She protested that there was nothing the matter with her beyond a

slight irritation of the throat, but at last she yielded and accepted

his prohibition as a well-deserved punishment which closed the doors of

heaven upon her. She wept, believed that she was damned, and dragged

herself listlessly through the blank weary days; and then, in spite of

herself, like a woman returning to some forbidden love, when Friday

came she humbly glided into Saint-Michael's chapel and laid her burning

brow against the woodwork of the confessional-box. She did not speak a

word, but simply knelt there, completely crushed, quite overwhelmed. At

this Abbé Faujas, who was greatly irritated, treated her as harshly as

though she was some unworthy woman, and hastily ordered her away. Then

she left the church, feeling happy and consoled.

The priest was afraid of the effect of the gloomy darkness of

Saint-Michael's chapel. He spoke upon the subject to Doctor Porquier,

who persuaded Marthe to go to confession at the little oratory of the

Home of the Virgin in the suburb. Abbé Faujas promised to be there to

hear her every other Saturday. This oratory, which had been established

in a large whitewashed room with four big windows, was bright and

cheerful, and would, he thought, have a calming effect upon the excited

imagination of his penitent. There, he thought, he would be able to

bring her under control, reduce her to obedience, without possible fear

of any scandal. As a guard against all calumnious gossip, he asked his

mother to accompany Marthe, and while he confessed the latter Madame

Faujas remained outside the door. As the old lady did not like to waste

her time, she used to take her knitting with her and work away at a

stocking.

'My dear child,' she often said to Marthe, as they were returning

together to the Rue Balande, 'I could hear very well what Ovide was

saying to you to-day. You don't seem to be able to please him. You

can't care for him. Ah! I wish I were in your place to be able to kiss

his feet! I shall grow to hate you, if you go on causing him nothing

but annoyance.'

Marthe bent her head. She felt deep shame in Madame Faujas's presence.

She did not like her, she felt jealous of her at finding her always

coming between herself and the priest. The old lady's dark eyes, too,

troubled her when they constantly bent upon her, full as they seemed of

strange and disquieting thoughts.

Marthe's weak state of health sufficed to account for her meetings with

Abbé Faujas at the oratory of the Home of the Virgin. Doctor Porquier

stated that she went there simply in obedience to his orders, and the

promenaders on the Cours were vastly amused by this saying of the

doctor's.

'Well, all the same,' remarked Madame Paloque to her husband one day,

as she watched Marthe going down to the Rue Balande, accompanied by

Madame Faujas, 'I should like to be in some corner and watch the vicar

and his sweetheart. It is very amusing to hear her talk of her bad

cold! As though a bad cold was any reason why one shouldn't make one's

confession in church! I have had colds, but I never made them an excuse

for shutting myself up in a little chapel with a priest.'

'It is very wrong of you to interfere in Abbé Faujas's affairs,' the

judge replied to his wife. 'I have been spoken to about him. He is a

man with whom we must keep on good terms, and you will prevent us from

doing so; you are too spiteful.'

'Stuff!' she retorted angrily; 'they have trampled me under foot and I

will let them know who I am! Your Abbé Faujas is a big imbecile! Don't

you suppose that Abbé Fenil would be very grateful to me if I could

catch the vicar and his sweetheart? Ah! he would give a great deal to

have a scandal like that! Just you leave me alone; you don't understand

anything about such matters.'

A fortnight later, Madame Paloque watched Marthe go out on the

Saturday. She was standing ready dressed, hiding her hideous face

behind her curtains, but keeping watch over the street through a hole

in the muslin. When the two women disappeared round the corner of the

Rue Taravelle, she sniggered, and leisurely drawing on her gloves

went quietly on to the Place of the Sub-Prefecture, and walked slowly

round it. As she passed in front of Madame de Condamin's little house,

she thought for a moment of going in and taking her with her, but she

reflected that the other might, perhaps, have some scruples. And, all

considered, it was better she should be without witnesses, and manage

the business by herself.

'I have given them time,' she thought, after a quarter of an hour's

promenade. 'I think I may present myself now.'

Thereupon she quickened her pace. She frequently went to the Home of

the Virgin to discuss the accounts with Trouche, but that day, instead

of repairing to the secretary's office, she went straight along the

corridor towards the oratory. Madame Faujas was quietly knitting on a

chair in front of the door.

The judge's wife had foreseen that obstacle, and went straight on to

the door with the hasty manner of a person who has important business

on hand. But before she could reach out her hand to turn the handle

the old lady had risen from her chair and pushed her aside with

extraordinary energy.

'Where are you going?' she asked in her blunt peasant-woman's tones.

'I am going where I have business,' Madame Paloque replied, her arm

smarting and her face convulsed with anger. 'You are an insolent,

brutish woman! Let me pass! I am the treasurer of the Home of the

Virgin, and I have a right to go anywhere here I want.'

Madame Faujas, who stood leaning against the door, straightened her

spectacles upon her nose, and with unruffled tranquillity resumed her

knitting.

'Well,' she said bluntly, 'you can't go in there.'

'Can't, indeed! And may I ask why?'

'Because I don't wish that you should.'

The judge's wife felt that her plan was frustrated, and she almost

choked with spleen and anger. She was positively frightful to look at

as she gasped and stammered:

'I don't know who you are, and I don't know what you are doing here. If

I were to call out, I could have you arrested, for you have struck me.

There must be some great wickedness going on at the other side of that

door for you to have been put there to keep people from entering. I

belong to the house, I tell you! Let me pass, or I shall call for help.'

'Call for anyone you like,' replied the old lady, shrugging her

shoulders. 'I have told you that you shall not go in, that I won't let

you. How am I to know that you belong to the house? But it makes no

difference whether you do or you don't. No one can go in. I won't let

them.'

Thereupon Madame Paloque lost all control of herself, raised her voice,

and shrieked out:

'I have no occasion to go in now! I have learnt quite sufficient! You

are Abbé Faujas's mother, are you not? This is a very decent and pretty

part for you to be playing! I wouldn't enter the room now; I wouldn't

mix myself up with all this wickedness!'

Madame Faujas laid her knitting upon the chair, and, bending slightly

forward, gazed with glistening eyes through her spectacles at Madame

Paloque, holding her hands the while a little in front of her, as

though she were about to spring upon the angry woman and silence her.

She was, indeed, going to throw herself forward, when the door suddenly

opened and Abbé Faujas appeared on the threshold. He was in his

surplice and looked very stern.

'Well, mother,' he asked, 'what is going on here?'

The old lady bent her head, and stepped back like a dog that is taking

its place at its master's heels.

'Ah! is it you, dear Madame Paloque?' the Curé continued; 'do you want

to speak to me?'

By a supreme effort of will, the judge's wife forced her face into

a smile. She answered the priest in a tone that was terrible in its

amiability and mingled irony.

'Ah! you were inside were you, your reverence? If I had known that,

I would not have insisted upon entering. But I want to see the

altar-cloth, which must, I think, be getting into a bad condition. I

am a careful superintendent here, you know, and I keep an eye upon

all these little details. But, of course, if you are engaged in the

oratory, I wouldn't think of disturbing you. Pray go on with what you

are doing; the house is yours. If madame had only just dropped me a

word, I would have left her quietly to continue guarding you from being

disturbed.'

Madame Faujas allowed a growl to escape her, but a glance from her son

reduced her to silence.

'Come in, I beg you,' he said; 'you won't disturb me in the least. I

was confessing Madame Mouret, who is not very well. Come in, by all

means. The altar-cloth might very well be changed, I think.'

'Oh, no! I will come some other time,' Madame Paloque replied. 'I am

quite distressed to have interrupted you. Pray go on, your reverence,

pray go on!'

Notwithstanding her protestations, however, she entered the room. While

she was examining the altar-cloth with Marthe, the priest began to

chide his mother in a low voice:

'Why did you prevent her coming in, mother? I never told you to allow

no one to enter.'

She gazed straight in front of her with her obstinate determined

glance. 'She would have had to walk over my body before she got

inside,' she muttered.

'But why?'

'Because----. Listen to me, Ovide; don't be angry; you know that it

pains me to see you angry. You told me to accompany our landlady here,

didn't you? Well, I thought you wanted me to stop inquisitive people's

curiosity. So I took my seat out here, and no one should have entered,

be sure of that.'

But the priest caught hold of his mother's hands and shook her,

exclaiming:

'Why, mother, you couldn't have supposed----'

'I suppose nothing,' she replied, with sublime indifference. 'You are

free to do whatever pleases you. You are my child; I would steal for

you, I would.'

The priest was no longer listening to her. He had let her hands drop,

and, as he gazed at her, he seemed to be lost in reflections, which

made his face look sterner and more austere than ever.

'No, never!' he exclaimed with lofty pride. 'You are greatly mistaken,

mother. It is only the chaste who are powerful.'

XVI

At seventeen years of age, Désirée still retained the child-like

laugh of an 'innocent.' She was now a fine, tall girl, plump and

well-developed, with the arms and shoulders of a full-grown woman. She

grew like a healthy plant, happy in her growth, and quite untouched by

the unhappiness which was wrecking and saddening the house.

'Why do you never laugh?' she cried to her father one day. 'Come and

have a game at skipping! It's such fun!'

She had taken possession of one of the garden-beds, which she dug,

planted with vegetables, and carefully watered. The hard work delighted

her. Then she desired to have some fowls, which devoured her vegetables

and which she scolded with motherly tenderness. With these occupations

of hers, gardening and fowl-keeping, she made herself dreadfully dirty.

'She's perfectly filthy!' cried Rose. 'I won't have her coming into my

kitchen any more; she dirties everything! It is no use your trying to

keep her neatly dressed, madame. If I were you I should just let her

mess about as she likes.'

Marthe, now ever preoccupied, no longer took care even that Désirée

should change her under-linen regularly. The girl sometimes wore the

same chemise for three weeks together; her stockings fell over her

shoes, which were sadly worn down at the heels, and her tattered skirts

hung about her like a beggar's rags. Mouret was one day obliged to take

up a needle himself, for the girl's dress was torn behind from top to

bottom. She, however, laughed gleefully at her nakedness, at her hair

that fell over her shoulders, and at her black hands and dirty face.

Marthe came to feel a sort of disgust of her. When she returned home

from mass, still retaining in her hair the vague perfume of the

church, she quite shuddered at the strong scent of earth which exhaled

from her daughter. She sent her into the garden again immediately

lunch was over. She could not bear to have her near her, distressed,

disquieted as she was by the girl's robust vigour and clear laugh,

which seemed to find amusement in everything.

'Oh, dear! how wearisome the child is!' she murmured sometimes, with an

air of nerveless lassitude.

As Mouret heard her complain, he exclaimed in an impulse of anger:

'If she's in your way, we will turn her out of the house, as we have

done the other two.'

'Indeed, I should be very glad if she were to go away,' Marthe answered

unhesitatingly.

One afternoon, about the end of the summer, Mouret was alarmed at no

longer being able to hear Désirée, who, a few minutes previously, had

been making a tremendous noise at the bottom of the garden. He ran to

see what had happened to her, and found her lying on the ground. She

had fallen from a ladder on to which she had climbed to gather some

figs: fortunately the box-plants had broken the force of her fall.

Mouret, in a great fright, lifted her up in his arms and called for

assistance. He thought she was dead; but she quickly came to herself,

declared that she was none the worse for the accident, and wanted to

climb the ladder again.

Marthe, however, had meantime come into the garden. When she heard

Désirée laugh she seemed quite annoyed.

'That child will kill me one of these days,' she exclaimed. 'She

doesn't know what to invent to alarm me. I'm sure that she threw

herself down on purpose. I can't endure it any longer. I shall shut

myself up in my own room, or go out in the morning and not return till

evening. Yes, you may laugh, you great goose! To think that I am the

mother of such a ninny! You are making me pay for it very dearly!'

'Yes, that she is!' cried Rose, who had run down from the kitchen;

'she's a great burden, and, unfortunately, there's no chance of our

ever being able to get her married.'

Mouret looked at them and listened with a pang at the heart. He said

nothing, but stayed with the girl at the bottom of the garden, and

there they remained chatting affectionately till nightfall. The next

day, Marthe and Rose were away from the house the whole morning. They

went to hear mass at a chapel, a league from Plassans, dedicated

to Saint-Januarius, whither all the pious folks of the town made a

pilgrimage on that particular day. When they returned, the cook hastily

served up a cold lunch. Marthe went on eating for a few minutes before

she noticed that her daughter was not at table.

'Isn't Désirée hungry?' she asked. 'Why hasn't she come to lunch?'

'Désirée is no longer here,' answered Mouret, who left his food almost

untouched upon his plate; 'I took her this morning to her nurse at

Saint-Eutrope.'

Marthe laid down her fork, and turned a little pale, seeming both

surprised and hurt.

'You might have consulted me,' she said.

Her husband, without making any direct reply, continued:

'She is all right with her nurse. The good woman is very fond of her,

and will look well after her, and the child will no longer be in your

way, and everyone will be happy.'

Then, as his wife said nothing, he added:

'If the house is not yet sufficiently quiet for you, just tell me, and

I will go away myself.'

She half rose from her seat, and a light glistened in her eyes.

Mouret had wounded her so cruelly that she stretched out her hand as

though she were going to throw the water-bottle at his head. In her

long-submissive nature angry promptings were now being fanned into

life, and she was growing to hate this man who was ever prowling round

her. She made a show of eating again, but she said nothing further

about her daughter. Mouret had folded his napkin, and remained sitting

in front of her, listening to the sound of her fork, and casting

lingering glances round the dining-room, which had once been so merry

with the chatter of the children, but was now so empty and mournful.

The room seemed to him to be quite chilly, and tears were mounting to

his eyes when Marthe called to Rose to bring in the dessert.

'You must be very hungry, I should think, madame,' said the cook, as

she put a plateful of fruit upon the table. 'We had quite a long walk;

and if the master, instead of playing the pagan, had come with us, he

would not have left you to eat the mutton all by yourself.'

Then she changed the plates, without pausing in her chatter.

'It is very pretty is that chapel of Saint-Januarius, but it is too

small. Did you see that the ladies who came late were obliged to kneel

down outside on the grass, in the open air? I can't understand why

Madame de Condamin came in a carriage. There's no merit in making the

pilgrimage if you come like that. We spent a delightful morning, didn't

we, madame?'

'Yes, a very delightful morning,' Marthe replied. 'Abbé Mousseau, who

preached, was very affecting.'

When Rose in her turn noticed Désirée's absence and learnt of the

girl's departure, she exclaimed:

'Well, really, it was a very good idea of the master's! She was always

walking off with my saucepans to water her plants. We shall be able to

have a little peace now.'

'Yes, indeed,' said Marthe, who was cutting a pear.

Mouret was almost choking. He rose and left the dining-room without

paying any attention to Rose, who cried out to him that the coffee

would be ready directly. Marthe, now left alone in the room, quietly

finished her pear.

Just as the cook was bringing the coffee, Madame Faujas came downstairs.

'Go in,' Rose said to her; 'you will be company for madame, and you can

have the master's coffee, for he has just rushed off like a madman.'

The old lady sat down in Mouret's place.

'I thought you did not take coffee,' she remarked as she put some sugar

into her cup.

'No, indeed, she didn't do so when the master kept the purse,'

interposed Rose. 'But madame would be very silly now to deny herself

what she likes.'

They talked for a good hour together, and Marthe ended by relating all

her troubles to Madame Faujas, telling her how her husband had just

inflicted a most painful scene upon her on account of her daughter,

whom he had removed to her nurse's in a sudden pet. She defended

herself, and told Madame Faujas that she was really very fond of the

girl, and should go to fetch her back before long.

'Well, she was rather noisy,' Madame Faujas remarked. 'I have often

pitied you. My son was thinking about giving up going into the garden

to read his breviary. She almost distracted him with the noise she

made.'

From that day forward Marthe and Mouret took their meals in silence.

The autumn was very damp, and the dining-room looked intensely

melancholy with only two covers laid, one at each end of the big table.

The corners were dark, and a chill seemed to fall from the ceiling. As

Rose would say, it looked as though a funeral were going on.

'Well, indeed,' she often exclaimed, as she brought the plates into the

room, 'you couldn't make much less noise, sir, however you tried! There

isn't much danger of your wearing the skin of your tongue off! Do try

to be a little livelier, sir! You look as though you were following a

corpse to the grave!--You will end by making madame quite ill. It is

bad for the health to eat without speaking.'

When the first frosts came, Rose, who sought in every way to oblige

Madame Faujas, offered her the use of her cooking-stove. The old lady

had begun by bringing down kettles to get her water boiled, as she

had no fire, she said, and the Abbé was in a hurry to shave. Then she

borrowed some flat-irons, begged the use of some saucepans, asked

for the loan of the dutch-oven to cook some mutton, and finally, in

the end, as she had no conveniently arranged fireplace upstairs, she

accepted Rose's repeated offers, and the cook lighted her a fire of

vine branches, big enough to roast a whole sheep, in the kitchen.

'Don't show any diffidence about it,' she said, as she herself turned

the leg of mutton round; 'the kitchener is a large one, isn't it? and

big enough for us both. I don't know how you've been able to do your

cooking upstairs as long as you have, with only that wretched iron

stove there. I should have been afraid of falling down in an apoplectic

fit myself. Monsieur Mouret ought to know better than to let a set of

rooms without any kitchen. You must be very enduring kind of people,

and very easily satisfied.'

Thus Madame Faujas gradually began to cook her lunch and dinner in

the Mourets' kitchen. On the first few occasions she provided her own

coal and oil and spices. But afterwards, when she forgot to bring any

article with her, Rose would not allow her to go upstairs for it, but

insisted upon supplying the deficiency from the house stores.

'Oh, there's some butter there! The little bit which you will take with

the tip of your knife won't ruin us. You know very well that everything

here is at your service. Madame would be quite angry with me if I

didn't make you at home here.'

A close intimacy now sprang up between Rose and Madame Faujas. The

cook was delighted to have some one always at hand who was willing

to listen to her while she stirred her sauces. She got on extremely

well with the priest's mother, whose print dresses and rough face and

unpolished demeanour put her almost on a footing of equality. They sat

chatting together for hours before the fireplace, and Madame Faujas

soon gained complete sway in the kitchen, though she still maintained

her impenetrable attitude, and only said what she chose to say, while

contriving to worm out all that she wanted to know. She settled the

Mourets' dinner, tasted the dishes which she had arranged they should

have, and Rose herself often made savoury little luxuries for the

Abbé's delectation, such as sugared apples or rice-cakes or fritters.

The provisions of the two establishments often got mixed together,

mistakes were made with the different pans, the two dinners being so

intermingled that Rose would cry out with a laugh:

'Tell me, madame, are these poached eggs yours? Really, I don't know.

Upon my word, it would be much better if you were all to dine together!'

It was on All Saints Day that Abbé Faujas lunched for the first time

in the Mourets' dining-room. He was in a great hurry, as he had to

return to Saint-Saturnin's at once, and so, to give him as much time as

possible, Marthe asked him to sit down at their table, saying that it

would save his mother from climbing a couple of flights of stairs. A

week later it had become a regular thing; the Faujases came downstairs

at every meal and took their seats at table, just as if they were

entering a restaurant. For the first few days their provisions were

cooked and served separately, but Rose declared this was a very silly

arrangement, that she could easily cook for four persons, and that she

would arrange it all with Madame Faujas.

'Pray don't thank me,' she said to the Abbé and his mother; 'it is a

kindness on your part to come down and keep madame company. You will

cheer her up a little. I scarcely dare go into the dining-room now; it

is just like going into the chamber of death. It quite frightens me, it

feels so desolate. If the master chooses to go on sulking, he will have

to do so all by himself.'

They kept up a roaring fire, the room was very warm, and the winter

proved a delightful one. Rose had never before taken such pains to

lay the tablecloth nicely. She placed his reverence's chair near the

stove, so that he might have his back to the fire. She paid particular

attention to his glass and his knife and fork, she took care that

whenever the slightest stain made its appearance upon the cloth it

should not be put on his side, and she paid him numberless other

delicate little attentions.

When she had prepared any dish of which he was particularly fond,

she gave him notice so that he might reserve himself for it; though

sometimes, on the other hand, she made a surprise of it for him, and

brought it into the room under a cover, smiling at the inquisitive

glances directed towards it, and exclaiming with an air of triumph:

'This is for his reverence! It is a wild-duck stuffed with olives, just

what he is so fond of. Give his reverence the breast, madame. I cooked

it specially for him.'

Marthe carved the duck, and with beseeching looks pressed the choicest

morsels upon the Abbé. She always helped him the first, and searched

the dish for him, while Rose bent over her and pointed out what she

thought the best parts. They occasionally even had little disputes as

to the superiority of this or that part of a fowl or rabbit. Then, too,

Rose used to push an embroidered hassock under the priest's feet, while

Marthe insisted that he should always have his bottle of Bordeaux and

his roll, specially ordering one of the latter for him from the baker

every day.

'We can never do too much for you,' said Rose, when the Abbé expressed

his thanks. 'Who should be well looked after, if it isn't good kind

hearts like yours? Don't you trouble about it, the Lord will pay your

debt for you.'

Madame Faujas smiled at all these flattering civilities as she sat at

table opposite her son. She was beginning to feel quite fond of Marthe

and Rose. She considered their adoration only natural, and thought

it a great happiness for them to be allowed to cast themselves in

this way at the feet of her idol. It was really she with her square

head and peasant manner who presided over the table, eating slowly

but plentifully, noticing everything that happened without once

setting down her fork, and taking care that Marthe should play the

part of servant to her son, at whom she was constantly gazing with an

expression of content. She never opened her lips except to make known

in as few words as possible the Abbé's various tastes or to over-rule

the polite refusals in which he still occasionally indulged. Sometimes

she shrugged her shoulders and pushed him with her foot. Wasn't

everything on the table at his service? He might eat the whole contents

of the dish, if he liked, and the others would be quite happy to nibble

their dry bread and look at him.

Abbé Faujas himself, however, seemed quite indifferent to all the

tender care which was lavished upon him. Of a very frugal disposition

and a quick eater, his mind always occupied with other matters,

he was frequently quite unconscious of the dainties which were

specially reserved for him. He had yielded to his mother's entreaties

in consenting to join the Mourets, but the only satisfaction he

experienced in the dining-room on the ground-floor was the pleasure of

being set entirely free from the everyday cares of life. He manifested

unruffled serenity, gradually grew accustomed to seeing his least wish

anticipated and fulfilled, and ceased to manifest any surprise or

express any thanks, lording it haughtily between the mistress of the

house and the cook, who kept anxious watch over the slightest motions

of his stern face.

Mouret sat opposite his wife, quite forgotten and unnoticed. He let

his hands rest upon the edge of the table, and waited, like a child,

till Marthe should be willing to attend to him. She helped him the

last, scantily, and to whatever might happen to be left. Rose stood

behind her and warned her whenever by mistake she was going to give her

husband some of the more delicate morsels in the dish.

'No, no; not that. The master likes the head, you know. He enjoys

sucking the little bones.'

Mouret, snubbed and slighted, ate his food with a sort of shame, as

though he was subsisting unworthily on other people's bounty. He could

see Madame Faujas watching him keenly as he cut his bread. He kept

his eyes fixed on the bottle for a whole minute, full of doubtful

hesitation, before he dare venture to help himself to wine. Once he

made a mistake and took a little of the priest's choice Bordeaux. There

was a tremendous fuss made about it, and for a whole month afterwards

Rose reproached him for those few drops of wine. Whenever she made any

sweet dish, she would say:

'I don't want the master to have any of that. He never thinks anything

I make nice. He once told me that an omelet I had made was burnt, and

then I said, "They shall be burnt altogether for you." Don't give any

of it to the master, I beg you, madame.'

She also did all she could to worry and upset him. She gave him cracked

plates, contrived that one of the table legs should come between his

own, left shreds of the glass-cloth clinging to his glass, and placed

the bread and wine and salt as far from him as possible. Mouret was the

only one in the family who liked mustard, and he used to go himself to

the grocers and buy canisters of it, which the cook promptly caused

to disappear, saying that they 'stank so.' The deprivation of mustard

spoilt his enjoyment of his meals. But what made him still more

miserable, and robbed him of all appetite, was his expulsion from his

own seat, which he had always previously occupied, in front of the

window, which was now given to the priest, as being the pleasantest in

the room. Mouret had to sit with his face towards the door, and he felt

as though he were eating amongst strangers, now that he could not at

each mouthful cast a glance at his fruit-trees.

Marthe was not so bitter against him as Rose was. She treated him at

first like a poor relation, whose presence is just tolerated, and

then gradually grew to ignore him, scarcely ever addressing a remark

to him, and acting as though Abbé Faujas alone had the right to give

orders in the house. Mouret, however, showed no inclination to rebel.

He occasionally exchanged a few polite phrases with the priest, though

he generally ate in perfect silence, and only replied to the cook's

attacks by looking at her. He always finished before any of the others,

folded up his napkin tidily, and then left the room, frequently before

the dessert was placed upon the table.

Rose alleged that he was bursting with anger, and when she gossiped in

the kitchen with Madame Faujas she discussed his conduct freely.

'I know him very well; I've never been afraid of him. Before you came

madame used to tremble before him, for he was always scolding and

blustering and trying to appear very terrible. He used to worry our

lives out of us, always poking about, never finding anything right, and

trying to show us that he was master. Now he is as docile as a lamb,

isn't he? It's just because madame has asserted herself. Ah! if he

weren't a coward, and weren't afraid of what might happen, you would

hear a pretty row. But he is afraid of your son; yes, he is afraid of

his reverence the Curé. Anyone would say, to look at him, that he lost

his senses every now and then. But after all, as long as he doesn't

bother us any longer, he is welcome to act as he pleases; isn't he,

madame?'

Madame Faujas replied that Monsieur Mouret seemed to her to be a very

worthy man, and that his only fault was his lack of religion. But he

would certainly adopt a better mode of life in time, she said. The old

lady was gradually making herself mistress of the whole of the ground

floor, going from kitchen to dining-room as she pleased, and ever

bustling about in the hall and passages. When Mouret met her he used

to recall the day when the Faujases first arrived; when, wearing that

shabby black dress of hers, she had tenaciously clung to her basket

with both hands and poked her head inquisitively into each room, with

all the unruffled serenity of a person inspecting some property for

sale.

Since the Faujases had begun to take their meals downstairs the

Trouches were left in possession of the second floor. They made a great

deal of noise, and the constant moving of furniture, the stamping of

feet and the violent banging of doors, were heard by those downstairs.

Madame Faujas would then uneasily raise her head in the midst of her

gossiping in the kitchen. Rose, for the sake of putting her at her

ease, used to say that poor Madame Trouche suffered a great deal of

pain. One night the Abbé, who had not yet gone to bed, heard a strange

commotion on the stairs. He left his room with his candle in his hand,

and saw Trouche, disgracefully drunk, climbing up the stairs on his

knees. He seized the sot in his strong arms and threw him into his

room. Olympe was in bed there, quietly reading a novel and sipping a

glass of spirits and water that stood on a little table at the bedside.

'Listen to me,' said Abbé Faujas, livid with rage; 'you will pack up

your things in the morning and take yourselves off!'

'Why? What for?' asked Olympe, quite calmly; 'we are very comfortable

here.'

The priest sternly interrupted her.

'Hold your tongue! You are a wretched woman! You have never tried to

do anything but injure me. Our mother was right; I ought never to have

rescued you from your state of wretchedness. I've just had to pick your

husband up on the stairs. It is disgraceful. Think of the scandal there

would be if he were to be seen in this state. You will go away in the

morning.'

Olympe sat up to sip her grog.

'No, no, indeed!' she said.

Trouche laughed. He was drunkenly merry, and fell back into an armchair

in a state of happy self-satisfaction.

'Don't let us quarrel,' he stammered. 'It is a mere nothing; only a

little giddiness. The air, which is very cold, made me dizzy, that's

all. And your streets in this confounded town are so very confusing. I

say, Faujas, there are some very nice young fellows about here. There's

Doctor Porquier's son. You know Doctor Porquier, don't you? Well, I

meet the son at a café behind the gaol. It is kept by a woman from

Arles, a fine handsome woman with a dark complexion.'

The priest crossed his arms and looked at him with a terrible

expression.

'No, really, Faujas, I assure you that it is quite wrong of you to be

angry with me. You know that I have been well brought up, and that I

know how to behave myself. Why, in the day-time I wouldn't touch a drop

of syrup for fear of compromising you. Since I have been here I have

gone to my office just like a boy going to school, with slices of bread

and jam in a little basket. It's a very stupid sort of life, I can

assure you, and I only do it to be of service to you. But at night, I'm

not likely to be seen, and I can go about a little. It does me good,

and, in fact, I should die if I always kept myself locked up here.

There is no one in the streets, you know. What funny streets they are,

eh?'

'Sot!' growled the priest between his clenched teeth.

'You won't be friends, then? Well, that's very wrong of you, old chap.

I'm a jolly fellow myself, and I don't like sour looks, and if what I

do doesn't please you, I'll leave you to get on with your pious ladies

by yourself. That little Condamin is the only decent one amongst them,

and even she doesn't come up to the café-keeper from Arles. Oh, yes!

you may roll your eyes about as much as you like. I can get on quite

well without you. See! would you like me to lend you a hundred francs?'

He drew out a bundle of bank-notes and spread them on his knees,

laughing loudly as he did so. Then he swept them under the Abbé's

nose and threw them up in the air. Olympe sprang out of bed, half

naked, picked up the notes and placed them under the bolster with an

expression of vexation. Abbé Faujas glanced around him with great

surprise. He saw bottles of liqueurs ranged all along the top of the

chest of drawers, a scarcely touched patty was on the mantelpiece, and

there were some sweetmeats in an old box. The room was, indeed, full

of recent purchases; dresses thrown over the chairs, an open parcel of

lace, a magnificent new overcoat hanging from the window-catch, and a

bearskin rug spread out in front of the bed. By the side of Olympe's

glass of grog on the little table there also lay a small gold lady's

watch glittering in a porcelain tray.

'Whom have they been plundering, I wonder?' thought the priest.

Then he recollected having seen Olympe kissing Marthe's hands.

'You wretched people!' he cried; 'you have been thieving!'

Trouche sprang up, but his wife pushed him down upon the sofa. 'Keep

quiet!' she said to him, 'go to sleep, you need it.'

Then, turning to her brother, she continued:

'It is one o'clock, and you might let us go to sleep if you have only

disagreeable things to say. It is certainly wrong of my husband to

intoxicate himself, but that's no reason why you should abuse him. We

have already had several explanations; this one must be the last, do

you understand, Ovide? We are brother and sister, are we not? Well,

then, as I have told you before, we must go halves. You gorge yourself

downstairs, you have all kinds of dainty dishes provided for you,

and you live a fat life between the landlady and the cook. Well, you

please yourself about that. We don't go and look into your plate or try

to pull the dainty morsels out of your mouth. We let you manage your

affairs as you like. Very well then, just you leave us alone and allow

us the same liberty. I don't think I am asking anything unreasonable.'

The priest made a gesture of impatience.

'Oh yes, I understand,' she continued; 'you are afraid lest we should

compromise you in your schemes. The best way to ensure our not doing so

is to leave us in peace and cease from worrying us. Ah! in spite of all

your grand airs, you are not so very clever. We have the same interests

as you have, we are all of the same family, and we might very well hunt

together. It would be much the best plan, if you would only see it. But

there, go to bed, now! I'll scold Trouche in the morning, and I'll

send him to you and you can give him your instructions.'

For a moment the priest, who was a little pale, remained thinking;

then, without another word, he left the room, and Olympe resumed the

perusal of her novel, while Trouche lay snoring on the sofa.

The next morning, Trouche, who had recovered his wits, had a long

interview with Abbé Faujas. When he returned to his wife, he informed

her of the conditions upon which peace had again been patched up.

'Listen to me, my dear,' Olympe replied. 'Give way to him and do what

he asks. Above all try to be useful to him, since he gives you the

chance of being so. I put a bold face on the matter when he is here,

but in my own heart I know very well that he would turn us out into the

street like dogs if we pushed him too far, and I don't want to have to

go away. Are you sure that he will let us stay?'

'Oh yes; don't be afraid,' replied the secretary. 'He has need of me,

and he will leave us to feather our nest.'

From this time forward Trouche used to go out every evening about nine

o'clock, when the streets were quiet. He told his wife that he went

into the old quarter of the town to further the Abbé's cause. Olympe

was not at all jealous of his nightly absences, and laughed heartily

whenever he brought her back some broad story. She preferred being left

quietly to herself, to sip her glass and nibble her cakes in privacy,

or to spend her long evenings snugly in bed, devouring the old novels

of a circulating-library which she had discovered in the Rue Canquoin.

Trouche used to come back slightly under the influence of liquor, but

he took off his boots in the hall so as to make no noise as he went

upstairs. When he had drunk too much, and reeked of tobacco and brandy,

his wife would not let him get into bed, but made him sleep on the

sofa. If he became annoying, she caught hold of him, looked him sternly

in the face, and said:

'Ovide will hear you. Ovide is coming.'

At this he was as frightened as a child that is threatened with a wolf,

and went off to sleep, muttering excuses. In the morning he dressed

himself in serious, sedate fashion, wiped from his face all the marks

of the previous night's dissipation, and put on a certain cravat, which

gave him, he said, quite the air of a parson. As he passed the cafés

he bent his head to the ground. At the Home of the Virgin he was held

in great respect. Now and then, when the girls were playing in the

courtyard, he raised a corner of his curtain and glanced at them with

an affectation of fatherliness, though his eyes glistened beneath their

lowered lids.

The Trouches were still kept in check by Madame Faujas. The mother and

the daughter were perpetually quarrelling, Olympe complaining that she

was sacrificed to her brother, and Madame Faujas treating her like

a viper whom she ought to have crushed to death in her cradle. Both

grasping after the same prey, they kept a close watch on one another,

anxious to know which would secure the larger share. Madame Faujas

wanted to obtain everything in the house, and she tried to keep the

very sweepings from Olympe's clutching fingers. On seeing what large

sums her daughter drew from Marthe, she quite burst with anger. When

her son shrugged his shoulders at it like a man who despises such

matters, and is forced to close his eyes to them, she, on her side, had

a stormy explanation with her daughter, whom she branded as a thief, as

though the money had been taken from her own pocket.

'There, mother, that will do!' cried Olympe impatiently. 'It isn't your

purse, you know, that I have been lightening. Besides, I have only been

borrowing a little money; I don't make other people keep me.'

'What do you mean, you wicked hussy?' gasped Madame Faujas with

indignation. 'Do you suppose that we don't pay for our food? Ask the

cook, and she will show you our account book.'

Olympe broke out into a loud laugh.

'Oh, yes, that's very nice!' she cried; 'I know that account book of

yours! You pay for the radishes and butter, don't you? Stay downstairs

by all means, mother; stay downstairs on the ground floor. I don't

want to interfere with your arrangements. But don't come up here and

worry me any more, or I shall make a row, and you know that Ovide has

forbidden any noise up here.'

At this Madame Faujas went downstairs muttering and growling. The

threat of making a disturbance always compelled her to beat a retreat.

Olympe began to sing jeeringly as soon as her mother's back was turned.

But whenever she went down into the garden the other took her revenge,

keeping everlastingly at her heels, watching her hands, never ceasing

to play the spy upon her. She would not allow her in the kitchen or

dining-room for a moment. She embroiled her with Rose about a saucepan

that had been borrowed and never returned; but she did not dare to

attempt to undermine Marthe's friendship for her for fear of causing

some scandal which might prove prejudicial to the priest.

'Since you are so regardless of your own interests,' she said to her

son one day, 'I must look after them for you. Make yourself easy. I

shan't do anything foolish; but if I were not here, your sister would

snatch the very bread out of your hands.'

Marthe had no notion of the drama that was being played around her.

To her the house simply seemed more lively and cheerful, now that

all these people thronged the hall and the stairs and the passages.

The place was as noisy as an hotel, what with all the echoes of

quarrelling, the banging of doors, the free and independent life

of each of the tenants, and the flaming fire in the kitchen, where

Rose seemed to have a whole table d'hôte to provide for. There was a

continual procession of tradesmen to the house. Olympe, who became very

particular about her hands and refused to risk spoiling them by washing

plates and dishes, had everything sent from a confectioner's in the Rue

de la Banne, who catered for the townspeople. Marthe smiled and said

she enjoyed the present bustle of the house. She now greatly disliked

being left alone, and felt the necessity of occupation of some sort to

allay the fever that was consuming her.

Mouret, however, to escape from all the racket, used to shut himself

up in a room on the first floor, which he called his office. He had

overcome his distaste for solitude; he now scarcely ever went down into

the garden, but kept himself locked up from morning till night.

'I should very much like to know what he finds to do in there,' said

Rose to Madame Faujas. 'One can't hear him move, and you might almost

fancy he was dead. If he wants to hide himself in that way, it must be

because he is doing something that's neither right nor proper; don't

you think so, eh?'

When the summer came round once more, the house grew still livelier.

Abbé Faujas received the guests of both the sub-prefect and the

presiding judge beneath the arbour at the bottom of the garden. Rose,

by Marthe's orders, purchased a dozen rustic chairs, so that the

visitors might enjoy the fresh air without it being necessary to carry

the dining-room chairs hither and thither. It was now the regular

thing for the doors communicating with the little lane to remain open

every Tuesday afternoon, and the ladies and gentlemen came to salute

Abbé Faujas like friendly neighbours, the men often in their slippers

and with their coats carelessly unbuttoned, and the ladies in straw

hats and with skirts looped up with pins. The visitors arrived one

by one, and gradually the two sets of guests found themselves mixing

together, gossiping and amusing themselves with perfect familiarity.

'Aren't you afraid,' said Monsieur Bourdeu to Monsieur Rastoil one day,

'that these meetings with the sub-prefect's friends may be ill advised?

The general elections are getting near.'

'Why should they be ill advised?' asked Monsieur Rastoil. 'We don't

go to the Sub-Prefecture; we keep on neutral ground. Besides, my good

friend, there is no ceremony about the matter. I keep my linen jacket

on, and it's a mere private friendly visit. No one has any right to

pass judgment upon what I do at the back of my house. In the front it's

another matter. In the front we belong to the public. When Monsieur

Péqueur and I meet each other in the streets we merely bow.'

'Monsieur Péqueur de Saulaies improves much on acquaintance,' the

ex-prefect ventured to remark after a short pause.

'Certainly, certainly,' replied the presiding judge; 'I am delighted

to have made his acquaintance. And what a worthy man Abbé Faujas is!

No, no; I have no fear of any slander arising from our going to pay our

respects to our excellent neighbour.'

Since the general election had begun to be the subject of conversation,

Monsieur de Bourdeu had felt very uneasy. He declared that it was

the increasing warmth of the weather that affected him; but he was

frequently assailed with doubts and scruples, which he confided to

Monsieur Rastoil in order that the latter might reassure him. However,

politics were never mentioned in the Mourets' garden. One afternoon,

Monsieur de Bourdeu, after vainly trying to devise some means of

bringing political matters forward, exclaimed abruptly, addressing

himself to Doctor Porquier:

'I say, doctor, have you seen the "Moniteur" this morning? I see that

the marquis has at last spoken! He uttered just thirteen words; I

counted them. Poor Lagrifoul! He has made himself very ridiculous!'

Abbé Faujas raised his finger with an arch look. 'No politics,

gentlemen, no politics,' said he.

Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies was chatting with Monsieur Rastoil, and

they both pretended that they had not heard what was said. Madame de

Condamin smiled as she continued her conversation with Abbé Surin.

'Aren't your surplices stiffened with a weak solution of gum?' she

inquired.

'Yes, madame, with a weak solution of gum,' replied the young priest.

'Some laundresses use boiled starch, but it spoils the material and is

worthless.'

'Well,' rejoined the young woman, 'I never can get my laundress to use

gum for my petticoats.'

Thereupon Abbé Surin politely gave her the name and address of his own

laundress upon the back of one of his visiting cards. Then the company

chatted about dress and the weather and the crops and the events of

the week, spending a delightful hour together; and there were also

games of shuttlecock in the alley. Abbé Bourrette frequently made his

appearance, and told in his enthusiastic manner divers pious little

stories to which Monsieur Maffre listened with the greatest attention.

Upon one occasion only had Madame Delangre met Madame Rastoil there;

they had treated each other with the most scrupulous politeness,

but in their faded eyes still flashed the sparks of their old-time

rivalry. Monsieur Delangre for his part did not make himself too cheap,

and though the Paloques were constantly at the Sub-Prefecture, they

contrived to be absent when Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies went to make

one of his neighbourly calls upon Abbé Faujas. The judge's wife had

been much perplexed in mind ever since her unfortunate expedition to

the oratory at the Home of the Virgin. On the other hand, the person

who was oftenest to be seen in the garden was certainly Monsieur de

Condamin, who always wore the most perfect fitting gloves, and came

thither to make fun of the company, telling fibs and indelicate stories

with extraordinary coolness and unconcern, and deriving a perfect fund

of amusement for the whole week from the little intrigues which he

scented out. This tall old buck, whose coat fitted so closely to his

slim figure, was devoted to youth; he scoffed at the 'old ones,' went

off with the young ladies, and laughed gaily in the snug little corners

of the garden.

'This way, youngsters!' he would say, with a smile, 'let us leave the

old ones together.'

One day he almost defeated Abbé Surin in a tremendous battle at

shuttlecock. He was very fond of plaguing young people, and made a

special victim of Monsieur Rastoil's son, a simple young fellow, to

whom he told the most prodigious stories. He ended, indeed, by accusing

him of making love to his wife, and rolled his eyes about in such a

terrible way, that the wretched Séverin broke out into a perspiration

from very fear. The youth did, as it happened, actually fancy that he

was in love with Madame de Condamin, in whose presence he behaved in a

tender, simpering manner that extremely amused her husband.

The Rastoil girls, for whom the conservator of rivers and forests

manifested all the gallantry of a young widower, also supplied subjects

of his raillery. Although they were approaching their thirtieth

birthdays, he spurred them on to indulge in childish games, and spoke

to them as though they were yet schoolgirls. His great amusement was

to gaze at them when Lucien Delangre, the mayor's son, was present. He

would then take Doctor Porquier aside, and whisper in his ear, alluding

to the former entanglement between Monsieur Delangre and Madame Rastoil:

'There's a young man there, Porquier, who is very much embarrassed in

his mind----Is it Angéline or is it Aurélie whom he ought to choose?

Guess, if you can, and name, if you dare.'

Meantime Abbé Faujas was very polite and amiable to all his visitors,

even to the terrible Condamin who caused so much disquietude. He

effaced himself as much as possible, spoke but little, and allowed

the rival sets of guests to coalesce, seemingly experiencing the

quiet satisfaction of a host who is happy to be the means of bringing

together a number of distinguished people intended by nature to be on

good terms with one another. Marthe had upon two occasions made her

appearance, thinking that she would put the visitors more at their ease

by doing so; but it distressed her to find the Abbé in the midst of so

many people; she much preferred to see him walking slowly and seriously

in the quiet of the arbour. The Trouches on their side had resumed

their Tuesday watchings behind their curtains, while Madame Faujas and

Rose craned their heads from the doorway and admired the graceful

manner in which his reverence received the chief people of Plassans.

'Ah, madame!' said the cook, 'it is very easy to see that he is a

distinguished man. Look at him bowing to the sub-prefect. I admire his

reverence the most; though, indeed, the sub-prefect is a fine man. Why

do you never go into the garden to them? If I were you, I would put on

a silk dress and join them. You are his mother, you know, after all.'

But the old peasant woman shrugged her shoulders.

'Oh! he isn't ashamed of me,' she said; 'but I should be afraid of

putting him out. I prefer to watch him from here; and I enjoy it more.'

'Yes, I can understand that. Ah! you must be very proud of him. He

isn't a bit like Monsieur Mouret, who nailed the door up, so that no

one might open it. We never had a visitor, there was never a dinner to

be prepared for anyone, and the garden was so desolate that it made one

feel quite frightened in the evenings. Monsieur Mouret would certainly

never have known how to receive visitors. He always pulled a sour face

if one ever happened to come by chance. Don't you think, now, that he

ought to take an example from his reverence? If I were he, I should

come down and amuse myself in the garden with the others, instead of

shutting myself up all alone. I would take my proper place. But there

he is, shut up in his room, as though he were afraid they would give

him some nasty illness! By the way, shall we go up sometime and try to

find out what he does?'

One Tuesday they did go upstairs together. The visitors were very merry

that afternoon, and the sound of their laughter floated into the house

through the open windows, while a tradesman, who had brought a hamper

of wine for the Trouches, made a clatter on the second floor as he

collected the empty bottles together. Mouret was securely locked up in

his office.

'The key prevents me from seeing,' said Rose, who had applied her eye

to the key-hole.

'Wait a moment,' murmured Madame Faujas, and she carefully turned the

end of the key, which protruded slightly through the lock. Mouret

was sitting in the middle of the room in front of a big empty table,

covered with a thick layer of dust. There was not a single paper

nor book upon it. He was lying back in his chair, his arms hanging

listlessly beside him while he gazed blankly into space. He sat

perfectly still, without the slightest movement.

The two women looked at him in silence, one after the other.

'He has made me feel cold to the very marrow,' exclaimed Rose, as they

went downstairs again. 'Did you notice his eyes? And what a filthy

state the room is in! He hasn't laid a pen on that desk for a couple of

months past, and to think that I fancied he spent all his time there

writing. Fancy him amusing himself like that--shutting himself up all

alone like a corpse, when the house is so bright and cheerful!'

XVII

Marthe's health was causing Doctor Porquier much anxiety. He still

smiled in his pleasant way, and talked to her after the manner of a

fashionable medical man for whom disease never has any existence,

and who grants a consultation just as a dressmaker fits on a new

dress; but there was a certain twist on his lips which indicated

that 'dear madame' had something more seriously wrong with her than

a slight cough and spitting of blood, as he tried to persuade her.

He advised her, now that the warm weather had come, to get a little

change of surroundings and occupation by taking an occasional drive,

without, however, over-fatiguing herself. In obedience to the doctor's

directions, Marthe, who was more and more possessed by a vague

feeling of anguish, and a need of finding some occupation to assuage

her nervous impatience, started on a series of excursions to the

neighbouring villages. Twice a week she drove off, after luncheon,

in an old refurbished carriage, hired from a Plassans coachbuilder.

She generally drove some six or seven miles out, so as to get back

home by six o'clock. Her great desire was to induce Abbé Faujas to

go with her, and it was only in the hope of accomplishing this that

she had conformed with the doctor's directions; but the Abbé, without

distinctly refusing, always excused himself on the ground that he was

too busy to spare the time, and Marthe was obliged to content herself

with the companionship of Olympe or Madame Faujas.

One afternoon as she was driving with Olympe towards the village of

Les Tulettes, past the little estate of her uncle Macquart, the latter

caught sight of her as he stood upon his terrace, which was ornamented

with a couple of mulberry trees.

'Where is Mouret?' he cried. 'Why hasn't Mouret come as well?'

Marthe was obliged to stop for a moment or two to speak to her uncle,

and to explain to him that she was not well, and could not stay to dine

with him. He had expressed his determination to kill a fowl for the

meal.

'Well,' he said at last, 'I'll kill it all the same, and you shall take

it away with you.'

Then he hurried off to kill the fowl at once. When he came back with

it, he laid it on a stone table in front of the house, and exclaimed

with an expression of satisfaction:

'Isn't it a plump, splendid fellow?'

At the moment of Marthe's arrival Macquart had been on the point of

drinking a bottle of wine under the shade of his mulberry trees, in

company with a tall thin young fellow, dressed entirely in grey. He

persuaded the two women to leave the carriage and sit down beside him

for a time, bringing them chairs, and doing the honours of his house

with a snigger of satisfaction.

'I have a very nice little place here, haven't I? My mulberries are

very fine ones. In the summer I smoke my pipe out here in the fresh

air. In the winter I sit down yonder with my back to the wall in the

sun. Do you see my vegetables? The fowl-house is at the bottom of the

garden. I have another strip of ground as well, behind the house, where

I grow potatoes and lucern. I am getting old now, worse luck, and it's

quite time that I should enjoy myself a little.'

He rubbed his hands together and gently wagged his head, as he cast an

affectionate glance over his little estate. Then some thought seemed to

sadden him.

'Have you seen your father lately?' he abruptly asked. 'Rougon isn't

very amiable, you know. That cornfield over yonder to the left is for

sale. If he had been willing we might have bought it. What would it

have been for a man of his means? A paltry three thousand francs is all

that is asked, but he refuses to have anything to do with it. The last

time I went to see him he even made your mother tell me that he wasn't

at home. But, you'll see, it will be all the worse for them in the end.'

He wagged his head and indulged in his unpleasant laugh, as he repeated:

'Yes, yes; it will be all the worse for them.'

Then he went to fetch some glasses, for he insisted upon making the two

women taste his wine. It was some light wine which he had discovered at

Saint-Eutrope, and in which he took great pride. Marthe scarcely wetted

her lips, but Olympe finished the bottle. And afterwards she even

accepted a glass of syrup, saying that the wine was very strong.

'And what have you done with your priest?' Uncle Macquart suddenly

asked his niece.

Marthe looked at him in surprise and displeasure without replying.

'I heard that he was sponging on you tremendously,' Macquart loudly

continued. 'Those priests are fond of good living. When I heard about

him, I said that it served Mouret quite right. I warned him. Well, I

shall be glad to help you to turn him out of the house. Mouret has only

got to come and ask me, and I'll give him a helping hand. I've never

been able to endure those fellows. I know one of them, Abbé Fenil, who

has a house on the other side of the road. He is no better than the

rest of them, but he is as malicious as an ape, and he amuses me. I

fancy that he doesn't get on very well with that priest of yours; isn't

that so, eh?'

Marthe had turned very pale.

'Madame here is the sister of his reverence Abbé Faujas,' she said,

turning to Olympe, who was listening with much curiosity.

'What I said has no reference to madame,' replied Macquart quite

unconcernedly. 'Madame is not offended, I'm sure. She will take another

glass of syrup?'

Olympe accepted another glass of the syrup, but Marthe rose from her

seat and wished to leave. Her uncle, however, insisted upon taking

her over his grounds. At the end of the garden she stopped to look

at a large white building that was on the slope of the hill, at a

few hundred yards from Les Tulettes. Its inner courts looked like

prison-yards, and the narrow symmetrical windows which streaked its

front with black lines gave it the cheerless aspect of a hospital.

'That is the Lunatic Asylum,' exclaimed Macquart, who had followed the

direction of Marthe's eyes. 'The young man here is one of the warders.

We get on very well together, and he comes every now and then to have a

bottle of wine with me.'

Then, turning towards the man in grey, who was finishing his glass

beneath the mulberry tree, he called out:

'Here, Alexandre, come and show my niece our poor old woman's window.'

Alexandre came up to them politely.

'Do you see those three trees?' he said, stretching out his forefinger,

as though he were drawing a plan in the air. 'Well, a little below the

one to the left, you can see a fountain in the corner of a courtyard.

Follow the windows on the ground floor to the right; it is the fifth

one.'

Marthe stood there in silence, her lips white and her gaze fixed, in

spite of herself, on the window pointed out to her. Uncle Macquart was

looking at it as well, but with complaisance manifest in his blinking

eyes.

'I see her sometimes of a morning,' he said, 'when the sun is on the

other side. She keeps very well, doesn't she, Alexandre? I always tell

them so when I go to Plassans. I am very well placed here to keep a

watch on her. I couldn't be anywhere better.'

He again gave a snigger of satisfaction.

'The Rougons, you know, my dear, haven't got any stronger heads than

the Macquarts have, and I often think, as I sit out here in front of

that big house, that the whole lot will, perhaps, join the mother

there some day. Thank Heaven, I've no fear about myself. My noddle is

firmly fixed on. But I know some of them who are a little shaky. Well,

I shall be here to receive them, and I shall see them from my den, and

recommend them to Alexandre's kind attention, though they haven't all

of them always been particularly kind to me.'

Then with that hideous smile of his that was like a captive wolf's, he

added:

'It's very lucky for you all that I am here on the spot at Les

Tulettes.'

Marthe could not help trembling. Though she was well aware of her

uncle's taste for savage pleasantries, and the pleasure he took in

torturing the people to whom he presented his rabbits, she could not

help fancying that he was perhaps speaking the truth, and that the rest

of the family would indeed be quartered eventually in those gloomy

cells. She insisted upon taking her immediate departure in spite of

the pressing entreaties of Macquart, who wanted to open another bottle

of wine.

'Ah! where is the fowl?' he cried, just as she was getting into the

carriage.

He went back for it, and placed it upon her knees.

'It is for Mouret, you understand,' he said, with a malicious

expression; 'for Mouret, and for no one else. When I come to see you, I

shall ask him how he liked it.'

He winked as he glanced at Olympe. Then, just as the coachman was going

to whip his horse forward, he laid hold of the carriage again, and said:

'Go and see your father and talk to him about the cornfield. See, it's

that field just in front of us. Rougon is making a mistake. We are

too old friends to quarrel about the matter; besides, as he very well

knows, it would be worse for him if we did. Let him understand that he

is making a mistake.'

The carriage set off, and as Olympe turned round she saw Macquart

grinning under his mulberry trees with Alexandre, and uncorking that

second bottle of which he had spoken. Marthe gave the coachman strict

orders that he was never to take her to Les Tulettes again. She was

beginning to feel a little tired of these drives into the country, and

she took them less frequently, and at last gave them up altogether,

when she found that she could never prevail upon Abbé Faujas to

accompany her.

Marthe was now undergoing a complete change; she was becoming quite

another woman. She had grown much more refined, through the life of

nervous excitement which she had been leading. The stolid heaviness

and dull lifelessness which she had acquired from having spent fifteen

years behind a counter at Marseilles seemed to melt away in the bright

flame of her new-born piety. She dressed better than she had been used

to do, and joined in the conversation when she now went to the Rougons'

on Thursdays.

'Madame Mouret is becoming quite a young girl again,' exclaimed Madame

de Condamin in amazement.

'Yes, indeed,' replied Doctor Porquier, nodding his head; 'she is going

through life backwards.'

Marthe, who had now grown much slimmer, with rosy cheeks and

magnificent black flashing eyes, burst for some months into singular

beauty. Her face beamed with animation, extraordinary vitality

seemed to flood her being and thrill her with warmth. Her forgotten

and joyless youth appeared to blaze in her now, at forty years of

age. At the same time she was overwhelmed by a perpetual craving for

prayer and devotion, and no longer obeyed Abbé Faujas's injunctions.

She wore out her knees upon the flag-stones at Saint-Saturnin's,

lived in the midst of canticles and offerings of praise and worship,

and took comfort in the presence of the gleaming monstrances and the

brightly lit chapels, and priests and altars that glittered with starry

sheen through the dark gloom of the cathedral nave. She had a sort

of physical craving for those glories, a craving which tortured and

racked her. She was compelled by her very suffering--she would have

died if she had not yielded--to seek sustenance for her passion, to

come and prostrate herself in confession, to bow in lowly awe amidst

the thrilling peals of the organ, and to faint with melting joy in the

ecstasy of communion. Then all consciousness of trouble left her, she

was no longer tortured, she bowed herself to the ground in a painless

trance, etherealised, as it were, becoming a pure, unsullied flame of

self-consuming love.

But Faujas's severity increased, he tried to check her by roughness. He

was amazed at this passionate awakening of Marthe's soul, this ardour

for love and death. He frequently questioned her on the subject of her

childhood; he even went to see Madame Rougon, and remained for a long

time in great perplexity and dissatisfaction.

'Our landlady has been complaining of you,' his mother said to him.

'Why won't you allow her to go to church whenever she likes? It is very

unkind of you to vex her; she is very kindly to us.'

'She is killing herself,' replied the priest.

Madame Faujas shrugged her shoulders after her usual fashion.

'That is her own business. We all have our ways of finding pleasure. It

is better to die of praying than to give one's self indigestion like

that hussy Olympe. Don't be so severe with Madame Mouret. You will end

by making it impossible for us to live here.'

One day when she was advising him in this way, he exclaimed in a gloomy

voice:

'Mother, this woman will be the obstacle!'

'She!' cried the old peasant woman, 'why, she worships you, Ovide! You

may do anything you like with her, if you will only treat her a little

more kindly. She would carry you to the cathedral if it rained, to

prevent you wetting your feet, if you would only let her!'

Abbé Faujas himself at last came to understand the necessity of no

longer treating Marthe so harshly. He began to fear an outburst. So

he gradually allowed her greater liberty, permitted her to seclude

herself, to tell her beads at length, to offer prayers at each of

the Stations of the Cross, and even to come twice a week to his

confessional at Saint-Saturnin's. Marthe, no longer hearing the

terrible voice which had seemed to impute her piety to her as a vice,

believed that God was pouring His grace upon her. Now at last, she

thought, she was entering into all the joys of Paradise. She was

overcome by trances of sweet emotion, inexhaustible floods of tears,

which she shed without being conscious of their flow, and nervous

ecstasies from which she emerged weak and faint as though all her

life-blood had left her veins. At these times, Rose would take her and

lay her upon her bed, where she would lie for hours with pinched lips

and half-closed eyes like a dead woman.

One afternoon the cook, alarmed by her stillness, was really afraid

that she might be dead. She did not think of knocking at the door of

the room in which Mouret had shut himself, but she went straight to the

second floor and besought Abbé Faujas to come down to her mistress.

When he reached Marthe's room, Rose hastened to fetch some ether,

leaving the priest alone with the swooning woman. He merely took her

hands within his own. At last Marthe began to move about and talk

incoherently. When she at last recognised him at her bedside her blood

surged to her face.

'Are you better, my dear child?' he asked her. 'You make me feel very

uneasy.'

She felt too much oppressed at first to be able to reply to him, and

burst into tears, as she let her head slip between his arms.

'I am not ill,' she murmured at last, in so feeble a voice that it

was scarcely more than a breath; 'I am too happy. Let me cry; I feel

delight in my tears. How kind of you to have come! I had been expecting

you and calling you for a long time.'

Then her voice grew weaker and weaker till it was nothing more than a

mere murmur of ardent prayer.

'Oh! who will give me wings to fly towards thee? My soul languishes

without thee, it longs for thee passionately and sighs for thee, O my

God, my only good thing, my consolation, my sweet joy, my treasure, my

happiness, my life, my God, my all----'

Her face broke into a smile as she breathed these passionate words, and

she clasped her hands fancying that she saw Abbé Faujas's grave face

circled by an aureole. The priest, who had hitherto always succeeded in

checking anything of this sort, felt alarmed for a moment and hastily

withdrew his arms. Then he exclaimed authoritatively:

'Be calm and reasonable; I desire you to be so. God will refuse your

homage if you do not offer it to Him in calm reason. What is most

urgent now is to restore your strength.'

Rose returned to the room, quite distracted at not having been able to

find any ether. The priest told her to remain by the bedside, while he

said to Marthe in a more gentle tone:

'Don't distress yourself. God will be touched by your love. When

the proper time comes, He will come down to you and fill you with

everlasting felicity.'

Then he quitted the room, leaving the ailing woman quite radiant,

like one raised from the dead. From that day forward he was able

to mould her like soft wax beneath his touch. She became extremely

useful to him in certain delicate missions to Madame de Condamin,

and she also frequently visited Madame Rastoil when he expressed a

desire that she should do so. She rendered him absolute obedience,

never seeking the reason of anything he told her to do, but saying

just what he instructed her to say and no more. He no longer observed

any precautions with her, but bluntly taught her her lessons and made

use of her as though she were a machine. She would have begged in the

streets if he had ordered her to do so. When she became restless and

stretched out her hands to him, with bursting heart and passion-swollen

lips, he crushed her with a single word beneath the will of Heaven. She

never dared to make any reply. Between her and the priest there was a

wall of anger and scorn. When Abbé Faujas left her after one of the

short struggles which he occasionally had with her, he shrugged his

shoulders with the disdain of a strong wrestler who has been opposed by

a child.

Though Marthe was so pliant in the hands of the priest, she grew more

querulous and sour every day amidst all the little cares of household

life. Rose said that she had never before known her to be so fractious.

It was towards her husband that she specially manifested increasing

bitterness and dislike. The old leaven of the Rougons' rancour was

reviving in presence of this son of a Macquart, this man whom she

accused of being the torture of her life. When Madame Faujas or Olympe

came downstairs to sit with her in the dining-room she no longer

observed any reticence, but gave full vent to her feelings against

Mouret.

'For twenty years he kept me shut up like a mere clerk, with a pen

behind my ear, between his jars of oil and bags of almonds! He never

allowed me a pleasure or gave me a present. He has robbed me of my

children; and he is quite capable of taking himself off any day to

make people believe that I have made his life unendurable. It is very

fortunate that you are here and can tell the truth.'

She fell foul of Mouret in this way without any provocation from him.

Everything that he did, his looks, his gestures, the few words he

spoke, all seemed to infuriate her. She could not even see him without

being carried away by an unreasoning anger. It was at the close of

their meals, when Mouret, without waiting for dessert, folded his

napkin and silently rose from table, that quarrels more especially

occurred.

'You might leave the table at the same time as other people,' Marthe

would bitterly remark; 'it is not very polite of you to behave in that

way.'

'I have finished, and I am going away,' Mouret replied in his drawling

voice.

Marthe began to imagine that her husband's daily retreat from table

was an intentional slight to Abbé Faujas, and thereupon she lost all

control over herself.

'You are a perfect boor, you make me feel quite ashamed!' she cried.

'I should have a nice time of it with you if I had not been fortunate

enough to make some friends who console me for your boorish ways! You

don't even know how to behave yourself at table, you prevent me from

enjoying a single meal. Stay where you are, do you hear? If you don't

want to eat any more, you can look at us.'

He finished folding his napkin as calmly as though he had not heard a

word of what his wife had said, and then, with slow and deliberate

steps, he left the room. They could hear him go upstairs and lock

himself in his office. Thereupon Marthe, choking with anger, burst out:

'Oh, the monster! He is killing me; he is killing me!'

Madame Faujas was obliged to console and soothe her. Rose ran to the

foot of the stairs and called out at the top of her voice, so that

Mouret might hear her through the closed door:

'You are a monster, sir! Madame is quite right to call you a monster!'

Some of their quarrels were particularly violent. Marthe, whose reason

was on the verge of giving way, had got it into her head that her

husband wished to beat her. It was a fixed idea of hers. She asserted

that he was only waiting and watching for an opportunity. He had not

dared to do it yet, she said, because he had never found her alone, and

in the night-time he was afraid lest she should cry out for assistance.

Rose on her side swore that she had seen her master hiding a thick

stick in his office. Madame Faujas and Olympe showed no hesitation

in believing these stories, expressed the greatest pity for their

landlady, and constituted themselves her protectors. 'That brute,' as

they now called Mouret, would not venture, they said, to ill-treat her

in their presence; and they told her to come for them at night if he

should show the least sign of violence. The house was now in a constant

state of alarm.

'He is capable of any wickedness,' exclaimed the cook.

That year Marthe observed all the religious ceremonies of Passion Week

with the greatest fervour. On Good Friday she knelt in agony in the

black-draped church, while the candles were extinguished, one by one,

midst the mournful swell of voices rising through the gloomy nave. It

seemed to her as though her own breath were dying away with the light

of the candles. When the last one went out, and the darkness in front

of her seemed implacable and repelling, she fainted away, remaining

for an hour bent in an attitude of prayer without the women around her

being aware of her condition. When she came to herself, the church

was deserted. She imagined that she was being scourged with rods and

that blood was streaming from her limbs; she experienced too such

excruciating pains in her head that she raised her hands to it, as if

to pull out thorns whose points she seemed to feel piercing her skull.

She was in a strange condition at dinner that evening. She was still

suffering from nervous shock; when she closed her eyes, she saw the

souls of the expiring candles flitting away through the darkness, and

she mechanically examined her hands for the wounds whence her blood had

streamed. All the Passion bled within her.

Madame Faujas, seeing her so unwell, persuaded her to go to rest early,

accompanied her to her room and put her to bed. Mouret, who had a key

of the bedroom, had already retired to his office, where he spent his

evenings. When Marthe, covered up to her chin with the blankets, said

that she was quite warm and felt better, Madame Faujas went to blow out

the candle that she might be better able to sleep; but at this Marthe

sprang up in fear and cried out beseechingly:

'No! no! don't put out the light! Put it on the drawers so that I can

see it. I should die if I were left in the dark.'

Then, with staring eyes, trembling as though at the recollection of

some dreadful tragedy, she murmured in tones of terrified pity: 'Oh, it

is horrible! it is horrible!'

She fell back upon the pillow and seemed to drop asleep, and Madame

Faujas then silently left the room. That evening the whole house was in

bed by ten o'clock. As Rose went upstairs, she noticed that Mouret was

still in his office. She peeped through the key-hole and saw him asleep

there with his head on the table, and a kitchen-candle smoking dismally

by his side.

'Well, I won't wake him,' she said to herself as she continued her

journey upstairs. 'Let him get a stiff neck, if he likes.'

About midnight, when the whole house was wrapped in slumber, cries were

heard proceeding from the first floor. At first they were but wails,

but they soon grew into loud howls, like the hoarse, choking calls of

one who is being murdered. Abbé Faujas, awaking with a start, called

his mother, who scarcely gave herself time to slip on a petticoat

before she went to knock at Rose's door.

'Come down immediately!' she said, 'I'm afraid Madame Mouret is being

murdered.'

The screams became louder than ever. The whole house was soon astir.

Olympe with her shoulders simply hidden by a kerchief, made her

appearance with Trouche, who had only just returned home, slightly

intoxicated. Rose hastened downstairs, followed by the lodgers.

'Open the door, madame, open the door!' she cried excitedly, hammering

with her fist on Madame Mouret's door.

Deep sighs alone answered her; then there was the sound of a body

falling, and a terrible struggle seemed to be taking place on the floor

in the midst of overturned furniture. The walls shook with repeated

heavy blows, and a sound like a death-rattle passed under the door, so

terrible that the Faujases and the Trouches turned pale as they looked

at each other.

'Her husband is murdering her,' murmured Olympe.

'Yes, you are right; the brute is killing her,' said the cook. 'I saw

him pretending to be asleep when I came up to bed. But he was planning

it all then.'

She once more thundered on the door with both her fists, repeating:

'Open the door, sir! We shall go for the police if you don't. Oh, the

scoundrel! he will end his days on the scaffold!'

Then the groans and cries began again. Trouche declared that the

blackguard must be bleeding the poor lady like a fowl.

'We must do something more than knock at the door,' said Abbé Faujas,

coming forward. 'Wait a moment.'

He put one of his broad shoulders to the door and with a slow

persistent effort forced it open. The women then rushed into the room,

where the most extraordinary spectacle met their eyes.

Marthe, her night-dress torn, lay panting on the floor, bruised,

scratched, and bleeding. Her dishevelled hair was twined round the

leg of a chair, and her hands had so firmly gripped hold of the chest

of drawers, that it was pulled from its place and now stood in front

of the door. Mouret was standing in a corner, holding the candle and

gazing at his wife with an expression of stupefaction.

Abbé Faujas had to push the chest of drawers on one side.

'You are a monster!' cried Rose, rushing up to Mouret and shaking her

fist at him. 'To treat a woman like that! He would have killed her, if

we hadn't come in time to prevent him.'

Madame Faujas and Olympe bent down over Marthe. 'Poor dear!' said the

former. 'She had a presentiment of something this evening. She was

quite frightened.'

'Where are you hurt?' asked Olympe. 'There is nothing broken, is there?

Look at her shoulder, it's quite black; and her knee is dreadfully

grazed. Make yourself easy; we are with you, and we will protect you.'

But Marthe was now simply wailing like a child. While the two women

were examining her, forgetting that there were men in the room, the

Abbé quietly put the furniture in order. Then Rose helped Madame Faujas

and Olympe to carry Marthe back to bed, and when they had done so and

had knotted up her hair, they lingered for a moment, looking curiously

round the room and waiting for explanations. Mouret still stood in the

same corner holding the candle, as though petrified by what he had seen.

'I assure you,' he said, 'that I didn't hurt her; I didn't touch her

with the tip of my finger even.'

'You've been waiting for your opportunity this month past,' cried Rose

in a fury; 'we all know that well enough; we have watched you. The dear

lady was quite expecting your brutality. Don't tell lies about it; they

put me quite beside myself!'

The other women cast threatening glances at him, though they did not

feel at liberty to speak to him in the same way as Rose had done.

'I assure you,' repeated Mouret in a gentle voice, 'that I did not

strike her. I was just about to get into bed, but the moment I touched

the candle, which was standing on the drawers, she awoke with a start,

stretched out her arms with a cry, and then began to beat her forehead

with her fists and tear her flesh with her nails.'

The cook shook her head furiously.

'Why didn't you open the door?' she cried; 'we knocked loud enough.'

'I assure you that I have done nothing,' he reiterated still more

gently than before. 'I could not tell what was the matter with her. She

threw herself upon the floor, bit herself and leapt about so violently

as almost to break the furniture. I did not dare to go near her; I was

quite overcome. I twice called to you to come in, but she was screaming

so loudly that she must have prevented you from hearing me. I was in a

terrible fright, but I have done nothing, I assure you.'

'Oh yes! She's been beating herself, hasn't she?' jeered Rose.

Then, addressing herself to Madame Faujas, she added:

'He threw his stick out of the window, no doubt, when he heard us

coming.'

Mouret at last put the candle back upon the chest of drawers and

seated himself on a chair, with his hands upon his knees. He made no

further attempt to defend himself, but gazed with stupefaction at

the women who were shaking their skinny arms in front of the bed.

Trouche had exchanged a glance with Abbé Faujas. That poor fellow,

Mouret, certainly had no very ferocious appearance as he sat there in

his night-gown, with a yellow handkerchief tied round his bald head.

However, the others all closed round the bed and looked at Marthe, who,

with distorted face, seemed to be waking from a dream.

'What is the matter, Rose?' she asked. 'What are all these people doing

here? I am quite exhausted. Ask them to leave me in peace.'

Rose hesitated for a moment.

'Your husband is in the room, madame,' she said at last. 'Aren't you

afraid to remain alone with him?'

Marthe looked at her in astonishment.

'No, no; not at all,' she replied. 'Go away; I am very sleepy.'

Thereupon the five people quitted the room, leaving Mouret seated on

the chair, staring blankly towards the bed.

'He won't be able to fasten the door again,' the cook exclaimed as she

went back upstairs. 'At the very first sound I shall fly down and be at

him. I shall go to bed with my things on. Did you hear what stories the

dear lady told to prevent him from appearing such a brute? She would

let herself be murdered rather than accuse him. What a hypocritical

face he has, hasn't he?'

The three women remained for a few moments on the landing of the second

floor, holding their candlesticks the while. No punishment, said they,

would be severe enough for such a man. Then they separated. The house

fell into its wonted quietness, and the remainder of the night passed

off peacefully. The next morning, when the three women eagerly referred

to the terrible scene, they found Marthe nervous, shamefaced and

confused. She gave them no answer but cut the conversation short. When

she was alone she sent for a workman to come and mend the door. Madame

Faujas and Olympe came to the conclusion that Madame Mouret's reticence

was caused by a desire to avoid scandal.

The next day, Easter Day, Marthe tasted at Saint-Saturnin's all the

sweetness of an awakening of the soul amidst the triumphant joys of the

Resurrection. The gloom of Good Friday was swept away by the brightness

of Easter; the church was decked in white, and was full of perfume

and light, as though for the celebration of some divine nuptials;

the voices of the choir-boys sounded flute-like, and Marthe, amidst

their songs of joyful praise, felt transported by even more thrilling,

overwhelming sensations than during the celebration of the crucifixion.

She returned home with glistening eyes and hot dry tongue, and sat up

late, talking with a gaiety that was unusual in her. Mouret was already

in bed when she at last went upstairs. About midnight, terrible cries

again echoed through the house.

The scene that had taken place two days previously was repeated: only

on this occasion, at the first knock, Mouret came in his night-gown and

with distracted face to open the door. Marthe, still dressed, was lying

on her stomach, sobbing violently and beating her head against the foot

of the bed. The bodice of her dress looked as though it had been torn

open, and there were two big scratches on her throat.

'He has tried to strangle her this time!' exclaimed Rose.

The women undressed her. Mouret, after opening the door, had got back

into bed, trembling all over and as pale as a sheet. He made no attempt

to defend himself; he did not even appear to hear the indignant remarks

that were made about him, but simply covered himself up and lay close

to the wall. Similar scenes now took place at irregular intervals.

The house lived in a state of fear lest a crime should be committed;

and, at the slightest noise, the occupants of the second floor were

astir. Marthe, however, still avoided all allusions to the matter, and

absolutely forbade Rose to prepare a folding bed for Mouret in his

office. When the morning came, it seemed to take away from her the very

recollection of the scene of the night.

However, it was gradually reported about the neighbourhood that

strange things happened at the Mourets'. It was said that the husband

belaboured his wife every night with a bludgeon. Rose had made

Madame Faujas and Olympe swear that they would say nothing on the

subject, as her mistress seemingly wished to keep silence upon it;

but she herself, by her expressions of pity and her allusions and

her reservations, materially contributed to set afloat amongst the

tradesmen the stories that became current. The butcher, who was a

great jester, asserted that Mouret had thrashed his wife on account

of the priest, but the greengrocer's wife defended 'the poor lady,'

who was, she declared, an innocent lamb quite incapable of doing any

wrong. The baker's spouse, on the other hand, considered that Mouret

was one of those men who ill-treat their wives for mere pleasure and

amusement. In the market-place people raised their eyes to heaven when

they spoke of the matter, and referred to Marthe in the same terms of

caressing endearment that they would have used in speaking of a sick

child. Whenever Olympe went to buy a pound of cherries or a basket of

strawberries, the conversation inevitably turned upon the Mourets, and

for a quarter of an hour there was a stream of sympathetic remarks.

'Well, and how are things getting on in your house?'

'Oh, don't speak of it! She is weeping her life away. It is most

pitiable. One could almost wish to see her die.'

'She came to buy some anchovies the other day, and I noticed that one

of her cheeks was scratched.'

'Oh, yes! he nearly kills her! If you could only see her body as I have

seen it! It is nothing but one big sore. When she is down on the ground

he kicks her with his heels. I am in constant fear of finding in the

morning that he has split her head open during the night.'

'It must be very unpleasant for you, living in such a house. I should

go somewhere else, if I were in your place. It would make me quite ill

to be mixed up with such horrors every night.'

'But what would become of the poor woman? She is so refined and gentle!

We stay on for her sake--five sous, isn't it, this pound of cherries?'

'Yes; five sous. Well, it's very good of you; you show a kind heart.'

This story of a husband who waited till midnight to fall upon his wife

with a bludgeon excited the greatest interest amongst the gossips of

the market-place. There were further terrible details every day. One

pious woman asserted that Mouret was possessed by an evil spirit, and

that he seized his wife by the neck with his teeth with such violence

that Abbé Faujas was obliged to make the sign of the cross three

times in the air with his left thumb before the monster could be made

to let go his hold. Then, she added, Mouret fell to the ground like a

great lump, and a huge black rat leapt out of his mouth and vanished,

though not the slightest hole could be discovered in the flooring.

The tripe-seller at the corner of the Rue Taravelle terrified the

neighbourhood by promulgating the theory that 'the scoundrel had

perhaps been bitten by a mad dog.'

The story, however, was not credited among the higher classes of the

inhabitants of Plassans. When it was mooted about the Cours Sauvaire it

afforded the retired traders much amusement, as they sat on the benches

there, basking in the warm May sun.

'Mouret is quite incapable of beating his wife,' said the retired

almond-dealers; 'he looks as though he had had a whipping himself, and

he no longer even comes out for a turn on the promenade. His wife must

be keeping him on dry bread.'

'One can never tell,' said a retired captain. 'I knew an officer in my

regiment whose wife used to box his ears for a mere yes or no. That

went on for ten years. Then one day she took it into her head to kick

him; but that made him quite furious and he nearly strangled her.

Perhaps Mouret has the same dislike to being kicked as my friend had.'

'He probably has a yet greater dislike to priests,' said another of the

company with a sneer.

For some time Madame Rougon appeared quite unconscious of the scandal

which was occupying the attention of the town. She preserved a smiling

face and ignored the allusions which were made before her. One day,

however, after a long visit from Monsieur Delangre, she arrived at her

daughter's house looking greatly distressed, her eyes filled with tears.

'Ah, my dear!' she cried, clasping Marthe in her arms, 'what is this

that I have just heard? Can your husband really have so far forgotten

himself so as to have raised his hand against you? It is all a pack

of falsehoods, isn't it? I have given it the strongest denial. I know

Mouret. He has been badly brought up, but he is not a wicked man.'

Marthe blushed. She was overcome by that embarrassment and shame which

she experienced every time this subject was alluded to in her presence.

'Ah! madame will never complain!' cried Rose with her customary

boldness. 'I should have come and informed you a long time ago if I

had not been afraid of madame being angry with me.'

The old lady let her hands fall with an expression of extreme grief and

surprise.

'It is really true, then,' she exclaimed, 'that he beats you! Oh, the

wretch! the wretch!'

Thereupon she began to weep.

'For me to have lived to my age to see such things! A man whom we have

overwhelmed with kindnesses ever since his father's death, when he was

only a little clerk with us! It was Rougon who desired your marriage.

I told him more than once that Mouret looked like a scoundrel. He has

never treated us well; and he only came to live at Plassans for the

sake of setting us at defiance with the few sous he has got together.

Thank heaven, we stand in no need of him; we are richer than he is, and

it is that which annoys him. He is very mean-spirited, and so jealous

that he has always refused to set foot in my drawing-room. He knows he

would burst with envy there. But I won't leave you in the power of such

a monster, my dear. There are laws, happily.'

'Oh don't be uneasy! There has been much exaggeration, I assure you,'

said Marthe, who was growing more and more ill at ease.

'You see that she is trying to defend him!' cried the cook.

At this moment, Abbé Faujas and Trouche, who had been conferring

together at the bottom of the garden, came up, attracted by the sound

of the conversation.

'I am a most unhappy mother, your reverence,' said Madame Rougon

piteously. 'I have only one daughter near me now, and I hear she is

weeping her eyes out from ill-treatment. But you live in the same

house, and I beg you to protect and console her.'

The Abbé fixed his eyes upon the old woman, as though he were trying to

guess the real meaning of this sudden manifestation of distress.

'I have just seen some one whom I would rather not name,' she

continued, returning the Abbé's glance. 'This person has quite alarmed

me. God knows that I don't want to do anything to injure my son-in-law!

But it is my duty--is it not?--to defend my daughter's interests. Well,

my son-in-law is a wretch; he ill-treats his wife, he scandalises the

whole town, and mixes himself up in all sorts of dirty affairs. You

will see that he will also compromise himself in political matters when

the elections come on. The last time it was he who put himself at the

head of the riff-raff of the suburbs. It will kill me, your reverence!'

'Monsieur Mouret would not allow anybody to make remarks to him about

his conduct,' the Abbé at last ventured to say.

'But I can't abandon my daughter to such a man!' cried Madame Rougon.

'I will not allow it that we should be dishonoured. Justice is not made

for dogs.'

Trouche, who was swaying himself about, took advantage of a momentary

pause to exclaim:

'Monsieur Mouret is mad!'

The words seemed to fall with all the force of a blow from a club, and

everybody looked at the speaker.

'I mean that he has a weak head,' continued Trouche. 'You've only got

to look at his eyes. I may tell you that I don't feel particularly easy

myself. There was a man at Besançon who adored his daughter, but he

murdered her one night without knowing what he was doing.'

'The master has been cracked for a long time past,' said Rose.

'But this is frightful!' cried Madame Rougon. 'Really, I fear you

may be right. The last time I saw him he had a most extraordinary

expression on his face. He never had very sharp wits. Ah! my poor

dear, promise to confide everything to me. I shall not be able to

sleep quietly after this. Listen to me now; at the first sign of any

extravagant conduct on your husband's part, don't hesitate, don't run

any further risk--madmen must be placed in confinement.'

After this speech, she went off. When Trouche was again alone with Abbé

Faujas, he gave one of those unpleasant grins that exposed his black

teeth to view.

'Our landlady will owe me a big taper,' he said. 'She will be able to

kick about at nights as much as she likes.'

The priest, with his face quite ashy and his eyes turned to the ground,

made no reply. Then he shrugged his shoulders and went off to read his

breviary under the arbour at the bottom of the garden.

XVIII

On Sundays Mouret, like many of the other retired traders of Plassans,

used to take a stroll about the town. It was on Sundays only that he

now emerged from that lonely seclusion in which he buried himself,

overcome by a sort of shame. And his Sunday outing was gone through

quite mechanically. In the morning he shaved himself, put on a clean

shirt, and brushed his coat and hat; then, after breakfast, without

quite knowing how, he found himself in the street, walking along

slowly, with his hands behind his back and looking very sedate and neat.

As he was leaving his house one Sunday, he saw Rose talking with much

animation to Monsieur Rastoil's cook on the pathway of the Rue Balande.

The two servants became silent when they caught sight of him. They

looked at him with such a peculiar expression that he felt behind him

to ascertain whether his handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket.

When he reached the Place of the Sub-Prefecture he turned his head,

looked back, and saw them still standing in the same place. Rose was

imitating the reeling of a drunken man, while the president's cook was

laughing loudly.

'I am walking too quickly and they are making fun of me,' thought

Mouret.

He thereupon slackened his pace. As he passed through the Rue de la

Banne towards the market, the shopkeepers ran to their doors and

watched him curiously. He gave a little nod to the butcher, who looked

confused and did not return the salutation. The baker's wife, to whom

he raised his hat, seemed quite alarmed and hastily stepped backwards.

The greengrocer, the pastrycook and the grocer pointed him out to each

other from opposite sides of the street. As he went along there was

ever excitement behind him, people clustered together in groups, and a

great deal of talking, mingled with laughs and grins, ensued.

'Did you notice how quickly he was walking?'

'Yes, indeed, when he wanted to stride across the gutter he almost

jumped.'

'It is said that they are all like that.'

'I felt quite frightened. Why is he allowed to come out? It oughtn't to

be permitted.'

Mouret was beginning to feel timid, and dared not venture to look

round again. He experienced a vague uneasiness, though he could not

feel quite sure that it was about himself that the people were all

talking. He quickened his steps and began to swing his arms about. He

regretted that he had put on his old overcoat, a hazel-coloured one and

no longer of a fashionable cut. When he reached the market-place, he

hesitated for a moment, and then boldly strode into the midst of the

greengrocers' stalls. The mere sight of him caused quite a commotion

there.

All the housewives of Plassans formed in a line about his path, the

market-women stood up by their stalls, with their hands on their

hips, and stared hard at him. People even pushed one another to get a

sight of him, and some of the women mounted on to the benches in the

corn-market. Mouret still further quickened his steps and tried to

disengage himself from the crowd, not as yet able to believe that it

was he who was causing all this excitement.

'Well, anyone would think that his arms were windmill sails,' said a

peasant-woman who was selling fruit.

'He flies on like a shot; he nearly upset my stall,' exclaimed another

woman, a greengrocer.

'Stop him! stop him!' the millers cried facetiously. Then Mouret,

overcome by curiosity, halted and rose on tip-toes to see what was the

matter. He imagined that someone had just been detected thieving. But a

loud burst of laughter broke out from the crowd, and there were shouts

and hisses, all sorts of calls and cries.

'There's no harm in him; don't hurt him.'

'Ah! I'm not so sure of that. I shouldn't like to trust myself too near

him. He gets up in the night and strangles people.'

'He certainly looks a bad one.'

'Has it come upon him suddenly?'

'Yes, indeed, all at once. And he used to be so kind and gentle! I'm

going away; all this distresses me. Here are the three sous for the

turnips.'

Mouret had just recognised Olympe in the midst of a group of women,

and he went towards her. She had been buying some magnificent peaches,

which she carried in a very fashionable-looking handbag. And she was

evidently relating some very moving story, for all the gossips around

her were breaking out into exclamations and clasping their hands with

expressions of pity.

'Then,' said she, 'he caught her by the hair, and he would have cut

her throat with a razor which was lying on the chest of drawers if

we hadn't arrived just in time to prevent the murder. But don't say

anything to her about it; it would only bring her more trouble.'

'What trouble?' asked Mouret in amazement. The listeners hurried away,

and Olympe assumed an expression of careful watchfulness as, in her

turn, she warily slipped off, saying:

'Don't excite yourself, Monsieur Mouret. You had better go back home.'

Mouret took refuge in a little lane that led to the Cours Sauvaire.

Thereupon the shouts increased in violence, and for a few moments he

was pursued by the angry uproar of the market-folk.

'What is the matter with them to-day?' he wondered. 'Could it be

me that they were jeering at? But I never heard my name mentioned.

Something out of the common must have happened.'

He then took off his hat and examined it, imagining that perhaps

some street lad had thrown a handful of mud at it. It was all right,

however, and there was nothing fastened on to his coat-tails. This

examination soothed him a little, and he resumed his sedate walk

through the silent lane, and quietly turned on to the Cours Sauvaire.

The usual groups of friends were sitting on the benches there.

'Hallo! here's Mouret!' cried the retired captain, with an expression

of great astonishment.

The liveliest curiosity became manifest on the sleepy faces of the

others. They stretched out their necks without rising from their seats,

while Mouret stood in front of them. They examined him minutely from

head to foot.

'Ah! you are taking a little stroll?' said the captain, who seemed the

boldest.

'Yes, just a short stroll,' replied Mouret, in a listless fashion.

'It's a very fine day.'

The company exchanged meaning smiles. They were feeling chilly and the

sky had just become overcast.

'Very fine,' said a retired tanner; 'you are easily pleased. It is

true, however, that you are already wearing winter clothes. What a

funny overcoat that is of yours!'

The smiles now grew into grins and titters. A sudden idea seemed to

strike Mouret.

'Just look and tell me,' said he, suddenly turning round, 'have I got a

sun on my back?'

The retired almond-dealers could no longer keep serious, but burst into

loud laughter. The captain, who was the jester of the company, winked.

'A sun?' he asked, 'where? I can only see a moon.'

The others shook with laughter. They thought the captain excessively

witty.

'A moon?' said Mouret; 'be kind enough to remove it. It has caused me

much inconvenience.'

The captain gave him three or four taps on the back, and then exclaimed:

'There, you are rid of it now. But it must, indeed, be extremely

inconvenient to have a moon on one's back. You are not looking very

well.'

'I am not very well,' Mouret replied in his listless indifferent way.

Then, imagining that he heard a titter, he added:

'But I am very well taken care of at home. My wife is very kind and

attentive, and quite spoils me. But I need rest, and that is the reason

why I don't come out now as I used to do. Directly I am better, I shall

look after business again.'

'But they say it is your wife who is not very well,' interrupted the

retired tanner bluntly.

'My wife! There is nothing the matter with her! It is a pack of

falsehoods! There is nothing the matter with her--nothing at all.

People say things against us because--because we keep quietly at home.

Ill, indeed! my wife! She is very strong, and never even has so much

the matter with her as--as a headache.'

He went on speaking in short sentences, stammering and hesitating

in the uneasy way of a man who is telling falsehoods; full too of

the embarrassment of a whilom gossip who has become tongue-tied. The

retired traders shook their heads with pitying looks, and the captain

tapped his forehead with his finger. A former hatter of the suburbs

who had scrutinised Mouret from his cravat to the bottom button of his

overcoat, was now absorbed in the examination of his boots. The lace

of the one on the left foot had come undone, and this seemed to the

hatter a most extraordinary circumstance. He nudged his neighbours'

elbows, and winked as he called their attention to the loosened lace.

Soon the whole bench had eyes for nothing else but the lace. It was the

last proof. The men shrugged their shoulders in a way that seemed to

imply that they had lost their last spark of hope.

'Mouret,' said the captain, in a paternal fashion, 'fasten up your

boot-lace.'

Mouret glanced at his feet, but did not seem to understand; and he

went on talking. Then, as no one replied, he became silent, and after

standing there for a moment or two longer he quietly continued his walk.

'He will fall, I'm sure,' exclaimed the master-tanner, who had risen

from his seat that he might keep Mouret longer in view.

When Mouret got to the end of the Cours Sauvaire, and passed in front

of the Young Men's Club, he was again greeted with the low laughs

which had followed him since he had set foot out of doors. He could

distinctly see Séverin Rastoil, who was standing at the door of the

club, pointing him out to a group of young men. Clearly, he thought,

it was himself who was thus providing sport for the town. He bent his

head and was seized with a kind of fear, which he could not explain to

himself, as he hastily stepped past the houses. Just as he was about to

turn into the Rue Canquoin, he heard a noise behind him, and, turning

his head, he saw three lads following him; two of them were big,

impudent-looking boys, while the third was a very little one, with a

serious face. The latter was holding in his hand a dirty orange which

he had picked out of the gutter. Mouret made his way along the Rue

Canquoin, and then, crossing the Place des Récollets, he reached the

Rue de la Banne. The lads were still following him.

'Do you want your ears pulled?' he called out, suddenly stepping up to

them.

They dashed on one side, shouting and laughing, and made their escape

on their hands and knees. Mouret turned very red, realising that he was

an object of ridicule. He felt a perfect fear of crossing the Place of

the Sub-Prefecture, and passing in front of the Rougons' windows with

a following of street-arabs, whom he could hear, increasing in numbers

and boldness, behind him. As he went on, he was obliged to step out of

his way to avoid his mother-in-law, who was returning from vespers with

Madame de Condamin.

'Wolf! wolf!' cried the lads.

Mouret, with perspiration breaking out on his brow, and his feet

stumbling against the flag-stones, overheard old Madame Rougon say to

the wife of the conservator of rivers and forests:

'See! there he is, the scoundrel! It is disgraceful; we can't tolerate

it much longer.'

Thereupon Mouret could no longer restrain himself from setting off at

a run. With swinging arms and a look of distraction upon his face, he

rushed into the Rue Balande while some ten or a dozen street-arabs

dashed after him. It seemed to him as though all the shopkeepers of the

Rue de la Banne, the market-women, the promenaders of the Cours, the

young men from the club, the Rougons, the Condamins--all the people of

Plassans, in fact--were surging onwards behind his back, breaking out

into laughs and jeers, as he sped up the hilly street. The lads stamped

and slid over the pavement, making indeed as much noise in that usually

quiet neighbourhood as a pack of hounds might have made.

'Catch him!' they screamed.

'Hie! What a scarecrow he looks in that overcoat of his!'

'Some of you go round by the Rue Taravelle, and then you'll nab him!'