Fruitfulness - Emile Zola
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Then the thought of Denis occurred to her. Why was he being taken to the
works? Did he also mean to rob her? Yet she knew that he had refused to
join his brother, as in his opinion there was not room for two at the
establishment of the Boulevard de Grenelle. Indeed, Denis's ambition was
to direct some huge works by himself; he possessed an extensive knowledge
of mechanics, and this it was that rendered him a valuable adviser
whenever a new model of some important agricultural machine had to be
prepared at the Beauchene factory. Constance promptly dismissed him from
her thoughts; in her estimation there was no reason to fear him; he was a
mere passer-by, who on the morrow, perhaps, would establish himself at
the other end of France. Then once more the thought of Blaise came back
to her, imperative, all-absorbing; and it suddenly occurred to her that
if she made haste home she would be able to see Morange alone in his
office and ascertain many things from him before the others arrived. It
was evident that the accountant must know something of the partnership
scheme, even if it were as yet only in a preliminary stage. Thereupon she
became impassioned, eager to arrive, certain as she felt of obtaining
confidential information from Morange, whom she deemed to be devoted to
her.
As the carriage rolled over the Jena bridge she opened her eyes and
looked out. "_Mon Dieu_!" said she, "what a time this brougham takes! If
the rain would only fall it would, perhaps, relieve my head a little."
She was thinking, however, that a sharp shower would give her more time,
as it would compel the three men, Beauchene, Denis, and Blaise, to seek
shelter in some doorway. And when the carriage reached the works she
hastily stopped the coachman, without even conducting her companion to
the little pavilion.
"You will excuse me, won't you, my dear?" said she; "you only have to
turn the street corner."
When they had both alighted, Charlotte, smiling and affectionate, took
hold of Constance's hand and retained it for a few moments in her own.
"Of course," she replied, "and many thanks. You are too kind. When you
see my husband, pray tell him that you left me safe, for he grows anxious
at the slightest thing."
Thereupon Constance in her turn had to smile and promise with many
professions of friendship that she would duly execute the commission.
Then they parted. "Au revoir, till to-morrow "--"Yes, yes, till
to-morrow, au revoir."
Eighteen years had now already elapsed since Morange had lost his wife
Valerie; and nine had gone by since the death of his daughter Reine. Yet
it always seemed as if he were on the morrow of those disasters, for he
had retained his black garb, and still led a cloister-like, retired life,
giving utterance only to such words as were indispensable. On the other
hand, he had again become a good model clerk, a correct painstaking
accountant, very punctual in his habits, and rooted as it were to the
office chair in which he had taken his seat every morning for thirty
years past. The truth was that his wife and his daughter had carried off
with them all his will-power, all his ambitious thoughts, all that he had
momentarily dreamt of winning for their sakes--a large fortune and a
luxurious triumphant life. He, who was now so much alone, who had
relapsed into childish timidity and weakness, sought nothing beyond his
humble daily task, and was content to die in the shady corner to which he
was accustomed. It was suspected, however, that he led a mysterious
maniacal life, tinged with anxious jealousy, at home, in that flat of the
Boulevard de Grenelle which he had so obstinately refused to quit. His
servant had orders to admit nobody, and she herself knew nothing. If he
gave her free admittance to the dining- and drawing-rooms, he did not
allow her to set foot in his own bedroom, formerly shared by Valerie, nor
in that which Reine had occupied. He himself alone entered these
chambers, which he regarded as sanctuaries, of which he was the sole
priest. Under pretence of sweeping or dusting, he would shut himself up
in one or the other of them for hours at a time. It was in vain that the
servant tried to glance inside, in vain that she listened at the doors
when he spent his holidays at home; she saw nothing and heard nothing.
Nobody could have told what relics those chapels contained, nor with what
religious cult he honored them. Another cause of surprise was his
niggardly, avaricious life, which, as time went on, had become more and
more pronounced, in such wise that his only expenses were his rental of
sixteen hundred francs, the wages he paid to his servant, and the few
pence per day which she with difficulty extracted from him to defray the
cost of food and housekeeping. His salary had now risen to eight thousand
francs a year, and he certainly did not spend half of it. What became,
then, of his big savings, the money which he refused to devote to
enjoyment? In what secret hole, and for what purpose, what secret
passion, did he conceal it? Nobody could tell. But amid it all he
remained very gentle, and, unlike most misers, continued very cleanly in
his habits, keeping his beard, which was now white as snow, very
carefully tended. And he came to his office every morning with a little
smile on his face, in such wise that nothing in this man of regular
methodical life revealed the collapse within him, all the ashes and
smoldering fire which disaster had left in his heart.
By degrees a link of some intimacy had been formed between Constance and
Morange. When, after his daughter's death, she had seen him return to the
works quite a wreck, she had been stirred by deep pity, with which some
covert personal anxiety confusedly mingled. Maurice was destined to live
five years longer, but she was already haunted by apprehensions, and
could never meet Morange without experiencing a chilling shudder, for he,
as she repeated to herself, had lost his only child. "Ah, God! so such a
catastrophe was possible." Then, on being stricken herself, on
experiencing the horrible distress, on smarting from the sudden, gaping,
incurable wound of her bereavement, she had drawn nearer to that brother
in misfortune, treating him with a kindness which she showed to none
other. At times she would invite him to spend an evening with her, and
the pair of them would chat together, or more often remain silent, face
to face, sharing each other's woe. Later on she had profited by this
intimacy to obtain information from Morange respecting affairs at the
factory, of which her husband avoided speaking. It was more particularly
since she had suspected the latter of bad management, blunders and debts,
that she endeavored to turn the accountant into a confidant, even a spy,
who might aid her to secure as much control of the business as possible.
And this was why she was so anxious to return to the factory that day,
and profit by the opportunity to see Morange privately, persuaded as she
was that she would induce him to speak out in the absence of his
superiors.
She scarcely tarried to take off her gloves and her bonnet. She found the
accountant in his little office, seated in his wonted place, and leaning
over the everlasting ledger which was open before him.
"Why, is the christening finished?" he exclaimed in astonishment.
Forthwith she explained her presence in such a way as to enable her to
speak of what she had at heart. "Why, yes. That is to say, I came away
because I had such a dreadful headache. The others have remained yonder.
And as we are alone here together it occurred to me that it might do me
good to have a chat with you. You know how highly I esteem you. Ah! I am
not happy, not happy at all."
She had sunk upon a chair overcome by the tears which she had been
restraining so long in the presence of the happiness of others. Quite
upset at seeing her in this condition, having little strength himself,
Morange wished to summon her maid. He almost feared that she might have a
fainting fit. But she prevented him.
"I have only you left me, my friend," said she. "Everybody else forsakes
me, everybody is against me. I can feel it; I am being ruined; folks are
bent on annihilating me, as if I had not already lost everything when I
lost my child. And since you alone remain to me, you who know my
torments, you who have no daughter left you, pray for heaven's sake help
me and tell me the truth! In that wise I shall at least be able to defend
myself."
On hearing her speak of his daughter Morange also had begun to weep. And
now, therefore, she might question him, it was certain that he would
answer and tell her everything, overpowered as he was by the common grief
which she had evoked. Thus he informed her that an agreement was indeed
on the point of being signed by Blaise and Beauchene, only it was not
precisely a deed of partnership. Beauchene having drawn large sums from
the strong-box of the establishment for expenses which he could not
confess--a horrible story of blackmailing, so it was rumored--had been
obliged to make a confidant of Blaise, the trusty and active lieutenant
who managed the establishment. And he had even asked him to find somebody
willing to lend him some money. Thereupon the young man had offered it
himself; but doubtless it was his father, Mathieu Froment, who advanced
the cash, well pleased to invest it in the works in his son's name. And
now, with the view of putting everything in order, it had been resolved
that the property should be divided into six parts, and that one of these
parts or shares should be attributed to Blaise as reimbursement for the
loan. Thus the young fellow would possess an interest of one sixth in the
establishment, unless indeed Beauchene should buy him out again within a
stipulated period. The danger was that, instead of freeing himself in
this fashion, Beauchene might yield to the temptation of selling the
other parts one by one, now that he was gliding down a path of folly and
extravagance.
Constance listened to Morange, quivering and quite pale. "Is this
signed?" she asked.
"No, not yet. But the papers are ready and will be signed shortly.
Moreover, it is a reasonable and necessary solution of the difficulty."
She was evidently of another opinion. A feeling of revolt possessed her,
and she strove to think of some decisive means of preventing the ruin and
shame which in her opinion threatened her. "My God, what am I to do? How
can I act?" she gasped; and then, in her rage at finding no device, at
being powerless, this cry escaped her: "Ah! that scoundrel Blaise!"
Worthy Morange was quite moved by it. Still he had not fully understood.
And so, in his quiet way, he endeavored to calm Constance, explaining
that Blaise had a very good heart, and that in the circumstances in
question he had behaved in the best way possible, doing all that he could
to stifle scandal, and even displaying great disinterestedness. And as
Constance had risen, satisfied with knowing the truth, and anxious that
the three men might not find her there on their arrival, the accountant
likewise quitted his chair, and accompanied her along the gallery which
she had to follow in order to return to her house.
"I give you my word of honor, madame," said Morange, "that the young man
has made no base calculations in the matter. All the papers pass through
my hands, and nobody could know more than I know myself. Besides, if I
had entertained the slightest doubt of any machination, I should have
endeavored to requite your kindness by warning you."
She no longer listened to him, however; in fact, she was anxious to get
rid of him, for all at once the long-threatening rain had begun to fall
violently, lashing the glass roof. So dark a mass of clouds had
overspread the sky that it was almost night in the gallery, though four
o'clock had scarcely struck. And it occurred to Constance that in
presence of such a deluge the three men would certainly take a cab. So
she hastened her steps, still followed, however, by the accountant.
"For instance," he continued, "when it was a question of drawing up the
agreement--"
But he suddenly paused, gave vent to a hoarse exclamation, and stopped
her, pulling her back as if in terror.
"Take care!" he gasped.
There was a great cavity before them. Here, at the end of the gallery,
before reaching the corridor which communicated with the private house,
there was a steam lift of great power, which was principally used for
lowering heavy articles to the packing room. It only worked as a rule on
certain days; on all others the huge trap remained closed. When the
appliance was working a watchman was always stationed there to
superintend the operations.
"Take care! take care!" Morange repeated, shuddering with terror.
The trap was open, and the huge cavity gaped before them; there was no
barrier, nothing to warn them and prevent them from making a fearful
plunge. The rain still pelted on the glass roof, and the darkness had
become so complete in the gallery that they had walked on without seeing
anything before them. Another step would have hurled them to destruction.
It was little short of miraculous that the accountant should have become
anxious in presence of the increasing gloom in that corner, where he had
divined rather than perceived the abyss.
Constance, however, still failing to understand her companion, sought to
free herself from his wild grasp.
"But look!" he cried.
And he bent forward and compelled her also to stoop over the cavity. It
descended through three floors to the very lowest basement, like a well
of darkness. A damp odor arose: one could scarce distinguish the vague
outlines of thick ironwork; alone, right at the bottom, burnt a lantern,
a distant speck of light, as if the better to indicate the depth and
horror of the gulf. Morange and Constance drew back again blanching.
And now Morange burst into a temper. "It is idiotic!" he exclaimed. "Why
don't they obey the regulations! As a rule there is a man here, a man
expressly told off for this duty, who ought not to stir from his post so
long as the trap has not come up again. Where is he? What on earth can
the rascal be up to?"
The accountant again approached the hole, and shouted down it in a fury:
"Bonnard!"
No reply came: the pit remained bottomless, black and void.
"Bonnard! Bonnard!"
And still nothing was heard, not a sound; the damp breath of the darkness
alone ascended as from the deep silence of the tomb.
Thereupon Morange resorted to action. "I must go down; I must find
Bonnard. Can you picture us falling through that hole to the very bottom?
No, no, this cannot be allowed. Either he must close this trap or return
to his post. What can he be doing? Where can he be?"
Morange had already betaken himself to a little winding staircase, by
which one reached every floor beside the lift, when in a voice which
gradually grew more indistinct, he again called: "I beg you, madame, pray
wait for me; remain there to warn anybody who might pass."
Constance was alone. The dull rattle of the rain on the glass above her
continued, but a little livid light was appearing as a gust of wind
carried off the clouds. And in that pale light Blaise suddenly appeared
at the end of the gallery. He had just returned to the factory with Denis
and Beauchene, and had left his companions together for a moment, in
order to go to the workshops to procure some information they required.
Preoccupied, absorbed once more in his work, he came along with an easy
step, his head somewhat bent. And when Constance saw him thus appear, all
that she felt in her heart was the smart of rancor, a renewal of her
anger at what she had learnt of that agreement which was to be signed on
the morrow and which would despoil her. That enemy who was in her home
and worked against her, a revolt of her whole being urged her to
exterminate him, and thrust him out like some usurper, all craft and
falsehood.
He drew nearer. She was in the dense shadow near the wall, so that he
could not see her. But on her side, as he softly approached steeped in a
grayish light, she could see him with singular distinctness. Never before
had she so plainly divined the power of his lofty brow, the intelligence
of his eyes, the firm will of his mouth. And all at once she was struck
with fulgural certainty; he was coming towards the cavity without seeing
it and he would assuredly plunge into the depths unless she should stop
him as he passed. But a little while before, she, like himself, had come
from yonder, and would have fallen unless a friendly hand had restrained
her; and the frightful shudder of that moment yet palpitated in her
veins; she could still and ever see the damp black pit with the little
lantern far below. The whole horror of it flashed before her eyes--the
ground failing one, the sudden drop with a great shriek, and the smash a
moment afterwards.
Blaise drew yet nearer. But certainly such a thing was impossible; she
would prevent it, since a little motion of her hand would suffice. Would
she not always have time to stretch out her arms when he was there before
her? And yet from the recesses of her being a very clear and frigid voice
seemed to ascend, articulating brief words which rang in her ears as if
repeated by a trumpet blast. If he should die it would be all over, the
factory would never belong to him. She who had bitterly lamented that she
could devise no obstacle had merely to let this helpful chance take its
own course. And this, indeed, was what the voice said, what it repeated
with keen insistence, never adding another syllable. After that there
would be nothing. After that there would merely remain the shattered
remnants of a suppressed man, and a pit of darkness splashed with blood,
in which she discerned, foresaw nothing more. What would happen on the
morrow? She did not wish to know; indeed there would be no morrow. It was
solely the brutal immediate fact which the imperious voice demanded. He
dead, it would be all over, he would never possess the works.
He drew nearer still. And within her now there raged a frightful battle.
How long did it last--days? years? Doubtless but a few seconds. She was
still resolved that she would stop him as he passed, certain as she felt
that she would conquer her horrible thoughts when the moment came for the
decisive gesture. And yet those thoughts invaded her, became materialized
within her, like some physical craving, thirst or hunger. She hungered
for that finish, hungered to the point of suffering, seized by one of
those sudden desperate longings which beget crime; such as when a
passer-by is despoiled and throttled at the corner of a street. It seemed
to her that if she could not satisfy her craving she herself must lose
her life. A consuming passion, a mad desire for that man's annihilation
filled her as she saw him approach. She could now see him still more
plainly and the sight of him exasperated her. His forehead, his eyes, his
lips tortured her like some hateful spectacle. Another step, yet one
more, then another, and he would be before her. Yes, yet another step,
and she was already stretching out her hand in readiness to stop him as
soon as he should brush past.
He came along. What was it that happened? O God! When he was there, so
absorbed in his thoughts that he brushed against her without feeling her,
she turned to stone. Her hand became icy cold, she could not lift it, it
hung too heavily from her arm. And amid her scorching fever a great cold
shudder came upon her, immobilizing and stupefying her, while she was
deafened by the clamorous voice rising from the depths of her being. All
demur was swept away; the craving for that death remained intense,
invincible, beneath the imperious stubborn call of the inner voice which
robbed her of the power of will and action. He would be dead and he would
never possess the works. And therefore, standing stiff and breathless
against the wall, she did not stop him. She could hear his light
breathing, she could discern his profile, then the nape of his neck. He
had passed. Another step, another step! And yet if she had raised a call
she might still have changed the course of destiny even at that last
moment. She fancied that she had some such intention, but she was
clenching her teeth tightly enough to break them. And he, Blaise, took
yet a further step, still advancing quietly and confidently over that
friendly ground, without even a glance before him, absorbed as he was in
thoughts of his work. And the ground failed him, and there was a loud,
terrible cry, a sudden gust following the fall, and a dull crash down
below in the depths of the black darkness.
Constance did not stir. For a moment she remained as if petrified, still
listening, still waiting. But only deep silence arose from the abyss. She
could merely hear the rain pelting on the glass roof with renewed rage.
And thereupon she fled, turned into the passage, re-entered her
drawing-room. There she collected and questioned herself. Had she desired
that abominable thing? No, her will had had nought to do with it. Most
certainly it had been paralyzed, prevented from acting. If it had been
possible for the thing to occur, it had occurred quite apart from her,
for assuredly she had been absent. Absent, that word reassured her. Yes,
indeed, that was the case, she had been absent. All her past life spread
out behind her, faultless, pure of any evil action. Never had she sinned,
never until that day had any consciousness of guilt weighed upon her
conscience. An honest and virtuous woman, she had remained upright amidst
all the excesses of her husband. An impassioned mother, she had been
ascending her calvary ever since her son's death. And this recollection
of Maurice alone drew her for a moment from her callousness, choked her
with a rising sob, as if in that direction lay her madness, the vainly
sought explanation of the crime. Vertigo again fell upon her, the thought
of her dead son and of the other being master in his place, all her
perverted passion for that only son of hers, the despoiled prince, all
her poisoned, fermenting rage which had unhinged and maddened her, even
to the point of murder. Had that monstrous vegetation growing within her
reached her brain then? A rush of blood suffices at times to bedim a
conscience. But she obstinately clung to the view that she had been
absent; she forced back her tears and remained frigid. No remorse came to
her. It was done, and 'twas good that it should be done. It was
necessary. She had not pushed him, he himself had fallen. Had she not
been there he would have fallen just the same. And so since she had not
been there, since both her brain and her heart had been absent, it did
not concern her. And ever and ever resounded the words which absolved her
and chanted her victory; he was dead, and would never possess the works.
Erect in the middle of the drawing-room, Constance listened, straining
her ears. Why was it that she heard nothing? How long they were in going
down to pick him up! Anxiously waiting for the tumult which she expected,
the clamor of horror which would assuredly rise from the works, the heavy
footsteps, the loud calls, she held her breath, quivering at the
slightest, faintest sound. Several minutes still elapsed, and the cosey
quietude of her drawing-room pleased her. That room was like an asylum of
bourgeois rectitude, luxurious dignity, in which she felt protected,
saved. Some little objects on which her eyes lighted, a pocket
scent-bottle ornamented with an opal, a paper-knife of burnished silver
left inside a book, fully reassured her. She was moved, almost surprised
at the sight of them, as if they had acquired some new and particular
meaning. Then she shivered slightly and perceived that her hands were icy
cold. She rubbed them together gently, wishing to warm them a little. Why
was it, too, that she now felt so tired? It seemed to her as if she had
just returned from some long walk, from some accident, from some affray
in which she had been bruised. She felt within her also a tendency to
somnolence, the somnolence of satiety, as if she had feasted too
copiously off some spicy dish, after too great a hunger. Amid the fatigue
which benumbed her limbs she desired nothing more; apart from her
sleepiness all that she felt was a kind of astonishment that things
should be as they were. However, she had again begun to listen, repeating
that if that frightful silence continued, she would certainly sink upon a
chair, close her eyes, and sleep. And at last it seemed to her that she
detected a faint sound, scarcely a breath, far away.
What was it? No, there was nothing yet. Perhaps she had dreamt that
horrible scene, perhaps it had all been a nightmare; that man marching
on, that black pit, that loud cry of terror! Since she heard nothing,
perhaps nothing had really happened. Were it true a clamor would have
ascended from below in a growing wave of sound, and a distracted rush up
the staircase and along the passages would have brought her the news.
Then again she detected the faint distant sound, which seemed to draw a
little nearer. It was not the tramping of a crowd; it seemed to be a mere
footfall, perhaps that of some pedestrian on the quay. Yet no; it came
from the works, and now it was quite distinct; it ascended steps and then
sped along a passage. And the steps became quicker, and a panting could
be heard, so tragical that she at last divined that the horror was at
hand. All at once the door was violently flung open. Morange entered. He
was alone, beside himself, with livid face and scarce able to stammer.