Fruitfulness - Emile Zola
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"Pray excuse me," at last exclaimed Monsieur Broquette; "my wife will
receive you in a minute."
Thereupon he slipped off and flew up the stairs with noiseless agility.
And directly afterwards there was an explosion. Then the house suddenly
sank into death-like silence. All that could be heard was the voice of
Madame in the office, as, in a very dignified manner, she kept on
praising her goods.
"Well, my friend," said Boutan to Mathieu, while they walked up and down
the passage, "all this, the material side of things, is nothing. What you
should see and know is what goes on in the minds of all these people. And
note that this is a fair average place. There are others which are real
dens, and which the police sometimes have to close. No doubt there is a
certain amount of supervision, and there are severe regulations which
compel the nurses to bring certificates of morality, books setting forth
their names, ages, parentage, the situations they have held, and so on,
with other documents on which they have immediately to secure a signature
from the Prefecture, where the final authorization is granted them. But
these precautions don't prevent fraud and deceit of various kinds. The
women assert that they have only recently begun nursing, when they have
been doing it for months; they show you superb children which they have
borrowed and which they assert to be their own. And there are many other
tricks to which they resort in their eagerness to make money."
As the doctor and Mathieu chatted on, they paused for a moment near the
door of the refectory, which chanced to be open, and there, among other
young peasant women, they espied La Couteau hastily partaking of cold
meat. Doubtless she had just arrived from Rougemont, and, after disposing
of the batch of nurses she had brought with her, was seeking sustenance
for the various visits which she would have to make before returning
home. The refectory, with its wine-stained tables and greasy walls, cast
a smell like that of a badly-kept sink.
"Ah! so you know La Couteau!" exclaimed Boutan, when Mathieu had told him
of his meetings with the woman. "Then you know the depths of crime. La
Couteau is an ogress! And yet, think of it, with our fine social
organization, she is more or less useful, and perhaps I myself shall be
happy to choose one of the nurses that she has brought with her."
At this moment Madame Broquette very amiably asked the visitors into her
office. After long reflection, the old gentleman had gone off without
selecting any nurse, but saying that he would return some other time.
"There are folks who don't know their own minds," said Madame Broquette
sententiously. "It isn't my fault, and I sincerely beg you to excuse me,
doctor. If you want a good nurse you will be satisfied, for I have just
received some excellent ones from the provinces. I will show you."
Herminie, meanwhile, had not condescended to raise her nose from her
novel. She remained ensconced in her armchair, still reading, with a
weary, bored expression on her anaemic countenance. Mathieu, after
sitting down a little on one side, contented himself with looking on,
while Boutan stood erect, attentive to every detail, like a commander
reviewing his troops. And the procession began.
Having opened a door which communicated with the common room, Madame
Broquette, assuming the most noble airs, leisurely introduced the pick of
her nurses, in groups of three, each with her infant in her arms. About a
dozen were thus inspected: short ones with big heavy limbs, tall ones
suggesting maypoles, dark ones with coarse stiff hair, fair ones with the
whitest of skins, quick ones and slow ones, ugly ones and others who were
pleasant-looking. All, however, wore the same nervous, silly smile, all
swayed themselves with embarrassed timidity, the anxious mien of the
bondswoman at the slave market, who fears that she may not find a
purchaser. They clumsily tried to put on graceful ways, radiant with
internal joy directly a customer seemed to nibble, but clouding over and
casting black glances at their companions when the latter seemed to have
the better chance. Out of the dozen the doctor began by setting three
aside, and finally he detained but one, in order that he might study her
more fully.
"One can see that Monsieur le Docteur knows his business," Madame
Broquette allowed herself to say, with a flattering smile. "I don't often
have such pearls. But she has only just arrived, otherwise she would
probably have been engaged already. I can answer for her as I could for
myself, for I have put her out before."
The nurse was a dark woman of about twenty-six, of average height, built
strongly enough, but having a heavy, common face with a hard-looking jaw.
Having already been in service, however, she held herself fairly well.
"So that child is not your first one?" asked the doctor.
"No, monsieur, he's my third."
Then Boutan inquired into her circumstances, studied her papers, took her
into Madame Broquette's private room for examination, and on his return
make a minute inspection of her child, a strong plump boy, some three
months old, who in the interval had remained very quiet on an armchair.
The doctor seemed satisfied, but he suddenly raised his head to ask, "And
that child is really your own?"
"Oh! monsieur, where could I have got him otherwise?"
"Oh! my girl, children are borrowed, you know."
Then he paused for a moment, still hesitating and looking at the young
woman, embarrassed by some feeling of doubt, although she seemed to
embody all requirements. "And are you all quite well in your family?" he
asked; "have none of your relatives ever died of chest complaints?"
"Never, monsieur."
"Well, of course you would not tell me if they had. Your books ought to
contain a page for information of that kind. And you, are you of sober
habits? You don't drink?"
"Oh! monsieur."
This time the young woman bristled up, and Boutan had to calm her. Then
her face brightened with pleasure as soon as the doctor--with the gesture
of a man who is taking his chance, for however careful one may be there
is always an element of chance in such matters--said to her: "Well, it is
understood, I engage you. If you can send your child away at once, you
can go this evening to the address I will give you. Let me see, what is
your name?"
"Marie Lebleu."
Madame Broquette, who, without presuming to interfere with a doctor, had
retained her majestic air which so fully proclaimed the high
respectability of her establishment, now turned towards her daughter:
"Herminie, go to see if Madame Couteau is still there."
Then, as the girl slowly raised her pale dreamy eyes without stirring
from her chair, her mother came to the conclusion that she had better
execute the commission herself. A moment later she came back with La
Couteau.
The doctor was now settling money matters. Eighty francs a month for the
nurse; and forty-five francs for her board and lodging at the agency and
Madame Broquette's charges. Then there was the question of her child's
return to the country, which meant another thirty francs, without
counting a gratuity to La Couteau.
"I'm going back this evening," said the latter; "I'm quite willing to
take the little one with me. In the Avenue d'Antin, did you say? Oh! I
know, there's a lady's maid from my district in that house. Marie can go
there at once. When I've settled my business, in a couple of hours, I
will go and rid her of her baby."
On entering the office, La Couteau had glanced askance at Mathieu,
without, however, appearing to recognize him. He had remained on his
chair silently watching the scene--first an inspection as of cattle at a
market, and then a bargaining, the sale of a mother's milk. And by
degrees pity and revolt had filled his heart. But a shudder passed
through him when La Couteau turned towards the quiet, fine-looking child,
of which she promised to rid the nurse. And once more he pictured her
with her five companions at the St.-Lazare railway station, each, like
some voracious crow, with a new-born babe in her clutches. It was the
pillaging beginning afresh; life and hope were again being stolen from
Paris. And this time, as the doctor said, a double murder was threatened;
for, however careful one may be, the employer's child often dies from
another's milk, and the nurse's child, carried back into the country like
a parcel, is killed with neglect and indigestible pap.
But everything was now settled, and so the doctor and his companion drove
away to Grenelle. And there, at the very entrance of the Beauchene works,
came a meeting which again filled Mathieu with emotion. Morange, the
accountant, was returning to his work after dejeuner, accompanied by his
daughter Reine, both of them dressed in deep mourning. On the morrow of
Valerie's funeral, Morange had returned to his work in a state of
prostration which almost resembled forgetfulness. It was clear that he
had abandoned all ambitious plans of quitting the works to seek a big
fortune elsewhere. Still he could not make up his mind to leave his flat,
though it was now too large for him, besides being too expensive. But
then his wife had lived in those rooms, and he wished to remain in them.
And, moreover, he desired to provide his daughter with all comfort. All
the affection of his weak heart was now given to that child, whose
resemblance to her mother distracted him. He would gaze at her for hours
with tears in his eyes. A great passion was springing up within him; his
one dream now was to dower her richly and seek happiness through her, if
indeed he could ever be happy again. Thus feelings of avarice had come to
him; he economized with respect to everything that was not connected with
her, and secretly sought supplementary work in order that he might give
her more luxury and increase her dower. Without her he would have died of
weariness and self-abandonment. She was indeed fast becoming his very
life.
"Why, yes," said she with a pretty smile, in answer to a question which
Boutan put to her, "it is I who have brought poor papa back. I wanted to
be sure that he would take a stroll before setting to work again. Other
wise he shuts himself up in his room and doesn't stir."
Morange made a vague apologetic gesture. At home, indeed, overcome as he
was by grief and remorse, he lived in his bedroom in the company of a
collection of his wife's portraits, some fifteen photographs, showing her
at all ages, which he had hung on the walls.
"It is very fine to-day, Monsieur Morange," said Boutan, "you do right in
taking a stroll."
The unhappy man raised his eyes in astonishment, and glanced at the sun
as if he had not previously noticed it. "That is true, it is fine
weather--and besides it is very good for Reine to go out a little."
Then he tenderly gazed at her, so charming, so pink and white in her
black mourning gown. He was always fearing that she must feel bored
during the long hours when he left her at home, alone with the servant.
To him solitude was so distressful, so full of the wife whom he mourned,
and whom he accused himself of having killed.
"Papa won't believe that one never feels _ennui_ at my age," said the
girl gayly. "Since my poor mamma is no longer there, I must needs be a
little woman. And, besides, the Baroness sometimes calls to take me out."
Then she gave a shrill cry on seeing a brougham draw up close to the
curb. A woman was leaning out of the window, and she recognized her.
"Why, papa, there is the Baroness! She must have gone to our house, and
Clara must have told her that I had accompanied you here."
This, indeed, was what had happened. Morange hastily led Reine to the
carriage, from which Seraphine did not alight. And when his daughter had
sprung in joyously, he remained there another moment, effusively thanking
the Baroness, and delighted to think that his dear child was going to
amuse herself. Then, after watching the brougham till it disappeared, he
entered the factory, looking suddenly aged and shrunken, as if his grief
had fallen on his shoulders once more, so overwhelming him that he quite
forgot the others, and did not even take leave of them.
"Poor fellow!" muttered Mathieu, who had turned icy cold on seeing
Seraphine's bright mocking face and red hair at the carriage window.
Then he was going to his office when Beauchene beckoned to him from one
of the windows of the house to come in with the doctor. The pair of them
found Constance and Maurice in the little drawing-room, whither the
father had repaired to finish his coffee and smoke a cigar. Boutan
immediately attended to the child, who was much better with respect to
his legs, but who still suffered from stomachic disturbance, the
slightest departure from the prescribed diet leading to troublesome
complications.
Constance, though she did not confess it, had become really anxious about
the boy, and questioned the doctor, and listened to him with all
eagerness. While she was thus engaged Beauchene drew Mathieu on one side.
"I say," he began, laughing, "why did you not tell me that everything was
finished over yonder? I met the pretty blonde in the street yesterday."
Mathieu quietly replied that he had waited to be questioned in order to
render an account of his mission, for he had not cared to be the first to
raise such a painful subject. The money handed to him for expenses had
proved sufficient, and whenever the other desired it, he could produce
receipts for his various disbursements. He was already entering into
particulars when Beauchene jovially interrupted him.
"You know what happened here? She had the audacity to come and ask for
work, not of me of course, but of the foreman of the women's work-room.
Fortunately I had foreseen this and had given strict orders; so the
foreman told her that considerations of order and discipline prevented
him from taking her back. Her sister Euphrasie, who is to be married next
week, is still working here. Just fancy them having another set-to!
Besides, her place is not here."
Then he went to take a little glass of cognac which stood on the
mantelpiece.
Mathieu had learnt only the day before that Norine, on leaving Madame
Bourdieu's, had sought a temporary refuge with a female friend, not
caring to resume a life of quarrelling at her parents' home. Besides her
attempt to regain admittance at Beauchene's, she had applied at two other
establishments; but, as a matter of fact, she did not evince any
particular ardor in seeking to obtain work. Four months' idleness and
coddling had altogether disgusted her with a factory hand's life, and the
inevitable was bound to happen. Indeed Beauchene, as he came back sipping
his cognac, resumed: "Yes, I met her in the street. She was quite smartly
dressed, and leaning on the arm of a big, bearded young fellow, who did
nothing but make eyes at her. It was certain to come to that, you know. I
always thought so."
Then he was stepping towards his wife and the doctor, when he remembered
something else, came back, and asked Mathieu in a yet lower tone, "What
was it you were telling me about the child?" And as soon as Mathieu had
related that he had taken the infant to the Foundling Hospital so as to
be certain that it was deposited there, he warmly pressed his hand.
"That's perfect. Thank you, my dear fellow; I shall be at peace now."
He felt, indeed, intensely relieved, hummed a lively air, and then took
his stand before Constance, who was still consulting the doctor. She was
holding little Maurice against her knees, and gazing at him with the
jealous love of a good bourgeoise, who carefully watched over the health
of her only son, that son whom she wished to make a prince of industry
and wealth. All at once, however, in reply to a remark from Boutan, she
exclaimed: "Why then, doctor, you think me culpable? You really say that
a child, nursed by his mother, always has a stronger constitution than
others, and can the better resist the ailments of childhood?"
"Oh! there is no doubt of it, madame."
Beauchene, ceasing to chew his cigar, shrugged his shoulders, and burst
into a sonorous laugh: "Oh! don't you worry, that youngster will live to
be a hundred! Why, the Burgundian who nursed him was as strong as a rock!
But, I say, doctor, you intend then to make the Chambers pass a law for
obligatory nursing by mothers?"
At this sally Boutan also began to laugh. "Well, why not?" said he.
This at once supplied Beauchene with material for innumerable jests. Why,
such a law would completely upset manners and customs, social life would
be suspended, and drawing-rooms would become deserted! Posters would be
placarded everywhere bearing the inscription: "Closed on account of
nursing."
"Briefly," said Beauchene, in conclusion, "you want to have a
revolution."
"A revolution, yes," the doctor gently replied, "and we will effect it."
X
MATHIEU finished studying his great scheme, the clearing and cultivation
of Chantebled, and at last, contrary to all prudence but with all the
audacity of fervent faith and hope, it was resolved upon. He warned
Beauchene one morning that he should leave the works at the end of the
month, for on the previous day he had spoken to Seguin, and had found him
quite willing to sell the little pavilion and some fifty acres around it
on very easy terms. As Mathieu had imagined, Seguin's affairs were in a
very muddled state, for he had lost large sums at the gaming table and
spent money recklessly on women, leading indeed a most disastrous life
since trouble had arisen in his home. And so he welcomed the transaction
which Mathieu proposed to him, in the hope that the young man would end
by ridding him of the whole of that unprofitable estate should his first
experiment prove successful. Then came other interviews between them, and
Seguin finally consented to sell on a system of annual payments, spread
over a term of years, the first to be made in two years' time from that
date. As things stood, the property seemed likely to remain
unremunerative forever, and so there was nothing risked in allowing the
purchaser a couple of years' credit. However, they agreed to meet once
more and settle the final details before a formal deed of sale was drawn
up. And one Monday morning, therefore, about ten o'clock, Mathieu set out
for the house in the Avenue d'Antin in order to complete the business.
That morning, as it happened, Celeste the maid received in the linen
room, where she usually remained, a visit from her friend Madame Menoux,
the little haberdasher of the neighborhood, in whose tiny shop she was so
fond of gossiping. They had become more intimate than ever since La
Couteau, at Celeste's instigation, had taken Madame Menoux's child,
Pierre, to Rougemont, to be put out to nurse there in the best possible
way for the sum of thirty francs a month. La Couteau had also very
complaisantly promised to call each month at one or another of her
journeys in order to receive the thirty francs, thereby saving the mother
the trouble of sending the money by post, and also enabling her to obtain
fresh news of her child. Thus, each time a payment became due, if La
Couteau's journey happened to be delayed a single day, Madame Menoux grew
terribly frightened, and hastened off to Celeste to make inquiries of
her. And, moreover, she was glad to have an opportunity of conversing
with this girl, who came from the very part where her little Pierre was
being reared.
"You will excuse, me, won't you, mademoiselle, for calling so early,"
said she, "but you told me that your lady never required you before nine
o'clock. And I've come, you know, because I've had no news from over
yonder, and it occurred to me that you perhaps might have received a
letter."
Blonde, short and thin, Madame Menoux, who was the daughter of a poor
clerk, had a slender pale face, and a pleasant, but somewhat sad,
expression. From her own slightness of build probably sprang her
passionate admiration for her big, handsome husband, who could have
crushed her between his fingers. If she was slight, however, she was
endowed with unconquerable tenacity and courage, and she would have
killed herself with hard work to provide him with the coffee and cognac
which he liked to sip after each repast.
"Ah! it's hard," she continued, "to have had to send our Pierre so far
away. As it is, I don't see my husband all day, and now I've a child whom
I never see at all. But the misfortune is that one has to live, and how
could I have kept the little fellow in that tiny shop of mine, where from
morning till night I never have a moment to spare! Yet, I can't help
crying at the thought that I wasn't able to keep and nurse him. When my
husband comes home from the museum every evening, we do nothing but talk
about him, like a pair of fools. And so, according to you, mademoiselle,
that place Rougemont is very healthy, and there are never any nasty
illnesses about there?"
But at this moment she was interrupted by the arrival of another early
visitor, whose advent she hailed with a cry of delight.
"Oh! how happy I am to see you, Madame Couteau! What a good idea it was
of mine to call here!"
Amid exclamations of joyous surprise, the nurse-agent explained that she
had arrived by the night train with a batch of nurses, and had started on
her round of visits as soon as she had deposited them in the Rue
Roquepine.
"After bidding Celeste good-day in passing," said she, "I intended to
call on you, my dear lady. But since you are here, we can settle our
accounts here, if you are agreeable."
Madame Menoux, however, was looking at her very anxiously. "And how is my
little Pierre?" she asked.
"Why, not so bad, not so bad. He is not, you know, one of the strongest;
one can't say that he's a big child. Only he's so pretty and nice-looking
with his rather pale face. And it's quite certain that if there are
bigger babies than he is, there are smaller ones too."
She spoke more slowly as she proceeded, and carefully sought words which
might render the mother anxious, without driving her to despair. These
were her usual tactics in order to disturb her customers' hearts, and
then extract as much money from them as possible. On this occasion she
must have guessed that she might carry things so far as to ascribe a
slight illness to the child.
"However, I must really tell you, because I don't know how to lie; and
besides, after all, it's my duty--Well, the poor little darling has been
ill, and he's not quite well again yet."
Madame Menoux turned very pale and clasped her puny little hands: "_Mon
Dieu_! he will die of it."
"No, no, since I tell you that he's already a little better. And
certainly he doesn't lack good care. You should just see how La Loiseau
coddles him! When children are well behaved they soon get themselves
loved. And the whole house is at his service, and no expense is spared
The doctor came twice, and there was even some medicine. And that costs
money."
The last words fell from La Couteau's lips with the weight of a club.
Then, without leaving the scared, trembling mother time to recover, the
nurse-agent continued: "Shall we go into our accounts, my dear lady?"
Madame Menoux, who had intended to make a payment before returning to her
shop, was delighted to have some money with her. They looked for a slip
of paper on which to set down the figures; first the month's nursing,
thirty francs; then the doctor, six francs; and indeed, with the
medicine, that would make ten francs.
"Ah! and besides, I meant to tell you," added La Couteau, "that so much
linen was dirtied during his illness that you really ought to add three
francs for the soap. That would only be just; and besides, there were
other little expenses, sugar, and eggs, so that in your place, to act
like a good mother, I should put down five francs. Forty-five francs
altogether, will that suit you?"
In spite of her emotion Madame Menoux felt that she was being robbed,
that the other was speculating on her distress. She made a gesture of
surprise and revolt at the idea of having to give so much money--that
money which she found so hard to earn. No end of cotton and needles had
to be sold to get such a sum together! And her distress, between the
necessity of economy on the one hand and her maternal anxiety on the
other, would have touched the hardest heart.
"But that will make another half-month's money," said she.
At this La Couteau put on her most frigid air: "Well, what would you
have? It isn't my fault. One can't let your child die, so one must incur
the necessary expenses. And then, if you haven't confidence in me, say
so; send the money and settle things direct. Indeed, that will greatly
relieve me, for in all this I lose my time and trouble; but then, I'm
always stupid enough to be too obliging."
When Madame Menoux, again quivering and anxious, had given way, another
difficulty arose. She had only some gold with her, two twenty-franc
pieces and one ten-franc piece. The three coins lay glittering on the
table. La Couteau looked at them with her yellow fixed eyes.