Complete Works of Emile Zola (641 page)

“By the way, as you appear to know everything,” said Octave to Trublot, “tell me what it is that Madame Campardon is suffering from. Every one puts on a very sad face whenever it is mentioned.”

“Why, my dear fellow,” replied the young man, “she has — “

And he whispered in Octave’s ear. Whilst he listened, the latter’s face first assumed a smile, and then became very long with a look of profound astonishment.

“It is not possible!” said he.

Then, Trublot gave his word of honour. He knew another lady in the same state.

“Besides,” resumed he, “it sometimes happens after a confinement that — “

And he began to whisper again. Octave, convinced, became quite sad. He who had fancied all sorts of things, who had imagined quite a romance, the architect occupied elsewhere and drawing him towards his wife to amuse her! In any case he now knew that she was well guarded. The young men pressed up against each other, in the excitement caused by these feminine secrets which they were stirring up, forgetting that they might be overheard.

Madame Juzeur was just then confiding to Madame Josserand her impressions of Octave. She thought him very becoming, no doubt, but she preferred Monsieur Auguste Vabre. The latter, standing up in a corner of the drawing-room, remained silent, in his insignificance and with his usual evening headache.

“What surprises me, dear madame, is that you have not thought of him for your Berthe. A young man set up in business, who is prudence itself. And he is in want of a wife, I know that he is desirous of getting married.”

Madame Josserand listened, surprised. She would never herself have thought of the linendraper. Madame Juzeur, however, insisted, for in her misfortune, she had the mania of working for the happiness of other women, which caused her to busy herself with everything relating to the tender passions of the house. She affirmed that Auguste never took his eyes off Berthe. In short, she invoked her experience of men: Monsieur Mouret would never let himself be caught, whilst that good Monsieur Vabre would be very easy and very advantageous. But Madame Josserand, weighing the latter with a glance, came decidedly to the conclusion that such a son-in-law would not be of much use in filling her drawing-room.

“My daughter detests him,” said she, “and I would never oppose the dictates of her heart.”

A tall thin young lady had just played a fantasia on the “Dame Blanche.” As uncle Bachelard had fallen asleep in the dining-room, Gueulin reappeared and imitated the nightingale on his flute. No one listened, however, for the story about Bonnaud had spread. Monsieur Josserand was quite upset, the fathers held up their arms, the mothers were stifling. What! Bonnaud’s son-in-law was a clown! Then who could one believe in now? and the parents, in their appetites for marriages, suffered regular nightmares, like so many distinguished convicts in evening dress. The fact was, that Bonnaud had been so delighted at the opportunity of getting rid of his daughter that he had not troubled much about references, in spite of his rigid prudence of an over-scrupulous general accountant.

“Mamma, the tea is served,” said Berthe, as she and Adèle opened the folding door.

And, whilst the company passed slowly into the dining-room, she went up to her mother and murmured:

“I have had enough of it! He wants me to stay and tell him stories, or he threatens to smash everything!”

On a grey cloth which was too narrow, was served one of those teas laboriously got together, a cake bought at a neighbouring baker’s, with some mixed sweet biscuits, and some sandwiches on either side. At either end of the table quite a luxury of flowers, superb and costly roses, withdrew attention from the ancient dust on the biscuits, and the poor quality of the butter. The sight caused a commotion, and jealousies were kindled: really those Josserands were ruining themselves in trying to marry off their daughters. And the guests, having but poorly dined, and only thinking of going to bed with their bellies full, casting side glances at the bouquets, gorged themselves with weak tea and imprudently devoured the hard stale biscuits and the heavy cake. For those persons who did not like tea, Adèle handed round some glasses of red currant syrup. It was pronounced excellent.

Meanwhile, the uncle was asleep in a corner. They did not wake him, they even politely pretended not to see him. A lady talked of the fatigues of business. Berthe went from one to another, offering sandwiches, handing cups of tea, and asking the men if they would like any more sugar. But she was unable to attend to every one, and Madame Josserand was looking for her daughter Hortense, when she caught sight of her standing in the middle of the deserted drawing-room, talking to a gentleman, of whom one could only see the back.

“Ah! yes! he has come at last,” she permitted, in her anger, to escape her.

There was some whispering. It was that Verdier, who had been living with a woman for fifteen years past, whilst waiting to marry Hortense. Every one knew the story, the young ladies exchanged glances; but they bit their lips, and avoided speaking of it, out of propriety. Octave, being made acquainted with it, examined the gentleman’s back with interest. Trublot knew the mistress, a good girl, a reformed streetwalker, who was better now, said he, than the best of wives, taking care of her man, and looking after his clothes; and he was full of a fraternal sympathy for her. Whilst they were being watched from the dining-room, Hortense was scolding Verdier with all the sulkiness of a badly brought up virgin for having come so late.

“Hallo! red currant syrup!” said Trublot, seeing Adèle standing before him, a tray in her hand.

He sniffed it and declined. But, as the servant turned round, a stout lady’s elbow pushed her against him, and he pinched her back. She smiled, and returned to him with the tray.

“No, thanks,” said he. “By-and-by.”

Women were seated round the table, whilst the men were eating, standing up behind them. Exclamations were heard, an enthusiasm, which died away as the mouths were filled with food. The gentlemen were appealed to. Madame Josserand cried:

“Ah! yes, I was forgetting. Come and look, Monsieur Mouret, you who love the arts.”

“Take care, the water-colour stroke!” murmured Trublot, who knew the house.

It was better than a water-colour. As though by chance, a porcelain bowl was standing on the table; right at the very bottom of it, surrounded by the brand new varnished bronze mounting, Greuze’s “Young girl with the broken Pitcher” was painted in light colours, passing from pale lilac to faint blue. Berthe smiled in the midst of the praise.

“Mademoiselle possesses every talent,” said Octave with his good-natured grace. “Oh! the colours are so well blended, and it is very accurate, very accurate!”

“I can guarantee that the design is!” resumed Madame Josserand, triumphantly. “There is not a hair too many or few. Berthe copied it here, from an engraving. There are really such a number of nude subjects at the Louvre, and the people there are at times so mixed!”

She had lowered her voice when giving this last piece of information, desirous of letting the young man know that, though her daughter was an artist, she did not let that carry her beyond the limits of propriety. She probably, however, thought Octave rather cold, she felt that the bowl had not met with the success she had anticipated, and she watched him with an anxious look, whilst Valérie and Madame Juzeur, who were drinking their fourth cup of tea, examined the painting and gave vent to little cries of admiration.

“You are looking at her again,” said Trublot to Octave, on seeing him with his eyes fixed on Valérie.

“Why, yes,” replied he, slightly confused. “It is funny, she looks pretty just at this moment. A warm woman, evidently. I say, do you think one might venture?
”

“Warm, one never knows. It is a peculiar fancy! Anyhow, it would be better than marrying the girl.”

“What girl?” exclaimed Octave, forgetting himself. “What! you think I am going to let myself be hooked! Never! My dear fellow, we don’t marry at Marseilles!”

Madame Josserand had drawn near. The words came upon her like a stab in the heart. Another fruitless campaign, another evening party wasted! The blow was such, that she was obliged to lean against a chair, as she looked with despair at the now despoiled table, where all that remained was a burnt piece of the cake. She had given up counting her defeats, but this one should be the last; she took a frightful oath, swearing that she would no longer feed persons who came to see her solely to gorge. And, upset and exasperated, she glanced round the dining-room, seeking into what man’s arms she could throw her daughter, when she caught sight of Auguste resignedly standing against the wall and not having partaken of anything.

Just then, Berthe, with a smile on her face, was moving towards Octave, with a cup of tea in her hand. She was continuing the campaign, obedient to her mother’s wishes. But the latter caught her by the arm and called her a silly fool under her breath.

“Take that cup to Monsieur Vabre, who has been waiting for an hour past,” said she, graciously and very loud.

Then, whispering again in her daughter’s ear, and giving her another of her warlike looks, she added:

“Be amiable, or you will have me to deal with!”

Berthe, for a moment put out of countenance, soon recovered herself. It often changed thus three times in an evening. She carried the cup to Auguste, with the smile which she had commenced for Octave; she was amiable, talked of Lyons silks, and did the engaging young person who would look very well behind a counter. Auguste’s hands trembled a little, and he was very red, as he was suffering a good deal from his head that evening.

Out of politeness, a few persons returned and sat down for some moments in the drawing-room. Having fed, they were all going off. When they looked for Verdier, he had already taken his departure; and some young ladies, greatly put out, only carried away an indistinct view of his back. Campardon, without waiting for Octave, retired with the doctor, whom he detained on the landing, to ask him if there was really no more hope. During the tea, one of the lamps had gone out, emitting a stench of rancid oil, and the other lamp, the wick of which was all charred, lit up the room with so poor a light, that the Vabres themselves rose to leave in spite of the attentions with which Madame Josserand overwhelmed them. Octave had preceded them into the ante-room, where he had a surprise: Trublot, who was looking for his hat, suddenly disappeared. He could only have gone off by the passage leading to the kitchen.

“Well! wherever has he got to?
does he leave by the servants’ staircase?
”
murmured the young man.

But he did not seek to clear up the mystery. Valérie was there, looking for a lace neckerchief. The two brothers, Théophile and Auguste, were going downstairs, without troubling themselves about her. Octave, having found the neckerchief, handed it to her, with the air of admiration he put on when serving the pretty lady customers of “The Ladies’ Paradise.” She looked at him, and he felt certain that her eyes, on fixing themselves on his, had flashed forth flames.

“You are too kind, sir,” said she, simply.

Madame Juzeur, who was the last to leave, enveloped them both in a tender and discreet smile. And when Octave, highly excited, had reached his cold chamber, he looked at himself for an instant in the glass, and he thought it worth while to make the attempt!

Meanwhile, Madame Josserand was wandering about the deserted room, without saying a word, and as though carried away by some gale of wind. She had violently closed the piano and turned out the last lamp; then, passing into the dining-room, she began to blow out the candles so vigorously that the chandelier quite shook. The sight of the despoiled table covered with dirty plates and empty cups, increased her rage; and she turned round it, casting terrible glances at her daughter Hortense, who, quietly sitting down, was devouring the piece of burnt cake.

“You are putting yourself in a fine state again, mamma,” said the latter. “Is it not going on all right, then?
For myself, I am satisfied. He is purchasing some chemises for her to enable her to leave.”

The mother shrugged her shoulders.

“Eh?
you say that this proves nothing. Very good, only steer your ship as well as I steer mine. Here now is a cake which may flatter itself it is a precious bad one! They must be a wretched lot to swallow such stuff.”

Monsieur Josserand, who was always worn out by his wife’s parties, was reposing on a chair; but he was in dread of an encounter, he feared that Madame Josserand might drive him before her in her furious promenade; and he drew close to Bachelard and Gueulin, who were seated at the table in front of Hortense. The uncle, on awaking, had discovered a decanter of rum. He was emptying it, and bitterly alluding to the twenty francs.

“It is not for the money,” he kept repeating to his nephew, “it is the way the thing was done. You know how I behave to women: I would give them the shirt off my back, but I do not like them to ask me for anything. The moment they begin to ask, it annoys me, and I don’t even chuck them a radish.”

And, as his sister was about to remind him of his promises:

“Be quiet, Eléonore! I know what I have to do for the child. But, you see, when a woman asks, it is more than I can stand. I have never been able to keep friends with one, have I now, Gueulin?
And besides, there is really such little respect shown me! Léon has not even deigned to wish me many happy returns of the day.”

Madame Josserand resumed her walk, clinching her fists. It was true, there was Léon too, who promised and then disappointed her like the others. There was one who would not sacrifice an evening to help to marry off his sisters! She had just discovered a sweet biscuit, fallen behind one of the flower vases, and was locking it up in a drawer when Berthe, who had gone to release Saturnin, brought him back with her. She was quieting him, whilst he, haggard and with a mistrustful look in his eyes, was searching the corners, with the feverish excitement of a dog that has been long shut up.

“How stupid he is!” said Berthe, “he thinks that I have just been married. And he is seeking for the husband! Ah! my poor Saturnin, you may seek. I tell you that it has come to nothing! You know very well that it never comes to anything.”