II

MORANGE, the chief accountant at Beauchêne's works, was a man of

thirty-eight, bald and already gray-headed, but with a superb dark,

fan-shaped beard, of which he was very proud. His full limpid eyes,

straight nose, and well-shaped if somewhat large mouth had in his younger

days given him the reputation of being a handsome fellow. He still took

great care of himself, invariably wore a tall silk hat, and preserved the

correct appearance of a very painstaking and well-bred clerk.

"You don't know our new flat yet, do you?" he asked Mathieu as he led him

away. "Oh! it's perfect, as you will see. A bedroom for us and another

for Reine. And it is so close to the works too. I get there in four

minutes, watch in hand."

He, Morange, was the son of a petty commercial clerk who had died on his

stool after forty years of cloistral office-life. And he had married a

clerk's daughter, one Valérie Duchemin, the eldest of four girls whose

parents' home had been turned into a perfect hell, full of shameful

wretchedness and unacknowledgable poverty, through this abominable

incumbrance. Valérie, who was good-looking and ambitious, was lucky

enough, however, to marry that handsome, honest, and hard-working fellow,

Morange, although she was quite without a dowry; and, this accomplished,

she indulged in the dream of climbing a little higher up the social

ladder, and freeing herself from the loathsome world of petty clerkdom by

making the son whom she hoped to have either an advocate or a doctor.

Unfortunately the much-desired child proved to be a girl; and Valérie

trembled, fearful of finding herself at last with four daughters on her

hands, just as her mother had. Her dream thereupon changed, and she

resolved to incite her husband onward to the highest posts, so that she

might ultimately give her daughter a large dowry, and by this means gain

that admittance to superior spheres which she so eagerly desired. Her

husband, who was weak and extremely fond of her, ended by sharing her

ambition, ever revolving schemes of pride and conquest for her benefit.

But he had now been eight years at the Beauchêne works, and he still

earned but five thousand francs a year. This drove him and his wife to

despair. Assuredly it was not at Beauchêne's that he would ever make his

fortune.

"You see!" he exclaimed, after going a couple of hundred yards with

Mathieu along the Boulevard de Grenelle, "it is that new house yonder at

the street corner. It has a stylish appearance, eh?"

Mathieu then perceived a lofty modern pile, ornamented with balconies and

sculpture work, which looked quite out of place among the poor little

houses predominating in the district.

"Why, it is a palace!" he exclaimed, in order to please Morange, who

thereupon drew himself up quite proudly.

"You will see the staircase, my dear fellow! Our place, you know, is on

the fifth floor. But that is of no consequence with such a staircase, so

easy, so soft, that one climbs it almost without knowing."

Thereupon Morange showed his guest into the vestibule as if he were

ushering him into a temple. The stucco walls gleamed brightly; there was

a carpet on the stairs, and colored glass in the windows. And when, on

reaching the fifth story, the cashier opened the door with his latchkey,

he repeated, with an air of delight: "You will see, you will see!"

Valérie and Reine must have been on the watch, for they hastened forward.

At thirty-two Valérie was still young and charming. She was a

pleasant-looking brunette, with a round smiling face in a setting of

superb hair. She had a full, round bust, and admirable shoulders, of

which her husband felt quite proud whenever she showed herself in a

low-necked dress. Reine, at this time twelve years old, was the very

portrait of her mother, showing much the same smiling, if rather longer,

face under similar black tresses.

"Ah! it is very kind of you to accept our invitation," said Valérie gayly

as she pressed both Mathieu's hands. "What a pity that Madame Froment

could not come with you! Reine, why don't you relieve the gentleman of

his hat?"

Then she immediately continued: "We have a nice light anteroom, you see.

Would you like to glance over our flat while the eggs are being boiled?

That will always be one thing done, and you will then at least know where

you are lunching."

All this was said in such an agreeable way, and Morange on his side

smiled so good-naturedly, that Mathieu willingly lent himself to this

innocent display of vanity. First came the parlor, the corner room, the

walls of which were covered with pearl-gray paper with a design of golden

flowers, while the furniture consisted of some of those white lacquered

Louis XVI. pieces which makers turn out by the gross. The rosewood piano

showed like a big black blot amidst all the rest. Then, overlooking the

Boulevard de Grenelle, came Reine's bedroom, pale blue, with furniture of

polished pine. Her parents' room, a very small apartment, was at the

other end of the flat, separated from the parlor by the dining-room. The

hangings adorning it were yellow; and a bedstead, a washstand, and a

wardrobe, all of thuya, had been crowded into it. Finally the classic

"old carved oak" triumphed in the dining-room, where a heavily gilded

hanging lamp flashed like fire above the table, dazzling in its

whiteness.

"Why, it's delightful," Mathieu, repeated, by way of politeness; "why,

it's a real gem of a place."

In their excitement, father, mother, and daughter never ceased leading

him hither and thither, explaining matters to him and making him feel the

things. He was most struck, by the circumstance that the place recalled

something he had seen before; he seemed to be familiar with the

arrangement of the drawing-room, and with the way in which the nicknacks

in the bedchamber were set out. And all at once he remembered. Influenced

by envy and covert admiration, the Moranges, despite themselves, no

doubt, had tried to copy the Beauchênes. Always short of money as they

were, they could only and by dint of great sacrifices indulge in a

species of make-believe luxury. Nevertheless they were proud of it, and,

by imitating the envied higher class from afar, they imagined that they

drew nearer to it.

"And then," Morange exclaimed, as he opened the dining-room window,

"there is also this."

Outside, a balcony ran along the house-front, and at that height the view

was really a very fine one, similar to that obtained from the Beauchêne

mansion but more extensive, the Seine showing in the distance, and the

heights of Passy rising above the nearer and lower house-roofs.

Valérie also called attention to the prospect. "It is magnificent, is it

not?" said she; "far better than the few trees that one can see from the

quay."

The servant was now bringing the boiled eggs and they took their seats at

table, while Morange victoriously explained that the place altogether

cost him sixteen hundred francs a year. It was cheap indeed, though the

amount was a heavy charge on Morange's slender income. Mathieu now began

to understand that he had been invited more particularly to admire the

new flat, and these worthy people seemed so delighted to triumph over it

before him that he took the matter gayly and without thought of spite.

There was no calculating ambition in his nature; he envied nothing of the

luxury he brushed against in other people's homes, and he was quite

satisfied with the snug modest life he led with Marianne and his

children. Thus he simply felt surprised at finding the Moranges so

desirous of cutting a figure and making money, and looked at them with a

somewhat sad smile.

Valérie was wearing a pretty gown of _foulard_ with a pattern of little

yellow flowers, while her daughter, Reine, whom she liked to deck out

coquettishly, had a frock of blue linen stuff. There was rather too much

luxury about the meal also. Soles followed the eggs, and then came

cutlets, and afterwards asparagus.

The conversation began with some mention of Janville.

"And so your children are in good health? Oh! they are very fine children

indeed. And you really like the country? How funny! I think I should feel

dreadfully bored there, for there is too great a lack of amusements. Why,

yes, we shall be delighted to go to see you there, since Madame Froment

is kind enough to invite us."

Then, as was bound to happen, the talk turned on the Beauchênes. This was

a subject which haunted the Moranges, who lived in perpetual admiration

of the Beauchênes, though at times they covertly criticised them. Valérie

was very proud of being privileged to attend Constance's Saturday

"at-homes," and of having been twice invited to dinner by her during the

previous winter. She on her side now had a day of her own, Tuesday, and

she even gave little private parties, and half ruined herself in

providing refreshments at them. As for her acquaintances, she spoke with

profound respect of Mme. Séguin du Hordel and that lady's magnificent

mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, for Constance had obligingly obtained her

an invitation to a ball there. But she was particularly vain of the

friendship of Beauchêne's sister, Séraphine, whom she invariably called

"Madame la Baronne de Lowicz."

"The Baroness came to my at-home one afternoon," she said. "She is so

very good-natured and so gay! You knew her formerly, did you not? After

her marriage, eh? when she became reconciled to her brother and their

wretched disputes about money matters were over. By the way, she has no

great liking for Madame Beauchêne, as you must know."

Then she again reverted to the manufacturer's wife, declared that little

Maurice, however sturdy he might look, was simply puffed out with bad

flesh; and she remarked that it would be a terrible blow for the parents

if they should lose that only son. The subject of children was thus

started, and when Mathieu, laughing, observed that they, the Moranges,

had but one child, the cashier protested that it was unfair to compare

him with M. Beauchêne, who was such a wealthy man. Valérie, for her part,

pictured the position of her parents, afflicted with four daughters, who

had been obliged to wait months and months for boots and frocks and hats,

and had grown up anyhow, in perpetual terror lest they should never find

husbands. A family was all very well, but when it happened to consist of

daughters the situation became terrible for people of limited means; for

if daughters were to be launched properly into life they must have

dowries.

"Besides," said she, "I am very ambitious for my husband, and I am

convinced that he may rise to a very high position if he will only listen

to me. But he must not be saddled with a lot of incumbrances. As things

stand, I trust that we may be able to get rich and give Reine a suitable

dowry."

Morange, quite moved by this little speech, caught hold of his wife's

hand and kissed it. Weak and good-natured as he was, Valérie was really

the one with will. It was she who had instilled some ambition into him,

and he esteemed her the more for it.

"My wife is a thoroughly good woman, you know, my dear Froment," said he.

"She has a good head as well as a good heart."

Then, while Valérie recapitulated her dream of wealth, the splendid flat

she would have, the receptions she would hold, and the two months which,

like the Beauchênes, she would spend at the seaside every summer, Mathieu

looked at her and her husband and pondered their position. Their case was

very different from that of old Moineaud, who knew that he would never be

a cabinet minister. Morange possibly dreamt that his wife would indeed

make him a minister some day. Every petty _bourgeois_ in a democratic

community has a chance of rising and wishes to do so. Indeed, there is a

universal, ferocious rush, each seeking to push the others aside so that

he may the more speedily climb a rung of the social ladder. This general

ascent, this phenomenon akin to capillarity, is possible only in a

country where political equality and economic inequality prevail; for

each has the same right to fortune and has but to conquer it. There is,

however, a struggle of the vilest egotism, if one wishes to taste the

pleasures of the highly placed, pleasures which are displayed to the gaze

of all and are eagerly coveted by nearly everybody in the lower spheres.

Under a democratic constitution a nation cannot live happily if its

manners and customs are not simple, and if the conditions of life are not

virtually equal for one and all. Under other circumstances than these the

liberal professions prove all-devouring: there is a rush for public

functions; manual toil is regarded with contempt; luxury increases and

becomes necessary; and wealth and power are furiously appropriated by

assault in order that one may greedily taste the voluptuousness of

enjoyment. And in such a state of affairs, children, as Valérie put it,

were incumbrances, whereas one needed to be free, absolutely unburdened,

if one wished to climb over all one's competitors.

Mathieu also thought of that law of imitation which impels even the least

fortunate to impoverish themselves by striving to copy the happy ones of

the world. How great the distress which really lurks beneath that envied

luxury that is copied at such great cost! All sorts of useless needs are

created, and production is turned aside from the strictly necessary. One

can no longer express hardship by saying that people lack bread; what

they lack in the majority of cases is the superfluous, which they are

unable to renounce without imagining that they have gone to the dogs and

are in danger of starvation.

At dessert, when the servant was no longer present, Morange, excited by

his good meal, became expansive. Glancing at his wife he winked towards

their guest, saying:

"Come, he's a safe friend; one may tell him everything."

And when Valérie had consented with a smile and a nod, he went on: "Well,

this is the matter, my dear fellow: it is possible that I may soon leave

the works. Oh! it's not decided, but I'm thinking of it. Yes, I've been

thinking of it for some months past; for, when all is said, to earn five

thousand francs a year, after eight years' zeal, and to think that one

will never earn much more, is enough to make one despair of life."

"It's monstrous," the young woman interrupted: "it is like breaking one's

head intentionally against a wall."

"Well, in such circumstances, my dear friend, the best course is to look

out for something elsewhere, is it not? Do you remember Michaud, whom I

had under my orders at the works some six years ago? A very intelligent

fellow he was. Well, scarcely six years have elapsed since he left us to

go to the Crédit National, and what do you think he is now earning there?

Twelve thousand francs--you hear me--twelve thousand francs!"

The last words rang out like a trumpet-call. The Moranges' eyes dilated

with ecstasy. Even the little girl became very red.

"Last March," continued Morange, "I happened to meet Michaud, who told me

all that, and showed himself very amiable. He offered to take me with him

and help me on in my turn. Only there's some risk to run. He explained to

me that I must at first accept three thousand six hundred, so as to rise

gradually to a very big figure. But three thousand six hundred! How can

one live on that in the meantime, especially now that this flat has

increased our expenses?"

At this Valérie broke in impetuously: "'Nothing venture, nothing have!'

That's what I keep on repeating to him. Of course I am in favor of

prudence; I would never let him do anything rash which might compromise

his future. But, at the same time, he can't moulder away in a situation

unworthy of him."

"And so you have made up your minds?" asked Mathieu.

"Well, my wife has calculated everything," Morange replied; "and, yes, we

have made up our minds, provided, of course, that nothing unforeseen

occurs. Besides, it is only in October that any situation will be open at

the Crédit National. But, I say, my dear friend, keep the matter entirely

to yourself, for we don't want to quarrel with the Beauchênes just now."

Then he looked at his watch, for, like a good clerk, he was very

punctual, and did not wish to be late at the office. The servant was

hurried, the coffee was served, and they were drinking it, boiling hot as

it was, when the arrival of a visitor upset the little household and

caused everything to be forgotten.

"Oh!" exclaimed Valérie, as she hastily rose, flushed with pride, "Madame

la Baronne de Lowicz!"

Séraphine, at this time nine-and-twenty, was red-haired, tall and

elegant, with magnificent shoulders which were known to all Paris. Her

red lips were wreathed in a triumphant smile, and a voluptuous flame ever

shone in her large brown eyes flecked with gold.

"Pray don't disturb yourselves, my friends," said she. "Your servant

wanted to show me into the drawing-room, but I insisted on coming in

here, because it is rather a pressing matter. I have come to fetch your

charming little Reine to take her to a _matinée_ at the Circus."

A fresh explosion of delight ensued. The child remained speechless with

joy, whilst the mother exulted and rattled on: "Oh! Madame la Baronne,

you are really too kind! You are spoiling the child. But the fact is that

she isn't dressed, and you will have to wait a moment. Come, child, make

haste, I will help you--ten minutes, you understand--I won't keep you

waiting a moment longer."

Séraphine remained alone with the two men. She had made a gesture of

surprise on perceiving Mathieu, whose hand, like an old friend, she now

shook.

"And you, are you quite well?" she asked.

"Quite well," he answered; and as she sat down near him he instinctively

pushed his chair back. He did not seem at all pleased at having met her.

He had been on familiar terms with her during his earlier days at the

Beauchêne works. She was a frantic pleasure-lover, and destitute of both

conscience and moral principles. Her conduct had given rise to scandal

even before her extraordinary elopement with Baron de Lowicz, that needy

adventurer with a face like an archangel's and the soul of a swindler.

The result of the union was a stillborn child. Then Séraphine, who was

extremely egotistical and avaricious, quarrelled with her husband and

drove him away. He repaired to Berlin, and was killed there in a brawl at

a gambling den. Delighted at being rid of him, Séraphine made every use

of her liberty as a young widow. She figured at every _fête_, took part in

every kind of amusement, and many scandalous stories were told of her;

but she contrived to keep up appearances and was thus still received

everywhere.

"You are living in the country, are you not?" she asked again, turning

towards Mathieu.

"Yes, we have been there for three weeks past."

"Constance told me of it. I met her the other day at Madame Séguin's. We

are on the best terms possible, you know, now that I give my brother good

advice."

In point of fact her sister-in-law, Constance, hated her, but with her

usual boldness she treated the matter as a joke.

"We talked about Dr. Gaude," she resumed; "I fancied that she wanted to

ask for his address; but she did not dare."

"Dr. Gaude!" interrupted Morange. "Ah! yes, a friend of my wife's spoke

to her about him. He's a wonderfully clever man, it appears. Some of his

operations are like miracles."

Then he went on talking of Dr. Gaude's clinic at the Hôpital Marbeuf, a

clinic whither society folks hastened to see operations performed, just

as they might go to a theatre. The doctor, who was fond of money, and who

bled his wealthy lady patients in more senses than one, was likewise

partial to glory and proud of accomplishing the most dangerous

experiments on the unhappy creatures who fell into his hands. The

newspapers were always talking about him, his cures were constantly

puffed and advertised by way of inducing fine ladies to trust themselves

to his skill. And he certainly accomplished wonders, cutting and carving

his patients in the quietest, most unconcerned way possible, with never a

scruple, never a doubt as to whether what he did was strictly right or

not.

Séraphine had begun to laugh, showing her white wolfish teeth between her

blood-red lips, when she noticed the horrified expression which had

appeared on Mathieu's face since Gaude had been spoken of. "Ah!" said

she; "there's a man, now, who in nowise resembles your squeamish Dr.

Boutan, who is always prattling about the birth-rate. I can't understand

why Constance keeps to that old-fashioned booby, holding the views she

does. She is quite right, you know, in her opinions. I fully share them."

Morange laughed complaisantly. He wished to show her that his opinions

were the same. However, as Valérie did not return with Reine, he grew

impatient, and asked permission to go and see what they were about.

Perhaps he himself might be able to help in getting the child ready.

As soon as Séraphine was alone with Mathieu she turned her big, ardent,

gold-flecked eyes upon him. She no longer laughed with the same laugh as

a moment previously; an expression of voluptuous irony appeared on her

bold bad face. After a spell of silence she inquired, "And is my good

cousin Marianne quite well?"

"Quite well," replied Mathieu.

"And the children are still growing?"

"Yes, still growing."

"So you are happy, like a good paterfamilias, in your little nook?"

"Perfectly happy."

Again she lapsed into silence, but she did not cease to look at him, more

provoking, more radiant than ever, with the charm of a young sorceress

whose eyes burn and poison men's hearts. And at last she slowly resumed:

"And so it is all over between us?"

He made a gesture in token of assent. There had long since been a passing

fancy between them. He had been nineteen at the time, and she

two-and-twenty. He had then but just entered life, and she was already

married. But a few months later he had fallen in love with Marianne, and

had then entirely freed himself from her.

"All over--really?" she again inquired, smiling but aggressive.

She was looking very beautiful and bold, seeking to tempt him and carry

him off from that silly little cousin of hers, whose tears would simply

have made her laugh. And as Mathieu did not this time give her any

answer, even by a wave of the hand, she went on: "I prefer that: don't

reply: don't say that it is all over. You might make a mistake, you

know."

For a moment Mathieu's eyes flashed, then he closed them in order that he

might no longer see Séraphine, who was leaning towards him. It seemed as

if all the past were coming back. She almost pressed her lips to his as

she whispered that she still loved him; and when he drew back, full of

mingled emotion and annoyance, she raised her little hand to his mouth as

if she feared that he was again going to say no.

"Be quiet," said she; "they are coming."

The Moranges were now indeed returning with Reine, whose hair had been

curled. The child looked quite delicious in her frock of rose silk decked

with white lace, and her large hat trimmed with some of the dress

material. Her gay round face showed with flowery delicacy under the rose

silk.

"Oh, what a love!" exclaimed Séraphine by way of pleasing the parents.

"Somebody will be stealing her from me, you know."

Then it occurred to her to kiss the child in passionate fashion, feigning

the emotion of a woman who regrets that she is childless. "Yes; indeed

one regrets it very much when one sees such a treasure as this sweet girl

of yours. Ah! if one could only be sure that God would give one such a

charming child--well, at all events, I shall steal her from you; you need

not expect me to bring her back again."

The enraptured Moranges laughed delightedly. And Mathieu, who knew her

well, listened in stupefaction. How many times during their short and

passionate attachment had she not inveighed against children! In her

estimation maternity poisoned love, aged woman, and made a horror of her

in the eyes of man.

The Moranges accompanied her and Reine to the landing. And they could not

find words warm enough to express their happiness at seeing such coveted

wealth and luxury come to seek their daughter. When the door of the flat

was closed Valérie darted on to the balcony, exclaiming, "Let us see them

drive off."

Morange, who no longer gave a thought to the office, took up a position

near her, and called Mathieu and compelled him likewise to lean over and

look down. A well-appointed victoria was waiting below with a

superb-looking coachman motionless on the box-seat. This sight put a

finishing touch to the excitement of the Moranges. When Séraphine had

installed the little girl beside her, they laughed aloud.

"How pretty she looks! How happy she must feel!"

Reine must have been conscious that they were looking at her, for she

raised her head, smiled and bowed. And Séraphine did the same, while the

horse broke into a trot and turned the corner of the avenue. Then came a

final explosion--

"Look at her!" repeated Valérie; "she is so candid! At twelve years old

she is still as innocent as a child in her cradle. You know that I trust

her to nobody. Wouldn't one think her a little duchess who has always had

a carriage of her own?"

Then Morange reverted to his dream of fortune. "Well," said he, "I hope

that she _will_ have a carriage when we marry her off. Just let me get

into the Crédit National and you will see all your desires fulfilled."

And turning towards Mathieu he added, "There are three of us, and, as I

have said before, that is quite enough for a man to provide for,

especially as money is so hard to earn."