Complete Works of Emile Zola (675 page)

They were having dessert, when Campardon exclaimed:

“By the way, my dear fellow, you know that Duveyrier has found — “

He was about to name Clarisse. But he recollected that Angèle was present, so, casting a side glance towards his daughter, he added:

“He has found his relative, you know.”

And, biting his lip and winking his eye, he at length made himself understood by Octave, who at first did not in the least catch what he meant.

“Yes, Trublot whom I met, told me so. The day before yesterday, when it was pouring in torrents, Duveyrier stood up inside a doorway, and who do you think he saw there? why his relative shaking out her umbrella. Trublot had been seeking her for a week past, so as to restore her to him.”

Angèle had modestly lowered her eyes on to her plate, and began swallowing enormous mouthfuls. The family rigorously excluded all indecent words from their conversation.

“Is she good looking?” asked Rose of Octave.

“That’s a matter of taste,” replied the latter. “Some people may think so.”

“She had the audacity to come to the shop one day,” said Gasparine, who, in spite of her own skinniness, detested thin people. “She was pointed out to me. A regular bean-stalk.”

“All the same,” concluded the architect, “Duveyrier’s hooked again. His poor wife — “

He intended saying that Clotilde was probably relieved and delighted. Only, he remembered a second time that Angèle was present, and put on a doleful air to declare:

“Relations do not always agree together. Yes! every family has its worries.”

Lisa, on the other side of the table, with a napkin on her arm, looked at Angèle, and the latter, seized with a mad fit of laughter, hastened to take a long drink, and hide her face in her glass.

A little before ten o’clock, Octave pretended to be very fatigued, and retired to his room. In spite of Rose’s affectionate ways, he was ill at ease in that family circle, where he felt Gasparine’s hostility to him to be ever on the increase. Yet he had never done anything to her. She detested him for being a handsome man, she suspected him of having overcome all the women of the house, and that exasperated her, though she did not desire him the least in the world, but merely yielded, at the thought of his happiness, to the instinctive anger of a woman whose beauty had faded too soon.

Directly he had left, the family talked of retiring for the night. Before getting into bed, Rose spent an hour in her dressing-room every evening. She proceeded to wash and scent herself all over, then did her hair, examined her eyes, her mouth, her ears, and even placed a tiny patch under her chin. At night-time, she replaced her luxury of dressing-gowns by a luxury of night-caps and chemises. On that occasion, she selected a chemise and a cap trimmed with Valenciennes lace. Gasparine had assisted her, handing her the basins, wiping up the water she spilt, drying her with a soft towel, little things which she did far better than Lisa.

“Ah! I do feel comfortable!” said Rose at length, stretched out in her bed, whilst the cousin tucked in the sheets and raised the bolster.

And she laughed with delight, all alone in the middle of the big bed. With her soft, delicate, and spotless body, reclining amidst the lace, she looked like some beautiful creature, awaiting the idol of her heart. When she felt herself pretty, she slept better, she used to say. Besides, it was the only pleasure left her.

“Is it all right?” asked Campardon, entering the room. “Well! good-night, little duck.”

He pretended he had some work to do. He would have to sit up a little longer. But she grew angry, she wished him to take some rest: it was foolish to work himself to death like that!

“You hear me, now go to bed. Gasparine, promise me to make him go to bed.”

The cousin, who had just placed a glass of sugar and water, and one of Dickens’s novels on the night table, looked at her. Without answering, she bent over and said:

“You are so nice, this evening!”

And she kissed her on both cheeks, with her dry lips and bitter mouth, in the resigned manner of a poor and ugly relation. Campardon, his face very red, and suffering from a difficult digestion, also looked at his wife. His moustache quivered slightly as he kissed her in his turn.

“Good-night, my little duck.”

“Good-night, my darling. Now, mind you go to bed at once.”

“Never fear!” said Gasparine. “If he’s not in bed asleep at eleven o’clock, I’ll get up and put his lamp out.”

Towards eleven o’clock, Campardon, who was yawning over a Swiss cottage, the fancy of a tailor of the Rue Rameau, rose from his seat and undressed himself slowly, thinking of Rose, so pretty and so clean;
then, after opening his bed, on account of the servants, he went and joined Gasparine in hers. It was so narrow that they slept very uncomfortably in it, and their elbows were constantly digging into each other’s ribs. He especially always had one leg quite stiff in the morning, through his efforts to balance himself on the edge of the mattress.

At the same time, as Victoire had gone to her room, having finished her washing up, Lisa came, in accordance with her usual custom, to see if mademoiselle required anything more. Angèle was waiting for her comfortably in bed; and thus, every evening, unknown to the parents, they had endless games at cards, on a corner of the counterpane which they spread out for the purpose. They played at beggar-my-neighbour, while abusing cousin Gasparine, a dirty creature, whom the maid coarsely pulled to pieces before the child. They both avenged themselves for their hypocritical submission during the day, and Lisa took a low delight in this corruption of Angèle, and in satisfying the curiosity of this sickly girl, agitated by the crisis of her thirteen years. That night, they were furious with Gasparine who, for two days past, had taken to locking up the sugar, with which the maid filled her pockets, to empty them afterwards on the child’s bed. What a bear she was! now they were not even able to get a lump of sugar to suck, when going to sleep!

“Yet your papa gives her plenty of sugar!” said Lisa, with a sensual laugh.

“Oh! yes?
”
murmured Angèle laughing also.

“What does your papa do to her? Come, show me.”

Then, the child caught the maid round the neck, pressed her in her bare arms, and kissed her violently on the mouth, saying as she did so:

“See! like this. See! like this.”

Midnight struck. Campardon and Gasparine were moaning in their over narrow bed, whilst Rose, stretching herself out in the middle of hers, and extending her limbs, was reading Dickens, with tears of emotion. A profound silence followed, the chaste night cast its shadow over the respectability of the family.

On going up to his room, Octave found that the Pichons had company. Jules called him in, and persisted on his taking a glass of something. Monsieur and Madame Vuillaume were there, having made it up with the young couple, on the occasion of Marie’s churching, she having been confined in September. They had even agreed to come to dinner one Tuesday, to celebrate the young woman’s recovery, which only fully dated from the day before. Anxious to pacify her mother, whom the sight of the child, another girl, annoyed, she had sent it out to nurse, not far from Paris. Lilitte was sleeping on the table, overcome by a glass of pure wine, which her parents had forced her to drink to her little sister’s health.

“Well! two may still be put up with!” said Madame Vuillaume, after clinking glasses with Octave. “Only don’t do it again, son-in-law.”

The others all laughed. But the old woman remained perfectly grave.

“There is nothing laughable in that,” she continued. “We accept this child, but I swear to you that if another were to come — “

“Oh! if another came,” finished Monsieur Vuillaume, “you would have neither heart nor brains. Dash it all! one must be serious in life, one should restrain oneself, when one has not got hundreds and thousands to spend in pleasures.”

And, turning towards Octave, he added:

“You see, sir, I am decorated. Well! I may tell you that, so as not to dirty too many ribbons, I don’t wear my decoration at home. Therefore, if I deprive my wife and myself of the pleasure of being decorated in our own home, our children can certainly deprive themselves of the pleasure of having daughters. No, sir, there are no little economies.”

But the Pichons assured him of their obedience. They were not likely to be caught at that game again!

“To suffer what I’ve suffered!” said Marie still quite pale.

“I would sooner cut my leg off,” declared Jules.

The Vuillaumes nodded their heads with a satisfied air. They had their word, so they forgave them that time. And, as ten was striking by the clock, they tenderly embraced all round; and Jules put on his hat to see them to the omnibus. This resumption of the old ways affected them so much that they embraced a second time on the landing. When they had taken their departure, Marie, who stood watching them go down, leaning over the balustrade, beside Octave, took the latter back to the dining-room, saying:

“Ah! mamma is not unkind, and she is quite right: children are no joke!”

She had shut the door, and was clearing the table of the glasses which still lay about. The narrow room, with its smoky lamp, was quite warm from the little family jollification. Lilitte continued to slumber on a corner of the American cloth.

“I’m off to bed,” murmured Octave.

But he sat down, feeling very comfortable there.

“What! going to bed already!” resumed the young woman. “You don’t often keep such good hours. Have you something to see to then early tomorrow?”

“No,” answered he. “I feel sleepy, that is all. Oh! I can very well stay another ten minutes or so.”

He just then thought of Berthe. She would not be coming up till half-past twelve: he had plenty of time. And this thought, the hope of having her with him for a whole night, which had been consuming him for weeks past, no longer had the same effect on him. The fever of the day, the torment of his desire counting the minutes, evoking the continual image of approaching bliss, gave way beneath the fatigue of waiting.

“Will you have another small glass of brandy?
”
asked Marie.

“Well! yes, I don’t mind.”

He thought that it would set him up a bit. When she had taken the glass from him, he caught hold of her hands, and held them in his, whilst she smiled, without the least alarm. He thought her charming, with her paleness of a woman who had recently gone through a deal of suffering. All the hidden tenderness with which he felt himself again invaded, ascended with sudden violence to his throat, and to his lips. He had one evening restored her to her husband, after placing a father’s kiss upon her brow, and now he felt a necessity to take her back again, an acute and immediate longing, in which all desire for Berthe vanished, like something too distant to dwell upon.

“You are not afraid then, today?”
asked he, squeezing her hands tighter.

“No, since it has now become impossible. Oh! we shall always be good friends!”

And she gave him to understand that she knew everything. Saturnin must have spoken. Moreover, she always noticed when Octave received a certain person in his room. As he turned pale with anxiety, she hastened to ease his mind: she would never say a word to any one, she was not angry, on the contrary she wished him much happiness.

“Come,” repeated she, “I’m married so I can’t bear you any ill-will.”

He took her on his knees and exclaimed:

“But it’s you who I love!”

And he spoke truly. At that moment he loved her and only her and with an absolute and infinite passion. All his new intrigue, the two months spent in pursuing another, were as naught. He again beheld himself in that narrow room, coming and kissing Marie on the neck, behind Jules’s back, ever finding her willing, with her passive gentleness. This was true happiness, how was it that he had disdained it? Regret almost broke his heart. He still wished for her, and he felt that if he had her no more he would be eternally miserable.

“Let me be,” murmured she, trying to release herself. “You are not reasonable, you will end by grieving me. Now that you love another what is the use of continuing to torment me?”

She defended herself thus, in her gentle and irresolute way, merely feeling a certain repugnance for what did not amuse her much. But he was getting crazy, he squeezed her tighter, he kissed her throat through the coarse material of her woollen dress.

“It’s you who I love, you cannot understand — Listen! on what I hold most sacred, I swear to you I do not lie. Tear my heart open and see. Oh! I implore you, be kind!”

Marie paralysed by the will of this man made a movement as though to take slumbering Lilitte into the next apartment; but he prevented her, fearing that she would awaken the child. The peacefulness of the house, at that hour of the night, filled the little room with a sort of buzzing silence. Suddenly, the lamp went down, and they were about to find themselves in the dark, when Marie, rising, was just in time to wind it up again.

“Are you angry with me?” asked Octave with tender gratitude.

She let off attending to the lamp, and returned him a last kiss with her cold lips as she replied:

“No. But it is not right all the same, on account of that other person.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she remained sad, though still without anger. When he left her, he felt dissatisfied, he would have liked to have gone to sleep. His gratified passion had left an unpleasant after taste, of which his mouth retained all the bitterness. But the other one would be there shortly, he must wait for her, and this thought weighed terribly on him; after having spent feverish nights in concocting extravagant plans for getting her to visit him in his room, he longed for something to happen which would prevent her from coming up. Perhaps she would once again fail to keep her word. It was a hope with which he scarcely dared delude himself.

Midnight struck. Octave, quite tired out, stood listening, fearing to hear the rustling of her skirts along the narrow passage. At half past twelve, he was seized with real anxiety; at one o’clock, he thought himself saved, but a secret irritation mingled with his relief, the annoyance of a man made a fool of by a woman. But, just as he made up his mind to undress himself, yawning for want of sleep, there came three gentle taps at the door. It was Berthe. He felt both annoyed and flattered, and advanced to meet her with open arms, when she motioned him aside, and stood trembling and listening against the door, which she had hastily shut after her.