by Emile Zola
‘Monsieur Malignon,’ announced the servant.
A tall young man arrived, dressed very correctly. He was greeted with cries. Madame Deberle, without getting up, held out her hand, saying:
‘Well, what do you think of yesterday’s Vaudeville?’
‘Terrible!’ he cried.
‘What do you mean!... She was marvellous. When she clutched at her dress and threw back her head...’
‘Oh, don’t! Such realism is disgusting.’
A discussion ensued. There were many kinds of realism. But the young man would have none of them.
‘None whatsoever, do you understand?’ he said, raising his voice. ‘None! Art is degraded by realism.’
They’d see some choice things in the theatre before long! Why shouldn’t Noëmi push things to the limits? And he made a gesture that scandalized all the ladies. They were horrified. But when Madame Deberle had said her piece about the prodigious effect produced by the actress and Madame Levasseur had told everyone that a woman had swooned on the balcony, they all agreed it was a great success. At this, the conversation came to an abrupt halt.
The young man, in an armchair, reclined among the spreading skirts. He seemed to be very much at home in the doctor’s house. He had idly picked a flower out of the jardinière and was chewing it. Madame Deberle asked him:
‘Have you read the novel...?’
Without letting her finish he replied in a superior tone:
‘I only read two novels a year.’
As for the exhibition at the Arts Circle, it really wasn’t worth going out of your way to see it. Then, when all the subjects of the day had been exhausted, he came and leaned over Juliette’s small sofa and exchanged a few hushed words with her, while the rest of the ladies chattered brightly among themselves.
‘Oh my goodness, he’s gone!’ cried Madame Berthier, turning round. ‘I came across him an hour ago at Madame Robinot’s.’
‘Yes, and he visits Madame Lecomte too,’ said Madame Deberle. ‘He’s the busiest man in Paris.’
And addressing herself to Hélène, who had witnessed the exchange, she continued:
‘He’s a very distinguished young man, a favourite of ours... He’s involved in stockbroking — moreover, he’s very wealthy and knows everybody’s affairs.’
The ladies left.
‘Goodbye, dear Madame, I hope we shall see you on Wednesday.’
‘Yes, that’s right, till Wednesday.’
‘Tell me, shall we see you at that soirée? You never know who might be there. I shall go if you do.’
‘Well yes, I’ll go, I promise. Give Monsieur de Guiraud my kind regards.’
When Madame Deberle came back she found Hélène standing in the middle of the salon. Jeanne was flattened against her mother, holding her hand, her fingers tugging her little by little in the direction of the door.
‘Ah, yes,’ said the mistress of the house.
She rang for the servant.
‘Pierre, tell Mademoiselle Smithson to bring Lucien here.’
And in the short interval they were waiting, the door opened again unceremoniously, without anyone being announced. A lovely girl of sixteen came in, followed by a small elderly man with puffy cheeks.
‘Hello, Sister,’ said the girl, kissing Madame Deberle.
‘Hello, Pauline... Hello, Father...,’ she replied.
Mademoiselle Aurélie, who had not budged from the chimney corner, got up to greet Monsieur Letellier. He kept a big shop that sold silks on the Boulevard des Capucines. Since the death of his wife, he took his younger daughter everywhere in his efforts to find her a rich husband.
‘Were you at the Vaudeville yesterday?’ Pauline asked.
‘It was amazing!’ Juliette repeated mechanically, standing in front of a mirror, in the process of capturing a rebellious curl.
Pauline pouted like a spoiled child.
‘It’s so annoying to be a girl, you can’t go to anything!... I went as far as the door with Papa at midnight to see how the play had been received.’
‘Yes,’ said her father. ‘We met Malignon. He said it was very good.’
‘What!’ Juliette cried. ‘He was here a little while ago, he said he thought it was dreadful... You never know where you are with him.’
‘Did you have many visitors?’ Pauline asked, leaping abruptly to another subject.
‘Oh, all those ladies, it was quite mad! They stayed and stayed. I’m exhausted.’
Then, thinking she was forgetting to make formal introductions, she broke off:
‘My father and sister... Madame Grandjean...’
And they had just begun a conversation about children and their bumps that mothers get so anxious about, when Miss Smithson, an English governess, came in holding a little boy by the hand. Madame Deberle said a few rapid words to her in English, reprimanding her for keeping them waiting.
‘Oh, here’s my little Lucien!’ cried Pauline, kneeling down to the child, with a loud rustle of skirts.
‘Let him alone,’ Juliette said. ‘Come here, Lucien. Come and say hello to this young lady.’
The little boy came forward, shyly. He was at most seven years old, sturdy and short, dressed up like a little doll. When he saw that everyone was smiling at him, he stopped and, wide-eyed, studied Jeanne.
‘Go on,’ his mother murmured.
He glanced at her, took another step forward. He displayed that heaviness that boys have, his shoulders hunched, his lips thick and sulky, his eyebrows suspicious and slightly frowning. He must have been intimidated by Jeanne because she looked serious, pale, and was dressed in black from head to toe.
‘You be nice to him as well, dear,’ said Hélène, seeing her daughter stiffen.
The little girl had not let go her mother’s wrist, and her fingers stroked her skin between the sleeve and the glove. Her head bowed, she waited for Lucien with the worried expression of a nervous girl unused to society, ready to escape at any physical contact. However, when her mother gave her a gentle push she took a step forward too.
‘You must kiss him, Mademoiselle,’ Madame Deberle said with a laugh. ‘Ladies always have to make the first move with him. Oh, the silly little boy!’
‘Kiss him, Jeanne!’ said Hélène.
The child raised her eyes to look at her mother. Then, as though won over by his dull expression, and suddenly sympathetic to his patent embarrassment, she gave him a charming smile. Her face suddenly lit up with deep emotion.
‘Of course, Maman,’ she murmured.
And taking hold of Lucien by the shoulders, almost lifting him up, she planted a firm kiss on both cheeks. He was happy to kiss her after that.
‘Well done!’ cried everybody present.
Hélène said her goodbyes and made for the door, accompanied by Madame Deberle.
‘Please give my sincerest thanks to the doctor, Madame... He saved me from my worst fears the other night.’
‘So is Henri not here?’ Monsieur Letellier broke in.
‘No, he’ll be back late,’ replied Juliette.
And seeing Mademoiselle Aurélie get up to leave with Madame Grandjean, she added:
‘But you must stay and dine with us, of course.’
The old spinster, who expected this invitation each Saturday, decided to take off her shawl and hat. It was hot and stuffy in the salon. Monsieur Letellier had just opened a window, and remained standing in front of it, very taken by a lilac which was already in bloom. Pauline was playing a game of chase with Lucien, in amongst the chairs and armchairs, which were in disarray after the visits.
On the threshold, Madame Deberle held out her hand to Hélène, in a frank, friendly gesture.
‘If I may...’, she said. ‘My husband spoke to me about you, I felt drawn towards you. Your bad luck, your being on your own... In short, I am very happy to have made your acquaintance and I hope we shall get to know one another better.’
‘I promise, and I am grateful to you,’ answered Hélène, dee
ply touched by this impulsive display of affection from a woman who had struck her before as somewhat scatterbrained.
They did not let go their hands but smiled at each other. Juliette warmly declared the reason for her sudden friendliness:
‘You are so beautiful, everyone is bound to love you!’
Hélène laughed happily, for her beauty did not trouble her. She called to Jeanne who was absorbed in watching Lucien and Pauline playing. But Madame Deberle kept the little girl a moment longer, saying:
‘You are good friends from now on, say goodbye.’
And the two children blew one another a kiss.
Chapter 3
Every Tuesday Hélène had Monsieur Rambaud and Abbé Jouve to dinner. They were the ones who, when she had just been widowed, had insisted on making regular visits and, with a friendly informality, sitting at her supper table at least once a week, to draw her out of her solitude. After that, these Tuesday dinners had become a regular institution. The guests met, as though performing a duty, at the precise stroke of seven, always with the same warmth and contentment.
That Tuesday Hélène was sitting by the window, working on some sewing, making the most of the last rays of the setting sun, as she waited for her guests. She spent her days there in sweet tranquillity. Noise scarcely reached her up there, on the hill . She liked this huge, peaceful room with its homely luxury, its rosewood and its blue velvet. During those first few weeks when her friends had furnished it, without consulting her, she had not been especially pleased by this excess of comfort, in which Monsieur Rambaud — to the great admiration of the abbé, who had declined to intervene — had indulged his own ideas of art and luxury to the maximum. But she had come round to liking her surroundings very much, feeling them to be solid and simple, like herself. The heavy curtains, the dark, comfortable furniture, gave her added peace of mind. The only recreation she took during those long hours of work was to cast her eyes on the vast horizon, the great city with its turbulent sea of roofs spreading out before her. Her solitude opened out on to this immense vista.
‘Maman, it’s too dark to see,’ said Jeanne, seated on a low chair beside her.
And she dropped her work, looking out at Paris as it slowly descended into darkness. She was generally a quiet child. Her mother had to get cross in order to make her go out. On the strict orders of Doctor Bodin, she took her for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne two hours each day. And that was their only outing; they had not ventured out into Paris three times in the last eighteen months. It was in the big blue room that the little girl seemed happiest. Hélène had been forced to give up teaching her music. A barrel organ playing in the quiet neighbourhood made her shake and tears would come into her eyes. She helped her mother sew layettes for Abbé Jouve’s poor. When Rosalie came in with the lamp, night had fallen. She seemed to be in a rush and a fluster over her cooking. The Tuesday dinner was the one excitement in the household’s week.
‘Are the gentlemen not coming this evening, Madame?’ she asked.
Hélène looked at the clock.
‘It’s a quarter to seven, they’ll be here soon.’
Rosalie was a gift from Abbé Jouve. He had taken her on at the Gare d’Orléans the day she arrived, so she wasn’t familiar with any locality in Paris. She had been sent by a former colleague from the seminary, a priest from a village in the Beauce. She was short and plump, with a round face beneath her narrow bonnet; she had coarse black hair, a snub nose, and a red mouth. And she was excellent at preparing little dishes, for she had grown up in the presbytery with her godmother, the priest’s servant.
‘Ah, there’s Monsieur Rambaud!’ she said, going to open the door before he had a chance to ring.
Monsieur Rambaud appeared, tall and gaunt, with a face like a country lawyer’s. He was forty-five, already going grey. But his wide blue eyes, naive and gentle as a child’s, still had a wondering look.
‘And here is Monsieur l’Abbé, so we are all here!’ Rosalie said, opening the door again.
While Monsieur Rambaud shook Hélène’s hand and sat down quietly, smiling like a man quite at home, Jeanne had thrown herself on the abbé.
‘Hullo, dear Abbé!’ she said. ‘I’ve been very poorly.’
‘Very poorly, my little one!’
The two men expressed concern, especially the abbé, a shrunken little man with a large head, dressed without any regard to his appearance, and whose half-closed eyes grew large and filled with tenderness. Jeanne relinquished one of his hands and offered the other to Monsieur Rambaud. Both men held them and bestowed anxious looks upon her. Hélène had to tell the tale of the crisis. The priest almost got cross because she had not let him know about it before. And they plied her with questions: was it over now, at least? Had nothing more befallen the little girl? Her mother smiled.
‘You care for her more than I do, you’ll frighten me,’ she said. ‘No, there were no repercussions, just a few aches and pains, and a heaviness in her head. But we are going to wage war against that.’
‘Madame is served,’ announced the maid.
The dining room was furnished with a mahogany table, sideboard, and eight chairs. Rosalie went over and closed the red rep curtains. A very simple pendant lamp of white porcelain in a copper ring hung above the tablecloth, the neat row of plates, and steaming soup. Every Tuesday the dinner generated the same conversations. But that day they naturally chatted about Doctor Deberle. Abbé Jouve praised him to the skies although the doctor wasn’t at all religious. He spoke of him as a man of good character, with a warm heart, an excellent father and husband, in short, an example to us all. As to Madame Deberle, she was a very fine woman, if a little effervescent, a trait which resulted from her slightly unconventional education in Paris. In a word, they were a charming couple. This made Hélène happy. She had judged them to be so, and the abbé’s words encouraged her to continue the friendship which she had at first found a little intimidating.
‘You don’t go out enough,’ declared the priest.
‘That’s true,’ Monsieur Rambaud affirmed.
Hélène smiled at them quietly, as much as to say that they were all she needed and she was chary of meeting new people. But ten o’clock chimed, the priest and his brother picked up their hats. Jeanne had just fallen asleep in an armchair in the bedroom. They bent over her a moment, nodded with an air of satisfaction at seeing her so peacefully asleep. Then they tiptoed out, and in the hall, lowering their voices, they said:
‘Till Tuesday.’
‘I nearly forgot,’ whispered the priest who had come back up the two steps. ‘Old Mother Fétu is poorly. You ought to go and see her.’
‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ Hélène replied.
The priest often sent her to visit his poor parishioners. They had all sorts of quiet conversations together about their concerns, which they did not need to spell out to one another and never mentioned to anyone else. Next day Hélène went out alone. She avoided taking Jeanne with her, since the child had not stopped trembling for two whole days after returning from a charitable visit to an old man with paralysis. Once outside she went along the Rue Vineuse, took the Rue Raynouard and down into the Passage des Eaux, a curious, narrow flight of steps squeezed in between neighbouring gardens, a steep little passageway leading down to the river from the heights of Passy. At the bottom of this hill, in a dilapidated house lived old Mother Fétu, in an attic room lit by a small dormer window, where a wretched bed, a rickety table, and a chair with the stuffing coming out occupied the entire space.
‘Oh, dear lady, dear lady...’ she began to groan when she saw Hélène.
Old Mother Fétu was in bed. Her roundness belied her poverty; her face was swollen and puffy, and she pulled up the ragged sheet covering her with numb fingers. She had little beady eyes, a whining voice, a strident humility that manifested itself in an outpouring of words.
‘Oh, thank you, dear lady! Oh, my life, how I suffer! It’s just like hounds eating away at my side... Oh yes, I
’ve got a beast in my belly. Look, right there. Not on the outside, the pain’s inside... Oh, it’s been like that for two days. Oh my Lord, can a body bear so much... Oh, thank you, good lady, you haven’t forgotten us poor people. You’ll get your reward, oh, you will.’
Hélène sat down. Then, seeing a pot of herb tea steaming on the table, she filled a cup beside it and held it out to the sick woman. By the pot there was a packet of sugar, two oranges, other sweetmeats.
‘Someone has been to see you?’ she enquired.
‘Yes, a lady. But she didn’t know... I don’t need all that stuff. Oh, if only I had a bit of meat! The neighbour could put a stew on... Oh, there, it hurts more. You’d think a hound was biting me, I tell you. Oh, if I had a drop of soup.’
And despite writhing with the pain, she eyed Hélène sharply as she put her hands in her pocket. When she saw her put a ten-franc coin on the table, the effort of sitting up brought forth more groans. She struggled to put her hand out and the coin disappeared, while she said over and over again:
‘Oh my Lord, another attack’s coming on. I can’t be enduring it much longer. God will make it up to you, dear lady, I’ll tell Him to make it up to you. I’ve got shooting pains through my whole body... Monsieur l’Abbé promised me you’d come. You’re the only one who knows what to do. I’m going to buy a bit of meat. Now it’s going down into my legs. Help me, help me, I can’t bear it!’
She tried to turn over. Hélène took off her gloves, caught hold of her as gently as she could and laid her down again. As she was still bent over her, the door opened and she was so surprised to see Doctor Deberle come in that she blushed. So he too had visits he didn’t tell people about!
‘It’s the doctor,’ muttered the old woman. ‘You are so good to me, God bless you all!’
The doctor had quietly acknowledged Hélène. Since his arrival old Mother Fétu’s groans had not been so loud. The only sound she made was a continual little whistling, like a child in pain. She had seen that the good lady and the doctor knew each other, and she kept her eyes constantly fixed on them, the myriad lines on her face working silently as she looked from one to the other. The doctor asked her a few questions, tapped her right side. Then, turning to Hélène, who had just sat down again, he murmured: