Pot Luck

by Emile Zola

  Her stomach pains continued. Something uncomfortable was still there which, with straining, might be expelled. She tugged at the cord, first gently, then with all her strength. Something was coming away; it fell out in a great lump, and she got rid of it by throwing it into the potty. Thank goodness, this time it was over and she would suffer no more! Warm blood trickled down her legs.

  She must have dozed like that for nearly an hour. It was striking six when, conscious of her state, she awoke. There was no time to lose. Rising with difficulty, she began to do whatever came into her head. A pale moon shone directly into the room. After dressing herself, she wrapped the child in some rags and rolled it up in two sheets of newspaper. It was quiet now, but its little heart was still beating. As she had forgotten to look if it were a boy or a girl, she undid the parcel. It was a girl! One more unfortunate girl! A tit-bit for some brawny groom or footman, like that Louise, whom they had found in a doorway! The servants were still in bed, and after getting the sleepy Monsieur Gourd to pull back the front-door latch, she managed to go out and deposit her bundle in the Passage Choiseul just as the gates were being opened. Then she crept upstairs again, without meeting a soul. For once in her life, luck was on her side!

  She immediately began to tidy her room. She rolled up the oilcloth under the bed, emptied the potty, and sponged the floor. Then, utterly worn-out, as white as a sheet, and with blood still streaming down her thighs, she lay down again after wiping herself with a towel. Here Madame Josserand found her when, at about nine o’clock, she decided to go upstairs, being amazed that Adèle had not come down. The maid complained of a violent attack of diarrhoea which had kept her awake all night, when her mistress exclaimed:

  ‘I expect you’ve over-eaten again! All you can think about is stuffing yourself!’

  Alarmed at the girl’s pallor, however, she talked of sending for a doctor, but was glad enough to save the three francs when Adèle declared that all she wanted was rest. Since her husband’s death Madame Josserand had been living with Hortense, on a pension arranged for her by the Bernheim brothers. This did not prevent her from vilifying them as cheats and crooks, and she now lived in a stingier style than ever, rather than lose her social standing by leaving her apartments and giving up her Tuesdays.

  ‘Yes, that’s what you want, sleep,’ she said. ‘There’s some cold beef left, which will do for lunch, and tonight we’re dining out. If you can’t come down and help Julie, she’ll have to do without you.’

  That evening the Duveyriers’ dinner passed off very pleasantly. The whole family was there—the two Vabres and their wives, Madame Josserand, Hortense, Léon, and even uncle Bachelard, who was on his best behaviour. They had also invited Trublot to make up numbers, and Madame Dambreville, so as not to separate her from Léon who, after wedding the niece, had fallen back into the aunt’s arms as she was still most useful to him. They went about everywhere together as before, making excuses for the young bride. She had a cold, or was tired, and could not come, so they declared. Everyone at table expressed regret at not seeing her more often, for they were all so fond of her; she was so charming! They talked of the chorus which Clotilde was going to have at the end of the evening. It was the ‘Benediction of the Poniards’ again, but with five tenors this time—something very grand. For the last two months Duveyrier, who had grown quite agreeable, had gone about buttonholing all his friends, addressing to each the same stereotyped phrase: ‘You’re quite a stranger; do come and see us; my wife’s going to begin her choruses again.’ Thus, by the time dessert was on the table they were talking of nothing but music. Perfect harmony and light-hearted gaiety prevailed from start to finish.

  Then, after coffee was served, while the ladies sat round the drawing-room fire, the gentlemen, grouped in the dining-room, engaged in grave debate. Meanwhile other guests arrived. Soon there were Campardon, Father Mauduit, Doctor Juillerat, besides those who had dined, with the exception of Trublot, who, on leaving the table, had disappeared. They immediately began to talk politics, for these gentlemen were deeply interested in the parliamentary debates, and were eager to discuss the success of the Opposition candidates, who had all been returned to Paris at the May elections. This triumph of the disaffected elements of the bourgeoisie alarmed them, despite their apparent satisfaction.

  ‘Well,’ said Léon, ‘Monsieur Thiers has great talent, certainly. But his speeches about the Mexican Expedition are so acrimonious that they lose all their force.’

  Léon had just got his promotion, through Madame Dambreville’s influence, and had at once joined the government party. There was now nothing of the starving demagogue about him, except a total intolerance of all doctrine.

  ‘You used to say it was all the government’s fault,’ remarked the doctor, smiling. ‘I hope that you, at least, voted for Monsieur Thiers.’

  The young man avoided making a reply. Théophile, a martyr to indigestion and to fresh doubts as to his wife’s fidelity, chimed in:

  ‘Yes, I voted for him. As soon as men refuse to live together as brothers, so much the worse for them!’

  ‘Exactly, and so much the worse for you, eh?’ said Duveyrier, who, though he said little, uttered words of deep wisdom.

  Théophile stared at him, aghast. Auguste no longer dared admit that he also had voted for Monsieur Thiers. Then, to their surprise, Bachelard professed to be a Legitimist; there was something uncommon about that, he thought. Campardon warmly approved; he himself had refrained from voting, as the official candidate, Monsieur Dewinck, did not offer sufficient guarantees with regard to religion. Then he launched into a violent diatribe against The Life of Jesus,* which had just appeared.

  ‘It’s not the book that ought to be burnt, it’s the author,’ he repeated.

  ‘Perhaps you are too radical, my friend,’ interjected the priest, in a conciliatory tone. ‘But certainly the signs of the times are becoming dreadful. There’s talk of deposing the Pope; Parliament is in revolt. We’re on the edge of a precipice.’

  ‘So much the better,’ said Doctor Juillerat drily.

  At this they were all scandalized. Once more he attacked the bourgeoisie, declaring that if the masses ever got the upper hand they would be swept away; but the others, interrupting, loudly protested that in the bourgeoisie lay the virtue, energy, and thrift of the nation. Duveyrier at last made himself heard above the general din. He confessed that he had voted for Monsieur Dewinck, not because the senator represented exactly his own opinions, but because he stood for the maintenance of order. Yes, it might be that they would see a new Reign of Terror. Monsieur Rouher,* that very remarkable statesman, who had just replaced Monsieur Billaut, had formally prophesied as much in a recent speech. Then, with this image, he ended:

  ‘The triumph of the Opposition is simply the first shock to the whole edifice. Be careful that it doesn’t crush you to death as it falls!’

  The others fell silent, vaguely afraid that they had let themselves be carried away so far that now their own personal safety was in jeopardy. Visions floated before them of workmen, caked in dust and soaked in blood, breaking into their houses, raping their maidservants, and drinking their wine. The Emperor deserved a lesson, but they began to be sorry for having given him such a severe one.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ added the doctor, mockingly, ‘you’ll be rescued by force of arms.’

  However, he always exaggerated, and they said how eccentric he was. It was precisely this reputation for eccentricity that kept him from losing his practice. Then he proceeded to pick his eternal quarrel with Father Mauduit about the imminent collapse of the Church. Léon was now on the side of the priest; he talked of Divine Providence, and on Sundays went with Madame Dambreville to nine o’clock mass.

  Meanwhile guests kept arriving, and the large drawing-room was filled with ladies. Valérie and Berthe, like old friends, were exchanging confidences. The architect had brought with him the other Madame Campardon, doubtless in place of poor Rose, who lay in bed upstairs reading D
ickens. She was giving Madame Josserand an economical recipe for bleaching linen without soap, while Hortense, sitting apart, waited for Verdier and kept her eyes fixed on the door. Suddenly Clotilde, while chatting to Madame Dambreville, rose and held out both her hands. Her friend Madame Octave Mouret had just arrived. The marriage had taken place in early November, as soon as her term of mourning had ended.

  ‘And where’s your husband?’ asked the hostess. ‘He’s not going to disappoint me, I hope.’

  ‘No, no,’ replied Caroline, smiling. ‘He’ll be here directly; something detained him at the last moment.’

  There was a great deal of whispering, and everyone surveyed her curiously, so calm, so lovely was she, always the same, with the bland assurance of a woman who succeeds in everything. Madame Josserand shook hands with her as if delighted to see her again. Berthe and Valérie stopped talking to examine the details of her dress, which was straw-coloured and covered in lace. But just as the past seemed to have been quietly forgotten, Auguste, whom the political discussion had left quite cold, began to show signs of wrathful amazement as he stood at the dining-room door. What! His sister was going to receive the wife of Berthe’s former lover? And to his marital rancour was added the bitter jealousy of the tradesman ruined by a successful rival; for the Ladies’ Paradise, now that it was enlarged and had opened a special department for silks, had so drained his resources that he had been obliged to find a partner. While everyone was congratulating Madame Mouret, he approached Clotilde and whispered:

  ‘I say, I’m not going to stand for that!’

  ‘For what?’ she asked, in surprise.

  ‘I don’t mind the wife; she’s done me no harm. But if the husband comes, I’ll take Berthe by the arm and leave the room in front of everybody.’

  Clotilde stared at him, and then shrugged her shoulders. Caroline was her oldest friend, and she certainly wasn’t going to give up seeing her simply to satisfy one of his fads. As if anybody ever remembered the matter now! Far better not to rake up things that everyone but him had forgotten. Then, as he excitedly turned to Berthe to back him up, expecting her to get up and leave with him there and then, she tried to pacify him with a frown. Was he crazy? Did he want to look a bigger fool than ever?

  ‘But it’s just because I don’t want to look a fool!’ he exclaimed in despair.

  Then Madame Josserand, leaning forward, said severely:

  ‘This is quite indecent; people are looking at you. Do behave yourself for once!’

  He fell silent but still looked resentful. At once a certain uneasiness was perceptible among the ladies. Only Madame Mouret, sitting opposite Berthe and next to Clotilde, preserved her calm, smiling manner. They watched Auguste, who had retreated to the bay window where, not so long ago, his marriage had been decided. Anger had triggered off his migraine, and every now and then he pressed his forehead against the icy windowpanes.

  Octave did not arrive until very late. He met Madame Juzeur on the landing. She was coming downstairs, wrapped in a shawl. She complained of a cold in her chest, but she had got up on purpose so as not to disappoint the Duveyriers. Her feeble state did not prevent her from throwing herself into the young man’s arms as she congratulated him on his marriage.

  ‘I’m very pleased, my friend! I’d really begun to despair about you; I never thought you’d do it. Tell me, you naughty boy, how did you manage to get round her, eh?’

  Octave smiled, and kissed her fingertips. Just then someone bounding upstairs with the agility of a mountain-goat disturbed them. To Octave’s astonishment it was Saturnin. He had left the Asile des Moulineaux the week before, as Doctor Chassagne had again declined to keep him there any longer, for his mania, he still thought, was not sufficiently marked. No doubt he was going to spend the evening with Marie Pichon, just as he used to do when his parents had a party. All of a sudden all those bygone days came back. Octave seemed to catch the sound of Marie’s voice upstairs, as she faintly crooned some old song to while away the hours. And he saw her once more sitting by Lilitte’s cot waiting for Jules’s return, complacent, useless, gentle as ever.

  ‘I wish you every happiness in your married life,’ said Madame Juzeur, as she tenderly squeezed Octave’s hands.

  In order not to enter the room with her he took his time removing his overcoat, when Trublot, in evening clothes, bareheaded and looking rather agitated, emerged from the kitchen passage.

  ‘She’s not at all well, you know!’ he whispered, while Hippolyte was announcing Madame Juzeur.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Octave.

  ‘Adèle, the maid upstairs.’

  On hearing that there was something wrong with her, he had gone up in a fatherly fashion as soon as dinner was over. Probably it was a violent attack of colic. What she wanted was a good glass of mulled wine; but she did not even have a lump of sugar. Then, observing Octave’s smile of indifference, he added:

  ‘Of, I forgot! You’re married now, you humbug! This sort of thing doesn’t interest you any more, I suppose? I never thought of that when I saw you in the corner with Madame Anything-you-like-except-that.’

  They went into the drawing-room together. The ladies were talking about servants and, in their excitement, did not notice them at first. They all affably accepted Madame Duveyrier’s faltering explanation as to why she still kept Clémence and Hippolyte. He was a brute, it was true; but she was such an excellent lady’s-maid that she willingly forgot her other failings. Valérie and Berthe both declared that they could not find a decent girl. They had given it up as a bad job after all the agencies had sent them an endless stream of disreputable sluts. Madame Josserand violently abused Adèle, recounting fresh and amazing instances of her filthiness and stupidity. However, she had not discharged her, she said. The other Madame Campardon praised Lisa to the skies. She was a pearl; there was no fault whatever to be found with her; she was one of those rare servants that are worth their weight in gold.

  ‘She’s one of the family,’ said Gasparine. ‘Our little Angèle attends lectures now at the Hôtel de Ville, and Lisa always goes with her. Oh! they might be out for days, but we would never feel the least anxious.’

  Just then they caught sight of Octave. He stepped forward to shake hands with Clotilde. Berthe looked at him and coolly went on talking to Valérie, who gave him a friendly glance. The others, Madame Josserand and Madame Dambreville, without being too gushing, surveyed him with kindly interest.

  ‘So you’ve come at last!’ said Clotilde, in her most gracious voice. ‘I was beginning to be very concerned about the chorus.’

  When Madame Mouret gently scolded her husband for being so late, he proffered his excuses.

  ‘But my love, I couldn’t get away. Madame, I’m sorry. I’m entirely at your disposal now.’

  Meanwhile the ladies glanced uneasily at the bay window, where Auguste had taken refuge. For a moment they were frightened when they saw him turn round on hearing Octave’s voice. His migraine was obviously worse; his eyes were dim after gazing out into the gloomy streets. But, making up his mind, he went up close to his sister and said:

  ‘Get rid of them, or we’ll leave.’

  Clotilde again shrugged her shoulders. Then Auguste seemed to give her time to consider the matter. He would wait a few minutes longer, particularly as Trublot had taken Octave into the other room. The ladies were still uneasy, for they heard the husband whisper to his wife:

  ‘If he comes back here you must get up and follow me. If you don’t, you can just go back to your mother’s.’

  Octave’s reception by the gentlemen in the parlour was equally cordial. If Léon’s manner was somewhat cool, uncle Bachelard and even Théophile seemed willing to show, as they shook hands, that the family was ready to forgive and forget. Octave congratulated Campardon, who for the last two days had been wearing his new decoration, a broad red ribbon. The architect, beaming, scolded him for never coming to see them and spend an hour or two with his wife. It was fine to get married; but it r
eally wasn’t nice of him to forget his old friends. At the sight of Duveyrier, however, Octave appeared quite startled. He had not seen him since his recovery, and was alarmed to see his distorted jaw, which gave a lopsided look to his whole face. His voice, too, gave him another surprise; deeper by a couple of tones, it sounded quite sepulchral.

  ‘Don’t you think he looks much better now?’ said Trublot, as he led Octave back to the drawing-room door. ‘It makes him positively majestic. I heard him the day before yesterday at the Assizes. Listen! they’re talking about it.’

  The gentlemen had indeed passed from politics to morals. They were listening to Duveyrier, who was giving details of a case in which his attitude had attracted much comment. There was even talk of appointing him to a most senior position and making him an officer of the Legion of Honour. The case was one of infanticide which had happened more than a year ago. The unnatural mother, a regular savage as he called her, was none other than the boot-stitcher, his former tenant, the tall, pale, sad-looking girl whose enormous belly had so enraged Monsieur Gourd. What a stupid fool, besides! For, not even reflecting that a belly like that would betray her, she actually cut the child in two and then hid it in a hat-box! Of course, she told the jury a cock-and-bull story: how her seducer had deserted her, and how hunger and wretched, mad despair had overcome her at the sight of the baby she could not feed. In a word, the usual story. But an example must be made of such people. Duveyrier congratulated himself on having summed up with such striking clarity that the verdict was a foregone conclusion.

  ‘What was the sentence?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Five years,’ replied the judge, in his new voice, which sounded cavernous and hoarse. ‘It’s high time that we raise a barrier to check the tide of debauchery which threatens to engulf the whole of Paris.’