Complete Works of Emile Zola (663 page)

“You will not have the cigar?” interrupted Trublot. “Then, allow me to. It has a hole in it, but I can stick a cigarette paper over that”

He lighted it at the candle which the counsellor was still holding, and letting himself drop down against the wall he added:

“So much the worse! I must sit down a while on the floor. My legs will not bear me any longer.”

“I beg of you,” at length said Duveyrier, “to explain to me where she can possibly be.”

Bachelard and Gueulin looked at each other. It was a delicate matter. However, the uncle came to a manly decision, and he told the poor fellow everything, all Clarisse’s goings-on, her continual escapades, the lovers she picked up behind his back, at each of their parties. She had no doubt gone off with the last one, big Payan, that mason of whom a Southern town wished to make an artist. Duveyrier listened to the abominable story with an expression of horror. He allowed this cry of despair to escape him:

“There is then no honesty left on earth!”

And suddenly opening his heart, he told them all he had done for her. He talked of his soul, he accused her of having shaken his faith in the best sentiments of existence, naively hiding beneath this sentimental pain the derangement of his gross appetites. Clarisse had become necessary to him. But he would find her again solely to make her blush for her behaviour, so he said, and to see if her heart had lost all nobleness.

“Leave her alone!” exclaimed Bachelard delighted with the counsellor’s misfortune, “she will humbug you again. There is nothing like virtue, understand! It is far better to take a little one devoid of malice, as innocent as the child just born. Then, there is no danger, one may sleep in peace.”

Trublot meanwhile was smoking leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out. He was gravely reposing, the others had forgotten him.

“If you particularly want it, I can find the address for you,” said he. “I know the maid.”

Duveyrier turned round, surprised at that voice which seemed to issue from the boards; and, when he beheld him smoking all that remained of Clarisse, puffing big clouds of smoke, in which he fancied he beheld the twenty-five thousand francs’ worth of furniture evaporating, he made an angry gesture and replied:

“No, she is unworthy of me. She must beg my pardon on her knees.”

“Hallo! here she is coming back!” said Gueulin listening.

And someone was indeed walking in the anteroom, whilst a voice said: “Well! what’s up?
is every one dead?”
And Octave appeared. He was quite bewildered by the open doors and the empty rooms. But his amazement increased still more, when he beheld the four men in the midst of the denuded drawing-room, one sitting on the floor and the other three standing up, and only lighted by the meagre candle which the counsellor was holding like a taper at church. A few words sufficed to inform him of what had occurred.

“It isn’t possible!” cried he.

“Did they not tell you anything then downstairs?”
asked Gueulin.

“No, nothing at all; the doorkeeper quietly watched me come up. Ah! so she’s gone! It does not surprise me. She had such queer hair and eyes!”

He asked some particulars, and stood talking a minute, forgetful of the sad news which he had brought. Then turning abruptly towards Duveyrier, he said:

“By the way, it’s your wife who sent me to fetch you. Your father-in-law is dying.”

“Ah!” simply observed the counsellor.

“Old Vabre!” murmured Bachelard. “I expected as much.”

“Pooh! when one gets to the end of one’s reel!” remarked Gueulin philosophically.

“Yes, it’s best to take one’s departure,” added Trublot, in the act of sticking a second cigarette paper round his cigar.

The gentlemen at length decided to leave the empty apartment. Octave repeated he had given his word of honour that he would bring Duveyrier back with him at once, no matter what state he was in. The latter carefully shut the door, as though he had left his dead affections there; but, downstairs, he was overcome with shame, and Trublot had to return the key to the doorkeeper. Then, outside on the pavement, there was a silent exchange of hearty hand-shakes; and, directly the cab had driven off with Octave and Duveyrier, uncle Bachelard said to Gueulin and Trublot as they stood in the deserted street:

“Jove’s thunder? I must show her to you.”

For a minute past he had been stamping about, greatly excited by the despair of that big noodle of a counsellor, bursting with his own happiness, with that happiness which he considered due to his own deep malice, and which he could no longer contain.

“You know, uncle,” said Gueulin, “if it’s only to take us as far as the door again and then to leave us — “

“No, Jove’s thunder! you shall see her. It will please me. True it’s nearly midnight; but she shall get up if she’s in bed. You know, she’s the daughter of a captain, Captain Menu, and she has a very respectable aunt, born at Villeneuve, near Lille, on my word of honour! Messieurs Mardienne Brothers, of the Rue Saint-Sulpice, will give her a character. Ah! Jove’s thunder! we’re in need of it; you’ll see what virtue is!”

And he took hold of their arms, Gueulin on his right, Trublot on his left, putting his best foot forward as he started off in quest of a cab to arrive there the sooner.

Meanwhile, Octave briefly related to the counsellor all he know of Monsieur Vabre’s attack, without hiding that Madame Duveyrier was acquainted with the address of the Rue de la Cerisaie. After a pause, the counsellor asked in a doleful voice:

“Do you think she will forgive me?”

Octave remained silent. The cab continued to roll along, in the obscurity lighted up every now and then by a ray from a gas-lamp. Just as they were reaching their destination, Duveyrier, tortured with anxiety, put another question:

“The best thing for me to do for the present is to make it up with my wife again, do you not think so?”

“It would perhaps be wise,” replied the young man, obliged to answer.

Then, Duveyrier felt the necessity of regretting his father-in-law. He was a man of great intelligence, with an incredible capacity for work. However, they would very likely be able to set him on his legs again. In the Rue de Choiseul, they found the street-door open, and quite a group gathered before Monsieur Gourd’s room. Julie, who had come down to go to the chemist’s, was abusing the masters who allow one another to die without help when ill; it was only workpeople who take each other a bowl of broth, or anything needful; during the two hours he had been dying up there, the old fellow might have swallowed his tongue twenty times, before his children would have taken the trouble to put a lump of sugar into his mouth. They were a hard-hearted lot, said Monsieur Gourd, people who did not know how to make use of their ten fingers, who would have thought themselves dishonoured if they had had to give their father an enema; whilst Hippolyte, trying to surpass the others, told thorn about madame upstairs, how stupid she looked, with her arms dangling by her sides in front of the poor gentleman, around whom the servants were vying with each other to do all they could. But they held their tongues, directly they caught sight of Duveyrier.

“Well?” inquired the latter.

“The doctor is applying mustard poultices to Monsieur Vabre,” replied Hippolyte. “Oh! I had such difficulty to find him!”

Upstairs in the drawing-room, Madame Duveyrier came forward to meet them. She had cried a great deal, her eyes sparkled beneath the swollen lids. The counsellor, full of embarrassment, opened his arms; and he embraced her as he murmured:

“My poor Clotilde!”

Surprised at this unusual display of affection, she drew back. Octave had kept behind; but he heard the husband add in a low voice:

“Forgive me, let us forget our grievances on this sad occasion. You see, I have come back to you, and for always. Ah! I am well punished!”

She did not reply, but disengaged herself. Then, resuming in Octave’s presence her attitude of a woman who desires to ignore everything, she said:

“I should not have disturbed you, my dear, for I know how important that inquiry respecting the Rue de Provence is. But I was all alone, I felt that your presence was necessary. My poor father is lost. Go and see him; you will find the doctor there.”

When Duveyrier had gone into the next room, she drew near to Octave, who, so as not to appear to be listening to them, was standing in front of the piano. The instrument was still open, and the air from “Zémire and Azor” remained there just as they had left it; and he was pretending to be studying it. The soft light from the lamp continued to illuminate only a portion of the vast apartment. Madame Duveyrier looked at the young man a minute without speaking, tormented by an uneasiness which ended by forcing her to cast off her habitual reserve.

“Was he there?” asked she briefly.

“Yes, madame.”

“Then what has happened, what is the matter with him?
”

“The person has left him, madame, and taken all the furniture away with her. I found him with nothing but a candle between the bare walls.”

Clotilde made a gesture of despair. She understood. An expression of repugnance and discouragement appeared on her beautiful face. It was not enough that she had lost her father, it seemed as though this misfortune was also to serve as a pretext for a reconciliation with her husband! She knew him well, he would be forever after her, now that there would be nothing elsewhere to protect her; and, in her respect for every duty, she trembled at the thought that she would be unable to refuse to submit to the abominable service. For an instant, she looked at the piano. Bitter tears came to her eyes, as she simply said to Octave:

“Thank you, sir.”

They both passed in turn into Monsieur Vabre’s bed-chamber. Duveyrier, looking very pale, was listening to Doctor Juillerat, who was giving him some explanations in a low voice. It was an attack of serous apoplexy; the patient might last till the morrow, but there was not the slightest hope of his recovery. Clotilde just at that moment entered the room; she heard this giving over of the patient, and dropped into a chair, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, already soaked with tears, and twisted up, and almost reduced to a pulp. She, however, found the strength to ask the doctor if her poor father would recover consciousness. The doctor had his doubts; and, as though he had penetrated the object of the question, he expressed the hope that Monsieur Vabre had long since put his affairs in order. Duveyrier, whose mind seemed to have remained behind in the Rue de la Cérisaie, now appeared to wake up. He looked at his wife, and then remarked that Monsieur Vabre confided in no one. He therefore knew nothing, he had merely received some promises in favour of their son, Gustave, whom his grandfather often talked of bettering, to reward them for having taken him to live with them. In any case, if a will existed, it would be found.

“I presume the family knows what has happened,” said Doctor Juillerat

“Well! no,” murmured Clotilde. “I received such a shock! My first thought was to send Monsieur Mouret for my husband.”

Duveyrier gave her another glance. Now, they understood each other. He slowly approached the bed, and examined Monsieur Vabre, stretched out in his corpse-like stiffness, and whose immovable face was streaked with yellow blotches. One o’clock struck. The doctor talked of withdrawing, for he had tried all the usual remedies, and could do nothing more. He would call again early on the morrow. At length, he was going off with Octave, when Madame Duveyrier called the latter back.

“We will wait till tomorrow,” said she, “you can send Berthe to me under some pretext; I will also get Valérie to come, and they shall break the news to my brothers. Ah! poor things, let them sleep in peace this night! There is quite enough with our having to watch in tears.”

And she and her husband remained alone with the old man, whose death rattle chilled the chamber.

CHAPTER XI

When Octave went down on the morrow at eight o’clock, he was greatly surprised to find the entire house acquainted with the attack of the night before, and the desperate condition of the landlord. The house, however, was not concerned about the patient: it was solely interested in what he would leave behind him.

The Pichons were seated before some basins of chocolate in their little dining-room. Jules called Octave in.

“I say, what a fuss there will be if he dies like that! We shall see something funny. Do you know if he has made a will?”

The young man, without answering, asked them where they had heard the news. Marie had learnt it at the baker’s; moreover, it crept from storey to storey, and even to the end of the street by means of the servants. Then, after slapping Lilitte, who was soaking her fingers in her chocolate, the young woman observed in her turn:

“Ah! all that money! If he only thought of leaving us as many sous as there are five franc pieces. But there is no fear of that!”

And as Octave took his departure, she added:

“I have finished your books, Monsieur Mouret. Will you please take them when convenient?”

He was hastening downstairs, feeling anxious, as he recollected having promised Madame Duveyrier to send Berthe to her before anything was known of the matter, when, on the third floor, he came in contact with Campardon, who was going out.

“Well!” said the latter, “so your employer is coming in for something. I have heard that the old fellow has close upon six hundred thousand francs, besides this property. You see, he spent nothing at the Duveyriers’, and he had a good deal left of what he brought from Versailles, without counting the twenty and odd thousand francs received in rent from the house. Eh! it is a fine cake to share, when there are only three to partake of it!”

Whilst talking thus, he continued to go down behind Octave. But, on the second floor, they met Madame Juzeur, who was returning from seeing what her little maid, Louise, could be doing of a morning, taking over an hour to fetch four sous’ worth of milk. She entered naturally into the conversation, being very well informed.

“It is not known how he has settled his affairs,” murmured she in her gentle way.” There will perhaps be some bother.”