When Octave went down on the morrow at eight o’clock, he was greatly
surprised to find the entire house acquainted with the attack of the
night before, and the desperate condition of the landlord. The house,
however, was not concerned about the patient: it was solely interested
in what he would leave behind him.
The Pichons were seated before some basins of chocolate in their little
dining-room. Jules called Octave in.
“I say, what a fuss there will be if he dies like that! We shall see
something funny. Do you know if he has made a will?”
The young man, without answering, asked them where they had heard the
news. Marie had learnt it at the baker’s; moreover, it crept from story
to story, and even to the end of the street by means of the servants.
Then, after slapping Lilitte, who was soaking her fingers in her
chocolate, the young woman observed in her turn:
“Ah! all that money! If he only thought of leaving us as many sous as
there are five franc pieces. But there is no fear of that!”
And, as Octave took his departure, she added:
“I have finished your books, Monsieur Mouret. Will you please take them
when convenient?”
He was hastening down-stairs, feeling anxious, as he recollected having
promised Madame Duveyrier to send Berthe to her before anything was
known of the matter, when, on the third floor, he came in contact with
Campardon, who was going out.
“Well!” said the latter, “so your employer is coming in for something.
I have heard that the old fellow has close upon six hundred thousand
francs, besides this property. You see, he spent nothing at the
Duveyriers’, and he had a good deal left of what he brought from
Versailles, without counting the twenty and odd thousand francs
received in rent from the house. Eh? it is a fine cake to share, when
there are only three to partake of it!”
Whilst talking thus, he continued to go down behind Octave. But, on the
second floor, they met Madame Juzeur, who was returning from seeing
what her little maid, Louise, could be doing of a morning, taking over
an hour to fetch four sous’ worth of milk. She entered naturally into
the conversation, being very well informed.
“It is not known how he has settled his affairs,” murmured she in her
gentle way. “There will perhaps be some bother.”
“Ah, well!” said the architect, gayly, “I should like to be in their
shoes. It would not take long. One makes three equal shares, each takes
his own, and there you are!”
Madame Juzeur leant over the balusters, then raised her head, and made
sure that no one else was on the stairs. At length, lowering her voice,
she observed:
“And if they did not find what they expected? There are rumors about.”
The architect opened his eyes wide with amazement. Then he shrugged his
shoulders. Pooh! mere gossip! Old Vabre was a miser who hid his savings
in worsted stockings. And he went off, as he had an appointment at
Saint-Roch with the Abbé Mauduit.
“My wife complains of you,” said he to Octave, looking back, after
going down three stairs. “Call in and have a chat with her now and
then.”
Madame Juzeur detained the young man a moment.
“And I, how you neglect me! I thought you loved me a little. When you
come, I will let you taste a liquor from the West Indies, oh! something
delicious!”
Octave at length entered the warehouse. The first person he beheld,
seated at the cashier’s desk, was Madame Josserand under arms, polished
up and laced, and her hair already done. Close beside her, Berthe, who
had no doubt come down in haste, in the charming deshabille of a
dressing-gown, appeared to be very excited. But they stopped talking on
catching sight of him, and the mother looked at him with a terrible
eye.
“So, sir,” said she, “it is thus that you love the firm? You enter into
the plots of my daughter’s enemies.”
He wished to defend himself, and state the facts of the case. But she
prevented him from speaking, she accused him of having spent the night
with the Duveyriers, looking for the will, to insert all sorts of
things in it. And, as he laughed, asking what interest he could have
had in doing such a thing, she resumed:
“Your own interest, your own interest. In short! sir, you should have
hastened to inform us, as God was good enough to make you a witness of
the occurrence. When one thinks that, had it not been for me, my
daughter might still have been in ignorance of it! Yes, she would have
been despoiled, had I not run down-stairs the moment I heard the news.
Eh! your interest, your interest, sir, who knows? Though Madame
Duveyrier is very faded, yet some people, not over particular, may
still find her good enough, perhaps.”
“Oh! mamma!” said Berthe, “Clotilde, who is so virtuous!” But Madame
Josserand shrugged her shoulders pityingly.
“Pooh! you know very well people will do anything for money!” Octave
was obliged to relate to them all the circumstances of the attack. They
exchanged glances: as the mother said, there had evidently been
maneuvers. Clotilde was really too kind to wish to spare her relations’
emotions! However, they let the young man start on his work, though
still having their doubts as to his conduct in the matter. Their lively
explanation continued:
“And who will pay the fifty thousand francs agreed upon in the
contract?” said Madame Josserand. “We are not likely to see a single
one of them when he is dead and buried.”
“Oh! the fifty thousand francs!” murmured Berthe, in an embarrassed
way. “You know he only agreed, as we did, to pay ten thousand francs
every six months. The time is not up yet; the best thing is to wait.”
“Wait! wait till he comes back and brings them to you, I suppose! You
great blockhead, do you want to be robbed? No, no! you must demand them
at once out of the estate. As for us, we are still alive, thank
goodness! It is not known whether we shall pay or not; but with him it
is another thing; as he is dead, he must pay.”
And she made her daughter swear not to yield, for she had never given
any one the right to take her for a fool.
“Go up too!” she ended by exclaiming, in a cry from her heart: “Auguste
is too weak; they are sure to be taking him in again!” Then Berthe went
off up-stairs. Octave, who was arranging the display in the window, had
listened to what they said. When he found himself alone with Madame
Josserand, and saw her moving in the direction of the door, he asked
her, in the hope of a holiday, whether it would not be proper to close
the warehouse.
“Whatever for?” inquired she. “Wait till he is dead. It is not worth
while losing a day’s sale.”
Then, as he folded a remnant of poppy-colored silk, she added, to
soften the harshness of her words:
“Only, you may as well, I think, not put any red in the window.”
Up on the first floor, Berthe found Auguste with his father. The room
had in no way changed since the day before; it was still dampish and
silent, save for the same long and painful death-rattle. The old man on
the bed continued perfectly rigid, in a complete annihilation of all
feeling and movement.
“Ah! my dear, what a frightful visitation!” said Clotilde, going up to
and embracing Berthe.
“Why not have informed us of it?” asked the latter, with her mother’s
affected pout. “We were there to help you to bear it.” Auguste, with a
glance, begged her to keep silent. The moment for quarreling had not
arrived. They could wait. Doctor Juillerat, who had already been once,
was to call again; but he still gave no hope; the patient would not
live through the day. Auguste was informing his wife of this, when
Théophile and Valérie entered in their turn. Clotilde at once advanced
to meet them, and repeated, as she embraced Valérie:
“What a frightful visitation, my dear!”
But Théophile was in a state of great excitement. “So, now,” said he,
without even lowering his voice, “when one’s father is dying one only
hears of it through the charcoal dealer. Did you, then, require time to
rifle his pockets?”
Duveyrier rose up indignantly. But Clotilde motioned him aside, whilst
she answered her brother very gently:
“Unhappy man! is our father’s death agony not even sacred to you? Look
at him; behold your work! yes, it is you who have brought him to this,
by refusing to pay your overdue rent.”
Valérie burst out laughing.
“Come,” said she, “you are not speaking seriously.”
“What! not speaking seriously!” resumed Clotilde, filled with
indignation. “You know how much he liked to collect his rents. Had you
really wished to kill him, you could not have acted in a better way.”
And they came to high words; they reciprocally accused one another of
wishing to lay hands on the estate, when Auguste, still sullen and
calm, requested them to recollect where they were.
“Keep quiet! You have plenty of time. It is not decent at such a
moment.”
Then the others, admitting the justice of this observation, settled
themselves around the bed. A deep silence ensued; again nothing but the
death rattle was heard in the moist atmosphere of the room. Berthe and
Auguste were at the dying man’s feet; Valérie and Théophile, being the
last comers, had been obliged to seat themselves at the table, some
distance off; whilst Clotilde was at the head of the bed, with her
husband behind her; and she had pushed her son Gustave, whom the old
man adored, close up against the edge of the mattresses. They now all
looked at one another, without exchanging a word. But the bright eyes,
the tightly-compressed lips, told of the hidden thoughts, the surmises
full of anxiety and irritation, which were passing in the pale-faced
heads of those next-of-kin, with their red and swollen eyelids. The
sight of the collegian, so close to the bed, especially exasperated the
two young couples; for it was self-evident that the Duveyriers were
counting on Gustave’s presence to influence the grandfather’s
affections if he recovered consciousness.
Moreover, this maneuver was a proof that in all probability no will
existed; and the Vabres glanced covertly at the old iron safe which the
retired notary had brought with him from Versailles and had had fixed
in the wall of his bed-chamber. He had a mania for shutting up all
sorts of things inside it. No doubt the Duveyriers had hastened to
ransack this safe during the night. Théophile had the idea of laying a
trap for them to compel them to speak.
“I say,” he at length went and whispered in the counselor’s ear,
“suppose we send for the notary. Papa may wish to alter his will.”
Duveyrier did not at first hear. As he felt excessively bored in that
room, he had allowed his thoughts all through the night to revert to
Clarisse. The wisest thing would decidedly be to make it up with his
wife; but then the other was so funny, when she threw her chemise over
her head, with the gesture of a street-arab; and with his vague glance
fixed on the dying man, he still had visions of her, and would have
given everything to have had her with him again. Théophile was obliged
to repeat his question.
“I have questioned Monsieur Renandin,” at length answered the counselor
in a bewildered way. “There is no will.”
“But here?”
“No more here than at the notary’s.”
Théophile looked at Auguste; was it not sufficiently evident? the
Duveyriers had searched everything. Clotilde saw the glance, and was
greatly irritated with her husband. What was the matter with him? was
grief sending him to sleep? And she added:
“Papa has no doubt done what he thought right. We shall learn it only
too soon, heaven knows!”
Meanwhile, the hours passed away. At eleven o’clock they had a
diversion, Doctor Juillerat again calling. The patient’s condition was
becoming worse and worse, it was now even doubtful whether he would be
able to recognize his children before dying. And the sobbing started
afresh when Clémence announced the Abbe Mand-uit. Clotilde, who rose to
meet him, was the first to receive his consolations. He appeared to be
deeply affected by the family visitation; he had an encouraging word
for each. Then, with much tact, he talked of the rites of religion,
insinuating that they should not let that soul pass away without the
succor of the Church.
“I had thought of it,” murmured Clotilde.
But Théophile raised objections. The father was not at all religious;
he had at one time very advanced ideas, for he was a reader of
Voltaire’s works; in short, the best thing was to do nothing, as they
were unable to consult him. In the heat of the discussion, he even
added:
“It is as though you brought the sacrament to that piece of furniture.”
The three women compelled him to leave off. They were all trembling
with emotion, and said that the priest was right, whilst they excused
themselves for not having sent for him before, through the confusion in
which the catastrophe had plunged them. Monsieur Vabre would certainly
have consented had he been able to speak, for he had a horror of acting
different to other people. Moreover, the ladies would take the
responsibility on their own shoulders.
“It should be done, if only on account of the neighbors,” repeated
Clotilde.
“No doubt,” said the Abbé Mauduit, who hastened to give his approval.
“A man of your father’s position should set a good example.”
Auguste had no opinion either way. But Duveyrier, aroused from his
recollections of Clarisse, whose way of putting on her stockings with
one leg in the air he was just then thinking of, energetically demanded
the sacraments. They were absolutely necessary; not a member of the
family should die without them. Doctor Juillerat, who had discreetly
moved on one side, hiding his freethinker’s disdain, then went up to
the priest, and said familiarly to him, in a whisper, the same as to a
colleague often encountered under similar circumstances:
“Be quick; you have no time to lose.”
The priest hastened to take his departure. He announced that he would
bring the sacrament and the extreme unction, so as to be prepared for
every emergency. And Théophile, in his obstinacy, murmured:
“Ah, well! so dying people are now made to receive the communion in
spite of themselves!”
But they all at once experienced a great emotion. On regaining her
place, Clotilde had found the dying man with his eyes wide open. She
could not repress a faint cry; the others hastened to the bedside; and
the old fellow’s glance slowly wandered round the circle, without the
least movement of his head. Doctor Juillerat, with an air of surprise,
came and bent over his patient, to follow this last crisis.
“Father, it is us; do you know us?” asked Clotilde.
Monsieur Vabre looked at her fixedly; then his lips moved, but not a
sound came from them. They were all pushing one another, wishing to
secure his last word. Valérie, who found herself right at the rear, and
obliged therefore to stand on tip-toe, said, harshly:
“You are stifling him. Do move away from him. If he desired anything,
no one would be able to know.”
The others had to draw on one side. And Monsieur Vabre’s eyes were
indeed looking round the room.
“He wants something, that is certain,” murmured Berthe.
“Here’s Gustave,” said Clotilde. “You see him, do you not? He has come
expressly from school to embrace you. Kiss your grandfather, my child.”
As the youngster drew back, frightened, she kept him there with her
arm, whilst she waited a smile on the dying man’s distorted features.
But Auguste, who had been watching his eyes, declared that he was
looking at the table; no doubt he wished to write. This caused quite a
shock. All tried to be first. They brought the table to the bedside,
and fetched some paper, an inkstand, and a pen. Then they raised him,
propping him up with three pillows. The doctor gave his consent to all
this with a simple blink of the eyes.
“Give him the pen,” said Clotilde, quivering, and without leaving go of
Gustave, whom she continued to hold toward him.
Then came a solemn moment. The relations, pressed round the bed,
awaited anxiously. Monsieur Vabre, who did not appear to recognize any
one, had let the penholder drop from his fingers. For a moment his eyes
wandered over the table, on which was the oak box full of tickets.
Then, slipping from off his pillows, and falling forward like a piece
of rag, he stretched out his arm in a final effort, and, plunging his
hand among the tickets, he dabbled about in the happy manner of a baby
playing with something dirty. He brightened up, and wished to speak,
but he could only lisp one syllable, ever the same, one of those
syllables into which brats in swaddling-clothes put a whole host of
sensations.
“Ga—ga—ga—ga——-”
It was to the work of his life, to his great statistical study, that he
was bidding good-bye. Suddenly his head rolled over. He was dead.
“I expected as much,” murmured the doctor, who, seeing how scared the
relations were, carefully laid him out, and closed his eyes.
Was it possible? Auguste had removed the table; they all remained
chilled and dumb. Soon their sobs burst forth. Well! as there was
nothing more to hope for, they would manage all the same to share the
fortune. And Clotilde, after hastening to send Gustave away, to spare
him the frightful spectacle, gave free vent to her tears, her head
leaning against Berthe, who was sobbing the same as Valérie. Standing
at the window, Théophile and Auguste were roughly rubbing their eyes.
But Duveyrier, especially, exhibited a most extraordinary amount of
grief, stifling heart-rending sobs in his handkerchief. No, really, he
could not live without Clarisse; he would rather die at once, like the
other one there; and the loss of his mistress, coming in the midst of
all this mourning, caused him immense bitterness.
“Madame,” announced Clémence, “here are the sacraments.”
Abbé Mauduit appeared on the threshold. Behind his shoulder, one caught
a glimpse of the face full of curiosity of a boy chorister. On
beholding the display of grief, the priest questioned the doctor with a
glance, whilst the latter extended his arms, as though to say it was
not his fault. So, after mumbling a few prayers, Abbé Mauduit withdrew
with an air of embarrassment, taking his paraphernalia along with him.
“It is a bad sign,” said Clémence to the other servants, standing in a
group at the door of the ante-room. “The sacraments are not to be
brought for nothing. You will see they will be back in the house before
another year goes by.”
Monsieur Vabre’s funeral did not take place till the day after the
morrow. Duveyrier, all the same, had inserted in the circulars
announcing his demise, the words, “provided with the sacraments of the
Church.”
As the warehouse did not open on that day, Octave was free. This
holiday delighted him, as, for a long time past, he had wished to put
his room straight, alter the position of some of the furniture, and
arrange his few books in a little bookcase he had bought second-hand.
He had risen earlier than usual, and was just finishing what he was
about toward eight o’clock on the morning of the funeral, when Marie
knocked at the door. She had brought him back a heap of books.
“As you do not come for them,” said she, “I am delighted to take the
trouble to return them to you.”
But she blushingly refused to enter, shocked at the idea of being in a
young man’s room. Their intimate relations had, moreover, completely
ceased, in quite a natural manner, because he had not returned to her.
And she remained quite as affectionate with him, always greeting him
with a smile whenever they met.
Octave was very merry that morning. He wished to tease her.
“So it is Jules who won’t let you come into my room?” he kept saying.
“How do you get on with Jules now? Is he amiable? Yes, you know what I
mean. Answer now!”
She laughed, and was not at all scandalized.
“Why, of course! whenever you take him out, you treat him to vermouth,
and tell him things which send him home like a madman. Oh I he is too
amiable. You know, I don’t ask for so much. Still, I prefer it should
take place at home than elsewhere, that’s very certain.”
She became serious again, and added:
“Here, I have brought you back your Balzac, I was not able to finish
it. It’s too sad. That gentleman has nothing but disagreeable things to
tell one!”
When Octave was dressed, he remembered his promise to go and see Madame
Campardon. He had two good hours to while away, the funeral being timed
for eleven o’clock, and he thought of utilizing his morning in making a
few calls in the house. Rose received him in bed: he apologized,
fearing that he disturbed her; but she herself called him in. They saw
so little of him, and she was so delighted at having some one to talk
to.
“Ah! my dear child,” declared she at once, “it is I who ought to be
below, nailed up between four planks!”
Yes, the landlord was very lucky, he had finished with existence. And
Octave, surprised at finding her a prey to such melancholy, asked her
if she felt worse.
“No, thank you. It is always the same. Only there are times when I have
had enough of it. Achille has been obliged to have a bed put up in his
work-room, because it annoyed me whenever he moved in the night. And
you know that Gasparine has yielded to our entreaties, and has left the
drapery establishment. I am very grateful to her, she nurses me so
tenderly! Ah! I could no longer live were it not for all these kind
affections around me!”
Just then, Gasparine, with her submissive air of a poor relation,
fallen to the rank of a servant, brought her a cup of coffee and some
bread and butter. She helped her to raise herself, propped her up
against some cushions, and served her on a little tray covered with a
napkin. And Rose, dressed in a little loose embroidered jacket, ate
with a hearty appetite, amidst the linen, edged with lace. She was
quite fresh, looking younger than ever, and very pretty, with her white
skin, and short, fair, curly hair.
“Oh! the stomach is all right, it is not the stomach that is ailing,”
she kept saying, as she soaked her slices of bread and butter.
Two tears dropped into her coffee. Then Gasparine scolded her.
“If you cry, I shall call Achille. Are you not pleased? are you not
sitting there like a queen?”
When Madame Campardon had finished, and she again found herself alone
with Octave, she was quite consoled. Out of coquetry, she again
returned to the subject of death, but with the gentle gayety of a woman
idling away the morning between her warm sheets. Well! she would go off
all the same, when her turn came; only, they were right, she was not
unhappy, she could let herself live; for, in point of fact, they spared
her all the main cares of life.
Then, as the young man rose to leave, she added:
“Now, do try and come oftener? Amuse yourself well, don’t let the
funeral make you too sad. One dies a trifle every day, the thing is to
get used to it.”
It was the little maid Louise who opened the door to Octave at Madame
Juzeur’s, on the same landing. She ushered him into the drawing-room,
looked at him a moment as she laughed in her bewildered sort of way,
and then ended by stating that her mistress was just finishing
dressing. Madame Juzeur appeared almost at once, dressed in black, and
looking gentler and more refined than ever in her mourning.
“I felt sure you would call this morning,” sighed she with a weary air.
“All night long I have been dreaming and seeing you. It is impossible
to sleep, you understand, with that corpse in the house!”
And she admitted that she had got up three times in the night to look
under the furniture.
“But you should have called me!” said the young man, gallantly. “Two in
a bed are never frightened.”
She assumed a charming air of shame.
“Hold your tongue, it’s naughty!”
And she held her open hand over his lips. He was naturally obliged to
kiss it. Then she spread the fingers out, laughing the while as though
being tickled. But he, excited by this play, sought to push matters
farther. He had caught hold of her, and was pressing her against his
breast, without her making the least attempt to free herself.
In her determination there was a sort of jesuitical reserve, a fear of
the confessional, a certainty of having her minor sins forgiven, whilst
the great one would cause her no end of unpleasantness with her
spiritual director. Then, there were other unavowed sentiments, her
honor and self-esteem blended together, the coquetry of always having
the advantage of men by never satisfying them, and a shrewd personal
enjoyment in being smothered with kisses, without any after
consequences. She liked this better, and she stuck to it; not a man
could flatter himself of having succeeded with her, since her husband’s
cowardly desertion. And she was a respectable woman!
“No, sir; not one! Ah! I can hold up my head, I can! What a number of
wretched women, in my position, would have misconducted themselves!”
She pushed him gently aside, and rose from the sofa.
“Leave me. It worries me so much, does that corpse downstairs. It seems
to me that the whole house smells of it.”
Meanwhile the time for the funeral was approaching. She wished to be at
the church beforehand, so as not to see all the funeral trappings. But,
while escorting him to the door, she recollected having mentioned her
liquor; she therefore made him come in again, and fetched the bottle
and a couple of glasses herself. It was a very sweet cream, with a
perfume of flowers. When she had drank of it, a greediness, like that
of a little girl, gave an air of languid delight to her face. She could
have lived on sugar; vanilla and rose-scented sweeties had the same
effect on her as an amorous caress.
“It will sustain us,” said she.
And, when he kissed her on the mouth in the ante-room, she closed her
eyes. Their sugary lips seemed to be melting like sweetmeats.
It was close upon eleven o’clock. The coffin had not been brought down
for exhibition, as the undertaker’s men; after wasting their time at a
neighboring wine shop, had not finished putting up the hangings. Octave
went to have a look out of curiosity. The porch was already closed in
at the back by a large black curtain, but the men had still to fix the
hangings over the door. And outside on the pavement a group of
maid-servants were gossiping with their noses in the air; whilst
Hippolyte, dressed in deep mourning, hastened on the work with a
dignified air.
Then Madame Gourd, who had remained in her arm-chair on account of her
poor legs, rose painfully on her feet. As she was quite unable to get
even as far as the church, Monsieur Gourd had told her to be sure and
salute the landlord’s corpse when it passed their room. It was a matter
of duty. She went to the door with a mourning cap on her head, and
curtesied as the coffin went by.
At Saint-Roch, Doctor Juillerat made a show of not going inside during
the ceremony. There was, however, a tremendous crowd, and quite a group
of men preferred to remain on the steps. The weather was very mild—a
superb June day. And, as they were unable to smoke, their conversation
turned upon politics. The principal door was left open, and at moments
the sound of the organs issued from the church, which was draped in
black and filled with lighted tapers, looking like so many stars.
“You know that Monsieur Thiers will stand for our district next year,”
announced Léon Josserand, in his grave way.
“Ah!” said the doctor. “Of course you will not vote for him—you are a
Republican?”
The young man, whose opinions cooled down the more Madame Dambreville
introduced him into good society, curtly answered:
“Why not? He is the declared adversary of the Empire.”
Then a heated discussion ensued. Léon talked of tactics, whilst Doctor
Juillerat stuck to principles. According to the latter, the middle
classes had had their day; they were an obstacle in the road of the
Revolution; now that they had acquired property, they barred the future
with greater obstinacy and blindness than the old nobility.
“You are afraid of everything; you go in for the very worst reaction
the moment you fancy yourself threatened!”
At this Campardon flew into a passion.
“I, sir, have been a Jacobin and an atheist like you. But, thank
heaven! reason came to me. No, I will not even stoop to your Monsieur
Thiers. A blunderhead—a man who amuses himself with chimeras!”
However, all the Liberals present—Monsieur Josserand, Octave, Trublot
even, who did not care a straw, declared that they would vote for
Monsieur Thiers. The official candidate was a great chocolate
manufacturer of the Rue Saint-Honoré, Monsieur Dewinck, whom they
chaffed immensely. This Monsieur Dewinck had not even the support of
the clergy, who were uneasy at his relations with the Tuileries.
Campardon, decidedly gone over to the priests, greeted his name with
reserve. Then, suddenly changing the subject, he exclaimed:
“Look here! the bullet which wounded your Garibaldi in the foot ought
to have pierced his heart!”
And, so as not to be seen any longer in the company of these gentlemen,
he entered the church, where the Abbé Mauduit’s shrill voice was
responding to the lamentations of the chanters.
“He sleeps there now,” murmured the doctor, shrugging his shoulders.
“Ah! what a clean sweep ought to be made of it all!” The Roman question
interested him immensely. Then, as Léon reminded them of the words of
the Cabinet Minister to the Senate that the Empire had sprung from the
Revolution, only in order to keep it within bounds, they returned to
the coming elections. All were agreed upon the necessity of giving the
Emperor a lesson; but they were beginning to be troubled with anxiety,
they were already divided respecting the candidates, whose names gave
rise to visions of the red specter at night time. Close to them
Monsieur Gourd, dressed as correctly as a diplomatist, listened with
supreme contempt to what they were saying; he was for the powers that
be, pure and simple.
The service was drawing to a close; a long, melancholy wail which
issued from the depths of the church, silenced them.
“_Requiescat in pace!_”
“_Amen!_”
Whilst the body was being lowered into the grave at the Père-Lachaise
cemetery, Trublot, who had not let go of Octave’s arm, saw him exchange
another smile with Madame Juzeur.
“Ah! yes,” murmured he, “the very unhappy little woman. Anything you
like except that!”
Octave started. What! Trublot also! The latter made a gesture of
disdain: no, not he, one of his friends. And, moreover, everybody who
cared for that kind of thing.
“Excuse me,” added he. “As the old fellow’s now stowed away, I will go
and render Duveyrier an account of something which I undertook to see
after for him.”
The relations were retiring, silent and doleful. Then Trublot detained
the counselor behind the others, to tell him that he had seen
Clarisse’s maid; but he did not know the new address, the maid having
left Clarisse the day before she moved out, after a battle royal. It
was the last hope which had flown. Duveyrier buried his face in his
handkerchief, and rejoined the other relations.
That very evening quarrels commenced, The family found itself in the
presence of a disaster. Monsieur Vabre, with that skeptical
carelessness which notaries occasionally display, had not left any
will. All the furniture was ransacked in vain, and the worst was that
there was not a rap of the expected six or seven hundred thousand
francs, neither money, title-deeds nor shares; they discovered merely
seven hundred and thirty-four francs in ten-sou pieces, the hoard of a
silly, paralytic old man. And undeniable traces, a note-book covered
with figures, letters from stockbrokers, opened the eyes of the
next-of-kin, pale with passion, to the old fellow’s secret vice, an
ungovernable passion for gambling, an unskillful and desperate craving
for stock-jobbing, which he hid behind the innocent mania for his great
statistical work. All had been engulfed, the money he had saved at
Versailles, the rents of his house, even the sous he had sneaked from
his children; and, during the latter years, he had gone to the point of
mortgaging the house for one hundred and fifty thousand francs, at
three different periods. The family stood thunder-stricken before the
famous safe, in which it thought the fortune was locked up, but which
simply contained a host of singular things, broken scraps picked up in
the various rooms, pieces of old iron, fragments of glass, ends of
ribbon, jumbled amidst wrecked toys stolen from young Gustave in bygone
days.
Then the most violent recriminations were indulged in. They called the
old fellow a swindler. It was disgraceful to fritter away his money
thus, like a sly person who does not care a straw for any one, and who
acts an infamous comedy in order to get people to continue to coddle
him. The Duveyriers were inconsolable at having boarded him for twelve
years, without once asking him for the eighty thousand francs of
Clotilde’s dowry, of which they had only had ten thousand francs. It
was always ten thousand francs, rejoined Théophile, who had not had a
sou of the fifty thousand promised him at the time of his marriage. But
Auguste, in his turn, complained more bitterly still, reproaching his
brother with having at least secured the interest of the money during
three months; whilst he would never have a shadow of the fifty thousand
francs inserted in his contract. And Berthe, incited by her mother,
said some very unpleasant things with an indignant air at having
entered a dishonest family. And Valérie, bemoaning the rent she had so
long been stupid enough to pay the old chap, for fear of being
disinherited, could not stomach it, regretting the money as though it
had been used for an immoral purpose, employed in supporting
debauchery.
For fully a fortnight all these stories formed an exciting topic of
conversation to the occupants of the house. The long and short of it
was that there remained nothing but the building, estimated to be worth
three hundred thousand francs; when the mortgage had been paid off,
there would be about half that sum to divide between Monsieur Vabre’s
three children. It was fifty thousand francs for each; a meager
consolation, but they would have to make the most of it. Théophile and
Auguste had already decided what they would do with their shares. It
was settled that the building should be sold. Duveyrier undertook all
the arrangements in his wife’s name. Then, on the day of the sale,
after five or six bids, Maître Renandin abruptly knocked the house down
to Duveyrier for the sum of one hundred and forty-nine thousand francs.
There was not even sufficient to pay the mortgage. It was the final
blow.
One never knew the particulars of the terrible scene which was enacted
that same evening at the Duveyriers’. The solemn walls of the house
stifled the sounds. Théophile most probably called his brother-in-law a
scoundrel: he publicly accused him of having fought over the notary, by
promising to get him appointed a justice of the peace. As for Auguste,
he simply talked of the assize-court, where he wished to drag Maître
Renandin, whose rogueries were the talk of the neighborhood. But,
though one always ignored how it was that the relatives got to the
point of knocking each other about, as rumor said they did, one heard
the last words exchanged on the threshold, words which had an
unpleasant ring in the respectable severity of the staircase.
“Dirty scoundrel!” shouted Auguste. “You sentence people to penal
servitude who have not done nearly so much!”
Théophile, who came out last, held the door, whilst he almost choked
with rage and coughing. .
“Robber! robber! Yes, robber! And you, too, Clotilde; do you hear?
robber!”
He swung the door to so roughly that all the other doors on the
staircase shook. Monsieur Gourd, who was listening, was quite alarmed.
He darted a searching glance at the different floors, but he merely
caught sight of Madame Juzeur’s sharp profile. Arching his back, he
returned on tiptoe to his room, where he resumed his dignified
demeanor. One could deny everything. He, delighted, considered the new
landlord in the right.
A few days later there was a reconciliation between Auguste and his
sister. The whole house was amazed. Octave had been seen to go to the
Duveyriers. The counselor, feeling anxious, had agreed not to charge
any rent for the warehouse for five years, thus shutting one of the
grumbler’s mouths. When Théophile learnt this, he went with his wife
and had another row, this time with his brother. So he had sold
himself; he had gone over to the bandits! But Madame Josserand happened
to be in the shop, and he was soon shut up. She plainly advised Valérie
not to sell herself any more than her daughter had sold herself. And
Valérie had to beat a retreat, exclaiming:
“Then, we’re the only ones who get nothing? May the devil take me if I
pay my rent! I’ve a lease. The convict won’t dare to turn us out. And
as for you, my little Berthe, we’ll see one day what it’ll cost to have
you!”
The doors banged again. The two families were sworn enemies for life.
Octave, who had rendered some services, was present, and entered into
the private affairs of the family. Berthe almost fainted in his arms,
whilst Auguste was ascertaining whether the customers had overheard
anything. Even Madame Josserand confided in the young man. She,
moreover, continued to judge the Duveyriers very severely.
“The rent is something,” said she. “But I want the fifty thousand
francs.”
“Of course, if you paid yours,” Berthe ventured to observe.
The mother did not appear to understand.
“You hear me, I want them! No, no; he must be laughing too much in his
grave, that old scoundrel Vabre. I will not let him boast of having
taken me in. What rascals there are in the world! to promise money one
does not possess! Oh! they will pay you, my daughter, or I will dig him
up again and spit in his face!”