by Emile Zola
And she went out, slamming the door. Jeanne had stumbled backwards to the window, stiff and white as a sheet, her tears checked at this brutal behaviour. She stretched her arms out to the door, and shouted ‘Maman, Maman!’ twice, and remained there, having fallen back on to her chair, with a distraught expression at the jealous thought that her mother was deceiving her.
Hélène was hurrying down the street. The rain had stopped, although the huge splashes running off the gutters wetted her shoulders. She had promised herself she would think when she got outside, and make a plan. But now all that mattered was to get there. When she started down the Passage des Eaux, she hesitated a moment. The steps had become a river, the gutters in the Rue Raynouard had overflowed and were gushing down. Between the narrow walls the steps were splashed with foam, and the surface of each cobblestone glistened, washed by the rain. A pale shaft of light falling from the grey sky was lightening the passage through the black branches of the trees. She hitched up her skirt a little and started to climb down. The water came up to her ankles, she almost lost her little shoes in the puddles, and all the way down she could hear a distinct whispering noise all around her, like the murmur of little streams flowing under the grass deep in the woods.
Suddenly there she was, on the doorstep. She stood there breathless and distressed. Then she remembered and decided to knock on the kitchen door.
‘What? Is it you?’ said Mother Fétu.
Her voice was no longer whining. The old bawd’s small eyes twinkled and her multitude of wrinkles quivered as she broke into a little laugh. Without more ado, she patted Hélène’s hands and listened to her incoherent words. Hélène gave her twenty francs.
‘May God be good to you!’ Mother Fétu brought out, as was her habit. ‘May He give you everything you wish for!’
Chapter 4
Leaning back in his armchair, Malignon stretched out his legs before the roaring fire and waited patiently. He’d gone to the lengths of closing the curtains and lighting the candles. The first room where he was sitting was brightly illuminated with a little chandelier and two candelabra. In the bedroom, on the other hand, darkness reigned. Only the crystal lamp hanging there gleamed in the half-light. Malignon pulled out his pocket watch.
‘Damn!’ he muttered. ‘Surely she won’t stand me up again today?’
And he gave a little yawn. He’d been waiting for an hour and was not enjoying himself. However, he rose, glanced at his preparations. He did not care for the arrangement of the chairs, he moved a causeuse* across in front of the fireside. The lighted candles cast rose-coloured reflections in the cretonne hangings, the room was getting warmer, silent, stuffy, while outside there were sudden gusts of wind. He went into the bedroom one last time, and felt satisfied with what he had laid on: it seemed very good to him, extremely ‘chic’, a real love nest, the bed deep in voluptuous shadow. Just as he was tweaking the lace on the pillows, there were three rapid knocks at the door. It was the signal.
‘Finally!’ he said aloud, in triumph.
And he hurried to open the door. Juliette, veil drawn over her face, all wrapped up in furs, came in. While Malignon was quietly closing the door, she stood still for a moment, concealing the emotion that prevented her from speaking. Then, before the young man could take her hand, she lifted her veil, showing him her smiling face, rather pale but very composed.
‘Oh, you’ve lit the candles,’ she cried. ‘I thought you hated them lit in daylight.’
Malignon, who was getting ready to take her in his arms, in the passionate gesture that he had planned, was taken aback and explained that it was such a dull day and his windows looked out on to waste ground. Anyway he loved the night-time.
‘I never know with you,’ she went on, teasing him. ‘Last spring, at my children’s party, you made a terrible fuss: we were in a cave, you said, it was like going into a morgue. Well, let’s just say that your tastes have changed.’
She acted as though she was on one of her visits, and affected a confidence which made her voice huskier. That was the only indication she was uneasy. Now and then her chin contracted a little, as if she had something in her throat. But her eyes were bright, she was taking a keen delight in her bold action. It was a change for her, she was thinking of Madame de Chermette, who had a lover. Goodness, this was fun, anyway!
‘Show me round,’ she said.
And she visited the apartment. He followed, thinking he should have kissed her straight away. Now he couldn’t, he had to wait. But she was looking at the furniture, examining the walls, raising her head, drawing back, chatting all the while.
‘I hate your cretonne, it’s extremely vulgar. Where on earth did you find that horrible pink? Oh, look, here’s a chair that would be nice if there weren’t so much gilding on the wood... And there are no pictures or ornaments, nothing but your chandelier and candelabra, they’re not very stylish. Oh, my dear Malignon, now see if you dare make fun of my Japanese conservatory!’
She laughed, avenging herself for his former cutting remarks which she had always resented.
‘Your taste is execrable, indeed it is! You don’t realize that my magot is worth all your furnishings put together! Even a shop assistant would not have chosen that pink you have there. Have you been dreaming of seducing your laundry girl?’
Malignon, extremely vexed, did not answer. He tried to guide her into the bedroom. She stayed in the doorway, saying she would not go into such dark places and in any case, she could see quite enough as it was. The bedroom was just like the salon. Everything came from the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. The hanging lamp was especially the object of her mockery. She was pitiless. She kept harping on about the tawdry night-light, the kind of thing aspired to by working-class girls who don’t have homes of their own. You could get lamps like that in any bazaar for seven francs fifty.
‘I paid ninety francs for it,’ Malignon finally shouted in exasperation.
She seemed delighted to have made him angry. He calmed down and asked her slyly:
‘Are you not going to take off your coat?’
‘Yes, I am,’ she answered. ‘It’s so hot in your place!’
She even removed her hat, which he took from her and put on the bed. When he came back she was sitting by the fire, still gazing around her. She had grown serious again, and allowed herself to make peace with him.
‘It’s very ugly, but all the same you are quite well-off here. The two rooms could be made very nice.’
‘Oh, nice enough for what I want,’ he remarked, with a shrug.
He immediately regretted that stupid remark. He could not have been more coarse or inept. She had bowed her head, feeling choked again, as though there was a lump in her throat. For one moment she had just forgotten the reason she was there. But he wanted at least to press his advantage after the embarrassment he had caused her.
‘Juliette,’ he murmured, leaning over towards her.
She motioned to him to sit down. It was at Trouville when they were bathing that Malignon, bored by the sight of the ocean, had had the excellent notion of falling in love. They had now been living in a sort of quarrelsome familiarity for the last three years. One evening he had taken her hand. She did not get cross, and at first made light of it. Then, her head empty and her heart free, she decided she was in love with him. Until that time she had done more or less what all her women friends were doing. But the passion was missing, she was impelled by curiosity and the need to be like everyone else. In the beginning, if the young man had gone about it forcefully enough, there’s no doubt she would have given in. He was foolish enough to want to win her over through his wit, he allowed her to get into the habit of playing the coquette. So when he made his first determined approach one night as they were gazing at the sea together, like lovers in a comic opera, she had rejected him, surprised and annoyed by his spoiling this romance she was relishing. Back in Paris, Malignon swore to himself he would be smarter. He had just taken up with her again in a period of boredom at the e
nd of a tiring winter, when she was starting to find the familiar pleasures, the dinners, the dances, the first theatre premieres, monotonous. The thought of an apartment fitted out for this purpose in a secret location, the mystery of such a rendezvous with its whiff of immorality, had attracted her. It seemed to her exciting — you had to experience everything in life! And her nature was so calm that she was no more troubled in Malignon’s apartment than she was at the studios of the painters she visited to ask them for canvases for her charity fairs.
‘Juliette, Juliette,’ the young man repeated, trying to make his tone of voice caressing.
‘Come now, let’s be sensible,’ she said simply.
And taking a Chinese screen from the mantelpiece, she continued unabashed, as though she was in her own drawing room:
‘We rehearsed this morning you know... I’m very afraid I didn’t make a very good choice with Madame Berthier. Her Mathilde is whining, unbearable. That pretty monologue when she addresses her purse: “Poor little thing, I kissed you one moment past...” Well, she recites it like a schoolgirl who’s prepared her little speech. I’m very worried about her.’
‘And what about Madame de Guiraud?’ he enquired, pulling up his chair and taking her hand.
‘Oh, she’s perfect. I’ve discovered an excellent Madame de Léry there, she’ll be sharp and lively.’
She let him carry on holding her hand, which he was kissing while she was talking, without her appearing to notice.
‘But you see, the worst thing is that you are not there. For one thing, you could say what you thought to Madame Berthier; and for another, it’s not possible for us to work together properly if you are never there.’
He had got as far as putting his arm around her waist.
‘As soon as I’ve learned my part,’ he murmured.
‘Yes, fine, but we all need to know our movements on stage. It’s naughty of you not to give up three or four mornings for us.’
She could not go on, his kisses rained down on her neck. Then she was obliged to recognize that he had taken her in his arms, she pushed him away, tapping him with the Chinese screen still in her hand. Obviously she had sworn not to let him go any further. Her pale face was reddening in the glowing reflection of the fire. She was pursing her lips, pouting like a woman surprised by her feelings. Really, was that all it was! She should have seen where it would all end! She was overcome with panic.
‘Leave me alone,’ she stammered, smiling awkwardly. ‘I shall get cross again.’
But he thought he’d had some effect. He was thinking very dispassionately: ‘If I allow her to leave in the same condition she arrived, I’ve lost her.’ Words were useless, he took hold of her hands again, tried to feel for her shoulders. For one moment it seemed as if she would surrender. All she had to do was close her eyes, and that would be that... The desire entered her head and she struggled with it, her mind crystal clear. But it seemed to her that someone was crying ‘No.’ It was she who had cried out, before she had even answered herself.
‘No, no,’ she said again. ‘Let me go, you are hurting me... I don’t want to, I don’t want to.’
As he was still silent, pushing her towards the bedroom, she tore herself away. She was obeying a strange impulse, that had nothing to do with what she really wanted. She was annoyed with him and with herself. Upset, she uttered disjointed phrases. Oh, this was a fine reward for her trust in him. What was he hoping for in behaving like a brute? She even called him a coward. She would never see him again. But he let her tie herself in knots, he followed her with his nasty, stupid laugh. She started stammering in the end, having taken refuge behind an armchair, suddenly defeated, realizing she belonged to him though he had not yet taken her in his arms. It was one of the most unpleasant moments she had lived through.
And there they were, looking at each other, crestfallen, ashamed and angry, when they heard a loud noise. At first they did not realize what was going on. The door had opened, footsteps crossed the bedroom and a voice was shouting:
‘Go, go! You are going to be found out.’
It was Hélène. Both of them, in a state of shock, looked at her. Their surprise was so great they forgot how compromising their situation was; Juliette did not look in the least embarrassed.
‘Go!’ Hélène repeated. ‘Your husband will be here in two minutes.’
‘My husband, my husband...?’ stuttered the young woman. ‘Why? What does he want?’
She was starting to behave like an imbecile. Everything was getting muddled in her brain. It seemed to her extraordinary that Hélène should be standing there talking about her husband. But Hélène made an angry gesture.
‘Oh, if you think I have time to explain... He’s on his way. So you’ve been warned. Leave now, both of you.’
Then Juliette became dreadfully agitated, She rushed around the rooms in complete panic, uttering disconnected words:
‘Oh God, oh God, thank you. Where’s my coat? How stupidly dark this room is! Give me my coat, bring me a candle so that I can find my coat... Please don’t mind me if I don’t thank you, my dear... I can’t find my sleeves, no, I can’t find them, I can’t do it...’ She was paralysed with fear, Hélène had to help her with her coat. She put her hat on awry, did not even do up the ribbons. But the worst thing was that she lost a whole minute or so looking for her veil which had fallen under the bed... She was stammering, her hands were shaky and uncontrolled, and she was feeling herself all over to ascertain if she had forgotten something that would give her away.
‘What a lesson! Oh, what a lesson! Oh, it’s definitely over now!’ Malignon, who had gone very pale, wore a stupid expression. He was pacing up and down feeling hated and ridiculous. The one clear thought he could muster was that he was definitely not a lucky man. The only question he could formulate was:
‘So do you think I should leave as well?’
And as he received no answer, he picked up his cane, and carried on talking, pretending total unconcern. They had all the time in the world, for in fact there was another staircase, a small, forgotten, servants’ staircase, that was usable. Madame Deberle’s cab was still waiting outside; the two of them could drive along the banks of the Seine. And he repeated:
‘Calm yourselves, ladies. All will be well. Come along, it’s over here.’
He had opened a door and you could see the succession of dark and dingy little rooms unused and in a filthy state. There was a draught of damp air. Before she stepped through all this grime, another wave of disgust came over Juliette and she exclaimed:
‘How on earth could I have come here! How revolting! I can never forgive myself.’
‘Hurry,’ said Hélène, in her anxiety.
She gave her a little push. Then the young woman threw her arms round her neck and wept. It was a nervous reaction. She was overcome with shame. She wanted to defend herself, say why she had been found in this man’s apartment. Then in an instinctive gesture she pulled up her skirts as though about to cross a stream. Malignon, who had gone ahead, was clearing away the pieces of plaster on the servants’ staircase with the toe of his boot. The doors closed again.
Meanwhile, Hélène had remained standing in the centre of the small drawing room. She was listening. A silence reigned around her, a deep silence, warm and airless, punctuated only by the sparks from the embers. Her ears were buzzing, she couldn’t hear a thing. But after what seemed an eternity, there was the sudden sound of a vehicle. It was Juliette’s cab leaving. Then she gave a sigh, and, alone in that room, made a sign of thanks. The thought that she would not have to be everlastingly remorseful for having acted in such a base manner filled her with a feeling that was very sweet and with a vague gratitude. She was comforted, very thankful, but suddenly so weak after the dreadful crisis she had come through, that she did not feel strong enough to leave either. Deep down she was thinking that Henri was about to arrive and that someone should be there for him. There was a knock and she opened the door immediately. His initial r
eaction was astonishment. Henri came in, preoccupied with the anonymous letter he’d received, his face white and worried. But when he saw her, he uttered a cry.
‘You! My God, it was you!’
And he sounded more flabbergasted than pleased. He was not in the least expecting this rendezvous that had been so boldly arranged. Then at this unforeseen opportunity in that voluptuous and secret hiding place, all his male desires flared up.
‘You love me, you love me!’ he stammered. ‘So here you are, and I didn’t realize!’
He opened his arms, wanting to hold her. Hélène had smiled at him as he came in. Now she drew back, white-faced. Obviously she had been waiting for him, had told herself they would have a little chat, she would invent some story. And suddenly she saw the situation clearly. Henri was thinking it was a rendezvous. She had never intended that. A feeling of revulsion swept over her.
‘Henri, I beg you, leave me alone!’
But he had taken hold of her wrists and was drawing her slowly towards him as though to conquer her with a kiss. The love which had been growing in him for months, and quelled later by the rupture in their intimacy, broke forth all the more violently now that he was beginning to forget Hélène. His heart’s fire rose to his cheeks and she struggled against him when she saw in his face a passion that she recognized and that frightened her. He had already looked at her twice before with those maddened eyes.
‘Leave me alone, you are frightening me. I swear to you that you are mistaken.’
Then he looked surprised once more.
‘You are the one who wrote to me?’ he said. She hesitated a second. What could she say, what could she reply?
‘Yes,’ she finally admitted.
But she could not give Juliette away after she had saved her. It was like an abyss into which she herself was sliding. At present Henri was studying the two rooms, astonished by the lighting and decoration. He dared to question her.
‘Is this your apartment?’