Fruitfulness - Emile Zola
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A few minutes afterwards, Seguin arrived, and, repairing to the
dining-room, they all sat down to lunch there. It was a very luxurious
meal, comprising eggs, red mullet, game, and crawfish, with red and white
Bordeaux wines and iced champagne. Such diet for Valentine and Marianne
would never have met with Dr. Boutan's approval; but Seguin declared the
doctor to be an unbearable individual whom nobody could ever please.
He, Seguin, while showing all politeness to his guests, seemed that day
to be in an execrable temper. Again and again he levelled annoying and
even galling remarks at his wife, carrying things to such a point at
times that tears came to the unfortunate woman's eyes. Now that he
scarcely set foot in the house he complained that everything was going
wrong there. If he spent his time elsewhere it was, according to him,
entirely his wife's fault. The place was becoming a perfect hell upon
earth. And in everything, the slightest incident, the most common-place
remark, he found an opportunity for jeers and gibes. These made Mathieu
and Marianne extremely uncomfortable; but at last he let fall such a
harsh expression that Valentine indignantly rebelled, and he had to
apologize. At heart he feared her, especially when the blood of the
Vaugelades arose within her, and she gave him to understand, in her
haughty disdainful way, that she would some day revenge herself on him
for his treatment.
However, seeking another outlet for his spite and rancor, he at last
turned to Mathieu, and spoke of Chantebled, saying bitterly that the game
in the covers there was fast becoming scarcer and scarcer, in such wise
that he now had difficulty in selling his shooting shares, so that his
income from the property was dwindling every year. He made no secret of
the fact that he would much like to sell the estate, but where could he
possibly find a purchaser for those unproductive woods, those sterile
plains, those marshes and those tracts of gravel?
Mathieu listened to all this attentively, for during his long walks in
the summer he had begun to take an interest in the estate. "Are you
really of opinion that it cannot be cultivated?" he asked. "It's pitiful
to see all that land lying waste and idle."
"Cultivate it!" cried Seguin. "Ah! I should like to see such a miracle!
The only crops that one will ever raise on it are stones and frogs."
They had by this time eaten their dessert, and before rising from table
Marianne was telling Valentine that she would much like to see and kiss
her children, who had not been allowed to lunch with their elders on
account of their supposed unruly ways, when a couple of visitors arrived
in turn, and everything else was forgotten. One was Santerre the
novelist, who of late had seldom called on the Seguins, and the other,
much to Mathieu's dislike, proved to be Beauchene's sister, Seraphine,
the Baroness de Lowicz. She looked at the young man in a bold, provoking,
significant manner, and then, like Santerre, cast a sly glance of mocking
contempt at Marianne and Valentine. She and the novelist between them
soon turned the conversation on to subjects that appealed to their
vicious tastes. And Santerre related that he had lately seen Doctor Gaude
perform several operations at the Marbeuf Hospital. He had found there
the usual set of society men who attend first performances at the
theatres, and indeed there were also some women present.
And then he enlarged upon the subject, giving the crudest and most
precise particulars, much to the delight of Seguin, who every now and
again interpolated remarks of approval, while both Mathieu and Marianne
grew more and more ill at ease. The young woman sat looking with
amazement at Santerre as he calmly recapitulated horror after horror, to
the evident enjoyment of the others. She remembered having read his last
book, that love story which had seemed to her so supremely absurd, with
its theories of the annihilation of the human species. And she at last
glanced at Mathieu to tell him how weary she felt of all the semi-society
and semi-medical chatter around her, and how much she would like to go
off home, leaning on his arm, and walking slowly along the sunlit quays.
He, for his part, felt a pang at seeing so much insanity rife amid those
wealthy surroundings. He made his wife a sign that it was indeed time to
take leave.
"What! are you going already!" Valentine then exclaimed. "Well, I dare
not detain you if you feel tired." However, when Marianne begged her to
kiss the children for her, she added: "Why, yes, it's true you have not
seen them. Wait a moment, pray; I want you to kiss them yourself."
But when Celeste appeared in answer to the bell, she announced that
Monsieur Gaston and Mademoiselle Lucie had gone out with their governess.
And this made Seguin explode once more. All his rancor against his wife
revived. The house was going to rack and ruin. She spent her days lying
on a sofa. Since when had the governess taken leave to go out with the
children without saying anything? One could not even see the children now
in order to kiss them. It was a nice state of things. They were left to
the servants; in fact, it was the servants now who controlled the house.
Thereupon Valentine began to cry.
"_Mon Dieu_!" said Marianne to her husband, when she found herself out of
doors, able to breathe, and happy once more now that she was leaning on
his arm; "why, they are quite mad, the people in that house."
"Yes," Mathieu responded, "they are mad, no doubt; but we must pity them,
for they know not what happiness is."
VI
ABOUT nine o'clock one fine cold morning, a few days afterwards, as
Mathieu, bound for his office, a little late through having lingered near
his wife, was striding hastily across the garden which separated the
pavilion from the factory yard, he met Constance and Maurice, who, clad
in furs, were going out for a walk in the sharp air. Beauchene, who was
accompanying them as far as the gate, bareheaded and ever sturdy and
victorious, gayly exclaimed to his wife:
"Give the youngster a good spin on his legs! Let him take in all the
fresh air he can. There's nothing like that and good food to make a man."
Mathieu, on hearing this, stopped short. "Has Maurice been poorly again?"
he inquired.
"Oh, no!" hastily replied the boy's mother, with an appearance of great
gayety, assumed perhaps from an unconscious desire to hide certain covert
fears. "Only the doctor wants him to take exercise, and it is so fine
this morning that we are going off on quite an expedition."
"Don't go along the quays," said Beauchene again. "Go up towards the
Invalides. He'll have much stiffer marching to do when he's a soldier."
Then, the mother and the child having taken themselves off, he went back
into the works with Mathieu, adding in his triumphant way: "That
youngster, you know, is as strong as an oak. But women are always so
nervous. For my part, I'm quite easy in mind about him, as you can see."
And with a laugh he concluded: "When one has but one son, he keeps him."
That same day, about an hour later, a terrible dispute which broke out
between old Moineaud's daughters, Norine and Euphrasie, threw the factory
into a state of commotion. Norine's intrigue with Beauchene had ended in
the usual way. He had soon tired of the girl and betaken himself to some
other passing fancy, leaving her to her tears, her shame, and all the
consequences of her fault; for although it had hitherto been possible for
her to conceal her condition from her parents, she was unable to deceive
her sister, who was her constant companion. The two girls were always
bickering, and Norine had for some time lived in dread of scandal and
exposure. And that day the trouble came to a climax, beginning with a
trivial dispute about a bit of glass-paper in the workroom, then
developing into a furious exchange of coarse, insulting language, and
culminating in a frantic outburst from Euphrasie, who shrieked to the
assembled work-girls all that she knew about her sister.
There was an outrageous scene: the sisters fought, clawing and scratching
one another desperately, and could not be separated until Beauchene,
Mathieu, and Morange, attracted by the extraordinary uproar, rushed into
the workroom and restored a little order. Fortunately for Beauchene,
Euphrasie did not know the whole truth, and Norine, after giving her
employer a humble, supplicating glance, kept silence; but old Moineaud
was present, and the public revelation of his daughter's shame sent him
into a fury. He ordered Norine out of the works forthwith, and threatened
to throw her out of window should he find her at home when he returned
there in the evening. And Beauchene, both annoyed at the scandal and
ashamed at being the primary cause of it, did not venture to interfere.
It was only after the unhappy Norine had rushed off sobbing that he found
strength of mind to attempt to pacify the father, and assert his
authority in the workroom by threatening to dismiss one and all of the
girls if the slightest scandal, the slightest noise, should ever occur
there again.
Mathieu was deeply pained by the scene, but kept his own counsel. What
most astonished him was the promptness with which Beauchene regained his
self-possession as soon as Norine had fled, and the majesty with which he
withdrew to his office after threatening the others and restoring order.
Another whom the scene had painfully affected was Morange, whom Mathieu,
to his surprise, found ghastly pale, with trembling hands, as if indeed
he had had some share of responsibility in this unhappy business. But
Morange, as he confided to Mathieu, was distressed for other reasons. The
scene in the workroom, the revelation of Norine's condition, the fate
awaiting the girl driven away into the bleak, icy streets, had revived
all his own poignant worries with respect to Valerie. Mathieu had already
heard of the latter's trouble from his wife, and he speedily grasped the
accountant's meaning. It vaguely seemed to him also that Morange was
yielding to the same unreasoning despair as Valerie, and was almost
willing that she should take the desperate course which she had hinted to
Marianne. But it was a very serious matter, and Mathieu did not wish to
be in any way mixed up in it. Having tried his best to pacify the
cashier, he sought forgetfulness of these painful incidents in his work.
That afternoon, however, a little girl, Cecile Moineaud, the old fitter's
youngest daughter, slipped into his office, with a message from her
mother, beseeching him to speak with her. He readily understood that the
woman wished to see him respecting Norine, and in his usual compassionate
way he consented to go. The interview took place in one of the adjacent
streets, down which the cold winter wind was blowing. La Moineaude was
there with Norine and another little girl of hers, Irma, a child eight
years of age. Both Norine and her mother wept abundantly while begging
Mathieu to help them. He alone knew the whole truth, and was in a
position to approach Beauchene on the subject. La Moineaude was firmly
determined to say nothing to her husband. She trembled for his future and
that of her son Alfred, who was now employed at the works; for there was
no telling what might happen if Beauchene's name should be mentioned.
Life was indeed hard enough already, and what would become of them all
should the family bread-winners be turned away from the factory? Norine
certainly had no legal claim on Beauchene, the law being peremptory on
that point; but, now that she had lost her employment, and was driven
from home by her father, could he leave her to die of want in the
streets? The girl tried to enforce her moral claim by asserting that she
had always been virtuous before meeting Beauchene. In any case, her lot
remained a very hard one. That Beauchene was the father of her child
there could be no doubt; and at last Mathieu, without promising success,
told the mother that he would do all he could in the matter.
He kept his word that same afternoon, and after a great deal of
difficulty he succeeded. At first Beauchene fumed, stormed, denied,
equivocated, almost blamed Mathieu for interfering, talked too of
blackmail, and put on all sorts of high and mighty airs. But at heart the
matter greatly worried him. What if Norine or her mother should go to his
wife? Constance might close her eyes as long as she simply suspected
things, but if complaints were formally, openly made to her, there would
be a terrible scandal. On the other hand, however, should he do anything
for the girl, it would become known, and everybody would regard him as
responsible. And then there would be no end to what he called the
blackmailing.
However, when Beauchene reached this stage Mathieu felt that the battle
was gained. He smiled and answered: "Of course, one can never tell--the
girl is certainly not malicious. But when women are driven beyond
endurance, they become capable of the worst follies. I must say that she
made no demands of me; she did not even explain what she wanted; she
simply said that she could not remain in the streets in this bleak
weather, since her father had turned her away from home. If you want my
opinion, it is this: I think that one might at once put her to board at a
proper place. Let us say that four or five months will elapse before she
is able to work again; that would mean a round sum of five hundred francs
in expenses. At that cost she might be properly looked after."
Beauchene walked nervously up and down, and then replied: "Well, I
haven't a bad heart, as you know. Five hundred francs more or less will
not inconvenience me. If I flew into a temper just now it was because the
mere idea of being robbed and imposed upon puts me beside myself. But if
it's a question of charity, why, then, do as you suggest. It must be
understood, however, that I won't mix myself up in anything; I wish even
to remain ignorant of what you do. Choose a nurse, place the girl where
you please, and I will simply pay the bill. Neither more nor less."
Then he heaved a sigh of relief at the prospect of being extricated from
this equivocal position, the worry of which he refused to acknowledge.
And once more he put on the mien of a superior, victorious man, one who
is certain that he will win all the battles of life. In fact, he even
jested about the girl, and at last went off repeating his instructions:
"See that my conditions are fully understood. I don't want to know
anything about any child. Do whatever you please, but never let me hear
another word of the matter."
That day was certainly one fertile in incidents, for in the evening there
was quite an alarm at the Beauchenes. At the moment when they were about
to sit down to dinner little Maurice fainted away and fell upon the
floor. Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed before the child could be
revived, and meantime the distracted parents quarrelled and shouted,
accusing one another of having compelled the lad to go out walking that
morning in such cold, frosty weather. It was evidently that foolish
outing which had chilled him. At least, this was what they said to one
another by way of quieting their anxiety. Constance, while she held her
boy in her arms, pictured him as dead. It occurred to her for the first
time that she might possibly lose him. At this idea she experienced a
terrible heart-pang, and a feeling of motherliness came upon her, so
acute that it was like a revelation. The ambitious woman that was in her,
she who dreamt of royalty for that only son, the future princely owner of
the ever-growing family fortune, likewise suffered horribly. If she was
to lose that son she would have no child left. Why had she none other?
Was it not she who had willed it thus? At this thought a feeling of
desperate regret shot through her like a red-hot blade, burning her
cruelly to the very depths of her being. Maurice, however, at last
recovered consciousness, and even sat down to the table and ate with a
fair appetite. Then Beauchene immediately shrugged his shoulders, and
began to jest about the unreasoning fears of women. And as time went by
Constance herself ceased to think of the incident.
On the morrow, when Mathieu had to attend to the delicate mission which
he had undertaken, he remembered the two women of whom Celeste, the maid,
had spoken on the day of his visit to the Seguins. He at first dismissed
all idea of that Madame Rouche, of whom the girl had spoken so strangely,
but he thought of making some inquiries respecting Madame Bourdieu, who
accommodated boarders at the little house where she resided in the Rue de
Miromesnil. And he seemed to remember that this woman had attended Madame
Morange at the time of Reine's birth, a circumstance which induced him to
question the cashier.
At the very first words the latter seemed greatly disturbed. "Yes, a lady
friend recommended Madame Bourdieu to my wife," said he; "but why do you
ask me?"
And as he spoke he looked at Mathieu with an expression of anguish, as if
that sudden mention of Madame Bourdieu's name signified that the young
fellow had guessed his secret preoccupations. It was as though he had
been abruptly surprised in wrong-doing. Perhaps, too, certain dim,
haunting thoughts, which he had long been painfully revolving in his
mind, without as yet being able to come to a decision, took shape at that
moment. At all events, he turned pale and his lips trembled.
Then, as Mathieu gave him to understand that it was a question of placing
Norine somewhere, he involuntarily let an avowal escape him.
"My wife was speaking to me of Madame Bourdieu only this morning," he
began. "Oh! I don't know how it happened, but, as you are aware, Reine
was born so many years ago that I can't give you any precise information.
It seems that the woman has done well, and is now at the head of a
first-class establishment. Inquire there yourself; I have no doubt you
will find what you want there."
Mathieu followed this advice; but at the same time, as he had been warned
that Madame Bourdieu's terms were rather high, he stifled his prejudices
and began by repairing to the Rue du Rocher in order to reconnoitre
Madame Rouche's establishment and make some inquiries of her. The mere
aspect of the place chilled him. It was one of the black houses of old
Paris, with a dark, evil-smelling passage, leading into a small yard
which the nurse's few squalid rooms overlooked. Above the passage
entrance was a yellow signboard which simply bore the name of Madame
Rouche in big letters. She herself proved to be a person of five- or
six-and-thirty, gowned in black and spare of figure, with a leaden
complexion, scanty hair of no precise color, and a big nose of unusual
prominence. With her low, drawling speech, her prudent, cat-like
gestures, and her sour smile, he divined her to be a dangerous,
unscrupulous woman. She told him that, as the accommodation at her
disposal was so small, she only took boarders for a limited time, and
this of course enabled him to curtail his inquiries. Glad to have done
with her, he hurried off, oppressed by nausea and vaguely frightened by
what he had seen of the place.
On the other hand, Madame Bourdieu's establishment, a little
three-storied house in the Rue de Miromesnil, between the Rue La Boetie
and the Rue de Penthievre, offered an engaging aspect, with its bright
facade and muslin-curtained windows. And Madame Bourdieu, then
two-and-thirty, rather short and stout, had a broad, pleasant white face,
which had greatly helped her on the road to success. She expatiated to
Mathieu on the preliminary training that was required by one of her
profession, the cost of it, the efforts needed to make a position, the
responsibilities, the inspections, the worries of all sorts that she had
to face; and she plainly told the young man that her charge for a boarder
would be two hundred francs a month. This was far more than he was
empowered to give; however, after some further conversation, when Madame
Bourdieu learnt that it was a question of four months' board, she became
more accommodating, and agreed to accept a round sum of six hundred
francs for the entire period, provided that the person for whom Mathieu
was acting would consent to occupy a three-bedded room with two other
boarders.
Altogether there were about a dozen boarders' rooms in the house, some of
these having three, and even four, beds; while others, the terms for
which were naturally higher, contained but one. Madame Bourdieu could
accommodate as many as thirty boarders, and as a rule, she had some
five-and-twenty staying on her premises. Provided they complied with the
regulations, no questions were asked them. They were not required to say
who they were or whence they came, and in most cases they were merely
known by some Christian name which they chose to give.
Mathieu ended by agreeing to Madame Bourdieu's terms, and that same
evening Norine was taken to her establishment. Some little trouble ensued
with Beauchene, who protested when he learnt that five hundred francs
would not suffice to defray the expenses. However, Mathieu managed
affairs so diplomatically that at last the other not only became
reconciled to the terms, but provided the money to purchase a little
linen, and even agreed to supply pocket-money to the extent of ten francs
a month. Thus, five days after Norine had entered Madame Bourdieu's
establishment, Mathieu decided to return thither to hand the girl her
first ten francs and tell her that he had settled everything.
He found her there in the boarders' refectory with some of her companions
in the house--a tall, thin, severe-looking Englishwoman, with lifeless
eyes and bloodless lips, who called herself Amy, and a pale red-haired
girl with a tip-tilted nose and a big mouth, who was known as Victoire.
Then, too, there was a young person of great beauty answering to the name
of Rosine, a jeweller's daughter, so Norine told Mathieu, whose story was
at once pathetic and horrible. The young man, while waiting to see Madame
Bourdieu, who was engaged, sat for a time answering Norine's questions,
and listening to the others, who conversed before him in a free and open
way. His heart was wrung by much that he heard, and as soon as he could
rid himself of Norine he returned to the waiting-room, eager to complete
his business. There, however, two women who wished to consult Madame
Bourdieu, and who sat chatting side by side on a sofa, told him that she
was still engaged, so that he was compelled to tarry a little longer. He
ensconced himself in a large armchair, and taking a newspaper from his
pocket, began to read it. But he had not been thus occupied for many
minutes before the door opened and a servant entered, ushering in a lady
dressed in black and thickly veiled, whom she asked to be good enough to
wait her turn. Mathieu was on the point of rising, for, though his back
was turned to the door, he could see, in a looking-glass, that the new
arrival was none other than Morange's wife, Valerie. After a moment's
hesitation, however, the sight of her black gown and thick veil, which
seemed to indicate that she desired to escape recognition, induced him to
dive back into his armchair and feign extreme attention to his newspaper.
She, on her side, had certainly not noticed him, but by glancing
slantwise towards the looking-glass he could observe all her movements.
Meantime the conversation between the other women on the sofa continued,
and to Mathieu's surprise it suddenly turned on Madame Rouche, concerning
whom one of them began telling the most horrible stories, which fully
confirmed the young man's previous suspicions. These stories seemed to
have a powerful fascination for Valerie, who sat in a corner, never
stirring, but listening intently. She did not even turn her head towards
the other women, but, beneath her veil, Mathieu could detect her big eyes
glittering feverishly. She started but once. It was when one of the
others inquired of her friend where that horrid creature La Rouche
resided, and the other replied, "At the lower end of the Rue du Rocher."
Then their chatter abruptly ceased, for Madame Bourdieu made her
appearance on the threshold of her private room. The gossips exchanged
only a few words with her, and then, as Mathieu remained in his armchair,
the high back of which concealed him from view, Valerie rose from her
seat and followed Madame Bourdieu into the private room.
As soon as he was alone the young man let his newspaper fall upon his
knees, and lapsed into a reverie, haunted by all the chatter he had
heard, both there and in Norine's company, and shuddering at the thought
of the dreadful secrets that had been revealed to him. How long an
interval elapsed he could not tell, but at last he was suddenly roused by
a sound of voices.
Madame Bourdieu was now escorting Valerie to the door. She had the same
plump fresh face as usual, and even smiled in a motherly way; but the
other was quivering, as with distress and grief. "You are not sensible,
my dear child," said Madame Bourdieu to her. "It is simply foolish of
you. Come, go home and be good."