Complete Works of Emile Zola (678 page)

“Where is she?
If you touch her, I’ll bleed you to death like a pig!”

Auguste drew back, exasperated.

“Here’s this one, now!”

“Shut up, or I’ll bleed you!” repeated Saturnin, making a rush at him.

Then the husband preferred to beat a retreat. He had a horror of madmen; one could not reason with such people. But, as he went out into the porch, calling to the porter to shut Saturnin up in the basement, he found himself face to face with Valérie and Théophile. The latter, who had caught a frightful cold, was wrapped up in a big red comforter, and coughed and moaned. They must both have known everything, for they stopped before Auguste with an air of condolence. Since the quarrel about the inheritance, the two couples had been sworn enemies, and were no longer on speaking terms.

“You still have a brother,” said Théophile, shaking him by the hand, when he had finished coughing. “I wish you to remember it in your misfortune.”

“Yes,” added Valérie, “this ought to avenge me, for she said some filthy things to me, did she not?
But we pity you all the same, for we are not quite heartless.”

Auguste, deeply touched by their kind manner, led them to the end of his warehouse, keeping an eye on Saturnin, who was prowling about. And, there, their reconciliation became complete. Berthe’s name was not mentioned; only, Valérie allowed it to be understood that all the unpleasantness arose from that woman, for there had never been a disagreeable word said in the family till she had entered it to dishonour them. Auguste, his eyes cast on the ground, listened and nodded his head approvingly. And a certain gaiety gleamed beneath Théophile’s commiseration, for he was delighted at no longer being the only one, and he examined his brother’s face to see how a person looks when in that awkward position.

“Now, what have you decided to do?” inquired he.

“To challenge him, of course!” firmly replied the husband.

Théophile’s joy was spoilt. His wife and he became cooler, in the presence of Auguste’s courage. The latter related to them the frightful scene of the night — how, having been foolish enough to hesitate purchasing a pistol, he had been forced to content himself with merely slapping the gentleman’s face; and to tell the truth, the gentleman had done the same to him, but that did not prevent his having received a pretty good hiding! A scoundrel who had been making a fool of him for six months past, by pretending to take his part against his wife, and whose impudence had gone as far as making reports respecting her on the days she went out! As for her, the creature, as she had gone to her parents, she could remain with them; he would never take her back.

“Would you believe that last month I allowed her three hundred francs for her dress!” cried he. “I who am so kind, so tolerant, who had decided to put up with everything, sooner than make myself ill! But one cannot put up with that — no! no! one cannot!”

Théophile was thinking of death. He trembled feverishly, and almost choked as he said:

“It’s absurd, you will get spitted. I would not fight.”

And, as Valérie looked at him, he added in an embarrassed manner:

“If such a thing happened to me.”

“Ah! the wretched woman!” then murmured his wife, “when one thinks that two men are going to kill each other on account of her! In her place, I could never sleep again.”

Auguste remained firm. He would fight. Moreover, his plans were settled. As he particularly wished Duveyrier to be his second, he was going up to inform him of what had taken place, and to send him at once to Octave. Théophile should be his other second, if he would consent. The latter was obliged to do so; but his cough suddenly seemed to become much worse, and he put on his peevish air of a sick child who wants to be pitied. He, however, offered to accompany his brother to the Duveyriers’. Though they might be robbers, yet one forgot everything in certain circumstances; and both he and his wife appeared to be desirous of a general reconciliation, they having, no doubt, reflected that it was not their interest to sulk any longer. Valérie, who was most obliging to Auguste, ended by offering to attend at the pay-desk, to give him time to find a suitable person.

“Only,” added she, “I must take Camille to the Tuileries gardens towards two o’clock.”

“Oh! it does not matter for once in a way!” said her husband. “It’s raining, too.”

“No, no, the child wants air. I must go out.”

At length the two brothers went up to the Duveyriers’. But an abominable fit of coughing obliged Théophile to stop on the very first stair. He held on to the hand-rail, and when he was able to speak, though still with a slight rattle in his throat, he stammered:

“You know, I’m very happy now; I’m quite sure of her. No, I’ve not the least thing to reproach her with, and she has given me proofs.”

Auguste stared at him without comprehending, and saw how yellow and half dead he looked with the scanty hairs of his beard drying up in his flabby flesh. This look completed Théophile’s annoyance, whilst he felt quite embarrassed by his brother’s valour.

“I am speaking of my wife,” he resumed. “Ah! poor old fellow, I pity you with all my heart! You recollect my stupidity on your wedding-day. But with you there can be no mistake, as you saw them.”

“Bah!” said Auguste doing the brave, “I’ll spit him like a lark. On my word, I shouldn’t care a hang if I hadn’t such a headache!”

Just as they rang at the Duveyriers’ door, Théophile suddenly thought that very likely the counsellor would not be in, for since the day he had found Clarisse, he had been drifting into bad habits, and had now even got to the point of sleeping out. Hippolyte, who opened the door to them, avoided answering with respect to his master; but he said that the gentlemen would find madame playing her scales. They entered. Clotilde, tightly laced up from the moment she got out of bed, was seated at her piano, practising with a regular and continuous movement of her hands; and, as she went in for this kind of exercise for two hours every day, so as not to lose the lightness of her touch, she occupied her mind in another way, by reading the “Revue des deux Mondes,” which stood open on the piano before her, without the agility of her fingers being in any way hampered.

“Why! it’s you!” said she, when her brothers had drawn her from the volley of notes, which isolated and enveloped her like a storm of hail.

And she did not even show her surprise when she caught sight of Théophile. The latter, moreover, kept himself very stiff, like a man who had come on another’s account. Auguste, filled with shame at the thought of telling his sister of his misfortune, and afraid of terrifying her with his duel, had a story all ready. But she did not give him time to lie, she questioned him in her quiet way, after looking at him intently.

“What do you intend doing now?
”

He started and blushed. So every one knew it then?
And he answered in the brave tone which had already closed Théophile’s mouth:

“Why, fight, of course!”

“Ah!” said she, greatly surprised this time.

However, she did not disapprove. It would increase the scandal, but yet honour had to be satisfied. She contented herself with recalling that she had at first opposed the marriage. One could expect nothing of a young girl who appeared to be ignorant of all a woman’s duties. Then, as Auguste asked her where her husband was:

“He is travelling,” answered she, without the least hesitation.

Then he was quite distressed, for he did not wish to do anything before consulting Duveyrier. She listened to him, without mentioning the new address, unwilling to acquaint her family with her home troubles. At length she hit on an expedient: she advised him to go to Monsieur Bachelard in the Rue d’Enghien; perhaps he would be able to tell him something. And she returned to her piano.

“It’s Auguste who asked me to come up,” Théophile, who had not spoken until then, thought it necessary to declare. “Will you let me kiss you, Clotilde? We are all in trouble.”

She presented her cold cheek, and said:

“My poor fellow, only those are in trouble who choose to be. As for me, I forgive every one. And take care of yourself, you seem to me to have a very bad cough.”

Then, calling to Auguste, she added:

“If the matter does not get settled, let me know, for I shall then be very anxious.”

The storm of notes recommenced, enveloping and drowning her; and, whilst her nimble fingers practised the scales in every key, she gravely resumed her reading of the “Revue des deux Mondes,” in the midst of it all.

Downstairs, Auguste for a moment discussed the question whether he should go to Bachelard’s or not. How could he say to him: “Your niece has deceived me?”
At length, he decided to obtain Duveyrier’s address from the uncle, and to tell him nothing. Everything was settled: Valérie would look after the warehouse, whilst Théophile would watch the home, until his brother’s return. The latter had sent for a cab, and he was just going off, when Saturnin, who had disappeared a moment before, came up from the basement with a big kitchen knife, which he flourished about, as he cried:

“I’ll bleed him! I’ll bleed him!”

This created another scare. Auguste, turning very pale, jumped precipitately into the cab, and pulled the door to, saying:

“He’s got another knife! Wherever does he find all those knives! I beseech you, Théophile, send him away, try and arrange that he shall no longer be here when I come back. As though what has already happened were not bad enough for me!”

The porter had hold of the madman by his shoulders. Valérie told the driver the address. But he, a fat and filthy looking man, with a face the colour of bullock’s blood, and still drunk from the night before, did not hurry himself, but took his time to gather up the reins and make himself comfortable on the box.

“By distance, governor?” asked he in a hoarse voice.

“No, by the hour, and quickly please. There will be something handsome for yourself.”

The cab started off. It was an old landau, both big and dirty, and shaking alarmingly on its worn-out springs. The horse, an enormous white carcass, ambled along with an extraordinary waste of strength, jogging his neck, and lifting his hoofs high off the ground. Auguste looked at his watch: it was nine o’clock. The duel might be settled by eleven. At first, the slowness of the vehicle irritated him. Then, little by little, he began to get drowsy; he had not closed his eyes all night, and that lamentable cab saddened him. When he found himself alone, rocked inside the rickety vehicle, and half deafened by the rattling of the cracked windows, the fever which had kept him up before his relations, began to calm down. What a stupid adventure it was all the same! And his face became ashy grey as he pressed his aching head between his hands.

In the Rue d’Enghien, he met with another vexation. To begin with, the commission agent’s doorway was so blocked up with vans that he almost got crushed; then, he found himself in the courtyard with the glass roof, amidst a crowd of packers all violently nailing up cases, and not one of whom could tell him where Bachelard was. The hammering seemed to split his skull. He was however making up his mind to wait for the uncle, when an apprentice, pitying his suffering look, came and whispered an address in his ear: Mademoiselle Fifi, Rue Saint-Marc, third floor. Old Bachelard was most likely there.

“Where do you say?” asked the driver who had fallen asleep.

“Rue Saint-Marc, and a little faster, if it’s possible.”

The cab resumed its funereal crawl. On the boulevards, the wheel caught in an omnibus. The panels cracked, the springs uttered plaintive cries, a gloomy melancholy more and more overcame the husband in search of his second. However, they at last reached the Rue Saint-Marc.

On the third floor, the door was opened by a little old woman, plump and white. She seemed suffering from some strong emotion, and she admitted Auguste directly he asked for Monsieur Bachelard.

“Ah! sir, you are one of his friends, surely. Pray try to calm him. Something happened to vex him a little while ago, the poor dear man. You know me no doubt, he must have spoken to you of me: I am Mademoiselle Menu.”

Auguste, feeling quite scared, found himself in a narrow room overlooking the courtyard, and as clean and peaceful as a country home. One could almost detect the odour of order and work, the purity of the happy existence of people in a quiet way. Seated before an embroidery frame, on which a priest’s stole was stretched, a fair young girl, pretty and having a candid air, was weeping bitterly; whilst uncle Bachelard, standing up, his nose inflamed, his eyes bloodshot, was drivelling with rage and despair. He was so upset, that Auguste’s entry did not appear to surprise him in the least. He immediately called upon him to bear witness, and the scene continued.

“Come now, you, Monsieur Vabre, who are an honest man, what would you say in my place? I arrived here this morning, a little earlier than usual; I entered her room with the sugar from the café and three four sou pieces, just for a surprise for her, and I find her in bed with that pig Gueulin! No, there, frankly what would you say?”

Auguste, greatly embarrassed, turned very red. He at first thought that the uncle knew of his misfortune and was making a fool of him. But the other added, without even waiting for a reply:

“Ah! listen, mademoiselle, you don’t know what it is you have done! I who was becoming young again, who felt so delighted at having found a nice quiet little nook, where I was once more beginning to believe in happiness! Yes, you were an angel, a flower, in short something fresh which helped me to forget a lot of dirty women. And here you go and sleep with that pig Gueulin!”

A genuine emotion contracted his throat, his voice choked in accents of profound suffering. Everything was crumbling away, and he wept for the loss of the ideal, with the hiccoughs of a remnant of drunkenness.

“I did not know, uncle,” stammered Fifi, whose sobs redoubled in presence of this pitiful spectacle; “no, I did not know it would cause you so much grief.”

And indeed she did not look as if she did know. She retained her ingenuous eyes, her odour of chastity, the naivete of a little girl unable as yet to distinguish a gentleman from a lady. Aunt Menu, moreover, swore that at heart she was innocent.