by Emile Zola
‘I’m going now; please excuse me. Tell him from me that I’ve thought it over and I give my consent. I’ll think about it further, and perhaps I’ll arrange for him to marry that girl, since he really must. But it’s I who am giving her to him, and I want him to come and ask me for her; ask me, me only, do you see? Oh, make him come back to me, make him come back!’
Her ardent voice pleaded, and then, lowering her tone, like a woman who, after sacrificing everything, obstinately clings to one last consolation, she added:
‘He’ll marry her, but he must live with us. Otherwise, nothing can be done. I’d rather lose him altogether.’
Then she prepared to take her leave. Madame Josserand grew quite gushing and said all sorts of consoling things in the hall. She promised to send Léon that very evening in a contrite, affectionate frame of mind, declaring that he would be delighted to live with his new aunt. Then, having shut the door after Madame Dambreville, full of pity and tenderness, she thought to herself:
‘Poor boy! She’ll make him pay a high price!’
But at that moment she too heard the dull thud which shook the flooring. What on earth could it be? Was the maid smashing all the crockery? She rushed back to the dining-room and asked her daughters what had happened.
‘What’s the matter? Did the sugar-basin fall over?’
‘No, mamma, we don’t know what it was.’
Turning round to look for Adèle, she caught her listening at the bedroom door.
‘What are you doing?’ she cried. ‘Everything’s being smashed to bits in your kitchen while you stand there spying on your master. Yes, yes, you start with prunes and you end with something else. For some time past, my girl, I haven’t liked the look of you: you smell of men …’
Wide-eyed, Adèle looked at her. Then she observed:
‘That’s not it. I think it’s master who’s fallen down in there.’
‘Good gracious, I think she’s right!’ said Berthe, turning pale. ‘It was just like someone falling.’
They entered the room. On the floor, near the bed, lay Monsieur Josserand. He had fainted; his head had knocked against a chair and a trickle of blood was coming from his right ear. Mother, daughters, and maidservant gathered round to examine him. Only Berthe burst into tears, sobbing convulsively as if still smarting from the blow she had received. And as the four of them were trying to lift him and place him on the bed, they heard him murmur:
‘It’s all over. They’ve killed me.’
XVII
Months passed, and spring came. In the house in the Rue de Choiseul everybody was talking of the likelihood of a marriage between Octave and Madame Hédouin.
Things, however, had not yet reached that stage. Octave had resumed his old post at the Ladies’ Paradise, and every day his responsibilities increased. Since her husband’s death Madame Hédouin had not been able to take sole charge of the ever-expanding business. Old Deleuze, her uncle, was bound to his chair by rheumatism and could attend to nothing; so naturally Octave, young, active, and full of new ideas about doing business on a large scale, quickly assumed a position of great influence in the shop. Still sore about his ridiculous love affair with Berthe, he now no longer thought of making use of women; he even fought shy of them. The best thing, he thought, would be for him quietly to become Madame Hédouin’s partner and then to pile up money. Remembering, too, the absurd snub she had given him, he treated her as if she were a man, which was exactly what she wanted.
Henceforth their relations became most intimate. They would shut themselves up for hours in the little back room. When he had set out to seduce her he had followed a complete set of tactics, trying to exploit her excitement about business, breathing on the back of her neck as he mentioned certain figures to her, waiting for a time when takings were heavy in order to take advantage of her enthusiasm. Now he was simply good-natured, with no end in view except business. He no longer even desired her, though he still remembered her little thrill of excitement as she leaned against his chest when they waltzed together on the evening of Berthe’s wedding. Perhaps she had been fond of him, after all? Anyhow, it was best to remain as they were; for, as she rightly observed, perfect order was necessary in the business of the shop, and it was foolish to want things which would only upset them from morning to night.
Seated together at the narrow desk, they often forgot themselves after going through the books and settling the orders. Then it was that he reverted to his dreams of aggrandizement. He had sounded out the owner of the neighbouring shop, who was quite ready to sell. The second-hand dealer and the umbrella-maker must be given notice to quit, and a special silk department must be opened. To this she listened gravely, not daring as yet to commit herself. But her liking for Octave’s business capacity grew ever greater, for in his ideas she recognized her own; her aptitude for commerce and the serious, practical side of her character showed, as it were, beneath his urbane exterior as a polite shopman. And he displayed such passion and audacity—qualities lacking in herself, and which filled her with enthusiasm. It was imagination applied to business, the only sort of imagination that had ever troubled her. He was becoming her master.
At length, one evening as they sat side by side looking over some invoices under the hot flame of the gas, she said slowly:
‘I’ve spoken to my uncle, Monsieur Octave. He’s given his consent, so we’ll buy the shop. But …’
Merrily interrupting her, he cried:
‘Then the Vabres are done for!’
She smiled, and murmured reproachfully:
‘So you hate them, do you? It’s not right; you’re the last person who should wish them any ill.’
She had never once made any reference to his relationship with Berthe, so that this sudden allusion greatly embarrassed him, without his exactly knowing why. He blushed and stammered some excuse.
‘No, no! That doesn’t concern me,’ she continued, still smiling and very calm. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to say that; I never meant to say anything about that subject. You’re young. So much the worse for those who want it, eh? Husbands ought to look after their wives if their wives can’t look after themselves.’
He felt relieved to see that she was not angry. He had often feared that if she found out about his old liaison she might grow cold.
‘You interrupted me, Monsieur Octave,’ she went on gravely. ‘I was about to add that if I buy the shop next door, and so double the value of my present business, I can’t possibly remain a widow. I’ll have to remarry.’
Octave was astonished. So she already had a husband in view and he knew nothing about it. He suddenly felt that his position was compromised.
‘My uncle’, she continued, ‘told me as much himself. Oh, there’s no hurry just yet! I’ve been in mourning for eight months, so I’ll wait until the autumn. But in business all affairs of the heart must be put on one side, so that one may consider the necessities of the situation. A man is absolutely necessary here.’
She calmly discussed all this as if it were a business matter, while he watched her, with her beautiful regular features, clear healthy complexion, and neat, wavy black hair. And he felt regretful that since her widowhood he had not again sought to become her lover.
‘It’s always a very serious thing,’ he faltered. ‘You need to think about it very carefully.’
Of course she thought so too. And she mentioned her age.
‘I’m getting on, you know. I’m five years older than you, Monsieur Octave.’
Then, overcome, he interrupted her, thinking he understood. Seizing her hands he exclaimed:
‘Oh, madam! Oh, madam!’
But she rose from her seat and freed herself. Then she turned down the gas.
‘Well, that’ll do for today. You have excellent ideas, and it’s only natural that I should think of you as the best person to carry them out. But it won’t be easy, and we must think the whole thing through. I know that you’re really very serious about it. Think about it, and so
will I. That’s why I mentioned it to you. We can discuss it some other time, later on.’
Things remained like this for weeks. Business went on as usual. As Madame Hédouin always maintained her calm, smiling demeanour towards him, never once hinting at any tenderer feeling, Octave at first affected a similar serenity and soon, like her, grew healthfully happy, trusting implicitly in the logic of things. Her favourite remark was that reasonable things always happened of their own accord. So she was never in a hurry about anything. None of the gossip respecting her intimacy with the young man had the slightest effect on her. All they had to do was wait.
Everyone in the house in the Rue de Choiseul declared that the match was made. Octave had given up his room there and had moved into lodgings in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, close to the Ladies’ Paradise. He no longer visited anyone, and never went to the Campardons’ nor the Duveyriers’, who were shocked at his scandalous behaviour. Even Monsieur Gourd, when he met him, pretended not to recognize him to avoid having to bow. Only Marie and Madame Juzeur, on the mornings when they met him in the neighbourhood, stopped and chatted for a few moments in a doorway. Madame Juzeur, who eagerly questioned him as to his reported liaison with Madame Hédouin, wanted him to promise that he would come and see her and have a nice chat about it all. Marie was in despair at being pregnant again, and told him of Jules’s amazement and her parents’ wrath. However, when the rumour of his marriage was confirmed Octave was surprised to get a very low bow from Monsieur Gourd. Campardon, though he did not yet offer to make it up, nodded cordially to him across the street, while Duveyrier, when looking in one evening to buy some gloves, appeared very friendly. By degrees the whole house seemed ready to forgive and forget.
Moreover, they had all returned to the beaten track of bourgeois respectability. Behind the great mahogany doors fresh founts of virtue played; the third-floor gentleman came to work one night a week as usual; the other Madame Campardon passed by, inflexible in her integrity; the maids sported aprons of dazzling whiteness, while, in the tepid silence of the staircase, all the pianos on all the floors flung out the self-same waltzes, making music at once mystic and remote.
Yet the taint of adultery still lingered, imperceptible to common folk but disagreeable to those of fine moral sense. Auguste obstinately refused to take back his wife, and so long as Berthe lived with her parents the scandal would not be erased; the material trace of it must remain. Yet not one of the tenants openly told the exact story, as it would have been so embarrassing for everybody. By common and, as it were, involuntary consent, they agreed that the quarrel between Berthe and Auguste had arisen because of the ten thousand francs—a mere squabble about money. It was so much more decent to say this; and one could allude to the matter before young ladies. Would the parents pay up or would they not? The whole farce became so perfectly simple, for not a soul in the neighbourhood was either amazed or indignant at the idea that money matters could bring a family to blows. It was true, of course, that this polite arrangement did not affect the actual situation, and though calm in the presence of misfortune, the whole house had suffered a cruel shock to its dignity.
It was Duveyrier in particular who, as landlord, bore the brunt of this persistent and undeserved misfortune. For some time Clarisse had been worrying him so much that he often returned to his wife in tears. The scandal of the adultery too distressed him greatly, for as he said, he saw the passers-by looking scornfully at his house, the house that his father had sought to adorn with all the domestic virtues. Such a state of affairs could not be allowed to go on. He talked of purifying the whole place, to satisfy his own personal honour. And for the sake of public decency he urged Auguste to effect a reconciliation, but unfortunately the latter refused, backed up by Théophile and Valérie, who had fully installed themselves at the pay-desk, delighted by the domestic quarrel. Then, as the Lyons business was in a bad way and the silk warehouse likely to come to grief for want of capital, Duveyrier had a brainwave. The Josserands were doubtless most anxious to get rid of their daughter and Auguste should offer to take her back, but only on condition that they pay the dowry of fifty thousand francs. Perhaps uncle Bachelard would yield to their entreaties and consent to give them the money. At first Auguste vehemently refused to be a party to any such arrangement; even if the sum were a hundred thousand francs it would still not be enough. However, feeling very uneasy about his April disbursements, he at last yielded to Duveyrier’s arguments, for the latter spoke in the name of morality, his sole aim being, as he said, to perform a righteous act.
When they were agreed, Clotilde chose Father Mauduit to negotiate matters. It was rather delicate; only a priest could intervene without compromising himself. As it happened, the priest had been much grieved by all the shocking things that had occurred in one of the most interesting households of his parish. Indeed, he had already offered to use all his wisdom, experience, and authority to put an end to a scandal over which enemies of the Church would only gloat. However, when Clotilde mentioned the dowry and asked him to inform the Josserands of Auguste’s conditions, he bowed his head and maintained a painful silence.
‘The money my brother claims is money due to him, you understand,’ said Clotilde. ‘It’s not a bargain. He absolutely insists on it, too.’
‘It must be done, so I’ll go,’ said the priest at last.
The Josserands had been expecting a proposal for days. Valérie must have said something, for everyone in the house was talking about it. Were they so hard-up that they would have to keep their daughter? Would they manage to find the fifty thousand francs in order to get rid of her? Ever since the subject had been raised Madame Josserand had been in a state of fury. What! after all the trouble they had had to get Berthe married a first time, they were now obliged to get her married again? Nothing had been settled, the dowry had again been asked for, and all the money worries had begun afresh. No mother had ever had to go through such a thing twice over. And all because of that silly fool whose stupidity was such that she forgot her duty! The house became a sort of hell on earth; Berthe suffered perpetual torture, for even her sister Hortense, furious at not having the bedroom to herself, never spoke now without making some cutting remark. Even meals became a source of reproach. It seemed rather odd, when one had a husband somewhere, to come and sponge on one’s parents for a meal, for they had little enough to eat themselves! Then, in despair, poor Berthe slunk away sobbing, calling herself a coward, afraid to go downstairs and throw herself at Auguste’s feet, and say:
‘Here I am. Beat me, do; for I can’t be more wretched than I am now!’
Monsieur Josserand alone treated his daughter with kindness. But her sins and tears were killing him; the cruelty of his family had dealt him his death-blow, and, having taken unlimited leave of absence, he hardly ever rose from his bed. Doctor Juillerat, who attended him, said it was blood-poisoning; it was actually a breakdown of his whole system, each organ being affected in turn.
‘When you’ve made your father die of grief, you’ll be happy, won’t you?’ cried Madame Josserand.
Berthe, indeed, was afraid to go into her father’s room, for when they were together they both wept and only made each other feel worse. At length Madame Josserand decided to make a decisive move. She invited uncle Bachelard to dinner, having resolved to humiliate herself once more. She would gladly have paid the fifty thousand francs out of her own pocket, had she got them, so as not to have to keep this married daughter of hers, whose presence cast a shadow over her Tuesday receptions. Moreover, she had heard some shocking things about her brother, and if he did not do as she wanted she fully intended to give him a piece of her mind.
Bachelard behaved in a particularly disgusting way at dinner. He had arrived half-drunk; since the loss of Fifi he had sunk to the lowest depths. Fortunately Madame Josserand had not invited anyone else, for fear of disgrace. He fell asleep during dessert while telling certain rakish and ribald anecdotes, and they were obliged to wake him up before taking him i
nto Monsieur Josserand’s room. Here, signs of skilful stage-management were evident: with a view to working on the old drunkard’s feelings, two chairs had been placed beside the bed, one for the mother, the other for the uncle, while Berthe and Hortense were to remain standing. They would see if the uncle would again dare to deny his promises when confronted with a dying man in such a mournful room, half-lighted by a smoky lamp.
‘Narcisse,’ said Madame Josserand, ‘the situation is very serious.’
Then, in low, solemn tones, she explained what the situation was, telling of her daughter’s deplorable misfortune, of Auguste’s revolting greed, and of their painful obligation to pay the fifty thousand francs so as to put an end to the scandal that was covering their family with shame. Then she said severely:
‘Remember your promise, Narcisse. The night the contract was signed you slapped your chest and swore that Berthe could rely on her uncle’s kindness of heart. Well, where is that kindness? The time has come for you to show it! Monsieur Josserand, please join me in showing him what his duty is, if your physical state will allow you to do so!’
Deeply repugnant though it was to him, Monsieur Josserand, from sheer love of his daughter, murmured:
‘It’s true; you promised, Bachelard. So, before I’m gone, do me the pleasure of acting like an honourable man.’
Berthe and Hortense, however, hoping to soften their uncle, had filled his glass somewhat too frequently. So dulled were his senses that they could no longer take advantage of his inebriated state.
‘Eh? what?’ he stuttered, without needing to exaggerate his drunken air. ‘Never promise … don’t understand! Just tell me that again, Eléonore.’
Accordingly Madame Josserand began anew, and made Berthe, sobbing, embrace him, begging him to keep his word for the sake of her sick husband and proving to him that in giving the fifty thousand francs he was fulfilling a sacred duty. Then, as he dropped off to sleep again without apparently being affected in the least by the sight of the sick man or the mournful bedchamber, she suddenly burst out: