The marriage before the mayor had taken place on the Thursday. On the
Saturday morning, as early as a quarter past ten, some ladies were
already waiting in the Josserands’ drawing-room, the religious ceremony
being fixed for eleven o’clock, at Saint-Roch. There were Madame
Juzeur, always in black silk; Madame Dambreville, tightly laced in a
costume of the color of dead leaves; and Madame Duveyrier, dressed very
simply in pale blue. All three were conversing in low tones amongst the
scattered chairs; whilst Madame Josserand was finishing dressing Berthe
in the adjoining room, assisted by the servant and the two bridesmaids,
Hortense and little Campardon.
“Oh! it is not that,” murmured Madame Duveyrier; “the family is
honorable. But, I admit, I rather dreaded on my brother Auguste’s
account the mother’s domineering spirit. One cannot be too careful, can
one?”
“No doubt,” said Madame Juzeur; “one not only marries the daughter, one
often marries the mother as well, and it is very unpleasant when the
latter interferes in the home.”
This time Angèle and Hortense opened the folding doors wide so that the
bride should not catch her dress in anything; and Berthe appeared in a
white silk dress, all gay with white flowers, with a white wreath, a
white bouquet, and a white garland, which crossed the skirt, and was
lost in the train in a shower of little white buds. She looked charming
amidst all this whiteness, with her fresh complexion, her golden hair,
her laughing eyes, and her candid mouth of an already enlightened girl.
“Oh! delicious!” exclaimed the ladies.
They all embraced her with an air of ecstasy. The Josserands, at their
wits’ end, not knowing where to obtain the two thousand francs which
the wedding would cost them, five hundred francs for dress, and fifteen
hundred francs for their share of the dinner and ball, had been obliged
to send Berthe to Doctor Chassagne’s to see Saturnin, to whom an aunt
had just left three thousand francs; and Berthe, having obtained
permission to take her brother out for a drive, by way of amusing him,
had smothered him with caresses in the cab, and had then gone with him
for a minute to the notary, who was unaware of the poor creature’s
condition, and who had everything ready for his signature. The silk
dress and the abundance of flowers surprised the ladies, who were
reckoning up the cost whilst giving vent to their admiration.
“Perfect! in most exquisite taste!”
Madame Josserand appeared, beaming, in a mauve dress of an unpleasant
hue, which made her look taller and rounder than ever, with the majesty
of a tower. She fumed about Monsieur Josserand, called to Hortense to
find her shawl, and vehemently forbade Berthe to sit down.
“Take care, you will crush your flowers!”
“Do not worry yourself,” said Clothilde, in her calm voice. “We have
plenty of time. Auguste is coming for us.”
They were all waiting in the drawing-room, when Théophile abruptly
burst in, his dress-coat askew, his white cravat tied like a piece of
cord, and without his hat. His face, with its few hairs and bad teeth,
was livid; his limbs, like an ailing child’s, were trembling with fury.
“What is the matter with you?” asked his sister, in amazement.
“The matter is—the matter is——”
But a fit of coughing interrupted him, and he stood there for a minute,
choking, spitting in his handkerchief, and enraged at being unable to
give vent to his anger. Valérie looked at him, confused, and warned by
a sort of instinct. At length, he shook his fist at her, without even
noticing the bride and the other ladies around him.
“Yes, whilst looking everywhere for my necktie, I found a letter in
front of the wardrobe.”
He crumpled a piece of paper between his febrile fingers. His wife had
turned pale. She realized the situation; and, to avoid the scandal of a
public explanation, she passed into the room that Berthe had just left.
“Ah! well,” said she, simply, “I prefer to leave if he is going mad.”
“Let me alone!” cried Théophile to Madame Duveyrier, who was trying to
quiet him. “I intend to confound her. This time I have proof, and there
is no doubt, oh, no! It shall not pass off like that, for I know him——”
His sister had seized him by the arm, and squeezing it, shook him
authoritatively.
“Hold your tongue! don’t you see where you are? This is not the proper
time, understand!”
But he started off again:
“It is the proper time! I don’t care a hang for the others. So much the
worse that it happens to-day! It will serve as a lesson to every one.”
However, he lowered his voice, his strength failing him, he had dropped
onto a chair, ready to burst into tears. An uncomfortable feeling had
invaded the drawing-room. Madame Dambreville and Madame Juzeur had
politely gone to the other end of the apartment, and pretended not to
understand. Madame Josserand, greatly annoyed at an adventure, the
scandal of which would cast a gloom over the wedding, had passed into
the bed-room to cheer up Valérie. As for Berthe, who was studying her
wreath before the looking-glass, she had not heard anything. Therefore,
she questioned Hortense in a low voice. They whispered together; the
latter indicated Théophile with a glance, and added some explanations,
while pretending to arrange the fall of the veil.
“Ah!” simply said the bride, with a chaste and amused look, her eyes
fixed on the husband, without the least sign of confusion in her halo
of white flowers.
Clotilde softly asked her brother for particulars. Madame Josserand
reappeared, exchanged a few words with her, and then returned to the
adjoining room. It was an exchange of diplomatic notes. The husband
accused Octave, that counter-jumper, whom he would chastise in church,
if he dared to come there. He swore he had seen him the previous day
with his wife on the steps of Saint-Roch; he had had a doubt before,
but now he was sure of it—everything tallied, the height, the walk.
Yes, madame invented luncheons with lady friends, or else she went
inside Saint-Roch with Camille, through the same door as every one, as
though to say her prayers; then leaving the child with the woman who
let out the chairs, she would make off with her gentleman by the old
way, a dirty passage, where no one would have gone to look for her.
However, Valérie had smiled on hearing Octave’s name mentioned; never
with that one, she pledged her oath to Madame Josserand, with nobody at
all for the matter of that, she added, but less with him than with any
one else; and, this time, with truth on her side, she, in her turn,
talked of confounding her husband, by proving to him that the note was
no more in Octave’s handwriting than that Octave was the gentleman of
Saint-Roch. Madame Josserand listened to her, studying her with her
experienced glance, and solely preoccupied with finding some means of
helping her to deceive Théophile. And she gave her the very best
advice.
“Leave all to me, don’t move in the matter. As he chooses, it shall he
Monsieur Mouret, well! it shall be Monsieur Mouret. There is no harm in
being seen on the steps of a church with Monsieur Mouret, is there? The
letter alone is compromising. You will triumph when our young friend
shows him a couple of lines of his own handwriting. Above all, say just
the same as I say. You understand, I don’t intend to let him spoil such
a day as this.”
When she returned into the room with Valérie, who was greatly affected,
Théophile, on his side, was saying to his sister in a choking voice:
“I will do so for you, I promise not to disfigure her here, as you
assure me it would scarcely be proper, on account of this wedding. But
I cannot be answerable for what may take place at church. If the
counter-jumper comes and beards me there, in the midst of my own
family, I will exterminate them one after the other.”
Auguste, looking very correct in his black dress-coat, his left eye
shrunk up, suffering from a headache which he had been dreading for
three days past, arrived at this moment, accompanied by his father and
his brother-in-law, both looking very solemn, to fetch his bride. There
was a little jostling, for they had ended by being late.
At Saint-Roch the big double doors were opened wide. A red carpet
covered the steps down to the pavement. It was raining; the May morning
was very cold.
“Thirteen steps,” said Madame Juzeur in a low voice to Valérie, when
they had passed through the doorway. “It is not a good sign.”
“Are you sure you have the ring?” inquired Madame Josserand of Auguste,
who was seating himself with Berthe on the arm-chairs placed before the
altar.
He had a fright, fancying he had forgotten it, then felt it in his
waistcoat pocket. She had, however, not waited for his answer. Ever
since she entered, she had been standing on tip-toe, searching the
company with her glance. There were Trublot and Gueulin, both best men;
Uncle Bachelard and Campardon, the bride’s witnesses; Duveyrier and
Doctor Juillerat, the bridegroom’s witnesses, and all the crowd of
acquaintances of whom she was proud. But she had just caught sight of
Octave, who was assiduously opening a passage for Madame Hédouin, and
she drew him behind a pillar, where she spoke to him in low and rapid
tones. The young man, a look of bewilderment on his face, did not
appear to understand. However, he bowed with an air of amiable
obedience.
“It is settled,” whispered Madame Josserand in Valérie’s ear, returning
and seating herself in one of the arm-chairs placed for the members of
the family, behind those of Berthe and Auguste. Monsieur Josserand, the
Vabres, and the Duveyriers were also there.
The organs were now giving forth scales of clear little notes, broken
by big pants. There was quite a crush; the choir was filling up, and
men remained standing in the aisles. The Abbé Mauduit had reserved to
himself the joy of blessing the union of one of his dear penitents.
When he appeared in his surplice, he exchanged a friendly smile with
the congregation, every face there being familiar to him. Some voices
commenced the _Veni Creator_, the organs resumed their song of triumph,
and it was at this moment that Théophile discovered Octave, to the left
of the chancel, standing before the chapel of Saint-Joseph.
His sister Clotilde tried to detain him.
“I cannot,” stammered he; “I will never submit to it.”
And he made Duveyrier follow him, to represent the family. The _Veni
Creator_ continued. A few persons looked round.
Théophile, who had talked of blows, was in such a state of agitation,
when planting himself before Octave, that he was unable at first to say
a word, vexed at being short, and raising himself up on tiptoe.
“Sir,” said he at length, “I saw you yesterday with my wife——”
But the _Veni Creator_ was just coming to an end, and he was quite
scared on hearing the sound of his own voice. Moreover, Duveyrier, very
much annoyed by the incident, tried to make him understand that the
time was badly chosen for an explanation. The ceremony had now begun
before the altar. After addressing an affecting exhortation to the
bride and bridegroom, the priest took the wedding-ring to bless it.
“_Benedic, Domine Deus noster, annulum nuptialem hunc, quem nos in tuo
nomine benedieimus_——”
Then Théophile plucked up courage to repeat his words in a low voice:
“Sir, you were in this church yesterday with my wife.”
Octave, still bewildered by what Madame Josserand had said to him, and
without having thoroughly understood her, related the little story,
however, in an easy sort of way.
“Yes, I did indeed meet Madame Vabre, and we went and looked at the
repairing of the Calvary which my friend Campardon is directing.”
“You admit it,” stammered the husband, again overcome with fury, “you
admit it——”
Duveyrier was obliged to slap him on the shoulder to calm him. The
shrill voice of one of the boy choristers was responding:
“_Amen_.”
“And you no doubt recognize this letter,” continued Théophile, offering
a piece of paper to Octave.
“Come, not here!” said the counselor, thoroughly scandalized. “You are
going out of your mind, my dear fellow.”
Octave unfolded the letter. The emotion had increased amongst the
congregation. There were whisperings, and nudgings of elbows, and
glancing over the tops of prayer-books; no one was now paying the least
attention to the ceremony. The bride and bridegroom alone remained
grave and stiff before the priest. Then Berthe, turning her head,
caught sight of Théophile getting whiter and whiter as he addressed
Octave; and, from that moment, her mind was absent—she kept casting
bright side glances in the direction of the chapel of Saint-Joseph.
Meanwhile, the young man was reading in a low voice:
“My duck, what bliss yesterday! Tuesday next, in the confessional of
the chapel of the Holy Angels.”
The priest, after having obtained from the bridegroom the “yes” of a
serious man who signs nothing without reading it, had turned toward the
bride.
“You promise and swear to be faithful to Monsieur Auguste Vabre in all
things, like a true wife should be to her husband, in accordance with
God’s commandment?”
But Berthe, having seen the letter, and full of the thought of the
blows she was expecting would be given, was not listening, but was
following the scene from beneath her veil. There was an awkward
silence. At length she became aware that they were waiting for her.
“Yes, yes,” she hastily replied, in a happen-what-may manner.
The abbé followed the direction of her glance with surprise; and,
guessing that something unusual was taking place in one of the aisles,
he in turn became singularly absent-minded. The story had now
circulated; every one knew it. The ladies, pale and grave, did not
withdraw their eyes from Octave. The men smiled in a discreetly waggish
way. And, whilst Madame Josserand reassured Madame Duveyrier, with
slight shrugs of her shoulders, Valérie alone seemed to give all her
attention to the wedding, beholding nothing else, as though overcome by
emotion.
“My duck, what bliss yesterday—” Octave read again, affecting intense
surprise.
Then, returning the letter to the husband, he said:
“I do not understand it, sir. The writing is not mine. See for
yourself.”
And taking from his pocket a note-book in which he wrote down his
expenses, like the careful fellow he was, he showed it to Théophile.
“What! not your writing!” stammered the latter. “You are making a fool
of me; it must be your writing.”
The priest had to make the sign of the cross on Berthe’s left hand. His
eyes elsewhere, he mistook the hand and made it on the right one.
“_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti_.”
“_Amen_,” responded the boy chorister, also raising himself up to see.
In short, the scandal was prevented. Duveyrier proved to poor,
bewildered Théophile that the letter could not have been written by
Monsieur Mouret. It was almost a disappointment for the congregation.
There were sighs, and a few hasty words exchanged. And when every one,
still in a state of excitement, turned again toward the altar, Berthe
and Auguste were man and wife, she without appearing to have been aware
of what was going on, he not having missed a word the priest had
uttered, giving his whole attention to the matter, only disturbed by
his headache, which closed his left eye.
“The dear children!” said Monsieur Josserand, absorbed in mind and his
voice trembling, to Monsieur Vabre, who ever since the commencement of
the ceremony had been busy counting the lighted tapers, always making a
mistake, and beginning his calculations over again.
“Admit nothing,” said Madame Josserand to Valérie, as the family moved
toward the vestry after the mass.
In the vestry the married couple and their witnesses first of all wrote
their signatures. They were kept waiting, however, by Campardon, who
had taken some ladies to inspect the works at the Calvary, at the end
of the choir, behind a wooden hoarding. He at length arrived, and,
apologizing, proceeded to cover the register with a big flourish. The
Abbé Mauduit had wished to honor the two families by handing round the
pen himself, and pointing out with his finger the place where each one
was to sign; and he smiled with his air of amiable, worldly tolerance
in the center of the grave apartment, the woodwork of which retained a
continual odor of incense.
“Well! mademoiselle,” said Campardon to Hortense, “does not all this
make you long to do the same?”
Then he regretted his want of tact. Hortense, who was the elder sister,
bit her lips. She was expecting to have a decisive answer from Verdier
that evening at the ball, for she had been pressing him to choose
between her and his creature. Therefore she replied in an unpleasant
tone of voice:
“I have plenty of time. Whenever I think proper.”
And, turning her back on the architect, she attacked her brother Léon,
who had only just arrived, late as usual.
“You are nice! papa and mamma are very pleased. Not even able to be in
time when one of your sisters is being married! We were expecting you
at least with Madame Dambreville.”
“Madame Dambreville does what she pleases,” said the young man curtly,
“and I do what I can.”
A coolness had arisen between them. Léon considered that she was
keeping him too long for her own use, and was weary of a connection the
burden of which he had accepted in the sole hope of its leading to some
grand marriage; and for a fortnight past he had been requesting her to
keep her promises. Madame Dambreville, carried away by a passion of
love, had even complained to Madame Josserand of what she termed her
son’s crotchets.
“Yet a marriage is so soon settled!” said Madame Dambreville, without
thinking of her words, and bestowing on him an imploring look to soften
him.
“Not always!” retorted he, harshly.
And he went and kissed Berthe, then shook his new brother-inlaw’s hand,
whilst Madame Dambreville turned pale with anguish, drawing herself up
in her costume of the color of dead leaves, and smiling vaguely toward
the persons who entered.
It was the procession of friends, of simple acquaintances, of all the
guests gathered together in the church, which now passed through the
vestry. The newly married couple, standing up, were continually
distributing hand-shakes, and invariably with the same embarrassed and
delighted air. The Josserands and the Duveyriers were not always able
to go through the introductions. At times they looked at each other in
surprise, for Bachelard had brought persons whom nobody knew, and who
talked too loud. Little by little everything gave way to confusion;
there was quite a crush, hands were held out over the heads, young
girls squeezed between pot-bellied gentlemen, left pieces of their
white skirts on the legs of these fathers, these brothers, these
uncles, still sweating with some vice, enfranchised in a quiet
neighborhood. Away from the crowd, Gueulin and Trublot were relating to
Octave how Clarisse had almost been caught by Duveyrier the night
before, and had now resigned herself to smothering him with caresses,
so as to shut his eyes.
“Hallo!” murmured Gueulin, “he is kissing the bride; it must smell
nice.”
Valérie, who kept Madame Juzeur near her to help her to keep her
countenance, listened with emotion to the conciliatory words which the
Abbé Mauduit also considered it his duty to address to her. Then, as
they were at length leaving the church, she paused before the two
fathers, to allow Berthe to pass on her husband’s arm.
“You ought to be satisfied,” said she to Monsieur Josserand, wishing to
show how free her mind was. “I congratulate you.”
“Yes, yes,” declared Monsieur Vabre in his clammy voice, “it is a very
great responsibility the less.”
And, whilst Trublot and Gueulin rushed about seeing all the ladies to
the carriages, Madame Josserand, whose shawl attracted quite a crowd,
obstinately insisted on remaining the last on the pavement, publicly to
display her maternal triumph.
The repast that evening at the Hôtel du Louvre was likewise marred by
Théophile’s unlucky affair. The latter was quite a plague, it had been
the topic of conversation all the afternoon in the carriages during the
drive in the Bois de Boulogne; and the ladies always came to this
conclusion, that the husband ought at least to have waited until the
morrow before finding the letter. None but the most intimate friends of
both families sat down to table. The only lively episode was a speech
from uncle Bachelard, whom the Josserands could not very well avoid
inviting, in spite of their terror. He was drunk, indeed, as early as
the roast: he raised his glass, and commenced with these words: “I am
happy in the joy I feel,” which he kept repeating, unable to say
anything further. The other guests smiled complacently. Auguste and
Berthe, already worn out, looked at each other every now and then, with
an air of surprise at seeing themselves opposite one another; and, when
they remembered how this was, they gazed in their plates in a confused
way.
Nearly two hundred invitations had been issued for the ball. The guests
began to arrive as early as half-past nine. Three chandeliers lit up
the large red drawing-room, in which only some seats along the wall had
been left, whilst at one end, in front of the fireplace, the little
orchestra was installed; moreover, a bar had been placed at the
farthest end of an adjoining room, and the two families also had a
small apartment into which they could retire.
As Madame Duveyrier and Madame Josserand were receiving the first
arrivals, that poor Théophile, who had been watched ever since the
morning, was guilty of a most regrettable piece of brutality. Campardon
was asking Valérie to grant him the first waltz. She laughed, and the
husband took it as a provocation.
“You laugh! you laugh!” stammered he. “Tell me who the letter is from?
it must be from somebody, that letter must.”
He had taken the entire afternoon to disengage that one idea from the
confusion into which Octave’s answers had plunged him. Now, he stuck to
it: if it was not Monsieur Mouret, it was then some one else, and he
demanded a name. As Valerie was walking off without answering him, he
seized hold of her arm and twisted it spitefully, with the rage of an
exasperated child, repeating the while:
“I’ll break it. Tell me, who is the letter from?”
The young woman, frightened, and stifling a cry of pain, had become
quite white. Campardon felt her abandoning herself against his
shoulder, succumbing to one of those nervous attacks which would shake
her for hours together. He had scarcely time to lead her into the
apartment reserved for the two families, where he laid her on a sofa.
Some ladies had followed him—Madame Juzeur, Madame Dambreville—who
unlaced her, whilst he discreetly retired.
“Sir, I beg your pardon,” said Théophile, going up to Octave, whose
eyes he had encountered when twisting his wife’s arm. “Every one in my
place would have suspected you; is it not so? But I wish to shake hands
with you, to prove to you that I admit myself to have been in the
wrong.”
He shook hands with him, and led him one side, tortured by a necessity
to unbosom himself, to find a confidant for the outpourings of his
heart.
“Ah! sir, if I were to tell you——”
And he talked for a long while of his wife. When a young girl, she was
delicate, it was said jokingly that marriage would set her right. She
had not sufficient air in her parents’ shop, where, every evening for
three months, she had appeared to him very nice, obedient, of a rather
sad disposition, but charming.
“Well! sir, marriage did not set her right—far from it. After a few
weeks she became terrible; we could no longer agree together. There
were quarrels about nothing at all. Changes of temper at every
minute—laughing, crying, without my knowing why. And absurd sentiments,
ideas that would knock a person down, a perpetual mania for making
people wild. In short, sir, my home has become a hell.”
“It is very remarkable,” murmured Octave, who felt a necessity for
saying something.
Then, the husband, ghastly pale, and drawing himself up on his short
legs, to override the ridiculous, came to what he called the wretched
woman’s bad behavior. Twice he had suspected her; but he was too
honorable; he could not retain such an idea in his head. This time,
though, he was obliged to yield to evidence. It was not possible to
doubt, was it? And, with his trembling fingers, he felt the pocket of
his waistcoat which contained the letter.
“If she did it for money, I might understand it,” added he. “But they
never gave her any; I am sure of that; I should know it. Then, tell me
what it can be that she has in her skin? I am very nice myself; she has
everything at home. I cannot understand it. If you can understand it,
sir, explain it to me, I beg of you.”
“It is very curious, very curious,” repeated Octave, embarrassed by all
these disclosures, and trying to make his escape.
But the husband, in a state of fever, and tormented by a want of
certitude, would not let him go. At this moment, Madame Juzeur,
reappearing, went and whispered a word to Madame Josserand, who was
greeting the arrival of a big jeweler of the Palais-Royal with a grand
curtesy; and she, quite upset, hastened to follow her.
“I think that your wife has a very violent attack,” observed Octave to
Théophile.
“Never mind her!” replied the latter in a fury, vexed at not being ill,
so as to be coddled up also; “she is only to pleased to have an attack!
It always puts every one on her side. My health is no better than hers,
yet I have never deceived her!”
Madame Josserand did not return. The rumor circulated among the
intimate friends that Valérie was struggling in frightful convulsions.
There should have been men present to hold her down; but, as they had
been obliged to half undress her, they declined Trublot’s and Gueulin’s
offers of assistance.
“Doctor Juillerat! where is Doctor Juillerat?” asked Madame Josserand,
rushing back into the room.
The doctor had been invited, but no one had as yet seen him. Then she
no longer strove to hide the slumbering rage which had been collecting
within her since the morning. She spoke out before Octave and
Campardon, without mincing her words.
“I am beginning to have enough of it. It is not very pleasant for my
daughter, all this cuckoldom paraded before us!”
She looked about for Hortense, and at length caught sight of her
talking to a gentleman, of whom she could only see the back, but whom
she recognized by its breadth. It was Verdier. This increased her
ill-humor. She sharply called the young girl to her, and, lowering her
voice, told her that she would do better to remain at her mother’s
disposal on such a day as that. Hortense did not listen to the
reprimand. She was triumphant; Verdier had just fixed their marriage at
two months from then, in June.
“Shut up!” said the mother.
“I assure you, mamma. He already sleeps out three nights a week so as
to accustom the other to it, and in a fortnight he will stop away
altogether. Then it will be all over, and I shall have him.”
“Shut up! I have already had more than enough of your romance! You will
just oblige me by waiting near the door for Doctor Juillerat, and by
sending him to me the moment he arrives. And, above all, not a word of
all this to your sister!”
She returned to the adjoining room, leaving Hortense muttering that,
thank goodness! she required no one’s approbation, and that they would
all be nicely caught one day, when they saw her make a better marriage
than the others. Yet, she went to the door, and watched for the
doctor’s arrival.
The orchestra was now playing a waltz. Berthe was dancing with one of
her husband’s young cousins, so as to dispose of the relations in turn.
All the guests had an air of amusing themselves immensely, and
expatiated before them on the liveliness of the ball. It was, according
to Campardon, a liveliness of a good standard.
The architect, with an effusion of gallantry, concerned himself a great
deal about Valérie’s condition, without, however, missing a dance. He
had the idea to send his daughter Angèle for news in his name. The
child, whose fourteen years had been burning with curiosity since the
morning around the lady that every one was talking about, was delighted
at being able to penetrate into the little room. And, as she did not
return, the architect was obliged to take the liberty of slightly
opening the door and thrusting his head in. He beheld his daughter
standing up beside the sofa, deeply absorbed by the sight of Valérie,
whose bosom, shaken by spasms, had escaped from the unhooked bodice.
Protestations arose, the ladies called to him not to come in; and he
withdrew, assuring them that he merely wished to know how she was
getting on.
“She is no better, she is no better,” said he, in a melancholy way to
the persons who happened to be near the door. “There are four of them
holding her. How strong a woman must be, to be able to bound about like
that without hurting herself!”
[Illustration]
But Doctor Juillerat quickly crossed the ball-room, accompanied by
Hortense, who was explaining matters to him. Madame Duveyrier followed
them. Some persons showed their surprise, more rumors circulated.
Scarcely had the doctor disappeared than Madame Josserand left the
little room with Madame Dambreville. Her rage was increasing; she had
just emptied two water bottles over Valerie’s head; never before had
she seen a woman as nervous as that. Then she had decided to make the
round of the ball-room, so as to stop all remarks by her presence.
Only, she walked with such a terrible step, she distributed such sour
smiles, that every one behind her was let into the secret.
Madame Dambreville did not leave her. Ever since the morning she had
been speaking to her of Léon, making vague complaints, trying to bring
her to speak to her son, so as to patch up their connection. She drew
her attention to him, as he was conducting a tall, scraggy girl back to
her place, and to whom he made a show of being very assiduous.
“He abandons us,” said she, with a slight laugh, trembling with
suppressed tears. “Scold him now, for not so much as looking at us.”
“Léon!” called Madame Josserand.
When he came to her, she added roughly, not being in the temper to
choose her words:
“Why are you angry with madame? She bears you no ill-will. Make it up
with her. It does no good to be ill-tempered.”
And she left them embarrassed before each other. Madame Dambreville
took Léon’s arm, and they went and conversed in the recess of a window;
then they tenderly left the ball-room together. She had sworn to
arrange his marriage in the autumn.
Madame Josserand, who continued to distribute smiles, was overcome by
emotion when she found herself before Berthe, who was out of breath at
having danced so much, and looked quite rosy in her white dress, which
was becoming rumpled. She clasped her in her arms, and almost fainted
away at a vague association of ideas, recalling, no doubt, the other
one, whose face was so frightfully convulsed:
“My poor darling, my poor darling!” murmured she, giving her two big
kisses.
Then Berthe calmly asked:
“How is she?”
At this, Madame Josserand at once became very sour again. What! Berthe
knew it! Why of course she knew it, every one knew it. Her husband
alone, whom she pointed out conducting an old lady to the refreshment
bar, was still ignorant of the story. She even intended to get some one
to tell him everything, for it made him appear too stupid to be always
behind every one else, and never to know anything.
“And I, who have been slaving to hide the catastrophe” said Madame
Josserand, beside herself. “Ah, well! I shall not put myself out any
more, it must be put a stop to. I will not tolerate their making you
ridiculous.”
Every one did indeed know it. Only, so as not to cast a gloom over the
ball, it was not talked about.
“She is better,” Campardon, who had taken another peep, hastened to
say. “One can go in.”
A few male friends ventured to enter. Valerie was still lying down,
only the attack was passing off; and, out of decency, they had covered
her bosom with a napkin, found lying on a sideboard. Madame Juzeur and
Madame Duveyrier were standing before the window listening to Doctor
Juillerat, who was explaining that the attacks sometimes yielded to hot
water applications to the neck.
But the invalid, having seen Octave enter with Campardon, called him to
her by a sign, and spoke a few incoherent words to him in a final
hallucination. He had to sit down beside her, at the doctor’s express
order, who was desirous above all not to thwart her; and thus the young
man listened to her disclosures, he who, during the evening, had
already heard the husband’s. She trembled with fright, she took him for
her lover, and implored him to hide her. Then she recognized him, and
burst into tears, thanking him for his lie of the morning during mass.
Octave thought of that other attack, of which he had wished to take
advantage, with the greedy desire of a school-boy. Now, he was her
friend, and she would tell him everything, perhaps it would be better.
At this moment, Théophile, who had continued to wander up and down
before the door, wished to enter. Other men were there, so he could
very well be there himself. But his appearance created a regular panic.
On hearing his voice, Valérie was again seized with a fit of trembling,
every one thought she was about to have another attack. He, imploring,
and struggling amongst the ladies, whose arms thrust him back, kept
obstinately repeating:
“I only ask her for the name. Let her tell me the name.”
Then, Madame Josserand, arriving, gave vent to her wrath. She drew
Théophile into the little room, to hide the scandal; and said to him
furiously:
“Look here! will you shut up? Ever since this morning you have been
badgering us with your stupidities. You have no tact, sir; yes, you
have absolutely no tact at all! One should not harp on such things on a
wedding day.”
“Excuse me, madame,” murmured he, “this is my business, and does not
concern you!”
“What! it does not concern me? but I form part of your family now, sir,
and do you think your affair amuses me on account of my daughter? Ah!
you have given her a pretty wedding! Not another word, sir, you are
deficient in tact!”
This cry closed his mouth. He was so scared, so feeble looking, with
his slender limbs, and his face like a girl’s, that the ladies smiled
slightly. When one had not the facilities for making a woman happy, one
ought not to marry. Hortense weighed him with a disdainful glance;
little Angèle, whom they had forgotten, hovered round him, with her sly
air, as though she had been looking for something; and he drew back
embarrassed, and blushed when he saw them all, so big and plump,
hemming him in with their sturdy hips. But they felt the necessity of
patching up the matter. Valérie had started off sobbing again, whilst
the doctor continued to bathe her temples. Then they understood one
another with a glance, a common feeling of defense drew them together.
They puzzled their brains, trying to explain the letter to the husband.
“Pooh!” murmured Trublot, who had just rejoined Octave, “it is easy
enough; they have only to say the letter was addressed to the servant.”
Madame Josserand heard him. She turned round and looked at him with a
glance full of admiration. Then, turning toward Théophile:
“Does an innocent woman lower herself to give explanations, when
accused with such brutality? Still, I may speak. The letter was dropped
by Françoise, that maid whom your wife had to pack off on account of
her bad conduct. There, are you satisfied? do you not blush with
shame?”
At first the husband shrugged his shoulders. But the ladies all
remained serious, answering his objections with very strong reasoning.
He was shaken, when, to complete his discomfiture, Madame Duveyrier got
angry, telling him that his conduct had been abominable, and that she
disowned him. Then, vanquished, and feeling a longing to be kissed, he
threw his arms round Valérie’s neck, and begged her pardon. It was most
touching. Even Madame Josserand was deeply affected.
“It is always best to come to an understanding,” said she, with relief.
“The day will not end so badly, after all.”
When they had dressed Valérie again, and she appeared in the ball-room
on Theophile’s arm, the joy seemed to be redoubled. It was close upon
three o’clock, the guests were beginning to leave; but the orchestra
continued to get through the quadrilles with great gusto. Some of the
men smiled behind the backs of the reconciled couple. A medical remark
of Campardon’s, respecting that poor Théophile, quite delighted Madame
Juzeur. The young girls hastened to stare at Valérie; then they put on
their stupid looks before their mothers’ scandalized glances. Berthe,
who was at length dancing with her husband, must have whispered a word
or two in his ear; for Auguste, made aware of what had been taking
place, turned his head round, and, without getting out of step, looked
at his brother Théophile with the surprise and the superiority of a man
to whom such things cannot happen. There was a final galop, the guests
were getting more free in the stifling heat and the reddish light of
the candles, the vacillating flames of which caused the pendants of the
chandeliers to sparkle.
“You are very intimate with her?” asked Madame Hédouin, as she whirled
round on Octave’s arm, having accepted his invitation to dance.
The young man fancied he felt a slight quiver in her frame, so erect
and so calm.
“Not at all,” said he. “They mixed me up in the matter, which annoys me
immensely. The poor devil swallowed everything.”
“It is very wrong,” declared she, in her grave voice.
No doubt Octave was mistaken. When he withdrew his arm from her waist,
Madame Hédouin was not even panting, her eyes were clear, and her hair
not the least disarranged. But a scandal upset the end of the ball.
Uncle Bachelard, who had finished himself off at the refreshment bar,
ventured on a lively idea. He had suddenly been seen dancing, a most
indecent step before Gueulin. Some napkins rolled round and stuffed in
front of his buttoned-up coat, gave him the bosom of a wet-nurse, and
two big oranges placed on the napkins, behind the lapels, displayed
their roundness, in the sanguineous redness of an excoriated skin. This
time every one protested: though one may earn heaps of money, yet there
are limits which a man who respects himself should never go beyond,
especially before young persons. Monsieur Josserand, ashamed and in
despair, drew his brother-in-law away. Duveyrier displayed the greatest
disgust.
At four o’clock the newly married couple returned to the Rue de
Choiseul. They brought Théophile and Valérie back in their carriage. As
they went up to the second floor, where an apartment had been prepared
for them, they came across Octave, who was also retiring to rest. The
young man wished to draw politely on one side, but Berthe made a
similar movement, and they knocked up against each other.
“Oh! excuse me, mademoiselle,” said he.
The word “mademoiselle” amused them immensely. She looked at him, and
he recalled the first glance exchanged between them on that same
staircase, a glance of gayety and daring, the charming welcome of which
he again beheld. They understood each other perhaps; she blushed,
whilst he went up alone to his room, in the midst of the death-like
peacefulness of the upper floors.
Auguste, with his left eye closed up, half mad with the headache which
had been clinging to him since the morning, was already in the
apartment, where the other members of the family were arriving. Then,
at the moment of quitting Berthe, Valérie yielded to a sudden fit of
emotion, and pressing her in her arms, and completing the rumpling of
her white dress, she kissed her, saying, in a low voice:
“Ah! my dear, I wish you better luck than I have had!”