VI

ABOUT nine o'clock one fine cold morning, a few days afterwards, as

Mathieu, bound for his office, a little late through having lingered near

his wife, was striding hastily across the garden which separated the

pavilion from the factory yard, he met Constance and Maurice, who, clad

in furs, were going out for a walk in the sharp air. Beauchêne, who was

accompanying them as far as the gate, bareheaded and ever sturdy and

victorious, gayly exclaimed to his wife:

"Give the youngster a good spin on his legs! Let him take in all the

fresh air he can. There's nothing like that and good food to make a man."

Mathieu, on hearing this, stopped short. "Has Maurice been poorly again?"

he inquired.

"Oh, no!" hastily replied the boy's mother, with an appearance of great

gayety, assumed perhaps from an unconscious desire to hide certain covert

fears. "Only the doctor wants him to take exercise, and it is so fine

this morning that we are going off on quite an expedition."

"Don't go along the quays," said Beauchêne again. "Go up towards the

Invalides. He'll have much stiffer marching to do when he's a soldier."

Then, the mother and the child having taken themselves off, he went back

into the works with Mathieu, adding in his triumphant way: "That

youngster, you know, is as strong as an oak. But women are always so

nervous. For my part, I'm quite easy in mind about him, as you can see."

And with a laugh he concluded: "When one has but one son, he keeps him."

That same day, about an hour later, a terrible dispute which broke out

between old Moineaud's daughters, Norine and Euphrasie, threw the factory

into a state of commotion. Norine's intrigue with Beauchêne had ended in

the usual way. He had soon tired of the girl and betaken himself to some

other passing fancy, leaving her to her tears, her shame, and all the

consequences of her fault; for although it had hitherto been possible for

her to conceal her condition from her parents, she was unable to deceive

her sister, who was her constant companion. The two girls were always

bickering, and Norine had for some time lived in dread of scandal and

exposure. And that day the trouble came to a climax, beginning with a

trivial dispute about a bit of glass-paper in the workroom, then

developing into a furious exchange of coarse, insulting language, and

culminating in a frantic outburst from Euphrasie, who shrieked to the

assembled work-girls all that she knew about her sister.

There was an outrageous scene: the sisters fought, clawing and scratching

one another desperately, and could not be separated until Beauchêne,

Mathieu, and Morange, attracted by the extraordinary uproar, rushed into

the workroom and restored a little order. Fortunately for Beauchêne,

Euphrasie did not know the whole truth, and Norine, after giving her

employer a humble, supplicating glance, kept silence; but old Moineaud

was present, and the public revelation of his daughter's shame sent him

into a fury. He ordered Norine out of the works forthwith, and threatened

to throw her out of window should he find her at home when he returned

there in the evening. And Beauchêne, both annoyed at the scandal and

ashamed at being the primary cause of it, did not venture to interfere.

It was only after the unhappy Norine had rushed off sobbing that he found

strength of mind to attempt to pacify the father, and assert his

authority in the workroom by threatening to dismiss one and all of the

girls if the slightest scandal, the slightest noise, should ever occur

there again.

Mathieu was deeply pained by the scene, but kept his own counsel. What

most astonished him was the promptness with which Beauchêne regained his

self-possession as soon as Norine had fled, and the majesty with which he

withdrew to his office after threatening the others and restoring order.

Another whom the scene had painfully affected was Morange, whom Mathieu,

to his surprise, found ghastly pale, with trembling hands, as if indeed

he had had some share of responsibility in this unhappy business. But

Morange, as he confided to Mathieu, was distressed for other reasons. The

scene in the workroom, the revelation of Norine's condition, the fate

awaiting the girl driven away into the bleak, icy streets, had revived

all his own poignant worries with respect to Valérie. Mathieu had already

heard of the latter's trouble from his wife, and he speedily grasped the

accountant's meaning. It vaguely seemed to him also that Morange was

yielding to the same unreasoning despair as Valérie, and was almost

willing that she should take the desperate course which she had hinted to

Marianne. But it was a very serious matter, and Mathieu did not wish to

be in any way mixed up in it. Having tried his best to pacify the

cashier, he sought forgetfulness of these painful incidents in his work.

That afternoon, however, a little girl, Cécile Moineaud, the old fitter's

youngest daughter, slipped into his office, with a message from her

mother, beseeching him to speak with her. He readily understood that the

woman wished to see him respecting Norine, and in his usual compassionate

way he consented to go. The interview took place in one of the adjacent

streets, down which the cold winter wind was blowing. La Moineaude was

there with Norine and another little girl of hers, Irma, a child eight

years of age. Both Norine and her mother wept abundantly while begging

Mathieu to help them. He alone knew the whole truth, and was in a

position to approach Beauchêne on the subject. La Moineaude was firmly

determined to say nothing to her husband. She trembled for his future and

that of her son Alfred, who was now employed at the works; for there was

no telling what might happen if Beauchêne's name should be mentioned.

Life was indeed hard enough already, and what would become of them all

should the family bread-winners be turned away from the factory? Norine

certainly had no legal claim on Beauchêne, the law being peremptory on

that point; but, now that she had lost her employment, and was driven

from home by her father, could he leave her to die of want in the

streets? The girl tried to enforce her moral claim by asserting that she

had always been virtuous before meeting Beauchêne. In any case, her lot

remained a very hard one. That Beauchêne was the father of her child

there could be no doubt; and at last Mathieu, without promising success,

told the mother that he would do all he could in the matter.

He kept his word that same afternoon, and after a great deal of

difficulty he succeeded. At first Beauchêne fumed, stormed, denied,

equivocated, almost blamed Mathieu for interfering, talked too of

blackmail, and put on all sorts of high and mighty airs. But at heart the

matter greatly worried him. What if Norine or her mother should go to his

wife? Constance might close her eyes as long as she simply suspected

things, but if complaints were formally, openly made to her, there would

be a terrible scandal. On the other hand, however, should he do anything

for the girl, it would become known, and everybody would regard him as

responsible. And then there would be no end to what he called the

blackmailing.

However, when Beauchêne reached this stage Mathieu felt that the battle

was gained. He smiled and answered: "Of course, one can never tell--the

girl is certainly not malicious. But when women are driven beyond

endurance, they become capable of the worst follies. I must say that she

made no demands of me; she did not even explain what she wanted; she

simply said that she could not remain in the streets in this bleak

weather, since her father had turned her away from home. If you want my

opinion, it is this: I think that one might at once put her to board at a

proper place. Let us say that four or five months will elapse before she

is able to work again; that would mean a round sum of five hundred francs

in expenses. At that cost she might be properly looked after."

Beauchêne walked nervously up and down, and then replied: "Well, I

haven't a bad heart, as you know. Five hundred francs more or less will

not inconvenience me. If I flew into a temper just now it was because the

mere idea of being robbed and imposed upon puts me beside myself. But if

it's a question of charity, why, then, do as you suggest. It must be

understood, however, that I won't mix myself up in anything; I wish even

to remain ignorant of what you do. Choose a nurse, place the girl where

you please, and I will simply pay the bill. Neither more nor less."

Then he heaved a sigh of relief at the prospect of being extricated from

this equivocal position, the worry of which he refused to acknowledge.

And once more he put on the mien of a superior, victorious man, one who

is certain that he will win all the battles of life. In fact, he even

jested about the girl, and at last went off repeating his instructions:

"See that my conditions are fully understood. I don't want to know

anything about any child. Do whatever you please, but never let me hear

another word of the matter."

That day was certainly one fertile in incidents, for in the evening there

was quite an alarm at the Beauchênes. At the moment when they were about

to sit down to dinner little Maurice fainted away and fell upon the

floor. Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed before the child could be

revived, and meantime the distracted parents quarrelled and shouted,

accusing one another of having compelled the lad to go out walking that

morning in such cold, frosty weather. It was evidently that foolish

outing which had chilled him. At least, this was what they said to one

another by way of quieting their anxiety. Constance, while she held her

boy in her arms, pictured him as dead. It occurred to her for the first

time that she might possibly lose him. At this idea she experienced a

terrible heart-pang, and a feeling of motherliness came upon her, so

acute that it was like a revelation. The ambitious woman that was in her,

she who dreamt of royalty for that only son, the future princely owner of

the ever-growing family fortune, likewise suffered horribly. If she was

to lose that son she would have no child left. Why had she none other?

Was it not she who had willed it thus? At this thought a feeling of

desperate regret shot through her like a red-hot blade, burning her

cruelly to the very depths of her being. Maurice, however, at last

recovered consciousness, and even sat down to the table and ate with a

fair appetite. Then Beauchêne immediately shrugged his shoulders, and

began to jest about the unreasoning fears of women. And as time went by

Constance herself ceased to think of the incident.

On the morrow, when Mathieu had to attend to the delicate mission which

he had undertaken, he remembered the two women of whom Céleste, the maid,

had spoken on the day of his visit to the Séguins. He at first dismissed

all idea of that Madame Rouche, of whom the girl had spoken so strangely,

but he thought of making some inquiries respecting Madame Bourdieu, who

accommodated boarders at the little house where she resided in the Rue de

Miromesnil. And he seemed to remember that this woman had attended Madame

Morange at the time of Reine's birth, a circumstance which induced him to

question the cashier.

At the very first words the latter seemed greatly disturbed. "Yes, a lady

friend recommended Madame Bourdieu to my wife," said he; "but why do you

ask me?"

And as he spoke he looked at Mathieu with an expression of anguish, as if

that sudden mention of Madame Bourdieu's name signified that the young

fellow had guessed his secret preoccupations. It was as though he had

been abruptly surprised in wrong-doing. Perhaps, too, certain dim,

haunting thoughts, which he had long been painfully revolving in his

mind, without as yet being able to come to a decision, took shape at that

moment. At all events, he turned pale and his lips trembled.

Then, as Mathieu gave him to understand that it was a question of placing

Norine somewhere, he involuntarily let an avowal escape him.

"My wife was speaking to me of Madame Bourdieu only this morning," he

began. "Oh! I don't know how it happened, but, as you are aware, Reine

was born so many years ago that I can't give you any precise information.

It seems that the woman has done well, and is now at the head of a

first-class establishment. Inquire there yourself; I have no doubt you

will find what you want there."

Mathieu followed this advice; but at the same time, as he had been warned

that Madame Bourdieu's terms were rather high, he stifled his prejudices

and began by repairing to the Rue du Rocher in order to reconnoitre

Madame Rouche's establishment and make some inquiries of her. The mere

aspect of the place chilled him. It was one of the black houses of old

Paris, with a dark, evil-smelling passage, leading into a small yard

which the nurse's few squalid rooms overlooked. Above the passage

entrance was a yellow signboard which simply bore the name of Madame

Rouche in big letters. She herself proved to be a person of five or

six-and-thirty, gowned in black and spare of figure, with a leaden

complexion, scanty hair of no precise color, and a big nose of unusual

prominence. With her low, drawling speech, her prudent, cat-like

gestures, and her sour smile, he divined her to be a dangerous,

unscrupulous woman. She told him that, as the accommodation at her

disposal was so small, she only took boarders for a limited time, and

this of course enabled him to curtail his inquiries. Glad to have done

with her, he hurried off, oppressed by nausea and vaguely frightened by

what he had seen of the place.

On the other hand, Madame Bourdieu's establishment, a little

three-storied house in the Rue de Miromesnil, between the Rue La Boëtie

and the Rue de Penthièvre, offered an engaging aspect, with its bright

façade and muslin-curtained windows. And Madame Bourdieu, then

two-and-thirty, rather short and stout, had a broad, pleasant white face,

which had greatly helped her on the road to success. She expatiated to

Mathieu on the preliminary training that was required by one of her

profession, the cost of it, the efforts needed to make a position, the

responsibilities, the inspections, the worries of all sorts that she had

to face; and she plainly told the young man that her charge for a boarder

would be two hundred francs a month. This was far more than he was

empowered to give; however, after some further conversation, when Madame

Bourdieu learnt that it was a question of four months' board, she became

more accommodating, and agreed to accept a round sum of six hundred

francs for the entire period, provided that the person for whom Mathieu

was acting would consent to occupy a three-bedded room with two other

boarders.

Altogether there were about a dozen boarders' rooms in the house, some of

these having three, and even four, beds; while others, the terms for

which were naturally higher, contained but one. Madame Bourdieu could

accommodate as many as thirty boarders, and as a rule, she had some

five-and-twenty staying on her premises. Provided they complied with the

regulations, no questions were asked them. They were not required to say

who they were or whence they came, and in most cases they were merely

known by some Christian name which they chose to give.

Mathieu ended by agreeing to Madame Bourdieu's terms, and that same

evening Norine was taken to her establishment. Some little trouble ensued

with Beauchêne, who protested when he learnt that five hundred francs

would not suffice to defray the expenses. However, Mathieu managed

affairs so diplomatically that at last the other not only became

reconciled to the terms, but provided the money to purchase a little

linen, and even agreed to supply pocket-money to the extent of ten francs

a month. Thus, five days after Norine had entered Madame Bourdieu's

establishment, Mathieu decided to return thither to hand the girl her

first ten francs and tell her that he had settled everything.

He found her there in the boarders' refectory with some of her companions

in the house--a tall, thin, severe-looking Englishwoman, with lifeless

eyes and bloodless lips, who called herself Amy, and a pale red-haired

girl with a tip-tilted nose and a big mouth, who was known as Victoire.

Then, too, there was a young person of great beauty answering to the name

of Rosine, a jeweller's daughter, so Norine told Mathieu, whose story was

at once pathetic and horrible. The young man, while waiting to see Madame

Bourdieu, who was engaged, sat for a time answering Norine's questions,

and listening to the others, who conversed before him in a free and open

way. His heart was wrung by much that he heard, and as soon as he could

rid himself of Norine he returned to the waiting-room, eager to complete

his business. There, however, two women who wished to consult Madame

Bourdieu, and who sat chatting side by side on a sofa, told him that she

was still engaged, so that he was compelled to tarry a little longer. He

ensconced himself in a large armchair, and taking a newspaper from his

pocket, began to read it. But he had not been thus occupied for many

minutes before the door opened and a servant entered, ushering in a lady

dressed in black and thickly veiled, whom she asked to be good enough to

wait her turn. Mathieu was on the point of rising, for, though his back

was turned to the door, he could see, in a looking-glass, that the new

arrival was none other than Morange's wife, Valérie. After a moment's

hesitation, however, the sight of her black gown and thick veil, which

seemed to indicate that she desired to escape recognition, induced him to

dive back into his armchair and feign extreme attention to his newspaper.

She, on her side, had certainly not noticed him, but by glancing

slantwise towards the looking-glass he could observe all her movements.

Meantime the conversation between the other women on the sofa continued,

and to Mathieu's surprise it suddenly turned on Madame Rouche, concerning

whom one of them began telling the most horrible stories, which fully

confirmed the young man's previous suspicions. These stories seemed to

have a powerful fascination for Valérie, who sat in a corner, never

stirring, but listening intently. She did not even turn her head towards

the other women, but, beneath her veil, Mathieu could detect her big eyes

glittering feverishly. She started but once. It was when one of the

others inquired of her friend where that horrid creature La Rouche

resided, and the other replied, "At the lower end of the Rue du Rocher."

Then their chatter abruptly ceased, for Madame Bourdieu made her

appearance on the threshold of her private room. The gossips exchanged

only a few words with her, and then, as Mathieu remained in his armchair,

the high back of which concealed him from view, Valérie rose from her

seat and followed Madame Bourdieu into the private room.

As soon as he was alone the young man let his newspaper fall upon his

knees, and lapsed into a reverie, haunted by all the chatter he had

heard, both there and in Norine's company, and shuddering at the thought

of the dreadful secrets that had been revealed to him. How long an

interval elapsed he could not tell, but at last he was suddenly roused by

a sound of voices.

Madame Bourdieu was now escorting Valérie to the door. She had the same

plump fresh face as usual, and even smiled in a motherly way; but the

other was quivering, as with distress and grief. "You are not sensible,

my dear child," said Madame Bourdieu to her. "It is simply foolish of

you. Come, go home and be good."

Then, Valérie having withdrawn without uttering a word, Madame Bourdieu

was greatly surprised to see Mathieu, who had risen from his chair. And

she suddenly became serious, displeased with herself at having spoken in

his presence. Fortunately, a diversion was created by the arrival of

Norine, who came in from the refectory; and Mathieu then promptly settled

his business and went off, after promising Norine that he would return

some day to see her.

To make up for lost time he was walking hastily towards the Rue La

Boëtie, when, all at once, he came to a halt, for at the very corner of

that street he again perceived Valérie, now talking to a man, none other

than her husband. So Morange had come with her, and had waited for her in

the street while she interviewed Madame Bourdieu. And now they both stood

there consulting together, hesitating and evidently in distress. It was

plain to Mathieu that a terrible combat was going on within them. They

stamped about, moved hither and thither in a feverish way, then halted

once more to resume their conversation in a whisper. At one moment the

young man felt intensely relieved, for, turning into the Rue La Boëtie,

they walked on slowly, as if downcast and resigned, in the direction of

Grenelle. But all at once they halted once more and exchanged a few

words; and then Mathieu's heart contracted as he saw them retrace their

steps along the Rue La Boëtie and follow the Rue de la Pépinière as far

as the Rue du Rocher. He readily divined whither they were going, but

some irresistible force impelled him to follow them; and before long,

from an open doorway, in which he prudently concealed himself, he saw

them look round to ascertain whether they were observed, and then slink,

first the wife and afterwards the husband, into the dark passage of La

Rouche's house. For a moment Mathieu lingered in his hiding-place,

quivering, full of dread and horror; and when at last he turned his steps

homeward it was with a heavy heart indeed.

The weeks went by, the winter ran its course, and March had come round,

when the memory of all that the young fellow had heard and seen that

day--things which he had vainly striven to forget--was revived in the

most startling fashion. One morning at eight o'clock Morange abruptly

called at the little pavilion in the Rue de la Fédération, accompanied by

his daughter Reine. The cashier was livid, haggard, distracted, and as

soon as Reine had joined Mathieu's children, and could not hear what he

said, he implored the young man to come with him. In a gasp he told the

dreadful truth--Valérie was dying. Her daughter believed her to be in the

country, but that was a mere fib devised to quiet the girl. Valérie was

elsewhere, in Paris, and he, Morange, had a cab waiting below, but lacked

the strength to go back to her alone, so poignant was his grief, so great

his dread.

Mathieu was expecting a happy event that very day, and he at first told

the cashier that he could not possibly go with him; but when he had

informed Marianne that he believed that something dreadful had happened

to the Moranges, she bravely bade him render all assistance. And then the

two men drove, as Mathieu had anticipated, to the Rue du Rocher, and

there found the hapless Valérie, not dying, but dead, and white, and icy

cold. Ah! the desperate, tearless grief of the husband, who fell upon his

knees at the bedside, benumbed, annihilated, as if he also felt death's

heavy hand upon him.

For a moment, indeed, the young man anticipated exposure and scandal. But

when he hinted this to La Rouche she faintly smiled. She had friends on

many sides, it seemed. She had already reported Valérie's death at the

municipal office, and the doctor, who would be sent to certify the

demise, would simply ascribe it to natural causes. Such was the usual

practice!

Then Mathieu bethought himself of leading Morange away; but the other,

still plunged in painful stupor, did not heed him.

"No, no, my friend, I pray you, say nothing," he at last replied, in a

very faint, distant voice, as though he feared to awaken the unfortunate

woman who had fallen asleep forever. "I know what I have done; I shall

never forgive myself. If she lies there, it is because I consented. Yet I

adored her, and never wished her aught but happiness. I loved her too

much, and I was weak. Still, I was the husband, and when her madness came

upon her I ought to have acted sensibly, and have warned and dissuaded

her. I can understand and excuse her, poor creature; but as for me, it is

all over; I am a wretch; I feel horrified with myself."

All his mediocrity and tenderness of heart sobbed forth in this

confession of his weakness. And his voice never gave sign of animation,

never rose in a louder tone from the depths of his annihilated being,

which would evermore be void. "She wished to be gay, and rich, and

happy," he continued. "It was so legitimate a wish on her part, she was

so intelligent and beautiful! There was only one delight for me, to

content her tastes and satisfy her ambition. You know our new flat. We

spent far too much money on it. Then came that story of the Crédit

National and the hope of speedily rising to fortune. And thus, when the

trouble came, and I saw her distracted at the idea of having to renounce

all her dreams, I became as mad as she was, and suffered her to do her

will. We thought that our only means of escaping from everlasting penury

and drudgery was to evade Nature, and now, alas! she lies there."

Morange's lugubrious voice, never broken by a sob, never rising to

violence, but sounding like a distant, monotonous, mournful knell, rent

Mathieu's heart. He sought words of consolation, and spoke of Reine.

"Ah, yes!" said the other, "I am very fond of Reine. She is so like her

mother. You will keep her at your house till to-morrow, won't you? Tell

her nothing; let her play; I will acquaint her with this dreadful

misfortune. And don't worry me, I beg you, don't take me away. I promise

you that I will keep very quiet: I will simply stay here, watching her.

Nobody will even hear me; I shan't disturb any one."

Then his voice faltered and he stammered a few more incoherent phrases as

he sank into a dream of his wrecked life.

Mathieu, seeing him so quiet, so overcome, at last decided to leave him

there, and, entering the waiting cab, drove back to Grenelle. Ah! it was

indeed relief for him to see the crowded, sunlit streets again, and to

breathe the keen air which came in at both windows of the vehicle.

Emerging from that horrid gloom, he breathed gladly beneath the vast sky,

all radiant with healthy joy. And the image of Marianne arose before him

like a consolatory promise of life's coming victory, an atonement for

every shame and iniquity. His dear wife, whom everlasting hope kept full

of health and courage, and through whom, even amid her pangs, love would

triumph, while they both held themselves in readiness for to-morrow's

allotted effort! The cab rolled on so slowly that Mathieu almost

despaired, eager as he was to reach his bright little house, that he

might once more take part in life's poem, that august festival instinct

with so much suffering and so much joy, humanity's everlasting hymn, the

coming of a new being into the world.

That very day, soon after his return, Denis and Blaise, Ambroise, Rose,

and Reine were sent round to the Beauchênes', where they filled the house

with their romping mirth. Maurice, however, was again ailing, and had to

lie upon a sofa, disconsolate at being unable to take part in the play of

the others. "He has pains in his legs," said his father to Mathieu, when

he came round to inquire after Marianne; "he's growing so fast, and

getting such a big fellow, you know."

Lightly as Beauchêne spoke, his eyes even then wavered, and his face

remained for a moment clouded. Perhaps, in his turn, he also had felt the

passing of that icy breath from the unknown which one evening had made

Constance shudder with dread whilst she clasped her swooning boy in her

arms.

But at that moment Mathieu, who had left Marianne's room to answer

Beauchêne's inquiries, was summoned back again. And there he now found

the sunlight streaming brilliantly, like a glorious greeting to new life.

While he yet stood there, dazzled by the glow, the doctor said to him:

"It is a boy."

Then Mathieu leant over his wife and kissed her lovingly. Her beautiful

eyes were still moist with the tears of anguish, but she was already

smiling with happiness.

"Dear, dear wife," said Mathieu, "how good and brave you are, and how I

love you!"

"Yes, yes, I am very happy," she faltered, "and I must try to give you

back all the love that you give me."

Ah! that room of battle and victory, it seemed radiant with triumphant

glory. Elsewhere was death, darkness, shame, and crime, but here holy

suffering had led to joy and pride, hope and trustfulness in the coming

future. One single being born, a poor bare wee creature, raising the

faint cry of a chilly fledgeling, and life's immense treasure was

increased and eternity insured. Mathieu remembered one warm balmy spring

night when, yonder at Chantebled, all the perfumes of fruitful nature had

streamed into their room in the little hunting-box, and now around him

amid equal rapture he beheld the ardent sunlight flaring, chanting the

poem of eternal life that sprang from love the eternal.