This remark had a chilling effect upon the company. Each was afraid

that his neighbour might be in the terrible Abbé's pay.

'The grand-vicar has an excellent heart,' Monsieur Rastoil prudently

remarked; 'but, like all great minds, he appears at first sight to be a

little stern.'

'It is just so with me; I am very easy to get on with, but I have

always had the reputation of being a hard, stern man,' exclaimed

Monsieur de Bourdeu, who had become reconciled with the party again

after a long private interview which he had had with Abbé Faujas.

Then, wishing to put everyone at ease again, the presiding judge

exclaimed:

'Have you heard that there is a probability of a bishopric for the

grand-vicar?'

At this they brightened up. Monsieur Maffre expressed the opinion that

it would be of Plassans itself that Abbé Faujas would become bishop,

after the retirement of Monseigneur Rousselot, whose health was very

feeble.

'Everyone would gain by it,' said Abbé Bourrette guilelessly. 'Illness

has embittered his lordship; I know that our excellent Faujas has made

the greatest efforts to persuade him out of certain unjust prejudices

which he entertains.'

'He is very fond of you,' asserted Judge Paloque, who had just received

his decoration; 'my wife has heard him complain of the way in which you

are neglected.'

When Abbé Surin was present, he, too, joined in the general chorus;

but, although he had a mitre in his pocket, to use the expression of

the priests of the diocese, the success of Abbé Faujas made him uneasy.

He looked at him in his pretty way, and, calling to mind the Bishop's

prediction, tried to discover the weak point which would bring that

colossus toppling in the dust.

The gentlemen of the party, it should be said, had had their desires

satisfied; that is, excepting Monsieur de Bourdeu and Monsieur Péqueur

des Saulaies, who were still waiting for the marks of the government's

favour. These two were, consequently, the warmest partisans of Abbé

Faujas. The others, to tell the truth, would have been glad to

rebel, if they had dared. They were growing secretly weary of the

continual gratitude which was exacted from them by their master,

and they ardently wished that some strong, bold hand would effect

their deliverance. One day Madame Paloque, with an affectation of

indifference inquired:

'What has become of Abbé Fenil? I haven't seen or heard of him for an

age.'

There was profound silence. Monsieur de Condamin was the only one

present capable of venturing upon such dangerous ground. They all

looked at him.

'Oh!' he said quietly, 'I believe he shuts himself up at his place at

Les Tulettes.'

Madame de Condamin added with an ironical smile:

'He can sleep quietly now. His career is over; he will take no part

again in the affairs of Plassans.'

There was only Marthe who remained a real obstacle in Abbé Faujas's

path. He felt that she was escaping him more and more each day. He

stiffened his will and called up all his forces as priest and man to

bend her, without succeeding in moderating the flame which he had

fanned into life. She was striving to reach the logical end of her

passionate longings, and insisted upon forcing her way further and

further into the peace and ecstasy and perfect self-forgetfulness

of divine happiness. It was bitter pain and anguish to her to be,

as it were, walled in and prevented from reaching that threshold of

light, of which she fancied she caught a glimpse, though it seemed

to be ever receding from her reach. She shivered and trembled now at

Saint-Saturnin's in the coldness and the gloom amidst which she had

once felt such thrills of delight. The peals of the organ no longer

stirred her with a tremor of voluptuous joy; the white clouds of

incense no longer lulled her into sweet mystic dreams; the gleaming

chapels and the sacred pyxes that flashed like stars, the chasubles

with their sheen of gold and silver, all now seemed pale and wan to her

eyes that were dull and dim with tears. Like a damned soul yearning

after Paradise, she threw up her arms in bitter desperation and

besought the love that denied itself to her, sobbing and wailing:

'My God, my God! why hast Thou forsaken me?'

Bowed down with shame, hurt, as it were, by the cold silence of the

vaulted roof, Marthe left the church, burning with the anger of a

scorned woman. She had wild dreams of pouring out her blood, and she

writhed madly at her impotence to do more than to pray, at being unable

to spring at a single bound into the arms of God. And when she returned

home, she felt that her only hope was in Abbé Faujas. It was he alone

that could make her God's. He had revealed to her the initiatory joys;

he must now tear aside the whole veil. But the priest fell into a

passion with her and treated her roughly, refusing to hear her so long

as she was not on her knees before him, humble and unresisting like a

corpse. She listened to him, standing upright, sustained by an impulse

of revolt that thrilled her whole being, as she vented upon him the

bitterness that came of her deceived yearnings, and accused him of the

base treachery which was torturing her.

Old Madame Rougon often thought it was her duty to intervene between

the Abbé and her daughter, as she had formerly done between the latter

and Mouret. Marthe having told her of her troubles, she spoke to the

priest like a mother-in-law desiring the happiness of her children and

doing her best to restore peace in their home.

'Well,' she said to him with a smile, 'can't you manage to live in

peace? Marthe is constantly complaining and you seem to be perpetually

grieving her. I know very well that women are exacting, but you must

confess that you are a little wanting in consideration. I am extremely

distressed by what occurs; it would be so easy for you to arrange

matters pleasantly! Do, I beg of you, my dear Abbé, be a little more

gentle with her.'

She also scolded him in a friendly fashion for his slovenly appearance.

She could see, with her shrewd feminine intelligence, that he was

abusing his victory. Then she began to make excuses for her daughter.

The dear child, she said, had suffered a great deal, and her nervous

sensitiveness required most careful treatment; but she had an excellent

disposition and an affectionate nature which a clever man might mould

after his own wishes. One day, however, when she was thus showing him

how he might make Marthe what he liked, Abbé Faujas grew weary of her

perpetual advice.

'No, no!' he cried, 'your daughter is mad; she bores me to death. I

won't have anything more to do with her. I would pay the fellow well

who would free me of her.'

Madame Rougon looked him keenly in the face and tightly pressed her

lips.

'Listen to me, my friend,' she said after a short silence; 'you are

wanting in tact, and that will prove your ruin. Overthrow yourself,

if you like; I wash my hands of you. I assisted you, not for your own

sake, but to please our friends in Paris. They wrote to me and asked

me to pilot you, and I did so. But understand this, I will never allow

you to come the master over me. It's all very well for little Péqueur,

and simple Rastoil, but we are not at all afraid of you, and we mean to

remain the masters. My husband conquered Plassans before you did, and I

warn you that we shall keep our conquest.'

From that day forward there was great coldness between the Rougons and

Abbé Faujas. When Marthe again came to complain to her mother, the

latter said to her very plainly:

'Your Abbé is only making a fool of you. If I were in your place I

shouldn't hesitate to tell him a few plain truths. To begin with,

he has been disgustingly dirty for a long time past, and I can't

understand how you can bear to take your meals at the same table with

him.'

Madame Rougon had, in truth, hinted at a very ingenious plan to her

husband, by which the Abbé should be ousted, and they themselves should

reap the reward of his success. Now that the town voted properly,

Rougon, who had not cared to risk the conduct of the campaign, was

quite able to keep it in the proper path. The green drawing-room

would become all the more influential, and Félicité began to await

developments with that crafty patience to which she owed her fortune.

On the day when her mother told her that the Abbé was only making a

fool of her, Marthe again repaired to Saint-Saturnin's resolved upon a

last supreme appeal. She remained in the deserted church for two hours,

pouring out her soul in prayer, waiting longingly for the ecstasy

that came not, and torturing herself with her search for consolation.

Impulses of deep humility stretched her prostrate upon the flag-stones,

momentary thrills of rebellion made her start up again with her teeth

clenched, while her whole being, wildly racked and strained, broke

down at not being able to grasp or kiss aught save the aching void

of her own passion. When she rose and left the church the sky seemed

black to her; she was not conscious of the pavement beneath her feet;

the narrow streets left upon her the impression of some immense lonely

wilderness. She threw her hat and shawl upon the dining-room table and

went straight upstairs to Abbé Faujas's room.

The Abbé sat buried in thought, at his little table. His pen had fallen

from his fingers. He opened the door, still full of his thoughts, but

when he saw Marthe standing before him, very pale, and with the light

of deep resolution burning in her eyes, he made a gesture of anger.

'What do you want?' he asked. 'Why have you come upstairs? Go down

again and wait for me, if you have anything to say to me.'

She pushed him aside and entered the room without speaking a word.

The priest hesitated for a moment, struggling against the influence

which was prompting him to raise his hand against her. He remained

standing in front of her, without closing the door that was wide open.

'What do you want?' he repeated. 'I am busy.'

Then Marthe closed the door, and having done so, drew nearer to the

Abbé and said to him:

'I want to speak to you.'

She sat down and looked about the room, at the narrow bed, the shabby

chest of drawers, and at the big black wooden crucifix, the sight of

which, as it stood out conspicuously on the bare wall, gave her a

passing thrill. A freezing silence seemed to fall from the ceiling. The

grate was quite empty; there was not even a pinch of ashes in it.

'You will take cold,' said the priest in a calmer voice. 'Let us go

downstairs, I beg you.'

'No; I want to speak to you,' said Marthe again.

Then, clasping her hands together like a penitent making her

confession, she continued:

'I owe you much. Before you came, I was without a soul. It was you who

willed that I should be saved. It is through you that I have known the

only joys of my life. You are my saviour and my father. For these last

five years I have only lived through you and for you.'

Her voice broke down and she almost slipped upon her knees. The priest

stopped her with a gesture.

'And now, to-day,' she cried, 'I am suffering and have need of your

help. Listen to me, father. Do not withdraw from me. You cannot abandon

me thus. I tell you that God does not listen to me any longer. I do not

feel His presence any longer. Have pity upon me, I beseech you. Advise

me, lead me to those divine graces whose first joys you made me know;

teach me what I should do to cure myself, and ever advance in the love

of God.'

'You must pray,' said the priest gravely.

'I have prayed; I have prayed for hours with my head buried in my

hands, trying to lose myself in every word of adoration, and yet I have

not received consolation. I have not felt the presence of God.'

'You must pray and pray again, pray continually, pray until God is

moved by your prayers and descends to you.'

She looked at him in anguish.

'Then there is nothing but prayer?' she asked. 'You cannot give me any

help?'

'No; none at all,' he replied roughly.

She threw up her trembling hands in a burst of desperation, her breast

heaving with anger. But she restrained herself, and she stammered:

'Your heaven is fast closed. You have led me on so far only to crush

me against a wall. I was very peaceful, you will remember, when you

came. I was living quietly at home here, without a single desire or

curiosity. It was you who awoke me with words that stirred and roused

my heart. It was you who made me enter upon a fresh youth. Oh! you

cannot tell what joys you brought me at first! It was like sweet

soft warmth thrilling my whole being. My heart woke up within me. I

was filled with mighty hopes. Sometimes, when I reflected that I was

forty years old, it all seemed foolish to me, and I smiled, and then I

defended myself, for I felt so happy in it all. Now I want the promised

happiness. I am growing weary of the desire for it, a desire that burns

me and tortures me. I have no time to lose, now that my health has

broken down, and I don't want to find myself deceived and duped. There

must be something more; tell me that there is something more.'

Abbé Faujas stood quite impassive, letting this flood of words pass

without reply.

'Ah! So there is nothing else! there is nothing else!' she continued,

in a burst of indignation; 'then you have deceived me! Down there on

the terrace, on those star-lit evenings, you promised me heaven, and I

believed your promises. I sold myself, and gave myself up. I was quite

mad during those first transports of prayer. To-day the bargain holds

no longer. I shall return to my old ways, and resume my old peaceful

quiet. I will turn everybody out of the house, and make it as it used

to be; I will again sit in my old corner on the terrace, and mend the

linen. Needlework never wearies me. And I will have Désirée back to

sit beside me on her little stool. She used to sit there, the dear

innocent, and laugh and make dolls----'

Then she burst into a fit of sobbing:

'I want my children! They were my safeguard. Since they left I have

lost my head, I have done things that I ought not to have done. Why

did you take them from me? They went away from me one by one, and the

house became like a strange house to me. My heart was no longer wrapped

up in it, I was glad when I left it for an afternoon; and when I came

back in the evening, I seemed to have fallen amongst strangers. The

very furniture seemed cold and unfriendly. I quite hated the house.

But I will go and fetch them again, the poor darlings. Everything will

become as it used to be directly they return. Oh! if I could only sink

down again into my old sleepy quiet!'

She was growing more and more excited. The priest tried to calm her by

a method which he had often before found efficacious.

'Be calm, my dear lady, be calm,' he said, trying to take her hands,

and hold them between his own.

'Don't touch me!' she cried, recoiling from him. 'I don't want you to

do so. When you hold me I am as weak as a child. The warmth of your

hands takes all my resolution and strength away. The trouble would only

begin again to-morrow; for I cannot go on living like this, and you

only assuage me for an hour.'

A deep shadow passed over her face as she continued:

'No! I am damned now! I shall never love my home again. And if the

children come, they would ask for their father--Oh! it is that which is

killing me! I shall never be forgiven till I have confessed my crime to

a priest.'

Then she fell upon her knees.

'I am a guilty woman. That is why God turns His face from me.'

Abbé Faujas tried to make her rise from her knees.

'Be silent!' he cried loudly. 'I cannot hear your confession here. Come

to Saint-Saturnin's to-morrow.'

'Father,' she said entreatingly, 'have pity upon me. To-morrow I shall

not have the strength for it.'

'I forbid you to speak,' he cried more violently than before. 'I won't

listen to anything; I shall turn my head away and close my ears.'

He stepped backward and crossed his arms, trying to check the

confession that was on Marthe's lips. They looked at each other for

a moment in silence, with the lurking anger that came from their

conscious complicity.

'It is not a priest who listens to you,' said the Abbé in a huskier

voice. 'Here there is only a man to judge and condemn you.'

At this she rose from her knees, and continued feverishly: 'A man!

I prefer it, for I am not confessing; I am simply telling you of my

wrong-doing. After the children had gone, I allowed their father to

be put away too. He had never struck me, the unhappy man. It was I

myself who was mad.... Oh, you cannot guess what frightful nightmares

overwhelmed me and made me hurl myself upon the floor. All hell seemed

to be racking my brain with its torments. He, poor man, with his

chattering teeth, excited my pity. It was he who was afraid of me. When

you had left the room he dared not venture near me; he passed the night

on a chair.'

Again did Abbé Faujas try to stop her.

'You are killing yourself,' he exclaimed. 'Don't stir up these

recollections. God will take count of your sufferings.'

'It was I who sent him to Les Tulettes,' she continued, silencing the

priest with an energetic gesture. 'You all told me that he was mad. Oh,

the unendurable life I have led! I have always been terrified by the

thought of madness. When I was quite young, I used to feel as though

my skull were being opened and my head were being emptied. I seemed

to have a block of ice within my brow. Ah! I felt that awful coldness

again, and I was perpetually in fear of going mad. They took my husband

away. I let them take him. I didn't know what I was doing. But, ever

since that day, I have been unable to close my eyes without seeing

him over yonder. It is that which makes me behave so strangely, which

roots me for hours to the same spot, with my eyes wide open. I know the

place; I can see it. My uncle Macquart showed it to me. It is as gloomy

as a prison, with its black windows.'

She seemed to be choking. She raised her handkerchief to her lips, and

when she took it away again it was spotted with blood. The priest, with

his arms rigidly crossed in front of him, waited till the attack was

over.

'You know it all, don't you?' she resumed, in stammering accents. 'I am

a miserable guilty woman, I sinned for you. But give me life, give me

happiness, I entreat you!'

'You lie,' said the priest slowly. 'I know nothing; I was ignorant that

you were guilty of that wickedness.'

She recoiled, clasping her hands, stammering, and gazing at him with a

look of terror. And at last, utterly unable to restrain herself, she

broke out wildly and recklessly:

'Hear me, Ovide, I love you, and you know that I do, do you not? I have

loved you, Ovide, since the first day you came here. I refrained from

telling you so, for I saw it displeased you; but I knew quite well that

you were gaining my whole heart. Then it was that I emptied the house

for your sake. I dragged myself on my knees, and became your slave.

You surely cannot go on being cruel for ever. Now that I am ill and

abandoned, and my heart is broken and my head seems empty, you surely

cannot reject me. It is true that we have said nothing openly before;

but surely my love spoke to you, and your silence made answer. Oh! I

love you, Ovide, I love you, and it is killing me.'

She burst into another fit of sobbing. Abbé Faujas had braced himself

up to his full height. He stepped towards Marthe and poured out upon

her all his scorn of woman.

'Oh, miserable creature!' he said. 'I hoped that you would be

reasonable, and that you would never lower yourself to the shame of

uttering all that vileness. Ah! it is the eternal struggle of evil

against will. You are the temptation from below that leads men to base

back-sliding and final overthrow. The priest has no worse enemy than

such as you; you ought to be driven from the churches as impure and

accursed!'

'I love you, Ovide,' she again stammered; 'I love you; help me.'

'I have already come too near you,' the priest continued. 'Go away and

depart from me; you are Satan! I will beat you if it be necessary to

force the evil spirit from your body.'

She sank into a crouching posture against the wall, silent with terror

at the priest's threatening fist. Her hair became unloosened, and a

long white lock fell over her brow. As she looked about the room for a

refuge, she espied the big black crucifix, and she still had strength

left to stretch her hands towards it with a passionate gesture.

'Do not implore the Cross!' cried the priest in wild anger. 'Jesus

lived chastely, and it was that which enabled Him to die.'

At that same moment Madame Faujas came into the room, carrying on her

arm a big provision basket. She put it down at once on seeing her son

so wrathful, and threw her arms around him.

'Ovide, my child, calm yourself,' she said, as she caressed him.

Then, turning upon the cowering Marthe an annihilating glance, she

cried:

'Can you never leave him at peace? Are you not ashamed of yourself? Go

downstairs; it is quite impossible for you to remain here. This is no

place for such as you!'

Marthe did not move. Madame Faujas had to lift her up and push her

towards the door. The old woman stormed at her, charging her with

having waited till she had gone out, and making her promise that she

would never again come upstairs to make such scenes. And finally she

banged the door violently behind her.

Marthe went on, reeling down the stairs. She had ceased sobbing, and

kept repeating to herself:

'François will come back again; François will turn them all out into

the street.'

XXI

The Toulon coach, which passed through Les Tulettes, where it changed

horses, left Plassans at three o'clock. Marthe, goaded on by a fixed,

unswerving resolve, was anxious not to lose a moment. She put on her

shawl and hat, and ordered Rose to dress immediately.

'I can't tell what madame's after,' said the cook to Olympe: 'but I

fancy we're going away for some days.'

Marthe left the keys in the cupboard doors; she was in a hurry to be

off. Olympe, who went with her to the front door, vainly tried to

ascertain where she was going and how long she would be away.

'Well, make yourself quite easy,' she said to her in her pleasant way,

as they parted; 'I will look after everything, you will find things all

right when you come back. Don't hurry yourself, take the time to do all

you want. If you go to Marseilles, bring us back some fresh shell-fish.'

Before Marthe had turned the corner of the Rue Taravelle, Olympe had

taken possession of the whole house. When Trouche came home he found

his wife banging the doors and examining the contents of the drawers

and closets, as she hummed and sang and rushed about the rooms.

'She's gone off and taken that beast of a cook with her,' she cried

to him as she lolled into an easy-chair. 'What luck it would be if

they should both get upset into a ditch and stop there! Well, we must

enjoy ourselves for as long as we have the chance. It's very nice being

alone, isn't it, Honoré? Come and give me a kiss! We are quite by

ourselves now, and we can do just as we like.'

Marthe and Rose reached the Cours Sauvaire only just in time to catch

the Toulon coach. The coupé was disengaged. When the cook heard her

mistress tell the conductor to set them down at Les Tulettes, she took

her place with an expression of vexation, and before the coach had got

out of the town she had begun grumbling in her cross-grained fashion.

'Well, I did think that you were at last going to behave sensibly! I

felt sure that we were going to Marseilles to see Monsieur Octave. We

could have brought back a lobster and some oysters. Ah! I shouldn't

have hurried myself so if I had known. But it's just like you. You are

always hunting after troubles, and always doing things that upset you.'

Marthe was lying back in her corner in a semi-conscious condition.

Now that she was no longer stiffening herself against the pains which

oppressed her heart, a death-like faintness was creeping over her. But

the cook did not even look towards her.

'Did anyone ever hear of such an absurd idea as going to see the

master?' she continued. 'A cheerful sort of sight it will be for us. We

sha'n't be able to sleep for a week after it. You may be as frightened

as you like at nights, now; you won't get me to come and look under the

furniture for you. It isn't as though your going to see him could do

the master any good. He's just as likely to fly at your face as not!

I hope to goodness that they won't let you see him. It's against the

rules, I know. I ought not to have got into the coach when I heard you

mention Les Tulettes, for I don't think you would have ventured to go

on such a foolish errand all by yourself.'

A deep sigh from Marthe checked her flow of words. She turned round to

her mistress, saw her pale and suffocating, and grew still angrier than

before as she opened the window to let in some fresh air.

'There now, you'll have to come and lie in my arms! Don't you think

you'd have been ever so much better in bed, taking care of yourself?

To think that you have had the good fortune to be surrounded by pious,

holy people without being the least bit grateful to God Almighty for

it! You know it's only the truth I'm saying. His reverence the Curé

and his mother and sister, and even Monsieur Trouche himself, are all

attention towards you. They would throw themselves into the fire for

you; they are ready to do anything at any hour of the day or night. I

saw Madame Olympe crying--yes, crying--the last time you were ill.

And what sort of gratitude do you show them for all their kindness

and attention? Why, you do all you can to distress them, and set off

on the sly to see the master, although you know quite well that you

will grieve them dreadfully by doing so, for it's impossible that they

should be fond of the master, who treated you so cruelly. I'll tell you

what, madame--marriage has done you no good; you've got infected with

all the master's bad nature. There are times when you are every bit as

bad as he is.'

All the way to Les Tulettes she continued in this strain, eulogising

the Faujases and the Trouches, and accusing her mistress of every kind

of wrong-doing. And she concluded by saying:

'Ah, they are the sort of people who would make excellent masters if

they could only afford to keep servants. But fortune merely comes in

the way of bad-hearted folks!'

Marthe, who was now calmer, made no reply. She gazed out of the window,

watching the scraggy trees and the wide-stretching fields which spread

out like great lengths of brown cloth. Rose's growlings were lost

amidst the noisy jolting of the coach.

When they reached Les Tulettes, Marthe hastened towards the house of

her uncle Macquart, followed by the cook, who had now subsided into

silence, contenting herself by shrugging her shoulders and biting her

lips.

'Hallo! is that you?' cried the uncle in great surprise. 'I thought you

were in your bed. I heard that you were very ill. Well, my little dear,

you really don't look very strong. Have you come to ask me for some

dinner?'

'I should like to see François, uncle,' said Marthe.

'François?' repeated Macquart, looking her in the face. 'You would like

to see François? It is a very kind thought of yours. The poor fellow

has been crying for you a great deal. I have seen him from the end

of my garden knocking his fist against the walls while he called for

you to come to him. And so it is to see him that you have come, eh? I

really thought that you had forgotten all about him over yonder.'

Big tears welled into Marthe's eyes.

'It will not be very easy to see him to-day,' Macquart continued.

'It is getting on for four o'clock, and I'm not at all sure that the

manager will give you leave. Mouret hasn't been very quiet lately.

He smashes everything that he can lay his hands on, and talks about

burning the place down. Those madmen are not in a pleasant humour every

day.'

Marthe trembled as she listened to her uncle; she was going to question

him, but instead of doing so she merely stretched out her hands

supplicatingly.

'I beseech you to help me,' said she. 'I have come on purpose. It is

absolutely necessary that I should speak to François to-day, at once.

You have friends in the asylum, and you can obtain me admission.'

'No doubt, no doubt,' he replied, without committing himself further.

He appeared to be in a state of great perplexity, unable to divine the

real cause of Marthe's sudden journey, and revolving the matter in

his own mind from a point of view known only to himself. He glanced

inquisitively at the cook, who turned her back upon him. At last a

slight smile began to play about his lips.

'Well,' he said, 'since you wish it, I will see what I can do for you.

Only, remember, that if your mother is displeased about it, you must

tell her that I was not able to dissuade you. I am afraid that you may

do yourself harm; it isn't a pleasant place to visit.'

Rose absolutely declined to accompany them to the asylum. She had

seated herself in front of a fire of vine-stocks, which was blazing on

the great hearth.

'I don't want to have my eyes torn out,' she said snappishly. 'The

master isn't over fond of me. I would rather stop here and warm myself.'

'It would be very good of you if you were to get us some mulled wine

ready,' Macquart whispered in her ear. 'The wine and sugar are in the

cupboard yonder. We shall want it when we come back.'

Macquart did not take his niece to the principal gate of the asylum.

He went round to the left and inquired at a little door for warder

Alexandre, with whom, on his appearance, he exchanged a few words

in a low voice. Then they all three silently entered the seemingly

interminable corridors. The warder walked in front.

'I will wait for you here,' said Macquart, coming to a halt in a little

courtyard. 'Alexandre will remain with you.'

'I would rather be left alone,' said Marthe.

'Madame would very quickly have enough of it, if she were,' Alexandre

replied, with a tranquil smile. 'I'm running a good deal of risk as it

is.'

He took Marthe through another court, and stopped in front of a little

door. As he softly turned the key, he said in a low voice:

'Don't be afraid. He has been quieter to-day, and they have been able

to take the strait-waistcoat off. If he shows any violence you must

step out backwards, and leave me alone with him.'

Marthe trembled as she passed through the narrow doorway. At first she

could only see something lying in a heap against the wall in one of the

corners. The daylight was waning, and the cell was merely lighted by a

pale glimmer which fell from a grated window.

'Well, my fine fellow!' Alexandre exclaimed familiarly, as he stepped

up to Mouret and tapped him on the shoulder; 'I am bringing you a

visitor. I hope you will behave properly.'

Then he returned and leant against the door, keeping his eyes fixed

upon the madman. Mouret slowly rose to his feet. He did not show the

slightest sign of surprise.

'Is it you, my dear?' he said in his quiet voice. 'I was expecting you;

I was getting uneasy about the children.'

Marthe's knees trembled under her, and she looked at him anxiously,

rendered quite speechless by his affectionate reception. He did not

appear changed at all. If anything, he looked better than he had done

before. He was sleek and plump, and cleanly shaved. His eyes, too, were

bright; all his former little mannerisms had reappeared, and he rubbed

his hands and winked, and stalked about with his old bantering air.

'I am very well indeed, my dear. We can go back home together. You

have come for me, haven't you? I hope the garden has been well looked

after. The slugs were dreadfully fond of the lettuces, and the beds

were quite eaten up with them, but I know a way of destroying them. I

have some splendid ideas in my head that I'll tell you of. We are very

comfortably off, and we can afford to pay for our fancies. By the way,

have you seen old Gautier of Saint-Eutrope while I've been absent? I

bought thirty hogsheads of common wine from him for blending. I must go

and see him to-morrow. You never recollect anything.'

He spoke in a jesting way, and shook his finger at her playfully.

'I'll be bound that I shall find everything in dreadful disorder,' he

continued. 'You never look after anything. The tools will be all lying

about, the cupboard doors will be open, and Rose will be dirtying the

rooms with her broom. Why hasn't Rose come with you? Ah, what a strange

creature she is! Do you know, she actually wanted to turn me out of the

house one day? Really, she seems to think that the whole place belongs

to her. She goes on in the most amusing way possible. But you don't

tell me anything about the children. Désirée is still with her nurse,

I suppose. We will go and kiss her and see if she is tired of staying

there. And I want to go to Marseilles as well, for I am a little

uneasy about Octave. The last time I was there I found him leading a

wild life. As for Serge, I have no anxiety about him; he is almost too

quiet and steady. He will sanctify the whole family. Ah! I quite enjoy

talking about the house and the children.'

He rattled along at great length, inquiring about every tree in his

garden, going into the minutest details of the household arrangements,

and showing an extraordinary memory of a host of insignificant matters.

Marthe was deeply touched by the gentle affection which he manifested

for her. She thought she could detect a loving delicacy in the care

which he took to say nothing that savoured of reproach, to make no

allusion, however slight, to all that had passed. She felt, indeed,

that she was forgiven, and she vowed that she would atone for her crime

by becoming the submissive servant of this man who was so sublime in

his good nature. Big silent tears rolled down her cheeks, and her knees

bent under her in her gratitude.

'Take care!' the warder whispered in her ear. 'I don't like the look of

his eyes.'

'But he isn't mad!' she stammered; 'I swear to you that he isn't mad! I

must speak to the manager. I want to take him away with me at once.'

'Take care!' the warder repeated sharply, pulling her by her arm.

Mouret had suddenly stopped short in the midst of his chatter, and was

now crouching upon the floor. Then, all at once, he began to crawl

along beside the wall, on his hands and knees.

'Wow! wow!' he barked in hoarse, prolonged notes.

He gave a spring into the air and fell upon his side. Then a dreadful

scene ensued. He began to writhe like a worm, beat his face with his

fist, and tore his flesh with his nails. In a short time he was half

naked, his clothes in rags, and himself bruised and lacerated and

groaning.

'Come away, madame, come away!' cried the warder.

Marthe stood rooted to the floor. She recognised in the scene before

her her own writhings at home. It was in that way that she had thrown

herself upon the floor of her bedroom; it was in that way that she

had beaten and torn herself. She even recognised the very tones of

her voice. Mouret vented the same rattling groan. It was she who had

brought the poor man into this miserable state.

'He is not mad!' she stammered; 'he cannot be mad, it would be too

horrible! I would rather die!'

The warder put his arm round her and pushed her out of the cell, but

she remained leaning against the door on the other side. She could hear

a terrible struggle going on within, screams like those of a pig being

slaughtered; then a dull fall like that of a bundle of damp linen, and

afterwards death-like silence. When the warder came out of the cell,

the night had nearly fallen. Through the partially open doorway, Marthe

could see nothing.

'Well, upon my word, madame,' cried the warder, 'you are a very queer

person to say that he is not mad. I nearly left my thumb behind me; he

got firmly hold of it between his teeth. However, he's quieted now for

a few hours.'

And as he took her back to her uncle, he continued:

'You've no idea how cunning they all are. They are as quiet as can be

for hours together, and talk to you in quite a sensible manner; and

then, without the least warning, they fly at your throat. I could see

very well that he was up to some mischief or other just now when he was

talking to you about the children, for there was such a strange look in

his eyes.'

When Marthe got back to Macquart, in the small courtyard, she exclaimed

feverishly in a weak, broken voice:

'He is mad! he is mad!'

'There's no doubt he's mad,' said her uncle with a snigger. 'Why, what

did you expect to find? People are not brought here for nothing. And

the place isn't healthy either. If I were to be shut up there for a

couple of hours, I should go mad myself.'

He was watching her askance, and he noted her nervous start and

shudder. Then, in his good-natured way, he said:

'Perhaps you would like to go and see the grandmother?'

Marthe made a gesture of terror, and hid her face in her hands.

'It would be no trouble to anyone,' he said. 'Alexandre would be glad

to take us. She is over yonder, on that side, and there is nothing to

be afraid of with her. She is perfectly quiet. She never gives any

trouble, does she, Alexandre? She always remains seated and gazing in

front of her. She hasn't moved for the last dozen years. However, if

you'd rather not see her, we won't go.'[7]

As the warder was taking his leave of them, Macquart invited him to

come and drink a glass of mulled wine, winking the while in a certain

fashion which seemed to induce Alexandre to accept the invitation. They

were obliged to support Marthe, whose legs sank beneath her at each

step. When they reached the house, they were actually carrying her. Her

face was convulsed, her eyes were staring widely, and her whole body

was rigidly stiffened by one of those nervous seizures which kept her

like a dead woman for hours at a time.

'There! what did I tell you?' cried Rose, when she saw them. 'A nice

state she's in! How are we to get home, I should like to know? Good

heavens! how can people take such absurd fancies into their heads? The

master ought to have given her neck a twist, and it would have taught

her a lesson, perhaps.'

'Pooh!' said Macquart; 'I'll lay her down on my bed. It won't kill us

if we have to sit up round the fire all night.'

He drew aside a calico curtain which hung in front of a recess. Rose

proceeded to undress her mistress, growling as she did so. The only

thing they could do, she said, was to put a hot brick at her feet.

'Now that she's all snug, we'll have a drop to drink,' resumed

Macquart, with his wolfish snigger. 'That wine of yours smells awfully

nice, old lady!'

'I found a lemon on the mantelpiece,' Rose said, 'and I used it.'

'You did quite right. There is everything here that is wanted. When I

make a brew, there's nothing missing that ought to be in the place, I

assure you.'

He pulled the table in front of the fire, and then he sat down between

Rose and Alexandre, and poured the hot wine into some big yellow cups.

When he had swallowed a couple of mouthfuls with great gusto, he

smacked his lips and cried:

'Ah! that's first-rate. You understand how to make it. It's really

better than what I make myself. You must leave me your recipe.'

Rose, greatly mollified by these compliments, began to laugh. The

vine-wood fire was now a great mass of glowing embers. The cups were

filled again.

'And so,' said Macquart, leaning on his elbows and looking Rose in the

face, 'it was a sudden whim of my niece to come here?'

'Oh, don't talk about it,' replied the cook; 'it will make me angry

again. Madame is getting as mad as the master. She can no longer tell

who are her friends and who are not. I believe she had a quarrel with

his reverence the Curé before she set off; I heard them shouting.'

Macquart laughed noisily.

'They used, however, to get on very well together,' said he.

'Yes, indeed; but nothing lasts long with such a brain as madame has

got. I'll be bound that she's now regretting the thrashings the master

used to give her at nights. We found his stick in the garden.'

Macquart looked at her more keenly, and, as he drank his hot wine, he

said:

'Perhaps she came to take François back with her.'

'Oh, Heaven forbid!' cried Rose, with an expression of horror. 'The

master would go on finely in the house; he would kill us all. The idea

of his return is one of my greatest dreads; I'm in a constant worry

lest he should make his escape and get back some night and murder

us all. When I think about it when I'm in bed, I can't go to sleep.

I fancy I can see him stealing in through the window with his hair

bristling and his eyes flaming like matches.'

This made Macquart very merry, and he rapped his cup on the table.

'It would be very unpleasant,' he said, 'very unpleasant. I don't

suppose he feels very kindly towards you, least of all towards the

Curé who has stepped into his place. The Curé would only make a

mouthful for him, big as he is, for madmen, they say, are awfully

strong. I say, Alexandre, just imagine poor François suddenly making

his appearance at home! He would make a pretty clean sweep there,

wouldn't he? It would be a fine sight, eh?'

He cast glances at the warder, who went on quietly drinking his mulled

wine and made no reply beyond nodding his head assentingly.

'Oh! it's only a fancy; it's all nonsense,' added Macquart, as he

observed Rose's terrified looks.

Just at that moment, Marthe began to struggle violently behind the

calico curtain; and she had to be held for some minutes in order that

she might not fall upon the floor. When she was again stretched out in

corpse-like rigidity, her uncle came and warmed his legs before the

fire, reflecting and murmuring as if without paying heed to what he

said:

'The little woman isn't very easy to manage, indeed.' Then he suddenly

exclaimed:

'The Rougons, now, what do they say about all this business? They take

the Curé's side, don't they?'

'The master didn't make himself pleasant enough for them to regret

him,' replied Rose. 'There was nothing too bad for him to say against

them.'

'Well, he wasn't far wrong there,' said Macquart. 'The Rougons are

wretched skinflints. Just think that they refused to buy that cornfield

over yonder, a magnificent speculation which I undertook to manage.

Félicité would pull a queer face if she saw François come back!'

He began to snigger again, and took a turn round the table. Then, with

an expression of determination, he lighted his pipe.

'We mustn't forget the time, my boy,' he said to Alexandre, with

another wink. 'I will go back with you; Marthe seems quiet now. Rose

will get the table laid by the time I return. You must be hungry,

Rose, eh? As you are obliged to stay the night here, you shall have a

mouthful with me.'

He went off with the warder, and fully half an hour elapsed. Rose, who

began to tire of being alone, at last opened the door and went out to

the terrace, where she stood watching the deserted road in the clear

night air. As she was going back into the house, she fancied she could

see two dark shadows in the middle of a path behind a hedge.

'It looks just like the uncle,' thought she; 'he seems to be talking to

a priest.'

A few minutes later Macquart returned. That blessed Alexandre, said he,

had been chattering to him interminably.

'Wasn't it you who were over there just now with a priest?' asked Rose.

'I, with a priest!' he cried. 'Why, you must have been dreaming; there

isn't a priest in the neighbourhood.'

He rolled his little glistening eyes. Then, as if rather uneasy about

the lie he had told, he added:

'Well, there is Abbé Fenil, but it's just the same as if he wasn't

here, for he never goes out.'

'Abbé Fenil isn't up to much,' remarked the cook.

This seemed to annoy Macquart.

'Why do you say that? Not up to much, eh? He does a great deal of good

here, and he's a very worthy sort of fellow. He's worth a whole heap of

priests who make a lot of fuss.'

His irritation, however, promptly disappeared, and he began to laugh

upon observing that Rose was looking at him in surprise.

'I was only joking, you know,' he said. 'You are quite right; he's like

all the other priests, they are all a set of hypocrites. I know now who

it was that you saw me with. I met our grocer's wife. She was wearing a

black dress, and you must have mistaken that for a cassock.'

Rose made an omelet, and Macquart placed some cheese upon the table.

They had not finished eating when Marthe sat up in bed with the

astonished look of a person awaking in a strange place. When she had

brushed aside her hair and recollected where she was, she sprang to the

floor and said she must be off at once. Macquart appeared very much

vexed at her awaking.

'It's quite impossible,' said he, 'for you to go back to Plassans

to-night. You are shivering with fever, and you would fall ill on the

road. Rest here, and we will see about it to-morrow. To begin with,

there is no conveyance.'

'But you can drive me in your trap,' said Marthe.

'No, no; I can't.'

Marthe, who was dressing with feverish haste, thereupon declared that

she would walk to Plassans rather than stay the night at Les Tulettes.

Her uncle seemed to be thinking. He had locked the door and slipped

the key into his pocket. He entreated his niece, threatened her, and

invented all kinds of stories to induce her to remain. But she paid no

attention to what he said, and finished by putting on her bonnet.

'You are very much mistaken if you imagine you can persuade her to give

in,' exclaimed Rose, who was quietly finishing her cheese. 'She would

get out through the window first. You had better put your horse to the

trap.'

After a short interval of silence, Macquart, shrugging his shoulders,

angrily exclaimed:

'Well, it makes no difference to me! Let her lay herself up if she

likes! I was only thinking about her own good. Come along; what will

happen will happen. I'll drive you over.'

Marthe had to be carried to the gig; she was trembling violently with

fever. Her uncle threw an old cloak over her shoulders. Then he gave a

cluck with his tongue and set off.

'It's no trouble to me,' he said, 'to go over to Plassans this evening;

on the contrary, indeed, there's always some amusement to be had there.'

It was about ten o'clock. In the sky, heavy with rain clouds, there was

a ruddy glimmer that cast a feeble light upon the road. All the way

as they drove along Macquart kept bending forward and glancing at the

ditches and the hedges. When Rose asked him what he was looking for, he

replied that some wolves had come down from the ravines of La Seille.

He had quite recovered his good humour. However, when they were between

two and three miles from Plassans the rain began to fall. It poured

down, cold and pelting. Then Macquart began to swear, and Rose would

have liked to beat her mistress, who was moaning underneath the cloak.

When at last they reached Plassans the rain had ceased, and the sky was

blue again.

'Are you going to the Rue Balande?' asked Macquart.

'Why, of course,' replied Rose in astonishment.

Macquart thereupon began to explain that as Marthe seemed to him to

be very ill, he had thought it might perhaps be better to take her to

her mother's. After much hesitation, however, he consented to stop his

horse at the Mourets' house. Marthe had not even thought of bringing

a latchkey with her. Rose, however, fortunately had her own in her

pocket, but when she tried to open the door it would not move. The

Trouches had shot the bolts inside. She rapped upon it with her fist,

but without rousing any other answer than a dull echo in the hall.

'It's of no use your giving yourself any further trouble,' said

Macquart with a laugh. 'They won't disturb themselves to come down.

Well, here you are shut out of your own home. Don't you think now

that my first idea was a good one? We must take the poor child to the

Rougons'. She will be better there than in her own room; I assure you

she will.'

Félicité was overwhelmed with alarm when she saw her daughter arrive at

such a late hour, drenched with rain and apparently half dead. She put

her to bed on the second floor, set the house in great commotion, and

called up all the servants. When she grew a little calmer, as she sat

by Marthe's bedside, she asked for an explanation.

'What has happened? How is it that you have brought her to me in such a

state as this?'

Then Macquart, with a great show of kindness, told her about 'the dear

child's' expedition. He defended himself, declared that he had done all

that he could to dissuade her from going to see François, and ended

by calling upon Rose to confirm him, for he saw that Félicité was

scanning him narrowly with her suspicious eyes. Madame Rougon, however,

continued to shake her head.

'It is a very strange story!' she said; 'there is something more in it

than I can understand.'

She knew Macquart, and she guessed that there must be some rascality

in it all from the expression of delight which she could detect in his

eyes.

'You are a strange person,' said he, pretending to get vexed in order

to bring Madame Rougon's scrutiny to an end; 'you are always imagining

something extraordinary. I can only tell you what I know. I love Marthe

more than you do, and I have never done anything that wasn't for her

good. Shall I go for the doctor? I will at once, if you like.'

Madame Rougon watched him closely. She even questioned Rose at great

length, without succeeding, however, in learning anything further.

After all, she seemed glad to have her daughter with her, and spoke

with great bitterness of people who would leave you to die on your own

doorstep without even taking the trouble to open the door. And meantime

Marthe, with her head thrown back upon her pillow, was indeed dying.

XXII

It was perfectly dark in the cell at Les Tulettes. A draught of cold

air awoke Mouret from the cataleptic stupor into which his violence

earlier in the evening had thrown him. He remained lying against the

wall in perfect stillness for a few moments, his eyes staring widely;

then he began to roll his head gently on the cold stone, wailing like a

child just awakened from sleep. But the current of chill damp air swept

against his legs, and he rose and looked around him to see whence it

came. In front of him he saw the door of his cell wide open.

'She has left the door open,' said he aloud; 'she will be expecting me.

I must be off.'

He went out, and then came back and felt his clothes after the manner

of a methodical man who is afraid of forgetting something, and finally

he carefully closed the door behind him. He passed through the first

court with an easy unconcerned gait as though he were merely taking a

stroll. As he was entering the second one, he caught sight of a warder

who seemed to be on the watch. He stopped and deliberated for a moment.

But, the warder having disappeared, he crossed the court and reached

another door, which led to the open country. He closed it behind him

without any appearance of astonishment or haste.

'She is a good woman all the same,' he murmured. 'She must have heard

me calling her. It must be getting late. I will go home at once for

fear they should feel uneasy.'

He struck out along a path. It seemed quite natural to him to find

himself among the open fields. When he had gone a hundred yards he had

altogether forgotten that Les Tulettes was behind him, and imagined

that he had just left a vine-grower from whom he had purchased fifty

hogsheads of wine. When he reached a spot where five roads met, he

recognised where he was, and began to laugh as he said to himself:

'What a goose I am! I was going up the hill towards Saint-Eutrope; it

is to the left I must turn. I shall be at Plassans in a good hour and a

half.'

Then he went merrily along the high-road, looking at each of the

mile-stones as at an old acquaintance. He stopped for a moment before

certain fields and country-houses with an air of interest. The sky was

of an ashy hue, streaked with broad rosy bands that lighted up the

night like dying embers. Heavy drops of rain began to fall; the wind

was blowing from the east and was full of moisture.

'Hallo!' said Mouret, looking up at the sky uneasily, 'I mustn't stop

loitering. The wind is in the east, and there's going to be a pretty

downpour. I shall never be able to reach Plassans before it begins; and

I'm not well wrapped up either.'

He gathered round his breast the thick grey woollen waistcoat which he

had torn at Les Tulettes. He had a bad bruise on his jaw, to which he

raised his hand without heeding the sharp pain which it caused him. The

high-road was quite deserted, and he only met a cart going down a hill

at a leisurely pace. The driver was dozing, and made no response to his

friendly good-night. The rain did not overtake him till he reached the

bridge across the Viorne. It distressed him very much, and he went to

take shelter under the bridge, grumbling that it was quite impossible

to go on through such weather, that nothing ruined clothes so much as

rain, and that if he had known what was coming he would have brought an

umbrella. He waited patiently for a long half-hour, amusing himself by

listening to the streaming of the downpour; then, when it was over, he

returned to the high-road, and at last reached Plassans, ever taking

the greatest care to keep himself from getting splashed with mud.

It was nearly midnight, though Mouret calculated that it could scarcely

yet be eight o'clock. He passed through the deserted streets, feeling

quite distressed that he had kept his wife waiting such a long time.

'She won't be able to understand it,' he thought. 'The dinner will be

quite cold. Ah! I shall get a nice reception from Rose.'

At last he reached the Rue Balande and stood before his own door.

'Ah!' he said, 'I have not got my latchkey.'

He did not knock at the door, however. The kitchen window was quite

dark, and the other windows in the front were equally void of all sign

of life. A sense of deep suspicion then took possession of the madman;

with an instinct that was quite animal-like, he scented danger. He

stepped back into the shadow of the neighbouring houses, and again

examined the house-front; then he seemed to come to a decision, and

went round into the Impasse des Chevillottes. But the little door that

led into the garden was bolted. At this, impelled by sudden rage, he

threw himself against it with tremendous force, and the door, rotted

by damp, broke into two pieces. For a moment the violence of the

shock almost stunned Mouret, and rendered him unconscious of why he

had broken down the door, which he tried to mend again by joining the

broken pieces.

'That's a nice thing to have done, when I might so easily have

knocked,' he said with a sudden pang of regret. 'It will cost me at

least thirty francs to get a new door.'

He was now in the garden. As he raised his head and saw the bedroom

on the first floor brightly lighted, he came to the conclusion that

his wife was going to bed. This caused him great astonishment, and he

muttered that he must certainly have dropped off to sleep under the

bridge while he was waiting for the rain to stop. It must be very late,

he thought. The windows of the neighbouring houses, Monsieur Rastoil's

as well as those of the Sub-Prefecture, were in darkness. Then he again

fixed his eyes upon his own house as he caught sight of the glow of

a lamp on the second floor behind Abbé Faujas's thick curtains. That

glow was like a flaming eye, and seemed to scorch him. He pressed his

brow with his burning hands, and his head grew dizzy, racked by some

horrible recollection like a vague nightmare, in which nothing was

clearly defined, but which seemed to apply to some long-standing danger

to himself and his family--a danger which grew and increased in horror,

and threatened to swallow up the house unless he could do something to

save it.

'Marthe, Marthe, where are you?' he stammered in an undertone. 'Come

and bring away the children.'

He looked about him for Marthe. He could no longer recognise the

garden. It seemed to him to be larger; to be empty and grey and like a

cemetery. The big box-plants had vanished, the lettuces were no longer

there, the fruit-trees had disappeared. He turned round again, came

back, and knelt down to see if the slugs had eaten everything up. The

disappearance of the box-plants, the death of their lofty greenery,

caused him an especial pang, as though some of the actual life of the

house had departed. Who was it that had killed them? What villain had

been there uprooting everything and tearing away even the tufts of

violets which he had planted at the foot of the terrace? Indignation

arose in him as he contemplated all this ruin.

'Marthe, Marthe, where are you?' he called again.

He looked for her in the little conservatory to the right of the

terrace. It was littered with the dead dry corpses of the box-plants.

They were piled up in bundles amidst the stumps of the fruit-trees.

In one corner was Désirée's bird-cage, hanging from a nail, with the

door broken off and the wire-work sadly torn. The madman stepped back,

overwhelmed with fear as though he had opened the door of a vault.

Stammering, his throat on fire, he went back to the terrace and paced

up and down before the door and the shuttered windows. His increasing

rage gave his limbs the suppleness of a wild beast's. He braced himself

up and stepped along noiselessly, trying to find some opening. An

air-hole into the cellar was sufficient for him. He squeezed himself

together and glided inside with the nimbleness of a cat, scraping the

wall with his nails as he went. At last he was in the house.

The cellar door was only latched. He made his way through the darkness

of the hall, groping past the walls with his hands, and pushing the

kitchen door open. Some matches were on a shelf at the left. He went

straight to this shelf, and struck a light to enable him to get a lamp

which stood upon the mantelpiece without breaking anything. Then he

looked about him. There appeared to have been a big meal there that

evening. The kitchen was in a state of festive disorder. The table was

strewn with dirty plates and dishes and glasses. There was a litter

of pans, still warm, on the sink and the chairs and the very floor. A

coffee-pot that had been forgotten was also boiling away beside the

stove, slightly tilted like a tipsy man. Mouret put it straight and

then tidily arranged the pans. He smelt them, sniffed at the drops of

liquor that remained in the glasses, and counted the dishes and plates

with growing irritation. This was no longer his quiet orderly kitchen;

it seemed as if a hotelful of food had been wasted there. All this

guzzling disorder reeked of indigestion.

'Marthe! Marthe!' he again repeated as he returned into the passage,

carrying the lamp as he went; 'answer me, tell me where they have shut

you up. We must be off, we must be off at once.'

He searched for her in the dining-room. The two cupboards to the right

and left of the stove were open. From a burst bag of grey paper on

the edge of a shelf some lumps of sugar had fallen upon the floor.

Higher up Mouret could see a bottle of brandy with the neck broken

and plugged with a piece of rag. Then he got upon a chair to examine

the cupboards. They were half empty. The jars of preserved fruits had

been attacked, the jam-pots had been opened and the jam tasted, the

fruit had been nibbled, the provisions of all kinds had been gnawed and

fouled as though a whole army of rats had been there. Not being able to

find Marthe in the closets, Mouret searched all over the room, looking

behind the curtains and even underneath the furniture. Fragments of

bone and pieces of broken bread lay about the floor; there were marks

on the table that had been left by sticky glasses. Then he crossed the

hall and went to look for Marthe in the drawing-room. But, as soon as

he opened the door, he stopped short. This could not really be his own

drawing-room. The bright mauve paper, the red-flowered carpet, the new

easy-chairs covered with cerise damask, filled him with amazement. He

was afraid to enter a room that did not belong to him, and he closed

the door.

'Marthe! Marthe!' he stammered again in accents of despair.

He went back to the middle of the hall, unable to quiet the hoarse

panting which was swelling in his throat. Where had he got to, that

he could not recognise a single spot? Who had been transforming his

house in such a way? His recollections were quite confused. He could

only recall some shadows gliding along the hall; two shadows, at

first poverty-stricken, soft-spoken, self-suppressing, then tipsy and

disreputable-looking; two shadows that leered and sniggered. He raised

his lamp, the wick of which was burning smokily, and thereupon the

shadows grew bigger, lengthened upon the walls, mounted aloft beside

the staircase and filled and preyed upon the whole house. Some horrid

filth, some fermenting putrescence had found its way into the place and

had rotted the woodwork, rusted the iron and split the walls. Then he

seemed to hear the house crumbling like a ceiling from dampness, and to

see it melting like a handful of salt thrown into a basin of hot water.

But up above there sounded peals of ringing laughter which made his

hair stand on end. He put the lamp down and went upstairs to look for

Marthe. He crept up noiselessly on his hands and knees with all the

nimbleness and stealth of a wolf. When he reached the landing of the

first floor, he knelt down in front of the door of the bedroom. A ray

of light streamed from underneath it. Marthe must be going to bed.

'What a jolly bed this is of theirs!' Olympe was just exclaiming; 'you

can quite bury yourself in it, Honoré; I am right up to my eyes in

feathers.'

She laughed and stretched herself and sprang about amidst the

bed-clothes.

'Ever since I've been here,' she continued, 'I've been longing to sleep

in this bed. It made me almost ill wishing for it. I could never see

that lath of a landlady of ours get into it without feeling a furious

desire to throw her on to the floor and put myself in her place.

One gets quite warm directly. It's just as though I were wrapped in

cotton-wool.'

Trouche, who had not yet gone to bed, was examining the bottles on the

dressing-table.

'She has got all kinds of scents,' he said.

'Well, as she isn't here, we may just as well treat ourselves to the

best room!' continued Olympe. 'There's no danger of her coming back and

disturbing us. I have fastened the doors up. You will be getting cold,

Honoré.'

But Trouche now opened the drawers and began groping about amongst the

linen.

'Put this on, it's smothered with lace,' he said, tossing a night-dress

to Olympe. 'I shall wear this red handkerchief myself.'

Then, as Trouche was at last getting into bed, Olympe said to him:

'Put the grog on the night-table. We need not get up and go to the

other end of the room for it. There, my dear, we are like real

householders now!'

They lay down side by side, with the eider-down quilt drawn up to their

chins.

'I ate a deuced lot this evening,' said Trouche after a short pause.

'And drank a lot, too!' added Olympe with a laugh. 'I feel very cosy

and snug. But the tiresome part is that my mother is always interfering

with us. She has been quite awful to-day. I can't take a single step

about the house without her being at me. There's really no advantage in

our landlady going off if mother means to play the policeman. She has

quite spoilt my day's enjoyment.'

'Hasn't the Abbé some idea of going away?' asked Trouche after another

short interval of silence. 'If he is made a bishop, he will be obliged

to leave the house to us.'

'One can't be sure of that,' Olympe petulantly replied. 'I dare say

mother means to keep it. But how jolly we should be here, all by

ourselves! I would make our landlady sleep upstairs in my brother's

room; I'd persuade her that it was healthier than this. Pass me the

glass, Honoré.'

They both took a drink and then covered themselves up afresh.

'Ah!' said Trouche, 'I'm afraid it won't be so easy to get rid of them,

but we can try, at any rate. I believe the Abbé would have changed his

quarters before if he had not been afraid that the landlady would have

considered herself deserted and have made a rumpus. I think I'll try to

talk the landlady over. I'll tell her a lot of tales to persuade her to

turn them out.'

He took another drink.

'Oh! leave the matter to me,' replied Olympe; 'I'll get mother and

Ovide turned out, as they've treated us so badly.'

'Well, if you don't succeed,' said Trouche, 'I can easily concoct

some scandal about the Abbé and Madame Mouret; and then he will be

absolutely obliged to shift his quarters.'

Olympe sat up in bed.

'That's a splendid idea,' she said, 'that is! We must set about it

to-morrow. Before a month is over, this room will be ours. I must

really give you a kiss for the idea.'

They then both grew very merry, and began to plan how they would

arrange the room. They would change the place of the chest of drawers,

they said; and they would bring up a couple of easy-chairs from the

drawing-room. However, their speech was gradually growing huskier, and

at last they became silent.

'There! you're off now!' murmured Olympe, after a time. 'You're snoring

with your eyes open! Well, let me come to the other side, so that, at

any rate, I can finish my novel. I'm not sleepy, if you are.'

She got up and rolled him like a mere lump towards the wall, and then

began to read. But, before she had finished a page, she turned her head

uneasily towards the door. She fancied she could hear a strange noise

on the landing. At this she cried petulantly to her husband, giving him

a dig in the ribs with her elbow:

'You know very well that I don't like that sort of joke. Don't play the

wolf; anyone would fancy that there was somebody at the door. Well, go

on if it pleases you; you are very irritating.'

Then she angrily absorbed herself in her book again, after sucking a

slice of lemon left in her glass.

With the same stealthy movements as before, Mouret now quitted the door

of the bedroom, where he had remained crouching. He climbed to the

second floor and knelt before Abbé Faujas's door, squeezing himself

close to the key-hole. He choked down Marthe's name, that again rose

in his throat, and examined with glistening eye the corners of the

priest's room, to satisfy himself that nobody was shut up there. The

big bare room was in deep shadow; a small lamp which stood upon the

table cast just a circular patch of light upon the floor, and the Abbé

himself, who was writing, seemed like a big black stain in the midst of

that yellow glare. After he had scrutinised the curtains and the chest

of drawers, Mouret's gaze fell upon the iron bedstead, upon which lay

the priest's hat, looking like the locks of a woman's hair. There was

no doubt that Marthe was there, thought Mouret. Hadn't the Trouches

said that she was to have that room? But as he continued gazing he

saw that the bed was undisturbed, and looked, with its cold, white

coverings, like a tombstone. His eyes were getting accustomed to the

gloom. However, Abbé Faujas appeared to hear some sound, for he glanced

at the door. When the maniac saw the priest's calm face his eyes

reddened, a slight foam appeared at the corner of his lips, and it was

with difficulty that he suppressed a shout. At last he went away on his

hands and knees again, down the stairs and along the passages, still

repeating in low tones:

'Marthe! Marthe!'

He searched for her through the whole house; in Rose's room, which he

found empty; in the Trouches' apartments, which were filled with the

spoils of the other rooms; in the children's old rooms, where he burst

into tears as his hands came across a pair of worn-out boots which had

belonged to Désirée. He went up and down the stairs, clinging on to

the banisters, and gliding along the walls, stealthily exploring every

apartment with the extraordinary dexterity of a scheming maniac. Soon

there was not a single corner of the place from the cellar to the attic

which he had not investigated. Marthe was nowhere in the house; nor

were the children there, nor Rose. The house was empty; the house might

crumble to pieces.

Mouret sat down upon the stairs. He choked down the panting which,

in spite of himself, continued to distend his throat. With his back

against the banisters, and his eyes wide open in the darkness, he sat

waiting, absorbed in a scheme which he was patiently thinking out. His

senses became so acute that he could hear the slightest sounds that

arose in the house. Down below him snored Trouche, while Olympe turned

over the pages of her book with a slight rubbing of her fingers against

the paper. On the second floor Abbé Faujas's pen made a scratching

sound like the crawling of an insect, while, in the adjoining room,

Madame Faujas's heavy breathing seemed like an accompaniment to that

shrill music. Mouret sat for an hour with his ears sharply strained.

Olympe was the first of the wakeful ones to succumb to sleep. He could

hear her novel fall upon the floor. Then Abbé Faujas laid down his pen

and undressed himself, quietly gliding about his room in his slippers.

He slipped off his clothes in silence, and did not even make the bed

creak as he got into it. Ah! the house had gone to rest at last. But

the madman could tell from the sound of the Abbé's breathing that he

was yet awake. Gradually that breathing grew fuller, and at last the

whole house slept.

Mouret waited on for another half-hour. He still listened with

strained ears, as though he could hear the four sleepers descending

into deeper and deeper slumber. The house lay wrapped in darkness and

unconsciousness. Then the maniac rose up and slowly made his way into

the passage.

'Marthe isn't here any longer; the house isn't here; nothing is here,'

he murmured.

He opened the door that led into the garden, and went down to the

little conservatory. When he got there he methodically removed the big

dry box-plants, and carried them upstairs in enormous armfuls, piling

them in front of the doors of the Trouches and the Faujases. He felt,

too, a craving for a bright light, and he went into the kitchen and

lighted all the lamps, which he placed upon the tables in the various

rooms and on the landings, and along the passages. Then he brought

up the rest of the box-plants. They were soon piled higher than the

doors. As he was making his last journey with them he raised his eyes

and noticed the windows. Next he went out into the garden again, took

the trunks of the fruit-trees and stacked them up under the windows,

skilfully arranging for little currents of air which should make them

blaze freely. The stack seemed to him but a small one, however.

'There is nothing left,' he murmured: 'there must be nothing left.'

Then, as a thought struck him, he went down into the cellar, and

recommenced his journeying backwards and forwards. He was now carrying

up the supply of fuel for the winter, the coal, the vine-branches,

and the wood. The pile under the windows gradually grew bigger. As

he carefully arranged each bundle of vine-branches, he was thrilled

with livelier satisfaction. He next proceeded to distribute the fuel

through the rooms on the ground-floor, and left a heap of it in the

entrance-hall, and another heap in the kitchen. Then he piled the

furniture atop of the different heaps. An hour sufficed him to get his

work finished. He had taken his boots off, and had glided about all

over the house, with heavily laden arms, so dexterously that he had not

let a single piece of wood fall roughly to the floor. He seemed endowed

with new life, with extraordinary nimbleness of motion. As far as this

one firmly fixed idea of his went, he was perfectly in possession of

his senses.

When all was ready, he lingered for a moment to enjoy the sight

of his work. He went from pile to pile, took pleasure in viewing

the square-set pyres, and gently rubbed his hands together with an

appearance of extreme satisfaction. As a few fragments of coal had

fallen on the stairs, he ran off to get a brush, and carefully swept

the black dust from the steps. Then he completed his inspection with

the careful precision of a man who means to do things as they ought

to be done. He gradually became quite excited with satisfaction, and

dropped on to his hands and knees again, and began to hop about,

panting more heavily in his savage joy.

At last he took a vine-branch and set fire to the heaps. First of all

he lighted the pile on the terrace underneath the windows. Then he

leapt back into the house and set fire to the heaps in the drawing-room

and dining-room, and then to those in the kitchen and the hall. Next he

sprang up the stairs and flung the remains of his blazing brand upon

the piles that lay against the doors of the Trouches and Faujases. An

ever-increasing rage was thrilling him, and the lurid blaze of the

fire brought his madness to a climax. He twice came down the stairs

with terrific leaps, bounded about through the thick smoke, fanning the

flames with his breath, and casting handfuls of coal upon them. At the

sight of the flames, already mounting to the ceilings of the rooms, he

sat down every now and then and laughed and clapped his hands with all

his strength.

The house was now roaring like an over-crammed stove. The flames burst

out at all points, at once, with a violence that split the floors. But

the maniac made his way upstairs again through the sheets of fire,

singeing his hair and blackening his clothes as he went. And he posted

himself on the second-floor, crouching down on his hands and knees with

his growling, beast-like head thrown forward. He was keeping guard over

the landing, and his eyes never quitted the priest's door.

'Ovide! Ovide!' shrieked a panic-stricken voice.

Madame Faujas's door at the end of the landing was suddenly opened

and the flames swept into her room with the roar of a tempest. The

old woman appeared in the midst of the fire. Stretching out her arms,

she hurled aside the blazing brands and sprang on to the landing,

pulling and pushing away with her hands and feet the burning heap that

blocked up her son's door, and calling all the while to the priest

despairingly. The maniac crouched still lower down, his eyes gleaming

while he continued to growl.

'Wait for me! Don't get out of the window!' cried Madame Faujas,

striking at her son's door.

She threw her weight against it, and the charred door yielded easily.

She reappeared holding her son in her arms. He had taken time to put on

his cassock, and was choking, half suffocated by the smoke.

'I am going to carry you, Ovide,' she cried, with energetic

determination; 'Hold well on to my shoulders, and clutch hold of my

hair if you feel you are slipping. Don't trouble, I'll carry you

through it all.'

She hoisted him upon her shoulders as though he were a child, and

this sublime mother, this old peasant woman, carrying her devotion to

death itself, did not so much as totter beneath the crushing weight

of that big swooning, unresisting body. She extinguished the burning

brands with her naked feet and made a free passage through the flames

by brushing them aside with her open hand so that her son might not

even be touched by them. But just as she was about to go downstairs,

the maniac, whom she had not observed, sprang upon the Abbé Faujas

and tore him from off her shoulders. His muttered growl turned into a

wild shriek, while he writhed in a fit at the head of the stairs. He

belaboured the priest, tore him with his nails and strangled him.

'Marthe! Marthe!' he bellowed.

Then he rolled down the blazing stairs, still with the priest in his

grasp; while Madame Faujas, who had driven her teeth into his throat,

drained his blood. The Trouches perished in their drunken stupor

without a groan; and the house, gutted and undermined, collapsed in the

midst of a cloud of sparks.

XXIII

Macquart did not find Porquier at home, and so the doctor only reached

Madame Rougon's at nearly half-past twelve. The whole house was still

in commotion. Rougon himself was the only one who had not got out of

bed. Emotion had a killing effect upon him, said he. Félicité, who was

still seated in the same armchair by Marthe's bedside, rose to meet the

doctor.

'Oh, my dear doctor, we are so very anxious!' she murmured. 'The poor

child has never stirred since we put her to bed there. Her hands are

already quite cold. I have kept them in my own, but it has done no

good.'

Doctor Porquier scanned Marthe's face, and then, without making any

further examination, he compressed his lips and made a vague gesture

with his hands.

'My dear Madame Rougon,' he said, 'you must summon up your courage.'

Félicité burst into sobs.

'The end is at hand,' the doctor continued in a lower voice. 'I have

been expecting this sad termination for a long time past; I must

confess so much now. Both of poor Madame Mouret's lungs are diseased,

and in her case phthisis has been complicated by nervous derangement.'

He took a seat, and a smile played about his lips, the smile of the

polished doctor who thinks that even in the presence of death itself

suave politeness is demanded of him.

'Don't give way and make yourself ill, my dear lady. The catastrophe

was inevitable and any little accident might have hastened it. I should

imagine that poor Madame Mouret must have been subject to coughing

when she was very young; wasn't she? I should say that the germs of

the disease have been spreading within her for a good many years past.

Latterly, and especially within the last three years, phthisis has been

making frightful strides in her. How pious and devotional she was! I

have been quite touched to see her passing away in such sanctity. Well,

well, the decrees of Providence are inscrutable; science is very often

quite powerless.'

Seeing that Madame Rougon still continued to weep, he poured out upon

her the tenderest consolations, and pressed her to take a cup of

lime-flower water to calm herself.

'Don't distress yourself, I beg you,' he continued. 'I assure you

that she has lost all sense of pain. She will continue sleeping

as tranquilly as she is doing at present, and will only regain

consciousness just before death. I won't leave you; I will remain here,

though my services are quite unavailing. I shall stay, however, as a

friend, my dear lady, as a friend.'

He settled himself comfortably for the night in an easy chair. Félicité

grew a little calmer. When Doctor Porquier gave her to understand that

Marthe had only a few more hours to live, she thought of sending for

Serge from the Seminary, which was near at hand. She asked Rose to go

there for him, but the cook at first refused.

'Do you want to kill the poor little fellow as well?' she exclaimed.

'It would be too great a shock for him to be called up in the middle of

the night to come to see a dead woman. I won't be his murderer!'

Rose still retained bitter feelings against her mistress. Ever since

the latter had been lying there dying she had paced round the bed,

angrily knocking about the cups and the hot-water bottles.

'Was there any sense in doing such a thing as madame did?' she cried.

'She has only herself to blame if she has got her death by going to see

the master. And now everything is turned topsy-turvy and we are all

distracted. No, no; I don't approve at all of the little fellow being

startled out of his sleep in such a way.'

In the end, however, she consented to go to the Seminary. Doctor

Porquier had stretched himself out in front of the fire, and with

half-closed eyes continued to address consolatory words to Madame

Rougon. A slight rattling sound began to be heard in Marthe's chest.

Uncle Macquart, who had not appeared again since he had gone away two

good hours previously, now gently pushed the door open.

'Where have you been?' Félicité asked him, taking him into a corner of

the room.

He told her that he had been to put his horse and trap up at The Three

Pigeons. But his eyes sparkled so vividly, and there was such a look

of diabolical cunning about him, that she was filled with a thousand

suspicions. She forgot her dying daughter for the moment, for she

scented some trickery which it was imperative for her to get to the

bottom of.

'Anyone would imagine that you had been following and playing the spy

upon somebody,' she said, looking at his muddy trousers. 'You are

hiding something from me, Macquart. It is not right of you. We have

always treated you very well.'

'Oh, very well, indeed!' sniggered Macquart. 'I'm glad you've told me

so. Rougon is a skinflint. He treated me like the lowest of the low in

the matter of that cornfield. Where is Rougon? Snoozing comfortably in

his bed, eh? It's little he cares for all the trouble one takes about

the family.'

The smile which accompanied these last words greatly disquieted

Félicité. She looked him keenly in the face.

'What trouble have you taken for the family?' she asked. 'Do you

grudge having brought poor Marthe back from Les Tulettes? I tell you

again that all that business has a very suspicious look. I have been

questioning Rose, and it seems to me that you wanted to come straight

here. It surprises me that you did not knock more loudly in the Rue

Balande; they would have come and opened the door. I'm not saying this

because I don't want my dear child to be here; I am glad to think, on

the contrary, that she will, at any rate, die among her own people, and

will have only loving faces about her.'

Macquart seemed greatly surprised at this speech, and interrupted her

by saying with an uneasy manner:

'I thought that you and Abbé Faujas were the best of friends.'

She made no reply, but stepped up to Marthe, whose breathing was now

becoming more difficult. When she left the bedside again, she saw

Macquart pulling one of the curtains aside and peering out into the

dark night, while rubbing the moist window-pane with his hand.

'Don't go away to-morrow without coming and talking to me,' she said to

him. 'I want to have all this cleared up.'

'Just as you like,' he replied. 'You are very difficult to please.

First you like people, and then you don't like them. I always keep on

in the same regular easy-going way.'

He was evidently very much vexed to find that the Rougons no longer

made common cause with Abbé Faujas. He tapped the window with the tips

of his fingers, and still kept his eyes on the black night. Just at

that moment the sky was reddened by a sudden glow.

'What is that?' asked Félicité.

Macquart opened the window and looked out.

'It looks like a fire,' he said unconcernedly. 'There is something

burning behind the Sub-Prefecture.'

There were sounds of commotion on the Place. A servant came into the

room with a scared look and told them that the house of madame's

daughter was on fire. It was believed, he continued, that madame's

son-in-law, he whom they had been obliged to shut up, had been seen

walking about the garden carrying a burning vine-branch. The most

unfortunate part of the matter was that there seemed no hope of saving

the lodgers. Félicité turned sharply round, and pondered for a minute,

keeping her eyes fixed on Macquart. Then she clearly understood

everything.

'You promised me solemnly,' she said in a low voice, 'that you would

conduct yourself quietly and decently when we set you up in your little

house at Les Tulettes. You have everything that you want, and are quite

independent. This is abominable, disgraceful, I tell you! How much did

Abbé Fenil give you to let François escape?'

Macquart was going to break out angrily, but Madame Rougon made him

keep silent. She seemed much more uneasy about the consequences of the

matter than indignant at the crime itself.

'And what a terrible scandal there will be, if it all comes out,' she

continued. 'Have we ever refused you anything? We will talk together

to-morrow, and we will speak again of that cornfield about which you

are so bitter against us. If Rougon were to hear of such a thing as

this, he would die of grief.'

Macquart could not help smiling. Still he defended himself

energetically, and swore that he knew nothing about the matter, and had

had no hand in it. Then, as the sky grew redder, and Doctor Porquier

had already gone downstairs he left the room, saying, as if he were

anxiously curious about the matter:

'I am going to see what is happening.'

It was Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies who had given the alarm. There

had been an evening party at the Sub-Prefecture, and he was just

going to bed at a few minutes before one o'clock when he perceived a

strange red reflection upon the ceiling of his bedroom. Going to the

window, he was struck with astonishment at seeing a great fire burning

in the Mourets' garden, while a shadowy form, which he did not at

first recognise, danced about in the midst of the smoke, brandishing

a blazing vine-branch. Almost immediately afterwards flames burst out

from all the openings on the ground-floor. The sub-prefect hurriedly

put on his trousers again, called his valet, and sent the porter off to

summon the fire-brigade and the authorities. Then, before going to the

scene of the disaster, he finished dressing himself and consulted his

mirror to make sure that his moustache was quite as it should be. He

was the first to arrive in the Rue Balande. The street was absolutely

deserted, save for a couple of cats which were rushing across it.

'They will let themselves be broiled like cutlets in there!' thought

Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies, astonished at the quiet, sleepy

appearance of the house on the street side, where as yet there was no

sign of the conflagration.

He knocked loudly at the door, but could hear nothing except the

roaring of the fire in the well of the staircase. Then he knocked at

Monsieur Rastoil's door. There piercing screams were heard, hurried

rustlings to and fro, banging of doors and stifled calls.

'Aurélie, cover up your shoulders!' cried the presiding judge, who

rushed out on to the pathway, followed by Madame Rastoil and her

younger daughter, the one who was still unmarried. In her hurry,

Aurélie had thrown over her shoulders a cloak of her father's, which

left her arms bare. She turned very red as she caught sight of Monsieur

Péqueur des Saulaies.

'What a terrible disaster!' stammered the presiding judge. 'Everything

will be burnt down. The wall of my bedroom is quite hot already. The

two houses almost join. Ah! my dear sub-prefect, I haven't even stopped

to remove the time-pieces. We must organise assistance. We can't stand

by and let all our belongings be destroyed in an hour or two.'

Madame Rastoil, scantily clothed in a dressing-gown, was bewailing her

drawing-room furniture, which she had only just had newly covered. By

this time, however, several neighbours had appeared at their windows.

The presiding judge summoned them to his assistance, and commenced to

remove his effects from his house. He made the time-pieces his own

particular charge, and brought them out and deposited them on the

pathway opposite. When the easy-chairs from the drawing-room were

carried out, he made his wife and daughter sit down in them, and the

sub-prefect remained by their side to reassure them.

'Make yourselves easy, ladies,' he said. 'The engine will be here

directly, and then a vigorous attack will be made upon the fire. I

think I may undertake to promise that your house will be saved.'

All at once the window-panes of the Mourets' house burst, and the

flames broke out from the first floor. The street was illumined by a

bright glow; it was as light as at midday. A drummer could be heard

passing across the Place of the Sub-Prefecture, some distance off,

sounding the alarm. A number of men ran up, and a chain was formed to

pass on the buckets of water; but there were no buckets; and still

the engine did not arrive. In the midst of the general consternation

Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies, without leaving the two ladies, shouted

out orders in a loud voice.

'Leave a free passage! The chain is too closely formed down there! Keep

yourselves two feet apart!'

Then he turned to Aurélie and said in a low voice:

'I am very much surprised that the engine has not arrived yet. It

is a new engine. This will be the first time it has been used. I

sent the porter off immediately, and I told him also to call at the

police-station.'

However, the gendarmes arrived before the end. They kept back the

inquisitive spectators, whose numbers increased, notwithstanding the

lateness of the hour. The sub-prefect himself went to put the chain

in a better order, as it was bulging out in the middle, through the

pushing of some rough fellows who had run up from the outskirts of

the town. The little bell of Saint-Saturnin's was sounding the alarm

with cracked notes, and a second drum beat faintly at the bottom of the

street near the Mall. At last the engine arrived with a noisy clatter.

The crowd made way for it, and the fifteen panting firemen of Plassans

came up at a run. However, in spite of Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies's

intervention, a quarter of an hour elapsed before the engine was in

working order.

'I tell you that it is the piston that won't work!' cried the captain

angrily to the sub-prefect, who asserted that the nuts were too tightly

screwed.

At last a jet of water shot up, and the crowd gave a sigh of

satisfaction. The house was now blazing from the ground-floor to the

second-floor like a huge torch. The water hissed as it fell into the

burning mass, and the flames, separating into yellow tongues, seemed to

shoot up still higher than before. Some of the firemen had mounted on

to the roof of the presiding judge's house, and were breaking open the

tiles with their picks to limit the progress of the fire.

'It's all up with the place!' muttered Macquart, who stood quietly on

the pathway with his hands in his pockets, watching the conflagration

with lively interest.

Out in the street a perfect open-air drawing-room had now been

established. The easy-chairs were arranged in a semicircle, as though

to allow their occupants to view the spectacle at their ease. Madame

de Condamin and her husband had just arrived. They had scarcely got

back home from the Sub-Prefecture, they said, when they had heard the

drum beating the alarm. Monsieur de Bourdeu, Monsieur Maffre, Doctor

Porquier, and Monsieur Delangre, accompanied by several members of the

municipal council, had also lost no time in hastening to the scene.

They all clustered round poor Madame Rastoil and her daughter, trying

to comfort and console them with sympathetic remarks. After a time most

of them sat down in the easy-chairs, and a general conversation took

place, while the engine snorted away half a score yards off and the

blazing beams crackled.

'Have you got my watch, my dear?' Madame Rastoil inquired. 'It was on

the mantelpiece with the chain.'

'Yes, yes, I have it in my pocket,' replied the president, trembling

with emotion. 'I have got the silver as well. I wanted to bring

everything away, but the firemen wouldn't let me; they said it was

ridiculous.'

Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies still showed the greatest calmness and

kindly attention.

'I assure you that your house is in no danger at all,' he remarked.

'The force of the fire is spent now. You may go and put your silver

back in your dining-room.'

But Monsieur Rastoil would not consent to part with his plate, which he

was carrying under his arm, wrapped up in a newspaper.

'All the doors are open,' he stammered, 'and the house is full of

people that I know nothing about. They have made a hole in my roof that

will cost me a pretty penny to put right again.'

Madame de Condamin now questioned the sub-prefect.

'Oh! how terrible!' she cried. 'I thought that the lodgers had had time

to escape. Has nothing been seen of Abbé Faujas?'

'I knocked at the door myself,' said Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies,

'but I couldn't make anyone hear. When the firemen arrived I had the

door broken open, and I ordered them to place the ladders against the

windows. But nothing was of any use. One of our brave gendarmes who

ventured into the hall narrowly escaped being suffocated by the smoke.'

'As Abbé Faujas has been, I suppose! What a horrible death!' said the

fair Octavie, with a shudder.

The ladies and gentlemen looked into one another's faces, which showed

pale in the flickering light of the conflagration. Doctor Porquier

explained to them, however, that death by fire was probably not so

painful as they imagined.

'When the fire once reaches one,' he said in conclusion, 'it can only

be a matter of few seconds. Of course, it depends, to some extent, upon

the violence of the conflagration.'

Monsieur de Condamin was counting upon his fingers.

'Even if Madame Mouret is with her parents, as is asserted, that

still leaves four--Abbé Faujas, his mother, his sister, and his

brother-in-law. It's a pretty bad business!'

Just then Madame Rastoil inclined her head towards her husband's ear.

'Give me my watch,' she whispered. 'I don't feel easy about it. You are

always fidgetting, and you may sit on it.'

Someone now called out that the wind was carrying the sparks towards

the Sub-Prefecture, and Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies immediately

sprang up, and, apologising for his departure, hastened off to guard

against this new danger. Monsieur Delangre was anxious that a last

attempt should be made to rescue the victims. But the captain of

the fire brigade roughly told him to go up the ladder himself if he

thought such a thing possible; he had never seen such a fire before,

he declared. The devil himself must have lighted it, for the house

was burning like a bundle of chips, at all points at once. The mayor,

followed by some kindly disposed persons, then went round into the

Impasse des Chevillottes. Perhaps, he said, it would be possible to get

to the windows from the garden side.

'It would be very magnificent if it were not so sad,' remarked Madame

de Condamin, who was now calmer.

The fire was certainly becoming a superb spectacle. Showers of sparks

rushed up in the midst of huge blue flames; chasms of glowing red

showed themselves behind each of the gaping windows, while the smoke

rolled gently away in a huge purplish cloud, like the smoke from

Bengal lights set burning at some display of fireworks. The ladies and

gentlemen were comfortably seated in their chairs, leaning on their

elbows and stretching out their legs as they watched the spectacle

before them; and whenever there was a more violent burst of flames

than usual, there came an interval of silence, broken by exclamations.

At some distance off, in the midst of the flickering brilliance which

every now and then lighted up masses of serried heads, there rose the

murmur of the crowd, the sound of gushing water, a general confused

uproar. Ten paces away the engine, with its regular, snorting breath,

continued vomiting streams of water from its metal throat.

'Look at the third window on the second floor!' suddenly cried Monsieur

Maffre. 'You can see a bed burning quite distinctly on the left hand.

It has yellow curtains, and they are blazing like so much paper.'

Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies now returned at a gentle trot to reassure

the ladies and gentlemen. It had been a false alarm.

'The sparks,' he said, 'are certainly being carried by the wind towards

the Sub-Prefecture, but they are extinguished in the air before they

reach it. There is no further danger. They have got the fire well in

hand now.'

'But is it known how the fire originated?' asked Madame de Condamin.

Monsieur de Bourdeu asserted that he had first of all seen a dense

smoke issuing from the kitchen. Monsieur Maffre alleged, on the other

hand, that the flames had first appeared in a room on the first floor.

But the sub-prefect shook his head with an air of official prudence,

and said in a low voice:

'I am much afraid that malice has had something to do with the

disaster. I have ordered an inquiry to be made.'

Then he went on to tell them that he had seen a man lighting the fire

with a vine-branch.

'Yes, I saw him too,' interrupted Aurélie Rastoil. 'It was Monsieur

Mouret.'

This statement created the greatest astonishment. The thing seemed

impossible. Monsieur Mouret escaping and burning down his house--what a

frightful story! They overwhelmed Aurélie with questions. She blushed,

and her mother looked at her severely. It was scarcely proper for a

young girl to be constantly looking out of her window at night-time.

'I assure you that I distinctly recognised Monsieur Mouret,' she

continued. 'I had not gone to sleep, and I got up when I saw a bright

light. Monsieur Mouret was dancing about in the midst of the fire.'

Then the sub-prefect spoke out:

'Mademoiselle is quite correct. I recognise the unhappy man now. He

looked so terrible that I was in doubt as to who it might be, although

his face seemed familiar. Excuse me; this is a very serious matter, and

I must go and give some orders.'

He went away again, while the company began to discuss this terrible

affair of a landlord burning his lodgers to death. Monsieur de Bourdeu

inveighed hotly against lunatic asylums. The surveillance exercised

in them, he said, was most imperfect. The truth was that Monsieur de

Bourdeu was greatly afraid lest the prefecture which Abbé Faujas had

promised him should be burnt away in the fire before his eyes.

'Maniacs are extremely revengeful,' said Monsieur de Condamin, in all

simplicity.

This remark seemed to embarrass everyone, and the conversation dropped.

The ladies shuddered slightly, while the men exchanged peculiar

glances. The burning house had become an object of still greater

interest now that they knew whose hand had set it on fire. They blinked

with a thrill of delicious terror as they gazed upon the glowing pile,

and thought of the drama that had been enacted there.

'If old Mouret is in there, that makes five,' said Monsieur de

Condamin. Then the ladies hushed him and told him that he was a

cold-blooded, unfeeling man.

The Paloques, meanwhile, had been watching the fire since its

commencement from the window of their dining-room. They were just above

the drawing-room that had been improvised upon the pathway. The judge's

wife at last went out, and graciously offered shelter and hospitality

to the Rastoil ladies and the friends surrounding them.

'We can see very well from our windows, I assure you,' she said.

And, as the ladies declined her invitation, she added:

'You will certainly take cold; it is a very sharp night.'

But Madame de Condamin smiled and stretched out her little feet, which

showed from beneath her skirts.

'Oh dear no! we're not at all cold,' she said. 'My feet are quite

toasted. I am very comfortable indeed. Are you cold, mademoiselle?'

'I am really too warm,' Aurélie replied. 'One could imagine that it was

a summer night. This fire keeps one quite warm and cosy.'

Everyone declared that it was very pleasant, and so Madame Paloque

determined to remain there with them and to take a seat in one of the

easy-chairs. Monsieur Maffre had just gone off. He had caught sight,

in the midst of the crowd, of his two sons, accompanied by Guillaume

Porquier, who had all three run up from a house near the ramparts to

see the fire. The magistrate, who was certain that he had locked his

lads up in their bedroom, dragged Alphonse and Ambroise away by the

ears.

'I think we might go off to bed now,' said Monsieur de Bourdeu, who was

gradually growing more cross-grained.

However, Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies had reappeared again, and showed

himself quite indefatigable, though he never neglected the ladies,

in spite of the duties and anxieties of all kinds with which he was

overwhelmed. He sprang hastily forward to meet Monsieur Delangre, who

was just coming back from the Impasse des Chevillottes. They talked

together in low tones. The mayor had apparently witnessed some terrible

sight, for he kept passing his hand over his face, as though trying to

drive away some awful vision that was pursuing him. The ladies could

only hear him murmuring, 'We arrived too late! It was horrible!' He

would not answer any questions.

'Only Bourdeu and Delangre will regret Abbé Faujas,' Monsieur de

Condamin whispered in Madame Paloque's ear.

'They had business on hand with him,' the latter replied quietly. 'Ah!

here is Abbé Bourrette. He is weeping from genuine sorrow.'

Abbé Bourrette, who had formed part of the chain of men who passed the

buckets on, was sobbing bitterly. The poor man refused all consolation.

He would not sit down, but remained standing, with anxious, troubled

eyes, watching the last beams burn away. Abbé Surin had also been

seen; but he had disappeared after picking up in the crowd all the

information he could.

'Come along; let us be off to bed,' exclaimed Monsieur de Bourdeu. 'It

is foolish of us to stop here.'

The whole party rose. It was settled that Monsieur Rastoil and his

wife and daughter should spend the night at the Paloques'. Madame de

Condamin gently tapped her dress, which had got slightly creased, in

order to straighten it. The easy-chairs were pushed out of the way, and

the company lingered yet a few more moments while bidding each other

good-night. The engine was still snorting, and the fire was dying down

amidst dense black smoke. Nothing was to be heard but the tramping of

the diminishing crowd and the last blows of a fireman's axe striking

down a beam.

'It is all over!' thought Macquart, who still kept his position on the

opposite pathway.

He remained there a few moments longer, listening to the last words

which Monsieur de Condamin exchanged in low tones with Madame Paloque.

'Bah!' said the judge's wife, 'no one will cry for him, unless it's

that big gander Bourrette. He had grown quite unendurable, and we were

nothing but his slaves. His lordship the Bishop, I dare say, has got a

smiling face just now. Plassans is at last delivered!'

'And the Rougons!' exclaimed Monsieur de Condamin. 'They must be quite

delighted.'

'I should think so, indeed. The Rougons must be up in the heavens. They

will inherit the Abbé's conquest. Ah! they would have paid anyone well

who would have run the risk of setting the house on fire.'

Macquart went away feeling extremely dissatisfied. He was beginning to

fear that he had been duped. The joy of the Rougons filled him with

consternation. The Rougons were crafty folks who always played a

double game, and whose opponents were quite certain to end by getting

the worst of the struggle. As Macquart crossed the Place of the

Sub-Prefecture he swore to himself that he would never set to work in

this blind way again.

As he went up to the room where Marthe lay dying he found Rose sitting

on one of the stairs. She was in a fuming rage.

'No, indeed, I will certainly not stop in the room!' she cried. 'I

won't look on and see such things. Let her die without me; let her

die like a dog! I no longer have any love for her; I have no love for

anyone. To send for the poor little fellow to kill him! And I consented

to go for him! I shall hate myself for it all my life! He was as white

as his nightshirt, the angel! I was obliged to carry him here from the

Seminary. I thought he was going to give up the ghost on the way, he

cried so. Oh! it's a cruel shame! And there he has gone into the room

now to kiss her! It quite makes my flesh creep. I wish the whole house

would topple down on our heads and finish us all off at one stroke! I

will shut myself up in some hole somewhere, and live quite alone, and

never see anyone again--never, never! One's whole life seems made up of

things that make one weep and make one angry!'

Macquart entered the room. Madame Rougon was on her knees, burying her

face in her hands, and Serge, with tears streaming down his cheeks, was

standing by the bedside supporting the head of the dying woman. She

had not yet regained consciousness. The last flickering flames of the

conflagration cast a ruddy reflection upon the ceiling of the room.

At last a convulsive tremor shook Marthe's body. She opened her eyes

with an expression of surprise, and sat up in bed to glance around her.

Then she clasped her hands together with a look of unutterable terror,

and died even as she caught sight of Serge's cassock in the crimson

glow.

THE END.

NOTES

[1] See Eugène Tenot's 'La Province en Décembre 1851,' Paris, 1865 (pp.

206 _et seq._, and 260 _et seq._). Also Maquan's 'L'Insurrection du

Var,' p. 127.

[2] A glimpse of François Mouret, and Marthe, his wife, is given in

'The Fortune of the Rougons,' pp. 143-4--ED.

[3] Parish priest.

[4] One of the chief characters of 'The Fortune of the Rougons' and

'Dr. Pascal.'--ED.

[5] The chief character in 'His Excellency.'

[6] Those proscribed by Louis Napoleon at the Coup d'État of 1851.

[7] 'Aunt Dide's' life and death at Les Tulettes are described in 'Dr.

Pascal.'--ED.