Fruitfulness - Emile Zola
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"Well, I can't give you your five francs change," she said, "I haven't
any change with me. And you, Celeste, have you any change for this lady?"
She risked asking this question, but put it in such a tone and with such
a glance that the other immediately understood her. "I have not a copper
in my pocket," she replied.
Deep silence fell. Then, with bleeding heart and a gesture of cruel
resignation, Madame Menoux did what was expected of her.
"Keep those five francs for yourself, Madame Couteau, since you have to
take so much trouble. And, _mon Dieu_! may all this money bring me good
luck, and at least enable my poor little fellow to grow up a fine
handsome man like his father."
"Oh! as for that I'll warrant it," cried the other, with enthusiasm.
"Those little ailments don't mean anything--on the contrary. I see plenty
of little folks, I do; and so just remember what I tell you, yours will
become an extraordinarily fine child. There won't be better."
When Madame Menoux went off, La Couteau had lavished such flattery and
such promises upon her that she felt quite light and gay; no longer
regretting her money, but dreaming of the day when little Pierre would
come back to her with plump cheeks and all the vigor of a young oak.
As soon as the door had closed behind the haberdasher, Celeste began to
laugh in her impudent way: "What a lot of fibs you told her! I don't
believe that her child so much as caught a cold," she exclaimed.
La Couteau began by assuming a dignified air: "Say that I'm a liar at
once. The child isn't well, I assure you."
The maid's gayety only increased at this. "Well now, you are really
comical, putting on such airs with me. I know you, remember, and I know
what is meant when the tip of your nose begins to wriggle."
"The child is quite puny," repeated her friend, more gently.
"Oh! I can believe that. All the same I should like to see the doctor's
prescriptions, and the soap and the sugar. But, you know, I don't care a
button about the matter. As for that little Madame Menoux, it's here
to-day and gone to-morrow. She has her business, and I have mine. And
you, too, have yours, and so much the better if you get as much out of it
as you can."
But La Couteau changed the conversation by asking the maid if she could
not give her a drop of something to drink, for night travelling did upset
her stomach so. Thereupon Celeste, with a laugh, took a bottle half-full
of malaga and a box of biscuits from the bottom of a cupboard. This was
her little secret store, stolen from the still-room. Then, as the other
expressed a fear that her mistress might surprise them, she made a
gesture of insolent contempt. Her mistress! Why, she had her nose in her
basins and perfumery pots, and wasn't at all likely to call till she had
fixed herself up so as to look pretty.
"There are only the children to fear," added Celeste; "that Gaston and
that Lucie, a couple of brats who are always after one because their
parents never trouble about them, but let them come and play here or in
the kitchen from morning till night. And I don't dare lock this door, for
fear they should come rapping and kicking at it."
When, by way of precaution, she had glanced down the passage and they had
both seated themselves at table, they warmed and spoke out their minds,
soon reaching a stage of easy impudence and saying everything as if quite
unconscious how abominable it was. While sipping her wine Celeste asked
for news of the village, and La Couteau spoke the brutal truth, between
two biscuits. It was at the Vimeux' house that the servant's last child,
born in La Rouche's den, had died a fortnight after arriving at
Rougemont, and the Vimeux, who were more or less her cousins, had sent
her their friendly remembrances and the news that they were about to
marry off their daughter. Then, at La Gavette's, the old grandfather, who
looked after the nurslings while the family was at work in the fields,
had fallen into the fire with a baby in his arms. Fortunately they had
been pulled out of it, and only the little one had been roasted. La
Cauchois, though at heart she wasn't downcast, now had some fears that
she might be worried, because four little ones had gone off from her
house all in a body, a window being forgetfully left open at night-time.
They were all four little Parisians, it seemed--two foundlings and two
that had come from Madame Bourdieu's. Since the beginning of the year as
many had died at Rougemont as had arrived there, and the mayor had
declared that far too many were dying, and that the village would end by
getting a bad reputation. One thing was certain, La Couillard would be
the very first to receive a visit from the gendarmes if she didn't so
arrange matters as to keep at least one nursling alive every now and
then.
"Ah? that Couillard!" added the nurse-agent. "Just fancy, my dear, I took
her a child, a perfect little angel--the boy of a very pretty young
person who was stopping at Madame Bourdieu's. She paid four hundred
francs to have him brought up until his first communion, and he lived
just five days! Really now, that wasn't long enough! La Couillard need
not have been so hasty. It put me in such a temper! I asked her if she
wanted to dishonor me. What will ruin me is my good heart. I don't know
how to refuse when folks ask me to do them a service. And God in Heaven
knows how fond I am of children! I've always lived among them, and in
future, if anybody who's a friend of mine gives me a child to put out to
nurse, I shall say: 'We won't take the little one to La Couillard, for it
would be tempting Providence. But after all, I'm an honest woman, and I
wash my hands of it, for if I do take the cherubs over yonder I don't
nurse them. And when one's conscience is at ease one can sleep quietly.'"
"Of course," chimed in Celeste, with an air of conviction.
While they thus waxed maudlin over their malaga, there arose a horrible
red vision--a vision of that terrible Rougemont, paved with little
Parisians, the filthy, bloody village, the charnel-place of cowardly
murder, whose steeple pointed so peacefully to the skies in the midst of
the far-spreading plain.
But all at once a rush was heard in the passage, and the servant hastened
to the door to rid herself of Gaston and Lucie, who were approaching. "Be
off! I don't want you here. Your mamma has told you that you mustn't come
here."
Then she came back into the room quite furious. "That's true!" said she;
"I can do nothing but they must come to bother me. Why don't they stay a
little with the nurse?"
"Oh! by the way," interrupted La Couteau, "did you hear that Marie
Lebleu's little one is dead? She must have had a letter about it. Such a
fine child it was! But what can one expect? it's a nasty wind passing.
And then you know the saying, 'A nurse's child is the child of
sacrifice!'"
"Yes, she told me she had heard of it," replied Celeste, "but she begged
me not to mention it to madame, as such things always have a bad effect.
The worst is that if her child's dead madame's little one isn't much
better off."
At this La Couteau pricked up her ears. "Ah! so things are not
satisfactory?"
"No, indeed. It isn't on account of her milk; that's good enough, and she
has plenty of it. Only you never saw such a creature--such a temper!
always brutal and insolent, banging the doors and talking of smashing
everything at the slightest word. And besides, she drinks like a pig--as
no woman ought to drink."
La Couteau's pale eyes sparkled with gayety, and she briskly nodded her
head as if to say that she knew all this and had been expecting it. In
that part of Normandy, in and around Rougemont, all the women drank more
or less, and the girls even carried little bottles of brandy to school
with them in their baskets. Marie Lebleu, however, was a woman of the
kind that one picks up under the table, and, indeed, it might be said
that since the birth of her last child she had never been quite sober.
"I know her, my dear," exclaimed La Couteau; "she is impossible. But
then, that doctor who chose her didn't ask my opinion. And, besides, it
isn't a matter that concerns me. I simply bring her to Paris and take her
child back to the country. I know nothing about anything else. Let the
gentlefolks get out of their trouble by themselves."
This sentiment tickled Celeste, who burst out laughing. "You haven't an
idea," said she, "of the infernal life that Marie leads here! She fights
people, she threw a water-bottle at the coachman, she broke a big vase in
madame's apartments, she makes them all tremble with constant dread that
something awful may happen. And, then, if you knew what tricks she plays
to get something to drink! For it was found out that she drank, and all
the liqueurs were put under lock and key. So you don't know what she
devised? Well, last week she drained a whole bottle of Eau de Melisse,
and was ill, quite ill, from it. Another time she was caught sipping some
Eau de Cologne from one of the bottles in madame's dressing-room. I now
really believe that she treats herself to some of the spirits of wine
that are given her for the warmer!--it's enough to make one die of
laughing. I'm always splitting my sides over it, in my little corner."
Then she laughed till the tears came into her eyes; and La Couteau, on
her side highly amused, began to wriggle with a savage delight. All at
once, however, she calmed down and exclaimed, "But, I say, they will turn
her out of doors?"
"Oh! that won't be long. They would have done so already if they had
dared."
But at this moment the ringing of a bell was heard, and an oath escaped
Celeste. "Good! there's madame ringing for me now! One can never be at
peace for a moment."
La Couteau, however, was already standing up, quite serious, intent on
business and ready to depart.
"Come, little one, don't be foolish, you must do your work. For my part I
have an idea. I'll run to fetch one of the nurses whom I brought this
morning, a girl I can answer for as for myself. In an hour's time I'll be
back here with her, and there will be a little present for you if you
help me to get her the situation."
She disappeared while the maid, before answering a second ring, leisurely
replaced the malaga and the biscuits at the bottom of the cupboard.
At ten o'clock that day Seguin was to take his wife and their friend
Santerre to Mantes, to lunch there, by way of trying an electric
motor-car, which he had just had built at considerable expense. He had
become fond of this new "sport," less from personal taste, however, than
from his desire to be one of the foremost in taking up a new fashion. And
a quarter of an hour before the time fixed for starting he was already in
his spacious "cabinet," arrayed in what he deemed an appropriate costume:
a jacket and breeches of greenish ribbed velvet, yellow shoes, and a
little leather hat. And he poked fun at Santerre when the latter
presented himself in town attire, a light gray suit of delicate effect.
Soon after Valentine had given birth to her daughter Andree, the novelist
had again become a constant frequenter of the house in the Avenue
d'Antin. He was intent on resuming the little intrigue that he had begun
there and felt confident of victory. Valentine, on her side, after a
period of terror followed by great relief, had set about making up for
lost time, throwing herself more wildly than ever into the vortex of
fashionable life. She had recovered her good looks and youthfulness, and
had never before experienced such a desire to divert herself, leaving her
children more and more to the care of servants, and going about, hither
and thither, as her fancy listed, particularly since her husband did the
same in his sudden fits of jealousy and brutality, which broke out every
now and again in the most imbecile fashion without the slightest cause.
It was the collapse of all family life, with the threat of a great
disaster in the future; and Santerre lived there in the midst of it,
helping on the work of destruction.
He gave a cry of rapture when Valentine at last made her appearance
gowned in a delicious travelling dress, with a cavalier toque on her
head. But she was not quite ready, for she darted off again, saying that
she would be at their service as soon as she had seen her little Andree,
and given her last orders to the nurse.
"Well, make haste," cried her husband. "You are quite unbearable, you are
never ready."
It was at this moment that Mathieu called, and Seguin received him in
order to express his regret that he could not that day go into business
matters with him. Nevertheless, before fixing another appointment, he was
willing to take note of certain conditions which the other wished to
stipulate for the purpose of reserving to himself the exclusive right of
purchasing the remainder of the Chantebled estate in portions and at
fixed dates. Seguin was promising that he would carefully study this
proposal when he was cut short by a sudden tumult--distant shouts, wild
hurrying to and fro, and a violent banging of doors.
"Why! what is it? what is it?" he muttered, turning towards the shaking
walls.
The door suddenly opened and Valentine reappeared, distracted, red with
fear and anger, and carrying her little Andree, who wailed and struggled
in her arms.
"There, there, my pet," gasped the mother, "don't cry, she shan't hurt
you any more. There, it's nothing, darling; be quiet, do."
Then she deposited the little girl in a large armchair, where she at once
became quiet again. She was a very pretty child, but still so puny,
although nearly four months old, that there seemed to be nothing but her
beautiful big eyes in her pale little face.
"Well, what is the matter?" asked Seguin, in astonishment.
"The matter, is, my friend, that I have just found Marie lying across the
cradle as drunk as a market porter, and half stifling the child. If I had
been a few moments later it would have been all over. Drunk at ten
o'clock in the morning! Can one understand such a thing? I had noticed
that she drank, and so I hid the liqueurs, for I hoped to be able to keep
her, since her milk is so good. But do you know what she had drunk? Why,
the methylated spirits for the warmer! The empty bottle had remained
beside her."
"But what did she say to you?"
"She simply wanted to beat me. When I shook her, she flew at me in a
drunken fury, shouting abominable words. And I had time only to escape
with the little one, while she began barricading herself in the room,
where she is now smashing the furniture! There! just listen!"
Indeed, a distant uproar of destruction reached them. They looked one at
the other, and deep silence fell, full of embarrassment and alarm.
"And then?" Seguin ended by asking in his curt dry voice.
"Well, what can I say? That woman is a brute beast, and I can't leave
Andree in her charge to be killed by her. I have brought the child here,
and I certainly shall not take her back. I will even own that I won't run
the risk of going back to the room. You will have to turn the girl out of
doors, after paying her wages."
"I! I!" cried Seguin. Then, walking up and down as if spurring on the
anger which was rising within him, he burst forth: "I've had enough, you
know, of all these idiotic stories! This house has become a perfect hell
upon earth all through that child! There will soon be nothing but
fighting here from morning till night. First of all it was pretended that
the nurse whom I took the trouble to choose wasn't healthy. Well, then a
second nurse is engaged, and she gets drunk and stifles the child. And
now, I suppose, we are to have a third, some other vile creature who will
prey on us and drive us mad. No, no, it's too exasperating, I won't have
it."
Valentine, her fears now calmed, became aggressive. "What won't you have?
There is no sense in what you say. As we have a child we must have a
nurse. If I had spoken of nursing the little one myself you would have
told me I was a fool. You would have found the house more uninhabitable
than ever, if you had seen me with the child always in my arms. But I
won't nurse--I can't. As you say, we will take a third nurse; it's simple
enough, and we'll do so at once and risk it."
Seguin had abruptly halted in front of Andree, who, alarmed by the sight
of his stern dark figure began to cry. Blinded as he was by anger, he
perhaps failed to see her, even as he failed to see Gaston and Lucie, who
had hastened in at the noise of the dispute and stood near the door, full
of curiosity and fear. As nobody thought of sending them away they
remained there, and saw and heard everything.
"The carriage is waiting," resumed Seguin, in a voice which he strove to
render calm. "Let us make haste, let us go."
Valentine looked at him in stupefaction. "Come, be reasonable," said she.
"How can I leave this child when I have nobody to whom I can trust her?"
"The carriage is waiting for us," he repeated, quivering; "let us go at
once."
And as his wife this time contented herself with shrugging her shoulders,
he was seized with one of those sudden fits of madness which impelled him
to the greatest violence, even when people were present, and made him
openly display his rankling poisonous sore, that absurd jealousy which
had upset his life. As for that poor little puny, wailing child, he would
have crushed her, for he held her to be guilty of everything, and indeed
it was she who was now the obstacle to that excursion he had planned,
that pleasure trip which he had promised himself, and which now seemed to
him of such supreme importance. And 'twas so much the better if friends
were there to hear him. So in the vilest language he began to upbraid his
wife, not only reproaching her for the birth of that child, but even
denying that the child was his. "You will only be content when you have
driven me from the house!" he finished in a fury. "You won't come? Well
then, I'll go by myself!"
And thereupon he rushed off like a whirlwind, without a word to Santerre,
who had remained silent, and without even remembering that Mathieu still
stood there awaiting an answer. The latter, in consternation at hearing
all these things, had not dared to withdraw lest by doing so he should
seem to be passing judgment on the scene. Standing there motionless, he
turned his head aside, looked at little Andree who was still crying, and
at Gaston and Lucie, who, silent with fright, pressed one against the
other behind the armchair in which their sister was wailing.
Valentine had sunk upon a chair, stifling with sobs, her limbs trembling.
"The wretch! Ah, how he treats me! To accuse me thus, when he knows how
false it is! Ah! never more; no, never more! I would rather kill myself;
yes, kill myself!"
Then Santerre, who had hitherto stood on one side, gently drew near to
her and ventured to take her hand with a gesture of affectionate
compassion, while saying in an undertone: "Come, calm yourself. You know
very well that you are not alone, that you are not forsaken. There are
some things which cannot touch you. Calm yourself, cease weeping, I beg
you. You distress me dreadfully."
He made himself the more gentle since the husband had been the more
brutal; and he leant over her yet the more closely, and again lowered his
voice till it became but a murmur. Only a few words could be heard: "It
is wrong of you to worry yourself like this. Forget all that folly. I
told you before that he doesn't know how to behave towards a woman."
Twice was that last remark repeated with a sort of mocking pity; and she
smiled vaguely amid her drying tears, in her turn murmuring: "You are
kind, you are. Thank you. And you are quite right. . . . Ah! if I could
only be a little happy!"
Then Mathieu distinctly saw her press Santerre's hand as if in acceptance
of his consolation. It was the logical, fatal outcome of the
situation--given a wife whom her husband had perverted, a mother who
refused to nurse her babe. And yet a cry from Andree suddenly set
Valentine erect, awaking to the reality of her position. If that poor
creature were so puny, dying for lack of her mother's milk, the mother
also was in danger from her refusal to nurse her and clasp her to her
breast like a buckler of invincible defence. Life and salvation one
through the other, or disaster for both, such was the law. And doubtless
Valentine became clearly conscious of her peril, for she hastened to take
up the child and cover her with caresses, as if to make of her a
protecting rampart against the supreme madness to which she had felt
prompted. And great was the distress that came over her. Her other
children were there, looking and listening, and Mathieu also was still
waiting. When she perceived him her tears gushed forth again, and she
strove to explain things, and even attempted to defend her husband.
"Excuse him, there are moments when he quite loses his head. _Mon Dieu_!
What will become of me with this child? Yet I can't nurse her now, it is
too late. It is frightful to be in such a position without knowing what
to do. Ah! what will become of me, good Lord?"
Santerre again attempted to console her, but she no longer listened to
him, and he was about to defer all further efforts till another time when
unexpected intervention helped on his designs.
Celeste, who had entered noiselessly, stood there waiting for her
mistress to allow her to speak. "It is my friend who has come to see me,
madame," said she; "you know, the person from my village, Sophie Couteau,
and as she happens to have a nurse with her--"
"There is a nurse here?"
"Oh! yes, madame, a very fine one, an excellent one."
Then, on perceiving her mistress's radiant surprise, her joy at this
relief, she showed herself zealous: "Madame must not tire herself by
holding the little one. Madame hasn't the habit. If madame will allow me,
I will bring the nurse to her."
Heaving a sigh of happy deliverance, Valentine had allowed the servant to
take the child from her. So Heaven had not abandoned her! However, she
began to discuss the matter, and was not inclined to have the nurse
brought there. She somehow feared that if the other one, who was drunk in
her room, should come out and meet the new arrival, she would set about
beating them all and breaking everything. At last she insisted on taking
Santerre and Mathieu into the linen-room, saying that the latter must
certainly have some knowledge of these matters, although he declared the
contrary. Only Gaston and Lucie were formally forbidden to follow.
"You are not wanted," said their mother, "so stay here and play. But we
others will all go, and as softly as possible, please, so that that
drunken creature may not suspect anything."
Once in the linen-room, Valentine ordered all the doors to be carefully
secured. La Couteau was standing there with a sturdy young person of
five-and-twenty, who carried a superb-looking infant in her arms. She had
dark hair, a low forehead, and a broad face, and was very respectably
dressed. And she made a little courtesy like a well-trained nurse, who
has already served with gentlefolks and knows how to behave. But
Valentine's embarrassment remained extreme; she looked at the nurse and
at the babe like an ignorant woman who, though her elder children had
been brought up in a room adjoining her own, had never troubled or
concerned herself about anything. In her despair, seeing that Santerre
kept to himself, she again appealed to Mathieu, who once more excused
himself. And it was only then that La Couteau, after glancing askance at
the gentleman who, somehow or other, always turned up whenever she had
business to transact, ventured to intervene:
"Will madame rely on me? If madame will kindly remember, I once before
ventured to offer her my services, and if she had accepted them she would
have saved herself no end of worry. That Marie Lebleu is impossible, and
I certainly could have warned madame of it at the time when I came to
fetch Marie's child. But since madame's doctor had chosen her, it was not
for me to speak. Oh! she has good milk, that's quite sure; only she also
has a good tongue, which is always dry. So if madame will now place
confidence in me--"
Then she rattled on interminably, expatiating on the respectability of
her calling, and praising the value of the goods she offered.
"Well, madame, I tell you that you can take La Catiche with your eyes
shut. She's exactly what you want, there's no better in Paris. Just look
how she's built, how sturdy and how healthy she is! And her child, just
look at it! She's married, she even has a little girl of four at the
village with her husband. She's a respectable woman, which is more than
can be said for a good many nurses. In a word, madame, I know her and can
answer for her. If you are not pleased with her I myself will give you
your money back."
In her haste to get it all over Valentine made a great gesture of
surrender. She even consented to pay one hundred francs a month, since La
Catiche was a married woman. Moreover, La Couteau explained that she
would not have to pay the office charges, which would mean a saving of
forty-five francs, though, perhaps, madame would not forget all the
trouble which she, La Couteau, had taken. On the other hand, there would,
of course, be the expense of taking La Catiche's child back to the
village, a matter of thirty francs. Valentine liberally promised to
double that sum; and all seemed to be settled, and she felt delivered,
when she suddenly bethought herself of the other nurse, who had
barricaded herself in her room. How could they get her out in order to
install La Catiche in her place?