Complete Works of Emile Zola (635 page)

“Well! well! what are we going to do?”

“Why, you were going out,” said Octave. “Do not let me disturb you.”

“Achille,” murmured Madame Campardon, “that berth, at the Hédouins’ — “

“Why, of course! I was forgetting,” exclaimed the architect. “My dear fellow, a place of first clerk at a large linen-draper’s. I know some one there who has said a word for you. You are expected. It is not yet four o’clock; shall I introduce you now?”

Octave hesitated, anxious about the bow of his necktie, flurried by his mania for being neatly dressed. However, he decided to go, when Madame Campardon assured him that he looked very well. With a languid movement, she offered her forehead to her husband, who kissed her with a great show of tenderness, repeating:

“Good-bye, my darling — good-bye, my pet.”

“Do not forget that we dine at seven,” said she, accompanying them across the drawing-room, where they had left their hats.

Angèle followed them without the slightest grace. But her music-master was waiting for her, and she at once commenced to strum on the instrument with her bony fingers. Octave, who was lingering in the ante-room, repeating his thanks, was unable to make himself heard. And, as he went downstairs, the sound of the piano seemed to follow him: in the midst of the warm silence other pianos — from Madame Juzeur’s, the Vabres’, and Duveyriers’ — were answering, playing on each floor other airs, which issued, distantly and religiously, from the calm solemnity of the doors.

On reaching the street, Campardon turned into the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. He remained silent, with the absorbed air of a man seeking for an opportunity to broach a subject.

“Do you remember Mademoiselle Gasparine?” asked he, at length. “She is first lady assistant at the Hédouins’. You will see her.”

Octave thought this a good time for satisfying his curiosity.

“Ah!” said he. “Does she live with you?”

“No! no!” exclaimed the architect, hastily, and as though feeling hurt at the bare idea.

Then, as the young man appeared surprised at his vehemence, he gently continued, speaking in an embarrassed way:

“No; she and my wife no longer see each other. You know, in families — Well, I met her, and I could not refuse to shake hands, could I?
more especially as she is not very well off, poor girl. So that, now, they have news of each other through me. In these old quarrels, one must leave the task of healing the wounds to time.”

Octave was about to question him plainly on the subject of his marriage, when the architect suddenly put an end to the conversation by saying:

“Here we are!”

It was a large linendrapers, opening on to the narrow triangle of the Place Gaillon, at the corner of the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin and the Rue de la Michodière. Across two windows immediately above the shop was a signboard, with the words, “The Ladies’ Paradise, founded in 1822,” in faded gilt letters, whilst on the shop windows was inscribed, in red, the name of the firm, “Deleuze, Hédouin, & Co.”

“It has not the modern style, but it is honest and solid,” rapidly explained Campardon. “Monsieur Hédouin, formerly a clerk, married the daughter of the elder Deleuze, who died a couple of years ago; so that the business is now managed by the young couple — the old Deleuze and another partner, I think, both keep out of it. You will see Madame Hédouin. Oh! a woman with brains! Let us go in.”

It so happened that Monsieur Hédouin was at Lille buying some linen; therefore Madame Hédouin received them. She was standing up, a penholder behind her ear, giving orders to two shopmen who were putting away some pieces of stuff on the shelves; and she appeared to him so tall, so admirably lovely, with her regular features and her tidy hair, so gravely smiling, in her black dress, with a turn-down collar and a man’s tie, that Octave, not usually timid, could only stammer out a few observations. Everything was settled without any waste of words.

“Well!” said she, in her quiet way, and with her tradeswoman’s accustomed gracefulness, “you may as well look over the place, as you are not engaged.”

She called one of her clerks, and put Octave under his guidance; then, after having politely replied to a question of Campardon’s that Mademoiselle Gasparine was out on an errand, she turned her back and resumed her work, continuing to give her orders in her gentle and concise voice.

“Not there, Alexandre. Put the silks up at the top. Be careful, those are not the same make!”

Campardon, after hesitating, at length said to Octave that he would call again for him to take him back to dinner. Then, during two hours, the young man went over the warehouse. He found it badly lighted, small, encumbered with stock, which, overflowing from the basement, became heaped up in the corners, leaving only narrow passages between high walls of bales. On several different occasions he ran against Madame Hédouin, busy, and scuttling along the narrowest passages without ever catching her dress in anything. She seemed the very life and soul of the establishment, all the assistants belonging to which obeyed the slightest sign of her white hands. Octave felt hurt that she did not take more notice of him. Towards a quarter to seven, as he was coming up a last time from the basement, he was told that Campardon was on the first floor with Mademoiselle Gasparine. Up there was the hosiery department, which that young lady looked after. But, at the top of the winding staircase, the young man stopped abruptly behind a pyramid of pieces of calico systematically arranged, on hearing the architect talking most familiarly to Gasparine.

“I swear to you it is not so!” cried he, forgetting himself so far as to raise his voice.

A slight pause ensued.

“How is she now?” at length inquired the young woman.

“Well! always the same. It comes and goes. She feels that it is all over now. She will never get right again.”

Gasparine resumed, in compassionate tones:

“My poor friend, it is you who are to be pitied. However, as you have been able to manage in another way, tell her how sorry I am to hear that she is still unwell — “

Campardon, without letting her finish, seized hold of her by the shoulders and kissed her roughly on the lips, in the gas-heated air already becoming heavy beneath the low ceiling. She returned his kiss, murmuring:

“Tomorrow morning, if you can, at six o’clock, I will remain in bed. Knock three times.”

Octave, bewildered, and beginning to understand, coughed, and showed himself. Another surprise awaited him. Cousin Gasparine had become dried up, thin and angular, with her jaw projecting, and her hair coarse; and all she had preserved of her former self were her large superb eyes, in a face that had now become cadaverous. With her jealous forehead, her ardent and obstinate mouth, she troubled him as much as Rose had charmed him by her tardy expansion of an indolent blonde.

Gasparine was polite, without effusiveness. She remembered Plassans — she talked to the young man of the old times. When they went off, Campardon and he, she shook their hands. Downstairs, Madame Hédouin simply said to Octave:

“Tomorrow, then, sir.”

Out in the street the young man, deafened by the cabs, jostled by the passers-by, could not help remarking that this lady was very beautiful, but that she did not seem particularly amiable. On the black and muddy pavement, the bright windows of freshly-painted shops, flaring with gas, cast broad rays of vivid light; whilst the old shops, with their sombre displays, lit up in the interior only by smoking lamps, which burnt like distant stars, saddened the streets with masses of shadow. In the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, just before turning into the Rue do Choiseul, the architect bowed on passing before one of these establishments.

A young woman, slim and elegant, dressed in a silk mantlet, was standing in the doorway, drawing a little boy of three towards her, so that he might not get run over. She was talking to an old bareheaded lady, the shopkeeper, no doubt, whom she addressed in a familiar manner. Octave could not distinguish her features in that dim light, beneath the dancing reflections of the neighbouring gas-jets;
she seemed to him to be pretty, he only saw two bright eyes, which were fixed a moment upon him like two flames. Behind her yawned the shop, damp like a cellar, and emitting an odour of saltpetre.

“That is Madame Vabre, the wife of Monsieur Théophile Vabre, the landlord’s younger son. You know the people who live on the first floor,” resumed Campardon, when he had gone a few steps. “Oh! a most charming lady! She was born in that shop, one of the best paying haberdashers of the neighbourhood, which her parents, Monsieur and Madame Louhette, still manage, for the sake of having something to occupy them. They have made some money there, I will warrant!”

But Octave did not understand trade of that sort, in those holes of old Paris, where at one time a piece of stuff was sufficient sign. He swore that nothing in the world would ever make him consent to live in such a den. One surely caught some rare aches and pains there!

Whilst talking, they had reached the top of the stairs. They were being waited for Madame Campardon had put on a grey silk dress, had arranged her hair coquettishly, and looked very neat and prim. Campardon kissed her on the neck, with the emotion of a good husband.

“Good evening, my darling; good evening, my pet.”

And they passed into the dining-room. The dinner was delightful. Madame Campardon at first talked of the Deleuzes and the Hédouins — families respected throughout the neighbourhood, and whose members were well known; a cousin who was a stationer in the Rue Gaillon, an uncle who had an umbrella shop in the Passage Choiseul, and nephews and nieces in business all round about. Then the conversation turned, and they talked of Angèle, who was sitting stiffly on her chair, and eating with inert gestures. Her mother was bringing her up at home, it was preferable; and, not wishing to say more, she blinked her eyes, to convey that young girls learnt very naughty things at boarding-schools. The child had slyly balanced her plate on her knife. Lisa, who was clearing the cloth, missed breaking it, and exclaimed:

“It was your fault, mademoiselle!”

A mad laugh, violently restrained, passed over Angèle’s face. Madame Campardon contented herself with shaking her head; and, when Lisa had left the room to fetch the dessert, she sang her praises — very intelligent, very active, a regular Paris girl, always knowing which way to turn. They might very well do without Victoire, the cook, who was no longer very clean, on account of her great age; but she had seen her master born at his father’s — she was a family ruin which they respected. Then as the maid returned with some baked apples:

“Conduct irreproachable,” continued Madame Campardon in Octave’s ear. “I have discovered nothing against her as yet. One holiday a month to go and embrace her old aunt, who lives some distance off.”

Octave observed Lisa. Seeing her nervous, flat-chested, blear-eyed, the thought came to him that she must go in for a precious fling, when at her old aunt’s. However, he greatly approved what the mother said, as she continued to give him her views on education — a young girl is such a heavy responsibility, it is necessary to keep her clear even of the breaths of the street. And, during this, Angèle, each time Lisa leant over near her chair to remove a plate, pinched her in a friendly way, whilst they both maintained their composure, without even moving an eyelid.

“One should be virtuous for one’s own sake,” said the architect learnedly, as though by way of conclusion to thoughts he had not expressed. “I do not care a button for public opinion; I am an artist!”

After dinner, they remained in the drawing-room until midnight. It was a little jollification to celebrate Octave’s arrival. Madame Campardon appeared to be very tired; little by little she abandoned herself, leaning back on the sofa.

“Are you suffering, my darling?” asked her husband.

“No,” replied she in a low voice. “It is always the same thing.”

She looked at him, and then gently asked:

“Did you see her at the Hédouins’?”

“Yes. She asked after you.”

Tears came to Rose’s eyes.

“She is in good health, she is!”

“Come, come,” said the architect, showering little kisses on her hair, forgetting they were not alone. “You will make yourself worse again. You know very well that I love you all the same, my poor pet!”

Octave, who had discreetly retired to the window, under the pretence of looking into the street, returned to study Madame Campardon’s countenance, his curiosity again awakened, and wondering if she knew. But she had resumed her amiable and doleful expression, and was curled up in the depths of the sofa, like a woman who has to find her pleasure in herself, and who is forcibly resigned to receiving the caresses that fall to her share.

At length Octave wished them good-night. With his candlestick in his hand, he was still on the landing, when he heard the sound of silk dresses rustling over the stairs. He politely stood on one side. It was evidently the ladies of the fourth floor, Madame Josserand and her two daughters, returning from some party. As they passed, the mother, a superb and corpulent woman, stared in his face; whilst the elder of the young ladies kept at a distance with a sour air, and the younger, giddily looked at him and laughed, in the full light of the candle. She was charming, this one, with her irregular but agreeable features, her clear complexion, and her auburn hair gilded with light reflections; and she had a bold grace, the free gait of a young bride returning from a ball in a complicated costume of ribbons and lace, like unmarried girls do not wear. The trains disappeared along the balustrade: a door closed. Octave lingered a moment, greatly amused by the gaiety of her eyes.

He slowly ascended in his turn. A single gas-jet was burning, the staircase was slumbering in a heavy warmth. It seemed to him more wrapped up in itself than ever, with its chaste doors, its doors of rich mahogany, closing the entrances to virtuous alcoves. Not a sigh passed along, it was the silence of well-mannered people who hold their breath. Presently a slight noise was heard; Octave leant over and beheld Monsieur Gourd, in his cap and slippers, turning out the last gas-jet. Then all subsided, the house became enveloped by the solemnity of darkness, as though annihilated in the distinction and decency of its slumbers.