That morning the house awoke with a great middle-class dignity. Nothing
of the staircase preserved a trace of the scandals of the night,
neither the imitation marble which had reflected that gallop of a woman
in her chemise, nor the Wilton carpet from which all the odor of her
semi-nudity had evaporated. Monsieur Gourd alone, when he went
up-stairs toward seven o’clock to give his look round, sniffed at the
walls; but what did not concern him, did not concern him; and as, on
going down-stairs again, he saw two of the servants in the courtyard,
Lisa and Julie, who were no doubt discussing the catastrophe, for they
seemed deeply interested, he stared at them so fixedly that they at
once separated. Then he went outside to make sure of the tranquillity
of the street. It was calm. Only, the servants must already have been
talking, for some of the neighbors’ wives stopped, tradespeople came to
their shop doors, looking up in the air, examining and searching the
different floors, in the gaping way in which the crowd scrutinizes
houses where a crime has been committed. In the presence of the rich
frontage, however, people held their tongues and politely passed on.
At half-past seven, Madame Juzeur appeared in a dressing-gown, to look
after Louise, she said. Her eyes sparkled, and her hands were
feverishly hot. She stopped Marie, who was going up with her milk, and
endeavored to get her to talk; but she could draw nothing out of her,
and did not even learn how the mother had received her guilty daughter.
Then, under the pretense of waiting a minute for the postman, she
entered the Gourds’ room, and ended by asking why Monsieur Octave did
not come down; perhaps he was ill. The doorkeeper replied that he did
not know; moreover, Monsieur Octave never came down before ten minutes
past eight. At this moment, the other Madame Campardon, pale and erect,
passed by; every one bowed to her. And Madame Juzeur, obliged to go
up-stairs again, had the luck, on reaching the landing, to meet the
architect just starting off and putting on his gloves. At first they
both looked at each other in a dejected sort of way; then he shrugged
his shoulders.
“Poor things!” murmured she.
“No, no, it serves them right!” said he ferociously. “An example must
be made of them. A fellow whom I introduce into a respectable house,
beseeching him not to bring any women there, and who, to humbug me,
goes and sleeps with the landlord’s sister-in-law! I look like a fool
in it all!”
No more was said. Madame Juzeur entered her apartments, whilst
Campardon continued on his way down-stairs in such a state of fury that
he tore one of his gloves.
Just as eight o’clock was striking, Auguste, looking very dejected, his
features contracted by an atrocious headache, crossed the courtyard to
go to his warehouse. Filled with shame, and dreading to meet any one,
he had come down by way of the servants’ staircase. However, he could
not leave his business to take care of itself. When in the midst of his
counters, and before the pay-desk where Berthe usually sat, his emotion
almost choked him. The porter was taking down the shutters, and Auguste
was giving the orders for the day, when the abrupt appearance of
Saturnin coming up from the basement gave him an awful fright. The
madman’s eyes were like flames of fire, his white teeth resembled a
famished wolf’s. He went straight up to the husband, clenching his
fists.
“Where is she? If you touch her, I’ll bleed you to death like a pig!”
Auguste drew back, exasperated.
“Here’s this one, now!”
“Shut up, or I’ll bleed you!” repeated Saturnin, making a rush at him.
Then the husband preferred to beat a retreat. He had a horror of
madmen; one could not reason with such people. But, as he went out into
the porch, calling to the porter to shut Saturnin up in the basement,
he found himself face to face with Valérie and Théophile. The latter,
who had caught a frightful cold, was wrapped up in a big red comforter,
and coughed and moaned. They must both have known everything, for they
stopped before Auguste with an air of condolence. Since the quarrel
about the inheritance, the two couples had been sworn enemies, and were
no longer on speaking terms.
“You still have a brother,” said Théophile, shaking him by the hand,
when he had finished coughing. “I wish you to remember it in your
misfortune.”
“Yes,” added Valérie, “this ought to avenge me, for she said some
filthy things to me, did she not? But we pity you all the same, for we
are not quite heartless.”
Auguste, deeply touched by their kind manner, led them to the end of
his warehouse, keeping an eye on Saturnin, who was prowling about. And,
there, their reconciliation became complete. Berthe’s name was not
mentioned; only, Valérie allowed it to be understood that all the
unpleasantness arose from that woman, for there never had been a
disagreeable word said in the family till she had entered it to
dishonor them. Auguste, his eyes cast on the ground, listened and
nodded his head approvingly. And a certain gayety gleamed beneath
Théophile’s commiseration, for he was delighted at no longer being the
only one, and he examined his brother’s face to see how a person looks
when in that awkward position.
“Now, what have you decided to do?” inquired he.
“To challenge him, of course!” firmly replied the husband.
Théophile’s joy was spoilt. His wife and he became cooler, in the
presence of Auguste’s courage. The latter related to them the frightful
scene of the night—how, having been foolish enough to hesitate
purchasing a pistol, he had been forced to content himself with merely
slapping the gentleman’s face; and to tell the truth, the gentleman had
done the same to him, but that did not prevent his having received a
pretty good hiding! A scoundrel who had been making a fool of him for
six months past by pretending to take his part against his wife, and
whose impudence had gone as far as making reports respecting her on the
days she went out! As for her, the creature, as she had gone to her
parents, she could remain with them; he would never take her back.
“Would you believe that last month I allowed her three hundred francs
for her dress!” cried he. “I who am so kind, so tolerant, who had
decided to put up with everything sooner than make myself ill! But one
cannot put up with that—no! no! one cannot!”
Théophile was thinking of death. He trembled feverishly, and almost
choked as he said:
“It’s absurd, you will get spitted. I would not fight.”
And, as Valérie looked at him, he added, in an embarrassed manner:
“If such a thing happened to me.”
“Ah! the wretched woman!” then murmured his wife, “when one thinks that
two men are going to kill each other on account of her! In her place I
could never sleep again.”
Auguste remained firm. He would fight. Moreover, his plans were
settled. As he particularly wished Duveyrier to be second, he was going
up to inform him of what had taken place, and to send him at once to
Octave. Valérie, who was most obliging to Auguste, ended by offering to
attend at the pay-desk, to give him time to find a suitable person.
“Only,” added she, “I must take Camille to the Tuileries gardens toward
two o’clock.”
“Oh! it does not matter for once in a way!” said her husband. “It’s
raining, too.”
“No, no, the child wants air. I must go out.”
At length the two brothers went up to the Duveyriers’. But an
abominable fit of coughing obliged Théophile to stop on the very first
stair. He held on the hand-rail, and, when he was able to speak, though
still with a slight rattle in his throat, he stammered:
“You know, I’m very happy now; I’m quite sure of her, No; I’ve not the
least thing to reproach her with, and she has given me proofs.”
Auguste stared at him without comprehending, and saw how yellow and
half dead he looked, with the scanty hairs of his beard drying up in
his flabby flesh. The look completed Théophile’s annoyance, whilst he
felt quite embarrassed by his brother’s valor.
“I am speaking of my wife,” he resumed. “Ah! poor old fellow, I pity
you with all my heart! You recollect my stupidity on your wedding day.
But with you there can be no mistake, as you saw them.”
“Bah!” said Auguste, doing the brave, “I’ll spit him like a lark. On my
word, I shouldn’t care a hang if I hadn’t such a headache!”
Just as they rang at the Duveyriers’ door, Théophile suddenly thought
that very likely the counselor would not be in, for since the day he
had found Clarisse, he had been drifting into bad habits, and had now
even got to the point of sleeping out. Hippolyte, who opened the door
to them, avoided answering with respect to his master; but he said that
the gentlemen would find madame playing her scales. They entered.
Clotilde, tightly laced up from the moment she got out of bed, was
seated at her piano, practicing with a regular and continuous movement
of her hands; and, as she went in for this kind of exercise for two
hours every day, so as not to lose the lightness of her touch, she
occupied her mind in another way, by reading the “Revue des deux
Mondes,” which stood open on the piano before her, without the agility
of her fingers being in any way hampered.
“Why! it’s you!” said she, when her brothers had drawn her from the
volley of notes, which isolated and enveloped her like a storm of hail.
And she did not even show her surprise when she caught sight of
Théophile. The latter, moreover, kept himself very stiff, like a man
who had come on another’s account. Auguste, filled with shame at the
thought of telling his sister of his misfortune, and afraid of
terrifying her with his duel, had a story all ready. But she did not
give him time to lie, she questioned him in her quiet way, after
looking at him intently.
“What do you intend doing now?”
He started and blushed. So every one knew it, then? and he answered in
the brave tone which had already closed Théophile’s mouth:
“Why, fight, of course!”
“Ah!” said she, greatly surprised this time.
However, she did not disapprove. It would increase the scandal, but yet
honor had to be satisfied. She contented herself with recalling that
she had at first opposed the marriage. One could expect nothing of a
young girl who appeared to be ignorant of all a woman’s duties. Then,
as Auguste asked her where her husband was:
“He is traveling,” answered she, without the least hesitation.
Then he was quite distressed, for he did not wish to do anything before
consulting Duveyrier. She listened to him, without mentioning the new
address, unwilling to acquaint her family with her home troubles. At
length she hit on an expedient: she advised him to go to Monsieur
Bachelard, in the Rue d’Enghien; perhaps he would be able to tell him
something. And she returned to her piano.
“It’s Auguste who asked me to come up,” Théophile, who had not spoken
until then, thought it necessary to declare. “Will you let me kiss you,
Clotilde? We are all in trouble.”
She presented her cold cheek, and said:
“My poor fellow, only those are in trouble who choose to be. As for me,
I forgive every one. And take care of yourself, you seem to me to have
a very had cough.”
Then, calling to Auguste, she added:
“If the matter does not get settled, let me know, for I shall then be
very anxious.”
The storm of notes recommenced, enveloping and drowning her; and,
whilst her nimble fingers practiced the scales in every key, she
gravely resumed her reading of the “Revue des deux Mondes,” in the
midst of it all.
Down-stairs, Auguste for a moment discussed the question whether he
should go to Bachelard’s or not. How could he say to him: “Your niece
has deceived me?” At length, he decided to obtain Duveyrier’s address
from the uncle, and to tell him nothing. Everything was settled:
Valérie would look after the warehouse, whilst Théophile would watch
the home, until his brother’s return. The latter had sent for a cab,
and he was just going off, when Saturnin, who had disappeared a moment
before, came up from the basement with a big kitchen knife, which he
flourished about, as he cried:
“I’ll bleed him! I’ll bleed him!”
This created another scare. Auguste, turning very pale, jumped
precipitately into the cab, and pulled the door to, saying:
“He’s got another knife! Wherever does he find all those knives? I
beseech you, Théophile, send him away, try and arrange that he shall no
longer be here when I come back. As though what has already happened
were not bad enough for me!”
The porter had hold of the madman by his shoulders. Valérie told the
driver the address. But he, a fat and filthy looking man, with a face
the color of bullock’s blood, and still drunk from the night before,
did not hurry himself, but took his time to gather up the reins and
make himself comfortable on the box.
“By distance, governor?” asked he, in a hoarse voice.
“No, by the hour, and quickly please. There will be something handsome
for yourself.”
In the Rue d’Enghein, he met with another vexation. To begin with, the
commission agent’s doorway was so blocked up with vans that he almost
got crushed; then he found himself in the courtyard with the glass
roof, amidst a crowd of packers all violently nailing up cases, and not
one of whom could tell him where Bachelard was. The hammering seemed to
split his skull. He was, however, making up his mind to wait for the
uncle, when an apprentice, pitying his suffering look, came and
whispered an address in his ear: Mademoiselle Fifi, Rue Saint-Marc,
third floor. Old Bachelard was most likely there.
“Where do you say?” asked the driver, who had fallen asleep.
“Rue Saint-Marc, and a little faster, if it’s possible.”
The cab resumed its funereal crawl. On the boulevards, the wheel caught
in an omnibus. The panels cracked, the springs uttered plaintive cries,
a gloomy melancholy more and more overcame the husband in his search of
his second. However, they at last reached the Rue Saint-Marc.
On the third floor, the door was opened by a little old woman, plump
and white. She seemed suffering from some strong emotion, and she
admitted Auguste directly he asked for Monsieur Bachelard.
“Ah! sir, you are one of his friends, surely. Pray try to calm him.
Something happened to vex him a little while ago, the poor dear man.
You know me, no doubt, he must have spoken to you of me: I am
Mademoiselle Menu.”
Auguste, feeling quite scared, found himself in a narrow room
overlooking the courtyard, and as clean and peaceful as a country home.
One could almost detect the odor of order and work, the purity of the
happy existence of people in a quiet way. Seated before an embroidery
frame, on which a priest’s stole was stretched, a fair young girl,
pretty and having a candid air, was weeping bitterly; whilst uncle
Bachelard, standing up, his nose inflamed, his eyes bloodshot, was
driveling with rage and despair. He was so upset that Auguste’s entry
did not appear to surprise him in the least. He immediately called upon
him to bear witness, and the scene continued.
“Come now, Monsieur Vabre, who are an honest man, what would you say in
my place? I arrived here this morning a little earlier than usual. I
entered her room with the sugar from the café and three four-sou
pieces, just for a surprise for her, and I find her with that pig
Gueulin! No, there, frankly what would you say?”
Auguste, greatly embarrassed, turned very red. He at first thought that
the uncle knew of his misfortune and was making a fool of him. But the
other added, without even waiting for a reply:
“Ah! listen, mademoiselle, you don’t know what it is you have done! I
who was becoming young again, who felt so delighted at having found a
nice quiet little nook, where I was once more beginning to believe in
happiness! Yes, you were an angel, a flower, in short something fresh
which helped me to forget a lot of dirty women.”
A genuine emotion contracted his throat, his voice choked in accents of
profound suffering. Everything was crumbling away, and he wept for the
loss of the ideal, with the hiccoughs of a remnant of drunkenness.
“I did not know uncle,” stammered Fifi, whose sobs redoubled in
presence of this pitiful spectacle; “no, I did not know it would cause
you so much grief.”
And indeed she did not look as if she did know. She retained her
ingenuous eyes, her odor of chastity, the naivete of a little girl
unable as yet to distinguish a gentleman from a lady. Aunt Menu,
moreover, swore that at heart she was innocent.
“Do be calm, Monsieur Narcisse. She loves you well all the same. I felt
that it would not be very agreeable to you. I said to her: ‘If Monsieur
Narcisse learns this, he will be annoyed.’ But she has scarcely lived
as yet, has she? She does not know what pleases, nor what does not
please. Do not weep any more, as her heart is always for you.”
As neither the child nor the uncle listened to her, she turned toward
Auguste, she told him how much more anxious such an adventure made her
feel for her niece’s future.
“Perhaps you know Villeneuve, near Lille?” said she in conclusion. “I
come from there. It is a pretty large town———”
But Auguste’s patience was at an end. He shook himself free of the
aunt, and turned toward Bachelard, whose noisy despair was calming
down.
“I came to ask you for Duveyrier’s new address. I suppose you know it.”
“Duveyrier’s address, Duveyrier’s address,” stammered the uncle. “You
mean Clarisse’s address. Wait a moment.”
And he went and opened the door of Fifi’s bed-room. Auguste was greatly
surprised on seeing Gueulin, whom the old man had locked in, come
forth. He had wished to give him time to dress himself, and also to
detain him, so as to decide afterward what he would do with him. The
sight of the young man looking all upset, his hair still unbrushed,
revived his anger.
“What! wretch! it’s you, my nephew, who dishonors me! You soil your
family, you drag my white hairs in the mire! Ah! you’ll end badly, we
shall see you one of these days in the dock of the assize-court!”
Gueulin listened with bowed head, feeling at once both embarrassed and
furious.
“I say, uncle, you’re going too far,” murmured he. “There’s a limit to
everything. I don’t think it funny either. Why did you bring me to see
mademoiselle? I never asked you. You dragged me here. You drag
everybody here.”
But Bachelard, again overcome with tears, continued:
“You’ve taken everything from me; I had only her left. You’ll be the
cause of my death, and I won’t leave you a sou, not a sou!”
Then Gueulin, quite beside himself, burst out:
“Go to the deuce! I’ve had enough of it! Ah! it’s as I’ve always told
you! here they come, here they come, the annoyances of the morrow! See
how it succeeds with me, when for once in a way I’ve been fool enough
to take advantage of an opportunity. Of course! the night was very
pleasant; but, afterward, go to blazes! one will be blubbering like a
calf for the rest of one’s life.”
“I am in a great hurry,” Auguste ventured to observe. “Please give me
the address, just the name of the street and the number, I require
nothing further.”
“The address,” said the uncle, “wait a bit, directly.”
And, carried away by his feelings, which were overflowing, he caught
hold of Gueulin’s hands.
“You ungrateful fellow, I was keeping her for you, on my word of honor!
I said to myself: If he’s good, I’ll give her to him. Oh! in a proper
manner, with a dowry of fifty thousand francs. And, you dirty beast!
you can’t wait, you go and take her like that, all on a sudden!”
“No, let me be!” said Gueulin, affected by the old chap’s kindness of
heart. “I see very well that the annoyances are going to continue.”
But Bachelard dragged him before the young girl and asked her:
“Come now, Fifi, look at him, would you have loved him?”
“If it would have pleased you, uncle,” answered she.
This kind reply quite broke his heart. He wiped his eyes, blew his
nose, and almost choked. Well! he would see. He had always wished to
make her happy. And he suddenly sent Gueulin off about his business.
“Be off. I will think about it.”
Just as Gueulin was leaving, Bachelard called him back.
“Kiss her on the forehead; I permit it.”
And then he went himself and put him outside the door, after which he
returned to Auguste, and, placing his hand on his heart, he said:
“It’s no joke; I give you my word of honor that I intended giving her
to him, later on.”
“And the address?” asked the other, losing all patience.
The uncle appeared surprised, as though he had answered him before.
“Eh? what? Clarisse’s address? Why, I don’t know it.”
Auguste made an angry gesture. Everything was going wrong: there seemed
to be a regular plot to render him ridiculous! Seeing him so upset,
Bachelard made a suggestion. No doubt, Trublot knew the address, and
they might find him at his employer’s—the stockbroker, Desmarquay. And
the uncle, with the obliging manner of one accustomed to knock about,
offered to accompany his young friend. The latter accepted.
“Listen!” said the uncle to Fifi, after kissing her in his turn on the
forehead: “here’s the sugar from the café, all the same, and three
four-sou bits for your money-box. Behave well whilst awaiting my
orders.”
The young girl, looking very modest, continued drawing her needle with
exemplary application. A ray of sunshine, coming from over a
neighboring roof, enlivened the little room, gilded this nook of
innocence, into which the noise of the passing vehicles did not even
penetrate. All the poetry of Bachelard’s nature was stirred.
“May God bless you, Monsieur Narcisse!” said aunt Menu to him as she
saw him to the door. “I am more easy now. Only listen to the dictates
of your heart, for it will inspire you.”
The driver had again fallen asleep, and he grumbled when the uncle gave
him Monsieur Desmarquay’s address in the Rue Saint-Lazare. No doubt the
horse was asleep also, for it required quite a hail of blows to get him
to move. At length the cab rolled painfully along.
“It’s hard all the same,” resumed the uncle, after a pause. “You can’t
imagine the effect it had on me when I saw Gueulin in his shirt. No;
one must have gone through such a thing to understand it.”
And he went on, entering into every detail, without noticing Auguste’s
increasing uneasiness. At length the latter, feeling his position
becoming falser and falser, told him why he was in such a hurry to find
Duveyrier.
“Berthe with that counter-jumper!” cried the uncle. “You astonish me,
sir!”
And it seemed that his astonishment was especially on account of his
niece’s choice. However, after a little reflection, he became very
indignant. His sister Eléonore had a great deal to reproach herself
with. He would have nothing more to do with the family. Of course, he
was not going to mix himself up with the duel; but he considered it
indispensable.
“Thus, just now, when I saw Fifi with a man, my first thought was to
murder every one. If the same thing should ever happen to you——-”
A painful start of Auguste’s caused him to interrupt himself.
“Ah! true, I was forgetting. My story does not interest you.”
Another pause ensued, whilst the cab swayed in a melancholy fashion.
“I told you Rue Saint-Lazare,” called out the uncle to the driver. “It
isn’t at Chaillot. Turn to the left.”
At length the cab stopped. Out of prudence they sent up for Trublot,
who came down bareheaded to talk to them in the doorway.
“You know Clarisse’s address?” asked Bachelard.
“Clarisse’s address?”
“Why, of course! Rue d’Assas.”
They thanked him, and were about to re-enter their cab, when Auguste
asked in his turn:
“What’s the number?”
“The number! Ah! I don’t know the number.”
At this, the husband declared that he preferred to give up seeing
Duveyrier altogether. Trublot did all he could to try and remember. He
had dined there once, it was just behind the Luxembourg; but he could
not recollect whether it was at the end of the street, or on the right
or the left, But he knew the door well; oh! he could have said at once,
“That’s it.” Then the uncle had another idea; he begged him to
accompany them in spite of Auguste’s protestations, and his talking of
returning home and not wishing to disturb any one any further. Trublot,
however, refused in a constrained manner. No, he would not trust
himself in that hole again.
“Well, I’m off, as Monsieur Trublot can’t come,” said Auguste, whose
worries were increased by all these stories.
But Trublot then declared that he would accompany them all the same;
only, he would not go up; he would merely show them the door. And,
after fetching his hat, and giving a pretext for going out, he joined
them in the cab. “Rue d’Assas,” said he to the driver. “Straight down
the street; I’ll tell you when to stop.”
The driver swore. Rue d’Assas, by Jove! there were people who liked
going about. However, they would get there when they did get there. The
big white horse steamed away without making hardly any progress, his
neck dislocated in a painful bow at every step.
Bachelard was already relating his misfortune to Trublot. Such things
always made him talkative. Yes, with that pig Gueulin, a most delicious
little thing! But at this point of his story he recollected Auguste,
who, gloomy and doleful, was sitting in a heap in a corner of the cab.
“Ah! true; I beg your pardon!” murmured he; “I keep forgetting.”
And, addressing Trublot, he added:
“Our friend has met with a misfortune in his home also, and that is why
we are trying to find Duveyrier. Yes, he found his wife last night—”
He finished with a gesture, then added simply:
“Octave, you know.”
Trublot, always plain-spoken, was about to say that it did not surprise
him. Only, he caught back his words, and replaced them by others, full
of disdainful anger, and the explanation of which the husband did not
dare to ask him for:
“What an idiot that Octave is!” said he.
At this appreciation of adultery there ensued another pause. Each of
the three men was buried in his own reflections. The cab scarcely moved
at all. It seemed to have been rolling for hours over a bridge, when
Trublot, who was the first to emerge from his thoughts, ventured on
making this judicious remark:
“This cab doesn’t get along very fast.”
But nothing could increase the horse’s pace. It was eleven o’clock when
they reached the Rue d’Assas. And there they wasted nearly another
quarter of an hour, for, in spite of Trublot’s boasts, he could not
find the door. At first he allowed the driver to go along the street to
the very end without stopping him; then he made him drive up and down
three times over. And, on his precise indications, Auguste kept
entering every tenth house; but the doorkeepers all answered that they
knew no one of the name. At length a green-grocer pointed out the door
to him. He went in with Bachelard, leaving Trublot in the cab.
It was the big rascal of a brother who admitted them. He had a
cigarette stuck between his lips, and blew the smoke into their faces
as he showed them into the drawing-room. When they asked for Monsieur
Duveyrier, he stood looking at them in a jocular manner without
answering. Then he disappeared, perhaps to fetch him. In the middle of
the blue satin drawing-room, all luxuriously new, yet already stained
with grease, one of the sisters, the youngest, was seated on the carpet
scouring out a saucepan which she had brought from the kitchen; whilst
the other, the eldest, was hammering with her clenched fists on a
magnificent piano, the key of which she had just found. On seeing the
gentlemen enter, they had both raised their heads; neither, however,
left off her occupation, but continued on the contrary hammering and
scouring more energetically than ever. Five minutes passed, yet no one
came. The visitors, feeling almost deafened, stood looking at each,
when some yells, issuing from a neighboring room, completely terrified
them; it was the invalid aunt being washed.
At length an old woman, Madame Bocquet, Clarisse’s mother, passed her
head through a partly opened door, not daring to show any more of her
person, because of the filthy dress she had on.
“What do you gentlemen desire?” asked she.
“Why, Monsieur Duveyrier!” exclaimed the uncle, losing patience. “We
have already told the servant. Let him know that Monsieur Auguste Vabre
and Monsieur Narcisse Bachelard wish to see him.”
Madame Bocquet shut the door again. The eldest of the sisters was now
mounted on the music stool, and was hammering with her elbows, whilst
the youngest was scraping the saucepan with an iron fork, so as to get
all she could out of it. Another five minutes passed by. Then, in the
midst of the uproar, which did not seem to disturb her in the least,
Clarisse appeared.
“Ah! it’s you!” said she to Bachelard, without even looking at Auguste.
“You know, my old fellow,” added she, “if you’ve come to tipple, you
may as well get out at once. The old life’s done with. I now intend to
be respected.”
“We haven’t called on your account,” replied Bachelard, recovering
himself, used as he was to the lively receptions of such ladies. “We
must speak to Duveyrier.”
Then Clarisse looked ar the other gentleman. She took him for a
bailiff, knowing that Alphonse was already in a mess.
“Oh! after all, I don’t care,” said she. “You can take him and keep him
if you like. It’s not so very pleasant to have to dress his pimples!”
She no longer even took the trouble to conceal her disgust, certain,
moreover, that all her cruelties only attached him to her the more.
And opening a door, she added:
“Here! come along, as these gentlemen persist in seeing you.”
Duveyrier, who seemed to have been waiting behind the door, entered and
shook their hands, trying to conjure up a smile. He no longer had the
youthful air of bygone days, when he used to spend the evening at her
rooms in the Rue de la Cerisaie; he looked overcome with weariness, he
was mournful and much thinner, starting at every moment, as though he
were uneasy about something behind him.
Clarisse remained to listen. Bachelard, who did not intend to speak
before her, invited the counselor to lunch.
“Now, do accept, Monsieur Vabre wants you. Madame will be kind enough
to excuse——”
But the latter had at length caught sight of her sister hammering on
the piano, and she slapped her and turned her out of the room, taking
the same opportunity to cuff and drive away the little one with her
saucepan. There was a most infernal uproar. The invalid aunt in the
next room again started off yelling, thinking they were coming to beat
her.
“Do you hear, my darling?” murmured Duveyrier, “these gentlemen have
invited me to lunch.”
But she was not listening to him, she was trying the instrument with
frightened tenderness. For a month past, she had been learning to play
the piano. It was the secret dream of her whole life, a far-away
ambition the realization of which could alone stamp her a woman of
society. Having satisfied herself that there was nothing broken, she
was about to prevent her lover from going, simply to annoy him, when
Madame Bocquet once more bobbed her head in at the door, again hiding
her skirt.
“Your music-master,” said she.
At this Clarisse changed her mind, and called to Duveyrier:
“That’s it, be off! I’ll lunch with Théodore. We don’t want you.”
After kissing her on the hair, he discreetly withdrew, leaving her with
Théodore. In the ante-room, the big rascal of a brother asked him in
his jocular way for a franc for tobacco. Then, as they wont
down-stairs, Bachelard expressed surprise at his conversion to the
charms of the piano, and he swore he had never disliked it; he talked
of the ideal, saying how much Clarisse’s simple scales stirred his
soul, yielding to his continual mania for having a bright side to his
coarse masculine appetites.
Down below, Trublot had given the driver a cigar, and was listening to
his history with the liveliest interest. The uncle insisted on lunching
at Foyot’s; it was the proper time, and they could talk better whilst
eating. Then, when the cab had managed to start off again, he told
everything to Duveyrier, who became very grave.
Auguste’s uneasiness seemed to have increased at Clarisse’s, where he
had not opened his mouth; and now, worn out by this interminable drive,
his head entirely a prey to a violent aching, he abandoned himself.
When the counselor questioned him as to what he intended doing, he
opened his eyes, and remained a moment filled with anguish; then he
repeated his former phrase:
“Why, fight, of course!”
Only, his voice was weaker, and he added, as he closed his eyes, as
though to ask to be left alone:
“Unless you have anything else to suggest.”
Then the gentlemen held a grand council in the midst of the laborious
jolts of the vehicle. Duveyrier, the same as Bachelard, considered the
duel indispensable; and he was deeply affected by it, on account of the
blood likely to be spilt, a long black stream of which he pictured
soiling the stairs of his property; but honor demanded it, and one
cannot compound with honor. Trublot had broader views: it was too
stupid to place one’s honor in what out of decency he termed a woman’s
frailty. And Auguste approved what he said by a weary blink of his
eyelids, thoroughly incensed at last by the bellicose rage of the two
others, whose duty it was on the contrary to have been conciliatory. In
spite of his fatigue, he was obliged to relate once more the scene of
the night before, the blow he had given and the blow he had received;
and soon the fact of the adultery was lost sight of, the discussion
bore solely upon these two blows: they were commented upon, and
analyzed, as a satisfactory solution was sought for.
“What refinement!” Trublot ended by contemptuously saying. “If they hit
each other, well! they’re quits.”
Duveyrier and Bachelard looked at one another, evidently shaken in
their opinions. But just then they arrived at the restaurant, and the
uncle declared that they would first of all have a good lunch. It would
help to clear their ideas. He stood treat, ordering a copious meal,
with costly dishes and wines, which kept them three hours in a private
room. The duel was not even once mentioned. From the very beginning,
the conversation had necessarily turned on the question of women; Fifi
and Clarisse were during the whole time explained, turned inside out,
and pulled to pieces. Bachelard now admitted himself to have been in
the wrong, so as not to appear to the counselor as having been vilely
chucked over; whilst the latter, taking his revenge for the evening
when the uncle had seen him weep in the middle of the empty rooms in
the Rue de la Cerisaie, lied about his happiness, to the point of
believing in it and being affected by it himself. Seated before them,
Auguste, prevented by his neuralgia both from eating and drinking,
appeared to be listening, an elbow on the table, and a confused look in
his eyes. At dessert, Trublot recollected the driver, who had been
forgotten outside: and, full of sympathy, he sent him the remnants of
the dishes and what was left in the bottles; for, said he, from certain
things he had let drop, he had a suspicion the man was an ex-priest.
Three o’clock struck. Duveyrier complained of being assessor at the
next sitting of the assizes; Bachelard, who was now very drunk, spat
sideways onto Trublot’s trousers, without the latter noticing it; and
the day would have been finished there, amidst the liquors, if Auguste
had not suddenly roused himself with a start.
“Well, what’s going to be done?” asked he.
“Well! young ’un,” replied the uncle, speaking most familiarly, “if you
like, we’ll settle matters nicely for you. It’s stupid to fight.”
No one appeared surprised at this conclusion. Duveyrier signified his
approval with a nod of the head. The uncle continued:
“I’ll go with Monsieur Duveyrier and see the fellow, and he shall
apologize, or my name isn’t Bachelard. The mere sight of me will make
him cave in, just because I shall have no business there. I don’t care
a hang for anyone!”
Auguste shook him by the hand; but he did not seem to feel relieved,
the pain in his head had become so unbearable. At length they left the
private room. Down in the street, the driver was still at lunch, inside
the cab; and, completely intoxicated, he had to shake the crumbs out,
digging Trublot fraternally in the stomach. Only the horse, which had
had nothing at all, refused to walk, with a despairing wag of the head.
They pushed him, and he ended by going down the Rue de Tournon, as
though he were rolling along. Four o’clock had struck, when the animal
at length stopped in the Rue de Choiseul. Auguste had had the cab seven
hours. Trublot, who remained inside, engaged it for himself, and
declared that he would wait there for Bachelard, whom he wished to
invite to dinner.
“Well! you have been a time,” said Théophile to his brother, as he
hastened to meet him. “I thought you were dead.”
And directly the gentlemen had entered the warehouse, he related how
the day had passed. He had been watching the house ever since nine
o’clock. But nothing particular had occurred. At two o’clock, Valérie
had gone to the Tuileries gardens with their son Camille. Then, toward
half past three, he had seen Octave go out. And that was all. Nothing
moved, not even at the Josserands’. Saturnin, who had been seeking his
sister under the furniture, having gone up to ask for her, Madame
Josserand had shut the door in his face, doubtless to get rid of him,
saying that Berthe was not there. Since then, the madman had been
prowling about with clenched teeth.
“Very well,” said Bachelard, “we’ll wait for the gentleman. We shall
see him come in from here.”
Auguste, whose head was in a whirl, was making great efforts to keep on
his legs. Then Duveyrier advised him to go to bed. There was no other
cure for headache.
“Go up now, we no longer require you. We will inform you of the result.
My dear fellow, you know you should avoid all emotions.”
And the husband went up to lie down.
At five o’clock, the two others were still waiting for Octave. The
latter, without any definite object, simply desirous of having some
fresh air and of forgetting the events of the night, had at first
passed before “The Ladies’ Paradise,” where he had stopped to wish
Madame Hédouin good-day, as she stood in the doorway, dressed in deep
mourning; and as he informed her of his having left the Vabres’, she
had quietly asked him why he did not return to her.
Opposite to him, Valérie was taking leave of a bearded gentleman, at
the door of a low lodging-house in the darkest corner. She blushed and
hastened away, pushing open the padded door of the church; then, seeing
that the young man was following her and smiling, she preferred to
await him under the porch, where they conversed together very
cordially.
“You run away from me,” said he. “Are you, then, angry with me?”
“Angry?” repeated she, “why should I be angry? Ah! they may quarrel and
eat each other up if they like, it doesn’t matter to me!”
She was speaking of her relations. And she at once gave vent to her old
rancor against Berthe, making at first simply allusions so as to sound
the young man; then, when she felt he was secretly weary of his
mistress, being still exasperated with the night’s proceedings, she no
longer restrained herself, but poured out her heart. To think that that
woman had accused her of selling herself—she, who never accepted a sou,
not even a present! Yes, though, a few flowers at times, some bunches
of violets. And now everybody knew which of the two was the one to sell
herself. She had prophesied that one day it would be known how much she
could be bought for.
“It cost you more than a bunch of violets, did it not?” asked she.
“Yes, yes,” murmured he basely.
In his turn he let out some disagreeable things about Berthe, saying
that she was spiteful, and even making her out to be too fat, as though
seeking to avenge himself for the worry she was causing him. He had
been waiting all day for her husband’s seconds, and he was then
returning home to see if any one had called. It was a most stupid
adventure; she might very well have prevented this duel taking place.
He ended by relating all that had occurred at their ridiculous
meeting—their quarrel, then Auguste’s arrival on the scene, before they
had even exchanged a caress.
“On all I hold most sacred,” said he, “I had not even touched her.”
Valérie laughed, and was getting quite excited. She gradually yielded
to the tender intimacy of this exchange of confidences, drawing nearer
to Octave as though to some female friend who knew all. At times, a
devotee coming from the church disturbed them; then the door generally
closed to again, and they once more found themselves alone in the drum,
hung with green baize, as though in the innermost recesses of some
discreet and religious asylum.
“I scarcely know why I live with such people,” resumed she, returning
to the subject of her relations. “Oh! no doubt, I am not free from
reproach on my side. But, frankly, I cannot feel any remorse, they
affect me so little. And yet if I were to tell you how much love bores
me!”
“Come now, not so much as all that!” said Octave gayly. “People are not
always as silly as we were yesterday. There are blissful moments.”
Then she confessed herself. It was not entirely the hatred she felt for
her husband, the continual fever which shook his frame, his impotence,
nor yet his perpetual blubbering like a little boy, which had caused
her to misbehave herself six months after her marriage; no, she often
did it involuntarily, solely because her head got filled with things of
which she was unable to explain the why and the wherefore. Everything
gave way; she became quite ill, and could almost kill herself. Then, as
there was nothing to restrain her, she might as well take that leap as
another.
“But really now, do you never have a nice time of it?” again asked
Octave.
“Well, never like people describe,” replied she.
He looked at her full of a pitying sympathy. All for nothing, and
without the least pleasure. It was certainly not worth the trouble she
gave herself, in her continual fear of being caught. And he especially
felt a certain relief to his pride, for he had always suffered a little
at heart from her old disdain. He recalled the circumstance to her.
“You remember, after one of your attacks?”
“Oh! yes, I remember. Still, I did not dislike you; but listen! it is
far better as it is, we should be detesting each other now.”
She gave him her little gloved hand. He squeezed it, as he repeated:
“You are right; it is better as it is. Really, one only cares for the
women one has had nothing to do with.”
It was quite a blissful moment. They stood for a while hand in hand,
deeply affected. Then, without another word, they pushed open the
padded door of the church, inside which she had left her son Camille in
care of the woman who let out the chairs. The child had fallen asleep.
She made him kneel down, and did the same herself for a minute, burying
her face in her hands, as though in the midst of a fervent prayer. And
she was rising to her feet when Abbé Mauduit, who was coming from a
confessional, greeted her with a paternal smile.
Octave had simply passed through the church. When he returned home
every one was on the alert. In the doorway, as Octave passed, Lisa, who
was gossiping with Adèle, had to content herself with merely staring at
him; and both resumed their complaints of the dear price of poultry
beneath the stern look of Monsieur Gourd, who bowed to the young man.
As the latter was going up to his room, Madame Juzeur, who had been on
the watch ever since the morning, slightly opened her door, and,
seizing hold of his hands, drew him into her ante-room, where she
kissed him on the forehead and murmured:
“Poor child! There, I won’t keep you. Come back and talk with me when
it’s all over.”
And he had scarcely reached his own apartment when Duveyrier and
Bachelard called. At first, amazed at seeing the uncle, he wished to
give them the names of two of his friends. But these gentlemen, without
answering, spoke of their age, and preached him a sermon on his
misconduct. Then, as in the course of conversation he announced his
intention of leaving the house at the earliest possible moment, they
both solemnly declared that that proof of his discretion was quite
sufficient. There had been more than enough scandal; the time had come
when respectable people had the right to expect them to make the
sacrifice of their passions. Duveyrier accepted Octave’s notice to quit
on the spot, and withdrew, whilst, behind his back, Bachelard invited
the young man to dine with him that evening.
“Mind, I count upon you. We’re on the spree; Trublot is waiting below.
I don’t care a button for Eléonore. But I don’t wish to see her, and
I’ll go down first, so that no one shall meet us together.”
He took his departure, and, five minutes later, Octave, delighted with
the issue of affairs, joined him below. He slipped into the cab, and
the melancholy horse, which had been dragging the husband about for
seven hours, limped along with them to a restaurant near the Halles,
where some marvelous tripe was to be obtained.
Duveyrier had gone back to Théophile in the warehouse. Valérie also had
just come in, and all three were talking together when Clotilde herself
returned from a concert. She had gone there, moreover, with a mind
perfectly at ease, certain, said she, that some arrangement
satisfactory to every one would be arrived at. Then ensued a pause, a
momentary embarrassment between the two families. Théophile, seized
with an abominable fit of coughing, was almost spitting his teeth out.
As it was to their mutual interest to be reconciled, they ended by
taking advantage of the emotion into which the new family troubles had
plunged them. The two women embraced; Duveyrier swore to Théophile that
the Vabre inheritance was ruining him, yet he promised to indemnify him
by remitting his rent for three years.
“I must go and tranquilize poor Auguste,” at length observed the
counselor.
He was ascending the stairs, when some terrible cries, resembling those
of an animal being butchered, issued from the bed-room. It was
Saturnin, who, armed with his kitchen knife, had noiselessly crept as
far as the alcove; and there, his eyes as red as flaming coals, his
mouth covered with foam, he had rushed upon Auguste.
“Tell me! where have you put her?” cried he. “Give her back to me, or
I’ll bleed you like a pig!”
The husband, suddenly roused from his painful slumber, tried to fly.
But the madman, with the strength of his fixed idea, had caught him by
the tail of his shirt, and, pushing him back on the mattress, placing
his neck on the edge of the bed, over a basin which happened to be
there, he held him in the position of an animal at the slaughter-house.
[Illustration]
“Ah! it’s all right this time. I’m going to bleed you—I’m going to
bleed you like a pig!”
Fortunately, the others arrived and were able to release the victim.
But Saturnin, who was raving mad, had to be shut up: and, two hours
later, the commissary of police having been sent for, he was taken for
the second time to the Asile des Moulineaux, with the consent of the
family. Poor Auguste lay trembling. He said to Duveyrier, who informed
him of the arrangement that had been come to with Octave:
“No, I should have preferred to have fought the duel. One cannot defend
oneself against a madman. Why has he such a mania for wishing to bleed
me, the brigand? because his sister has made a cuckold of me? Ah! I’ve
had enough of it, my friend, I’ve had enough of it, on my word of
honor!”