by Emile Zola
‘Have a lovely time,’ she murmured in a tremulous voice.
Then she also left. She loved Saccard, and this caused her both astonishment and pain, as if it were a shameful wound she was unwilling to reveal.
CHAPTER VII
TWO months later, on a mild, grey November day, Madame Caroline went up to the workroom straight after lunch to get to work. Her brother, now in Constantinople, and busy with his grand Oriental railways project, had asked her to look up the notes he had made on their first trip, and then to draw up a sort of report, to serve as a historical record; and for a good two weeks now, she had been trying to get totally absorbed in this task. It was so warm that day that she let the fire go out and opened the window, and before sitting down again, she gazed for a moment at the tall, bare trees in the garden of the hotel Beauvilliers, purplish against the pale sky.
She had been writing for almost half-an-hour when the need for a particular document took her off on a long search among the files piled up on the table. She got up and rummaged among some other papers, then went back with her hands full, and sat down again. And as she sorted through a few loose pages, she came upon some religious pictures, an illustrated view of the Holy Sepulchre* and a prayer framed by the instruments of the Passion,* a sovereign guarantee of salvation in those moments of distress when the soul is in peril. Then she remembered that her brother, like the pious grown-up child that he was, had bought these images in Jerusalem. Her feelings suddenly overcame her, and her cheeks became wet with tears. Ah, that brother of hers, so intelligent, so unappreciated for so long, how lucky he was to have his faith, and not want to smile at this naive, chocolate-box picture of the Holy Sepulchre, how fortunate to be able to find serene strength in his belief in the efficacy of this prayer with its sugary verses. She could see him now, too trusting, too easily taken in perhaps, but so upright, so steady, so free from rebellion or conflict. She, on the other hand, no longer a believer, had endured two months of suffering and struggle, her mind burned by reading and battered by arguments, and how passionately she had wished in her hours of weakness, that she had remained simple and ingenuous like him, able to soothe her bleeding heart by repeating three times, morning and evening, that childish prayer framed by the nails, the lance, the crown, and the sponge of the Passion!
In the days that followed the brutal accident through which she had learned of Saccard’s affair with Baroness Sandorff, she had steeled herself, by a great effort of will, to resist the urge to keep watch on them and find out more. She was not the wife of this man, nor did she wish to be the passionate mistress, jealous enough to provoke a scandal; and the worst of it was that she still could not bring herself to refuse him, in the intimacy of their everyday life. This was because of the quiet, simply affectionate way in which she had at first viewed their affair: a friendship that had inevitably led to her giving herself, as often happens between a man and a woman. She was no longer twenty, and she had acquired a great deal of tolerance after the harsh experience of her marriage. At thirty-six, as she was so sensible, and believed herself to be quite without illusions, couldn’t she just shut her eyes to things and behave more like a mother than a lover toward this friend, to whom she had surrendered herself late in life, in a momentary moral lapse, this friend, who was himself well past the age of romantic heroes? She had frequently remarked that people often attached too much importance to these sexual relations, sometimes mere encounters, which were then allowed to complicate their entire lives. But then she was the first to smile at the immorality of her remark, for didn’t that mean that all sins were permitted, and every woman could belong to every man? And yet so many women are sensible enough to accept sharing with a rival, that the good-natured character of current practice seems better than the jealous demand for sole and total possession! But these were all just theoretical ways of making life bearable; and although she forced herself into abnegation, continuing to be the devoted housekeeper, the unusually intelligent servant, willing to offer her body when she had already given her heart and mind, it was all in vain, for her body and her passion rose in revolt, and she suffered dreadfully from not knowing everything, not violently breaking with Saccard, and flinging in his face the terrible wrong he had done her. She had, however, mastered herself sufficiently to be able to hold her tongue, remaining calm and continuing to smile, and never in her whole existence, harsh as it had been, had she felt the need of so much strength.
For a moment longer, with the smile, sad but full of tenderness, of a non-believer, she gazed at the sacred images she still held in her hands. But she was no longer seeing them, she was trying to work out what Saccard might have been doing the day before, and what he was doing this very day, in an endless and irresistible churning of her mind, which instinctively returned to this inquisition, once she allowed it to be less than fully occupied. He seemed anyway to be leading his usual life, his mornings spent dealing with his managerial responsibilities, his afternoons at the Bourse, and in the evening dinner engagements, first-nights, a life of pleasure, and a few theatre girls, about whom she felt no jealousy. But she had the feeling that he had some new interest, something that occupied the hours he had previously spent in other ways—it was that woman, no doubt, and meetings with her somewhere she would not allow herself to know about. All this made her suspicious and distrustful, and she began once more, in spite of herself, to ‘act the policeman’, as her brother had laughingly called it, even about the affairs of the Universal, that she had quite ceased to keep an eye on, so great for a time had been her confidence in Saccard. Certain irregularities now struck her forcibly and upset her. Then she found to her surprise that she didn’t really care, and didn’t have the strength to speak up or act, so totally gripped was she by the one anguish, that betrayal she had tried to accept, but which was choking her. Ashamed to feel tears overcoming her again, she hid the pictures away, mortally regretting that she could not get on her knees to find comfort in a church, and weep for hours until she had no more tears to shed.
After ten minutes, Madame Caroline had calmed down and was working on the report again when the valet came in to tell her that Charles, a coachman who had been dismissed the day before, was insisting on speaking to her. Saccard himself had engaged him but had caught him stealing from the oat store. She hesitated, then agreed to see him. Tall, good-looking, clean-shaven, and swaying his hips with the confident, conceited air of a man that women spend money on, Charles came in, full of insolence.
‘Madame, I’ve come about my two shirts that the laundress has lost and refuses to account for. Madame surely can’t imagine that I can simply accept such a loss… and since Madame is the person in charge, I want Madame to reimburse me for my shirts… Yes, I want fifteen francs.’
Madame Caroline was very strict on such household matters. She would perhaps have given him the fifteen francs, just to avoid an argument. But the effrontery of the man, caught red-handed the day before, quite revolted her.
‘I owe you nothing, and shan’t give you a sou… Besides, Monsieur warned me about you and absolutely forbade me to do anything for you.’
At this, Charles took a step forward, threateningly.
‘Ah, so that’s what Monsieur said! I thought as much, and Monsieur was wrong, because now we’ll have some fun… I’m not so stupid as not to have seen that Madame is his mistress…’
Flushing, Madame Caroline stood up to send him away. But he didn’t give her the chance, and went on:
‘And perhaps Madame will be happy to know where Monsieur goes from four o’clock to six, two or three times a week, when he’s sure of finding a certain person alone…’
She had suddenly turned very pale, as if all her blood was flowing back to her heart. She made a violent gesture, as if to force back into his throat this information she had been avoiding for the last two months.
‘I absolutely forbid you…’
But he shouted over her.
‘It’s Madame the Baroness Sandorff… She is ke
pt by Monsieur Delcambre, and to enjoy her in comfort, he rents a little ground-floor apartment in the Rue Caumartin, in a building with a fruit-stall in front, near the corner of the Rue Saint-Nicolas… And Monsieur goes along to take his place while it’s still nice and warm…’
She had reached for the bell to get the man thrown out, but he would certainly have carried on speaking in front of the servants.
‘Oh, when I say warm!… I have a friend there, Clarisse, the chambermaid, and she has watched them together, and seen her mistress, a real icicle of a woman, doing all sorts of filthy things with him…’
‘Be quiet you wretch!… Here, take your fifteen francs.’
And with a gesture of unspeakable contempt, she gave him the money, realizing it was the only way to get rid of him. And indeed, he at once became quite polite again.
‘For myself, I only want to help Madame… The building with the fruit-stall. The steps at the back of the courtyard… Today is Thursday, and it’s four o’clock, if Madame wants to catch them…’
She pushed him toward the door, her lips tightly pressed together, her face livid.
‘All the more so today, when Madame would perhaps witness something really amusing… Not likely Clarisse is going to stay in such a place! And when one has had good masters, one leaves them a little souvenir, isn’t that so? … Good afternoon, Madame.’
At last he was gone. Madame Caroline stood stock still for a few seconds trying to understand, and realizing what sort of scene awaited Saccard. Then, drained of strength, she gave a long groan and slumped over her work-table, while the tears that had been choking her for so long flowed freely.
This Clarisse, a skinny blonde girl, had simply betrayed her mistress, offering Delcambre the chance to surprise her with another man in the very apartment he was paying for. She had first asked for five hundred francs, but as he was very miserly, she’d been forced to haggle, and finally settled for two hundred francs to be paid cash in hand, the moment she opened the bedroom door for him. She herself slept in the apartment, in a little room behind the dressing-room. The Baroness had taken her on for the sake of discretion, to avoid having the concierge in to do the housework. Most of the time Clarisse lived a life of idleness in the empty apartment, with nothing to do in between the assignations, just keeping out of the way and disappearing as soon as Delcambre or Saccard arrived. It was in this building that she had met Charles, who for a long time had been coming in at night to share with her the big bed in the master bedroom, with the sheets still in disarray from the day’s debauchery, and it was indeed she who had recommended Charles to Saccard as a solid, honest fellow. Since his dismissal, she had shared in his resentment, especially since her mistress was not playing fair with her, and she had found another job which would pay her five francs a month more. At first Charles had wanted to write to Baron Sandorff, but she had thought it would be more amusing and more lucrative to arrange a surprise with Delcambre. So that Thursday, with everything prepared for her big plan, she waited.
At four o’clock, when Saccard arrived, Baroness Sandorff was already there, stretched out on the chaise longue in front of the fire. She was usually very punctual, like a businesswoman who knows the value of her time. On the first few encounters, Saccard had felt disillusioned at not finding the ardent lover he had hoped for in this woman, with her dark hair, bruised eyelids, and the provocative allure of a wild Bacchante. She was like marble, tired of her useless quest for a sensation that never happened, wholly absorbed by her gambling, the stress of which at least warmed her blood. Then, having felt that she was curious, free of disgust, and resigned even to revulsion, if she thought it might offer some new thrill, he had depraved her to the point where she would give him caresses of any and every sort. She talked about the stock exchange, prised bits of information out of him, and as she had been winning—chance no doubt playing its part—since their affair began, she regarded Saccard rather as a lucky charm, something you pick up and kiss, even if it’s dirty, because it brings you luck.
Clarisse had made such a big fire that day that they didn’t get into bed, preferring the extra pleasure of staying on the chaise longue in front of the leaping flames. Outside, night was about to fall. But the blinds were closed, the curtains carefully drawn, and two large lamps with frosted-glass globes and no shade, threw their stark light upon them.
Saccard had hardly entered the room before Delcambre, in turn, alighted from his carriage. The Public Prosecutor Delcambre, a personal acquaintance of the Emperor, and on his way to becoming a minister, was a thin, sallow man of about fifty, tall and solemn in stature, his clean-shaven face deeply furrowed, and severely austere. His rugged nose, like an eagle’s beak, seemed as devoid of weakness as of forgiveness. As he mounted the steps at his usual pace, measured and grave, he had the same cold and dignified air as he had in the courtroom. No one in the building knew him, for he generally came only at night. Clarisse was waiting for him in the tiny antechamber.
‘If Monsieur will just follow me, and I strongly urge Monsieur to make no noise.’
He hesitated—why not enter by the door that opened directly into the bedroom? But she explained very quietly that it would almost certainly be bolted, so they would need to break it down, and if she were forewarned, Madame would have time to rearrange herself. No! What she wanted was to let him catch her just as she herself had seen her one day, when peering through the keyhole. To this end she had devised a very simple plan. Her own room had formerly communicated with the dressing-room by a door now kept locked, and since the key had been thrown into a drawer, she had only had to retrieve it, and reopen the door; so, thanks to this unused and forgotten door, it was possible, without making any noise, to enter the dressing-room, which was separated from the bedroom simply by a screen. Madame would certainly not be expecting anyone to come in from there.
‘Just trust me, Monsieur. Don’t I have every reason for this to succeed?’
She slipped through the half-open door, disappearing for a second, leaving Delcambre by himself in her tiny maid’s bedroom, with its unmade bed and its bowl of soapy water; Clarisse had already sent off her trunk in the morning, so as to be ready to leave as soon as the job was done. Then she came back, closing the door quietly behind her.
‘Monsieur will need to wait a while. It’s not time yet. They’re just talking.’
Delcambre remained dignified, not uttering a word, but standing there quite still under the slightly mocking glances the girl directed at him. However, he was tiring, and a nervous tic was twitching all the left-hand side of his face, as repressed anger flooded up to his brain. Beneath the icy severity of his professional mask, the hidden raging male, with ogre-like appetites, now secretly began to growl with anger at this flesh that was being stolen from him.
‘Let’s get on with it, let’s get on with it,’ he repeated, hardly knowing what he was saying, his hands trembling feverishly.
But when Clarisse, after disappearing once more, returned with a finger to her lips, she begged him to wait a little longer.
‘I assure you, Monsieur, be sensible, otherwise you’ll miss the best of it… In a moment or two they’ll really be at it.’
And Delcambre, his legs suddenly giving way, had to sit for a moment on the maid’s little bed. Night was falling, and he stayed there in the dark, while the chambermaid, listening carefully, captured every slightest sound from the bedroom, sounds which he also heard, but so amplified by the buzzing in his ears that they seemed like the tramping of an army on the march.
At last he felt Clarisse’s hand groping along his arm. He understood, and without a word gave her an envelope into which he had slipped the promised two hundred francs. And she walked in first, drew aside the dressing-room screen, and pushed him into the bedroom, with the words:
‘Look! There they are!’
In front of the roaring fire with its glowing coals, Saccard was lying on his back on the edge of the chaise longue, wearing nothing but his shirt, which was
rolled up, right up to his armpits, exposing, from his feet all the way to his shoulders, his dark skin which age had covered with animal-like hair, while the Baroness was on her knees, completely naked and toasted quite pink by the flames; and the two big lamps lit them both up with so brilliant a light that the slightest details stood out, thrown into extravagant relief.
Gaping and gasping at this unnatural flagrante delicto, Delcambre had stopped, while the two others, as if thunderstruck and stupefied at seeing this man coming in from the dressing-room, remained quite still, with wild, staring eyes.
‘Ah, you filthy pigs!’ the Public Prosecutor at last stammered out. ‘Pigs! Pigs!’
It was the only word he could find, and he kept repeating it, emphasizing it each time with the same jerky gesture to give it more force. The woman had now leapt up, frantic at her nakedness, turning this way and that, looking for the clothes she had left in the dressing-room, where she couldn’t go and get them; and having managed to grab a white petticoat which was lying there she covered her shoulders with it, gripping the two ends of the waistband between her teeth, to pull it round her neck and over her bosom. The man, who had also got up from the chaise longue, pulled down his shirt, looking very put out.
‘Pigs!’ Delcambre repeated again. ‘Pigs! And in this room that I’m paying for!’
And shaking his fist at Saccard, growing more and more furious at the idea that these filthy activities were taking place on furniture bought with his money, he raged at them.
‘This place is mine, you filthy pig! And this woman is mine—you are a pig and a thief!’
Saccard, who wasn’t angry, would have tried to calm him down, feeling very embarrassed at being caught like this in his shirt, and thoroughly annoyed by the whole affair. But the word ‘thief’ offended him.
‘Lord! Monsieur,’ he replied, ‘when one wants to have a woman all to oneself, the first thing you do is give her what she needs.’