Months passed by, and spring had come again. At the house in the Rue de
Choiseul, every one was talking of the approaching marriage of Octave
and Madame Hédouin.
Matters, however, were not so far advanced. Octave was again in his old
place at “The Ladies’ Paradise,” the business of which developed daily.
Since her husband’s death, Madame Hédouin was unable to attend properly
to the incessantly growing concern by herself. Her uncle, old Deleuze,
nailed to his easy-chair by rheumatism, troubled himself about nothing;
and, naturally, the young man, who was very active and a constant prey
to the mania for doing business on a large scale, had in a little while
reached a position of decisive importance in the house.
From this moment their relations became most intimate. They would shut
themselves for hours together in the small room right at the back. In
former days, when he had sworn to himself to seduce her, he had pursued
certain tactics there, trying to take advantage of her commercial
emotions, whispering figures close to her neck, watching for the days
of heavy takings to profit by her enthusiasm. Now, he was simply
good-natured, having no other aim but to push the business. He no
longer even desired her, though he retained the recollection of her
gentle quiver when waltzing with him on Berthe’s wedding night. Perhaps
she had loved. In any case it was best to remain as they were; for, as
she justly said, the business demanded a great amount of order, and it
would be impolitic to wish for things which would disturb them from
morning till night.
Seated together at the narrow desk, they would often forget themselves,
after going through the books and settling the orders. He would then
return to his dreams of enlargement. He had sounded the owner of the
next house, and had found him willing to sell. They would give notice
to the second-hand dealer and to the umbrella man, and then establish a
special department for silk. She, very grave, would listen, not daring
to venture yet.
At length, as they sat side by side one evening examining some invoices
beneath the scorching flame of a gas-jet, she said slowly:
“I have spoken to my uncle, Monsieur Octave. He consents, so we will
buy the house. Only——”
He interrupted her joyfully to exclaim:
“Then, the Vabres are done for!”
She smiled, and murmured reproachfully:
“Do you detest them, then? It is not proper on your part; you are the
last who should wish them ill.”
She had never spoken to him of his relations with Berthe. This sudden
allusion embarrassed him immensely, without his exactly knowing why. He
blushed and tried to stammer out some explanation.
“No, no, it does not concern me,” resumed she, still smiling and very
calm. “Excuse me, it quite escaped me; I never intended to speak to you
on the subject. You are young. So much the worse for those who are
willing, is it not so? It is the place of the husbands to guard their
wives when the latter are unable to guard themselves.”
He experienced a sensation of relief, on understanding she was not
angry. He had often dreaded a coldness on her part if she came to know
of his former connection.
“You interrupted me, Monsieur Octave,” resumed she, gravely. “I was
about to add that if I purchase the next house, and thus double the
importance of my business, it will be impossible for me to remain
single. I shall be obliged to marry again.”
Octave sat lost in astonishment. What! she already had a husband in
view, and he was in ignorance of it! He at once felt that his position
there was compromised.
“My uncle,” continued she, “told me so himself. Oh, there is no hurry
just yet. I have only been eight months in mourning; I shall wait till
the autumn. Only, in trade one must put one’s heart on one side, and
consider the necessities of the situation. A man is absolutely
necessary here.”
She discussed all this calmly, like a matter of business, and he gazed
on her regular and healthy beauty, on her pure complexion beneath her
neatly arranged black hair. Then he regretted not having, since her
widowhood, renewed the effort to become her lover.
“It is always a very serious matter,” stammered he; “it requires
reflection.”
No doubt, she was quite of that opinion. And she spoke of her age.
“I am already old; I am five years older than you, Monsieur Octave—”
Deeply agitated, yet thinking he understood, he interrupted her, and
seizing hold of her hands, he repeated:
“Oh, madame! oh, madame!”
But she rose from her seat and released herself. Then she turned down
the gas.
“No, that’s enough for to-day. You have some very good ideas, and it is
natural I should think of you to put them into execution. Only there
will be a deal of worry; we must thoroughly study the project. I know
that at heart you are very serious. Think the matter over on your side,
and I will think it over on mine. That is why I have named it to you.
We can talk about it again later on.”
And things remained thus for weeks. The establishment continued just
the same as usual. As Madame Hédouin always maintained her smiling
serenity when in Octave’s company, without an allusion to the slightest
tender feeling, he affected on his side a similar peace of mind, and he
ended by becoming like her, healthfully happy, placing his confidence
in the logic of things. She often repeated that sensible things always
happened of themselves. Therefore she was never in a hurry. The gossip
which commenced to circulate respecting her intimacy with the young man
did not in the least affect her. They waited.
In the Rue de Choiseul, therefore, the entire house vowed that the
marriage was as good as accomplished. Octave had given up his room to
lodge in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, near “The Ladies’ Paradise.” He
no longer visited any one—neither the Campardons nor the Duveyriers,
who were quite shocked at the scandal of his amours. Monsieur Gourd
himself, whenever he saw him, pretended not to recognize him, so as to
avoid having to bow. Only Marie and Madame Juzuer, on the mornings when
they met him in the neighborhood, went and stood a moment in some
doorway to have a chat with him. Madame Juzeur, who passionately
questioned him respecting Madame Hédouin, tried to persuade him to call
upon her, so as to be able to talk the matter over nicely; and Marie,
who was greatly distressed, complaining of again being in the family
way, and who told him of Jules’ amazement and of her parents’ terrible
anger. Then, when the rumor of his marriage became more persistent,
Octave was surprised to receive a low bow from Monsieur Gourd.
Campardon, without exactly making friends again, gave him a cordial nod
across the street, whilst Duveyrier, calling one evening to buy some
gloves, showed himself most amiable. The entire house was beginning to
pardon him.
However, the uneasiness caused by the adulterous act was still there,
imperceptible to uneducated people, but most disagreeable to those of
refined morals. Auguste obstinately persisted in not taking his wife
back, and, so long as Berthe lived with her parents, the scandal would
not be effaced—there would ever linger a material vestige of it.
It was Duveyrier especially who, as landlord, carried the burden of
this persistent and unmerited misfortune. For some time past Clarisse
had been torturing him to such a pitch that he would at times come home
to his wife to weep. But the scandal of the adultery had struck him to
the heart; he saw, said he, the passer-by look at his house from top to
bottom—that house which his father-in-law and he had striven to
decorate with every domestic virtue; and, as this sort of thing could
not be allowed to last, he talked of purifying the building for his
personal honor. Therefore he urged Auguste, in the name of public
decency, to become reconciled with his wife. Unfortunately, Auguste
resisted, backed up in his rage by Théophile and Valérie, who had
definitely installed themselves at the pay-desk, and who were delighted
with the existing discord. Then, as matters were going badly at Lyons,
and the silk warehouse was in jeopardy for want of capital, Duveyrier
conceived a practical idea. The Josserands were probably longing to get
rid of their daughter; the thing to do was to offer to take her back,
but only on condition that they paid the dowry of fifty thousand
francs. Perhaps uncle Bachelard would yield to their entreaties and
give the money. At first, Auguste violently refused to be a party to
any such arrangement; even were the sum a hundred thousand francs, he
would not think it sufficient. Then, becoming very anxious as his April
payments drew near, he had given in to the counselor’s arguments, as
the latter pleaded the cause of morality and spoke merely of a good
action to be done.
When they were agreed, Clotilde selected the Abbé Mauduit for
negotiator. It was a delicate matter; only a priest could interfere in
it without compromising himself. It so happened that the reverend man
was deeply grieved by the deplorable catastrophes which had befallen
one of the most interesting households of his parish; and he had
already offered his advice, his experience and his authority to put an
end to a scandal at which the enemies of religion might take delight.
However, when Clotilde spoke to him of the dowry, asking him to be the
bearer of Auguste’s conditions to the Josserands, he bowed his head,
and maintained a painful silence.
“It is money due that my brother asks for,” repeated she. “It is no
bargain, understand. Moreover, my brother insists upon it.”
“It is necessary, and I will go,” said the priest, at length.
The Josserands had been expecting the proposal for days. Valérie must
have spoken of it, all the tenants were discussing the affair: were
they so hard up as to be forced to keep their daughter? would they be
able to obtain the fifty thousand francs to get rid of her? Since the
question had reached this point, Madame Josserand had been in a
constant rage. What! after having had such trouble to marry Berthe at
first, she now had to marry her a second time! Everything was upset,
the dowry was again demanded, all the money worries were going to
commence afresh! Never before had a mother had such a task to go
through twice over. And all owing to the fault of that silly fool,
whose stupidity went so far as to make her forget her duty.
The house was becoming a hell upon earth; Berthe suffered a continual
torture, for even her sister Hortense, furious at no longer sleeping
alone, never uttered a sentence without introducing some insulting
allusion into it. She was even reproached with the food she ate. When
one had a husband somewhere, it was all the same very funny that one
should go and share one’s parents’ meals, which were already too
sparing. Then the young woman, in despair, would sob in corners,
accusing herself of being a coward, but unable to pick up sufficient
courage to go down-stairs and throw herself at Auguste’s feet, and say:
“Here! beat me, I cannot be more unhappy than I am.”
Monsieur Josserand alone showed some affection for his child. But that
child’s faults and tears were killing him; he was dying through the
cruelties of the family, with an unlimited holiday from business, spent
mostly in bed. Doctor Juillerat, who attended him, talked of a
decomposition of the blood: it was a dissolution of the entire system,
during which each organ was attacked, one after the other.
“When you have made your father die of grief, perhaps you will be
satisfied!” cried the mother.
And Berthe scarcely dared enter the invalid’s room. Directly the father
and daughter met, they wept together, and did each other a great deal
of harm.
At length, Madame Josserand came to a grand decision: she invited uncle
Bachelard, resolved to humiliate herself once more. She would have
given the fifty thousand francs out of her own pocket, if she had
possessed them, so as not to have to keep that big married girl, whose
presence dishonored her Tuesday receptions. But she had learnt some
shocking things about the uncle, and, if he did not do as she wished,
she intended, once for all, to give him a bit of her mind.
During dinner, Bachelard behaved in a most abominable manner. He had
arrived in an advanced state of intoxication; for, since he had left
Fifi, he had fallen into the lowest depths of vice.
“Narcisse,” said Madame Josserand, “the situation is a grave one——”
And, slowly and solemnly, she explained this situation, her daughter’s
regrettable misfortune, the husband’s revolting venality, the painful
resolution she had been obliged to come to of giving the fifty thousand
francs, so as to put a stop to the scandal which covered the family
with shame. Then she severely continued:
“Remember what you promised, Narcisse. On the evening of the signing of
the marriage contract, you again slapped your chest and swore that
Berthe might rely on her uncle’s affections. Well! where is this
affection? the moment has arrived to display it. Monsieur Josserand,
join me in showing him his duty, if your weak state of health will
allow you to do so.”
In spite of his great repugnance, the father murmured, out of love for
his daughter:
“It is true; you promised, Bachelard. Come, before I leave you forever,
do me the pleasure of behaving as you should.”
But Berthe and Hortense, in the hope of working upon the uncle’s
feelings, had filled his glass once too often. He was in such a fuddled
condition, that one could not even take advantage of him.
“Eh? what?” stuttered he, without having the least necessity for
exaggerating his intoxication. “Never promise—Don’t understand—Tell me
again, Eléonore.”
The latter recommenced her story, made weeping Berthe embrace him,
besought him for the sake of her husband’s health, and proved to him
that in giving the fifty thousand francs, he would be fulfilling a
sacred duty. Then, as he began to doze off again, without appearing to
be in the least affected by the sight of the invalid or of the chamber
of sickness, she abruptly broke out into the most violent language.
“Listen! Narcisse, this sort of thing has been lasting too long—you’re
a scoundrel! I know of all your beastly goings-on. You’ve just married
your mistress to Gueulin, and you’ve given them fifty thousand francs,
the very amount you promised us. Ah! it’s decent; little Gueulin plays
a pretty part in it all! And you, you’re worse still, you take the
bread from our mouth, you prostitute your fortune, yes! you prostitute
it, by robbing us of money which was ours for the sake of that harlot!”
Never before had she relieved her feelings to such an extent. Hortense
busied herself with her father’s medicine, so as not to show her
embarrassment. Monsieur Josserand, who was made far worse by this
scene, tossed about on his pillow, and murmured in a trembling voice:
“I beseech you, Eléonore, do be quiet; he will give nothing. If you
wish to say such things to him, take him away that I may not hear you.”
Berthe, on her side, sobbed louder than ever, and joined her father in
his entreaties.
“Enough, mamma, do as papa asks. Good heavens! how miserable I am to be
the cause of all these quarrels! I would sooner leave you all, and go
and die somewhere.”
Then Madame Josserand deliberately put the question to the uncle.
“Will you, yes or no, give the fifty thousand francs, so that your
niece may hold her head up?”
Regularly scared, he tried to go into explanations.
“Listen a moment. I found Gueulin and Fifi together. What could I do? I
was obliged to marry them. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Will you, yes or no, give the dowry you promised?” repeated she
furiously.
He wavered, his intoxication increased to such a pitch that he could
scarcely find words to utter:
“Can’t, word of honor!—Completely ruined. Otherwise, at once—Candidly
you know——”
She interrupted him with a terrible gesture, and declared:
“Good, then I shall call a family council and have you declared
incapable of managing your affairs. When uncles become driveling, it’s
time to send them to an asylum.”
At this, the uncle was seized with intense emotion. He glanced about
him, and found the room had a sinister aspect with its feeble light; he
looked at the dying man, who, held up by his daughters, was swallowing
a spoonful of some black liquid; and his heart overflowed, he sobbed as
he accused his sister of never having under stood him. Yet, he had
already been made unhappy enough by Gueulin’s treachery. They knew he
was very sensitive, and they did wrong to invite him to dinner, to make
him sad afterward. In short, in place of the fifty thousand francs, he
offered all the blood in his veins.
Madame Josserand, who was quite worn out, had decided to leave him to
himself, when the servant announced Doctor Juillerat and the Abbé
Mauduit. They had met on the landing, and entered together. The doctor
found Monsieur Josserand much worse, he was still suffering from the
shock occasioned by the scene in which he had been forced to play a
part. When, on his side, the priest wished to take Madame Josserand
into the drawing-room, having, he said, a communication to make to her,
the latter guessed on what subject he had called, and answered
majestically that she was with her family and prepared to hear
everything there; the doctor himself would not be in the way, for a
physician was also a confessor.
“Madame,” then said the priest, with slightly embarrassed gentleness,
“you behold in the step I am taking an ardent desire to reconcile two
families——”
“My dear Abbé Mauduit, allow me to interrupt you,” said Madame
Josserand. “We are deeply moved by your efforts. But never, you
understand me! never will we traffic in our daughter’s honor. People
who have already become reconciled over this child’s back! Oh! I know
all; they were at daggers drawn, and now they are inseparable, reviling
us from morning till night. No; such a bargain would be a disgrace—-”
“It seems to me, though, madame—” ventured the priest.
But she drowned his voice, as she superbly continued:
“See! my brother is here. You can question him. He was again saying to
me only a little while ago: ‘Here are the fifty thousand francs,
Eléonore; settle this miserable matter!’ Well! ask him what reply I
made. Get up, Narcisse. Tell the truth.” The uncle had already again
fallen asleep in an arm-chair, at the end of the room. He moved, and
uttered a few disconnected words. Then, as his sister insisted, he
placed his hand on his heart, and stammered:
“When duty speaks, one must obey. The family comes before everything.”
“You hear him?” cried Madame Josserand, with a triumphant air. “No
money; it’s disgraceful! Tell those people from us that we don’t die to
avoid having to pay. The dowry is here; we would have given it; but,
now that it’s exacted as the price of our daughter, the matter becomes
too disgusting. Let Auguste take Berthe back first, and then we will
see later on.”
She had raised her voice, and the doctor, who was examining his
patient, was obliged to make her leave off.
“Speak lower, madame!” said he; “your husband suffers.”
Then the Abbé Mauduit, whose embarrassment had increased, went up to
the bedside, and found some kind words to say. And he afterward
withdrew, without again referring to the matter, hiding the confusion
of having failed beneath his amiable smile, with a curl of grief and
disgust on his lips. As the doctor went off in his turn, he roughly
informed Madame Josserand that there was no hope for the invalid: the
greatest precautions must be taken, for the least emotion might carry
him off. She was thunderstruck, and returned to the dining-room, where
her two daughters and their uncle had already withdrawn, to let
Monsieur Josserand rest, as he seemed disposed to go to sleep.
“Berthe,” murmured she, “you have killed your father. The doctor has
just said so.”
And they all three, seated round the table, gave way to their grief,
whilst Uncle Bachelard, also in tears, mixed himself a glass of grog.
When Auguste learned the Josserands’ answer, his rage against his wife
knew no bounds, and he swore he would kick her away the day she came to
ask for forgiveness. Yet, in reality, he wanted her; there was a
voidness in his life; he seemed to be out of his element, amidst the
new worries of his abandonment, quite as grave as those of his married
life.
Besides all this, another more serious anxiety bothered him: “The
Ladies’ Paradise” was prospering, and already menaced his business,
which decreased daily. He certainly did not regret that miserable
Octave, yet he was just, and recognized that the fellow possessed very
great abilities. How swimmingly everything would have gone had they
only got on better together! He was seized with the most tender
regrets; there were hours when, sick of his loneliness, feeling life
giving way beneath him, he felt inclined to go up to the Josserands and
ask them to give Berthe back to him for nothing.
Duveyrier, too, moreover, did not yield, and, more and more cut up by
the moral disfavor into which such an affair threw his building, he was
forever urging his brother-in-law to a reconciliation.
Each day life became more and more cruel for Duveyrier at this
mistress’, where he encountered all the worries of his own home again,
but this time in the midst of a regular hell. The whole tribe of
hawkers—the mother, the big blackguard of a brother, the two little
sisters, even the invalid aunt—impudently robbed him, lived on him
openly, to the point of emptying his pockets during the nights he slept
there. His position was also becoming a serious one in another respect;
he had got to the end of his money; he trembled at the thought of being
compromised on his judicial bench; he could certainly not be removed,
only, the young barristers were beginning to look at him in a saucy
kind of way, which made it awkward for him to administer justice. And,
when driven away by the filth and the uproar, seized with disgust of
himself, he flew from the Rue d’Assas and sought refuge in the Rue de
Choiseul, his wife’s malignant coldness completed the crushing of him.
Then he would lose his head; he would look at the Seine on his way to
the court, with thoughts of jumping in some evening when a final
suffering should impart to him the requisite courage.
Clotilde had noticed her husband’s emotion, and felt anxious and
irritated with that mistress of his who did not even make a man happy
in his misconduct. But, for her part, she was greatly annoyed by a most
deplorable adventure, the consequences of which quite revolutionized
the house. On going up-stairs one morning for a handkerchief, Clémence
had caught Hippolyte with Louise, and, since then, she had taken to
slapping him in the kitchen for the least thing, which of course
greatly interfered with the attendance. The worst was that madame could
no longer close her eyes to the illicit connection existing between her
maid and her footman; the other servants laughed, the scandal was
reported amongst the tradespeople; it was absolutely necessary to
oblige them to get married if she wished to retain them, and, as she
continued to be very well satisfied with Clémence, she thought of
nothing but this marriage.
To negotiate between lovers who were forever fighting with each other
seemed such a delicate affair that she decided on employing the Abbé
Mauduit, whose moralizing character seemed specially suited to the
occasion. Her servants, moreover, had been causing her a great deal of
trouble for some time past. When down in the country, she had noticed
the intimacy of her big, hobbledehoy Gustave with Julie; she had at one
moment thought of sending the latter about her business, though
regretfully, for she liked her cooking; then, after sound reflection,
she had decided to keep her, preferring that the youngster should have
a mistress at home, a clean girl who would never be any trouble. There
is no knowing what a youth may get hold of outside, when he begins too
young. She was watching them, therefore, without saying a word, and now
the other two must needs worry her with their affair.
It so happened that, one morning, as Madame Duveyrier was preparing to
call on the priest, Clémence came, and announced that the Abbé Mauduit
was taking the extreme unction up to Monsieur Josserand. After meeting
him on the staircase, the maid had returned to the kitchen, exclaiming:
“I said that he would come again this year!”
And, alluding to the catastrophes which had befallen the house, she
added:
“It has brought ill-luck to every one.”
This time the priest did not arrive too late, and that was an excellent
sign for the future. Madame Duveyrier hastened to Saint-Roch, where she
awaited the Abbé Mauduit’s return. He listened to her, and for a while
maintained a sad silence; then he was unable to refuse to enlighten the
maid and the footman on the immorality of their position. Moreover, the
other matter would have obliged him to return shortly to the Rue de
Choiseul, for poor Monsieur Josserand would certainly not last through
the night; and he mentioned that he saw in this circumstance a cruel
but happy opportunity for reconciling Auguste and Berthe. He would try
and arrange the two affairs simultaneously. It was high time that
Heaven consented to bless their efforts.
“I have prayed, madame,” said the priest. “The Almighty will triumph.”
And, indeed, that evening, at seven o’clock, Monsieur Josserand’s death
agony began. The entire family was there, excepting uncle Bachelard,
who had been sought for in vain in all the cafés, and Saturnin, who was
still confined at the Asile des Moulineaux. Léon, whose marriage was
most unfortunately postponed through his father’s illness, displayed a
dignified grief. Madame Josserand and Hortense showed some courage.
Berthe alone sobbed so loudly that, so as not to affect the invalid,
she had gone and stowed herself away in the kitchen, where Adèle,
taking advantage of the general confusion, was drinking some mulled
wine. Monsieur Josserand expired in the quietest fashion; it was his
honesty which finished him. He had passed a useless life, and he went
off like a worthy man tired of the wicked things of the world,
heart-broken by the quiet indifference of the only beings he had ever
loved. At eight o’clock he stammered out Saturnin’s name, turned his
face to the wall, and expired. No one thought him dead, for all had
dreaded a terrible agony. They sat patiently for some time, letting
him, as they thought, sleep. When they found he was already becoming
cold, Madame Josserand, in the midst of the general wailing, flew into
a passion with Hortense, whom she had instructed to fetch Auguste,
counting on restoring Berthe to the latter’s arms amidst the great
grief of her husband’s last moments.
“You think of nothing!” said she, wiping her eyes.
“But, mamma,” replied the girl, in tears, “no one thought papa would go
off so suddenly! You told me not to go for Auguste till nine o’clock,
so as to be sure of keeping him till the end.”
The sorely afflicted family found some distraction in this quarrel.
It was another matter gone wrong; they never succeeded in anything.
Fortunately, there was still the funeral to take advantage of to bring
the husband and wife together.
The funeral was a pretty decent one, though it was not so grand as
Monsieur Vabre’s. Moreover, it did not give rise to nearly the same
excitement in the house and the neighborhood, for the deceased was not
a landlord; he was merely a quiet-going body, whose demise did not even
disturb Madame Juzeur’s slumbers.
Madame Josserand and her daughters had to be supported to their coach.
Léon, assisted by uncle Bachelard, was most attentive, whilst Auguste
followed behind in an embarrassed way. He got into another coach with
Duveyrier and Théophile. Clotilde detained the Abbé Mauduit, who had
not officiated, but who had gone to the cemetery, wishing to give the
family a proof of his sympathy. The horses started on the homeward
journey more gayly, and she at once asked the priest to return to the
house with them, for she felt that the time was favorable. He
consented.
The three mourning coaches silently drew up in the Rue de Choiseul with
the relations. Théophile at once rejoined Valérie, who had remained
behind to superintend a general cleaning, the warehouse being closed.
“You may pack up!” cried he, furiously. “They’re all at him. I bet
he’ll end by begging her pardon.”
They all, indeed, felt a pressing necessity for putting an end to the
unpleasantness. Misfortune should at least be good for something.
Auguste, in the midst of them, understood very well what they wanted;
and he was alone, without strength to resist, and filled with shame.
The relations slowly walked in under the porch hung with black. No one
spoke. On the stairs, the silence continued—a silence full of deep
thought—whilst the crape skirts, soft and sad, ascended higher and
higher. Auguste, seized with a final feeling of revolt, had taken the
lead, with the intention of quickly shutting himself up in his own
apartments; but, as he opened, the door, Clotilde and the priest, who
had followed close behind, stopped him. Directly after them, Berthe,
dressed in deep mourning, appeared on the landing, accompanied by her
mother and her sister. They all three had red eyes; Madame Josserand,
especially, was quite painful to behold.
“Come, my friend,” simply said the priest, overcome by tears.
And that was sufficient. Auguste gave in at once, seeing that it was
better to make his peace at that honorable opportunity. His wife wept,
and he wept also, as he stammered:
“Come in. We will try not to do it again.”
Then the relations kissed all around. Clotilde congratulated her
brother; she had had full confidence in his heart. Madame Josserand
showed a broken-hearted satisfaction, like a widow who is no longer the
least affected by the most unhoped-for happiness. She associated her
poor husband with the general joy.
“You are doing your duty, my dear son-in-law. He who is now in Heaven
thanks you.”
“Come in,” repeated Auguste, quite upset.
But Rachel, attracted by the noise, now appeared in the anteroom; and
Berthe hesitated a moment in presence of the speechless exasperation
which caused the maid to turn ghastly pale. Then she sternly entered,
and disappeared with her black mourning in the shadow of the apartment.
Auguste followed her, and the door closed behind them.
A deep sigh of relief ascended the staircase, and filled the house with
joy. The ladies pressed the hands of the priest, whose prayers had been
granted. Just as Clotilde was taking him off to settle the other
matter, Duveyrier, who had lagged behind with Léon and Bachelard,
arrived, walking painfully. The happy result had all to be explained to
him; but he, who had been desiring it for months past, scarcely seemed
to understand, a strange expression overspreading his face, and his
mind a prey to a fixed idea, the torture of which quite absorbed him.
Whilst the Josserands regained their apartments, he returned to his
own, behind his wife and the priest. And they had just reached the
ante-room, when some stifled cries caused them to start.
“Do not be uneasy, madame. It is the little lady up-stairs in labor,”
Hippolyte complacently explained. “I saw Dr. Juillerat run up just
now.”
Then, when he was alone, he added philosophically:
“One goes, another comes.”
Clotilde made the Abbé Mauduit comfortable in the drawingroom, saying
that she would first of all send him Clémence; and, to help him to
while away the time, she gave him the “Revue des Deux Mondes,” which
contained some really charming verses. She wished to prepare her maid
for the interview. But, on entering her dressing-room, she found her
husband seated on a chair.
Ever since the morning, Duveyrier had been in a state of agony. For the
third time he had caught Clarisse with Théodore; and, as he complained,
the whole family of hawkers, the mother, the brother, the sisters, had
fallen upon him, and driven him down-stairs with kicks and blows;
whilst Clarisse had called him a poverty-stricken wretch, and furiously
threatened him with the police if he ever dared to show himself there
again. It was all over; down below the doorkeeper had told him that for
a week past a very rich old fellow had been anxious to provide for
madame. Then, driven away, and no longer having a warm nook to nestle
in, Duveyrier, after wandering about the streets, had entered an
out-of-the-way shop and purchased a pocket revolver. Life was becoming
too sad; he could at least put an end to it, as soon as he had found a
suitable place for doing so. This selection of a quiet corner was
occupying his mind, as he mechanically returned to the Rue de Choiseul
to assist at Monsieur Josserand’s funeral. Then, when following the
corpse, he had had a sudden idea of killing himself at the cemetery; he
would go to the furthest end and hide behind a tombstone. This
flattered his taste for the romantic, the necessity for a tender ideal,
which was wrecking his life, beneath his rigid middle-class attitude.
But, as the coffin was being lowered into the grave, he began to
tremble, seized with an earthly chill. The spot would decidedly not do;
he would have to seek elsewhere. And, having returned in a worse state
than ever, entirely a prey to this one idea, he sat thinking on a chair
in the dressing-room, trying to decide which was the most suitable
place in the house—perhaps the bed-room, beside the bed, or simply just
where he was, without moving.
“Will you have the kindness to leave me to myself?” said Clotilde to
him.
He already had his hand on the revolver in his pocket.
“Why?” asked he, with an effort.
“Because I wish to be alone.”
He thought that she wanted to change her dress, and that she would not
even let him see her bare arms, so repugnant he felt was he to her. For
an instant he looked at her with his dim eyes, and beheld her so tall,
so beautiful, with a complexion clear as marble, her hair gathered up
in deep, golden tresses. Ah! if she had only consented, how everything
might have been arranged! He rose stumblingly from his chair, and,
opening his arms, tried to take hold of her.
“What, now?” murmured she, greatly surprised. “What’s the matter with
you? Not here, surely. Have you the other one no longer, then? It is
going to begin again, that abomination?”
And she exhibited such utter disgust, that he drew back. Without a
word, he left her, stopping in the ante-room as he hesitated for a
moment; then, as there was a door facing him, the door of the closet,
he pushed it open; and, without the slightest hurry, he sat down. It
was a quiet spot, no one would come and disturb him there. He placed
the barrel of the little revolver in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.
Meanwhile, Clotilde, who had been struck since the morning by his
strange manner, had listened to ascertain if he were obliging her by
returning to Clarisse. On learning where he had gone, by a creak
peculiar to that door, she no longer bothered herself about him, and
was at length in the act of ringing for Clémence, when the dull report
of a fire-arm filled her with surprise. Whatever was it? it was just,
like the noise a saloon rifle would make. She hastened to the
ante-room, not daring at first to question him; then, as a strange
sound issued from where he was, she called him, and, on receiving no
answer, opened the door. The bolt had not even been fastened.
Duveyrier, stunned by fright more than by the injury he had received,
remained squatting, in a most lugubrious posture, his eyes wide open,
and his face streaming with blood. He had missed his object. After
grazing his jaw, the bullet had passed out again through the left
cheek. And he no longer had the courage to fire a second time.
“What! that is what you come to do here?” cried Clotilde quite beside
herself. “Just go and kill yourself outside!”
She was most indignant. Instead of softening her, this spectacle threw
her into a supreme exasperation. She bullied him, and raised him up
without the least precaution, wishing to carry him away so that no one
should see him in such a place. In that closet! and to miss killing
himself too! It was too much.
Then, whilst she supported him to lead him to the bed-room, Duveyrier,
who had his throat filled with blood, and whose teeth were dropping
out, stuttered between two rattles:
“You never loved me!”
[Illustration]
And he burst into sobs, he bewailed the death of poetry, that little
blue flower which it had been denied him to pluck. When Clotilde had
put him to bed, she at length became softened, seized with a nervous
emotion in the midst of her anger. The worst of it was that Clémence
and Hippolyte were coming in answer to the bell. She at first talked to
them of an accident; their master had fallen on his chin: then she was
obliged to abandon this fable, for, on going to wipe up the blood, the
footman had found the revolver. The wounded man was still losing a
great deal of blood, when the maid remembered that Dr. Juillerat was
up-stairs attending to Madame Pichon, and she hastened to him, meeting
him on the staircase, on his way home, after a most successful
delivery. The doctor immediately reassured Clotilde; perhaps the jaw
would be slightly out of its place, but her husband’s life was not in
the least danger. He was proceeding to dress the wound, in the midst of
basins of water and red stained rags, when the Abbé Mauduit, uneasy at
all this commotion, ventured to enter the room.
“Whatever has happened?” asked he.
This question completed upsetting Madame Duveyrier. She burst into
tears at the first words of explanation. The priest, fully aware of the
hidden miseries of his flock, had moreover quite understood matters.
Already, whilst waiting in the drawing-room, he had been taken with a
feeling of uneasiness, and almost regretted the success which had
attended his efforts, that wretched young woman whom he had once more
united to her husband without her showing the slightest remorse. He was
filled with a terrible doubt, perhaps God was not with him. And his
anguish still further increased as he beheld the counselor’s fractured
jaw. He went up to him, bent upon energetically condemning suicide. But
the doctor, who was very busy, thrust him aside.
“After me, my dear Abbé Mauduit. By-and-by. You can see very well that
he has fainted.”
And indeed, directly the doctor touched him, Duveyrier had lost
consciousness. Then Clotilde, to get rid of the servants who were no
longer needed, and whose staring eyes embarrassed her very much,
murmured, as she wiped her eyes:
“Go into the drawing-room. Abbé Mauduit has something to say to you.”
The priest was obliged to take them there. It was another unpleasant
piece of business. Hippolyte and Clémence followed him in profound
surprise. When they were alone together, he began preaching them a
rather confused sermon: Heaven rewarded good behavior, whereas a single
sin led one to hell; moreover, it was time to put a stop to scandal and
to think of one’s salvation. Whilst he spoke thus, their surprise
turned to bewilderment; with their hands hanging down beside them, she
with her slender limbs and tiny mouth, he with his flat face and his
big bones like a gendarme, they exchanged anxious glances! Had madame
found some of her napkins up-stairs in a trunk? or was it because of
the bottle of wine they took up with them every evening?
“My children,” the priest ended by saying, “you set a bad example. The
greatest of crimes is to pervert one’s neighbor, and to bring the house
where one lives into disrepute. Yes, you live in a disorderly way,
whieh, unfortunately, is no longer a secret to any one, for you have
been fighting together for a week past.”
He blushed; a modest hesitation caused him to choose his words.
Meanwhile the two servants had sighed with relief. They smiled now and
strutted about in quite a happy manner. It was only that! really, there
was no occasion to be so frightened!
“But it’s all over, sir,” declared Clémence, glancing at Hippolyte in
the fondest manner. “We have made it up. Yes, he explained everything
to me.”
The priest in his turn exhibited an astonishment full of sadness.
“You do not understand me, my children. You cannot continue to live
together; you sin against God and man. You must get married.”
At this, their amazement returned. Get married! whatever for?
“I don’t want to,” said Clémence. “I’ve quite another idea.”
Then the Abbé Mauduit tried to convince Hippolyte.
“Come, my fine fellow, you who are a man, use your influence with her,
talk to her of her honor. It will change nothing in your mode of
living. Be married.”
The footman grinned in a jocular and embarrassed manner. At length he
declared, as he looked down at the toes of his boots:
“I daresay, I don’t say the contrary; but I’m already married.”
This answer put a stop to all the priest’s moral preaching. Without
adding a word, he folded up his arguments, and put religion, now become
useless, back into his pocket, deeply regretting ever having risked it
in such a disgraceful matter. Clotilde, who rejoined him at this
moment, had heard everything; and she gave vent to her indignation in a
furious gesture. At her order, the footman and the maid left the room,
one behind the other, looking very serious, but in reality feeling
highly amused. After a short pause, Abbé Mauduit complained bitterly:
why expose him in that manner? why stir up things it was far better to
let rest? The condition of affairs had now become most disgraceful. But
Clotilde repeated her gesture: so much the worse! she had far greater
worries. Moreover, she would certainly not send the servants away, for
fear the whole neighborhood learnt the story of the attempted suicide
that very evening. She would decide what to do later on.
“You will not forget, will you? the most complete repose,” urged the
doctor, coming from the bed-room. “He will get over it perfectly, but
all fatigue must be avoided. Take courage, madame.”
And, turning toward the priest, he added:
“You can preach him a sermon later on, my dear friend. I do not give
him up to you yet. If you are returning to Saint-Roch, I will accompany
you; we can walk together.”
Then they left the house, and slowly followed the Rue
Neuve-Saint-Augustin. As they raised their heads, on arriving at the
end of the street, they beheld Madame Hédouin smiling at them, at the
door of “The Ladies’ Paradise.” Standing behind her was Octave, also
laughing. That very morning they had settled on their marriage, after a
serious conversation. They would wait till the autumn. And they were
both full of joy at having at length arranged the matter.
“Good day, my dear Abbé Mauduit!” said Madame Hédouin, gayly. “And you,
doctor, always paying visits?”
And, as the latter congratulated her on her good looks, she added:
“Oh! if there were only me, you might give up business at once.” They
stood conversing a moment. The doctor having mentioned Marie’s
confinement, Octave seemed delighted to hear of his former neighbor’s
happy delivery. But, when he learnt that it was a third daughter, he
exclaimed:
“Can’t her husband manage a boy, then? She thought she might still get
Monsieur and Madame Vuillaume to put up with a boy; but they’ll never
stomach another girl.”
“I should think not,” said the doctor. “They have both taken to their
bed, the news of their daughter’s pregnancy upset them so much. And
they sent for a notary, so that their son-in-law should not even
inherit their furniture.”
There was a little chaff. The priest alone remained silent, with his
eyes cast on the ground. Madame Hédouin asked him if he was unwell.
Yes, he felt very tired, he was going to take a little rest. And, after
a cordial exchange of good wishes, he went down the Rue Saint-Roch,
still accompanied by the doctor. On arriving before the church, the
latter abruptly said:
“A bad customer, eh?”
“Who is?” asked the priest in surprise.
“That lady who sells linen. She does not care a pin for either of us.
No need for religion, nor for medicine. All the same, when one is
always so well, it is no longer interesting.”
And he went on his way, whilst the priest entered the church. Abbé
Mauduit intended to go up to his room. But a great agitation, a violent
necessity, had forced him to enter the church and kept him there. It
seemed to him that God was calling him, with a confused and far-off
voice, the orders proceeding from which he was unable to catch. He
slowly crossed the church, and was trying to read within himself, to
quiet his alarms, when, suddenly, as he passed behind the choir, a
superhuman spectacle shook his entire frame.
It was beyond the marble chapel of the Virgin, as white as a lily,
beyond the gold and silver plate of the chapel of the Adoration, with
its seven golden lamps, its golden candelabra, and its golden altar
shining in the tawny shadow of the aureate stained windows; it was in
the depths of this mysterious night, past this tabernacle background, a
tragical apparition, a simple yet harrowing drama: Christ nailed to the
cross, between the Virgin Mary and Mary Magdalen, weeping at his feet;
and the white statues, which an invisible light coming from above
caused to stand out from against the bare wall, seemed to advance and
increase in size, making the bleeding humanity of this death, and these
tears, the divine symbol of eternal woe.
The priest, thoroughly distracted, fell on his knees. He had whitened
that plaster, arranged that mode of lighting, prepared that phenomenon;
and, now that the boarding was removed, the architect and the workmen
gone, he was the first to be thunderstruck at the sight. From the
terrible severity of the Calvary came a breath which overpowered him.
He fancied the Almighty passing over him; he bent beneath this breath,
filled with misgivings, tortured by the thought that he was perhaps a
bad priest.