by Emile Zola
‘It’s ulcerative colitis. She’ll be on her feet again in a few days.’
And, tearing out a page from his notebook on which he had written a few lines, he said to old Mother Fétu:
‘Here you are, send someone with it to the pharmacist in the Rue de Passy, and take a spoonful of the medicine he gives you every two hours.’
At that point the old woman again started to invoke the Almighty’s blessing. Hélène remained in her seat. The doctor seemed to pause a moment to look at her, and their eyes met. Then he said goodbye and was the first to leave, discreetly. He had scarcely got to the floor below when Mother Fétu began groaning again.
‘Oh, what a lovely doctor! Let’s hope his remedy cures me! I should have crushed a tallow candle with some dandelions, that gets rid of the water in your body. Oh, you know a good doctor there, sure enough! Perhaps you’ve known him a good while? Oh my lord, I’m thirsty! My blood’s on fire... He’s married, isn’t he? He deserves to have a good wife and beautiful children. Well anyhow, it’s good to see nice folks who know one another.’
Hélène stood up to give her a drink.
‘Well, goodbye, Mother Fétu,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘That’s right... How kind you are... If only I had some decent linen! Look at my chemise, it’s coming to bits. I’m lying on a dungheap... No matter, the good Lord will make it up to you.’
The next day when Hélène arrived at Mother Fétu’s, Doctor Deberle was there. He was sitting on a chair, writing out a prescription while the garrulous old woman gabbled away in her weepy fashion.
‘Now it feels like a lead weight, Doctor. I must have lead in my side. It weighs a ton, I can’t turn over.’
But when she saw Hélène she couldn’t stop.
‘Oh, here’s the dear lady... I was just telling this good man, she’ll be coming, she’ll be coming even if the sky falls down... A real saint, an angel from paradise, and lovely, so lovely you’d go down on your knees in the street when she went by... My dear lady, it’s no better. Now I’ve got a lead weight here... Yes, I’ve been telling him all the things you do for me, the emperor himself couldn’t do more. Oh, you’d have to be really full of wickedness not to love you, full of wickedness.’
While these words spilled out, her head turned this way and that on the bolster. Her small eyes were half-closed, the doctor was smiling at Hélène, who was very embarrassed.
‘Mother Fétu,’ she said, ‘I was just bringing you a little linen.’
‘Thank you, thank you, the dear Lord will make it up to you. Just like this dear man here, he does us poor folk more good than all the rest whose job it is to look after us. He’s been tending me for four months, with medicine, broth, and wine. You don’t find many rich people like him, who treat everybody so civil. Another of God’s angels... Oh my, it’s like a ton of bricks in my belly.’
Now the doctor appeared embarrassed too. He got up to offer his chair to Hélène. But although she had come with the intention of spending a quarter of an hour with her, she refused, saying:
‘Thank you, Doctor, but I’m in a great hurry.’
In the meantime Mother Fétu, her head still turning from side to side, had stretched her arm out and the parcel of linen had disappeared under the bedclothes.
Then she continued:
‘Oh, you would make a fine pair for sure. I say that not to cause offence, because it’s true. You’re as good as gold, both of you. Kind folk understand one another. Give me a hand to turn me over! Yes, they understand one another.’
‘Goodbye, Mother Fétu,’ said Hélène, giving up her seat to the doctor. ‘I don’t think I’ll be coming tomorrow.’
But she did go down again next day. The old woman was dozing. As soon as she woke and recognized her dark figure seated on the chair, she cried:
‘He came. But I don’t know what he made me take, I’m as stiff as a board... Oh yes, we had a little chat about you. He asked me all kinds of things, if you were always sad, if you always looked like that. Such a nice man!’
She had started to speak more slowly, as if waiting to see what effect her words would have on Hélène, in the coaxing, anxious manner of poor people who want to be obliging. She must have thought she could detect the ‘good lady’ frowning, for her large puffy face, eagerly held up to her, suddenly fell. She started gabbling again:
‘I sleep all the time. Perhaps I’ve been poisoned. There’s a woman in the Rue de l’Annonciation was murdered by a pharmacist who mixed up his medicines.’
That day Hélène stayed almost half an hour at Mother Fétu’s, listening to her chatter about Normandy where she had been born, and where they had such good milk to drink. After a silence she asked in a casual tone:
‘Have you known the doctor long?’
The old woman lying on her back raised her eyelids a fraction and closed them again.
‘To be sure!’ she replied, almost in a whisper. ‘His father tended me before ’48 and he used to come with him.’
‘They tell me his father was a saintly man.’
‘Yes, yes. A little bit unbalanced. The son is even better, you know. When he touches you, you’d think he had velvet hands.’
There was another silence.
‘I advise you to do everything he suggests,’ Hélène continued. ‘He is very clever, he saved my daughter.’
‘Quite right!’ cried Mother Fétu, brightening up. ‘You can trust him, he resuscitated a little boy who was nearly gone. Oh, he’s one in a million, I’ll say it again and again. I’ve struck lucky, I’ve landed up with the cream of good people. And so I thank the good Lord every evening. I shan’t forget either of you, you know. You are both in my prayers. May the good Lord keep you and grant you all you wish! May he shower his riches upon you! May he keep you a place in paradise!’
She had sat up and with her hands together seemed to be beseeching Heaven with extraordinary fervour. Hélène let her carry on like that for some time, and a smile even played upon her lips. The garrulous humility of the old woman in the end lulled and soothed her. When she left, she promised her a hat and dress for when she was on her feet again.
All week Hélène looked after Mother Fétu. The visits to her every afternoon became a habit. She had grown especially fond of the Passage des Eaux. The steep street pleased her, its freshness and its silence, the invariably clean cobbles washed on rainy days by a stream running down from the heights. When she arrived at the top she had a strange feeling as she looked down at the steeply sloping alley that was most often deserted, since only a few people living in the streets around knew it was there. Then she ventured down through an arch under a house on the Rue Raynouard, and made her way gingerly down the seven wide steps, alongside the bed of a pebbly watercourse that took up half the narrow passage. The garden walls to left and right bulged, eaten away by the grey damp. Branches of trees hung over, leaves dripped, ivy draped them in a thick cloak; and all this greenery, through which only small patches of sky were visible, created a very soft, subtle greenish light. Halfway down the hill she stopped to draw breath, observing the street lamp hanging there, listening to the laughter in the gardens behind gates she had never seen open. Occasionally an old woman climbed up, with the help of the shiny black iron railing fixed to the right-hand wall; a lady leaned on her sunshade as though it were a walking stick, or a group of boys clattered down, clacking their boots. But almost always she was on her own and these secret steps, shaded like a sunken lane in the woods, held a great attraction for her. At the bottom she raised her eyes. The sight of the steep slope she had just climbed down made her feel a little fearful.
At Mother Fétu’s her clothes still retained the freshness and peacefulness of the Passage des Eaux. This miserable, distressing hovel no longer offended her. She behaved as though she were in her own house, opening the round window to freshen the air, moving the table when it was in the way. The bareness of this attic room, the whitewashed walls, the rickety furniture, took he
r back to the simple life she had sometimes dreamed of as a girl. But what she enjoyed most was the feeling it gave her being there; her caring role, the constant complaining of the old lady, everything she saw and felt around her filled her with immense compassion. Before long she looked forward with obvious impatience to Doctor Deberle’s visit. She questioned him about Mother Fétu’s health, then they chatted for a moment about other things, standing close, looking at each other. An intimacy was growing between them. They were surprised to discover they had similar tastes. They often understood one another without a word passing their lips, their hearts suddenly full of the same overflowing charity. And nothing was sweeter to Hélène than this sympathy which bound them in these unusual circumstances; she was happy to accept it, melting with compassion. She had been afraid of the doctor at first; in his drawing room she would have displayed the wary reserve natural to her. But here they were far away from the world, sharing the only chair, almost cheerful about this wretchedness and ugliness which brought them together in mutual compassion. By the end of the week they knew each other as though they had lived side by side for years. In their common kindness towards her, Mother Fétu’s hovel was filled with light.
The old woman was getting better, but it was slow. The doctor was surprised and scolded her for cosseting herself when she told him that now her legs were heavy as lead. She was still on her back groaning, rolling her head from side to side, and she closed her eyes, as though to give the couple their freedom. One day she actually seemed to have fallen asleep, but under her lids those small black eyes peeped out at them from the corners. The time came when she had to get up. The next day Hélène brought her the promised dress and hat. When the doctor came she suddenly cried:
‘Oh my word! The neighbour asked me to keep an eye on her stew!’
She went out and pulled the door to behind her, leaving them alone. First they carried on with their conversation, without noticing they were shut in. The doctor pressed Hélène to come down and spend the afternoon occasionally in his garden in the Rue Vineuse.
‘My wife’, he said, ‘must return your visit, and she will renew my invitation... It would do your daughter a lot of good.’
‘That would be lovely, but you don’t have to issue a formal invitation,’ she laughed. ‘Only I’m afraid of intruding... Well, we’ll see.’
They went on chatting. Then the doctor expressed surprise.
‘Where on earth has she gone? She went out to see to that stew a quarter of an hour ago.’
Hélène saw then that the door was shut. It didn’t bother her at first. She chatted about Madame Deberle, praising her warmly to her husband. But as the doctor was constantly looking in the direction of the door, after a while she grew embarrassed.
‘How very odd that she has not come back,’ she echoed.
Their conversation faltered. At a loss what to do, Hélène opened the window, and when she turned round they avoided looking at each other. Children’s laughter came in through the window which framed the blue moon high up in the sky. They were really on their own, hidden from all eyes, with only this hole in the wall staring at them. In the distance the children’s voices faded. A quivering silence reigned. Nobody would have come to look for them in this forgotten attic. Their embarrassment increased. Hélène then, dissatisfied with herself, stared at the doctor.
‘I am very busy with my rounds,’ he said immediately. ‘Since she hasn’t come back, I’ll go.’
And he left. Hélène sat down again. Mother Fétu instantly came back, prattling.
‘Oh, I could hardly drag myself there and back, I had a bit of a turn... Has that lovely man gone then? Of course there are no amenities here. You two are angels from heaven to spend your time with a poor woman like me. But God will reward you. It’s gone to my feet today. I had to sit down on the stairs. And I didn’t know, because you weren’t making any noise... Well anyway, I’d like some chairs. If only I had an armchair! My mattress is really bad. I’m ashamed when you come to see me. The whole house is yours, I’d risk my immortal soul for you two. The good Lord knows that, I tell Him often enough. O God, let the good gentleman and the good lady have all they desire. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Amen.’
Hélène listened to her and felt a peculiar unease. Mother Fétu’s swollen face worried her. And she had never felt such discomfort in the narrow room. She saw how poor and squalid it was, she couldn’t bear the lack of air, the degrading wretchedness. She hastened to take her leave, offended by Mother Fétu’s blessings called after her.
Another upsetting thing awaited her in the Passage des Eaux. In the middle of this passage on the right going down there is a kind of quarry in the wall, some abandoned well, sealed off by iron railings. For the last two days she had heard the mewing of a cat at the bottom of this hole. As she went up the mewing began again, but so desperate it was obviously dying. The thought that the poor animal, thrown into that old well, was slowly dying of hunger, suddenly broke Hélène’s heart. She walked faster, thinking that she would not risk going up those steps for a long time, in case she heard this deathly mewing.
And it happened to be a Tuesday. In the evening at seven, as Hélène was finishing a little vest, the usual two rings on the doorbell sounded and Rosalie opened the door, saying:
‘Monsieur l’Abbé has arrived first today. Oh, here’s Monsieur Rambaud.’
Dinner was a jolly affair, Jeanne was feeling ever better and the two brothers, who spoiled her, managed to get her to eat a little salad, which she loved, though Doctor Bodin had strictly forbidden it. Then when they moved into the other room, the child, emboldened, hung on her mother’s neck and murmured:
‘Please, please, Maman, take me with you tomorrow to see the old woman.’
But the priest and Monsieur Rambaud immediately scolded her. They couldn’t take her to visit poor folk because she didn’t behave properly. Last time she’d gone she had fainted twice, and for three days even when she was asleep her eyes had swollen up and they’d been watering.
‘Oh please,’ she repeated, ‘I shan’t cry, I promise.’
Then her mother kissed her, saying:
‘There’s no point, darling. The old woman is better... I shan’t go out any more, I’ll stay with you all day.’
Chapter 4
The following week, when Madame Deberle returned Madame Grandjean’s visit, she showered affection upon her. And in the doorway as she was leaving:
‘You know you promised... The first fine day you come down to our garden and bring Jeanne with you. Doctor’s orders.’
Hélène smiled.
‘Yes, yes, I promise. You can count on it.’
And on a bright February afternoon, three days later, she did go down there with her daughter. The concierge opened the communicating gate for them. They found Madame Deberle with her sister Pauline at the end of the garden in a sort of glasshouse which had been transformed into a Japanese conservatory, both of them empty-handed, having put down, and forgotten, their embroidery on a little table.
‘Oh, how nice of you!’ Juliette said. ‘Do come over here. Pauline, push that table away. As you see, it is still a little cool when you are sitting down, and from this conservatory we can keep a careful eye on the children. Go off and play, children. And mind you don’t fall.’
The wide bay of the conservatory was open and the sliding glass doors were closed at each side, so the garden was extended on the same level, as though outside the entrance to a tent. It was a typically bourgeois garden, with a lawn in the middle, and two circular flower beds on each side. It was closed off from the Rue Vineuse simply by a railing, but such a thick curtain of greenery had grown up it that no one could possibly see through from the street. Ivy, clematis, and woodbine twined around one another and over the gate, and behind and above this first wall of greenery rose another of lilac and laburnum. Even in winter the evergreen ivy leaves and the interlacing of branches were enough to hide the garden from public gaze. But
its most charming feature was at the bottom, where mature trees, superb elms, obscured the dark wall of a five-storey house. They gave you the illusion, among these oppressive neighbouring buildings, of being in the corner of a park, seeming to increase disproportionately the size of this little Parisian garden that was swept clean as a drawing room. Between two elms hung a swing, its seat green with damp.
Hélène looked out, leaning forward for a better view.
‘Oh, it’s nothing special,’ said Madame Deberle in a casual tone of voice. ‘But trees are so rare in Paris. We are very lucky to have half a dozen ourselves.’
‘Oh, but you are very well situated,’ murmured Hélène. ‘It’s lovely.’
That day the sun in the pastel sky was sending forth a powdery golden dust. The rays streamed steadily through the leafless branches. The trees were reddening, you could see the tiny violet buds softening the grey of the bark. And on the lawn, along the paths, there were clear specks of light on the grass and gravel, drowning, melting in a slight mist just above the ground. There were no flowers, it was just the bright sun on the bare earth that foretold the coming of spring.
‘It’s still rather depressing at the moment,’ went on Madame Deberle. ‘But in June you’ll see we are really sheltered. The trees prevent the people next door spying on us and we are completely on our own...’
But she broke off to cry:
‘Lucien, please don’t touch the fountain!’
The little boy, who was showing Jeanne round the garden, had just led her to a fountain, under the steps, and there he had turned on the tap, sticking out the ends of his little boots to wet them. He loved that game. With a grave look on her face, Jeanne watched him getting his feet wet.