the young man. As the latter was going up to his room Madame Juzeur, who had been on the watch ever since the morning, slightly opened her door, and, seizing hold of his hands, drew him into her anteroom, where she kissed him on the forehead and murmured:

“Poor child! There, I won’t keep you. Come back and talk to me when it’s all over.”

And he had scarcely reached his own apartment when Duveyrier and Bachelard called. At first, amazed at seeing the uncle, he wished to give them the names of two of his friends. But these gentlemen, without answering, spoke of their age, and preached him a sermon on his misconduct. Then, as in the course of conversation he announced his intention of leaving the house at the earliest possible moment, they both solemnly declared that that proof of his discretion was quite sufficient. There had been more than enough scandal, the time had come when respectable people had the right to expect them to make the sacrifice of their passions. Duveyrier accepted Octave’s notice to quit on the spot and withdrew, whilst behind his back Bachelard invited the young man to dine with him that evening.

“Mind, I count upon you. We’re on the spree, Trublot is waiting below. I don’t care a button for Eléonore. But I don’t wish to see her, and I’ll go down first, so that no one shall meet us together.”

He took his departure, and, five minutes later, Octave, delighted with the issue of affairs, joined him below. He slipped into the cab, and the melancholy horse, which had been dragging the husband about for seven hours, limped along with them to a restaurant near the Halles, where some marvellous tripe was to be obtained.

Duveyrier had gone back to Théophile in the warehouse. Valérie also had just come in, and all three were talking together when Clotilde herself returned from a concert. She had gone there, moreover, with a mind perfectly at ease, certain, said she, that some arrangement satisfactory to every one would be arrived at. Then ensued a pause, a momentary embarrassment between the two families. Théophile, seized with an abominable fit of coughing, was almost spitting his teeth out. As it was to their mutual interest to be reconciled, they ended by taking advantage of the emotion into which the new family troubles had plunged them. The two women embraced, Duveyrier swore to Théophile that the Vabre inheritance was ruining him, yet he promised to indemnify him by remitting his rent for three years.

“I must go and tranquillise poor Auguste,” at length observed the counsellor.

He was ascending the stairs when some terrible cries, resembling those of an animal being butchered, issued from the bedroom. It was Saturnin who, armed with his kitchen knife, had noiselessly crept as far as the alcove; and there, his eyes as red as flaming coals, his mouth covered with foam, he had rushed upon Auguste.

“Tell me, where have you put her?” cried he. “Give her back to me or I’ll bleed you like a pig!”

The husband, suddenly roused from his painful slumber, tried to fly. But the madman, with the strength of his fixed idea, had caught him by the tail of his shirt, and, pushing him back on the mattress, placing his neck on the edge of the bed, over a basin which happened to be there, he held him in the position of an animal at the slaughter-house.

“Ah! it’s all right this time. I’m going to bleed you — I’m going to bleed you like a pig!”

Fortunately, the others arrived and were able to release the victim. But Saturnin, who was raving mad, had to be shut up;
and, two hours later, the commissary of police having been sent for, he was taken for the second time to the Asile des Moulineaux, with the consent of the family. Poor Auguste lay trembling. He said to Duveyrier, who informed him of the arrangement that had been come to with Octave:

“No, I should have preferred to have fought the duel. One cannot defend oneself against a madman. Why has he such a mania for wishing to bleed me, the brigand? because his sister has made a cuckold of me! Ah! I’ve had enough of it, my friend, I’ve had enough of it, on my word of honour!”

CHAPTER XVI

On the Wednesday morning, when Marie brought Berthe to Madame Josserand, the latter, bursting with anger at the thought of an adventure which she felt was a sad blow to her pride, became quite pale and unable to utter a word.

She caught hold of her daughter’s hand with the roughness of a teacher dragging a refractory scholar to the black-hole, and, leading her to Hortense’s room, she pushed her inside, saying at length:

“Hide yourself, never show yourself again. You will kill your father if you do.”

Hortense, who was washing, remained lost in wonder. Red with shame, Berthe threw herself on the tumbled bed, and burst into sobs. She had expected an immediate and violent explanation. She had prepared a whole line of defence, determined to shout also directly her mother went too far; and this silent harshness, this way of treating her like a little girl who has eaten a pot of jam, left her without strength, bringing her back to the terrors of her childhood, to the tears she used to shed in corners, with great promises of future obedience.

“What’s up? What ever have you done?” asked her sister, whose astonishment increased on seeing her wrapped in an old shawl which Marie had lent her. “Has poor Auguste fallen ill at Lyons?”

But Berthe would not answer. No, later on; there were things she could not speak about; and she beseeched Hortense to go away, to let her have the room to herself, so that she could at least weep there in peace. The day passed thus. Monsieur Josserand had gone off to his office, without having the faintest idea of what had occurred; then, when he returned home in the evening, Berthe still remained in hiding. As she had refused all food, she ended by ravenously devouring the little dinner which Adèle brought to her in secret. The maid remained watching her, and, in presence of her appetite, said:

“Don’t worry yourself so much, pick up your strength. The house is quite quiet. And as for any one being killed or wounded, there’s nobody hurt at all.”

“Ah!” said the young woman.

She questioned Adèle, who gave her a long account of how the day had passed, the duel which had not come off, what Monsieur Auguste had said, and what the Duveyriers and the Vabres had done. She listened to her, and seemed to live again, gobbling everything up, and asking for more bread. In all truth it was foolish of her to take the matter so much to heart when the others seemed to be already consoled!

So, on Hortense coming to join her towards ten o’clock, she greeted her gaily, and with dry eyes. And, smothering their laughter, they amused themselves when she tried on one of her sister’s dressing-gowns which was too tight for her; her bosom, which marriage had developed, almost burst the material. All the same, she would be able to get it on tomorrow by altering the buttons. Both fancied themselves back again in the days of their youth, all alone in this room where they had spent years side by side. This touched them and brought them nearer to one another in an affection which they had not felt for many a long day. They had to sleep together, for Madame Josserand had got rid of the little bed which used to be Berthe’s. When they were stretched side by side, with the candle blown out, and their eyes wide open in the darkness, they talked for a long while, unable to get to sleep.

“So you won’t tell me?” asked Hortense again.

“But, my darling,” answered Berthe, “you’re not married. I really can’t. It’s a quarrel I’ve had with Auguste. He came back, you know — “

And as she interrupted herself, her sister resumed impatiently,

“Get along with you! What a fuss! Good heavens! at my age, I’m quite old enough to know!”

Then Berthe confessed herself, at first choosing her words, then letting out everything, talking of Octave and talking of Auguste. Hortense listened as she lay on her back in the dark, and merely uttered a few words to question her sister or to give an opinion: “What did he say to you then? And you, how did you feel?
Well, that’s funny, I shouldn’t like that! Ah! really, so that’s the way!” Midnight, one o’clock, then two struck; still they went on with the story, their limbs little by little irritated by the sheets, and themselves gradually becoming drowsy. In this semi-hallucination Berthe forgot her sister, and began to think aloud, relieving alike her body and her mind of the most delicate confidences.

“Oh! as for me, with Verdier, it will be very simple,” declared Hortense, abruptly. “I shall do just as he wishes.”

At the mention of Verdier’s name Berthe made a movement of surprise. She thought the marriage was broken off, for the woman with whom he had been living for fifteen years past had just had a child, at the very moment that he intended leaving her.

“Do you then expect to marry him all the same?”
asked she.

“Well! and why not? I was stupid enough to wait too long. But the child will die. It’s a girl, and all scrofulous.”

And, spitting out the word “mistress,” with a feeling of disgust, she displayed all the hatred of a virtuous middle-class woman of a marriageable age against the creature who had been so long living with a man. It was all a manœuvre, her brat, and nothing more! Yes, a pretext she had invented, when she saw that Verdier, after buying her some chemises so as not to send her away naked, wished to habituate her to an approaching separation, by sleeping out more and more frequently. In short, one would wait and see.