Fruitfulness
by Émile Zola · English · Gutenberg #10330 · 999,271 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Fruitfulness
Author: Émile Zola
Translator: Ernest Alfred Vizetelly
Release date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #10330]
Most recently updated: October 28, 2024
Language: English
Original publication: Doubleday, Page & Co..
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10330
Credits: David Widger and Dagny (revised by Laura Natal)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRUITFULNESS ***
FRUITFULNESS
(FÉCONDITÉ)
BY
ÉMILE ZOLA
_Translated and edited by_
Ernest Alfred Vizetelly
NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.
1900
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
"FRUITFULNESS" is the first of a series of four works in which M. Zola
proposes to embody what he considers to be the four cardinal principles
of human life. These works spring from the previous series of The Three
Cities: "Lourdes," "Rome," and "Paris," which dealt with the principles
of Faith, Hope, and Charity. The last scene in "Paris," when Marie,
Pierre Froment's wife, takes her boy in her arms and consecrates him, so
to say, to the city of labor and thought, furnishes the necessary
transition from one series to the other. "Fruitfulness," says M. Zola,
"creates the home. Thence springs the city. From the idea of citizenship
comes that of the fatherland; and love of country, in minds fed by
science, leads to the conception of a wider and vaster fatherland,
comprising all the peoples of the earth. Of these three stages in the
progress of mankind, the fourth still remains to be attained. I have
thought then of writing, as it were, a poem in four volumes, in four
chants, in which I shall endeavor to sum up the philosophy of all my
work. The first of these volumes is 'Fruitfulness'; the second will be
called 'Work'; the third, 'Truth'; the last, 'Justice.' In 'Fruitfulness'
the hero's name is Matthew. In the next work it will be Luke; in 'Truth,'
Mark; and in 'justice,' John. The children of my brain will, like the
four Evangelists preaching the gospel, diffuse the religion of future
society, which will be founded on Fruitfulness, Work, Truth, and
Justice."
This, then, is M. Zola's reply to the cry repeatedly raised by his hero,
Abbé Pierre Froment, in the pages of "Lourdes," "Paris," and "Rome": "A
new religion, a new religion!" Critics of those works were careful to
point out that no real answer was ever returned to the Abbé's despairing
call; and it must be confessed that one must yet wait for the greater
part of that answer, since "Fruitfulness," though complete as a
narrative, forms but a portion of the whole. It is only after the
publication of the succeeding volumes that one will be able to judge how
far M. Zola's doctrines and theories in their _ensemble_ may appeal to the
requirements of the world.
While "Fruitfulness," as I have said, constitutes a first instalment of
M. Zola's conception of a social religion, it embodies a good deal else.
The idea of writing some such work first occurred to him many years ago.
In 1896 he contributed an article to the Paris _Figaro_, in which he
said: "For some ten years now I have been haunted by the idea of a novel,
of which I shall, doubtless, never write the first page.... That novel
would have been called 'Wastage'... and I should have pleaded in it in
favor of all the rights of life, with all the passion which I may have in
my heart."[1] M. Zola's article then proceeds to discuss the various social
problems, theories, and speculations which are set forth here and there
in the present work. Briefly, the genesis of "Fruitfulness" lies in the
article I have quoted.
[Footnote 1: See _Nouvelle Campagne_ (1896), par Émile Zola.
Paris, 1897, pp. 217-228.]
"Fruitfulness" is a book to be judged from several standpoints. It would
be unjust and absurd to judge it from one alone, such, for instance, as
that of the new social religion to which I have referred. It must be
looked at notably as a tract for the times in relation to certain
grievous evils from which France and other countries--though more
particularly France--are undoubtedly suffering. And it may be said that
some such denunciation of those evils was undoubtedly necessary, and that
nobody was better placed to pen that denunciation than M. Zola, who,
alone of all French writers nowadays, commands universal attention.
Whatever opinion may be held of his writings, they have to be reckoned
with. Thus, in preparing "Fruitfulness," he was before all else
discharging a patriotic duty, and that duty he took in hand in an hour of
cruel adversity, when to assist a great cause he withdrew from France and
sought for a time a residence in England, where for eleven months I was
privileged to help him in maintaining his incognito. "Fruitfulness" was
entirely written in England, begun in a Surrey country house, and
finished at the Queen's Hotel, Norwood.
It would be superfluous for me to enter here into all the questions which
M. Zola raises in his pages. The evils from which France suffers in
relation to the stagnancy of its population, are well known, and that
their continuance--if continuance there be--will mean the downfall of the
country from its position as one of the world's great powers before the
close of the twentieth century, is a mathematical certainty. That M.
Zola, in order to combat those evils, and to do his duty as a good
citizen anxious to prevent the decline of his country, should have dealt
with his subject with the greatest frankness and outspokenness, was only
natural. Moreover, absolute freedom of speech exists in France, which is
not the case elsewhere. Thus, when I first perused the original proofs of
M. Zola's work, I came to the conclusion that any version of it in the
English language would be well-nigh impossible. For some time I remained
of that opinion, and I made a statement to that effect in a leading
literary journal. Subsequently, however, my views became modified. "The
man who is ridiculous," wrote a French poet, Barthélemy, "is he whose
opinions never change," and thus I at last reverted to a task from which
I had turned aside almost in despair.
Various considerations influenced me, and among them was the thought that
if "Fruitfulness" were not presented to the public in an English dress,
M. Zola's new series would remain incomplete, decapitated so far as
British and American readers were concerned. After all, the criticisms
dealing with the French original were solely directed against matters of
form, the mould in which some part of the work was cast. Its high moral
purpose was distinctly recognized by several even of its most bitter
detractors. For me the problem was how to retain the whole _ensemble_ of
the narrative and the essence of the lessons which the work inculcates,
while recasting some portion of it and sacrificing those matters of form
to which exception was taken. It is not for me to say whether I have
succeeded in the task; but I think that nothing in any degree offensive
to delicate susceptibilities will be found in this present version of M.
Zola's book.
The English reviews of the French original showed that if certain
portions of it were deemed indiscreet, it none the less teemed with
admirable and even delightful pages. Among the English reviewers were two
well-known lady writers, Madame Darmesteter (formerly Miss Mary
Robinson), and Miss Hannah Lynch. And the former remarked in one part of
her _critique_: "Even this short review reveals how honest, how moral, how
human and comely is the fable of _Fécondité_,"[2] while the latter
expressed the view that the work was "eminently, pugnaciously virtuous in
M. Zola's strictly material conception of virtue." And again: "The pages
that tell the story of Mathieu and Marianne, it must be admitted, are as
charming as possible. They have a bloom, a beauty, a fragrance we never
expected to find in M. Zola's work. The tale is a simple one: the
cheerful conquest of fortune and the continual birth of offspring."[3]
[Footnote 2: _Manchester Guardian_, October 27, 1899.]
[Footnote 3: _Fortnightly Review_, January 1900.]
Of course, these lady critics did not favor certain features of the
original, and one of them, indeed, referred to the evil denounced by M.
Zola as a mere evil of the hour, whereas it has been growing and
spreading for half a century, gradually sapping all the vitality of
France. But beside that evil, beside the downfall of the families it
attacks, M. Zola portrays the triumph of rectitude, the triumph which
follows faith in the powers of life, and observance of the law of
universal labor. "Fruitfulness" contains charming pictures of homely
married life, delightful glimpses of childhood and youth: the first
smile, the first step, the first word, followed by the playfulness and
the flirtations of boyhood, and the happiness which waits on the
espousals of those who truly love. And the punishment of the guilty is
awful, and the triumph of the righteous is the greatest that can be
conceived. All those features have been retained, so far as my abilities
have allowed, in the present version, which will at the same time, I
think, give the reader unacquainted with the French language a general
idea of M. Zola's views on one of the great questions of the age, as well
as all the essential portions of a strongly conceived narrative.
E. A. V.
MERTON, SURREY, ENGLAND: _April_, 1900.
FRUITFULNESS
I
THAT morning, in the little pavilion of Chantebled, on the verge of the
woods, where they had now been installed for nearly a month, Mathieu was
making all haste in order that he might catch the seven-o'clock train
which every day conveyed him from Janville to Paris. It was already
half-past six, and there were fully two thousand paces from the pavilion
to Janville. Afterwards came a railway journey of three-quarters of an
hour, and another journey of at least equal duration through Paris, from
the Northern Railway terminus to the Boulevard de Grenelle. He seldom
reached his office at the factory before half-past eight o'clock.
He had just kissed the children. Fortunately they were asleep; otherwise
they would have linked their arms about his neck, laughed and kissed him,
being ever unwilling to let him go. And as he hastily returned to the
principal bedroom, he found his wife, Marianne, in bed there, but awake
and sitting up. She had risen a moment before in order to pull back a
curtain, and all the glow of that radiant May morning swept in, throwing
a flood of gay sunshine over the fresh and healthy beauty of her
four-and-twenty years. He, who was three years the elder, positively
adored her.
"You know, my darling," said he, "I must make haste, for I fear I may
miss the train--and so manage as well as you can. You still have thirty
sous left, haven't you?"
She began to laugh, looking charming with her bare arms and her
loose-flowing dark hair. The ever-recurring pecuniary worries of the
household left her brave and joyous. Yet she had been married at
seventeen, her husband at twenty, and they already had to provide for
four children.
"Oh! we shall be all right," said she. "It's the end of the month to-day,
and you'll receive your money to-night. I'll settle our little debts at
Janville to-morrow. There are only the Lepailleurs, who worry me with
their bill for milk and eggs, for they always look as if they fancied one
meant to rob them. But with thirty sous, my dear! why, we shall have
quite a high time of it!"
She was still laughing as she held out her firm white arms for the
customary morning good-by.
"Run off, since you are in a hurry. I will go to meet you at the little
bridge to-night."
"No, no, I insist on your going to bed! You know very well that even if I
catch the quarter-to-eleven-o'clock train, I cannot reach Janville before
half-past eleven. Ah! what a day I have before me! I had to promise the
Moranges that I would take _déjeuner_ with them; and this evening Beauchêne
is entertaining a customer--a business dinner, which I'm obliged to
attend. So go to bed, and have a good sleep while you are waiting for
me."
She gently nodded, but would give no positive promise. "Don't forget to
call on the landlord," she added, "to tell him that the rain comes into
the children's bedroom. It's not right that we should be soaked here as
if we were on the high-way, even if those millionaires, the Séguins du
Hordel, do let us have this place for merely six hundred francs a year."
"Ah, yes! I should have forgotten that. I will call on them, I promise
you."
Then Mathieu took her in his arms, and there was no ending to their
leave-taking. He still lingered. She had begun to laugh again, while
giving him many a kiss in return for his own. There was all the love of
bounding health between them, the joy that springs from the most perfect
union, as when man and wife are but one both in flesh and in soul.
"Run off, run off, darling! Remember to tell Constance that, before she
goes into the country, she ought to run down here some Sunday with
Maurice."
"Yes, yes, I will tell her--till to-night, darling."
But he came back once more, caught her in a tight embrace, and pressed to
her lips a long, loving kiss, which she returned with her whole heart.
And then he hurried away.
He usually took an omnibus on his arrival at the Northern Railway
terminus. But on the days when only thirty sous remained at home he
bravely went through Paris on foot. It was, too, a very fine walk by way
of the Rue la Fayette, the Opera-house, the Boulevards, the Rue Royale,
and then, after the Place de la Concorde, the Cours la Reine, the Alma
bridge, and the Quai d'Orsay.
Beauchêne's works were at the very end of the Quai d'Orsay, between the
Rue de la Fédération and the Boulevard de Grenelle. There was hereabouts
a large square plot, at one end of which, facing the quay, stood a
handsome private house of brickwork with white stone dressings, that had
been erected by Léon Beauchêne, father of Alexandre, the present master
of the works. From the balconies one could perceive the houses which were
perched aloft in the midst of greenery on the height of Passy, beyond the
Seine; whilst on the right arose the campanile of the Trocadero palace.
On one side, skirting the Rue de la Fédération, one could still see a
garden and a little house, which had been the modest dwelling of Léon
Beauchêne in the heroic days of desperate toil when he had laid the
foundations of his fortune. Then the factory buildings and sheds, quite a
mass of grayish structures, overtopped by two huge chimneys, occupied
both the back part of the ground and that which fringed the Boulevard de
Grenelle, the latter being shut off by long windowless walls. This
important and well-known establishment manufactured chiefly agricultural
appliances, from the most powerful machines to those ingenious and
delicate implements on which particular care must be bestowed if
perfection is to be attained. In addition to the hundreds of men who
worked there daily, there were some fifty women, burnishers and
polishers.
The entry to the workshops and offices was in the Rue de la Fédération,
through a large carriage way, whence one perceived the far-spreading
yard, with its paving stones invariably black and often streaked by
rivulets of steaming water. Dense smoke arose from the high chimneys,
strident jets of steam emerged from the roof, whilst a low rumbling and a
shaking of the ground betokened the activity within, the ceaseless bustle
of labor.
It was thirty-five minutes past eight by the big clock of the central
building when Mathieu crossed the yard towards the office which he
occupied as chief designer. For eight years he had been employed at the
works where, after a brilliant and special course of study, he had made
his beginning as assistant draughtsman when but nineteen years old,
receiving at that time a salary of one hundred francs a month. His
father, Pierre Froment,[4] had four sons by Marie his wife--Jean the
eldest, then Mathieu, Marc, and Luc--and while leaving them free to
choose a particular career he had striven to give each of them some
manual calling. Léon Beauchêne, the founder of the works, had been dead a
year, and his son Alexandre had succeeded him and married Constance
Meunier, daughter of a very wealthy wall-paper manufacturer of the
Marais, at the time when Mathieu entered the establishment, the master of
which was scarcely five years older than himself. It was there that
Mathieu had become acquainted with a poor cousin of Alexandre's,
Marianne, then sixteen years old, whom he had married during the
following year.
[Footnote 4: Of _Lourdes_, _Rome_, and _Paris_.]
Marianne, when only twelve, had become dependent upon her uncle, Léon
Beauchêne. After all sorts of mishaps a brother of the latter, one Félix
Beauchêne, a man of adventurous mind but a blunderhead, had gone to
Algeria with his wife and daughter, there to woo fortune afresh; and the
farm he had established was indeed prospering when, during a sudden
revival of Arab brigandage, both he and his wife were murdered and their
home was destroyed. Thus the only place of refuge for the little girl,
who had escaped miraculously, was the home of her uncle, who showed her
great kindness during the two years of life that remained to him. With
her, however, were Alexandre, whose companionship was rather dull, and
his younger sister, Séraphine, a big, vicious, and flighty girl of
eighteen, who, as it happened, soon left the house amid a frightful
scandal--an elopement with a certain Baron Lowicz, a genuine baron, but
a swindler and forger, to whom it became necessary to marry her. She
then received a dowry of 300,000 francs. Alexandre, after his father's
death, made a money match with Constance, who brought him half a million
francs, and Marianne then found herself still more a stranger, still
more isolated beside her new cousin, a thin, dry, authoritative woman,
who ruled the home with absolute sway. Mathieu was there, however, and a
few months sufficed: fine, powerful, and healthy love sprang up between
the young people; there was no lightning flash such as throws the
passion-swayed into each other's arms, but esteem, tenderness, faith,
and that mutual conviction of happiness in reciprocal bestowal which
tends to indissoluble marriage. And they were delighted at marrying
penniless, at bringing one another but their full hearts forever and
forever. The only change in Mathieu's circumstances was an increase of
salary to two hundred francs a month. True, his new cousin by marriage
just vaguely hinted at a possible partnership, but that would not be
till some very much later date.
As it happened Mathieu Froment gradually became indispensable at the
works. The young master, Alexandre Beauchêne, passed through an anxious
crisis. The dowry which his father had been forced to draw from his
coffers in order to get Séraphine married, and other large expenses which
had been occasioned by the girl's rebellious and perverse conduct, had
left but little working capital in the business. Then, too, on the morrow
of Léon Beauchêne's death it was found that, with the carelessness often
evinced in such matters, he had neglected to leave a will; so that
Séraphine eagerly opposed her brother's interests, demanding her personal
share of the inheritance, and even suggesting the sale of the works. The
property had narrowly escaped being cut up, annihilated. And Alexandre
Beauchêne still shivered with terror and anger at the recollection of
that time, amidst all his delight at having at last rid himself of his
sister by paying her in money the liberally estimated value of her share.
It was in order to fill up the void thus created in his finances that he
had espoused the half-million represented by Constance--an ugly creature,
as he himself bitterly acknowledged, coarse male as he was. Truth to
tell, she was so thin, so scraggy, that before consenting to make her his
wife he had often called her "that bag of bones." But, on the other hand,
thanks to his marriage with her, all his losses were made good in five or
six years' time; the business of the works even doubled, and great
prosperity set in. And Mathieu, having become a most active and necessary
coadjutor, ended by taking the post of chief designer, at a salary of
four thousand two hundred francs per annum.
Morange, the chief accountant, whose office was near Mathieu's, thrust
his head through the doorway as soon as he heard the young man installing
himself at his drawing-table. "I say, my dear Froment," he exclaimed,
"don't forget that you are to take _déjeuner_ with us."
"Yes, yes, my good Morange, it's understood. I will look in for you at
twelve o'clock."
Then Mathieu very carefully scrutinized a wash drawing of a very simple
but powerful steam thresher, an invention of his own, on which he had
been working for some time past, and which a big landowner of Beauce, M.
Firon-Badinier, was to examine during the afternoon.
The door of the master's private room was suddenly thrown wide open and
Beauchêne appeared--tall, with a ruddy face, a narrow brow, and big
brown, protruding eyes. He had a rather large nose, thick lips, and a
full black beard, on which he bestowed great care, as he likewise did on
his hair, which was carefully combed over his head in order to conceal
the serious baldness that was already coming upon him, although he was
scarcely two-and-thirty. Frock-coated the first thing in the morning, he
was already smoking a big cigar; and his loud voice, his peals of gayety,
his bustling ways, all betokened an egotist and good liver still in his
prime, a man for whom money--capital increased and increased by the labor
of others--was the one only sovereign power.
"Ah! ah! it's ready, is it not?" said he; "Monsieur Firon-Badinier has
again written me that he will be here at three o'clock. And you know that
I'm going to take you to the restaurant with him this evening; for one
can never induce those fellows to give orders unless one plies them with
good wine. It annoys Constance to have it done here; and, besides, I
prefer to entertain those people in town. You warned Marianne, eh?"
"Certainly. She knows that I shall return by the
quarter-to-eleven-o'clock train."
Beauchêne had sunk upon a chair: "Ah! my dear fellow, I'm worn out," he
continued; "I dined in town last night; I got to bed only at one o'clock.
And there was a terrible lot of work waiting for me this morning. One
positively needs to be made of iron."
Until a short time before he had shown himself a prodigious worker,
endowed with really marvellous energy and strength. Moreover, he had
given proof of unfailing business instinct with regard to many profitable
undertakings. Invariably the first to appear at the works, he looked
after everything, foresaw everything, filling the place with his bustling
zeal, and doubling his output year by year. Recently, however, fatigue
had been gaining ground on him. He had always sought plenty of amusement,
even amid the hard-working life he led. But nowadays certain "sprees," as
he called them, left him fairly exhausted.
He gazed at Mathieu: "You seem fit enough, you do!" he said. "How is it
that you manage never to look tired?"
As a matter of fact, the young man who stood there erect before his
drawing-table seemed possessed of the sturdy health of a young oak tree.
Tall and slender, he had the broad, lofty, tower-like brow of the
Froments. He wore his thick hair cut quite short, and his beard, which
curled slightly, in a point. But the chief expression of his face rested
in his eyes, which were at once deep and bright, keen and thoughtful, and
almost invariably illumined by a smile. They showed him to be at once a
man of thought and of action, very simple, very gay, and of a kindly
disposition.
"Oh! I," he answered with a laugh, "I behave reasonably."
But Beauchêne protested: "No, you don't! The man who already has four
children when he is only twenty-seven can't claim to be reasonable. And
twins too--your Blaise and your Denis to begin with! And then your boy
Ambroise and your little girl Rose. Without counting the other little
girl that you lost at her birth. Including her, you would now have had
five youngsters, you wretched fellow! No, no, I'm the one who behaves
reasonably--I, who have but one child, and, like a prudent, sensible man,
desire no others!"
He often made such jesting remarks as these, through which filtered his
genuine indignation; for he deemed the young couple to be over-careless
of their interests, and declared that the prolificness of his cousin
Marianne was quite scandalous.
Accustomed as Mathieu was to these attacks, which left him perfectly
serene, he went on laughing, without even giving a reply, when a workman
abruptly entered the room--one who was currently called "old Moineaud,"
though he was scarcely three-and-forty years of age. Short and thick-set,
he had a bullet head, a bull's neck, and face and hands scarred and
dented by more than a quarter of a century of toil. By calling he was a
fitter, and he had come to submit a difficulty which had just arisen in
the piecing together of a reaping machine. But, his employer, who was
still angrily thinking of over-numerous families, did not give him time
to explain his purpose.
"And you, old Moineaud, how many children have you?" he inquired.
"Seven, Monsieur Beauchêne," the workman replied, somewhat taken aback.
"I've lost three."
"So, including them, you would now have ten? Well, that's a nice state of
things! How can you do otherwise than starve?"
Moineaud began to laugh like the gay thriftless Paris workman that he
was. The little ones? Well, they grew up without his even noticing it,
and, indeed, he was really fond of them, so long as they remained at
home. And, besides, they worked as they grew older, and brought a little
money in. However, he preferred to answer his employer with a jest which
set them all laughing.
After he had explained the difficulty with the reaper, the others
followed him to examine the work for themselves. They were already
turning into a passage, when Beauchêne, seeing the door of the women's
workshop open, determined to pass that way, so that he might give his
customary look around. It was a long, spacious place, where the
polishers, in smocks of black serge, sat in double rows polishing and
grinding their pieces at little work-boards. Nearly all of them were
young, a few were pretty, but most had low and common faces. An animal
odor and a stench of rancid oil pervaded the place.
The regulations required perfect silence there during work. Yet all the
girls were gossiping. As soon, however, as the master's approach was
signalled the chatter abruptly ceased. There was but one girl who, having
her head turned, and thus seeing nothing of Beauchêne, went on furiously
abusing a companion, with whom she had previously started a dispute. She
and the other were sisters, and, as it happened, daughters of old
Moineaud. Euphrasie, the younger one, she who was shouting, was a skinny
creature of seventeen, light-haired, with a long, lean, pointed face,
uncomely and malignant; whereas the elder, Norine, barely nineteen, was a
pretty girl, a blonde like her sister, but having a milky skin, and
withal plump and sturdy, showing real shoulders, arms, and hips, and one
of those bright sunshiny faces, with wild hair and black eyes, all the
freshness of the Parisian hussy, aglow with the fleeting charm of youth.
Norine was ever quarrelling with Euphrasie, and was pleased to have her
caught in a misdeed; so she allowed her to rattle on. And it thereupon
became necessary for Beauchêne to intervene. He habitually evinced great
severity in the women's workshop, for he had hitherto held the view that
an employer who jested with his workgirls was a lost man. Thus, in spite
of the low character of which he was said to give proof in his walks
abroad, there had as yet never been the faintest suggestion of scandal in
connection with him and the women in his employ.
"Well, now, Mademoiselle Euphrasie!" he exclaimed; "do you intend to be
quiet? This is quite improper. You are fined twenty sous, and if I hear
you again you will be locked out for a week."
The girl had turned round in consternation. Then, stifling her rage, she
cast a terrible glance at her sister, thinking that she might at least
have warned her. But the other, with the discreet air of a pretty wench
conscious of her attractiveness, continued smiling, looking her employer
full in the face, as if certain that she had nothing to fear from him.
Their eyes met, and for a couple of seconds their glances mingled. Then
he, with flushed cheeks and an angry air, resumed, addressing one and
all: "As soon as the superintendent turns her back you chatter away like
so many magpies. Just be careful, or you will have to deal with me!"
Moineaud, the father, had witnessed the scene unmoved, as if the two
girls--she whom the master had scolded, and she who slyly gazed at
him--were not his own daughters. And now the round was resumed and the
three men quitted the women's workshop amidst profound silence, which
only the whir of the little grinders disturbed.
When the fitting difficulty had been overcome downstairs and Moineaud had
received his orders, Beauchêne returned to his residence accompanied by
Mathieu, who wished to convey Marianne's invitation to Constance. A
gallery connected the black factory buildings with the luxurious private
house on the quay. And they found Constance in a little drawing-room hung
with yellow satin, a room to which she was very partial. She was seated
near a sofa, on which lay little Maurice, her fondly prized and only
child, who had just completed his seventh year.
"Is he ill?" inquired Mathieu.
The child seemed sturdily built, and he greatly resembled his father,
though he had a more massive jaw. But he was pale and there was a faint
ring round his heavy eyelids. His mother, that "bag of bones," a little
dark woman, yellow and withered at six-and-twenty, looked at him with an
expression of egotistical pride.
"Oh, no! he's never ill," she answered. "Only he has been complaining of
his legs. And so I made him lie down, and I wrote last night to ask Dr.
Boutan to call this morning."
"Pooh!" exclaimed Beauchêne with a hearty laugh, "women are all the same!
A child who is as strong as a Turk! I should just like anybody to tell me
that he isn't strong."
Precisely at that moment in walked Dr. Boutan, a short, stout man of
forty, with very keen eyes set in a clean-shaven, heavy, but extremely
good-natured face. He at once examined the child, felt and sounded him;
then with his kindly yet serious air he said: "No, no, there's nothing.
It is the mere effect of growth. The lad has become rather pale through
spending the winter in Paris, but a few months in the open air, in the
country, will set him right again."
"I told you so!" cried Beauchêne.
Constance had kept her son's little hand in her own. He had again
stretched himself out and closed his eyes in a weary way, whilst she, in
her happiness, continued smiling. Whenever she chose she could appear
quite pleasant-looking, however unprepossessing might be her features.
The doctor had seated himself, for he was fond of lingering and chatting
in the houses of friends. A general practitioner, and one who more
particularly tended the ailments of women and children, he was naturally
a confessor, knew all sorts of secrets, and was quite at home in family
circles. It was he who had attended Constance at the birth of that
much-spoiled only son, and Marianne at the advent of the four children
she already had.
Mathieu had remained standing, awaiting an opportunity to deliver his
invitation. "Well," said he, "if you are soon leaving for the country,
you must come one Sunday to Janville. My wife would be so delighted to
see you there, to show you our encampment."
Then he jested respecting the bareness of the lonely pavilion which they
occupied, recounting that as yet they possessed only a dozen plates and
five egg-cups. But Beauchêne knew the pavilion, for he went shooting in
the neighborhood every winter, having a share in the tenancy of some
extensive woods, the shooting-rights over which had been parcelled out by
the owner.
"Séguin," said he, "is a friend of mine. I have lunched at your pavilion.
It's a perfect hovel!"
Then Constance, contemptuous at the idea of such poverty, recalled what
Madame Séguin--to whom she referred as Valentine--had told her of the
dilapidated condition of the old shooting-box. But the doctor, after
listening with a smile, broke in:
"Mme. Séguin is a patient of mine. At the time when her last child was
born I advised her to stay at that pavilion. The atmosphere is wholesome,
and children ought to spring up there like couch-grass."
Thereupon, with a sonorous laugh, Beauchêne began to jest in his habitual
way, remarking that if the doctor were correct there would probably be no
end to Mathieu's progeny, numerous as it already was. But this elicited
an angry protest from Constance, who on the subject of children held the
same views as her husband himself professed in his more serious moments.
Mathieu thoroughly understood what they both meant. They regarded him and
his wife with derisive pity, tinged with anger.
The advent of the young couple's last child, little Rose, had already
increased their expenses to such a point that they had been obliged to
seek refuge in the country, in a mere pauper's hovel. And yet, in spite
of Beauchêne's sneers and Constance's angry remarks, Mathieu outwardly
remained very calm. Constance and Marianne had never been able to agree;
they differed too much in all respects; and for his part he laughed off
every attack, unwilling as he was to let anger master him, lest a rupture
should ensue.
But Beauchêne waxed passionate on the subject. That question of the
birth-rate and the present-day falling off in population was one which he
thought he had completely mastered, and on which he held forth at length
authoritatively. He began by challenging the impartiality of Boutan, whom
he knew to be a fervent partisan of large families. He made merry with
him, declaring that no medical man could possibly have a disinterested
opinion on the subject. Then he brought out all that he vaguely knew of
Malthusianism, the geometrical increase of births, and the arithmetical
increase of food-substances, the earth becoming so populous as to be
reduced to a state of famine within two centuries. It was the poor's own
fault, said he, if they led a life of starvation; they had only to limit
themselves to as many children as they could provide for. The rich were
falsely accused of social wrong-doing; they were by no means responsible
for poverty. Indeed, they were the only reasonable people; they alone, by
limiting their families, acted as good citizens should act. And he became
quite triumphant, repeating that he knew of no cause for self-reproach,
and that his ever-growing fortune left him with an easy conscience. It
was so much the worse for the poor, if they were bent on remaining poor.
In vain did the doctor urge that the Malthusian theories were shattered,
that the calculations had been based on a possible, not a real, increase
of population; in vain too did he prove that the present-day economic
crisis, the evil distribution of wealth under the capitalist system, was
the one hateful cause of poverty, and that whenever labor should be
justly apportioned among one and all the fruitful earth would easily
provide sustenance for happy men ten times more numerous than they are
now. The other refused to listen to anything, took refuge in his egotism,
declared that all those matters were no concern of his, that he felt no
remorse at being rich, and that those who wished to become rich had, in
the main, simply to do as he had done.
"Then, logically, this is the end of France, eh?" Boutan remarked
maliciously. "The number of births ever increases in Germany, Russia, and
elsewhere, while it decreases in a terrible way among us. Numerically the
rank we occupy in Europe is already very inferior to what it formerly
was; and yet number means power more than ever nowadays. It has been
calculated that an average of four children per family is necessary in
order that population may increase and the strength of a nation be
maintained. You have but one child; you are a bad patriot."
At this Beauchêne flew into a tantrum, quite beside himself, and gasped:
"I a bad patriot! I, who kill myself with hard work! I, who even export
French machinery!... Yes, certainly I see families, acquaintances
around me who may well allow themselves four children; and I grant that
they deserve censure when they have no families. But as for me, my dear
doctor, it is impossible. You know very well that in my position I
absolutely can't."
Then, for the hundredth time, he gave his reasons, relating how the works
had narrowly escaped being cut into pieces, annihilated, simply because
he had unfortunately been burdened with a sister. Séraphine had behaved
abominably. There had been first her dowry; next her demands for the
division of the property on their father's death; and the works had been
saved only by means of a large pecuniary sacrifice which had long
crippled their prosperity. And people imagined that he would be as
imprudent as his father! Why, if Maurice should have a brother or a
sister, he might hereafter find himself in the same dire embarrassment,
in which the family property might already have been destroyed. No, no!
He would not expose the boy to the necessity of dividing the inheritance
in accordance with badly framed laws. He was resolved that Maurice should
be the sole master of the fortune which he himself had derived from his
father, and which he would transmit to his heir increased tenfold. For
his son he dreamt of supreme wealth, a colossal fortune, such as nowadays
alone ensures power.
Mathieu, refraining from any intervention, listened and remained grave;
for this question of the birth-rate seemed to him a frightful one, the
foremost of all questions, deciding the destiny of mankind and the world.
There has never been any progress but such as has been determined by
increase of births. If nations have accomplished evolutions, if
civilization has advanced, it is because the nations have multiplied and
subsequently spread through all the countries of the earth. And will not
to-morrow's evolution, the advent of truth and justice, be brought about
by the constant onslaught of the greater number, the revolutionary
fruitfulness of the toilers and the poor?
It is quite true that Mathieu did not plainly say all these things to
himself; indeed, he felt slightly ashamed of the four children that he
already had, and was disturbed by the counsels of prudence addressed to
him by the Beauchênes. But within him there struggled his faith in life,
his belief that the greatest possible sum of life must bring about the
greatest sum of happiness.
At last, wishing to change the subject, he bethought himself of
Marianne's commission, and at the first favorable opportunity exclaimed:
"Well, we shall rely on you, Marianne and I, for Sunday after next, at
Janville."
But there was still no answer, for just then a servant came to say that a
woman with an infant in her arms desired to see Madame. And Beauchêne,
having recognized the wife of Moineaud, the fitter, bade her come in.
Boutan, who had now risen, was prompted by curiosity to remain a little
longer.
La Moineaude, short and fat like her husband, was a woman of about forty,
worn out before her time, with ashen face, pale eyes, thin faded hair,
and a weak mouth which already lacked many teeth. A large family had been
too much for her; and, moreover, she took no care of herself.
"Well, my good woman," Constance inquired, "what do you wish with me?"
But La Moineaude remained quite scared by the sight of all those people
whom she had not expected to find there. She said nothing. She had hoped
to speak to the lady privately.
"Is this your last-born?" Beauchêne asked her as he looked at the pale,
puny child on her arm.
"Yes, monsieur, it's my little Alfred; he's ten months old and I've had
to wean him, for I couldn't feed him any longer. I had nine others before
this one, but three are dead. My eldest son, Eugène, is a soldier in
Tonquin. You have my two big girls, Euphrasie and Norine, at the works.
And I have three left at home--Victor, who is now fifteen, then Cécile
and Irma, who are ten and seven. After Irma I thought I had done with
children for good, and I was well pleased. But, you see, this urchin
came! And I, forty too--it's not just! The good Lord must surely have
abandoned us."
Then Dr. Boutan began to question her. He avoided looking at the
Beauchênes, but there was a malicious twinkle in his little eyes, and it
was evident that he took pleasure in recapitulating the employer's
arguments against excessive prolificness. He pretended to get angry and
to reproach the Moineauds for their ten wretched children--the boys fated
to become food for powder, the girls always liable to misfortune. And he
gave the woman to understand that it was her own fault if she was in
distress; for people with a tribe of children about them could never
become rich. And the poor creature sadly answered that he was quite
right, but that no idea of becoming rich could ever have entered their
heads. Moineaud knew well enough that he would never be a cabinet
minister, and so it was all the same to them how many children they might
have on their hands. Indeed, a number proved a help when the youngsters
grew old enough to go out to work.
Beauchêne had become silent and slowly paced the room. A slight chill, a
feeling of uneasiness was springing up, and so Constance made haste to
inquire: "Well, my good woman, what is it I can do for you?"
"_Mon Dieu_, madame, it worries me; it's something which Moineaud didn't
dare to ask of Monsieur Beauchêne. For my part I hoped to find you alone
and beg you to intercede for us. The fact is we should be very, very
grateful if our little Victor could only be taken on at the works."
"But he is only fifteen," exclaimed Beauchêne. "You must wait till he's
sixteen. The law is strict."
"No doubt. Only one might perhaps just tell a little fib. It would be
rendering us such a service--"
"No, it is impossible."
Big tears welled into La Moineaude's eyes. And Mathieu, who had listened
with passionate interest, felt quite upset. Ah! that wretched toil-doomed
flesh that hastened to offer itself without waiting until it was even
ripe for work! Ah! the laborer who is prepared to lie, whom hunger sets
against the very law designed for his own protection!
When La Moineaude had gone off in despair the doctor continued speaking
of juvenile and female labor. As soon as a woman first finds herself a
mother she can no longer continue toiling at a factory. Her lying-in and
the nursing of her babe force her to remain at home, or else grievous
infirmities may ensue for her and her offspring. As for the child, it
becomes anemic, sometimes crippled; besides, it helps to keep wages down
by being taken to work at a low scale of remuneration. Then the doctor
went on to speak of the prolificness of wretchedness, the swarming of the
lower classes. Was not the most hateful natality of all that which meant
the endless increase of starvelings and social rebels?
"I perfectly understand you," Beauchêne ended by saying, without any show
of anger, as he abruptly brought his perambulations to an end. "You want
to place me in contradiction with myself, and make me confess that I
accept Moineaud's seven children and need them, whereas I, with my fixed
determination to rest content with an only son, suppress, as it were, a
family in order that I may not have to subdivide my estate. France, 'the
country of only sons,' as folks say nowadays--that's it, eh? But, my dear
fellow, the question is so intricate, and at bottom I am altogether in
the right!"
Then he wished to explain things, and clapped his hand to his breast,
exclaiming that he was a liberal, a democrat, ready to demand all really
progressive measures. He willingly recognized that children were
necessary, that the army required soldiers, and the factories workmen.
Only he also invoked the prudential duties of the higher classes, and
reasoned after the fashion of a man of wealth, a conservative clinging to
the fortune he has acquired.
Mathieu meanwhile ended by understanding the brutal truth: Capital is
compelled to favor the multiplication of lives foredoomed to
wretchedness; in spite of everything it must stimulate the prolificness
of the wage-earning classes, in order that its profits may continue. The
law is that there must always be an excess of children in order that
there may be enough cheap workers. Then also speculation on the wages'
ratio wrests all nobility from labor, which is regarded as the worst
misfortune a man can be condemned to, when in reality it is the most
precious of boons. Such, then, is the cancer preying upon mankind. In
countries of political equality and economical inequality the capitalist
_régime_, the faulty distribution of wealth, at once restrains and
precipitates the birth-rate by perpetually increasing the wrongful
apportionment of means. On one side are the rich folk with "only" sons,
who continually increase their fortunes; on the other, the poor folk,
who, by reason of their unrestrained prolificness, see the little they
possess crumble yet more and more. If labor be honored to-morrow, if a
just apportionment of wealth be arrived at, equilibrium will be restored.
Otherwise social revolution lies at the end of the road.
But Beauchêne, in his triumphant manner, tried to show that he possessed
great breadth of mind; he admitted the disquieting strides of a decrease
of population, and denounced the causes of it--alcoholism, militarism,
excessive mortality among infants, and other numerous matters. Then he
indicated remedies; first, reductions in taxation, fiscal means in which
he had little faith; then freedom to will one's estate as one pleased,
which seemed to him more efficacious; a change, too, in the marriage
laws, without forgetting the granting of affiliation rights.
However, Boutan ended by interrupting him. "All the legislative measures
in the world will do nothing," said the doctor. "Manners and customs, our
notions of what is moral and what is not, our very conceptions of the
beautiful in life--all must be changed. If France is becoming
depopulated, it is because she so chooses. It is simply necessary then
for her to choose so no longer. But what a task--a whole world to create
anew!"
At this Mathieu raised a superb cry: "Well! we'll create it. I've begun
well enough, surely!"
But Constance, after laughing in a constrained way, in her turn thought
it as well to change the subject. And so she at last replied to his
invitation, saying that she would do her best to go to Janville, though
she feared she might not be able to dispose of a Sunday to do so.
Dr. Boutan then took his leave, and was escorted to the door by
Beauchêne, who still went on jesting, like a man well pleased with life,
one who was satisfied with himself and others, and who felt certain of
being able to arrange things as might best suit his pleasure and his
interests.
An hour later, a few minutes after midday, as Mathieu, who had been
delayed in the works, went up to the offices to fetch Morange as he had
promised to do, it occurred to him to take a short cut through the
women's workshop. And there, in that spacious gallery, already deserted
and silent, he came upon an unexpected scene which utterly amazed him. On
some pretext or other Norine had lingered there the last, and Beauchêne
was with her, clasping her around the waist whilst he eagerly pressed his
lips to hers. But all at once they caught sight of Mathieu and remained
thunderstruck. And he, for his part, fled precipitately, deeply annoyed
at having been a surprised witness to such a secret.
II
MORANGE, the chief accountant at Beauchêne's works, was a man of
thirty-eight, bald and already gray-headed, but with a superb dark,
fan-shaped beard, of which he was very proud. His full limpid eyes,
straight nose, and well-shaped if somewhat large mouth had in his younger
days given him the reputation of being a handsome fellow. He still took
great care of himself, invariably wore a tall silk hat, and preserved the
correct appearance of a very painstaking and well-bred clerk.
"You don't know our new flat yet, do you?" he asked Mathieu as he led him
away. "Oh! it's perfect, as you will see. A bedroom for us and another
for Reine. And it is so close to the works too. I get there in four
minutes, watch in hand."
He, Morange, was the son of a petty commercial clerk who had died on his
stool after forty years of cloistral office-life. And he had married a
clerk's daughter, one Valérie Duchemin, the eldest of four girls whose
parents' home had been turned into a perfect hell, full of shameful
wretchedness and unacknowledgable poverty, through this abominable
incumbrance. Valérie, who was good-looking and ambitious, was lucky
enough, however, to marry that handsome, honest, and hard-working fellow,
Morange, although she was quite without a dowry; and, this accomplished,
she indulged in the dream of climbing a little higher up the social
ladder, and freeing herself from the loathsome world of petty clerkdom by
making the son whom she hoped to have either an advocate or a doctor.
Unfortunately the much-desired child proved to be a girl; and Valérie
trembled, fearful of finding herself at last with four daughters on her
hands, just as her mother had. Her dream thereupon changed, and she
resolved to incite her husband onward to the highest posts, so that she
might ultimately give her daughter a large dowry, and by this means gain
that admittance to superior spheres which she so eagerly desired. Her
husband, who was weak and extremely fond of her, ended by sharing her
ambition, ever revolving schemes of pride and conquest for her benefit.
But he had now been eight years at the Beauchêne works, and he still
earned but five thousand francs a year. This drove him and his wife to
despair. Assuredly it was not at Beauchêne's that he would ever make his
fortune.
"You see!" he exclaimed, after going a couple of hundred yards with
Mathieu along the Boulevard de Grenelle, "it is that new house yonder at
the street corner. It has a stylish appearance, eh?"
Mathieu then perceived a lofty modern pile, ornamented with balconies and
sculpture work, which looked quite out of place among the poor little
houses predominating in the district.
"Why, it is a palace!" he exclaimed, in order to please Morange, who
thereupon drew himself up quite proudly.
"You will see the staircase, my dear fellow! Our place, you know, is on
the fifth floor. But that is of no consequence with such a staircase, so
easy, so soft, that one climbs it almost without knowing."
Thereupon Morange showed his guest into the vestibule as if he were
ushering him into a temple. The stucco walls gleamed brightly; there was
a carpet on the stairs, and colored glass in the windows. And when, on
reaching the fifth story, the cashier opened the door with his latchkey,
he repeated, with an air of delight: "You will see, you will see!"
Valérie and Reine must have been on the watch, for they hastened forward.
At thirty-two Valérie was still young and charming. She was a
pleasant-looking brunette, with a round smiling face in a setting of
superb hair. She had a full, round bust, and admirable shoulders, of
which her husband felt quite proud whenever she showed herself in a
low-necked dress. Reine, at this time twelve years old, was the very
portrait of her mother, showing much the same smiling, if rather longer,
face under similar black tresses.
"Ah! it is very kind of you to accept our invitation," said Valérie gayly
as she pressed both Mathieu's hands. "What a pity that Madame Froment
could not come with you! Reine, why don't you relieve the gentleman of
his hat?"
Then she immediately continued: "We have a nice light anteroom, you see.
Would you like to glance over our flat while the eggs are being boiled?
That will always be one thing done, and you will then at least know where
you are lunching."
All this was said in such an agreeable way, and Morange on his side
smiled so good-naturedly, that Mathieu willingly lent himself to this
innocent display of vanity. First came the parlor, the corner room, the
walls of which were covered with pearl-gray paper with a design of golden
flowers, while the furniture consisted of some of those white lacquered
Louis XVI. pieces which makers turn out by the gross. The rosewood piano
showed like a big black blot amidst all the rest. Then, overlooking the
Boulevard de Grenelle, came Reine's bedroom, pale blue, with furniture of
polished pine. Her parents' room, a very small apartment, was at the
other end of the flat, separated from the parlor by the dining-room. The
hangings adorning it were yellow; and a bedstead, a washstand, and a
wardrobe, all of thuya, had been crowded into it. Finally the classic
"old carved oak" triumphed in the dining-room, where a heavily gilded
hanging lamp flashed like fire above the table, dazzling in its
whiteness.
"Why, it's delightful," Mathieu, repeated, by way of politeness; "why,
it's a real gem of a place."
In their excitement, father, mother, and daughter never ceased leading
him hither and thither, explaining matters to him and making him feel the
things. He was most struck, by the circumstance that the place recalled
something he had seen before; he seemed to be familiar with the
arrangement of the drawing-room, and with the way in which the nicknacks
in the bedchamber were set out. And all at once he remembered. Influenced
by envy and covert admiration, the Moranges, despite themselves, no
doubt, had tried to copy the Beauchênes. Always short of money as they
were, they could only and by dint of great sacrifices indulge in a
species of make-believe luxury. Nevertheless they were proud of it, and,
by imitating the envied higher class from afar, they imagined that they
drew nearer to it.
"And then," Morange exclaimed, as he opened the dining-room window,
"there is also this."
Outside, a balcony ran along the house-front, and at that height the view
was really a very fine one, similar to that obtained from the Beauchêne
mansion but more extensive, the Seine showing in the distance, and the
heights of Passy rising above the nearer and lower house-roofs.
Valérie also called attention to the prospect. "It is magnificent, is it
not?" said she; "far better than the few trees that one can see from the
quay."
The servant was now bringing the boiled eggs and they took their seats at
table, while Morange victoriously explained that the place altogether
cost him sixteen hundred francs a year. It was cheap indeed, though the
amount was a heavy charge on Morange's slender income. Mathieu now began
to understand that he had been invited more particularly to admire the
new flat, and these worthy people seemed so delighted to triumph over it
before him that he took the matter gayly and without thought of spite.
There was no calculating ambition in his nature; he envied nothing of the
luxury he brushed against in other people's homes, and he was quite
satisfied with the snug modest life he led with Marianne and his
children. Thus he simply felt surprised at finding the Moranges so
desirous of cutting a figure and making money, and looked at them with a
somewhat sad smile.
Valérie was wearing a pretty gown of _foulard_ with a pattern of little
yellow flowers, while her daughter, Reine, whom she liked to deck out
coquettishly, had a frock of blue linen stuff. There was rather too much
luxury about the meal also. Soles followed the eggs, and then came
cutlets, and afterwards asparagus.
The conversation began with some mention of Janville.
"And so your children are in good health? Oh! they are very fine children
indeed. And you really like the country? How funny! I think I should feel
dreadfully bored there, for there is too great a lack of amusements. Why,
yes, we shall be delighted to go to see you there, since Madame Froment
is kind enough to invite us."
Then, as was bound to happen, the talk turned on the Beauchênes. This was
a subject which haunted the Moranges, who lived in perpetual admiration
of the Beauchênes, though at times they covertly criticised them. Valérie
was very proud of being privileged to attend Constance's Saturday
"at-homes," and of having been twice invited to dinner by her during the
previous winter. She on her side now had a day of her own, Tuesday, and
she even gave little private parties, and half ruined herself in
providing refreshments at them. As for her acquaintances, she spoke with
profound respect of Mme. Séguin du Hordel and that lady's magnificent
mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, for Constance had obligingly obtained her
an invitation to a ball there. But she was particularly vain of the
friendship of Beauchêne's sister, Séraphine, whom she invariably called
"Madame la Baronne de Lowicz."
"The Baroness came to my at-home one afternoon," she said. "She is so
very good-natured and so gay! You knew her formerly, did you not? After
her marriage, eh? when she became reconciled to her brother and their
wretched disputes about money matters were over. By the way, she has no
great liking for Madame Beauchêne, as you must know."
Then she again reverted to the manufacturer's wife, declared that little
Maurice, however sturdy he might look, was simply puffed out with bad
flesh; and she remarked that it would be a terrible blow for the parents
if they should lose that only son. The subject of children was thus
started, and when Mathieu, laughing, observed that they, the Moranges,
had but one child, the cashier protested that it was unfair to compare
him with M. Beauchêne, who was such a wealthy man. Valérie, for her part,
pictured the position of her parents, afflicted with four daughters, who
had been obliged to wait months and months for boots and frocks and hats,
and had grown up anyhow, in perpetual terror lest they should never find
husbands. A family was all very well, but when it happened to consist of
daughters the situation became terrible for people of limited means; for
if daughters were to be launched properly into life they must have
dowries.
"Besides," said she, "I am very ambitious for my husband, and I am
convinced that he may rise to a very high position if he will only listen
to me. But he must not be saddled with a lot of incumbrances. As things
stand, I trust that we may be able to get rich and give Reine a suitable
dowry."
Morange, quite moved by this little speech, caught hold of his wife's
hand and kissed it. Weak and good-natured as he was, Valérie was really
the one with will. It was she who had instilled some ambition into him,
and he esteemed her the more for it.
"My wife is a thoroughly good woman, you know, my dear Froment," said he.
"She has a good head as well as a good heart."
Then, while Valérie recapitulated her dream of wealth, the splendid flat
she would have, the receptions she would hold, and the two months which,
like the Beauchênes, she would spend at the seaside every summer, Mathieu
looked at her and her husband and pondered their position. Their case was
very different from that of old Moineaud, who knew that he would never be
a cabinet minister. Morange possibly dreamt that his wife would indeed
make him a minister some day. Every petty _bourgeois_ in a democratic
community has a chance of rising and wishes to do so. Indeed, there is a
universal, ferocious rush, each seeking to push the others aside so that
he may the more speedily climb a rung of the social ladder. This general
ascent, this phenomenon akin to capillarity, is possible only in a
country where political equality and economic inequality prevail; for
each has the same right to fortune and has but to conquer it. There is,
however, a struggle of the vilest egotism, if one wishes to taste the
pleasures of the highly placed, pleasures which are displayed to the gaze
of all and are eagerly coveted by nearly everybody in the lower spheres.
Under a democratic constitution a nation cannot live happily if its
manners and customs are not simple, and if the conditions of life are not
virtually equal for one and all. Under other circumstances than these the
liberal professions prove all-devouring: there is a rush for public
functions; manual toil is regarded with contempt; luxury increases and
becomes necessary; and wealth and power are furiously appropriated by
assault in order that one may greedily taste the voluptuousness of
enjoyment. And in such a state of affairs, children, as Valérie put it,
were incumbrances, whereas one needed to be free, absolutely unburdened,
if one wished to climb over all one's competitors.
Mathieu also thought of that law of imitation which impels even the least
fortunate to impoverish themselves by striving to copy the happy ones of
the world. How great the distress which really lurks beneath that envied
luxury that is copied at such great cost! All sorts of useless needs are
created, and production is turned aside from the strictly necessary. One
can no longer express hardship by saying that people lack bread; what
they lack in the majority of cases is the superfluous, which they are
unable to renounce without imagining that they have gone to the dogs and
are in danger of starvation.
At dessert, when the servant was no longer present, Morange, excited by
his good meal, became expansive. Glancing at his wife he winked towards
their guest, saying:
"Come, he's a safe friend; one may tell him everything."
And when Valérie had consented with a smile and a nod, he went on: "Well,
this is the matter, my dear fellow: it is possible that I may soon leave
the works. Oh! it's not decided, but I'm thinking of it. Yes, I've been
thinking of it for some months past; for, when all is said, to earn five
thousand francs a year, after eight years' zeal, and to think that one
will never earn much more, is enough to make one despair of life."
"It's monstrous," the young woman interrupted: "it is like breaking one's
head intentionally against a wall."
"Well, in such circumstances, my dear friend, the best course is to look
out for something elsewhere, is it not? Do you remember Michaud, whom I
had under my orders at the works some six years ago? A very intelligent
fellow he was. Well, scarcely six years have elapsed since he left us to
go to the Crédit National, and what do you think he is now earning there?
Twelve thousand francs--you hear me--twelve thousand francs!"
The last words rang out like a trumpet-call. The Moranges' eyes dilated
with ecstasy. Even the little girl became very red.
"Last March," continued Morange, "I happened to meet Michaud, who told me
all that, and showed himself very amiable. He offered to take me with him
and help me on in my turn. Only there's some risk to run. He explained to
me that I must at first accept three thousand six hundred, so as to rise
gradually to a very big figure. But three thousand six hundred! How can
one live on that in the meantime, especially now that this flat has
increased our expenses?"
At this Valérie broke in impetuously: "'Nothing venture, nothing have!'
That's what I keep on repeating to him. Of course I am in favor of
prudence; I would never let him do anything rash which might compromise
his future. But, at the same time, he can't moulder away in a situation
unworthy of him."
"And so you have made up your minds?" asked Mathieu.
"Well, my wife has calculated everything," Morange replied; "and, yes, we
have made up our minds, provided, of course, that nothing unforeseen
occurs. Besides, it is only in October that any situation will be open at
the Crédit National. But, I say, my dear friend, keep the matter entirely
to yourself, for we don't want to quarrel with the Beauchênes just now."
Then he looked at his watch, for, like a good clerk, he was very
punctual, and did not wish to be late at the office. The servant was
hurried, the coffee was served, and they were drinking it, boiling hot as
it was, when the arrival of a visitor upset the little household and
caused everything to be forgotten.
"Oh!" exclaimed Valérie, as she hastily rose, flushed with pride, "Madame
la Baronne de Lowicz!"
Séraphine, at this time nine-and-twenty, was red-haired, tall and
elegant, with magnificent shoulders which were known to all Paris. Her
red lips were wreathed in a triumphant smile, and a voluptuous flame ever
shone in her large brown eyes flecked with gold.
"Pray don't disturb yourselves, my friends," said she. "Your servant
wanted to show me into the drawing-room, but I insisted on coming in
here, because it is rather a pressing matter. I have come to fetch your
charming little Reine to take her to a _matinée_ at the Circus."
A fresh explosion of delight ensued. The child remained speechless with
joy, whilst the mother exulted and rattled on: "Oh! Madame la Baronne,
you are really too kind! You are spoiling the child. But the fact is that
she isn't dressed, and you will have to wait a moment. Come, child, make
haste, I will help you--ten minutes, you understand--I won't keep you
waiting a moment longer."
Séraphine remained alone with the two men. She had made a gesture of
surprise on perceiving Mathieu, whose hand, like an old friend, she now
shook.
"And you, are you quite well?" she asked.
"Quite well," he answered; and as she sat down near him he instinctively
pushed his chair back. He did not seem at all pleased at having met her.
He had been on familiar terms with her during his earlier days at the
Beauchêne works. She was a frantic pleasure-lover, and destitute of both
conscience and moral principles. Her conduct had given rise to scandal
even before her extraordinary elopement with Baron de Lowicz, that needy
adventurer with a face like an archangel's and the soul of a swindler.
The result of the union was a stillborn child. Then Séraphine, who was
extremely egotistical and avaricious, quarrelled with her husband and
drove him away. He repaired to Berlin, and was killed there in a brawl at
a gambling den. Delighted at being rid of him, Séraphine made every use
of her liberty as a young widow. She figured at every _fête_, took part in
every kind of amusement, and many scandalous stories were told of her;
but she contrived to keep up appearances and was thus still received
everywhere.
"You are living in the country, are you not?" she asked again, turning
towards Mathieu.
"Yes, we have been there for three weeks past."
"Constance told me of it. I met her the other day at Madame Séguin's. We
are on the best terms possible, you know, now that I give my brother good
advice."
In point of fact her sister-in-law, Constance, hated her, but with her
usual boldness she treated the matter as a joke.
"We talked about Dr. Gaude," she resumed; "I fancied that she wanted to
ask for his address; but she did not dare."
"Dr. Gaude!" interrupted Morange. "Ah! yes, a friend of my wife's spoke
to her about him. He's a wonderfully clever man, it appears. Some of his
operations are like miracles."
Then he went on talking of Dr. Gaude's clinic at the Hôpital Marbeuf, a
clinic whither society folks hastened to see operations performed, just
as they might go to a theatre. The doctor, who was fond of money, and who
bled his wealthy lady patients in more senses than one, was likewise
partial to glory and proud of accomplishing the most dangerous
experiments on the unhappy creatures who fell into his hands. The
newspapers were always talking about him, his cures were constantly
puffed and advertised by way of inducing fine ladies to trust themselves
to his skill. And he certainly accomplished wonders, cutting and carving
his patients in the quietest, most unconcerned way possible, with never a
scruple, never a doubt as to whether what he did was strictly right or
not.
Séraphine had begun to laugh, showing her white wolfish teeth between her
blood-red lips, when she noticed the horrified expression which had
appeared on Mathieu's face since Gaude had been spoken of. "Ah!" said
she; "there's a man, now, who in nowise resembles your squeamish Dr.
Boutan, who is always prattling about the birth-rate. I can't understand
why Constance keeps to that old-fashioned booby, holding the views she
does. She is quite right, you know, in her opinions. I fully share them."
Morange laughed complaisantly. He wished to show her that his opinions
were the same. However, as Valérie did not return with Reine, he grew
impatient, and asked permission to go and see what they were about.
Perhaps he himself might be able to help in getting the child ready.
As soon as Séraphine was alone with Mathieu she turned her big, ardent,
gold-flecked eyes upon him. She no longer laughed with the same laugh as
a moment previously; an expression of voluptuous irony appeared on her
bold bad face. After a spell of silence she inquired, "And is my good
cousin Marianne quite well?"
"Quite well," replied Mathieu.
"And the children are still growing?"
"Yes, still growing."
"So you are happy, like a good paterfamilias, in your little nook?"
"Perfectly happy."
Again she lapsed into silence, but she did not cease to look at him, more
provoking, more radiant than ever, with the charm of a young sorceress
whose eyes burn and poison men's hearts. And at last she slowly resumed:
"And so it is all over between us?"
He made a gesture in token of assent. There had long since been a passing
fancy between them. He had been nineteen at the time, and she
two-and-twenty. He had then but just entered life, and she was already
married. But a few months later he had fallen in love with Marianne, and
had then entirely freed himself from her.
"All over--really?" she again inquired, smiling but aggressive.
She was looking very beautiful and bold, seeking to tempt him and carry
him off from that silly little cousin of hers, whose tears would simply
have made her laugh. And as Mathieu did not this time give her any
answer, even by a wave of the hand, she went on: "I prefer that: don't
reply: don't say that it is all over. You might make a mistake, you
know."
For a moment Mathieu's eyes flashed, then he closed them in order that he
might no longer see Séraphine, who was leaning towards him. It seemed as
if all the past were coming back. She almost pressed her lips to his as
she whispered that she still loved him; and when he drew back, full of
mingled emotion and annoyance, she raised her little hand to his mouth as
if she feared that he was again going to say no.
"Be quiet," said she; "they are coming."
The Moranges were now indeed returning with Reine, whose hair had been
curled. The child looked quite delicious in her frock of rose silk decked
with white lace, and her large hat trimmed with some of the dress
material. Her gay round face showed with flowery delicacy under the rose
silk.
"Oh, what a love!" exclaimed Séraphine by way of pleasing the parents.
"Somebody will be stealing her from me, you know."
Then it occurred to her to kiss the child in passionate fashion, feigning
the emotion of a woman who regrets that she is childless. "Yes; indeed
one regrets it very much when one sees such a treasure as this sweet girl
of yours. Ah! if one could only be sure that God would give one such a
charming child--well, at all events, I shall steal her from you; you need
not expect me to bring her back again."
The enraptured Moranges laughed delightedly. And Mathieu, who knew her
well, listened in stupefaction. How many times during their short and
passionate attachment had she not inveighed against children! In her
estimation maternity poisoned love, aged woman, and made a horror of her
in the eyes of man.
The Moranges accompanied her and Reine to the landing. And they could not
find words warm enough to express their happiness at seeing such coveted
wealth and luxury come to seek their daughter. When the door of the flat
was closed Valérie darted on to the balcony, exclaiming, "Let us see them
drive off."
Morange, who no longer gave a thought to the office, took up a position
near her, and called Mathieu and compelled him likewise to lean over and
look down. A well-appointed victoria was waiting below with a
superb-looking coachman motionless on the box-seat. This sight put a
finishing touch to the excitement of the Moranges. When Séraphine had
installed the little girl beside her, they laughed aloud.
"How pretty she looks! How happy she must feel!"
Reine must have been conscious that they were looking at her, for she
raised her head, smiled and bowed. And Séraphine did the same, while the
horse broke into a trot and turned the corner of the avenue. Then came a
final explosion--
"Look at her!" repeated Valérie; "she is so candid! At twelve years old
she is still as innocent as a child in her cradle. You know that I trust
her to nobody. Wouldn't one think her a little duchess who has always had
a carriage of her own?"
Then Morange reverted to his dream of fortune. "Well," said he, "I hope
that she _will_ have a carriage when we marry her off. Just let me get
into the Crédit National and you will see all your desires fulfilled."
And turning towards Mathieu he added, "There are three of us, and, as I
have said before, that is quite enough for a man to provide for,
especially as money is so hard to earn."
III
AT the works during the afternoon Mathieu, who wished to be free earlier
than usual in order that, before dining in town, he might call upon his
landlord, in accordance with his promise to Marianne, found himself so
busy that he scarcely caught sight of Beauchêne. This was a relief, for
the secret which he had discovered by chance annoyed him, and he feared
lest he might cause his employer embarrassment. But the latter, when they
exchanged a few passing words, did not seem to remember even that there
was any cause for shame on his part. He had never before shown himself
more active, more devoted to business. The fatigue he had felt in the
morning had passed away, and he talked and laughed like one who finds
life very pleasant, and has no fear whatever of hard work.
As a rule Mathieu left at six o'clock; but that day he went into
Morange's office at half-past five to receive his month's salary. This
rightly amounted to three hundred and fifty francs; but as five hundred
had been advanced to him in January, which he paid back by instalments of
fifty, he now received only fifteen louis, and these he pocketed with
such an air of satisfaction that the accountant commented on it.
"Well," said the young fellow, "the money's welcome, for I left my wife
with just thirty sous this morning."
It was already more than six o'clock when he found himself outside the
superb house which the Séguin du Hordel family occupied in the Avenue
d'Antin. Séguin's grandfather had been a mere tiller of the soil at
Janville. Later on, his father, as a contractor for the army, had made a
considerable fortune. And he, son of a parvenu, led the life of a rich,
elegant idler. He was a member of the leading clubs, and, while
passionately fond of horses, affected also a taste for art and
literature, going for fashion's sake to extreme opinions. He had proudly
married an almost portionless girl of a very ancient aristocratic race,
the last of the Vaugelades, whose blood was poor and whose mind was
narrow. Her mother, an ardent Catholic, had only succeeded in making of
her one who, while following religious practices, was eager for the joys
of the world. Séguin, since his marriage, had likewise practised
religion, because it was fashionable to do so. His peasant grandfather
had had ten children; his father, the army contractor, had been content
with six; and he himself had two, a boy and a girl, and deemed even that
number more than was right.
One part of Séguin's fortune consisted of an estate of some twelve
hundred acres--woods and heaths--above Janville, which his father had
purchased with some of his large gains after retiring from business. The
old man's long-caressed dream had been to return in triumph to his native
village, whence he had started quite poor, and he was on the point of
there building himself a princely residence in the midst of a vast park
when death snatched him away. Almost the whole of this estate had come to
Séguin in his share of the paternal inheritance, and he had turned the
shooting rights to some account by dividing them into shares of five
hundred francs value, which his friends eagerly purchased. The income
derived from this source was, however, but a meagre one. Apart from the
woods there was only uncultivated land on the estate, marshes, patches of
sand, and fields of stones; and for centuries past the opinion of the
district had been that no agriculturist could ever turn the expanse to
good account. The defunct army contractor alone had been able to picture
there a romantic park, such as he had dreamt of creating around his regal
abode. It was he, by the way, who had obtained an authorization to add to
the name of Séguin that of Du Hordel--taken from a ruined tower called
the Hordel which stood on the estate.
It was through Beauchêne, one of the shareholders of the shooting rights,
that Mathieu had made Séguin's acquaintance, and had discovered the old
hunting-box, the lonely, quiet pavilion, which had pleased him so much
that he had rented it. Valentine, who good-naturedly treated Marianne as
a poor friend, had even been amiable enough to visit her there, and had
declared the situation of the place to be quite poetical, laughing the
while over her previous ignorance of it like one who had known nothing of
her property. In reality she herself would not have lived there for an
hour. Her husband had launched her into the feverish life of literary,
artistic, and social Paris, hurrying her to gatherings, studios,
exhibitions, theatres, and other pleasure resorts--all those brasier-like
places where weak heads and wavering hearts are lost. He himself, amid
all his passion for show, felt bored to death everywhere, and was at ease
only among his horses; and this despite his pretensions with respect to
advanced literature and philosophy, his collections of curios, such as
the _bourgeois_ of to-day does not yet understand, his furniture, his
pottery, his pewter-work, and particularly his bookbindings, of which he
was very proud. And he was turning his wife into a copy of himself,
perverting her by his extravagant opinions and his promiscuous
friendships, so that the little devotee who had been confided to his
keeping was now on the high road to every kind of folly. She still went
to mass and partook of the holy communion; but she was each day growing
more and more familiar with wrong-doing. A disaster must surely be at the
end of it all, particularly as he foolishly behaved to her in a rough,
jeering way, which greatly hurt her feelings, and led her to dream of
being loved with gentleness.
When Mathieu entered the house, which displayed eight lofty windows on
each of the stories of its ornate Renaissance façade, he laughed lightly
as he thought: "These folks don't have to wait for a monthly pittance of
three hundred francs, with just thirty sous in hand."
The hall was extremely rich, all bronze and marble. On the right hand
were the dining-room and two drawing-rooms; on the left a billiard-room,
a smoking-room, and a winter garden. On the first floor, in front of the
broad staircase, was Séguin's so-called "cabinet," a vast apartment,
sixteen feet high, forty feet long, and six-and-twenty feet wide, which
occupied all the central part of the house; while the husband's bed and
dressing rooms were on the right, and those of the wife and children on
the left hand. Up above, on the second floor, two complete suites of
rooms were kept in reserve for the time when the children should have
grown up.
A footman, who knew Mathieu, at once took him upstairs to the cabinet and
begged him to wait there, while Monsieur finished dressing. For a moment
the visitor fancied himself alone and glanced round the spacious room,
feeling interested in its adornments, the lofty windows of old stained
glass, the hangings of old Genoese velvet and brocaded silk, the oak
bookcases showing the highly ornamented backs of the volumes they
contained; the tables laden with _bibelots_, bronzes, marbles, goldsmith's
work, glass work, and the famous collection of modern pewter-work. Then
Eastern carpets were spread out upon all sides; there were low seats and
couches for every mood of idleness, and cosy nooks in which one could
hide oneself behind fringes of lofty plants.
"Oh! so it's you, Monsieur Froment," suddenly exclaimed somebody in the
direction of the table allotted to the pewter curios. And thereupon a
tall young man of thirty, whom a screen had hitherto hidden from
Mathieu's view, came forward with outstretched hand.
"Ah!" said Mathieu, after a moment's hesitation, "Monsieur Charles
Santerre."
This was but their second meeting. They had found themselves together
once before in that same room. Charles Santerre, already famous as a
novelist, a young master popular in Parisian drawing-rooms, had a fine
brow, caressing brown eyes, and a large red mouth which his moustache and
beard, cut in the Assyrian style and carefully curled, helped to conceal.
He had made his way, thanks to women, whose society he sought under
pretext of studying them, but whom he was resolved to use as instruments
of fortune. As a matter of calculation and principle he had remained a
bachelor and generally installed himself in the nests of others. In
literature feminine frailty was his stock subject he had made it his
specialty to depict scenes of guilty love amid elegant, refined
surroundings. At first he had no illusions as to the literary value of
his works; he had simply chosen, in a deliberate way, what he deemed to
be a pleasant and lucrative trade. But, duped by his successes, he had
allowed pride to persuade him that he was really a writer. And nowadays
he posed as the painter of an expiring society, professing the greatest
pessimism, and basing a new religion on the annihilation of human
passion, which annihilation would insure the final happiness of the
world.
"Séguin will be here in a moment," he resumed in an amiable way. "It
occurred to me to take him and his wife to dine at a restaurant this
evening, before going to a certain first performance where there will
probably be some fisticuffs and a rumpus to-night."
Mathieu then for the first time noticed that Santerre was in evening
dress. They continued chatting for a moment, and the novelist called
attention to a new pewter treasure among Séguin's collection. It
represented a long, thin woman, stretched full-length, with her hair
streaming around her. She seemed to be sobbing as she lay there, and
Santerre declared the conception to be a masterpiece. The figure
symbolized the end of woman, reduced to despair and solitude when man
should finally have made up his mind to have nothing further to do with
her. It was the novelist who, in literary and artistic matters, helped on
the insanity which was gradually springing up in the Séguins' home.
However, Séguin himself now made his appearance. He was of the same age
as Santerre, but was taller and slimmer, with fair hair, an aquiline
nose, gray eyes, and thin lips shaded by a slight moustache. He also was
in evening dress.
"Ah! well, my dear fellow," said he with the slight lisp which he
affected, "Valentine is determined to put on a new gown. So we must be
patient; we shall have an hour to wait."
Then, on catching sight of Mathieu, he began to apologize, evincing much
politeness and striving to accentuate his air of frigid distinction. When
the young man, whom he called his amiable tenant, had acquainted him with
the motive of his visit--the leak in the zinc roof of the little pavilion
at Janville--he at once consented to let the local plumber do any
necessary soldering. But when, after fresh explanations, he understood
that the roofing was so worn and damaged that it required to be changed
entirely, he suddenly departed from his lofty affability and began to
protest, declaring that he could not possibly expend in such repairs a
sum which would exceed the whole annual rental of six hundred francs.
"Some soldering," he repeated; "some soldering; it's understood. I will
write to the plumber." And wishing to change the subject he added: "Oh!
wait a moment, Monsieur Froment. You are a man of taste, I know, and I
want to show you a marvel."
He really had some esteem for Mathieu, for he knew that the young fellow
possessed a quick appreciative mind. Mathieu began to smile, outwardly
yielding to this attempt to create a diversion, but determined at heart
that he would not leave the place until he had obtained the promise of a
new roof. He took hold of a book, clad in a marvellous binding, which
Séguin had fetched from a bookcase and tendered with religious care. On
the cover of soft snow-white leather was incrusted a long silver lily,
intersected by a tuft of big violet thistles. The title of the work,
"Beauty Imperishable," was engraved up above, as in a corner of the sky.
"Ah! what a delightful conception, what delightful coloring!" declared
Mathieu, who was really charmed. "Some bindings nowadays are perfect
gems." Then he noticed the title: "Why, it's Monsieur Santerre's last
novel!" said he.
Séguin smiled and glanced at the writer, who had drawn near. And when he
saw him examining the book and looking quite moved by the compliment paid
to it, he exclaimed: "My dear fellow, the binder brought it here this
morning, and I was awaiting an opportunity to surprise you with it. It is
the pearl of my collection! What do you think of the idea--that lily
which symbolizes triumphant purity, and those thistles, the plants which
spring up among ruins, and which symbolize the sterility of the world, at
last deserted, again won over to the only perfect felicity? All your work
lies in those symbols, you know."
"Yes, yes. But you spoil me; you will end by making me proud."
Mathieu had read Santerre's novel, having borrowed a copy of it from Mme.
Beauchêne, in order that his wife might see it, since it was a book that
everybody was talking of. And the perusal of it had exasperated him.
Forsaking the customary bachelor's flat where in previous works he had
been so fond of laying scenes of debauchery, Santerre had this time tried
to rise to the level of pure art and lyrical symbolism. The story he told
was one of a certain Countess Anne-Marie, who, to escape a rough-mannered
husband of extreme masculinity, had sought a refuge in Brittany in the
company of a young painter endowed with divine inspiration, one Norbert,
who had undertaken to decorate a convent chapel with paintings that
depicted his various visions. And for thirty years he went on painting
there, ever in colloquy with the angels, and ever having Anne-Marie
beside him. And during those thirty years of love the Countess's beauty
remained unimpaired; she was as young and as fresh at the finish as at
the outset; whereas certain secondary personages, introduced into the
story, wives and mothers of a neighboring little town, sank into physical
and mental decay, and monstrous decrepitude. Mathieu considered the
author's theory that all physical beauty and moral nobility belonged to
virgins only, to be thoroughly imbecile, and he could not restrain
himself from hinting his disapproval of it.
Both Santerre and Séguin, however, hotly opposed him, and quite a
discussion ensued. First Santerre took up the matter from a religious
standpoint. Said he, the words of the Old Testament, "Increase and
multiply," were not to be found in the New Testament, which was the true
basis of the Christian religion. The first Christians, he declared, had
held marriage in horror, and with them the Holy Virgin had become the
ideal of womanhood. Séguin thereupon nodded approval and proceeded to
give his opinions on feminine beauty. But these were hardly to the taste
of Mathieu, who promptly pointed out that the conception of beauty had
often varied.
"To-day," said he, "you conceive beauty to consist in a long, slim,
attenuated, almost angular figure; but at the time of the Renaissance the
type of the beautiful was very different. Take Rubens, take Titian, take
even Raffaelle, and you will see that their women were of robust build.
Even their Virgin Marys have a motherly air. To my thinking, moreover, if
we reverted to some such natural type of beauty, if women were not
encouraged by fashion to compress and attenuate their figures so that
their very nature, their very organism is changed, there would perhaps be
some hope of coping with the evil of depopulation which is talked about
so much nowadays."
The others looked at him and smiled with an air of compassionate
superiority. "Depopulation an evil!" exclaimed Séguin; "can you, my dear
sir, intelligent as you are, still believe in that hackneyed old story?
Come, reflect and reason a little."
Then Santerre chimed in, and they went on talking one after the other and
at times both together. Schopenhauer and Hartmann and Nietzsche were
passed in review, and they claimed Malthus as one of themselves. But all
this literary pessimism did not trouble Mathieu. He, with his belief in
fruitfulness, remained convinced that the nation which no longer had
faith in life must be dangerously ill. True, there were hours when he
doubted the expediency of numerous families and asked himself if ten
thousand happy people were not preferable to a hundred thousand unhappy
ones; in which connection political and economic conditions had to be
taken into account. But when all was said, he remained almost convinced
that the Malthusian hypotheses would prove as false in the future as they
had proved false in the past.
"Moreover," said he, "even if the world should become densely populated,
even if food supplies, such as we know them, should fall short, chemistry
would extract other means of subsistence from inorganic matter. And,
besides, all such eventualities are so far away that it is impossible to
make any calculation on a basis of scientific certainty. In France, too,
instead of contributing to any such danger, we are going backward, we are
marching towards annihilation. The population of France was once a fourth
of the population of Europe, but now it is only one-eighth. In a century
or two Paris will be dead, like ancient Athens and ancient Rome, and we
shall have fallen to the rank that Greece now occupies. Paris seems
determined to die."
But Santerre protested: "No, no; Paris simply wishes to remain
stationary, and it wishes this precisely because it is the most
intelligent, most highly civilized city in the world. The more nations
advance in civilization the smaller becomes their birth-rate. We are
simply giving the world an example of high culture, superior
intelligence, and other nations will certainly follow that example when
in turn they also attain to our state of perfection. There are signs of
this already on every side."
"Quite so!" exclaimed Séguin, backing up his friend. "The phenomenon is
general; all the nations show the same symptoms, and are decreasing in
numbers, or will decrease as soon as they become civilized. Japan is
affected already, and the same will be the case with China as soon as
Europe forces open the door there."
Mathieu had become grave and attentive since the two society men, seated
before him in evening dress, had begun to talk more rationally. The pale,
slim, flat virgin, their ideal of feminine beauty, was no longer in
question. The history of mankind was passing by. And almost as if
communing with himself, he said: "So you do not fear the Yellow Peril,
that terrible swarming of Asiatic barbarians who, it was said, would at
some fatal moment sweep down on our Europe, ravage it, and people it
afresh? In past ages, history always began anew in that fashion, by the
sudden shifting of oceans, the invasion of fierce rough races coming to
endow weakened nations with new blood. And after each such occurrence
civilization flowered afresh, more broadly and freely than ever. How was
it that Babylon, Nineveh, and Memphis fell into dust with their
populations, who seem to have died on the spot? How is it that Athens and
Rome still agonize to-day, unable to spring afresh from their ashes and
renew the splendor of their ancient glory? How is it that death has
already laid its hand upon Paris, which, whatever her splendor, is but
the capital of a France whose virility is weakened? You may argue as you
please and say that, like the ancient capitals of the world, Paris is
dying of an excess of culture, intelligence, and civilization; it is none
the less a fact that she is approaching death, the turn of the tide which
will carry splendor and power to some new nation. Your theory of
equilibrium is wrong. Nothing can remain stationary; whatever ceases to
grow, decreases and disappears. And if Paris is bent on dying, she will
die, and the country with her."
"Well, for my part," declared Santerre, resuming the pose of an elegant
pessimist, "if she wishes to die, I shan't oppose her. In fact, I'm fully
determined to help her."
"It is evident that the really honest, sensible course is to check any
increase of population," added Séguin.
But Mathieu, as if he had not heard them, went on: "I know Herbert
Spencer's law, and I believe it to be theoretically correct. It is
certain that civilization is a check to fruitfulness, so that one may
picture a series of social evolutions conducing now to decrease and now
to increase of population, the whole ending in final equilibrium, by the
very effect of culture's victory when the world shall be entirely
populated and civilized. But who can foretell what road will be followed,
through what disasters and sufferings one may have to go? More and more
nations may disappear, and others may replace them; and how many
thousands of years may not be needed before the final adjustment,
compounded of truth, justice, and peace, is arrived at? At the thought of
this the mind trembles and hesitates, and the heart contracts with a
pang."
Deep silence fell while he thus remained disturbed, shaken in his faith
in the good powers of life, and at a loss as to who was right--he or
those two men so languidly stretched out before him.
But Valentine, Séguin's wife, came in, laughing and making an exhibition
of masculine ways, which it had cost her much trouble to acquire.
"Ah! you people; you must not bear me any malice, you know. That girl
Céleste takes such a time over everything!"
At five-and-twenty Valentine was short, slight, and still girlish. Fair,
with a delicate face, laughing blue eyes, and a pert little nose, she
could not claim to be pretty. Still she was charming and droll, and very
free and easy in her ways; for not only did her husband take her about
with him to all sorts of objectionable places, but she had become quite
familiar with the artists and writers who frequented the house. Thus it
was only in the presence of something extremely insulting that she again
showed herself the last of the Vaugelades, and would all at once draw
herself up and display haughty contempt and frigidity.
"Ah! it's you, Monsieur Froment," she said amiably, stepping towards
Mathieu and shaking his hand in cavalier fashion. "Is Madame Froment in
good health? Are the children flourishing as usual?"
Séguin was examining her dress, a gown of white silk trimmed with
unbleached lace, and he suddenly gave way to one of those horribly rude
fits which burst forth at times amid all his great affectation of
politeness. "What! have you kept us waiting all this time to put that rag
on? Well, you never looked a greater fright in your life!"
And she had entered the room convinced that she looked charming! She made
an effort to control herself, but her girlish face darkened and assumed
an expression of haughty, vindictive revolt. Then she slowly turned her
eyes towards the friend who was present, and who was gazing at her with
ecstasy, striving to accentuate the slavish submissiveness of his
attitude.
"You look delicious!" he murmured; "that gown is a marvel."
Séguin laughed and twitted Santerre on his obsequiousness towards women.
Valentine, mollified by the compliment, soon recovered her birdlike
gayety, and such free and easy conversation ensued between the trio that
Mathieu felt both stupefied and embarrassed. In fact, he would have gone
off at once had it not been for his desire to obtain from his landlord a
promise to repair the pavilion properly.
"Wait another moment," Valentine at last said to her husband; "I told
Céleste to bring the children, so that we might kiss them before
starting."
Mathieu wished to profit by this fresh delay, and sought to renew his
request; but Valentine was already rattling on again, talking of dining
at the most disreputable restaurant possible, and asking if at the first
performance which they were to attend they would see all the horrors
which had been hissed at the dress rehearsal the night before. She
appeared like a pupil of the two men between whom she stood. She even
went further in her opinions than they did, displaying the wildest
pessimism, and such extreme views on literature and art that they
themselves could not forbear laughing. Wagner was greatly over-estimated,
in her opinion; she asked for invertebrate music, the free harmony of the
passing wind. As for her moral views, they were enough to make one
shudder. She had got past the argumentative amours of Ibsen's idiotic,
rebellious heroines, and had now reached the theory of pure intangible
beauty. She deemed Santerre's last creation, Anne-Marie, to be far too
material and degraded, because in one deplorable passage the author
remarked that Norbert's kisses had left their trace on the Countess's
brow. Santerre disputed the quotation, whereupon she rushed upon the
volume and sought the page to which she had referred.
"But I never degraded her," exclaimed the novelist in despair. "She never
has a child."
"Pooh! What of that?" exclaimed Valentine. "If Anne-Marie is to raise our
hearts she ought to be like spotless marble, and Norbert's kisses should
leave no mark upon her."
But she was interrupted, for Céleste, the maid, a tall dark girl with an
equine head, big features, and a pleasant air, now came in with the two
children. Gaston was at this time five years old, and Lucie was three.
Both were slight and delicate, pale like roses blooming in the shade.
Like their mother, they were fair. The lad's hair was inclined to be
carroty, while that of the girl suggested the color of oats. And they
also had their mother's blue eyes, but their faces were elongated like
that of their father. Dressed in white, with their locks curled, arrayed
indeed in the most coquettish style, they looked like big fragile dolls.
The parents were touched in their worldly pride at sight of them, and
insisted on their playing their parts with due propriety.
"Well, don't you wish anybody good evening?"
The children were not timid; they were already used to society and looked
visitors full in the face. If they made little haste, it was because they
were naturally indolent and did not care to obey. They at last made up
their minds and allowed themselves to be kissed.
"Good evening, good friend Santerre."
Then they hesitated before Mathieu, and their father had to remind them
of the gentleman's name, though they had already seen him on two or three
occasions.
"Good evening, Monsieur Froment."
Valentine took hold of them, sat them on her lap, and half stifled them
with caresses. She seemed to adore them, but as soon as she had sat them
down again she forgot all about them.
"So you are going out again, mamma?" asked the little boy.
"Why, yes, my darling. Papas and mammas, you know, have their affairs to
see to."
"So we shall have dinner all alone, mamma?"
Valentine did not answer, but turned towards the maid, who was waiting
for orders;--
"You are not to leave them for a moment, Céleste--you hear? And, above
all things, they are not to go into the kitchen. I can never come home
without finding them in the kitchen. It is exasperating. Let them have
their dinner at seven, and put them to bed at nine. And see that they go
to sleep."
The big girl with the equine head listened with an air of respectful
obedience, while her faint smile expressed the cunning of a Norman
peasant who had been five years in Paris already and was hardened to
service, and well knew what was done with children when the master and
mistress were absent.
"Madame," she said in a simple way, "Mademoiselle Lucie is poorly. She
has been sick again."
"What? sick again!" cried the father in a fury. "I am always hearing of
that! They are always being sick! And it always happens when we are going
out! It is very disagreeable, my dear; you might see to it; you ought not
to let our children have _papier-mâché_ stomachs!"
The mother made an angry gesture, as if to say that she could not help
it. As a matter of fact, the children were often poorly. They had
experienced every childish ailment, they were always catching cold or
getting feverish. And they preserved the mute, moody, and somewhat
anxious demeanor of children who are abandoned to the care of servants.
"Is it true you were poorly, my little Lucie?" asked Valentine, stooping
down to the child. "You aren't poorly now, are you? No, no, it's nothing,
nothing at all. Kiss me, my pet; bid papa good night very prettily, so
that he may not feel worried in leaving you."
She rose up, already tranquillized and gay again; and, noticing that
Mathieu was looking at her, she exclaimed:
"Ah! these little folks give one a deal of worry. But one loves them
dearly all the same, though, so far as there is happiness in life, it
would perhaps be better for them never to have been born. However, my
duty to the country is done. Each wife ought to have a boy and a girl as
I have."
Thereupon Mathieu, seeing that she was jesting, ventured to say with a
laugh:
"Well, that isn't the opinion of your medical man, Dr. Boutan. He
declares that to make the country prosperous every married couple ought
to have four children."
"Four children! He's mad!" cried Séguin. And again with the greatest
freedom of language he brought forward his pet theories. There was a
world of meaning in his wife's laughter while Céleste stood there unmoved
and the children listened without understanding. But at last Santerre led
the Séguins away. It was only in the hall that Mathieu obtained from his
landlord a promise that he would write to the plumber at Janville and
that the roof of the pavilion should be entirely renovated, since the
rain came into the bedrooms.
The Séguins' landau was waiting at the door. When they had got into it
with their friend, it occurred to Mathieu to raise his eyes; and at one
of the windows he perceived Céleste standing between the two children,
intent, no doubt, on assuring herself that Monsieur and Madame were
really going. The young man recalled Reine's departure from her parents;
but here both Lucie and Gaston remained motionless, gravely mournful, and
neither their father nor their mother once thought of looking up at them.
IV
AT half-past seven o'clock, when Mathieu arrived at the restaurant on the
Place de la Madeleine where he was to meet his employer, he found him
already there, drinking a glass of madeira with his customer, M.
Firon-Badinier. The dinner was a remarkable one; choice viands and the
best wines were served in abundance. But Mathieu was struck less by the
appetite which the others displayed than by Beauchêne's activity and
skill. Glass in hand, never losing a bite, he had already persuaded his
customer, by the time the roast arrived, to order not only the new
thresher but also a mowing machine. M. Firon-Badinier was to take the
train for Evreux at nine-twenty, and when nine o'clock struck, the other,
now eager to be rid of him, contrived to pack him off in a cab to the
St.-Lazare railway station.
For a moment Beauchêne remained standing on the pavement with Mathieu,
and took off his hat in order that the mild breezes of that delightful
May evening might cool his burning head.
"Well, that's settled," he said with a laugh. "But it wasn't so easily
managed. It was the Pommard which induced the beggar to make up his mind.
All the same, I was dreadfully afraid he would make me miss my
appointment."
These remarks, which escaped him amid his semi-intoxication, led him to
more confidential talk. He put on his hat again, lighted a fresh cigar,
and took Mathieu's arm. Then they walked on slowly through the
passion-stirred throng and the nightly blaze of the Boulevards.
"There's plenty of time," said Beauchêne. "I'm not expected till
half-past nine, and it's close by. Will you have a cigar? No? You never
smoke?"
"Never."
"Well, my dear fellow, it would be ridiculous to feign with you, since
you happened to see me this morning. Oh, it's a stupid affair! I'm quite
of that opinion; but, then, what would you have?"
Thereupon he launched out into long explanations concerning his marital
life and the intrigue which had suddenly sprung up between him and that
girl Norine, old Moineaud's daughter. He professed the greatest respect
for his wife, but he was nevertheless a loose liver; and Constance was
now beginning to resign herself to the inevitable. She closed her eyes
when it would have been unpleasant for her to keep them open. She knew
very well that it was essential that the business should be kept together
and pass intact into the hands of their son Maurice. A tribe of children
would have meant the ruin of all their plans.
Mathieu listened at first in great astonishment, and then began to ask
questions and raise objections, at most of which Beauchêne laughed gayly,
like the gross egotist he was. He talked at length with extreme
volubility, going into all sorts of details, at times assuming a
semi-apologetic manner, but more frequently justifying himself with an
air of triumph. And, finally, when they reached the corner of the Rue
Caumartin he halted to bid Mathieu good-by. He there had a little
bachelor's lodging, which was kept in order by the _concierge_ of the
house, who, being very well paid, proved an extremely discreet domestic.
As he hurried off, Mathieu, still standing at the corner of the street,
could not help thinking of the scenes which he had witnessed at the
Beauchêne works that day. He thought of old Moineaud, the fitter, whom he
again saw standing silent and unmoved in the women's workroom while his
daughter Euphrasie was being soundly rated by Beauchêne, and while
Norine, the other girl, looked on with a sly laugh. When the toiler's
children have grown up and gone to join, the lads the army of slaughter,
and the girls the army of vice, the father, degraded by the ills of life,
pays little heed to it all. To him it is seemingly a matter of
indifference to what disaster the wind may carry the fledgelings who fall
from the nest.
It was now half-past nine o'clock, and Mathieu had more than an hour
before him to reach the Northern railway station. So he did not hurry,
but strolled very leisurely up the Boulevards. He had eaten and drunk far
more than usual, and Beauchêne's insidious confidential talk, still
buzzing in his ears, helped on his intoxication. His hands were hot, and
now and again a sudden glow passed over his face. And what a warm evening
it was, too, on those Boulevards, blazing with electric lights, fevered
by a swarming, jostling throng, amid a ceaseless rumble of cabs and
omnibuses! It was all like a stream of ardent life flowing away into the
night, and Mathieu allowed himself to be carried on by the torrent, whose
hot breath, whose glow of passion, he ever felt sweeping over him.
Then, in a reverie, he pictured the day he had just spent. First he was
at the Beauchênes' in the morning, and saw the father and mother
standing, like accomplices who fully shared one another's views, beside
the sofa on which Maurice, their only son, lay dozing with a pale and
waxen face. The works must never be exposed to the danger of being
subdivided. Maurice alone must inherit all the millions which the
business might yield, so that he might become one of the princes of
industry. And therefore the husband hurried off to sin while the wife
closed her eyes. In this sense, in defiance of morality and health, did
the capitalist _bourgeoisie_, which had replaced the old nobility,
virtually re-establish the law of primogeniture. That law had been
abolished at the Revolution for the _bourgeoisie's_ benefit; but now, also
for its own purposes, it revived it. Each family must have but one son.
Mathieu had reached this stage in his reflections when his thoughts were
diverted by several street hawkers who, in selling the last edition of an
evening print, announced a "drawing" of the lottery stock of some
enterprise launched by the Crédit National. And then he suddenly recalled
the Moranges in their dining-room, and heard them recapitulate their
dream of making a big fortune as soon as the accountant should have
secured a post in one of the big banking establishments, where the
principals raise men of value to the highest posts. Those Moranges lived
in everlasting dread of seeing their daughter marry a needy petty clerk;
succumbing to that irresistible fever which, in a democracy ravaged by
political equality and economic inequality, impels every one to climb
higher up the social ladder. Envy consumed them at the thought of the
luxury of others; they plunged into debt in order that they might imitate
from afar the elegance of the upper class, and all their natural honesty
and good nature was poisoned by the insanity born of ambitious pride. And
here again but one child was permissible, lest they should be
embarrassed, delayed, forever impeded in the attainment of the future
they coveted.
A crowd of people now barred Mathieu's way, and he perceived that he was
near the theatre, where a first performance was taking place that
evening. It was a theatre where free farcical pieces were produced, and
on its walls were posted huge portraits of its "star," a carroty wench
with a long flat figure, destitute of all womanliness, and seemingly
symbolical of perversity. Passers-by stopped to gaze at the bills, the
vilest remarks were heard, and Mathieu remembered that the Séguins and
Santerre were inside the house, laughing at the piece, which was of so
filthy a nature that the spectators at the dress rehearsal, though they
were by no means over-nice in such matters, had expressed their disgust
by almost wrecking the auditorium. And while the Séguins were gloating
over this horror, yonder, at their house in the Avenue d'Antin, Céleste
had just put the children, Gaston and Lucie, to bed, and had then hastily
returned to the kitchen, where a friend, Madame Menoux, who kept a little
haberdasher's shop in the neighborhood, awaited her. Gaston, having been
given some wine to drink, was already asleep; but Lucie, who again felt
sick, lay shivering in her bed, not daring to call Céleste, lest the
servant, who did not like to be disturbed, should ill-treat her. And, at
two o'clock in the morning, after offering Santerre an oyster supper at a
night restaurant, the Séguins would come home, their minds unhinged by
the imbecile literature and art to which they had taken for fashion's
sake, vitiated yet more by the ignoble performance they had witnessed,
and the base society they had elbowed at supper. They seemed to typify
vice for vice's sake, elegant vice and pessimism as a principle.
Indeed, when Mathieu tried to sum up his day, he found vice on every
side, in each of the spheres with which he had come in contact. And now
the examples he had witnessed filled him no longer with mere surprise;
they disturbed him, they shook his beliefs, they made him doubt whether
his notions of life, duty, and happiness might not after all be
inaccurate.
He stopped short and drew a long breath, seeking to drive away his
growing intoxication. He had passed the Grand Opera and was reaching the
crossway of the Rue Drouot. Perhaps his increase of fever was due to
those glowing Boulevards. The private rooms of the restaurants were still
ablaze, the cafés threw bright radiance across the road, the pavement was
blocked by their tables and chairs and customers. All Paris seemed to
have come down thither to enjoy that delightful evening. There was
endless elbowing, endless mingling of breath as the swelling crowd
sauntered along. Couples lingered before the sparkling displays of
jewellers' shops. Middle-class families swept under dazzling arches of
electric lamps into cafés concerts, whose huge posters promised the
grossest amusements. Hundreds and hundreds of women went by with trailing
skirts, and whispered and jested and laughed; while men darted in
pursuit, now of a fair chignon, now of a dark one. In the open cabs men
and women sat side by side, now husbands and wives long since married,
now chance couples who had met but an hour ago. But Mathieu went on
again, yielding to the force of the current, carried along like all the
others, a prey to the same fever which sprang from the surroundings, from
the excitement of the day, from the customs of the age. And he no longer
took the Beauchênes, the Moranges, the Séguins as isolated types; it was
all Paris that symbolized vice, all Paris that yielded to debauchery and
sank into degradation. There were the folks of high culture, the folks
suffering from literary neurosis; there were the merchant princes; there
were the men of liberal professions, the lawyers, the doctors, the
engineers; there were the people of the lower middle-class, the petty
tradesmen, the petty clerks; there were even the manual workers, poisoned
by the example of the upper spheres--all practising the doctrines of
egotism as vanity and the passion for money grew more and more
intense.... No more children! Paris was bent on dying. And Mathieu
recalled how Napoleon I., one evening after battle, on beholding a plain
strewn with the corpses of his soldiers, had put his trust in Paris to
repair the carnage of that day. But times had changed. Paris would no
longer supply life, whether it were for slaughter or for toil.
And as Mathieu thought of it all a sudden weakness came upon him. Again
he asked himself whether the Beauchênes, the Moranges, the Séguins, and
all those thousands and thousands around him were not right, and whether
he were not the fool, the dupe, the criminal, with his belief in life
ever renascent, ever growing and spreading throughout the world. And
before him arose, too, the image of Séraphine, the temptress, opening her
perfumed arms to him and carrying him off to the same existence of
pleasure and baseness which the others led.
Then he remembered the three hundred francs which he carried in his
pocket. Three hundred francs, which must last for a whole month, though
out of them he had to pay various little sums that he already owed. The
remainder would barely suffice to buy a ribbon for Marianne and jam for
the youngsters' bread. And if he set the Moranges on one side, the
others, the Beauchênes and the Séguins, were rich. He bitterly recalled
their wealth. He pictured the rumbling factory with its black buildings
covering a great stretch of ground; he pictured hundreds of workmen ever
increasing the fortune of their master, who dwelt in a handsomely
appointed pavilion and whose only son was growing up for future
sovereignty, under his mother's vigilant eyes. He pictured, too, the
Séguins' luxurious mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, the great hall, the
magnificent staircase, the vast room above, crowded with marvels; he
pictured all the refinement, all the train of wealth, all the tokens of
lavish life, the big dowry which would be given to the little girl, the
high position which would be purchased for the son. And he, bare and
empty-handed, who now possessed nothing, not even a stone at the edge of
a field, would doubtless always possess nothing, neither factory buzzing
with workmen, nor mansion rearing its proud front aloft. And he was the
imprudent one, and the others were the sensible, the wise. What would
ever become of himself and his troop of children? Would he not die in
some garret? would they not lead lives of abject wretchedness? Ah! it was
evident the others were right, the others were sensible. And he felt
unhinged, he regarded himself with contempt, like a fool who has allowed
himself to be duped.
Then once more the image of Séraphine arose before his eyes, more
tempting than ever. A slight quiver came upon him as he beheld the blaze
of the Northern railway station and all the feverish traffic around it.
Wild fancies surged through his brain. He thought of Beauchêne. Why
should he not do likewise? He recalled past times, and, yielding to
sudden madness, turned his back upon the station and retraced his steps
towards the Boulevards. Séraphine, he said to himself, was doubtless
waiting for him; she had told him that he would always be welcome. As for
his wife, he would tell her he had missed his train.
At last a block in the traffic made him pause, and on raising his eyes he
saw that he had reached the Boulevards once more. The crowd still
streamed along, but with increased feverishness. Mathieu's temples were
beating, and wild words escaped his lips. Why should he not live the same
life as the others? He was ready, even eager, to plunge into it. But the
block in the traffic continued, he could not cross the road; and while he
stood there hesitation and doubt came upon him. He saw in that increasing
obstruction a deliberate obstacle to his wild design. And all at once the
image of Séraphine faded from before his mind's eye and he beheld
another, his wife, his dear wife Marianne, awaiting him, all smiles and
trustfulness, in the fresh quietude of the country. Could he deceive
her?... Then all at once he again rushed off towards the railway
station, in fear lest he should lose his train. He was determined that he
would listen to no further promptings, that he would cast no further glance
upon glowing, dissolute Paris, and he reached the station just in time to
climb into a car. The train started and he journeyed on, leaning out of
his compartment and offering his face to the cool night breeze in order
that it might calm and carry off the evil fever that had possessed him.
The night was moonless, but studded with such pure and such glowing stars
that the country could be seen spreading far away beneath a soft bluish
radiance. Already at twenty minutes past eleven Marianne found herself on
the little bridge crossing the Yeuse, midway between Chantebled, the
pavilion where she and her husband lived, and the station of Janville.
The children were fast asleep; she had left them in the charge of Zoé,
the servant, who sat knitting beside a lamp, the light of which could be
seen from afar, showing like a bright spark amid the black line of the
woods.
Whenever Mathieu returned home by the seven o'clock train, as was his
wont, Marianne came to meet him at the bridge. Occasionally she brought
her two eldest boys, the twins, with her, though their little legs moved
but slowly on the return journey when, in retracing their steps, a
thousand yards or more, they had to climb a rather steep hillside. And
that evening, late though the hour was, Marianne had yielded to that
pleasant habit of hers, enjoying the delight of thus going forward
through the lovely night to meet the man she worshipped. She never went
further than the bridge which arched over the narrow river. She seated
herself on its broad, low parapet, as on some rustic bench, and thence
she overlooked the whole plain as far as the houses of Janville, before
which passed the railway line. And from afar she could see her husband
approaching along the road which wound between the cornfields.
That evening she took her usual seat under the broad velvety sky spangled
with gold. And with a movement which bespoke her solicitude she turned
towards the bright little light shining on the verge of the sombre woods,
a light telling of the quietude of the room in which it burnt, the
servant's tranquil vigil, and the happy slumber of the children in the
adjoining chamber. Then Marianne let her gaze wander all around her, over
the great estate of Chantebled, belonging to the Séguins. The dilapidated
pavilion stood at the extreme edge of the woods whose copses, intersected
by patches of heath, spread over a lofty plateau to the distant farms of
Mareuil and Lillebonne. But that was not all, for to the west of the
plateau lay more than two hundred and fifty acres of land, a marshy
expanse where pools stagnated amid brushwood, vast uncultivated tracts,
where one went duck-shooting in winter. And there was yet a third part of
the estate, acres upon acres of equally sterile soil, all sand and
gravel, descending in a gentle slope to the embankment of the railway
line. It was indeed a stretch of country lost to culture, where the few
good patches of loam remained unproductive, inclosed within the waste
land. But the spot had all the beauty and exquisite wildness of solitude,
and was one that appealed to healthy minds fond of seeing nature in
freedom. And on that lovely night one could nowhere have found more
perfect and more balmy quiet.
Marianne, who since coming to the district had already threaded the
woodland paths, explored the stretches of brushwood around the meres, and
descended the pebbly slopes, let her eyes travel slowly over the expanse,
divining spots she had visited and was fond of, though the darkness now
prevented her from seeing them. In the depths of the woods an owl raised
its soft, regular cry, while from a pond on the right ascended a faint
croaking of frogs, so far away that it sounded like the vibration of
crystal. And from the other side, the side of Paris, there came a growing
rumble which, little by little, rose above all the other sounds of the
night. She heard it, and at last lent ear to nothing else. It was the
train, for whose familiar roar she waited every evening. As soon as it
left Monval station on its way to Janville, it gave token of its coming,
but so faintly that only a practised ear could distinguish its rumble
amid the other sounds rising from the country side. For her part, she
heard it immediately, and thereupon followed it in fancy through every
phase of its journey. And never had she been better able to do so than on
that splendid night, amid the profound quietude of the earth's slumber.
It had left Monval, it was turning beside the brickworks, it was skirting
St. George's fields. In another two minutes it would be at Janville. Then
all at once its white light shone out beyond the poplar trees of Le
Mesnil Rouge, and the panting of the engine grew louder, like that of
some giant racer drawing near. On that side the plain spread far away
into a dark, unknown region, beneath the star-spangled sky, which on the
very horizon showed a ruddy reflection like that of some brasier, the
reflection of nocturnal Paris, blazing and smoking in the darkness like a
volcano.
Marianne sprang to her feet. The train stopped at Janville, and then its
rumble rose again, grew fainter, and died away in the direction of
Vieux-Bourg. But she no longer paid attention to it. She now had eyes and
ears only for the road which wound like a pale ribbon between the dark
patches of corn. Her husband did not take ten minutes to cover the
thousand yards and more which separated the station from the little
bridge. And, as a rule, she perceived and recognized him far off; but on
that particular night, such was the deep silence that she could
distinguish his footfall on the echoing road long before his dark, slim
figure showed against the pale ground. And he found her there, erect
under the stars, smiling and healthy, a picture of all that is good. The
milky whiteness of her skin was accentuated by her beautiful black hair,
caught up in a huge coil, and her big black eyes, which beamed with all
the gentleness of spouse and mother. Her straight brow, her nose, her
mouth, her chin so boldly, purely rounded, her cheeks which glowed like
savory fruit, her delightful little ears--the whole of her face, full of
love and tenderness, bespoke beauty in full health, the gayety which
comes from the accomplishment of duty, and the serene conviction that by
loving life she would live as she ought to live.
"What! so you've come then!" Mathieu exclaimed, as soon as he was near
her. "But I begged you not to come out so late. Are you not afraid at
being alone on the roads at this time of night?"
She began to laugh. "Afraid," said she, "when the night is so mild and
healthful? Besides, wouldn't you rather have me here to kiss you ten
minutes sooner?"
Those simple words brought tears to Mathieu's eyes. All the murkiness,
all the shame through which he had passed in Paris horrified him. He
tenderly took his wife in his arms, and they exchanged the closest, the
most human of kisses amid the quiet of the slumbering fields. After the
scorching pavement of Paris, after the eager struggling of the day and
the degrading spectacles of the night, how reposeful was that
far-spreading silence, that faint bluish radiance, that endless unrolling
of plains, steeped in refreshing gloom and dreaming of fructification by
the morrow's sun! And what suggestions of health, and rectitude, and
felicity rose from productive Nature, who fell asleep beneath the dew of
night solely that she might reawaken in triumph, ever and ever
rejuvenated by life's torrent, which streams even through the dust of her
paths.
Mathieu slowly seated Marianne on the low broad parapet once more. He
kept her near his heart; it was a halt full of affection, which neither
could forego, in presence of the universal peace that came to them from
the stars, and the waters, and the woods, and the endless fields.
"What a splendid night!" murmured Mathieu. "How beautiful and how
pleasant to live in it!"
Then, after a moment's rapture, during which they both heard their hearts
beating, he began to tell her of his day. She questioned him with loving
interest, and he answered, happy at having to tell her no lie.
"No, the Beauchênes cannot come here on Sunday. Constance never cared
much for us, as you well know. Their boy Maurice is suffering in the
legs; Dr. Boutan was there, and the question of children was discussed
again. I will tell you all about that. On the other hand, the Moranges
have promised to come. You can't have an idea of the delight and vanity
they displayed in showing me their new flat. What with their eagerness to
make a big fortune I'm much afraid that those worthy folks will do
something very foolish. Oh! I was forgetting. I called on the landlord,
and though I had a good deal of difficulty over it, he ended by
consenting to have the roof entirely relaid. Ah! what a home, too, those
Séguins have! I came away feeling quite scared. But I will tell you all
about it by and by with the rest."
Marianne evinced no loquacious curiosity; she quietly awaited his
confidences, and showed anxiety only respecting themselves and the
children.
"You received your salary, didn't you?" she asked.
"Yes, yes, you need not be afraid about that."
"Oh! I'm not afraid, it's only our little debts which worry me."
Then she asked again: "And did your business dinner go off all right? I
was afraid that Beauchêne might detain you and make you miss your train."
He replied that everything had gone off properly, but as he spoke he
flushed and felt a pang at his heart. To rid himself of his emotion he
affected sudden gayety.
"Well, and you, my dear," he asked, "how did you manage with your thirty
sous?"
"My thirty sous!" she gayly responded, "why, I was much too rich; we
fared like princes, all five of us, and I have six sous left."
Then, in her turn, she gave an account of her day, her daily life, pure
as crystal. She recapitulated what she had done, what she had said; she
related how the children had behaved, and she entered into the minutest
details respecting them and the house. With her, moreover, one day was
like another; each morning she set herself to live the same life afresh,
with never-failing happiness.
"To-day, though, we had a visit," said she; "Madame Lepailleur, the woman
from the mill over yonder, came to tell me that she had some fine
chickens for sale. As we owe her twelve francs for eggs and milk, I
believe that she simply called to see if I meant to pay her. I told her
that I would go to her place to-morrow."
While speaking Marianne had pointed through the gloom towards a big black
pile, a little way down the Yeuse. It was an old water-mill which was
still worked, and the Lepailleurs had now been installed in it for three
generations. The last of them, François Lepailleur, who considered
himself to be no fool, had come back from his military service with
little inclination to work, and an idea that the mill would never enrich
him, any more than it had enriched his father and grandfather. It then
occurred to him to marry a peasant farmer's daughter, Victoire Cornu,
whose dowry consisted of some neighboring fields skirting the Yeuse. And
the young couple then lived fairly at their ease, on the produce of those
fields and such small quantities of corn as the peasants of the district
still brought to be ground at the old mill. If the antiquated and badly
repaired mechanism of the mill had been replaced by modern appliances,
and if the land, instead of being impoverished by adherence to
old-fashioned practices, had fallen into the hands of an intelligent man
who believed in progress, there would no doubt have been a fortune in it
all. But Lepailleur was not only disgusted with work, he treated the soil
with contempt. He indeed typified the peasant who has grown weary of his
eternal mistress, the mistress whom his forefathers loved too much.
Remembering that, in spite of all their efforts to fertilize the soil, it
had never made them rich or happy, he had ended by hating it. All his
faith in its powers had departed; he accused it of having lost its
fertility, of being used up and decrepit, like some old cow which one
sends to the slaughter-house. And, according to him, everything went
wrong: the soil simply devoured the seed sown in it, the weather was
never such as it should be, the seasons no longer came in their proper
order. Briefly, it was all a premeditated disaster brought about by some
evil power which had a spite against the peasantry, who were foolish to
give their sweat and their blood to such a thankless creature.
"Madame Lepailleur brought her boy with her, a little fellow three years
old, called Antonin," resumed Marianne, "and we fell to talking of
children together. She quite surprised me. Peasant folks, you know, used
to have such large families. But she declared that one child was quite
enough. Yet she's only twenty-four, and her husband not yet
twenty-seven."
These remarks revived the thoughts which had filled Mathieu's mind all
day. For a moment he remained silent. Then he said, "She gave you her
reasons, no doubt?"
"Give reasons--she, with her head like a horse's, her long freckled face,
pale eyes, and tight, miserly mouth--I think she's simply a fool, ever in
admiration before her husband because he fought in Africa and reads the
newspapers. All that I could get out of her was that children cost one a
good deal more than they bring in. But the husband, no doubt, has ideas
of his own. You have seen him, haven't you? A tall, slim fellow, as
carroty and as scraggy as his wife, with an angular face, green eyes, and
prominent cheekbones. He looks as though he had never felt in a good
humor in his life. And I understand that he is always complaining of his
father-in-law, because the other had three daughters and a son. Of course
that cut down his wife's dowry; she inherited only a part of her father's
property. And, besides, as the trade of a miller never enriched his
father, Lepailleur curses his mill from morning till night, and declares
that he won't prevent his boy Antonin from going to eat white bread in
Paris, if he can find a good berth there when he grows up."
Thus, even among the country folks, Mathieu found a small family the
rule. Among the causes were the fear of having to split up an
inheritance, the desire to rise in the social system, the disgust of
manual toil, and the thirst for the luxuries of town life. Since the soil
was becoming bankrupt, why indeed continue tilling it, when one knew that
one would never grow rich by doing so? Mathieu was on the point of
explaining these things to his wife, but he hesitated, and then simply
said: "Lepailleur does wrong to complain; he has two cows and a horse,
and when there is urgent work he can take an assistant. We, this morning,
had just thirty sous belonging to us, and we own no mill, no scrap of
land. For my part I think his mill superb; I envy him every time I cross
this bridge. Just fancy! we two being the millers--why, we should be very
rich and very happy!"
This made them both laugh, and for another moment they remained seated
there, watching the dark massive mill beside the Yeuse. Between the
willows and poplars on both banks the little river flowed on peacefully,
scarce murmuring as it coursed among the water plants which made it
ripple. Then, amid a clump of oaks, appeared the big shed sheltering the
wheel, and the other buildings garlanded with ivy, honeysuckle, and
creepers, the whole forming a spot of romantic prettiness. And at night,
especially when the mill slept, without a light at any of its windows,
there was nothing of more dreamy, more gentle charm.
"Why!" remarked Mathieu, lowering his voice, "there is somebody under the
willows, beside the water. I heard a slight noise."
"Yes, I know," replied Marianne with tender gayety. "It must be the young
couple who settled themselves in the little house yonder a fortnight ago.
You know whom I mean--Madame Angelin, that schoolmate of Constance's."
The Angelins, who had become their neighbors, interested the Froments.
The wife was of the same age as Marianne, tall, dark, with fine hair and
fine eyes, radiant with continual joy, and fond of pleasure. And the
husband was of the same age as Mathieu, a handsome fellow, very much in
love, with moustaches waving in the wind, and the joyous spirits of a
musketeer. They had married with sudden passion for one another, having
between them an income of some ten thousand francs a year, which the
husband, a fan painter with a pretty talent, might have doubled had it
not been for the spirit of amorous idleness into which his marriage had
thrown him. And that spring-time they had sought a refuge in that desert
of Janville, that they might love freely, passionately, in the midst of
nature. They were always to be met, holding each other by the waist, on
the secluded paths in the woods; and at night they loved to stroll across
the fields, beside the hedges, along the shady banks of the Yeuse,
delighted when they could linger till very late near the murmuring water,
in the thick shade of the willows.
But there was quite another side to their idyl, and Marianne mentioned it
to her husband. She had chatted with Madame Angelin, and it appeared that
the latter wished to enjoy life, at all events for the present, and did
not desire to be burdened with children. Then Mathieu's worrying thoughts
once more came back to him, and again at this fresh example he wondered
who was right--he who stood alone in his belief, or all the others.
"Well," he muttered at last, "we all live according to our fancy. But
come, my dear, let us go in; we disturb them."
They slowly climbed the narrow road leading to Chantebled, where the lamp
shone out like a beacon. When Mathieu had bolted the front door they
groped their way upstairs. The ground floor of their little house
comprised a dining-room and a drawing-room on the right hand of the hall,
and a kitchen and a store place on the left. Upstairs there were four
bedrooms. Their scanty furniture seemed quite lost in those big rooms;
but, exempt from vanity as they were, they merely laughed at this. By way
of luxury they had simply hung some little curtains of red stuff at the
windows, and the ruddy reflection from these hangings seemed to them to
impart wonderfully rich cheerfulness to their home.
They found Zoé, their peasant servant, asleep over her knitting beside
the lamp in their own bedroom, and they had to wake her and send her as
quietly as possible to bed. Then Mathieu took up the lamp and entered the
children's room to kiss them and make sure that they were comfortable. It
was seldom they awoke on these occasions. Having placed the lamp on the
mantelshelf, he still stood there looking at the three little beds when
Marianne joined him. In the bed against the wall at one end of the room
lay Blaise and Denis, the twins, sturdy little fellows six years of age;
while in the second bed against the opposite wall was Ambroise, now
nearly four and quite a little cherub. And the third bed, a cradle, was
occupied by Mademoiselle Rose, fifteen months of age and weaned for three
weeks past. She lay there half naked, showing her white flowerlike skin,
and her mother had to cover her up with the bedclothes, which she had
thrust aside with her self-willed little fists. Meantime the father
busied himself with Ambroise's pillow, which had slipped aside. Both
husband and wife came and went very gently, and bent again and again over
the children's faces to make sure that they were sleeping peacefully.
They kissed them and lingered yet a little longer, fancying that they had
heard Blaise and Denis stirring. At last the mother took up the lamp and
they went off, one after the other, on tiptoe.
When they were in their room again Marianne exclaimed: "I didn't want to
worry you while we were out, but Rose made me feel anxious to-day; I did
not find her well, and it was only this evening that I felt more at ease
about her." Then, seeing that Mathieu started and turned pale, she went
on: "Oh! it was nothing. I should not have gone out if I had felt the
least fear for her. But with those little folks one is never free from
anxiety."
She then began to make her preparations for the night; but Mathieu,
instead of imitating her, sat down at the table where the lamp stood, and
drew the money paid to him by Morange from his pocket. When he had
counted those three hundred francs, those fifteen louis, he said in a
bitter, jesting way, "The money hasn't grown on the road. Here it is; you
can pay our debts to-morrow."
This remark gave him a fresh idea. Taking his pencil he began to jot down
the various amounts they owed on a blank page of his pocket diary. "We
say twelve francs to the Lepailleurs for eggs and milk. How much do you
owe the butcher?" he asked.
"The butcher," replied Marianne, who had sat down to take off her shoes;
"well, say twenty francs."
"And the grocer and the baker?"
"I don't know exactly, but about thirty francs altogether. There is
nobody else."
Then Mathieu added up the items: "That makes sixty-two francs," said he.
"Take them away from three hundred, and we shall have two hundred and
thirty-eight left. Eight francs a day at the utmost. Well, we have a nice
month before us, with our four children to feed, particularly if little
Rose should fall ill."
The remark surprised his wife, who laughed gayly and confidently, saying:
"Why, what is the matter with you to-night, my dear? You seem to be
almost in despair, when as a rule you look forward to the morrow as full
of promise. You have often said that it was sufficient to love life if
one wished to live happily. As for me, you know, with you and the little
ones I feel the happiest, richest woman in the world!"
At this Mathieu could restrain himself no longer. He shook his head and
mournfully began to recapitulate the day he had just spent. At great
length he relieved his long-pent-up feelings. He spoke of their poverty
and the prosperity of others. He spoke of the Beauchênes, the Moranges,
the Séguins, the Lepailleurs, of all he had seen of them, of all they had
said, of all their scarcely disguised contempt for an improvident
starveling like himself. He, Mathieu, and she, Marianne, would never have
factory, nor mansion, nor mill, nor an income of twelve thousand francs a
year; and their increasing penury, as the others said, had been their own
work. They had certainly shown themselves imprudent, improvident. And he
went on with his recollections, telling Marianne that he feared nothing
for himself, but that he did not wish to condemn her and the little ones
to want and poverty. She was surprised at first, and by degrees became
colder, more constrained, as he told her all that he had upon his mind.
Tears slowly welled into her eyes; and at last, however lovingly he
spoke, she could no longer restrain herself, but burst into sobs. She did
not question what he said, she spoke no words of revolt, but it was
evident that her whole being rebelled, and that her heart was sorely
grieved.
He started, greatly troubled when he saw her tears. Something akin to her
own feelings came upon him. He was terribly distressed, angry with
himself. "Do not weep, my darling!" he exclaimed as he pressed her to
him: "it was stupid, brutal, and wrong of me to speak to you in that way.
Don't distress yourself, I beg you; we'll think it all over and talk
about it some other time."
She ceased to weep, but she continued silent, clinging to him, with her
head resting on his shoulder. And Mathieu, by the side of that loving,
trustful woman, all health and rectitude and purity, felt more and more
confused, more and more ashamed of himself, ashamed of having given heed
to the base, sordid, calculating principles which others made the basis
of their lives. He thought with loathing of the sudden frenzy which had
possessed him during the evening in Paris. Some poison must have been
instilled into his veins; he could not recognize himself. But honor and
rectitude, clear-sightedness and trustfulness in life were fast
returning. Through the window, which had remained open, all the sounds of
the lovely spring night poured into the room. It was spring, the season
of love, and beneath the palpitating stars in the broad heavens, from
fields and forests and waters came the murmur of germinating life. And
never had Mathieu more fully realized that, whatever loss may result,
whatever difficulty may arise, whatever fate may be in store, all the
creative powers of the world, whether of the animal order, whether of the
order of the plants, for ever and ever wage life's great incessant battle
against death. Man alone, dissolute and diseased among all the other
denizens of the world, all the healthful forces of nature, seeks death
for death's sake, the annihilation of his species. Then Mathieu again
caught his wife in a close embrace, printing on her lips a long, ardent
kiss.
"Ah! dear heart, forgive me; I doubted both of us. It would be impossible
for either of us to sleep unless you forgive me. Well, let the others
hold us in derision and contempt if they choose. Let us love and live as
nature tells us, for you are right: therein lies true wisdom and true
courage."
V
MATHIEU rose noiselessly from his little folding iron bedstead beside the
large one of mahogany, on which Marianne lay alone. He looked at her, and
saw that she was awake and smiling.
"What! you are not asleep?" said he. "I hardly dared to stir for fear of
waking you. It is nearly nine o'clock, you know."
It was Sunday morning. January had come round, and they were in Paris.
During the first fortnight in December the weather had proved frightful
at Chantebled, icy rains being followed by snow and terrible cold. This
rigorous temperature, coupled with the circumstance that Marianne was
again expecting to become a mother, had finally induced Mathieu to accept
Beauchêne's amiable offer to place at his disposal the little pavilion in
the Rue de la Fédération, where the founder of the works had lived before
building the superb house on the quay. An old foreman who had occupied
this pavilion, which still contained the simple furniture of former days,
had lately died. And the young folks, desiring to be near their friend,
worthy Dr. Boutan, had lived there for a month now, and did not intend to
return to Chantebled until the first fine days in April.
"Wait a moment," resumed Mathieu; "I will let the light in."
He thereupon drew back one of the curtains, and a broad ray of yellow,
wintry sunshine illumined the dim room. "Ah! there's the sun! And it's
splendid weather--and Sunday too! I shall be able to take you out for a
little while with the children this afternoon."
Then Marianne called him to her, and, when he had seated himself on the
bed, took hold of his hand and said gayly: "Well, I hadn't been sleeping
either for the last twenty minutes; and I didn't move because I wanted
you to lie in bed a little late, as it's Sunday. How amusing to think
that we were afraid of waking one another when we both had our eyes wide
open!"
"Oh!" said he, "I was so happy to think you were sleeping. My one delight
on Sundays now is to remain in this room all the morning, and spend the
whole day with you and the children." Then he uttered a cry of surprise
and remorse: "Why! I haven't kissed you yet."
She had raised herself on her pillows, and he gave her an eager clasp. In
the stream of bright sunshine which gilded the bed she herself looked
radiant with health and strength and hope. Never had her heavy brown
tresses flowed down more abundantly, never had her big eyes smiled with
gayer courage. And sturdy and healthful as she was, with her face all
kindliness and love, she looked like the very personification of
Fruitfulness, the good goddess with dazzling skin and perfect flesh, of
sovereign dignity.
They remained for a moment clasped together in the golden sunshine which
enveloped them with radiance. Then Mathieu pulled up Marianne's pillows,
set the counterpane in order, and forbade her to stir until he had tidied
the room. Forthwith he stripped his little bedstead, folded up the
sheets, the mattress, and the bedstead itself, over which he slipped a
cover. She vainly begged him not to trouble, saying that Zoé, the servant
whom they had brought from the country, could very well do all those
things. But he persisted, replying that the servant plagued him, and that
he preferred to be alone to attend her and do all that there was to do.
Then, as he suddenly began to shiver, he remarked that the room was cold,
and blamed himself for not having already lighted the fire. Some logs and
some small wood were piled in a corner, near the chimney-piece.
"How stupid of me!" he exclaimed; "here am I leaving you to freeze."
Then he knelt down before the fireplace, while she protested: "What an
idea! Leave all that, and call Zoé."
"No, no, she doesn't know how to light the fire properly, and besides, it
amuses me."
He laughed triumphantly when a bright clear fire began to crackle,
filling the room with additional cheerfulness. The place was now a little
paradise, said he; but he had scarcely finished washing and dressing when
the partition behind the bed was shaken by a vigorous thumping.
"Ah! the rascals," he gayly exclaimed. "They are awake, you see! Oh!
well, we may let them come, since to-day is Sunday."
For a few moments there had been a noise as of an aviary in commotion in
the adjoining room. Prattling, shrill chirping, and ringing bursts of
laughter could be heard. Then came a noise as of pillows and bolsters
flying about, while two little fists continued pummelling the partition
as if it were a drum.
"Yes, yes," said the mother, smiling and anxious, "answer them; tell them
to come. They will be breaking everything if you don't."
Thereupon the father himself struck the wall, at which a victorious
outburst, cries of triumphal delight, arose on the other side. And
Mathieu scarcely had time to open the door before tramping and scuffling
could be heard in the passage. A triumphal entry followed. All four of
them wore long nightdresses falling to their little bare feet, and they
trotted along and laughed, with their brown hair streaming about, their
faces quite pink, and their eyes radiant with candid delight. Ambroise,
though he was younger than his brothers, marched first, for he was the
boldest and most enterprising. Behind him came the twins, Blaise and
Denis, who were less turbulent--the latter especially. He taught the
others to read, while Blaise, who was rather shy and timid, remained the
dreamer of them all. And each gave a hand to little Mademoiselle Rose,
who looked like an angel, pulled now to the right and now to the left
amid bursts of laughter, while she contrived to keep herself steadily
erect.
"Ah! mamma," cried Ambroise, "it's dreadfully cold, you know; do make me
a little room."
Forthwith he bounded into the bed, slipped under the coverlet, and
nestled close to his mother, so that only his laughing face and fine
curly hair could be seen. But at this the two others raised a shout of
war, and rushed forward in their turn upon the besieged citadel.
"Make a little room for us, mamma, make a little room! By your back,
mamma! Near your shoulder, mamma!"
Only little Rose remained on the floor, feeling quite vexed and
indignant. She had vainly attempted the assault, but had fallen back.
"And me, mamma, and me," she pleaded.
It was necessary to help her in her endeavors to hoist herself up with
her little hands. Then her mother took her in her arms in order that she
might have the best place of all. Mathieu had at first felt somewhat
anxious at seeing Marianne thus disturbed, but she laughed and told him
not to trouble. And then the picture they all presented as they nestled
there was so charming, so full of gayety, that he also smiled.
"It's very nice, it's so warm," said Ambroise, who was fond of taking his
ease.
But Denis, the reasonable member of the band, began to explain why it was
they had made so much noise "Blaise said that he had seen a spider. And
then he felt frightened."
This accusation of cowardice vexed his brother, who replied: "It isn't
true. I did see a spider, but I threw my pillow at it to kill it."
"So did I! so did I!" stammered Rose, again laughing wildly. "I threw my
pillow like that--houp! houp!"
They all roared and wriggled again, so amusing did it seem to them. The
truth was that they had engaged in a pillow fight under pretence of
killing a spider, which Blaise alone said that he had seen. This
unsupported testimony left the matter rather doubtful. But the whole
brood looked so healthful and fresh in the bright sunshine that their
father could not resist taking them in his arms, and kissing them here
and there, wherever his lips lighted, a final game which sent them into
perfect rapture amid a fresh explosion of laughter and shouts.
"Oh! what fun! what fun!"
"All the same," Marianne exclaimed, as she succeeded in freeing herself
somewhat from the embraces of the children, "all the same, you know, I
want to get up. I mustn't idle, for it does me no good. And besides, you
little ones need to be washed and dressed."
They dressed in front of the big blazing fire; and it was nearly ten
o'clock when they at last went down into the dining-room, where the
earthenware stove was roaring, while the warm breakfast milk steamed upon
the table. The ground floor of the pavilion comprised a dining-room and a
drawing-room on the right of the hall, and a kitchen and a study on the
left. The dining-room, like the principal bedchamber, overlooked the Rue
de la Fédération, and was filled every morning with cheerfulness by the
rising sun.
The children were already at table, with their noses in their cups, when
a ring at the street door was heard. And it was Dr. Boutan who came in.
His arrival brought a renewal of noisy mirth, for the youngsters were
fond of his round, good-natured face. He had attended them all at their
births, and treated them like an old friend, with whom familiarity is
allowable. And so they were already thrusting back their chairs to dart
towards the doctor, when a remark from their mother restrained them.
"Now, please just leave the doctor quiet," said she, adding gayly, "Good
morning, doctor. I'm much obliged to you for this bright sunshine, for
I'm sure you ordered it so that I might go for a walk this afternoon."
"Why, yes, of course I ordered it--I was passing this way, and thought I
would look in to see how you were getting on."
Boutan took a chair and seated himself near the table, while Mathieu
explained to him that they had remained late in bed.
"Yes, that is all right, let her rest: but she must also take as much
exercise as possible. However, there is no cause to worry. I see that she
has a good appetite. When I find my patients at table, I cease to be a
doctor, you know, I am simply a friend making a call."
Then he put a few questions, which the children, who were busy
breakfasting, did not hear. And afterwards there came a pause in the
conversation, which the doctor himself resumed, following, no doubt, some
train of thought which he did not explain: "I hear that you are to lunch
with the Séguins next Thursday," said he. "Ah! poor little woman! That is
a terrible affair of hers."
With a gesture he expressed his feelings concerning the drama that had
just upset the Séguins' household. Valentine, like Marianne, was to
become a mother. For her part she was in despair at it, and her husband
had given way to jealous fury. For a time, amid all their quarrels, they
had continued leading their usual life of pleasure, but she now spent her
days on a couch, while he neglected her and reverted to a bachelor's
life. It was a very painful story, but the doctor was in hopes that
Marianne, on the occasion of her visit to the Séguins, might bring some
good influence to bear on them.
He rose from his chair and was about to retire, when the attack which had
all along threatened him burst forth. The children, unsuspectedly rising
from their chairs, had concerted together with a glance, and now they
opened their campaign. The worthy doctor all at once found the twins upon
his shoulders, while the younger boy clasped him round the waist and the
little girl clung to his legs.
"Puff! puff! do the railway train, do the railway train, please do."
They pushed and shook him, amid peal after peal of flute-like laughter,
while their father and mother rushed to his assistance, scolding and
angry. But he calmed the parents by saying: "Let them be! they are simply
wishing me good day. And besides, I must bear with them, you know, since,
as our friend Beauchêne says, it is a little bit my fault if they are in
the world. What charms me with your children is that they enjoy such good
health, just like their mother. For the present, at all events, one can
ask nothing more of them."
When he had set them down on the floor, and given each a smacking kiss,
he took hold of Marianne's hands and said to her that everything was
going on beautifully, and that he was very pleased. Then he went off,
escorted to the front door by Mathieu, the pair of them jesting and
laughing gayly.
Directly after the midday meal Mathieu wished to go out, in order that
Marianne might profit by the bright sunshine. The children had been
dressed in readiness before sitting down to table, and it was scarcely
more than one o'clock when the family turned the corner of the Rue de la
Fédération and found itself upon the quays.
This portion of Grenelle, lying between the Champ de Mars and the densely
populated streets of the centre of the district, has an aspect all its
own, characterized by vast bare expanses, and long and almost deserted
streets running at right angles and fringed by factories with lofty,
interminable gray walls. During work-hours nobody passes along these
streets, and on raising one's head one sees only lofty chimneys belching
forth thick coal smoke above the roofs of big buildings with dusty window
panes. And if any large cart entrance happens to be open one may espy
deep yards crowded with drays and full of acrid vapor. The only sounds
are the strident puffs of jets of steam, the dull rumbling of machinery,
and the sudden rattle of ironwork lowered from the carts to the pavement.
But on Sundays the factories do not work, and the district then falls
into death-like silence. In summer time there is but bright sunshine
heating the pavement, in winter some icy snow-laden wind rushing down the
lonely streets. The population of Grenelle is said to be the worst of
Paris, both the most vicious and the most wretched. The neighborhood of
the École Militaire attracts thither a swarm of worthless women, who
bring in their train all the scum of the populace. In contrast to all
this the gay _bourgeois_ district of Passy rises up across the Seine; while
the rich aristocratic quarters of the Invalides and the Faubourg St.
Germain spread out close by. Thus the Beauchêne works on the quay, as
their owner laughingly said, turned their back upon misery and looked
towards all the prosperity and gayety of this world.
Mathieu was very partial to the avenues, planted with fine trees, which
radiate from the Champ de Mars and the Esplanade des Invalides, supplying
great gaps for air and sunlight. But he was particularly fond of that
long diversified Quai d'Orsay, which starts from the Rue du Bac in the
very centre of the city, passes before the Palais Bourbon, crosses first
the Esplanade des Invalides, and then the Champ de Mars, to end at the
Boulevard de Grenelle, in the black factory region. How majestically it
spread out, what fine old leafy trees there were round that bend of the
Seine from the State Tobacco Works to the garden of the Eiffel Tower! The
river winds along with sovereign gracefulness; the avenue stretches out
under superb foliage. You can really saunter there amid delicious
quietude, instinct as it were with all the charm and power of Paris.
It was thither that Mathieu wished to take his wife and the little ones
that Sunday. But the distance was considerable, and some anxiety was felt
respecting Rose's little legs. She was intrusted to Ambroise, who,
although the youngest of the boys, was already energetic and determined.
These two opened the march; then came Blaise and Denis, the twins, the
parents bringing up the rear. Everything at first went remarkably well:
they strolled on slowly in the gay sunshine. That beautiful winter
afternoon was exquisitely pure and clear, and though it was very cold in
the shade, all seemed golden and velvety in the stretches of bright
light. There were a great many people out of doors--all the idle folks,
clad in their Sunday best, whom the faintest sunshine draws in crowds to
the promenades of Paris. Little Rose, feeling warm and gay, drew herself
up as if to show the people that she was a big girl. She crossed the
whole extent of the Champ de Mars without asking to be carried. And her
three brothers strode along making the frozen pavement resound beneath
their steps. Promenaders were ever turning round to watch them. In other
cities of Europe the sight of a young married couple preceded by four
children would have excited no comment, but here in Paris the spectacle
was so unusual that remarks of astonishment, sarcasm, and even compassion
were exchanged. Mathieu and Marianne divined, even if they did not
actually hear, these comments, but they cared nothing for them. They
bravely went their way, smiling at one another, and feeling convinced
that the course they had taken in life was the right one, whatever other
folks might think or say.
It was three o'clock when they turned their steps homeward; and Marianne,
feeling rather tired, then took a little rest on a sofa in the
drawing-room, where Zoé had previously lighted a good fire. The children,
quieted by fatigue, were sitting round a little table, listening to a
tale which Denis read from a story-book, when a visitor was announced.
This proved to be Constance, who, after driving out with Maurice, had
thought of calling to inquire after Marianne, whom she saw only once or
twice a week, although the little pavilion was merely separated by a
garden from the large house on the quay.
"Oh! are you poorly, my dear?" she inquired as she entered the room and
perceived Marianne on the sofa.
"Oh! dear, no," replied the other, "but I have been out walking for the
last two hours and am now taking some rest."
Mathieu had brought an armchair forward for his wife's rich, vain cousin,
who, whatever her real feelings, certainly strove to appear amiable. She
apologized for not being able to call more frequently, and explained what
a number of duties she had to discharge as mistress of her home. Meantime
Maurice, clad in black velvet, hung round her petticoats, gazing from a
distance at the other children, who one and all returned his scrutiny.
"Well, Maurice," exclaimed his mother, "don't you wish your little
cousins good-day?"
He had to do as he was bidden and step towards them. But all five
remained embarrassed. They seldom met, and had as yet had no opportunity
to quarrel. The four little savages of Chantebled felt indeed almost out
of their element in the presence of this young Parisian with _bourgeois_
manners.
"And are all your little folks quite well?" resumed Constance, who, with
her sharp eyes, was comparing her son with the other lads. "Ambroise has
grown; his elder brothers also look very strong."
Her examination did not apparently result to Maurice's advantage. The
latter was tall and looked sturdy, but he had quite a waxen complexion.
Nevertheless, the glance that Constance gave the others was full of
irony, disdain, and condemnation. When she had first heard that Marianne
was likely to become a mother once more she had made no secret of her
disapproval. She held to her old opinions more vigorously than ever.
Marianne, knowing full well that they would fall out if they discussed
the subject of children, sought another topic of conversation. She
inquired after Beauchêne. "And Alexandre," said she, "why did you not
bring him with you? I haven't seen him for a week!"
"Why," broke in Mathieu, "I told you he had gone shooting yesterday
evening. He slept, no doubt, at Puymoreau, the other side of Chantebled,
so as to be in the woods at daybreak this morning, and he probably won't
be home till to-morrow."
"Ah! yes, I remember now. Well, it's nice weather to be in the woods."
This, however, was another perilous subject, and Marianne regretted
having broached it, for, truth to tell, one never knew where Beauchêne
might really be when he claimed to have gone shooting. He availed himself
so often of this pretext to absent himself from home that Constance was
doubtless aware of the truth. But in the presence of that household,
whose union was so perfect, she was determined to show a brave front.
"Well, you know," said she, "it is I who compel him to go about and take
as much exercise as possible. He has a temperament that needs the open
air. Shooting is very good for him."
At this same moment there came another ring at the door, announcing
another visitor. And this time it was Madame Morange who entered the
room, with her daughter Reine. She colored when she caught sight of
Madame Beauchêne, so keenly was she impressed by that perfect model of
wealth and distinction, whom she ever strove to imitate. Constance,
however, profited by the diversion of Valérie's arrival to declare that
she unfortunately could not remain any longer, as a friend must now be
waiting for her at home.
"Well, at all events, leave us Maurice," suggested Mathieu. "Here's Reine
here now, and all six children can play a little while together. I will
bring you the boy by and by, when he has had a little snack."
But Maurice had already once more sought refuge among his mother's
skirts. And she refused the invitation. "Oh! no, no!" said she. "He has
to keep to a certain diet, you know, and he must not eat anything away
from home. Good-by; I must be off. I called only to inquire after you all
in passing. Keep well; good-by."
Then she led her boy away, never speaking to Valérie, but simply shaking
hands with her in a familiar, protecting fashion, which the other
considered to be extremely distinguished. Reine, on her side, had smiled
at Maurice, whom she already slightly knew. She looked delightful that
day in her gown of thick blue cloth, her face smiling under her heavy
black tresses, and showing such a likeness to her mother that she seemed
to be the latter's younger sister.
Marianne, quite charmed, called the girl to her: "Come and kiss me, my
dear! Oh! what a pretty young lady! Why, she is getting quite beautiful
and tall. How old is she?"
"Nearly thirteen," Valérie replied.
She had seated herself in the armchair vacated by Constance, and Mathieu
noticed what a keen expression of anxiety there was in her soft eyes.
After mentioning that she also had called in passing to make inquiries,
and declaring that both mother and children looked remarkably well, she
relapsed into gloomy silence, scarcely listening to Marianne, who thanked
her for having come. Thereupon it occurred to Mathieu to leave her with
his wife. To him it seemed that she must have something on her mind, and
perhaps she wished to make a _confidante_ of Marianne.
"My dear Reine," said he, "come with these little ones into the
dining-room. We will see what afternoon snack there is, and lay the
cloth."
This proposal was greeted with shouts of delight, and all the children
trooped into the dining-room with Mathieu. A quarter of an hour later,
when everything was ready there, and Valérie came in, the latter's eyes
looked very red, as if she had been weeping. And that evening, when
Mathieu was alone with his wife, he learnt what the trouble was.
Morange's scheme of leaving the Beauchêne works and entering the service
of the Crédit National, where he would speedily rise to a high and
lucrative position, his hope too of giving Reine a big dowry and marrying
her off to advantage--all the ambitious dreams of rank and wealth in
which his wife and he had indulged, now showed no likelihood of
fulfilment, since it seemed probable that Valérie might again have a
child. Both she and her husband were in despair over it, and though
Marianne had done her utmost to pacify her friend and reconcile her to
circumstances, there were reasons to fear that in her distracted
condition she might do something desperate.
Four days later, when the Froments lunched with the Séguins du Hordel at
the luxurious mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, they came upon similar
trouble there. Séguin, who was positively enraged, did not scruple to
accuse his wife of infidelity, and, on his side, he took to quite a
bachelor life. He had been a gambler in his younger days, and had never
fully cured himself of that passion, which now broke out afresh, like a
fire which has only slumbered for a time. He spent night after night at
his club, playing at baccarat, and could be met in the betting ring at
every race meeting. Then, too, he glided into equivocal society and
appeared at home only at intervals to vent his irritation and spite and
jealousy upon his ailing wife.
She, poor woman, was absolutely guiltless of the charges preferred
against her. But knowing her husband, and unwilling for her own part to
give up her life of pleasure, she had practised concealment as long as
possible. And now she was really very ill, haunted too by an unreasoning,
irremovable fear that it would all end in her death. Mathieu, who had
seen her but a few months previously looking so fair and fresh, was
amazed to find her such a wreck. And on her side Valentine gazed, all
astonishment, at Marianne, noticing with surprise how calm and strong the
young woman seemed, and how limpid her clear and smiling eyes remained.
On the day of the Froments' visit Séguin had gone out early in the
morning, and when they arrived he had not yet returned. Thus the lunch
was for a short time kept waiting, and during the interval Céleste, the
maid, entered the room where the visitors sat near her mistress, who was
stretched upon a sofa, looking a perfect picture of distress. Valentine
turned a questioning glance on the servant, who forthwith replied:
"No, madame, Monsieur has not come back yet. But that woman of my village
is here. You know, madame, the woman I spoke to you about, Sophie
Couteau, La Couteau as we call her at Rougemont, who brings nurses to
Paris?"
"Well, what of it?" exclaimed Valentine, on the point of ordering Céleste
to leave the room, for it seemed to her quite outrageous to be disturbed
in this manner.
"Well, madame, she's here; and as I told you before, if you would intrust
her with the matter now she would find a very good wet nurse for you in
the country, and bring her here whenever she's wanted."
La Couteau had been standing behind the door, which had remained ajar,
and scarcely had Céleste finished than, without waiting for an
invitation, she boldly entered the room. She was a quick little wizened
woman, with certain peasant ways, but considerably polished by her
frequent journeys to Paris. So far as her small keen eyes and pointed
nose went her long face was not unpleasant, but its expression of good
nature was marred by her hard mouth, her thin lips, suggestive of
artfulness and cupidity. Her gown of dark woollen stuff, her black cape,
black mittens, and black cap with yellow ribbons, gave her the appearance
of a respectable countrywoman going to mass in her Sunday best.
"Have you been a nurse?" Valentine inquired, as she scrutinized her.
"Yes, madame," replied La Couteau, "but that was ten years ago, when I
was only twenty. It seemed to me that I wasn't likely to make much money
by remaining a nurse, and so I preferred to set up as an agent to bring
others to Paris."
As she spoke she smiled, like an intelligent woman who feels that those
who give their services as wet nurses to _bourgeois_ families are simply
fools and dupes. However, she feared that she might have said too much on
the point, and so she added: "But one does what one can, eh, madame? The
doctor told me that I should never do for a nurse again, and so I thought
that I might perhaps help the poor little dears in another manner."
"And you bring wet nurses to the Paris offices?"
"Yes, madame, twice a month. I supply several offices, but more
particularly Madame Broquette's office in the Rue Roquépine. It's a very
respectable place, where one runs no risk of being deceived--And so, if
you like, madame, I will choose the very best I can find for you--the
pick of the bunch, so to say. I know the business thoroughly, and you can
rely on me."
As her mistress did not immediately reply, Céleste ventured to intervene,
and began by explaining how it happened that La Couteau had called that
day.
"When she goes back into the country, madame, she almost always takes a
baby with her, sometimes a nurse's child, and sometimes the child of
people who are not well enough off to keep a nurse in the house. And she
takes these children to some of the rearers in the country. She just now
came to see me before going round to my friend Madame Menoux, whose baby
she is to take away with her."
Valentine became interested. This Madame Menoux was a haberdasher in the
neighborhood and a great friend of Céleste's. She had married a former
soldier, a tall handsome fellow, who now earned a hundred and fifty
francs a month as an attendant at a museum. She was very fond of him, and
had bravely set up a little shop, the profits from which doubled their
income, in such wise that they lived very happily and almost at their
ease. Céleste, who frequently absented herself from her duties to spend
hours gossiping in Madame Menoux's little shop, was forever being scolded
for this practice; but in the present instance Valentine, full of anxiety
and curiosity, did not chide her. The maid was quite proud at being
questioned, and informed her mistress that Madame Menoux's baby was a
fine little boy, and that the mother had been attended by a certain
Madame Rouche, who lived at the lower end of the Rue du Rocher.
"It was I who recommended her," continued the servant, "for a friend of
mine whom she had attended had spoken to me very highly of her. No doubt
she has not such a good position as Madame Bourdieu, who has so handsome
a place in the Rue de Miromesnil, but she is less expensive, and so very
kind and obliging."
Then Céleste suddenly ceased speaking, for she noticed that Mathieu's
eyes were fixed upon her, and this, for reasons best known to herself,
made her feel uncomfortable. He on his side certainly placed no
confidence in this big dark girl with a head like that of a horse, who,
it seemed to him, knew far too much.
Marianne joined in the conversation. "But why," asked she, "why does not
this Madame Menoux, whom you speak about, keep her baby with her?"
Thereupon La Couteau turned a dark harsh glance upon this lady visitor,
who, whatever course she might take herself, had certainly no right to
prevent others from doing business.
"Oh! it's impossible," exclaimed Céleste, well pleased with the
diversion. "Madame Menoux's shop is no bigger than my pocket-handkerchief,
and at the back of it there is only one little room where she
and her husband take their meals and sleep. And that room, too,
overlooks a tiny courtyard where one can neither see nor breathe. The
baby would not live a week in such a place. And, besides, Madame Menoux
would not have time to attend to the child. She has never had a servant,
and what with waiting on customers and having to cook meals in time for
her husband's return from the museum, she never has a moment to spare.
Oh! if she could, she would be very happy to keep the little fellow with
her."
"It is true," said Marianne sadly; "there are some poor mothers whom I
pity with all my heart. This person you speak of is not in poverty, and
yet is reduced to this cruel separation. For my part, I should not be
able to exist if a child of mine were taken away from me to some unknown
spot and given to another woman."
La Couteau doubtless interpreted this as an attack upon herself. Assuming
the kindly demeanor of one who dotes on children, the air which she
always put on to prevail over hesitating mothers, she replied: "Oh,
Rougemont is such a very pretty place. And then it's not far from Bayeux,
so that folks are by no means savages there. The air is so pure, too,
that people come there to recruit their health. And, besides, the little
ones who are confided to us are well cared for, I assure you. One would
have to be heartless to do otherwise than love such little angels."
However, like Céleste, she relapsed into silence on seeing how
significantly Mathieu was looking at her. Perhaps, in spite of her rustic
ways, she understood that there was a false ring in her voice. Besides,
of what use was her usual patter about the salubrity of the region, since
that lady, Madame Séguin, wished to have a nurse at her house? So she
resumed: "Then it's understood, madame, I will bring you the best we
have, a real treasure."
Valentine, now a little tranquillized as to her fears for herself, found
strength to speak out. "No, no, I won't pledge myself in advance. I will
send to see the nurses you bring to the office, and we shall see if there
is one to suit me."
Then, without occupying herself further about the woman, she turned to
Marianne, and asked: "Shall you nurse your baby yourself?"
"Certainly, as I did with the others. We have very decided opinions on
that point, my husband and I."
"No doubt. I understand you: I should much like to do the same myself;
but it is impossible."
La Couteau had remained there motionless, vexed at having come on a
fruitless errand, and regretting the loss of the present which she would
have earned by her obligingness in providing a nurse. She put all her
spite into a glance which she shot at Marianne, who, thought she, was
evidently some poor creature unable even to afford a nurse. However, at a
sign which Céleste made her, she courtesied humbly and withdrew in the
company of the maid.
A few minutes afterwards, Séguin arrived, and, repairing to the
dining-room, they all sat down to lunch there. It was a very luxurious
meal, comprising eggs, red mullet, game, and crawfish, with red and white
Bordeaux wines and iced champagne. Such diet for Valentine and Marianne
would never have met with Dr. Boutan's approval; but Séguin declared the
doctor to be an unbearable individual whom nobody could ever please.
He, Séguin, while showing all politeness to his guests, seemed that day
to be in an execrable temper. Again and again he levelled annoying and
even galling remarks at his wife, carrying things to such a point at
times that tears came to the unfortunate woman's eyes. Now that he
scarcely set foot in the house he complained that everything was going
wrong there. If he spent his time elsewhere it was, according to him,
entirely his wife's fault. The place was becoming a perfect hell upon
earth. And in everything, the slightest incident, the most common-place
remark, he found an opportunity for jeers and gibes. These made Mathieu
and Marianne extremely uncomfortable; but at last he let fall such a
harsh expression that Valentine indignantly rebelled, and he had to
apologize. At heart he feared her, especially when the blood of the
Vaugelades arose within her, and she gave him to understand, in her
haughty disdainful way, that she would some day revenge herself on him
for his treatment.
However, seeking another outlet for his spite and rancor, he at last
turned to Mathieu, and spoke of Chantebled, saying bitterly that the game
in the covers there was fast becoming scarcer and scarcer, in such wise
that he now had difficulty in selling his shooting shares, so that his
income from the property was dwindling every year. He made no secret of
the fact that he would much like to sell the estate, but where could he
possibly find a purchaser for those unproductive woods, those sterile
plains, those marshes and those tracts of gravel?
Mathieu listened to all this attentively, for during his long walks in
the summer he had begun to take an interest in the estate. "Are you
really of opinion that it cannot be cultivated?" he asked. "It's pitiful
to see all that land lying waste and idle."
"Cultivate it!" cried Séguin. "Ah! I should like to see such a miracle!
The only crops that one will ever raise on it are stones and frogs."
They had by this time eaten their dessert, and before rising from table
Marianne was telling Valentine that she would much like to see and kiss
her children, who had not been allowed to lunch with their elders on
account of their supposed unruly ways, when a couple of visitors arrived
in turn, and everything else was forgotten. One was Santerre the
novelist, who of late had seldom called on the Séguins, and the other,
much to Mathieu's dislike, proved to be Beauchêne's sister, Séraphine,
the Baroness de Lowicz. She looked at the young man in a bold, provoking,
significant manner, and then, like Santerre, cast a sly glance of mocking
contempt at Marianne and Valentine. She and the novelist between them
soon turned the conversation on to subjects that appealed to their
vicious tastes. And Santerre related that he had lately seen Doctor Gaude
perform several operations at the Marbeuf Hospital. He had found there
the usual set of society men who attend first performances at the
theatres, and indeed there were also some women present.
And then he enlarged upon the subject, giving the crudest and most
precise particulars, much to the delight of Séguin, who every now and
again interpolated remarks of approval, while both Mathieu and Marianne
grew more and more ill at ease. The young woman sat looking with
amazement at Santerre as he calmly recapitulated horror after horror, to
the evident enjoyment of the others. She remembered having read his last
book, that love story which had seemed to her so supremely absurd, with
its theories of the annihilation of the human species. And she at last
glanced at Mathieu to tell him how weary she felt of all the semi-society
and semi-medical chatter around her, and how much she would like to go
off home, leaning on his arm, and walking slowly along the sunlit quays.
He, for his part, felt a pang at seeing so much insanity rife amid those
wealthy surroundings. He made his wife a sign that it was indeed time to
take leave.
"What! are you going already!" Valentine then exclaimed. "Well, I dare
not detain you if you feel tired." However, when Marianne begged her to
kiss the children for her, she added: "Why, yes, it's true you have not
seen them. Wait a moment, pray; I want you to kiss them yourself."
But when Céleste appeared in answer to the bell, she announced that
Monsieur Gaston and Mademoiselle Lucie had gone out with their governess.
And this made Séguin explode once more. All his rancor against his wife
revived. The house was going to rack and ruin. She spent her days lying
on a sofa. Since when had the governess taken leave to go out with the
children without saying anything? One could not even see the children now
in order to kiss them. It was a nice state of things. They were left to
the servants; in fact, it was the servants now who controlled the house.
Thereupon Valentine began to cry.
"_Mon Dieu_!" said Marianne to her husband, when she found herself out of
doors, able to breathe, and happy once more now that she was leaning on
his arm; "why, they are quite mad, the people in that house."
"Yes," Mathieu responded, "they are mad, no doubt; but we must pity them,
for they know not what happiness is."
VI
ABOUT nine o'clock one fine cold morning, a few days afterwards, as
Mathieu, bound for his office, a little late through having lingered near
his wife, was striding hastily across the garden which separated the
pavilion from the factory yard, he met Constance and Maurice, who, clad
in furs, were going out for a walk in the sharp air. Beauchêne, who was
accompanying them as far as the gate, bareheaded and ever sturdy and
victorious, gayly exclaimed to his wife:
"Give the youngster a good spin on his legs! Let him take in all the
fresh air he can. There's nothing like that and good food to make a man."
Mathieu, on hearing this, stopped short. "Has Maurice been poorly again?"
he inquired.
"Oh, no!" hastily replied the boy's mother, with an appearance of great
gayety, assumed perhaps from an unconscious desire to hide certain covert
fears. "Only the doctor wants him to take exercise, and it is so fine
this morning that we are going off on quite an expedition."
"Don't go along the quays," said Beauchêne again. "Go up towards the
Invalides. He'll have much stiffer marching to do when he's a soldier."
Then, the mother and the child having taken themselves off, he went back
into the works with Mathieu, adding in his triumphant way: "That
youngster, you know, is as strong as an oak. But women are always so
nervous. For my part, I'm quite easy in mind about him, as you can see."
And with a laugh he concluded: "When one has but one son, he keeps him."
That same day, about an hour later, a terrible dispute which broke out
between old Moineaud's daughters, Norine and Euphrasie, threw the factory
into a state of commotion. Norine's intrigue with Beauchêne had ended in
the usual way. He had soon tired of the girl and betaken himself to some
other passing fancy, leaving her to her tears, her shame, and all the
consequences of her fault; for although it had hitherto been possible for
her to conceal her condition from her parents, she was unable to deceive
her sister, who was her constant companion. The two girls were always
bickering, and Norine had for some time lived in dread of scandal and
exposure. And that day the trouble came to a climax, beginning with a
trivial dispute about a bit of glass-paper in the workroom, then
developing into a furious exchange of coarse, insulting language, and
culminating in a frantic outburst from Euphrasie, who shrieked to the
assembled work-girls all that she knew about her sister.
There was an outrageous scene: the sisters fought, clawing and scratching
one another desperately, and could not be separated until Beauchêne,
Mathieu, and Morange, attracted by the extraordinary uproar, rushed into
the workroom and restored a little order. Fortunately for Beauchêne,
Euphrasie did not know the whole truth, and Norine, after giving her
employer a humble, supplicating glance, kept silence; but old Moineaud
was present, and the public revelation of his daughter's shame sent him
into a fury. He ordered Norine out of the works forthwith, and threatened
to throw her out of window should he find her at home when he returned
there in the evening. And Beauchêne, both annoyed at the scandal and
ashamed at being the primary cause of it, did not venture to interfere.
It was only after the unhappy Norine had rushed off sobbing that he found
strength of mind to attempt to pacify the father, and assert his
authority in the workroom by threatening to dismiss one and all of the
girls if the slightest scandal, the slightest noise, should ever occur
there again.
Mathieu was deeply pained by the scene, but kept his own counsel. What
most astonished him was the promptness with which Beauchêne regained his
self-possession as soon as Norine had fled, and the majesty with which he
withdrew to his office after threatening the others and restoring order.
Another whom the scene had painfully affected was Morange, whom Mathieu,
to his surprise, found ghastly pale, with trembling hands, as if indeed
he had had some share of responsibility in this unhappy business. But
Morange, as he confided to Mathieu, was distressed for other reasons. The
scene in the workroom, the revelation of Norine's condition, the fate
awaiting the girl driven away into the bleak, icy streets, had revived
all his own poignant worries with respect to Valérie. Mathieu had already
heard of the latter's trouble from his wife, and he speedily grasped the
accountant's meaning. It vaguely seemed to him also that Morange was
yielding to the same unreasoning despair as Valérie, and was almost
willing that she should take the desperate course which she had hinted to
Marianne. But it was a very serious matter, and Mathieu did not wish to
be in any way mixed up in it. Having tried his best to pacify the
cashier, he sought forgetfulness of these painful incidents in his work.
That afternoon, however, a little girl, Cécile Moineaud, the old fitter's
youngest daughter, slipped into his office, with a message from her
mother, beseeching him to speak with her. He readily understood that the
woman wished to see him respecting Norine, and in his usual compassionate
way he consented to go. The interview took place in one of the adjacent
streets, down which the cold winter wind was blowing. La Moineaude was
there with Norine and another little girl of hers, Irma, a child eight
years of age. Both Norine and her mother wept abundantly while begging
Mathieu to help them. He alone knew the whole truth, and was in a
position to approach Beauchêne on the subject. La Moineaude was firmly
determined to say nothing to her husband. She trembled for his future and
that of her son Alfred, who was now employed at the works; for there was
no telling what might happen if Beauchêne's name should be mentioned.
Life was indeed hard enough already, and what would become of them all
should the family bread-winners be turned away from the factory? Norine
certainly had no legal claim on Beauchêne, the law being peremptory on
that point; but, now that she had lost her employment, and was driven
from home by her father, could he leave her to die of want in the
streets? The girl tried to enforce her moral claim by asserting that she
had always been virtuous before meeting Beauchêne. In any case, her lot
remained a very hard one. That Beauchêne was the father of her child
there could be no doubt; and at last Mathieu, without promising success,
told the mother that he would do all he could in the matter.
He kept his word that same afternoon, and after a great deal of
difficulty he succeeded. At first Beauchêne fumed, stormed, denied,
equivocated, almost blamed Mathieu for interfering, talked too of
blackmail, and put on all sorts of high and mighty airs. But at heart the
matter greatly worried him. What if Norine or her mother should go to his
wife? Constance might close her eyes as long as she simply suspected
things, but if complaints were formally, openly made to her, there would
be a terrible scandal. On the other hand, however, should he do anything
for the girl, it would become known, and everybody would regard him as
responsible. And then there would be no end to what he called the
blackmailing.
However, when Beauchêne reached this stage Mathieu felt that the battle
was gained. He smiled and answered: "Of course, one can never tell--the
girl is certainly not malicious. But when women are driven beyond
endurance, they become capable of the worst follies. I must say that she
made no demands of me; she did not even explain what she wanted; she
simply said that she could not remain in the streets in this bleak
weather, since her father had turned her away from home. If you want my
opinion, it is this: I think that one might at once put her to board at a
proper place. Let us say that four or five months will elapse before she
is able to work again; that would mean a round sum of five hundred francs
in expenses. At that cost she might be properly looked after."
Beauchêne walked nervously up and down, and then replied: "Well, I
haven't a bad heart, as you know. Five hundred francs more or less will
not inconvenience me. If I flew into a temper just now it was because the
mere idea of being robbed and imposed upon puts me beside myself. But if
it's a question of charity, why, then, do as you suggest. It must be
understood, however, that I won't mix myself up in anything; I wish even
to remain ignorant of what you do. Choose a nurse, place the girl where
you please, and I will simply pay the bill. Neither more nor less."
Then he heaved a sigh of relief at the prospect of being extricated from
this equivocal position, the worry of which he refused to acknowledge.
And once more he put on the mien of a superior, victorious man, one who
is certain that he will win all the battles of life. In fact, he even
jested about the girl, and at last went off repeating his instructions:
"See that my conditions are fully understood. I don't want to know
anything about any child. Do whatever you please, but never let me hear
another word of the matter."
That day was certainly one fertile in incidents, for in the evening there
was quite an alarm at the Beauchênes. At the moment when they were about
to sit down to dinner little Maurice fainted away and fell upon the
floor. Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed before the child could be
revived, and meantime the distracted parents quarrelled and shouted,
accusing one another of having compelled the lad to go out walking that
morning in such cold, frosty weather. It was evidently that foolish
outing which had chilled him. At least, this was what they said to one
another by way of quieting their anxiety. Constance, while she held her
boy in her arms, pictured him as dead. It occurred to her for the first
time that she might possibly lose him. At this idea she experienced a
terrible heart-pang, and a feeling of motherliness came upon her, so
acute that it was like a revelation. The ambitious woman that was in her,
she who dreamt of royalty for that only son, the future princely owner of
the ever-growing family fortune, likewise suffered horribly. If she was
to lose that son she would have no child left. Why had she none other?
Was it not she who had willed it thus? At this thought a feeling of
desperate regret shot through her like a red-hot blade, burning her
cruelly to the very depths of her being. Maurice, however, at last
recovered consciousness, and even sat down to the table and ate with a
fair appetite. Then Beauchêne immediately shrugged his shoulders, and
began to jest about the unreasoning fears of women. And as time went by
Constance herself ceased to think of the incident.
On the morrow, when Mathieu had to attend to the delicate mission which
he had undertaken, he remembered the two women of whom Céleste, the maid,
had spoken on the day of his visit to the Séguins. He at first dismissed
all idea of that Madame Rouche, of whom the girl had spoken so strangely,
but he thought of making some inquiries respecting Madame Bourdieu, who
accommodated boarders at the little house where she resided in the Rue de
Miromesnil. And he seemed to remember that this woman had attended Madame
Morange at the time of Reine's birth, a circumstance which induced him to
question the cashier.
At the very first words the latter seemed greatly disturbed. "Yes, a lady
friend recommended Madame Bourdieu to my wife," said he; "but why do you
ask me?"
And as he spoke he looked at Mathieu with an expression of anguish, as if
that sudden mention of Madame Bourdieu's name signified that the young
fellow had guessed his secret preoccupations. It was as though he had
been abruptly surprised in wrong-doing. Perhaps, too, certain dim,
haunting thoughts, which he had long been painfully revolving in his
mind, without as yet being able to come to a decision, took shape at that
moment. At all events, he turned pale and his lips trembled.
Then, as Mathieu gave him to understand that it was a question of placing
Norine somewhere, he involuntarily let an avowal escape him.
"My wife was speaking to me of Madame Bourdieu only this morning," he
began. "Oh! I don't know how it happened, but, as you are aware, Reine
was born so many years ago that I can't give you any precise information.
It seems that the woman has done well, and is now at the head of a
first-class establishment. Inquire there yourself; I have no doubt you
will find what you want there."
Mathieu followed this advice; but at the same time, as he had been warned
that Madame Bourdieu's terms were rather high, he stifled his prejudices
and began by repairing to the Rue du Rocher in order to reconnoitre
Madame Rouche's establishment and make some inquiries of her. The mere
aspect of the place chilled him. It was one of the black houses of old
Paris, with a dark, evil-smelling passage, leading into a small yard
which the nurse's few squalid rooms overlooked. Above the passage
entrance was a yellow signboard which simply bore the name of Madame
Rouche in big letters. She herself proved to be a person of five or
six-and-thirty, gowned in black and spare of figure, with a leaden
complexion, scanty hair of no precise color, and a big nose of unusual
prominence. With her low, drawling speech, her prudent, cat-like
gestures, and her sour smile, he divined her to be a dangerous,
unscrupulous woman. She told him that, as the accommodation at her
disposal was so small, she only took boarders for a limited time, and
this of course enabled him to curtail his inquiries. Glad to have done
with her, he hurried off, oppressed by nausea and vaguely frightened by
what he had seen of the place.
On the other hand, Madame Bourdieu's establishment, a little
three-storied house in the Rue de Miromesnil, between the Rue La Boëtie
and the Rue de Penthièvre, offered an engaging aspect, with its bright
façade and muslin-curtained windows. And Madame Bourdieu, then
two-and-thirty, rather short and stout, had a broad, pleasant white face,
which had greatly helped her on the road to success. She expatiated to
Mathieu on the preliminary training that was required by one of her
profession, the cost of it, the efforts needed to make a position, the
responsibilities, the inspections, the worries of all sorts that she had
to face; and she plainly told the young man that her charge for a boarder
would be two hundred francs a month. This was far more than he was
empowered to give; however, after some further conversation, when Madame
Bourdieu learnt that it was a question of four months' board, she became
more accommodating, and agreed to accept a round sum of six hundred
francs for the entire period, provided that the person for whom Mathieu
was acting would consent to occupy a three-bedded room with two other
boarders.
Altogether there were about a dozen boarders' rooms in the house, some of
these having three, and even four, beds; while others, the terms for
which were naturally higher, contained but one. Madame Bourdieu could
accommodate as many as thirty boarders, and as a rule, she had some
five-and-twenty staying on her premises. Provided they complied with the
regulations, no questions were asked them. They were not required to say
who they were or whence they came, and in most cases they were merely
known by some Christian name which they chose to give.
Mathieu ended by agreeing to Madame Bourdieu's terms, and that same
evening Norine was taken to her establishment. Some little trouble ensued
with Beauchêne, who protested when he learnt that five hundred francs
would not suffice to defray the expenses. However, Mathieu managed
affairs so diplomatically that at last the other not only became
reconciled to the terms, but provided the money to purchase a little
linen, and even agreed to supply pocket-money to the extent of ten francs
a month. Thus, five days after Norine had entered Madame Bourdieu's
establishment, Mathieu decided to return thither to hand the girl her
first ten francs and tell her that he had settled everything.
He found her there in the boarders' refectory with some of her companions
in the house--a tall, thin, severe-looking Englishwoman, with lifeless
eyes and bloodless lips, who called herself Amy, and a pale red-haired
girl with a tip-tilted nose and a big mouth, who was known as Victoire.
Then, too, there was a young person of great beauty answering to the name
of Rosine, a jeweller's daughter, so Norine told Mathieu, whose story was
at once pathetic and horrible. The young man, while waiting to see Madame
Bourdieu, who
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