III

AT the works during the afternoon Mathieu, who wished to be free earlier

than usual in order that, before dining in town, he might call upon his

landlord, in accordance with his promise to Marianne, found himself so

busy that he scarcely caught sight of Beauchêne. This was a relief, for

the secret which he had discovered by chance annoyed him, and he feared

lest he might cause his employer embarrassment. But the latter, when they

exchanged a few passing words, did not seem to remember even that there

was any cause for shame on his part. He had never before shown himself

more active, more devoted to business. The fatigue he had felt in the

morning had passed away, and he talked and laughed like one who finds

life very pleasant, and has no fear whatever of hard work.

As a rule Mathieu left at six o'clock; but that day he went into

Morange's office at half-past five to receive his month's salary. This

rightly amounted to three hundred and fifty francs; but as five hundred

had been advanced to him in January, which he paid back by instalments of

fifty, he now received only fifteen louis, and these he pocketed with

such an air of satisfaction that the accountant commented on it.

"Well," said the young fellow, "the money's welcome, for I left my wife

with just thirty sous this morning."

It was already more than six o'clock when he found himself outside the

superb house which the Séguin du Hordel family occupied in the Avenue

d'Antin. Séguin's grandfather had been a mere tiller of the soil at

Janville. Later on, his father, as a contractor for the army, had made a

considerable fortune. And he, son of a parvenu, led the life of a rich,

elegant idler. He was a member of the leading clubs, and, while

passionately fond of horses, affected also a taste for art and

literature, going for fashion's sake to extreme opinions. He had proudly

married an almost portionless girl of a very ancient aristocratic race,

the last of the Vaugelades, whose blood was poor and whose mind was

narrow. Her mother, an ardent Catholic, had only succeeded in making of

her one who, while following religious practices, was eager for the joys

of the world. Séguin, since his marriage, had likewise practised

religion, because it was fashionable to do so. His peasant grandfather

had had ten children; his father, the army contractor, had been content

with six; and he himself had two, a boy and a girl, and deemed even that

number more than was right.

One part of Séguin's fortune consisted of an estate of some twelve

hundred acres--woods and heaths--above Janville, which his father had

purchased with some of his large gains after retiring from business. The

old man's long-caressed dream had been to return in triumph to his native

village, whence he had started quite poor, and he was on the point of

there building himself a princely residence in the midst of a vast park

when death snatched him away. Almost the whole of this estate had come to

Séguin in his share of the paternal inheritance, and he had turned the

shooting rights to some account by dividing them into shares of five

hundred francs value, which his friends eagerly purchased. The income

derived from this source was, however, but a meagre one. Apart from the

woods there was only uncultivated land on the estate, marshes, patches of

sand, and fields of stones; and for centuries past the opinion of the

district had been that no agriculturist could ever turn the expanse to

good account. The defunct army contractor alone had been able to picture

there a romantic park, such as he had dreamt of creating around his regal

abode. It was he, by the way, who had obtained an authorization to add to

the name of Séguin that of Du Hordel--taken from a ruined tower called

the Hordel which stood on the estate.

It was through Beauchêne, one of the shareholders of the shooting rights,

that Mathieu had made Séguin's acquaintance, and had discovered the old

hunting-box, the lonely, quiet pavilion, which had pleased him so much

that he had rented it. Valentine, who good-naturedly treated Marianne as

a poor friend, had even been amiable enough to visit her there, and had

declared the situation of the place to be quite poetical, laughing the

while over her previous ignorance of it like one who had known nothing of

her property. In reality she herself would not have lived there for an

hour. Her husband had launched her into the feverish life of literary,

artistic, and social Paris, hurrying her to gatherings, studios,

exhibitions, theatres, and other pleasure resorts--all those brasier-like

places where weak heads and wavering hearts are lost. He himself, amid

all his passion for show, felt bored to death everywhere, and was at ease

only among his horses; and this despite his pretensions with respect to

advanced literature and philosophy, his collections of curios, such as

the _bourgeois_ of to-day does not yet understand, his furniture, his

pottery, his pewter-work, and particularly his bookbindings, of which he

was very proud. And he was turning his wife into a copy of himself,

perverting her by his extravagant opinions and his promiscuous

friendships, so that the little devotee who had been confided to his

keeping was now on the high road to every kind of folly. She still went

to mass and partook of the holy communion; but she was each day growing

more and more familiar with wrong-doing. A disaster must surely be at the

end of it all, particularly as he foolishly behaved to her in a rough,

jeering way, which greatly hurt her feelings, and led her to dream of

being loved with gentleness.

When Mathieu entered the house, which displayed eight lofty windows on

each of the stories of its ornate Renaissance façade, he laughed lightly

as he thought: "These folks don't have to wait for a monthly pittance of

three hundred francs, with just thirty sous in hand."

The hall was extremely rich, all bronze and marble. On the right hand

were the dining-room and two drawing-rooms; on the left a billiard-room,

a smoking-room, and a winter garden. On the first floor, in front of the

broad staircase, was Séguin's so-called "cabinet," a vast apartment,

sixteen feet high, forty feet long, and six-and-twenty feet wide, which

occupied all the central part of the house; while the husband's bed and

dressing rooms were on the right, and those of the wife and children on

the left hand. Up above, on the second floor, two complete suites of

rooms were kept in reserve for the time when the children should have

grown up.

A footman, who knew Mathieu, at once took him upstairs to the cabinet and

begged him to wait there, while Monsieur finished dressing. For a moment

the visitor fancied himself alone and glanced round the spacious room,

feeling interested in its adornments, the lofty windows of old stained

glass, the hangings of old Genoese velvet and brocaded silk, the oak

bookcases showing the highly ornamented backs of the volumes they

contained; the tables laden with _bibelots_, bronzes, marbles, goldsmith's

work, glass work, and the famous collection of modern pewter-work. Then

Eastern carpets were spread out upon all sides; there were low seats and

couches for every mood of idleness, and cosy nooks in which one could

hide oneself behind fringes of lofty plants.

"Oh! so it's you, Monsieur Froment," suddenly exclaimed somebody in the

direction of the table allotted to the pewter curios. And thereupon a

tall young man of thirty, whom a screen had hitherto hidden from

Mathieu's view, came forward with outstretched hand.

"Ah!" said Mathieu, after a moment's hesitation, "Monsieur Charles

Santerre."

This was but their second meeting. They had found themselves together

once before in that same room. Charles Santerre, already famous as a

novelist, a young master popular in Parisian drawing-rooms, had a fine

brow, caressing brown eyes, and a large red mouth which his moustache and

beard, cut in the Assyrian style and carefully curled, helped to conceal.

He had made his way, thanks to women, whose society he sought under

pretext of studying them, but whom he was resolved to use as instruments

of fortune. As a matter of calculation and principle he had remained a

bachelor and generally installed himself in the nests of others. In

literature feminine frailty was his stock subject he had made it his

specialty to depict scenes of guilty love amid elegant, refined

surroundings. At first he had no illusions as to the literary value of

his works; he had simply chosen, in a deliberate way, what he deemed to

be a pleasant and lucrative trade. But, duped by his successes, he had

allowed pride to persuade him that he was really a writer. And nowadays

he posed as the painter of an expiring society, professing the greatest

pessimism, and basing a new religion on the annihilation of human

passion, which annihilation would insure the final happiness of the

world.

"Séguin will be here in a moment," he resumed in an amiable way. "It

occurred to me to take him and his wife to dine at a restaurant this

evening, before going to a certain first performance where there will

probably be some fisticuffs and a rumpus to-night."

Mathieu then for the first time noticed that Santerre was in evening

dress. They continued chatting for a moment, and the novelist called

attention to a new pewter treasure among Séguin's collection. It

represented a long, thin woman, stretched full-length, with her hair

streaming around her. She seemed to be sobbing as she lay there, and

Santerre declared the conception to be a masterpiece. The figure

symbolized the end of woman, reduced to despair and solitude when man

should finally have made up his mind to have nothing further to do with

her. It was the novelist who, in literary and artistic matters, helped on

the insanity which was gradually springing up in the Séguins' home.

However, Séguin himself now made his appearance. He was of the same age

as Santerre, but was taller and slimmer, with fair hair, an aquiline

nose, gray eyes, and thin lips shaded by a slight moustache. He also was

in evening dress.

"Ah! well, my dear fellow," said he with the slight lisp which he

affected, "Valentine is determined to put on a new gown. So we must be

patient; we shall have an hour to wait."

Then, on catching sight of Mathieu, he began to apologize, evincing much

politeness and striving to accentuate his air of frigid distinction. When

the young man, whom he called his amiable tenant, had acquainted him with

the motive of his visit--the leak in the zinc roof of the little pavilion

at Janville--he at once consented to let the local plumber do any

necessary soldering. But when, after fresh explanations, he understood

that the roofing was so worn and damaged that it required to be changed

entirely, he suddenly departed from his lofty affability and began to

protest, declaring that he could not possibly expend in such repairs a

sum which would exceed the whole annual rental of six hundred francs.

"Some soldering," he repeated; "some soldering; it's understood. I will

write to the plumber." And wishing to change the subject he added: "Oh!

wait a moment, Monsieur Froment. You are a man of taste, I know, and I

want to show you a marvel."

He really had some esteem for Mathieu, for he knew that the young fellow

possessed a quick appreciative mind. Mathieu began to smile, outwardly

yielding to this attempt to create a diversion, but determined at heart

that he would not leave the place until he had obtained the promise of a

new roof. He took hold of a book, clad in a marvellous binding, which

Séguin had fetched from a bookcase and tendered with religious care. On

the cover of soft snow-white leather was incrusted a long silver lily,

intersected by a tuft of big violet thistles. The title of the work,

"Beauty Imperishable," was engraved up above, as in a corner of the sky.

"Ah! what a delightful conception, what delightful coloring!" declared

Mathieu, who was really charmed. "Some bindings nowadays are perfect

gems." Then he noticed the title: "Why, it's Monsieur Santerre's last

novel!" said he.

Séguin smiled and glanced at the writer, who had drawn near. And when he

saw him examining the book and looking quite moved by the compliment paid

to it, he exclaimed: "My dear fellow, the binder brought it here this

morning, and I was awaiting an opportunity to surprise you with it. It is

the pearl of my collection! What do you think of the idea--that lily

which symbolizes triumphant purity, and those thistles, the plants which

spring up among ruins, and which symbolize the sterility of the world, at

last deserted, again won over to the only perfect felicity? All your work

lies in those symbols, you know."

"Yes, yes. But you spoil me; you will end by making me proud."

Mathieu had read Santerre's novel, having borrowed a copy of it from Mme.

Beauchêne, in order that his wife might see it, since it was a book that

everybody was talking of. And the perusal of it had exasperated him.

Forsaking the customary bachelor's flat where in previous works he had

been so fond of laying scenes of debauchery, Santerre had this time tried

to rise to the level of pure art and lyrical symbolism. The story he told

was one of a certain Countess Anne-Marie, who, to escape a rough-mannered

husband of extreme masculinity, had sought a refuge in Brittany in the

company of a young painter endowed with divine inspiration, one Norbert,

who had undertaken to decorate a convent chapel with paintings that

depicted his various visions. And for thirty years he went on painting

there, ever in colloquy with the angels, and ever having Anne-Marie

beside him. And during those thirty years of love the Countess's beauty

remained unimpaired; she was as young and as fresh at the finish as at

the outset; whereas certain secondary personages, introduced into the

story, wives and mothers of a neighboring little town, sank into physical

and mental decay, and monstrous decrepitude. Mathieu considered the

author's theory that all physical beauty and moral nobility belonged to

virgins only, to be thoroughly imbecile, and he could not restrain

himself from hinting his disapproval of it.

Both Santerre and Séguin, however, hotly opposed him, and quite a

discussion ensued. First Santerre took up the matter from a religious

standpoint. Said he, the words of the Old Testament, "Increase and

multiply," were not to be found in the New Testament, which was the true

basis of the Christian religion. The first Christians, he declared, had

held marriage in horror, and with them the Holy Virgin had become the

ideal of womanhood. Séguin thereupon nodded approval and proceeded to

give his opinions on feminine beauty. But these were hardly to the taste

of Mathieu, who promptly pointed out that the conception of beauty had

often varied.

"To-day," said he, "you conceive beauty to consist in a long, slim,

attenuated, almost angular figure; but at the time of the Renaissance the

type of the beautiful was very different. Take Rubens, take Titian, take

even Raffaelle, and you will see that their women were of robust build.

Even their Virgin Marys have a motherly air. To my thinking, moreover, if

we reverted to some such natural type of beauty, if women were not

encouraged by fashion to compress and attenuate their figures so that

their very nature, their very organism is changed, there would perhaps be

some hope of coping with the evil of depopulation which is talked about

so much nowadays."

The others looked at him and smiled with an air of compassionate

superiority. "Depopulation an evil!" exclaimed Séguin; "can you, my dear

sir, intelligent as you are, still believe in that hackneyed old story?

Come, reflect and reason a little."

Then Santerre chimed in, and they went on talking one after the other and

at times both together. Schopenhauer and Hartmann and Nietzsche were

passed in review, and they claimed Malthus as one of themselves. But all

this literary pessimism did not trouble Mathieu. He, with his belief in

fruitfulness, remained convinced that the nation which no longer had

faith in life must be dangerously ill. True, there were hours when he

doubted the expediency of numerous families and asked himself if ten

thousand happy people were not preferable to a hundred thousand unhappy

ones; in which connection political and economic conditions had to be

taken into account. But when all was said, he remained almost convinced

that the Malthusian hypotheses would prove as false in the future as they

had proved false in the past.

"Moreover," said he, "even if the world should become densely populated,

even if food supplies, such as we know them, should fall short, chemistry

would extract other means of subsistence from inorganic matter. And,

besides, all such eventualities are so far away that it is impossible to

make any calculation on a basis of scientific certainty. In France, too,

instead of contributing to any such danger, we are going backward, we are

marching towards annihilation. The population of France was once a fourth

of the population of Europe, but now it is only one-eighth. In a century

or two Paris will be dead, like ancient Athens and ancient Rome, and we

shall have fallen to the rank that Greece now occupies. Paris seems

determined to die."

But Santerre protested: "No, no; Paris simply wishes to remain

stationary, and it wishes this precisely because it is the most

intelligent, most highly civilized city in the world. The more nations

advance in civilization the smaller becomes their birth-rate. We are

simply giving the world an example of high culture, superior

intelligence, and other nations will certainly follow that example when

in turn they also attain to our state of perfection. There are signs of

this already on every side."

"Quite so!" exclaimed Séguin, backing up his friend. "The phenomenon is

general; all the nations show the same symptoms, and are decreasing in

numbers, or will decrease as soon as they become civilized. Japan is

affected already, and the same will be the case with China as soon as

Europe forces open the door there."

Mathieu had become grave and attentive since the two society men, seated

before him in evening dress, had begun to talk more rationally. The pale,

slim, flat virgin, their ideal of feminine beauty, was no longer in

question. The history of mankind was passing by. And almost as if

communing with himself, he said: "So you do not fear the Yellow Peril,

that terrible swarming of Asiatic barbarians who, it was said, would at

some fatal moment sweep down on our Europe, ravage it, and people it

afresh? In past ages, history always began anew in that fashion, by the

sudden shifting of oceans, the invasion of fierce rough races coming to

endow weakened nations with new blood. And after each such occurrence

civilization flowered afresh, more broadly and freely than ever. How was

it that Babylon, Nineveh, and Memphis fell into dust with their

populations, who seem to have died on the spot? How is it that Athens and

Rome still agonize to-day, unable to spring afresh from their ashes and

renew the splendor of their ancient glory? How is it that death has

already laid its hand upon Paris, which, whatever her splendor, is but

the capital of a France whose virility is weakened? You may argue as you

please and say that, like the ancient capitals of the world, Paris is

dying of an excess of culture, intelligence, and civilization; it is none

the less a fact that she is approaching death, the turn of the tide which

will carry splendor and power to some new nation. Your theory of

equilibrium is wrong. Nothing can remain stationary; whatever ceases to

grow, decreases and disappears. And if Paris is bent on dying, she will

die, and the country with her."

"Well, for my part," declared Santerre, resuming the pose of an elegant

pessimist, "if she wishes to die, I shan't oppose her. In fact, I'm fully

determined to help her."

"It is evident that the really honest, sensible course is to check any

increase of population," added Séguin.

But Mathieu, as if he had not heard them, went on: "I know Herbert

Spencer's law, and I believe it to be theoretically correct. It is

certain that civilization is a check to fruitfulness, so that one may

picture a series of social evolutions conducing now to decrease and now

to increase of population, the whole ending in final equilibrium, by the

very effect of culture's victory when the world shall be entirely

populated and civilized. But who can foretell what road will be followed,

through what disasters and sufferings one may have to go? More and more

nations may disappear, and others may replace them; and how many

thousands of years may not be needed before the final adjustment,

compounded of truth, justice, and peace, is arrived at? At the thought of

this the mind trembles and hesitates, and the heart contracts with a

pang."

Deep silence fell while he thus remained disturbed, shaken in his faith

in the good powers of life, and at a loss as to who was right--he or

those two men so languidly stretched out before him.

But Valentine, Séguin's wife, came in, laughing and making an exhibition

of masculine ways, which it had cost her much trouble to acquire.

"Ah! you people; you must not bear me any malice, you know. That girl

Céleste takes such a time over everything!"

At five-and-twenty Valentine was short, slight, and still girlish. Fair,

with a delicate face, laughing blue eyes, and a pert little nose, she

could not claim to be pretty. Still she was charming and droll, and very

free and easy in her ways; for not only did her husband take her about

with him to all sorts of objectionable places, but she had become quite

familiar with the artists and writers who frequented the house. Thus it

was only in the presence of something extremely insulting that she again

showed herself the last of the Vaugelades, and would all at once draw

herself up and display haughty contempt and frigidity.

"Ah! it's you, Monsieur Froment," she said amiably, stepping towards

Mathieu and shaking his hand in cavalier fashion. "Is Madame Froment in

good health? Are the children flourishing as usual?"

Séguin was examining her dress, a gown of white silk trimmed with

unbleached lace, and he suddenly gave way to one of those horribly rude

fits which burst forth at times amid all his great affectation of

politeness. "What! have you kept us waiting all this time to put that rag

on? Well, you never looked a greater fright in your life!"

And she had entered the room convinced that she looked charming! She made

an effort to control herself, but her girlish face darkened and assumed

an expression of haughty, vindictive revolt. Then she slowly turned her

eyes towards the friend who was present, and who was gazing at her with

ecstasy, striving to accentuate the slavish submissiveness of his

attitude.

"You look delicious!" he murmured; "that gown is a marvel."

Séguin laughed and twitted Santerre on his obsequiousness towards women.

Valentine, mollified by the compliment, soon recovered her birdlike

gayety, and such free and easy conversation ensued between the trio that

Mathieu felt both stupefied and embarrassed. In fact, he would have gone

off at once had it not been for his desire to obtain from his landlord a

promise to repair the pavilion properly.

"Wait another moment," Valentine at last said to her husband; "I told

Céleste to bring the children, so that we might kiss them before

starting."

Mathieu wished to profit by this fresh delay, and sought to renew his

request; but Valentine was already rattling on again, talking of dining

at the most disreputable restaurant possible, and asking if at the first

performance which they were to attend they would see all the horrors

which had been hissed at the dress rehearsal the night before. She

appeared like a pupil of the two men between whom she stood. She even

went further in her opinions than they did, displaying the wildest

pessimism, and such extreme views on literature and art that they

themselves could not forbear laughing. Wagner was greatly over-estimated,

in her opinion; she asked for invertebrate music, the free harmony of the

passing wind. As for her moral views, they were enough to make one

shudder. She had got past the argumentative amours of Ibsen's idiotic,

rebellious heroines, and had now reached the theory of pure intangible

beauty. She deemed Santerre's last creation, Anne-Marie, to be far too

material and degraded, because in one deplorable passage the author

remarked that Norbert's kisses had left their trace on the Countess's

brow. Santerre disputed the quotation, whereupon she rushed upon the

volume and sought the page to which she had referred.

"But I never degraded her," exclaimed the novelist in despair. "She never

has a child."

"Pooh! What of that?" exclaimed Valentine. "If Anne-Marie is to raise our

hearts she ought to be like spotless marble, and Norbert's kisses should

leave no mark upon her."

But she was interrupted, for Céleste, the maid, a tall dark girl with an

equine head, big features, and a pleasant air, now came in with the two

children. Gaston was at this time five years old, and Lucie was three.

Both were slight and delicate, pale like roses blooming in the shade.

Like their mother, they were fair. The lad's hair was inclined to be

carroty, while that of the girl suggested the color of oats. And they

also had their mother's blue eyes, but their faces were elongated like

that of their father. Dressed in white, with their locks curled, arrayed

indeed in the most coquettish style, they looked like big fragile dolls.

The parents were touched in their worldly pride at sight of them, and

insisted on their playing their parts with due propriety.

"Well, don't you wish anybody good evening?"

The children were not timid; they were already used to society and looked

visitors full in the face. If they made little haste, it was because they

were naturally indolent and did not care to obey. They at last made up

their minds and allowed themselves to be kissed.

"Good evening, good friend Santerre."

Then they hesitated before Mathieu, and their father had to remind them

of the gentleman's name, though they had already seen him on two or three

occasions.

"Good evening, Monsieur Froment."

Valentine took hold of them, sat them on her lap, and half stifled them

with caresses. She seemed to adore them, but as soon as she had sat them

down again she forgot all about them.

"So you are going out again, mamma?" asked the little boy.

"Why, yes, my darling. Papas and mammas, you know, have their affairs to

see to."

"So we shall have dinner all alone, mamma?"

Valentine did not answer, but turned towards the maid, who was waiting

for orders;--

"You are not to leave them for a moment, Céleste--you hear? And, above

all things, they are not to go into the kitchen. I can never come home

without finding them in the kitchen. It is exasperating. Let them have

their dinner at seven, and put them to bed at nine. And see that they go

to sleep."

The big girl with the equine head listened with an air of respectful

obedience, while her faint smile expressed the cunning of a Norman

peasant who had been five years in Paris already and was hardened to

service, and well knew what was done with children when the master and

mistress were absent.

"Madame," she said in a simple way, "Mademoiselle Lucie is poorly. She

has been sick again."

"What? sick again!" cried the father in a fury. "I am always hearing of

that! They are always being sick! And it always happens when we are going

out! It is very disagreeable, my dear; you might see to it; you ought not

to let our children have _papier-mâché_ stomachs!"

The mother made an angry gesture, as if to say that she could not help

it. As a matter of fact, the children were often poorly. They had

experienced every childish ailment, they were always catching cold or

getting feverish. And they preserved the mute, moody, and somewhat

anxious demeanor of children who are abandoned to the care of servants.

"Is it true you were poorly, my little Lucie?" asked Valentine, stooping

down to the child. "You aren't poorly now, are you? No, no, it's nothing,

nothing at all. Kiss me, my pet; bid papa good night very prettily, so

that he may not feel worried in leaving you."

She rose up, already tranquillized and gay again; and, noticing that

Mathieu was looking at her, she exclaimed:

"Ah! these little folks give one a deal of worry. But one loves them

dearly all the same, though, so far as there is happiness in life, it

would perhaps be better for them never to have been born. However, my

duty to the country is done. Each wife ought to have a boy and a girl as

I have."

Thereupon Mathieu, seeing that she was jesting, ventured to say with a

laugh:

"Well, that isn't the opinion of your medical man, Dr. Boutan. He

declares that to make the country prosperous every married couple ought

to have four children."

"Four children! He's mad!" cried Séguin. And again with the greatest

freedom of language he brought forward his pet theories. There was a

world of meaning in his wife's laughter while Céleste stood there unmoved

and the children listened without understanding. But at last Santerre led

the Séguins away. It was only in the hall that Mathieu obtained from his

landlord a promise that he would write to the plumber at Janville and

that the roof of the pavilion should be entirely renovated, since the

rain came into the bedrooms.

The Séguins' landau was waiting at the door. When they had got into it

with their friend, it occurred to Mathieu to raise his eyes; and at one

of the windows he perceived Céleste standing between the two children,

intent, no doubt, on assuring herself that Monsieur and Madame were

really going. The young man recalled Reine's departure from her parents;

but here both Lucie and Gaston remained motionless, gravely mournful, and

neither their father nor their mother once thought of looking up at them.