But on the following day their disquietude all returned. They were now
obliged to go in debt. Martine obtained on credit bread, wine, and a
little meat, much to her shame, be it said, forced as she was to
maneuver and tell lies, for no one was ignorant of the ruin that had
overtaken the house. The doctor had indeed thought of mortgaging La
Souleiade, but only as a last resource. All he now possessed was this
property, which was worth twenty thousand francs, but for which he
would perhaps not get fifteen thousand, if he should sell it; and when
these should be spent black want would be before them, the street,
without even a stone of their own on which to lay their heads. Clotilde
therefore begged Pascal to wait and not to take any irrevocable step so
long as things were not utterly desperate.
Three or four days passed. It was the beginning of September, and the
weather unfortunately changed; terrible storms ravaged the entire
country; a part of the garden wall was blown down, and as Pascal was
unable to rebuild it, the yawning breach remained. Already they were
beginning to be rude at the baker’s. And one morning the old servant
came home with the meat from the butcher’s in tears, saying that he had
given her the refuse. A few days more and they would be unable to
obtain anything on credit. It had become absolutely necessary to
consider how they should find the money for their small daily expenses.
One Monday morning, the beginning of another week of torture, Clotilde
was very restless. A struggle seemed to be going on within her, and it
was only when she saw Pascal refuse at breakfast his share of a piece
of beef which had been left over from the day before that she at last
came to a decision. Then with a calm and resolute air, she went out
after breakfast with Martine, after quietly putting into the basket of
the latter a little package—some articles of dress which she was giving
her, she said.
When she returned two hours later she was very pale. But her large
eyes, so clear and frank, were shining. She went up to the doctor at
once and made her confession.
“I must ask your forgiveness, master, for I have just been disobeying
you, and I know that I am going to pain you greatly.”
“Why, what have you been doing?” he asked uneasily, not understanding
what she meant.
Slowly, without removing her eyes from him, she drew from her pocket an
envelope, from which she took some bank-notes. A sudden intuition
enlightened him, and he cried:
“Ah, my God! the jewels, the presents I gave you!”
And he, who was usually so good-tempered and gentle, was convulsed with
grief and anger. He seized her hands in his, crushing with almost
brutal force the fingers which held the notes.
“My God! what have you done, unhappy girl? It is my heart that you have
sold, both our hearts, that had entered into those jewels, which you
have given with them for money! The jewels which I gave you, the
souvenirs of our divinest hours, your property, yours only, how can you
wish me to take them back, to turn them to my profit? Can it be
possible—have you thought of the anguish that this would give me?”
“And you, master,” she answered gently, “do you think that I could
consent to our remaining in the unhappy situation in which we are, in
want of everything, while I had these rings and necklaces and earrings
laid away in the bottom of a drawer? Why, my whole being would rise in
protest. I should think myself a miser, a selfish wretch, if I had kept
them any longer. And, although it was a grief for me to part with
them—ah, yes, I confess it, so great a grief that I could hardly find
the courage to do it—I am certain that I have only done what I ought to
have done as an obedient and loving woman.”
And as he still grasped her hands, tears came to her eyes, and she
added in the same gentle voice and with a faint smile:
“Don’t press so hard; you hurt me.”
Then repentant and deeply moved, Pascal, too, wept.
“I am a brute to get angry in this way. You acted rightly; you could
not do otherwise. But forgive me; it was hard for me to see you despoil
yourself. Give me your hands, your poor hands, and let me kiss away the
marks of my stupid violence.”
He took her hands again in his tenderly; he covered them with kisses;
he thought them inestimably precious, so delicate and bare, thus
stripped of their rings. Consoled now, and joyous, she told him of her
escapade—how she had taken Martine into her confidence, and how both
had gone to the dealer who had sold him the corsage of point d’Alençon,
and how after interminable examining and bargaining the woman had given
six thousand francs for all the jewels. Again he repressed a gesture of
despair—six thousand francs! when the jewels had cost him more than
three times that amount—twenty thousand francs at the very least.
“Listen,” he said to her at last; “I will take this money, since, in
the goodness of your heart, you have brought it to me. But it is
clearly understood that it is yours. I swear to you that I will, for
the future, be more miserly than Martine herself. I will give her only
the few sous that are absolutely necessary for our maintenance, and you
will find in the desk all that may be left of this sum, if I should
never be able to complete it and give it back to you entire.”
He clasped her in an embrace that still trembled with emotion.
Presently, lowering his voice to a whisper, he said:
“And did you sell everything, absolutely everything?”
Without speaking, she disengaged herself a little from his embrace, and
put her fingers to her throat, with her pretty gesture, smiling and
blushing. Finally, she drew out the slender chain on which shone the
seven pearls, like milky stars. Then she put it back again out of
sight.
He, too, blushed, and a great joy filled his heart. He embraced her
passionately.
“Ah!” he cried, “how good you are, and how I love you!”
But from this time forth the recollection of the jewels which had been
sold rested like a weight upon his heart; and he could not look at the
money in his desk without pain. He was haunted by the thought of
approaching want, inevitable want, and by a still more bitter
thought—the thought of his age, of his sixty years which rendered him
useless, incapable of earning a comfortable living for a wife; he had
been suddenly and rudely awakened from his illusory dream of eternal
love to the disquieting reality. He had fallen unexpectedly into
poverty, and he felt himself very old—this terrified him and filled him
with a sort of remorse, of desperate rage against himself, as if he had
been guilty of a crime. And this embittered his every hour; if through
momentary forgetfulness he permitted himself to indulge in a little
gaiety his distress soon returned with greater poignancy than ever,
bringing with it a sudden and inexplicable sadness. He did not dare to
question himself, and his dissatisfaction with himself and his
suffering increased every day.
Then a frightful revelation came to him. One morning, when he was
alone, he received a letter bearing the Plassans postmark, the
superscription on which he examined with surprise, not recognizing the
writing. This letter was not signed; and after reading a few lines he
made an angry movement as if to tear it up and throw it away; but he
sat down trembling instead, and read it to the end. The style was
perfectly courteous; the long phrases rolled on, measured and carefully
worded, like diplomatic phrases, whose only aim is to convince. It was
demonstrated to him with a superabundance of arguments that the scandal
of La Souleiade had lasted too long already. If passion, up to a
certain point, explained the fault, yet a man of his age and in his
situation was rendering himself contemptible by persisting in wrecking
the happiness of the young relative whose trustfulness he abused. No
one was ignorant of the ascendency which he had acquired over her; it
was admitted that she gloried in sacrificing herself for him; but ought
he not, on his side, to comprehend that it was impossible that she
should love an old man, that what she felt was merely pity and
gratitude, and that it was high time to deliver her from this senile
love, which would finally leave her with a dishonored name! Since he
could not even assure her a small fortune, the writer hoped he would
act like an honorable man, and have the strength to separate from her,
through consideration for her happiness, if it were not yet too late.
And the letter concluded with the reflection that evil conduct was
always punished in the end.
From the first sentence Pascal felt that this anonymous letter came
from his mother. Old Mme. Rougon must have dictated it; he could hear
in it the very inflections of her voice. But after having begun the
letter angry and indignant, he finished it pale and trembling, seized
by the shiver which now passed through him continually and without
apparent cause. The letter was right, it enlightened him cruelly
regarding the source of his mental distress, showing him that it was
remorse for keeping Clotilde with him, old and poor as he was. He got
up and walked over to a mirror, before which he stood for a long time,
his eyes gradually filling with tears of despair at sight of his
wrinkles and his white beard. The feeling of terror which arose within
him, the mortal chill which invaded his heart, was caused by the
thought that separation had become necessary, inevitable. He repelled
the thought, he felt that he would never have the strength for a
separation, but it still returned; he would never now pass a single day
without being assailed by it, without being torn by the struggle
between his love and his reason until the terrible day when he should
become resigned, his strength and his tears exhausted. In his present
weakness, he trembled merely at the thought of one day having this
courage. And all was indeed over, the irrevocable had begun; he was
filled with fear for Clotilde, so young and so beautiful, and all there
was left him now was the duty of saving her from himself.
Then, haunted by every word, by every phrase of the letter, he tortured
himself at first by trying to persuade himself that she did not love
him, that all she felt for him was pity and gratitude. It would make
the rupture more easy to him, he thought, if he were once convinced
that she sacrificed herself, and that in keeping her with him longer he
was only gratifying his monstrous selfishness. But it was in vain that
he studied her, that he subjected her to proofs, she remained as tender
and devoted as ever, making the dreaded decision still more difficult.
Then he pondered over all the causes that vaguely, but ceaselessly
urged their separation. The life which they had been leading for months
past, this life without ties or duties, without work of any sort, was
not good. He thought no longer of himself, he considered himself good
for nothing now but to go away and bury himself out of sight in some
remote corner; but for her was it not an injurious life, a life which
would deteriorate her character and weaken her will? And suddenly he
saw himself in fancy dying, leaving her alone to perish of hunger in
the streets. No, no! this would be a crime; he could not, for the sake
of the happiness of his few remaining days, bequeath to her this
heritage of shame and misery.
One morning Clotilde went for a walk in the neighborhood, from which
she returned greatly agitated, pale and trembling, and as soon as she
was upstairs in the workroom, she almost fainted in Pascal’s arms,
faltering:
“Oh, my God! oh, my God! those women!”
Terrified, he pressed her with questions.
“Come, tell me! What has happened?”
A flush mounted to her face. She flung her arms around his neck and hid
her head on his shoulder.
“It was those women! Reaching a shady spot, I was closing my parasol,
and I had the misfortune to throw down a child. And they all rose
against me, crying out such things, oh, such things—things that I
cannot repeat, that I could not understand!”
She burst into sobs. He was livid; he could find nothing to say to her;
he kissed her wildly, weeping like herself. He pictured to himself the
whole scene; he saw her pursued, hooted at, reviled. Presently he
faltered:
“It is my fault, it is through me you suffer. Listen, we will go away
from here, far, far away, where we shall not be known, where you will
be honored, where you will be happy.”
But seeing him weep, she recovered her calmness by a violent effort.
And drying her tears, she said:
“Ah! I have behaved like a coward in telling you all this. After
promising myself that I would say nothing of it to you. But when I
found myself at home again, my anguish was so great that it all came
out. But you see now it is all over, don’t grieve about it. I love
you.”
She smiled, and putting her arms about him she kissed him in her turn,
trying to soothe his despair.
“I love you. I love you so dearly that it will console me for
everything. There is only you in the world, what matters anything that
is not you? You are so good; you make me so happy!”
But he continued to weep, and she, too, began to weep again, and there
was a moment of infinite sadness, of anguish, in which they mingled
their kisses and their tears.
Pascal, when she left him alone for an instant, thought himself a
wretch. He could no longer be the cause of misfortune to this child,
whom he adored. And on the evening of the same day an event took place
which brought about the solution hitherto sought in vain, with the fear
of finding it. After dinner Martine beckoned him aside, and gave him a
letter, with all sorts of precautions, saying:
“I met Mme. Félicité, and she charged me to give you this letter,
monsieur, and she told me to tell you that she would have brought it to
you herself, only that regard for her reputation prevented her from
returning here. She begs you to send her back M. Maxime’s letter,
letting her know mademoiselle’s answer.”
It was, in fact, a letter from Maxime, and Mme. Félicité, glad to have
received it, used it as a new means of conquering her son, after having
waited in vain for misery to deliver him up to her, repentant and
imploring. As neither Pascal nor Clotilde had come to demand aid or
succor from her, she had once more changed her plan, returning to her
old idea of separating them; and, this time, the opportunity seemed to
her decisive. Maxime’s letter was a pressing one; he urged his
grandmother to plead his cause with his sister. Ataxia had declared
itself; he was able to walk now only leaning on his servant’s arm. His
solitude terrified him, and he urgently entreated his sister to come to
him. He wished to have her with him as a rampart against his father’s
abominable designs; as a sweet and upright woman after all, who would
take care of him. The letter gave it to be understood that if she
conducted herself well toward him she would have no reason to repent
it; and ended by reminding the young girl of the promise she had made
him, at the time of his visit to Plassans, to come to him, if the day
ever arrived when he really needed her.
Pascal turned cold. He read the four pages over again. Here an
opportunity to separate presented itself, acceptable to him and
advantageous for Clotilde, so easy and so natural that they ought to
accept it at once; yet, in spite of all his reasoning he felt so weak,
so irresolute still that his limbs trembled under him, and he was
obliged to sit down for a moment. But he wished to be heroic, and
controlling himself, he called to his companion.
“Here!” he said, “read this letter which your grandmother has sent me.”
Clotilde read the letter attentively to the end without a word, without
a sign. Then she said simply:
“Well, you are going to answer it, are you not? I refuse.”
He was obliged to exercise a strong effort of self-control to avoid
uttering a great cry of joy, as he pressed her to his heart. As if it
were another person who spoke, he heard himself saying quietly:
“You refuse—impossible! You must reflect. Let us wait till to-morrow to
give an answer; and let us talk it over, shall we?”
Surprised, she cried excitedly:
“Part from each other! and why? And would you really consent to it?
What folly! we love each other, and you would have me leave you and go
away where no one cares for me! How could you think of such a thing? It
would be stupid.”
He avoided touching on this side of the question, and hastened to speak
of promises made—of duty.
“Remember, my dear, how greatly affected you were when I told you that
Maxime was in danger. And think of him now, struck down by disease,
helpless and alone, calling you to his side. Can you abandon him in
that situation? You have a duty to fulfil toward him.”
“A duty?” she cried. “Have I any duties toward a brother who has never
occupied himself with me? My only duty is where my heart is.”
“But you have promised. I have promised for you. I have said that you
were rational, and you are not going to belie my words.”
“Rational? It is you who are not rational. It is not rational to
separate when to do so would make us both die of grief.”
And with an angry gesture she closed the discussion, saying:
“Besides, what is the use of talking about it? There is nothing
simpler; it is only necessary to say a single word. Answer me. Are you
tired of me? Do you wish to send me away?”
He uttered a cry.
“Send you away! I! Great God!”
“Then it is all settled. If you do not send me away I shall remain.”
She laughed now, and, running to her desk, wrote in red pencil across
her brother’s letter two words—“I refuse;” then she called Martine and
insisted upon her taking the letter back at once. Pascal was radiant; a
wave of happiness so intense inundated his being that he let her have
her way. The joy of keeping her with him deprived him even of his power
of reasoning.
But that very night, what remorse did he not feel for having been so
cowardly! He had again yielded to his longing for happiness. A
deathlike sweat broke out upon him when he saw her in imagination far
away; himself alone, without her, without that caressing and subtle
essence that pervaded the atmosphere when she was near; her breath, her
brightness, her courageous rectitude, and the dear presence, physical
and mental, which had now become as necessary to his life as the light
of day itself. She must leave him, and he must find the strength to die
of it. He despised himself for his want of courage, he judged the
situation with terrible clear-sightedness. All was ended. An honorable
existence and a fortune awaited her with her brother; he could not
carry his senile selfishness so far as to keep her any longer in the
misery in which he was, to be scorned and despised. And fainting at the
thought of all he was losing, he swore to himself that he would be
strong, that he would not accept the sacrifice of this child, that he
would restore her to happiness and to life, in her own despite.
And now the struggle of self-abnegation began. Some days passed; he had
demonstrated to her so clearly the rudeness of her “I refuse,” on
Maxime’s letter, that she had written a long letter to her grandmother,
explaining to her the reasons for her refusal. But still she would not
leave La Souleiade. As Pascal had grown extremely parsimonious, in his
desire to trench as little as possible on the money obtained by the
sale of the jewels, she surpassed herself, eating her dry bread with
merry laughter. One morning he surprised her giving lessons of economy
to Martine. Twenty times a day she would look at him intently and then
throw herself on his neck and cover his face with kisses, to combat the
dreadful idea of a separation, which she saw always in his eyes. Then
she had another argument. One evening after dinner he was seized with a
palpitation of the heart, and almost fainted. This surprised him; he
had never suffered from the heart, and he believed it to be simply a
return of his old nervous trouble. Since his great happiness he had
felt less strong, with an odd sensation, as if some delicate hidden
spring had snapped within him. Greatly alarmed, she hurried to his
assistance. Well! now he would no doubt never speak again of her going
away. When one loved people, and they were ill, one stayed with them to
take care of them.
The struggle thus became a daily, an hourly one. It was a continual
assault made by affection, by devotion, by self-abnegation, in the one
desire for another’s happiness. But while her kindness and tenderness
made the thought of her departure only the more cruel for Pascal, he
felt every day more and more strongly the necessity for it. His
resolution was now taken. But he remained at bay, trembling and
hesitating as to the means of persuading her. He pictured to himself
her despair, her tears; what should he do? how should he tell her? how
could they bring themselves to give each other a last embrace, never to
see each other again? And the days passed, and he could think of
nothing, and he began once more to accuse himself of cowardice.
Sometimes she would say jestingly, with a touch of affectionate malice:
“Master, you are too kind-hearted not to keep me.”
But this vexed him; he grew excited, and with gloomy despair answered:
“No, no! don’t talk of my kindness. If I were really kind you would
have been long ago with your brother, leading an easy and honorable
life, with a bright and tranquil future before you, instead of
obstinately remaining here, despised, poor, and without any prospect,
to be the sad companion of an old fool like me! No, I am nothing but a
coward and a dishonorable man!”
She hastily stopped him. And it was in truth his kindness of heart,
above all, that bled, that immense kindness of heart which sprang from
his love of life, which he diffused over persons and things, in his
continual care for the happiness of every one and everything. To be
kind, was not this to love her, to make her happy, at the price of his
own happiness? This was the kindness which it was necessary for him to
exercise, and which he felt that he would one day exercise, heroic and
decisive. But like the wretch who has resolved upon suicide, he waited
for the opportunity, the hour, and the means, to carry out his design.
Early one morning, on going into the workroom, Clotilde was surprised
to see Dr. Pascal seated at his table. It was many weeks since he had
either opened a book or touched a pen.
“Why! you are working?” she said.
Without raising his head he answered absently:
“Yes; this is the genealogical tree that I had not even brought up to
date.”
She stood behind him for a few moments, looking at him writing. He was
completing the notices of Aunt Dide, of Uncle Macquart, and of little
Charles, writing the dates of their death. Then, as he did not stir,
seeming not to know that she was there, waiting for the kisses and the
smiles of other mornings, she walked idly over to the window and back
again.
“So you are in earnest,” she said, “you are really working?”
“Certainly; you see I ought to have noted down these deaths last month.
And I have a heap of work waiting there for me.”
She looked at him fixedly, with that steady inquiring gaze with which
she sought to read his thoughts.
“Very well, let us work. If you have papers to examine, or notes to
copy, give them to me.”
And from this day forth he affected to give himself up entirely to
work. Besides, it was one of his theories that absolute rest was
unprofitable, that it should never be prescribed, even to the
overworked. As the fish lives in the water, so a man lives only in the
external medium which surrounds him, the sensations which he receives
from it transforming themselves in him into impulses, thoughts, and
acts; so that if there were absolute rest, if he continued to receive
sensations without giving them out again, digested and transformed, an
engorgement would result, a _malaise_, an inevitable loss of
equilibrium. For himself he had always found work to be the best
regulator of his existence. Even on the mornings when he felt ill, if
he set to work he recovered his equipoise. He never felt better than
when he was engaged on some long work, methodically planned out
beforehand, so many pages to so many hours every morning, and he
compared this work to a balancing-pole, which enabled him to maintain
his equilibrium in the midst of daily miseries, weaknesses, and
mistakes. So that he attributed entirely to the idleness in which he
had been living for some weeks past, the palpitation which at times
made him feel as if he were going to suffocate. If he wished to recover
his health he had only to take up again his great work.
And Pascal spent hours developing and explaining these theories to
Clotilde, with a feverish and exaggerated enthusiasm. He seemed to be
once more possessed by the love of knowledge and study in which, up to
the time of his sudden passion for her, he had spent his life
exclusively. He repeated to her that he could not leave his work
unfinished, that he had still a great deal to do, if he desired to
leave a lasting monument behind him. His anxiety about the envelopes
seemed to have taken possession of him again; he opened the large press
twenty times a day, taking them down from the upper shelf and enriching
them by new notes. His ideas on heredity were already undergoing a
transformation; he would have liked to review the whole, to recast the
whole, to deduce from the family history, natural and social, a vast
synthesis, a resume, in broad strokes, of all humanity. Then, besides,
he reviewed his method of treatment by hypodermic injections, with the
purpose of amplifying it—a confused vision of a new therapeutics; a
vague and remote theory based on his convictions and his personal
experience of the beneficent dynamic influence of work.
Now every morning, when he seated himself at his table, he would
lament:
“I shall not live long enough; life is too short.”
He seemed to feel that he must not lose another hour. And one morning
he looked up abruptly and said to his companion, who was copying a
manuscript at his side:
“Listen well, Clotilde. If I should die—”
“What an idea!” she protested, terrified.
“If I should die,” he resumed, “listen to me well—close all the doors
immediately. You are to keep the envelopes, you, you only. And when you
have collected all my other manuscripts, send them to Ramond. These are
my last wishes, do you hear?”
But she refused to listen to him.
“No, no!” she cried hastily, “you talk nonsense!”
“Clotilde, swear to me that you will keep the envelopes, and that you
will send all my other papers to Ramond.”
At last, now very serious, and her eyes filled with tears, she gave him
the promise he desired. He caught her in his arms, he, too, deeply
moved, and lavished caresses upon her, as if his heart had all at once
reopened to her. Presently he recovered his calmness, and spoke of his
fears. Since he had been trying to work they seemed to have returned.
He kept constant watch upon the press, pretending to have observed
Martine prowling about it. Might they not work upon the fanaticism of
this girl, and urge her to a bad action, persuading her that she was
securing her master’s eternal welfare? He had suffered so much from
suspicion! In the dread of approaching solitude his former tortures
returned—the tortures of the scientist, who is menaced and persecuted
by his own, at his own fireside, in his very flesh, in the work of his
brain.
One evening, when he was again discussing this subject with Clotilde,
he said unthinkingly:
“You know that when you are no longer here—”
She turned very pale and, as he stopped with a start, she cried:
“Oh, master, master, you have not given up that dreadful idea, then? I
can see in your eyes that you are hiding something from me, that you
have a thought which you no longer share with me. But if I go away and
you should die, who will be here then to protect your work?”
Thinking that she had become reconciled, to the idea of her departure,
he had the strength to answer gaily:
“Do you suppose that I would allow myself to die without seeing you
once more. I will write to you, of course. You must come back to close
my eyes.”
Now she burst out sobbing, and sank into a chair.
“My God! Can it be! You wish that to-morrow we should be together no
longer, we who have never been separated!”
From this day forth Pascal seemed more engrossed than ever in his work.
He would sit for four or five hours at a time, whole mornings and
afternoons, without once raising his head. He overacted his zeal. He
would allow no one to disturb him, by so much as a word. And when
Clotilde would leave the room on tiptoe to give an order downstairs or
to go on some errand, he would assure himself by a furtive glance that
she was gone, and then let his head drop on the table, with an air of
profound dejection. It was a painful relief from the extraordinary
effort which he compelled himself to make when she was present; to
remain at his table, instead of going over and taking her in his arms
and covering her face with sweet kisses. Ah, work! how ardently he
called on it as his only refuge from torturing thoughts. But for the
most part he was unable to work; he was obliged to feign attention,
keeping his eyes fixed upon the page, his sorrowful eyes that grew dim
with tears, while his mind, confused, distracted, filled always with
one image, suffered the pangs of death. Was he then doomed to see work
fail now its effect, he who had always considered it of sovereign
power, the creator and ruler of the world? Must he then throw away his
pen, renounce action, and do nothing in future but exist? And tears
would flow down his white beard; and if he heard Clotilde coming
upstairs again he would seize his pen quickly, in order that she might
find him as she had left him, buried seemingly in profound meditation,
when his mind was now only an aching void.
It was now the middle of September; two weeks that had seemed
interminable had passed in this distressing condition of things,
without bringing any solution, when one morning Clotilde was greatly
surprised by seeing her grandmother, Félicité, enter. Pascal had met
his mother the day before in the Rue de la Banne, and, impatient to
consummate the sacrifice, and not finding in himself the strength to
make the rupture, he had confided in her, in spite of his repugnance,
and begged her to come on the following day. As it happened, she had
just received another letter from Maxime, a despairing and imploring
letter.
She began by explaining her presence.
“Yes, it is I, my dear, and you can understand that only very weighty
reasons could have induced me to set my foot here again. But, indeed,
you are getting crazy; I cannot allow you to ruin your life in this
way, without making a last effort to open your eyes.”
She then read Maxime’s letter in a tearful voice. He was nailed to an
armchair. It seemed he was suffering from a form of ataxia, rapid in
its progress and very painful. Therefore he requested a decided answer
from his sister, hoping still that she would come, and trembling at the
thought of being compelled to seek another nurse. This was what he
would be obliged to do, however, if they abandoned him in his sad
condition. And when she had finished reading the letter she hinted that
it would be a great pity to let Maxime’s fortune pass into the hands of
strangers; but, above all, she spoke of duty; of the assistance one
owed to a relation, she, too, affecting to believe that a formal
promise had been given.
“Come, my dear, call upon your memory. You told him that if he should
ever need you, you would go to him; I can hear you saying it now. Was
it not so, my son?”
Pascal, his face pale, his head slightly bent, had kept silence since
his mother’s entrance, leaving her to act. He answered only by an
affirmative nod.
Then Félicité went over all the arguments that he himself had employed
to persuade Clotilde—the dreadful scandal, to which insult was now
added; impending want, so hard for them both; the impossibility of
continuing the life they were leading. What future could they hope for,
now that they had been overtaken by poverty? It was stupid and cruel to
persist longer in her obstinate refusal.
Clotilde, standing erect and with an impenetrable countenance, remained
silent, refusing even to discuss the question. But as her grandmother
tormented her to give an answer, she said at last:
“Once more, I have no duty whatever toward my brother; my duty is here.
He can dispose of his fortune as he chooses; I want none of it. When we
are too poor, master shall send away Martine and keep me as his
servant.”
Old Mme. Rougon wagged her chin.
“Before being his servant it would be better if you had begun by being
his wife. Why have you not got married? It would have been simpler and
more proper.”
And Félicité reminded her how she had come one day to urge this
marriage, in order to put an end to gossip, and how the young girl had
seemed greatly surprised, saying that neither she nor the doctor had
thought of it, but that, notwithstanding, they would get married later
on, if necessary, for there was no hurry.
“Get married; I am quite willing!” cried Clotilde. “You are right,
grandmother.”
And turning to Pascal:
“You have told me a hundred times that you would do whatever I wished.
Marry me; do you hear? I will be your wife, and I will stay here. A
wife does not leave her husband.”
But he answered only by a gesture, as if he feared that his voice would
betray him, and that he should accept, in a cry of gratitude, the
eternal bond which she had proposed to him. His gesture might signify a
hesitation, a refusal. What was the good of this marriage _in
extremis_, when everything was falling to pieces?
“Those are very fine sentiments, no doubt,” returned Félicité. “You
have settled it all in your own little head. But marriage will not give
you an income; and, meantime, you are a great expense to him; you are
the heaviest of his burdens.”
The effect which these words had upon Clotilde was extraordinary. She
turned violently to Pascal, her cheeks crimson, her eyes filled with
tears.
“Master, master! is what grandmother has just said true? Has it come to
this, that you regret the money I cost you here?”
Pascal grew still paler; he remained motionless, in an attitude of
utter dejection. But in a far-away voice, as if he were talking to
himself, he murmured:
“I have so much work to do! I should like to go over my envelopes, my
manuscripts, my notes, and complete the work of my life. If I were
alone perhaps I might be able to arrange everything. I would sell La
Souleiade, oh! for a crust of bread, for it is not worth much. I should
shut myself and my papers in a little room. I should work from morning
till night, and I should try not to be too unhappy.”
But he avoided her glance; and, agitated as she was, these painful and
stammering utterances were not calculated to satisfy her. She grew
every moment more and more terrified, for she felt that the irrevocable
word was about to be spoken.
“Look at me, master, look me in the face. And I conjure you, be brave,
choose between your work and me, since you say, it seems, that you send
me away that you may work the better.”
The moment for the heroic falsehood had come. He lifted his head and
looked her bravely in the face, and with the smile of a dying man who
desires death, recovering his voice of divine goodness, he said:
“How excited you get! Can you not do your duty quietly, like everybody
else? I have a great deal of work to do, and I need to be alone; and
you, dear, you ought to go to your brother. Go then, everything is
ended.”
There was a terrible silence for the space of a few seconds. She looked
at him earnestly, hoping that he would change his mind. Was he really
speaking the truth? was he not sacrificing himself in order that she
might be happy? For a moment she had an intuition that this was the
case, as if some subtle breath, emanating from him, had warned her of
it.
“And you are sending me away forever? You will not permit me to come
back to-morrow?”
But he held out bravely; with another smile he seemed to answer that
when one went away like this it was not to come back again on the
following day. She was now completely bewildered; she knew not what to
think. It might be possible that he had chosen work sincerely; that the
man of science had gained the victory over the lover. She grew still
paler, and she waited a little longer, in the terrible silence; then,
slowly, with her air of tender and absolute submission, she said:
“Very well, master, I will go away whenever you wish, and I will not
return until you send for me.”
The die was cast. The irrevocable was accomplished. Each felt that
neither would attempt to recall the decision that had been made; and,
from this instant, every minute that passed would bring nearer the
separation.
Félicité, surprised at not being obliged to say more, at once desired
to fix the time for Clotilde’s departure. She applauded herself for her
tenacity; she thought she had gained the victory by main force. It was
now Friday, and it was settled that Clotilde should leave on the
following Sunday. A despatch was even sent to Maxime.
For the past three days the mistral had been blowing. But on this
evening its fury was redoubled, and Martine declared, in accordance
with the popular belief, that it would last for three days longer. The
winds at the end of September, in the valley of the Viorne, are
terrible. So that the servant took care to go into every room in the
house to assure herself that the shutters were securely fastened. When
the mistral blew it caught La Souleiade slantingly, above the roofs of
the houses of Plassans, on the little plateau on which the house was
built. And now it raged and beat against the house, shaking it from
garret to cellar, day and night, without a moment’s cessation. The
tiles were blown off, the fastenings of the windows were torn away,
while the wind, entering the crevices, moaned and sobbed wildly through
the house; and the doors, if they were left open for a moment, through
forgetfulness, slammed to with a noise like the report of a cannon.
They might have fancied they were sustaining a siege, so great were the
noise and the discomfort.
It was in this melancholy house shaken by the storm that Pascal, on the
following day, helped Clotilde to make her preparations for her
departure. Old Mme. Rougon was not to return until Sunday, to say
good-by. When Martine was informed of the approaching separation, she
stood still in dumb amazement, and a flash, quickly extinguished,
lighted her eyes; and as they sent her out of the room, saying that
they would not require her assistance in packing the trunks, she
returned to the kitchen and busied herself in her usual occupations,
seeming to ignore the catastrophe which was about to revolutionize
their household of three. But at Pascal’s slightest call she would run
so promptly and with such alacrity, her face so bright and so cheerful,
in her zeal to serve him, that she seemed like a young girl. Pascal did
not leave Clotilde for a moment, helping her, desiring to assure
himself that she was taking with her everything she could need. Two
large trunks stood open in the middle of the disordered room; bundles
and articles of clothing lay about everywhere; twenty times the drawers
and the presses had been visited. And in this work, this anxiety to
forget nothing, the painful sinking of the heart which they both felt
was in some measure lessened. They forgot for an instant—he watching
carefully to see that no space was lost, utilizing the hat-case for the
smaller articles of clothing, slipping boxes in between the folds of
the linen; while she, taking down the gowns, folded them on the bed,
waiting to put them last in the top tray. Then, when a little tired
they stood up and found themselves again face to face, they would smile
at each other at first; then choke back the sudden tears that started
at the recollection of the impending and inevitable misfortune. But
though their hearts bled they remained firm. Good God! was it then true
that they were to be no longer together? And then they heard the wind,
the terrible wind, which threatened to blow down the house.
How many times during this last day did they not go over to the window,
attracted by the storm, wishing that it would sweep away the world.
During these squalls the sun did not cease to shine, the sky remained
constantly blue, but a livid blue, windswept and dusty, and the sun was
a yellow sun, pale and cold. They saw in the distance the vast white
clouds rising from the roads, the trees bending before the blast,
looking as if they were flying all in the same direction, at the same
rate of speed; the whole country parched and exhausted by the unvarying
violence of the wind that blew ceaselessly, with a roar like thunder.
Branches were snapped and whirled out of sight; roofs were lifted up
and carried so far away that they were never afterward found. Why could
not the mistral take them all up together and carry them off to some
unknown land, where they might be happy? The trunks were almost packed
when Pascal went to open one of the shutters that the wind had blown
to, but so fierce a gust swept in through the half open window that
Clotilde had to go to his assistance. Leaning with all their weight,
they were able at last to turn the catch. The articles of clothing in
the room were blown about, and they gathered up in fragments a little
hand mirror which had fallen from a chair. Was this a sign of
approaching death, as the women of the faubourg said?
In the evening, after a mournful dinner in the bright dining-room, with
its great bouquets of flowers, Pascal said he would retire early.
Clotilde was to leave on the following morning by the ten o’clock
train, and he feared for her the long journey—twenty hours of railway
traveling. But when he had retired he was unable to sleep. At first he
thought it was the wind that kept him awake. The sleeping house was
full of cries, voices of entreaty and voices of anger, mingled
together, accompanied by endless sobbing. Twice he got up and went to
listen at Clotilde’s door, but he heard nothing. He went downstairs to
close a door that banged persistently, like misfortune knocking at the
walls. Gusts blew through the dark rooms, and he went to bed again,
shivering and haunted by lugubrious visions.
At six o’clock Martine, fancying she heard her master knocking for her
on the floor of his room, went upstairs. She entered the room with the
alert and excited expression which she had worn for the past two days;
but she stood still, astonished and uneasy, when she saw him lying,
half-dressed, across his bed, haggard, biting the pillow to stifle his
sobs. He got out of bed and tried to finish dressing himself, but a
fresh attack seized him, and, his head giddy and his heart palpitating
to suffocation, recovering from a momentary faintness, he faltered in
agonized tones:
“No, no, I cannot; I suffer too much. I would rather die, die now—”
He recognized Martine, and abandoning himself to his grief, his
strength totally gone, he made his confession to her:
“My poor girl, I suffer too much, my heart is breaking. She is taking
away my heart with her, she is taking away my whole being. I cannot
live without her. I almost died last night. I would be glad to die
before her departure, not to have the anguish of seeing her go away.
Oh, my God! she is going away, and I shall have her no longer, and I
shall be left alone, alone, alone!”
The servant, who had gone upstairs so gaily, turned as pale as wax, and
a hard and bitter look came into her face. For a moment she watched him
clutching the bedclothes convulsively, uttering hoarse cries of
despair, his face pressed against the coverlet. Then, by a violent
effort, she seemed to make up her mind.
“But, monsieur, there is no sense in making trouble for yourself in
this way. It is ridiculous. Since that is how it is, and you cannot do
without mademoiselle, I shall go and tell her what a state you have let
yourself get into.”
At these words he got up hastily, staggering still, and, leaning for
support on the back of a chair, he cried:
“I positively forbid you to do so, Martine!”
“A likely thing that I should listen to you, seeing you like that! To
find you some other time half dead, crying your eyes out! No, no! I
shall go to mademoiselle and tell her the truth, and compel her to
remain with us.”
But he caught her angrily by the arm and held her fast.
“I command you to keep quiet, do you hear? Or you shall go with her!
Why did you come in? It was this wind that made me ill. That concerns
no one.”
Then, yielding to a good-natured impulse, with his usual kindness of
heart, he smiled.
“My poor girl, see how you vex me? Let me act as I ought, for the
happiness of others. And not another word; you would pain me greatly.”
Martine’s eyes, too, filled with tears. It was just in time that they
made peace, for Clotilde entered almost immediately. She had risen
early, eager to see Pascal, hoping doubtless, up to the last moment,
that he would keep her. Her own eyelids were heavy from want of sleep,
and she looked at him steadily as she entered, with her inquiring air.
But he was still so discomposed that she began to grow uneasy.
“No, indeed, I assure you, I would even have slept well but for the
mistral. I was just telling you so, Martine, was I not?”
The servant confirmed his words by an affirmative nod. And Clotilde,
too, submitted, saying nothing of the night of anguish and mental
conflict she had spent while he, on his side, had been suffering the
pangs of death. Both of the women now docilely obeyed and aided him, in
his heroic self-abnegation.
“What,” he continued, opening his desk, “I have something here for you.
There! there are seven hundred francs in that envelope.”
And in spite of her exclamations and protestations he persisted in
rendering her an account. Of the six thousand francs obtained by the
sale of the jewels two hundred only had been spent, and he had kept one
hundred to last till the end of the month, with the strict economy, the
penuriousness, which he now displayed. Afterward he would no doubt sell
La Souleiade, he would work, he would be able to extricate himself from
his difficulties. But he would not touch the five thousand francs which
remained, for they were her property, her own, and she would find them
again in the drawer.
“Master, master, you are giving me a great deal of pain—”
“I wish it,” he interrupted, “and it is you who are trying to break my
heart. Come, it is half-past seven, I will go and cord your trunks
since they are locked.”
When Martine and Clotilde were alone and face to face they looked at
each other for a moment in silence. Ever since the commencement of the
new situation, they had been fully conscious of their secret
antagonism, the open triumph of the young mistress, the half concealed
jealousy of the old servant about her adored master. Now it seemed that
the victory remained with the servant. But in this final moment their
common emotion drew them together.
“Martine, you must not let him eat like a poor man. You promise me that
he shall have wine and meat every day?”
“Have no fear, mademoiselle.”
“And the five thousand francs lying there, you know belong to him. You
are not going to let yourselves starve to death, I suppose, with those
there. I want you to treat him very well.”
“I tell you that I will make it my business to do so, mademoiselle, and
that monsieur shall want for nothing.”
There was a moment’s silence. They were still regarding each other.
“And watch him, to see that he does not overwork himself. I am going
away very uneasy; he has not been well for some time past. Take good
care of him.”
“Make your mind easy, mademoiselle, I will take care of him.”
“Well, I give him into your charge. He will have only you now; and it
is some consolation to me to know that you love him dearly. Love him
with all your strength. Love him for us both.”
“Yes, mademoiselle, as much as I can.”
Tears came into their eyes; Clotilde spoke again.
“Will you embrace me, Martine?”
“Oh, mademoiselle, very gladly.”
They were in each other’s arms when Pascal reentered the room. He
pretended not to see them, doubtless afraid of giving way to his
emotion. In an unnaturally loud voice he spoke of the final
preparations for Clotilde’s departure, like a man who had a great deal
on his hands and was afraid that the train might be missed. He had
corded the trunks, a man had taken them away in a little wagon, and
they would find them at the station. But it was only eight o’clock, and
they had still two long hours before them. Two hours of mortal anguish,
spent in unoccupied and weary waiting, during which they tasted a
hundred times over the bitterness of parting. The breakfast took hardly
a quarter of an hour. Then they got up, to sit down again. Their eyes
never left the clock. The minutes seemed long as those of a death
watch, throughout the mournful house.
“How the wind blows!” said Clotilde, as a sudden gust made all the
doors creak.
Pascal went over to the window and watched the wild flight of the
storm-blown trees.
“It has increased since morning,” he said. “Presently I must see to the
roof, for some of the tiles have been blown away.”
Already they had ceased to be one household. They listened in silence
to the furious wind, sweeping everything before it, carrying with it
their life.
Finally Pascal looked for a last time at the clock, and said simply:
“It is time, Clotilde.”
She rose from the chair on which she had been sitting. She had for an
instant forgotten that she was going away, and all at once the dreadful
reality came back to her. Once more she looked at him, but he did not
open his arms to keep her. It was over; her hope was dead. And from
this moment her face was like that of one struck with death.
At first they exchanged the usual commonplaces.
“You will write to me, will you not?”
“Certainly, and you must let me hear from you as often as possible.”
“Above all, if you should fall ill, send for me at once.”
“I promise you that I will do so. But there is no danger. I am very
strong.”
Then, when the moment came in which she was to leave this dear house,
Clotilde looked around with unsteady gaze; then she threw herself on
Pascal’s breast, she held him for an instant in her arms, faltering:
“I wish to embrace you here, I wish to thank you. Master, it is you who
have made me what I am. As you have often told me, you have corrected
my heredity. What should I have become amid the surroundings in which
Maxime has grown up? Yes, if I am worth anything, it is to you alone I
owe it, you, who transplanted me into this abode of kindness and
affection, where you have brought me up worthy of you. Now, after
having taken me and overwhelmed me with benefits, you send me away. Be
it as you will, you are my master, and I will obey you. I love you, in
spite of all, and I shall always love you.”
He pressed her to his heart, answering:
“I desire only your good, I am completing my work.”
When they reached the station, Clotilde vowed to herself that she would
one day come back. Old Mme. Rougon was there, very gay and very brisk,
in spite of her eighty-and-odd years. She was triumphant now; she
thought she would have her son Pascal at her mercy. When she saw them
both stupefied with grief she took charge of everything; got the
ticket, registered the baggage, and installed the traveler in a
compartment in which there were only ladies. Then she spoke for a long
time about Maxime, giving instructions and asking to be kept informed
of everything. But the train did not start; there were still five cruel
minutes during which they remained face to face, without speaking to
each other. Then came the end, there were embraces, a great noise of
wheels, and waving of handkerchiefs.
Suddenly Pascal became aware that he was standing alone upon the
platform, while the train was disappearing around a bend in the road.
Then, without listening to his mother, he ran furiously up the slope,
sprang up the stone steps like a young man, and found himself in three
minutes on the terrace of La Souleiade. The mistral was raging there—a
fierce squall which bent the secular cypresses like straws. In the
colorless sky the sun seemed weary of the violence of the wind, which
for six days had been sweeping over its face. And like the wind-blown
trees Pascal stood firm, his garments flapping like banners, his beard
and hair blown about and lashed by the storm. His breath caught by the
wind, his hands pressed upon his heart to quiet its throbbing, he saw
the train flying in the distance across the bare plain, a little train
which the mistral seemed to sweep before it like a dry branch.