Complete Works of Emile Zola (689 page)

Oh, Lord! had the hour struck for no longer covering the ills of this decomposed world with the mantle of religion? Was he no longer to assist in the hypocrisy of his flock, no longer to be always there, like a master of the ceremonies, to direct the order of its follies and its vices?
Was he then to let all collapse, even though the Church herself might be carried away by the fall? Yes, such was the order no doubt, for the strength to go farther forward in human misery was abandoning him, he was agonizing through powerlessness and disgust. All the abominations he had mingled with since the morning, were stifling him. And, with his hands ardently clasped before him, he prayed for pardon, pardon for his lies, pardon for the weak complaisances, and the base promiscuousness. The fear of God came over him, he beheld God disowning him, forbidding him any longer to abuse His name, a God of anger resolved at last to exterminate the guilty. All the worldly man’s tolerances disappeared before the unbridled scruples of his conscience, and there only remained the faith of the believer, terrified and struggling in the uncertainty of salvation. Oh, Lord! which was the straight road, what should be done in the midst of that expiring society which even contaminated its priests?

Then, the Abbé Mauduit, his eyes fixed on the Calvary, sobbed aloud. He wept like the Virgin Mary and Mary Magdalen, he mourned for truth dead, for heaven empty. And right beyond the marble ornaments and the jewelled plate, the great plaster Christ was without a drop of blood.

CHAPTER XVIII

In December, the eighth month of her mourning, Madame Josserand for the first time accepted an invitation to dine out. It was merely at the Duveyriers’, almost a family gathering, with which Clotilde opened her Saturday receptions of the new winter. The day before, Adèle had been told that she would have to help Julie with the washing-up. The ladies were in the habit of thus lending their servants to each other on the days when they gave parties.

“And above all, try and put a little more go into yourself,” said Madame Josserand to her maid-of-all-work. “I don’t know what you’ve got in your body now, you’re as limp as rags. Yet you’re fat and plump.”

Adèle was simply nine months gone in the family way. For a long time she had thought she was merely growing stouter, which greatly surprised her however; and she would get into a perfect rage, with her ever hungry empty stomach, on the days when madame triumphantly showed her to her guests: ah, well! those who accused her of weighing her servant’s bread might come and look at that great glutton, it was not likely she got so fat by merely licking the walls! When, in her stupidity, Adèle at length became aware of her misfortune, she restrained herself twenty times from telling the truth to her mistress, who was really taking advantage of her condition to make the neighbourhood think that she was at length feeding her.

But, from this moment, terror stultified her entirely. Her village ideas once more took possession of her obtuse skull. She thought herself damned, she fancied that the gendarmes would come and take her, if she admitted her pregnancy. Then, all her low cunning was made use of to hide it. She concealed the feelings of sickness, the intolerable headaches, the terrible constipation from which she suffered; twice she thought she would drop down dead before her kitchen fire, whilst stirring some sauces. The pain that she had endured for the two last months with the obstinacy of a heroic silence was indeed frightful.

Adèle went up to bed that night about eleven o’clock. The thought of tomorrow evening terrified her: more drudgery, more bullying by Julie! and she could scarcely move about. Yet, to her, her confinement was still an uncertain and far-off affair, she preferred not to think of it, vaguely hoping that it would no longer trouble her. She had, therefore, made no preparations, and was without an idea, without a plan. She was only comfortable when in her bed, stretched out on her back. As it had been freezing since the day before, she kept her stockings on, blew out her candle, and pulling the clothes tightly about her waited to get warm.

During the night she was seized with labour pains, and a desire came over her to move about, so as to walk them off. She therefore lighted the candle and began to wander round the room, her tongue dried up, tormented with a burning thirst, and her cheeks on fire. Hours passed in this cruel wandering, without her daring to put on her shoes, for fear of making a noise, whilst she was only protected against the cold by an old shawl thrown across her shoulders. Two o’clock struck, then three o’clock.

Not a soul stirred in the adjoining rooms, every one was snoring; she could hear Julie’s sonorous hum, whilst Lisa made a kind of hissing noise like the shrill notes of a fife. Four o’clock had just struck, when seized with a violent pain, she felt that the end was approaching, and could not restrain uttering a loud cry.

At this the occupants of the other rooms began to rouse up. Voices thick with sleep were heard saying: “Well! what? who’s being murdered? — Some one’s being taken by force! — Don’t dream out loud like that!” Dreadfully frightened, she drew the bed-clothes over the new-born child, which was uttering plaintive cries like a little kitten. But she soon heard Julie snoring again, after turning over; whilst Lisa, once more asleep, no longer uttered a sound. Then she experienced an immense relief, an infinite comfort of calm and repose, and lay as one dead.

She must have dozed thus for the best part of an hour. When six o’clock struck, the consciousness of her position awoke her again. Time was flying, she rose up painfully, and did whatever things came into her head, without deciding on them beforehand. A frosty moon shone full into the room.

After dressing herself, she wrapped the infant up in some old rags, and then folded a couple of newspapers around it. It uttered no cry now, yet its little heart was beating.

Not one of the servants was about as yet, and after getting slumbering Monsieur Gourd to unfasten the door from his room, she was able to go out and lay her bundle in the Passage Choiseul, the gates of which had just been opened, and then quietly return upstairs. She met no one. For once in her lifetime, luck was on her side!

She immediately set about tidying her room, after which, utterly worn-ont, and as white as wax, she again lay down. It was thus that Madame Josserand found her, when she had made up her mind to go upstairs towards nine o’clock, greatly surprised at not seeing Adèle come down. The servant having complained of a violent attack of diarrhoea which had kept her awake all night, madame exclaimed:

“Of course! you must have eaten too much again! You think of nothing else but stuffing yourself.”

The girl’s paleness, however, made her uneasy, and she talked of sending for the doctor; but she was glad to save the three francs, when Adèle vowed that she merely needed rest. Since her husband’s death, Madame Josserand had been living with her daughter Hortense on an allowance made her by the brothers Bernheim, but which did not prevent her from bitterly alluding to them as persons who lived on the brains of others; and she spent less than ever on food, so as not to descend to a lower level of society by quitting her apartments and giving up her Tuesday receptions.

“That’s right; sleep,” said she. “There is some cold beef left which will do for this morning, and to-night we dine out. If you cannot come down to help Julie, she will have to do without you.”

The dinner that evening at the Duveyriers’ was a very cordial one. All the family was there: the two Vabres and their wives, Madame Josserand, Hortense, Léon, and even uncle Bachelard, who behaved well. Moreover, they had invited Trublot to fill a vacant place, and Madame Dambreville, so as not to separate her from Léon. The latter, after his marriage with the niece, had once again fallen into the arms of the aunt, who was still necessary to him. They were seen to arrive together in all the drawing-rooms, and they would apologise for the young wife, whom a cold or a feeling of idleness, said they, kept at home. That evening the whole table complained of scarce knowing her: they loved her so much, she was so beautiful! Then, they talked of the chorus which Clotilde was to give at the end of the evening; it was the “Blessing of the Daggers” again, but this time with five tenors, something complete and magisterial. For two months past, Duveyrier himself, who had become quite charming, had been looking up the friends of the house, and saying to every one he met: “You are quite a stranger, come and see us; my wife is going to give her choruses again.” Therefore, half through the dinner, they talked of nothing but music. The happiest good nature and the most free-hearted gaiety prevailed throughout.

Then, after the coffee, and whilst the ladies sat round the drawing-room fire, the gentlemen formed a group in the parlour and began to exchange some grave ideas. The other guests were now arriving. And among the earliest were Campardon, Abbé Mauduit, and Doctor Juillerat, without including the diners, with the exception of Trublot, who had disappeared on leaving the table. They almost immediately commenced talking politics. The debates in the Chamber deeply interested the gentlemen, and they had not yet given over discussing the success of the opposition candidates for Paris, all of whom had been returned at the May elections. This triumph of the dissatisfied portion of the middle-classes made them feel anxious at heart, in spite of their apparent delight.

“Dear me!” declared Léon, “Monsieur Thiers is certainly a most talented man. But he puts such acrimony into his speeches on the Mexican expedition that he quite spoils their effect”

He had just been named to a higher appointment, through Madame Dambreville’s influence, and had at once joined the government party. The only thing that remained in him of the famished demagogue was an unbearable intolerance of all doctrines.

“Not long ago you were accusing the government of every sin,” said the doctor smiling. “I hope that you at least voted for Monsieur Thiers.”

The young man avoided answering. Théophile, whose stomach was no longer able to digest his food, and who was worried with fresh doubts as to his wife’s constancy, exclaimed:

“I voted for him. When men refuse to live as brothers, so much the worse for them!”

“And so much the worse for you, as well, eh?” remarked Duveyrier, who, speaking but little, uttered some very profound observations.

Théophile, greatly scared, looked at him. Auguste no longer dared admit that he had also voted for Monsieur Thiers. Then, every one was very much surprised to hear uncle Bachelard utter a legitimist profession of faith: he thought it the most genteel. Campardon seconded him warmly; he had abstained from voting himself, because the official candidate, Monsieur Dewinck, did not offer sufficient guarantees as regards religion; and he furiously declaimed against Renan’s “Life of Jesus,” which had recently made its appearance.

“It is not the book that should be burnt, it is the author!” repeated he.

“You are, perhaps, too radical, my friend,” interrupted the priest in a conciliatory tone. “But, indeed, the symptoms are becoming terrible. There is some talk of driving away the pope, the revolution has invaded parliament. We are walking on the edge of a precipice.”

“So much the better!” said Doctor Juillerat simply.

Then, the others all protested. He renewed his attacks against the middle classes, prophesying that there would be a clean sweep, the day when the masses wished to enjoy power in their turn; and the others loudly interrupted him, exclaiming that the middle classes represented the virtue, the industry, and the thrift of the nation. Duveyrier was at length able to make himself heard. He owned it before all: he had voted for Monsieur Dewinck, not that Monsieur Dewinck exactly represented his opinions, but because he was the symbol of order. Yes, the saturnalia of the Reign of Terror might one day return. Monsieur Rouher, that remarkable statesman who had just succeeded Monsieur Billault, had formally prophesied it in the Chamber. He concluded with these striking words:

“The triumph of the opposition is the preliminary subsidence of the structure. Take care that it does not crush you in falling!”

The other gentlemen held their peace, with the unavowed fear of having allowed themselves to be carried away even to compromising their personal safety. They beheld workmen begrimed with powder and blood, entering their homes, violating their maid-servants and drinking their wine. No doubt, the Emperor deserved a lesson; only, they were beginning to regret having given him so severe a one.

“Be easy!” concluded the doctor scoffingly. “We will manage to save you from the bullets.”

But he was going too far, they set him down as an original. It was, moreover, thanks to this reputation for originality, that he did not lose his connection. He continued, by resuming with Abbé Mauduit their eternal quarrel respecting the approaching downfall of the Church. Léon now sided with the priest: he talked of Providence and, on Sundays, accompanied Madame Dambreville to nine o’clock mass.

Meanwhile, the guests continued to arrive, the drawing-room was becoming quite filled with ladies. Valérie and Berthe were exchanging little secrets like two good friends. The other Madame Campardon, whom the architect had brought no doubt in place of poor Rose, who was already in bed upstairs and reading Dickens, was giving Madame Josserand an economical recipe for washing clothes without soap; whilst Hortense, seated all by herself and expecting Verdier, did not take her eyes off the door. But suddenly Clotilde, while conversing with Madame Dambreville, rose up and held out her hands. Her friend Madame Octave Mouret had just entered the room. The marriage had taken place early in November, at the end of her mourning.

“And your husband?” asked the hostess. “He is nothing to disappoint me, I hope?”

“No, no,” answered Caroline with a smile. “He will be here directly; something detained him at the last moment.”

There was some whispering, glances full of curiosity were directed towards her, so calm and so lovely, ever the same, with the pleasant assurance of a woman who succeeds in everything she undertakes. Madame Josserand pressed her hand, as though she were delighted to see her again. Berthe and Valérie left off talking and examined her at their ease, studying her costume, a straw colour dress covered with lace. But, in the midst of this quiet forgetfulness of the past, Auguste, whom the political discussion had left quite cool, was giving signs of indignant amazement as he stood near the parlour door. What! his sister was going to receive the family of his wife’s former lover! And, in his marital rancour, there was a touch of the jealous anger of the tradesman ruined by a triumphant competition; for “The Ladies’ Paradise,” by extending its business and creating a special department for silk, had so drained his resources, that he had been obliged to take a partner. He drew near, and whilst every one was making much of Madame Mouret, he whispered to Clotilde: