In December, the eighth month of her morning, Madame Josserand for the
first time accepted an invitation to dine out. It was merely at the
Duveyriers’, almost a family gathering, with which Clotilde opened her
Saturday receptions of the new winter. The day before, Adèle had been
told that she would have to help Julie with the washing-up. The ladies
were in the habit of thus lending their servants to each other on the
days when they gave parties.
“And above all, try and put a little more go into yourself,” said
Madame Josserand to her maid-of-all-work. “I don’t know what you’ve got
in your body now, you’re as limp as rags. Yet you’re fat and plump.”
Adèle was simply nine months gone in the family way. For a long time
she had thought she was merely growing stouter, which greatly surprised
her however; and she would get into a perfect rage, with her ever
hungry empty stomach, on the days when madame triumphantly showed her
to her guests; ah, well! those who accused her of weighing her
servant’s bread might come and look at that great glutton, it was not
likely she got so fat by merely licking the walls! When, in her
stupidity, Adèle at length became aware of her misfortune, she
restrained herself twenty times from telling the truth to her mistress,
who was really taking advantage of her condition to make the
neighborhood think that she was at length feeding her.
But, from this moment, terror stultified her entirely. Her village
ideas once more took possession of her obtuse skull. She thought
herself damned, she fancied that the gendarmes would come and take her,
if she admitted her pregnancy. Then all her low cunning was made use of
to hide it. She concealed the feelings of sickness, twice she thought
she would drop down dead before her kitchen fire, whilst stirring some
sauces. The pain that she had endured for the two last months with the
obstinacy of an heroic silence was indeed frightful.
Adèle went up to bed that night about eleven o’clock. The thought of
to-morrow evening terrified her; more drudgery, more bullying by Julie!
and she could scarcely move about.
During the night she was seized with labor pains, and a desire came
over her to move about, so as to walk them off. She therefore lighted
the candle and began to wander round the room, her tongue dried up,
tormented with a burning thirst, and her cheeks on fire. Hours passed
in this cruel wandering, without her daring to put on her shoes, for
fear of making a noise, whilst she was only protected against the cold
by an old shawl thrown across her shoulders. Two o’clock struck, then
three o’clock.
Not a soul stirred in the adjoining rooms, every one was snoring; she
could hear Julie’s sonorous hum, whilst Lisa made a kind of hissing
noise like the shrill notes of a fife. Four o’clock had just struck,
when, seized with a violent pain, she felt that the end was
approaching, and could not restrain uttering a loud cry.
At this the occupants of the other rooms began to rouse up. Voices
thick with sleep were heard saying: “Well! what? who’s being
murdered?—Some one’s being taken by force!—Don’t dream out loud like
that!” Dreadfully frightened, she drew the bedclothes over the new-born
child, which was uttering plaintive cries like a little kitten. But she
soon heard Julie snoring again, after turning over; whilst Lisa, once
more asleep, no longer uttered a sound. Then she experienced an immense
relief, an infinite comfort of calm and repose, and lay as one dead.
She must have dozed thus for the best part of an hour. When six o’clock
struck, the consciousness of her position awoke her again. Time was
flying, she rose up painfully, and did whatever things came into her
head, without deciding on them beforehand. A frosty moon shone full
into the room. After dressing herself, she wrapped the infant up in
some old rags, and then folded a couple of newspapers around it. It
uttered no cry now, yet its little heart was beating.
Not one of the servants was about as yet, and, after getting slumbering
Monsieur Gourd to unfasten the door from his room, she was able to go
out and lay her bundle in the Passage Choiseul, the gates of which had
just been opened, and then quietly returned up-stairs. She met no one.
For once in her lifetime, luck was on her side!
She immediately set about tidying her room, after which, utterly worn
out, and as white as wax, she again lay down. It was thus that Madame
Josserand found her, when she had made up her mind to go up-stairs
toward nine o’clock, greatly surprised at not seeing Adèle come down.
The servant having complained of a violent attack of diarrhoea which
had kept her awake all night, madame exclaimed:
“Of course! you must have eaten too much again! You think of nothing
else but stuffing yourself.”
The girl’s paleness, however, made her uneasy, and she talked of
sending for the doctor; but she was glad to save the three francs, when
Adèle vowed that she merely needed rest. Since her husband’s death,
Madame Josserand had been living with her daughter Hortense, on an
allowance made her by the brothers Bernheim, but which did not prevent
her from bitterly alluding to them as persons who lived on the brains
of others; and she spent less than ever on food, so as not to descend
to a lower level of society by quitting her apartments and giving up
her Tuesday receptions.
“That’s right; sleep,” said she. “There is some cold beef left which
will do for this morning, and to-night we dine out. If you cannot come
down to help Julie, she will have to do without you.”
The dinner that evening at the Duveyriers’ was a very cordial one. All
the family was there: the two Vabres and their wives, Madame Josserand,
Hortense, Léon, and even uncle Bachelard, who behaved well. Moreover,
they had invited Trublot to fill a vacant place, and Madame
Dambreville, so as not to separate her from Léon. The latter, after his
marriage with the niece, had once again fallen into the arms of the
aunt, who was still necessary to him. They were seen to arrive together
in all the drawing-rooms, and they would apologize for the young wife,
whom a cold or a feeling of idleness, said they, kept at home. That
evening the whole table complained of scarce knowing her: they loved
her so much, she was so beautiful! Then they talked of the chorus which
Clotilde was to give at the end of the evening; it was the “Blessing of
the Daggers” again, but this time with five tenors, something complete
and magisterial. For two months past, Duveyrier himself, who had become
quite charming, had been looking up the friends of the house, and
saying to every one he met: “You are quite a stranger, come and see us;
my wife is going to give her choruses again.” Therefore, half through
the dinner, they talked of nothing but music. The happiest good-nature
and the most free-hearted gayety prevailed throughout.
Then, after the coffee, and whilst the ladies sat round the
drawing-room fire, the gentlemen formed a group in the parlor and began
to exchange some grave ideas. The other guests were now arriving. And
among the earliest were Campardon, Abbé Mauduit, and Doctor Juillerat,
without including the diners, with the exception of Trublot, who had
disappeared on leaving the table. They almost immediately commenced
talking politics. The debates in the Chamber deeply interested the
gentlemen, and they had not yet given over discussing the success of
the opposition candidates for Paris, all of whom had been returned at
the May elections. This triumph of the dissatisfied portion of the
middle classes made them feel anxious at heart, in spite of their
apparent delight.
“Dear me!” declared Léon, “Monsieur Thiers is certainly a most talented
man. But he puts so much acrimony into his speeches on the Mexican
expedition that he quite spoils their effect.”
He had just been named to a higher appointment, through Madame
Dambreville’s influence, and had at once joined the government party.
The only thing that remained in him of the famished demagogue, was an
unbearable intolerance of all doctrines.
“Not long ago you were accusing the government of every sin,” said the
doctor, smiling. “I hope you at least voted for Monsieur Thiers.”
The young man avoided answering. Théophile, whose stomach was no longer
able to digest his food, and who was worried with fresh doubts as to
his wife’s constancy, exclaimed:
“I voted for him. When men refuse to live as brothers, so much the
worse for them!”
“And so much the worse for you, as well, eh?” remarked Duveyrier, who,
speaking but little, uttered some very profound observations.
Théophile, greatly scared, looked at him. Auguste no longer dared admit
that he had also voted for Monsieur Thiers. Then every one was very
much surprised to hear uncle Bachelard utter a legitimist profession of
faith: he thought it the most genteel. Campardon seconded him warmly;
he had abstained from voting himself, because the official candidate,
Monsieur Dewinck, did not offer sufficient guarantees as regards
religion; and he furiously declaimed against Renan’s “Life of Jesus,”
which had recently made its appearance.
“It is not the book that should be burnt; it is the author,” repeated
he.
“You are, perhaps, too radical, my friend,” interrupted the priest, in
a conciliatory tone. “But, indeed, the symptoms are becoming terrible.
There is some talk of driving away the pope, the revolution has invaded
parliament. We are walking on the edge of a precipice.”
“So much the better!” said Doctor Juillerat, simply.
Then the others all protested. He renewed his attacks against the
middle classes, prophesying that there would be a clean sweep the day
when the masses wished to enjoy power in their turn; and the others
loudly interrupted him, exclaiming that the middle classes represented
the virtue, the industry, and the thrift of the nation. Duveyrier was
at length able to make himself heard. He owned it before all: he had
voted for Monsieur Dewinck, not that Monsieur Dewinck exactly
represented his opinions, but because he was the symbol of order. Yes,
the saturnalia of the Reign of Terror might one day return. Monsieur
Rouher, that remarkable statesman who had just succeeded Monsieur
Billault, had formally prophesied it in the Chamber. He concluded with
these striking words:
“The triumph of the opposition is the preliminary subsidence of the
structure. Take care that it does not crush you in falling!”
The other gentlemen held their peace, with the unavowed fear of having
allowed themselves to be carried away even to compromising their
personal safety. They beheld workmen begrimed with powder and blood,
entering their homes, violating their maidservants and drinking their
wine. No doubt, the Emperor deserved a lesson; only, they were
beginning to regret having given him so severe a one.
“Be easy!” concluded the doctor, scoffingly. “We will manage to save
you from the bullets.”
But he was going too far, they set him down as an original. It was,
moreover, thanks to this reputation for originality, that he did not
lose his connection. He continued, by resuming with Abbé Mauduit their
eternal quarrel respecting the approaching downfall of the Church. Léon
now sided with the priest: he talked of Providence, and, on Sundays,
accompanied Madame Dambreville to nine o’clock mass.
Meanwhile, the guests continued to arrive, the drawing-room was
becoming quite filled with ladies. Valérie and Berthe were exchanging
little secrets, like two good friends. The other Madame Campardon, whom
the architect had brought no doubt in place of poor Rose, who was
already in bed up-stairs and reading Dickens, was giving Madame
Josserand an economical recipe for washing clothes without soap; whilst
Hortense, seated all by herself and expecting Verdier, did not take her
eyes off the door. But suddenly Clotilde, while conversing with Madame
Dambreville, rose up and held out her hands. Her friend, Madame Octave
Mouret, had just entered the room. The marriage had taken place early
in November, at the end of her mourning.
“And your husband?” asked the hostess. “He is not going to disappoint
me, I hope?”
“No, no,” answered Caroline, with a smile. “He will be here directly;
something detained him at the last moment.”
There was some whispering, glances full of curiosity were directed
toward her, so calm and so lovely, ever the same, with the pleasant
assurance of a woman who succeeds in everything she undertakes. Madame
Josserand pressed her hand, as though she were delighted to see her
again. Berthe and Valérie left off talking and examined her at their
ease, studying her costume, a straw-color dress covered with lace. But,
in the midst of this quiet forgetfulness of the past, Auguste, whom the
political discussion had left quite cool, was giving signs of indignant
amazement as he stood near the parlor door. What! his sister was going
to receive the family of his wife’s former lover! And, in his marital
rancor, there was a touch of the jealous anger of the tradesman ruined
by a triumphant competition; for “The Ladies’ Paradise,” by extending
its business and creating a special department for silk, had so drained
his resources that he had been obliged to take a partner. He drew near,
and, whilst every one was making much of Madame Mouret, he whispered to
Clotilde:
“You know, I will never put up with it.”
“Put up with what?” asked she, greatly surprised.
“I do not mind the wife so much, she has not done me any harm. But if
the husband comes, I shall take hold of Berthe by the arm, and leave
the room in the presence of everybody.”
She looked at him, and then shrugged her shoulders. Caroline was her
oldest friend, she was certainly not going to give up seeing her, just
to satisfy his caprices. As though any one even recollected the matter.
He would do far better not to rake up things forgotten by everybody but
himself. And as, deeply affected, he looked to Berthe for support,
expecting that she would get up and follow him at once, she calmed him
with a frown; was he mad? did he wish to make himself more ridiculous
than he had ever been before?
“But it is in order that I may not appear ridiculous!” replied he, in
despair.
Then Madame Josserand inclined toward him, and, said in a severe tone
of voice:
“It is becoming quite indecent; every one is looking at you. Do behave
yourself for once in a way.”
He held his tongue, but without submitting. From this moment a certain
uneasiness existed among the ladies. The only one who preserved her
smiling tranquillity was Madame Mouret, now sitting beside Clotilde and
opposite Berthe. They watched Auguste, who had retired to the window
recess where his marriage had been decided, not so very long before.
His anger was bringing on a headache, and he now and again pressed his
forehead against the icy-cold panes.
Octave did not arrive till very late. As he reached the landing, he met
Madame Juzeur, who had just come down, wrapped in a shawl. She
complained of her chest, and had got up on purpose not to disappoint
the Duveyriers. Her languid state did not prevent her falling into the
young man’s arms, as she congratulated him on his marriage.
“How delighted I am with such a splendid result, my friend! Really! I
was quite in despair about you, I never thought you would have
succeeded. Tell me, you rascal, how did you manage to get over her?”
Octave smiled and kissed her fingers. But some one who was bounding
up-stairs with the agility of a goat, disturbed them; and, greatly
surprised, they fancied they recognized Saturnin. It was indeed
Saturnin, who a week before had left the Asile des Moulineaux, where
for a second time Doctor Chassagne declined to detain him any longer,
still considering him not sufficiently mad. No doubt he was going to
spend the evening with Marie Pichon, just as in former days, when his
parents had company. And those bygone times were suddenly evoked.
Octave could hear an expiring voice coming from above, singing the
ballad with which Marie whiled away her vacant hours; he beheld her
once more eternally alone, beside the crib in which Lilitte slumbered,
and awaiting Jules’ return with all the complacency of a gentle and
useless woman.
“I wish you every happiness with your wife,” repeated Madame Juzeur,
tenderly squeezing Octave’s hands.
In order not to enter the drawing-room with her, he was purposely
occupying some time in removing his overcoat, when Trublot, in his
dress clothes, bareheaded, and looking quite upset, came from the
passage leading to the kitchen.
“You know she’s not at all well!” murmured he, whilst Hippolyte
announced Madame Juzeur.
“Who isn’t?” asked Octave.
“Why Adèle, the servant up-stairs.”
Hearing there was something the matter with her, he had gone up quite
paternally, on leaving the dinner-table. It must have been a very
severe attack of cholerine; a good glass of mulled wine was what she
ought to have, and she had not even a lump of sugar. Then, as he
noticed that his friend smiled in an indifferent sort of way, he added:
“Hallo! I forgot you’re married, you joker! This sort of thing no
longer interests you. I never thought of that when I found you with
madame. Anything you like except that!”
They entered together. The ladies were just then speaking of their
servants, and were taking such interest in the conversation, that they
did not notice them at first. All were complacently approving Madame
Duveyrier, who was trying to explain, in an embarrassed way, why she
continued to keep Clémence and Hippolyte: he was rough, but she dressed
her so well that one could not help shutting one’s eyes to other
matters. Neither Valérie nor Berthe could succeed in securing a decent
girl; they had given it up in despair, after trying every registry
office, the good-for-nothing servants from which had done no more than
pass through their kitchens. Madame Josserand violently abused Adèle,
of whom she related some fresh abominable and stupid doings of
extraordinary character; and yet she did not send her about her
business. As for the other Madame Campardon, she was quite enthusiastic
in her praises of Lisa: a pearl, not a thing to reproach her with; in
short, one of those deserving domestics to whom one gives prizes.
“She is quite one of the family now,” said she. “Our little Angèle is
attending some lectures at the Hôtel de Ville, and Lisa accompanies
her. Oh! they might remain out together for days; we should not be in
the least anxious.”
It was at this moment that the ladies caught sight of Octave. He was
advancing to wish Clotilde good-evening. Berthe looked at him; then,
without the least affectation, she resumed her conversation with
Valérie, who had exchanged with him the affectionate glance of
disinterested friendship. The others—Madame Josserand, Madame
Dambreville—without throwing themselves at him, surveyed him with
sympathetic interest.
“So here you are at last!” said Clotilde, who was most amiable. “I was
beginning to tremble for the chorus.”
And, as Madame Mouret gently scolded her husband for being so late, he
made some excuses.
“But, my dear, I was unable to come sooner. I am most sorry, madame.
However, I am now entirely at your disposal.” Meanwhile, the ladies
were anxiously watching the window recess into which Auguste had
retired. They received a momentary fright when they beheld him turn
round at the sound of Octave’s voice. His headache was no doubt worse;
he had a restless look about the eyes, which seemed full of the
darkness of the street. He at length appeared to make up his mind, and,
returning to his former position beside his sister’s chair, he said.
“Send them away, or else we will leave.”
Clotilde again shrugged her shoulders. Then Auguste seemed disposed to
give her time to consider: he would wait a few minutes longer, more
especially as Trublot had taken Octave into the parlor. The other
ladies were still uneasy, for they had heard the husband whisper in his
wife’s ear:
“If he comes back here, you must get up and follow me. Otherwise, you
may return to your mother’s.”
In the parlor, the gentlemen greeted Octave quite as cordially. If Léon
made a point of showing a little coolness, Uncle Bachelard, and even
Théophile, seemed to declare, as they held out their hands to Octave,
that the family forgot everything. He congratulated Campardon, who,
decorated two days previously, now wore a broad red ribbon; and the
beaming architect scolded him for never calling now and then to pass an
hour with his wife: though one got married, it was scarcely nice to
forget friends of fifteen years’ standing. But the young man felt quite
surprised and anxious as he stood before Duveyrier. He had not seen him
since his recovery. He looked uneasily at his jaw, all out of place,
dropping too much on the left side, and which now gave a horrid
squinting expression to his countenance. Then, when the counselor
spoke, he had another surprise: his voice had lowered two tones; it had
become quite sepulchral.
“Don’t you think him much better thus?” said Trublot to Octave, as they
returned to the drawing-room door. “It positively gives him a certain
majestic air. I saw him presiding at the assizes, the day before
yesterday—Listen! they are talking of it.”
And indeed the gentlemen had abandoned politics to take up morality.
They were listening to Duveyrier as he gave some details of an affair
in which his attitude had been particularly noticed. He was even about
to be named a president and an officer of the Legion of Honor. It was
respecting an infanticide already a year old. The unnatural mother, a
regular savage, as he said, happened to be the boot-stitcher, his
former tenant, that tall, pale and friendless girl, whose pregnant
condition had roused Monsieur Gourd’s indignation so much. And besides
that, she was altogether stupid! for, without reflecting that her
appearance would betray her, she had gone and cut her child in two and
kept it at the bottom of a bonnet-box. She had naturally told the jury
quite a ridiculous romance: a seducer who had deserted her; misery,
hunger, and then a fit of mad despair on seeing herself unable to
supply the little one’s wants: in a word, the same story they all told.
But it was necessary to make an example. Duveyrier congratulated
himself on having summed up with that lucidity which often decided a
jury’s verdict.
“And what was your sentence?” asked the doctor.
“Five years,” replied the counselor in his new voice, which seemed both
hoarse and sepulchral. “It is time to oppose a dyke to the debauchery
which threatens to submerge Paris.”
Trublot nudged Octave’s elbow; they were both acquainted with the facts
of the attempt at suicide.
“Eh? you hear him?” murmured he. “Without joking, it improves his
voice: it stirs one more, does it not? it goes straight to the heart
now. Ah! if you had only seen him, standing up, draped in his long red
robes, with his mug all askew! On my word! he quite frightened me; he
was extraordinary; oh! you know! a style in his majesty enough to make
your flesh creep!”
But he left off speaking, and listened to the ladies in the
drawingroom, who were again on the subject of servants. That very
morning, Madame Duveyrier had given Julie a week’s notice; she had
nothing certainly to say against the girl’s cooking; only, good
behavior came before everything in her eyes. The truth was that, warned
by Doctor Juillerat, and anxious for the health of her son, whose
little goings-on she tolerated at home, so as to keep them under
control, she had had an explanation with Julie, who had been unwell for
some time past; and the latter, like a genteel cook, whose style was
not to quarrel with her employers, had accepted her week’s notice.
Madame Josserand at once shared Clotilde’s indignation; yes, one should
be very strict on the question of morality; for instance, if she kept
that slut Adèle in spite of her dirty ways, and her stupidity, it was
because the girl was virtuous. Oh! on that point, she had nothing
whatever to reproach her with!
“Poor Adèle! when one only thinks!” murmured Trublot, again affected at
the thought of the wretched creature, half frozen upstairs beneath her
thin blanket.
Then, bending toward Octave’s ear, he added with a chuckle:
“I say, Duveyrier might at least take her up a bottle of claret!”
“Yes, gentlemen,” the counselor was continuing, “statistics will bear
me out, the crime of infanticide is increasing in the most frightful
proportions. Sentiment prevails to too great an extent in the present
day, and far too much consideration is shown to science, to your
pretended physiology, all of which will end by there soon being neither
good nor evil. One cannot cure debauchery; the thing is to destroy it
at its root.”
This refutation was addressed above all to Doctor Juillerat, who had
wished to give a medical explanation of the boot-stitcher’s case.
The other gentlemen also exhibited great severity and disgust.
Campardon could not understand vice, uncle Bachelard defended infancy,
Théophile demanded an inquiry, Léon discussed the question of
prostitution in its relations with the state; whilst Trublot, in answer
to an inquiry of Octave’s, talked of Duveyrier’s new mistress, who was
a decent sort of a woman this time, rather mature, but romantic, with a
soul expanded by that ideal which the counselor required to purify
love; in short, a worthy person who gave him a peaceful home, imposing
upon him as much as she liked and sleeping with his friends, without
making any unnecessary fuss. And the Abbé Mauduit alone remained
silent, his eyes fixed on the ground, his mind sorely troubled, and
full of an infinite sadness.
They were now about to sing the “Blessing of the Daggers.” The
drawing-room had filled up, a flood of rich dresses was crushing in the
brilliant light from the chandelier and the lamps, whilst gay bursts of
laughter ran along the rows of chairs; and, in the midst of the buzz,
Clotilde in a low voice roughly chided Auguste, who, on seeing Octave
enter with the other gentlemen of the chorus, had caught hold of
Berthe’s arm to make her leave her seat. But he was already beginning
to yield, feeling more and more embarrassed in the presence of the
ladies’ dumb disapproval, whilst his head had become entirely the prey
of triumphant neuralgia. Madame Dambreville’s stern looks quite drove
him to despair, and even the other Madame Campardon was against him. It
was reserved to Madame Josserand to finish him off. She abruptly
interfered, threatening to take back her daughter and never to pay him
the fifty thousand francs dowry; for she was always promising this
dowry with the greatest coolness imaginable. Then, turning toward uncle
Bachelard, seated behind her, and next to Madame Juzeur, she made him
renew his promises. The uncle placed his hand on his heart; he knew his
duty, the family before everything! Auguste, repulsed on all sides,
beat a retreat, and again sought refuge in the window recess, where he
once more pressed his burning forehead against the icy-cold panes.
Then Octave experienced a singular sensation as though his Paris life
was beginning over again. It was as though the two years he had lived
in the Rue de Choiseul had been a blank. His wife was there, smiling at
him, and yet nothing seemed to have passed in his existence; to-day was
the same as yesterday, there was neither pause nor ending. Trublot
showed him the new partner standing beside Berthe, a little fair fellow
very neat in his ways, who gave her, it was said, no end of presents.
Uncle Bachelard, who was now going in for poetry, was revealing himself
in a sentimental light to Madame Juzeur, whom he quite affected with
some intimate details respecting Fifi and Gueulin. Théophile, devoured
by doubts, doubled up by violent fits of coughing, was imploring Doctor
Juillerat in an out-of-the-way corner to give his wife something to
quiet her. Campardon, his eyes fixed on cousin Gasparine, was talking
of the diocese of Evreux, and jumping from that to the great works of
the new Rue du Dix Décembre, defending God and art, sending the world
about its business, for at heart he did not care a hang for it, he was
an artist! And behind a flower-stand there could even be seen the back
of a gentleman, whom all the marriageable girls contemplated with an
air of profound curiosity; it was Verdier, who was talking with
Hortense, the pair of them having an acrimonious explanation, again
putting off their marriage till the spring, so as not to turn the woman
and her child into the street in the depth of winter.
Then the chorus was sung afresh. The architect, with his mouth wide
open, gave out the first line. Clotilde struck a chord, and uttered her
cry. And the other voices burst forth, the uproar increased little by
little, and spread with a violence that scared the candles and caused
the ladies to turn pale. Trublot, having been found wanting among the
basses, was being tried a second time as a baritone. The five tenors
were much noticed, Octave especially, to whom Clotilde regretted being
unable to give a solo. When the voices fell, and she had applied the
soft pedal, imitating the cadenced and distant footsteps of a departing
patrol, the applause was deafening, and she, together with the
gentlemen, had every praise showered upon them. And at the farthest end
of the adjoining room, right behind a triple row of men in evening
dress, one beheld Duveyrier clenching his teeth so as not to cry aloud
with anguish, with his mouth all on one side, and his festering
eruptions almost bleeding.
The tea coming next, unrolled the same procession, distributed the same
cups and the same sandwiches. For a moment, the Abbé Mauduit found
himself once more in the middle of the deserted drawing-room. He looked
through the wide-open door, on the crush of guests; and, vanquished, he
smiled, he again cast the mantle of religion over this corrupt
middle-class society, like a master in the ceremonies draping the
canker, to stave off the final decomposition. He must save the Church,
as Heaven had not answered his cry of misery and despair.
At length, the same as on every Saturday, when midnight struck, the
guests began to withdraw. Campardon was among the first to leave, with
the other Madame Campardon. Léon and Madame Dambreville were not long
in maritally following them. Verdier’s back had long ago disappeared,
when Madame Josserand went off with Hortense, bullying her for what she
called her romantic obstinacy. Uncle Bachelard, very drunk from the
punch he had taken, detained Madame Juzeur a moment at the door,
finding her advice full of experience quite refreshing. Trublot, who
had stolen some sugar for Adèle, was making for the passage leading to
the kitchen, when the presence of Berthe and Auguste in the anteroom
embarrassed him, and he pretended to be looking for his hat.
But, just at this minute, Octave and his wife, escorted by Clotilde,
also came out and asked for their wraps. There ensued a few seconds of
embarrassment, The ante-room was not large, Berthe and Madame Mouret
were pressed against each other, whilst Hippolyte was searching for
their things. They both smiled. Then, when the door was opened, the two
men, Octave and Auguste, brought face to face, did the polite, each
stepping aside. At length, Berthe consented to pass out first, after an
exchange of bows. And Valérie, who was leaving in her turn with
Théophile, again looked at Octave in the affectionate way of a
disinterested friend. He and she alone might have told each other
everything.
“Good-bye,” repeated Clotilde graciously to the two families, before
returning to the drawing-room.
Octave stopped short. He had just caught sight on the next floor of the
partner, the neat little fair fellow, taking his departure like the
rest, and whose hands Saturnin, who had just left Marie, was pressing
in an outburst of savage tenderness, stuttering the while:
“Friend—friend—friend—” A singular feeling of jealousy at first darted
through him. Then he smiled. It was the past; and he again recalled his
amours, all his campaign of Paris, the complacencies of that good
little Pichon, the repulse he received from Valérie, of whom he
preserved a pleasant recollection, his stupid connection with Berthe,
which he regretted as pure waste of time. Now he had transacted his
business, Paris was conquered; and he gallantly followed her whom in
his heart he still styled Madame Hédouin, every now and then stooping
to see that the train of her dress did not catch in the stair-rods.
The house had once more resumed its grand air of middle-class dignity.
He fancied he could hear Marie’s distant and expiring ballad. Beneath
the porch he met Jules coming in: Madame Vuillaume was at death’s door,
and refused to see her daughter. Then, that was all, the doctor and the
priest retired last and still arguing; Trublot had shyly gone up to
Adèle to attend to her; and the deserted staircase slumbered in a heavy
warmth with its chaste doors inclosing respectable alcoves. One o’clock
was striking, when Monsieur Gourd, whom Madame Gourd was snugly
awaiting in bed, turned out the gas. Then the whole house lapsed into
silent darkness, as though annihilated by the decency of its sleep.
Nothing remained, life resumed its level of indifference and stupidity.
On the following morning, Adèle dragged herself down to her kitchen, so
as to allay suspicion. A thaw had set in during the night, and she
opened the window, feeling stifled, when Hippolyte’s voice rose
furiously from the depths of the narrow courtyard.
“You dirty hussies! Who has been emptying her slops out of the window
again? Madame’s dress is quite spoilt!”
He had hung out one of Madame Duveyrier’s dresses given him to brush,
and he found it all spattered with sour broth. Then, from the top to
the bottom, the servants appeared at their windows and violently
exculpated themselves. The sluice was open and a rush of the most
abominable words flowed from the foul spot. In times of thaw, the walls
were steeped with humidity, and quite a pestilence ascended from the
obscure little courtyard, all the hidden corruptions of the different
floors seeming to melt and ooze out by this common sewer of the house.
“It wasn’t me,” said Adèle, leaning out. “I’ve only just come.” Lisa
abruptly raised her head.
“Hallo! so you’re on your legs again. Well, what was the matter? Is it
true that you almost croaked?”
“Oh! yes, I had such colics, and not at all funny, I can tell you!”
This put a stop to the quarrel. Valérie and Berthe’s new servants, a
big camel and a little jade, as they were termed, looked curiously at
Adèle’s pale face. Victoire and Julie also wished to see her, and
stretched their necks, and leant their heads back. They all had an idea
that there was something wrong, for it was unnatural to have such
gripes and yell out as she did.
“Perhaps you’ve had something which didn’t agree with you,” said Lisa.
The others burst out laughing, another rush of foul language
overflowed, whilst the wretched creature, awfully frightened,
stammered:
“Hold your tongues, with your nasty words! I’m quite ill enough as it
is. You don’t want to finish me off, do you?”
No, of course not. She was as stupid as stupid could be, and dirty
enough to disgust a whole neighborhood; but they all held too closely
together to bring her into any trouble. And they naturally turned to
abusing their masters and mistresses; they criticised the party of the
previous evening with looks of profound repugnance.
“So they’ve all made it up again now?” asked Victoire as she sipped her
glass of syrup and brandy.
Hippolyte, who was wiping madame’s dress, replied:
“They’ve no more heart than my shoes. When they’ve spat in one
another’s faces, they wash themselves with it, to make one believe
they’re clean.”
“They must manage to agree somehow or other,” said Lisa.
“Otherwise it wouldn’t take long before our turn came.”
But there was a moment of panic. A door opened, and the servants were
already diving back into their kitchens, when Lisa announced that it
was only little Angèle: there was nothing to fear with her, she
understood. And, from the foul spout, there again arose all the rancor
of the domestics, in the midst of the poisonous stench caused by the
thaw. There was a grand spreading out of all the dirty linen of the
last two years. It was quite consoling not to be ladies and gentlemen,
when one beheld the masters and mistresses living in the midst of it
all, and apparently enjoying it, as they were preparing to go through
it all again.
“Eh! I say, you, up there!” suddenly shouted Victoire, “was it with
Mug-askew that you had what didn’t agree with you?”
At this, a ferocious yell of delight quite shook the stinking cesspool.
Hippolyte actually tore madame’s dress; but he did not care, it was far
too good for her as it was! The big camel and the little jade were bent
over the hand-rails of their windows, wriggling in a mad burst of
laughter. Adèle, however, who was quite scared, and who was half asleep
through weakness, started, and she retorted in the midst of the jeers:
“You’re all of you heartless things. When you’re dying, I’ll come and
dance at your bedsides.”
“Ah! mademoiselle,” resumed Lisa, leaning out to speak to Julie, “how
happy you must feel at leaving such a wretched house in a week! On my
word, one becomes wicked here in spite of oneself. I wish you a better
home in your next place.”
Julie, her arms bare, and dripping with the blood from a turbot she had
been just cleaning for that evening’s dinner, returned to the window
beside the footman. She shrugged her shoulders, and concluded with this
philosophical reply:
“Dear me! mademoiselle, here or there, they’re all alike. In the
present day, whoever has been in the one has been in the other. It’s
all Filth and Company.”
THE END.