by Emile Zola
‘Wait,’ said Pauline, getting up. ‘I’ll go down and make him behave.’
‘No no, you are worse than him. The other day you’d have thought you had both taken a bath. It’s odd that a big girl like you can’t sit down for two minutes.’ And, turning her head:
‘Lucien, do you hear? Turn that tap off straight away!’
The child was frightened and tried to do what he was told. But he turned it on even more, the water gushed out with a force and a noise which made him panic. He stepped back, splashed from head to foot.
‘Turn that tap off straight away!’ repeated his mother, going red in the face.
Then Jeanne, who until then had not said anything, went very cautiously over to the fountain, while Lucien burst out sobbing, confronted by this furious gush of water which scared him and which he didn’t know how to stop. She put her skirt between her legs, stretched out her bare arms so as not to wet her sleeves and turned off the tap, without being splashed at all. Abruptly the deluge stopped. Lucien, suddenly respectful, choked back his tears and looked at the girl in wide-eyed astonishment.
‘Really, that boy makes me so angry,’ Madame Deberle went on, now very pale again and stretching out on her chair as though completely exhausted.
Hélène thought it might be prudent to intervene.
‘Jeanne,’ she said, ‘take his hand and play going for a walk.’
Jeanne took Lucien’s hand and the solemn pair started off down the paths at a leisurely pace. She was much taller than him, his arm had to reach up to hers; but this noble game, which consisted of taking ceremonial turns around the lawn, seemed to absorb them both and bestow great importance on their persons. Jeanne cast vague glances around her, like a real lady. Lucien could not help stealing a glance at his companion from time to time. They did not speak to each other.
‘They are so funny,’ murmured Madame Deberle, who was smiling again now and relaxed. ‘I must say your Jeanne is a most delightful little girl. She does what she’s told, she’s so well behaved.’
‘Yes, when she’s at other people’s houses,’ Hélène agreed. ‘She’s dreadful at times. But she worships me, so she tries to be good so that I shan’t get cross.’
The ladies chatted about children. Girls were more advanced than boys. But you couldn’t judge Lucien from that silly behaviour; in another year when he had sorted himself out a little, he would be a fine boy. And without any noticeable transition, they began to talk about a woman who lived in a little house opposite where some really strange things were going on...
Madame Deberle stopped talking, to say to her sister:
‘Pauline, go into the garden a moment.’
The young woman went meekly outside and stood under the trees. She was used to being sent out every time something cropped up in the conversation that was too vulgar and could not be discussed in her presence.
‘I was at the window yesterday,’ said Juliette, ‘and that woman was clearly visible. She doesn’t even draw the curtains! So immoral! A child might see.’
She was whispering, and looked scandalized, but a thin smile played around the corners of her mouth. Then, raising her voice, she shouted:
‘You can come back now, Pauline.’
Beneath the trees Pauline looked up in the air with a show of indifference, waiting for her sister to finish. She came back into the conservatory and sat down again while Juliette carried on talking to Hélène:
‘Have you never noticed anything, Madame?’
‘No,’ Hélène replied. ‘My windows don’t look out on to the house.’
Although there had been a gap in the conversation as far as the young woman was concerned, she listened with her pale, virginal expression, as though she had understood.
‘Oh!’ she said, looking out through the door, up in the air again. ‘There are lots of nests in those trees!’
Madame Deberle meanwhile had resumed her embroidery, for the appearance of doing something. Every minute she sewed another two stitches. Hélène, who could not remain idle, asked if it would be all right to bring her needlework with her another time. And feeling slightly at a loose end, she turned to study the Japanese pavilion.* The walls and ceiling were hung with gold brocade, with flights of cranes, butterflies and gaudy flowers, landscapes where blue boats sailed on yellow rivers. There were hardwood seats and jardinières. On the floor were finely knotted mats, a whole host of trinkets, small bronzes, small vases, strange gaudily-coloured knick-knacks. At the back, a huge magot in Meissen porcelain with legs folded, naked, and with a protruding belly, laughed hysterically and nodded his head like a mad thing at the slightest touch.
‘He’s so ugly, isn’t he?’ cried Pauline, who had followed Hélène’s eyes. ‘Do you realize that all you bought is rubbish? That handsome Malignon calls your Japanese things “the penny bazaar”... By the way, I saw Malignon. He was with a lady, well, a lady from the Variétés* — that little Florence.’
‘Whereabouts, so that I can tease him!’ asked Juliette quickly.
‘On the boulevard. Isn’t he supposed to come today?’
But no one answered her. The ladies were concerned about their children, who had vanished. Where could they be? And as they called, two shrill voices were heard.
‘We’re here!’
And indeed there they were, in the middle of the lawn sitting in the grass half-concealed by a spindleberry.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘We’ve arrived at the inn!’ cried Lucien. ‘We are resting in our bedroom.’
They glanced at the children, in much amusement. Jeanne was happy to take part in this game. She was picking off the grass all around her, no doubt to prepare lunch. The travellers’ luggage was represented by a piece of wood they had picked up in a flower bed. Now they were having a conversation. Jeanne was entering into it, confidently asserting that they were in Switzerland and they were going to visit the glaciers, which seemed to perplex Lucien.
‘Ah, there he is!’ Pauline said suddenly.
Madame Deberle turned and saw Malignon coming down the steps.
She hardly allowed him time to greet everyone and sit down.
‘Well, that was nice of you, I must say! Telling everybody I have only rubbish in my house!’
‘Ah yes,’ he replied calmly, ‘this little room. Definitely full of rubbish. You haven’t one thing worth looking at.’
She was very offended.
‘What about the magot?’
‘No no, all that’s very bourgeois. You’ve no taste. But you wouldn’t let me take charge of the decorations.’
At that she cut him off, flushed and really angry with him.
‘Ha, you can talk about taste! You were seen with a lady...’
‘What lady?’ he asked, surprised at the harshness of this attack.
‘A fine choice, I congratulate you, my dear Malignon. A girl the whole of Paris...’
But she stopped at the sight of Pauline. She had forgotten she was there.
‘Pauline,’ she said, ‘go out into the garden for a moment.’
‘Oh no, I’m tired of doing that all the time!’ declared the young woman in revolt. ‘I’m always having to go out.’
‘Go into the garden,’ Juliette repeated more sternly.
The young woman went reluctantly. Then she turned round to add:
‘But at least be quick about it.’
As soon as she had gone Madame Deberle renewed her attack on Malignon. How could a young man like him parade around in public with this Florence? She was at least forty, ugly as sin, and every man in the stalls was more than familiar with her at the premieres.
‘Have you finished?’ shouted Pauline, who was walking sulkily around under the trees. ‘I’m so bored.’
But Malignon protested. He didn’t know this Florence; he’d never spoken one word to her. He had probably been seen with a lady, sometimes he escorted the wife of one of his friends. Anyway, who was it who saw him? You had to have proof,
witnesses.
‘Pauline,’ Madame Deberle asked abruptly, raising her voice, ‘didn’t you meet him when he was with Florence?’
‘Yes, yes,’ the girl replied, ‘on the boulevard, opposite Bignon’s.’*
Then Madame Deberle, triumphant at Malignon’s embarrassed smile, cried:
‘You can come back now, Pauline. We’ve finished.’
Malignon had a box for the following day in the Folies-Dramatiques.* He gallantly offered it to Madame Deberle, without seeming to bear her a grudge; in any case they were always squabbling. Pauline wanted to know if she could go and see the play that was on; and when Malignon laughed and shook his head, she said it was very silly and that authors ought to write plays suitable for young women. She was only allowed to see La Dame blanche* and the classics.
Meanwhile the ladies were not supervising the children. Suddenly Lucien started screaming.
‘What did you do to him, Jeanne?’ Hélène asked.
‘Nothing, Maman,’ the little girl replied. ‘He just threw himself on the ground.’
What had happened was that the children had just left for the aforementioned glaciers. As Jeanne was pretending they had reached the mountains, they were both taking very big strides to get over the rocks. But Lucien, panting with the exercise, lost his footing and tumbled headlong into the middle of a flower bed. Once on the ground, the extremely cross little boy had burst into tears of rage.
‘Pick him up,’ Hélène shouted again.
‘He doesn’t want to be picked up, Maman. He’s rolling around on the ground.’
And Jeanne went away, as though she was put out and annoyed to see the little boy behaving so badly. He couldn’t play properly, he’d be sure to make her dirty. She pouted like a duchess risking her reputation. Then Madame Deberle, losing patience with Lucien’s screaming, asked her sister to pick him up and make him be quiet. Pauline was only too delighted. She ran and lay down on the ground next to the little boy and rolled around with him for a moment. He fought, and didn’t want her to pick him up, but she got up and caught hold of him under his arms, and in order to calm him down, said:
‘Be quiet, you noisy child! We’re going to go and have a swing.’
Lucien stopped immediately, Jeanne’s serious expression changed, and her face lit up in delight. All three ran to the swing. But it was Pauline who sat down on the seat.
‘Give me a push,’ she said to the children.
They pushed her with all the strength their small hands could muster. But she was heavy, they could scarcely move her.
‘Come on, push!’ she repeated. ‘Oh, the silly little things, they can’t do it.’
In the conservatory Madame Deberle had just shivered a little. Despite the bright sunlight she was finding it rather cool and she asked Malignon to hand her a white cashmere wrap that was hanging on a window-catch. Malignon got up and placed the wrap around her shoulders. Both were chatting about things which did not interest Hélène. So she went into the garden, worried and afraid that Pauline, without meaning to, might knock the children over. She left Juliette and Malignon discussing a particular fashion in hats they favoured.
As soon as Jeanne saw her mother she went over, coaxingly. Pleading was written all over her.
‘Oh, Maman,’ she murmured. ‘Oh, Maman...’
‘No, no,’ Hélène replied, who knew very well what she meant. ‘You know you are not allowed to.’
Jeanne adored swinging. She felt as if she were changing into a bird, she said. The wind blowing past her face, the sudden take-off, the continuous to and fro, rhythmical as the beat of a wing, delighted her, she felt she was floating off into the clouds. She believed she was rising into heaven; only it always ended badly. On one occasion they had found her clutching on to the rope, in a faint, her eyes staring, full of terror of the void. Another time she had fallen, stiff like a swallow hit by lead shot.
‘Oh, Maman,’ she begged, ‘just a little, a very little.’
To have a little peace, her mother finally sat her on the swing. The child was radiant, her face saintly, her bare wrists trembling a little in delight. And as Hélène was pushing her very gently, she murmured:
‘Harder, harder!’
But Hélène did not listen to her. She did not let go the rope. And she herself grew more animated, pink-cheeked, vibrant with every push she gave to the seat of the swing. Her habitual seriousness melted into a kind of complicity with her daughter.
‘That’s enough,’ she declared, lifting Jeanne off.
‘Go on, Maman, you have a swing,’ the child pleaded, her arms still around her neck.
She loved to see her mother fly away, as she said, taking even more pleasure in watching her than in swinging herself. But the latter asked her with a laugh, who would push her? When she had a swing, it was in earnest. She rose higher than the treetops. Just at that moment Monsieur Rambaud appeared, brought through by the concierge. He had made the acquaintance of Madame Deberle at Hélène’s and, not finding Hélène at home, had thought it was in order for him to come and look for her. Madame Deberle was very hospitable, touched by his neighbourliness. Then she plunged again into lively conversation with Malignon.
‘Our friend will push you, he’ll push you!’ shouted Jeanne, jumping up and down next to her mother.
‘Be quiet! We’re not at home,’ said Hélène, assuming a strict expression.
‘Goodness me,’ said Monsieur Rambaud, ‘I’m only too happy to oblige, if you like. When one is in the country...’
Hélène allowed herself to be tempted. As a girl she had swung for hours, and the memory of these distant days filled her with nostalgia. Pauline, who had been sitting on the edge of the lawn with Lucien, intervened, with the airy look of an emancipated young woman.
‘Yes, go on, the gentleman will push you... And afterwards he’ll push me, won’t you, Monsieur?’
That decided Hélène. Her youthfulness burst forth with a charming naivety from under that cool, beautiful exterior. She was simple and gay as a schoolgirl. And above all she wasn’t prudish; but, with a laugh, she said she didn’t want to show her legs, and asked for some string, to tie her skirts above her ankles. Then standing on the swing, her arms spread wide and hanging on to the ropes, she shouted gaily:
‘Come on then, Monsieur Rambaud... Gently at first!’
Monsieur Rambaud hung his hat on a branch. His wide, pleasant face lit up with a fatherly smile. He made certain the ropes were strong, looked at the trees, and decided to give her a light push. Hélène had just cast off her widow’s weeds for the first time. She wore a grey dress, decorated with mauve bows. And sitting straight, she started off slowly, skimming the ground, as though rocked in a cradle.
‘Faster!’ she said.
Then, his arms at full length, Monsieur Rambaud seized the swing as it came back, pushed on it harder. Hélène rose into the air, each time increasing her height. But she still retained her steady rhythm. She looked correct still, rather serious, eyes shining bright in her fine, quiet face, her nostrils alone distended, as if to drink in the wind. Not a fold in her skirts was out of place. One of the plaits in her chignon was coming undone.
‘Faster, faster!’
A sudden push carried her up. She rose up to the sun, higher and higher. The displaced air blew over the garden; and she was moving at such a speed you could no longer see her very clearly. She was surely smiling now, her face was pink, her eyes were like shooting stars. The plait had come undone and tapped against her neck. Despite the string holding them together, her skirts billowed out and revealed her white ankles. And you felt she was in her true element, breathing and living in the air as though that were her home.
‘Faster, faster!’
Monsieur Rambaud, red-faced and perspiring, pushed as hard as he could. There was a little cry. Hélène was swinging still higher.
‘Oh, Maman! Oh, Maman!’ Jeanne shouted, in ecstasy.
She had sat down on the lawn looking at her mother with her sm
all hands clasped to her chest as though she had herself drunk in all the air that was blowing. She gasped, instinctively following the long oscillations of the swing with the rhythm of her shoulders. And she was shouting:
‘Harder, harder!’
Her mother was going higher still. At the top her feet touched the branches of the trees.
‘Harder, harder, oh Maman, harder!’
But Hélène was right up in the sky. The trees were bending and cracking as though beneath gusts of wind. All you could see were her skirts whirling round, making a noise as though in a storm. When she came down, her arms spread out, breast thrust forward, she lowered her head a little, paused for a second; then she was sent aloft and came down again, head thrown back, fleeing and swooning, her eyelids closed. This vertiginous lifting and dropping delighted her. Up there she was going to meet the sun, the white February sun, pouring down like golden dust. Her chestnut hair shone with amber lights; and you would have thought she was quite aflame, as her bows of purple silk, like fire flowers, glowed upon her light dress. Around her spring came to life, the violet-coloured buds showed their fine lacquer tones against the blue of the sky.
Then Jeanne put her hands together. Her mother seemed to her a kind of saint with a golden halo rising into paradise.* And she continued to stammer ‘Oh, Maman! Oh, Maman!...’ in a husky voice.
Meanwhile Madame Deberle and Malignon, becoming interested, had moved nearer the trees. Malignon said he thought the lady very brave. Madame Deberle said, looking alarmed:
‘I’m sure I’d feel sick.’
Hélène heard, for she answered from the middle of the branches:
‘Oh, I’m all right! Go on, Monsieur Rambaud.’ And her voice was indeed as calm as ever. She seemed not to care about the two men who were present. Probably they didn’t count for her. Her plait had unravelled; the string must have loosened and her petticoats flapped around like flags. The swing was going up again, but suddenly she shouted:
‘Stop, Monsieur Rambaud, stop!’
Doctor Deberle had just appeared on the steps. He came over and kissed his wife fondly, lifted Lucien up and planted a kiss on his forehead. Then he smiled at Hélène.