Fruitfulness - Emile Zola
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Then came another laugh, and once more they all took up the song of
Cinderella on her way to the palace of Prince Charming.
It was at the bridge over the Yeuse that the first drops of rain, big
drops they were, began to fall. The big livid cloud, urged on by a
terrible wind, was galloping across the sky, filling it with the clamor
of a tempest. And almost immediately afterwards the rain-drops increased
in volume and in number, lashed by so violent a squall that the water
poured down as if by the bucketful, or as if some huge sluice-gate had
suddenly burst asunder overhead. One could no longer see twenty yards
before one. In two minutes the road was running with water like the bed
of a torrent.
Then there was a _sauve-qui-peut_ among the procession. It was learnt
later on that the people of the rear-guard had luckily been surprised
near a peasant's cottage, in which they had quietly sought refuge. Then
the folks in the wagon simply drew their curtains, and halted beneath the
shelter of a wayside tree for fear lest the horses should take fright
under such a downpour. They called to the bicyclists ahead of them to
stop also, instead of obstinately remaining in such a deluge. But their
words were lost amid the rush of water. However, the little girls and the
page took a proper course in crouching beside a thick hedge, though the
betrothed couple wildly continued on their way.
Frederic, the more reasonable of the two, certainly had sense enough to
say: "This isn't prudent on our part. Let us stop like the others, I beg
you."
But from Rose, all excitement, transported by her blissful fever, and
insensible, so it seemed, to the pelting of the rain, he only drew this
answer: "Pooh! what does it matter, now that we are soaking? It is by
stopping that we might do ourselves harm. Let us make haste, all haste.
In three minutes we shall be at home and able to make fine sport of those
laggards when they arrive in another quarter of an hour."
They had just crossed the Yeuse bridge, and they swept on side by side,
although the road was far from easy, being a continual ascent for a
thousand yards or so between rows of lofty poplars.
"I assure you that we are doing wrong," the young man repeated. "They
will blame me, and they will be right."
"Oh! well," cried she, "I'm amusing myself. This bicycle bath is quite
funny. Leave me, then, if you don't love me enough to follow me."
He followed her, however, pressed close beside her, and sought to shelter
her a little from the slanting rain. And it was a wild, mad race on the
part of that young couple, almost linked together, their elbows touching
as they sped on and on, as if lifted from the ground, carried off by all
that rushing, howling water which poured down so ragefully. It was as
though a thunder-blast bore them along. But at the very moment when they
sprang from their bicycles in the yard of the farm the rain ceased, and
the sky became blue once more.
Rose was laughing like a lunatic, and looked very flushed, but she was
soaked to such a point that water streamed from her clothes, her hair,
her hands. You might have taken her for some fairy of the springs who had
overturned her urn on herself.
"Well, the fete is complete," she exclaimed breathlessly. "All the same,
we are the first home."
She then darted upstairs to comb her hair and change her gown. But to
gain just a few minutes, eager as she was to cook the crawfish, she did
not take the trouble to put on dry linen. She wished the pot to be on the
fire with the water, the white wine, the carrots and spices, before the
family arrived. And she came and went, attending to the fire and filling
the whole kitchen with her gay activity, like a good housewife who was
glad to display her accomplishments, while her betrothed, who had also
come downstairs again after changing his clothes, watched her with a kind
of religious admiration.
At last, when the whole family had arrived, the folks of the brake and
the pedestrians also, there came a rather sharp explanation. Mathieu and
Marianne were angry, so greatly had they been alarmed by that rush
through the storm.
"There was no sense in it, my girl," Marianne repeated. "Did you at least
change your linen?"
"Why yes, why yes!" replied Rose. "Where are the crawfish?"
Mathieu meantime was lecturing Frederic. "You might have broken your
necks," said he; "and, besides, it is by no means good to get soaked with
cold water when one is hot. You ought to have stopped her."
"Well, she insisted on going on, and whenever she insists on anything,
you know, I haven't the strength to prevent her."
At last Rose, in her pretty way, put an end to the reproaches. "Come,
that's enough scolding; I did wrong, no doubt. But won't anybody
compliment me on my _court-bouillon_? Have you ever known crawfish to
smell as nice as that?"
The lunch was wonderfully gay. As they were twenty, and wished to have a
real rehearsal of the wedding feast, the table had been set in a large
gallery adjoining the ordinary dining-room. This gallery was still bare,
but throughout the meal they talked incessantly of how they would
embellish it with shrubs, garlands of foliage, and clumps of flowers.
During the dessert they even sent for a ladder with the view of
indicating on the walls the main lines of the decorations.
For a moment or so Rose, previously so talkative, had lapsed into
silence. She had eaten heartily, but all the color had left her face,
which had assumed a waxy pallor under her heavy hair, which was still
damp. And when she wished to ascend the ladder herself to indicate how
some ornament should be placed, her legs suddenly failed her, she
staggered, and then fainted away.
Everybody was in consternation, but she was promptly placed in a chair,
where for a few minutes longer she remained unconscious. Then, on coming
to her senses, she remained for a moment silent, oppressed as by a
feeling of pain, and apparently failing to understand what had taken
place. Mathieu and Marianne, terribly upset, pressed her with questions,
anxious as they were to know if she felt better. She had evidently caught
cold, and this was the fine result of her foolish ride.
By degrees the girl recovered her composure, and again smiled. She then
explained that she now felt no pain, but that it had suddenly seemed to
her as if a heavy paving-stone were lying on her chest; then this weight
had melted away, leaving her better able to breathe. And, indeed, she was
soon on her feet once more, and finished giving her views respecting the
decoration of the gallery, in such wise that the others ended by feeling
reassured, and the afternoon passed away joyously in the making of all
sorts of splendid plans. Little was eaten at dinner, for they had done
too much honor to the crawfish at noon. And at nine o'clock, as soon as
Celeste arrived for Andree, the gathering broke up. Ambroise was
returning to Paris that same evening. Blaise and Denis were to take the
seven o'clock train the following morning. And Rose, after accompanying
Madame Desvignes and her daughters to the road, called to them through
the darkness: "Au revoir, come back soon." She was again full of gayety
at the thought of the general rendezvous which the family had arranged
for the approaching weddings.
Neither Mathieu nor Marianne went to bed at once, however. Though they
did not even speak of it together, they thought that Rose looked very
strange, as if, indeed, she were intoxicated. She had again staggered on
returning to the house, and though she only complained of some slight
oppression, they prevailed on her to go to bed. After she had retired to
her room, which adjoined their own, Marianne went several times to see if
she were well wrapped up and were sleeping peacefully, while Mathieu
remained anxiously thoughtful beside the lamp. At last the girl fell
asleep, and the parents, leaving the door of communication open, then
exchanged a few words in an undertone, in their desire to tranquillize
each other. It would surely be nothing; a good night's rest would suffice
to restore Rose to her wonted health. Then in their turn they went to
bed, the whole farm lapsed into silence, surrendering itself to slumber
until the first cockcrow. But all at once, about four o'clock, shortly
before daybreak, a stifled call, "Mamma! mamma!" awoke both Mathieu and
Marianne, and they sprang out of bed, barefooted, shivering, and groping
for the candle. Rose was again stifling, struggling against another
attack of extreme violence. For the second time, however, she soon
regained consciousness and appeared relieved, and thus the parents, great
as was their distress, preferred to summon nobody but to wait till
daylight. Their alarm was caused particularly by the great change they
noticed in their daughter's appearance; her face was swollen and
distorted, as if some evil power had transformed her in the night. But
she fell asleep again, in a state of great prostration; and they no
longer stirred for fear of disturbing her slumber. They remained there
watching and waiting, listening to the revival of life in the farm around
them as the daylight gradually increased. Time went by; five and then six
o'clock struck. And at about twenty minutes to seven Mathieu, on looking
into the yard, and there catching sight of Denis, who was to return to
Paris by the seven o'clock train, hastened down to tell him to call upon
Boutan and beg the doctor to come at once. Then, as soon as his son had
started, he rejoined Marianne upstairs, still unwilling to call or warn
anybody. But a third attack followed, and this time it was the
thunderbolt.
Rose had half risen in bed, her arms thrown out, her mouth distended as
she gasped "Mamma! mamma!"
Then in a sudden fit of revolt, a last flash of life, she sprang from her
bed and stepped towards the window, whose panes were all aglow with the
rising sun. And for a moment she leant there, her legs bare, her
shoulders bare, and her heavy hair falling over her like a royal mantle.
Never had she looked more beautiful, more dazzling, full of strength and
love.
But she murmured: "Oh! how I suffer! It is all over, I am going to die."
Her father darted towards her; her mother sustained her, throwing her
arms around her like invincible armor which would shield her from all
harm.
"Don't talk like that, you unhappy girl! It is nothing; it is only
another attack which will pass away. Get into bed again, for mercy's
sake. Your old friend Boutan is on his way here. You will be up and well
again to-morrow."
"No, no, I am going to die; it is all over."
She fell back in their arms; they only had time to lay her on her bed.
And the thunderbolt fell: without a word, without a glance, in a few
minutes she died of congestion of the lungs.
Ah! the imbecile thunderbolt! Ah! the scythe, which with a single stroke
blindly cuts down a whole springtide! It was all so brutally sudden, so
utterly unexpected, that at first the stupefaction of Marianne and
Mathieu was greater than their despair. In response to their cries the
whole farm hastened up, the fearful news filled the place, and then all
sank into the deep silence of death--all work, all life ceasing. And the
other children were there, scared and overcome: little Nicolas, who did
not yet understand things; Gregoire, the page of the previous day;
Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, the three maids of honor, and their
elders, Claire and Gervais, who felt the blow more deeply. And there were
yet the others journeying away, Blaise, Denis, and Ambroise, travelling
to Paris at that very moment, in ignorance of the unforeseen, frightful
hatchet-stroke which had fallen on the family. Where would the terrible
tidings reach them? In what cruel distress would they return! And the
doctor who would soon arrive too! But all at once, amid the terror and
confusion, there rang out the cries of Frederic, the poor dead girl's
affianced lover. He shrieked his despair aloud, he was half mad, he
wished to kill himself, saying that he was the murderer and that he ought
to have prevented Rose from so rashly riding home through the storm! He
had to be led away and watched for fear of some fresh misfortune. His
sudden frenzy had gone to every heart; sobs burst forth and lamentations
arose from the woful parents, from the brothers, the sisters, from the
whole of stricken Chantebled, which death thus visited for the first
time.
Ah, God! Rose on that bed of mourning, white, cold, and dead! She, the
fairest, the gayest, the most loved! She, before whom all the others were
ever in admiration--she of whom they were so proud, so fond! And to think
that this blow should fall in the midst of hope, bright hope in long life
and sterling happiness, but ten days before her wedding, and on the
morrow of that day of wild gayety, all jests and laughter! They could
again see her, full of life and so adorable with her happy youthful
fancies--that princely reception and that royal procession. It had seemed
as if those two coming weddings, celebrated the same day, would be like
the supreme florescence of the family's long happiness and prosperity.
Doubtless they had often experienced trouble and had even wept at times,
but they had drawn closer together and consoled one another on such
occasions; none had ever been cut off from the good-night embraces which
healed every sore. And now the best was gone, death had come to say that
absolute joy existed for none, that the most valiant, the happiest; never
reaped the fulness of their hopes. There was no life without death. And
they paid their share of the debt of human wretchedness, paid it the more
dearly since they had made for themselves a larger sum of life. When
everything germinates and grows around one, when one has determined on
unreserved fruitfulness; on continuous creation and increase, how awful
is the recall to the ever-present dim abyss in which the world is
fashioned, on the day when misfortune falls, digs its first pit, and
carries off a loved one! It is like a sudden snapping, a rending of the
hopes which seemed to be endless, and a feeling of stupefaction comes at
the discovery that one cannot live and love forever!
Ah! how terrible were the two days that followed: the farm itself
lifeless, without sound save that of the breathing of the cattle, the
whole family gathered together, overcome by the cruel spell of waiting,
ever in tears while the poor corpse remained there under a harvest of
flowers. And there was this cruel aggravation, that on the eve of the
funeral, when the body had been laid in the coffin, it was brought down
into that gallery where they had lunched so merrily while discussing how
magnificently they might decorate it for the two weddings. It was there
that the last funeral watch, the last wake, took place, and there were no
evergreen shrubs, no garlands of foliage, merely four tapers which burnt
there amid a wealth of white roses gathered in the morning, but already
fading. Neither the mother nor the father was willing to go to bed that
night. They remained, side by side, near the child whom mother-earth was
taking back from them. They could see her quite little again, but sixteen
months old, at the time of their first sojourn at Chantebled in the old
tumbledown shooting-box, when she had just been weaned and they were wont
to go and cover her up at nighttime. They saw her also, later on, in
Paris, hastening to them in the morning, climbing up and pulling their
bed to pieces with triumphant laughter. And they saw her yet more
clearly, growing and becoming more beautiful even as Chantebled did, as
if, indeed, she herself bloomed with all the health and beauty of that
now fruitful land. Yet she was no more, and whenever the thought returned
to them that they would never see her again, their hands sought one
another, met in a woful clasp, while from their crushed and mingling
hearts it seemed as if all life, all future, were flowing away to
nihility. Now that a breach had been made, would not every other
happiness be carried off in turn? And though the ten other children were
there, from the little one five years old to the twins who were
four-and-twenty, all clad in black, all gathered in tears around their
sleeping sister, like a sorrow-stricken battalion rendering funeral
honors, neither the father nor the mother saw or counted them: their
hearts were rent by the loss of the daughter who had departed, carrying
away with her some of their own flesh. And in that long bare gallery
which the four candles scarcely lighted, the dawn at last arose upon that
death watch, that last leave-taking.
Then grief again came with the funeral procession, which spread out along
the white road between the lofty poplars and the green corn, that road
over which Rose had galloped so madly through the storm. All the
relations of the Froments, all their friends, all the district, had come
to pay a tribute of emotion at so sudden and swift a death. Thus, this
time, the cortege did stretch far away behind the hearse, draped with
white and blooming with white roses in the bright sunshine. The whole
family was present; the mother and the sisters had declared that they
would only quit their loved one when she had been lowered into her last
resting-place. And after the family came the friends, the Beauchenes, the
Seguins, and others. But Mathieu and Marianne, worn out, overcome by
suffering, no longer recognized people amid their tears. They only
remembered on the morrow that they must have seen Morange, if indeed it
were really Morange--that silent, unobtrusive, almost shadowy gentleman,
who had wept while pressing their hands. And in like fashion Mathieu
fancied that, in some horrible dream, he had seen Constance's spare
figure and bony profile drawing near to him in the cemetery after the
coffin had been lowered into the grave, and addressing vague words of
consolation to him, though he fancied that her eyes flashed the while as
if with abominable exultation.
What was it that she had said? He no longer knew. Of course her words
must have been appropriate, even as her demeanor was that of a mourning
relative. But a memory returned to him, that of other words which she had
spoken when promising to attend the two weddings. She had then in bitter
fashion expressed a wish that the good fortune of Chantebled might
continue. But they, the Froments, so fruitful and so prosperous, were now
stricken in their turn, and their good fortune had perhaps departed
forever! Mathieu shuddered; his faith in the future was shaken; he was
haunted by a fear of seeing prosperity and fruitfulness vanish, now that
there was that open breach.
XVII
A YEAR later the first child born to Ambroise and Andree, a boy, little
Leonce, was christened. The young people had been married very quietly
six weeks after the death of Rose. And that christening was to be the
first outing for Mathieu and Marianne, who had not yet fully recovered
from the terrible shock of their eldest daughter's death. Moreover, it
was arranged that after the ceremony there should simply be a lunch at
the parents' home, and that one and all should afterwards be free to
return to his or her avocations. It was impossible for the whole family
to come, and, indeed, apart from the grandfather and grandmother, only
the twins, Denis and Blaise, and the latter's wife Charlotte, were
expected, together with the godparents. Beauchene, the godfather, had
selected Madame Seguin as his _commere_, for, since the death of Maurice,
Constance shuddered at the bare thought of touching a child. At the same
time she had promised to be present at the lunch, and thus there would be
ten of them, sufficient to fill the little dining-room of the modest flat
in the Rue de La Boetie, where the young couple resided pending fortune's
arrival.
It was a very pleasant morning. Although Mathieu and Marianne had been
unwilling to set aside their black garments even for this rejoicing, they
ended by evincing some gentle gayety before the cradle of that little
grandson, whose advent brought them a renewal of hope. Early in the
winter a fresh bereavement had fallen on the family; Blaise had lost his
little Christophe, then two and a half years old, through an attack of
croup. Charlotte, however, was already at that time again _enceinte_, and
thus the grief of the first days had turned to expectancy fraught with
emotion.
The little flat in the Rue de La Boetie seemed very bright and fragrant;
it was perfumed by the fair grace of Andree and illumined by the
victorious charm of Ambroise, that handsome loving couple who, arm in
arm, had set out so bravely to conquer the world. During the lunch, too,
there was the formidable appetite and jovial laughter of Beauchene, who
gave the greatest attention to his _commere_ Valentine, jesting and
paying her the most extravagant court, which afforded her much amusement,
prone as she still was to play a girlish part, though she was already
forty-five and a grandmother like Marianne. Constance alone remained
grave, scarce condescending to bend her thin lips into a faint smile,
while a shadow of deep pain passed over her withered face every time that
she glanced round that gay table, whence new strength, based on the
invincible future, arose in spite of all the recent mourning.
At about three o'clock Blaise rose from the table, refusing to allow
Beauchene to take any more Chartreuse.
"It's true, he is right, my children," Beauchene ended by exclaiming in a
docile way. "We are very comfortable here, but it is absolutely necessary
that we should return to the works. And we must deprive you of Denis, for
we need his help over a big building affair. That's how we are, we
others, we don't shirk duty."
Constance had also risen. "The carriage must be waiting," said she; "will
you take it?"
"No, no, we will go on foot. A walk will clear our heads."
The sky was overcast, and as it grew darker and darker Ambroise, going to
the window, exclaimed: "You will get wet."
"Oh! the rain has been threatening ever since this morning, but we shall
have time to get to the works."
It was then understood that Constance should take Charlotte with her in
the brougham and set her down at the door of the little pavilion
adjoining the factory. As for Valentine, she was in no hurry and could
quietly return to the Avenue d'Antin, which was close by, as soon as the
sky might clear. And with regard to Marianne and Mathieu, they had just
yielded to Andree's affectionate entreaties, and had arranged to spend
the whole day and dine there, returning to Chantebled by the last train.
Thus the fete would be complete, and the young couple were enraptured at
the prospect.
The departure of the others was enlivened by a curious incident, a
mistake which Constance made, and which seemed very comical amid all the
mirth promoted by the copious lunch. She had turned towards Denis, and,
looking at him with her pale eyes, she quietly asked him "Blaise, my
friend, will you give me my boa? I must have left it in the ante-room."
Everybody began to laugh, but she failed to understand the reason. And it
was in the same tranquil way as before that she thanked Denis when he
brought her the boa: "I am obliged to you, Blaise; you are very amiable."
Thereupon came an explosion; the others almost choked with laughter, so
droll did her quiet assurance seem to them. What was the matter, then?
Why did they all laugh at her in that fashion? She ended by suspecting
that she had made a mistake, and looked more attentively at the twins.
"Ah, yes, it isn't Blaise, but Denis! But it can't be helped. I am always
mistaking them since they have worn their beards trimmed in the same
fashion."
Thereupon Marianne, in her obliging way, in order to take any sting away
from the laughter, repeated the well-known family story of how she
herself, when the twins were children and slept together, had been wont
to awake them in order to identify them by the different color of their
eyes. The others, Beauchene and Valentine, then intervened and recalled
circumstances under which they also had mistaken the twins one for the
other, so perfect was their resemblance on certain occasions, in certain
lights. And it was amid all this gay animation that the company separated
after exchanging all sorts of embraces and handshakes.
Once in the brougham, Constance spoke but seldom to Charlotte, taking as
a pretext a violent headache which the prolonged lunch had increased.
With a weary air and her eyes half closed she began to reflect. After
Rose's death, and when little Christophe likewise had been carried off, a
revival of hope had come to her, for all at once she had felt quite young
again. But when she consulted Boutan on the matter he dealt her a final
blow by informing her that her hopes were quite illusive. Thus, for two
months now, her rage and despair had been increasing. That very morning
at that christening, and now in that carriage beside that young woman who
was again expecting to become a mother, it was this which poisoned her
mind, filled her with jealousy and spite, and rendered her capable of any
evil deed. The loss of her son, the childlessness to which she was
condemned, all threw her into a state of morbid perversity, fraught with
dreams of some monstrous vengeance which she dared not even confess to
herself. She accused the whole world of being in league to crush her. Her
husband was the most cowardly and idiotic of traitors, for he betrayed
her by letting some fresh part of the works pass day by day into the
hands of that fellow Blaise, whose wife no sooner lost a child than she
had another. She, Constance, was enraged also at seeing her husband so
gay and happy, since she had left him to his own base courses. He still
retained his air of victorious superiority, declaring that he had
remained unchanged, and there was truth in this; for though, instead of
being an active master as formerly, he now too often showed himself a
senile prowler, on the high road to paralysis, he yet continued to be a
practical egotist, one who drew from life the greatest sum of enjoyment
possible. He was following his destined road, and if he took to Blaise it
was simply because he was delighted to have found an intelligent,
hard-working young man who spared him all the cares and worries that were
too heavy for his weary shoulders, while still earning for him the money
which he needed for his pleasures. Constance knew that something in the
way of a partnership arrangement was about to be concluded. Indeed, her
husband must have already received a large sum to enable him to make good
certain losses and expenses which he had hidden from her. And closing her
eyes as the brougham rolled along, she poisoned her mind by ruminating
all these things, scarce able to refrain from venting her fury by
throwing herself upon that young woman Charlotte, well-loved and fruitful
spouse, who sat beside her.