Fruitfulness - Emile Zola
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He then gave her very clear instructions. She was to obtain the most
precise information possible about the lad's health, disposition, and
conduct, whether the schoolmaster had always been pleased with him,
whether his employer was equally satisfied, and so forth. Briefly, the
inquiry was to be complete. But, above all things, she was to carry it on
in such a way that nobody should suspect anything, neither the boy
himself nor the folks of the district. There must be absolute secrecy.
"All that is easy," replied La Couteau, "I understand perfectly, and you
can rely on me. I shall need a little time, however, and the best plan
will be for me to tell you of the result of my researches when I next
come to Paris. And if it suits you you will find me to-day fortnight, at
two o'clock, at Broquette's office in the Rue Roquepine. I am quite at
home there, and the place is like a tomb."
Some days later, as Mathieu was again at the Beauchene works with his son
Blaise, he was observed by Constance, who called him to her and
questioned him in such direct fashion that he had to tell her what steps
he had taken. When she heard of his appointment with La Couteau for the
Wednesday of the ensuing week, she said to him in her resolute way: "Come
and fetch me. I wish to question that woman myself. I want to be quite
certain on the matter."
In spite of the lapse of fifteen years Broquette's nurse-office in the
Rue Roquepine had remained the same as formerly, except that Madame
Broquette was dead and had been succeeded by her daughter Herminie. The
sudden loss of that fair, dignified lady, who had possessed such a
decorative presence and so ably represented the high morality and
respectability of the establishment, had at first seemed a severe one.
But it so happened that Herminie, a tall, slim, languid creature that she
was, gorged with novel-reading, also proved in her way a distinguished
figurehead for the office. She was already thirty and was still
unmarried, feeling indeed nothing but loathing for all the mothers laden
with whining children by whom she was surrounded. Moreover, M. Broquette,
her father, though now more than five-and-seventy, secretly remained the
all-powerful, energetic director of the place, discharging all needful
police duties, drilling new nurses like recruits, remaining ever on the
watch and incessantly perambulating the three floors of his suspicious,
dingy lodging-house.
La Couteau was waiting for Mathieu in the doorway. On perceiving
Constance, whom she did not know, for she had never previously met her,
she seemed surprised. Who could that lady be? what had she to do with the
affair? However, she promptly extinguished the bright gleam of curiosity
which for a moment lighted up her eyes; and as Herminie, with
distinguished nonchalance, was at that moment exhibiting a party of
nurses to two gentlemen in the office, she took her visitors into the
empty refectory, where the atmosphere was as usual tainted by a horrible
stench of cookery.
"You must excuse me, monsieur and madame," she exclaimed, "but there is
no other room free just now. The place is full."
Then she carried her keen glances from Mathieu to Constance, preferring
to wait until she was questioned, since another person was now in the
secret.
"You can speak out," said Mathieu. "Did you make the inquiries I spoke to
you about?"
"Certainly, monsieur. They were made, and properly made, I think."
"Then tell us the result: I repeat that you can speak freely before this
lady."
"Oh! monsieur, it won't take me long. You were quite right: there were
two apprentices at the wheelwright's at Saint-Pierre, and one of them was
Alexandre-Honore, the pretty blonde's child, the same that we took
together over yonder. He had been there, I found, barely two months,
after trying three or four other callings, and that explains my ignorance
of the circumstance. Only he's a lad who can stay nowhere, and so three
weeks ago he took himself off."
Constance could not restrain an exclamation of anxiety: "What! took
himself off?"
"Yes, madame, I mean that he ran away, and this time it is quite certain
that he has left the district, for he disappeared with three hundred
francs belonging to Montoir, his master."
La Couteau's dry voice rang as if it were an axe dealing a deadly blow.
Although she could not understand the lady's sudden pallor and despairing
emotion, she certainly seemed to derive cruel enjoyment from it.
"Are you quite sure of your information?" resumed Constance, struggling
against the facts. "That is perhaps mere village tittle-tattle."
"Tittle-tattle, madame? Oh! when I undertake to do anything I do it
properly. I spoke to the gendarmes. They have scoured the whole district,
and it is certain that Alexandre-Honore left no address behind him when
he went off with those three hundred francs. He is still on the run. As
for that I'll stake my name on it."
This was indeed a hard blow for Constance. That lad, whom she fancied she
had found again, of whom she dreamt incessantly, and on whom she had
based so many unacknowledgable plans of vengeance, escaped her, vanished
once more into the unknown! She was distracted by it as by some pitiless
stroke of fate, some fresh and irreparable defeat. However, she continued
the interrogatory.
"Surely you did not merely see the gendarmes? you were instructed to
question everybody."
"That is precisely what I did, madame. I saw the schoolmaster, and I
spoke to the other persons who had employed the lad. They all told me
that he was a good-for-nothing. The schoolmaster remembered that he had
been a liar and a bully. Now he's a thief; that makes him perfect. I
can't say otherwise than I have said, since you wanted to know the plain
truth."
La Couteau thus emphasized her statements on seeing that the lady's
suffering increased. And what strange suffering it was; a heart-pang at
each fresh accusation, as if her husband's illegitimate child had become
in some degree her own! She ended indeed by silencing the nurse-agent.
"Thank you. The boy is no longer at Rougemont, that is all we wished to
know."
La Couteau thereupon turned to Mathieu, continuing her narrative, in
order to give him his money's worth.
"I also made the other apprentice talk a bit," said she; "you know, that
big carroty fellow, Richard, whom I spoke to you about. He's another whom
I wouldn't willingly trust. But it's certain that he doesn't know where
his companion has gone. The gendarmes think that Alexandre is in Paris."
Thereupon Mathieu in his turn thanked the woman, and handed her a
bank-note for fifty francs--a gift which brought a smile to her face and
rendered her obsequious, and, as she herself put it, "as discreetly
silent as the grave." Then, as three nurses came into the refectory, and
Monsieur Broquette could be heard scrubbing another's hands in the
kitchen, by way of teaching her how to cleanse herself of her native
dirt, Constance felt nausea arise within her, and made haste to follow
her companion away. Once in the street, instead of entering the cab which
was waiting, she paused pensively, haunted by La Couteau's final words.
"Did you hear?" she exclaimed. "That wretched lad may be in Paris."
"That is probable enough; they all end by stranding here."
Constance again hesitated, reflected, and finally made up her mind to say
in a somewhat tremulous voice: "And the mother, my friend; you know where
she lives, don't you? Did you not tell me that you had concerned yourself
about her?"
"Yes, I did."
"Then listen--and above all, don't be astonished; pity me, for I am
really suffering. An idea has just taken possession of me; it seems to me
that if the boy is in Paris, he may have found his mother. Perhaps he is
with her, or she may at least know where he lodges. Oh! don't tell me
that it is impossible. On the contrary, everything is possible."
Surprised and moved at seeing one who usually evinced so much calmness
now giving way to such fancies as these, Mathieu promised that he would
make inquiries. Nevertheless, Constance did not get into the cab, but
continued gazing at the pavement. And when she once more raised her eyes,
she spoke to him entreatingly, in an embarrassed, humble manner: "Do you
know what we ought to do? Excuse me, but it is a service I shall never
forget. If I could only know the truth at once it might calm me a little.
Well, let us drive to that woman's now. Oh! I won't go up; you can go
alone, while I wait in the cab at the street corner. And perhaps you will
obtain some news."
It was an insane idea, and he was at first minded to prove this to her.
Then, on looking at her, she seemed to him so wretched, so painfully
tortured, that without a word, making indeed but a kindly gesture of
compassion, he consented. And the cab carried them away.
The large room in which Norine and Cecile lived together was at Grenelle,
near the Champ de Mars, in a street at the end of the Rue de la
Federation. They had been there for nearly six years now, and in the
earlier days had experienced much worry and wretchedness. But the child
whom they had to feed and save had on his side saved them also. The
motherly feelings slumbering in Norine's heart had awakened with
passionate intensity for that poor little one as soon as she had given
him the breast and learnt to watch over him and kiss him. And it was also
wondrous to see how that unfortunate creature Cecile regarded the child
as in some degree her own. He had indeed two mothers, whose thoughts were
for him alone. If Norine, during the first few months, had often wearied
of spending her days in pasting little boxes together, if even thoughts
of flight had at times come to her, she had always been restrained by the
puny arms that were clasped around her neck. And now she had grown calm,
sensible, diligent, and very expert at the light work which Cecile had
taught her. It was a sight to see them both, gay and closely united in
their little home, which was like a convent cell, spending their days at
their little table; while between them was their child, their one source
of life, of hard-working courage and happiness.
Since they had been living thus they had made but one good friend, and
this was Madame Angelin. As a delegate of the Poor Relief Service,
intrusted with one of the Grenelle districts, Madame Angelin had found
Norine among the pensioners over whom she was appointed to watch. A
feeling of affection for the two mothers, as she called the sisters, had
sprung up within her, and she had succeeded in inducing the authorities
to prolong the child's allowance of thirty francs a month for a period of
three years. Then she had obtained scholastic assistance for him, not to
mention frequent presents which she brought--clothes, linen, and even
money--for apart from official matters, charitable people often intrusted
her with fairly large sums, which she distributed among the most
meritorious of the poor mothers whom she visited. And even nowadays she
occasionally called on the sisters, well pleased to spend an hour in that
nook of quiet toil, which the laughter and the play of the child
enlivened. She there felt herself to be far away from the world, and
suffered less from her own misfortunes. And Norine kissed her hands,
declaring that without her the little household of the two mothers would
never have managed to exist.
When Mathieu appeared there, cries of delight arose. He also was a
friend, a saviour--the one who, by first taking and furnishing the large
room, had founded the household. It was a very clean room, almost
coquettish with its white curtains, and rendered very cheerful by its two
large windows, which admitted the golden radiance of the afternoon sun.
Norine and Cecile were working at the table, cutting out cardboard and
pasting it together, while the little one, who had come home from school,
sat between them on a high chair, gravely handling a pair of scissors and
fully persuaded that he was helping them.
"Oh! is it you? How kind of you to come to see us! Nobody has called for
five days past. Oh! we don't complain of it. We are so happy alone
together! Since Irma married a clerk she has treated us with disdain.
Euphrasie can no longer come down her stairs. Victor and his wife live so
far away. And as for that rascal Alfred, he only comes up here to see if
he can find something to steal. Mamma called five days ago to tell us
that papa had narrowly escaped being killed at the works on the previous
day. Poor mamma! she is so worn out that before long she won't be able to
take a step."
While the sisters thus rattled on both together, one beginning a sentence
and the other finishing it, Mathieu looked at Norine, who, thanks to that
peaceful and regular life, had regained in her thirty-sixth year a
freshness of complexion that suggested a superb, mature fruit gilded by
the sun. And even the slender Cecile had acquired strength, the strength
which love's energy can impart even to a childish form.
All at once, however, she raised a loud exclamation of horror: "Oh! he
has hurt himself, the poor little fellow." And at once she snatched the
scissors from the child, who sat there laughing with a drop of blood at
the tip of one of his fingers.
"Oh! good Heavens," murmured Norine, who had turned quite pale, "I feared
that he had slit his hand."
For a moment Mathieu wondered if he would serve any useful purpose by
fulfilling the strange mission he had undertaken. Then it seemed to him
that it might be as well to say at least a word of warning to the young
woman who had grown so calm and quiet, thanks to the life of work which
she had at last embraced. And he proceeded very prudently, only revealing
the truth by slow degrees. Nevertheless, there came a moment when, after
reminding Norine of the birth of Alexandre-Honore, it became necessary
for him to add that the boy was living.
The mother looked at Mathieu in evident consternation. "He is living,
living! Why do you tell me that? I was so pleased at knowing nothing."
"No doubt; but it is best that you should know. I have even been assured
that he must now be in Paris, and I wondered whether he might have found
you, and have come to see you."
At this she lost all self-possession. "What! Have come to see me! Nobody
has been to see me. Do you think, then, that he might come? But I don't
want him to do so! I should go mad! A big fellow of fifteen falling on me
like that--a lad I don't know and don't care for! Oh! no, no; prevent it,
I beg of you; I couldn't--I couldn't bear it!"
With a gesture of utter distraction she had burst into tears, and had
caught hold of the little one near her, pressing him to her breast as if
to shield him from the other, the unknown son, the stranger, who by his
resurrection threatened to thrust himself in some degree in the younger
lad's place.
"No, no!" she cried. "I have but one child; there is only one I love; I
don't want any other."
Cecile had risen, greatly moved, and desirous of bringing her sister to
reason. Supposing that the other son should come, how could she turn him
out of doors? At the same time, though her pity was aroused for the
abandoned one, she also began to bewail the loss of their happiness. It
became necessary for Mathieu to reassure them both by saying that he
regarded such a visit as most improbable. Without telling them the exact
truth, he spoke of the elder lad's disappearance, adding, however, that
he must be ignorant even of his mother's name. Thus, when he left the
sisters, they already felt relieved and had again turned to their little
boxes while smiling at their son, to whom they had once more intrusted
the scissors in order that he might cut out some paper men.
Down below, at the street corner, Constance, in great impatience, was
looking out of the cab window, watching the house-door.
"Well?" she asked, quivering, as soon as Mathieu was near her.
"Well, the mother knows nothing and has seen nobody. It was a foregone
conclusion."
She sank down as if from some supreme collapse, and her ashen face became
quite distorted. "You are right, it was certain," said she; "still one
always hopes." And with a gesture of despair she added: "It is all ended
now. Everything fails me, my last dream is dead."
Mathieu pressed her hand and remained waiting for her to give an address
in order that he might transmit it to the driver. But she seemed to have
lost her head and to have forgotten where she wished to go. Then, as she
asked him if he would like her to set him down anywhere, he replied that
he wished to call on the Seguins. The fear of finding herself alone again
so soon after the blow which had fallen on her thereupon gave her the
idea of paying a visit to Valentine, whom she had not seen for some time
past.
"Get in," she said to Mathieu; "we will go to the Avenue d'Antin
together."
The vehicle rolled off and heavy silence fell between them; they had not
a word to say to one another. However, as they were reaching their
destination, Constance exclaimed in a bitter voice: "You must give my
husband the good news, and tell him that the boy has disappeared. Ah!
what a relief for him!"
Mathieu, on calling in the Avenue d'Antin, had hoped to find the Seguins
assembled there. Seguin himself had returned to Paris, nobody knew
whence, a week previously, when Andree's hand had been formally asked of
him; and after an interview with his uncle Du Hordel he had evinced great
willingness and cordiality. Indeed, the wedding had immediately been
fixed for the month of May, when the Froments also hoped to marry off
their daughter Rose. The two weddings, it was thought, might take place
at Chantebled on the same day, which would be delightful. This being
arranged, Ambroise was accepted as fiance, and to his great delight was
able to call at the Seguins' every day, about five o'clock, to pay his
court according to established usage. It was on account of this that
Mathieu fully expected to find the whole family at home.
When Constance asked for Valentine, however, a footman informed her that
Madame had gone out. And when Mathieu in his turn asked for Seguin, the
man replied that Monsieur was also absent. Only Mademoiselle was at home
with her betrothed. On learning this the visitors went upstairs.
"What! are you left all alone?" exclaimed Mathieu on perceiving the young
couple seated side by side on a little couch in the big room on the first
floor, which Seguin had once called his "cabinet."
"Why, yes, we are alone in the house," Andree answered with a charming
laugh. "We are very pleased at it."
They looked adorable, thus seated side by side--she so gentle, of such
tender beauty--he with all the fascinating charm that was blended with
his strength.
"Isn't Celeste there at any rate?" again inquired Mathieu.
"No, she has disappeared we don't know where." And again they laughed
like free frolicsome birds ensconced in the depths of some lonely forest.
"Well, you cannot be very lively all alone like this."
"Oh! we don't feel at all bored, we have so many things to talk about.
And then we look at one another. And there is never an end to it all."
Though her heart bled, Constance could not help admiring them. Ah, to
think of it! Such grace, such health, such hope! While in her home all
was blighted, withered, destroyed, that race of Froments seemed destined
to increase forever! For this again was a conquest--those two children
left free to love one another, henceforth alone in that sumptuous mansion
which to-morrow would belong to them. Then, at another thought, Constance
turned towards Mathieu: "Are you not also marrying your eldest daughter?"
she asked.
"Yes, Rose," Mathieu gayly responded. "We shall have a grand fete at
Chantebled next May! You must all of you come there."
'Twas indeed as she had thought: numbers prevailed, life proved
victorious. Chantebled had been conquered from the Seguins, and now their
very house would soon be invaded by Ambroise, while the Beauchene works
themselves had already half fallen into the hands of Blaise.
"We will go," she answered, quivering. "And may your good luck
continue--that is what I wish you."
XVI
AMID the general delight attending the double wedding which was to prove,
so to say, a supreme celebration of the glory of Chantebled, it had
occurred to Mathieu's daughter Rose to gather the whole family together
one Sunday, ten days before the date appointed for the ceremony. She and
her betrothed, followed by the whole family, were to repair to Janville
station in the morning to meet the other affianced pair, Ambroise and
Andree, who were to be conducted in triumph to the farm where they would
all lunch together. It would be a kind of wedding rehearsal, she
exclaimed with her hearty laugh; they would be able to arrange the
programme for the great day. And her idea enraptured her to such a point,
she seemed to anticipate so much delight from this preliminary festival,
that Mathieu and Marianne consented to it.
Rose's marriage was like the supreme blossoming of years of prosperity,
and brought a finishing touch to the happiness of the home. She was the
prettiest of Mathieu's daughters, with dark brown hair, round gilded
cheeks, merry eyes, and charming mouth. And she had the most equable of
dispositions, her laughter ever rang out so heartily! She seemed indeed
to be the very soul, the good fairy, of that farm teeming with busy life.
But beneath the invariable good humor which kept her singing from morning
till night there was much common sense and energy of affection, as her
choice of a husband showed. Eight years previously Mathieu had engaged
the services of one Frederic Berthaud, the son of a petty farmer of the
neighborhood. This sturdy young fellow had taken a passionate interest in
the creative work of Chantebled, learning and working there with rare
activity and intelligence. He had no means of his own at all. Rose, who
had grown up near him, knew however that he was her father's preferred
assistant, and when he returned to the farm at the expiration of his
military service she, divining that he loved her, forced him to
acknowledge it. Thus she settled her own future life; she wished to
remain near her parents, on that farm which had hitherto held all her
happiness. Neither Mathieu nor Marianne was surprised at this. Deeply
touched, they signified their approval of a choice in which affection for
themselves had so large a part. The family ties seemed to be drawn yet
closer, and increase of joy came to the home.
So everything was settled, and it was agreed that on the appointed Sunday
Ambroise should bring his betrothed Andree and her mother, Madame Seguin,
to Janville by the ten o'clock train. A couple of hours previously Rose
had already begun a battle with the object of prevailing upon the whole
family to repair to the railway station to meet the affianced pair.
"But come, my children, it is unreasonable," Marianne gently exclaimed.
"It is necessary that somebody should stay at home. I shall keep Nicolas
here, for there is no need to send children of five years old scouring
the roads. I shall also keep Gervais and Claire. But you may take all the
others if you like, and your father shall lead the way."
Rose, however, still merrily laughing, clung to her plan. "No, no, mamma,
you must come as well; everybody must come; it was promised. Ambroise and
Andree, you see, are like a royal couple from a neighboring kingdom. My
brother Ambroise, having won the hand of a foreign princess, is going to
present her to us. And so, to do them the honors of our own empire, we,
Frederic and I, must go to meet them, attended by the whole Court. You
form the Court and you cannot do otherwise than come. Ah what a fine
sight it will be when we spread out through the country on our way home
again!"
Marianne, amused by her daughter's overflowing gayety, ended by laughing
and giving way.
"This will be the order of the march," resumed Rose. "Oh! I've planned
everything, as you will see! As for Frederic and myself, we shall go on
our bicycles--that is the most modern style. We will also take my maids
of honor, my little sisters Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, eleven,
nine, and seven years old, on their bicycles. They will look very well
behind me. Then Gregoire can follow on his wheel; he is thirteen, and
will do as a page, bringing up the rear of my personal escort. All the
rest of the Court will have to pack itself into the chariot--I mean the
big family wagon, in which there is room for eight. You, as Queen Mother,
may keep your last little prince, Nicolas, on your knees. Papa will only
have to carry himself proudly, as befits the head of a dynasty. And my
brother Gervais, that young Hercules of seventeen, shall drive, with
Claire, who at fifteen is so remarkable for common sense, beside him on
the box-seat. As for the illustrious twins, those high and mighty lords,
Denis and Blaise, we will call for them at Janville, since they are
waiting for us there, at Madame Desvignes'."