Pot Luck

by Emile Zola

  ‘Come now, my friend,’ said the priest simply, with tears in his eyes.

  That was enough. Auguste gave in at once, aware that there was no better moment than this in which to make his peace. His wife wept, and he wept also as he stammered:

  ‘Come along. We’ll try not to do this again.’

  Then there was general kissing, while Clotilde congratulated her brother, saying that she had been relying on his kindness of heart. Madame Josserand displayed a sort of disconsolate satisfaction, as that of a widow whom unlooked-for joys could no longer touch. And with their happiness she linked her poor dead husband’s name.

  ‘You’re doing your duty, my son-in-law. My dear departed husband thanks you for this.’

  ‘Come along!’ repeated Auguste, quite unnerved.

  Hearing a noise, Rachel came out into the hall and, noticing the maid’s mute look of rage, Berthe hesitated for a moment. Then she sternly entered the apartment, and her black mourning dress disappeared in the gloom. Auguste followed her, and the door closed behind them.

  A deep sigh of relief floated along the staircase and filled the house with joy. The ladies shook the priest by the hand; God had answered his prayers. Just as Clotilde was taking him off to settle the other matter, Duveyrier, who had stayed behind with Léon and Bachelard, came wearily up. They had to explain the good news to him, yet he hardly seemed to understand, though for months past he had been wishing for it. His face had a strange expression, as if he were in the grip of some obsession. As the Josserands went back to their apartment, he followed his wife and the priest. They were still in the hall when the sound of stifled screams made them tremble.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, madam,’ explained Hippolyte complacently. ‘The little lady upstairs is in labour. I saw Doctor Juillerat run up just now.’ Then, when alone, he philosophically added: ‘One goes, another comes.’

  Clotilde took the priest into the drawing-room and, offering him a seat, said that she would send Clémence to him first. To help him while away the time she gave him a copy of the Revue des Deux Mondes, in which there were some really charming verses. She wanted to prepare her maid for the interview. But in the dressing-room she found her husband seated on a chair.

  Ever since the morning Duveyrier had been in a state of agony. For the third time he had caught Clarisse with Théodore, and when he protested all her parasitic relatives—mother, brother, and little sisters—had fallen upon him, driving him downstairs with kicks and blows, while Clarisse called him all sorts of names, threatening in her fury to send for the police if he ever dared set foot in her place again. It was all over; the concierge had told him downstairs that for the past week a rich old fellow had been offering to provide a comfortable home for madame. Thus driven away, and no longer having a snug corner to call his own, Duveyrier, after wandering about the streets, had entered an out-of-the-way shop and bought a small revolver. Life for him had become too sad; he had better end it at the earliest opportunity, once he had found a suitable place. It was the search for some quiet spot which was preoccupying him as he trudged back to the Rue de Choiseul to attend Monsieur Josserand’s funeral. On the way to the grave he conceived the notion of suicide in the cemetery; he would withdraw to a secluded spot behind a tombstone. This appealed to his sense of the romantic, to his yearning for a tender ideal—a yearning that made his rigid, matter-of-fact existence appear utterly dreary. But as the coffin was lowered into the grave he began to quake in every limb, shuddering at the chill churchyard mould. This was certainly not the right place; he must find somewhere else. Then, returning home more distressed than ever, haunted by this one idea, he sat meditating on a chair in the dressing-room, trying to choose the best place in the house—the bedroom perhaps, near the bed, or here in the dressing-room, just where he was.

  ‘Would you be good enough to leave me alone?’ said Clotilde to him.

  He already had his hand on the revolver in his pocket.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, with a great effort.

  ‘Because I want to be alone.’

  He thought she wanted to change her dress and would no longer even let him see her bare arms, so great was her disgust for him. For a moment, blear-eyed, he looked at her, standing there so tall and beautiful, her complexion the hue of marble and her hair bound up in burnished coils. Ah, if she would only consent everything would be all right! Staggering forward, he stretched out his arms and tried to embrace her.

  ‘What is it?’ she murmured, in surprise. ‘What’s got into you now? Not here, surely? Haven’t you got that other woman any more? So you’re going to start with that beastly behaviour again, are you?’

  Her disgust seemed so great that he stepped back. Without another word he went out into the hall, where he stopped for a moment. A door faced him—the door of the water-closet. He pushed it open, and slowly sat down on the seat. This was a quiet place, where nobody would come and disturb him. Putting the barrel of the revolver into his mouth, he pulled the trigger.

  Meanwhile Clotilde, who all the morning had felt uneasy at her husband’s strange manner, had listened to see if he was going to do her the favour of going back to Clarisse. As the creak of the door told her where he had gone she paid no further attention to him, but was ringing for Clémence when the dull report of the pistol startled her. What could it be? It was just like the report of a revolver. She ran out into the hall, not daring at first to ask him what was the matter. Then, as a strange sound of breathing came from the closet, she called out to him and, getting no answer, pulled the door open. It was not even bolted. Duveyrier, stunned by fright more than by actual pain, was huddled up on the seat in a very sad posture, his eyes wide open and his face streaming with blood. The bullet had missed its mark and, after grazing his jaw, had passed through the left cheek. He had not had the courage to fire a second shot.

  ‘So that’s what you’ve been doing in there, is it?’ cried Clotilde, beside herself with rage. ‘Why can’t you go outside to shoot yourself?’

  She was indignant. Instead of softening her heart, the whole scene utterly exasperated her. Grabbing hold, she roughly pulled him, anxious to get him out before anybody saw him in such a place. In the water-closet! And to miss the mark too. That really was too much!

  Then, holding him up, she led him back to the bedroom; Duveyrier, half choked with blood, kept spitting out teeth as he gurgled:

  ‘You never loved me!’

  And he burst into tears, bewailing his lost ideals and the little blue flower of romance that it had never been his lot to pluck. When Clotilde had got him to bed she at last broke down too, as her anger gave way to hysterics. The worst of it was that both Clémence and Hippolyte came to answer the bell. At first she told them it was an accident, that their master had fallen down on his chin; but this fantastic account she was soon obliged to abandon, for when the manservant went to wipe up the blood on the seat, he found the revolver, which had fallen behind the little broom. Meanwhile the wounded man was losing a great deal of blood, and the maid suddenly remembered that Doctor Juillerat was upstairs attending to Madame Pichon, so she ran out and caught him on the stairs as he was coming down after a most successful delivery. The doctor instantly reassured Clotilde; possibly there might be some disfigurement of the jaw, but there was no danger whatever. He hastily proceeded to dress the wound, amid basins of water and bloodstained rags, when Father Mauduit, alarmed at all the commotion, ventured to enter the room.

  ‘Whatever has happened?’ he asked.

  This question was enough to upset Madame Duveyrier. At the first words of explanation she burst into tears. The priest, indeed, had guessed everything, knowing as he did all the secret troubles of his flock. Already, in the drawing-room, despondency had seized him, and he felt half sorry at his success in having once more joined that wretched young woman to her husband without her showing the least sign of contrition. Awful doubts assailed him; perhaps God was not with him after all. His anguish only increased as he saw Duveyrier’s fractured
jaw. Approaching him, he was about to denounce suicide in the most fervent terms when the doctor, busy with his bandaging, pushed him aside.

  ‘Wait a minute, Father! Can’t you see that he’s fainted?’

  Indeed, no sooner had the doctor touched him than Duveyrier lost consciousness. Then Clotilde, to get rid of the servants, who were no longer of any use and whose staring disconcerted her greatly, murmured, as she dried her eyes:

  ‘Go into the drawing-room. Father Mauduit has something to say to you.’

  The priest was obliged to take them there—another unpleasant task. Hippolyte and Clémence, extremely surprised, followed him. When they were alone he began with a series of vague exhortations: heaven rewarded good conduct, while one sin alone was enough to cast one into hell. Besides, it was high time to put a stop to the scandal and think of saving their souls. While he harangued them thus their surprise changed to utter bewilderment. Arms dangling, she with her slight figure and screwed-up mouth, and he with his flat face and hulking limbs, they exchanged glances of alarm. Had madame found some of her napkins upstairs in a trunk? Or was it because of the bottle of wine they took upstairs every night?

  ‘My children,’ said the priest in conclusion, ‘you’re setting a bad example. The greatest sin of all is to corrupt others—to bring one’s own household into disrepute. Yes, you’re living in a disorderly way which, alas! is no secret to anyone, because you’ve been fighting with each other for a whole week.’

  He blushed; a certain prudish hesitation made him choose his words carefully. The two servants heaved sighs of relief. They drew themselves up, smiling gleefully. So that was all! They needn’t have been so alarmed.

  ‘But it’s all over sir,’ declared Clémence, glancing at Hippolyte most fondly. ‘We’ve made it up. Yes, he has explained everything.’

  The priest, in his turn, seemed amazed and grieved.

  ‘You don’t understand, my children. You can’t go on living together like this; it’s an offence against God and man. You must get married.’

  At once their look of astonishment returned. Get married? Whatever for?

  ‘I don’t want to,’ said Clémence. ‘I don’t see why.’

  Then the priest tried to convince Hippolyte.

  ‘Look here my good fellow, you’re a good man; persuade her; talk to her about her reputation. It won’t alter your life in any way. You must get married.’

  The servant laughed a waggish, awkward laugh. At length, looking down at the tips of his boots, he blurted out:

  ‘That’s right; I dare say we should; but I’m married already.’

  This reply cut the cleric’s moralizing short. Without another word he stowed away his arguments, and put God back again, as useless, into his pocket, distressed at having sought to invoke divine aid in such a futile task. Clotilde, who now joined him, had overheard everything and, with one gesture, terminated the interview. In obedience to her orders the footman and the maid left the room one after the other, chuckling inwardly though apparently very grave. After a pause, the priest bitterly complained. Why expose him in this fashion? Why stir up things that were best left alone? Now the situation was absolutely scandalous. But Clotilde repeated her gesture. So much the worse; she had other worries now. However, she certainly could not dismiss the servants, for if she did the whole neighbourhood would know about the suicide attempt that very evening. Later on they must see what could be done.

  ‘You won’t forget, will you? He must have complete rest,’ enjoined the doctor, as he left the room. ‘He’ll soon be all right again, but you mustn’t tire him in any way. Don’t lose heart, madam.’ Then, turning to the priest, he added: ‘You can preach him a sermon later on, Father, I can’t give him up to you just yet. If you’re going back to Saint-Roch I’ll come with you; we can walk together.’

  They both went downstairs.

  Gradually the whole house regained its calm. Madame Juzeur had lingered in the cemetery, trying to make Trublot flirt with her as they read the inscriptions on the gravestones, and though he had no taste for fruitless philandering of this sort, he had to take her back in a cab to the Rue de Choiseul. The sad business of Louise deeply grieved the good lady. At their journey’s end she was still talking about the wretched girl, whom the day before she had sent back to the home for destitute children. It was a bitter experience for her, a final loss of illusions which left her bereft of all hope that she would ever get a respectable maidservant. Then, at the door, she asked Trublot to come and see her sometime and have a chat. But his excuse was that he was always so busy.

  At this moment the other Madame Campardon went by. They duly greeted her. Monsieur Gourd informed them of Madame Pichon’s happy deliverance. They all shared the opinion of Monsieur and Madame Vuillaume—three children for a mere clerk was sheer madness; and the concierge hinted, moreover, that if there were a fourth baby the landlord would give them notice, as too many children in a house did not look well. At this they were silent, when a lady, wearing a veil and leaving behind her a faint scent of verbena, glided through the hall without speaking to Monsieur Gourd, who pretended not to see her. That morning he had got everything ready in the distinguished gentleman’s apartment on the third floor in preparation for a night’s work.

  He hardly had time, however, to call out to the other two:

  ‘Look out! They’ll run over us like dogs!’

  It was the second-floor people driving past in their carriage. The horses pranced under the vaulted gateway, and, leaning back in the landau, the father and mother smiled at their two pretty, fair-haired children, who were struggling with each other over a large bunch of roses.

  ‘What strange people, to be sure!’ muttered the concierge indignantly.

  ‘They never even went to the funeral, for fear of seeming as polite as anybody else. They splash you from head to foot, yet there’s plenty we could say …’

  ‘What?’ asked Madame Juzeur, greatly interested.

  Then Monsieur Gourd told how they had had a visit from the police—yes, the police! The second-floor tenant had written such a filthy novel that they were going to imprison him at Mazas.*

  ‘Horrible stuff!’ he went on in a tone of disgust. ‘It’s full of filth about the most respectable people. They even say our landlord’s described in it—yes, Monsieur Duveyrier himself! What a nerve, eh? It’s good for them that they keep themselves to themselves; we know now what they get up to, in spite of their stand-offishness. You see, they can afford to keep their carriage, because their filth is worth its weight in gold!’

  It was this reflection above all that exasperated Monsieur Gourd. Madame Juzeur only read poetry, while Trublot admitted that he was not well versed in literature. Yet, as both censured the novelist for besmirching with his books the very house in which he and his family dwelt, they suddenly heard someone shrieking from the far end of the courtyard.

  ‘You cow! You were glad enough to have me when you wanted me to hide your lovers! You know exactly what I mean, you awful cow.’

  It was Rachel, to whom Berthe had just given notice and who was now giving vent to her feelings on the servants’ staircase. All of a sudden this quiet, respectful girl, whom the other servants could never get to gossip, had broken into a fit of fury. It was like the bursting of a sewer. Already incensed at madame’s return to monsieur, whom since the estrangement she had quietly plundered, Rachel became quite beside herself when told to fetch a porter to remove her box. Berthe, aghast, stood listening in the kitchen, while Auguste, with an air of authority, remained at the door and received all this revolting abuse full in the face.

  ‘Yes, yes!’ the infuriated maidservant went on, ‘you didn’t kick me out when I hid your chemises so that your cuckold of a husband wouldn’t see them! Nor that night when your lover had to put his socks on in my kitchen while I prevented your cuckold of a husband from coming in. You bitch!’

  Berthe ran off in disgust. But Auguste was obliged to show a bold front as, pale and trembling,
he heard all these nauseous revelations bawled out on the back stairs. He could only exclaim:

  ‘Wretched woman! Wretched woman!’

  It was all he could say to express his pain at learning all these crude details of his wife’s adultery, at the very moment that he had condoned it. Meanwhile all the servants had come out of their kitchens and, leaning over the window-ledges, listened to every word. Even they were amazed at Rachel’s fury. Gradually they withdrew, appalled by the whole scene, which they thought really too much. Lisa expressed the general feeling when she remarked:

  ‘Well, well! Talking’s one thing, but you shouldn’t speak to your masters like that.’

  Everyone slipped away, leaving Rachel to vent her wrath by herself, for it became unpleasant to have to listen to all these awful things which made everybody uncomfortable, the more so as she now began to abuse the whole house. Monsieur Gourd was the first to withdraw to his room, observing that nothing could be done with a woman when she was in a temper. Madame Juzeur, shocked beyond measure at these ruthless disclosures, seemed so upset that Trublot, against his wish, was obliged to see her safely to her own apartment lest she might faint. Wasn’t it unfortunate? Matters had been nicely arranged; there was no longer the least ground for scandal; the house was relapsing into its former dreamy respectability; and now this horrid person had to go and rake up things that had been forgotten and about which nobody cared any more!

  ‘I’m only a servant, it’s true, but I’m respectable,’ Rachel screamed at the top of her voice, ‘and there’s not one of you bloody genteel bitches as can say the same in this goddamned house. Don’t you worry; I’m going, because you all make me sick!’