by Emile Zola
‘So it’s on Saturday,’ Madame Deberle said one day. ‘Oh, my dear, I’m exhausted. Aren’t you? Be there at two, Jeanne will open the ball with Lucien.’
And, delighted with the preparations for her ball, she gushingly embraced the two children. Then, laughing, she put both arms round Hélène and planted two big kisses on her cheeks.
‘That’s my reward,’ she went on gaily. ‘Well, I’ve deserved it, I’ve been rushing around enough! You’ll see what a success it’ll be.’
Hélène remained unmoved, while the doctor observed them over the blond head of Lucien, who had his arms around his neck.
Chapter 4
Pierre was standing in the hall of the big house, in a suit and white tie, opening the door every time a cab drew up. A breath of damp air wafted in, a yellow reflection of the rainy afternoon lit up the narrow hall filled with portières and pot plants. It was two o’clock and the light was fading, as though it were a gloomy winter’s day.
But as soon as the valet pushed open the door of the first drawing room, the guests were greeted by a dazzling light. They had closed the blinds and pulled the curtains carefully across, not a glimmer filtered in from the murky sky, and the lamps placed on the furniture, the candles burning in the chandeliers, and the crystal wall-lights illumined what resembled a chapel of rest. Beyond the small drawing room, whose pale green curtains somewhat tempered the dazzle of the lights, the resplendent large black and gold salon was decorated as it was for the ball that Madame Deberle gave every year during the month of January.
In the meantime, children were beginning to arrive, while Pauline was very busy organizing lines of chairs in the drawing room in front of the dining-room door, which had been removed and replaced with a red curtain.
‘Papa,’ she cried, ‘give me a hand! We shan’t ever finish!’
Monsieur Letellier who, arms clasped behind his back, was examining the chandelier, hurried over to help. Pauline carried some chairs herself. She had done what her sister asked and put on a white frock. Except that her blouse fell open in a square shape, showing her bosom.
‘There,’ she said, ‘that’s it. They can come now. But whatever is Juliette thinking of? She has been an age dressing Lucien.’
At that very moment, Madame Deberle brought along the little marquis. All the people present exclaimed. Oh, what a little love! How sweet he was in his white satin costume, with flowers in his buttonholes, his wide gold-embroidered waistcoat, and his cerise silk culottes! His chin and his delicate hands were swamped with lace. A toy sword with a large pink bow tapped against his leg.
‘Come on, do the honours,’ said his mother leading him into the first room.
He had been practising for a week. So he adopted a casual stance on his little legs, threw his powdered head back a little, put his three-cornered hat under his left arm. And as each guest arrived he bowed, offered them his arm, greeted them, and went back again. People laughed to see him, he was so solemn, with a hint of cheekiness about him. In this manner he conducted Marguerite Tissot in, a little girl of five, wearing a charming milkmaid’s costume, her milk-can hanging from her belt; he led in the two little Berthier girls, Blanche and Sophie, one of whom was dressed as Folly and the other as a soubrette; he even dared to escort Valentine de Chermette, a big girl of fourteen whom her mother always dressed as a Spanish lady, and he was so slight she seemed to be carrying him. But he was dreadfully embarrassed when confronted by the Levasseur family composed of five young ladies who arrived in order of height, the youngest aged scarcely two, the eldest, ten. All five, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, had fur hoods and bright red satin cloaks edged in black velvet, with wide lace aprons on top. He made a brave decision, threw down his hat, took the two biggest on his right and left arms and made his entry into the salon, followed by the other three. Everyone found it very hilarious, but the little man didn’t lose his aplomb in the least.
All this time Madame Deberle was telling her sister off in a corner.
‘I don’t believe it! Showing your bosom like that!’
‘Huh, what difference does it make? Papa didn’t say anything,’ Pauline answered calmly. ‘If you like, I’ll wear some flowers.’
She picked a little sprig of flowers from a jardinière and shoved them down between her breasts. But the ladies, mothers in all their finery, were surrounding Madame Deberle and complimenting her already on her ball. As Lucien was passing, his mother adjusted a curl in his powdered hair and he stood on tiptoe to ask:
‘What about Jeanne?’
‘She’ll be coming soon, darling... Be careful you don’t fall over. Hurry, there’s the little Guiraud girl. Ah, she’s dressed up as a lady from Alsace.’
The salon was filling up. The rows of chairs opposite the red curtain were almost all occupied, and there was an increasing din of children’s voices. Groups of boys were arriving. There were already three Harlequins, four Mister Punches, one Figaro, Tyroleans, Scotsmen. The little Berthier boy was a page. The little Guiraud boy, a toddler of two and a half, was wearing his Pierrot’s costume in such a droll fashion that everyone picked him up to give him a kiss as he went past.
‘Oh, here’s Jeanne,’ Madame Deberle said suddenly. ‘How adorable!’
There was a general murmur, heads turned and there were little cries. Jeanne had stopped on the threshold of the first drawing room, while her mother, still in the hallway, was taking off her coat. The child was wearing a Japanese costume of splendid originality. The dress, embroidered with flowers and exotic birds, reached down and covered her small feet, while below her wide belt, the spaces between the panels revealed a petticoat of greenish silk, shot through with yellow. Nothing was so delightfully strange as her fine face under the high chignon fastened with long hairpins, her chin and her narrow, bright doe’s eyes, which gave her the air of a true daughter of Yeddo,* walking along in a perfume of benzoin and tea rose. And she stood there, hesitating, with the sickly languor of a flower longing for her native land.
But behind her came Hélène. Both of them, passing abruptly from the pale light of the street into the dazzle of the candles, were blinking as though blinded, but still smiling. The sudden rush of warmth, this predominantly violet-scented salon, they found rather stifling, and their cool cheeks flushed pink. Each guest who arrived wore the same surprised, hesitant expression.
‘Well, Lucien?’ said Madame Deberle.
The little boy had not seen Jeanne. He rushed forward, took her arm, forgetting to make his bow. And both were so delicate, so exquisite, the little marquis with his sprigged costume and the Japanese girl with her purple embroidered gown, you might have thought they were two Meissen statuettes, finely painted and gilded, suddenly come to life.
‘I’ve been waiting for you, you know,’ faltered Lucien. ‘I feel silly giving you my arm. Let’s stay together.’
And he sat down with her on the first row of chairs. He completely forgot his duties as host.
‘I was really worried,’ said Juliette to Hélène. ‘I thought Jeanne might be poorly.’
Hélène apologized. Children took forever to get ready. She was still standing with a group of ladies in a corner of the drawing room, when she sensed the doctor approaching from behind. In fact he had just come in, pulling back the red curtain which he had ducked back under again to give a final order. But suddenly he stopped. He too divined the young woman’s presence, although she had not turned round. Dressed in black grenadine silk, she had never looked so regally beautiful. And the breath of fresh air that she brought, seeming to emanate from her shoulders and her arms, naked under the gauzy material, made him tremble.
‘Henri hasn’t noticed we are here,’ Pauline said with a laugh. ‘Why, hello Henri!’
At that he went in to greet the ladies. Mademoiselle Aurélie, who was present, kept him back a moment in order to point out a nephew of hers whom she had brought along. The doctor remained there, to be affable. Hélène, saying nothing, held out her black-gloved hand to
him, but he did not dare shake it too warmly.
‘So you’re there, are you?’ cried Madame Deberle, reappearing. I’ve been looking for you everywhere... It’s almost three, we can start.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Right away.’
At that moment the drawing room was full. The mothers and fathers were laying their outdoor cloaks around the walls, making a dark border round the room lit by the dazzlingly bright chandelier. The ladies, pulling up their chairs, formed little separate groups; the men, standing against the walls, were crammed in the space in between, while at the door of the adjacent drawing room the more numerous frock coats were piling up one on top of the other. The spotlight fell on the noisy little world which was animating the centre of the huge room. There were nearly a hundred children all jostling together in their gay multicoloured costumes, bright with their blues and pinks. There was an expanse of fair heads, of every shade, from a fine ash blonde to a reddish gold, with réveils* of bows and flowers, a harvest of corn-coloured hair rippling with laughter, as though in a breeze. Occasionally in this tangle of ribbons and lace, silks and velvet, you would see a face: a pink nose, two blue eyes, a smiling or pouting mouth, looking lost. Some did not come up over the height of a boot, and were hidden between big boys of ten, their mothers looking for them all over the place but unable to find them. Embarrassed boys looked gauche, next to little girls who were making their skirts billow out. Others were already showing off, elbowing the girls next to them whom they didn’t know and laughing in their faces. But the little girls were still the queens, groups of three or four friends swung back and forth on their chairs as if they would break them, talking so loudly that nobody could hear a word they were saying. All eyes were on the red curtain.
‘Your attention please!’ called the doctor, tapping three times on the dining-room door.
The red curtain slowly opened and in the doorway appeared a puppet theatre. There was silence. Suddenly Mister Punch leapt out from the wings, with such a fierce squeak, that the little Guiraud boy responded with one of those cries which are equally scared and fascinated. It was one of those terrifying set scenes where Punch, having beaten the Sergeant, kills the Policeman and, with cruel delight, tramples over all laws human and divine. With each blow of the stick that cut open the wooden heads, the pitiless spectators howled with laughter; and the blades thrust into chests, the duels where the adversaries bashed one another’s heads as if they were empty gourds, the massacred limbs and arms of the pulped characters caused the shouts of laughter from all sides to helplessly redouble in volume. Best of all was when Punch sawed the Policeman’s neck in half on the edge of the stage; the operation caused such a degree of hilarity that the rows of spectators all pushed and fell one on top of another. A little girl of four, white and pink, clutched her tiny hands to her heart in ecstasy, she loved it so much. Others applauded, while, on a lower note, the boys chuckled open-mouthed, in accompaniment to the girls’ fluting tones.
‘They are so enjoying it!’ said the doctor quietly.
He had come to sit near Hélène. She was enjoying it as much as the children. And, sitting behind her, he was intoxicated by the scent of her hair. At one blow of the stick, louder than the rest, she turned round and said to him:
‘It really is very funny!’
But the excited children were now completely involved in the action. They answered the actors back. A little girl who must have been familiar with the play, explained what was going to happen. ‘In a little while he’s going to beat his wife to death... Now they are going to hang him...’ The smallest Levasseur, the two-year-old, suddenly shouted:
‘Maman, are they going to put him on dry bread?’
Then everyone exclaimed and made loud remarks. Meanwhile Hélène was searching amongst the children.
‘I can’t see Jeanne,’ she said. ‘Is she enjoying it?’
Then the doctor leaned over and his head was next to hers.
‘Look, over there,’ he murmured, ‘between that Harlequin and that girl from Normandy, you can see the pins on her chignon... She is laughing out loud.’
And he remained in that position, feeling on his cheek the warmth of Hélène’s face. Until that moment no declaration had passed their lips; this silence left them in that state of intimacy disturbed by nothing more than a vague unease for a while. But in the midst of all this laughter and at the sight of all these children, Hélène was becoming a child herself again and she let her defences drop, while Henri’s breath warmed the back of her neck. The sound of the blows made her shudder and her bosom rose; she turned to him, eyes shining:
‘How silly!’ she said, each time it happened. ‘How hard they hit!’
Trembling, he replied:
‘Oh, their heads are solid enough!’
That was the best he could manage. They were both reduced to childish remarks. Punch’s scarcely exemplary life made them relax. Then when the play reached its conclusion, when the Devil appeared and there was a final fight and everybody’s throat was cut, Hélène leaned back on her chair and crushed Henri’s hand placed there; while the little ones in the front row, shouting and clapping, made the chairs crack in their enthusiasm.
The red curtain had fallen again. Then in the midst of the din Pauline announced the arrival of Malignon, in her usual way:
‘Oh, here’s our handsome Malignon.’
He arrived out of breath, pushing his way through the chairs.
‘What a silly idea to close all the doors!’ he shouted, surprised and hesitant. You’d think someone had died in the house.’
And, turning to Madame Deberle, who had gone over to him:
‘Congratulations! You’ve had me running all over the place! I’ve been looking for Perdiguet all morning, you know, my singer. So, since I couldn’t get hold of him, I’ve brought you the Great Morizot.’
The Great Morizot was an amateur who entertained drawing-room society with his conjuring. They gave him a little table and he performed his best tricks but didn’t manage to gain the interest of the audience in the slightest. The poor little things had become very quiet. Toddlers were falling asleep sucking their thumbs. The older ones were turning round, smiling at their parents, who were yawning behind their hands. So it was a relief to all when the Great Morizot decided to take his table away.
‘He’s very good!’ whispered Malignon, close to Madame Deberle’s neck.
But the red curtain opened again and a magic spectacle brought all the children to their feet.
Under the bright light of the main lamp and two candelabra with ten stems, the dining room with its long table was laid and decorated as for a grand dinner. Fifty places were set. In the middle and at both ends in low baskets, there bloomed flowering branches, separated by tall compotiers* on which were ‘surprises’ piled high, with gold and coloured glitter paper. Then came tiered cakes, pyramids of glacé fruits, piles of sandwiches, and below them numerous plates full of sweetmeats and pastries all in symmetrical order; babas, cream cakes, brioches alternating with biscuits, croquignoles,* petits fours with almonds. Jellies wobbled in crystal glasses. Creams filled the large china bowls. And on the bottles of champagne, which were hand-high, befitting the size of the guests, the silver caps sparkled all around the table. You would have thought it was one of those gigantic tea parties such as children must have in their dreams, a tea party served with all the ceremony of an adult dinner, the fairyland equivalent of the parents’ table onto which had been poured a cornucopia from patisseries and toyshops.
‘Come on, let’s escort the ladies!’ said Madame Deberle, smiling at the children’s delight.
But the little procession was unable to get organized. Lucien had triumphantly taken Jeanne’s arm and was marching at the head. The others pushed and shoved a little in his wake. The mothers had to come and put them in order. And they remained there, especially behind the little ones, whom they were watching, fearing accidents. The guests at first seemed shy; they looked, not daring to touc
h all these goodies, somewhat troubled by this reversal of the normal order of things, children sitting at table and parents standing. Finally the oldest ones grew braver and held out their hands. Then when the mothers got involved, cutting the tiers of cakes, serving those around them, the tea party came to life and was soon very noisy. The beautiful symmetry of the table was hit as though by a gust of wind. Everything was passed round at the same time, between the stretched-out hands which emptied the dishes as they went by. The two little Berthiers, Blanche and Sophie, laughed when they looked at their plates on which there was a bit of everything, jam, cream, cakes, fruit. The five Levasseur girls monopolized a section of delicacies, while Valentine, proud of being fourteen, behaved like a sensible grown-up and looked after her neighbours. In the meantime Lucien, to show how chivalrous he was, uncorked a bottle of champagne and did it so clumsily that he almost upset the contents over his cerise silk trousers. It was quite a business.
‘Please leave the bottles alone!’ cried Pauline. ‘I’m the one who uncorks the champagne.’
She was in a frenzy of activity. She was enjoying herself. As soon as a servant arrived, she snatched the jug of chocolate away from him and took a real delight in filling the cups, with a waiter’s promptness. Then she passed round the ices and glasses of fruit squash, abandoned it all to go and fill up the plate of a little girl who had been forgotten, and then, leaving her, fired questions at all of them.
‘What would you like, dear? Would you like a roll? Wait a minute, love, I’ll pass you the oranges. Eat up, sillies, you can play afterwards!’