AMID the deep mourning life slowly resumed its course at the Beauchêne
works. One effect of the terrible blow which had fallen on Beauchêne was
that for some weeks he remained quietly at home. Indeed, he seemed to
have profited by the terrible lesson, for he no longer coined lies, no
longer invented pressing business journeys as a pretext for dissipation.
He even set to work once more, and busied himself about the factory,
coming down every morning as in his younger days. And in Blaise he found
an active and devoted lieutenant, on whom he each day cast more and more
of the heavier work. Intimates were most struck, however, by the manner
in which Beauchêne and his wife drew together again. Constance was most
attentive to her husband; Beauchêne no longer left her, and they seemed
to agree well together, leading a very retired life in their quiet house,
where only relatives were now received.
Constance, on the morrow of Maurice's sudden death, was like one who has
just lost a limb. It seemed to her that she was no longer whole; she felt
ashamed of being, as it were, disfigured. Mingled, too, with her loving
sorrow for Maurice there was humiliation at the thought that she was no
longer a mother, that she no longer had any heir-apparent to her kingdom
beside her. To think that she had been so stubbornly determined to have
but one son, one child, in order that he might become the sole master of
the family fortune, the all-powerful monarch of the future. Death had
stolen him from her, and the establishment now seemed to be less her own,
particularly since that fellow Blaise and his wife and his child,
representing those fruitful and all-invading Froments, were installed
there. She could no longer console herself for having welcomed and lodged
them, and her one passionate, all-absorbing desire was to have another
son, and thereby reconquer her empire.
This it was which led to her reconciliation with her husband, and for six
months they lived together on the best of terms. Then, however, came
another six months, and it was evident that they no longer agreed so well
together, for Beauchêne took himself off at times under the pretext of
seeking fresh air, and Constance remained at home, feverish, her eyes red
with weeping.
One day Mathieu, who had come to Grenelle to see his daughter-in-law,
Charlotte, was lingering in the garden playing with little Berthe, who
had climbed upon his knees, when he was surprised by the sudden approach
of Constance, who must have seen him from her windows. She invented a
pretext to draw him into the house, and kept him there nearly a quarter
of an hour before she could make up her mind to speak her thoughts. Then,
all at once, she began: "My dear Mathieu, you must forgive me for
mentioning a painful matter, but there are reasons why I should do so.
Nearly fifteen years ago, I know it for a fact, my husband had a child by
a girl who was employed at the works. And I also know that you acted as
his intermediary on that occasion, and made certain arrangements with
respect to that girl and her child--a boy, was it not?"
She paused for a reply. But Mathieu, stupefied at finding her so well
informed, and at a loss to understand why she spoke to him of that sorry
affair after the lapse of so many years, could only make a gesture by
which he betrayed both his surprise and his anxiety.
"Oh!" said she, "I do not address any reproach to you; I am convinced
that your motives were quite friendly, even affectionate, and that you
wished to hush up a scandal which might have been very unpleasant for me.
Moreover, I do not desire to indulge in recriminations after so long a
time. My desire is simply for information. For a long time I did not care
to investigate the statements whereby I was informed of the affair. But
the recollection of it comes back to me and haunts me persistently, and
it is natural that I should apply to you. I have never spoken a word on
the subject to my husband, and indeed it is best for our tranquillity
that I should not attempt to extort a detailed confession from him. One
circumstance which has induced me to speak to you is that on an occasion
when I accompanied Madame Angelin to a house in the Rue de Miromesnil, I
perceived you there with that girl, who had another child in her arms. So
you have not lost sight of her, and you must know what she is doing, and
whether her first child is alive, and in that case where he is, and how
he is situated."
Mathieu still refrained from replying, for Constance's increasing
feverishness put him on his guard, and impelled him to seek the motive of
such a strange application on the part of one who was as a rule so proud
and so discreet. What could be happening? Why did she strive to provoke
confidential revelations which might have far-reaching effects? Then, as
she closely scanned him with her keen eyes, he sought to answer her with
kind, evasive words.
"You greatly embarrass me. And, besides, I know nothing likely to
interest you. What good would it do yourself or your husband to stir up
all the dead past? Take my advice, forget what people may have told
you--you are so sensible and prudent--"
But she interrupted him, caught hold of his hands, and held them in her
warm, quivering grasp. Never before had she so behaved, forgetting and
surrendering herself so passionately. "I repeat," said she, "that nobody
has anything to fear from me--neither my husband, nor that girl, nor the
child. Cannot you understand me? I am simply tormented; I suffer at
knowing nothing. Yes, it seems to me that I shall feel more at ease when
I know the truth. It is for myself that I question you, for my own peace
of mind.... Ah! if I could only tell you, if I could tell you!"
He began to divine many things; it was unnecessary for her to be more
explicit. He knew that during the past year she and her husband had been
hoping for the advent of a second child, and that none had come. As a
woman, Constance felt no jealousy of Norine, but as a mother she was
jealous of her son. She could not drive the thought of that child from
her mind; it ever and ever returned thither like a mocking insult now
that her hopes of replacing Maurice were fading fast. Day by day did she
dream more and more passionately of the other woman's son, wondering
where he was, what had become of him, whether he were healthy, and
whether he resembled his father.
"I assure you, my dear Mathieu," she resumed, "that you will really bring
me relief by answering me. Is he alive? Tell me simply whether he is
alive. But do not tell me a lie. If he is dead I think that I shall feel
calmer. And yet, good heavens! I certainly wish him no evil."
Then Mathieu, who felt deeply touched, told her the simple truth.
"Since you insist on it, for the benefit of your peace of mind, and since
it is to remain entirely between us and to have no effect on your home, I
see no reason why I should not confide to you what I know. But that is
very little. The child was left at the Foundling Hospital in my presence.
Since then the mother, having never asked for news, has received none. I
need not add that your husband is equally ignorant, for he always refused
to have anything to do with the child. Is the lad still alive? Where is
he? Those are things which I cannot tell you. A long inquiry would be
necessary. If, however, you wish for my opinion, I think it probable that
he is dead, for the mortality among these poor cast-off children is very
great."
Constance looked at him fixedly. "You are telling me the real truth? You
are hiding nothing?" she asked. And as he began to protest, she went on:
"Yes, yes, I have confidence in you. And so you believe that he is dead!
Ah! to think of all those children who die, when so many women would be
happy to save one, to have one for themselves. Well, if you haven't been
able to tell me anything positive, you have at least done your best.
Thank you."
During the ensuing months Mathieu often found himself alone with
Constance, but she never reverted to the subject. She seemed to set her
energy on forgetting all about it, though he divined that it still
haunted her. Meantime things went from bad to worse in the Beauchêne
household. The husband gradually went back to his former life of
debauchery, in spite of all the efforts of Constance to keep him near
her. She, for her part, clung to her fixed idea, and before long she
consulted Boutan. There was a terrible scene that day between husband and
wife in the doctor's presence. Constance raked up the story of Norine and
cast it in Beauchêne's teeth, while he upbraided her in a variety of
ways. However, Boutan's advice, though followed for a time, proved
unavailing, and she at last lost confidence in him. Then she spent months
and months in consulting one and another. She placed herself in the hands
of Madame Bourdieu, she even went to see La Rouche, she applied to all
sorts of charlatans, exasperated to fury at finding that there was no
real succor for her. She might long ago have had a family had she so
chosen. But she had elected otherwise, setting all her egotism and pride
on that only son whom death had snatched away; and now the motherhood she
longed for was denied her.
For nearly two years did Constance battle, and at last in despair she was
seized with the idea of consulting Dr. Gaude. He told her the brutal
truth; it was useless for her to address herself to charlatans; she would
simply be robbed by them; there was absolutely no hope for her. And Gaude
uttered those decisive words in a light, jesting way, as though surprised
and amused by her profound grief. She almost fainted on the stairs as she
left his flat, and for a moment indeed death seemed welcome. But by a
great effort of will she recovered self-possession, the courage to face
the life of loneliness that now lay before her. Moreover, another idea
vaguely dawned upon her, and the first time she found herself alone with
Mathieu she again spoke to him of Norine's boy.
"Forgive me," said she, "for reverting to a painful subject, but I am
suffering too much now that I know there is no hope for me. I am haunted
by the thought of that illegitimate child of my husband's. Will you do me
a great service? Make the inquiry you once spoke to me about, try to find
out if he is alive or dead. I feel that when I know the facts peace may
perhaps return to me."
Mathieu was almost on the point of answering her that, even if this child
were found again, it could hardly cure her of her grief at having no
child of her own. He had divined her agony at seeing Blaise take
Maurice's place at the works now that Beauchêne had resumed his dissolute
life, and daily intrusted the young man with more and more authority.
Blaise's home was prospering too; Charlotte had now given birth to a
second child, a boy, and thus fruitfulness was invading the place and
usurpation becoming more and more likely, since Constance could never
more have an heir to bar the road of conquest. Without penetrating her
singular feelings, Mathieu fancied that she perhaps wished to sound him
to ascertain if he were not behind Blaise, urging on the work of
spoliation. She possibly imagined that her request would make him
anxious, and that he would refuse to make the necessary researches. At
this idea he decided to do as she desired, if only to show her that he
was above all the base calculations of ambition.
"I am at your disposal, cousin," said he. "It is enough for me that this
inquiry may give you a little relief. But if the lad is alive, am I to
bring him to you?"
"Oh! no, no, I do not ask that!" And then, gesticulating almost wildly,
she stammered: "I don't know what I want, but I suffer so dreadfully that
I am scarce able to live!"
In point of fact a tempest raged within her, but she really had no
settled plan. One could hardly say that she really thought of that boy as
a possible heir. In spite of her hatred of all conquerors from without,
was it likely that she would accept him as a conqueror, in the face of
her outraged womanly feelings and her _bourgeois_ horror of illegitimacy?
And yet if he were not her son, he was at least her husband's. And
perhaps an idea of saving her empire by placing the works in the hands of
that heir was dimly rising within her, above all her prejudices and her
rancor. But however that might be, her feelings for the time remained
confused, and the only clear thing was her desperate torment at being now
and forever childless, a torment which goaded her on to seek another's
child with the wild idea of making that child in some slight degree her
own.
Mathieu, however, asked her, "Am I to inform Beauchêne of the steps I
take?"
"Do you as you please," she answered. "Still, that would be the best."
That same evening there came a complete rupture between herself and her
husband. She threw in Beauchêne's face all the contempt and loathing that
she had felt for him for years. Hopeless as she was, she revenged herself
by telling him everything that she had on her heart and mind. And her
slim dark figure, upborne by bitter rage, assumed such redoubtable
proportions in his eyes that he felt frightened by her and fled.
Henceforth they were husband and wife in name only. It was logic on the
march, it was the inevitable disorganization of a household reaching its
climax, it was rebellion against nature's law and indulgence in vice
leading to the gradual decline of a man of intelligence, it was a hard
worker sinking into the sloth of so-called pleasure; and then, death
having snatched away the only son, the home broke to pieces--the
wife--fated to childlessness, and the husband driven away by her, rolling
through debauchery towards final ruin.
But Mathieu, keeping his promise to Constance, discreetly began his
researches. And before he even consulted Beauchêne it occurred to him to
apply at the Foundling Hospital. If, as he anticipated, the child were
dead, the affair would go no further. Fortunately enough he remembered
all the particulars: the two names, Alexandre-Honoré, given to the child,
the exact date of the deposit at the hospital, indeed all the little
incidents of the day when he had driven thither with La Couteau. And when
he was received by the director of the establishment, and had explained
to him the real motives of his inquiries, at the same time giving his
name, he was surprised by the promptness and precision of the answer:
Alexandre-Honoré, put out to nurse with the woman Loiseau at Rougemont,
had first kept cows, and had then tried the calling of a locksmith; but
for three months past he had been in apprenticeship with a wheelwright, a
certain Montoir, residing at Saint-Pierre, a hamlet in the vicinity of
Rougemont. Thus the lad lived; he was fifteen years old, and that was
all. Mathieu could obtain no further information respecting either his
physical health or his morality.
When Mathieu found himself in the street again, slightly dazed, he
remembered that La Couteau had told him that the child would be sent to
Rougemont. He had always pictured it dying there, carried off by the
hurricane which killed so many babes, and lying in the silent village
cemetery paved with little Parisians. To find the boy alive, saved from
the massacre, came like a surprise of destiny, and brought vague anguish,
a fear of some terrible catastrophe to Mathieu's heart. At the same time,
since the boy was living, and he now knew where to seek him, he felt that
he must warn Beauchêne. The matter was becoming serious, and it seemed to
him that he ought not to carry the inquiry any further without the
father's authorization.
That same day, then, before returning to Chantebled, he repaired to the
factory, where he was lucky enough to find Beauchêne, whom Blaise's
absence on business had detained there by force. Thus he was in a very
bad humor, puffing and yawning and half asleep. It was nearly three
o'clock, and he declared that he could never digest his lunch properly
unless he went out afterwards. The truth was that since his rupture with
his wife he had been devoting his afternoons to paying attentions to a
girl serving at a beer-house.
"Ah! my good fellow," he muttered as he stretched himself. "My blood is
evidently thickening. I must bestir myself, or else I shall be in a bad
way."
However, he woke up when Mathieu had explained the motive of his visit.
At first he could scarcely understand it, for the affair seemed to him so
extraordinary, so idiotic.
"Eh? What do you say? It was my wife who spoke to you about that child?
It is she who has taken it into her head to collect information and start
a search?"
His fat apoplectical face became distorted, his anger was so violent that
he could scarcely stutter. When he heard, however, of the mission with
which his wife had intrusted Mathieu, he at last exploded: "She is mad! I
tell you that she is raving mad! Were such fancies ever seen? Every
morning she invents something fresh to distract me!"
Without heeding this interruption, Mathieu quietly finished his
narrative: "And so I have just come back from the Foundling Hospital,
where I learnt that the boy is alive. I have his address--and now what am
I to do?"
This was the final blow. Beauchêne clenched his fists and raised his arms
in exasperation. "Ah! well, here's a nice state of things! But why on
earth does she want to trouble me about that boy? He isn't hers! Why
can't she leave us alone, the boy and me? It's my affair. And I ask you
if it is at all proper for my wife to send you running about after him?
Besides, I hope that you are not going to bring him to her. What on earth
could we do with that little peasant, who may have every vice? Just
picture him coming between us. I tell you that she is mad, mad, mad!"
He had begun to walk angrily to and fro. All at once he stopped: "My dear
fellow, you will just oblige me by telling her that he is dead."
But he turned pale and recoiled. Constance stood on the threshold and had
heard him. For some time past she had been in the habit of stealthily
prowling around the offices, like one on the watch for something. For a
moment, at the sight of the embarrassment which both men displayed, she
remained silent. Then, without even addressing her husband, she asked:
"He is alive, is he not?"
Mathieu could but tell her the truth. He answered with a nod. Then
Beauchêne, in despair, made a final effort: "Come, be reasonable, my
dear. As I was saying only just now, we don't even know what this
youngster's character is. You surely don't want to upset our life for the
mere pleasure of doing so?"
Standing there, lean and frigid, she gave him a harsh glance; then,
turning her back on him, she demanded the child's name, and the names of
the wheelwright and the locality. "Good, you say Alexandre-Honoré, with
Montoir the wheelwright, at Saint-Pierre, near Rougemont, in Calvados.
Well, my friend, oblige me by continuing your researches; endeavor to
procure me some precise information about this boy's habits and
disposition. Be prudent, too; don't give anybody's name. And thanks for
what you have done already; thanks for all you are doing for me."
Thereupon she took herself off without giving any further explanation,
without even telling her husband of the vague plans she was forming.
Beneath her crushing contempt he had grown calm again. Why should he
spoil his life of egotistical pleasure by resisting that mad creature?
All that he need do was to put on his hat and betake himself to his usual
diversions. And so he ended by shrugging his shoulders.
"After all, let her pick him up if she chooses, it won't be my doing. Act
as she asks you, my dear fellow; continue your researches and try to
content her. Perhaps she will then leave me in peace. But I've had quite
enough of it for to-day; good-by, I'm going out."
With the view of obtaining some information of Rougemont, Mathieu at
first thought of applying to La Couteau, if he could find her again; for
which purpose it occurred to him that he might call on Madame Bourdieu in
the Rue de Miromesnil. But another and more certain means suggested
itself. He had been led to renew his intercourse with the Séguins, of
whom he had for a time lost sight; and, much to his surprise, he had
found Valentine's former maid, Céleste, in the Avenue d'Antin once more.
Through this woman, he thought, he might reach La Couteau direct.
The renewal of the intercourse between the Froments and the Séguins was
due to a very happy chance. Mathieu's son Ambroise, on leaving college,
had entered the employment of an uncle of Séguin's, Thomas du Hordel, one
of the wealthiest commission merchants in Paris; and this old man, who,
despite his years, remained very sturdy, and still directed his business
with all the fire of youth, had conceived a growing fondness for
Ambroise, who had great mental endowments and a real genius for commerce.
Du Hordel's own children had consisted of two daughters, one of whom had
died young, while the other had married a madman, who had lodged a bullet
in his head and had left her childless and crazy like himself. This
partially explained the deep grandfatherly interest which Du Hordel took
in young Ambroise, who was the handsomest of all the Froments, with a
clear complexion, large black eyes, brown hair that curled naturally, and
manners of much refinement and elegance. But the old man was further
captivated by the young fellow's spirit of enterprise, the four modern
languages which he spoke so readily, and the evident mastery which he
would some day show in the management of a business which extended over
the five parts of the world. In his childhood, among his brothers and
sisters, Ambroise had always been the boldest, most captivating and
self-assertive. The others might be better than he, but he reigned over
them like a handsome, ambitious, greedy boy, a future man of gayety and
conquest. And this indeed he proved to be; by the charm of his victorious
intellect he conquered old Du Hordel in a few months, even as later on he
was destined to vanquish everybody and everything much as he pleased. His
strength lay in his power of pleasing and his power of action, a blending
of grace with the most assiduous industry.
About this time Séguin and his uncle, who had never set foot in the house
of the Avenue d'Antin since insanity had reigned there, drew together
again. Their apparent reconciliation was the outcome of a drama shrouded
in secrecy. Séguin, hard up and in debt, cast off by Nora, who divined
his approaching ruin, and preyed upon by other voracious creatures, had
ended by committing, on the turf, one of those indelicate actions which
honest people call thefts. Du Hordel, on being apprised of the matter,
had hastened forward and had paid what was due in order to avoid a
frightful scandal. And he was so upset by the extraordinary muddle in
which he found his nephew's home, once all prosperity, that remorse came
upon him as if he were in some degree responsible for what had happened,
since he had egotistically kept away from his relatives for his own
peace's sake. But he was more particularly won over by his grandniece
Andrée, now a delicious young girl well-nigh eighteen years of age, and
therefore marriageable. She alone sufficed to attract him to the house,
and he was greatly distressed by the dangerous state of abandonment in
which he found her.
Her father continued dragging out his worthless life away from home. Her
mother, Valentine, had just emerged from a frightful crisis, her final
rupture with Santerre, who had made up his mind to marry a very wealthy
old lady, which, after all, was the logical destiny of such a crafty
exploiter of women, one who behind his affectation of cultured pessimism
had the vilest and greediest of natures. Valentine, distracted by this
rupture, had now thrown herself into religion, and, like her husband,
disappeared from the house for whole days. She was said to be an active
helpmate of old Count de Navarède, the president of a society of Catholic
propaganda. Gaston, her son, having left Saint-Cyr three months
previously, was now at the Cavalry School of Saumur, so fired with
passion for a military career that he already spoke of remaining a
bachelor, since a soldier's sword should be his only love, his only
spouse. Then Lucie, now nineteen years old, and full of mystical
exaltation, had already entered an Ursuline convent for her novitiate.
And in the big empty home, whence father, mother, brother and sister
fled, there remained but the gentle and adorable Andrée, exposed to all
the blasts of insanity which even now swept through the household, and so
distressed by loneliness, that her uncle, Du Hordel, full of
compassionate affection, conceived the idea of giving her a husband in
the person of young Ambroise, the future conqueror.
This plan was helped on by the renewed presence of Céleste the maid.
Eight years had elapsed since Valentine had been obliged to dismiss this
woman for immorality; and during those eight years Céleste, weary of
service, had tried a number of equivocal callings of which she did not
speak. She had ended by turning up at Rougemont, her native place, in bad
health and such a state of wretchedness, that for the sake of a living
she went out as a charwoman there. Then she gradually recovered her
health, and accumulated a little stock of clothes, thanks to the
protection of the village priest, whom she won over by an affectation of
extreme piety. It was at Rougemont, no doubt, that she planned her return
to the Séguins, of whose vicissitudes she was informed by La Couteau, the
latter having kept up her intercourse with Madame Menoux, the little
haberdasher of the neighborhood.
Valentine, shortly after her rupture with Santerre, one day of furious
despair, when she had again dismissed all her servants, was surprised by
the arrival of Céleste, who showed herself so repentant, so devoted, and
so serious-minded, that her former mistress felt touched. She made her
weep on reminding her of her faults, and asking her to swear before God
that she would never repeat them; for Céleste now went to confession and
partook of the holy communion, and carried with her a certificate from
the Curé of Rougemont vouching for her deep piety and high morality. This
certificate acted decisively on Valentine, who, unwilling to remain at
home, and weary of the troubles of housekeeping, understood what precious
help she might derive from this woman. On her side Céleste certainly
relied upon power being surrendered to her. Two months later, by favoring
Lucie's excessive partiality to religious practices, she had helped her
into a convent. Gaston showed himself only when he secured a few days'
leave. And so Andrée alone remained at home, impeding by her presence the
great general pillage that Céleste dreamt of. The maid therefore became a
most active worker on behalf of her young mistress's marriage.
Andrée, it should be said, was comprised in Ambroise's universal
conquest. She had met him at her uncle Du Hordel's house for a year
before it occurred to the latter to marry them. She was a very gentle
girl, a little golden-haired sheep, as her mother sometimes said. And
that handsome, smiling young man, who evinced so much kindness towards
her, became the subject of her thoughts and hopes whenever she suffered
from loneliness and abandonment. Thus, when her uncle prudently
questioned her, she flung herself into his arms, weeping big tears of
gratitude and confession. Valentine, on being approached, at first
manifested some surprise. What, a son of the Froments! Those Froments had
already taken Chantebled from them, and did they now want to take one of
their daughters? Then, amid the collapse of fortune and household, she
could find no reasonable objection to urge. She had never been attached
to Andrée. She accused La Catiche, the nurse, of having made the child
her own. That gentle, docile, emotional little sheep was not a Séguin,
she often remarked. Then, while feigning to defend the girl, Céleste
embittered her mother against her, and inspired her with a desire to see
the marriage promptly concluded, in order that she might free herself
from her last cares and live as she wished. Thus, after a long chat with
Mathieu, who promised his consent, it remained only for Du Hordel to
assure himself of Séguin's approval before an application in due form was
made. It was difficult, however, to find Séguin in a suitable frame of
mind. So weeks were lost, and it became necessary to pacify Ambroise, who
was very much in love, and was doubtless warned by his all-invading
genius that this loving and simple girl would bring him a kingdom in her
apron.
One day when Mathieu was passing along the Avenue d'Antin, it occurred to
him to call at the house to ascertain if Séguin had re-appeared there,
for he had suddenly taken himself off without warning, and had gone, so
it was believed, to Italy. Then, as Mathieu found himself alone with
Céleste, the opportunity seemed to him an excellent one to discover La
Couteau's whereabouts. He asked for news of her, saying that a friend of
his was in need of a good nurse.
"Well, monsieur, you are in luck's way," the maid replied; "La Couteau is
to bring a child home to our neighbor, Madame Menoux, this very day. It
is nearly four o'clock now, and that is the time when she promised to
come. You know Madame Menoux's place, do you not? It is the third shop in
the first street on the left." Then she apologized for being unable to
conduct him thither: "I am alone," she said; "we still have no news of
the master. On Wednesdays Madame presides at the meeting of her society,
and Mademoiselle Andrée has just gone out walking with her uncle."
Mathieu hastily repaired to Madame Menoux's shop. From a distance he saw
her standing on the threshold; age had made her thinner than ever; at
forty she was as slim as a young girl, with a long and pointed face.
Silent labor consumed her; for twenty years she had been desperately
selling bits of cotton and packages of needles without ever making a
fortune, but pleased, nevertheless, at being able to add her modest gains
to her husband's monthly salary in order to provide him with sundry
little comforts. His rheumatism would no doubt soon compel him to
relinquish his post as a museum attendant, and how would they be able to
manage with his pension of a few hundred francs per annum if she did not
keep up her business? Moreover, they had met with no luck. Their first
child had died, and some years had elapsed before the birth of a second
boy, whom they had greeted with delight, no doubt, though he would prove
a heavy burden to them, especially as they had now decided to take him
back from the country. Thus Mathieu found the worthy woman in a state of
great emotion, waiting for the child on the threshold of her shop, and
watching the corner of the avenue.
"Oh! it was Céleste who sent you, monsieur! No, La Couteau hasn't come
yet. I'm quite astonished at it; I expect her every moment. Will you
kindly step inside, monsieur, and sit down?"
He refused the only chair which blocked up the narrow passage where
scarcely three customers could have stood in a row. Behind a glass
partition one perceived the dim back shop, which served as kitchen and
dining-room and bedchamber, and which received only a little air from a
damp inner yard which suggested a sewer shaft.
"As you see, monsieur, we have scarcely any room," continued Madame
Menoux; "but then we pay only eight hundred francs rent, and where else
could we find a shop at that price? And besides, I have been here for
nearly twenty years, and have worked up a little regular custom in the
neighborhood. Oh! I don't complain of the place myself, I'm not big,
there is always sufficient room for me. And as my husband comes home only
in the evening, and then sits down in his armchair to smoke his pipe, he
isn't so much inconvenienced. I do all I can for him, and he is
reasonable enough not to ask me to do more. But with a child I fear that
it will be impossible to get on here."
The recollection of her first boy, her little Pierre, returned to her,
and her eyes filled with tears. "Ah! monsieur, that was ten years ago,
and I can still see La Couteau bringing him back to me, just as she'll be
bringing the other by and by. I was told so many tales; there was such
good air at Rougemont, and the children led such healthy lives, and my
boy had such rosy cheeks, that I ended by leaving him there till he was
five years old, regretting that I had no room for him here. And no, you
can't have an idea of all the presents that the nurse wheedled out of me,
of all the money that I paid! It was ruination! And then, all at once, I
had just time to send for the boy, and he was brought back to me as thin
and pale and weak, as if he had never tasted good bread in his life. Two
months later he died in my arms. His father fell ill over it, and if we
hadn't been attached to one another, I think we should both have gone and
drowned ourselves."
Scarce wiping her eyes she feverishly returned to the threshold, and
again cast a passionate expectant glance towards the avenue. And when she
came back, having seen nothing, she resumed: "So you will understand our
emotion when, two years ago, though I was thirty-seven, I again had a
little boy. We were wild with delight, like a young married couple. But
what a lot of trouble and worry! We had to put the little fellow out to
nurse as we let the other one, since we could not possibly keep him here.
And even after swearing that he should not go to Rougemont we ended by
saying that we at least knew the place, and that he would not be worse
off there than elsewhere. Only we sent him to La Vimeux, for we wouldn't
hear any more of La Loiseau since she sent Pierre back in such a fearful
state. And this time, as the little fellow is now two years old, I was
determined to have him home again, though I don't even know where I shall
put him. I've been waiting for an hour now, and I can't help trembling,
for I always fear some catastrophe."
She could not remain in the shop, but remained standing by the doorway,
with her neck outstretched and her eyes fixed on the street corner. All
at once a deep cry came from her: "Ah! here they are!"
Leisurely, and with a sour, harassed air, La Couteau came in and placed
the sleeping child in Madame Menoux's arms, saying as she did so: "Well,
your George is a tidy weight, I can tell you. You won't say that I've
brought you this one back like a skeleton."
Quivering, her legs sinking beneath her for very joy, the mother had been
obliged to sit down, keeping her child on her knees, kissing him,
examining him, all haste to see if he were in good health and likely to
live. He had a fat and rather pale face, and seemed big, though puffy.
When she had unfastened his wraps, her hands trembling the while with
nervousness, she found that he was pot-bellied, with small legs and arms.
"He is very big about the body," she murmured, ceasing to smile, and
turning gloomy with renewed fears.
"Ah, yes! complain away!" said La Couteau. "The other was too thin; this
one will be too fat. Mothers are never satisfied!"
At the first glance Mathieu had detected that the child was one of those
who are fed on pap, stuffed for economy's sake with bread and water, and
fated to all the stomachic complaints of early childhood. And at the
sight of the poor little fellow, Rougemont, the frightful
slaughter-place, with its daily massacre of the innocents, arose in his
memory, such as it had been described to him in years long past. There
was La Loiseau, whose habits were so abominably filthy that her nurslings
rotted as on a manure heap; there was La Vimeux, who never purchased a
drop of milk, but picked up all the village crusts and made bran porridge
for her charges as if they had been pigs; there was La Gavette too, who,
being always in the fields, left her nurslings in the charge of a
paralytic old man, who sometimes let them fall into the fire; and there
was La Cauchois, who, having nobody to watch the babes, contented herself
with tying them in their cradles, leaving them in the company of fowls
which came in bands to peck at their eyes. And the scythe of death swept
by; there was wholesale assassination; doors were left wide open before
rows of cradles, in order to make room for fresh bundles despatched from
Paris. Yet all did not die; here, for instance, was one brought home
again. But even when they came back alive they carried with them the
germs of death, and another hecatomb ensued, another sacrifice to the
monstrous god of social egotism.
"I'm tired out; I must sit down," resumed La Couteau, seating herself on
the narrow bench behind the counter. "Ah! what a trade! And to think that
we are always received as if we were heartless criminals and thieves!"
She also had become withered, her sunburnt, tanned face suggesting more
than ever the beak of a bird of prey. But her eyes remained very keen,
sharpened as it were by ferocity. She no doubt failed to get rich fast
enough, for she continued wailing, complaining of her calling, of the
increasing avarice of parents, of the demands of the authorities, of the
warfare which was being declared against nurse-agents on all sides. Yes,
it was a lost calling, said she, and really God must have abandoned her
that she should still be compelled to carry it on at forty-five years of
age. "It will end by killing me," she added; "I shall always get more
kicks than money at it. How unjust it is! Here have I brought you back a
superb child, and yet you look anything but pleased--it's enough to
disgust one of doing one's best!"
In thus complaining her object perhaps was to extract from the
haberdasher as large a present as possible. Madame Menoux was certainly
disturbed by it all. Her boy woke up and began to wail loudly, and it
became necessary to give him a little lukewarm milk. At last, when the
accounts were settled, the nurse-agent, seeing that she would have ten
francs for herself, grew calmer. She was about to take her leave when
Madame Menoux, pointing to Mathieu, exclaimed: "This gentleman wished to
speak to you on business."
Although La Couteau had not seen the gentleman for several years past,
she had recognized him perfectly well. Still she had not even turned
towards him, for she knew him to be mixed up in so many matters that his
discretion was a certainty. And so she contented herself with saying: "If
monsieur will kindly explain to me what it is I shall be quite at his
service."
"I will accompany you," replied Mathieu; "we can speak together as we
walk along."
"Very good, that will suit me well, for I am rather in a hurry."
Once outside, Mathieu resolved that he would try no ruses with her. The
best course was to tell her plainly what he wanted, and then to buy her
silence. At the first words he spoke she understood him. She well
remembered Norine's child, although in her time she had carried dozens of
children to the Foundling Hospital. The particular circumstances of that
case, however, the conversation which had taken place, her drive with
Mathieu in a cab, had all remained engraved on her memory. Moreover, she
had found that child again, at Rougemont, five days later; and she even
remembered that her friend the hospital-attendant had left it with La
Loiseau. But she had occupied herself no more about it afterwards; and
she believed that it was now dead, like so many others. When she heard
Mathieu speak of the hamlet of Saint-Pierre, of Montoir the wheelwright,
and of Alexandre-Honoré, now fifteen, who must be in apprenticeship
there, she evinced great surprise.
"Oh, you must be mistaken, monsieur," she said; "I know Montoir at
Saint-Pierre very well. And he certainly has a lad from the Foundling, of
the age you mention, at his place. But that lad came from La Cauchois; he
is a big carroty fellow named Richard, who arrived at our village some
days before the other. I know who his mother was; she was an English
woman called Amy, who stopped more than once at Madame Bourdieu's. That
ginger-haired lad is certainly not your Norine's boy. Alexandre-Honoré
was dark."
"Well, then," replied Mathieu, "there must be another apprentice at the
wheelwright's. My information is precise, it was given me officially."
After a moment's perplexity La Couteau made a gesture of ignorance, and
admitted that Mathieu might be right. "It's possible," said she; "perhaps
Montoir has two apprentices. He does a good business, and as I haven't
been to Saint-Pierre for some months now I can say nothing certain. Well,
and what do you desire of me, monsieur?"
He then gave her very clear instructions. She was to obtain the most
precise information possible about the lad's health, disposition, and
conduct, whether the schoolmaster had always been pleased with him,
whether his employer was equally satisfied, and so forth. Briefly, the
inquiry was to be complete. But, above all things, she was to carry it on
in such a way that nobody should suspect anything, neither the boy
himself nor the folks of the district. There must be absolute secrecy.
"All that is easy," replied La Couteau, "I understand perfectly, and you
can rely on me. I shall need a little time, however, and the best plan
will be for me to tell you of the result of my researches when I next
come to Paris. And if it suits you you will find me to-day fortnight, at
two o'clock, at Broquette's office in the Rue Roquépine. I am quite at
home there, and the place is like a tomb."
Some days later, as Mathieu was again at the Beauchêne works with his son
Blaise, he was observed by Constance, who called him to her and
questioned him in such direct fashion that he had to tell her what steps
he had taken. When she heard of his appointment with La Couteau for the
Wednesday of the ensuing week, she said to him in her resolute way: "Come
and fetch me. I wish to question that woman myself. I want to be quite
certain on the matter."
In spite of the lapse of fifteen years Broquette's nurse-office in the
Rue Roquépine had remained the same as formerly, except that Madame
Broquette was dead and had been succeeded by her daughter Herminie. The
sudden loss of that fair, dignified lady, who had possessed such a
decorative presence and so ably represented the high morality and
respectability of the establishment, had at first seemed a severe one.
But it so happened that Herminie, a tall, slim, languid creature that she
was, gorged with novel-reading, also proved in her way a distinguished
figurehead for the office. She was already thirty and was still
unmarried, feeling indeed nothing but loathing for all the mothers laden
with whining children by whom she was surrounded. Moreover, M. Broquette,
her father, though now more than five-and-seventy, secretly remained the
all-powerful, energetic director of the place, discharging all needful
police duties, drilling new nurses like recruits, remaining ever on the
watch and incessantly perambulating the three floors of his suspicious,
dingy lodging-house.
La Couteau was waiting for Mathieu in the doorway. On perceiving
Constance, whom she did not know, for she had never previously met her,
she seemed surprised. Who could that lady be? what had she to do with the
affair? However, she promptly extinguished the bright gleam of curiosity
which for a moment lighted up her eyes; and as Herminie, with
distinguished nonchalance, was at that moment exhibiting a party of
nurses to two gentlemen in the office, she took her visitors into the
empty refectory, where the atmosphere was as usual tainted by a horrible
stench of cookery.
"You must excuse me, monsieur and madame," she exclaimed, "but there is
no other room free just now. The place is full."
Then she carried her keen glances from Mathieu to Constance, preferring
to wait until she was questioned, since another person was now in the
secret.
"You can speak out," said Mathieu. "Did you make the inquiries I spoke to
you about?"
"Certainly, monsieur. They were made, and properly made, I think."
"Then tell us the result: I repeat that you can speak freely before this
lady."
"Oh! monsieur, it won't take me long. You were quite right: there were
two apprentices at the wheelwright's at Saint-Pierre, and one of them was
Alexandre-Honoré, the pretty blonde's child, the same that we took
together over yonder. He had been there, I found, barely two months,
after trying three or four other callings, and that explains my ignorance
of the circumstance. Only he's a lad who can stay nowhere, and so three
weeks ago he took himself off."
Constance could not restrain an exclamation of anxiety: "What! took
himself off?"
"Yes, madame, I mean that he ran away, and this time it is quite certain
that he has left the district, for he disappeared with three hundred
francs belonging to Montoir, his master."
La Couteau's dry voice rang as if it were an axe dealing a deadly blow.
Although she could not understand the lady's sudden pallor and despairing
emotion, she certainly seemed to derive cruel enjoyment from it.
"Are you quite sure of your information?" resumed Constance, struggling
against the facts. "That is perhaps mere village tittle-tattle."
"Tittle-tattle, madame? Oh! when I undertake to do anything I do it
properly. I spoke to the gendarmes. They have scoured the whole district,
and it is certain that Alexandre-Honoré left no address behind him when
he went off with those three hundred francs. He is still on the run. As
for that I'll stake my name on it."
This was indeed a hard blow for Constance. That lad, whom she fancied she
had found again, of whom she dreamt incessantly, and on whom she had
based so many unacknowledgable plans of vengeance, escaped her, vanished
once more into the unknown! She was distracted by it as by some pitiless
stroke of fate, some fresh and irreparable defeat. However, she continued
the interrogatory.
"Surely you did not merely see the gendarmes? you were instructed to
question everybody."
"That is precisely what I did, madame. I saw the schoolmaster, and I
spoke to the other persons who had employed the lad. They all told me
that he was a good-for-nothing. The schoolmaster remembered that he had
been a liar and a bully. Now he's a thief; that makes him perfect. I
can't say otherwise than I have said, since you wanted to know the plain
truth."
La Couteau thus emphasized her statements on seeing that the lady's
suffering increased. And what strange suffering it was; a heart-pang at
each fresh accusation, as if her husband's illegitimate child had become
in some degree her own! She ended indeed by silencing the nurse-agent.
"Thank you. The boy is no longer at Rougemont, that is all we wished to
know."
La Couteau thereupon turned to Mathieu, continuing her narrative, in
order to give him his money's worth.
"I also made the other apprentice talk a bit," said she; "you know, that
big carroty fellow, Richard, whom I spoke to you about. He's another whom
I wouldn't willingly trust. But it's certain that he doesn't know where
his companion has gone. The gendarmes think that Alexandre is in Paris."
Thereupon Mathieu in his turn thanked the woman, and handed her a
bank-note for fifty francs--a gift which brought a smile to her face and
rendered her obsequious, and, as she herself put it, "as discreetly
silent as the grave." Then, as three nurses came into the refectory, and
Monsieur Broquette could be heard scrubbing another's hands in the
kitchen, by way of teaching her how to cleanse herself of her native
dirt, Constance felt nausea arise within her, and made haste to follow
her companion away. Once in the street, instead of entering the cab which
was waiting, she paused pensively, haunted by La Couteau's final words.
"Did you hear?" she exclaimed. "That wretched lad may be in Paris."
"That is probable enough; they all end by stranding here."
Constance again hesitated, reflected, and finally made up her mind to say
in a somewhat tremulous voice: "And the mother, my friend; you know where
she lives, don't you? Did you not tell me that you had concerned yourself
about her?"
"Yes, I did."
"Then listen--and above all, don't be astonished; pity me, for I am
really suffering. An idea has just taken possession of me; it seems to me
that if the boy is in Paris, he may have found his mother. Perhaps he is
with her, or she may at least know where he lodges. Oh! don't tell me
that it is impossible. On the contrary, everything is possible."
Surprised and moved at seeing one who usually evinced so much calmness
now giving way to such fancies as these, Mathieu promised that he would
make inquiries. Nevertheless, Constance did not get into the cab, but
continued gazing at the pavement. And when she once more raised her eyes,
she spoke to him entreatingly, in an embarrassed, humble manner: "Do you
know what we ought to do? Excuse me, but it is a service I shall never
forget. If I could only know the truth at once it might calm me a little.
Well, let us drive to that woman's now. Oh! I won't go up; you can go
alone, while I wait in the cab at the street corner. And perhaps you will
obtain some news."
It was an insane idea, and he was at first minded to prove this to her.
Then, on looking at her, she seemed to him so wretched, so painfully
tortured, that without a word, making indeed but a kindly gesture of
compassion, he consented. And the cab carried them away.
The large room in which Norine and Cécile lived together was at Grenelle,
near the Champ de Mars, in a street at the end of the Rue de la
Fédération. They had been there for nearly six years now, and in the
earlier days had experienced much worry and wretchedness. But the child
whom they had to feed and save had on his side saved them also. The
motherly feelings slumbering in Norine's heart had awakened with
passionate intensity for that poor little one as soon as she had given
him the breast and learnt to watch over him and kiss him. And it was also
wondrous to see how that unfortunate creature Cécile regarded the child
as in some degree her own. He had indeed two mothers, whose thoughts were
for him alone. If Norine, during the first few months, had often wearied
of spending her days in pasting little boxes together, if even thoughts
of flight had at times come to her, she had always been restrained by the
puny arms that were clasped around her neck. And now she had grown calm,
sensible, diligent, and very expert at the light work which Cécile had
taught her. It was a sight to see them both, gay and closely united in
their little home, which was like a convent cell, spending their days at
their little table; while between them was their child, their one source
of life, of hard-working courage and happiness.
Since they had been living thus they had made but one good friend, and
this was Madame Angelin. As a delegate of the Poor Relief Service,
intrusted with one of the Grenelle districts, Madame Angelin had found
Norine among the pensioners over whom she was appointed to watch. A
feeling of affection for the two mothers, as she called the sisters, had
sprung up within her, and she had succeeded in inducing the authorities
to prolong the child's allowance of thirty francs a month for a period of
three years. Then she had obtained scholastic assistance for him, not to
mention frequent presents which she brought--clothes, linen, and even
money--for apart from official matters, charitable people often intrusted
her with fairly large sums, which she distributed among the most
meritorious of the poor mothers whom she visited. And even nowadays she
occasionally called on the sisters, well pleased to spend an hour in that
nook of quiet toil, which the laughter and the play of the child
enlivened. She there felt herself to be far away from the world, and
suffered less from her own misfortunes. And Norine kissed her hands,
declaring that without her the little household of the two mothers would
never have managed to exist.
When Mathieu appeared there, cries of delight arose. He also was a
friend, a saviour--the one who, by first taking and furnishing the large
room, had founded the household. It was a very clean room, almost
coquettish with its white curtains, and rendered very cheerful by its two
large windows, which admitted the golden radiance of the afternoon sun.
Norine and Cécile were working at the table, cutting out cardboard and
pasting it together, while the little one, who had come home from school,
sat between them on a high chair, gravely handling a pair of scissors and
fully persuaded that he was helping them.
"Oh! is it you? How kind of you to come to see us! Nobody has called for
five days past. Oh! we don't complain of it. We are so happy alone
together! Since Irma married a clerk she has treated us with disdain.
Euphrasie can no longer come down her stairs. Victor and his wife live so
far away. And as for that rascal Alfred, he only comes up here to see if
he can find something to steal. Mamma called five days ago to tell us
that papa had narrowly escaped being killed at the works on the previous
day. Poor mamma! she is so worn out that before long she won't be able to
take a step."
While the sisters thus rattled on both together, one beginning a sentence
and the other finishing it, Mathieu looked at Norine, who, thanks to that
peaceful and regular life, had regained in her thirty-sixth year a
freshness of complexion that suggested a superb, mature fruit gilded by
the sun. And even the slender Cécile had acquired strength, the strength
which love's energy can impart even to a childish form.
All at once, however, she raised a loud exclamation of horror: "Oh! he
has hurt himself, the poor little fellow." And at once she snatched the
scissors from the child, who sat there laughing with a drop of blood at
the tip of one of his fingers.
"Oh! good Heavens," murmured Norine, who had turned quite pale, "I feared
that he had slit his hand."
For a moment Mathieu wondered if he would serve any useful purpose by
fulfilling the strange mission he had undertaken. Then it seemed to him
that it might be as well to say at least a word of warning to the young
woman who had grown so calm and quiet, thanks to the life of work which
she had at last embraced. And he proceeded very prudently, only revealing
the truth by slow degrees. Nevertheless, there came a moment when, after
reminding Norine of the birth of Alexandre-Honoré, it became necessary
for him to add that the boy was living.
The mother looked at Mathieu in evident consternation. "He is living,
living! Why do you tell me that? I was so pleased at knowing nothing."
"No doubt; but it is best that you should know. I have even been assured
that he must now be in Paris, and I wondered whether he might have found
you, and have come to see you."
At this she lost all self-possession. "What! Have come to see me! Nobody
has been to see me. Do you think, then, that he might come? But I don't
want him to do so! I should go mad! A big fellow of fifteen falling on me
like that--a lad I don't know and don't care for! Oh! no, no; prevent it,
I beg of you; I couldn't--I couldn't bear it!"
With a gesture of utter distraction she had burst into tears, and had
caught hold of the little one near her, pressing him to her breast as if
to shield him from the other, the unknown son, the stranger, who by his
resurrection threatened to thrust himself in some degree in the younger
lad's place.
"No, no!" she cried. "I have but one child; there is only one I love; I
don't want any other."
Cécile had risen, greatly moved, and desirous of bringing her sister to
reason. Supposing that the other son should come, how could she turn him
out of doors? At the same time, though her pity was aroused for the
abandoned one, she also began to bewail the loss of their happiness. It
became necessary for Mathieu to reassure them both by saying that he
regarded such a visit as most improbable. Without telling them the exact
truth, he spoke of the elder lad's disappearance, adding, however, that
he must be ignorant even of his mother's name. Thus, when he left the
sisters, they already felt relieved and had again turned to their little
boxes while smiling at their son, to whom they had once more intrusted
the scissors in order that he might cut out some paper men.
Down below, at the street corner, Constance, in great impatience, was
looking out of the cab window, watching the house-door.
"Well?" she asked, quivering, as soon as Mathieu was near her.
"Well, the mother knows nothing and has seen nobody. It was a foregone
conclusion."
She sank down as if from some supreme collapse, and her ashen face became
quite distorted. "You are right, it was certain," said she; "still one
always hopes." And with a gesture of despair she added: "It is all ended
now. Everything fails me, my last dream is dead."
Mathieu pressed her hand and remained waiting for her to give an address
in order that he might transmit it to the driver. But she seemed to have
lost her head and to have forgotten where she wished to go. Then, as she
asked him if he would like her to set him down anywhere, he replied that
he wished to call on the Séguins. The fear of finding herself alone again
so soon after the blow which had fallen on her thereupon gave her the
idea of paying a visit to Valentine, whom she had not seen for some time
past.
"Get in," she said to Mathieu; "we will go to the Avenue d'Antin
together."
The vehicle rolled off and heavy silence fell between them; they had not
a word to say to one another. However, as they were reaching their
destination, Constance exclaimed in a bitter voice: "You must give my
husband the good news, and tell him that the boy has disappeared. Ah!
what a relief for him!"
Mathieu, on calling in the Avenue d'Antin, had hoped to find the Séguins
assembled there. Séguin himself had returned to Paris, nobody knew
whence, a week previously, when Andrée's hand had been formally asked of
him; and after an interview with his uncle Du Hordel he had evinced great
willingness and cordiality. Indeed, the wedding had immediately been
fixed for the month of May, when the Froments also hoped to marry off
their daughter Rose. The two weddings, it was thought, might take place
at Chantebled on the same day, which would be delightful. This being
arranged, Ambroise was accepted as _fiancé_, and to his great delight was
able to call at the Séguins' every day, about five o'clock, to pay his
court according to established usage. It was on account of this that
Mathieu fully expected to find the whole family at home.
When Constance asked for Valentine, however, a footman informed her that
Madame had gone out. And when Mathieu in his turn asked for Séguin, the
man replied that Monsieur was also absent. Only Mademoiselle was at home
with her betrothed. On learning this the visitors went upstairs.
"What! are you left all alone?" exclaimed Mathieu on perceiving the young
couple seated side by side on a little couch in the big room on the first
floor, which Séguin had once called his "cabinet."
"Why, yes, we are alone in the house," Andrée answered with a charming
laugh. "We are very pleased at it."
They looked adorable, thus seated side by side--she so gentle, of such
tender beauty--he with all the fascinating charm that was blended with
his strength.
"Isn't Céleste there at any rate?" again inquired Mathieu.
"No, she has disappeared we don't know where." And again they laughed
like free frolicsome birds ensconced in the depths of some lonely forest.
"Well, you cannot be very lively all alone like this."
"Oh! we don't feel at all bored, we have so many things to talk about.
And then we look at one another. And there is never an end to it all."
Though her heart bled, Constance could not help admiring them. Ah, to
think of it! Such grace, such health, such hope! While in her home all
was blighted, withered, destroyed, that race of Froments seemed destined
to increase forever! For this again was a conquest--those two children
left free to love one another, henceforth alone in that sumptuous mansion
which to-morrow would belong to them. Then, at another thought, Constance
turned towards Mathieu: "Are you not also marrying your eldest daughter?"
she asked.
"Yes, Rose," Mathieu gayly responded. "We shall have a grand _fête_ at
Chantebled next May! You must all of you come there."
'Twas indeed as she had thought: numbers prevailed, life proved
victorious. Chantebled had been conquered from the Séguins, and now their
very house would soon be invaded by Ambroise, while the Beauchêne works
themselves had already half fallen into the hands of Blaise.
"We will go," she answered, quivering. "And may your good luck
continue--that is what I wish you."