Complete Works of Emile Zola (1645 page)

“
Sleep in peace, then,” replied Gaume, with quiet irony;
“
the new society will provide for you if you don’t care to work.”

The Mazelles then proceeded to church, for they had been burning candles there for the recovery of Madame Mazelle since the day when Dr. Novarre had had the rudeness to tell her that she was not ill. Not ill! when she had an ailment that she had cherished with affection for years, for which, indeed, she lived, and to such a degree that she had at last come to find therein her occupation, her delight, and her very reason for existence. The doctor must have believed her to be incurable, since he gave her up; and, seized with terror, she betook herself to religion, in which she was finding the utmost consolation.

There was another promenader on the Boulevard de Magnolles, which was but rarely resorted to by pedestrians, and that was the Abbé Marie, who came there to read his breviary. But he often let the book fall, and, walking slowly, lost himself in the depths of a gloomy reverie. Since these last events, the movement arising from them, which impelled the whole town towards a new destiny, had emptied his church to an even greater extent than before; there was hardly any one left in it, in fact, except the very old townswomen, obstinate and stupid, together with a few women of the
bourgeoisie,
who upheld religion as the last rampart of the world of fashion now in process of destruction. When the last of the faithful should have deserted the Catholic churches and they became the ruins of a dead society abandoned to brambles and nettles, another civilization would begin. Therefore, in the face of such a danger, neither the old townswomen nor the few women of the middle class consoled the Abbé Marie for the desolation which he perceived to be increasing around his God. It was in vain for Leonore, the wife of the mayor, to lend the decorative effect of her imposing presence to the Sunday ceremonies, and it was in vain that she opened her purse wide for the maintenance of divine worship. The abbé was not in the least ignorant of her unworthiness, of her bad reputation, which was accepted by the whole town, and which he had been obliged himself to cover with the mantle of his sacred ministry, but which he reproved as a sin for which he held himself responsible. The Mazelles were even less satisfactory to him, owing to their childishness and their pitiable egoism, which caused them to come to him only from the hope of deriving from Heaven some personal gratification, and investing their prayers, as they did their money, in order to obtain some income therefrom. All men and all women were thus, in this expiring society, destitute of that true faith which, in the first centuries, founded the power of Christ, and were without that inclination for abnegation and absolute obedience which is necessary, to-day especially, for the omnipotence of the Church. He no longer concealed the fact from himself that the days were numbered; and that if God did not in mercy call him soon to Himself, he would perhaps be present at a frightful catastrophe when the steeple should fall, pierce the roof of the nave, and crush the altar.

This was the gloomy reverie that he had been indulging in for hours. He had buried it in the deepest depths of his being, endeavoring to conceal from himself the hopeless state of things. He affected to remain brave, haughty, and indifferent to the events of the day, under the pretext that the Church was founded for eternity. When he met the school-master Hermeline, who did not quail before the success of the methods of La Crêcherie, and was on the point of passing over to the reactionary party, in the name of the safety of the republic, he no longer argued with his former bitterness, but pretended to refer all to God; for God was certainly permitting such anarchic saturnalia for the purpose of destroying His enemies and of afterwards causing His triumph to be witnessed of man. Dr. Novarre jokingly hit the nail on the head by saying that the abbé was abandoning Sodom on the eve of the rain of fire. Sodom was the old pestiferous Beauclair, the
bourgeois
Beauclair devoured by egoism, an entire town condemned to destruction, the site of which would have to be rendered healthy if it were desired to see the city of health, happiness, justice, and peace spring up in its stead. All the symptoms were indicating a final crash. The wages system was in its death agony, the distracted middle class was becoming revolutionary, the
sauve-qui-peut
of interests was drawing the live forces of the country over to the victors, and what remained — that is to say, the worn-out and useless materials and scattered rubbish — was going to be swept away by the wind. The radiant Beauclair of to-morrow was already springing from the ruins. When the Abbé Marie, walking under the trees on the Boulevard de Magnolles, let his breviary fall, slackened his pace, and half closed his eyes, it was surely this vision, which, rising up before him, overwhelmed him with grief.

Sometimes Judge Gaume and the abbé met in these silent promenades in the wide solitude. At first they did not perceive each other, but they continued their walk in parallel lines, each with his head bowed and his eyes so fixed that nothing reached them from the outside world. Each was wrapped up in his own despair, his regret for the world which was disappearing, and his appeal to the world that was now to be born. The religion now finished was unwilling to die, and the justice to come was desperate at so prolonged a delay. At last they raised their heads and recognized each other, and it became necessary that they should exchange a few words.

“The weather is gloomy, monsieur; we are going to have rain.”

“I am afraid so, Monsieur Marie. This month is very cool for June.”

“Oh, well! what can you expect? All the seasons are upset just now. Nothing is as it should be any longer.”

“That is true; yet life goes on, and the kindly sun will, perhaps, put everything back in its place.”

Then each resumed his solitary walk, falling back into his own reflections, and in this way displayed openly the eternal struggle between the future and the past.

But it was especially at the Pit that the noise of the evolution taking place at Beauclair resounded as the latter became gradually transformed by the reorganization of labor. At every new success of La Crêcherie, Delaveau had to display more activity, and more intelligence and courage; and, naturally, everything that was causing the prosperity of the rival works was resulting in disaster to himself. It was for this reason that the discovery of excellent lodes in the old abandoned mine had given him a terrible blow, by lowering the price of raw material. He could no longer compete with the iron and steel of commerce, and he even found himself affected in his manufacture of guns and shells. Orders for these had been diminishing ever since the money of France had been directed especially towards constructions of a peaceful character and of interest to the community at large, such as railroads, bridges, and buildings of all kinds in which iron and steel were triumphing. The worst of all was that such orders, which were divided among a few houses only, were no longer sufficiently profitable to the latter; and they finally formed the project of ruining one of themselves in order to clear the market; and since the Pit was, just then, the least solvent, it was the Pit that the competing forges decided ruthlessly to destroy. Delaveau’s difficulties were becoming so much the greater in that his workmen were no longer remaining faithful’ to him. Ragu’s murderous assault had caused, as it were, a stampede among those of his companions whom he had left behind. Then, when Bourron, rendered wiser and converted, had left them in order to return to La Crêcherie, taking Fauchard with him, a movement had been initiated, and the majority began to ask themselves why they should not imitate him, since so many advantages were awaiting them. The experiment was now a brilliant success; the workmen at La Crêcherie were earning double wages by laboring no more than eight hours, without counting the advantages which they were enjoying, such as their pleasant little houses, their cheerful schools, the Communal House, in which some entertainment was always in progress, the general stores, where the retail prices were one-third less than elsewhere, and, finally, so much health and comfort. Figures count; and the workmen at the Pit demanded an increase of wages, since they wished to earn as much as those of La Crêcherie. As it was impossible to satisfy them, a great many left, and naturally went where they would find most prosperity. What paralyzed Delaveau in particular was the absence of any reserve funds, for he would not consent to declare himself vanquished; he would have held out for a long time, and have triumphed in the end, he thought, if he had had but a few hundred thousand francs on deposit, to aid him in bridging over the present crisis, which he persisted in believing temporary. But how could he fight, how could he pay his bills at maturity, in bad times, when money was lacking? The money already borrowed and the debt thus created was, in addition, a terrible dead weight — a burden that was crushing him. Yet he was fighting like a hero, always at the front, giving his intelligence and his life in the hope of yet saving the crumbling past that he was upholding, with its attributes of authority, wages, social conditions, both
bourgeois
and capitalist, and in the rigidly honest desire to make the capital intrusted to him yield the income that he had promised.

In the main, Delaveau’s worst suffering was due to his inability to put into Boisgelin’s hands the profits which he had pledged himself to pay; and his disappointment was cruelly intensified at such times as he was obliged to refuse the latter money. Although the last balance-sheet showed disaster, Boisgelin had no intention of retrenching the expenses at Guerdache, being excited to resistance by Fernande herself, who was treating her husband like a beast of labor, which must be goaded till the blood comes in order to extract every bit of exertion from it. Ever since Ragu’s outbreak, her own share in which was hidden and secreted in the innermost depths of her being, she had appeared as if maddened with delight, and she had never shown herself so ardent and so insatiable. She looked rejuvenated and beautiful, with something of a desperate gleam in her eyes, as if of an impossible and ever insatiate desire. To the friends of the house she appeared to be very restless; and the Sub-prefect Châtelard said in confidence to Mayor Gourier that this little woman would certainly commit some great imprudence, from which they would all suffer. Up to this time she had done nothing worse than change her own house into an inferno, by her ardor in instigating Boisgelin to make continual demands upon her husband for money in order to gratify her extravagance, the result of which was to throw Delaveau into such a state of exasperation that he stormed about it at night, even after he had sought his pillow. She maliciously goaded him by inconsiderate observations, and thus turning the knife in his wound. And yet he continued to adore her, and to treat her like a thing apart, without possible blemish, in the worship which he rendered to her subtle, delicious charm.

November came with unseasonably cold weather. This month the bills payable were so heavy that Delaveau felt the earth tremble under him. He had not the money on deposit necessary to meet them. The evening before the maturity of his obligations he shut himself up in his private office in order to reflect and to write letters, while Fernande went, by invitation, to dine at Guerdache. That morning, without her knowledge, he had gone there himself and had had with Boisgelin a decisive conversation, in which, after a plain exposure of the whole situation, he had at length decided the latter to reduce his expenses. Delaveau’s idea was to assign to him for a few years a suitable allowance, and he even advised him to sell Guerdache. And now, alone in his office, after his wife’s departure, he was walking up and down with slow steps, and at intervals, with a mechanical movement of his hand, stirred the coke fire which was burning in a sheet-iron stove placed in front of the fire-place.

The only safety possible for him was to obtain time, by writing to the creditors, who surely would not wish to see the works closed. But, as he was in no haste, he would write the letters after dinner; and so he continued his reflections, going from one window to the other, and always returning to stand before the one from which he saw the extensive grounds of La Crêcherie, as far as the distant park and cottage in which Luc himself lived. In the clear, intense cold, the sun had set in a sky of crystal purity, the pale golden light bringing out with infinite delicacy the newly established town against a background of purple. Never had he seen anything of the kind so clear and so instinct with life, for he could have counted the delicate individual branches of the trees, and distinguished the least details of the houses, whose bright-colored decorations of pottery made them so gay. There was one moment when, as the oblique rays of the sun fell upon them, all the windows lighted up as though they were on fire, and seemed to send forth sparks like a hundred fireworks. It resembled an apotheosis, a glory; and he remained standing there, holding back the cretonne window-curtains, with his face pressed against the glass, as though assisting at a triumph.

Just as Luc, down below, on the other side of the grounds of La Crêcherie, sometimes looked at the town that he had called into existence, and perceived that it was threatening soon to absorb the Pit, so Delaveau, in his turn, came often to look at it also, as it was steadily advancing and carrying with it the threat of conquest. How many times during these last years had he stood lost in oblivion before this window, in order to take in with his eyes the ominous horizon; and each time had seen the advancing tide of houses rising higher and higher and gradually approaching the Pit. It had started from afar, at the extreme end of the vast uncultivated and deserted lands; one house had appeared, like a little wave, then another, and another. The line of white façades had elongated; the wavelets had multiplied indefinitely as they pushed forward and hastened on their journey; and now they had covered the entire space. They were not more than some hundreds of yards distant, and had grown to be a real sea of incalculable power, ready to bear away before it everything that might oppose its passage. It represented the irresistible invasion of the morrow, by which the whole past would be swept away, and the Pit, together with Beauclair itself, be replaced by the young, triumphant city. Delaveau estimated its approach with a gloomy shudder of prevision of the day when the danger should become mortal. He had hoped for a moment, at the period when La Crêcherie was passing through so severe a crisis, that the movement would cease; but the town began to advance again with such an impetus that the old walls of the Pit were set trembling thereby. Still, unwilling to give way to despair, he braced himself against all evidence, flattering himself that his own energy would furnish the necessary bulwark. But on this particular evening he was under the spell of a disquietude that was dispiriting to him, and he had now come to feel a deep regret. Had he not been wrong in ever allowing Bonnaire to leave? He recalled the prophetic words of this simple and strong man at the time of the great strike; and the fact that it was on the next day that Bonnaire had assisted in establishing La Crêcherie by his excellence as a workman. Since that time the Pit had done nothing but decay. Ragu had disgraced it by an attempt at assassination, and Bourron, Fauchard, and others were now abandoning it as a place of ruin and malediction. In the distance the growing town was ever glistening in the sun; and he was seized with a sudden anger, the violence of which restored him to himself, and to the beliefs of his whole existence. No, no! he had been right; the truth was in the past; nothing would ever be extracted from men except by bending them to authority; and the wages system remained the law of labor, aside from which there was nothing but madness and catastrophe. He closed the heavy cretonne curtains, since he wished to see no more, lighted his little electric lamp, and abandoned himself to reflection in his tightly closed office, which the hot stove was raising to a high temperature.