AT the factory, in her luxurious house on the quay, where she had long
reigned as sovereign mistress, Constance for twelve years already had
been waiting for destiny, remaining rigid and stubborn amid the continual
crumbling of her life and hopes.
During those twelve years Beauchêne had pursued a downward course, the
descent of which was fatal. He was right at the bottom now, in the last
state of degradation. After beginning simply as a roving husband,
festively inclined, he had ended by living entirely away from his home,
principally in the company of two women, aunt and niece. He was now but a
pitiful human rag, fast approaching some shameful death. And large as his
fortune had been, it had not sufficed him; as he grew older he had
squandered money yet more and more lavishly, immense sums being swallowed
up in disreputable adventures, the scandal of which it had been necessary
to stifle. Thus he at last found himself poor, receiving but a small
portion of the ever-increasing profits of the works, which were in full
prosperity.
This was the disaster which brought so much suffering to Constance in her
incurable pride. Beauchêne, since the death of his son, had quite
abandoned himself to a dissolute life, thinking of nothing but his
pleasures, and taking no further interest in his establishment. What was
the use of defending it, since there was no longer an heir to whom it
might be transmitted, enlarged and enriched? And thus he had surrendered
it, bit by bit, to Denis, his partner, whom, by degrees, he allowed to
become the sole master. On arriving at the works, Denis had possessed but
one of the six shares which represented the totality of the property
according to the agreement. And Beauchêne had even reserved to himself
the right of repurchasing that share within a certain period. But far
from being in a position to do so before the appointed date was passed,
he had been obliged to cede yet another share to the young man, in order
to free himself of debts which he could not confess.
From that time forward it became a habit with Beauchêne to cede Denis a
fresh share every two years. A third followed the second, then came the
turn of the fourth and the fifth, in such wise, indeed, that after a
final arrangement, he had not even kept a whole share for himself; but
simply some portion of the sixth. And even that was really fictitious,
for Denis had only acknowledged it in order to have a pretext for
providing him with a certain income, which, by the way, he subdivided,
handing half of it to Constance every month.
She, therefore, was ignorant of nothing. She knew that, as a matter of
fact, the works would belong to that son of the hated Froments, whenever
he might choose to close the doors on their old master, who, as it
happened, was never seen now in the workshops. True, there was a clause
in the covenant which admitted, so long as that covenant should not be
broken, the possibility of repurchasing all the shares at one and the
same time. Was it, then, some mad hope of doing this, a fervent belief in
a miracle, in the possibility of some saviour descending from Heaven,
that kept Constance thus rigid and stubborn, awaiting destiny? Those
twelve years of vain waiting--and increasing decline did not seem to have
diminished her conviction that in spite of everything she would some day
triumph. No doubt her tears had gushed forth at Chantebled in presence of
the victory of Mathieu and Marianne; but she soon recovered her
self-possession, and lived on in the hope that some unexpected occurrence
would at last prove that she, the childless woman, was in the right.
She could not have said precisely what it was she wished; she was simply
bent on remaining alive until misfortune should fall upon the
over-numerous family, to exculpate her for what had happened in her own
home, the loss of her son who was in the grave, and the downfall of her
husband who was in the gutter--all the abomination, indeed, which had
been so largely wrought by herself, but which filled her with agony.
However much her heart might bleed over her losses, her vanity as an
honest _bourgeoise_ filled her with rebellious thoughts, for she could not
admit that she had been in the wrong. And thus she awaited the revenge of
destiny in that luxurious house, which was far too large now that she
alone inhabited it. She only occupied the rooms on the first floor, where
she shut herself up for days together with an old serving woman, the sole
domestic that she had retained. Gowned in black, as if bent on wearing
eternal mourning for Maurice, always erect, stiff, and haughtily silent,
she never complained, although her covert exasperation had greatly
affected her heart, in such wise that she experienced at times most
terrible attacks of stifling. These she kept as secret as possible, and
one day when the old servant ventured to go for Doctor Boutan she
threatened her with dismissal. She would not even answer the doctor, and
she refused to take any remedies, certain as she felt that she would last
as long as the hope which buoyed her up.
Yet what anguish it was when she suddenly began to stifle, all alone in
the empty house, without son or husband near her! She called nobody since
she knew that nobody would come. And the attack over, with what
unconquerable obstinacy did she rise erect again, repeating that her
presence sufficed to prevent Denis from being the master, from reigning
alone in full sovereignty, and that in any case he would not have the
house and install himself in it like a conqueror, so long as she had not
sunk to death under the final collapse of the ceilings.
Amid this retired life, Constance, haunted as she was by her fixed idea,
had no other occupation than that of watching the factory, and
ascertaining what went on there day by day. Morange, whom she had made
her confidant, gave her information in all simplicity almost every
evening, when he came to speak to her for a moment after leaving his
office. She learnt everything from his lips--the successive sales of the
shares into which the property had been divided, their gradual
acquisition by Denis, and the fact that Beauchêne and herself were
henceforth living on the new master's liberality. Moreover, she so
organized her system of espionage as to make the old accountant tell her
unwittingly all that he knew of the private life led by Denis, his wife
Marthe, and their children, Lucien, Paul, and Hortense all, indeed, that
was done and said in the modest little pavilion where the young people,
in spite of their increasing fortune, were still residing, evincing no
ambitious haste to occupy the large house on the quay. They did not even
seem to notice what scanty accommodation they had in that pavilion, while
she alone dwelt in the gloomy mansion, which was so spacious that she
seemed quite lost in it. And she was enraged, too, by their deference, by
the tranquil way in which they waited for her to be no more; for she had
been unable to make them quarrel with her, and was obliged to show
herself grateful for the means they gave her, and to kiss their children,
whom she hated, when they brought her flowers.
Thus, months and years went by, and almost every evening when Morange for
a moment called on Constance, he found her in the same little silent
_salon_, gowned in the same black dress, and stiffened into a posture of
obstinate expectancy. Though no sign was given of destiny's revenge, of
the patiently hoped-for fall of misfortune upon others, she never seemed
to doubt of her ultimate victory. On the contrary, when things fell more
and more heavily upon her, she drew herself yet more erect, defying fate,
buoyed up by the conviction that it would at last be forced to prove that
she was right. Thus, she remained immutable, superior to fatigue, and
ever relying on a prodigy.
Each evening, when Morange called during those twelve years, the
conversation invariably began in the same way.
"Nothing fresh since yesterday, dear madame?"
"No, my friend, nothing."
"Well, the chief thing is to enjoy good health. One can wait for better
days."
"Oh! nobody enjoys good health; still one waits all the same."
And now one evening, at the end of the twelve years, as Morange went in
to see her, he detected that the atmosphere of the little drawing-room
was changed, quivering as it were with restrained delight amid the
eternal silence.
"Nothing fresh since yesterday, dear madame?"
"Yes, my friend, there's something fresh."
"Something favorable I hope, then; something pleasant that you have been
waiting for?"
"Something that I have been waiting for--yes! What one knows how to wait
for always comes."
He looked at her in surprise, feeling almost anxious when he saw how
altered she was, with glittering eyes and quick gestures. What fulfilment
of her desires, after so many years of immutable mourning, could have
resuscitated her like that? She smiled, she breathed vigorously, as if
she were relieved of the enormous weight which had so long crushed and
immured her. But when he asked the cause of her great happiness she said:
"I will not tell you yet, my friend. Perhaps I do wrong to rejoice; for
everything is still very vague and doubtful. Only somebody told me this
morning certain things, which I must make sure of, and think over. When I
have done so I shall confide in you, you may rely on it, for I tell you
everything; besides which, I shall no doubt need your help. So have a
little patience, some evening you shall come to dinner with me here, and
we shall have the whole evening before us to chat at our ease. But ah!
_mon Dieu_! if it were only true, if it were only the miracle at last!"
More than three weeks elapsed before Morange heard anything further. He
saw that Constance was very thoughtful and very feverish, but he did not
even question her, absorbed as he himself was in the solitary, not to say
automatic, life which he had made for himself. He had lately completed
his sixty-ninth year; thirty years had gone by since the death of his
wife Valérie, more than twenty since his daughter Reine had joined her,
and he still ever lived on in his methodical, punctual manner, amid the
downfall of his existence. Never had man suffered more than he, passed
through greater tragedies, experienced keener remorse, and withal he came
and went in a careful, correct way, ever and ever prolonging his career
of mediocrity, like one whom many may have forgotten, but whom keenness
of grief has preserved.
Nevertheless Morange had evidently sustained some internal damage of a
nature to cause anxiety. He was lapsing into the most singular manias.
While obstinately retaining possession of the over-large flat which he
had formerly occupied with his wife and daughter, he now lived there
absolutely alone; for he had dismissed his servant, and did his own
marketing, cooking, and cleaning. For ten years nobody but himself had
been inside his rooms, and the most filthy neglect was suspected there.
But in vain did the landlord speak of repairs, he was not allowed even to
cross the threshold. Moreover, although the old accountant, who was now
white as snow, with a long, streaming beard, remained scrupulously clean
of person, he wore a most wretched threadbare coat, which he must have
spent his evenings in repairing. Such, too, was his maniacal, sordid
avarice that he no longer spent a farthing on himself apart from the
money which he paid for his bread--bread of the commonest kind, which he
purchased every four days and ate when it was stale, in order that he
might make it last the longer. This greatly puzzled the people who were
acquainted with him, and never a week went by without the house-porter
propounding the question: "When a gentleman of such quiet habits earns
eight thousand francs a year at his office and never spends a cent, what
can he do with his money?" Some folks even tried to reckon up the amount
which Morange must be piling in some corner, and thought that it might
perhaps run to some hundreds of thousands of francs.
But more serious trouble declared itself. He was twice snatched away from
certain death. One day, when Denis was returning homewards across the
Grenelle bridge he perceived Morange leaning far over the parapet,
watching the flow of the water, and all ready to make a plunge if he had
not been grasped by his coat-tails. The poor man, on recovering his
self-possession, began to laugh in his gentle way, and talked of having
felt giddy. Then, on another occasion, at the works, Victor Moineaud
pushed him away from some machinery in motion at the very moment when, as
if hypnotized, he was about to surrender himself to its devouring
clutches. Then he again smiled, and acknowledged that he had done wrong
in passing so near to the wheels. After this he was watched, for people
came to the conclusion that he occasionally lost his head. If Denis
retained him as chief accountant, this was, firstly, from a feeling of
gratitude for his long services; but, apart from that matter, the
extraordinary thing was that Morange had never discharged his duties more
ably, obstinately tracing every doubtful centime in his books, and
displaying the greatest accuracy over the longest additions. Always
showing a calm and restful face, as though no tempest had ever assailed
his heart, he clung tightly to his mechanical life, like a discreet
maniac, who, though people might not know it, ought, perhaps, to have
been placed under restraint.
At the same time, it should be mentioned that for some few years already
there had been quite a big affair in Morange's life. Although he was
Constance's confidant, although she had made him her creature by the
force of her despotic will, he had gradually conceived the greatest
affection for Denis's daughter, Hortense. As this child grew up, he
fancied that he found in her his own long-mourned daughter, Reine. She
had recently completed her ninth year, and each time that Morange met her
he was thrown into a state of emotion and adoration, the more touching
since it was all a divine illusion on his part, for the two girls in no
wise resembled each other, the one having been extremely dark, and the
other being nearly fair. In spite of his terrible avarice, the accountant
loaded Hortense with dolls and sweetmeats on every possible occasion; and
at last his affection for the child absorbed him to such a degree that
Constance felt offended by it. She thereupon gave him to understand that
whosoever was not entirely on her side was, in reality, against her.
To all appearance, he made his submission; in reality, he only loved the
child the more for the thwarting of his passion, and he watched for her
in order to kiss her in secret. In his daily intercourse with Constance,
in showing apparent fidelity to the former mistress of the works, he now
simply yielded to fear, like the poor weak being he was, one whom
Constance had ever bent beneath her stern hand. The pact between them was
an old one, it dated from that monstrous thing which they alone knew,
that complicity of which they never spoke, but which bound them so
closely together.
He, with his weak, good nature, seemed from that day to have remained
annihilated, tamed, cowed like a frightened animal. Since that day, too,
he had learnt many other things, and now no secret of the house remained
unknown to him. This was not surprising. He had been living there so many
years. He had so often walked to and fro with his short, discreet,
maniacal step, hearing, seeing, and surprising everything! However, this
madman, who knew the truth and who remained silent--this madman, left
free amid the mysterious drama enacted in the Beauchênes' home, was
gradually coming to a rebellious mood, particularly since he was
compelled to hide himself to kiss his little friend Hortense. His heart
growled at the thought of it, and he felt ready to explode should his
passion be interfered with.
All at once, one evening, Constance kept him to dinner. And he suspected
that the hour of her revelations had come, on seeing how she quivered and
how erectly she carried her little figure, like a fighter henceforth
certain of victory. Nevertheless, although the servant left them alone
after bringing in at one journey the whole of the frugal repast, she did
not broach the great affair at table. She spoke of the factory and then
of Denis and his wife Marthe, whom she criticised, and she was even so
foolish as to declare that Hortense was badly behaved, ugly, and
destitute of grace. The accountant, like the coward he was, listened to
her, never daring to protest in spite of the irritation and rebellion of
his whole being.
"Well, we shall see," she said at last, "when one and all are put back
into their proper places."
Then she waited until they returned to the little drawing-room, and the
doors were shut behind them; and it was only then, near the fire, amid
the deep silence of the winter evening, that she spoke out on the subject
which she had at heart:
"As I think I have already told you, my friend, I have need of you. You
must obtain employment at the works for a young man in whom I am
interested. And if you desire to please me, you will even take him into
your own office."
Morange, who was seated in front of her on the other side of the
chimney-piece, gave her a look of surprise.
"But I am not the master," he replied; "apply to the master, he will
certainly do whatever you ask."
"No, I do not wish to be indebted to Denis in any way. Besides, that
would not suit my plans. You yourself must recommend the young man, and
take him as an assistant, coaching him and giving him a post under you.
Come, you surely have the power to choose a clerk. Besides, I insist on
it."
She spoke like a sovereign, and he bowed his back, for he had obeyed
people all his life; first his wife, then his daughter, and now that
dethroned old queen who terrified him in spite of the dim feeling of
rebellion which had been growing within him for some time past.
"No doubt, I might take the young man on," he said, "but who is he?"
Constance did not immediately reply. She had turned towards the fire,
apparently for the purpose of raising a log of wood with the tongs, but
in reality to give herself time for further reflection. What good would
it do to tell him everything at once? She would some day be forced to
tell it him, if she wished to have him entirely on her side; but there
was no hurry, and she fancied that it would be skilful policy if at
present she merely prepared the ground.
"He is a young man whose position has touched me, on account of certain
recollections," she replied. "Perhaps you remember a girl who worked
here--oh! a very long time ago, some thirty years at the least--a certain
Norine Moineaud, one of old Moineaud's daughters."
Morange had hastily raised his head, and as sudden light flashed on his
memory he looked at Constance with dilated eyes. Before he could even
weigh his words he let everything escape him in a cry of surprise:
"Alexandre-Honoré, Norine's son, the child of Rougemont!"
Quite thunderstruck by those words, Constance dropped the tongs she was
holding, and gazed into the old man's eyes, diving to the very depths of
his soul.
"Ah! you know, then!" she said. "What is it you know? You must tell me;
hide nothing. Speak! I insist on it!"
What he knew? Why, he knew everything. He spoke slowly and at length, as
from the depths of a dream. He had witnessed everything, learnt
everything--Norine's trouble, the money given by Beauchêne to provide for
her at Madame Bourdieu's, the child carried to the Foundling Hospital and
then put out to nurse at Rougemont, whence he had fled after stealing
three hundred francs. And the old accountant was even aware that the
young scamp, after stranding on the pavement of Paris, had led the vilest
of lives there.
"But who told you all that? How do you know all that?" cried Constance,
who felt full of anxiety.
He waved his arm with a vague, sweeping gesture, as if to take in all the
surrounding atmosphere, the whole house. He knew those things because
they were things pertaining to the place, which people had told him of,
or which he had guessed. He could no longer remember exactly how they had
reached him. But he knew them well.
"You understand," said he, "when one has been in a place for more than
thirty years, things end by coming to one naturally. I know everything,
everything."
Constance started and deep silence fell. He, with his eyes fixed on the
embers, had sunk back into the dolorous past. She reflected that it was,
after all, preferable that the position should be perfectly plain. Since
he was acquainted with everything, it was only needful that she, with all
determination and bravery, should utilize him as her docile instrument.
"Alexandre-Honoré, the child of Rougemont," she said. "Yes! that is the
young man whom I have at last found again. But are you also aware of the
steps which I took twelve years ago, when I despaired of finding him, and
actually thought him dead?"
Morange nodded affirmatively, and she again went on speaking, relating
that she had long since renounced her old plans, when all at once destiny
had revealed itself to her.
"Imagine a flash of lightning!" she exclaimed. "It was on the morning of
the day when you found me so moved! My sister-in-law, Séraphine, who does
not call on me four times a year, came here, to my great surprise, at ten
o'clock. She has become very strange, as you are aware, and I did not at
first pay any attention to the story which she began to relate to me--the
story of a young man whom she had become acquainted with through some
lady--an unfortunate young man who had been spoilt by bad company, and
whom one might save by a little help. Then what a blow it was, my friend,
when she all at once spoke out plainly, and told me of the discovery
which she had made by chance. I tell you, it is destiny awaking and
striking!"
The story was indeed curious. Prematurely aged though she was, Séraphine,
amid her growing insanity, continued to lead a wild, rackety life, and
the strangest stories were related of her. A singular caprice of hers,
given her own viciousness, was to join, as a lady patroness, a society
whose purpose was to succor and moralize young offenders on their release
from prison. And it was in this wise that she had become acquainted with
Alexandre-Honoré, now a big fellow of two-and-thirty, who had just
completed a term of six years' imprisonment. He had ended by telling her
his true story, speaking of Rougemont, naming Norine his mother, and
relating the fruitless efforts that he had made in former years to
discover his father, who was some immensely wealthy man. In the midst of
it, Séraphine suddenly understood everything, and in particular why it
was that his face had seemed so familiar to her. His striking resemblance
to Beauchêne sufficed to throw a vivid light upon the question of his
parentage. For fear of worry, she herself told him nothing, but as she
remembered how passionately Constance had at one time striven to find
him, she went to her and acquainted her with her discovery.
"He knows nothing as yet," Constance explained to Morange. "My
sister-in-law will simply send him here as if to a lady friend who will
find him a good situation. It appears that he now asks nothing better
than to work. If he has misconducted himself, the unhappy fellow, there
have been many excuses for it! And, besides, I will answer for him as
soon as he is in my hands; he will then only do as I tell him."
All that Constance knew respecting Alexandre's recent years was a story
which he had concocted and retailed to Séraphine--a story to the effect
that he owed his long term of imprisonment to a woman, the real culprit,
who had been his mistress and whom he had refused to denounce. Of course
that imprisonment, whatever its cause, only accounted for six out of the
twelve years which had elapsed since his disappearance, and the six
others, of which he said nothing, might conceal many an act of ignominy
and crime. On the other hand, imprisonment at least seemed to have had a
restful effect on him; he had emerged from his long confinement, calmer
and keener-witted, with the intention of spoiling his life no longer. And
cleansed, clad, and schooled by Séraphine, he had almost become a
presentable young man.
Morange at last looked up from the glowing embers, at which he had been
staring so fixedly.
"Well, what do you want to do with him?" he inquired. "Does he write a
decent hand?"
"Yes, his handwriting is good. No doubt, however, he knows very little.
It is for that reason that I wish to intrust him to you. You will polish
him up for me and make him conversant with everything. My desire is that
in a year or two he should know everything about the factory, like a
master."
At that last word which enlightened him, the accountant's good sense
suddenly awoke. Amid the manias which were wrecking his mind, he had
remained a man of figures with a passion for arithmetical accuracy, and
he protested.
"Well, madame, since you wish me to assist you, pray tell me everything;
tell me in what work we can employ this young man here. Really now, you
surely cannot hope through him to regain possession of the factory,
re-purchase the shares, and become sole owner of the place?"
Then, with the greatest logic and clearness, he showed how foolish such a
dream would be, enumerating figures and fully setting forth how large a
sum of money would be needed to indemnify Denis, who was installed in the
place like a conqueror.
"Besides, dear madame, I don't understand why you should take that young
man rather than another. He has no legal rights, as you must be aware. He
could never be anything but a stranger here, and I should prefer an
intelligent, honest man, acquainted with our line of business."
Constance had set to work poking the fire logs with the tongs. When she
at last looked up she thrust her face towards the other's, and said in a
low voice, but violently: "Alexandre is my husband's son, he is the heir.
He is not the stranger. The stranger is that Denis, that son of the
Froments, who has robbed us of our property! You rend my heart; you make
it bleed, my friend, by forcing me to tell you this."
The answer she thus gave was the answer of a conservative _bourgeoise_, who
held that it would be more just if the inheritance should go to an
illegitimate scion of the house rather than to a stranger. Doubtless the
woman, the wife, the mother within her, bled even as she herself
acknowledged, but she sacrificed everything to her rancor; she would
drive the stranger away even if in doing so her own flesh should be
lacerated. Then, too, it vaguely seemed to her that her husband's son
must be in some degree her own, since his father was likewise the father
of the son to whom she had given birth, and who was dead. Besides, she
would make that young fellow her son; she would direct him, she would
compel him to be hers, to work through her and for her.
"You wish to know how I shall employ him in the place," she resumed. "I
myself don't know. It is evident that I shall not easily find the
hundreds of thousands of francs which may be required. Your figures are
accurate, and it is possible that we may never have the money to buy back
the property. But, all the same, why not fight, why not try? And,
besides--I will admit it--suppose we are vanquished, well then, so much
the worse for the other. For I assure you that if this young man will
only listen to me, he will then become the agent of destruction, the
avenger and punisher, implanted in the factory to wreck it!"
With a gesture which summoned ruin athwart the walls, she finished
expressing her abominable hopes. Among her vague plans, reared upon hate,
was that of employing the wretched Alexandre as a destructive weapon,
whose ravages would bring her some relief. Should she lose all other
battles, that would assuredly be the final one. And she had attained to
this pitch of madness through the boundless despair in which the loss of
her only son had plunged her, withered, consumed by a love which she
could not content, then demented, perverted to the point of crime.
Morange shuddered when, with her stubborn fierceness, she concluded: "For
twelve years past I have been waiting for a stroke of destiny, and here
it is! I would rather perish than not draw from it the last chance of
good fortune which it brings me!"
This meant that Denis's ruin was decided on, and would be effected if
destiny were willing. And the old accountant could picture the disaster:
innocent children struck down in the person of their father, a great and
most unjust catastrophe, which made his kindly heart rise in rebellion.
Would he allow that fresh crime to be committed without shouting aloud
all that he knew? Doubtless the memory of the other crime, the first one,
the monstrous buried crime about which they both kept silence, returned
at that horrible moment and shone out disturbingly in his eyes, for she
herself shuddered as if she could see it there, while with the view of
mastering him she gazed at him fixedly. For a moment, as they peered into
one another's eyes, they lived once more beside the murderous trap, and
shivered in the cold gust which rose from the abyss. And this time again
Morange, like a poor weak man overpowered by a woman's will, was
vanquished, and did not speak.
"So it is agreed, my friend," she softly resumed. "I rely on you to take
Alexandre, in the first place, as a clerk. You can see him here one
evening at five o'clock, after dusk, for I do not wish him to know at
first what interest I take in him. Shall we say the day after to-morrow?"
"Yes, the evening of the day after to-morrow, if it pleases you, dear
madame."
On the morrow Morange displayed so much agitation that the wife of the
door-porter of the house where he resided, a woman who was ever watching
him, imparted her fears to her husband. The old gentleman was certainly
going to have an attack, for he had forgotten to put on his slippers when
he came downstairs to fetch some water in the morning; and, besides, he
went on talking to himself, and looked dreadfully upset. The most
extraordinary incident of the day, however, was that after lunch Morange
quite forgot himself, and was an hour late in returning to his office, a
lack of punctuality which had no precedent, which, in the memory of
everybody at the works, had never occurred before.
As a matter of fact, Morange had been carried away as by a storm, and,
walking straight before him, had once more found himself on the Grenelle
bridge, where Denis had one day saved him from the fascination of the
water. And some force, some impulse had carried him again to the very
same spot, and made him lean over the same parapet, gazing, in the same
way as previously, at the flowing river. Ever since the previous evening
he had been repeating the same words, words which he stammered in an
undertone, and which haunted and tortured him. "Would he allow that fresh
crime to be committed without shouting aloud what he knew?" No doubt it
was those words, of which he could not rid himself, that had made him
forget to put on his slippers in the morning, and that had just now again
dazed him to the point of preventing him from returning to the factory,
as if he no longer recognized the entrance as he passed it. And if he
were at present leaning over that water, had he not been impelled thither
by an unconscious desire to have done with all his troubles, an
instinctive hope of drowning the torment into which he was thrown by
those stubbornly recurring words? Down below, at the bottom of the river,
those words would at last cease; he would no longer repeat them; he would
no longer hear them urging him to an act of energy for which he could not
find sufficient strength. And the call of the water was very gentle, and
it would be so pleasant to have to struggle no longer, to yield to
destiny, like a poor soft-hearted weakling who has lived too long.
Morange leant forward more and more, and in fancy could already feel the
sonorous river seizing him, when a gay young voice in the rear recalled
him to reality.
"What are you looking at, Monsieur Morange? Are there any big fishes
there?"
It was Hortense, looking extremely pretty, and tall already for her ten
years, whom a maid was conducting on a visit to some little friends at
Auteuil. And when the distracted accountant turned round, he remained for
a moment with trembling hands, and eyes moist with tears, at the sight of
that apparition, that dear angel, who had recalled him from so far.
"What! is it you, my pet!" he exclaimed. "No, no, there are no big
fishes. I think that they hide at the bottom because the water is so cold
in winter. Are you going on a visit? You look quite beautiful in that
fur-trimmed cloak!"
The little girl began to laugh, well pleased at being flattered and
loved, for her old friend's voice quivered with adoration.
"Yes, yes, I am very happy; there are to be some private theatricals
where I'm going. Oh! it is amusing to feel happy!"
She spoke those words like his own Reine might formerly have spoken them,
and he could have gone down on his knees to kiss her little hands like an
idol's.
"But it is necessary that you should always be happy," he replied. "You
look so beautiful, I must really kiss you."
"Oh! you may, Monsieur Morange, I'm quite willing. Ah! you know the doll
you gave me; her name's Margot, and you have no idea how good she is.
Come to see her some day."
He had kissed her; and with glowing heart, ready for martyrdom, he
watched her as she went off in the pale light of winter. What he had
thought of would be too cowardly: besides, that child must be happy!
He slowly quitted the bridge, while within him the haunting words rang
out with decisive distinctness, demanding a reply: "Would he allow that
fresh crime to be committed without shouting aloud what he knew?" No, no!
It was impossible: he would speak, he would act. Nevertheless, his mind
remained clouded, befogged. How could he speak, how could he act?
Then, to crown his extravagant conduct, utterly breaking away from the
habits of forty years, he no sooner returned to the office than, instead
of immediately plunging into his everlasting additions, he began to write
a long letter. This letter, which was addressed to Mathieu, recounted the
whole affair--Alexandre's resurrection, Constance's plans, and the
service which he himself had promised to render her. These things were
set down simply as his impulse dictated, like a kind of confession by
which he relieved his feelings. He had not yet come to any positive
decision as to how he should play the part of a justiciar, which seemed
so heavy to his shoulders. His one purpose was to warn Mathieu in order
that there might be two of them to decide and act. And he simply finished
by asking the other to come to see him on the following evening, though
not before six o'clock, as he desired to see Alexandre and learn how the
interview passed off, and what Constance might require of the young man.
The ensuing night, the ensuing day, must have been full of abominable
torment for Morange. The doorkeeper's wife recounted, later on, that the
fourth-floor tenant had heard the old gentleman walking about overhead
all through the night. Doors were slammed, and furniture was dragged
about as if for a removal. It was even thought that one could detect
cries, sobs, and the monologues of a madman addressing phantoms, some
mysterious rendering of worship to the dead who haunted him. And at the
works during the day which followed Morange gave alarming signs of
distress, of the final sinking of his mind into a flood of gloom. Ever
darting troubled glances around him, he was tortured by internal combats,
which, without the slightest motive, made him descend the stairs a dozen
times, linger before the machinery in motion, and then return to his
additions up above, with the bewildered, distracted air of one who could
not find what he sought so painfully. When the darkness fell, about four
o'clock on that gloomy winter day, the two clerks whom he had with him in
his office noticed that he altogether ceased working. From that moment,
indeed, he waited with his eyes fixed upon the clock. And when five
o'clock struck he once more made sure that a certain total was correct,
then rose and went out, leaving the ledger open, as if he meant to return
to check the next addition.
He followed the gallery which led to the passage connecting the workshops
with the private house. The whole factory was at that hour lighted up,
electric lamps cast the brightness of daylight over it, while the stir of
work ascended and the walls shook amid the rumbling of machinery. And all
at once, before reaching the passage, Morange perceived the lift, the
terrible cavity, the abyss of murder in which Blaise had met his death
fourteen years previously. Subsequent to that catastrophe, and in order
to prevent the like of it from ever occurring again, the trap had been
surrounded by a balustrade with a gate, in such wise that a fall became
impossible unless one should open the gate expressly to take a plunge. At
that moment the trap was lowered and the gate was closed, and Morange,
yielding to some superior force, bent over the cavity, shuddering. The
whole scene of long ago rose up before him; he was again in the depths of
that frightful void; he could see the crushed corpse; and he could feel
the gust of terror chilling him in the presence of murder, accepted and
concealed. Since he suffered so dreadfully, since he could no longer
sleep, since he had promised his dear dead ones that he would join them,
why should he not make an end of himself? Two days previously, while
leaning over the parapet of the Grenelle bridge, a desire to do so had
taken possession of him. He merely had to lose his equilibrium and he
would be liberated, laid to rest in the peaceful earth between his wife
and his daughter. And, all at once, as if the abyss itself suggested to
him the frightful solution for which he had been vainly groping, in his
growing madness, for two days past, he thought that he could hear a voice
calling him from below, the voice of Blaise, which cried: "Come with the
other one! Come with the other one!"
He started violently and drew himself erect; decision had fallen on him
in a lightning flash. Insane as he was, that appeared to him to be the
one sole logical, mathematical, sensible solution, which would settle
everything. It seemed to him so simple, too, that he was astonished that
he had sought it so long. And from that moment this poor soft-hearted
weakling, whose wretched brain was unhinged, gave proof of iron will and
sovereign heroism, assisted by the clearest reasoning, the most subtle
craft.
In the first place he prepared everything, set the catch to prevent the
trap from being sent up again in his absence, and also assured himself
that the balustrade door opened and closed easily. He came and went with
a light, aerial step, as if carried off his feet, with his eyes ever on
the alert, anxious as he was to be neither seen nor heard. At last he
extinguished the three electric lamps and plunged the gallery into
darkness. From below, through the gaping cavity the stir of the working
factory, the rumbling of the machinery ever ascended. And it was only
then, everything being ready, that Morange turned into the passage to
betake himself to the little drawing room of the mansion.
Constance was there waiting for him with Alexandre. She had given
instructions for the latter to call half-an-hour earlier, for she wished
to confess him while as yet telling him nothing of the real position
which she meant him to take in the house. She was not disposed to place
herself all at once at his mercy, and had therefore simply expressed her
willingness to give him employment in accordance with the recommendation
of her relative, the Baroness de Lowicz. Nevertheless, she studied him
with restrained ardor, and was well pleased to find that he was strong,
sturdy, and resolute, with a hard face lighted by terrible eyes, which
promised her an avenger. She would finish polishing him up, and then he
would suit her perfectly. For his part, without plainly understanding the
truth, he scented something, divined that his fortune was at hand, and
was quite ready to wait awhile for the certain feast, like a young wolf
who consents to be domesticated in order that he may, later on, devour
the whole flock at his ease.
When Morange went in only one thing struck him, Alexandre's resemblance
to Beauchêne, that extraordinary resemblance which had already upset
Constance, and which now sent an icy chill through the old accountant as
if in purposing to carry out his idea he had condemned his old master.
"I was waiting for you, my friend; you are late, you who are so punctual
as a rule," said Constance.
"Yes, there was a little work which I wished to finish."
But she had merely been jesting, she felt so happy. And she immediately
settled everything: "Well, here is the gentleman whom I spoke about," she
said. "You will begin by taking him with you and making him acquainted
with the business, even if in the first instance you can merely send him
about on commissions for you. It is understood, is it not?"
"Quite so, dear madame, I will take him with me; you may rely on me."
Then, as she gave Alexandre his dismissal, saying that he might come on
the morrow, Morange offered to show him out by way of his office and the
workshops, which were still open.
"In that way he will form an acquaintance with the works, and can come
straight to me to-morrow."
Constance laughed again, so fully did the accountant's obligingness
reassure her.
"That is a good idea, my friend," she said. "Thank you. And _au revoir_,
monsieur; we will take charge of your future if you behave sensibly."
At this moment, however, she was thunderstruck by an extravagant and
seemingly senseless incident. Morange, having shown Alexandre out of the
little _salon_, in advance of himself, turned round towards her with the
sudden grimace of a madman, revealing his insanity by the distortion of
his countenance. And in a low, familiar, sneering voice, he stammered in
her face: "Ha! ha! Blaise at the bottom of the hole! He speaks, he has
spoken to me! Ha! ha! the somersault! you would have the somersault! And
you shall have it again, the somersault, the somersault!"
Then he disappeared, following Alexandre.
She had listened to him agape with wonder. It was all so unforeseen, so
idiotic, that at first she did not understand it. But afterwards what a
flash of light came to her! That which Morange had referred to was the
murder yonder--the thing to which they had never referred, the monstrous
thing which they had kept buried for fourteen years past, which their
glances only had confessed, but which, all of a sudden, he had cast in
her teeth with the grimace of a madman. What was the meaning of the poor
fool's diabolical rebellion, the dim threat which she had felt passing
like a gust from an abyss? She turned frightfully pale, she intuitively
foresaw some frightful revenge of destiny, that destiny which, only a
moment previously, she had believed to be her minion. Yes, it was surely
that. And she felt herself carried fourteen years backward, and she
remained standing, quivering, icy cold, listening to the sounds which
arose from the works, waiting for the awful thud of the fall, even as on
the distant day when she had listened and waited for the other to be
crushed and killed.
Meantime Morange, with his discreet, short step, was leading Alexandre
away, and speaking to him in a quiet, good-natured voice.
"I must ask your pardon for going first, but I have to show you the way.
Oh! this is a very intricate place, with stairs and passages whose turns
and twists never end. The passage now turns to the left, you see."
Then, on reaching the gallery where the darkness was complete, he
affected anger in the most natural manner possible.
"Ah! well, that is just their way. They haven't yet lighted up this part.
The switch is at the other end. Fortunately I know where to step, for I
have been going backwards and forwards here for the last forty years.
Mind follow me carefully."
Thereupon, at each successive step, he warned the other what he ought to
do, guiding him along in his obliging way without the faintest tremor in
his voice.
"Don't let go of me, turn to the left.--Now we merely have to go straight
ahead.--Only, wait a moment, a barrier intersects the gallery, and there
is a gate.--There we are! I'm opening the gate, you hear?--Follow me,
I'll go first."
Morange quietly stepped into the void, amid the darkness. And, without a
cry, he fell. Alexandre who was close in the rear, almost touching him so
as not to lose him, certainly detected the void and the gust which
followed the fall, as with sudden horror the flooring failed beneath
them; but force of motion carried him on, he stepped forward in his turn,
howled and likewise fell, head over heels. Both were smashed below, both
killed at once. True, Morange still breathed for a few seconds.
Alexandre, for his part, lay with his skull broken to pieces and his
brains scattered on the very spot where Blaise had been picked up.
Horrible was the stupefaction when those bodies were found there. Nobody
could explain the catastrophe. Morange carried off his secret, the reason
for that savage act of justice which he had accomplished according to the
chance suggestions of his dementia. Perhaps he had wished to punish
Constance, perhaps he had desired to repair the old wrong: Denis long
since stricken in the person of his brother, and now saved for the sake
of his daughter Hortense, who would live happily with Margot, the pretty
doll who was so good. By suppressing the criminal instrument the old
accountant had indeed averted the possibility of a fresh crime. Swayed by
his fixed idea, however, he had doubtless never reasoned that cataclysmic
deed of justice, which was above reason, and which passed by with the
impassive savagery of a death-dealing hurricane.
At the works there was but one opinion, Morange had assuredly been mad;
and he alone could have caused the accident, particularly as it was
impossible to account, otherwise than by an act of madness, for the
extinguishing of the lights, the opening of the balustrade-door, and the
plunge into the cavity which he knew to be there, and into which had
followed him the unfortunate young man his companion. Moreover, the
accountant's madness was no longer doubted by anybody a few days later,
when the doorkeeper of his house related his final eccentricities, and a
commissary of police went to search his rooms. He had been mad, mad
enough to be placed in confinement.
To begin, nobody had ever seen a flat in such an extraordinary condition,
the kitchen a perfect stable, the drawing-room in a state of utter
abandonment with its Louis XIV. furniture gray with dust, and the
dining-room all topsy-turvy, the old oak tables and chairs being piled up
against the window as if to shut out every ray of light, though nobody
could tell why. The only properly kept room was that in which Reine had
formerly slept, which was as clean as a sanctuary, with its pitch-pine
furniture as bright as if it had been polished every day. But the
apartment in which Morange's madness became unmistakably manifest was his
own bedchamber, which he had turned into a museum of souvenirs, covering
its walls with photographs of his wife and daughter. Above a table there,
the wall facing the window quite disappeared from view, for a sort of
little chapel had been set up, decked with a multitude of portraits. In
the centre were photographs of Valérie and Reine, both of them at twenty
years of age, so that they looked like twin sisters; while symmetrically
disposed all around was an extraordinary number of other portraits, again
showing Valérie and Reine, now as children, now as girls, and now as
women, in every sort of position, too, and every kind of toilet. And
below them on the table, like an offering on an altar, was found more
than one hundred thousand francs, in gold, and silver, and even copper;
indeed, the whole fortune which Morange had been saving up for several
years by eating only dry bread, like a pauper.
At last, then, one knew what he had done with his savings; he had given
them to his dead wife and daughter, who had remained his will, passion,
and ambition. Haunted by remorse at having killed them while dreaming of
making them rich, he reserved for them that money which they had so
keenly desired, and which they would have spent with so much ardor. It
was still and ever for them that he earned it, and he took it to them,
lavished it upon them, never devoting even a tithe of it to any
egotistical pleasure, absorbed as he was in his vision-fraught worship
and eager to pacify and cheer their spirits. And the whole neighborhood
gossiped endlessly about the old mad gentleman who had let himself die of
wretchedness by the side of a perfect treasure, piled coin by coin upon a
table, and for twenty years past tendered to the portraits of his wife
and daughter, even as flowers might have been offered to their memory.
About six o'clock, when Mathieu reached the works, he found the place
terrified by the catastrophe. Ever since the morning he had been rendered
anxious by Morange's letter, which had greatly surprised and worried him
with that extraordinary story of Alexandre turning up once more, being
welcomed by Constance, and introduced by her into the establishment.
Plain as was the greater part of the letter, it contained some singularly
incoherent passages, and darted from one point to another with
incomprehensible suddenness. Mathieu had read it three times, indulging
on each occasion in fresh hypotheses of a gloomier and gloomier nature;
for the more he reflected, the more did the affair seem to him to be
fraught with menace. Then, on reaching the rendezvous appointed by
Morange, he found himself in presence of those bleeding bodies which
Victor Moineaud had just picked up and laid out side by side! Silent,
chilled to his bones, Mathieu listened to his son, Denis, who had
hastened up to tell him of the unexplainable misfortune, the two men
falling one atop of the other, first the old mad accountant, and then the
young fellow whom nobody knew and who seemed to have dropped from heaven.
Mathieu, for his part, had immediately recognized Alexandre, and if, pale
and terrified, he kept silent on the subject, it was because he desired
to take nobody, not even his son, into his confidence, given the fresh
suppositions, the frightful suppositions, which now arose in his mind
from out of all the darkness. He listened with growing anxiety to the
enumeration of the few points which were certain: the extinguishing of
the electric lights in the gallery and the opening of the balustrade
door, which was always kept closed and could only have been opened by
some _habitué_, since, to turn the handle, one had to press a secret spring
which kept it from moving. And, all at once, as Victor Moineaud pointed
out that the old man had certainly been the first to fall, since one of
the young man's legs had been stretched across his stomach, Mathieu was
carried fourteen years backward. He remembered old Moineaud picking up
Blaise on the very spot where Victor, the son, had just picked up Morange
and Alexandre. Blaise! At the thought of his dead boy fresh light came to
Mathieu, a frightful suspicion blazed up amid the terrible obscurity in
which he had been groping and doubting. And, thereupon, leaving Denis to
settle everything down below, he decided to see Constance.
Up above, however, when Mathieu was on the point of turning into the
communicating passage, he paused once more, this time near the lift. It
was there, fourteen years previously, that Morange, finding the trap
open, had gone down to warn and chide the workmen, while Constance,
according to her own account, had quietly returned into the house, at the
very moment when Blaise, coming from the other end of the dim gallery,
plunged into the gulf. Everybody had eventually accepted that narrative
as being accurate, but Mathieu now felt that it was mendacious. He could
recall various glances, various words, various spells of silence; and
sudden certainty came upon him, a certainty based on all the petty things
which he had not then understood, but which now assumed the most
frightful significance. Yes, it was certain, even though round it there
hovered the monstrous vagueness of silent crimes, cowardly crimes, over
which a shadow of horrible mystery always lurks. Moreover, it explained
the sequel, those two bodies lying below, as far, that is, as logical
reasoning can explain a madman's action with all its gaps and
mysteriousness. Nevertheless, Mathieu still strove to doubt; before
anything else he wished to see Constance.
Showing a waxy pallor, she had remained erect, motionless, in the middle
of her little drawing-room. The waiting of fourteen years previously had
begun once more, lasting on and on, and filling her with such anxiety
that she held her breath the better to listen. Nothing, no stir, no sound
of footsteps, had yet ascended from the works. What could be happening
then? Was the hateful thing, the dreaded thing, merely a nightmare after
all? Yet Morange had really sneered in her face, she had fully understood
him. Had not a howl, the thud of a fall, just reached her ears? And now,
had not the rumbling of the machinery ceased? It was death, the factory
silent, chilled and lost for her. All at once her heart ceased beating as
she detected a sound of footsteps drawing nearer and nearer with
increased rapidity. The door opened, and it was Mathieu who came in.
She recoiled, livid, as at the sight of a ghost. He, O God! Why he? How
was it he was there? Of all the messengers of misfortune he was the one
whom she had least expected. Had the dead son risen before her she would
not have shuddered more dreadfully than she did at this apparition of the
father.
She did not speak. He simply said: "They made the plunge, they are both
dead--like Blaise."
Then, though she still said nothing, she looked at him. For a moment
their eyes met. And in her glance he read everything: the murder was
begun afresh, effected, consummated. Over yonder lay the bodies, dead,
one atop of the other.
"Wretched woman, to what monstrous perversity have you fallen! And how
much blood there is upon you!"
By an effort of supreme pride Constance was able to draw herself up and
even increase her stature, still wishing to conquer, and cry aloud that
she was indeed the murderess, that she had always thwarted him, and would
ever do so. But Mathieu was already overwhelming her with a final
revelation.
"You don't know, then, that that ruffian, Alexandre, was one of the
murderers of your friend, Madame Angelin, the poor woman who was robbed
and strangled one winter afternoon. I compassionately hid that from you.
But he would now be at the galleys had I spoken out! And if I were to
speak to-day you would be there too!"
That was the hatchet-stroke. She did not speak, but dropped, all of a
lump, upon the carpet, like a tree which has been felled. This time her
defeat was complete; destiny, which she awaited, had turned against her
and thrown her to the ground. A mother the less, perverted by the love
which she had set on her one child, a mother duped, robbed, and maddened,
who had glided into murder amid the dementia born of inconsolable
motherliness! And now she lay there, stretched out, scraggy and withered,
poisoned by the affection which she had been unable to bestow.
Mathieu became anxious, and summoned the old servant, who, after
procuring assistance, carried her mistress to her bed and then undressed
her. Meantime, as Constance gave no sign of life, seized as she was by
one of those fainting fits which often left her quite breathless, Mathieu
himself went for Boutan, and meeting him just as he was returning home
for dinner, was luckily able to bring him back at once.
Boutan, who was now nearly seventy-two, and was quietly spending his last
years in serene cheerfulness, born of his hope in life, had virtually
ceased practising, only attending a very few old patients, his friends.
However, he did not refuse Mathieu's request. When he had examined
Constance he made a gesture of hopelessness, the meaning of which was so
plain that Mathieu, his anxiety increasing, bethought himself of trying
to find Beauchêne in order that the latter might, at least, be present if
his wife should die. But the old servant, on being questioned, began by
raising her arms to heaven. She did not know where Monsieur might be,
Monsieur never left any address. At last, feeling frightened herself, she
made up her mind to hasten to the abode of the two women, aunt and niece,
with whom Beauchêne spent the greater part of his time. She knew their
address perfectly well, as her mistress had even sent her thither in
pressing emergencies. But she learnt that the ladies had gone with
Monsieur to Nice for a holiday; whereupon, not desiring to return without
some member of the family, she was seized on her way back with the fine
idea of calling on Monsieur's sister, the Baroness de Lowicz, whom she
brought, almost by force, in her cab.
It was in vain that Boutan attempted treatment. When Constance opened her
eyes again, she looked at him fixedly, recognized him, no doubt, and then
lowered her eyelids. And from that moment she obstinately refused to
reply to any question that was put to her. She must have heard and have
known that people were there, trying to succor her. But she would have
none of their succor, she was stubbornly intent on dying, on giving no
further sign of life. Neither did she raise her eyelids, nor did her lips
part again. It was as if she had already quitted the world amid the mute
agony of her defeat.
That evening Séraphine's manner was extremely strange. She reeked of
ether, for she drank ether now. When she heard of the two-fold
"accident," the death of Morange and that of Alexandre, which had brought
on Constance's cardiacal attack, she simply gave an insane grin, a kind
of involuntary snigger, and stammered: "Ah! that's funny."
Though she removed neither her hat nor her gloves, she installed herself
in an armchair, where she sat waiting, with her eyes wide open and
staring straight before her--those brown eyes flecked with gold, whose
living light was all that she had retained of her massacred beauty. At
sixty-two she looked like a centenarian; her bold, insolent face was
ravined, as it were, by her stormy life, and the glow of her sun-like
hair had been extinguished by a shower of ashes. And time went on,
midnight approached, and she was still there, near that death-bed of
which she seemed to be ignorant, in that quivering chamber where she
forgot herself, similar to a mere thing, apparently no longer even
knowing why she had been brought thither.
Mathieu and Boutan had been unwilling to retire. Since Monsieur was at
Nice in the company of those ladies, the aunt and the niece, they decided
to spend the night there in order that Constance might not be left alone
with the old servant. And towards midnight, while they were chatting
together in undertones, they were suddenly stupefied at hearing Séraphine
raise her voice, after preserving silence for three hours.
"He is dead, you know," said she.
Who was dead? At last they understood that she referred to Dr. Gaude. The
celebrated surgeon, had, indeed, been found in his consulting-room struck
down by sudden death, the cause of which was not clearly known. In fact,
the strangest, the most horrible and tragical stories were current on the
subject. According to one of them a patient had wreaked vengeance on the
doctor; and Mathieu, full of emotion, recalled that one day, long ago,
Séraphine herself had suggested that all Gaude's unhappy patients ought
to band themselves together and put an end to him.
When Séraphine perceived that Mathieu was gazing at her, as in a
nightmare, moved by the shuddering silence of that death-watch, she once
more grinned like a lunatic, and said: "He is dead, we were all there!"
It was insane, improbable, impossible; and yet was it true or was it
false? A cold, terrifying quiver swept by, the icy quiver of mystery, of
that which one knows not, which one will never know.
Boutan leant towards Mathieu and whispered in his ear: "She will be
raving mad and shut up in a padded cell before a week is over." And,
indeed, a week later the Baroness de Lowicz was wearing a straight
waistcoat. In her case Dr. Gaude's treatment had led to absolute
insanity.
Mathieu and Boutan watched beside Constance until daybreak. She never
opened her lips, nor raised her eyelids. As the sun rose up, she turned
towards the wall, and then she died.