A YEAR later the first child born to Ambroise and Andrée, a boy, little
Léonce, was christened. The young people had been married very quietly
six weeks after the death of Rose. And that christening was to be the
first outing for Mathieu and Marianne, who had not yet fully recovered
from the terrible shock of their eldest daughter's death. Moreover, it
was arranged that after the ceremony there should simply be a lunch at
the parents' home, and that one and all should afterwards be free to
return to his or her avocations. It was impossible for the whole family
to come, and, indeed, apart from the grandfather and grandmother, only
the twins, Denis and Blaise, and the latter's wife Charlotte, were
expected, together with the godparents. Beauchêne, the godfather, had
selected Madame Séguin as his _commère_, for, since the death of Maurice,
Constance shuddered at the bare thought of touching a child. At the same
time she had promised to be present at the lunch, and thus there would be
ten of them, sufficient to fill the little dining-room of the modest flat
in the Rue de La Boëtie, where the young couple resided pending fortune's
arrival.
It was a very pleasant morning. Although Mathieu and Marianne had been
unwilling to set aside their black garments even for this rejoicing, they
ended by evincing some gentle gayety before the cradle of that little
grandson, whose advent brought them a renewal of hope. Early in the
winter a fresh bereavement had fallen on the family; Blaise had lost his
little Christophe, then two and a half years old, through an attack of
croup. Charlotte, however, was already at that time again _enceinte_, and
thus the grief of the first days had turned to expectancy fraught with
emotion.
The little flat in the Rue de La Boëtie seemed very bright and fragrant;
it was perfumed by the fair grace of Andrée and illumined by the
victorious charm of Ambroise, that handsome loving couple who, arm in
arm, had set out so bravely to conquer the world. During the lunch, too,
there was the formidable appetite and jovial laughter of Beauchêne, who
gave the greatest attention to his _commère_ Valentine, jesting and
paying her the most extravagant court, which afforded her much amusement,
prone as she still was to play a girlish part, though she was already
forty-five and a grandmother like Marianne. Constance alone remained
grave, scarce condescending to bend her thin lips into a faint smile,
while a shadow of deep pain passed over her withered face every time that
she glanced round that gay table, whence new strength, based on the
invincible future, arose in spite of all the recent mourning.
At about three o'clock Blaise rose from the table, refusing to allow
Beauchêne to take any more Chartreuse.
"It's true, he is right, my children," Beauchêne ended by exclaiming in a
docile way. "We are very comfortable here, but it is absolutely necessary
that we should return to the works. And we must deprive you of Denis, for
we need his help over a big building affair. That's how we are, we
others, we don't shirk duty."
Constance had also risen. "The carriage must be waiting," said she; "will
you take it?"
"No, no, we will go on foot. A walk will clear our heads."
The sky was overcast, and as it grew darker and darker Ambroise, going to
the window, exclaimed: "You will get wet."
"Oh! the rain has been threatening ever since this morning, but we shall
have time to get to the works."
It was then understood that Constance should take Charlotte with her in
the brougham and set her down at the door of the little pavilion
adjoining the factory. As for Valentine, she was in no hurry and could
quietly return to the Avenue d'Antin, which was close by, as soon as the
sky might clear. And with regard to Marianne and Mathieu, they had just
yielded to Andrée's affectionate entreaties, and had arranged to spend
the whole day and dine there, returning to Chantebled by the last train.
Thus the _fête_ would be complete, and the young couple were enraptured at
the prospect.
The departure of the others was enlivened by a curious incident, a
mistake which Constance made, and which seemed very comical amid all the
mirth promoted by the copious lunch. She had turned towards Denis, and,
looking at him with her pale eyes, she quietly asked him "Blaise, my
friend, will you give me my boa? I must have left it in the ante-room."
Everybody began to laugh, but she failed to understand the reason. And it
was in the same tranquil way as before that she thanked Denis when he
brought her the boa: "I am obliged to you, Blaise; you are very amiable."
Thereupon came an explosion; the others almost choked with laughter, so
droll did her quiet assurance seem to them. What was the matter, then?
Why did they all laugh at her in that fashion? She ended by suspecting
that she had made a mistake, and looked more attentively at the twins.
"Ah, yes, it isn't Blaise, but Denis! But it can't be helped. I am always
mistaking them since they have worn their beards trimmed in the same
fashion."
Thereupon Marianne, in her obliging way, in order to take any sting away
from the laughter, repeated the well-known family story of how she
herself, when the twins were children and slept together, had been wont
to awake them in order to identify them by the different color of their
eyes. The others, Beauchêne and Valentine, then intervened and recalled
circumstances under which they also had mistaken the twins one for the
other, so perfect was their resemblance on certain occasions, in certain
lights. And it was amid all this gay animation that the company separated
after exchanging all sorts of embraces and handshakes.
Once in the brougham, Constance spoke but seldom to Charlotte, taking as
a pretext a violent headache which the prolonged lunch had increased.
With a weary air and her eyes half closed she began to reflect. After
Rose's death, and when little Christophe likewise had been carried off, a
revival of hope had come to her, for all at once she had felt quite young
again. But when she consulted Boutan on the matter he dealt her a final
blow by informing her that her hopes were quite illusive. Thus, for two
months now, her rage and despair had been increasing. That very morning
at that christening, and now in that carriage beside that young woman who
was again expecting to become a mother, it was this which poisoned her
mind, filled her with jealousy and spite, and rendered her capable of any
evil deed. The loss of her son, the childlessness to which she was
condemned, all threw her into a state of morbid perversity, fraught with
dreams of some monstrous vengeance which she dared not even confess to
herself. She accused the whole world of being in league to crush her. Her
husband was the most cowardly and idiotic of traitors, for he betrayed
her by letting some fresh part of the works pass day by day into the
hands of that fellow Blaise, whose wife no sooner lost a child than she
had another. She, Constance, was enraged also at seeing her husband so
gay and happy, since she had left him to his own base courses. He still
retained his air of victorious superiority, declaring that he had
remained unchanged, and there was truth in this; for though, instead of
being an active master as formerly, he now too often showed himself a
senile prowler, on the high road to paralysis, he yet continued to be a
practical egotist, one who drew from life the greatest sum of enjoyment
possible. He was following his destined road, and if he took to Blaise it
was simply because he was delighted to have found an intelligent,
hard-working young man who spared him all the cares and worries that were
too heavy for his weary shoulders, while still earning for him the money
which he needed for his pleasures. Constance knew that something in the
way of a partnership arrangement was about to be concluded. Indeed, her
husband must have already received a large sum to enable him to make good
certain losses and expenses which he had hidden from her. And closing her
eyes as the brougham rolled along, she poisoned her mind by ruminating
all these things, scarce able to refrain from venting her fury by
throwing herself upon that young woman Charlotte, well-loved and fruitful
spouse, who sat beside her.
Then the thought of Denis occurred to her. Why was he being taken to the
works? Did he also mean to rob her? Yet she knew that he had refused to
join his brother, as in his opinion there was not room for two at the
establishment of the Boulevard de Grenelle. Indeed, Denis's ambition was
to direct some huge works by himself; he possessed an extensive knowledge
of mechanics, and this it was that rendered him a valuable adviser
whenever a new model of some important agricultural machine had to be
prepared at the Beauchêne factory. Constance promptly dismissed him from
her thoughts; in her estimation there was no reason to fear him; he was a
mere passer-by, who on the morrow, perhaps, would establish himself at
the other end of France. Then once more the thought of Blaise came back
to her, imperative, all-absorbing; and it suddenly occurred to her that
if she made haste home she would be able to see Morange alone in his
office and ascertain many things from him before the others arrived. It
was evident that the accountant must know something of the partnership
scheme, even if it were as yet only in a preliminary stage. Thereupon she
became impassioned, eager to arrive, certain as she felt of obtaining
confidential information from Morange, whom she deemed to be devoted to
her.
As the carriage rolled over the Jena bridge she opened her eyes and
looked out. "_Mon Dieu_!" said she, "what a time this brougham takes! If
the rain would only fall it would, perhaps, relieve my head a little."
She was thinking, however, that a sharp shower would give her more time,
as it would compel the three men, Beauchêne, Denis, and Blaise, to seek
shelter in some doorway. And when the carriage reached the works she
hastily stopped the coachman, without even conducting her companion to
the little pavilion.
"You will excuse me, won't you, my dear?" said she; "you only have to
turn the street corner."
When they had both alighted, Charlotte, smiling and affectionate, took
hold of Constance's hand and retained it for a few moments in her own.
"Of course," she replied, "and many thanks. You are too kind. When you
see my husband, pray tell him that you left me safe, for he grows anxious
at the slightest thing."
Thereupon Constance in her turn had to smile and promise with many
professions of friendship that she would duly execute the commission.
Then they parted. "_Au revoir_, till to-morrow "--"Yes, yes, till
to-morrow, _au revoir_."
Eighteen years had now already elapsed since Morange had lost his wife
Valérie; and nine had gone by since the death of his daughter Reine. Yet
it always seemed as if he were on the morrow of those disasters, for he
had retained his black garb, and still led a cloister-like, retired life,
giving utterance only to such words as were indispensable. On the other
hand, he had again become a good model clerk, a correct painstaking
accountant, very punctual in his habits, and rooted as it were to the
office chair in which he had taken his seat every morning for thirty
years past. The truth was that his wife and his daughter had carried off
with them all his will-power, all his ambitious thoughts, all that he had
momentarily dreamt of winning for their sakes--a large fortune and a
luxurious triumphant life. He, who was now so much alone, who had
relapsed into childish timidity and weakness, sought nothing beyond his
humble daily task, and was content to die in the shady corner to which he
was accustomed. It was suspected, however, that he led a mysterious
maniacal life, tinged with anxious jealousy, at home, in that flat of the
Boulevard de Grenelle which he had so obstinately refused to quit. His
servant had orders to admit nobody, and she herself knew nothing. If he
gave her free admittance to the dining- and drawing-rooms, he did not
allow her to set foot in his own bedroom, formerly shared by Valérie, nor
in that which Reine had occupied. He himself alone entered these
chambers, which he regarded as sanctuaries, of which he was the sole
priest. Under pretence of sweeping or dusting, he would shut himself up
in one or the other of them for hours at a time. It was in vain that the
servant tried to glance inside, in vain that she listened at the doors
when he spent his holidays at home; she saw nothing and heard nothing.
Nobody could have told what relics those chapels contained, nor with what
religious cult he honored them. Another cause of surprise was his
niggardly, avaricious life, which, as time went on, had become more and
more pronounced, in such wise that his only expenses were his rental of
sixteen hundred francs, the wages he paid to his servant, and the few
pence per day which she with difficulty extracted from him to defray the
cost of food and housekeeping. His salary had now risen to eight thousand
francs a year, and he certainly did not spend half of it. What became,
then, of his big savings, the money which he refused to devote to
enjoyment? In what secret hole, and for what purpose, what secret
passion, did he conceal it? Nobody could tell. But amid it all he
remained very gentle, and, unlike most misers, continued very cleanly in
his habits, keeping his beard, which was now white as snow, very
carefully tended. And he came to his office every morning with a little
smile on his face, in such wise that nothing in this man of regular
methodical life revealed the collapse within him, all the ashes and
smoldering fire which disaster had left in his heart.
By degrees a link of some intimacy had been formed between Constance and
Morange. When, after his daughter's death, she had seen him return to the
works quite a wreck, she had been stirred by deep pity, with which some
covert personal anxiety confusedly mingled. Maurice was destined to live
five years longer, but she was already haunted by apprehensions, and
could never meet Morange without experiencing a chilling shudder, for he,
as she repeated to herself, had lost his only child. "Ah, God! so such a
catastrophe was possible." Then, on being stricken herself, on
experiencing the horrible distress, on smarting from the sudden, gaping,
incurable wound of her bereavement, she had drawn nearer to that brother
in misfortune, treating him with a kindness which she showed to none
other. At times she would invite him to spend an evening with her, and
the pair of them would chat together, or more often remain silent, face
to face, sharing each other's woe. Later on she had profited by this
intimacy to obtain information from Morange respecting affairs at the
factory, of which her husband avoided speaking. It was more particularly
since she had suspected the latter of bad management, blunders and debts,
that she endeavored to turn the accountant into a confidant, even a spy,
who might aid her to secure as much control of the business as possible.
And this was why she was so anxious to return to the factory that day,
and profit by the opportunity to see Morange privately, persuaded as she
was that she would induce him to speak out in the absence of his
superiors.
She scarcely tarried to take off her gloves and her bonnet. She found the
accountant in his little office, seated in his wonted place, and leaning
over the everlasting ledger which was open before him.
"Why, is the christening finished?" he exclaimed in astonishment.
Forthwith she explained her presence in such a way as to enable her to
speak of what she had at heart. "Why, yes. That is to say, I came away
because I had such a dreadful headache. The others have remained yonder.
And as we are alone here together it occurred to me that it might do me
good to have a chat with you. You know how highly I esteem you. Ah! I am
not happy, not happy at all."
She had sunk upon a chair overcome by the tears which she had been
restraining so long in the presence of the happiness of others. Quite
upset at seeing her in this condition, having little strength himself,
Morange wished to summon her maid. He almost feared that she might have a
fainting fit. But she prevented him.
"I have only you left me, my friend," said she. "Everybody else forsakes
me, everybody is against me. I can feel it; I am being ruined; folks are
bent on annihilating me, as if I had not already lost everything when I
lost my child. And since you alone remain to me, you who know my
torments, you who have no daughter left you, pray for heaven's sake help
me and tell me the truth! In that wise I shall at least be able to defend
myself."
On hearing her speak of his daughter Morange also had begun to weep. And
now, therefore, she might question him, it was certain that he would
answer and tell her everything, overpowered as he was by the common grief
which she had evoked. Thus he informed her that an agreement was indeed
on the point of being signed by Blaise and Beauchêne, only it was not
precisely a deed of partnership. Beauchêne having drawn large sums from
the strong-box of the establishment for expenses which he could not
confess--a horrible story of blackmailing, so it was rumored--had been
obliged to make a confidant of Blaise, the trusty and active lieutenant
who managed the establishment. And he had even asked him to find somebody
willing to lend him some money. Thereupon the young man had offered it
himself; but doubtless it was his father, Mathieu Froment, who advanced
the cash, well pleased to invest it in the works in his son's name. And
now, with the view of putting everything in order, it had been resolved
that the property should be divided into six parts, and that one of these
parts or shares should be attributed to Blaise as reimbursement for the
loan. Thus the young fellow would possess an interest of one sixth in the
establishment, unless indeed Beauchêne should buy him out again within a
stipulated period. The danger was that, instead of freeing himself in
this fashion, Beauchêne might yield to the temptation of selling the
other parts one by one, now that he was gliding down a path of folly and
extravagance.
Constance listened to Morange, quivering and quite pale. "Is this
signed?" she asked.
"No, not yet. But the papers are ready and will be signed shortly.
Moreover, it is a reasonable and necessary solution of the difficulty."
She was evidently of another opinion. A feeling of revolt possessed her,
and she strove to think of some decisive means of preventing the ruin and
shame which in her opinion threatened her. "My God, what am I to do? How
can I act?" she gasped; and then, in her rage at finding no device, at
being powerless, this cry escaped her: "Ah! that scoundrel Blaise!"
Worthy Morange was quite moved by it. Still he had not fully understood.
And so, in his quiet way, he endeavored to calm Constance, explaining
that Blaise had a very good heart, and that in the circumstances in
question he had behaved in the best way possible, doing all that he could
to stifle scandal, and even displaying great disinterestedness. And as
Constance had risen, satisfied with knowing the truth, and anxious that
the three men might not find her there on their arrival, the accountant
likewise quitted his chair, and accompanied her along the gallery which
she had to follow in order to return to her house.
"I give you my word of honor, madame," said Morange, "that the young man
has made no base calculations in the matter. All the papers pass through
my hands, and nobody could know more than I know myself. Besides, if I
had entertained the slightest doubt of any machination, I should have
endeavored to requite your kindness by warning you."
She no longer listened to him, however; in fact, she was anxious to get
rid of him, for all at once the long-threatening rain had begun to fall
violently, lashing the glass roof. So dark a mass of clouds had
overspread the sky that it was almost night in the gallery, though four
o'clock had scarcely struck. And it occurred to Constance that in
presence of such a deluge the three men would certainly take a cab. So
she hastened her steps, still followed, however, by the accountant.
"For instance," he continued, "when it was a question of drawing up the
agreement--"
But he suddenly paused, gave vent to a hoarse exclamation, and stopped
her, pulling her back as if in terror.
"Take care!" he gasped.
There was a great cavity before them. Here, at the end of the gallery,
before reaching the corridor which communicated with the private house,
there was a steam lift of great power, which was principally used for
lowering heavy articles to the packing room. It only worked as a rule on
certain days; on all others the huge trap remained closed. When the
appliance was working a watchman was always stationed there to
superintend the operations.
"Take care! take care!" Morange repeated, shuddering with terror.
The trap was open, and the huge cavity gaped before them; there was no
barrier, nothing to warn them and prevent them from making a fearful
plunge. The rain still pelted on the glass roof, and the darkness had
become so complete in the gallery that they had walked on without seeing
anything before them. Another step would have hurled them to destruction.
It was little short of miraculous that the accountant should have become
anxious in presence of the increasing gloom in that corner, where he had
divined rather than perceived the abyss.
Constance, however, still failing to understand her companion, sought to
free herself from his wild grasp.
"But look!" he cried.
And he bent forward and compelled her also to stoop over the cavity. It
descended through three floors to the very lowest basement, like a well
of darkness. A damp odor arose: one could scarce distinguish the vague
outlines of thick ironwork; alone, right at the bottom, burnt a lantern,
a distant speck of light, as if the better to indicate the depth and
horror of the gulf. Morange and Constance drew back again blanching.
And now Morange burst into a temper. "It is idiotic!" he exclaimed. "Why
don't they obey the regulations! As a rule there is a man here, a man
expressly told off for this duty, who ought not to stir from his post so
long as the trap has not come up again. Where is he? What on earth can
the rascal be up to?"
The accountant again approached the hole, and shouted down it in a fury:
"Bonnard!"
No reply came: the pit remained bottomless, black and void.
"Bonnard! Bonnard!"
And still nothing was heard, not a sound; the damp breath of the darkness
alone ascended as from the deep silence of the tomb.
Thereupon Morange resorted to action. "I must go down; I must find
Bonnard. Can you picture us falling through that hole to the very bottom?
No, no, this cannot be allowed. Either he must close this trap or return
to his post. What can he be doing? Where can he be?"
Morange had already betaken himself to a little winding staircase, by
which one reached every floor beside the lift, when in a voice which
gradually grew more indistinct, he again called: "I beg you, madame, pray
wait for me; remain there to warn anybody who might pass."
Constance was alone. The dull rattle of the rain on the glass above her
continued, but a little livid light was appearing as a gust of wind
carried off the clouds. And in that pale light Blaise suddenly appeared
at the end of the gallery. He had just returned to the factory with Denis
and Beauchêne, and had left his companions together for a moment, in
order to go to the workshops to procure some information they required.
Preoccupied, absorbed once more in his work, he came along with an easy
step, his head somewhat bent. And when Constance saw him thus appear, all
that she felt in her heart was the smart of rancor, a renewal of her
anger at what she had learnt of that agreement which was to be signed on
the morrow and which would despoil her. That enemy who was in her home
and worked against her, a revolt of her whole being urged her to
exterminate him, and thrust him out like some usurper, all craft and
falsehood.
He drew nearer. She was in the dense shadow near the wall, so that he
could not see her. But on her side, as he softly approached steeped in a
grayish light, she could see him with singular distinctness. Never before
had she so plainly divined the power of his lofty brow, the intelligence
of his eyes, the firm will of his mouth. And all at once she was struck
with fulgural certainty; he was coming towards the cavity without seeing
it and he would assuredly plunge into the depths unless she should stop
him as he passed. But a little while before, she, like himself, had come
from yonder, and would have fallen unless a friendly hand had restrained
her; and the frightful shudder of that moment yet palpitated in her
veins; she could still and ever see the damp black pit with the little
lantern far below. The whole horror of it flashed before her eyes--the
ground failing one, the sudden drop with a great shriek, and the smash a
moment afterwards.
Blaise drew yet nearer. But certainly such a thing was impossible; she
would prevent it, since a little motion of her hand would suffice. Would
she not always have time to stretch out her arms when he was there before
her? And yet from the recesses of her being a very clear and frigid voice
seemed to ascend, articulating brief words which rang in her ears as if
repeated by a trumpet blast. If he should die it would be all over, the
factory would never belong to him. She who had bitterly lamented that she
could devise no obstacle had merely to let this helpful chance take its
own course. And this, indeed, was what the voice said, what it repeated
with keen insistence, never adding another syllable. After that there
would be nothing. After that there would merely remain the shattered
remnants of a suppressed man, and a pit of darkness splashed with blood,
in which she discerned, foresaw nothing more. What would happen on the
morrow? She did not wish to know; indeed there would be no morrow. It was
solely the brutal immediate fact which the imperious voice demanded. He
dead, it would be all over, he would never possess the works.
He drew nearer still. And within her now there raged a frightful battle.
How long did it last--days? years? Doubtless but a few seconds. She was
still resolved that she would stop him as he passed, certain as she felt
that she would conquer her horrible thoughts when the moment came for the
decisive gesture. And yet those thoughts invaded her, became materialized
within her, like some physical craving, thirst or hunger. She hungered
for that finish, hungered to the point of suffering, seized by one of
those sudden desperate longings which beget crime; such as when a
passer-by is despoiled and throttled at the corner of a street. It seemed
to her that if she could not satisfy her craving she herself must lose
her life. A consuming passion, a mad desire for that man's annihilation
filled her as she saw him approach. She could now see him still more
plainly and the sight of him exasperated her. His forehead, his eyes, his
lips tortured her like some hateful spectacle. Another step, yet one
more, then another, and he would be before her. Yes, yet another step,
and she was already stretching out her hand in readiness to stop him as
soon as he should brush past.
He came along. What was it that happened? O God! When he was there, so
absorbed in his thoughts that he brushed against her without feeling her,
she turned to stone. Her hand became icy cold, she could not lift it, it
hung too heavily from her arm. And amid her scorching fever a great cold
shudder came upon her, immobilizing and stupefying her, while she was
deafened by the clamorous voice rising from the depths of her being. All
demur was swept away; the craving for that death remained intense,
invincible, beneath the imperious stubborn call of the inner voice which
robbed her of the power of will and action. He would be dead and he would
never possess the works. And therefore, standing stiff and breathless
against the wall, she did not stop him. She could hear his light
breathing, she could discern his profile, then the nape of his neck. He
had passed. Another step, another step! And yet if she had raised a call
she might still have changed the course of destiny even at that last
moment. She fancied that she had some such intention, but she was
clenching her teeth tightly enough to break them. And he, Blaise, took
yet a further step, still advancing quietly and confidently over that
friendly ground, without even a glance before him, absorbed as he was in
thoughts of his work. And the ground failed him, and there was a loud,
terrible cry, a sudden gust following the fall, and a dull crash down
below in the depths of the black darkness.
Constance did not stir. For a moment she remained as if petrified, still
listening, still waiting. But only deep silence arose from the abyss. She
could merely hear the rain pelting on the glass roof with renewed rage.
And thereupon she fled, turned into the passage, re-entered her
drawing-room. There she collected and questioned herself. Had she desired
that abominable thing? No, her will had had nought to do with it. Most
certainly it had been paralyzed, prevented from acting. If it had been
possible for the thing to occur, it had occurred quite apart from her,
for assuredly she had been absent. Absent, that word reassured her. Yes,
indeed, that was the case, she had been absent. All her past life spread
out behind her, faultless, pure of any evil action. Never had she sinned,
never until that day had any consciousness of guilt weighed upon her
conscience. An honest and virtuous woman, she had remained upright amidst
all the excesses of her husband. An impassioned mother, she had been
ascending her calvary ever since her son's death. And this recollection
of Maurice alone drew her for a moment from her callousness, choked her
with a rising sob, as if in that direction lay her madness, the vainly
sought explanation of the crime. Vertigo again fell upon her, the thought
of her dead son and of the other being master in his place, all her
perverted passion for that only son of hers, the despoiled prince, all
her poisoned, fermenting rage which had unhinged and maddened her, even
to the point of murder. Had that monstrous vegetation growing within her
reached her brain then? A rush of blood suffices at times to bedim a
conscience. But she obstinately clung to the view that she had been
absent; she forced back her tears and remained frigid. No remorse came to
her. It was done, and 'twas good that it should be done. It was
necessary. She had not pushed him, he himself had fallen. Had she not
been there he would have fallen just the same. And so since she had not
been there, since both her brain and her heart had been absent, it did
not concern her. And ever and ever resounded the words which absolved her
and chanted her victory; he was dead, and would never possess the works.
Erect in the middle of the drawing-room, Constance listened, straining
her ears. Why was it that she heard nothing? How long they were in going
down to pick him up! Anxiously waiting for the tumult which she expected,
the clamor of horror which would assuredly rise from the works, the heavy
footsteps, the loud calls, she held her breath, quivering at the
slightest, faintest sound. Several minutes still elapsed, and the cosey
quietude of her drawing-room pleased her. That room was like an asylum of
_bourgeois_ rectitude, luxurious dignity, in which she felt protected,
saved. Some little objects on which her eyes lighted, a pocket
scent-bottle ornamented with an opal, a paper-knife of burnished silver
left inside a book, fully reassured her. She was moved, almost surprised
at the sight of them, as if they had acquired some new and particular
meaning. Then she shivered slightly and perceived that her hands were icy
cold. She rubbed them together gently, wishing to warm them a little. Why
was it, too, that she now felt so tired? It seemed to her as if she had
just returned from some long walk, from some accident, from some affray
in which she had been bruised. She felt within her also a tendency to
somnolence, the somnolence of satiety, as if she had feasted too
copiously off some spicy dish, after too great a hunger. Amid the fatigue
which benumbed her limbs she desired nothing more; apart from her
sleepiness all that she felt was a kind of astonishment that things
should be as they were. However, she had again begun to listen, repeating
that if that frightful silence continued, she would certainly sink upon a
chair, close her eyes, and sleep. And at last it seemed to her that she
detected a faint sound, scarcely a breath, far away.
What was it? No, there was nothing yet. Perhaps she had dreamt that
horrible scene, perhaps it had all been a nightmare; that man marching
on, that black pit, that loud cry of terror! Since she heard nothing,
perhaps nothing had really happened. Were it true a clamor would have
ascended from below in a growing wave of sound, and a distracted rush up
the staircase and along the passages would have brought her the news.
Then again she detected the faint distant sound, which seemed to draw a
little nearer. It was not the tramping of a crowd; it seemed to be a mere
footfall, perhaps that of some pedestrian on the quay. Yet no; it came
from the works, and now it was quite distinct; it ascended steps and then
sped along a passage. And the steps became quicker, and a panting could
be heard, so tragical that she at last divined that the horror was at
hand. All at once the door was violently flung open. Morange entered. He
was alone, beside himself, with livid face and scarce able to stammer.
"He still breathes, but his head is smashed; it is all over."
"What ails you?" she asked. "What is the matter?"
He looked at her, agape. He had hastened upstairs at a run to ask her for
an explanation, for he had quite lost his poor head over that
unaccountable catastrophe. And the apparent ignorance and tranquillity in
which he found Constance completed his dismay.
"But I left you near the trap," said he.
"Near the trap, yes. You went down, and I immediately came up here."
"But before I went down," he resumed with despairing violence, "I begged
you to wait for me and keep a watch on the hole, so that nobody might
fall through it."
"Oh! dear no. You said nothing to me, or, at all events, I heard nothing,
understood nothing of that kind."
In his terror he peered into her eyes. Assuredly she was lying. Calm as
she might appear, he could detect her voice trembling. Besides, it was
evident she must still have been there, since he had not even had time to
get below before it happened. And all at once he recalled their
conversation, the questions she had asked him and her cry of hatred
against the unfortunate young fellow who had now been picked up, covered
with blood, in the depths of that abyss. Beneath the gust of horror which
chilled him, Morange could only find these words: "Well, madame, poor
Blaise came just behind you and broke his skull."
Her demeanor was perfect; her hands quivered as she raised them, and it
was in a halting voice that she exclaimed: "Good Lord! good Lord, what a
frightful misfortune."
But at that moment an uproar arose through the house. The drawing-room
door had remained open, and the voices and footsteps of a number of
people drew nearer, became each moment more distinct. Orders were being
given on the stairs, men were straining and drawing breath, there were
all the signs of the approach of some cumbrous burden, carried as gently
as possible.
"What! is he being brought up here to me?" exclaimed Constance turning
pale, and her involuntary cry would have sufficed to enlighten the
accountant had he needed it. "He is being brought to me here!"
It was not Morange who answered; he was stupefied by the blow. But
Beauchêne abruptly appeared preceding the body, and he likewise was livid
and beside himself, to such a degree did this sudden visit of death
thrill him with fear, in his need of happy life.
"Morange will have told you of the frightful catastrophe, my dear," said
he. "Fortunately Denis was there, for the question of responsibility
towards his family. And it was Denis, too, who, just as we were about to
carry the poor fellow home to the pavilion, opposed it, saying that,
given his wife's condition, we should kill her if we carried him to her
in this dying state. And so the only course was to bring him here, was it
not?"
Then he quitted his wife with a gesture of bewilderment, and returned to
the landing, where one could hear him repeating in a quivering voice:
"Gently, gently, take care of the balusters."
The lugubrious train entered the drawing-room. Blaise had been laid on a
stretcher provided with a mattress. Denis, as pale as linen, followed,
supporting the pillow on which rested his brother's head. A little
streamlet of blood coursed over the dying man's brow, his eyes were
closed. And four factory hands held the shafts of the stretcher. Their
heavy shoes crushed down the carpet, and fragile articles of furniture
were thrust aside anyhow to open a passage for this invasion of horror
and of fright.
Amid his bewilderment, an idea occurred to Beauchêne, who continued to
direct the operation.
"No, no, don't leave him there. There is a bed in the next room. We will
take him up very gently with the mattress, and lay him with it on the
bed."
It was Maurice's room; it was the bed in which Maurice had died, and
which Constance with maternal piety had kept unchanged, consecrating the
room to her son's memory. But what could she say? How could she prevent
Blaise from dying there in his turn, killed by her?
The abomination of it all, the vengeance of destiny which exacted this
sacrilege, filled her with such a feeling of revolt that at the moment
when vertigo was about to seize her and the flooring began to flee from
beneath her feet, she was lashed by it and kept erect. And then she
displayed extraordinary strength, will, and insolent courage. When the
stricken man passed before her, her puny little frame stiffened and grew.
She looked at him, and her yellow face remained motionless, save for a
flutter of her eyelids and an involuntary nervous twinge on the left side
of her mouth, which forced a slight grimace. But that was all, and again
she became perfect both in words and gesture, doing and saying what was
necessary without lavishness, but like one simply thunderstruck by the
suddenness of the catastrophe.
However, the orders had been carried out in the bedroom, and the bearers
withdrew greatly upset. Down below, directly the accident had been
discovered, old Moineaud had been told to take a cab and hasten to Dr.
Boutan's to bring him back with a surgeon, if one could be found on the
way.
"All the same, I prefer to have him here rather than in the basement,"
Beauchêne repeated mechanically as he stood before the bed. "He still
breathes. There! see, it is quite apparent. Who knows? Perhaps Boutan may
be able to pull him through, after all."
Denis, however, entertained no illusions. He had taken one of his
brother's cold yielding hands in his own and he could feel that it was
again becoming a mere thing, as if broken, wrenched away from life in
that great fall. For a moment he remained motionless beside the
death-bed, with the mad hope they he might, perhaps, by his clasp infuse
a little of the blood in his own heart into the veins of the dying man.
Was not that blood common to them both? Had not their twin brotherhood
drunk life from the same source? It was the other half of himself that
was about to die. Down below, after raising a loud cry of heartrending
distress, he had said nothing. Now all at once he spoke.
"One must go to Ambroise's to warn my mother and father. Since he still
breathes, perhaps they will arrive soon enough to embrace him."
"Shall I go to fetch them?" Beauchêne good-naturedly inquired.
"No, no! thanks. I did at first think of asking that service of you, but
I have reflected. Nobody but myself can break this horrible news to
mamma. And nothing must be done as yet with regard to Charlotte. We will
see about that by and by, when I come back. I only hope that death will
have a little patience, so that I may find my poor brother still alive."
He leant forward and kissed Blaise, who with his eyes closed remained
motionless, still breathing faintly. Then distractedly Denis printed
another kiss upon his hand and hurried off.
Constance meantime was busying herself, calling the maid, and requesting
her to bring some warm water in order that they might wash the sufferer's
blood-stained brow. It was impossible to think of taking off his jacket;
they had to content themselves with doing the little they could to
improve his appearance pending the arrival of the doctor. And during
these preparations, Beauchêne, haunted, worried by the accident, again
began to speak of it.
"It is incomprehensible. One can hardly believe such a stupid mischance
to be possible. Down below the transmission gearing gets out of order,
and this prevents the mechanician from sending the trap up again. Then,
up above, Bonnard gets angry, calls, and at last decides to go down in a
fury when he finds that nobody answers him. Then Morange arrives, flies
into a temper, and goes down in his turn, exasperated at receiving no
answer to his calls for Bonnard. Poor Bonnard! he's sobbing; he wanted to
kill himself when he saw the fine result of his absence."
At this point Beauchêne abruptly broke off and turned to Constance. "But
what about you?" he asked. "Morange told me that he had left you up above
near the trap."
She was standing in front of her husband, in the full light which came
through the window. And again did her eyelids beat while a little nervous
twinge slightly twisted her mouth on the left side. That was all.
"I? Why I had gone down the passage. I came back here at once, as Morange
knows very well."
A moment previously, Morange, annihilated, his legs failing him, had sunk
upon a chair. Incapable of rendering any help, he sat there silent,
awaiting the end. When he heard Constance lie in that quiet fashion, he
looked at her. The assassin was herself, he no longer doubted it. And at
that moment he felt a craving to proclaim it, to cry it aloud.
"Why, he thought that he had begged you to remain there on the watch,"
Beauchêne resumed, addressing his wife.
"At all events his words never reached me," Constance duly answered.
"Should I have moved if he had asked me to do that?" And turning towards
the accountant she, in her turn, had the courage to fix her pale eyes
upon him. "Just remember, Morange, you rushed down like a madman, you
said nothing to me, and I went on my way."
Beneath those pale eyes, keen as steel, which dived into his own, Morange
was seized with abject fear. All his weakness, his cowardice of heart
returned. Could he accuse her of such an atrocious crime? He pictured the
consequences. And then, too, he no longer knew if he were right or not;
his poor maniacal mind was lost.
"It is possible," he stammered, "I may simply have thought I spoke. And
it must be so since it can't be otherwise."
Then he relapsed into silence with a gesture of utter lassitude. The
complicity demanded was accepted. For a moment he thought of rising to
see if Blaise still breathed; but he did not dare. Deep peacefulness fell
upon the room.
Ah! how great was the anguish, the torture in the cab, when Blaise
brought Mathieu and Marianne back with him. He had at first spoken to
them simply of an accident, a rather serious fall. But as the vehicle
rolled along he had lost his self-possession, weeping and confessing the
truth in response to their despairing questions. Thus, when they at last
reached the factory, they doubted no longer, their child was dead. Work
had just been stopped, and they recalled their visit to the place on the
morrow of Maurice's death. They were returning to the same stillness, the
same grave-like silence. All the rumbling life had suddenly ceased, the
machines were cold and mute, the workshops darkened and deserted. Not a
sound remained, not a soul, not a puff of that steam which was like the
very breath of the place. He who had watched over its work was dead, and
it was dead like him. Then their affright increased when they passed from
the factory to the house amid that absolute solitude, the gallery steeped
in slumber, the staircase quivering, all the doors upstairs open, as in
some uninhabited place long since deserted. In the ante-room they found
no servant. And it was indeed in the same tragedy of sudden death that
they again participated, only this time it was their own son whom they
were to find in the same room, on the same bed, frigid, pale, and
lifeless.
Blaise had just expired. Boutan was there at the head of the bed, holding
the inanimate hand in which the final pulsation of blood was dying away.
And when he saw Mathieu and Marianne, who had instinctively crossed the
disorderly drawing-room, rushing into that bedchamber whose odor of
nihility they recognized, he could but murmur in a voice full of sobs:
"My poor friends, embrace him; you will yet have a little of his last
breath."
That breath had scarce ceased, and the unhappy mother, the unhappy
father, had already sprung forward, kissing those lips that exhaled the
final quiver of life, and sobbing and crying their distress aloud. Their
Blaise was dead. Like Rose, he had died suddenly, a year later, on a day
of festivity. Their heart wound, scarce closed as yet, opened afresh with
a tragic rending. Amid their long felicity this was the second time that
they were thus terribly recalled to human wretchedness; this was the
second hatchet stroke which fell on the flourishing, healthy, happy
family. And their fright increased. Had they not yet finished paying
their accumulated debt to misfortune? Was slow destruction now arriving
with blow following blow? Already since Rose had quitted them, her bier
strewn with flowers, they had feared to see their prosperity and
fruitfulness checked and interrupted now that there was an open breach.
And to-day, through that bloody breach, their Blaise departed in the most
frightful of fashions, crushed as it were by the jealous anger of
destiny. And now what other of their children would be torn away from
them on the morrow to pay in turn the ransom of their happiness?
Mathieu and Marianne long remained sobbing on their knees beside the bed.
Constance stood a few paces away, silent, with an air of quivering
desolation. Beauchêne, as if to combat that fear of death which made him
shiver, had a moment previously seated himself at the little
writing-table formerly used by Maurice, which had been left in the
drawing-room like a souvenir. And he then strove to draw up a notice to
his workpeople, to inform them that the factory would remain closed until
the day after the funeral. He was vainly seeking words when he perceived
Denis coming out of the bedroom, where he had wept all his tears and set
his whole heart in the last kiss which he had bestowed on his departed
brother. Beauchêne called him, as if desirous of diverting him from his
gloomy thoughts. "There, sit down here and continue this," said he.
Constance, in her turn entering the drawing-room, heard those words. They
were virtually the same as the words which her husband had pronounced
when making Blaise seat himself at that same table of Maurice's, on the
day when he had given him the place of that poor boy, whose body almost
seemed to be still lying on the bed in the adjoining room. And she
recoiled with fright on seeing Denis seated there and writing. Had not
Blaise resuscitated? Even as she had mistaken the twins one for the other
that very afternoon on rising from the gay baptismal lunch, so now again
she saw Blaise in Denis, the pair of them so similar physically that in
former times their parents had only been able to distinguish them by the
different color of their eyes. And thus it was as if Blaise returned and
resumed his place; Blaise, who would possess the works although she had
killed him. She had made a mistake; dead as he was, he would nevertheless
have the works. She had killed one of those Froments, but behold another
was born. When one died his brother filled up the breach. And her crime
then appeared to her such a useless one, such a stupid one, that she was
aghast at it, the hair on the nape of her neck standing up, while she
burst into a cold sweat of fear, and recoiled as from a spectre.
"It is a notice for the workpeople," Beauchêne repeated. "We will have it
posted at the entrance."
She wished to be brave, and, approaching her husband, she said to him:
"Draw it up yourself. Why give Blaise the trouble at such a moment as
this?"
She had said "Blaise"; and once more an icy sensation of horror came over
her. Unconsciously she had heard herself saying yonder, in the ante-room:
"Blaise, where did I put my boa?" And it was Denis who had brought it to
her. Of what use had it been for her to kill Blaise, since Denis was
there? When death mows down a soldier of life, another is always ready to
take the vacant post of combat.
But a last defeat awaited her. Mathieu and Marianne reappeared, while
Morange, seized with a need of motion, came and went with an air of
stupefaction, quite losing his wits amid his dreadful sufferings, those
awful things which could but unhinge his narrow mind.
"I am going down," stammered Marianne, trying to wipe away her tears and
to remain erect. "I wish to see Charlotte, and prepare and tell her of
the misfortune. I alone can find the words to say, so that she may not
die of the shock, circumstanced as she is."
But Mathieu, full of anxiety, sought to detain his wife, and spare her
this fresh trial. "No, I beg you," he said; "Denis will go, or I will go
myself."
With gentle obstinacy, however, she still went towards the stairs. "I am
the only one who can tell her of it, I assure you--I shall have
strength--"
But all at once she staggered and fainted. It became necessary to lay her
on a sofa in the drawing-room. And when she recovered consciousness, her
face remained quite white and distorted, and an attack of nausea came
upon her. Then, as Constance, with an air of anxious solicitude, rang for
her maid and sent for her little medicine-chest, Mathieu confessed the
truth, which hitherto had been kept secret; Marianne, like Charlotte, was
_enceinte_. It confused her a little, he said, since she was now
three-and-forty years old; and so they had not mentioned it. "Ah! poor
brave wife!" he added. "She wished to spare our daughter-in-law too great
a shock; I trust that she herself will not be struck down by it."
_Enceinte_, good heavens! As Constance heard this, it seemed as if a
bludgeon were falling on her to make her defeat complete. And so, even if
she should now let Denis, in his turn, kill himself, another Froment was
coming who would replace him. There was ever another and another of that
race--a swarming of strength, an endless fountain of life, against which
it became impossible to battle. Amid her stupefaction at finding the
breach repaired when scarce opened, Constance realized her powerlessness
and nothingness, childless as she was fated to remain. And she felt
vanquished, overcome with awe, swept away as it were herself; thrust
aside by the victorious flow of everlasting Fruitfulness.