Complete Works of Emile Zola (657 page)

Then Berthe calmly asked:

“How is she?”

At this, Madame Josserand at once became very sour again. What! Berthe knew it! Why of course she knew it, everyone knew it. Her husband alone, whom she pointed out conducting an old lady to the refreshment bar, was still ignorant of the story. She even intended to get some one to tell him everything, for it made him appear too stupid to be always behind everyone else, and never to know anything.

“And I, who have been slaving to hide the catastrophe!” said Madame Josserand, beside herself. “Ah, well! I shall not put myself out any more, it must be put a stop to. I will not tolerate their making you ridiculous.”

Everyone did indeed know it. Only, so as not to cast a gloom over the ball, it was not talked about. The orchestra had smothered the first words of sympathy; now, in the greater freedom of the couples, everyone proceeded to smile at the affair. It was very hot, night was drawing on apace. Waiters handed round refreshments. On a sofa, two little girls, overcome by fatigue, had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, their faces close together. Near the orchestra, in the deep tones of a double bass, Monsieur Vabre had brought himself to talk to Monsieur Josserand of his great task, with respect to a doubt which, for a fortnight past, he had felt concerning the real works of two painters of the same name;
whilst, close by, Duveyrier, in the centre of a group, was energetically blaming the Emperor for having authorised the production of a piece attacking society at the Comédie-Française. But, whenever a waltz or a polka was struck up, the men had to vacate their position, couples whirled round the room, trains swept the floor, raising in the bright light a fine dust amidst the musky odour of the costumes.

“She is better,” Campardon, who had taken another peep, hastened to say.”One can go in.”

A few male friends ventured to enter. Valérie was still lying down, only, the attack was passing off; and, out of decency, they had covered her bosom with a napkin, found lying on a sideboard. Madame Juzeur and Madame Duveyrier were standing before the window listening to Doctor Juillerat, who was explaining that the attacks sometimes yielded to hot water applications to the neck. But the invalid, having seen Octave enter with Campardon, called him to her by a sign, and spoke a few incoherent words to him in a final hallucination. He had to sit down beside her, at the doctor’s express order, who was desirous above all not to thwart her; and thus the young man listened to her disclosures, he who, during the evening, had already heard the husband’s. She trembled with fright, she took him for her lover, and implored him to hide her. Then she recognised him, and burst into tears, thanking him for his lie of the morning during the mass. Octave thought of that other attack, of which he had wished to take advantage, with the greedy desire of a schoolboy. Now, he was her friend, and she would tell him everything, perhaps it would be better.

At this moment, Théophile, who had continued to wander up and down before the door, wished to enter. Other men were there, so he could very well be there himself. But his appearance created a regular panic. On hearing his voice, Valérie was again seized with a fit of trembling, everyone thought she was about to have another attack. He, imploring, and struggling amongst the ladies, whose arms thrust him back, kept obstinately repeating:

“I only ask her for the name. Let her tell me the name.”

Then, Madame Josserand arriving, gave vent to her wrath. She drew Théophile into the little room, to hide the scandal, and said to him furiously:

“Look here! will you shut up?
Ever since this morning you have been badgering us with your stupidities. You have no tact, sir; yes, you have absolutely no tact at all! One should not harp on such things on a wedding-day.”

“Excuse me, madame,” murmured he, “this is my business, and does not concern you!”

“What! it does not concern me?
but I form part of your family now, sir, and do you think your affair amuses me on account of my daughter?
Ah! you have given her a pretty wedding! Not another word, sir, you are deficient in tact!”

He stood bewildered, looking around him, seeking some one who would take his part. But the ladies all showed by their coldness that they judged him with equal severity. It was that exactly, he had no tact; for there are occasions when one should be able to restrain one’s passions. Even his own sister would have nothing to do with him. As he still protested, he raised a general revolt. No, no, there was no answer possible, such behaviour was unheard of!

This cry closed his mouth. He was so scared, so feeble looking, with his slender limbs, and his face like a girl’s, that the ladies smiled slightly. When one had not the facilities for making a woman happy, one ought not to marry. Hortense weighed him with a disdainful glance; little Angèle, whom they had forgotten, hovered round him, with her sly air, as though she had been looking for something; and he drew back embarrassed, and blushed when he saw them all, so big and plump, hemming him in with their sturdy hips. But they felt the necessity of patching up the matter. Valérie had started off sobbing again, whilst the doctor continued to bathe her temples. Then they understood one another with a glance, a common feeling of defence drew them together. They puzzled their brains, trying to explain the letter to the husband.

“Pooh!” murmured Trublot, who had just rejoined Octave, “it is easy enough; they have only to say the letter was addressed to the servant.”

Madame Josserand heard him. She turned round and looked at him with a glance full of admiration. Then, turning towards Théophile:

“Does an innocent woman lower herself to give explanations, when accused with such brutality? Still, I may speak. The letter was dropped by Françoise, that maid whom your wife had to pack off on account of her bad conduct. There, are you satisfied?
do you not blush with shame?”

At first, the husband shrugged his shoulders. But the ladies all remained serious, answering his objections with very strong reasoning. He was shaken, when, to complete his discomfiture, Madame Duveyrier got angry, telling him that his conduct had been abominable, and that she disowned him. Then, vanquished, and feeling a longing to be kissed, he threw his arms round Valérie’s neck, and begged her pardon. It was most touching. Even Madame Josserand was deeply affected.

“It is always best to come to an understanding,” said she, with relief. “The day will not end so badly after all.”

When they had dressed Valérie again, and she appeared in the ballroom on Théophile’s arm, the joy seemed to be redoubled. It was close upon three o’clock, the guests were beginning to leave; but the orchestra continued to get through the quadrilles with great gusto. Some of the men smiled behind the backs of the reconciled couple. A medical remark of Campardon’s, respecting that poor Théophile, quite delighted Madame Juzeur. The young girls hastened to stare at Valérie; then they put on their stupid looks before their mothers’ scandalized glances. Berthe, who was at length dancing with her husband, must have whispered a word or two in his ear; for Auguste, made aware of what had been taking place, turned his head round, and, without getting out of step, looked at his brother Théophile with the surprise and the superiority of a man to whom such things cannot happen. There was a final gallop, the guests were getting more free in the stifling heat and the reddish light of the candles, the vacillating flames of which caused the pendants of the chandeliers to sparkle.

“You are very intimate with her?” asked Madame Hédouin, as she whirled round on Octave’s arm, having accepted his invitation to dance.

The young man fancied he felt a slight quiver in her frame, so erect and so calm.

“Not at all,” said he. “They mixed me up in the matter, which annoys me immensely. The poor devil swallowed everything.”

“It is very wrong,” declared she, in her grave voice.

No doubt Octave was mistaken. When he withdrew his arm from her waist, Madame Hédouin was not even panting, her eyes were clear, and her hair not the least disarranged. But a scandal upset the end of the ball. Uncle Bachelard, who had finished himself off at the refreshment bar, ventured on a lively idea. He had suddenly been seen dancing a most indecent step before Gueulin. Some napkins rolled round, and stuffed in the front of his buttoned-up coat, gave him the bosom of a wet-nurse; and two big oranges placed on the napkins, behind the lapels, displayed their roundness, in the sanguineous redness of an excoriated skin. This time everyone protested: though one may earn heaps of money, yet there are limits which a man who respects himself should never go beyond, especially before young persons. Monsieur Josserand, ashamed, and in despair, drew his brother-in-law away. Duveyrier displayed the greatest disgust.

At four o’clock, the newly-married couple returned to the Rue de Choiseul. They brought Théophile and Valérie back in their carriage. As they went up to the second floor, where an apartment had been prepared for them, they came across Octave, who was also retiring to rest. The young man wished to draw politely on one side, but Berthe made a similar movement, and they knocked up against each other.

“Oh! excuse me, mademoiselle,” said he.

The word “mademoiselle” amused them immensely. She looked at him, and he recalled the first glance exchanged between them on that same staircase, a glance of gaiety and daring, the charming welcome of which he again beheld. They understood each other perhaps, she blushed, whilst he went up alone to his room, in the midst of the death-like peacefulness of the upper floors.

Auguste, with his left eye closed up, half mad with the headache which had been clinging to him since the morning, was already in the apartment, where the other members of the family were arriving. Then, at the moment of quitting Berthe, Valérie yielded to a sudden fit of emotion, and pressing her in her arms, and completing the rumpling of her white dress, she kissed her, saying in a low voice:

“Ah! my dear, I wish you better luck than I have had!”

CHAPTER IX

Two days later, towards seven o’clock, as Octave arrived at the Campardons’ for dinner, he found Rose by herself, dressed in a cream-colour dressing-gown, trimmed with white lace.

“Are you expecting anyone?”
asked he.

“No,” replied she, rather confused. “We will have dinner directly Achille comes in.”

The architect was abandoning his punctual habits, was never there at the proper time for his meals, arrived very red in the face, with a wild expression, and cursing business. Then he went off again every evening, on all kinds of pretexts, talking of appointments at cafés, inventing distant meetings. Octave, on these occasions, would often keep Rose company till eleven o’clock, for he had understood that the husband had him there to board to amuse his wife, and she would gently complain, and tell him her fears: ah! she left Achille very free, only she was so anxious when he came home after midnight!

“Do you not think he has been rather sad lately?
”
asked she, in a tenderly frightened tone of voice.

The young man had not noticed it.

“I think he is rather worried, perhaps. The works at Saint-Roch cause him some anxiety.”

But she shook her head, without saying anything further about it. Then she was very kind to Octave, questioning him with a motherly and sisterly affection as to how he had employed the day. During nearly nine months that he had been boarding with them, she had always treated him thus as a child of the house.

At length, the architect appeared.

“Good evening, my pet; good evening, my duck,” said he, kissing her with his doting air of a good husband. “Another fool has been detaining me in the street!”

Octave had moved away, and he heard them exchange a few words in a low voice.

“Will she come?”

“No, what is the good?
and, above all, do not worry yourself.”

“You declared to me that she would come.”

“Well! yes, she is coming. Are you pleased?
It is for your sake that I have done it.”

They took their seats at the table. During the whole of dinner-time they talked of the English language, which little Angèle had been learning for a fortnight past. Campardon had suddenly upheld the necessity for a young lady knowing English; and, as Lisa had come to them from an actress who had been to London, each meal was employed in discussing the names of the dishes that she brought in. That evening, after long and fruitless endeavours to pronounce the words “rump steak,” they had to send the dish away, Victoire having left it too long at the fire, and the meat being as tough as leather.

They were taking their dessert, when a ring at the bell caused Madame Campardon to start.

“It is madame’s cousin,” Lisa returned and said, in the wounded tone of a servant whom one has omitted to let into a family secret.

And it was indeed Gasparine who entered. She wore a black woollen dress, looking very quiet, with her thin face, and her air of a poor shop-girl. Rose, tenderly enveloped in her dressing-gown of cream-colour silk, and plump and fresh, rose up so moved, that tears filled her eyes.

“Ah! my dear,” murmured she, “you are good. We will forget everything, will we not?
”

She took her in her arms, and gave her two hearty kisses. Octave discreetly wished to retire. But they grew angry: he could remain, he was one of the family. So he amused himself by looking on. Campardon, at first greatly embarrassed, turned his eyes away from the two women, puffing about, and looking for a cigar; whilst Lisa, who was roughly clearing the table, exchanged glances with surprised Angèle.

“It is your cousin,” at length said the architect to his daughter. “You have heard us speak of her. Come, kiss her now.”

She kissed her with her sullen air, troubled by the sort of governess glance with which Gasparine took stock of her, after asking some questions respecting her age and education. Then, when the others passed into the drawing-room, she preferred to follow Lisa, who slammed the door, saying, without even fearing that she might be heard:

“Ah, well! it’ll become precious funny here now!”