The small engine attached to the Neuilly steam-tram whistled as it
passed the Porte Maillot to warn all obstacles to get out of its way and
puffed like a person out of breath as it sent out its steam, its pistons
moving rapidly with a noise as of iron legs running. The train was going
along the broad avenue that ends at the Seine. The sultry heat at the
close of a July day lay over the whole city, and from the road, although
there was not a breath of wind stirring, there arose a white, chalky,
suffocating, warm dust, which adhered to the moist skin, filled the eyes
and got into the lungs. People stood in the doorways of their houses to
try and get a breath of air.
The windows of the steam-tram were open and the curtains fluttered in
the wind. There were very few passengers inside, because on warm days
people preferred the outside or the platforms. They consisted of
stout women in peculiar costumes, of those shopkeepers' wives from the
suburbs, who made up for the distinguished looks which they did not
possess by ill-assumed dignity; of men tired from office-work, with
yellow faces, stooped shoulders, and with one shoulder higher than the
other, in consequence of, their long hours of writing at a desk. Their
uneasy and melancholy faces also spoke of domestic troubles, of constant
want of money, disappointed hopes, for they all belonged to the army of
poor, threadbare devils who vegetate economically in cheap, plastered
houses with a tiny piece of neglected garden on the outskirts of Paris,
in the midst of those fields where night soil is deposited.
A short, corpulent man, with a puffy face, dressed all in black and
wearing a decoration in his buttonhole, was talking to a tall, thin man,
dressed in a dirty, white linen suit, the coat all unbuttoned, with
a white Panama hat on his head. The former spoke so slowly and
hesitatingly that it occasionally almost seemed as if he stammered; he
was Monsieur Caravan, chief clerk in the Admiralty. The other, who had
formerly been surgeon on board a merchant ship, had set up in practice
in Courbevoie, where he applied the vague remnants of medical knowledge
which he had retained after an adventurous life, to the wretched
population of that district. His name was Chenet, and strange rumors
were current as to his morality.
Monsieur Caravan had always led the normal life of a man in a Government
office. For the last thirty years he had invariably gone the same way to
his office every morning, and had met the same men going to business at
the same time, and nearly on the same spot, and he returned home every
evening by the same road, and again met the same faces which he had seen
growing old. Every morning, after buying his penny paper at the corner
of the Faubourg Saint Honore, he bought two rolls, and then went to his
office, like a culprit who is giving himself up to justice, and got to
his desk as quickly as possible, always feeling uneasy; as though he
were expecting a rebuke for some neglect of duty of which he might have
been guilty.
Nothing had ever occurred to change the monotonous order of his
existence, for no event affected him except the work of his office,
perquisites, gratuities, and promotion. He never spoke of anything but
of his duties, either at the office, or at home--he had married the
portionless daughter of one of his colleagues. His mind, which was in a
state of atrophy from his depressing daily work, had no other thoughts,
hopes or dreams than such as related to the office, and there was a
constant source of bitterness that spoilt every pleasure that he might
have had, and that was the employment of so many naval officials,
tinsmiths, as they were called because of their silver-lace as
first-class clerks; and every evening at dinner he discussed the matter
hotly with his wife, who shared his angry feelings, and proved to their
own satisfaction that it was in every way unjust to give places in Paris
to men who ought properly to have been employed in the navy.
He was old now, and had scarcely noticed how his life was passing, for
school had merely been exchanged for the office without any intermediate
transition, and the ushers, at whom he had formerly trembled, were
replaced by his chiefs, of whom he was terribly afraid. When he had to
go into the rooms of these official despots, it made him tremble from
head to foot, and that constant fear had given him a very awkward manner
in their presence, a humble demeanor, and a kind of nervous stammering.
He knew nothing more about Paris than a blind man might know who was led
to the same spot by his dog every day; and if he read the account of
any uncommon events or scandals in his penny paper, they appeared to
him like fantastic tales, which some pressman had made up out of his
own head, in order to amuse the inferior employees. He did not read the
political news, which his paper frequently altered as the cause which
subsidized it might require, for he was not fond of innovations, and
when he went through the Avenue of the Champs-Elysees every evening,
he looked at the surging crowd of pedestrians, and at the stream of
carriages, as a traveller might who has lost his way in a strange
country.
As he had completed his thirty years of obligatory service that year,
on the first of January, he had had the cross of the Legion of Honor
bestowed upon him, which, in the semi-military public offices, is a
recompense for the miserable slavery--the official phrase is, loyal
services--of unfortunate convicts who are riveted to their desk. That
unexpected dignity gave him a high and new idea of his own capacities,
and altogether changed him. He immediately left off wearing light
trousers and fancy waistcoats, and wore black trousers and long coats,
on which his ribbon, which was very broad, showed off better. He got
shaved every morning, manicured his nails more carefully, changed his
linen every two days, from a legitimate sense of what was proper, and
out of respect for the national Order, of which he formed a part, and
from that day he was another Caravan, scrupulously clean, majestic and
condescending.
At home, he said, “my cross,” at every moment, and he had become so
proud of it, that he could not bear to see men wearing any other ribbon
in their button-holes. He became especially angry on seeing strange
orders: “Which nobody ought to be allowed to wear in France,” and he
bore Chenet a particular grudge, as he met him on a tram-car every
evening, wearing a decoration of one kind or another, white, blue,
orange, or green.
The conversation of the two men, from the Arc de Triomphe to Neuilly,
was always the same, and on that day they discussed, first of all,
various local abuses which disgusted them both, and the Mayor of Neuilly
received his full share of their censure. Then, as invariably happens
in the company of medical man Caravan began to enlarge on the chapter
of illness, as in that manner, he hoped to obtain a little gratuitous
advice, if he was careful not to show his hand. His mother had been
causing him no little anxiety for some time; she had frequent and
prolonged fainting fits, and, although she was ninety, she would not
take care of herself.
Caravan grew quite tender-hearted when he mentioned her great age,
and more than once asked Doctor Chenet, emphasizing the word
doctor--although he was not fully qualified, being only an Officier de
Sante--whether he had often met anyone as old as that. And he rubbed his
hands with pleasure; not, perhaps, that he cared very much about seeing
the good woman last forever here on earth, but because the long duration
of his mother's life was, as it were an earnest of old age for himself,
and he continued:
“In my family, we last long, and I am sure that, unless I meet with an
accident, I shall not die until I am very old.”
The doctor looked at him with pity, and glanced for a moment at his
neighbor's red face, his short, thick neck, his “corporation,” as Chenet
called it to himself, his two fat, flabby legs, and the apoplectic
rotundity of the old official; and raising the white Panama hat from his
head, he said with a snigger:
“I am not so sure of that, old fellow; your mother is as tough as nails,
and I should say that your life is not a very good one.”
This rather upset Caravan, who did not speak again until the tram put
them down at their destination, where the two friends got out, and
Chenet asked his friend to have a glass of vermouth at the Cafe du
Globe, opposite, which both of them were in the habit of frequenting.
The proprietor, who was a friend of theirs, held out to them two
fingers, which they shook across the bottles of the counter; and then
they joined three of their friends, who were playing dominoes, and who
had been there since midday. They exchanged cordial greetings, with the
usual question: “Anything new?” And then the three players continued
their game, and held out their hands without looking up, when the others
wished them “Good-night,” and then they both went home to dinner.
Caravan lived in a small two-story house in Courbevaie, near where the
roads meet; the ground floor was occupied by a hair-dresser. Two
bed rooms, a dining-room and a kitchen, formed the whole of their
apartments, and Madame Caravan spent nearly her whole time in cleaning
them up, while her daughter, Marie-Louise, who was twelve, and her
son, Phillip-Auguste, were running about with all the little, dirty,
mischievous brats of the neighborhood, and playing in the gutter.
Caravan had installed his mother, whose avarice was notorious in the
neighborhood, and who was terribly thin, in the room above them. She was
always cross, and she never passed a day without quarreling and flying
into furious tempers. She would apostrophize the neighbors, who were
standing at their own doors, the coster-mongers, the street-sweepers,
and the street-boys, in the most violent language; and the latter, to
have their revenge, used to follow her at a distance when she went out,
and call out rude things after her.
A little servant from Normandy, who was incredibly giddy and
thoughtless, performed the household work, and slept on the second floor
in the same room as the old woman, for fear of anything happening to her
in the night.
When Caravan got in, his wife, who suffered from a chronic passion for
cleaning, was polishing up the mahogany chairs that were scattered about
the room with a piece of flannel. She always wore cotton gloves, and
adorned her head with a cap ornamented with many colored ribbons,
which was always tilted over one ear; and whenever anyone caught her
polishing, sweeping, or washing, she used to say:
“I am not rich; everything is very simple in my house, but cleanliness
is my luxury, and that is worth quite as much as any other.”
As she was gifted with sound, obstinate, practical common sense, she led
her husband in everything. Every evening during dinner, and afterwards
when they were in their room, they talked over the business of the
office for a long time, and although she was twenty years younger than
he was, he confided everything to her as if she took the lead, and
followed her advice in every matter.
She had never been pretty, and now she had grown ugly; in addition to
that, she was short and thin, while her careless and tasteless way of
dressing herself concealed her few small feminine attractions, which
might have been brought out if she had possessed any taste in dress. Her
skirts were always awry, and she frequently scratched herself, no matter
on what part of her person, totally indifferent as to who might see her,
and so persistently, that anyone who saw her might think that she was
suffering from something like the itch. The only adornments that she
allowed herself were silk ribbons, which she had in great profusion, and
of various colors mixed together, in the pretentious caps which she wore
at home.
As soon as she saw her husband she rose and said, as she kissed his
whiskers:
“Did you remember Potin, my dear?”
He fell into a chair, in consternation, for that was the fourth time on
which he had forgotten a commission that he had promised to do for her.
“It is a fatality,” he said; “it is no good for me to think of it all
day long, for I am sure to forget it in the evening.”
But as he seemed really so very sorry, she merely said, quietly:
“You will think of it to-morrow, I dare say. Anything new at the
office?”
“Yes, a great piece of news; another tinsmith has been appointed second
chief clerk.” She became very serious, and said:
“So he succeeds Ramon; this was the very post that I wanted you to have.
And what about Ramon?”
“He retires on his pension.”
She became furious, her cap slid down on her shoulder, and she
continued:
“There is nothing more to be done in that shop now. And what is the name
of the new commissioner?”
“Bonassot.”
She took up the Naval Year Book, which she always kept close at hand,
and looked him up.
“'Bonassot-Toulon. Born in 1851. Student Commissioner in 1871.
Sub-Commissioner in 1875.' Has he been to sea?” she continued. At that
question Caravan's looks cleared up, and he laughed until his sides
shook.
“As much as Balin--as much as Baffin, his chief.” And he added an old
office joke, and laughed more than ever:
“It would not even do to send them by water to inspect the
Point-du-Jour, for they would be sick on the penny steamboats on the
Seine.”
But she remained as serious as if she had not heard him, and then she
said in a low voice, as she scratched her chin:
“If we only had a Deputy to fall back upon. When the Chamber hears
everything that is going on at the Admiralty, the Minister will be
turned out----”
She was interrupted by a terrible noise on the stairs. Marie-Louise and
Philippe-Auguste, who had just come in from the gutter, were slapping
each other all the way upstairs. Their mother rushed at them furiously,
and taking each of them by an arm she dragged them into the room,
shaking them vigorously; but as soon as they saw their father, they
rushed up to him, and he kissed them affectionately, and taking one of
them on each knee, began to talk to them.
Philippe-Auguste was an ugly, ill-kempt little brat, dirty from head to
foot, with the face of an idiot, and Marie-Louise was already like
her mother--spoke like her, repeated her words, and even imitated her
movements. She also asked him whether there was anything fresh at the
office, and he replied merrily:
“Your friend, Ramon, who comes and dines here every Sunday, is going to
leave us, little one. There is a new second head-clerk.”
She looked at her father, and with a precocious child's pity, she said:
“Another man has been put over your head again.”
He stopped laughing, and did not reply, and in order to create a
diversion, he said, addressing his wife, who was cleaning the windows:
“How is mamma, upstairs?”
Madame Caravan left off rubbing, turned round pulled her cap up, as it
had fallen quite on to her back, and said with trembling lips:
“Ah! yes; let us talk about your mother, for she has made a pretty
scene. Just imagine: a short time ago Madame Lebaudin, the hairdresser's
wife, came upstairs to borrow a packet of starch of me, and, as I was
not at home, your mother chased her out as though she were a beggar;
but I gave it to the old woman. She pretended not to hear, as she always
does when one tells her unpleasant truths, but she is no more deaf than
I am, as you know. It is all a sham, and the proof of it is, that she
went up to her own room immediately, without saying a word.”
Caravan, embarrassed, did not utter a word, and at that moment the
little servant came in to announce dinner. In order to let his mother
know, he took a broom-handle, which always stood in a corner, and
rapped loudly on the ceiling three times, and then they went into the
dining-room. Madame Caravan, junior, helped the soup, and waited for the
old woman, but she did not come, and as the soup was getting cold,
they began to eat slowly, and when their plates were empty, they waited
again, and Madame Caravan, who was furious, attacked her husband:
“She does it on purpose, you know that as well as I do. But you always
uphold her.”
Not knowing which side to take, he sent Marie-Louise to fetch her
grandmother, and he sat motionless, with his eyes cast down, while his
wife tapped her glass angrily with her knife. In about a minute, the
door flew open suddenly, and the child came in again, out of breath and
very pale, and said hurriedly:
“Grandmamma has fallen on the floor.”
Caravan jumped up, threw his table-napkin down, and rushed upstairs,
while his wife, who thought it was some trick of her mother-in-law's,
followed more slowly, shrugging her shoulders, as if to express her
doubt. When they got upstairs, however, they found the old woman lying
at full length in the middle of the room; and when they turned her over,
they saw that she was insensible and motionless, while her skin looked
more wrinkled and yellow than usual, her eyes were closed, her teeth
clenched, and her thin body was stiff.
Caravan knelt down by her, and began to moan.
“My poor mother! my poor mother!” he said. But the other Madame Caravan
said:
“Bah! She has only fainted again, that is all, and she has done it to
prevent us from dining comfortably, you may be sure of that.”
They put her on the bed, undressed her completely, and Caravan, his
wife, and the servant began to rub her; but, in spite of their efforts,
she did not recover consciousness, so they sent Rosalie, the servant, to
fetch Doctor Chenet. He lived a long way off, on the quay, going towards
Suresnes, and so it was a considerable time before he arrived. He came
at last, however, and, after having looked at the old woman, felt her
pulse, and listened for a heart beat, he said: “It is all over.”
Caravan threw himself on the body, sobbing violently; he kissed his
mother's rigid face, and wept so that great tears fell on the dead
woman's face like drops of water, and, naturally, Madame Caravan,
junior, showed a decorous amount of grief, and uttered feeble moans as
she stood behind her husband, while she rubbed her eyes vigorously.
But, suddenly, Caravan raised himself up, with his thin hair in
disorder, and, looking very ugly in his grief, said:
“But--are you sure, doctor? Are you quite sure?”
The doctor stooped over the body, and, handling it with professional
dexterity, as a shopkeeper might do, when showing off his goods, he
said:
“See, my dear friend, look at her eye.”
He raised the eyelid, and the old woman's eye appeared altogether
unaltered, unless, perhaps, the pupil was rather larger, and Caravan
felt a severe shock at the sight. Then Monsieur Chenet took her thin
arm, forced the fingers open, and said, angrily, as if he had been
contradicted:
“Just look at her hand; I never make a mistake, you may be quite sure of
that.”
Caravan fell on the bed, and almost bellowed, while his wife, still
whimpering, did what was necessary.
She brought the night-table, on which she spread a towel and placed
four wax candles on it, which she lighted; then she took a sprig of box,
which was hanging over the chimney glass, and put it between the four
candles, in a plate, which she filled with clean water, as she had no
holy water. But, after a moment's rapid reflection, she threw a pinch of
salt into the water, no doubt thinking she was performing some sort
of act of consecration by doing that, and when she had finished, she
remained standing motionless, and the doctor, who had been helping her,
whispered to her:
“We must take Caravan away.”
She nodded assent, and, going up to her husband, who was still on his
knees, sobbing, she raised him up by one arm, while Chenet took him by
the other.
They put him into a chair, and his wife kissed his forehead, and then
began to lecture him. Chenet enforced her words and preached firmness,
courage, and resignation--the very things which are always wanting in
such overwhelming misfortunes--and then both of them took him by the
arms again and led him out.
He was crying like a great child, with convulsive sobs; his arms hanging
down, and his legs weak, and he went downstairs without knowing what he
was doing, and moving his feet mechanically. They put him into the chair
which he always occupied at dinner, in front of his empty soup plate.
And there he sat, without moving, his eyes fixed on his glass, and so
stupefied with grief, that he could not even think.
In a corner, Madame Caravan was talking with the doctor and asking
what the necessary formalities were, as she wanted to obtain practical
information. At last, Monsieur Chenet, who appeared to be waiting for
something, took up his hat and prepared to go, saying that he had not
dined yet; whereupon she exclaimed:
“What! you have not dined? Why, stay here, doctor; don't go. You shall
have whatever we have, for, of course, you understand that we do not
fare sumptuously.” He made excuses and refused, but she persisted, and
said: “You really must stay; at times like this, people like to have
friends near them, and, besides that, perhaps you will be able to
persuade my husband to take some nourishment; he must keep up his
strength.”
The doctor bowed, and, putting down his hat, he said:
“In that case, I will accept your invitation, madame.”
She gave Rosalie, who seemed to have lost her head, some orders, and
then sat down, “to pretend to eat,” as she said, “to keep the doctor
company.”
The soup was brought in again, and Monsieur Chenet took two helpings.
Then there came a dish of tripe, which exhaled a smell of onions, and
which Madame Caravan made up her mind to taste.
“It is excellent,” the doctor said, at which she smiled, and, turning to
her husband, she said:
“Do take a little, my poor Alfred, only just to put something in your
stomach. Remember that you have got to pass the night watching by her!”
He held out his plate, docilely, just as he would have gone to bed, if
he had been told to, obeying her in everything, without resistance and
without reflection, and he ate; the doctor helped himself three times,
while Madame Caravan, from time to time, fished out a large piece at the
end of her fork, and swallowed it with a sort of studied indifference.
When a salad bowl full of macaroni was brought in, the doctor said:
“By Jove! That is what I am very fond of.” And this time, Madame Caravan
helped everybody. She even filled the saucers that were being scraped
by the children, who, being left to themselves, had been drinking wine
without any water, and were now kicking each other under the table.
Chenet remembered that Rossini, the composer, had been very fond of that
Italian dish, and suddenly he exclaimed:
“Why! that rhymes, and one could begin some lines like this:
The Maestro Rossini
Was fond of macaroni.”
Nobody listened to him, however. Madame Caravan, who had suddenly grown
thoughtful, was thinking of all the probable consequences of the event,
while her husband made bread pellets, which he put on the table-cloth,
and looked at with a fixed, idiotic stare. As he was devoured by thirst,
he was continually raising his glass full of wine to his lips, and the
consequence was that his mind, which had been upset by the shock and
grief, seemed to become vague, and his ideas danced about as digestion
commenced.
The doctor, who, meanwhile, had been drinking away steadily, was getting
visibly drunk, and Madame Caravan herself felt the reaction which
follows all nervous shocks, and was agitated and excited, and, although
she had drunk nothing but water, her head felt rather confused.
Presently, Chenet began to relate stories of death that appeared comical
to him. For in that suburb of Paris, that is full of people from the
provinces, one finds that indifference towards death which all peasants
show, were it even their own father or mother; that want of respect,
that unconscious brutality which is so common in the country, and so
rare in Paris, and he said:
“Why, I was sent for last week to the Rue du Puteaux, and when I went,
I found the patient dead and the whole family calmly sitting beside the
bed finishing a bottle of aniseed cordial, which had been bought the
night before to satisfy the dying man's fancy.”
But Madame Caravan was not listening; she was continually thinking of
the inheritance, and Caravan was incapable of understanding anything
further.
Coffee was presently served, and it had been made very strong to give
them courage. As every cup was well flavored with cognac, it made all
their faces red, and confused their ideas still more. To make matters
still worse, Chenet suddenly seized the brandy bottle and poured out “a
drop for each of them just to wash their mouths out with,” as he
termed it, and then, without speaking any more, overcome in spite of
themselves, by that feeling of animal comfort which alcohol affords
after dinner, they slowly sipped the sweet cognac, which formed a
yellowish syrup at the bottom of their cups.
The children had fallen asleep, and Rosalie carried them off to
bed. Caravan, mechanically obeying that wish to forget oneself which
possesses all unhappy persons, helped himself to brandy again several
times, and his dull eyes grew bright. At last the doctor rose to go, and
seizing his friend's arm, he said:
“Come with me; a little fresh air will do you good. When one is in
trouble, one must not remain in one spot.”
The other obeyed mechanically, put on his hat, took his stick, and
went out, and both of them walked arm-in-arm towards the Seine, in the
starlight night.
The air was warm and sweet, for all the gardens in the neighborhood were
full of flowers at this season of the year, and their fragrance, which
is scarcely perceptible during the day, seemed to awaken at the approach
of night, and mingled with the light breezes which blew upon them in the
darkness.
The broad avenue with its two rows of gas lamps, that extended as far as
the Arc de Triomphe, was deserted and silent, but there was the distant
roar of Paris, which seemed to have a reddish vapor hanging over it.
It was a kind of continual rumbling, which was at times answered by
the whistle of a train in the distance, travelling at full speed to the
ocean, through the provinces.
The fresh air on the faces of the two men rather overcame them at first,
made the doctor lose his equilibrium a little, and increased Caravan's
giddiness, from which he had suffered since dinner. He walked as if he
were in a dream; his thoughts were paralyzed, although he felt no great
grief, for he was in a state of mental torpor that prevented him from
suffering, and he even felt a sense of relief which was increased by the
mildness of the night.
When they reached the bridge, they turned to the right, and got the
fresh breeze from the river, which rolled along, calm and melancholy,
bordered by tall poplar trees, while the stars looked as if they were
floating on the water and were-moving with the current. A slight white
mist that floated over the opposite banks, filled their lungs with a
sensation of cold, and Caravan stopped suddenly, for he was struck by
that smell from the water which brought back old memories to his mind.
For, in his mind, he suddenly saw his mother again, in Picardy, as he
had seen her years before, kneeling in front of their door, and washing
the heaps of linen at her side in the stream that ran through their
garden. He almost fancied that he could hear the sound of the wooden
paddle with which she beat the linen in the calm silence of the country,
and her voice, as she called out to him: “Alfred, bring me some soap.”
And he smelled that odor of running water, of the mist rising from the
wet ground, that marshy smell, which he should never forget, and which
came back to him on this very evening on which his mother had died.
He stopped, seized with a feeling of despair. A sudden flash seemed to
reveal to him the extent of his calamity, and that breath from the river
plunged him into an abyss of hopeless grief. His life seemed cut in
half, his youth disappeared, swallowed up by that death. All the former
days were over and done with, all the recollections of his youth had
been swept away; for the future, there would be nobody to talk to him of
what had happened in days gone by, of the people he had known of old,
of his own part of the country, and of his past life; that was a part
of his existence which existed no longer, and the rest might as well end
now.
And then he saw “the mother” as she was when young, wearing well-worn
dresses, which he remembered for such a long time that they seemed
inseparable from her; he recollected her movements, the different tones
of her voice, her habits, her predilections, her fits of anger, the
wrinkles on her face, the movements of her thin fingers, and all her
well-known attitudes, which she would never have again, and clutching
hold of the doctor, he began to moan and weep. His thin legs began to
tremble, his whole stout body was shaken by his sobs, all he could say
was:
“My mother, my poor mother, my poor mother!”
But his companion, who was still drunk, and who intended to finish the
evening in certain places of bad repute that he frequented secretly,
made him sit down on the grass by the riverside, and left him almost
immediately, under the pretext that he had to see a patient.
Caravan went on crying for some time, and when he had got to the end of
his tears, when his grief had, so to say, run out, he again felt relief,
repose and sudden tranquillity.
The moon had risen, and bathed the horizon in its soft light.
The tall poplar trees had a silvery sheen on them, and the mist on the
plain looked like drifting snow; the river, in which the stars were
reflected, and which had a sheen as of mother-of-pearl, was gently
rippled by the wind. The air was soft and sweet, and Caravan inhaled
it almost greedily, and thought that he could perceive a feeling of
freshness, of calm and of superhuman consolation pervading him.
He actually resisted that feeling of comfort and relief, and kept on
saying to himself: “My poor mother, my poor mother!” and tried to make
himself cry, from a kind of conscientious feeling; but he could not
succeed in doing so any longer, and those sad thoughts, which had made
him sob so bitterly a shore time before, had almost passed away. In
a few moments, he rose to go home, and returned slowly, under the
influence of that serene night, and with a heart soothed in spite of
himself.
When he reached the bridge, he saw that the last tramcar was ready to
start, and behind it were the brightly lighted windows of the Cafe du
Globe. He felt a longing to tell somebody of his loss, to excite pity,
to make himself interesting. He put on a woeful face, pushed open the
door, and went up to the counter, where the landlord still was. He had
counted on creating a sensation, and had hoped that everybody would get
up and come to him with outstretched hands, and say: “Why, what is the
matter with you?” But nobody noticed his disconsolate face, so he rested
his two elbows on the counter, and, burying his face in his hands, he
murmured: “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”
The landlord looked at him and said: “Are you ill, Monsieur Caravan?”
“No, my friend,” he replied, “but my mother has just died.”
“Ah!” the other exclaimed, and as a customer at the other end of the
establishment asked for a glass of Bavarian beer, he went to attend to
him, leaving Caravan dumfounded at his want of sympathy.
The three domino players were sitting at the same table which they had
occupied before dinner, totally absorbed in their game, and Caravan went
up to them, in search of pity, but as none of them appeared to notice
him he made up his mind to speak.
“A great misfortune has happened to me since I was here,” he said.
All three slightly raised their heads at the same instant, but keeping
their eyes fixed on the pieces which they held in their hands.
“What do you say?”
“My mother has just died;” whereupon one of them said:
“Oh! the devil,” with that false air of sorrow which indifferent people
assume. Another, who could not find anything to say, emitted a sort of
sympathetic whistle, shaking his head at the same time, and the third
turned to the game again, as if he were saying to himself: “Is that
all!”
Caravan had expected some of these expressions that are said to “come
from the heart,” and when he saw how his news was received, he left the
table, indignant at their calmness at their friend's sorrow, although
this sorrow had stupefied him so that he scarcely felt it any longer.
When he got home his wife was waiting for him in her nightgown, and
sitting in a low chair by the open window, still thinking of the
inheritance.
“Undress yourself,” she said; “we can go on talking.”
He raised his head, and looking at the ceiling, said:
“But--there is nobody upstairs.”
“I beg your pardon, Rosalie is with her, and you can go and take her
place at three o'clock in the morning, when you have had some sleep.”
He only partially undressed, however, so as to be ready for anything
that might happen, and after tying a silk handkerchief round his head,
he lay down to rest, and for some time neither of them spoke. Madame
Caravan was thinking.
Her nightcap was adorned with a red bow, and was pushed rather to one
side, as was the way with all the caps she wore, and presently she
turned towards him and said:
“Do you know whether your mother made a will?”
He hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
“I--I do not think so. No, I am sure that she did not.”
His wife looked at him, and she said, in a law, angry tone:
“I call that infamous; here we have been wearing ourselves out for ten
years in looking after her, and have boarded and lodged her! Your sister
would not have done so much for her, nor I either, if I had known how I
was to be rewarded! Yes, it is a disgrace to her memory! I dare say that
you will tell me that she paid us, but one cannot pay one's children in
ready money for what they do; that obligation is recognized after death;
at any rate, that is how honorable people act. So I have had all my
worry and trouble for nothing! Oh, that is nice! that is very nice!”
Poor Caravan, who was almost distracted, kept on repeating:
“My dear, my dear, please, please be quiet.”
She grew calmer by degrees, and, resuming her usual voice and manner,
she continued:
“We must let your sister know to-morrow.”
He started, and said:
“Of course we must; I had forgotten all about it; I will send her a
telegram the first thing in the morning.”
“No,” she replied, like a woman who had foreseen everything; “no, do not
send it before ten or eleven o'clock, so that we may have time to turn
round before she comes. It does not take more than two hours to get here
from Charenton, and we can say that you lost your head from grief. If
we let her know in the course of the day, that will be soon enough, and
will give us time to look round.”
Caravan put his hand to his forehead, and, in the came timid voice in
which he always spoke of his chief, the very thought of whom made him
tremble, he said:
“I must let them know at the office.”
“Why?” she replied. “On occasions like this, it is always excusable to
forget. Take my advice, and don't let him know; your chief will not be
able to say anything to you, and you will put him in a nice fix.
“Oh! yes, that I shall, and he will be in a terrible rage, too, when he
notices my absence. Yes, you are right; it is a capital idea, and when I
tell him that my mother is dead, he will be obliged to hold his tongue.”
And he rubbed his hands in delight at the joke, when he thought of his
chief's face; while upstairs lay the body of the dead old woman, with
the servant asleep beside it.
But Madame Caravan grew thoughtful, as if she were preoccupied by
something which she did not care to mention, and at last she said:
“Your mother had given you her clock, had she not--the girl playing at
cup and ball?”
He thought for a moment, and then replied:
“Yes, yes; she said to me (but it was a long time ago, when she first
came here): 'I shall leave the clock to you, if you look after me
well.'”
Madame Caravan was reassured, and regained her serenity, and said:
“Well, then, you must go and fetch it out of her room, for if we get
your sister here, she will prevent us from taking it.”
He hesitated.
“Do you think so?”
That made her angry.
“I certainly think so; once it is in our possession, she will know
nothing at all about where it came from; it belongs to us. It is just
the same with the chest of drawers with the marble top, that is in her
room; she gave it me one day when she was in a good temper. We will
bring it down at the same time.”
Caravan, however, seemed incredulous, and said:
“But, my dear, it is a great responsibility!”
She turned on him furiously.
“Oh! Indeed! Will you never change? You would let your children die of
hunger, rather than make a move. Does not that chest of drawers belong
to us, as she gave it to me? And if your sister is not satisfied, let
her tell me so, me! I don't care a straw for your sister. Come, get up,
and we will bring down what your mother gave us, immediately.”
Trembling and vanquished, he got out of bed and began to put on his
trousers, but she stopped him:
“It is not worth while to dress yourself; your underwear is quite
enough. I mean to go as I am.”
They both left the room in their night clothes, went upstairs quite
noiselessly, opened the door and went into the room, where the four
lighted tapers and the plate with the sprig of box alone seemed to be
watching the old woman in her rigid repose, for Rosalie, who was lying
back in the easy chair with her legs stretched out, her hands folded in
her lap, and her head on one side, was also quite motionless, and was
snoring with her mouth wide open.
Caravan took the clock, which was one of those grotesque objects that
were produced so plentifully under the Empire. A girl in gilt bronze was
holding a cup and ball, and the ball formed the pendulum.
“Give that to me,” his wife said, “and take the marble slab off the
chest of drawers.”
He put the marble slab on his shoulder with considerable effort, and
they left the room. Caravan had to stoop in the doorway, and trembled as
he went downstairs, while his wife walked backwards, so as to light him,
and held the candlestick in one hand, carrying the clock under the other
arm.
When they were in their own room, she heaved a sigh.
“We have got over the worst part of the job,” she said; “so now let us
go and fetch the other things.”
But the bureau drawers were full of the old woman's wearing apparel,
which they must manage to hide somewhere, and Madame Caravan soon
thought of a plan.
“Go and get that wooden packing case in the vestibule; it is hardly
worth anything, and we may just as well put it here.”
And when he had brought it upstairs they began to fill it. One by one
they took out all the collars, cuffs, chemises, caps, all the well-worn
things that had belonged to the poor woman lying there behind them,
and arranged them methodically in the wooden box in such a manner as
to deceive Madame Braux, the deceased woman's other child, who would be
coming the next day.
When they had finished, they first of all carried the bureau drawers
downstairs, and the remaining portion afterwards, each of them holding
an end, and it was some time before they could make up their minds
where it would stand best; but at last they decided upon their own room,
opposite the bed, between the two windows, and as soon as it was in its
place Madame Caravan filled it with her own things. The clock was placed
on the chimney-piece in the dining-room, and they looked to see what
the effect was, and were both delighted with it and agreed that nothing
could be better. Then they retired, she blew out the candle, and soon
everybody in the house was asleep.
It was broad daylight when Caravan opened his eyes again. His mind was
rather confused when he woke up, and he did not clearly remember what
had happened for a few minutes; when he did, he felt a weight at his
heart, and jumped out of bed, almost ready to cry again.
He hastened to the room overhead, where Rosalie was still sleeping in
the same position as the night before, not having awakened once. He
sent her to do her work, put fresh tapers in the place of those that
had burnt out, and then he looked at his mother, revolving in his brain
those apparently profound thoughts, those religious and philosophical
commonplaces which trouble people of mediocre intelligence in the
presence of death.
But, as his wife was calling him, he went downstairs. She had written
out a list of what had to be done during the morning, and he was
horrified when he saw the memorandum:
1. Report the death at the mayor's office. 2. See the doctor who had
attended her. 3. Order the coffin. 4. Give notice at the church. 5. Go
to the undertaker. 6. Order the notices of her death at the printer's.
7. Go to the lawyer. 8. Telegraph the news to all the family.
Besides all this, there were a number of small commissions; so he took
his hat and went out. As the news had spread abroad, Madame Caravan's
female friends and neighbors soon began to come in and begged to be
allowed to see the body. There had been a scene between husband and
wife at the hairdresser's on the ground floor about the matter, while
a customer was being shaved. The wife, who was knitting steadily, said:
“Well, there is one less, and as great a miser as one ever meets with. I
certainly did not care for her; but, nevertheless, I must go and have a
look at her.”
The husband, while lathering his patient's chin, said: “That is another
queer fancy! Nobody but a woman would think of such a thing. It is not
enough for them to worry you during life, but they cannot even leave you
at peace when you are dead:” But his wife, without being in the least
disconcerted, replied: “The feeling is stronger than I am, and I must
go. It has been on me since the morning. If I were not to see her, I
should think about it all my life; but when I have had a good look at
her, I shall be satisfied.”
The knight of the razor shrugged his shoulders and remarked in a low
voice to the gentleman whose cheek he was scraping: “I just ask you,
what sort of ideas do you think these confounded females have? I should
not amuse myself by going to see a corpse!” But his wife had heard him
and replied very quietly: “But it is so, it is so.” And then, putting
her knitting on the counter, she went upstairs to the first floor, where
she met two other neighbors, who had just come, and who were discussing
the event with Madame Caravan, who was giving them the details, and they
all went together to the death chamber. The four women went in softly,
and, one after the other, sprinkled the bed clothes with the salt water,
knelt down, made the sign of the cross while they mumbled a prayer. Then
they rose from their knees and looked for some time at the corpse with
round, wide-open eyes and mouths partly open, while the daughter-in-law
of the dead woman, with her handkerchief to her face, pretended to be
sobbing piteously.
When she turned about to walk away whom should she perceive standing
close to the door but Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, who were
curiously taking stock of all that was going on. Then, forgetting her
pretended grief, she threw herself upon them with uplifted hands, crying
out in a furious voice, “Will you get out of this, you horrid brats!”
Ten minutes later, going upstairs again with another contingent of
neighbors, she prayed, wept profusely, performed all her duties, and
found once more her two children, who had followed her upstairs. She
again boxed their ears soundly, but the next time she paid no heed
to them, and at each fresh arrival of visitors the two urchins always
followed in the wake, kneeling down in a corner and imitating slavishly
everything they saw their mother do.
When the afternoon came the crowds of inquisitive people began to
diminish, and soon there were no more visitors. Madame Caravan,
returning to her own apartments, began to make the necessary
preparations for the funeral ceremony, and the deceased was left alone.
The window of the room was open. A torrid heat entered, along with
clouds of dust; the flames of the four candles were flickering beside
the immobile corpse, and upon the cloth which covered the face, the
closed eyes, the two stretched-out hands, small flies alighted, came,
went and careered up and down incessantly, being the only companions of
the old woman for the time being.
Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, however, had now left the house and
were running up and down the street. They were soon surrounded by their
playmates, by little girls especially, who were older and who were much
more interested in all the mysteries of life, asking questions as if
they were grown people.
“Then your grandmother is dead?” “Yes, she died yesterday evening.”
“What does a dead person look like?”
Then Marie began to explain, telling all about the candles, the sprig of
box and the face of the corpse. It was not long before great curiosity
was aroused in the minds of all the children, and they asked to be
allowed to go upstairs to look at the departed.
Marie-Louise at once organized a first expedition, consisting of five
girls and two boys--the biggest and the most courageous. She made them
take off their shoes so that they might not be discovered. The troupe
filed into the house and mounted the stairs as stealthily as an army of
mice.
Once in the chamber, the little girl, imitating her mother, regulated
the ceremony. She solemnly walked in advance of her comrades, went down
on her knees, made the sign of the cross, moved her lips as in prayer,
rose, sprinkled the bed, and while the children, all crowded together,
were approaching--frightened and curious and eager to look at the face
and hands of the deceased--she began suddenly to simulate sobbing and
to bury her eyes in her little handkerchief. Then, becoming instantly
consoled, on thinking of the other children who were downstairs waiting
at the door, she ran downstairs followed by the rest, returning in a
minute with another group, then a third; for all the little ragamuffins
of the countryside, even to the little beggars in rags, had congregated
in order to participate in this new pleasure; and each time she repeated
her mother's grimaces with absolute perfection.
At length, however, she became tired. Some game or other drew the
children away from the house, and the old grandmother was left alone,
forgotten suddenly by everybody.
The room was growing dark, and upon the dry and rigid features of the
corpse the fitful flames of the candles cast patches of light.
Towards 8 o'clock Caravan ascended to the chamber of death, closed the
windows and renewed the candles. He was now quite composed on entering
the room, accustomed already to regard the corpse as though it had been
there for months. He even went the length of declaring that, as yet,
there were no signs of decomposition, making this remark just at the
moment when he and his wife were about to sit down at table. “Pshaw!”
she responded, “she is now stark and stiff; she will keep for a year.”
The soup was eaten in silence. The children, who had been left to
themselves all day, now worn out by fatigue, were sleeping soundly on
their chairs, and nobody ventured to break the silence.
Suddenly the flame of the lamp went down. Madame Caravan immediately
turned up the wick, a hollow sound ensued, and the light went out. They
had forgotten to buy oil. To send for it now to the grocer's would keep
back the dinner, and they began to look for candles, but none were to be
found except the tapers which had been placed upon the table upstairs in
the death chamber.
Madame Caravan, always prompt in her decisions, quickly despatched
Marie-Louise to fetch two, and her return was awaited in total darkness.
The footsteps of the girl who had ascended the stairs were distinctly
heard. There was silence for a few seconds and then the child descended
precipitately. She threw open the door and in a choking voice murmured:
“Oh! papa, grandmamma is dressing herself!”
Caravan bounded to his feet with such precipitance that his chair fell
over against the wall. He stammered out: “You say?.... What are you
saying?”
But Marie-Louise, gasping with emotion, repeated: “Grand--grand
--grandmamma is putting on her clothes, she is coming downstairs.”
Caravan rushed boldly up the staircase, followed by his wife,
dumfounded; but he came to a standstill before the door of the second
floor, overcome with terror, not daring to enter. What was he going to
see? Madame Caravan, more courageous, turned the handle of the door and
stepped forward into the room.
The old woman was standing up. In awakening from her lethargic sleep,
before even regaining full consciousness, in turning upon her side and
raising herself on her elbow, she had extinguished three of the candles
which burned near the bed. Then, gaining strength, she got off the bed
and began to look for her clothes. The absence of her chest of drawers
had at first worried her, but, after a little, she had succeeded in
finding her things at the bottom of the wooden box, and was now quietly
dressing. She emptied the plateful of water, replaced the sprig of box
behind the looking-glass, and arranged the chairs in their places, and
was ready to go downstairs when there appeared before her her son and
daughter-in-law.
Caravan rushed forward, seized her by the hands, embraced her with
tears in his eyes, while his wife, who was behind him, repeated in a
hypocritical tone of voice: “Oh, what a blessing! oh, what a blessing!”
But the old woman, without being at all moved, without even appearing to
understand, rigid as a statue, and with glazed eyes, simply asked: “Will
dinner soon be ready?”
He stammered out, not knowing what he said:
“Oh, yes, mother, we have been waiting for you.”
And with an alacrity unusual in him, he took her arm, while Madame
Caravan, the younger, seized the candle and lighted them downstairs,
walking backwards in front of them, step by step, just as she had done
the previous night for her husband, who was carrying the marble.
On reaching the first floor, she almost ran against people who were
ascending the stairs. It was the Charenton family, Madame Braux,
followed by her husband.
The wife, tall and stout, with a prominent stomach, opened wide
her terrified eyes and was ready to make her escape. The husband, a
socialist shoemaker, a little hairy man, the perfect image of a monkey,
murmured quite unconcerned: “Well, what next? Is she resurrected?”
As soon as Madame Caravan recognized them, she made frantic gestures
to them; then, speaking aloud, she said: “Why, here you are! What a
pleasant surprise!”
But Madame Braux, dumfounded, understood nothing. She responded in a low
voice: “It was your telegram that brought us; we thought that all was
over.”
Her husband, who was behind her, pinched her to make her keep silent.
He added with a sly laugh, which his thick beard concealed: “It was
very kind of you to invite us here. We set out post haste,” which remark
showed the hostility which had for a long time reigned between the
households. Then, just as the old woman reached the last steps, he
pushed forward quickly and rubbed his hairy face against her cheeks,
shouting in her ear, on account of her deafness: “How well you look,
mother; sturdy as usual, hey!”
Madame Braux, in her stupefaction at seeing the old woman alive, whom
they all believed to be dead, dared not even embrace her; and her
enormous bulk blocked up the passageway and hindered the others from
advancing. The old woman, uneasy and suspicious, but without speaking,
looked at everyone around her; and her little gray eyes, piercing and
hard, fixed themselves now on one and now on the other, and they were so
full of meaning that the children became frightened.
Caravan, to explain matters, said: “She has been somewhat ill, but she
is better now; quite well, indeed, are you not, mother?”
Then the good woman, continuing to walk, replied in a husky voice, as
though it came from a distance: “It was syncope. I heard you all the
while.”
An embarrassing silence followed. They entered the dining-room, and in a
few minutes all sat down to an improvised dinner.
Only M. Braux had retained his self-possession. His gorilla features
grinned wickedly, while he let fall some words of double meaning which
painfully disconcerted everyone.
But the door bell kept ringing every second, and Rosalie, distracted,
came to call Caravan, who rushed out, throwing down his napkin. His
brother-in-law even asked him whether it was not one of his reception
days, to which he stammered out in answer: “No, only a few packages;
nothing more.”
A parcel was brought in, which he began to open carelessly, and the
mourning announcements with black borders appeared unexpectedly.
Reddening up to the very eyes, he closed the package hurriedly and
pushed it under his waistcoat.
His mother had not seen it! She was looking intently at her clock which
stood on the mantelpiece, and the embarrassment increased in midst of
a dead silence. Turning her wrinkled face towards her daughter, the old
woman, in whose eyes gleamed malice, said: “On Monday you must take me
away from here, so that I can see your little girl. I want so much
to see her.” Madame Braux, her features all beaming, exclaimed: “Yes,
mother, that I will,” while Madame Caravan, the younger, who had turned
pale, was ready to faint with annoyance. The two men, however, gradually
drifted into conversation and soon became embroiled in a political
discussion. Braux maintained the most revolutionary and communistic
doctrines, his eyes glowing, and gesticulating and throwing about his
arms. “Property, sir,” he said, “is a robbery perpetrated on the working
classes; the land is the common property of every man; hereditary rights
are an infamy and a disgrace.” But here he suddenly stopped, looking as
if he had just said something foolish, then added in softer tones: “But
this is not the proper moment to discuss such things.”
The door was opened and Dr. Chenet appeared. For a moment he seemed
bewildered, but regaining his usual smirking expression of countenance,
he jauntily approached the old woman and said: “Aha! mamma; you are
better to-day. Oh! I never had any doubt but you would come round again;
in fact, I said to myself as I was mounting the staircase, 'I have an
idea that I shall find the old lady on her feet once more';” and as he
patted her gently on the back: “Ah! she is as solid as the Pont-Neuf,
she will bury us all; see if she does not.”
He sat down, accepted the coffee that was offered him, and soon began
to join in the conversation of the two men, backing up Braux, for he
himself had been mixed up in the Commune.
The old woman, now feeling herself fatigued, wished to retire. Caravan
rushed forward. She looked him steadily in the eye and said: “You,
you must carry my clock and chest of drawers upstairs again without a
moment's delay.” “Yes, mamma,” he replied, gasping; “yes, I will do so.”
The old woman then took the arm of her daughter and withdrew from
the room. The two Caravans remained astounded, silent, plunged in the
deepest despair, while Braux rubbed his hands and sipped his coffee
gleefully.
Suddenly Madame Caravan, consumed with rage, rushed at him, exclaiming:
“You are a thief, a footpad, a cur! I would spit in your face! I--I
--would----” She could find nothing further to say, suffocating as she
was with rage, while he went on sipping his coffee with a smile.
His wife returning just then, Madame Caravan attacked her sister-in-law,
and the two women--the one with her enormous bulk, the other epileptic
and spare, with changed voices and trembling hands flew at one another
with words of abuse.
Chenet and Braux now interposed, and the latter, taking his better half
by the shoulders, pushed her out of the door before him, shouting: “Go
on, you slut; you talk too much;” and the two were heard in the street
quarrelling until they disappeared from sight.
M. Chenet also took his departure, leaving the Caravans alone, face
to face. The husband fell back on his chair, and with the cold sweat
standing out in beads on his temples, murmured: “What shall I say to my
chief to-morrow?”