by Emile Zola
Then he hurriedly continued rubbing his glass. Octave did not understand. For some time past the lunatic had shown singular affection for him, like the caress of an animal beneath whose unerring instinct lay a deeper, more subtle feeling. What made him mention a piece of paper? He had not written any letter to Berthe, but only allowed himself to look tenderly at her now and again while waiting for an opportunity to give her some little present. This was the tactic which, after mature reflection, he had resolved to adopt.
‘Ten minutes past eleven—damn it all!’ exclaimed Auguste, who never usually swore.
At that moment, however, the ladies came in. Berthe was wearing a charming costume of pink silk embroidered with white jet, while her sister, always in blue, and her mother, always in mauve, had kept to their gaudy, elaborate gowns, which they altered every season. Madame Josserand came first, large and imposing, to stop her son-in-law from making any complaints, which the three had foreseen when holding council together at the end of the street. She even deigned to explain their delay by saying that they had been looking in the shop-windows. Auguste, however, very pale, uttered not a word of complaint, speaking in a dry tone of voice. Evidently, he was restraining himself until later on. For a moment Madame Josserand, accustomed as she was to family quarrels, tried to intimidate him; then, being obliged to go upstairs, she merely said:
‘Goodnight, my girl, and sleep well if you want to live long.’
As soon as she had gone Auguste, beside himself and oblivious of the presence of Octave and Saturnin, pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and thrust it under Berthe’s nose, as he stuttered:
‘So what’s this?’
Berthe had not even taken off her bonnet. She grew very red.
‘That?’ she replied. ‘It’s a bill.’
‘Yes, it’s a bill, and for false hair, too! For false hair, of all things; as if you hadn’t got any left on your head! But that’s not the point. You’ve paid this bill; now, tell me, what did you pay it with?’
Becoming more and more embarrassed, Berthe at last replied:
‘With my own money, of course!’
‘Your own money! But you haven’t got any. Somebody must have given you some, or else you took it from here. Yes; and, look here, I know everything. You’re in debt! I’ll put up with anything, but I won’t have debts, do you hear? I won’t have debts—never!’
He said this with all the horror of a prudent fellow whose commercial integrity consists in owing no one a penny. He proceeded to air all his grievances, reproaching his wife for continually gadding about town, complaining of her taste for clothes and luxury items which he could not pay for. Was it right that people in their position should stay out till eleven o’clock at night, dressed up in pink silk gowns embroidered with white jet? People with such tastes ought to provide themselves with a dowry of five hundred thousand francs. However, he knew well enough who was to blame; it was that idiot of a mother, who taught her daughters how to squander fortunes without being able to give them so much as a chemise to wear on their wedding-day.
‘Don’t say a word against mamma!’ cried Berthe, who at last became exasperated. ‘She’s not to blame; she did her duty. And what about your family! What a collection! People who killed their father!’
Octave had carried on ticketing the silks, pretending not to hear. But he kept an eye on the dispute, and was especially attentive to Saturnin, who had stopped polishing the mirror and, with clenched fists and flashing eyes, stood there trembling, ready to spring at Auguste’s throat.
‘Keep our families out of it!’ rejoined the latter. ‘We’ve got enough problems at home. You must change your ways, because I won’t pay another sou for all this tomfoolery. I’ve made my mind up about that! Your place is here, at your desk, dressed quite simply, like a woman who has some respect for herself. And if you run up any more debts, you’ll see!’
Berthe was taken aback by this marital hand so brutally laid upon her habits, her pleasures, her frocks. It was as if all that she liked, all that she had dreamed of when getting married, had been wrenched from her. But, with a woman’s tactics, she hid her real wound, finding a pretext for the wrath that flushed her face as she indignantly exclaimed:
‘I won’t let you insult mamma!’
Auguste shrugged his shoulders.
‘Your mother, indeed! You look just like her—you become quite ugly when you work yourself up like that! I can hardly tell it’s you; it’s your mother all over again! I tell you, it’s frightening!’
Berthe immediately calmed down, and looked him straight in the face.
‘Go and tell mamma what you just said, and see how she’ll throw you out!’
‘Would she?’ cried Auguste, in a fury. ‘Then I’ll go up and tell her now!’
He moved towards the door and not a moment too soon, for Saturnin, with wolfish eyes, was coming up on tiptoe to strangle him from behind. Berthe sank into a chair, murmuring:
‘If ever I married again, it wouldn’t be to a man like that!’*
Upstairs, Monsieur Josserand opened the door in great surprise, as Adèle had gone to bed. He was just getting ready to spend the night addressing wrappers, in spite of feeling rather unwell. Thus, embarrassed and rather ashamed at having been found out, he took his son-in-law into the dining-room, alluding to some urgent work which he had to finish—a copy of the inventory of the Saint-Joseph Glassworks. But when Auguste began to accuse his daughter of running into debt, and told him of the quarrel occasioned by the incident of the false hair, the old man’s hands began to tremble; deeply upset, he stammered incoherently, and tears filled his eyes. His daughter was in debt, and led a life of continual domestic bickering like his own! All the unhappiness of his life was going to be repeated in his daughter! Another fear obsessed him, and this was that, at any moment, his son-in-law would broach the subject of money, claim the dowry, and denounce him as a swindler. No doubt the young fellow knew everything, or he would never have called in like this at nearly midnight.
‘My wife has gone to bed,’ he stammered, his head in a whirl. ‘There’s no point in waking her up, is there? I’m very surprised to hear all this! Poor Berthe isn’t a wicked girl, I assure you! Don’t be hard on her. I’ll talk to her. As for us, my dear Auguste, I don’t think we’ve done anything to displease you.’
He looked at him enquiringly, feeling reassured; Auguste evidently knew nothing as yet. Then Madame Josserand appeared at her bedroom door. She stood there in her nightdress, white and fearsome. Angry though he was, Auguste recoiled. She must have been listening at the door, for she at once delivered a blow straight from the shoulder.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve come for your ten thousand francs, have you? The instalment isn’t due for at least another two months. We’ll pay you in two months, sir. We don’t die to avoid keeping our promises.’
This remarkable assurance completely overwhelmed Monsieur Josserand. And she went on making the most extraordinary statements, to the utter bewilderment of Auguste, whom she would simply not allow to speak.
‘You have no sense at all, sir. When you’ve made Berthe ill you’ll have to send for the doctor, and then you’ll have a chemist’s bill to pay. I went away just now because I saw that you had decided to make a fool of yourself. Do what you like! Beat your wife, if you want; my conscience as a mother is clear, for God sees all and punishment is never far behind!’
At last Auguste was able to explain his grievances. He complained once more of the perpetual gadding about, the expensive dresses, and all the rest of it, and was even so bold as to condemn the way that Berthe had been brought up. Madame Josserand listened with an air of supreme contempt. Then, when he had finished, she retorted:
‘Everything you’ve said, my dear fellow, is so absurd that it doesn’t deserve an answer. My conscience is my own; that’s enough for me. To think that I entrusted an angel to a man like that! I’ll have nothing more to do with your quarrels, since all I get is insults. Sort them o
ut yourselves!’
‘But your daughter will end by deceiving me, madam!’ cried Auguste, in a fresh burst of rage.
Madame Josserand, about to leave, turned round and looked him full in the face.
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘you’re doing all you possibly can to bring that about.’
Then she went back to her room, majestic as some colossal, triple-breasted Ceres robed in white.
The father detained Auguste a few minutes longer. He tried to humour him, pointing out that with women it is best to put up with everything; and at last he sent him away pacified and resolved to forgive Berthe. But when he found himself once more alone in the dining-room, before his little lamp, he burst into tears. It was all over; all happiness was at an end for him. He would never find time at night to address enough wrappers to help his daughter secretly. The thought that she might run into debt overwhelmed him as if with a sense of personal shame. He felt quite ill at receiving this fresh blow; one of these nights his strength would fail him. At last, straining to hold back his tears, he went on with his work.
Downstairs in the shop Berthe remained motionless for a moment, her face buried in her hands. One of the men, having put up the shutters, had gone down into the basement, and it was then that Octave thought he might approach the young woman. Ever since Auguste’s departure Saturnin had been making signs over his sister’s head, inviting Octave to comfort her. Beaming, he kept winking madly, and fearing that he was not making himself understood, began to blow kisses like an excited child.
‘What? You want me to kiss her?’ Octave asked him, by signs.
‘Yes, yes,’ replied the madman, nodding his head enthusiastically.
Then, as he saw Octave smilingly approach Berthe, who had noticed nothing, he sat on the floor behind a counter, out of sight, so as not to be in their way. The gas-jets were still burning—tall flames in the silent, empty shop. There was a sort of death-like peace, and a stuffy smell from the bales of silk.
‘Please don’t take it too much to heart, madam,’ said Octave, in his caressing voice.
She started on seeing him so near her.
‘I must ask you to excuse me, Monsieur Octave, but it was not my fault if you were present at this painful scene. Please make allowances for my husband; he must have been feeling unwell this evening. There are little unpleasantnesses, you know, in all families …’
Sobs prevented her from saying any more. The mere thought of extenuating her husband’s faults to outsiders brought on a flood of tears, which completely unnerved her. Saturnin peeped anxiously over the counter, but he ducked down again as soon as he saw Octave take hold of Berthe’s hand.
‘Let me beg of you, madam, to be brave.’
‘But I can’t help it!’ sobbed Berthe. ‘You were there—you heard everything. All that because of ninety-five francs’ worth of hair! As if all women don’t wear false hair nowadays! But he knows nothing and understands nothing! He knows no more about women than the Grand Turk. He’s never been near one in his life, Monsieur Octave, never! Oh, poor wretched me!’
In her furious spite, she blurted out everything. A man whom she thought had married her for love, but who soon would leave her without a chemise to her back! Didn’t she do her duty by him? Could he accuse her of the least neglect? If he had not flown into a rage when she asked him to get her some false hair, she would never have had to buy some with her own pocket-money. For the least thing there was always the same fuss; she could never express a wish or say that she wanted some trivial item of clothing without meeting with her husband’s sullen, ferocious opposition. Naturally she had her pride; she now asked for nothing and preferred to go without necessities, rather than humiliate herself to no purpose. Thus, for the last fortnight she had been longing for something she had seen with her mother in a jeweller’s window in the Palais Royal.
‘You know, three paste stars to put in my hair. An absolute trifle—a hundred francs, I think. But it was no good my talking about them from morning till night; my husband wouldn’t listen!’
Octave could never have hoped for a better opportunity. He prepared to attack.
‘Yes, yes, I know! I heard you mention them several times. You know, madam, your parents have always been so kind to me, and you yourself have been so obliging, that I thought I might venture to …’
As he spoke he drew from his pocket a long box, in which the three stars were sparkling on some cotton-wool. Berthe rose from her seat, very excited.
‘But, sir, it’s impossible for me to … I can’t—you really shouldn’t have …!’
He disingenuously invented various excuses. In the South such things were done every day. Besides, the stars were of no value at all. Blushing, she stopped sobbing and looked with sparkling eyes at the imitation gems in the box.
‘Please accept them, madam, just to show me that you’re satisfied with my work.’
‘No, Monsieur Octave, really, you mustn’t insist. I’m most touched …’
In the meantime Saturnin had reappeared, and was examining the jewellery with as much rapture as if they were holy relics. Soon his sharp ear detected Auguste’s returning footsteps. He apprised Berthe of this with a slight click of his tongue. Just as her husband was about to enter she made up her mind.
‘Well, listen,’ she hurriedly whispered, thrusting the box into her pocket, ‘I’ll say that my sister Hortense gave them to me as a present.’
Auguste ordered the gas to be turned out, and then went upstairs with his wife to bed, without saying a word about their quarrel, secretly glad to find that Berthe had recovered her spirits as if nothing had ever taken place. The shop became wrapped in darkness, and just as Octave was also leaving he felt two hot hands squeezing his, almost crushing them, in the gloom. It was Saturnin, who slept in the basement.
‘Friend, friend, friend!’ repeated the lunatic, in an outburst of wild affection.
Thwarted in his designs, Octave began to conceive a passionate desire for Berthe. If at first he had followed his usual plan of seduction, and his wish to use women as a means of self-advancement, he now no longer regarded Berthe merely as his employer, to possess whom would mean gaining control of the entire establishment. What he desired above all was to enjoy in her the Parisienne, that adorable creature of luxury and grace, such as he had never tasted in Marseilles. He felt a sudden hunger for her tiny gloved hands, her tiny feet in their high-heeled boots, her soft bosom concealed by lace frippery, though perhaps some of her under-linen was of doubtful cleanliness, its shabbiness being hidden by magnificent dresses. This sudden upsurge of passion even got the better of his parsimonious temperament, to such a degree that he began to squander in presents and the like all the five thousand francs which he had brought with him from the South, and which he had already doubled by financial speculations he had not mentioned to anybody.
But what annoyed him more than anything was that he had become timid by falling in love. He had lost his usual determination, his haste to reach his goal, deriving, on the contrary, a certain languid enjoyment from not being too quick to take action. Moreover, this passing weakness, in so thoroughly practical a nature as his, led him to conclude that the conquest of Berthe would be a campaign fraught with great difficulties, needing much delay and skilful diplomacy. His two failures, with Valérie and Madame Hédouin, doubtless made him more fearful of yet another rebuff. But beneath all his uneasiness and hesitation there lurked a fear of the woman he adored, an absolute belief in Berthe’s virtue, and all the blindness of a desperate love paralysed by desire.
The next day Octave, pleased that he had prevailed upon Berthe to accept his present, thought that it would be expedient to establish good relations with her husband. Accordingly, when taking his meals with him—for Auguste always boarded his assistants so as to have them close at hand—he paid him the utmost attention, listened to him during dessert, and loudly approved everything he said. In particular, he pretended to share his discontent with regard to Berthe, feigning to play
the detective and report various little incidents to him from time to time. Auguste was most touched. One evening he confessed to Octave that he had been on the point of dismissing him, believing him to be in league with Madame Josserand. But when Octave immediately professed his horror for that good lady, this helped to bind them together by a community of ideas. At heart, indeed, the husband was a decent fellow; he was just bad-tempered, but easygoing enough as long as no one put him out by spending his money or shocking his morals. He vowed that he would never lose his temper again, for after the quarrel he had had a most abominable headache which had driven him crazy for three days.
‘You see what I mean, don’t you?’ he would say to Octave. ‘All I want is my peace of mind. Beyond that I don’t care a damn, my honour excepted of course, and provided my wife doesn’t run off with the cashbox. That’s reasonable, isn’t it? I don’t ask anything very extraordinary of her, do I?’
Then Octave praised his sagacity, and they both extolled the joys of a dull existence such as this—each year exactly like the last, and all of them spent in measuring yards of silk. To please his employer, the young man was even content to give up all his ideas of trade on a grand scale. One evening, indeed, he had frightened Auguste by his dream of huge modern bazaars, advising him, as he had advised Madame Hédouin, to buy the adjoining house so as to enlarge his shop. Auguste, whose four counters were already enough to drive him crazy, stared at Octave with the terrified look of a shopman used to chopping centimes into four, so that the young man hastily withdrew his proposition and went into ecstasies over the soundness and integrity of small shopkeepers.
Days passed; Octave was building his nest in the house—a downy nest which he found snug and warm. The husband had a high opinion of him; and even Madame Josserand, though he avoided being too polite to her, looked encouragingly upon him. As for Berthe, she treated him with delightful familiarity. His great friend, however, was Saturnin, whose mute affection appeared to be increasing—a dog-like devotion which grew stronger as his desire for Berthe became more intense. Of everyone else the madman appeared grimly jealous; no man could go near his sister without his becoming at once uneasy, curling up his lips as if ready to bite. If, on the other hand, Octave bent over her unrestrainedly, making her laugh with the soft, tender laugh of a happy mistress, Saturnin would laugh with delight as well, while his face reflected a little of their sensual joy. The poor creature seemed to experience love through his sister’s body, which instinctively he felt belonged to him, while for the chosen lover he felt nothing but ecstatic gratitude. He would stop Octave in all sorts of corners, looking about him suspiciously; and then, if they happened to be alone, he would talk about Berthe, always repeating the same stories in disjointed phrases.