M. Bergeret’s first impulse at this shameful sight was to act
violently, like a plain man, even with the ferocity of an animal.
Born as he was of a long line of unknown ancestors, amongst whom
there were, of course, many cruel and savage souls, heir as he was of
those innumerable generations of men, apes, and savage beasts from
whom we are all descended, the professor had been endowed, along with
the germ of life, with the destructive instinct of the older races.
Under this shock these instincts awoke. He thirsted for slaughter
and burned to kill M. Roux and Madame Bergeret. But his desire was
feeble and evanescent. With the four canine teeth which he carried
in his mouth and the nails of the carnivorous beast which armed his
fingers, M. Bergeret had inherited the ferocity of the beast, but the
original force of this instinct had largely disappeared. He did, it
is true, feel a desire to kill M. Roux and Madame Bergeret, but it
was a very feeble one. He felt fierce and cruel, but the sensation
was so short-lived and so weak that no act was born of the thought,
and even the expression of the idea was so swift that it entirely
escaped the notice of the two witnesses who were most concerned in
its manifestation. In less than a second M. Bergeret had ceased to
be purely instinctive, primitive, and destructive, without, however,
ceasing at the same time to be jealous and irritated. On the contrary,
his indignation went on increasing. In this new frame of mind his
thoughts were no longer simple; they began to centre round the social
problem; confusedly there seethed in his mind fragments of ancient
theologies, bits of the Decalogue, shreds of ethics, Greek, Scotch,
German and French maxims, scattered portions of the moral code which,
by striking his brain like so many flint stones, set him on fire. He
felt patriarchal, the father of a family after the Roman style, an
overlord and justiciar. He had the virtuous idea of punishing the
guilty. After having wanted to kill Madame Bergeret and M. Roux by
mere bloodthirsty instinct, he now wanted to kill them out of regard
for justice. He mentally sentenced them to terrible and ignominious
punishments. He lavished upon them every ignominy of mediæval custom.
This journey across the ages of civilisation was longer than the first.
It lasted for two whole seconds, and during that time the two culprits
so discreetly changed their attitude that these changes, though
imperceptible, were fundamental, and completely altered the character
of their relationship.
Finally, religious and moral ideas becoming completely confounded
with one another in his mind, M. Bergeret felt nothing but a sense of
misery, while disgust, like a vast wave of dirty water, poured across
the flame of his wrath. Three full seconds passed; he was plunged in
the depths of irresolution and did nothing. By an obscure, confused
instinct which was characteristic of his temperament, from the first
moment he had turned his eyes away from the sofa and fixed them on
the round table near the door. This was covered with a table-cloth
of olive-green cotton on which were printed coloured figures of
mediæval knights in imitation of ancient tapestry. During these three
interminable seconds M. Bergeret clearly made out a little page-boy who
held the helmet of one of the tapestry knights. Suddenly he noticed
on the table, among the gilt-edged, red-bound books that Madame
Bergeret had placed there as handsome ornaments, the yellow cover of
the _University Bulletin_ which he had left there the night before.
The sight of this magazine instantly suggested to him the act most
characteristic of his turn of mind: putting out his hand, he took up
the _Bulletin_ and left the drawing-room, which a most unlucky instinct
had led him to enter.
Once alone in the dining-room a flood of misery overwhelmed him. He
longed for the relief of tears, and was obliged to hold on by the
chairs in order to prevent himself from falling. Yet with his pain
was mingled a certain bitterness that acted like a caustic and burnt
up the tears in his eyes. Only a few seconds ago he had crossed this
little dining-room, yet now it seemed that, if ever he had set eyes on
it before, it must have been in another life. It must surely have been
in some far-off stage of existence, in some earlier incarnation, that
he had lived in intimate relations with the small sideboard of carved
oak, the mahogany shelves loaded with painted cups, the china plates
on the wall, that he had sat at this round table between his wife and
daughters. It was not his happiness that was dead, for he had never
been happy; it was his poor little home life, his domestic relations
that were gone. These had always been chilly and unpleasant, but now
they were degraded and destroyed; they no longer even existed.
When Euphémie came in to lay the cloth he trembled at the sight of her;
she seemed one of the ghosts of the vanished world in which he had once
lived.
Shutting himself up in his study, he sat down at his table, and opening
the _University Bulletin_ quite at random, leant his head deliberately
between his hands and, through sheer force of habit, began to read.
He read:
“_Notes on the purity of language._—Languages are like nothing so much
as ancient forests in which words have pushed a way for themselves, as
chance or opportunity has willed. Among them we find some weird and
even monstrous forms, yet, when linked together in speech, they compose
into splendid harmonies, and it would be a barbarous act to prune
them as one trims the lime-trees on the public roads. One must tread
with reverence on what, in the grand style, is termed _the boundless
peaks_....”
“And my daughters!” thought M. Bergeret. “She ought to have thought of
them. She ought to have thought of our daughters....”
He went on reading without comprehending a word:
“Of course, such a word as this is a mere abortion. We say _le
lendemain_, that is to say, _le le en demain_, when, evidently, what we
ought to say is _l’en demain_; we say _le lierre_ for _l’ierre_, which
alone is correct. The foundations of language were laid by the people.
Everywhere in it we find ignorance, error, whim; in its simplicity
lies its greatest beauty. It is the work of ignorant minds, to whom
everything save nature is a sealed book. It comes to us from afar, and
those who have handed it down to us were by no means grammarians after
the style of Noël and Chapsal.”
Then he thought:
“At her age, in her humble, struggling position.... I can understand
that a beautiful, idle, much idolised woman ... but she!”
Yet, as he was a reader by instinct, he still went on reading:
“Let us treat it as a precious inheritance, but, at the same time, let
us never look too closely into it. In speaking, and even in writing, it
is a mistake to trouble too much about etymology....”
“And he, my favourite pupil, whom I have invited to my house ... ought
he not?...”
“Etymology teaches us that God is _He Who shines_, and that the _soul_
is a _breath_, but into these old words men have read meanings which
they did not at first possess.”
“Adultery!”
This word came to his lips with such force that he seemed to feel it in
his mouth like a coin, like a thin medal. Adultery!...
Suddenly he saw a picture of all that this word implied, its
associations—commonplace, domestic, absurd, clumsily tragic, sordidly
comic, ridiculous, uncouth; even in his misery he chuckled.
Being well read in Rabelais, La Fontaine, and Molière, he called
himself by the downright, outspoken name that he knew beyond the shadow
of a doubt was fitted to his case. But that stopped his laugh, if it
could be truthfully said that he had laughed.
“Of course,” said he to himself, “it is a petty, commonplace incident
in reality. But I am myself suitably proportioned to it, being but
an unimportant item in the social structure. It seems, therefore, an
important thing to me, and I ought to feel no shame at the misery it
brings me.”
Following up this thought, he drew his grief round him like a cloak,
and wrapped himself in it. Like a sick man full of pity for himself,
he pursued the painful visions and the haunting ideas which swarmed
endlessly in his burning head. What he had seen caused him physical
pain; noticing this fact, he instantly set himself to find the cause
of it, for he was always ruled by the philosophical bent of his
temperament.
“The objects,” thought he, “which are associated with the most powerful
desires of the flesh cannot be regarded with indifference, for when
they do not give delight, they cause disgust. It is not in herself
that Madame Bergeret possesses the power of putting me between these
two alternatives; it is as a symbol of that Venus who is the joy of
gods and men. For to me, although she may indeed be one of the least
lovable and least mysterious of these symbols of Venus, yet at the same
time she must needs be one of the most characteristic and vivid. And
the sight of her linked in community of act and feeling with my pupil,
M. Roux, reduced her instantly to that elementary type-form which, as
I said, must either inspire attraction or repulsion. Thus we may see
that every sexual symbol either satisfies or disappoints desire, and
for that reason attracts or repels our gaze with equal force, according
to the physiological condition of the spectators, and sometimes even
according to the successive moods of the same witness.
“This observation brings one to the true reason for the fact that, in
all nations and at all periods, sexual rites have been performed in
secret, in order that they might not produce violent and conflicting
emotions in the spectators. At length it became customary to conceal
everything that might suggest these rites. Thus was born Modesty, which
governs all men, but particularly the more lascivious nations.”
Then M. Bergeret reflected:
“Accident has enabled me to discover the origin of this virtue which
varies most of all, merely because it is the most universal, this
Modesty, which the Greeks call Shame. Very absurd prejudices have
become connected with this habit which arises from an attitude of
mind peculiar to man and common to all men, and these prejudices have
obscured its true character. But I am now in a position to formulate
the true theory of Modesty. It was at a smaller cost to himself that
Newton discovered the laws of gravitation under a tree.”
Thus meditated M. Bergeret from the depths of his arm-chair. But
his thoughts were still so little under control that he rolled his
bloodshot eyes, gnashed his teeth and clenched his fists, until he
drove his nails into his palms. Painted with merciless accuracy on his
inner eye was the picture of his pupil, M. Roux, in a condition which
ought never to be seen by a spectator, for reasons which the professor
had first accurately deduced. M. Bergeret possessed a measure of that
faculty which we call visual memory. Without possessing the rich power
of vision of the painter, who stores numberless vast pictures in a
single fold of his brain, he could yet recall, accurately and easily
enough, sights seen long ago which had caught his attention. Thus there
lived in the album of his memory the outline of a beautiful tree, of
a graceful woman, when once these had been impressed on the retina of
his eye. But never had any mental impression appeared to him as clear,
as exact, as vividly, accurately and powerfully coloured, as full,
compact, solid and masterful, as there appeared to him at this moment
the daring picture of his pupil, M. Roux, in the act of embracing
Madame Bergeret. This accurate reproduction of reality was hateful;
it was also false, inasmuch as it indefinitely prolonged an action
which must necessarily be a fleeting one. The perfect illusion which
it produced showed up the two characters with obstinate cynicism and
unbearable permanence. Again M. Bergeret longed to kill his pupil, M.
Roux. He made a movement as if to kill; the idea of murder that his
brain formulated had the force of a deed and left him overwhelmed.
Then came a moment of reflection and slowly, quietly he strayed away
into a labyrinth of irresolution and contradiction. His ideas flowed
together and intermingled, losing their distinctive tints like specks
of paint in a glass of water. Soon he even failed to grasp the actual
event that had happened.
He cast miserable looks around him, examined the flowers on the
wall-paper and noticed that there were badly-joined bunches, so
that the halves of the red carnations never met. He looked at the
books stacked on the deal shelves. He looked at the little silk and
crochet pin-cushion that Madame Bergeret had made and given him some
years before on his birthday. Then he softened at the thought of the
destruction of their home life. He had never been deeply in love with
this woman, whom he had married on the advice of friends, for he had
always found a difficulty in settling his own affairs. Although he no
longer loved her at all, she still made up a large part of his life.
He thought of his daughters, now staying with their aunt at Arcachon,
especially of his favourite Pauline, the eldest, who resembled him. At
this he shed tears.
Suddenly through his tears he caught sight of the wicker-work woman
on which Madame Bergeret draped her dresses and which she always kept
in her husband’s study in front of the book-case, disregarding the
professor’s resentment when he complained that every time he wanted to
put his books on the shelves, he had to embrace the wicker-work woman
and carry her off. At the best of times M. Bergeret’s teeth were set
on edge by this contrivance which reminded him of the hen-coops of the
cottagers, or of the idol of woven cane which he had seen as a child in
one of the prints of his ancient history, and in which, it was said,
the Phœnicians burnt their slaves. Above all, the thing reminded him
of Madame Bergeret, and although it was headless, he always expected
to hear it burst out screaming, moaning, or scolding. This time the
headless thing seemed to be none other than Madame Bergeret herself,
Madame Bergeret, the hateful, the grotesque. Flinging himself upon
it, he clasped the thing in his arms and made its wicker breast crack
under his fingers, as though it were the gristles of ribs that broke.
Overturning it, he stamped on it with his feet and carrying it off,
threw it creaking and mutilated, out of window into the yard belonging
to Lenfant, the cooper, where it fell among buckets and tubs. In doing
this, he felt as though he were performing an act that symbolised a
true fact, yet was at the same time ridiculous and absurd. On the
whole, however, he felt somewhat relieved, and when Euphémie came to
tell him that déjeuner was getting cold, he shrugged his shoulders, and
walking resolutely across the still deserted dining-room, took up his
hat in the hall and went downstairs.
In the gateway he remembered that he knew neither where to go nor what
to do and that he had come to no decision at all. Once outside, he
noticed that it was raining and that he had no umbrella. He was rather
annoyed at the fact, though the sense of annoyance came quite as a
relief. As he stood hesitating as to whether he should go out into the
shower or not, he caught sight of a pencil drawing on the plaster of
the wall, just below the bell and just at the height which a child’s
arm would reach. It represented an old man; two dots and two lines
within a circle made the face, and the body was depicted by an oval;
the arms and legs were shown by single lines which radiated outwards
like wheel-spokes and imparted a certain air of jollity to this scrawl,
which was executed in the classic style of mural ribaldry. It must
have been drawn some time ago, for it showed signs of friction and in
places was already half rubbed out. But this was the first time that M.
Bergeret had noticed it, doubtless because his powers of observation
were just now in a peculiarly wide-awake condition.
“A _graffito_,” said the professor to himself.
He noticed next that two horns stuck out from the old man’s head and
that the word _Bergeret_ was written by the side, so that no mistake
might be made.
“It is a matter of common talk, then,” said he, when he saw this name.
“Little rascals on their way to school proclaim it on the walls and
I am the talk of the town. This woman has probably been deceiving me
for a long time, and with all sorts of men. This mere scrawl tells me
more of the truth than I could have gained by a prolonged and searching
investigation.”
And standing in the rain, with his feet in the mud, he made a closer
examination of the _graffito_; he noticed that the letters of the
inscription were badly written and that the lines of the drawing
corresponded with the slope of the writing.
As he went away in the falling rain, he remembered the _graffiti_ once
traced by clumsy hands on the walls of Pompeii and now uncovered,
collected and expounded by philologists. He recalled the clumsy furtive
character of the Palatine _graffito_ scratched by an idle soldier on
the wall of the guard-house.
“It is now eighteen hundred years since that Roman soldier drew a
caricature of his comrade Alexandros in the act of worshipping an
ass’s head stuck on a cross. No monument of antiquity has been more
carefully studied than this Palatine _graffito_: it is reproduced in
numberless collections. Now, following the example of Alexandros, I,
too, have a _graffito_ of my own. If to-morrow an earthquake were to
swallow up this dismal, accursed town, and preserve it intact for the
scientists of the thirtieth century, and if in that far distant future
my _graffito_ were to be discovered, I wonder what these learned men
would say about it. Would they understand its vulgar symbolism? Or
would they even be able to spell out my name written in the letters of
a lost alphabet?”
With a fine rain falling through the dreary dimness, M. Bergeret
finally reached the Place Saint-Exupère. Between the two buttresses
of the church he could see the stall which bore a red boot as a sign.
At the sight, he suddenly remembered that his shoes, being worn out
by long service, were soaked with water; now, too, he remembered that
henceforth he must look after his own clothes, although hitherto he had
always left them to Madame Bergeret. With this thought in his mind,
he went straight into the cobbler’s booth. He found the man hammering
nails into the sole of a shoe.
“Good-day, Piedagnel!”
“Good-day, Monsieur Bergeret! What can I do for you, Monsieur Bergeret?”
So saying, the fellow, turning his angular face towards his customer,
showed his toothless gums in a smile. His thin face, which ended in a
projecting chin and was furrowed by the dark chasm of his eyes, shared
the stern, poverty-stricken air, the yellow tint, the wretched aspect
of the stone figures carved over the door of the ancient church under
whose shadow he had been born, had lived, and would die.
“All right, Monsieur Bergeret, I have your size and I know that you
like your shoes an easy fit. You are quite in the right, Monsieur
Bergeret, not to try to pinch your feet.”
“But I have a rather high instep and the sole of my foot is arched,”
protested M. Bergeret. “Be sure you remember that.”
M. Bergeret was by no means vain of his foot, but it had so happened
one day that in his reading he came upon a passage describing how
M. de Lamartine once showed his bare foot with pride, that its high
curve, which rested on the ground like the arch of a bridge, might be
admired. This story made M. Bergeret feel that he was quite justified
in deriving pleasure from the fact that he was not flat-footed. Now,
sinking into a wicker chair decorated with an old square of Aubusson
carpet, he looked at the cobbler and his booth. On the wall, which
was whitewashed and covered with deep cracks, a sprig of box had been
placed behind the arms of a black, wooden cross. A little copper figure
of Christ nailed to this cross inclined its head over the cobbler,
who sat glued to his stool behind the counter, which was heaped with
pieces of cut leather and with the wooden models which all bore leather
shields to mark the places where the feet that the models represented
were afflicted with painful excrescences. A small cast-iron stove was
heated white-hot and a strong smell of leather and cookery combined was
perceptible.
“I am glad,” said M. Bergeret, “to see that you have as much work as
you can wish for.”
In answer to this remark, the man began to give vent to a string of
vague, rambling complaints which yet had an element of truth in them.
Things were not as they used to be in days gone by. Nowadays, nobody
could stand out against factory competition. Customers just bought
ready-made shoes, in stores exactly like the Paris ones.
“My customers die, too,” added he. “I have just lost the curé, M. Rieu.
There is nothing left but the re-soling business and there isn’t much
profit in that.”
The sight of this ancient cobbler groaning under his own little
crucifix filled M. Bergeret with sadness. He asked, rather hesitatingly:
“Your son must be quite twenty by now. What has become of him?”
“Firmin? I expect you know,” said the man, “that he left the seminary
because he had no vocation. But the gentlemen there were kind enough to
interest themselves in him, after they had expelled him. Abbé Lantaigne
found a place for him as tutor at a Marquis’s house in Poitou. But
Firmin refused it just out of spite. He is in Paris now, teaching at an
institution in the Rue Saint-Jacques, but he doesn’t earn much.” And
the cobbler added sadly:
“What I want....”
He stopped and then began again.
“I have been a widower for twelve years. What I want is a wife, because
it needs a woman to manage a house.”
Relapsing into silence, he drove three nails into the leather of the
sole and added:
“Only I must have a steady woman.”
He returned to his task. Then suddenly raising his worn and sorrowful
face towards the foggy sky, he muttered:
“And besides, it is so sad to be alone!”
M. Bergeret felt pleased, for he had just caught sight of Paillot
standing on the threshold of his shop. He got up to leave:
“Good-day, Piedagnel!” said he. “Mind and keep the instep high enough!”
But the cobbler would not let him go, asking with an imploring glance
whether he did not know of any woman who would suit him. She must be
middle-aged, a good worker, and a widow who would be willing to marry a
widower with a small business.
M. Bergeret stood looking in astonishment at this man who actually
wanted to get married; Piedagnel went on meditating aloud:
“Of course,” said he, “there’s the woman who delivers bread on the
Tintelleries. But she likes a drop. Then there’s the late curé of
Sainte-Agnès’s servant, but she is too haughty, because she has saved
a little.”
“Piedagnel,” said M. Bergeret, “go on re-soling the townsfolks’ shoes,
remain as you are, alone and contented in the seclusion of your shop.
Don’t marry again, for that would be a mistake.”
Closing the glazed door behind him, he crossed the Place Saint-Exupère
and entered Paillot’s shop.
The shop was deserted, save for the bookseller himself. Paillot’s
mind was a barren and illiterate one; he spoke but little and thought
of nothing but his business and his country-house on Duroc Hill.
Notwithstanding these facts, M. Bergeret had an inexplicable fondness
both for the bookseller and for his shop. At Paillot’s he felt quite at
ease and there ideas came on him in a flood.
Paillot was rich, and never had any complaints to make. Yet he
invariably told M. Bergeret that one no longer made the profit on
educational books that was once customary, for the practice of allowing
discount left but little margin. Besides, the supplying of schools had
become a veritable puzzle on account of the changes that were always
being made in the curricula.
“Once,” said he, “they were much more conservative.”
“I don’t believe it,” replied M. Bergeret. “The fabric of our
classical instruction is constantly in course of repair. It is an
old monument which embodies in its structure the characteristics of
every period. One sees in it a pediment in the Empire style on a
Jesuit portico; it has rusticated galleries, colonnades like those of
the Louvre, Renaissance staircases, Gothic halls, and a Roman crypt.
If one were to expose the foundations, one would come upon _opus
spicatum_[7] and Roman cement. On each of these parts one might place
an inscription commemorating its origin: ‘The Imperial University of
1808—Rollin—The Oratorians—Port-Royal—The Jesuits—The Humanists
of the Renaissance—The Schoolmen—The Latin Rhetoricians of Autun and
Bordeaux.’ Every generation has made some change in this palace of
wisdom, or has added something to it.”
[7] Brickwork laid in the shape of ears of corn.
M. Paillot rubbed the red beard that hung from his huge chin and looked
stupidly at M. Bergeret. Finally he fled panic-stricken and took refuge
behind his counter. But M. Bergeret followed up his argument to its
logical conclusion:
“It is thanks to these successive additions that the house is still
standing. It would soon crumble to pieces if nothing were ever changed
in it. It is only right to repair the parts that threaten to fall
in ruin and to add some halls in the new style. But I can hear some
ominous cracking in the structure.”
As honest Paillot carefully refrained from making any answer to this
occult and terrifying talk, M. Bergeret plunged silently into the
corner where the old books stood.
To-day, as always, he took up the thirty-eighth volume of _l’Histoire
Générale des Voyages_. To-day, as always, the book opened of its own
accord at page 212. Now on this page he saw the picture of M. Roux and
Madame Bergeret embracing.... Now he re-read the passage he knew so
well, without paying any heed to what he read, but merely continuing
to think the thoughts that were suggested by the present state of his
affairs:
“‘a passage to the North. It is to this check,’ said he (I know that
this affair is by no means an unprecedented one, and that it ought not
to astonish the mind of a philosopher), ‘that we owe the opportunity of
being able to visit the Sandwich Islands again’ (It is a domestic event
that turns my house upside down. I have no longer a home), ‘and to
enrich our voyage with a discovery (I have no home, no home any more)
which, although the last (I am morally free though, and that is a great
point), seems in many respects to be the most important that Europeans
have yet made in the whole expanse of the Pacific Ocean....’”
M. Bergeret closed the book. He had caught a glimpse of liberty,
deliverance, and a new life. It was only a glimmer in the darkness,
but bright and steady before him. How was he to escape from this dark
tunnel? That he could not tell, but at any rate he perceived at the
end of it a tiny white point of light. And if he still carried about
with him a vision of Madame Bergeret embraced by M. Roux, it was to
him but an indecorous sight which aroused in him neither anger nor
disgust—just a vignette, the Belgian frontispiece of some lewd book.
He drew out his watch and saw that it was now two o’clock. It had taken
him exactly ninety minutes to arrive at this wise conclusion.