by Emile Zola
‘I tell you Monsieur Hédouin died last night. If only handsome Octave had foreseen that, he would’ve gone on cultivating Madame Hédouin, ’cos she’ll be worth a lot now.’
To hear such news in this sewer touched him to the core. So Monsieur Hédouin was dead! He was seized by profound regret. He could not prevent himself from saying out loud:
‘Yes, my God! I was a fool!’
When Octave at last went downstairs with his bundle, he met Rachel coming up to her room. A few minutes earlier she would have caught them. Downstairs she had found her mistress in tears again; but this time she had got nothing out of her, neither a confession nor a sou. She was furious, convinced that they took advantage of her absence to meet and thus to cheat her of her little bonuses. She gave Octave a black, threatening scowl. A strange schoolboy timidity prevented him from giving her ten francs; then, anxious to show that he was completely at his ease, he was going into Marie Pichon’s for a casual chat when a grunt from a corner made him turn round. Saturnin got up, exclaiming, in one of his jealous fits:
‘Look out! You’re dead!’
That very morning happened to be the 8th of October, and the boot-stitcher had to get out by noon. For a week past Monsieur Gourd had been watching her belly with ever-increasing uneasiness. That belly would surely never wait until the 8th. The poor woman had begged the landlord to let her stay a few days longer so as to get over her confinement, but had met with an indignant refusal. She now felt constant pains: the night before she was afraid she would give birth all by herself. Then, at about nine o’clock, she began to move her things out, helping the lad who had his cart in the courtyard below, leaning against the furniture or sitting down on the staircase when bent double by an excruciating pang.
Monsieur Gourd, however, had discovered nothing. No man after all! He had been tricked. All that morning he wandered about in a cold rage. When Octave met him the thought that he too knew of his secret affair filled him with dread. Perhaps he did know it, but he did not greet him any less politely, for what did not concern him did not concern him, as he had already observed. That morning, too, he had doffed his cap to the mysterious lady as she noiselessly hurried away from the gentleman’s apartment on the third floor, leaving only a faint perfume of verbena behind her. He had also said good morning to Trublot, as well as the other Madame Campardon and Valérie. They were all gentry. If the young men were caught coming out of the maidservants’ bedrooms, or the ladies tripping downstairs in tell-tale dressing-gowns, that was none of his business. What concerned him did concern him, and he kept his eye on the few miserable bits of furniture belonging to the boot-stitcher as if the long-sought male were escaping in one of the drawers.
At a quarter to twelve the woman appeared, her face quite waxen, and looking as sad and despondent as ever. She could hardly walk, and until she got out into the street Monsieur Gourd was all atremble. Just as she was handing in her key Duveyrier came through the hall, so excited by his night out that the red blotches on his forehead looked as if they were bleeding. He put on a haughty air, an air severely, implacably moral, as the poor thing went past him. Shameful and resigned, she bowed her head and walked out after the little cart with the same despairing gait as when she had arrived, on the day that the black funeral hangings had enveloped her.
It was only then that Monsieur Gourd felt triumphant. As though the woman’s belly had removed all unhealthiness from the house, all those shameful things that caused the very walls to blush, he exclaimed to the landlord:
‘That’s a good riddance, sir! We can breathe freely now because, upon my word, it was getting positively disgusting! It’s like a great weight off my back. In a respectable house like this, you see sir, there shouldn’t be any women, least of all working women.’
XIV
The following Tuesday Berthe did not keep her promise. This time she told Octave beforehand not to expect her, when they had a brief conversation that same evening when the shop closed. She sobbed bitterly, for she had been to confession the day before, feeling the need for religious solace, and was still greatly affected by Father Mauduit’s grave counsel. Since her marriage she had given up going to church; but after the foul language with which the maids had bespattered her she had felt so sad, so forlorn, so sullied, that for an hour she went back to her childish beliefs, ardently yearning to be made pure and good. On her return, after the priest had wept with her, she grew quite horrified at her sin. Octave shrugged his shoulders, powerless and enraged.
Then, three days later, she again promised to see him the following Tuesday. Meeting him one day in the Passage des Panoramas, she had noticed some shawls of Chantilly lace and talked about them incessantly, her eyes full of desire. Thus, on the Monday morning, the young man told her laughingly, in order to temper the brutality of such a bargain, that if she really kept her word she would find a little surprise waiting for her in his room. She guessed what he meant and again began to cry. No, no, it was impossible for her to come now; he had spoilt all her pleasure in their projected meeting. She had talked about the shawl without thinking, and she did not want it now; she would throw it on the fire if he gave it to her. Nevertheless, on the following day they made all the arrangements; at half-past twelve that night she was to knock three times very gently at his door.
That day, as Auguste was leaving for Lyons, Berthe thought that he looked somewhat strange. She had caught him whispering with Rachel behind the kitchen-door; besides which, his face was all yellow, he trembled violently, and one of his eyes was closed up. But as he complained of migraine she thought he must be unwell, and assured him that the journey would do him good. No sooner had he gone than she went back to the kitchen and, feeling uneasy, tried to sound out Rachel. The young woman, however, maintained her demeanour of discreet respect, as stiff in manner as when she first came. Berthe felt that she was somehow dissatisfied, and she thought how extremely foolish she had been to give the girl twenty francs and a dress and then suddenly to stop all further gratuities, though she was obliged to do so as she was always in need of a five-franc piece herself.
‘My poor girl,’ she said, ‘I haven’t been very generous, have I? But it isn’t my fault. I haven’t forgotten you, and I’ll reward you.’
‘Madame owes me nothing,’ Rachel coldly replied.
Then Berthe went to fetch two of her old chemises, just to prove her good intentions. But when the servant took them from her, she said they would do for kitchen-cloths.
‘Thank you, madam, but calico gives me pimples; I only wear linen.’
However, so polite did she seem that Berthe was reassured and spoke familiarly to the girl, telling her she was going to sleep out; she even asked her to leave a lamp alight in case she came back. The front door was to be bolted, and she would go out by the back stairs and take the key with her. Rachel took her instructions as calmly as if she had been told to cook a piece of beef for the following day.
That evening, by a fine touch of diplomacy, as Berthe was dining with her parents Octave accepted an invitation from the Campardons. He thought he would stay there till ten o’clock and then go up to his room and wait as patiently as he could until half-past twelve.
The meal at the Campardons’ proved quite patriarchal. Seated between his wife and her cousin, the architect lingered lovingly over the food—plain, homely fare as he termed it, wholesome and copious. That evening there was boiled chicken and rice, a joint of beef, and some fried potatoes. Ever since Gasparine had taken to managing everything the whole houshold lived in a perpetual state of indigestion, for she knew how to buy things, paying less money and getting twice as much meat as anybody else. Campardon had three helpings of chicken, while Rose stuffed herself with rice. Angèle reserved herself for the beef; she liked blood, and Lisa slyly helped her to spoonfuls of it. Gasparine was the only one who hardly touched anything; her stomach had shrunk, so she said.
‘Eat up!’ cried the architect to Octave. ‘You never know if you might not be eaten yo
urself some day!’
Madame Campardon leaned over and again told Octave how delighted she was at all the happiness Gasparine had brought to the house—savings of at least a hundred per cent, the servants made respectful, and Angèle looked after properly and being set a good example.
‘In short,’ she murmured, ‘Achille’s as happy as the day is long, while I have nothing to do now—absolutely nothing. Imagine! She actually washes and dresses me now. I don’t have to lift a finger; she’s taken charge of the entire management of the household.’
Then the architect related how he had got the better of ‘those clowns in Public Instruction’.*
‘Just imagine, my dear boy, they gave me no end of trouble about my job at Evreux. Of course, my main concern was to please the bishop—only natural, eh? However, the new kitchens and heating apparatus came to more than twenty thousand francs. But they didn’t vote the credit, and it’s not easy to squeeze twenty thousand francs out of the small amount allowed for repairs. On top of which the pulpit, for which I had a grant of three thousand francs, came to nearly ten thousand—which meant I had to find another seven thousand from somewhere. So this morning they sent for me at the ministry, where a big lanky chap tried to give me a hard time. But I wasn’t going to stand for that sort of thing! So I simply told him that I’d send for the bishop to explain the matter himself. He became very polite straight away; it was quite absurd, and it makes me laugh now when I think of it! You know they’re terrified of bishops at the moment. If I had a bishop behind me, I could demolish Notre-Dame and rebuild it if I liked; I couldn’t care less about the government!’
The whole table laughed at this disrespectful talk about the ministry, alluding to it disdainfully, with their mouths full of rice. Rose declared that it was best to be on the side of religion. Ever since his restoration of Saint-Roch Achille had been overwhelmed with work: the noblest families clamoured for his services; he could not attend to them all, he would have had to work all night as well as all day. God certainly was good to them, and they gave Him thanks both morning and evening.
During dessert Campardon suddenly exclaimed:
‘By the way, my dear fellow, I suppose you know that Duveyrier has found …’ He was going to say Clarisse, but he remembered that Angèle was present, so with a side glance at his daughter he added: ‘He’s found his … relative, you know.’
By biting his lip and winking, he at last made Octave understand, for the young man at first quite failed to catch his meaning.
‘Yes, Trublot told me. The day before yesterday, when it was pouring down, Duveyrier stood under a doorway, when, lo and behold, there was his … relative, just opening her umbrella. Trublot had been on the lookout for her for a week, so as to get her back to him.’
Angèle modestly looked down at her plate, filling her mouth with food. The family was most careful that the conversation should never transgress the bounds of decency.
‘Is she pretty?’ asked Rose of Octave.
‘That’s a matter of taste,’ he replied. ‘Some people might think so.’
‘She had the impertinence to come to the shop one day,’ said Gasparine, who, thin as she was, detested skinny people. ‘She was pointed out to me. She’s a real beanstalk!’
‘Never mind,’ said the architect. ‘Duveyrier’s happy again. His poor wife, you know …’
He was going to say that the poor wife was probably much relieved and delighted. But again he remembered that Angèle was there, so he dolefully remarked:
‘Relations don’t always get on together. Well, well, every family has its troubles!’
Lisa, a napkin on her arm, looked across the table at Angèle who, bursting with laughter, hastened to take a long drink, concealing her face with her glass.
Shortly before ten o’clock Octave professed to be so tired that he was obliged to go up to bed. Despite Rose’s tender attentions, he felt ill at ease in this worthy family, aware of Gasparine’s ever-increasing hostility. He had done nothing, however, to provoke her. She merely hated him because he was a good-looking fellow who, so she suspected, had all the women in the house; and that exasperated her, although she herself had no desire for him at all. It was simply the thought of his enjoyment that instinctively roused the wrath of a woman whose beauty had faded all too soon.
As soon as he had left, the Campardons talked of going to bed. Every evening before getting into bed Rose spent a whole hour over her toilet, using face washes and scents, doing her hair, examining her eyes, mouth, and ears, even putting a little patch under her chin. At night she replaced her sumptuous dressing-gowns with equally sumptuous nightcaps and chemises. On this particular evening she chose a nightdress and cap trimmed with Valenciennes lace. Gasparine helped her, holding basins, mopping up the water she spilt, drying her with a towel, showing her various little attentions with far greater skill than Lisa.
‘Ah! Now I feel comfortable,’ said Rose at last, stretched out in bed, while her cousin tucked in the sheets and raised the bolster.
She smiled contentedly as she lay there alone in the middle of the big bed. With her plump, soft body swathed in lace, she looked like some great beauty waiting to welcome her favourite lover. When she felt pretty she slept better, so she said. Besides, it was the only pleasure she had.
‘Everything all right?’ asked Campardon, as he came in. ‘Well, goodnight, my little darling.’
He pretended that he had some work to do. He would have to sit up a little longer. Whereupon she became angry and begged him to rest; it was so foolish of him to work himself to death like that!
‘Now listen to me: just go to bed! Gasparine, promise you’ll make him go to bed!’
Gasparine had just put a glass of sugared water and one of Dickens’s novels by the bed. She looked at Rose without replying, and then, bending over her, whispered:
‘You look really nice tonight!’
Then she kissed her on both cheeks, with dry lips and a bitter mouth, with the subdued air of a poor, plain relation. Flushed, and suffering from frightful indigestion, Campardon gazed at his wife as well. His moustache quivered slightly as, in his turn, he kissed her.
‘Goodnight, my poppet!’
‘Goodnight, my love! And make sure you go to bed at once.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Gasparine. ‘If he’s not in bed asleep by eleven o’clock, I’ll get up and put his lamp out.’
At about eleven o’clock, after yawning over some plans for a Swiss chalet that a tailor in the Rue Rameau had taken into his head to have built, Campardon slowly undressed, thinking as he did so of Rose, lying there so pretty and clean. Then, after turning down his bed because of the servants, he went and joined Gasparine in hers. It was most uncomfortable for them, as there was no elbow-room, and he in particular had to balance himself on the edge of the mattress, so that the next morning one of his thighs was quite stiff.
Just then, as Victoire, after washing up, had gone to bed, Lisa came in as she usually did to see if mademoiselle required anything else. Angèle was waiting for her in bed; and then it was that, unknown to the parents, they played interminable games of cards on the counterpane. As they played begger-my-neighbour they talked constantly of Gasparine, that dirty beast, whom the maid crudely pulled to pieces before little Angèle. In this way they made up for their humble, hypocritical demeanour during the day, and Lisa took a certain base pleasure in corrupting Angèle in this way, satisfying the girl’s morbid curiosity now that she was on the verge of puberty. That night they were furious with Gasparine because for the last two days she had locked up the sugar with which the maid usually filled her pockets in order to empty them out afterwards on the child’s bed. Nasty cow! They couldn’t even get a lump of sugar to munch when they went to sleep!
‘Your papa gives her plenty of sugar, though!’ said Lisa, with a sensual laugh.
‘Oh, yes!’ murmured Angèle, laughing too.
‘What does your papa do to her? Come on, show me.’
The ch
ild caught the maid round the neck, squeezed her in her bare arms, and kissed her very hard on the mouth, saying as she did so: ‘This is what he does! This is what he does!’
Midnight struck. Campardon and Gasparine were moaning in their narrow bed, while Rose, lying contentedly in the middle of hers, stretched out her legs and read Dickens until tears filled her eyes. A profound silence followed; the chaste night cast its shadow over this eminently virtuous family.
On going upstairs, Octave found that the Pichons had company. Jules called to him and insisted that he must come in and have a glass of something with them. Monsieur and Madame Vuillaume were there, having made it up with the young couple on the occasion of Marie’s churching. Her confinement had taken place in September. They had even consented to come to dinner one Tuesday to celebrate the young woman’s recovery. She had only been out the day before for the first time. Anxious to appease her mother, whom the very sight of the baby, another girl, annoyed, Marie had put it out to nurse not far from Paris. Lilitte was asleep with her head on the table, overcome by a glass of wine which her parents had forced her to drink to her little sister’s health.
‘Well, one can just about cope with two,’ said Madame Vuillaume, after clinking glasses with Octave. ‘But that’s enough, Jules, do you hear?’
They all began to laugh, but the old woman remained perfectly grave, saying:
‘There’s nothing to laugh at. We’ll put up with this baby, but I swear that if another one comes along …’
‘Oh, if there’s another one,’ cried Monsieur Vuillaume, finishing her sentence, ‘it would prove you have neither heart nor brains. I mean, after all, it’s a serious business; you’ve got to restrain yourself when you haven’t got a fortune to spend just amusing yourself.’