Complete Works of Emile Zola (762 page)

The day before his departure Lazare manifested such delight at the prospect of leaving Bonneville that Pauline burst into tears.

‘You don’t love me any more now!’

‘Don’t be a goose! Haven’t I got to make my way in life? A big girl like you to be crying! The idea of it!’

Then she summoned up her courage again and smiled as she said to him: ‘Work hard this year, so that when you come back again we may all be quite happy and satisfied.’

‘Oh! there’s no good in working hard! Their examina­tions are nothing but foolery. I didn’t pass because I didn’t care to. I am going to hurry through with it all now, since my lack of fortune prevents me from living a life of ease and leisure, which is the only satisfactory life a man can lead.’

In the early part of October, after Louise had returned to Caen, Pauline again resumed her lessons with her aunt. The curriculum of her third year’s studies embraced bowdlerised French History, and Greek Mythology as ‘adapted to the use of young persons.’ But the girl, who had shown such diligence in the previous year, now seemed to have become quite sluggish and dull. Sometimes she even went to sleep over her tasks, and her face flushed with a hot surging of blood. A mad outburst of anger against Véronique, who didn’t like her, she declared, made her so ill that she had to stop in bed for a couple of days. Then came changes in herself which disquieted and distressed her. About Christmas-time Pauline’s health was such as to alarm Madame Chanteau. But that worthy woman, from ridiculous notions of her own, was largely to blame, as she refused to take Doctor Cazenove’s advice and talk to the girl as she should have done. And in the result Pauline, at an important period in her youth, narrowly escaped being stricken with an attack of brain-fever.

When she was well again and resumed her studies, she began to affect an enthusiastic interest in the Greek Mythology. She shut herself up in Lazare’s big room — which was still used as a schoolroom — and had to be sent for at meal-times. When she came down, she seemed buried in thought and quite indifferent to all that went on. Upstairs, however, the Mythology lay quite neglected on the table, for it was in poring over all the medical books which Lazare had left in the old wardrobe that she now spent her time. There were a good many of those works, and, though at first she failed to understand all the technical terms she met with, she plodded on through anatomy and physiology, and even pathology and clinical medicine. Thus she not only learnt — in all simplicity and purity of mind, saved from all vicious thought by a healthy craving for knowledge — many things of which girls of her age are usually ignorant; but her researches extended to the symptoms and treatment of all sorts of disease and ailment. Superfluous subjects she passed by unheeded. She seemed to know intuitively what knowledge was neces­sary to enable her to be of assistance to those who suffered. Her heart melted with pity as she read on, and she gave her-self up again to her old dream of learning everything so that she might be able to cure all that went amiss.

Knowledge rendered Pauline grave and thoughtful. She felt surprised and annoyed at her aunt’s silence towards her, which had resulted in such terror and serious illness. And when one day Madame Chanteau did see fit to refer to the matter, the girl quietly intimated that she needed no informa­tion. At this the other was alarmed, and Pauline then told her all about Lazare’s books. There was a scene, but the girl, with her outspoken frankness, quite routed her aunt. ‘How can there be harm in knowledge of the normal conditions of life?’ she asked. Her enthusiasm was perfectly mental, and never did a single wrong thought disturb the pure depths of her clear, child-like eyes. On the same shelf with the medical books she had found novels which had repelled her and bored her, so that she had thrown them aside after glancing at the first few pages. Her aunt, growing more and more discon­certed, though she had recovered a little from her first shock, contented herself with locking the wardrobe and taking away the key. But a week later it was there again, and Pauline indulged herself in reading at intervals, by way of recreation, either a chapter on neurosis, with her mind fixed the while upon her cousin, or one relating to the treatment of gout, with the idea of undertaking her uncle’s cure.

Each day increasing love of life and its various manifes­tations displayed itself in Pauline and made of her, to use her aunt’s phrase, a general mother. Everything that lived, everything that suffered, aroused in her a feeling of active tenderness and won from her abundant kindliness and thoughtful care. She had now forgotten all about Paris, and began to feel as though she had been born in that wild spot under the pure breezes from the sea, She had developed, too, into a well-formed young woman, and with her healthy mind and love of knowledge it was with delight that she found her­self reaching full growth and sunny ripeness. On her part there was a full acceptance of life, life beloved in all its functions, welcomed with the triumphant greeting of vigorous health and soundness of nature.

That year Lazare remained for six months without writing home, with the exception, that is, of a very brief note now and then to tell them he was all right. Then all at once he began to deluge his mother with letters. He had again been plucked at the November examination, and had become more disgusted than ever with the study of medicine, which dealt with too gloomy matters for his taste, so that he had now enthusiastically turned to chemistry. He had chanced to make the acquaintance of the illustrious Herbelin, whose discoveries were then revolutionising the science, and had entered his laboratory as an assistant, without owning, how­ever, that he was relinquishing medicine. But his letters were soon full of a new scheme, which he at first mentioned somewhat timidly, but gradually grew wildly enthusiastic about. It was a plan for turning sea-weed to wonderful profit, by the adoption of some new methods and reagents discovered by the illustrious Herbelin. Lazare dwelt upon the great probability of the scheme’s success; the great chemist’s assistance; the ease with which raw material could be obtained, and the very small expense that would be incurred for plant. In the end he frankly expressed his disinclination to be a doctor, and jokingly declared that he should prefer to sell remedies to the sick rather than to kill them off himself. He finished all his letters by recapitulating the prospects of speedily acquiring a large fortune, and mentioned as an additional lure to his parents that, if they would consent to his new plans, he should remain with them, as he proposed setting up his works quite close to Bonneville.

The months slipped away, and Lazare did not come home for the vacation. All through the winter he continued to unfold the details of his new scheme in long closely-written letters, which Madame Chanteau used to read aloud in the evening after dinner. One night in May they resolved them­selves into a solemn family council to discuss the matter seriously, for Lazare had written to ask for a categorical reply. Véronique was bustling about the room, taking off the dinner-cloth and putting the red one on the table in its place.

‘He is his grandfather over again, always running after some fresh scheme and doing no good at anything,’ declared Madame Chanteau, glancing up at the former journeyman-carpenter’s masterpiece, whose presence on the mantel-shelf was a perpetual source of annoyance to her.

‘Well, he certainly doesn’t get his flighty disposition from me, for I detest all change,’ sighed Chanteau between a couple of groans, as he lay back in his arm-chair, where he was just recovering from another attack of gout. ‘But you yourself, my dear, you know you are a little given to restlessness.’

His wife shrugged her shoulders as though to imply that all her actions were dictated and carried out by reason and common-sense. Then she added slowly: ‘Well, what are we to say? I suppose we shall have to write to him and tell him that he may have his own way. I wanted to see him in the magistracy, and I wasn’t over well pleased at his being a doctor; but now he has got down to being an apothecary! Still, if he comes back home again and makes a lot of money, that will be better than nothing.’

It was really this hope of money-making which decided her. She began to indulge in new dreams for the son she was so fond of. She foresaw him very wealthy, the owner of a fine house at Caen, a councillor-general, perhaps even a deputy. Chanteau, who had no opinion either one way or the other, and was absorbed in his own sufferings, left his wife to see after all the interests of the family. Pauline, in spite of her surprise and silent disapprobation of her cousin’s continual changes, thought that he had better be allowed to try his luck at the grand new scheme which he had got into his head.

‘At any rate, we shall be all together,’ she said.

‘And it’s precious little good that Monsieur Lazare seems to be doing in Paris,’ Véronique ventured to add. ‘It will be better for him to come and live quietly here with us.’

Madame Chanteau nodded assent. She again took up the letter which she had received that morning.

‘He here goes into the financial side of his scheme,’ she said. Then she read the letter, commenting on it as she proceeded. Sixty thousand francs would be required for erect­ing the works. In Paris Lazare had met one of his old Caen friends, Boutigny, who was now selling wine on commission there. Boutigny was very enthusiastic about the new scheme, and had offered to invest thirty thousand francs in the business. He would make an admirable partner, one whose practical business habits would ensure the success of the undertaking. There would, however, still remain thirty thousand francs to be borrowed somewhere, as Lazare was anxious to have half the business in his own hands.

‘As you hear,’ continued Madame Chanteau, ‘he wants me to apply in his name to Thibaudier. It is a good idea, and I am sure Thibaudier will let him have the money. Louise is not very well just now, and I have thought of going to Caen to ask her to stay with us for a week. As I shall see her father, I will mention the matter to him.’

A cloud passed before Pauline’s eyes, and her lips quivered as she drew them tightly together. Véronique was standing at the other side of the table, wiping a tea-cup and watching her closely.

‘I had, indeed, thought of another way,’ said Madame Chanteau in a low voice; ‘but as there is always some risk in a business enterprise, I have come to the conclusion to say nothing about it.’

Then, turning to the young girl, she added: ‘Yes, my dear, you might have lent the thirty thousand francs to your cousin yourself. You couldn’t find a better investment, and you would very likely get twenty-five per cent interest, for your cousin would share his profits with you, and it quite grieves me to think of a lot of money going into an outsider’s pocket. But I shouldn’t like you to run any risk with your fortune. It is a sacred deposit. It is quite safe upstairs, and I will restore it to you unimpaired.’

Pauline grew pale as she listened to her aunt’s words; and a struggle went on within her. She had inherited a some­what avaricious disposition: Quenu’s and Lisa’s love of money. In the pork-butcher’s shop she had been taught to reverence its power, and to guard against the want of it. Then, too, her aunt had so frequently called her attention to the drawer in the secrétaire where her little fortune was locked up, that the thought of seeing it gradually squandered by her erratic cousin irritated her. So she kept silent, though she was also troubled by a vision of Louise handing a great bag of money to Lazare.

‘Even if you, my dear, should wish it, I shouldn’t,’ Madame Chanteau continued; and, addressing her husband, she added: ‘It is quite a matter of conscience, isn’t it?’

‘Her money belongs to her,’ said Chanteau with a deep groan as he tried to move his leg. ‘If things were to turn out badly, we should be called upon to make good the loss. No! no! we mustn’t do that. Thibaudier will be glad to lend it, I have no doubt.’

Then Pauline, in an impulse of affection, cried:

‘No! no! please don’t grieve me like this. I certainly ought to lend the money to Lazare myself. Isn’t he my brother? It would be very unkind of me if I refused to let him have it. How could you suppose that I could have any objection? Give him the money at once, aunt; give him all of it!’

Her eyes filled with tears at the effort she had just made; then her face broke out into a smile, while she remained in a state of confusion between her regret at having hesitated for a moment and a miserable fear that the money would be lost. She had to struggle a little while against the protest of her relations, who were certainly honest enough to show her the risks she would run.

‘Come and kiss me then, my dear,’ her aunt finished by saying, yielding to the girl’s tears. ‘You are a very good girl, and you shall lend Lazare your money, since it would vex you so much if he did not take it.’

‘Come and kiss me, too, dear, won’t you?’ added her uncle. They cried and kissed all round the table. Then, as Pauline went out of the room to call Matthew, and Véronique brought in the tea, Madame Chanteau exclaimed, wiping the tears from her eyes: ‘It’s a great consolation to find her generous-minded.’

‘Of course!’ growled the servant; ‘why, she would strip her chemise off her back rather than let that other one have a chance of giving anything!’

It was a week later, on a Saturday, that Lazare returned to Bonne­ville. Doctor Cazenove, who had been invited to dine with the Chanteaus, brought the young man along with him in his gig. They found Abbé Horteur, who was also dining there that evening, playing draughts with Chanteau, who was lying back in his invalid’s chair. He had been suffering for three months past from the attack from which he was now recovering. It had been more painful and violent than any previous one, and now, in spite of the terrible twinges he constantly felt in his feet, he considered himself in a state of Paradise. His skin was scaling, and the swellings had almost disappeared. Véronique was busy roasting some pigeons in the kitchen, and every time the door opened he sniffed the appetizing odour, overcome, again, by his irre­pressible greediness, on which subject the priest began to remonstrate with him.