Complete Works of Emile Zola (755 page)

But what could be detaining the pair of them? Anxiety seized him again, as he looked out upon the dark sky, over which the west wind was driving huge masses of black clouds, like sooty rags whose tattered ends draggled far away into the sea. It was one of those March gales, when the equinoctial tides beat furiously upon the shores. The flux was only just setting in, and all that could be seen of it was a thin white bar of foam, far away towards the horizon. The wide expanse of bare beach, a league of rocks and gloomy seaweed, its level surface blotched here and there with dark pools, had a weirdly melancholy aspect as it lay stretched out beneath the quickly increasing darkness that fell from the black clouds scudding across the skies.

‘Perhaps the wind has overturned them into some ditch’ murmured Chanteau.

He felt constrained to go out and look. He opened the glass door, and ventured in his list-slippers on to the gravelled terrace which commanded a view of the village. A few drops of rain were dashed against his face by thehurricane, and a terrific gust made his thick blue woollen dressing-jacket flap and sap again. But he struggled on, bareheaded and bending down, and at last reached the parapet, over which he leaned while glancing at the road that ran beneath. This road descended between two steep cliffs, and looked almost as though it had been hewn out of the solid rock to afford a resting-place for the twenty or thirty hovels of which Bonneville consisted. Every tide threatened to hurl the houses from their narrow shingle-strewn anchorage and crush them against the rocky cliff. To the left there was a little landing-place, a mere strip of sand, whither amid rhythmic calls men hoisted up some half-score boats. The inhabitants did not number more than a couple of hundred souls. They made a bare living out of the sea, clinging to their native rocks with all the unreasoning persistence of limpets. And on the cliffs above their miserable roofs, which every winter were battered by the storms, there was nothing to be seen except the church, standing about half­way up on the right, and the Chanteaus’ house across the cleft on the other hand. Bonneville contained nothing more.

‘What dreadful weather it is!’ cried a voice.

Chanteau raised his head and recognised the priest, Abbé Horteur, a thick-set man of peasant-like build, whose red hair was still unsilvered by his fifty years. He used a plot of graveyard land in front of the church as a vegetable garden, and was now examining his early salad plants, tucking his cassock the while between his legs in order to prevent the wind from blowing it over his head. Chanteau, who could not make himself heard amidst the roaring of the gale, contented himself with waving his hand.

‘They are doing right in getting their boats up, I think,’ shouted the priest.

But just then a gust of wind caught hold of his cassock and wrapt it round his head, so he fled for refuge behind the church.

Chanteau turned round to escape the violence of the blast. With his eyes streaming with moisture he cast a glance at his garden, over which the spray was sweeping, and the brick-built two-storeyed house with five windows, whose shutters seemed in imminent danger of being torn away from their fastenings. When the sudden squall had subsided, he bent down again to look at the road; and just at that moment Véronique returned. She shook her hands at him.

‘What!
you have actually come out! — Be good enough to go into the house again at once, sir!’

She caught him up in the passage, and scolded him like a child detected in wrong-doing. Wouldn’t she have all the trouble of looking after him in the morning when he suffered agonies of pain from his indiscretion?

‘Have you seen nothing of them?’ he asked, submis­sively.

‘No, indeed, I have seen nothing — Madame is no doubt taking shelter somewhere.’

He dared not tell her that she should have gone further on. However, he was now beginning to feel especially anxious about his son.

‘I saw that all the neighbourhood was being blown into the air,’ continued the cook. ‘They are quite afraid of being done for this time. Last September the Ouches’ house was cracked from top to bottom, and Prouane, who was going up to the church to ring the
Angelus,
has just told me that he is sure it will topple over before morning.’

Just as she spoke a big lad of nineteen sprang up the three steps before the door. He had a spreading brow and sparkling eyes, and a fine chestnut down fringed his long oval face.

‘Ah! here’s Lazare at last!’ said Chanteau, feeling much relieved. ‘How wet you are, my poor boy!’

In the passage the young man hung his hooded cloak, which was quite saturated with sea-water.

‘Well?’ interrogated his father.

‘I can see nothing of them,’ replied Lazare. ‘I have been as far as Verchemont, and waited under the shed at the inn there, and kept my eyes on the road, which is a river of mud. But I could see no signs of them. Then, as I began to feel afraid that you might get uneasy about me, I came back.’

The previous August Lazare had left the College of Caen, after gaining his Bachelor’s degree; and for the last eight months he had been roaming about the cliffs, unable to make any choice of a profession, for he only felt enthusiastic about music, a predisposition which distressed his mother extremely. She had gone away very much displeased with him, as he had refused to accompany her to Paris, where she had thought she might be able to place him in some advantageous position.

‘Now that I have let you know I am all right,’ the young man resumed, ‘I should like to go on to Arromanches.’

‘No, no! it is getting late,’ said Chanteau. ‘We shall be having some news of your mother presently. I am expecting a message every moment. Listen! Isn’t that a carriage?’

Véronique had gone to open the door.

‘It is Doctor Cazenove’s gig,’ she said. ‘Shall I bring him in, sir? Why! good gracious! there’s madame in it!’

They all three hurried down the steps. A huge dog, a cross between a sheep-dog and a Newfoundland, who had been lying asleep in a corner of the passage, sprang forward and began to bark furiously. Upon hearing this barking, a small white cat of delicate aspect made its way to the door, but, at the sight of the wet and dirt outside, it gave a slight wriggle of disgust with its tail, and sat down very sedately on the top step to see what was going to happen.

A lady about fifty years of age sprang from the gig with all the agility of a young girl. She was short and slight, her hair was still perfectly black, and her face would have been quite pleasant but for the largeness of her nose. The dog sprang forward and placed his big paws on her shoulders, as though he wanted to kiss her; but this displeased her.

‘Down! down! Matthew. Get away, will you? Tiresome animal!’

Lazare ran across the yard behind the dog, calling as he went, ‘All right, mother?’

‘Yes, yes!’ replied Madame Chanteau.

‘We have been very anxious about you,’ said Chanteau, who had followed his son, in spite of the wind. ‘What has happened to make you so late?’

‘Oh! we’ve had nothing but troubles,’ she answered. ‘To begin with, the roads are so bad that it has taken us nearly two hours to come from Bayeux. Then, at Arromanches, one of Malivoire’s horses went lame and he couldn’t let us have another. At one time I really thought we should have to stay with him all night. But the Doctor was kind enough to offer us his gig, and Martin here has driven us home.’

The driver, an old man with a wooden leg, who had formerly served in the navy, and had there had his limb amputated by Cazenove, then a naval surgeon, had after­wards taken service under the Doctor. He was tethering the horse when Madame Chanteau suddenly checked her flow of speech and called to him:

‘Martin! help the little girl to get down!’

No one had yet given a thought to the child. The hood of the gig fell very low, and only her black skirt and little black-gloved hands could be seen. She did not wait, how­ever, for the coachman’s assistance, but sprang lightly to the ground. Just then there came a fierce puff of wind, which whirled her clothes about her and sent the curls of her dark brown hair flying from under her crape-trimmed hat. She did not seem very strong for her ten years. Her lips were thick; and her face, if full, showed the pallor of the girls who are brought up in the back shops of Paris. The others stared at her. Véronique, who had just bustled up to welcome her mistress, checked herself, her face assuming an icy and jealous expression. But Matthew showed none of this reserve. He sprang up between the child’s arms and licked her with his tongue.

‘Don’t be afraid of him!’ cried Madame Chanteau. ‘He won’t hurt you.’

‘Oh! I’m not at all afraid of him,’ said Pauline quietly; ‘I am very fond of dogs.’

Indeed, Matthew’s boisterous welcome did not seem to disturb her in the slightest degree. Her grave little face broke out into a smile beneath her black hat, and she affectionately kissed the dog on his snout.

‘Aren’t you going to kiss your relations too?’ exclaimed Madame Chanteau. ‘See, this is your uncle, since you call me your aunt; and this is your cousin, a great strapping scapegrace, who isn’t half as well behaved as you are.’

The child manifested no awkward shyness. She kissed everyone, and even found a word or two for each, with all the grace of a young Parisienne already schooled in politeness.

‘I am very much obliged to you, uncle, for taking me to live with you — You will see that we shall get on very well together, cousin—’

‘What a sweet little thing she is!’ cried Chanteau, quite delighted.

Lazare looked at her in surprise, for he had pictured her as being much smaller and far more shy and childish.

‘Yes, indeed, she is a sweet child,’ said the lady, ‘and you have no idea how brave she is! The wind blew straight in our faces as we drove along, and the rain quite blinded us. Fully a score of times I thought that the hood, which was flapping about like a veil, would be carried away altogether. Well, that child there, instead of being alarmed, was quite amused by it all and enjoyed it. But what are we stopping out here for? It is no use getting any wetter than we are; the rain is beginning to fall again.’

She turned round to see where Véronique was. When she saw her keeping aloof and looking very surly, she said to her sarcastically:

‘Good evening, Véronique. How are you? While you are making up your mind to come and speak to me, you had better go and get a bottle of wine for Martin. We have not been able to bring our luggage with us, but Malivoire will bring it on early to-morrow.’

Then she suddenly checked herself and hastily returned to the gig. ‘My bag! my bag! Ah, there it is! I was afraid it had slipped into the road.’

It was a large black leather bag, already whitened at the corners by wear. She would not trust it to her son, but per­sisted in carrying it herself. Just as they were at last about to enter the house, another violent squall made them halt, short of breath, near the door. The cat, sitting on the steps with an air of curiosity, watched them fighting their way onwards; and Madame Chanteau then inquired if Minouche had behaved properly during her absence. The name of Minouche again brought a smile to Pauline’s serious little face. She stooped down and fondled the cat, which rubbed itself against her skirts, whilst holding its tail erect in the air. Matthew for his part, in proclamation of the return, began to bark again as he saw the family mounting the steps and entering the vestibule.

‘Ah, it is pleasant to be home again!’ said Madame Chanteau. ‘I really thought that we should never get here. Yes, Matthew, you are a very good dog, but please be quiet — Lazare, do make him keep still. He is quite splitting my ears!’

However, the dog proved obstinate, and the entry of the Chanteaus into their dining-room was accompanied by this lively music. They pushed Pauline, the new daughter of the house, before them; Matthew came on behind, still barking loudly; and Minouche followed last, with her sensitive hair bristling amidst the uproar.

In the kitchen Martin had already drunk a couple of glasses of wine, one after the other, and was now hastening away, stamping over the floor with his wooden leg and calling ‘good-night’ to everybody. Véronique had just put the leg of mutton to the fire again, as it had got quite cold. She thrust her head into the room, and asked:

‘Will you have dinner now?’

‘Yes, indeed we will,’ said Chanteau. ‘It is seven o’clock. But, my good girl, we must wait till madame and the little one have changed their things.’

‘But I haven’t got Pauline’s trunk here,’ said Madame Chanteau. ‘Fortunately, however, our underclothing is not wet. Take off your cloak and hat, my dear. There, take them away, Véronique. And take off her boots. I have some slippers here.’

The cook knelt down before the child, who had seated her­self. Madame Chanteau took out of her bag a pair of small felt slippers and put them on the girl’s feet. Then she took off her own boots, and, once more dipping her hand into the bag, brought out a pair of shoes for herself.

‘Shall I bring dinner in now?’ asked Véronique again.

‘In a minute. Pauline, come into the kitchen and wash your hands and face. We will make more of a toilet later on, for, just now, we are dying of hunger.’

Pauline came back first, having left her aunt with her nose in a bowl of water. Chanteau had resumed his place in his big yellow velvet armchair before the fire. He was rubbing his legs mechanically, fearing another attack of pain; while Lazare stood cutting some bread in front of the table, on which four covers had been laid more than an hour before. The two men, who were scarcely at their ease, smiled at the child, without managing to find a word to say to her; while she calmly inspected the room, which was furnished in walnut-wood. Her glance wandered from the sideboard and the half-dozen chairs to the hanging lamp of polished brass, and then rested upon some framed lithographs which hung against the brown wall-paper. Four of them represented the seasons, and the fifth was a view of Vesuvius. Probably the imitation wainscotting of oak-coloured paint, scratched and showing the plaster underneath, the flooring soiled with old grease-spots, and the general shabbiness of this room, where the family lived, made her regret the beautiful marble-fitted shop which she had left the previous day, for her eyes assumed an expression of sadness, and she seemed to guess all the cares that lay concealed in this her new dwelling-place. Then, after curiously examining a very old barometer mounted in a case of gilded wood, her eyes turned to a strange-looking affair which monopolised the whole of the mantelpiece. It was enclosed in a glass box, secured at the edges by strips of blue paper. At first sight it looked like a toy, a miniature wooden bridge; but a bridge of extremely intricate design.