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They had every sort of
respect for her family!But she went on:
“If you’re ashamed of my family you’ll please leave me, because I’m not
one of those women who deny their father and mother.You must take me
and them together, d’you understand?”
They took her as required; they accepted the dad, the mamma, the past;
in fact, whatever she chose.With their eyes fixed on the tablecloth,
the four now sat shrinking and insignificant while Nana, in a transport
of omnipotence, trampled on them in the old muddy boots worn long since
in the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or.She was determined not to lay down the
cudgels just yet. It was all very fine to bring her fortunes, to build
her palaces; she would never leave off regretting the time when she
munched apples! Oh, what bosh that stupid thing money was!It was made
for the tradespeople! Finally her outburst ended in a sentimentally
expressed desire for a simple, openhearted existence, to be passed in
an atmosphere of universal benevolence.When she got to this point she noticed Julien waiting idly by. “Well, what’s the matter? Hand the champagne then!” she said. “Why
d’you stand staring at me like a goose?”
During this scene the servants had never once smiled.They apparently
heard nothing, and the more their mistress let herself down, the more
majestic they became.Julien set to work to pour out the champagne and
did so without mishap, but Francois, who was handing round the fruit,
was so unfortunate as to tilt the fruit dish too low, and the apples,
the pears and the grapes rolled on the table.“You bloody clumsy lot!” cried Nana. The footman was mistaken enough to try and explain that the fruit had
not been firmly piled up. Zoé had disarranged it by taking out some
oranges. “Then it’s Zoé that’s the goose!” said Nana.“Madame—” murmured the lady’s maid in an injured tone. Straightway Madame rose to her feet, and in a sharp voice and with
royally authoritative gesture:
“We’ve had enough of this, haven’t we? Leave the room, all of you!We
don’t want you any longer!”
This summary procedure calmed her down, and she was forthwith all
sweetness and amiability. The dessert proved charming, and the
gentlemen grew quite merry waiting on themselves.But Satin, having
peeled a pear, came and ate it behind her darling, leaning on her
shoulder the while and whispering sundry little remarks in her ear, at
which they both laughed very loudly.By and by she wanted to share her
last piece of pear with Nana and presented it to her between her teeth. Whereupon there was a great nibbling of lips, and the pear was finished
amid kisses.At this there was a burst of comic protest from the
gentlemen, Philippe shouting to them to take it easy and Vandeuvres
asking if one ought to leave the room.Georges, meanwhile, had come and
put his arm round Satin’s waist and had brought her back to her seat. “How silly of you!” said Nana. “You’re making her blush, the poor,
darling duck. Never mind, dear girl, let them chaff.It’s our own
little private affair.”
And turning to Muffat, who was watching them with his serious
expression:
“Isn’t it, my friend?”
“Yes, certainly,” he murmured with a slow nod of approval. He no longer protested now.And so amid that company of gentlemen with
the great names and the old, upright traditions, the two women sat face
to face, exchanging tender glances, conquering, reigning, in tranquil
defiance of the laws of sex, in open contempt for the male portion of
the community.The gentlemen burst into applause. The company went upstairs to take coffee in the little drawing room,
where a couple of lamps cast a soft glow over the rosy hangings and the
lacquer and old gold of the knickknacks.At that hour of the evening
the light played discreetly over coffers, bronzes and china, lighting
up silver or ivory inlaid work, bringing into view the polished
contours of a carved stick and gleaming over a panel with glossy silky
reflections.The fire, which had been burning since the afternoon, was
dying out in glowing embers. It was very warm—the air behind the
curtains and hangings was languid with warmth.The room was full of
Nana’s intimate existence: a pair of gloves, a fallen handkerchief, an
open book, lay scattered about, and their owner seemed present in
careless attire with that well-known odor of violets and that species
of untidiness which became her in her character of good-natured
courtesan and had such a charming effect among all those rich
surroundings.The very armchairs, which were as wide as beds, and the
sofas, which were as deep as alcoves, invited to slumber oblivious of
the flight of time and to tender whispers in shadowy corners.Satin went and lolled back in the depths of a sofa near the fireplace. She had lit a cigarette, but Vandeuvres began amusing himself by
pretending to be ferociously jealous.Nay, he even threatened to send
her his seconds if she still persisted in keeping Nana from her duty. Philippe and Georges joined him and teased her and badgered her so
mercilessly that at last she shouted out:
“Darling! Darling!Do make ’em keep quiet! They’re still after me!”
“Now then, let her be,” said Nana seriously. “I won’t have her
tormented; you know that quite well.And you, my pet, why d’you always
go mixing yourself up with them when they’ve got so little sense?”
Satin, blushing all over and putting out her tongue, went into the
dressing room, through the widely open door of which you caught a
glimpse of pale marbles gleaming in the milky light of a gas flame in a
globe of rough glass.After that Nana talked to the four men as
charmingly as hostess could. During the day she had read a novel which
was at that time making a good deal of noise.It was the history of a
courtesan, and Nana was very indignant, declaring the whole thing to be
untrue and expressing angry dislike to that kind of monstrous
literature which pretends to paint from nature.“Just as though one
could describe everything,” she said. Just as though a novel ought not
to be written so that the reader may while away an hour pleasantly!In
the matter of books and of plays Nana had very decided opinions: she
wanted tender and noble productions, things that would set her dreaming
and would elevate her soul.Then allusion being made in the course of
conversation to the troubles agitating Paris, the incendiary articles
in the papers, the incipient popular disturbances which followed the
calls to arms nightly raised at public meetings, she waxed wroth with
the Republicans.What on earth did those dirty people who never washed
really want? Were folks not happy? Had not the emperor done everything
for the people? | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
A nice filthy lot of people!She knew ’em; she could
talk about ’em, and, quite forgetting the respect which at dinner she
had just been insisting should be paid to her humble circle in the Rue
de la Goutte-d’Or, she began blackguarding her own class with all the
terror and disgust peculiar to a woman who had risen successfully above
it.That very afternoon she had read in the Figaro an account of the
proceedings at a public meeting which had verged on the comic.Owing to
the slang words that had been used and to the piggish behavior of a
drunken man who had got himself chucked, she was laughing at those
proceedings still. “Oh, those drunkards!” she said with a disgusted air.“No, look you
here, their republic would be a great misfortune for everybody! Oh, may
God preserve us the emperor as long as possible!”
“God will hear your prayer, my dear,” Muffat replied gravely.“To be
sure, the emperor stands firm.”
He liked her to express such excellent views. Both, indeed, understood
one another in political matters.Vandeuvres and Philippe Hugon
likewise indulged in endless jokes against the “cads,” the quarrelsome
set who scuttled off the moment they clapped eyes on a bayonet. But
Georges that evening remained pale and somber.“What can be the matter with that baby?” asked Nana, noticing his
troubled appearance. “With me? Nothing—I am listening,” he muttered. But he was really suffering.On rising from table he had heard Philippe
joking with the young woman, and now it was Philippe, and not himself,
who sat beside her. His heart, he knew not why, swelled to bursting.He
could not bear to see them so close together; such vile thoughts
oppressed him that shame mingled with his anguish.He who laughed at
Satin, who had accepted Steiner and Muffat and all the rest, felt
outraged and murderous at the thought that Philippe might someday touch
that woman.“Here, take Bijou,” she said to comfort him, and she passed him the
little dog which had gone to sleep on her dress. And with that Georges grew happy again, for with the beast still warm
from her lap in his arms, he held, as it were, part of her.Allusion had been made to a considerable loss which Vandeuvres had last
night sustained at the Imperial Club.Muffat, who did not play,
expressed great astonishment, but Vandeuvres smilingly alluded to his
imminent ruin, about which Paris was already talking. The kind of death
you chose did not much matter, he averred; the great thing was to die
handsomely.For some time past Nana had noticed that he was nervous and
had a sharp downward droop of the mouth and a fitful gleam in the
depths of his clear eyes.But he retained his haughty aristocratic
manner and the delicate elegance of his impoverished race, and as yet
these strange manifestations were only, so to speak, momentary fits of
vertigo overcoming a brain already sapped by play and by debauchery.One night as he lay beside her he had frightened her with a dreadful
story. He had told her he contemplated shutting himself up in his
stable and setting fire to himself and his horses at such time as he
should have devoured all his substance.His only hope at that period
was a horse, Lusignan by name, which he was training for the Prix de
Paris.He was living on this horse, which was the sole stay of his
shaken credit, and whenever Nana grew exacting he would put her off
till June and to the probability of Lusignan’s winning. “Bah!He may very likely lose,” she said merrily, “since he’s going to
clear them all out at the races.”
By way of reply he contented himself by smiling a thin, mysterious
smile.Then carelessly:
“By the by, I’ve taken the liberty of giving your name to my outsider,
the filly. Nana, Nana—that sounds well. You’re not vexed?”
“Vexed, why?” she said in a state of inward ecstasy.The conversation continued, and same mention was made of an execution
shortly to take place. The young woman said she was burning to go to it
when Satin appeared at the dressing-room door and called her in tones
of entreaty.She got up at once and left the gentlemen lolling lazily
about, while they finished their cigars and discussed the grave
question as to how far a murderer subject to chronic alcoholism is
responsible for his act.In the dressing room Zoé sat helpless on a
chair, crying her heart out, while Satin vainly endeavored to console
her. “What’s the matter?” said Nana in surprise. “Oh, darling, do speak to her!” said Satin.“I’ve been trying to make
her listen to reason for the last twenty minutes. She’s crying because
you called her a goose.”
“Yes, madame, it’s very hard—very hard,” stuttered Zoé, choked by a
fresh fit of sobbing.This sad sight melted the young woman’s heart at once.She spoke
kindly, and when the other woman still refused to grow calm she sank
down in front of her and took her round the waist with truly cordial
familiarity:
“But, you silly, I said ‘goose’ just as I might have said anything
else.How shall I explain?I was in a passion—it was wrong of me; now
calm down.”
“I who love Madame so,” stuttered Zoé; “after all I’ve done for
Madame.”
Thereupon Nana kissed the lady’s maid and, wishing to show her she
wasn’t vexed, gave her a dress she had worn three times.Their quarrels
always ended up in the giving of presents! Zoé plugged her handkerchief
into her eyes.She carried the dress off over her arm and added before
leaving that they were very sad in the kitchen and that Julien and
Francois had been unable to eat, so entirely had Madame’s anger taken
away their appetites.Thereupon Madame sent them a louis as a pledge of
reconciliation. She suffered too much if people around her were
sorrowful.Nana was returning to the drawing room, happy in the thought that she
had patched up a disagreement which was rendering her quietly
apprehensive of the morrow, when Satin came and whispered vehemently in
her ear.She was full of complaint, threatened to be off if those men
still went on teasing her and kept insisting that her darling should
turn them all out of doors for that night, at any rate. It would be a
lesson to them.And then it would be so nice to be alone, both of them! Nana, with a return of anxiety, declared it to be impossible. Thereupon
the other shouted at her like a violent child and tried hard to
overrule her. “I wish it, d’you see?Send ’em away or I’m off!”
And she went back into the drawing room, stretched herself out in the
recesses of a divan, which stood in the background near the window, and
lay waiting, silent and deathlike, with her great eyes fixed upon Nana.The gentlemen were deciding against the new criminological theories. Granted that lovely invention of irresponsibility in certain
pathological cases, and criminals ceased to exist and sick people alone
remained.The young woman, expressing approval with an occasional nod,
was busy considering how best to dismiss the count. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
“You shall see,” added Satin.She whistled a man’s whistle, and the ragpicker, who was then below the
window, lifted her head and showed herself by the yellow flare of her
lantern.Framed among rags, a perfect bundle of them, a face looked out
from under a tattered kerchief—a blue, seamed face with a toothless,
cavernous mouth and fiery bruises where the eyes should be.And Nana,
seeing the frightful old woman, the wanton drowned in drink, had a
sudden fit of recollection and saw far back amid the shadows of
consciousness the vision of Chamont—Irma d’Anglars, the old harlot
crowned with years and honors, ascending the steps in front of her
château amid abjectly reverential villagers.Then as Satin whistled
again, making game of the old hag, who could not see her:
“Do leave off; there are the police!” she murmured in changed tones. “In with us, quick, my pet!”
The measured steps were returning, and they shut the window.Turning
round again, shivering, and with the damp of night on her hair, Nana
was momentarily astounded at sight of her drawing room. It seemed as
though she had forgotten it and were entering an unknown chamber.So
warm, so full of perfume, was the air she encountered that she
experienced a sense of delighted surprise.The heaped-up wealth of the
place, the Old World furniture, the fabrics of silk and gold, the
ivory, the bronzes, were slumbering in the rosy light of the lamps,
while from the whole of the silent house a rich feeling of great luxury
ascended, the luxury of the solemn reception rooms, of the comfortable,
ample dining room, of the vast retired staircase, with their soft
carpets and seats.Her individuality, with its longing for domination
and enjoyment and its desire to possess everything that she might
destroy everything, was suddenly increased. Never before had she felt
so profoundly the puissance of her sex.She gazed slowly round and
remarked with an expression of grave philosophy:
“Ah well, all the same, one’s jolly well right to profit by things when
one’s young!”
But now Satin was rolling on the bearskins in the bedroom and calling
her.“Oh, do come!Do come!”
Nana undressed in the dressing room, and in order to be quicker about
it she took her thick fell of blonde hair in both hands and began
shaking it above the silver wash hand basin, while a downward hail of
long hairpins rang a little chime on the shining metal.CHAPTER XI
One Sunday the race for the Grand Prix de Paris was being run in the
Bois de Boulogne beneath skies rendered sultry by the first heats of
June.The sun that morning had risen amid a mist of dun-colored dust,
but toward eleven o’clock, just when the carriages were reaching the
Longchamps course, a southerly wind had swept away the clouds; long
streamers of gray vapor were disappearing across the sky, and gaps
showing an intense blue beyond were spreading from one end of the
horizon to the other.In the bright bursts of sunlight which alternated
with the clouds the whole scene shone again, from the field which was
gradually filling with a crowd of carriages, horsemen and pedestrians,
to the still-vacant course, where the judge’s box stood, together with
the posts and the masts for signaling numbers, and thence on to the
five symmetrical stands of brickwork and timber, rising gallery upon
gallery in the middle of the weighing enclosure opposite.Beyond these,
bathed in the light of noon, lay the vast level plain, bordered with
little trees and shut in to the westward by the wooded heights of
Saint-Cloud and the Suresnes, which, in their turn, were dominated by
the severe outlines of Mont-Valerien.Nana, as excited as if the Grand Prix were going to make her fortune,
wanted to take up a position by the railing next the winning post.She
had arrived very early—she was, in fact, one of the first to come—in a
landau adorned with silver and drawn, à la Daumont, by four splendid
white horses. This landau was a present from Count Muffat.When she had
made her appearance at the entrance to the field with two postilions
jogging blithely on the near horses and two footmen perching motionless
behind the carriage, the people had rushed to look as though a queen
were passing.She sported the blue and white colors of the Vandeuvres
stable, and her dress was remarkable.It consisted of a little blue
silk bodice and tunic, which fitted closely to the body and bulged out
enormously behind her waist, thereby bringing her lower limbs into bold
relief in such a manner as to be extremely noticeable in that epoch of
voluminous skirts.Then there was a white satin dress with white satin
sleeves and a sash worn crosswise over the shoulders, the whole
ornamented with silver guipure which shone in the sun.In addition to
this, in order to be still more like a jockey, she had stuck a blue
toque with a white feather jauntily upon her chignon, the fair tresses
from which flowed down beyond her shoulders and resembled an enormous
russet pigtail.Twelve struck. The public would have to wait more than three hours for
the Grand Prix to be run. When the landau had drawn up beside the
barriers Nana settled herself comfortably down as though she were in
her own house.A whim had prompted her to bring Bijou and Louiset with
her, and the dog crouched among her skirts, shivering with cold despite
the heat of the day, while amid a bedizenment of ribbons and laces the
child’s poor little face looked waxen and dumb and white in the open
air.Meanwhile the young woman, without troubling about the people near
her, talked at the top of her voice with Georges and Philippe Hugon,
who were seated opposite on the front seat among such a mountain of
bouquets of white roses and blue myosotis that they were buried up to
their shoulders.“Well then,” she was saying, “as he bored me to death, I showed him the
door.And now it’s two days that he’s been sulking.”
She was talking of Muffat, but she took care not to confess to the
young men the real reason for this first quarrel, which was that one
evening he had found a man’s hat in her bedroom.She had indeed brought
home a passer-by out of sheer ennui—a silly infatuation. “You have no idea how funny he is,” she continued, growing merry over
the particulars she was giving.“He’s a regular bigot at bottom, so he
says his prayers every evening. Yes, he does. He’s under the impression
I notice nothing because I go to bed first so as not to be in his way,
but I watch him out of the corner of my eye.Oh, he jaws away, and then
he crosses himself when he turns round to step over me and get to the
inside of the bed.”
“Jove, it’s sly,” muttered Philippe. “That’s what happens before, but
afterward, what then?”
She laughed merrily.“Yes, just so, before and after! When I’m going to sleep I hear him
jawing away again. But the biggest bore of all is that we can’t argue
about anything now without his growing ‘pi.’ I’ve always been
religious.Yes, chaff as much as you like; that won’t prevent me
believing what I do believe! | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Only he’s too much of a nuisance: he
blubbers; he talks about remorse.The day before yesterday, for
instance, he had a regular fit of it after our usual row, and I wasn’t
the least bit reassured when all was over.”
But she broke off, crying out:
“Just look at the Mignons arriving.Dear me, they’ve brought the
children! Oh, how those little chaps are dressed up!”
The Mignons were in a landau of severe hue; there was something
substantially luxurious about their turnout, suggesting rich retired
tradespeople.Rose was in a gray silk gown trimmed with red knots and
with puffs; she was smiling happily at the joyous behavior of Henri and
Charles, who sat on the front seat, looking awkward in their
ill-fitting collegians’ tunics.But when the landau had drawn up by the
rails and she perceived Nana sitting in triumph among her bouquets,
with her four horses and her liveries, she pursed up her lips, sat bolt
upright and turned her head away.Mignon, on the other hand, looking
the picture of freshness and gaiety, waved her a salutation. He made it
a matter of principle to keep out of feminine disagreements.“By the by,” Nana resumed, “d’you know a little old man who’s very
clean and neat and has bad teeth—a Monsieur Venot? He came to see me
this morning.”
“Monsieur Venot?” said Georges in great astonishment. “It’s impossible!Why, the man’s a Jesuit!”
“Precisely; I spotted that. Oh, you have no idea what our conversation
was like! It was just funny! He spoke to me about the count, about his
divided house, and begged me to restore a family its happiness.He was
very polite and very smiling for the matter of that. Then I answered to
the effect that I wanted nothing better, and I undertook to reconcile
the count and his wife. You know it’s not humbug.I should be delighted
to see them all happy again, the poor things! Besides, it would be a
relief to me for there are days—yes, there are days—when he bores me to
death.”
The weariness of the last months escaped her in this heartfelt
outburst.Moreover, the count appeared to be in big money difficulties;
he was anxious and it seemed likely that the bill which Labordette had
put his name to would not be met.“Dear me, the countess is down yonder,” said Georges, letting his gaze
wander over the stands. “Where, where?” cried Nana. “What eyes that baby’s got! Hold my
sunshade, Philippe.”
But with a quick forward dart Georges had outstripped his brother.It
enchanted him to be holding the blue silk sunshade with its silver
fringe. Nana was scanning the scene through a huge pair of field
glasses. “Ah yes! I see her,” she said at length. “In the right-hand stand, near
a pillar, eh?She’s in mauve, and her daughter in white by her side. Dear me, there’s Daguenet going to bow to them.”
Thereupon Philippe talked of Daguenet’s approaching marriage with that
lath of an Estelle. It was a settled matter—the banns were being
published.At first the countess had opposed it, but the count, they
said, had insisted. Nana smiled. “I know, I know,” she murmured. “So much the better for Paul. He’s a
nice boy—he deserves it.”
And leaning toward Louiset:
“You’re enjoying yourself, eh?What a grave face!”
The child never smiled. With a very old expression he was gazing at all
those crowds, as though the sight of them filled him with melancholy
reflections.Bijou, chased from the skirts of the young woman who was
moving about a great deal, had come to nestle, shivering, against the
little fellow. Meanwhile the field was filling up.Carriages, a compact, interminable
file of them, were continually arriving through the Porte de la
Cascade.There were big omnibuses such as the Pauline, which had
started from the Boulevard des Italiens, freighted with its fifty
passengers, and was now going to draw up to the right of the stands.Then there were dogcarts, victorias, landaus, all superbly well turned
out, mingled with lamentable cabs which jolted along behind sorry old
hacks, and four-in-hands, sending along their four horses, and mail
coaches, where the masters sat on the seats above and left the servants
to take care of the hampers of champagne inside, and “spiders,” the
immense wheels of which were a flash of glittering steel, and light
tandems, which looked as delicately formed as the works of a clock and
slipped along amid a peal of little bells.Every few seconds an
equestrian rode by, and a swarm of people on foot rushed in a scared
way among the carriages.On the green the far-off rolling sound which
issued from the avenues in the Bois died out suddenly in dull
rustlings, and now nothing was audible save the hubbub of the
ever-increasing crowds and cries and calls and the crackings of whips
in the open.When the sun, amid bursts of wind, reappeared at the edge
of a cloud, a long ray of golden light ran across the field, lit up the
harness and the varnished coach panels and touched the ladies’ dresses
with fire, while amid the dusty radiance the coachmen, high up on their
boxes, flamed beside their great whips.Labordette was getting out of an open carriage where Gaga, Clarisse and
Blanche de Sivry had kept a place for him. As he was hurrying to cross
the course and enter the weighing enclosure Nana got Georges to call
him.Then when he came up:
“What’s the betting on me?” she asked laughingly.She referred to the filly Nana, the Nana who had let herself be
shamefully beaten in the race for the Prix de Diane and had not even
been placed in April and May last when she ran for the Prix des Cars
and the Grande Poule des Produits, both of which had been gained by
Lusignan, the other horse in the Vandeuvres stable.Lusignan had all at
once become prime favorite, and since yesterday he had been currently
taken at two to one. “Always fifty to one against,” replied Labordette. “The deuce! I’m not worth much,” rejoined Nana, amused by the jest.“I
don’t back myself then; no, by jingo! I don’t put a single louis on
myself.”
Labordette went off again in a great hurry, but she recalled him. She
wanted some advice.Since he kept in touch with the world of trainers
and jockeys he had special information about various stables.His
prognostications had come true a score of times already, and people
called him the “King of Tipsters.”
“Let’s see, what horses ought I to choose?” said the young woman. “What’s the betting on the Englishman?”
“Spirit? Three to one against.Valerio II, the same.As to the others,
they’re laying twenty-five to one against Cosinus, forty to one against
Hazard, thirty to one against Bourn, thirty-five to one against
Pichenette, ten to one against Frangipane.”
“No, I don’t bet on the Englishman, I don’t.I’m a patriot. Perhaps
Valerio II would do, eh? The Duc de Corbreuse was beaming a little
while ago. Well, no, after all! | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Fifty louis on Lusignan; what do you
say to that?”
Labordette looked at her with a singular expression.She leaned forward
and asked him questions in a low voice, for she was aware that
Vandeuvres commissioned him to arrange matters with the bookmakers so
as to be able to bet the more easily.Supposing him to have got to know
something, he might quite well tell it her. But without entering into
explanations Labordette persuaded her to trust to his sagacity.He
would put on her fifty louis for her as he might think best, and she
would not repent of his arrangement.“All the horses you like!” she cried gaily, letting him take his
departure, “but no Nana; she’s a jade!”
There was a burst of uproarious laughter in the carriage.The young men
thought her sally very amusing, while Louiset in his ignorance lifted
his pale eyes to his mother’s face, for her loud exclamations surprised
him. However, there was no escape for Labordette as yet.Rose Mignon
had made a sign to him and was now giving him her commands while he
wrote figures in a notebook.Then Clarisse and Gaga called him back in
order to change their bets, for they had heard things said in the
crowd, and now they didn’t want to have anything more to do with
Valerio II and were choosing Lusignan.He wrote down their wishes with
an impassible expression and at length managed to escape. He could be
seen disappearing between two of the stands on the other side of the
course. Carriages were still arriving.They were by this time drawn up five
rows deep, and a dense mass of them spread along the barriers,
checkered by the light coats of white horses.Beyond them other
carriages stood about in comparative isolation, looking as though they
had stuck fast in the grass.Wheels and harness were here, there and
everywhere, according as the conveyances to which they belonged were
side by side, at an angle, across and across or head to head.Over such
spaces of turf as still remained unoccupied cavaliers kept trotting,
and black groups of pedestrians moved continually.The scene resembled
the field where a fair is being held, and above it all, amid the
confused motley of the crowd, the drinking booths raised their gray
canvas roofs which gleamed white in the sunshine.But a veritable
tumult, a mob, an eddy of hats, surged round the several bookmakers,
who stood in open carriages gesticulating like itinerant dentists while
their odds were pasted up on tall boards beside them.“All the same, it’s stupid not to know on what horse one’s betting,”
Nana was remarking.“I really must risk some louis in person.”
She had stood up to select a bookmaker with a decent expression of face
but forgot what she wanted on perceiving a perfect crowd of her
acquaintance.Besides the Mignons, besides Gaga, Clarisse and Blanche,
there were present, to the right and left, behind and in the middle of
the mass of carriages now hemming in her landau, the following ladies:
Tatan Nene and Maria Blond in a victoria, Caroline Hequet with her
mother and two gentlemen in an open carriage, Louise Violaine quite
alone, driving a little basket chaise decked with orange and green
ribbons, the colors of the Mechain stables, and finally, Léa de Horn on
the lofty seat of a mail coach, where a band of young men were making a
great din.Farther off, in a HUIT RESSORTS of aristocratic appearance,
Lucy Stewart, in a very simple black silk dress, sat, looking
distinguished beside a tall young man in the uniform of a naval cadet.But what most astounded Nana was the arrival of Simonne in a tandem
which Steiner was driving, while a footman sat motionless, with folded
arms, behind them.She looked dazzling in white satin striped with
yellow and was covered with diamonds from waist to hat.The banker, on
his part, was handling a tremendous whip and sending along his two
horses, which were harnessed tandemwise, the leader being a little
warm-colored chestnut with a mouselike trot, the shaft horse a big
brown bay, a stepper, with a fine action.“Deuce take it!” said Nana. “So that thief Steiner has cleared the
Bourse again, has he? I say, isn’t Simonne a swell! It’s too much of a
good thing; he’ll get into the clutches of the law!”
Nevertheless, she exchanged greetings at a distance.Indeed, she kept
waving her hand and smiling, turning round and forgetting no one in her
desire to be seen by everybody. At the same time she continued
chatting. “It’s her son Lucy’s got in tow! He’s charming in his uniform.That’s
why she’s looking so grand, of course! You know she’s afraid of him and
that she passes herself off as an actress. Poor young man, I pity him
all the same!He seems quite unsuspicious.”
“Bah,” muttered Philippe, laughing, “she’ll be able to find him an
heiress in the country when she likes.”
Nana was silent, for she had just noticed the Tricon amid the thick of
the carriages.Having arrived in a cab, whence she could not see
anything, the Tricon had quietly mounted the coach box.And there,
straightening up her tall figure, with her noble face enshrined in its
long curls, she dominated the crowd as though enthroned amid her
feminine subjects.All the latter smiled discreetly at her while she,
in her superiority, pretended not to know them. She wasn’t there for
business purposes: she was watching the races for the love of the
thing, as became a frantic gambler with a passion for horseflesh.“Dear me, there’s that idiot La Faloise!” said Georges suddenly. It was a surprise to them all. Nana did not recognize her La Faloise,
for since he had come into his inheritance he had grown extraordinarily
up to date.He wore a low collar and was clad in a cloth of delicate
hue which fitted close to his meager shoulders.His hair was in little
bandeaux, and he affected a weary kind of swagger, a soft tone of voice
and slang words and phrases which he did not take the trouble to
finish. “But he’s quite the thing!” declared Nana in perfect enchantment.Gaga and Clarisse had called La Faloise and were throwing themselves at
him in their efforts to regain his allegiance, but he left them
immediately, rolling off in a chaffing, disdainful manner. Nana dazzled
him.He rushed up to her and stood on the carriage step, and when she
twitted him about Gaga he murmured:
“Oh dear, no! We’ve seen the last of the old lot! Mustn’t play her off
on me any more.And then, you know, it’s you now, Juliet mine!”
He had put his hand to his heart. Nana laughed a good deal at this
exceedingly sudden out-of-door declaration. She continued:
“I say, that’s not what I’m after.You’re making me forget that I want
to lay wagers. Georges, you see that bookmaker down there, a great
red-faced man with curly hair? He’s got a dirty blackguard expression
which I like.You’re to go and choose—Oh, I say, what can one choose?”
“I’m not a patriotic soul—oh dear, no!” La Faloise blurted out. “I’m
all for the Englishman. It will be ripping if the Englishman gains! | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Huge
drops, perfect sheets of water, fell.There was a momentary confusion,
and people shouted and joked and swore, while those on foot scampered
madly off to find refuge under the canvas of the drinking booths.In
the carriages the women did their best to shelter themselves, grasping
their sunshades with both hands, while the bewildered footmen ran to
the hoods.But the shower was already nearly over, and the sun began
shining brilliantly through escaping clouds of fine rain.A blue cleft
opened in the stormy mass, which was blown off over the Bois, and the
skies seemed to smile again and to set the women laughing in a
reassured manner, while amid the snorting of horses and the disarray
and agitation of the drenched multitude that was shaking itself dry a
broad flush of golden light lit up the field, still dripping and
glittering with crystal drops.“Oh, that poor, dear Louiset!” said Nana. “Are you very drenched, my
darling?”
The little thing silently allowed his hands to be wiped. The young
woman had taken out her handkerchief.Then she dabbed it over Bijou,
who was trembling more violently than ever. It would not matter in the
least; there were a few drops on the white satin of her dress, but she
didn’t care a pin for them.The bouquets, refreshed by the rain, glowed
like snow, and she smelled one ecstatically, drenching her lips in it
as though it were wet with dew. Meanwhile the burst of rain had suddenly filled the stands.Nana looked
at them through her field glasses. At that distance you could only
distinguish a compact, confused mass of people, heaped up, as it were,
on the ascending ranges of steps, a dark background relieved by light
dots which were human faces.The sunlight filtered in through openings
near the roof at each end of the stand and detached and illumined
portions of the seated multitude, where the ladies’ dresses seemed to
lose their distinguishing colors.But Nana was especially amused by the
ladies whom the shower had driven from the rows of chairs ranged on the
sand at the base of the stands.As courtesans were absolutely forbidden
to enter the enclosure, she began making exceedingly bitter remarks
about all the fashionable women therein assembled. She thought them
fearfully dressed up, and such guys!There was a rumor that the empress was entering the little central
stand, a pavilion built like a chalet, with a wide balcony furnished
with red armchairs. “Why, there he is!” said Georges.“I didn’t think he was on duty this
week.”
The stiff and solemn form of the Count Muffat had appeared behind the
empress. Thereupon the young men jested and were sorry that Satin
wasn’t there to go and dig him in the ribs.But Nana’s field glass
focused the head of the Prince of Scots in the imperial stand. “Gracious, it’s Charles!” she cried. She thought him stouter than formerly. In eighteen months he had
broadened, and with that she entered into particulars.Oh yes, he was a
big, solidly built fellow! All round her in the ladies’ carriages they were whispering that the
count had given her up. It was quite a long story.Since he had been
making himself noticeable, the Tuileries had grown scandalized at the
chamberlain’s conduct. Whereupon, in order to retain his position, he
had recently broken it off with Nana.La Faloise bluntly reported this
account of matters to the young woman and, addressing her as his
Juliet, again offered himself. But she laughed merrily and remarked:
“It’s idiotic!You won’t know him; I’ve only to say, ‘Come here,’ for
him to chuck up everything.”
For some seconds past she had been examining the Countess Sabine and
Estelle. Daguenet was still at their side.Fauchery had just arrived
and was disturbing the people round him in his desire to make his bow
to them. He, too, stayed smilingly beside them.After that Nana pointed
with disdainful action at the stands and continued:
“Then, you know, those people don’t fetch me any longer now! I know ’em
too well. You should see ’em behind scenes. No more honor! It’s all up
with honor!Filth belowstairs, filth abovestairs, filth everywhere.That’s why I won’t be bothered about ’em!”
And with a comprehensive gesture she took in everybody, from the grooms
leading the horses on to the course to the sovereign lady busy chatting
with with Charles, a prince and a dirty fellow to boot.“Bravo, Nana! Awfully smart, Nana!” cried La Faloise enthusiastically. The tolling of a bell was lost in the wind; the races continued. The
Prix d’Ispahan had just been run for and Berlingot, a horse belonging
to the Mechain stable, had won.Nana recalled Labordette in order to
obtain news of the hundred louis, but he burst out laughing and refused
to let her know the horses he had chosen for her, so as not to disturb
the luck, as he phrased it.Her money was well placed; she would see
that all in good time.And when she confessed her bets to him and told
him how she had put ten louis on Lusignan and five on Valerio II, he
shrugged his shoulders, as who should say that women did stupid things
whatever happened.His action surprised her; she was quite at sea. Just then the field grew more animated than before. Open-air lunches
were arranged in the interval before the Grand Prix.There was much
eating and more drinking in all directions, on the grass, on the high
seats of the four-in-hands and mail coaches, in the victorias, the
broughams, the landaus.There was a universal spread of cold viands and
a fine disorderly display of champagne baskets which footmen kept
handing down out of the coach boots. Corks came out with feeble pops,
which the wind drowned.There was an interchange of jests, and the
sound of breaking glasses imparted a note of discord to the high-strung
gaiety of the scene.Gaga and Clarisse, together with Blanche, were
making a serious repast, for they were eating sandwiches on the
carriage rug with which they had been covering their knees.Louise
Violaine had got down from her basket carriage and had joined Caroline
Hequet.On the turf at their feet some gentlemen had instituted a
drinking bar, whither Tatan, Maria, Simonne and the rest came to
refresh themselves, while high in air and close at hand bottles were
being emptied on Léa de Horn’s mail coach, and, with infinite bravado
and gesticulation, a whole band were making themselves tipsy in the
sunshine, above the heads of the crowd.Soon, however, there was an
especially large crowd by Nana’s landau. She had risen to her feet and
had set herself to pour out glasses of champagne for the men who came
to pay her their respects.Francois, one of the footmen, was passing up
the bottles while La Faloise, trying hard to imitate a coster’s
accents, kept pattering away:
“’Ere y’re, given away, given away!There’s some for everybody!”
“Do be still, dear boy,” Nana ended by saying. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
“We look like a set of
tumblers.”
She thought him very droll and was greatly entertained.At one moment
she conceived the idea of sending Georges with a glass of champagne to
Rose Mignon, who was affecting temperance. Henri and Charles were bored
to distraction; they would have been glad of some champagne, the poor
little fellows.But Georges drank the glassful, for he feared an
argument. Then Nana remembered Louiset, who was sitting forgotten
behind her. Maybe he was thirsty, and she forced him to take a drop or
two of wine, which made him cough dreadfully.“’Ere y’are, ’ere y’are, gemmen!” La Faloise reiterated. “It don’t cost
two sous; it don’t cost one. We give it away.”
But Nana broke in with an exclamation:
“Gracious, there’s Bordenave down there! Call him.Oh, run, please,
please do!”
It was indeed Bordenave. He was strolling about with his hands behind
his back, wearing a hat that looked rusty in the sunlight and a greasy
frock coat that was glossy at the seams.It was Bordenave shattered by
bankruptcy, yet furious despite all reverses, a Bordenave who flaunted
his misery among all the fine folks with the hardihood becoming a man
ever ready to take Dame Fortune by storm.“The deuce, how smart we are!” he said when Nana extended her hand to
him like the good-natured wench she was. Presently, after emptying a glass of champagne, he gave vent to the
following profoundly regretful phrase:
“Ah, if only I were a woman!But, by God, that’s nothing! Would you
like to go on the stage again? I’ve a notion: I’ll hire the Gaîté, and
we’ll gobble up Paris between us.You certainly owe it me, eh?”
And he lingered, grumbling, beside her, though glad to see her again;
for, he said, that confounded Nana was balm to his feelings. Yes, it
was balm to them merely to exist in her presence!She was his daughter;
she was blood of his blood! The circle increased, for now La Faloise was filling glasses, and
Georges and Philippe were picking up friends. A stealthy impulse was
gradually bringing in the whole field.Nana would fling everyone a
laughing smile or an amusing phrase. The groups of tipplers were
drawing near, and all the champagne scattered over the place was moving
in her direction.Soon there was only one noisy crowd, and that was
round her landau, where she queened it among outstretched glasses, her
yellow hair floating on the breeze and her snowy face bathed in the
sunshine.Then by way of a finishing touch and to make the other women,
who were mad at her triumph, simply perish of envy, she lifted a
brimming glass on high and assumed her old pose as Venus Victrix.But somebody touched her shoulder, and she was surprised, on turning
round, to see Mignon on the seat. She vanished from view an instant and
sat herself down beside him, for he had come to communicate a matter of
importance.Mignon had everywhere declared that it was ridiculous of
his wife to bear Nana a grudge; he thought her attitude stupid and
useless. “Look here, my dear,” he whispered. “Be careful: don’t madden Rose too
much.You understand, I think it best to warn you.Yes, she’s got a
weapon in store, and as she’s never forgiven you the Petite Duchesse
business—”
“A weapon,” said Nana; “what’s that blooming well got to do with me?”
“Just listen: it’s a letter she must have found in Fauchery’s pocket, a
letter written to that screw Fauchery by the Countess Muffat.And, by
Jove, it’s clear the whole story’s in it. Well then, Rose wants to send
the letter to the count so as to be revenged on him and on you.”
“What the deuce has that got to do with me?” Nana repeated. “It’s a
funny business.So the whole story about Fauchery’s in it! Very well,
so much the better; the woman has been exasperating me! We shall have a
good laugh!”
“No, I don’t wish it,” Mignon briskly rejoined. “There’ll be a pretty
scandal!Besides, we’ve got nothing to gain.”
He paused, fearing lest he should say too much, while she loudly
averred that she was most certainly not going to get a chaste woman
into trouble.But when he still insisted on his refusal she looked steadily at him. Doubtless he was afraid of seeing Fauchery again introduced into his
family in case he broke with the countess.While avenging her own
wrongs, Rose was anxious for that to happen, since she still felt a
kindness toward the journalist.And Nana waxed meditative and thought
of M. Venot’s call, and a plan began to take shape in her brain, while
Mignon was doing his best to talk her over. “Let’s suppose that Rose sends the letter, eh?There’s food for
scandal: you’re mixed up in the business, and people say you’re the
cause of it all. Then to begin with, the count separates from his
wife.”
“Why should he?” she said. “On the contrary—”
She broke off, in her turn.There was no need for her to think aloud.So in order to be rid of Mignon she looked as though she entered into
his view of the case, and when he advised her to give Rose some proof
of her submission—to pay her a short visit on the racecourse, for
instance, where everybody would see her—she replied that she would see
about it, that she would think the matter over.A commotion caused her to stand up again. On the course the horses were
coming in amid a sudden blast of wind. The prize given by the city of
Paris had just been run for, and Cornemuse had gained it.Now the Grand
Prix was about to be run, and the fever of the crowd increased, and
they were tortured by anxiety and stamped and swayed as though they
wanted to make the minutes fly faster.At this ultimate moment the
betting world was surprised and startled by the continued shortening of
the odds against Nana, the outsider of the Vandeuvres stables.Gentlemen kept returning every few moments with a new quotation: the
betting was thirty to one against Nana; it was twenty-five to one
against Nana, then twenty to one, then fifteen to one. No one could
understand it.A filly beaten on all the racecourses! A filly which
that same morning no single sportsman would take at fifty to one
against! What did this sudden madness betoken?Some laughed at it and
spoke of the pretty doing awaiting the duffers who were being taken in
by the joke. Others looked serious and uneasy and sniffed out something
ugly under it all. Perhaps there was a “deal” in the offing.Allusion
was made to well-known stories about the robberies which are winked at
on racecourses, but on this occasion the great name of Vandeuvres put a
stop to all such accusations, and the skeptics in the end prevailed
when they prophesied that Nana would come in last of all.“Who’s riding Nana?” queried La Faloise. Just then the real Nana reappeared, whereat the gentlemen lent his
question an indecent meaning and burst into an uproarious fit of
laughter. Nana bowed. “Price is up,” she replied.And with that the discussion began again. Price was an English
celebrity. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Why had Vandeuvres got this jockey to come over, seeing that
Gresham ordinarily rode Nana?Besides, they were astonished to see him
confiding Lusignan to this man Gresham, who, according to La Faloise,
never got a place. But all these remarks were swallowed up in jokes,
contradictions and an extraordinarily noisy confusion of opinions.In
order to kill time the company once more set themselves to drain
bottles of champagne. Presently a whisper ran round, and the different
groups opened outward. It was Vandeuvres. Nana affected vexation.“Dear me, you’re a nice fellow to come at this time of day! Why, I’m
burning to see the enclosure.”
“Well, come along then,” he said; “there’s still time. You’ll take a
stroll round with me.I just happen to have a permit for a lady about
me.”
And he led her off on his arm while she enjoyed the jealous glances
with which Lucy, Caroline and the others followed her.The young Hugons
and La Faloise remained in the landau behind her retreating figure and
continued to do the honors of her champagne. She shouted to them that
she would return immediately.But Vandeuvres caught sight of Labordette and called him, and there was
an interchange of brief sentences.“You’ve scraped everything up?”
“Yes.”
“To what amount?”
“Fifteen hundred louis—pretty well all over the place.”
As Nana was visibly listening, and that with much curiosity, they held
their tongues.Vandeuvres was very nervous, and he had those same clear
eyes, shot with little flames, which so frightened her the night he
spoke of burning himself and his horses together. As they crossed over
the course she spoke low and familiarly.“I say, do explain this to me. Why are the odds on your filly
changing?”
He trembled, and this sentence escaped him:
“Ah, they’re talking, are they? What a set those betting men are!When
I’ve got the favorite they all throw themselves upon him, and there’s
no chance for me.After that, when an outsider’s asked for, they give
tongue and yell as though they were being skinned.”
“You ought to tell me what’s going to happen—I’ve made my bets,” she
rejoined.“Has Nana a chance?”
A sudden, unreasonable burst of anger overpowered him. “Won’t you deuced well let me be, eh? Every horse has a chance. The
odds are shortening because, by Jove, people have taken the horse. Who,
I don’t know.I should prefer leaving you if you must needs badger me
with your idiotic questions.”
Such a tone was not germane either to his temperament or his habits,
and Nana was rather surprised than wounded.Besides, he was ashamed of
himself directly afterward, and when she begged him in a dry voice to
behave politely he apologized. For some time past he had suffered from
such sudden changes of temper.No one in the Paris of pleasure or of
society was ignorant of the fact that he was playing his last trump
card today.If his horses did not win, if, moreover, they lost him the
considerable sums wagered upon them, it would mean utter disaster and
collapse for him, and the bulwark of his credit and the lofty
appearance which, though undermined, he still kept up, would come
ruining noisily down.Moreover, no one was ignorant of the fact that
Nana was the devouring siren who had finished him off, who had been the
last to attack his crumbling fortunes and to sweep up what remained of
them.Stories were told of wild whims and fancies, of gold scattered to
the four winds, of a visit to Baden-Baden, where she had not left him
enough to pay the hotel bill, of a handful of diamonds cast on the fire
during an evening of drunkenness in order to see whether they would
burn like coal.Little by little her great limbs and her coarse,
plebeian way of laughing had gained complete mastery over this elegant,
degenerate son of an ancient race.At that time he was risking his all,
for he had been so utterly overpowered by his taste for ordure and
stupidity as to have even lost the vigor of his skepticism.A week
before Nana had made him promise her a château on the Norman coast
between Havre and Trouville, and now he was staking the very
foundations of his honor on the fulfillment of his word.Only she was
getting on his nerves, and he could have beaten her, so stupid did he
feel her to be. The man at the gate, not daring to stop the woman hanging on the
count’s arm, had allowed them to enter the enclosure.Nana, greatly
puffed up at the thought that at last she was setting foot on the
forbidden ground, put on her best behavior and walked slowly by the
ladies seated at the foot of the stands.On ten rows of chairs the
toilets were densely massed, and in the blithe open air their bright
colors mingled harmoniously.Chairs were scattered about, and as people
met one another friendly circles were formed, just as though the
company had been sitting under the trees in a public garden.Children
had been allowed to go free and were running from group to group, while
over head the stands rose tier above crowded tier and the light-colored
dresses therein faded into the delicate shadows of the timberwork.Nana
stared at all these ladies. She stared steadily and markedly at the
Countess Sabine.After which, as she was passing in front of the
imperial stand, the sight of Muffat, looming in all his official
stiffness by the side of the empress, made her very merry. “Oh, how silly he looks!” she said at the top of her voice to
Vandeuvres.She was anxious to pay everything a visit. This small
parklike region, with its green lawns and groups of trees, rather
charmed her than otherwise.A vendor of ices had set up a large buffet
near the entrance gates, and beneath a rustic thatched roof a dense
throng of people were shouting and gesticulating. This was the ring.Close by were some empty stalls, and Nana was disappointed at
discovering only a gendarme’s horse there.Then there was the paddock,
a small course some hundred meters in circumference, where a stable
help was walking about Valerio II in his horsecloths.And, oh, what a
lot of men on the graveled sidewalks, all of them with their tickets
forming an orange-colored patch in their bottonholes! And what a
continual parade of people in the open galleries of the grandstands!The scene interested her for a moment or two, but truly, it was not
worth while getting the spleen because they didn’t admit you inside
here. Daguenet and Fauchery passed by and bowed to her. She made them a sign,
and they had to come up.Thereupon she made hay of the weighing-in
enclosure. But she broke off abruptly:
“Dear me, there’s the Marquis de Chouard! How old he’s growing! That
old man’s killing himself!Is he still as mad about it as ever?”
Thereupon Daguenet described the old man’s last brilliant stroke. The
story dated from the day before yesterday, and no one knew it as yet.After dangling about for months he had bought her daughter Amelie from
Gaga for thirty thousand francs, they said. “Good gracious! That’s a nice business!” cried Nana in disgust. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
“Go in
for the regular thing, please!But now that I come to think of it, that
must be Lili down there on the grass with a lady in a brougham. I
recognized the face. The old boy will have brought her out.”
Vandeuvres was not listening; he was impatient and longed to get rid of
her.But Fauchery having remarked at parting that if she had not seen
the bookmakers she had seen nothing, the count was obliged to take her
to them in spite of his obvious repugnance.And she was perfectly happy
at once; that truly was a curious sight, she said!Amid lawns bordered by young horse-chestnut trees there was a round
open enclosure, where, forming a vast circle under the shadow of the
tender green leaves, a dense line of bookmakers was waiting for betting
men, as though they had been hucksters at a fair.In order to overtop
and command the surrounding crowd they had taken up positions on wooden
benches, and they were advertising their prices on the trees beside
them.They had an ever-vigilant glance, and they booked wagers in
answer to a single sign, a mere wink, so rapidly that certain curious
onlookers watched them openmouthed, without being able to understand it
all.Confusion reigned; prices were shouted, and any unexpected change
in a quotation was received with something like tumult.Occasionally
scouts entered the place at a run and redoubled the uproar as they
stopped at the entrance to the rotunda and, at the tops of their
voices, announced departures and arrivals.In this place, where the
gambling fever was pulsing in the sunshine, such announcements were
sure to raise a prolonged muttering sound. “They ARE funny!” murmured Nana, greatly entertained.“Their features look as if they had been put on the wrong way.Just you
see that big fellow there; I shouldn’t care to meet him all alone in
the middle of a wood.”
But Vandeuvres pointed her out a bookmaker, once a shopman in a fancy
repository, who had made three million francs in two years.He was
slight of build, delicate and fair, and people all round him treated
him with great respect. They smiled when they addressed him, while
others took up positions close by in order to catch a glimpse of him.They were at length leaving the ring when Vandeuvres nodded slightly to
another bookmaker, who thereupon ventured to call him. It was one of
his former coachmen, an enormous fellow with the shoulders of an ox and
a high color.Now that he was trying his fortunes at race meetings on
the strength of some mysteriously obtained capital, the count was doing
his utmost to push him, confiding to him his secret bets and treating
him on all occasions as a servant to whom one shows one’s true
character.Yet despite this protection, the man had in rapid succession
lost very heavy sums, and today he, too, was playing his last card. There was blood in his eyes; he looked fit to drop with apoplexy.“Well, Marechal,” queried the count in the lowest of voices, “to what
amount have you laid odds?”
“To five thousand louis, Monsieur le Comte,” replied the bookmaker,
likewise lowering his voice. “A pretty job, eh?I’ll confess to you
that I’ve increased the odds; I’ve made it three to one.”
Vandeuvres looked very much put out. “No, no, I don’t want you to do that. Put it at two to one again
directly.I shan’t tell you any more, Marechal.”
“Oh, how can it hurt, Monsieur le Comte, at this time o’ day?” rejoined
the other with the humble smile befitting an accomplice.“I had to
attract the people so as to lay your two thousand louis.”
At this Vandeuvres silenced him. But as he was going off Marechal
remembered something and was sorry he had not questioned him about the
shortening of the odds on the filly.It would be a nice business for
him if the filly stood a chance, seeing that he had just laid fifty to
one about her in two hundreds.Nana, though she did not understand a word of what the count was
whispering, dared not, however, ask for new explanations.He seemed
more nervous than before and abruptly handed her over to Labordette,
whom they came upon in front of the weighing-in room. “You’ll take her back,” he said. “I’ve got something on hand.Au
revoir!”
And he entered the room, which was narrow and low-pitched and half
filled with a great pair of scales.It was like a waiting room in a
suburban station, and Nana was again hugely disillusioned, for she had
been picturing to herself something on a very vast scale, a monumental
machine, in fact, for weighing horses.Dear me, they only weighed the
jockeys! Then it wasn’t worth while making such a fuss with their
weighing!In the scale a jockey with an idiotic expression was waiting,
harness on knee, till a stout man in a frock coat should have done
verifying his weight.At the door a stable help was holding a horse,
Cosinus, round which a silent and deeply interested throng was
clustering. The course was about to be cleared.Labordette hurried Nana but
retraced his steps in order to show her a little man talking with
Vandeuvres at some distance from the rest. “Dear me, there’s Price!” he said. “Ah yes, the man who’s mounting me,” she murmured laughingly.And she declared him to be exquisitely ugly. All jockeys struck her as
looking idiotic, doubtless, she said, because they were prevented from
growing bigger.This particular jockey was a man of forty, and with his
long, thin, deeply furrowed, hard, dead countenance, he looked like an
old shriveled-up child.His body was knotty and so reduced in size that
his blue jacket with its white sleeves looked as if it had been thrown
over a lay figure.“No,” she resumed as she walked away, “he would never make me very
happy, you know.”
A mob of people were still crowding the course, the turf of which had
been wet and trampled on till it had grown black.In front of the two
telegraphs, which hung very high up on their cast-iron pillars, the
crowd were jostling together with upturned faces, uproariously greeting
the numbers of the different horses as an electric wire in connection
with the weighing room made them appear.Gentlemen were pointing at
programs: Pichenette had been scratched by his owner, and this caused
some noise. However, Nana did not do more than cross over the course on
Labordette’s arm.The bell hanging on the flagstaff was ringing
persistently to warn people to leave the course.“Ah, my little dears,” she said as she got up into her landau again,
“their enclosure’s all humbug!”
She was welcomed with acclamation; people around her clapped their
hands. “Bravo, Nana! Nana’s ours again!”
What idiots they were, to be sure!Did they think she was the sort to
cut old friends? She had come back just at the auspicious moment. Now
then, ’tenshun! The race was beginning! And the champagne was
accordingly forgotten, and everyone left off drinking.But Nana was astonished to find Gaga in her carriage, sitting with
Bijou and Louiset on her knees. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Gaga had indeed decided on this course
of action in order to be near La Faloise, but she told Nana that she
had been anxious to kiss Baby.She adored children. “By the by, what about Lili?” asked Nana. “That’s certainly she over
there in that old fellow’s brougham. They’ve just told me something
very nice!”
Gaga had adopted a lachrymose expression.“My dear, it’s made me ill,” she said dolorously. “Yesterday I had to
keep my bed, I cried so, and today I didn’t think I should be able to
come. You know what my opinions were, don’t you? I didn’t desire that
kind of thing at all.I had her educated in a convent with a view to a
good marriage. And then to think of the strict advice she had and the
constant watching! Well, my dear, it was she who wished it. We had such
a scene—tears—disagreeable speeches!It even got to such a point that I
caught her a box on the ear. She was too much bored by existence, she
said; she wanted to get out of it.By and by, when she began to say,
‘’Tisn’t you, after all, who’ve got the right to prevent me,’ I said to
her: ‘you’re a miserable wretch; you’re bringing dishonor upon us. Begone!’ And it was done. I consented to arrange about it.But my last
hope’s blooming well blasted, and, oh, I used to dream about such nice
things!”
The noise of a quarrel caused them to rise.It was Georges in the act
of defending Vandeuvres against certain vague rumors which were
circulating among the various groups. “Why should you say that he’s laying off his own horse?” the young man
was exclaiming.“Yesterday in the Salon des Courses he took the odds on
Lusignan for a thousand louis.”
“Yes, I was there,” said Philippe in affirmation of this. “And he
didn’t put a single louis on Nana.If the betting’s ten to one against
Nana he’s got nothing to win there. It’s absurd to imagine people are
so calculating. Where would his interest come in?”
Labordette was listening with a quiet expression.Shrugging his
shoulders, he said:
“Oh, leave them alone; they must have their say.The count has again
laid at least as much as five hundred louis on Lusignan, and if he’s
wanted Nana to run to a hundred louis it’s because an owner ought
always to look as if he believes in his horses.”
“Oh, bosh!What the deuce does that matter to us?” shouted La Faloise
with a wave of his arms. “Spirit’s going to win!Down with
France—bravo, England!”
A long shiver ran through the crowd, while a fresh peal from the bell
announced the arrival of the horses upon the racecourse.At this Nana
got up and stood on one of the seats of her carriage so as to obtain a
better view, and in so doing she trampled the bouquets of roses and
myosotis underfoot. With a sweeping glance she took in the wide, vast
horizon.At this last feverish moment the course was empty and closed
by gray barriers, between the posts of which stood a line of policemen.The strip of grass which lay muddy in front of her grew brighter as it
stretched away and turned into a tender green carpet in the distance.In the middle landscape, as she lowered her eyes, she saw the field
swarming with vast numbers of people, some on tiptoe, others perched on
carriages, and all heaving and jostling in sudden passionate
excitement.Horses were neighing; tent canvases flapped, while equestrians urged
their hacks forward amid a crowd of pedestrians rushing to get places
along the barriers.When Nana turned in the direction of the stands on
the other side the faces seemed diminished, and the dense masses of
heads were only a confused and motley array, filling gangways, steps
and terraces and looming in deep, dark, serried lines against the sky.And beyond these again she over looked the plain surrounding the
course.Behind the ivy-clad mill to the right, meadows, dotted over
with great patches of umbrageous wood, stretched away into the
distance, while opposite to her, as far as the Seine flowing at the
foot of a hill, the avenues of the park intersected one another, filled
at that moment with long, motionless files of waiting carriages; and in
the direction of Boulogne, on the left, the landscape widened anew and
opened out toward the blue distances of Meudon through an avenue of
paulownias, whose rosy, leafless tops were one stain of brilliant lake
color.People were still arriving, and a long procession of human ants
kept coming along the narrow ribbon of road which crossed the distance,
while very far away, on the Paris side, the nonpaying public, herding
like sheep among the wood, loomed in a moving line of little dark spots
under the trees on the skirts of the Bois.Suddenly a cheering influence warmed the hundred thousand souls who
covered this part of the plain like insects swarming madly under the
vast expanse of heaven.The sun, which had been hidden for about a
quarter of an hour, made his appearance again and shone out amid a
perfect sea of light. And everything flamed afresh: the women’s
sunshades turned into countless golden targets above the heads of the
crowd.The sun was applauded, saluted with bursts of laughter. And
people stretched their arms out as though to brush apart the clouds.Meanwhile a solitary police officer advanced down the middle of the
deserted racecourse, while higher up, on the left, a man appeared with
a red flag in his hand.“It’s the starter, the Baron de Mauriac,” said Labordette in reply to a
question from Nana. All round the young woman exclamations were
bursting from the men who were pressing to her very carriage step.They
kept up a disconnected conversation, jerking out phrases under the
immediate influence of passing impressions. Indeed, Philippe and
Georges, Bordenave and La Faloise, could not be quiet. “Don’t shove! Let me see!Ah, the judge is getting into his box. D’you
say it’s Monsieur de Souvigny? You must have good eyesight—eh?—to be
able to tell what half a head is out of a fakement like that! Do hold
your tongue—the banner’s going up. Here they are—’tenshun!Cosinus is
the first!”
A red and yellow banner was flapping in mid-air at the top of a mast.The horses came on the course one by one; they were led by stableboys,
and the jockeys were sitting idle-handed in the saddles, the sunlight
making them look like bright dabs of color. After Cosinus appeared
Hazard and Boum.Presently a murmur of approval greeted Spirit, a
magnificent big brown bay, the harsh citron color and black of whose
jockey were cheerlessly Britannic.Valerio II scored a success as he
came in; he was small and very lively, and his colors were soft green
bordered with pink.The two Vandeuvres horses were slow to make their
appearance, but at last, in Frangipane’s rear, the blue and white
showed themselves. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
But Lusignan, a very dark bay of irreproachable
shape, was almost forgotten amid the astonishment caused by Nana.People had not seen her looking like this before, for now the sudden
sunlight was dyeing the chestnut filly the brilliant color of a girl’s
red-gold hair.She was shining in the light like a new gold coin; her
chest was deep; her head and neck tapered lightly from the delicate,
high-strung line of her long back. “Gracious, she’s got my hair!” cried Nana in an ecstasy.“You bet you
know I’m proud of it!”
The men clambered up on the landau, and Bordenave narrowly escaped
putting his foot on Louiset, whom his mother had forgotten.He took him
up with an outburst of paternal grumbling and hoisted him on his
shoulder, muttering at the same time:
“The poor little brat, he must be in it too! Wait a bit, I’ll show you
Mamma. Eh?Look at Mummy out there.”
And as Bijou was scratching his legs, he took charge of him, too, while
Nana, rejoicing in the brute that bore her name, glanced round at the
other women to see how they took it. They were all raging madly.Just
then on the summit of her cab the Tricon, who had not moved till that
moment, began waving her hand and giving her bookmaker her orders above
the heads of the crowd. Her instinct had at last prompted her; she was
backing Nana.La Faloise meanwhile was making an insufferable noise. He was getting
wild over Frangipane. “I’ve an inspiration,” he kept shouting. “Just look at Frangipane. What
an action, eh? I back Frangipane at eight to one.Who’ll take me?”
“Do keep quiet now,” said Labordette at last. “You’ll be sorry for it
if you do.”
“Frangipane’s a screw,” Philippe declared. “He’s been utterly blown
upon already.You’ll see the canter.”
The horses had gone up to the right, and they now started for the
preliminary canter, passing in loose order before the stands. Thereupon
there was a passionate fresh burst of talk, and people all spoke at
once.“Lusignan’s too long in the back, but he’s very fit. Not a cent, I tell
you, on Valerio II; he’s nervous—gallops with his head up—it’s a bad
sign. Jove! Burne’s riding Spirit. I tell you, he’s got no shoulders.A
well-made shoulder—that’s the whole secret. No, decidedly, Spirit’s too
quiet. Now listen, Nana, I saw her after the Grande Poule des Produits,
and she was dripping and draggled, and her sides were trembling like
one o’clock.I lay twenty louis she isn’t placed! Oh, shut up! He’s
boring us with his Frangipane. There’s no time to make a bet now;
there, they’re off!”
Almost in tears, La Faloise was struggling to find a bookmaker. He had
to be reasoned with.Everyone craned forward, but the first go-off was
bad, the starter, who looked in the distance like a slim dash of
blackness, not having lowered his flag. The horses came back to their
places after galloping a moment or two.There were two more false
starts. At length the starter got the horses together and sent them
away with such address as to elicit shouts of applause. “Splendid! No, it was mere chance!Never mind—it’s done it!”
The outcries were smothered by the anxiety which tortured every breast. The betting stopped now, and the game was being played on the vast
course itself.Silence reigned at the outset, as though everyone were
holding his breath. White faces and trembling forms were stretched
forward in all directions.At first Hazard and Cosinus made the running
at the head of the rest; Valerio II followed close by, and the field
came on in a confused mass behind.When they passed in front of the
stands, thundering over the ground in their course like a sudden
stormwind, the mass was already some fourteen lengths in extent. Frangipane was last, and Nana was slightly behind Lusignan and Spirit.“Egad!” muttered Labordette, “how the Englishman is pulling it off out
there!”
The whole carriageload again burst out with phrases and exclamations.Everyone rose on tiptoe and followed the bright splashes of color which
were the jockeys as they rushed through the sunlight.At the rise Valerio II took the lead, while Cosinus and Hazard lost
ground, and Lusignan and Spirit were running neck and neck with Nana
still behind them. “By jingo, the Englishman’s gained! It’s palpable!” said Bordenave.“Lusignan’s in difficulties, and Valerio II can’t stay.”
“Well, it will be a pretty biz if the Englishman wins!” cried Philippe
in an access of patriotic grief. A feeling of anguish was beginning to choke all that crowded multitude. Another defeat!And with that a strange ardent prayer, which was almost
religious, went up for Lusignan, while people heaped abuse on Spirit
and his dismal mute of a jockey.Among the crowd scattered over the
grass the wind of excitement put up whole groups of people and set
their boot soles flashing in air as they ran. Horsemen crossed the
green at a furious gallop.And Nana, who was slowly revolving on her
own axis, saw beneath her a surging waste of beasts and men, a sea of
heads swayed and stirred all round the course by the whirlwind of the
race, which clove the horizon with the bright lightning flash of the
jockeys.She had been following their movement from behind while the
cruppers sped away and the legs seemed to grow longer as they raced and
then diminished till they looked slender as strands of hair.Now the
horses were running at the end of the course, and she caught a side
view of them looking minute and delicate of outline against the green
distances of the Bois.Then suddenly they vanished behind a great clump
of trees growing in the middle of the Hippodrome. “Don’t talk about it!” cried Georges, who was still full of hope. “It
isn’t over yet.The Englishman’s touched.”
But La Faloise was again seized with contempt for his country and grew
positively outrageous in his applause of Spirit. Bravo! That was right! France needed it!Spirit first and Frangipane second—that would be a
nasty one for his native land! He exasperated Labordette, who
threatened seriously to throw him off the carriage.“Let’s see how many minutes they’ll be about it,” said Bordenave
peaceably, for though holding up Louiset, he had taken out his watch. One after the other the horses reappeared from behind the clump of
trees.There was stupefaction; a long murmur arose among the crowd. Valerio II was still leading, but Spirit was gaining on him, and behind
him Lusignan had slackened while another horse was taking his place.People could not make this out all at once; they were confused about
the colors. Then there was a burst of exclamations. “But it’s Nana! Nana? Get along! I tell you Lusignan hasn’t budged. Dear me, yes, it’s Nana.You can certainly recognize her by her golden
color. D’you see her now? She’s blazing away. Bravo, Nana! What a
ripper she is! Bah, it doesn’t matter a bit: she’s making the running
for Lusignan!”
For some seconds this was everybody’s opinion.But little by little the
filly kept gaining and gaining, spurting hard all the while. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Thereupon
a vast wave of feeling passed over the crowd, and the tail of horses in
the rear ceased to interest.A supreme struggle was beginning between
Spirit, Nana, Lusignan and Valerio II. They were pointed out; people
estimated what ground they had gained or lost in disconnected, gasping
phrases.And Nana, who had mounted up on the coach box, as though some
power had lifted her thither, stood white and trembling and so deeply
moved as not to be able to speak. At her side Labordette smiled as of
old.“The Englishman’s in trouble, eh?” said Philippe joyously. “He’s going
badly.”
“In any case, it’s all up with Lusignan,” shouted La Faloise. “Valerio
II is coming forward. Look, there they are all four together.”
The same phrase was in every mouth.“What a rush, my dears! By God, what a rush!”
The squad of horses was now passing in front of them like a flash of
lightning. Their approach was perceptible—the breath of it was as a
distant muttering which increased at every second.The whole crowd had
thrown themselves impetuously against the barriers, and a deep clamor
issued from innumerable chests before the advance of the horses and
drew nearer and nearer like the sound of a foaming tide.It was the
last fierce outburst of colossal partisanship; a hundred thousand
spectators were possessed by a single passion, burning with the same
gambler’s lust, as they gazed after the beasts, whose galloping feet
were sweeping millions with them.The crowd pushed and crushed—fists
were clenched; people gaped, openmouthed; every man was fighting for
himself; every man with voice and gesture was madly speeding the horse
of his choice.And the cry of all this multitude, a wild beast’s cry
despite the garb of civilization, grew ever more distinct:
“Here they come! Here they come!Here they come!”
But Nana was still gaining ground, and now Valerio II was distanced,
and she was heading the race, with Spirit two or three necks behind. The rolling thunder of voices had increased.They were coming in; a
storm of oaths greeted them from the landau. “Gee up, Lusignan, you great coward! The Englishman’s stunning! Do it
again, old boy; do it again! Oh, that Valerio! It’s sickening! Oh, the
carcass! My ten louis damned well lost!Nana’s the only one! Bravo,
Nana! Bravo!”
And without being aware of it Nana, upon her seat, had begun jerking
her hips and waist as though she were racing herself. She kept striking
her side—she fancied it was a help to the filly.With each stroke she
sighed with fatigue and said in low, anguished tones:
“Go it, go it!”
Then a splendid sight was witnessed. Price, rising in his stirrups and
brandishing his whip, flogged Nana with an arm of iron.The old
shriveled-up child with his long, hard, dead face seemed to breath
flame. And in a fit of furious audacity and triumphant will he put his
heart into the filly, held her up, lifted her forward, drenched in
foam, with eyes of blood.The whole rush of horses passed with a roar
of thunder: it took away people’s breaths; it swept the air with it
while the judge sat frigidly waiting, his eye adjusted to its task. Then there was an immense re-echoing burst of acclamation.With a
supreme effort Price had just flung Nana past the post, thus beating
Spirit by a head. There was an uproar as of a rising tide. “Nana! Nana!Nana!” The cry
rolled up and swelled with the violence of a tempest, till little by
little it filled the distance, the depths of the Bois as far as Mont
Valerien, the meadows of Longchamps and the Plaine de Boulogne.In all
parts of the field the wildest enthusiasm declared itself. “Vive Nana! Vive la France!Down with England!” The women waved their sunshades;
men leaped and spun round, vociferating as they did so, while others
with shouts of nervous laughter threw their hats in the air.And from
the other side of the course the enclosure made answer; the people on
the stands were stirred, though nothing was distinctly visible save a
tremulous motion of the air, as though an invisible flame were burning
in a brazier above the living mass of gesticulating arms and little
wildly moving faces, where the eyes and gaping mouths looked like black
dots.The noise did not cease but swelled up and recommenced in the
recesses of faraway avenues and among the people encamped under the
trees, till it spread on and on and attained its climax in the imperial
stand, where the empress herself had applauded.“Nana! Nana! Nana!” The
cry rose heavenward in the glorious sunlight, whose golden rain beat
fiercely on the dizzy heads of the multitude. Then Nana, looming large on the seat of her landau, fancied that it was
she whom they were applauding.For a moment or two she had stood devoid
of motion, stupefied by her triumph, gazing at the course as it was
invaded by so dense a flood of people that the turf became invisible
beneath the sea of black hats.By and by, when this crowd had become
somewhat less disorderly and a lane had been formed as far as the exit
and Nana was again applauded as she went off with Price hanging
lifelessly and vacantly over her neck, she smacked her thigh
energetically, lost all self-possession, triumphed in crude phrases:
“Oh, by God, it’s me; it’s me.Oh, by God, what luck!”
And, scarce knowing how to give expression to her overwhelming joy, she
hugged and kissed Louiset, whom she now discovered high in the air on
Bordenave’s shoulder.“Three minutes and fourteen seconds,” said the latter as he put his
watch back in his pocket. Nana kept hearing her name; the whole plain was echoing it back to her.Her people were applauding her while she towered above them in the
sunlight, in the splendor of her starry hair and white-and-sky-blue
dress.Labordette, as he made off, had just announced to her a gain of
two thousand louis, for he had put her fifty on Nana at forty to one. But the money stirred her less than this unforeseen victory, the fame
of which made her queen of Paris.All the other ladies were losers.With a raging movement Rose Mignon had snapped her sunshade, and
Caroline Hequet and Clarisse and Simonne—nay, Lucy Stewart herself,
despite the presence of her son—were swearing low in their exasperation
at that great wench’s luck, while the Tricon, who had made the sign of
the cross at both start and finish, straightened up her tall form above
them, went into an ecstasy over her intuition and damned Nana
admiringly as became an experienced matron.Meanwhile round the landau the crush of men increased. The band of
Nana’s immediate followers had made a fierce uproar, and now Georges,
choking with emotion, continued shouting all by himself in breaking
tones.As the champagne had given out, Philippe, taking the footmen
with him, had run to the wine bars. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Nana’s court was growing and
growing, and her present triumph caused many loiterers to join her.Indeed, that movement which had made her carriage a center of
attraction to the whole field was now ending in an apotheosis, and
Queen Venus was enthroned amid suddenly maddened subjects.Bordenave,
behind her, was muttering oaths, for he yearned to her as a father. Steiner himself had been reconquered—he had deserted Simonne and had
hoisted himself upon one of Nana’s carriage steps.When the champagne
had arrived, when she lifted her brimming glass, such applause burst
forth, and “Nana! Nana!Nana!” was so loudly repeated that the crowd
looked round in astonishment for the filly, nor could any tell whether
it was the horse or the woman that filled all hearts.While this was going on Mignon came hastening up in defiance of Rose’s
terrible frown. That confounded girl simply maddened him, and he wanted
to kiss her.Then after imprinting a paternal salute on both her
cheeks:
“What bothers me,” he said, “is that now Rose is certainly going to
send the letter. She’s raging, too, fearfully.”
“So much the better! It’ll do my business for me!” Nana let slip.But noting his utter astonishment, she hastily continued:
“No, no, what am I saying? Indeed, I don’t rightly know what I’m saying
now!I’m drunk.”
And drunk, indeed, drunk with joy, drunk with sunshine, she still
raised her glass on high and applauded herself. “To Nana!To Nana!” she cried amid a redoubled uproar of laughter and
bravoes, which little by little overspread the whole Hippodrome. The races were ending, and the Prix Vaublanc was run for. Carriages
began driving off one by one.Meanwhile, amid much disputing, the name
of Vandeuvres was again mentioned.It was quite evident now: for two
years past Vandeuvres had been preparing his final stroke and had
accordingly told Gresham to hold Nana in, while he had only brought
Lusignan forward in order to make play for the filly.The losers were
vexed; the winners shrugged their shoulders. After all, wasn’t the
thing permissible? An owner was free to run his stud in his own way. Many others had done as he had!In fact, the majority thought
Vandeuvres had displayed great skill in raking in all he could get
about Nana through the agency of friends, a course of action which
explained the sudden shortening of the odds.People spoke of his having
laid two thousand louis on the horse, which, supposing the odds to be
thirty to one against, gave him twelve hundred thousand francs, an
amount so vast as to inspire respect and to excuse everything.But other rumors of a very serious nature were being whispered about:
they issued in the first instance from the enclosure, and the men who
returned thence were full of exact particulars.Voices were raised; an
atrocious scandal began to be openly canvassed.That poor fellow
Vandeuvres was done for; he had spoiled his splendid hit with a piece
of flat stupidity, an idiotic robbery, for he had commissioned
Marechal, a shady bookmaker, to lay two thousand louis on his account
against Lusignan, in order thereby to get back his thousand and odd
openly wagered louis.It was a miserable business, and it proved to be
the last rift necessary to the utter breakup of his fortune. The
bookmaker being thus warned that the favorite would not win, had
realized some sixty thousand francs over the horse.Only Labordette,
for lack of exact and detailed instructions, had just then gone to him
to put two hundred louis on Nana, which the bookmaker, in his ignorance
of the stroke actually intended, was still quoting at fifty to one
against.Cleared of one hundred thousand francs over the filly and a
loser to the tune of forty thousand, Marechal, who felt the world
crumbling under his feet, had suddenly divined the situation when he
saw the count and Labordette talking together in front of the enclosure
just after the race was over.Furious, as became an ex-coachman of the
count’s, and brutally frank as only a cheated man can be, he had just
made a frightful scene in public, had told the whole story in atrocious
terms and had thrown everyone into angry excitement.It was further
stated that the stewards were about to meet. Nana, whom Philippe and Georges were whisperingly putting in possession
of the facts, gave vent to a series of reflections and yet ceased not
to laugh and drink.After all, it was quite likely; she remembered such
things, and then that Marechal had a dirty, hangdog look. Nevertheless,
she was still rather doubtful when Labordette appeared. He was very
white. “Well?” she asked in a low voice.“Bloody well smashed up!” he replied simply. And he shrugged his shoulders. That Vandeuvres was a mere child! She
made a bored little gesture. That evening at the Bal Mabille Nana obtained a colossal success.When
toward ten o’clock she made her appearance, the uproar was afready
formidable.That classic night of madness had brought together all that
was young and pleasure loving, and now this smart world was wallowing
in the coarseness and imbecility of the servants’ hall.There was a
fierce crush under the festoons of gas lamps, and men in evening coats
and women in outrageous low-necked old toilets, which they did not mind
soiling, were howling and surging to and fro under the maddening
influence of a vast drunken fit.At a distance of thirty paces the
brass instruments of the orchestra were inaudible. Nobody was dancing. Stupid witticisms, repeated no one knew why, were going the round of
the various groups.People were straining after wit without succeeding
in being funny. Seven women, imprisoned in the cloakroom, were crying
to be set free. A shallot had been found, put up to auction and knocked
down at two louis.Just then Nana arrived, still wearing her
blue-and-white racecourse costume, and amid a thunder of applause the
shallot was presented to her.People caught hold of her in her own
despite, and three gentlemen bore her triumphantly into the garden,
across ruined grassplots and ravaged masses of greenery.As the
bandstand presented an obstacle to her advance, it was taken by storm,
and chairs and music stands were smashed. A paternal police organized
the disorder. It was only on Tuesday that Nana recovered from the excitements of
victory.That morning she was chatting with Mme Lerat, the old lady
having come in to bring her news of Louiset, whom the open air had
upset. A long story, which was occupying the attention of all Paris,
interested her beyond measure.Vandeuvres, after being warned off all
racecourses and posted at the Cercle Imperial on the very evening after
the disaster, had set fire to his stable on the morrow and had burned
himself and his horses to death.“He certainly told me he was going to,” the young woman kept saying. “That man was a regular maniac! Oh, how they did frighten me when they
told me about it yesterday evening! You see, he might easily have
murdered me some fine night.And besides, oughtn’t he to have given me
a hint about his horse? | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
I should at any rate have made my fortune! He
said to Labordette that if I knew about the matter I would immediately
inform my hairdresser and a whole lot of other men. How polite, eh?Oh
dear, no, I certainly can’t grieve much for him.”
After some reflection she had grown very angry. Just then Labordette
came in; he had seen about her bets and was now the bearer of some
forty thousand francs.This only added to her bad temper, for she ought
to have gained a million. Labordette, who during the whole of this
episode had been pretending entire innocence, abandoned Vandeuvres in
decisive terms.Those old families, he opined, were worn out and apt to
make a stupid ending. “Oh dear no!” said Nana. “It isn’t stupid to burn oneself in one’s
stable as he did.For my part, I think he made a dashing finish; but,
oh, you know, I’m not defending that story about him and Marechal. It’s
too silly. Just to think that Blanche has had the cheek to want to lay
the blame of it on me!I said to her: ‘Did I tell him to steal?’ Don’t
you think one can ask a man for money without urging him to commit
crime?If he had said to me, ‘I’ve got nothing left,’ I should have
said to him, ‘All right, let’s part.’ And the matter wouldn’t have gone
further.”
“Just so,” said the aunt gravely “When men are obstinate about a thing,
so much the worse for them!”
“But as to the merry little finish up, oh, that was awfully smart!”
continued Nana.“It appears to have been terrible enough to give you
the shudders! He sent everybody away and boxed himself up in the place
with a lot of petroleum. And it blazed! You should have seen it!Just
think, a great big affair, almost all made of wood and stuffed with hay
and straw! The flames simply towered up, and the finest part of the
business was that the horses didn’t want to be roasted.They could be
heard plunging, throwing themselves against the doors, crying aloud
just like human beings. Yes, people haven’t got rid of the horror of it
yet.”
Labordette let a low, incredulous whistle escape him.For his part, he
did not believe in the death of Vandeuvres. Somebody had sworn he had
seen him escaping through a window. He had set fire to his stable in a
fit of aberration, but when it had begun to grow too warm it must have
sobered him.A man so besotted about the women and so utterly worn out
could not possibly die so pluckily.Nana listened in her disillusionment and could only remark:
“Oh, the poor wretch, it was so beautiful!”
CHAPTER XII
Toward one in the morning, in the great bed of the Venice point
draperies, Nana and the count lay still awake.He had returned to her
that evening after a three days sulking fit.The room, which was dimly
illumined by a lamp, seemed to slumber amid a warm, damp odor of love,
while the furniture, with its white lacquer and silver incrustations,
loomed vague and wan through the gloom.A curtain had been drawn to, so
that the bed lay flooded with shadow. A sigh became audible; then a
kiss broke the silence, and Nana, slipping off the coverlet, sat for a
moment or two, barelegged, on the edge of the bed.The count let his
head fall back on the pillow and remained in darkness. “Dearest, you believe in the good God, don’t you?” she queried after
some moments’ reflection.Her face was serious; she had been overcome
by pious terrors on quitting her lover’s arms.Since morning, indeed, she had been complaining of feeling
uncomfortable, and all her stupid notions, as she phrased it, notions
about death and hell, were secretly torturing her.From time to time
she had nights such as these, during which childish fears and atrocious
fancies would thrill her with waking nightmares.She continued:
“I say, d’you think I shall go to heaven?”
And with that she shivered, while the count, in his surprise at her
putting such singular questions at such a moment, felt his old
religious remorse returning upon him.Then with her chemise slipping
from her shoulders and her hair unpinned, she again threw herself upon
his breast, sobbing and clinging to him as she did so. “I’m afraid of dying!I’m afraid of dying!” He had all the trouble in
the world to disengage himself. Indeed, he was himself afraid of giving
in to the sudden madness of this woman clinging to his body in her
dread of the Invisible.Such dread is contagious, and he reasoned with
her. Her conduct was perfect—she had only to conduct herself well in
order one day to merit pardon. But she shook her head.Doubtless she
was doing no one any harm; nay, she was even in the constant habit of
wearing a medal of the Virgin, which she showed to him as it hung by a
red thread between her breasts.Only it had been foreordained that all
unmarried women who held conversation with men would go to hell. Scraps
of her catechism recurred to her remembrance.Ah, if one only knew for
certain, but, alas, one was sure of nothing; nobody ever brought back
any information, and then, truly, it would be stupid to bother oneself
about things if the priests were talking foolishness all the time.Nevertheless, she religiously kissed her medal, which was still warm
from contact with her skin, as though by way of charm against death,
the idea of which filled her with icy horror.Muffat was obliged to
accompany her into the dressing room, for she shook at the idea of
being alone there for one moment, even though she had left the door
open.When he had lain down again she still roamed about the room,
visiting its several corners and starting and shivering at the
slightest noise. A mirror stopped her, and as of old she lapsed into
obvious contemplation of her nakedness.But the sight of her breast,
her waist and her thighs only doubled her terror, and she ended by
feeling with both hands very slowly over the bones of her face. “You’re ugly when you’re dead,” she said in deliberate tones.And she pressed her cheeks, enlarging her eyes and pushing down her
jaw, in order to see how she would look. Thus disfigured, she turned
toward the count. “Do look! My head’ll be quite small, it will!”
At this he grew vexed.“You’re mad; come to bed!”
He fancied he saw her in a grave, emaciated by a century of sleep, and
he joined his hands and stammered a prayer.It was some time ago that
the religious sense had reconquered him, and now his daily access of
faith had again assumed the apoplectic intensity which was wont to
leave him well-nigh stunned.The joints of his fingers used to crack,
and he would repeat without cease these words only: “My God, my God, my
God!” It was the cry of his impotence, the cry of that sin against
which, though his damnation was certain, he felt powerless to strive.When Nana returned she found him hidden beneath the bedclothes; he was
haggard; he had dug his nails into his bosom, and his eyes stared
upward as though in search of heaven. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
And with that she started to weep
again.Then they both embraced, and their teeth chattered they knew not
why, as the same imbecile obsession over-mastered them.They had
already passed a similar night, but on this occasion the thing was
utterly idiotic, as Nana declared when she ceased to be frightened. She
suspected something, and this caused her to question the count in a
prudent sort of way.It might be that Rose Mignon had sent the famous
letter! But that was not the case; it was sheer fright, nothing more,
for he was still ignorant whether he was a cuckold or no.Two days later, after a fresh disappearance, Muffat presented himself
in the morning, a time of day at which he never came. He was livid; his
eyes were red and his whole man still shaken by a great internal
struggle.But Zoé, being scared herself, did not notice his troubled
state. She had run to meet him and now began crying:
“Oh, monsieur, do come in!Madame nearly died yesterday evening!”
And when he asked for particulars:
“Something it’s impossible to believe has happened—a miscarriage,
monsieur.”
Nana had been in the family way for the past three months.For long she
had simply thought herself out of sorts, and Dr Boutarel had himself
been in doubt. But when afterward he made her a decisive announcement,
she felt so bored thereby that she did all she possibly could to
disguise her condition.Her nervous terrors, her dark humors, sprang to
some extent from this unfortunate state of things, the secret of which
she kept very shamefacedly, as became a courtesan mother who is obliged
to conceal her plight.The thing struck her as a ridiculous accident,
which made her appear small in her own eyes and would, had it been
known, have led people to chaff her. “A poor joke, eh?” she said.“Bad luck, too, certainly.”
She was necessarily very sharp set when she thought her last hour had
come.There was no end to her surprise, too; her sexual economy seemed
to her to have got out of order; it produced children then even when
one did not want them and when one employed it for quite other
purposes!Nature drove her to exasperation; this appearance of serious
motherhood in a career of pleasure, this gift of life amid all the
deaths she was spreading around, exasperated her.Why could one not
dispose of oneself as fancy dictated, without all this fuss? And whence
had this brat come? She could not even suggest a father.Ah, dear
heaven, the man who made him would have a splendid notion had he kept
him in his own hands, for nobody asked for him; he was in everybody’s
way, and he would certainly not have much happiness in life! Meanwhile Zoé described the catastrophe.“Madame was seized with colic toward four o’clock. When she didn’t come
back out of the dressing room I went in and found her lying stretched
on the floor in a faint. Yes, monsieur, on the floor in a pool of
blood, as though she had been murdered.Then I understood, you see. I
was furious; Madame might quite well have confided her trouble to me. As it happened, Monsieur Georges was there, and he helped me to lift
her up, and directly a miscarriage was mentioned he felt ill in his
turn!Oh, it’s true I’ve had the hump since yesterday!”
In fact, the house seemed utterly upset. All the servants were
galloping upstairs, downstairs and through the rooms. Georges had
passed the night on an armchair in the drawing room.It was he who had
announced the news to Madame’s friends at that hour of the evening when
Madame was in the habit of receiving. He had still been very pale, and
he had told his story very feelingly, and as though stupefied.Steiner,
La Faloise, Philippe and others, besides, had presented themselves, and
at the end of the lad’s first phrase they burst into exclamations. The
thing was impossible! It must be a farce!After which they grew serious
and gazed with an embarrassed expression at her bedroom door. They
shook their heads; it was no laughing matter. Till midnight a dozen gentlemen had stood talking in low voices in
front of the fireplace.All were friends; all were deeply exercised by
the same idea of paternity. They seemed to be mutually excusing
themselves, and they looked as confused as if they had done something
clumsy. Eventually, however, they put a bold face on the matter.It had
nothing to do with them: the fault was hers! What a stunner that Nana
was, eh? One would never have believed her capable of such a fake!And
with that they departed one by one, walking on tiptoe, as though in a
chamber of death where you cannot laugh. “Come up all the same, monsieur,” said Zoé to Muffat. “Madame is much
better and will see you.We are expecting the doctor, who promised to
come back this morning.”
The lady’s maid had persuaded Georges to go back home to sleep, and
upstairs in the drawing room only Satin remained.She lay stretched on
a divan, smoking a cigarette and scanning the ceiling. Amid the
household scare which had followed the accident she had been white with
rage, had shrugged her shoulders violently and had made ferocious
remarks.Accordingly, when Zoé was passing in front of her and telling
Monsieur that poor, dear Madame had suffered a great deal:
“That’s right; it’ll teach him!” said Satin curtly.They turned round in surprise, but she had not moved a muscle; her eyes
were still turned toward the ceiling, and her cigarette was still
wedged tightly between her lips. “Dear me, you’re charming, you are!” said Zoé.But Satin sat up, looked savagely at the count and once more hurled her
remark at him.“That’s right; it’ll teach him!”
And she lay down again and blew forth a thin jet of smoke, as though
she had no interest in present events and were resolved not to meddle
in any of them. No, it was all too silly!Zoé, however, introduced Muffat into the bedroom, where a scent of
ether lingered amid warm, heavy silence, scarce broken by the dull roll
of occasional carriages in the Avenue de Villiers.Nana, looking very
white on her pillow, was lying awake with wide-open, meditative eyes. She smiled when she saw the count but did not move. “Ah, dear pet!” she slowly murmured.“I really thought I should never
see you again.”
Then as he leaned forward to kiss her on the hair, she grew tender
toward him and spoke frankly about the child, as though he were its
father. “I never dared tell you; I felt so happy about it!Oh, I used to dream
about it; I should have liked to be worthy of you! And now there’s
nothing left. Ah well, perhaps that’s best.I don’t want to bring a
stumbling block into your life.”
Astounded by this story of paternity, he began stammering vague
phrases. He had taken a chair and had sat down by the bed, leaning one
arm on the coverlet.Then the young woman noticed his wild expression,
the blood reddening his eyes, the fever that set his lips aquiver. “What’s the matter then?” she asked. “You’re ill too.”
“No,” he answered with extreme difficulty.She gazed at him with a profound expression. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Then she signed to Zoé to
retire, for the latter was lingering round arranging the medicine
bottles. And when they were alone she drew him down to her and again
asked:
“What’s the matter with you, darling?The tears are ready to burst from
your eyes—I can see that quite well. Well now, speak out; you’ve come
to tell me something.”
“No, no, I swear I haven’t,” he blurted out.But he was choking with
suffering, and this sickroom, into which he had suddenly entered
unawares, so worked on his feelings that he burst out sobbing and
buried his face in the bedclothes to smother the violence of his grief. Nana understood.Rose Mignon had most assuredly decided to send the
letter. She let him weep for some moments, and he was shaken by
convulsions so fierce that the bed trembled under her.At length in
accents of motherly compassion she queried:
“You’ve had bothers at your home?”
He nodded affirmatively. She paused anew, and then very low:
“Then you know all?”
He nodded assent. And a heavy silence fell over the chamber of
suffering.The night before, on his return from a party given by the
empress, he had received the letter Sabine had written her lover.After
an atrocious night passed in the meditation of vengeance he had gone
out in the morning in order to resist a longing which prompted him to
kill his wife.Outside, under a sudden, sweet influence of a fine June
morning, he had lost the thread of his thoughts and had come to Nana’s,
as he always came at terrible moments in his life.There only he gave
way to his misery, for he felt a cowardly joy at the thought that she
would console him. “Now look here, be calm!” the young woman continued, becoming at the
same time extremely kind.“I’ve known it a long time, but it was
certainly not I that would have opened your eyes. You remember you had
your doubts last year, but then things arranged themselves, owing to my
prudence. In fact, you wanted proofs.The deuce, you’ve got one today,
and I know it’s hard lines. Nevertheless, you must look at the matter
quietly: you’re not dishonored because it’s happened.”
He had left off weeping.A sense of shame restrained him from saying
what he wanted to, although he had long ago slipped into the most
intimate confessions about his household. She had to encourage him. Dear me, she was a woman; she could understand everything.When in a
dull voice he exclaimed:
“You’re ill. What’s the good of tiring you? It was stupid of me to have
come. I’m going—”
“No,” she answered briskly enough. “Stay! Perhaps I shall be able to
give you some good advice.Only don’t make me talk too much; the
medical man’s forbidden it.”
He had ended by rising, and he was now walking up and down the room. Then she questioned him:
“Now what are you going to do?“I’m going to box the man’s ears—by heavens, yes!”
She pursed up her lips disapprovingly. “That’s not very wise. And about your wife?”
“I shall go to law; I’ve proofs.”
“Not at all wise, my dear boy. It’s stupid even.You know I shall never
let you do that!”
And in her feeble voice she showed him decisively how useless and
scandalous a duel and a trial would be.He would be a nine days’
newspaper sensation; his whole existence would be at stake, his peace
of mind, his high situation at court, the honor of his name, and all
for what? That he might have the laughers against him. “What will it matter?” he cried.“I shall have had my revenge.”
“My pet,” she said, “in a business of that kind one never has one’s
revenge if one doesn’t take it directly.”
He paused and stammered. He was certainly no poltroon, but he felt that
she was right.An uneasy feeling was growing momentarily stronger
within him, a poor, shameful feeling which softened his anger now that
it was at its hottest. Moreover, in her frank desire to tell him
everything, she dealt him a fresh blow.“And d’you want to know what’s annoying you, dearest? Why, that you are
deceiving your wife yourself. You don’t sleep away from home for
nothing, eh? Your wife must have her suspicions. Well then, how can you
blame her?She’ll tell you that you’ve set her the example, and that’ll
shut you up.There, now, that’s why you’re stamping about here instead
of being at home murdering both of ’em.”
Muffat had again sunk down on the chair; he was overwhelmed by these
home thrusts.She broke off and took breath, and then in a low voice:
“Oh, I’m a wreck! Do help me sit up a bit. I keep slipping down, and my
head’s too low.”
When he had helped her she sighed and felt more comfortable.And with
that she harked back to the subject. What a pretty sight a divorce suit
would be! Couldn’t he imagine the advocate of the countess amusing
Paris with his remarks about Nana?Everything would have come out—her
fiasco at the Variétés, her house, her manner of life. Oh dear, no! She
had no wish for all that amount of advertising.Some dirty women might,
perhaps, have driven him to it for the sake of getting a thundering big
advertisement, but she—she desired his happiness before all else.She
had drawn him down toward her and, after passing her arm around his
neck, was nursing his head close to hers on the edge of the pillow.And
with that she whispered softly:
“Listen, my pet, you shall make it up with your wife.”
But he rebelled at this. It could never be! His heart was nigh breaking
at the thought; it was too shameful. Nevertheless, she kept tenderly
insisting.“You shall make it up with your wife. Come, come, you don’t want to
hear all the world saying that I’ve tempted you away from your home? I
should have too vile a reputation! What would people think of me?Only
swear that you’ll always love me, because the moment you go with
another woman—”
Tears choked her utterance, and he intervened with kisses and said:
“You’re beside yourself; it’s impossible!”
“Yes, yes,” she rejoined, “you must.But I’ll be reasonable. After all,
she’s your wife, and it isn’t as if you were to play me false with the
firstcomer.”
And she continued in this strain, giving him the most excellent advice.She even spoke of God, and the count thought he was listening to M.
Venot, when that old gentleman endeavored to sermonize him out of the
grasp of sin.Nana, however, did not speak of breaking it off entirely:
she preached indulgent good nature and suggested that, as became a
dear, nice old fellow, he should divide his attentions between his wife
and his mistress, so that they would all enjoy a quiet life, devoid of
any kind of annoyance, something, in fact, in the nature of a happy
slumber amid the inevitable miseries of existence.Their life would be
nowise changed: he would still be the little man of her heart. Only he
would come to her a bit less often and would give the countess the
nights not passed with her.She had got to the end of her strength and
left off, speaking under her breath:
“After that I shall feel I’ve done a good action, and you’ll love me
all the more.”
Silence reigned. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
In a low voice and
with a playfully threatening look she said:
“You know what I’ve allowed you to do.Go back to your wife, or it’s
all over and I shall grow angry!”
The Countess Sabine had been anxious that her daughter’s wedding
contract should be signed on a Tuesday in order that the renovated
house, where the paint was still scarcely dry, might be reopened with a
grand entertainment.Five hundred invitations had been issued to people
in all kinds of sets.On the morning of the great day the upholsterers
were still nailing up hangings, and toward nine at night, just when the
lusters were going to be lit, the architect, accompanied by the eager
and interested countess, was given his final orders.It was one of those spring festivities which have a delicate charm of
their own.Owing to the warmth of the June nights, it had become
possible to open the two doors of the great drawing room and to extend
the dancing floor to the sanded paths of the garden.When the first
guests arrived and were welcomed at the door by the count and the
countess they were positively dazzled.One had only to recall to mind
the drawing room of the past, through which flitted the icy, ghostly
presence of the Countess Muffat, that antique room full of an
atmosphere of religious austerity with its massive First Empire
mahogany furniture, its yellow velvet hangings, its moldy ceiling
through which the damp had soaked.Now from the very threshold of the
entrance hall mosaics set off with gold were glittering under the
lights of lofty candelabras, while the marble staircase unfurled, as it
were, a delicately chiseled balustrade.Then, too, the drawing room
looked splendid; it was hung with Genoa velvet, and a huge decorative
design by Boucher covered the ceiling, a design for which the architect
had paid a hundred thousand francs at the sale of the Château de
Dampierre.The lusters and the crystal ornaments lit up a luxurious
display of mirrors and precious furniture.It seemed as though Sabine’s
long chair, that solitary red silk chair, whose soft contours were so
marked in the old days, had grown and spread till it filled the whole
great house with voluptuous idleness and a sense of tense enjoyment not
less fierce and hot than a fire which has been long in burning up.People were already dancing. The band, which had been located in the
garden, in front of one of the open windows, was playing a waltz, the
supple rhythm of which came softly into the house through the
intervening night air.And the garden seemed to spread away and away,
bathed in transparent shadow and lit by Venetian lamps, while in a
purple tent pitched on the edge of a lawn a table for refreshments had
been established.The waltz, which was none other than the quaint,
vulgar one in the Blonde Venus, with its laughing, blackguard lilt,
penetrated the old hotel with sonorous waves of sound and sent a
feverish thrill along its walls.It was as though some fleshly wind had
come up out of the common street and were sweeping the relics of a
vanished epoch out of the proud old dwelling, bearing away the Muffats’
past, the age of honor and religious faith which had long slumbered
beneath the lofty ceilings.Meanwhile near the hearth, in their accustomed places, the old friends
of the count’s mother were taking refuge. They felt out of their
element—they were dazzled and they formed a little group amid the
slowly invading mob.Mme du Joncquoy, unable to recognize the various
rooms, had come in through the dining saloon. Mme Chantereau was gazing
with a stupefied expression at the garden, which struck her as immense.Presently there was a sound of low voices, and the corner gave vent to
all sorts of bitter reflections. “I declare,” murmured Mme Chantereau, “just fancy if the countess were
to return to life.Why, can you not imagine her coming in among all
these crowds of people! And then there’s all this gilding and this
uproar! It’s scandalous!”
“Sabine’s out of her senses,” replied Mme du Joncquoy. “Did you see her
at the door?Look, you can catch sight of her here; she’s wearing all
her diamonds.”
For a moment or two they stood up in order to take a distant view of
the count and countess. Sabine was in a white dress trimmed with
marvelous English point lace.She was triumphant in beauty; she looked
young and gay, and there was a touch of intoxication in her continual
smile. Beside her stood Muffat, looking aged and a little pale, but he,
too, was smiling in his calm and worthy fashion.“And just to think that he was once master,” continued Mme Chantereau,
“and that not a single rout seat would have come in without his
permission! Ah well, she’s changed all that; it’s her house now.D’you
remember when she did not want to do her drawing room up again? She’s
done up the entire house.”
But the ladies grew silent, for Mme de Chezelles was entering the room,
followed by a band of young men.She was going into ecstasies and
marking her approval with a succession of little exclamations. “Oh, it’s delicious, exquisite! What taste!” And she shouted back to
her followers:
“Didn’t I say so?There’s nothing equal to these old places when one
takes them in hand. They become dazzling! It’s quite in the grand
seventeenth-century style.Well, NOW she can receive.”
The two old ladies had again sat down and with lowered tones began
talking about the marriage, which was causing astonishment to a good
many people. Estelle had just passed by them.She was in a pink silk
gown and was as pale, flat, silent and virginal as ever.She had
accepted Daguenet very quietly and now evinced neither joy nor sadness,
for she was still as cold and white as on those winter evenings when
she used to put logs on the fire.This whole fête given in her honor,
these lights and flowers and tunes, left her quite unmoved. “An adventurer,” Mme du Joncquoy was saying. “For my part, I’ve never
seen him.”
“Take care, here he is,” whispered Mme Chantereau.Daguenet, who had caught sight of Mme Hugon and her sons, had eagerly
offered her his arm. He laughed and was effusively affectionate toward
her, as though she had had a hand in his sudden good fortune.“Thank you,” she said, sitting down near the fireplace. “You see, it’s
my old corner.”
“You know him?” queried Mme du Joncquoy, when Daguenet had gone. “Certainly I do—a charming young man. Georges is very fond of him.Oh,
they’re a most respected family.”
And the good lady defended him against the mute hostility which was
apparent to her. His father, held in high esteem by Louis Philippe, had
been a PREFET up to the time of his death.The son had been a little
dissipated, perhaps; they said he was ruined, but in any case, one of
his uncles, who was a great landowner, was bound to leave him his
fortune.The ladies, however, shook their heads, while Mme Hugon,
herself somewhat embarrassed, kept harking back to the extreme
respectability of his family. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
She was very much fatigued and complained
of her feet.For some months she had been occupying her house in the
Rue Richelieu, having, as she said, a whole lot of things on hand. A
look of sorrow overshadowed her smiling, motherly face. “Never mind,” Mme Chantereau concluded.“Estelle could have aimed at
something much better.”
There was a flourish. A quadrille was about to begin, and the crowd
flowed back to the sides of the drawing room in order to leave the
floor clear.Bright dresses flitted by and mingled together amid the
dark evening coats, while the intense light set jewels flashing and
white plumes quivering and lilacs and roses gleaming and flowering amid
the sea of many heads.It was already very warm, and a penetrating
perfume was exhaled from light tulles and crumpled silks and satins,
from which bare shoulders glimmered white, while the orchestra played
its lively airs.Through open doors ranges of seated ladies were
visible in the background of adjoining rooms; they flashed a discreet
smile; their eyes glowed, and they made pretty mouths as the breath of
their fans caressed their faces.And guests still kept arriving, and a
footman announced their names while gentlemen advanced slowly amid the
surrounding groups, striving to find places for ladies, who hung with
difficulty on their arms, and stretching forward in quest of some
far-off vacant armchair.The house kept filling, and crinolined skirts
got jammed together with a little rustling sound.There were corners
where an amalgam of laces, bunches and puffs would completely bar the
way, while all the other ladies stood waiting, politely resigned and
imperturbably graceful, as became people who were made to take part in
these dazzling crushes.Meanwhile across the garden couples, who had
been glad to escape from the close air of the great drawing room, were
wandering away under the roseate gleam of the Venetian lamps, and
shadowy dresses kept flitting along the edge of the lawn, as though in
rhythmic time to the music of the quadrille, which sounded sweet and
distant behind the trees.Steiner had just met with Foucarmont and La Faloise, who were drinking
a glass of champagne in front of the buffet. “It’s beastly smart,” said La Faloise as he took a survey of the purple
tent, which was supported by gilded lances.“You might fancy yourself
at the Gingerbread Fair. That’s it—the Gingerbread Fair!”
In these days he continually affected a bantering tone, posing as the
young man who has abused every mortal thing and now finds nothing worth
taking seriously.“How surprised poor Vandeuvres would be if he were to come back,”
murmured Foucarmont. “You remember how he simply nearly died of boredom
in front of the fire in there. Egad, it was no laughing matter.”
“Vandeuvres—oh, let him be.He’s a gone coon!” La Faloise disdainfully
rejoined. “He jolly well choused himself, he did, if he thought he
could make us sit up with his roast-meat story! Not a soul mentions it
now.Blotted out, done for, buried—that’s what’s the matter with
Vandeuvres! Here’s to the next man!”
Then as Steiner shook hands with him:
“You know Nana’s just arrived. Oh, my boys, it was a state entry. It
was too brilliant for anything!First of all she kissed the countess. Then when the children came up she gave them her blessing and said to
Daguenet, ‘Listen, Paul, if you go running after the girls you’ll have
to answer for it to me.’ What, d’you mean to say you didn’t see that?Oh, it WAS smart. A success, if you like!”
The other two listened to him, openmouthed, and at last burst out
laughing. He was enchanted and thought himself in his best vein. “You thought it had really happened, eh?Confound it, since Nana’s made
the match! Anyway, she’s one of the family.”
The young Hugons were passing, and Philippe silenced him. And with that
they chatted about the marriage from the male point of view.Georges
was vexed with La Faloise for telling an anecdote. Certainly Nana had
fubbed off on Muffat one of her old flames as son-in-law; only it was
not true that she had been to bed with Daguenet as lately as yesterday.Foucarmont made bold to shrug his shoulders. Could anyone ever tell
when Nana was in bed with anyone? But Georges grew excited and answered
with an “I can tell, sir!” which set them all laughing.In a word, as
Steiner put it, it was all a very funny kettle of fish! The buffet was gradually invaded by the crowd, and, still keeping
together, they vacated their positions there.La Faloise stared
brazenly at the women as though he believed himself to be Mabille.At
the end of a garden walk the little band was surprised to find M. Venot
busily conferring with Daguenet, and with that they indulged in some
facile pleasantries which made them very merry.He was confessing him,
giving him advice about the bridal night!Presently they returned in
front of one of the drawing-room doors, within which a polka was
sending the couples whirling to and fro till they seemed to leave a
wake behind them among the crowd of men who remained standing about.In
the slight puffs of air which came from outside the tapers flared up
brilliantly, and when a dress floated by in time to the rat-tat of the
measure, a little gust of wind cooled the sparkling heat which streamed
down from the lusters.“Egad, they’re not cold in there!” muttered La Faloise. They blinked after emerging from the mysterious shadows of the garden.Then they pointed out to one another the Marquis de Chouard where he
stood apart, his tall figure towering over the bare shoulders which
surrounded him.His face was pale and very stern, and beneath its crown
of scant white hair it wore an expression of lofty dignity.Scandalized
by Count Muffat’s conduct, he had publicly broken off all intercourse
with him and was by way of never again setting foot in the house.If he
had consented to put in an appearance that evening it was because his
granddaughter had begged him to.But he disapproved of her marriage and
had inveighed indignantly against the way in which the government
classes were being disorganized by the shameful compromises engendered
by modern debauchery.“Ah, it’s the end of all things,” Mme du Joncquoy whispered in Mme
Chantereau’s ear as she sat near the fireplace. “That bad woman has
bewitched the unfortunate man.And to think we once knew him such a
true believer, such a noblehearted gentleman!”
“It appears he is ruining himself,” continued Mme Chantereau. “My
husband has had a bill of his in his hands.At present he’s living in
that house in the Avenue de Villiers; all Paris is talking about it. Good heavens!I don’t make excuses for Sabine, but you must admit that
he gives her infinite cause of complaint, and, dear me, if she throws
money out of the window, too—”
“She does not only throw money,” interrupted the other.“In fact,
between them, there’s no knowing where they’ll stop; they’ll end in the
mire, my dear.”
But just then a soft voice interrupted them. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
It was M. Venot, and he
had come and seated himself behind them, as though anxious to disappear
from view.Bending forward, he murmured:
“Why despair? God manifests Himself when all seems lost.”
He was assisting peacefully at the downfall of the house which he
erewhile governed.Since his stay at Les Fondettes he had been allowing
the madness to increase, for he was very clearly aware of his own
powerlessness.He had, indeed, accepted the whole position—the count’s
wild passion for Nana, Fauchery’s presence, even Estelle’s marriage
with Daguenet. What did these things matter?He even became more supple
and mysterious, for he nursed a hope of being able to gain the same
mastery over the young as over the disunited couple, and he knew that
great disorders lead to great conversions. Providence would have its
opportunity.“Our friend,” he continued in a low voice, “is always animated by the
best religious sentiments. He has given me the sweetest proofs of
this.”
“Well,” said Mme du Joncquoy, “he ought first to have made it up with
his wife.”
“Doubtless.At this moment I have hopes that the reconciliation will be
shortly effected.”
Whereupon the two old ladies questioned him. But he grew very humble again.“Heaven,” he said, “must be left to
act.” His whole desire in bringing the count and the countess together
again was to avoid a public scandal, for religion tolerated many faults
when the proprieties were respected.“In fact,” resumed Mme du Joncquoy, “you ought to have prevented this
union with an adventurer.”
The little old gentleman assumed an expression of profound
astonishment. “You deceive yourself. Monsieur Daguenet is a young man
of the greatest merit.I am acquainted with his thoughts; he is anxious
to live down the errors of his youth. Estelle will bring him back to
the path of virtue, be sure of that.”
“Oh, Estelle!” Mme Chantereau murmured disdainfully.“I believe the
dear young thing to be incapable of willing anything; she is so
insignificant!”
This opinion caused M. Venot to smile.However, he went into no
explanations about the young bride and, shutting his eyes, as though to
avoid seeming to take any further interest in the matter, he once more
lost himself in his corner behind the petticoats.Mme Hugon, though
weary and absent-minded, had caught some phrases of the conversation,
and she now intervened and summed up in her tolerant way by remarking
to the Marquis de Chouard, who just then bowed to her:
“These ladies are too severe.Existence is so bitter for every one of
us! Ought we not to forgive others much, my friend, if we wish to merit
forgiveness ourselves?”
For some seconds the marquis appeared embarrassed, for he was afraid of
allusions.But the good lady wore so sad a smile that he recovered
almost at once and remarked:
“No, there is no forgiveness for certain faults.It is by reason of
this kind of accommodating spirit that a society sinks into the abyss
of ruin.”
The ball had grown still more animated.A fresh quadrille was imparting
a slight swaying motion to the drawing-room floor, as though the old
dwelling had been shaken by the impulse of the dance.Now and again
amid the wan confusion of heads a woman’s face with shining eyes and
parted lips stood sharply out as it was whirled away by the dance, the
light of the lusters gleaming on the white skin.Mme du Joncquoy
declared that the present proceedings were senseless. It was madness to
crowd five hundred people into a room which would scarcely contain two
hundred. In fact, why not sign the wedding contract on the Place du
Carrousel?This was the outcome of the new code of manners, said Mme
Chantereau.In old times these solemnities took place in the bosom of
the family, but today one must have a mob of people; the whole street
must be allowed to enter quite freely, and there must be a great crush,
or else the evening seems a chilly affair.People now advertised their
luxury and introduced the mere foam on the wave of Parisian society
into their houses, and accordingly it was only too natural if illicit
proceedings such as they had been discussing afterward polluted the
hearth.The ladies complained that they could not recognize more than
fifty people. Where did all this crowd spring from? Young girls with
low necks were making a great display of their shoulders.A woman had a
golden dagger stuck in her chignon, while a bodice thickly embroidered
with jet beads clothed her in what looked like a coat of mail. People’s
eyes kept following another lady smilingly, so singularly marked were
her clinging skirts.All the luxuriant splendor of the departing winter
was there—the overtolerant world of pleasure, the scratch gathering a
hostess can get together after a first introduction, the sort of
society, in fact, in which great names and great shames jostle together
in the same fierce quest of enjoyment.The heat was increasing, and
amid the overcrowded rooms the quadrille unrolled the cadenced symmetry
of its figures. “Very smart—the countess!” La Faloise continued at the garden door. “She’s ten years younger than her daughter.By the by, Foucarmont, you
must decide on a point. Vandeuvres once bet that she had no thighs.”
This affectation of cynicism bored the other gentlemen, and Foucarmont
contented himself by saying:
“Ask your cousin, dear boy.Here he is.”
“Jove, it’s a happy thought!” cried La Faloise. “I bet ten louis she
has thighs.”
Fauchery did indeed come up. As became a constant inmate of the house,
he had gone round by the dining room in order to avoid the crowded
doors.Rose had taken him up again at the beginning of the winter, and
he was now dividing himself between the singer and the countess, but he
was extremely fatigued and did not know how to get rid of one of them.Sabine flattered his vanity, but Rose amused him more than she. Besides, the passion Rose felt was a real one: her tenderness for him
was marked by a conjugal fidelity which drove Mignon to despair.“Listen, we want some information,” said La Faloise as he squeezed his
cousin’s arm.“You see that lady in white silk?”
Ever since his inheritance had given him a kind of insolent dash of
manner he had affected to chaff Fauchery, for he had an old grudge to
satisfy and wanted to be revenged for much bygone raillery, dating from
the days when he was just fresh from his native province.“Yes, that lady with the lace.”
The journalist stood on tiptoe, for as yet he did not understand. “The countess?” he said at last. “Exactly, my good friend.I’ve bet ten louis—now, has she thighs?”
And he fell a-laughing, for he was delighted to have succeeded in
snubbing a fellow who had once come heavily down on him for asking
whether the countess slept with anyone.But Fauchery, without showing
the very slightest astonishment, looked fixedly at him. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
“Get along, you idiot!” he said finally as he shrugged his shoulders.Then he shook hands with the other gentlemen, while La Faloise, in his
discomfiture, felt rather uncertain whether he had said something
funny. The men chatted.Since the races the banker and Foucarmont had
formed part of the set in the Avenue de Villiers. Nana was going on
much better, and every evening the count came and asked how she did.Meanwhile Fauchery, though he listened, seemed preoccupied, for during
a quarrel that morning Rose had roundly confessed to the sending of the
letter. Oh yes, he might present himself at his great lady’s house; he
would be well received!After long hesitation he had come despite
everything—out of sheer courage. But La Faloise’s imbecile pleasantry
had upset him in spite of his apparent tranquillity. “What’s the matter?” asked Philippe. “You seem in trouble.”
“I do? Not at all.I’ve been working: that’s why I came so late.”
Then coldly, in one of those heroic moods which, although unnoticed,
are wont to solve the vulgar tragedies of existence:
“All the same, I haven’t made my bow to our hosts.One must be civil.”
He even ventured on a joke, for he turned to La Faloise and said:
“Eh, you idiot?”
And with that he pushed his way through the crowd.The valet’s full
voice was no longer shouting out names, but close to the door the count
and countess were still talking, for they were detained by ladies
coming in.At length he joined them, while the gentlemen who were still
on the garden steps stood on tiptoe so as to watch the scene. Nana,
they thought, must have been chattering. “The count hasn’t noticed him,” muttered Georges. “Look out!He’s
turning round; there, it’s done!”
The band had again taken up the waltz in the Blonde Venus. Fauchery had
begun by bowing to the countess, who was still smiling in ecstatic
serenity.After which he had stood motionless a moment, waiting very
calmly behind the count’s back. That evening the count’s deportment was
one of lofty gravity: he held his head high, as became the official and
the great dignitary.And when at last he lowered his gaze in the
direction of the journalist he seemed still further to emphasize the
majesty of his attitude. For some seconds the two men looked at one
another. It was Fauchery who first stretched out his hand.Muffat gave
him his. Their hands remained clasped, and the Countess Sabine with
downcast eyes stood smiling before them, while the waltz continually
beat out its mocking, vagabond rhythm. “But the thing’s going on wheels!” said Steiner.“Are their hands glued together?” asked Foucarmont, surprised at this
prolonged clasp.A memory he could not forget brought a faint glow to
Fanchery’s pale cheeks, and in his mind’s eye he saw the property room
bathed in greenish twilight and filled with dusty bric-a-brac.And
Muffat was there, eggcup in hand, making a clever use of his
suspicions. At this moment Muffat was no longer suspicious, and the
last vestige of his dignity was crumbling in ruin.Fauchery’s fears
were assuaged, and when he saw the frank gaiety of the countess he was
seized with a desire to laugh. The thing struck him as comic.“Aha, here she is at last!” cried La Faloise, who did not abandon a
jest when he thought it a good one. “D’you see Nana coming in over
there?”
“Hold your tongue, do, you idiot!” muttered Philippe. “But I tell you, it is Nana!They’re playing her waltz for her, by
Jove! She’s making her entry. And she takes part in the reconciliation,
the devil she does! What? You don’t see her?She’s squeezing all three
of ’em to her heart—my cousin Fauchery, my lady cousin and her husband,
and she’s calling ’em her dear kitties.Oh, those family scenes give me
a turn!”
Estelle had come up, and Fauchery complimented her while she stood
stiffly up in her rose-colored dress, gazing at him with the astonished
look of a silent child and constantly glancing aside at her father and
mother.Daguenet, too, exchanged a hearty shake of the hand with the
journalist. Together they made up a smiling group, while M. Venot came
gliding in behind them.He gloated over them with a beatified
expression and seemed to envelop them in his pious sweetness, for he
rejoiced in these last instances of self-abandonment which were
preparing the means of grace.But the waltz still beat out its swinging, laughing, voluptuous
measure; it was like a shrill continuation of the life of pleasure
which was beating against the old house like a rising tide.The band
blew louder trills from their little flutes; their violins sent forth
more swooning notes.Beneath the Genoa velvet hangings, the gilding and
the paintings, the lusters exhaled a living heat and a great glow of
sunlight, while the crowd of guests, multiplied in the surrounding
mirrors, seemed to grow and increase as the murmur of many voices rose
ever louder.The couples who whirled round the drawing room, arm about
waist, amid the smiles of the seated ladies, still further accentuated
the quaking of the floors.In the garden a dull, fiery glow fell from
the Venetian lanterns and threw a distant reflection of flame over the
dark shadows moving in search of a breath of air about the walks at its
farther end.And this trembling of walls and this red glow of light
seemed to betoken a great ultimate conflagration in which the fabric of
an ancient honor was cracking and burning on every side.The shy early
beginnings of gaiety, of which Fauchery one April evening had heard the
vocal expression in the sound of breaking glass, had little by little
grown bolder, wilder, till they had burst forth in this festival.Now
the rift was growing; it was crannying the house and announcing
approaching downfall.Among drunkards in the slums it is black misery,
an empty cupboard, which put an end to ruined families; it is the
madness of drink which empties the wretched beds.Here the waltz tune
was sounding the knell of an old race amid the suddenly ignited ruins
of accumulated wealth, while Nana, although unseen, stretched her lithe
limbs above the dancers’ heads and sent corruption through their caste,
drenching the hot air with the ferment of her exhalations and the
vagabond lilt of the music.On the evening after the celebration of the church marriage Count
Muffat made his appearance in his wife’s bedroom, where he had not
entered for the last two years. At first, in her great surprise, the
countess drew back from him.But she was still smiling the intoxicated
smile which she now always wore. He began stammering in extreme
embarrassment; whereupon she gave him a short moral lecture. However,
neither of them risked a decisive explanation.It was religion, they
pretended, which required this process of mutual forgiveness, and they
agreed by a tacit understanding to retain their freedom.Before going
to bed, seeing that the countess still appeared to hesitate, they had a
business conversation, and the count was the first to speak of selling
the Bordes. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
She consented at once.They both stood in great want of
money, and they would share and share alike. This completed the
reconciliation, and Muffat, remorseful though he was, felt veritably
relieved.That very day, as Nana was dozing toward two in the afternoon, Zoé made
so bold as to knock at her bedroom door. The curtains were drawn to,
and a hot breath of wind kept blowing through a window into the fresh
twilight stillness within.During these last days the young woman had
been getting up and about again, but she was still somewhat weak. She
opened her eyes and asked:
“Who is it?”
Zoé was about to reply, but Daguenet pushed by her and announced
himself in person.Nana forthwith propped herself up on her pillow and,
dismissing the lady’s maid:
“What! Is that you?” she cried. “On the day of your marriage? What can
be the matter?”
Taken aback by the darkness, he stood still in the middle of the room.However, he grew used to it and came forward at last. He was in evening
dress and wore a white cravat and gloves. “Yes, to be sure, it’s me!” he said.“You don’t remember?”
No, she remembered nothing, and in his chaffing way he had to offer
himself frankly to her. “Come now, here’s your commission.I’ve brought you the handsel of my
innocence!”
And with that, as he was now by the bedside, she caught him in her bare
arms and shook with merry laughter and almost cried, she thought it so
pretty of him. “Oh, that Mimi, how funny he is!He’s thought of it after all! And to
think I didn’t remember it any longer! So you’ve slipped off; you’re
just out of church. Yes, certainly, you’ve got a scent of incense about
you. But kiss me, kiss me! Oh, harder than that, Mimi dear! Bah!Perhaps it’s for the last time.”
In the dim room, where a vague odor of ether still lingered, their
tender laughter died away suddenly. The heavy, warm breeze swelled the
window curtains, and children’s voices were audible in the avenue
without.Then the lateness of the hour tore them asunder and set them
joking again. Daguenet took his departure with his wife directly after
the breakfast.CHAPTER XIII
Toward the end of September Count Muffat, who was to dine at Nana’s
that evening, came at nightfall to inform her of a summons to the
Tuileries.The lamps in the house had not been lit yet, and the
servants were laughing uproariously in the kitchen regions as he softly
mounted the stairs, where the tall windows gleamed in warm shadow. The
door of the drawing room up-stairs opened noiselessly.A faint pink
glow was dying out on the ceiling of the room, and the red hangings,
the deep divans, the lacquered furniture, with their medley of
embroidered fabrics and bronzes and china, were already sleeping under
a slowly creeping flood of shadows, which drowned nooks and corners and
blotted out the gleam of ivory and the glint of gold.And there in the
darkness, on the white surface of a wide, outspread petticoat, which
alone remained clearly visible, he saw Nana lying stretched in the arms
of Georges. Denial in any shape or form was impossible.He gave a
choking cry and stood gaping at them. Nana had bounded up, and now she pushed him into the bedroom in order
to give the lad time to escape.“Come in,” she murmured with reeling senses, “I’ll explain.”
She was exasperated at being thus surprised. Never before had she given
way like this in her own house, in her own drawing room, when the doors
were open.It was a long story: Georges and she had had a disagreement;
he had been mad with jealousy of Philippe, and he had sobbed so
bitterly on her bosom that she had yielded to him, not knowing how else
to calm him and really very full of pity for him at heart.And on this
solitary occasion, when she had been stupid enough to forget herself
thus with a little rascal who could not even now bring her bouquets of
violets, so short did his mother keep him—on this solitary occasion the
count turned up and came straight down on them.’Gad, she had very bad
luck! That was what one got if one was a good-natured wench! Meanwhile in the bedroom, into which she had pushed Muffat, the
darkness was complete. Whereupon after some groping she rang furiously
and asked for a lamp.It was Julien’s fault too! If there had been a
lamp in the drawing room the whole affair would not have happened. It
was the stupid nightfall which had got the better of her heart.“I beseech you to be reasonable, my pet,” she said when Zoé had brought
in the lights. The count, with his hands on his knees, was sitting gazing at the
floor. He was stupefied by what he had just seen. He did not cry out in
anger.He only trembled, as though overtaken by some horror which was
freezing him. This dumb misery touched the young woman, and she tried
to comfort him. “Well, yes, I’ve done wrong. It’s very bad what I did. You see I’m
sorry for my fault.It makes me grieve very much because it annoys you. Come now, be nice, too, and forgive me.”
She had crouched down at his feet and was striving to catch his eye
with a look of tender submission.She was fain to know whether he was
very vexed with her.Presently, as he gave a long sigh and seemed to
recover himself, she grew more coaxing and with grave kindness of
manner added a final reason:
“You see, dearie, you must try and understand how it is: I can’t refuse
it to my poor friends.”
The count consented to give way and only insisted that Georges should
be dismissed once for all.But all his illusions had vanished, and he
no longer believed in her sworn fidelity.Next day Nana would deceive
him anew, and he only remained her miserable possessor in obedience to
a cowardly necessity and to terror at the thought of living without
her.This was the epoch in her existence when Nana flared upon Paris with
redoubled splendor.She loomed larger than heretofore on the horizon of
vice and swayed the town with her impudently flaunted splendor and that
contempt of money which made her openly squander fortunes.Her house
had become a sort of glowing smithy, where her continual desires were
the flames and the slightest breath from her lips changed gold into
fine ashes, which the wind hourly swept away. Never had eye beheld such
a rage of expenditure.The great house seemed to have been built over a
gulf in which men—their worldly possessions, their fortunes, their very
names—were swallowed up without leaving even a handful of dust behind
them.This courtesan, who had the tastes of a parrot and gobbled up
radishes and burnt almonds and pecked at the meat upon her plate, had
monthly table bills amounting to five thousand francs.The wildest
waste went on in the kitchen: the place, metaphorically speaking was
one great river which stove in cask upon cask of wine and swept great
bills with it, swollen by three or four successive manipulators.Victorine and Francois reigned supreme in the kitchen, whither they
invited friends. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
In addition to these there was quite a little tribe of
cousins, who were cockered up in their homes with cold meats and strong
soup.Julien made the trades-people give him commissions, and the
glaziers never put up a pane of glass at a cost of a franc and a half
but he had a franc put down to himself.Charles devoured the horses’
oats and doubled the amount of their provender, reselling at the back
door what came in at the carriage gate, while amid the general pillage,
the sack of the town after the storm, Zoé, by dint of cleverness,
succeeded in saving appearances and covering the thefts of all in order
the better to slur over and make good her own.But the household waste
was worse than the household dishonesty. Yesterday’s food was thrown
into the gutter, and the collection of provisions in the house was such
that the servants grew disgusted with it.The glass was all sticky with
sugar, and the gas burners flared and flared till the rooms seemed
ready to explode.Then, too, there were instances of negligence and
mischief and sheer accident—of everything, in fact, which can hasten
the ruin of a house devoured by so many mouths. Upstairs in Madame’s
quarters destruction raged more fiercely still.Dresses, which cost ten
thousand francs and had been twice worn, were sold by Zoé; jewels
vanished as though they had crumbled deep down in their drawers; stupid
purchases were made; every novelty of the day was brought and left to
lie forgotten in some corner the morning after or swept up by
ragpickers in the street.She could not see any very expensive object
without wanting to possess it, and so she constantly surrounded herself
with the wrecks of bouquets and costly knickknacks and was the happier
the more her passing fancy cost.Nothing remained intact in her hands;
she broke everything, and this object withered, and that grew dirty in
the clasp of her lithe white fingers.A perfect heap of nameless
débris, of twisted shreds and muddy rags, followed her and marked her
passage. Then amid this utter squandering of pocket money cropped up a
question about the big bills and their settlement.Twenty thousand
francs were due to the modiste, thirty thousand to the linen draper,
twelve thousand to the bootmaker.Her stable devoured fifty thousand
for her, and in six months she ran up a bill of a hundred and twenty
thousand francs at her ladies’ tailor.Though she had not enlarged her
scheme of expenditure, which Labordette reckoned at four hundred
thousand francs on an average, she ran up that same year to a million.She was herself stupefied by the amount and was unable to tell whither
such a sum could have gone.Heaps upon heaps of men, barrowfuls of
gold, failed to stop up the hole, which, amid this ruinous luxury,
continually gaped under the floor of her house. Meanwhile Nana had cherished her latest caprice.Once more exercised by
the notion that her room needed redoing, she fancied she had hit on
something at last.The room should be done in velvet of the color of
tea roses, with silver buttons and golden cords, tassels and fringes,
and the hangings should be caught up to the ceiling after the manner of
a tent.This arrangement ought to be both rich and tender, she thought,
and would form a splendid background to her blonde vermeil-tinted skin.However, the bedroom was only designed to serve as a setting to the
bed, which was to be a dazzling affair, a prodigy.Nana meditated a bed
such as had never before existed; it was to be a throne, an altar,
whither Paris was to come in order to adore her sovereign nudity.It
was to be all in gold and silver beaten work—it should suggest a great
piece of jewelry with its golden roses climbing on a trelliswork of
silver.On the headboard a band of Loves should peep forth laughing
from amid the flowers, as though they were watching the voluptuous
dalliance within the shadow of the bed curtains. Nana had applied to
Labordette who had brought two goldsmiths to see her.They were already
busy with the designs. The bed would cost fifty thousand francs, and
Muffat was to give it her as a New Year’s present.What most astonished the young woman was that she was endlessly short
of money amid a river of gold, the tide of which almost enveloped her. On certain days she was at her wit’s end for want of ridiculously small
sums—sums of only a few louis.She was driven to borrow from Zoé, or
she scraped up cash as well as she could on her own account.But before
resignedly adopting extreme measures she tried her friends and in a
joking sort of way got the men to give her all they had about them,
even down to their coppers.For the last three months she had been
emptying Philippe’s pockets especially, and now on days of passionate
enjoyment he never came away but he left his purse behind him.Soon she
grew bolder and asked him for loans of two hundred francs, three
hundred francs—never more than that—wherewith to pay the interest of
bills or to stave off outrageous debts.And Philippe, who in July had
been appointed paymaster to his regiment, would bring the money the day
after, apologizing at the same time for not being rich, seeing that
good Mamma Hugon now treated her sons with singular financial severity.At the close of three months these little oft-renewed loans mounted up
to a sum of ten thousand francs.The captain still laughed his
hearty-sounding laugh, but he was growing visibly thinner, and
sometimes he seemed absent-minded, and a shade of suffering would pass
over his face.But one look from Nana’s eyes would transfigure him in a
sort of sensual ecstasy.She had a very coaxing way with him and would
intoxicate him with furtive kisses and yield herself to him in sudden
fits of self-abandonment, which tied him to her apron strings the
moment he was able to escape from his military duties.One evening, Nana having announced that her name, too, was Thérèse and
that her fête day was the fifteenth of October, the gentlemen all sent
her presents.Captain Philippe brought his himself; it was an old
comfit dish in Dresden china, and it had a gold mount. He found her
alone in her dressing room.She had just emerged from the bath, had
nothing on save a great red-and-white flannel bathing wrap and was very
busy examining her presents, which were ranged on a table. She had
already broken a rock-crystal flask in her attempts to unstopper it.“Oh, you’re too nice!” she said. “What is it? Let’s have a peep!What a
baby you are to spend your pennies in little fakements like that!”
She scolded him, seeing that he was not rich, but at heart she was
delighted to see him spending his whole substance for her.Indeed, this
was the only proof of love which had power to touch her. Meanwhile she
was fiddling away at the comfit dish, opening it and shutting it in her
desire to see how it was made.“Take care,” he murmured, “it’s brittle.”
But she shrugged her shoulders. Did he think her as clumsy as a street
porter? | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
And all of a sudden the hinge came off between her fingers and
the lid fell and was broken.She was stupefied and remained gazing at
the fragments as she cried:
“Oh, it’s smashed!”
Then she burst out laughing. The fragments lying on the floor tickled
her fancy.Her merriment was of the nervous kind, the stupid, spiteful
laughter of a child who delights in destruction. Philippe had a little
fit of disgust, for the wretched girl did not know what anguish this
curio had cost him.Seeing him thoroughly upset, she tried to contain
herself. “Gracious me, it isn’t my fault! It was cracked; those old things
barely hold together. Besides, it was the cover!Didn’t you see the
bound it gave?”
And she once more burst into uproarious mirth. But though he made an effort to the contrary, tears appeared in the
young man’s eyes, and with that she flung her arms tenderly round his
neck. “How silly you are!You know I love you all the same. If one never
broke anything the tradesmen would never sell anything. All that sort
of thing’s made to be broken.Now look at this fan; it’s only held
together with glue!”
She had snatched up a fan and was dragging at the blades so that the
silk was torn in two.This seemed to excite her, and in order to show
that she scorned the other presents, the moment she had ruined his she
treated herself to a general massacre, rapping each successive object
and proving clearly that not one was solid in that she had broken them
all.There was a lurid glow in her vacant eyes, and her lips, slightly
drawn back, displayed her white teeth.Soon, when everything was in
fragments, she laughed cheerily again and with flushed cheeks beat on
the table with the flat of her hands, lisping like a naughty little
girl:
“All over! Got no more!Got no more!”
Then Philippe was overcome by the same mad excitement, and, pushing her
down, he merrily kissed her bosom.She abandoned herself to him and
clung to his shoulders with such gleeful energy that she could not
remember having enjoyed herself so much for an age past.Without
letting go of him she said caressingly:
“I say, dearie, you ought certainly to bring me ten louis tomorrow. It’s a bore, but there’s the baker’s bill worrying me awfully.”
He had grown pale.Then imprinting a final kiss on her forehead, he
said simply:
“I’ll try.”
Silence reigned. She was dressing, and he stood pressing his forehead
against the windowpanes.A minute passed, and he returned to her and
deliberately continued:
“Nana, you ought to marry me.”
This notion straightway so tickled the young woman that she was unable
to finish tying on her petticoats. “My poor pet, you’re ill!D’you offer me your hand because I ask you
for ten louis? No, never! I’m too fond of you. Good gracious, what a
silly question!”
And as Zoé entered in order to put her boots on, they ceased talking of
the matter.The lady’s maid at once espied the presents lying broken in
pieces on the table. She asked if she should put these things away,
and, Madame having bidden her get rid of them, she carried the whole
collection off in the folds of her dress.In the kitchen a sorting-out
process began, and Madame’s débris were shared among the servants. That day Georges had slipped into the house despite Nana’s orders to
the contrary.Francois had certainly seen him pass, but the servants
had now got to laugh among themselves at their good lady’s embarrassing
situations.He had just slipped as far as the little drawing room when
his brother’s voice stopped him, and, as one powerless to tear himself
from the door, he overheard everything that went on within, the kisses,
the offer of marriage.A feeling of horror froze him, and he went away
in a state bordering on imbecility, feeling as though there were a
great void in his brain.It was only in his own room above his mother’s
flat in the Rue Richelieu that his heart broke in a storm of furious
sobs.This time there could be no doubt about the state of things; a
horrible picture of Nana in Philippe’s arms kept rising before his
mind’s eye. It struck him in the light of an incest.When he fancied
himself calm again the remembrance of it all would return, and in fresh
access of raging jealousy he would throw himself on the bed, biting the
coverlet, shouting infamous accusations which maddened him the more. Thus the day passed.In order to stay shut up in his room he spoke of
having a sick headache. But the night proved more terrible still; a
murder fever shook him amid continual nightmares.Had his brother lived
in the house, he would have gone and killed him with the stab of a
knife. When day returned he tried to reason things out.It was he who
ought to die, and he determined to throw himself out of the window when
an omnibus was passing.Nevertheless, he went out toward ten o’clock
and traversed Paris, wandered up and down on the bridges and at the
last moment felt an unconquerable desire to see Nana once more. With
one word, perhaps, she would save him.And three o’clock was striking
when he entered the house in the Avenue de Villiers. Toward noon a frightful piece of news had simply crushed Mme Hugon.Philippe had been in prison since the evening of the previous day,
accused of having stolen twelve thousand francs from the chest of his
regiment.For the last three months he had been withdrawing small sums
therefrom in the hope of being able to repay them, while he had covered
the deficit with false money.Thanks to the negligence of the
administrative committee, this fraud had been constantly successful. The old lady, humbled utterly by her child’s crime, had at once cried
out in anger against Nana.She knew Philippe’s connection with her, and
her melancholy had been the result of this miserable state of things
which kept her in Paris in constant dread of some final catastrophe.But she had never looked forward to such shame as this, and now she
blamed herself for refusing him money, as though such refusal had made
her accessory to his act.She sank down on an armchair; her legs were
seized with paralysis, and she felt herself to be useless, incapable of
action and destined to stay where she was till she died. But the sudden
thought of Georges comforted her.Georges was still left her; he would
be able to act, perhaps to save them.Thereupon, without seeking aid of
anyone else—for she wished to keep these matters shrouded in the bosom
of her family—she dragged herself up to the next story, her mind
possessed by the idea that she still had someone to love about her.But
upstairs she found an empty room. The porter told her that M. Georges
had gone out at an early hour.The room was haunted by the ghost of yet
another calamity; the bed with its gnawed bedclothes bore witness to
someone’s anguish, and a chair which lay amid a heap of clothes on the
ground looked like something dead.Georges must be at that woman’s
house, and so with dry eyes and feet that had regained their strength
Mme Hugon went downstairs. She wanted her sons; she was starting to
reclaim them. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Then he hurried off to report progress, after sneering
knowingly at the baker.They didn’t care a damn for Madame; the walls
were echoing to their laughter, and she felt that she was deserted on
all hands and despised by the servants’ hall, the inmates of which were
watching her every movement and liberally bespattering her with the
filthiest of chaff.Thereupon she abandoned the intention of borrowing
the hundred and thirty-three francs from Zoé; she already owed the maid
money, and she was too proud to risk a refusal now.Such a burst of
feeling stirred her that she went back into her room, loudly remarking:
“Come, come, my girl, don’t count on anyone but yourself.Your body’s
your own property, and it’s better to make use of it than to let
yourself be insulted.”
And without even summoning Zoé she dressed herself with feverish haste
in order to run round to the Tricon’s.In hours of great embarrassment
this was her last resource.Much sought after and constantly solicited
by the old lady, she would refuse or resign herself according to her
needs, and on these increasingly frequent occasions when both ends
would not meet in her royally conducted establishment, she was sure to
find twenty-five louis awaiting her at the other’s house.She used to
betake herself to the Tricon’s with the ease born of use, just as the
poor go to the pawnshop. But as she left her own chamber Nana came suddenly upon Georges
standing in the middle of the drawing room.Not noticing his waxen
pallor and the somber fire in his wide eyes, she gave a sigh of relief. “Ah, you’ve come from your brother.”
“No,” said the lad, growing yet paler. At this she gave a despairing shrug. What did he want?Why was he
barring her way? She was in a hurry—yes, she was. Then returning to
where he stood:
“You’ve no money, have you?”
“No.”
“That’s true. How silly of me! Never a stiver; not even their omnibus
fares Mamma doesn’t wish it!Oh, what a set of men!”
And she escaped. But he held her back; he wanted to speak to her. She
was fairly under way and again declared she had no time, but he stopped
her with a word. “Listen, I know you’re going to marry my brother.”
Gracious!The thing was too funny! And she let herself down into a
chair in order to laugh at her ease. “Yes,” continued the lad, “and I don’t wish it. It’s I you’re going to
marry. That’s why I’ve come.”
“Eh, what? You too?” she cried.“Why, it’s a family disease, is it? No,
never! What a fancy, to be sure! Have I ever asked you to do anything
so nasty? Neither one nor t’other of you! No, never!”
The lad’s face brightened. Perhaps he had been deceiving himself!He
continued:
“Then swear to me that you don’t go to bed with my brother.”
“Oh, you’re beginning to bore me now!” said Nana, who had risen with
renewed impatience.“It’s amusing for a little while, but when I tell
you I’m in a hurry—I go to bed with your brother if it pleases me. Are
you keeping me—are you paymaster here that you insist on my making a
report?Yes, I go to bed with your brother.”
He had caught hold of her arm and squeezed it hard enough to break it
as he stuttered:
“Don’t say that! Don’t say that!”
With a slight blow she disengaged herself from his grasp. “He’s maltreating me now!Here’s a young ruffian for you! My chicken,
you’ll leave this jolly sharp. I used to keep you about out of
niceness. Yes, I did! You may stare! Did you think I was going to be
your mamma till I died?I’ve got better things to do than to bring up
brats.”
He listened to her stark with anguish, yet in utter submission. Her
every word cut him to the heart so sharply that he felt he should die.She did not so much as notice his suffering and continued delightedly
to revenge herself on him for the annoyance of the morning. “It’s like your brother; he’s another pretty Johnny, he is! He promised
me two hundred francs.Oh, dear me; yes, I can wait for ’em. It isn’t
his money I care for! I’ve not got enough to pay for hair oil. Yes,
he’s leaving me in a jolly fix! Look here, d’you want to know how
matters stand?Here goes then: it’s all owing to your brother that I’m
going out to earn twenty-five louis with another man.”
At these words his head spun, and he barred her egress.He cried; he
besought her not to go, clasping his hands together and blurting out:
“Oh no! Oh no!”
“I want to, I do,” she said. “Have you the money?”
No, he had not got the money. He would have given his life to have the
money!Never before had he felt so miserable, so useless, so very
childish. All his wretched being was shaken with weeping and gave proof
of such heavy suffering that at last she noticed it and grew kind. She
pushed him away softly.“Come, my pet, let me pass; I must. Be reasonable. You’re a baby boy,
and it was very nice for a week, but nowadays I must look after my own
affairs. Just think it over a bit. Now your brother’s a man; what I’m
saying doesn’t apply to him.Oh, please do me a favor; it’s no good
telling him all this. He needn’t know where I’m going. I always let out
too much when I’m in a rage.”
She began laughing.Then taking him in her arms and kissing him on the
forehead:
“Good-by, baby,” she said; “it’s over, quite over between us; d’you
understand? And now I’m off!”
And she left him, and he stood in the middle of the drawing room.Her
last words rang like the knell of a tocsin in his ears: “It’s over,
quite over!” And he thought the ground was opening beneath his feet. There was a void in his brain from which the man awaiting Nana had
disappeared.Philippe alone remained there in the young woman’s bare
embrace forever and ever. She did not deny it: she loved him, since she
wanted to spare him the pain of her infidelity. It was over, quite
over.He breathed heavily and gazed round the room, suffocating beneath
a crushing weight.Memories kept recurring to him one after the
other—memories of merry nights at La Mignotte, of amorous hours during
which he had fancied himself her child, of pleasures stolen in this
very room. And now these things would never, never recur!He was too
small; he had not grown up quickly enough; Philippe was supplanting him
because he was a bearded man. So then this was the end; he could not go
on living.His vicious passion had become transformed into an infinite
tenderness, a sensual adoration, in which his whole being was merged.Then, too, how was he to forget it all if his brother remained—his
brother, blood of his blood, a second self, whose enjoyment drove him
mad with jealousy? It was the end of all things; he wanted to die.All the doors remained open, as the servants noisily scattered over the
house after seeing Madame make her exit on foot. Downstairs on the
bench in the hall the baker was laughing with Charles and Francois.Zoé
came running across the drawing room and seemed surprised at sight of
Georges. She asked him if he were waiting for Madame. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Yes, he was
waiting for her; he had for-gotten to give her an answer to a question.And when he was alone he set to work and searched.Finding nothing else
to suit his purpose, he took up in the dressing room a pair of very
sharply pointed scissors with which Nana had a mania for ceaselessly
trimming herself, either by polishing her skin or cutting off little
hairs.Then for a whole hour he waited patiently, his hand in his
pocket and his fingers tightly clasped round the scissors. “Here’s Madame,” said Zoé, returning. She must have espied her through
the bedroom window.There was a sound of people racing through the house, and laughter died
away and doors were shut. Georges heard Nana paying the baker and
speaking in the curtest way. Then she came upstairs. “What, you’re here still!” she said as she noticed him.“Aha! We’re
going to grow angry, my good man!”
He followed her as she walked toward her bedroom. “Nana, will you marry me?”
She shrugged her shoulders.It was too stupid; she refused to answer
any more and conceived the idea of slamming the door in his face. “Nana, will you marry me?”
She slammed the door. He opened it with one hand while he brought the
other and the scissors out of his pocket.And with one great stab he
simply buried them in his breast. Nana, meanwhile, had felt conscious that something dreadful would
happen, and she had turned round. When she saw him stab himself she was
seized with indignation. “Oh, what a fool he is!What a fool! And with my scissors! Will you
leave off, you naughty little rogue? Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”
She was scared. Sinking on his knees, the boy had just given himself a
second stab, which sent him down at full length on the carpet.He
blocked the threshold of the bedroom. With that Nana lost her head
utterly and screamed with all her might, for she dared not step over
his body, which shut her in and prevented her from running to seek
assistance. “Zoé! Zoé! Come at once.Make him leave off. It’s getting stupid—a
child like that! He’s killing himself now! And in my place too! Did you
ever see the like of it?”
He was frightening her. He was all white, and his eyes were shut.There
was scarcely any bleeding—only a little blood, a tiny stain which was
oozing down into his waistcoat. She was making up her mind to step over
the body when an apparition sent her starting back.An old lady was
advancing through the drawing-room door, which remained wide open
opposite. And in her terror she recognized Mme Hugon but could not
explain her presence.Still wearing her gloves and hat, Nana kept
edging backward, and her terror grew so great that she sought to defend
herself, and in a shaky voice:
“Madame,” she cried, “it isn’t I; I swear to you it isn’t.He wanted to
marry me, and I said no, and he’s killed himself!”
Slowly Mme Hugon drew near—she was in black, and her face showed pale
under her white hair.In the carriage, as she drove thither, the
thought of Georges had vanished and that of Philippe’s misdoing had
again taken complete possession of her.It might be that this woman
could afford explanations to the judges which would touch them, and so
she conceived the project of begging her to bear witness in her son’s
favor.Downstairs the doors of the house stood open, but as she mounted
to the first floor her sick feet failed her, and she was hesitating as
to which way to go when suddenly horror-stricken cries directed her.Then upstairs she found a man lying on the floor with bloodstained
shirt. It was Georges—it was her other child.Nana, in idiotic tones, kept saying:
“He wanted to marry me, and I said no, and he’s killed himself.”
Uttering no cry, Mme Hugon stooped down. Yes, it was the other one; it
was Georges. The one was brought to dishonor, the other murdered!It
caused her no surprise, for her whole life was ruined. Kneeling on the
carpet, utterly forgetting where she was, noticing no one else, she
gazed fixedly at her boy’s face and listened with her hand on his
heart.Then she gave a feeble sigh—she had felt the heart beating. And
with that she lifted her head and scrutinized the room and the woman
and seemed to remember.A fire glowed forth in her vacant eyes, and she
looked so great and terrible in her silence that Nana trembled as she
continued to defend herself above the body that divided them. “I swear it, madame!If his brother were here he could explain it to
you.”
“His brother has robbed—he is in prison,” said the mother in a hard
voice. Nana felt a choking sensation. Why, what was the reason of it all? The
other had turned thief now!They were mad in that family! She ceased
struggling in self-defense; she seemed no longer mistress in her own
house and allowed Mme Hugon to give what orders she liked.The servants
had at last hurried up, and the old lady insisted on their carrying the
fainting Georges down to her carriage. She preferred killing him rather
than letting him remain in that house.With an air of stupefaction Nana
watched the retreating servants as they supported poor, dear Zizi by
his legs and shoulders.The mother walked behind them in a state of
collapse; she supported herself against the furniture; she felt as if
all she held dear had vanished in the void.On the landing a sob
escaped her; she turned and twice ejaculated:
“Oh, but you’ve done us infinite harm! You’ve done us infinite harm!”
That was all. In her stupefaction Nana had sat down; she still wore her
gloves and her hat.The house once more lapsed into heavy silence; the
carriage had driven away, and she sat motionless, not knowing what to
do next, her head swimming after all she had gone through.A quarter of
an hour later Count Muffat found her thus, but at sight of him she
relieved her feelings in an overflowing current of talk.She told him
all about the sad incident, repeated the same details twenty times
over, picked up the bloodstained scissors in order to imitate Zizi’s
gesture when he stabbed himself. And above all she nursed the idea of
proving her own innocence.“Look you here, dearie, is it my fault? If you were the judge would you
condemn me? I certainly didn’t tell Philippe to meddle with the till
any more than I urged that wretched boy to kill himself. I’ve been most
unfortunate throughout it all.They come and do stupid things in my
place; they make me miserable; they treat me like a hussy.”
And she burst into tears. A fit of nervous expansiveness rendered her
soft and doleful, and her immense distress melted her utterly.“And you, too, look as if you weren’t satisfied. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Now do just ask Zoé if
I’m at all mixed up in it.Zoé, do speak: explain to Monsieur—”
The lady’s maid, having brought a towel and a basin of water out of the
dressing room, had for some moments past been rubbing the carpet in
order to remove the bloodstains before they dried.“Oh, monsieur,” she declared, “Madame is utterly miserable!”
Muffat was still stupefied; the tragedy had frozen him, and his
imagination was full of the mother weeping for her sons.He knew her
greatness of heart and pictured her in her widow’s weeds, withering
solitarily away at Les Fondettes.But Nana grew ever more despondent,
for now the memory of Zizi lying stretched on the floor, with a red
hole in his shirt, almost drove her senseless. “He used to be such a darling, so sweet and caressing.Oh, you know, my
pet—I’m sorry if it vexes you—I loved that baby! I can’t help saying
so; the words must out. Besides, now it ought not to hurt you at all. He’s gone.You’ve got what you wanted; you’re quite certain never to
surprise us again.”
And this last reflection tortured her with such regret that he ended by
turning comforter.Well, well, he said, she ought to be brave; she was
quite right; it wasn’t her fault! But she checked her lamentations of
her own accord in order to say:
“Listen, you must run round and bring me news of him. At once!I wish
it!”
He took his hat and went to get news of Georges.When he returned after
some three quarters of an hour he saw Nana leaning anxiously out of a
window, and he shouted up to her from the pavement that the lad was not
dead and that they even hoped to bring him through.At this she
immediately exchanged grief for excess of joy and began to sing and
dance and vote existence delightful. Zoé, meanwhile, was still
dissatisfied with her washing.She kept looking at the stain, and every
time she passed it she repeated:
“You know it’s not gone yet, madame.”
As a matter of fact, the pale red stain kept reappearing on one of the
white roses in the carpet pattern.It was as though, on the very
threshold of the room, a splash of blood were barring the doorway. “Bah!” said the joyous Nana. “That’ll be rubbed out under people’s
feet.”
After the following day Count Muffat had likewise forgotten the
incident.For a moment or two, when in the cab which drove him to the
Rue Richelieu, he had busily sworn never to return to that woman’s
house. Heaven was warning him; the misfortunes of Philippe and Georges
were, he opined, prophetic of his proper ruin.But neither the sight of
Mme Hugon in tears nor that of the boy burning with fever had been
strong enough to make him keep his vow, and the short-lived horror of
the situation had only left behind it a sense of secret delight at the
thought that he was now well quit of a rival, the charm of whose youth
had always exasperated him.His passion had by this time grown
exclusive; it was, indeed, the passion of a man who has had no youth. He loved Nana as one who yearned to be her sole possessor, to listen to
her, to touch her, to be breathed on by her.His was now a supersensual
tenderness, verging on pure sentiment; it was an anxious affection and
as such was jealous of the past and apt at times to dream of a day of
redemption and pardon received, when both should kneel before God the
Father.Every day religion kept regaining its influence over him. He
again became a practicing Christian; he confessed himself and
communicated, while a ceaseless struggle raged within him, and remorse
redoubled the joys of sin and of repentance.Afterward, when his
director gave him leave to spend his passion, he had made a habit of
this daily perdition and would redeem the same by ecstasies of faith,
which were full of pious humility.Very naively he offered heaven, by
way of expiatory anguish, the abominable torment from which he was
suffering.This torment grew and increased, and he would climb his
Calvary with the deep and solemn feelings of a believer, though steeped
in a harlot’s fierce sensuality. That which made his agony most
poignant was this woman’s continued faithlessness.He could not share
her with others, nor did he understand her imbecile caprices. Undying,
unchanging love was what he wished for. However, she had sworn, and he
paid her as having done so.But he felt that she was untruthful,
incapable of common fidelity, apt to yield to friends, to stray
passers-by, like a good-natured animal, born to live minus a shift.One morning when he saw Foucarmont emerging from her bedroom at an
unusual hour, he made a scene about it. But in her weariness of his
jealousy she grew angry directly. On several occasions ere that she had
behaved rather prettily.Thus the evening when he surprised her with
Georges she was the first to regain her temper and to confess herself
in the wrong. She had loaded him with caresses and dosed him with soft
speeches in order to make him swallow the business.But he had ended by
boring her to death with his obstinate refusals to understand the
feminine nature, and now she was brutal. “Very well, yes! I’ve slept with Foucarmont. What then?That’s
flattened you out a bit, my little rough, hasn’t it?”
It was the first time she had thrown “my little rough” in his teeth.The frank directness of her avowal took his breath away, and when he
began clenching his fists she marched up to him and looked him full in
the face. “We’ve had enough of this, eh? If it doesn’t suit you you’ll do me the
pleasure of leaving the house.I don’t want you to go yelling in my
place. Just you get it into your noodle that I mean to be quite free. When a man pleases me I go to bed with him. Yes, I do—that’s my way! And you must make up your mind directly. Yes or no!If it’s no, out you
may walk!”
She had gone and opened the door, but he did not leave. That was her
way now of binding him more closely to her.For no reason whatever, at
the slightest approach to a quarrel she would tell him he might stop or
go as he liked, and she would accompany her permission with a flood of
odious reflections.She said she could always find better than he; she
had only too many from whom to choose; men in any quantity could be
picked up in the street, and men a good deal smarter, too, whose blood
boiled in their veins.At this he would hang his head and wait for
those gentler moods when she wanted money. She would then become
affectionate, and he would forget it all, one night of tender dalliance
making up for the tortures of a whole week.His reconciliation with his
wife had rendered his home unbearable. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Fauchery, having again fallen
under Rose’s dominion, the countess was running madly after other
loves.She was entering on the forties, that restless, feverish time in
the life of women, and ever hysterically nervous, she now filled her
mansion with the maddening whirl of her fashionable life.Estelle,
since her marriage, had seen nothing of her father; the undeveloped,
insignificant girl had suddenly become a woman of iron will, so
imperious withal that Daguenet trembled in her presence.In these days
he accompanied her to mass: he was converted, and he raged against his
father-in-law for ruining them with a courtesan. M. Venot alone still
remained kindly inclined toward the count, for he was biding his time.He had even succeeded in getting into Nana’s immediate circle. In fact,
he frequented both houses, where you encountered his continual smile
behind doors.So Muffat, wretched at home, driven out by ennui and
shame, still preferred to live in the Avenue de Villiers, even though
he was abused there.Soon there was but one question between Nana and the count, and that
was “money.” One day after having formally promised her ten thousand
francs he had dared keep his appointment empty handed.For two days
past she had been surfeiting him with love, and such a breach of faith,
such a waste of caresses, made her ragingly abusive. She was white with
fury. “So you’ve not got the money, eh?Then go back where you came from, my
little rough, and look sharp about it! There’s a bloody fool for you! He wanted to kiss me again!Mark my words—no money, no nothing!”
He explained matters; he would be sure to have the money the day after
tomorrow. But she interrupted him violently:
“And my bills! They’ll sell me up while Monsieur’s playing the fool. Now then, look at yourself.D’ye think I love you for your figure? A
man with a mug like yours has to pay the women who are kind enough to
put up with him. By God, if you don’t bring me that ten thousand francs
tonight you shan’t even have the tip of my little finger to suck.I
mean it! I shall send you back to your wife!”
At night he brought the ten thousand francs. Nana put up her lips, and
he took a long kiss which consoled him for the whole day of anguish.What annoyed the young woman was to have him continually tied to her
apron strings. She complained to M. Venot, begging him to take her
little rough off to the countess. Was their reconciliation good for
nothing then?She was sorry she had mixed herself up in it, since
despite everything he was always at her heels.On the days when, out of
anger, she forgot her own interest, she swore to play him such a dirty
trick that he would never again be able to set foot in her place.But
when she slapped her leg and yelled at him she might quite as well have
spat in his face too: he would still have stayed and even thanked her. Then the rows about money matters kept continually recurring.She
demanded money savagely; she rowed him over wretched little amounts;
she was odiously stingy with every minute of her time; she kept
fiercely informing him that she slept with him for his money, not for
any other reasons, and that she did not enjoy it a bit, that, in fact,
she loved another and was awfully unfortunate in needing an idiot of
his sort!They did not even want him at court now, and there was some
talk of requiring him to send in his resignation. The empress had said,
“He is too disgusting.” It was true enough. So Nana repeated the phrase
by way of closure to all their quarrels.“Look here! You disgust me!”
Nowadays she no longer minded her p’s and q’s; she had regained the
most perfect freedom. Every day she did her round of the lake, beginning acquaintanceships
which ended elsewhere.Here was the happy hunting ground par
excellence, where courtesans of the first water spread their nets in
open daylight and flaunted themselves amid the tolerating smiles and
brilliant luxury of Paris.Duchesses pointed her out to one another
with a passing look—rich shopkeepers’ wives copied the fashion of her
hats.Sometimes her landau, in its haste to get by, stopped a file of
puissant turnouts, wherein sat plutocrats able to buy up all Europe or
Cabinet ministers with plump fingers tight-pressed to the throat of
France.She belonged to this Bois society, occupied a prominent place
in it, was known in every capital and asked about by every foreigner.The splendors of this crowd were enhanced by the madness of her
profligacy as though it were the very crown, the darling passion, of
the nation.Then there were unions of a night, continual passages of
desire, which she lost count of the morning after, and these sent her
touring through the grand restaurants and on fine days, as often as
not, to “Madrid.” The staffs of all the embassies visited her, and she,
Lucy Stewart, Caroline Hequet and Maria Blond would dine in the society
of gentlemen who murdered the French language and paid to be amused,
engaging them by the evening with orders to be funny and yet proving so
blase and so worn out that they never even touched them.This the
ladies called “going on a spree,” and they would return home happy at
having been despised and would finish the night in the arms of the
lovers of their choice.When she did not actually throw the men at his head Count Muffat
pretended not to know about all this. However, he suffered not a little
from the lesser indignities of their daily life.The mansion in the
Avenue de Villiers was becoming a hell, a house full of mad people, in
which every hour of the day wild disorders led to hateful
complications. Nana even fought with her servants.One moment she would
be very nice with Charles, the coachman.When she stopped at a
restaurant she would send him out beer by the waiter and would talk
with him from the inside of her carriage when he slanged the cabbies at
a block in the traffic, for then he struck her as funny and cheered her
up.Then the next moment she called him a fool for no earthly reason. She was always squabbling over the straw, the bran or the oats; in
spite of her love for animals she thought her horses ate too much.Accordingly one day when she was settling up she accused the man of
robbing her. At this Charles got in a rage and called her a whore right
out; his horses, he said, were distinctly better than she was, for they
did not sleep with everybody.She answered him in the same strain, and
the count had to separate them and give the coachman the sack. This was
the beginning of a rebellion among the servants. When her diamonds had
been stolen Victorine and Francois left.Julien himself disappeared,
and the tale ran that the master had given him a big bribe and had
begged him to go, because he slept with the mistress. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Every week there
were new faces in the servants’ hall.Never was there such a mess; the
house was like a passage down which the scum of the registry offices
galloped, destroying everything in their path.Zoé alone kept her
place; she always looked clean, and her only anxiety was how to
organize this riot until she had got enough together to set up on her
own account in fulfillment of a plan she had been hatching for some
time past.These, again, were only the anxieties he could own to. The count put up
with the stupidity of Mme Maloir, playing bezique with her in spite of
her musty smell.He put up with Mme Lerat and her encumbrances, with
Louiset and the mournful complaints peculiar to a child who is being
eaten up with the rottenness inherited from some unknown father. But he
spent hours worse than these.One evening he had heard Nana angrily
telling her maid that a man pretending to be rich had just swindled
her—a handsome man calling himself an American and owning gold mines in
his own country, a beast who had gone off while she was asleep without
giving her a copper and had even taken a packet of cigarette papers
with him.The count had turned very pale and had gone downstairs again
on tiptoe so as not to hear more. But later he had to hear all.Nana,
having been smitten with a baritone in a music hall and having been
thrown over by him, wanted to commit suicide during a fit of
sentimental melancholia. She swallowed a glass of water in which she
had soaked a box of matches.This made her terribly sick but did not
kill her. The count had to nurse her and to listen to the whole story
of her passion, her tearful protests and her oaths never to take to any
man again.In her contempt for those swine, as she called them, she
could not, however, keep her heart free, for she always had some
sweetheart round her, and her exhausted body inclined to
incomprehensible fancies and perverse tastes.As Zoé designedly relaxed
her efforts the service of the house had got to such a pitch that
Muffat did not dare to push open a door, to pull a curtain or to
unclose a cupboard.The bells did not ring; men lounged about
everywhere and at every moment knocked up against one another.He had
now to cough before entering a room, having almost caught the girl
hanging round Francis’ neck one evening that he had just gone out of
the dressing room for two minutes to tell the coachman to put the
horses to, while her hairdresser was finishing her hair.She gave
herself up suddenly behind his back; she took her pleasure in every
corner, quickly, with the first man she met. Whether she was in her
chemise or in full dress did not matter.She would come back to the
count red all over, happy at having cheated him. As for him, he was
plagued to death; it was an abominable infliction!In his jealous anguish the unhappy man was comparatively at peace when
he left Nana and Satin alone together. He would have willingly urged
her on to this vice, to keep the men off her. But all was spoiled in
this direction too.Nana deceived Satin as she deceived the count,
going mad over some monstrous fancy or other and picking up girls at
the street corners.Coming back in her carriage, she would suddenly be
taken with a little slut that she saw on the pavement; her senses would
be captivated, her imagination excited. She would take the little slut
in with her, pay her and send her away again.Then, disguised as a man,
she would go to infamous houses and look on at scenes of debauch to
while away hours of boredom. And Satin, angry at being thrown over
every moment, would turn the house topsy-turvy with the most awful
scenes.She had at last acquired a complete ascendancy over Nana, who
now respected her. Muffat even thought of an alliance between them. When he dared not say anything he let Satin loose.Twice she had
compelled her darling to take up with him again, while he showed
himself obliging and effaced himself in her favor at the least sign. But this good understanding lasted no time, for Satin, too, was a
little cracked.On certain days she would very nearly go mad and would
smash everything, wearing herself out in tempest of love and anger, but
pretty all the time.Zoé must have excited her, for the maid took her
into corners as if she wanted to tell her about her great design of
which she as yet spoke to no one. At times, however, Count Muffat was still singularly revolted.He who
had tolerated Satin for months, who had at last shut his eyes to the
unknown herd of men that scampered so quickly through Nana’s bedroom,
became terribly enraged at being deceived by one of his own set or even
by an acquaintance.When she confessed her relations with Foucarmont he
suffered so acutely, he thought the treachery of the young man so base,
that he wished to insult him and fight a duel.As he did not know where
to find seconds for such an affair, he went to Labordette. The latter,
astonished, could not help laughing. “A duel about Nana? But, my dear sir, all Paris would be laughing at
you.Men do not fight for Nana; it would be ridiculous.”
The count grew very pale and made a violent gesture. “Then I shall slap his face in the open street.”
For an hour Labordette had to argue with him.A blow would make the
affair odious; that evening everyone would know the real reason of the
meeting; it would be in all the papers.And Labordette always finished
with the same expression:
“It is impossible; it would be ridiculous.”
Each time Muffat heard these words they seemed sharp and keen as a
stab.He could not even fight for the woman he loved; people would have
burst out laughing.Never before had he felt more bitterly the misery
of his love, the contrast between his heavy heart and the absurdity of
this life of pleasure in which it was now lost.This was his last
rebellion; he allowed Labordette to convince him, and he was present
afterward at the procession of his friends, who lived there as if at
home. Nana in a few months finished them up greedily, one after the other.The growing needs entailed by her luxurious way of life only added fuel
to her desires, and she finished a man up at one mouthful. First she
had Foucarmont, who did not last a fortnight.He was thinking of
leaving the navy, having saved about thirty thousand francs in his ten
years of service, which he wished to invest in the United States.His
instincts, which were prudential, even miserly, were conquered; he gave
her everything, even his signature to notes of hand, which pledged his
future. When Nana had done with him he was penniless.But then she
proved very kind; she advised him to return to his ship. What was the
good of getting angry? Since he had no money their relations were no
longer possible. He ought to understand that and to be reasonable.A
ruined man fell from her hands like a ripe fruit, to rot on the ground
by himself. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Then Nana took up with Steiner without disgust but without love.She
called him a dirty Jew; she seemed to be paying back an old grudge, of
which she had no distinct recollection. He was fat; he was stupid, and
she got him down and took two bites at a time in order the quicker to
do for this Prussian.As for him, he had thrown Simonne over. His
Bosphorous scheme was getting shaky, and Nana hastened the downfall by
wild expenses. For a month he struggled on, doing miracles of finance.He filled Europe with posters, advertisements and prospectuses of a
colossal scheme and obtained money from the most distant climes. All
these savings, the pounds of speculators and the pence of the poor,
were swallowed up in the Avenue de Villiers.Again he was partner in an
ironworks in Alsace, where in a small provincial town workmen,
blackened with coal dust and soaked with sweat, day and night strained
their sinews and heard their bones crack to satisfy Nana’s pleasures.Like a huge fire she devoured all the fruits of stock-exchange
swindling and the profits of labor.This time she did for Steiner; she
brought him to the ground, sucked him dry to the core, left him so
cleaned out that he was unable to invent a new roguery. When his bank
failed he stammered and trembled at the idea of prosecution.His
bankruptcy had just been published, and the simple mention of money
flurried him and threw him into a childish embarrassment. And this was
he who had played with millions.One evening at Nana’s he began to cry
and asked her for a loan of a hundred francs wherewith to pay his
maidservant.And Nana, much affected and amused at the end of this
terrible old man who had squeezed Paris for twenty years, brought it to
him and said:
“I say, I’m giving it you because it seems so funny! But listen to me,
my boy, you are too old for me to keep.You must find something else to
do.”
Then Nana started on La Faloise at once. He had for some time been
longing for the honor of being ruined by her in order to put the
finishing stroke on his smartness.He needed a woman to launch him
properly; it was the one thing still lacking. In two months all Paris
would be talking of him, and he would see his name in the papers. Six
weeks were enough.His inheritance was in landed estate, houses,
fields, woods and farms. He had to sell all, one after the other, as
quickly as he could. At every mouthful Nana swallowed an acre.The
foliage trembling in the sunshine, the wide fields of ripe grain, the
vineyards so golden in September, the tall grass in which the cows
stood knee-deep, all passed through her hands as if engulfed by an
abyss.Even fishing rights, a stone quarry and three mills disappeared. Nana passed over them like an invading army or one of those swarms of
locusts whose flight scours a whole province. The ground was burned up
where her little foot had rested.Farm by farm, field by field, she ate
up the man’s patrimony very prettily and quite inattentively, just as
she would have eaten a box of sweet-meats flung into her lap between
mealtimes. There was no harm in it all; they were only sweets!But at
last one evening there only remained a single little wood. She
swallowed it up disdainfully, as it was hardly worth the trouble
opening one’s mouth for. La Faloise laughed idiotically and sucked the
top of his stick.His debts were crushing him; he was not worth a
hundred francs a year, and he saw that he would be compelled to go back
into the country and live with his maniacal uncle.But that did not
matter; he had achieved smartness; the Figaro had printed his name
twice.And with his meager neck sticking up between the turndown points
of his collar and his figure squeezed into all too short a coat, he
would swagger about, uttering his parrotlike exclamations and affecting
a solemn listlessness suggestive of an emotionless marionette.He so
annoyed Nana that she ended by beating him. Meanwhile Fauchery had returned, his cousin having brought him. Poor
Fauchery had now set up housekeeping.After having thrown over the
countess he had fallen into Rose’s hands, and she treated him as a
lawful wife would have done. Mignon was simply Madame’s major-domo.Installed as master of the house, the journalist lied to Rose and took
all sorts of precautions when he deceived her. He was as scrupulous as
a good husband, for he really wanted to settle down at last.Nana’s
triumph consisted in possessing and in ruining a newspaper that he had
started with a friend’s capital.She did not proclaim her triumph; on
the contrary, she delighted in treating him as a man who had to be
circumspect, and when she spoke of Rose it was as “poor Rose.” The
newspaper kept her in flowers for two months.She took all the
provincial subscriptions; in fact, she took everything, from the column
of news and gossip down to the dramatic notes.Then the editorial staff
having been turned topsy-turvy and the management completely
disorganized, she satisfied a fanciful caprice and had a winter garden
constructed in a corner of her house: that carried off all the type.But then it was no joke after all! When in his delight at the whole
business Mignon came to see if he could not saddle Fauchery on her
altogether, she asked him if he took her for a fool.A penniless fellow
living by his articles and his plays—not if she knew it! That sort of
foolishness might be all very well for a clever woman like her poor,
dear Rose!She grew distrustful: she feared some treachery on Mignon’s
part, for he was quite capable of preaching to his wife, and so she
gave Fauchery his CONGÉ as he now only paid her in fame. But she always recollected him kindly.They had both enjoyed themselves
so much at the expense of that fool of à La Faloise! They would never
have thought of seeing each other again if the delight of fooling such
a perfect idiot had not egged them on!It seemed an awfully good joke
to kiss each other under his very nose.They cut a regular dash with
his coin; they would send him off full speed to the other end of Paris
in order to be alone and then when he came back, they would crack jokes
and make allusions he could not understand.One day, urged by the
journalist, she bet that she would smack his face, and that she did the
very same evening and went on to harder blows, for she thought it a
good joke and was glad of the opportunity of showing how cowardly men
were.She called him her “slapjack” and would tell him to come and have
his smack! The smacks made her hands red, for as yet she was not up to
the trick. La Faloise laughed in his idiotic, languid way, though his
eyes were full of tears.He was delighted at such familiarity; he
thought it simply stunning. One night when he had received sundry cuffs and was greatly excited:
“Now, d’you know,” he said, “you ought to marry me.We should be as
jolly as grigs together, eh?”
This was no empty suggestion. Seized with a desire to astonish Paris,
he had been slyly projecting this marriage. “Nana’s husband! | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Wouldn’t
that sound smart, eh?” Rather a stunning apotheosis that!But Nana gave
him a fine snubbing. “Me marry you! Lovely! If such an idea had been tormenting me I should
have found a husband a long time ago! And he’d have been a man worth
twenty of you, my pippin! I’ve had a heap of proposals.Why, look here,
just reckon ’em up with me: Philippe, Georges, Foucarmont, Steiner—that
makes four, without counting the others you don’t know. It’s a chorus
they all sing. I can’t be nice, but they forthwith begin yelling, ‘Will
you marry me?Will you marry me?’”
She lashed herself up and then burst out in fine indignation:
“Oh dear, no! I don’t want to! D’you think I’m built that way? Just
look at me a bit! Why, I shouldn’t be Nana any longer if I fastened a
man on behind!And, besides, it’s too foul!”
And she spat and hiccuped with disgust, as though she had seen all the
dirt in the world spread out beneath her.One evening La Faloise vanished, and a week later it became known that
he was in the country with an uncle whose mania was botany. He was
pasting his specimens for him and stood a chance of marrying a very
plain, pious cousin.Nana shed no tears for him. She simply said to the
count:
“Eh, little rough, another rival less! You’re chortling today. But he
was becoming serious!He wanted to marry me.”
He waxed pale, and she flung her arms round his neck and hung there,
laughing, while she emphasized every little cruel speech with a caress. “You can’t marry Nana! Isn’t that what’s fetching you, eh?When they’re
all bothering me with their marriages you’re raging in your corner. It
isn’t possible; you must wait till your wife kicks the bucket. Oh, if
she were only to do that, how you’d come rushing round!How you’d fling
yourself on the ground and make your offer with all the grand
accompaniments—sighs and tears and vows! Wouldn’t it be nice, darling,
eh?”
Her voice had become soft, and she was chaffing him in a ferociously
wheedling manner.He was deeply moved and began blushing as he paid her
back her kisses. Then she cried:
“By God, to think I should have guessed! He’s thought about it; he’s
waiting for his wife to go off the hooks! Well, well, that’s the
finishing touch!Why, he’s even a bigger rascal than the others!”
Muffat had resigned himself to “the others.” Nowadays he was trusting
to the last relics of his personal dignity in order to remain
“Monsieur” among the servants and intimates of the house, the man, in
fact, who because he gave most was the official lover.And his passion
grew fiercer. He kept his position because he paid for it, buying even
smiles at a high price.He was even robbed and he never got his money’s
worth, but a disease seemed to be gnawing his vitals from which he
could not prevent himself suffering.Whenever he entered Nana’s bedroom
he was simply content to open the windows for a second or two in order
to get rid of the odors the others left behind them, the essential
smells of fair-haired men and dark, the smoke of cigars, of which the
pungency choked him.This bedroom was becoming a veritable
thoroughfare, so continually were boots wiped on its threshold. Yet
never a man among them was stopped by the bloodstain barring the door.Zoé was still preoccupied by this stain; it was a simple mania with
her, for she was a clean girl, and it horrified her to see it always
there.Despite everything her eyes would wander in its direction, and
she now never entered Madame’s room without remarking:
“It’s strange that don’t go.All the same, plenty of folk come in this
way.”
Nana kept receiving the best news from Georges, who was by that time
already convalescent in his mother’s keeping at Les Fondettes, and she
used always to make the same reply.“Oh, hang it, time’s all that’s wanted. It’s apt to grow paler as feet
cross it.”
As a matter of fact, each of the gentlemen, whether Foucarmont,
Steiner, La Faloise or Fauchery, had borne away some of it on their
bootsoles.And Muffat, whom the bloodstain preoccupied as much as it
did Zoé, kept studying it in his own despite, as though in its gradual
rosy disappearance he would read the number of men that passed.He
secretly dreaded it and always stepped over it out of a vivid fear of
crushing some live thing, some naked limb lying on the floor.But in the bedroom within he would grow dizzy and intoxicated and would
forget everything—the mob of men which constantly crossed it, the sign
of mourning which barred its door.Outside, in the open air of the
street, he would weep occasionally out of sheer shame and disgust and
would vow never to enter the room again.And the moment the portière
had closed behind him he was under the old influence once more and felt
his whole being melting in the damp warm air of the place, felt his
flesh penetrated by a perfume, felt himself overborne by a voluptuous
yearning for self-annihilation.Pious and habituated to ecstatic
experiences in sumptuous chapels, he there re-encountered precisely the
same mystical sensations as when he knelt under some painted window and
gave way to the intoxication of organ music and incense.Woman swayed
him as jealously and despotically as the God of wrath, terrifying him,
granting him moments of delight, which were like spasms in their
keenness, in return for hours filled with frightful, tormenting visions
of hell and eternal tortures.In Nana’s presence, as in church, the
same stammering accents were his, the same prayers and the same fits of
despair—nay, the same paroxysms of humility peculiar to an accursed
creature who is crushed down in the mire from whence he has sprung.His
fleshly desires, his spiritual needs, were confounded together and
seemed to spring from the obscure depths of his being and to bear but
one blossom on the tree of his existence.He abandoned himself to the
power of love and of faith, those twin levers which move the world.And
despite all the struggles of his reason this bedroom of Nana’s always
filled him with madness, and he would sink shuddering under the
almighty dominion of sex, just as he would swoon before the vast
unknown of heaven.Then when she felt how humble he was Nana grew tyrannously triumphant. The rage for debasing things was inborn in her. It did not suffice her
to destroy them; she must soil them too.Her delicate hands left
abominable traces and themselves decomposed whatever they had broken.And he in his imbecile condition lent himself to this sort of sport,
for he was possessed by vaguely remembered stories of saints who were
devoured by vermin and in turn devoured their own excrements.When once
she had him fast in her room and the doors were shut, she treated
herself to a man’s infamy.At first they joked together, and she would
deal him light blows and impose quaint tasks on him, making him lisp
like a child and repeat tags of sentences. “Say as I do: ’tonfound it!Ickle man damn vell don’t tare about it!”
He would prove so docile as to reproduce her very accent. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
My God!”
The renovated bedroom was resplendent in all its royal luxury.Silver
buttons gleamed like bright stars on the tea-rose velvet of the
hangings.These last were of that pink flesh tint which the skies
assume on fine evenings, when Venus lights her fires on the horizon
against the clear background of fading daylight.The golden cords and
tassels hanging in corners and the gold lace-work surrounding the
panels were like little flames of ruddy strands of loosened hair, and
they half covered the wide nakedness of the room while they emphasized
its pale, voluptuous tone.Then over against him there was the gold and
silver bed, which shone in all the fresh splendor of its chiseled
workmanship, a throne this of sufficient extent for Nana to display the
outstretched glory of her naked limbs, an altar of Byzantine
sumptuousness, worthy of the almighty puissance of Nana’s sex, which at
this very hour lay nudely displayed there in the religious immodesty
befitting an idol of all men’s worship.And close by, beneath the snowy
reflections of her bosom and amid the triumph of the goddess, lay
wallowing a shameful, decrepit thing, a comic and lamentable ruin, the
Marquis de Chouard in his nightshirt.The count had clasped his hands together and, shaken by a paroxysmal
shuddering, he kept crying:
“My God!My God!”
It was for the Marquis de Chouard, then, that the golden roses
flourished on the side panels, those bunches of golden roses blooming
among the golden leaves; it was for him that the Cupids leaned forth
with amorous, roguish laughter from their tumbling ring on the silver
trelliswork.And it was for him that the faun at his feet discovered
the nymph sleeping, tired with dalliance, the figure of Night copied
down to the exaggerated thighs—which caused her to be recognizable of
all—from Nana’s renowned nudity.Cast there like the rag of something
human which has been spoiled and dissolved by sixty years of
debauchery, he suggested the charnelhouse amid the glory of the woman’s
dazzling contours.Seeing the door open, he had risen up, smitten with
sudden terror as became an infirm old man.This last night of passion
had rendered him imbecile; he was entering on his second childhood;
and, his speech failing him, he remained in an attitude of flight,
half-paralyzed, stammering, shivering, his nightshirt half up his
skeleton shape, and one leg outside the clothes, a livid leg, covered
with gray hair.Despite her vexation Nana could not keep from laughing. “Do lie down! Stuff yourself into the bed,” she said, pulling him back
and burying him under the coverlet, as though he were some filthy thing
she could not show anyone.Then she sprang up to shut the door again. She was decidedly never
lucky with her little rough. He was always coming when least wanted. And why had he gone to fetch money in Normandy?The old man had brought
her the four thousand francs, and she had let him have his will of her. She pushed back the two flaps of the door and shouted:
“So much the worse for you! It’s your fault. Is that the way to come
into a room?I’ve had enough of this sort of thing. Ta ta!”
Muffat remained standing before the closed door, thunderstruck by what
he had just seen. His shuddering fit increased. It mounted from his
feet to his heart and brain.Then like a tree shaken by a mighty wind,
he swayed to and fro and dropped on his knees, all his muscles giving
way under him. And with hands despairingly outstretched he stammered:
“This is more than I can bear, my God!More than I can bear!”
He had accepted every situation but he could do so no longer. He had
come to the end of his strength and was plunged in the dark void where
man and his reason are together overthrown.In an extravagant access of
faith he raised his hands ever higher and higher, searching for heaven,
calling on God. “Oh no, I do not desire it! Oh, come to me, my God! Succor me; nay, let
me die sooner! Oh no, not that man, my God!It is over; take me, carry
me away, that I may not see, that I may not feel any longer! Oh, I
belong to you, my God! Our Father which art in heaven—”
And burning with faith, he continued his supplication, and an ardent
prayer escaped from his lips.But someone touched him on the shoulder. He lifted his eyes; it was M. Venot. He was surprised to find him
praying before that closed door.Then as though God Himself had
responded to his appeal, the count flung his arms round the little old
gentleman’s neck.At last he could weep, and he burst out sobbing and
repeated:
“My brother, my brother.”
All his suffering humanity found comfort in that cry. He drenched M.
Venot’s face with tears; he kissed him, uttering fragmentary
ejaculations.“Oh, my brother, how I am suffering! You only are left me, my brother. Take me away forever—oh, for mercy’s sake, take me away!”
Then M. Venot pressed him to his bosom and called him “brother” also. But he had a fresh blow in store for him.Since yesterday he had been
searching for him in order to inform him that the Countess Sabine, in a
supreme fit of moral aberration, had but now taken flight with the
manager of one of the departments in a large, fancy emporium.It was a
fearful scandal, and all Paris was already talking about it. Seeing him
under the influence of such religious exaltation, Venot felt the
opportunity to be favorable and at once told him of the meanly tragic
shipwreck of his house.The count was not touched thereby. His wife had
gone? That meant nothing to him; they would see what would happen later
on.And again he was seized with anguish, and gazing with a look of
terror at the door, the walls, the ceiling, he continued pouring forth
his single supplication:
“Take me away! I cannot bear it any longer!Take me away!”
M. Venot took him away as though he had been a child. From that day
forth Muffat belonged to him entirely; he again became strictly
attentive to the duties of religion; his life was utterly blasted.He
had resigned his position as chamberlain out of respect for the
outraged modesty of the Tuileries, and soon Estelle, his daughter,
brought an action against him for the recovery of a sum of sixty
thousand francs, a legacy left her by an aunt to which she ought to
have succeeded at the time of her marriage.Ruined and living narrowly
on the remains of his great fortune, he let himself be gradually
devoured by the countess, who ate up the husks Nana had rejected.Sabine was indeed ruined by the example of promiscuity set her by her
husband’s intercourse with the wanton. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
She was prone to every excess
and proved the ultimate ruin and destruction of his very hearth.After
sundry adventures she had returned home, and he had taken her back in a
spirit of Christian resignation and forgiveness.She haunted him as his
living disgrace, but he grew more and more indifferent and at last
ceased suffering from these distresses.Heaven took him out of his
wife’s hands in order to restore him to the arms of God, and so the
voluptuous pleasures he had enjoyed with Nana were prolonged in
religious ecstasies, accompanied by the old stammering utterances, the
old prayers and despairs, the old fits of humility which befit an
accursed creature who is crushed beneath the mire whence he sprang.In
the recesses of churches, his knees chilled by the pavement, he would
once more experience the delights of the past, and his muscles would
twitch, and his brain would whirl deliciously, and the satisfaction of
the obscure necessities of his existence would be the same as of old.On the evening of the final rupture Mignon presented himself at the
house in the Avenue de Villiers. He was growing accustomed to Fauchery
and was beginning at last to find the presence of his wife’s husband
infinitely advantageous to him.He would leave all the little household
cares to the journalist and would trust him in the active
superintendence of all their affairs.Nay, he devoted the money gained
by his dramatic successes to the daily expenditure of the family, and
as, on his part, Fauchery behaved sensibly, avoiding ridiculous
jealousy and proving not less pliant than Mignon himself whenever Rose
found her opportunity, the mutual understanding between the two men
constantly improved.In fact, they were happy in a partnership which
was so fertile in all kinds of amenities, and they settled down side by
side and adopted a family arrangement which no longer proved a
stumbling block.The whole thing was conducted according to rule; it
suited admirably, and each man vied with the other in his efforts for
the common happiness.That very evening Mignon had come by Fauchery’s
advice to see if he could not steal Nana’s lady’s maid from her, the
journalist having formed a high opinion of the woman’s extraordinary
intelligence.Rose was in despair; for a month past she had been
falling into the hands of inexperienced girls who were causing her
continual embarrassment. When Zoé received him at the door he forthwith
pushed her into the dining room.But at his opening sentence she
smiled. The thing was impossible, she said, for she was leaving Madame
and establishing herself on her own account.And she added with an
expression of discreet vanity that she was daily receiving offers, that
the ladies were fighting for her and that Mme Blanche would give a pile
of gold to have her back. Zoé was taking the Tricon’s establishment.It was an old project and
had been long brooded over. It was her ambition to make her fortune
thereby, and she was investing all her savings in it.She was full of
great ideas and meditated increasing the business and hiring a house
and combining all the delights within its walls.It was with this in
view that she had tried to entice Satin, a little pig at that moment
dying in hospital, so terribly had she done for herself.Mignon still insisted with his offer and spoke of the risks run in the
commercial life, but Zoé, without entering into explanations about the
exact nature of her establishment, smiled a pinched smile, as though
she had just put a sweetmeat in her mouth, and was content to remark:
“Oh, luxuries always pay.You see, I’ve been with others quite long
enough, and now I want others to be with me.”
And a fierce look set her lip curling.At last she would be “Madame,”
and for the sake of earning a few louis all those women whose slops she
had emptied during the last fifteen years would prostrate themselves
before her.Mignon wished to be announced, and Zoé left him for a moment after
remarking that Madame had passed a miserable day. He had only been at
the house once before, and he did not know it at all.The dining room
with its Gobelin tapestry, its sideboard and its plate filled him with
astonishment. He opened the doors familiarly and visited the drawing
room and the winter garden, returning thence into the hall.This
overwhelming luxury, this gilded furniture, these silks and velvets,
gradually filled him with such a feeling of admiration that it set his
heart beating.When Zoé came down to fetch him she offered to show him
the other rooms, the dressing room, that is to say, and the bedroom. In
the latter Mignon’s feelings overcame him; he was carried away by them;
they filled him with tender enthusiasm.That damned Nana was simply stupefying him, and yet he thought he knew
a thing or two.Amid the downfall of the house and the servants’ wild,
wasteful race to destruction, massed-up riches still filled every
gaping hole and overtopped every ruined wall.And Mignon, as he viewed
this lordly monument of wealth, began recalling to mind the various
great works he had seen.Near Marseilles they had shown him an
aqueduct, the stone arches of which bestrode an abyss, a Cyclopean work
which cost millions of money and ten years of intense labor.At
Cherbourg he had seen the new harbor with its enormous works, where
hundreds of men sweated in the sun while cranes filled the sea with
huge squares of rock and built up a wall where a workman now and again
remained crushed into bloody pulp.But all that now struck him as
insignificant. Nana excited him far more. Viewing the fruit of her
labors, he once more experienced the feelings of respect that had
overcome him one festal evening in a sugar refiner’s château.This
château had been erected for the refiner, and its palatial proportions
and royal splendor had been paid for by a single material—sugar.It was
with something quite different, with a little laughable folly, a little
delicate nudity—it was with this shameful trifle, which is so powerful
as to move the universe, that she alone, without workmen, without the
inventions of engineers, had shaken Paris to its foundations and had
built up a fortune on the bodies of dead men.“Oh, by God, what an implement!”
Mignon let the words escape him in his ecstasy, for he felt a return of
personal gratitude. Nana had gradually lapsed into a most mournful condition.To begin
with, the meeting of the marquis and the count had given her a severe
fit of feverish nervousness, which verged at times on laughter.Then
the thought of this old man going away half dead in a cab and of her
poor rough, whom she would never set eyes on again now that she had
driven him so wild, brought on what looked like the beginnings of
melancholia.After that she grew vexed to hear about Satin’s illness. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
The girl had disappeared about a fortnight ago and was now ready to die
at Lariboisière, to such a damnable state had Mme Robert reduced her.When she ordered the horses to be put to in order that she might have a
last sight of this vile little wretch Zoé had just quietly given her a
week’s notice. The announcement drove her to desperation at once!It
seemed to her she was losing a member of her own family. Great heavens! What was to become of her when left alone?And she besought Zoé to
stay, and the latter, much flattered by Madame’s despair, ended by
kissing her to show that she was not going away in anger. No, she had
positively to go: the heart could have no voice in matters of business.But that day was one of annoyances. Nana was thoroughly disgusted and
gave up the idea of going out.She was dragging herself wearily about
the little drawing room when Labordette came up to tell her of a
splendid chance of buying magnificent lace and in the course of his
remarks casually let slip the information that Georges was dead.The
announcement froze her. “Zizi dead!” she cried. And involuntarily her eyes sought the pink stain on the carpet, but it
had vanished at last; passing footsteps had worn it away. Meanwhile
Labordette entered into particulars.It was not exactly known how he
died. Some spoke of a wound reopening, others of suicide. The lad had
plunged, they said, into a tank at Les Fondettes. Nana kept repeating:
“Dead!Dead!”
She had been choking with grief since morning, and now she burst out
sobbing and thus sought relief. Hers was an infinite sorrow: it
overwhelmed her with its depth and immensity.Labordette wanted to
comfort her as touching Georges, but she silenced him with a gesture
and blurted out:
“It isn’t only he; it’s everything, everything. I’m very wretched. Oh
yes, I know! They’ll again be saying I’m a hussy.To think of the
mother mourning down there and of the poor man who was groaning in
front of my door this morning and of all the other people that are now
ruined after running through all they had with me!That’s it; punish
Nana; punish the beastly thing! Oh, I’ve got a broad back! I can hear
them as if I were actually there!‘That dirty wench who lies with
everybody and cleans out some and drives others to death and causes a
whole heap of people pain!’”
She was obliged to pause, for tears choked her utterance, and in her
anguish she flung herself athwart a divan and buried her face in a
cushion.The miseries she felt to be around her, miseries of which she
was the cause, overwhelmed her with a warm, continuous stream of
self-pitying tears, and her voice failed as she uttered a little girl’s
broken plaint:
“Oh, I’m wretched! Oh, I’m wretched!I can’t go on like this: it’s
choking me. It’s too hard to be misunderstood and to see them all
siding against you because they’re stronger.However, when you’ve got
nothing to reproach yourself with and your conscious is clear, why,
then I say, ‘I won’t have it!I won’t have it!’”
In her anger she began rebeling against circumstances, and getting up,
she dried her eyes, and walked about in much agitation. “I won’t have it! They can say what they like, but it’s not my fault! Am I a bad lot, eh?I give away all I’ve got; I wouldn’t crush a fly! It’s they who are bad! Yes, it’s they! I never wanted to be horrid to
them.And they came dangling after me, and today they’re kicking the
bucket and begging and going to ruin on purpose.”
Then she paused in front of Labordette and tapped his shoulders.“Look here,” she said, “you were there all along; now speak the truth:
did I urge them on? Weren’t there always a dozen of ’em squabbling who
could invent the dirtiest trick? They used to disgust me, they did!I
did all I knew not to copy them: I was afraid to. Look here, I’ll give
you a single instance: they all wanted to marry me! A pretty notion,
eh? Yes, dear boy, I could have been countess or baroness a dozen times
over and more, if I’d consented.Well now, I refused because I was
reasonable. Oh yes, I saved ’em some crimes and other foul acts! They’d
have stolen, murdered, killed father and mother. I had only to say one
word, and I didn’t say it. You see what I’ve got for it today.There’s
Daguenet, for instance; I married that chap off! I made a position for
the beggarly fellow after keeping him gratis for weeks! And I met him
yesterday, and he looks the other way! Oh, get along, you swine!I’m
less dirty than you!”
She had begun pacing about again, and now she brought her fist
violently down on a round table. “By God it isn’t fair! Society’s all wrong. They come down on the women
when it’s the men who want you to do things.Yes, I can tell you this
now: when I used to go with them—see? I didn’t enjoy it; no, I didn’t
enjoy it one bit. It bored me, on my honor. Well then, I ask you
whether I’ve got anything to do with it! Yes, they bored me to death!If it hadn’t been for them and what they made of me, dear boy, I should
be in a convent saying my prayers to the good God, for I’ve always had
my share of religion.Dash it, after all, if they have dropped their
money and their lives over it, what do I care? It’s their fault. I’ve
had nothing to do with it!”
“Certainly not,” said Labordette with conviction. Zoé ushered in Mignon, and Nana received him smilingly.She had cried a
good deal, but it was all over now.Still glowing with enthusiasm, he
complimented her on her installation, but she let him see that she had
had enough of her mansion and that now she had other projects and would
sell everything up one of these days.Then as he excused himself for
calling on the ground that he had come about a benefit performance in
aid of old Bose, who was tied to his armchair by paralysis, she
expressed extreme pity and took two boxes.Meanwhile Zoé announced that
the carriage was waiting for Madame, and she asked for her hat and as
she tied the strings told them about poor, dear Satin’s mishap, adding:
“I’m going to the hospital. Nobody ever loved me as she did.Oh,
they’re quite right when they accuse the men of heartlessness! Who
knows? Perhaps I shan’t see her alive.Never mind, I shall ask to see
her: I want to give her a kiss.”
Labordette and Mignon smiled, and as Nana was no longer melancholy she
smiled too. Those two fellows didn’t count; they could enter into her
feelings.And they both stood and admired her in silent abstraction
while she finished buttoning her gloves. She alone kept her feet amid
the heaped-up riches of her mansion, while a whole generation of men
lay stricken down before her.Like those antique monsters whose
redoubtable domains were covered with skeletons, she rested her feet on
human skulls. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
It’s Labordette who told me all about it.Accordingly I wanted to see for myself—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Caroline in great excitement “We’ll go up to
her.”
They had arrived at their destination.On the boulevard the coachman
had had to rein in his horses amid a block of carriages and people on
foot.During the day the Corps Legislatif had voted for war, and now a
crowd was streaming down all the streets, flowing along all the
pavements, invading the middle of the roadway.Beyond the Madeleine the
sun had set behind a blood-red cloud, which cast a reflection as of a
great fire and set the lofty windows flaming.Twilight was falling, and
the hour was oppressively melancholy, for now the avenues were
darkening away into the distance but were not as yet dotted over by the
bright sparks of the gas lamps.And among the marching crowds distant
voices swelled and grew ever louder, and eyes gleamed from pale faces,
while a great spreading wind of anguish and stupor set every head
whirling. “Here’s Mignon,” said Lucy.“He’ll give us news.”
Mignon was standing under the vast porch of the Grand Hotel. He looked
nervous and was gazing at the crowd. After Lucy’s first few questions
he grew impatient and cried out:
“How should I know?These last two days I haven’t been able to tear
Rose away from up there. It’s getting stupid, when all’s said, for her
to be risking her life like that! She’ll be charming if she gets over
it, with holes in her face!It’ll suit us to a tee!”
The idea that Rose might lose her beauty was exasperating him. He was
giving up Nana in the most downright fashion, and he could not in the
least understand these stupid feminine devotions.But Fauchery was
crossing the boulevard, and he, too, came up anxiously and asked for
news. The two men egged each other on. They addressed one another
familiarly in these days. “Always the same business, my sonny,” declared Mignon.“You ought to go
upstairs; you would force her to follow you.”
“Come now, you’re kind, you are!” said the journalist.“Why don’t you
go upstairs yourself?”
Then as Lucy began asking for Nana’s number, they besought her to make
Rose come down; otherwise they would end by getting angry. Nevertheless, Lucy and Caroline did not go up at once.They had caught
sight of Fontan strolling about with his hands in his pockets and
greatly amused by the quaint expressions of the mob. When he became
aware that Nana was lying ill upstairs he affected sentiment and
remarked:
“The poor girl!I’ll go and shake her by the hand. What’s the matter
with her, eh?”
“Smallpox,” replied Mignon.The actor had already taken a step or two in the direction of the
court, but he came back and simply murmured with a shiver:
“Oh, damn it!”
The smallpox was no joke.Fontan had been near having it when he was
five years old, while Mignon gave them an account of one of his nieces
who had died of it.As to Fauchery, he could speak of it from personal
experience, for he still bore marks of it in the shape of three little
lumps at the base of his nose, which he showed them.And when Mignon
again egged him on to the ascent, on the pretext that you never had it
twice, he violently combated this theory and with infinite abuse of the
doctors instanced various cases.But Lucy and Caroline interrupted
them, for the growing multitude filled them with astonishment. “Just look! Just look what a lot of people!” The night was deepening,
and in the distance the gas lamps were being lit one by one.Meanwhile
interested spectators became visible at windows, while under the trees
the human flood grew every minute more dense, till it ran in one
enormous stream from the Madeleine to the Bastille. Carriages rolled
slowly along.A roaring sound went up from this compact and as yet
inarticulate mass. Each member of it had come out, impelled by the
desire to form a crowd, and was now trampling along, steeping himself
in the pervading fever.But a great movement caused the mob to flow
asunder. Among the jostling, scattering groups a band of men in
workmen’s caps and white blouses had come in sight, uttering a
rhythmical cry which suggested the beat of hammers upon an anvil. “To Ber-lin!To Ber-lin! To Ber-lin!” And the crowd stared in gloomy
distrust yet felt themselves already possessed and inspired by heroic
imaginings, as though a military band were passing.“Oh yes, go and get your throats cut!” muttered Mignon, overcome by an
access of philosophy. But Fontan thought it very fine, indeed, and spoke of enlisting.When
the enemy was on the frontier all citizens ought to rise up in defense
of the fatherland! And with that he assumed an attitude suggestive of
Bonaparte at Austerlitz. “Look here, are you coming up with us?” Lucy asked him. “Oh dear, no!To catch something horrid?” he said. On a bench in front of the Grand Hotel a man sat hiding his face in a
handkerchief. On arriving Fauchery had indicated him to Mignon with a
wink of the eye. Well, he was still there; yes, he was always there.And the journalist detained the two women also in order to point him
out to them. When the man lifted his head they recognized him; an
exclamation escaped them. It was the Count Muffat, and he was giving an
upward glance at one of the windows.“You know, he’s been waiting there since this morning,” Mignon informed
them. “I saw him at six o’clock, and he hasn’t moved since. Directly
Labordette spoke about it he came there with his handkerchief up to his
face.Every half-hour he comes dragging himself to where we’re standing
to ask if the person upstairs is doing better, and then he goes back
and sits down. Hang it, that room isn’t healthy!It’s all very well
being fond of people, but one doesn’t want to kick the bucket.”
The count sat with uplifted eyes and did not seem conscious of what was
going on around him.Doubtless he was ignorant of the declaration of
war, and he neither felt nor saw the crowd. “Look, here he comes!” said Fauchery. “Now you’ll see.”
The count had, in fact, quitted his bench and was entering the lofty
porch.But the porter, who was getting to know his face at last, did
not give him time to put his question. He said sharply:
“She’s dead, monsieur, this very minute.”
Nana dead! It was a blow to them all.Without a word Muffat had gone
back to the bench, his face still buried in his handkerchief. The
others burst into exclamations, but they were cut short, for a fresh
band passed by, howling, “À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!” Nana dead!Hang it, and such a fine girl too! Mignon sighed and looked relieved,
for at last Rose would come down. A chill fell on the company.Fontan,
meditating a tragic role, had assumed a look of woe and was drawing
down the corners of his mouth and rolling his eyes askance, while
Fauchery chewed his cigar nervously, for despite his cheap journalistic
chaff he was really touched.Nevertheless, the two women continued to
give vent to their feelings of surprise. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
The last time Lucy had seen
her was at the Gaîté; Blanche, too, had seen her in Melusine.Oh, how
stunning it was, my dear, when she appeared in the depths of the
crystal grot! The gentlemen remembered the occasion perfectly. Fontan
had played the Prince Cocorico.And their memories once stirred up,
they launched into interminable particulars. How ripping she looked
with that rich coloring of hers in the crystal grot! Didn’t she, now?She didn’t say a word: the authors had even deprived her of a line or
two, because it was superfluous. No, never a word! It was grander that
way, and she drove her public wild by simply showing herself. You
wouldn’t find another body like hers!Such shoulders as she had, and
such legs and such a figure! Strange that she should be dead! You know,
above her tights she had nothing on but a golden girdle which hardly
concealed her behind and in front.All round her the grotto, which was
entirely of glass, shone like day.Cascades of diamonds were flowing
down; strings of brilliant pearls glistened among the stalactites in
the vault overhead, and amid the transparent atmosphere and flowing
fountain water, which was crossed by a wide ray of electric light, she
gleamed like the sun with that flamelike skin and hair of hers.Paris
would always picture her thus—would see her shining high up among
crystal glass like the good God Himself. No, it was too stupid to let
herself die under such conditions! She must be looking pretty by this
time in that room up there!“And what a lot of pleasures bloody well wasted!” said Mignon in
melancholy tones, as became a man who did not like to see good and
useful things lost. He sounded Lucy and Caroline in order to find out if they were going up
after all.Of course they were going up; their curiosity had increased.Just then Blanche arrived, out of breath and much exasperated at the
way the crowds were blocking the pavement, and when she heard the news
there was a fresh outburst of exclamations, and with a great rustling
of skirts the ladies moved toward the staircase.Mignon followed them,
crying out:
“Tell Rose that I’m waiting for her. She’ll come at once, eh?”
“They do not exactly know whether the contagion is to be feared at the
beginning or near the end,” Fontan was explaining to Fauchery.“A
medical I know was assuring me that the hours immediately following
death are particularly dangerous. There are miasmatic exhalations then.Ah, but I do regret this sudden ending; I should have been so glad to
shake hands with her for the last time. “What good would it do you now?” said the journalist. “Yes, what good?” the two others repeated. The crowd was still on the increase.In the bright light thrown from
shop-windows and beneath the wavering glare of the gas two living
streams were distinguishable as they flowed along the pavement,
innumerable hats apparently drifting on their surface.At that hour the
popular fever was gaining ground rapidly, and people were flinging
themselves in the wake of the bands of men in blouses.A constant
forward movement seemed to sweep the roadway, and the cry kept
recurring; obstinately, abruptly, there rang from thousands of throats:
“À BERLIN! À BERLIN!À BERLIN!”
The room on the fourth floor upstairs cost twelve francs a day, since
Rose had wanted something decent and yet not luxurious, for
sumptuousness is not necessary when one is suffering.Hung with Louis
XIII cretonne, which was adorned with a pattern of large flowers, the
room was furnished with the mahogany commonly found in hotels. On the
floor there was a red carpet variegated with black foliage.Heavy
silence reigned save for an occasional whispering sound caused by
voices in the corridor. “I assure you we’re lost. The waiter told us to turn to the right. What
a barrack of a house!”
“Wait a bit; we must have a look.Room number 401; room number 401!”
“Oh, it’s this way: 405, 403. We ought to be there. Ah, at last, 401! This way! Hush now, hush!”
The voices were silent. Then there was a slight coughing and a moment
or so of mental preparation.Then the door opened slowly, and Lucy
entered, followed by Caroline and Blanche. But they stopped directly;
there were already five women in the room; Gaga was lying back in the
solitary armchair, which was a red velvet Voltaire.In front of the
fireplace Simonne and Clarisse were now standing talking to Léa de
Horn, who was seated, while by the bed, to the left of the door, Rose
Mignon, perched on the edge of a chest, sat gazing fixedly at the body
where it lay hidden in the shadow of the curtains.All the others had
their hats and gloves on and looked as if they were paying a call: she
alone sat there with bare hands and untidy hair and cheeks rendered
pale by three nights of watching.She felt stupid in the face of this
sudden death, and her eyes were swollen with weeping. A shaded lamp
standing on the corner of the chest of drawers threw a bright flood of
light over Gaga.“What a sad misfortune, is it not?” whispered Lucy as she shook hands
with Rose. “We wanted to bid her good-by.”
And she turned round and tried to catch sight of her, but the lamp was
too far off, and she did not dare bring it nearer.On the bed lay
stretched a gray mass, but only the ruddy chignon was distinguishable
and a pale blotch which might be the face.Lucy added:
“I never saw her since that time at the Gaîté, when she was at the end
of the grotto.”
At this Rose awoke from her stupor and smiled as she said:
“Ah, she’s changed; she’s changed.”
Then she once more lapsed into contemplation and neither moved nor
spoke.Perhaps they would be able to look at her presently! And with
that the three women joined the others in front of the fireplace. Simonne and Clarisse were discussing the dead woman’s diamonds in low
tones. Well, did they really exist—those diamonds?Nobody had seen
them; it must be a bit of humbug. But Léa de Horn knew someone who knew
all about them. Oh, they were monster stones!Besides, they weren’t
all; she had brought back lots of other precious property from
Russia—embroidered stuffs, for instance, valuable knickknacks, a gold
dinner service, nay, even furniture.“Yes, my dear, fifty-two boxes,
enormous cases some of them, three truckloads of them!” They were all
lying at the station.“Wasn’t it hard lines, eh?—to die without even
having time to unpack one’s traps?” Then she had a lot of tin,
besides—something like a million! Lucy asked who was going to inherit
it all. Oh, distant relations—the aunt, without doubt!It would be a
pretty surprise for that old body. She knew nothing about it yet, for
the sick woman had obstinately refused to let them warn her, for she
still owed her a grudge over her little boy’s death.Thereupon they
were all moved to pity about the little boy, and they remembered seeing
him at the races. Oh, it was a wretchedly sickly baby; it looked so old
and so sad. In fact, it was one of those poor brats who never asked to
be born!“He’s happier under the ground,” said Blanche. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
“Bah, and so’s she!” added Caroline. “Life isn’t so funny!”
In that gloomy room melancholy ideas began to take possession of their
imaginations. They felt frightened.It was silly to stand talking so
long, but a longing to see her kept them rooted to the spot. It was
very hot—the lamp glass threw a round, moonlike patch of light upon the
ceiling, but the rest of the room was drowned in steamy darkness.Under
the bed a deep plate full of phenol exhaled an insipid smell. And every
few moments tiny gusts of wind swelled the window curtains. The window
opened on the boulevard, whence rose a dull roaring sound.“Did she suffer much?” asked Lucy, who was absorbed in contemplation of
the clock, the design of which represented the three Graces as nude
young women, smiling like opera dancers. Gaga seemed to wake up. “My word, yes! I was present when she died.I promise you it was not at
all pleasant to see. Why, she was taken with a shuddering fit—”
But she was unable to proceed with her explanation, for a cry arose
outside:
“À BERLIN! À BERLIN!À BERLIN!”
And Lucy, who felt suffocated, flung wide the window and leaned upon
the sill. It was pleasant there; the air came fresh from the starry
sky.Opposite her the windows were all aglow with light, and the gas
sent dancing reflections over the gilt lettering of the shop signs. Beneath these, again, a most amusing scene presented itself.The
streams of people were discernible rolling torrentwise along the
sidewalks and in the roadway, where there was a confused procession of
carriages. Everywhere there were vast moving shadows in which lanterns
and lampposts gleamed like sparks.But the band which now came roaring
by carried torches, and a red glow streamed down from the direction of
the Madeleine, crossed the mob like a trail of fire and spread out over
the heads in the distance like a vivid reflection of a burning house.Lucy called Blanche and Caroline, forgetting where she was and
shouting:
“Do come! You get a capital view from this window!”
They all three leaned out, greatly interested.The trees got in their
way, and occasionally the torches disappeared under the foliage.They
tried to catch a glimpse of the men of their own party below, but a
protruding balcony hid the door, and they could only make out Count
Muffat, who looked like a dark parcel thrown down on the bench where he
sat.He was still burying his face in his handkerchief. A carriage had
stopped in front, and yet another woman hurried up, in whom Lucy
recognized Maria Blond. She was not alone; a stout man got down after
her.“It’s that thief of a Steiner,” said Caroline. “How is it they haven’t
sent him back to Cologne yet? I want to see how he looks when he comes
in.”
They turned round, but when after the lapse of ten minutes Maria Blond
appeared, she was alone.She had twice mistaken the staircase. And when
Lucy, in some astonishment, questioned her:
“What, he?” she said. “My dear, don’t you go fancying that he’ll come
upstairs! It’s a great wonder he’s escorted me as far as the door.There are nearly a dozen of them smoking cigars.”
As a matter of fact, all the gentlemen were meeting downstairs.They
had come strolling thither in order to have a look at the boulevards,
and they hailed one another and commented loudly on that poor girl’s
death. Then they began discussing politics and strategy.Bordenave,
Daguenet, Labordette, Prullière and others, besides, had swollen the
group, and now they were all listening to Fontan, who was explaining
his plan for taking Berlin within a week.Meanwhile Maria Blond was touched as she stood by the bedside and
murmured, as the others had done before her:
“Poor pet!The last time I saw her was in the grotto at the Gaîté.”
“Ah, she’s changed; she’s changed!” Rose Mignon repeated with a smile
of gloomiest dejection. Two more women arrived. These were Tatan Nene and Louise Violaine.They
had been wandering about the Grand Hotel for twenty minutes past,
bandied from waiter to waiter, and had ascended and descended more than
thirty flights of stairs amid a perfect stampede of travelers who were
hurrying to leave Paris amid the panic caused by the war and the
excitement on the boulevards.Accordingly they just dropped down on
chairs when they came in, for they were too tired to think about the
dead.At that moment a loud noise came from the room next door, where
people were pushing trunks about and striking against furniture to an
accompaniment of strident, outlandish syllables.It was a young
Austrian couple, and Gaga told how during her agony the neighbors had
played a game of catch as catch can and how, as only an unused door
divided the two rooms, they had heard them laughing and kissing when
one or the other was caught.“Come, it’s time we were off,” said Clarisse. “We shan’t bring her to
life again. Are you coming, Simonne?”
They all looked at the bed out of the corners of their eyes, but they
did not budge an inch.Nevertheless, they began getting ready and gave
their skirts various little pats. Lucy was again leaning out of window.She was alone now, and a sorrowful feeling began little by little to
overpower her, as though an intense wave of melancholy had mounted up
from the howling mob.Torches still kept passing, shaking out clouds of
sparks, and far away in the distance the various bands stretched into
the shadows, surging unquietly to and fro like flocks being driven to
the slaughterhouse at night.A dizzy feeling emanated from these
confused masses as the human flood rolled them along—a dizzy feeling, a
sense of terror and all the pity of the massacres to come.The people
were going wild; their voices broke; they were drunk with a fever of
excitement which sent them rushing toward the unknown “out there”
beyond the dark wall of the horizon. “À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”
Lucy turned round.She leaned her back against the window, and her face
was very pale. “Good God! What’s to become of us?”
The ladies shook their heads. They were serious and very anxious about
the turn events were taking.“For my part,” said Caroline Hequet in her decisive way, “I start for
London the day after tomorrow. Mamma’s already over there getting a
house ready for me.I’m certainly not going to let myself be massacred
in Paris.”
Her mother, as became a prudent woman, had invested all her daughters’
money in foreign lands. One never knows how a war may end! But Maria
Blond grew vexed at this.She was a patriot and spoke of following the
army. “There’s a coward for you! Yes, if they wanted me I should put on man’s
clothes just to have a good shot at those pigs of Prussians! And if we
all die after? What of that?Our wretched skins aren’t so valuable!”
Blanche de Sivry was exasperated. “Please don’t speak ill of the Prussians! They are just like other men,
and they’re not always running after the women, like your Frenchmen.They’ve just expelled the little Prussian who was with me. He was an
awfully rich fellow and so gentle: he couldn’t have hurt a soul. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
It’s
disgraceful; I’m ruined by it.And, you know, you mustn’t say a word or
I go and find him out in Germany!”
After that, while the two were at loggerheads, Gaga began murmuring in
dolorous tones:
“It’s all over with me; my luck’s always bad.It’s only a week ago that
I finished paying for my little house at Juvisy. Ah, God knows what
trouble it cost me! I had to go to Lili for help! And now here’s the
war declared, and the Prussians’ll come and they’ll burn everything.How am I to begin again at my time of life, I should like to know?”
“Bah!” said Clarisse. “I don’t care a damn about it. I shall always
find what I want.”
“Certainly you will,” added Simonne. “It’ll be a joke.Perhaps, after
all, it’ll be good biz.”
And her smile hinted what she thought. Tatan Nene and Louise Violaine
were of her opinion. The former told them that she had enjoyed the most
roaring jolly good times with soldiers.Oh, they were good fellows and
would have done any mortal thing for the girls.But as the ladies had
raised their voices unduly Rose Mignon, still sitting on the chest by
the bed, silenced them with a softly whispered “Hush!” They stood quite
still at this and glanced obliquely toward the dead woman, as though
this request for silence had emanated from the very shadows of the
curtains.In the heavy, peaceful stillness which ensued, a void,
deathly stillness which made them conscious of the stiff dead body
lying stretched close by them, the cries of the mob burst forth:
“À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”
But soon they forgot.Léa de Horn, who had a political salon where
former ministers of Louis Philippe were wont to indulge in delicate
epigrams, shrugged her shoulders and continued the conversation in a
low tone:
“What a mistake this war is!What a bloodthirsty piece of stupidity!”
At this Lucy forthwith took up the cudgels for the empire. She had been
the mistress of a prince of the imperial house, and its defense became
a point of family honor with her. “Do leave them alone, my dear.We couldn’t let ourselves be further
insulted! Why, this war concerns the honor of France. Oh, you know I
don’t say that because of the prince. He WAS just mean!Just imagine,
at night when he was going to bed he hid his gold in his boots, and
when we played at bezique he used beans, because one day I pounced down
on the stakes for fun. But that doesn’t prevent my being fair.The
emperor was right.”
Léa shook her head with an air of superiority, as became a woman who
was repeating the opinions of important personages. Then raising her
voice:
“This is the end of all things. They’re out of their minds at the
Tuileries.France ought to have driven them out yesterday. Don’t you
see?”
They all violently interrupted her. What was up with her? Was she mad
about the emperor? Were people not happy? Was business doing badly?Paris would never enjoy itself so thoroughly again. Gaga was beside herself; she woke up and was very indignant. “Be quiet! It’s idiotic! You don’t know what you’re saying.I—I’ve seen
Louis Philippe’s reign: it was full of beggars and misers, my dear. And
then came ’48! Oh, it was a pretty disgusting business was their
republic! After February I was simply dying of starvation—yes, I, Gaga.Oh, if only you’d been through it all you would go down on your knees
before the emperor, for he’s been a father to us; yes, a father to us.”
She had to be soothed but continued with pious fervor:
“O my God, do Thy best to give the emperor the victory.Preserve the
empire to us!”
They all repeated this aspiration, and Blanche confessed that she
burned candles for the emperor.Caroline had been smitten by him and
for two whole months had walked where he was likely to pass but had
failed to attract his attention.And with that the others burst forth
into furious denunciations of the Republicans and talked of
exterminating them on the frontiers so that Napoleon III, after having
beaten the enemy, might reign peacefully amid universal enjoyment.“That dirty Bismarck—there’s another cad for you!” Maria Blond
remarked. “To think that I should have known him!” cried Simonne.“If only I
could have foreseen, I’m the one that would have put some poison in his
glass.”
But Blanche, on whose heart the expulsion of her Prussian still
weighed, ventured to defend Bismarck. Perhaps he wasn’t such a bad
sort.To every man his trade! “You know,” she added, “he adores women.”
“What the hell has that got to do with us?” said Clarisse. “We don’t
want to cuddle him, eh?”
“There’s always too many men of that sort!” declared Louise Violaine
gravely.“It’s better to do without ’em than to mix oneself up with
such monsters!”
And the discussion continued, and they stripped Bismarck, and, in her
Bonapartist zeal, each of them gave him a sounding kick, while Tatan
Nene kept saying:
“Bismarck!Why, they’ve simply driven me crazy with the chap! Oh, I
hate him! I didn’t know that there Bismarck!One can’t know everybody.”
“Never mind,” said Léa de Horn by way of conclusion, “that Bismarck
will give us a jolly good threshing.”
But she could not continue. The ladies were all down on her at once. Eh, what? A threshing?It was Bismarck they were going to escort home
with blows from the butt ends of their muskets. What was this bad
Frenchwoman going to say next? “Hush,” whispered Rose, for so much noise hurt her.The cold influence of the corpse once more overcame them, and they all
paused together. They were embarrassed; the dead woman was before them
again; a dull thread of coming ill possessed them.On the boulevard the
cry was passing, hoarse and wild:
“À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”
Presently, when they were making up their minds to go, a voice was
heard calling from the passage:
“Rose!Rose!”
Gaga opened the door in astonishment and disappeared for a moment. When
she returned:
“My dear,” she said, “it’s Fauchery. He’s out there at the end of the
corridor.He won’t come any further, and he’s beside himself because
you still stay near that body.”
Mignon had at last succeeded in urging the journalist upstairs.Lucy,
who was still at the window, leaned out and caught sight of the
gentlemen out on the pavement. They were looking up, making energetic
signals to her.Mignon was shaking his fists in exasperation, and
Steiner, Fontan, Bordenave and the rest were stretching out their arms
with looks of anxious reproach, while Daguenet simply stood smoking a
cigar with his hands behind his back, so as not to compromise himself.“It’s true, dear,” said Lucy, leaving the window open; “I promised to
make you come down. They’re all calling us now.”
Rose slowly and painfully left the chest. “I’m coming down; I’m coming down,” she whispered.“It’s very certain
she no longer needs me. They’re going to send in a Sister of Mercy.”
And she turned round, searching for her hat and shawl.Mechanically she
filled a basin of water on the toilet table and while washing her hands
and face continued:
“I don’t know! It’s been a great blow to me. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
We used scarcely to be
nice to one another. Ah well! You see I’m quite silly over it now. Oh!I’ve got all sorts of strange ideas—I want to die myself—I feel the end
of the world’s coming. Yes, I need air.”
The corpse was beginning to poison the atmosphere of the room. And
after long heedlessness there ensued a panic.“Let’s be off; let’s be off, my little pets!” Gaga kept saying. “It
isn’t wholesome here.”
They went briskly out, casting a last glance at the bed as they passed
it.But while Lucy, Blanche and Caroline still remained behind, Rose
gave a final look round, for she wanted to leave the room in order.She
drew a curtain across the window, and then it occurred to her that the
lamp was not the proper thing and that a taper should take its place.So she lit one of the copper candelabra on the chimney piece and placed
it on the night table beside the corpse. A brilliant light suddenly
illumined the dead woman’s face. The women were horror-struck. They
shuddered and escaped.“Ah, she’s changed; she’s changed!” murmured Rose Mignon, who was the
last to remain. She went away; she shut the door. Nana was left alone with upturned
face in the light cast by the candle.She was fruit of the charnel
house, a heap of matter and blood, a shovelful of corrupted flesh
thrown down on the pillow. The pustules had invaded the whole of the
face, so that each touched its neighbor.Fading and sunken, they had
assumed the grayish hue of mud; and on that formless pulp, where the
features had ceased to be traceable, they already resembled some
decaying damp from the grave.One eye, the left eye, had completely
foundered among bubbling purulence, and the other, which remained half
open, looked like a deep, black, ruinous hole. The nose was still
suppurating.Quite a reddish crush was peeling from one of the cheeks
and invading the mouth, which it distorted into a horrible grin.And
over this loathsome and grotesque mask of death the hair, the beautiful
hair, still blazed like sunlight and flowed downward in rippling gold. Venus was rotting.It seemed as though the poison she had assimilated
in the gutters and on the carrion tolerated by the roadside, the leaven
with which she had poisoned a whole people, had but now remounted to
her face and turned it to corruption. The room was empty.A great despairing breath came up from the
boulevard and swelled the curtain. “À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”
THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER I
THE BETROTHAL
Père Merlier’s mill, one beautiful summer evening, was arranged for a
grand fête.In the courtyard were three tables, placed end to end,
which awaited the guests.Everyone knew that Francoise, Merlier’s
daughter, was that night to be betrothed to Dominique, a young man who
was accused of idleness but whom the fair sex for three leagues around
gazed at with sparkling eyes, such a fine appearance had he.Père Merlier’s mill was pleasing to look upon. It stood exactly in the
center of Rocreuse, where the highway made an elbow.The village had
but one street, with two rows of huts, a row on each side of the road;
but at the elbow meadows spread out, and huge trees which lined the
banks of the Morelle covered the extremity of the valley with lordly
shade.There was not, in all Lorraine, a corner of nature more
adorable.To the right and to the left thick woods, centenarian
forests, towered up from gentle slopes, filling the horizon with a sea
of verdure, while toward the south the plain stretched away, of
marvelous fertility, displaying as far as the eye could reach patches
of ground divided by green hedges.But what constituted the special
charm of Rocreuse was the coolness of that cut of verdure in the most
sultry days of July and August.The Morelle descended from the forests
of Gagny and seemed to have gathered the cold from the foliage beneath
which it flowed for leagues; it brought with it the murmuring sounds,
the icy and concentrated shade of the woods.And it was not the sole
source of coolness: all sorts of flowing streams gurgled through the
forest; at each step springs bubbled up; one felt, on following the
narrow pathways, that there must exist subterranean lakes which pierced
through beneath the moss and availed themselves of the smallest
crevices at the feet of trees or between the rocks to burst forth in
crystalline fountains.The whispering voices of these brooks were so
numerous and so loud that they drowned the song of the bullfinches. It
was like some enchanted park with cascades falling from every portion. Below the meadows were damp.Gigantic chestnut trees cast dark shadows. On the borders of the meadows long hedges of poplars exhibited in lines
their rustling branches.Two avenues of enormous plane trees stretched
across the fields toward the ancient Château de Gagny, then a mass of
ruins. In this constantly watered district the grass grew to an
extraordinary height.It resembled a garden between two wooded hills, a
natural garden, of which the meadows were the lawns, the giant trees
marking the colossal flower beds.When the sun’s rays at noon poured
straight downward the shadows assumed a bluish tint; scorched grass
slept in the heat, while an icy shiver passed beneath the foliage.And there it was that Père Merlier’s mill enlivened with its ticktack a
corner of wild verdure. The structure, built of plaster and planks,
seemed as old as the world.It dipped partially in the Morelle, which
rounded at that point into a transparent basin.A sluice had been made,
and the water fell from a height of several meters upon the mill wheel,
which cracked as it turned, with the asthmatic cough of a faithful
servant grown old in the house.When Père Merlier was advised to change
it he shook his head, saying that a new wheel would be lazier and would
not so well understand the work, and he mended the old one with
whatever he could put his hands on: cask staves, rusty iron, zinc and
lead.The wheel appeared gayer than ever for it, with its profile grown
odd, all plumed with grass and moss.When the water beat upon it with
its silvery flood it was covered with pearls; its strange carcass wore
a sparkling attire of necklaces of mother-of-pearl. The part of the mill which dipped in the Morelle had the air of a
barbaric arch stranded there.A full half of the structure was built on
piles. The water flowed beneath the floor, and deep places were there,
renowned throughout the district for the enormous eels and crayfish
caught in them.Below the fall the basin was as clear as a mirror, and
when the wheel did not cover it with foam schools of huge fish could be
seen swimming with the slowness of a squadron. Broken steps led down to
the river near a stake to which a boat was moored.A wooden gallery
passed above the wheel. Windows opened, pierced irregularly. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
It was a
pell-mell of corners, of little walls, of constructions added too late,
of beams and of roofs, which gave the mill the aspect of an old,
dismantled citadel.But ivy had grown; all sorts of clinging plants
stopped the too-wide chinks and threw a green cloak over the ancient
building. The young ladies who passed by sketched Père Merlier’s mill
in their albums.On the side facing the highway the structure was more solid. A stone
gateway opened upon the wide courtyard, which was bordered to the right
and to the left by sheds and stables. Beside a well an immense elm
covered half the courtyard with its shadow.In the background the
building displayed the four windows of its second story, surmounted by
a pigeon house. Père Merlier’s sole vanity was to have this front
plastered every ten years.It had just received a new coating and
dazzled the village when the sun shone on it at noon. For twenty years Père Merlier had been mayor of Rocreuse. He was
esteemed for the fortune he had acquired.His wealth was estimated at
something like eighty thousand francs, amassed sou by sou. When he
married Madeleine Guillard, who brought him the mill as her dowry, he
possessed only his two arms.But Madeleine never repented of her
choice, so briskly did he manage the business. Now his wife was dead,
and he remained a widower with his daughter Francoise.Certainly he
might have rested, allowed the mill wheel to slumber in the moss, but
that would have been too dull for him, and in his eyes the building
would have seemed dead. He toiled on for pleasure.Père Merlier was a tall old man with a long, still face, who never
laughed but who possessed, notwithstanding, a very gay heart.He had
been chosen mayor because of his money and also on account of the
imposing air he could assume during a marriage ceremony. Francoise Merlier was just eighteen.She did not pass for one of the
handsome girls of the district, as she was not robust. Up to her
fifteenth year she had been even ugly.The Rocreuse people had not been able to understand why the daughter of
Père and Mere Merlier, both of whom had always enjoyed excellent
health, grew ill and with an air of regret.But at fifteen, though yet
delicate, her little face became one of the prettiest in the world.She
had black hair, black eyes, and was as rosy as a peach; her lips
constantly wore a smile; there were dimples in her cheeks, and her fair
forehead seemed crowned with sunlight.Although not considered robust
in the district, she was far from thin; the idea was simply that she
could not lift a sack of grain, but she would become plump as she grew
older—she would eventually be as round and dainty as a quail.Her
father’s long periods of silence had made her thoughtful very young. If
she smiled constantly it was to please others. By nature she was
serious.Of course all the young men of the district paid court to her, more on
account of her ecus than her pretty ways. At last she made a choice
which scandalized the community. On the opposite bank of the Morelle lived a tall youth named Dominique
Penquer.He did not belong to Rocreuse. Ten years before he had arrived
from Belgium as the heir of his uncle, who had left him a small
property upon the very border of the forest of Gagny, just opposite the
mill, a few gunshots distant.He had come to sell this property, he
said, and return home. But the district charmed him, it appeared, for
he did not quit it. He was seen cultivating his little field, gathering
a few vegetables upon which he subsisted.He fished and hunted; many
times the forest guards nearly caught him and were on the point of
drawing up procès-verbaux against him.This free existence, the
resources of which the peasants could not clearly discover, at length
gave him a bad reputation. He was vaguely styled a poacher.At any
rate, he was lazy, for he was often found asleep on the grass when he
should have been at work. The hut he inhabited beneath the last trees
on the edge of the forest did not seem at all like the dwelling of an
honest young fellow.If he had had dealings with the wolves of the
ruins of Gagny the old women would not have been the least bit
surprised.Nevertheless, the young girls sometimes risked defending
him, for this doubtful man was superb; supple and tall as a poplar, he
had a very white skin, with flaxen hair and beard which gleamed like
gold in the sun.One fine morning Francoise declared to Père Merlier that she loved
Dominique and would never wed any other man. It may well be imagined what a blow this was to Père Merlier.He said
nothing, according to his custom, but his face grew thoughtful and his
internal gaiety no longer sparkled in his eyes. He looked gruff for a
week. Francoise also was exceedingly grave.What tormented Père Merlier
was to find out how this rogue of a poacher had managed to fascinate
his daughter. Dominique had never visited the mill.The miller watched
and saw the gallant on the other side of the Morelle, stretched out
upon the grass and feigning to be asleep. Francoise could see him from
her chamber window.Everything was plain: they had fallen in love by
casting sheep’s eyes at each other over the mill wheel. Another week went by. Francoise became more and more grave. Père
Merlier still said nothing.Then one evening he himself silently
brought in Dominique. Francoise at that moment was setting the table.She did not seem astonished; she contented herself with putting on an
additional plate, knife and fork, but the little dimples were again
seen in her cheeks, and her smile reappeared.That morning Père Merlier
had sought out Dominique in his hut on the border of the wood. There the two men had talked for three hours with doors and windows
closed. What was the purport of their conversation no one ever knew.Certain it was, however, that Père Merlier, on taking his departure,
already called Dominique his son-in-law.Without doubt the old man had
found the youth he had gone to seek a worthy youth in the lazy fellow
who stretched himself out upon the grass to make the girls fall in love
with him. All Rocreuse clamored.The women at the doors had plenty to say on the
subject of the folly of Père Merlier, who had thus introduced a
reprobate into his house. The miller let people talk on. Perhaps he
remembered his own marriage.He was without a sou when he wedded
Madeleine and her mill; this, however, had not prevented him from
making a good husband. Besides, Dominique cut short the gossip by going
so vigorously to work that all the district was amazed.The miller’s
assistant had just been drawn to serve as a soldier, and Dominique
would not suffer another to be engaged.He carried the sacks, drove the
cart, fought with the old mill wheel when it refused to turn, and all
this with such good will that people came to see him out of curiosity. Père Merlier had his silent laugh.He was excessively proud of having
formed a correct estimate of this youth. There is nothing like love to
give courage to young folks. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Amid all these heavy labors Francoise and
Dominique adored each other.They did not indulge in lovers’ talks, but
there was a smiling gentleness in their glances. Up to that time Père Merlier had not spoken a single word on the
subject of marriage, and they respected this silence, awaiting the old
man’s will.Finally one day toward the middle of July he caused three
tables to be placed in the courtyard, beneath the great elm, and
invited his friends of Rocreuse to come in the evening and drink a
glass of wine with him.When the courtyard was full and all had their glasses in their hands,
Père Merlier raised his very high and said:
“I have the pleasure to announce to you that Francoise will wed this
young fellow here in a month, on Saint Louis’s Day.”
Then they drank noisily.Everybody smiled. But Père Merlier, again
lifting his voice, exclaimed:
“Dominique, embrace your fiancee. It is your right.”
They embraced, blushing to the tips of their ears, while all the guests
laughed joyously. It was a genuine fête.They emptied a small cask of
wine. Then when all were gone but intimate friends the conversation was
carried on without noise. The night had fallen, a starry and cloudless
night. Dominique and Francoise, seated side by side on a bench, said
nothing.An old peasant spoke of the war the emperor had declared against
Prussia. All the village lads had already departed. On the preceding
day troops had again passed through the place. There was going to be
hard fighting.“Bah!” said Père Merlier with the selfishness of a happy man. “Dominique is a foreigner; he will not go to the war.And if the
Prussians come here he will be on hand to defend his wife!”
The idea that the Prussians might come there seemed a good joke. They
were going to receive a sound whipping, and the affair would soon be
over.“I have afready seen them; I have already seen them,” repeated the old
peasant in a hollow voice. There was silence. Then they drank again.Francoise and Dominique had
heard nothing; they had gently taken each other by the hand behind the
bench, so that nobody could see them, and it seemed so delightful that
they remained where they were, their eyes plunged into the depths of
the shadows.What a warm and superb night it was! The village slumbered on both
edges of the white highway in infantile quietude. From time to time was
heard the crowing of some chanticleer aroused too soon.From the huge
wood near by came long breaths, which passed over the roofs like
caresses.The meadows, with their dark shadows, assumed a mysterious
and dreamy majesty, while all the springs, all the flowing waters which
gurgled in the darkness, seemed to be the cool and rhythmical
respiration of the sleeping country.Occasionally the ancient mill
wheel, lost in a doze, appeared to dream like those old watchdogs that
bark while snoring; it cracked; it talked to itself, rocked by the fall
of the Morelle, the surface of which gave forth the musical and
continuous sound of an organ pipe.Never had more profound peace
descended upon a happier corner of nature. CHAPTER II
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL
A month later, on the day preceding that of Saint Louis, Rocreuse was
in a state of terror.The Prussians had beaten the emperor and were
advancing by forced marches toward the village.For a week past people
who hurried along the highway had been announcing them thus: “They are
at Lormiere—they are at Novelles!” And on hearing that they were
drawing near so rapidly, Rocreuse every morning expected to see them
descend from the wood of Gagny.They did not come, however, and that
increased the fright. They would surely fall upon the village during
the night and slaughter everybody. That morning, a little before sunrise, there was an alarm.The
inhabitants were awakened by the loud tramp of men on the highway.The
women were already on their knees, making the sign of the cross, when
some of the people, peering cautiously through the partially opened
windows, recognized the red pantaloons. It was a French detachment.The
captain immediately asked for the mayor of the district and remained at
the mill after having talked with Père Merlier. The sun rose gaily that morning. It would be hot at noon.Over the wood
floated a golden brightness, while in the distance white vapors arose
from the meadows. The neat and pretty village awoke amid the fresh air,
and the country, with its river and its springs, had the moist
sweetness of a bouquet.But that beautiful day caused nobody to smile.The captain was seen to take a turn around the mill, examine the
neighboring houses, pass to the other side of the Morelle and from
there study the district with a field glass; Père Merlier, who
accompanied him, seemed to be giving him explanations.Then the captain
posted soldiers behind the walls, behind the trees and in the ditches. The main body of the detachment encamped in the courtyard of the mill. Was there going to be a battle? When Père Merlier returned he was
questioned.He nodded his head without speaking. Yes, there was going
to be a battle! Francoise and Dominique were in the courtyard; they looked at him.At
last he took his pipe from his mouth and said:
“Ah, my poor young ones, you cannot get married tomorrow!”
Dominique, his lips pressed together, with an angry frown on his
forehead, at times raised himself on tiptoe and fixed his eyes upon the
wood of Gagny, as if he wished to see the Prussians arrive.Francoise,
very pale and serious, came and went, furnishing the soldiers with what
they needed. The troops were making soup in a corner of the courtyard;
they joked while waiting for it to get ready. The captain was delighted.He had visited the chambers and the huge
hall of the mill which looked out upon the river. Now, seated beside
the well, he was conversing with Père Merlier. “Your mill is a real fortress,” he said. “We can hold it without
difficulty until evening.The bandits are late. They ought to be here.”
The miller was grave. He saw his mill burning like a torch, but he
uttered no complaint, thinking such a course useless.He merely said:
“You had better hide the boat behind the wheel; there is a place there
just fit for that purpose. Perhaps it will be useful to have the boat.”
The captain gave the requisite order.This officer was a handsome man
of forty; he was tall and had an amiable countenance. The sight of
Francoise and Dominique seemed to please him. He contemplated them as
if he had forgotten the coming struggle.He followed Francoise with his
eyes, and his look told plainly that he thought her charming. Then
turning toward Dominique, he asked suddenly:
“Why are you not in the army, my good fellow?”
“I am a foreigner,” answered the young man.The captain evidently did not attach much weight to this reason. He
winked his eye and smiled. Francoise was more agreeable company than a
cannon.On seeing him smile, Dominique added:
“I am a foreigner, but I can put a ball in an apple at five hundred
meters. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
There is my hunting gun behind you.”
“You may have use for it,” responded the captain dryly.Francoise had approached, somewhat agitated. Without heeding the
strangers present Dominique took and grasped in his the two hands she
extended to him, as if to put herself under his protection. The captain
smiled again but said not a word.He remained seated, his sword across
his knees and his eyes plunged into space, lost in a reverie. It was already ten o’clock. The heat had become very great. A heavy
silence prevailed.In the courtyard, in the shadows of the sheds, the
soldiers had begun to eat their soup. Not a sound came from the
village; all its inhabitants had barricaded the doors and windows of
their houses. A dog, alone upon the highway, howled.From the
neighboring forests and meadows, swooning in the heat, came a prolonged
and distant voice made up of all the scattered breaths. A cuckoo sang. Then the silence grew more intense. Suddenly in that slumbering air a shot was heard.The captain leaped
briskly to his feet; the soldiers left their plates of soup, yet half
full. In a few seconds everybody was at the post of duty; from bottom
to top the mill was occupied.Meanwhile the captain, who had gone out
upon the road, had discovered nothing; to the right and to the left the
highway stretched out, empty and white. A second shot was heard, and
still nothing visible, not even a shadow.But as he was returning the
captain perceived in the direction of Gagny, between two trees, a light
puff of smoke whirling away like thistledown. The wood was calm and
peaceful. “The bandits have thrown themselves into the forest,” he muttered.“They know we are here.”
Then the firing continued, growing more and more vigorous, between the
French soldiers posted around the mill and the Prussians hidden behind
the trees. The balls whistled above the Morelle without damaging either
side.The fusillade was irregular, the shots coming from every bush,
and still only the little puffs of smoke, tossed gently by the breeze,
were seen. This lasted nearly two hours. The officer hummed a tune with
an air of indifference.Francoise and Dominique, who had remained in
the courtyard, raised themselves on tiptoe and looked over a low wall.They were particularly interested in a little soldier posted on the
shore of the Morelle, behind the remains of an old bateau; he stretched
himself out flat on the ground, watched, fired and then glided into a
ditch a trifle farther back to reload his gun; and his movements were
so droll, so tricky and so supple, that they smiled as they looked at
him.He must have perceived the head of a Prussian, for he arose
quickly and brought his weapon to his shoulder, but before he could
fire he uttered a cry, fell and rolled into the ditch, where for an
instant his legs twitched convulsively like the claws of a chicken just
killed.The little soldier had received a ball full in the breast. He
was the first man slain. Instinctively Francoise seized Dominique’s
hand and clasped it with a nervous contraction. “Move away,” said the captain.“You are within range of the balls.”
At that moment a sharp little thud was heard in the old elm, and a
fragment of a branch came whirling down. But the two young folks did
not stir; they were nailed to the spot by anxiety to see what was going
on.On the edge of the wood a Prussian had suddenly come out from
behind a tree as from a theater stage entrance, beating the air with
his hands and falling backward.Nothing further moved; the two corpses
seemed asleep in the broad sunlight; not a living soul was seen in the
scorching country. Even the crack of the fusillade had ceased. The
Morelle alone whispered in its clear tones.Père Merlier looked at the captain with an air of surprise, as if to
ask him if the struggle was over. “They are getting ready for something worse,” muttered the officer. “Don’t trust appearances.Move away from there.”
He had not finished speaking when there was a terrible discharge of
musketry. The great elm was riddled, and a host of leaves shot into the
air. The Prussians had happily fired too high.Dominique dragged,
almost carried, Francoise away, while Père Merlier followed them,
shouting:
“Go down into the cellar; the walls are solid!”
But they did not heed him; they entered the huge hall where ten
soldiers were waiting in silence, watching through the chinks in the
closed window shutters.The captain was alone in the courtyard,
crouching behind the little wall, while the furious discharges
continued. Without, the soldiers he had posted gave ground only foot by
foot.However, they re-entered one by one, crawling, when the enemy had
dislodged them from their hiding places. Their orders were to gain time
and not show themselves, that the Prussians might remain in ignorance
as to what force was before them.Another hour went by. As a sergeant
arrived, saying that but two or three more men remained without, the
captain glanced at his watch, muttering:
“Half-past two o’clock.We must hold the position four hours longer.”
He caused the great gate of the courtyard to be closed, and every
preparation was made for an energetic resistance.As the Prussians were
on the opposite side of the Morelle, an immediate assault was not to be
feared.There was a bridge two kilometers away, but they evidently were
not aware of its existence, and it was hardly likely that they would
attempt to ford the river. The officer, therefore, simply ordered the
highway to be watched.Every effort would be made in the direction of
the country. Again the fusillade had ceased. The mill seemed dead beneath the
glowing sun. Not a shutter was open; no sound came from the interior.At length, little by little, the Prussians showed themselves at the
edge of the forest of Gagny. They stretched their necks and grew bold.In the mill several soldiers had already raised their guns to their
shoulders, but the captain cried:
“No, no; wait. Let them come nearer.”
They were exceedingly prudent, gazing at the mill with a suspicious
air.The silent and somber old structure with its curtains of ivy
filled them with uneasiness. Nevertheless, they advanced.When fifty of
them were in the opposite meadow the officer uttered the single word:
“Fire!”
A crash was heard; isolated shots followed. Francoise, all of a
tremble, had mechanically put her hands to her ears.Dominique, behind
the soldiers, looked on; when the smoke had somewhat lifted he saw
three Prussians stretched upon their backs in the center of the meadow. The others had thrown themselves behind the willows and poplars. Then
the siege began.For more than an hour the mill was riddled with balls. They dashed
against the old walls like hail. When they struck the stones they were
heard to flatten and fall into the water. They buried themselves in the
wood with a hollow sound.Occasionally a sharp crack announced that the
mill wheel had been hit. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
The soldiers in the interior were careful of
their shots; they fired only when they could take aim. From time to
time the captain consulted his watch.As a ball broke a shutter and
plowed into the ceiling he said to himself:
“Four o’clock. We shall never be able to hold out!”
Little by little the terrible fusillade weakened the old mill.A
shutter fell into the water, pierced like a bit of lace, and it was
necessary to replace it with a mattress.Père Merlier constantly
exposed himself to ascertain the extent of the damage done to his poor
wheel, the cracking of which made his heart ache. All would be over
with it this time; never could he repair it.Dominique had implored
Francoise to withdraw, but she refused to leave him; she was seated
behind a huge oaken clothespress, which protected her. A ball, however,
struck the clothespress, the sides of which gave forth a hollow sound.Then Dominique placed himself in front of Francoise. He had not yet
fired a shot; he held his gun in his hand but was unable to approach
the windows, which were altogether occupied by the soldiers. At each
discharge the floor shook. “Attention!Attention!” suddenly cried the captain. He had just seen a great dark mass emerge from the wood. Immediately a
formidable platoon fire opened. It was like a waterspout passing over
the mill.Another shutter was shattered, and through the gaping opening
of the window the balls entered. Two soldiers rolled upon the floor. One of them lay like a stone; they pushed the body against the wall
because it was in the way.The other twisted in agony, begging his
comrades to finish him, but they paid no attention to him. The balls
entered in a constant stream; each man took care of himself and strove
to find a loophole through which to return the fire.A third soldier
was hit; he uttered not a word; he fell on the edge of a table, with
eyes fixed and haggard.Opposite these dead men Francoise, stricken
with horror, had mechanically pushed away her chair to sit on the floor
against the wall; she thought she would take up less room there and not
be in so much danger.Meanwhile the soldiers had collected all the
mattresses of the household and partially stopped up the windows with
them. The hall was filled with wrecks, with broken weapons and
demolished furniture. “Five o’clock,” said the captain.“Keep up your courage! They are about
to try to cross the river!”
At that moment Francoise uttered a cry. A ball which had ricocheted had
grazed her forehead. Several drops of blood appeared.Dominique stared
at her; then, approaching the window, he fired his first shot. Once
started, he did not stop. He loaded and fired without heeding what was
passing around him, but from time to time he glanced at Francoise.He
was very deliberate and aimed with care. The Prussians, keeping beside
the poplars, attempted the passage of the Morelle, as the captain had
predicted, but as soon as a man strove to cross he fell, shot in the
head by Dominique.The captain, who had his eyes on the young man, was
amazed. He complimented him, saying that he should be glad to have many
such skillful marksmen. Dominique did not hear him. A ball cut his
shoulder; another wounded his arm, but he continued to fire.There were two more dead men. The mangled mattresses no longer stopped
the windows. The last discharge seemed as if it would have carried away
the mill. The position had ceased to be tenable.Nevertheless, the
captain said firmly:
“Hold your ground for half an hour more!”
Now he counted the minutes.He had promised his chiefs to hold the
enemy in check there until evening, and he would not give an inch
before the hour he had fixed on for the retreat. He preserved his
amiable air and smiled upon Francoise to reassure her.He had picked up
the gun of a dead soldier and himself was firing. Only four soldiers remained in the hall. The Prussians appeared in a
body on the other side of the Morelle, and it was clear that they
intended speedily to cross the river.A few minutes more elapsed. The
stubborn captain would not order the retreat. Just then a sergeant
hastened to him and said:
“They are upon the highway; they will take us in the rear!”
The Prussians must have found the bridge.The captain pulled out his
watch and looked at it. “Five minutes longer,” he said. “They cannot get here before that
time!”
Then at six o’clock exactly he at last consented to lead his men out
through a little door which opened into a lane.From there they threw
themselves into a ditch; they gained the forest of Sauval. Before
taking his departure the captain bowed very politely to Père Merlier
and made his excuses, adding:
“Amuse them!We will return!”
Dominique was now alone in the hall. He was still firing, hearing
nothing, understanding nothing. He felt only the need of defending
Francoise. He had not the least suspicion in the world that the
soldiers had retreated.He aimed and killed his man at every shot. Suddenly there was a loud noise. The Prussians had entered the
courtyard from behind. Dominique fired a last; shot, and they fell upon
him while his gun was yet smoking. Four men held him.Others vociferated around him in a frightful
language. They were ready to slaughter him on the spot. Francoise, with
a supplicating look, had cast herself before him. But an officer
entered and ordered the prisoner to be delivered up to him.After
exchanging a few words in German with the soldiers he turned toward
Dominique and said to him roughly in very good French:
“You will be shot in two hours!”
CHAPTER III
THE FLIGHT
It was a settled rule of the German staff that every Frenchman, not
belonging to the regular army, taken with arms in his hands should be
shot.The militia companies themselves were not recognized as
belligerents. By thus making terrible examples of the peasants who
defended their homes, the Germans hoped to prevent the levy en masse,
which they feared.The officer, a tall, lean man of fifty, briefly questioned Dominique. Although he spoke remarkably pure French he had a stiffness altogether
Prussian. “Do you belong to this district?” he asked. “No; I am a Belgian,” answered the young man.“Why then did you take up arms? The fighting did not concern you!”
Dominique made no reply. At that moment the officer saw Francoise who
was standing by, very pale, listening; upon her white forehead her
slight wound had put a red bar.He looked at the young folks, one after
the other, seemed to understand matters and contented himself with
adding:
“You do not deny having fired, do you?”
“I fired as often as I could!” responded Dominique tranquilly.This confession was useless, for he was black with powder, covered with
sweat and stained with a few drops of blood which had flowed from the
scratch on his shoulder. “Very well,” said the officer.“You will be shot in two hours!”
Francoise did not cry out. She clasped her hands and raised them with a
gesture of mute despair. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
The officer noticed this gesture.Two soldiers
had taken Dominique to a neighboring apartment, where they were to keep
watch over him. The young girl had fallen upon a chair, totally
overcome; she could not weep; she was suffocating. The officer had
continued to examine her.At last he spoke to her. “Is that young man your brother?” he demanded. She shook her head negatively. The German stood stiffly on his feet
with out a smile.Then after a short silence he again asked:
“Has he lived long in the district?”
She nodded affirmatively. “In that case, he ought to be thoroughly acquainted with the
neighboring forests.”
This time she spoke.“He is thoroughly acquainted with them, monsieur,” she said, looking at
him with considerable surprise. He said nothing further to her but turned upon his heel, demanding that
the mayor of the village should be brought to him.But Francoise had
arisen with a slight blush on her countenance; thinking that she had
seized the aim of the officer’s questions, she had recovered hope. She
herself ran to find her father.Père Merlier, as soon as the firing had ceased, had quickly descended
to the wooden gallery to examine his wheel.He adored his daughter; he
had a solid friendship for Dominique, his future son-in-law, but his
wheel also held a large place in his heart.Since the two young ones,
as he called them, had come safe and sound out of the fight, he thought
of his other tenderness, which had suffered greatly. Bent over the huge
wooden carcass, he was studying its wounds with a sad air.Five buckets
were shattered to pieces; the central framework was riddled. He thrust
his fingers in the bullet holes to measure their depth; he thought how
he could repair all these injuries.Francoise found him already
stopping up the clefts with rubbish and moss. “Father,” she said, “you are wanted.”
And she wept at last as she told him what she had just heard. Père
Merlier tossed his head.People were not shot in such a summary
fashion. The matter must be looked after. He re-entered the mill with
his silent and tranquil air.When the officer demanded of him
provisions for his men he replied that the inhabitants of Rocreuse were
not accustomed to be treated roughly and that nothing would be obtained
from them if violence were employed.He would see to everything but on
condition that he was not interfered with. The officer at first seemed
irritated by his calm tone; then he gave way before the old man’s short
and clear words.He even called him back and asked him:
“What is the name of that wood opposite?”
“The forest of Sauval.”
“What is its extent?”
The miller looked at him fixedly. “I do not know,” he answered. And he went away.An hour later the contribution of war in provisions
and money, demanded by the officer, was in the courtyard of the mill. Night came on. Francoise watched with anxiety the movements of the
soldiers.She hung about the room in which Dominique was imprisoned. Toward seven o’clock she experienced a poignant emotion. She saw the
officer enter the prisoner’s apartment and for a quarter of an hour
heard their voices in loud conversation.For an instant the officer
reappeared upon the threshold to give an order in German, which she did
not understand, but when twelve men ranged themselves in the courtyard,
their guns on their shoulders, she trembled and felt as if about to
faint.All then was over: the execution was going to take place. The
twelve men stood there ten minutes, Dominique’s voice continuing to be
raised in a tone of violent refusal.Finally the officer came out,
saying, as he roughly shut the door:
“Very well; reflect. I give you until tomorrow morning.”
And with a gesture he ordered the twelve men to break ranks. Francoise
was stupefied.Père Merlier, who had been smoking his pipe and looking
at the platoon simply with an air of curiosity, took her by the arm
with paternal gentleness. He led her to her chamber. “Be calm,” he said, “and try to sleep.Tomorrow, when it is light, we
will see what can be done.”
As he withdrew he prudently locked her in. It was his opinion that
women were good for nothing and that they spoiled everything when they
took a hand in a serious affair.But Francoise did not retire. She sat
for a long while upon the side of her bed, listening to the noises of
the house.The German soldiers encamped in the courtyard sang and
laughed; they must have been eating and drinking until eleven o’clock,
for the racket did not cease an instant.In the mill itself heavy
footsteps resounded from time to time, without doubt those of the
sentinels who were being relieved. But she was interested most by the
sounds she could distinguish in the apartment beneath her chamber.Many
times she stretched herself out at full length and put her ear to the
floor. That apartment was the one in which Dominique was confined.He
must have been walking back and forth from the window to the wall, for
she long heard the regular cadence of his steps. Then deep silence
ensued; he had doubtless seated himself. Finally every noise ceased and
all was as if asleep.When slumber appeared to her to have settled on
the house she opened her window as gently as possible and leaned her
elbows on the sill. Without, the night had a warm serenity.The slender crescent of the
moon, which was sinking behind the forest of Sauval, lit up the country
with the glimmer of a night lamp.The lengthened shadows of the tall
trees barred the meadows with black, while the grass in uncovered spots
assumed the softness of greenish velvet. But Francoise did not pause to
admire the mysterious charms of the night.She examined the country,
searching for the sentinels whom the Germans had posted obliquely. She
clearly saw their shadows extending like the rounds of a ladder along
the Morelle.Only one was before the mill, on the other shore of the
river, beside a willow, the branches of which dipped in the water. Francoise saw him plainly.He was a tall man and was standing
motionless, his face turned toward the sky with the dreamy air of a
shepherd. When she had carefully inspected the locality she again seated herself
on her bed. She remained there an hour, deeply absorbed.Then she
listened once more: there was not a sound in the mill. She returned to
the window and glanced out, but doubtless one of the horns of the moon,
which was still visible behind the trees, made her uneasy, for she
resumed her waiting attitude.At last she thought the proper time had
come. The night was as black as jet; she could no longer see the
sentinel opposite; the country spread out like a pool of ink. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
She
strained her ear for an instant and made her decision.Passing near the
window was an iron ladder, the bars fastened to the wall, which mounted
from the wheel to the garret and formerly enabled the millers to reach
certain machinery; afterward the mechanism had been altered, and for a
long while the ladder had been hidden under the thick ivy which covered
that side of the mill.Francoise bravely climbed out of her window and grasped one of the bars
of the ladder. She began to descend. Her skirts embarrassed her
greatly. Suddenly a stone was detached from the wall and fell into the
Morelle with a loud splash.She stopped with an icy shiver of fear.Then she realized that the waterfall with its continuous roar would
drown every noise she might make, and she descended more courageously,
feeling the ivy with her foot, assuring herself that the rounds were
firm.When she was at the height of the chamber which served as
Dominique’s prison she paused. An unforeseen difficulty nearly caused
her to lose all her courage: the window of the chamber was not directly
below that of her apartment.She hung off from the ladder, but when she
stretched out her arm her hand encountered only the wall. Must she,
then, ascend without pushing her plan to completion?Her arms were
fatigued; the murmur of the Morelle beneath her commenced to make her
dizzy. Then she tore from the wall little fragments of plaster and
threw them against Dominique’s window. He did not hear; he was
doubtless asleep.She crumbled more plaster from the wall, scraping the
skin off her fingers. She was utterly exhausted; she felt herself
falling backward, when Dominique at last softly opened the window. “It is I!” she murmured.“Catch me quickly; I’m falling!”
It was the first time that she had addressed him familiarly. Leaning
out, he seized her and drew her into the chamber. There she gave vent
to a flood of tears, stifling her sobs that she might not be heard.Then by a supreme effort she calmed herself. “Are you guarded?” she asked in a low voice. Dominique, still stupefied at seeing her thus, nodded his head
affirmatively, pointing to the door.On the other side they heard
someone snoring; the sentinel, yielding to sleep, had thrown himself on
the floor against the door, arguing that by disposing himself thus the
prisoner could not escape. “You must fly,” resumed Francoise excitedly.“I have come to beg you to
do so and to bid you farewell.”
But he did not seem to hear her. He repeated:
“What? Is it you; is it you? Oh, what fear you caused me! You might
have killed yourself!”
He seized her hands; he kissed them.“How I love you, Francoise!” he murmured. “You are as courageous as
good. I had only one dread: that I should die without seeing you again. But you are here, and now they can shoot me.When I have passed a
quarter of an hour with you I shall be ready.”
Little by little he had drawn her to him, and she leaned her head upon
his shoulder. The danger made them dearer to each other. They forgot
everything in that warm clasp.“Ah, Francoise,” resumed Dominique in a caressing voice, “this is Saint
Louis’s Day, the day, so long awaited, of our marriage. Nothing has
been able to separate us, since we are both here alone, faithful to the
appointment.Is not this our wedding morning?”
“Yes, yes,” she repeated, “it is our wedding morning.”
They tremblingly exchanged a kiss. But all at once she disengaged
herself from Dominique’s arms; she remembered the terrible reality.“You must fly; you must fly,” she whispered. “There is not a minute to
be lost!”
And as he stretched out his arms in the darkness to clasp her again,
she said tenderly:
“Oh, I implore you to listen to me! If you die I shall die also!In an
hour it will be light. I want you to go at once.”
Then rapidly she explained her plan. The iron ladder descended to the
mill wheel; there he could climb down the buckets and get into the boat
which was hidden away in a nook.Afterward it would be easy for him to
reach the other bank of the river and escape. “But what of the sentinels?” he asked.“There is only one, opposite, at the foot of the first willow.”
“What if he should see me and attempt to give an alarm?”
Francoise shivered. She placed in his hand a knife she had brought with
her. There was a brief silence.“What is to become of your father and yourself?” resumed Dominique. “No, I cannot fly! When I am gone those soldiers will, perhaps,
massacre you both! You do not know them.They offered me my life if I
would consent to guide them through the forest of Sauval. When they
discover my escape they will be capable of anything!”
The young girl did not stop to argue.She said simply in reply to all
the reasons he advanced:
“Out of love for me, fly! If you love me, Dominique, do not remain here
another moment!”
Then she promised to climb back to her chamber. No one would know that
she had helped him.She finally threw her arms around him to convince
him with an embrace, with a burst of extraordinary love. He was
vanquished.He asked but one more question:
“Can you swear to me that your father knows what you have done and that
he advises me to fly?”
“My father sent me!” answered Francoise boldly. She told a falsehood.At that moment she had only one immense need: to
know that he was safe, to escape from the abominable thought that the
sun would be the signal for his death.When he was far away every
misfortune might fall upon her; that would seem delightful to her from
the moment he was secure. The selfishness of her tenderness desired
that he should live before everything.“Very well,” said Dominique; “I will do what you wish.”
They said nothing more. Dominique reopened the window. But suddenly a
sound froze them. The door was shaken, and they thought that it was
about to be opened.Evidently a patrol had heard their voices. Standing
locked in each other’s arms, they waited in unspeakable anguish. The
door was shaken a second time, but it did not open.They uttered low
sighs of relief; they comprehended that the soldier who was asleep
against the door must have turned over. In fact, silence succeeded; the
snoring was resumed.Dominique exacted that Francoise should ascend to her chamber before he
departed. He clasped her in his arms and bade her a mute adieu. Then he
aided her to seize the ladder and clung to it in his turn.But he
refused to descend a single round until convinced that she was in her
apartment.When Francoise had entered her window she let fall in a
voice as light as a breath:
“Au revoir, my love!”
She leaned her elbows on the sill and strove to follow Dominique with
her eyes. The night was yet very dark.She searched for the sentinel
but could not see him; the willow alone made a pale stain in the midst
of the gloom. For an instant she heard the sound produced by
Dominique’s body in passing along the ivy.Then the wheel cracked, and
there was a slight agitation in the water which told her that the young
man had found the boat. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
A moment afterward she distinguished the somber
silhouette of the bateau on the gray surface of the Morelle.Terrible
anguish seized upon her. Each instant she thought she heard the
sentinel’s cry of alarm; the smallest sounds scattered through the
gloom seemed to her the hurried tread of soldiers, the clatter of
weapons, the charging of guns.Nevertheless, the seconds elapsed and
the country maintained its profound peace. Dominique must have reached
the other side of the river. Francoise saw nothing more. The silence
was majestic.She heard a shuffling of feet, a hoarse cry and the
hollow fall of a body. Afterward the silence grew deeper. Then as if
she had felt Death pass by, she stood, chilled through and through,
staring into the thick night.CHAPTER IV
A TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE
At dawn a clamor of voices shook the mill. Père Merlier opened the door
of Francoise’s chamber. She went down into the courtyard, pale and very
calm.But there she could not repress a shiver as she saw the corpse of
a Prussian soldier stretched out on a cloak beside the well. Around the body troops gesticulated, uttering cries of fury. Many of
them shook their fists at the village.Meanwhile the officer had
summoned Père Merlier as the mayor of the commune. “Look!” he said to him in a voice almost choking with anger. “There
lies one of our men who was found assassinated upon the bank of the
river.We must make a terrible example, and I count on you to aid us in
discovering the murderer.”
“As you choose,” answered the miller with his usual stoicism, “but you
will find it no easy task.”
The officer stooped and drew aside a part of the cloak which hid the
face of the dead man.Then appeared a horrible wound. The sentinel had
been struck in the throat, and the weapon had remained in the cut. It
was a kitchen knife with a black handle.“Examine that knife,” said the officer to Père Merlier; “perhaps it
will help us in our search.”
The old man gave a start but recovered control of himself immediately.He replied without moving a muscle of his face:
“Everybody in the district has similar knives. Doubtless your man was
weary of fighting and put an end to his own life. It looks like it!”
“Mind what you say!” cried the officer furiously.“I do not know what
prevents me from setting fire to the four corners of the village!”
Happily in his rage he did not notice the deep trouble pictured on
Francoise’s countenance. She had been forced to sit down on a stone
bench near the well.Despite herself her eyes were fixed upon the
corpse stretched our on the ground almost at her feet. It was that of a
tall and handsome man who resembled Dominique, with flaxen hair and
blue eyes. This resemblance made her heart ache.She thought that
perhaps the dead soldier had left behind him in Germany a sweetheart
who would weep her eyes out for him. She recognized her knife in the
throat of the murdered man. She had killed him.The officer was talking of striking Rocreuse with terrible measures,
when soldiers came running to him. Dominique’s escape had just been
discovered. It caused an extreme agitation.The officer went to the
apartment in which the prisoner had been confined, looked out of the
window which had remained open, understood everything and returned,
exasperated. Père Merlier seemed greatly vexed by Dominique’s flight.“The imbecile!” he muttered. “He has ruined all!”
Francoise heard him and was overcome with anguish. But the miller did
not suspect her of complicity in the affair.He tossed his head, saying
to her in an undertone:
“We are in a nice scrape!”
“It was that wretch who assassinated the soldier! I am sure of it!”
cried the officer. “He has undoubtedly reached the forest.But he must
be found for us or the village shall pay for him!”
Turning to the miller, he said:
“See here, you ought to know where he is hidden!”
Père Merlier laughed silently, pointing to the wide stretch of wooden
hills.“Do you expect to find a man in there?” he said. “Oh, there must be nooks there with which you are acquainted. I will
give you ten men. You must guide them.”
“As you please.But it will take a week to search all the wood in the
vicinity.”
The old man’s tranquillity enraged the officer. In fact, the latter
comprehended the asburdity of this search. At that moment he saw
Francoise, pale and trembling, on the bench.The anxious attitude of
the young girl struck him. He was silent for an instant, during which
he in turn examined the miller and his daughter.At length he demanded roughly of the old man:
“Is not that fellow your child’s lover?”
Père Merlier grew livid and seemed about to hurl himself upon the
officer to strangle him. He stiffened himself but made no answer.Francoise buried her face in her hands. “Yes, that’s it!” continued the Prussian. “And you or your daughter
helped him to escape! One of you is his accomplice! For the last time,
will you give him up to us?”
The miller uttered not a word.He turned away and looked into space
with an air of indifference, as if the officer had not addressed him. This brought the latter’s rage to a head. “Very well!” he shouted.“You shall be shot in his place!”
And he again ordered out the platoon of execution. Père Merlier
remained as stoical as ever. He hardly even shrugged his shoulders; all
this drama appeared to him in bad taste.Without doubt he did not
believe that they would shoot a man so lightly. But when the platoon
drew up before him he said gravely:
“So it is serious, is it? Go on with your bloody work then!If you must
have a victim I will do as well as another!”
But Francoise started up, terrified, stammering:
“In pity, monsieur, do no harm to my father! Kill me in his stead! I
aided Dominique to fly!I alone am guilty!”
“Hush, my child!” cried Père Merlier. “Why do you tell an untruth? She
passed the night locked in her chamber, monsieur. She tells a
falsehood, I assure you!”
“No, I do not tell a falsehood!” resumed the young girl ardently.“I
climbed out of my window and went down the iron ladder; I urged
Dominique to fly. This is the truth, the whole truth!”
The old man became very pale. He saw clearly in her eyes that she did
not lie, and her story terrified him.Ah, these children with their
hearts, how they spoil everything! Then he grew angry and exclaimed:
“She is mad; do not heed her. She tells you stupid tales. Come, finish
your work!”
She still protested. She knelt, clasping her hands.The officer
tranquilly watched this dolorous struggle. “MON DIEU!” he said at last. “I take your father because I have not the
other.Find the fugitive and the old man shall be set at liberty!”
She gazed at him with staring eyes, astonished at the atrocity of the
proposition. “How horrible!” she murmured. “Where do you think I can find Dominique
at this hour?He has departed; I know no more about him.”
“Come, make your choice—him or your father.”
“Oh, MON DIEU! How can I choose? If I knew where Dominique was I could
not choose! You are cutting my heart. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
I would rather die at once.Yes,
it would be the sooner over. Kill me, I implore you, kill me!”
This scene of despair and tears finally made the officer impatient. He
cried out:
“Enough! I will be merciful. I consent to give you two hours.If in
that time your lover is not here your father will be shot in his
place!”
He caused Père Merlier to be taken to the chamber which had served as
Dominique’s prison. The old man demanded tobacco and began to smoke.Upon his impassible face not the slightest emotion was visible. But
when alone, as he smoked, he shed two big tears which ran slowly down
his cheeks. His poor, dear child, how she was suffering! Francoise remained in the middle of the courtyard.Prussian soldiers
passed, laughing. Some of them spoke to her, uttered jokes she could
not understand. She stared at the door through which her father had
disappeared.With a slow movement she put her hand to her forehead, as
if to prevent it from bursting. The officer turned upon his heel, saying:
“You have two hours. Try to utilize them.”
She had two hours. This phrase buzzed in her ears.Then mechanically
she quitted the courtyard; she walked straight ahead. Where should she
go?—what should she do? She did not even try to make a decision because
she well understood the inutility of her efforts. However, she wished
to see Dominique.They could have an understanding together; they
might, perhaps, find an expedient. And amid the confusion of her
thoughts she went down to the shore of the Morelle, which she crossed
below the sluice at a spot where there were huge stones.Her feet led
her beneath the first willow, in the corner of the meadow. As she
stooped she saw a pool of blood which made her turn pale. It was there
the murder had been committed.She followed the track of Dominique in
the trodden grass; he must have run, for she perceived a line of long
footprints stretching across the meadow. Then farther on she lost these
traces. But in a neighboring field she thought she found them again.The new trail conducted her to the edge of the forest, where every
indication was effaced. Francoise, nevertheless, plunged beneath the trees. It solaced her to
be alone.She sat down for an instant, but at the thought that time was
passing she leaped to her feet. How long had it been since she left the
mill? Five minutes?—half an hour? She had lost all conception of time.Perhaps Dominique had concealed himself in a copse she knew of, where
they had one afternoon eaten filberts together. She hastened to the
copse, searched it. Only a blackbird flew away, uttering its soft, sad
note.Then she thought he might have taken refuge in a hollow of the
rocks, where it had sometimes been his custom to lie in wait for game,
but the hollow of the rocks was empty. What good was it to hunt for
him?She would never find him, but little by little the desire to
discover him took entire possession of her, and she hastened her steps. The idea that he might have climbed a tree suddenly occurred to her.She advanced with uplifted eyes, and that he might be made aware of her
presence she called him every fifteen or twenty steps. Cuckoos
answered; a breath of wind which passed through the branches made her
believe that he was there and was descending.Once she even imagined
she saw him; she stopped, almost choked, and wished to fly. What was
she to say to him? Had she come to take him back to be shot? Oh no, she
would not tell him what had happened.She would cry out to him to
escape, not to remain in the neighborhood. Then the thought that her
father was waiting for her gave her a sharp pain. She fell upon the
turf, weeping, crying aloud:
“MON DIEU! MON DIEU!Why am I here?”
She was mad to have come. And as if seized with fear, she ran; she
sought to leave the forest. Three times she deceived herself; she
thought she never again would find the mill, when she entered a meadow
just opposite Rocreuse.As soon as she saw the village she paused. Was
she going to return alone? She was still hesitating when a voice softly
called:
“Francoise! Francoise!”
And she saw Dominique, who had raised his head above the edge of a
ditch. Just God!She had found him! Did heaven wish his death? She
restrained a cry; she let herself glide into the ditch. “Are you searching for me?” asked the young man. “Yes,” she answered, her brain in a whirl, not knowing what she said.“What has happened?”
She lowered her eyes, stammered:
“Nothing. I was uneasy; I wanted to see you.”
Then, reassured, he explained to her that he had resolved not to go
away. He was doubtful about the safety of herself and her father.Those
Prussian wretches were fully capable of taking vengeance upon women and
old men. But everything was getting on well.He added with a laugh:
“Our wedding will take place in a week—I am sure of it.”
Then as she remained overwhelmed, he grew grave again and said:
“But what ails you? You are concealing something from me!”
“No; I swear it to you.I am out of breath from running.”
He embraced her, saying that it was imprudent for them to be talking,
and he wished to climb out of the ditch to return to the forest. She
restrained him. She trembled.“Listen,” she said: “it would, perhaps, be wise for you to remain where
you are. No one is searching for you; you have nothing to fear.”
“Francoise, you are concealing something from me,” he repeated. Again she swore that she was hiding nothing.She had simply wished to
know that he was near her. And she stammered forth still further
reasons. She seemed so strange to him that he now could not be induced
to flee. Besides, he had faith in the return of the French.Troops had
been seen in the direction of Sauval. “Ah, let them hurry; let them get here as soon as possible,” she
murmured fervently. At that moment eleven o’clock sounded from the belfry of Rocreuse. The
strokes were clear and distinct.She arose with a terrified look; two
hours had passed since she quitted the mill.“Hear me,” she said rapidly: “if we have need of you I will wave my
handkerchief from my chamber window.”
And she departed on a run, while Dominique, very uneasy, stretched
himself out upon the edge of the ditch to watch the mill.As she was
about to enter Rocreuse, Francoise met an old beggar, Père Bontemps,
who knew everybody in the district.He bowed to her; he had just seen
the miller in the midst of the Prussians; then, making the sign of the
cross and muttering broken words, he went on his way. “The two hours have passed,” said the officer when Francoise appeared.Père Merlier was there, seated upon the bench beside the well. He was
smoking. The young girl again begged, wept, sank on her knees. She
wished to gain time.The hope of seeing the French return had increased
in her, and while lamenting she thought she heard in the distance, the
measured tramp of an army. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Oh, if they would come, if they would
deliver them all?“Listen, monsieur,” she said: “an hour, another hour; you can grant us
another hour!”
But the officer remained inflexible. He even ordered two men to seize
her and take her away, that they might quietly proceed with the
execution of the old man.Then a frightful struggle took place in
Francoise’s heart. She could not allow her father to be thus
assassinated. No, no; she would die rather with Dominique. She was
running toward her chamber when Dominique himself entered the
courtyard.The officer and the soldiers uttered a shout of triumph. But the young
man, calmly, with a somewhat severe look, went up to Francoise, as if
she had been the only person present. “You did wrong,” he said. “Why did you not bring me back?It remained
for Père Bontemps to tell me everything. But I am here!”
CHAPTER V
THE RETURN OF THE FRENCH
It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Great black clouds, the trail of
some neighboring storm, had slowly filled the sky.The yellow heavens,
the brass covered uniforms, had changed the valley of Rocreuse, so gay
in the sunlight, into a den of cutthroats full of sinister gloom.The
Prussian officer had contented himself with causing Dominique to be
imprisoned without announcing what fate he reserved for him. Since noon
Francoise had been torn by terrible anguish.Despite her father’s
entreaties she would not quit the courtyard. She was awaiting the
French. But the hours sped on; night was approaching, and she suffered
the more as all the time gained did not seem to be likely to change the
frightful denouement.About three o’clock the Prussians made their preparations for
departure. For an instant past the officer had, as on the previous day,
shut himself up with Dominique. Francoise realized that the young man’s
life was in balance.She clasped her hands; she prayed. Père Merlier,
beside her, maintained silence and the rigid attitude of an old peasant
who does not struggle against fate. “Oh, MON DIEU! Oh, MON DIEU!” murmured Francoise.“They are going to
kill him!”
The miller drew her to him and took her on his knees as if she had been
a child. At that moment the officer came out, while behind him two men brought
Dominique. “Never! Never!” cried the latter.“I am ready to die!”
“Think well,” resumed the officer. “The service you refuse me another
will render us. I am generous: I offer you your life. I want you simply
to guide us through the forest to Montredon.There must be pathways
leading there.”
Dominique was silent. “So you persist in your infatuation, do you?”
“Kill me and end all this!” replied the young man. Francoise, her hands clasped, supplicated him from afar.She had
forgotten everything; she would have advised him to commit an act of
cowardice. But Père Merlier seized her hands that the Prussians might
not see her wild gestures.“He is right,” he whispered: “it is better to die!”
The platoon of execution was there. The officer awaited a sign of
weakness on Dominique’s part. He still expected to conquer him. No one
spoke. In the distance violent crashes of thunder were heard.Oppressive heat weighed upon the country. But suddenly, amid the
silence, a cry broke forth:
“The French! The French!”
Yes, the French were at hand. Upon the Sauval highway, at the edge of
the wood, the line of red pantaloons could be distinguished.In the
mill there was an extraordinary agitation. The Prussian soldiers ran
hither and thither with guttural exclamations. Not a shot had yet been
fired. “The French! The French!” cried Francoise, clapping her hands. She was wild with joy.She escaped from her father’s grasp; she laughed
and tossed her arms in the air. At last they had come and come in time,
since Dominique was still alive! A terrible platoon fire, which burst upon her ears like a clap of
thunder, caused her to turn.The officer muttered between his teeth:
“Before everything, let us settle this affair!”
And with his own hand pushing Dominique against the wall of a shed he
ordered his men to fire.When Francoise looked Dominique lay upon the
ground with blood streaming from his neck and shoulders. She did not weep; she stood stupefied. Her eyes grew fixed, and she sat
down under the shed, a few paces from the body.She stared at it,
wringing her hands. The Prussians had seized Père Merlier as a hostage. It was a stirring combat. The officer had rapidly posted his men,
comprehending that he could not beat a retreat without being cut to
pieces.Hence he would fight to the last. Now the Prussians defended
the mill, and the French attacked it. The fusillade began with unusual
violence. For half an hour it did not cease.Then a hollow sound was
heard, and a ball broke a main branch of the old elm. The French had
cannon. A battery, stationed just above the ditch in which Dominique
had hidden himself, swept the wide street of Rocreuse. The struggle
could not last long.Ah, the poor mill! Balls pierced it in every part. Half of the roof was
carried away. Two walls were battered down. But it was on the side of
the Morelle that the destruction was most lamentable.The ivy, torn
from the tottering edifice, hung like rags; the river was encumbered
with wrecks of all kinds, and through a breach was visible Francoise’s
chamber with its bed, the white curtains of which were carefully
closed.Shot followed shot; the old wheel received two balls and gave
vent to an agonizing groan; the buckets were borne off by the current;
the framework was crushed. The soul of the gay mill had left it! Then the French began the assault.There was a furious fight with
swords and bayonets. Beneath the rust-colored sky the valley was choked
with the dead. The broad meadows had a wild look with their tall,
isolated trees and their hedges of poplars which stained them with
shade.To the right and to the left the forests were like the walls of
an ancient ampitheater which enclosed the fighting gladiators, while
the springs, the fountains and the flowing brooks seemed to sob amid
the panic of the country.Beneath the shed Francoise still sat near Dominique’s body; she had not
moved. Père Merlier had received a slight wound. The Prussians were
exterminated, but the ruined mill was on fire in a dozen places.The
French rushed into the courtyard, headed by their captain. It was his
first success of the war. His face beamed with triumph. He waved his
sword, shouting:
“Victory!Victory!”
On seeing the wounded miller, who was endeavoring to comfort Francoise,
and noticing the body of Dominique, his joyous look changed to one of
sadness.Then he knelt beside the young man and, tearing open his
blouse, put his hand to his heart. “Thank God!” he cried. “It is yet beating! Send for the surgeon!”
At the captain’s words Francoise leaped to her feet. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
You know how those things are managed.However, just before the inspection—as the colonel is a crotchety old
maniac—I said to Burle: ‘I say, old man, look to your accounts; I am
answerable, you know,’ and then I felt perfectly secure.Well, about a
month ago, as he seemed queer and some nasty stories were circulating,
I peered a little closer into the books and pottered over the entries.I thought everything looked straight and very well kept—”
At this point he stopped, convulsed by such a fit of rage that he had
to relieve himself by a volley of appalling oaths.Finally he resumed:
“It isn’t the swindle that angers me; it is his disgusting behavior to
me. He has gammoned me, Madame Burle. By God! Does he take me for an
old fool?”
“So he stole?” the mother again questioned.“This evening,” continued the major more quietly, “I had just finished
my dinner when Gagneux came in—you know Gagneux, the butcher at the
corner of the Place aux Herbes?Another dirty beast who got the meat
contract and makes our men eat all the diseased cow flesh in the
neighborhood! Well, I received him like a dog, and then he let it all
out—blurted out the whole thing, and a pretty mess it is!It appears
that Burle only paid him in driblets and had got himself into a
muddle—a confusion of figures which the devil himself couldn’t
disentangle.In short, Burle owes the butcher two thousand francs, and
Gagneux threatens that he’ll inform the colonel if he is not paid.To
make matters worse, Burle, just to blind me, handed me every week a
forged receipt which he had squarely signed with Gagneux’s name. To
think he did that to me, his old friend!Ah, curse him!”
With increasing profanity the major rose to his feet, shook his fist at
the ceiling and then fell back in his chair. Mme Burle again repeated:
“He has stolen.It was inevitable.”
Then without a word of judgment or condemnation she added simply: “Two
thousand francs—we have not got them. There are barely thirty francs in
the house.”
“I expected as much,” said Laguitte.“And do you know where all the
money goes? Why, Melanie gets it—yes, Melanie, a creature who has
turned Burle into a perfect fool. Ah, those women! Those fiendish
women! I always said they would do for him! I cannot conceive what he
is made of!He is only five years younger than I am, and yet he is as
mad as ever. What a woman hunter he is!”
Another long silence followed.Outside the rain was increasing in
violence, and throughout the sleepy little town one could hear the
crashing of slates and chimney pots as they were dashed by the blast
onto the pavements of the streets.“Come,” suddenly said the major, rising, “my stopping here won’t mend
matters. I have warned you—and now I’m off.”
“What is to be done? To whom can we apply?” muttered the old woman
drearily. “Don’t give way—we must consider.If I only had the two thousand
francs—but you know that I am not rich.”
The major stopped short in confusion.This old bachelor, wifeless and
childless, spent his pay in drink and gambled away at ecarte whatever
money his cognac and absinthe left in his pocket. Despite that,
however, he was scrupulously honest from a sense of discipline.“Never mind,” he added as he reached the threshold. “I’ll begin by
stirring him up. I shall move heaven and earth! What! Burle, Colonel
Burle’s son, condemned for theft! That cannot be! I would sooner burn
down the town.Now, thunder and lightning, don’t worry; it is far more
annoying for me than for you.”
He shook the old lady’s hand roughly and vanished into the shadows of
the staircase, while she held the lamp aloft to light the way.When she
returned and replaced the lamp on the table she stood for a moment
motionless in front of Charles, who was still asleep with his face
lying on the dictionary.His pale cheeks and long fair hair made him
look like a girl, and she gazed at him dreamily, a shade of tenderness
passing over her harsh countenance.But it was only a passing emotion;
her features regained their look of cold, obstinate determination, and,
giving the youngster a sharp rap on his little hand, she said:
“Charles—your lessons.”
The boy awoke, dazed and shivering, and again rapidly turned over the
leaves.At the same moment Major Laguitte, slamming the house door
behind him, received on his head a quantity of water falling from the
gutters above, whereupon he began to swear in so loud a voice that he
could be heard above the storm.And after that no sound broke upon the
pelting downpour save the slight rustle of the boy’s pen traveling over
the paper.Mme Burle had resumed her seat near the chimney piece, still
rigid, with her eyes fixed on the dead embers, preserving, indeed, her
habitual attitude and absorbed in her one idea.CHAPTER II
THE CAFE
The Café de Paris, kept by Melanie Cartier, a widow, was situated on
the Place du Palais, a large irregular square planted with meager,
dusty elm trees.The place was so well known in Vauchamp that it was
customary to say, “Are you coming to Melanie’s?” At the farther end of
the first room, which was a spacious one, there was another called “the
divan,” a narrow apartment having sham leather benches placed against
the walls, while at each corner there stood a marble-topped table.The
widow, deserting her seat in the front room, where she left her little
servant Phrosine, spent her evenings in the inner apartment,
ministering to a few customers, the usual frequenters of the place,
those who were currently styled “the gentlemen of the divan.” When a
man belonged to that set it was as if he had a label on his back; he
was spoken of with smiles of mingled contempt and envy.Mme Cartier had become a widow when she was five and twenty.Her
husband, a wheelwright, who on the death of an uncle had amazed
Vauchamp by taking the Café de Paris, had one fine day brought her back
with him from Montpellier, where he was wont to repair twice a year to
purchase liqueurs.As he was stocking his establishment he selected,
together with divers beverages, a woman of the sort he wanted—of an
engaging aspect and apt to stimulate the trade of the house.It was
never known where he had picked her up, but he married her after trying
her in the cafe during six months or so.Opinions were divided in
Vauchamp as to her merits, some folks declaring that she was superb,
while others asserted that she looked like a drum-major. She was a tall
woman with large features and coarse hair falling low over her
forehead.However, everyone agreed that she knew very well how to fool
the sterner sex. She had fine eyes and was wont to fix them with a bold
stare on the gentlemen of the divan, who colored and became like wax in
her hands.She also had the reputation of possessing a wonderfully fine
figure, and southerners appreciate a statuesque style of beauty. Cartier had died in a singular way. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Rumor hinted at a conjugal quarrel,
a kick, producing some internal tumor.Whatever may have been the
truth, Melanie found herself encumbered with the cafe, which was far
from doing a prosperous business.Her husband had wasted his uncle’s
inheritance in drinking his own absinthe and wearing out the cloth of
his own billiard table.For a while it was believed that the widow
would have to sell out, but she liked the life and the establishment
just as it was. If she could secure a few customers the bigger room
might remain deserted.So she limited herself to repapering the divan
in white and gold and recovering the benches. She began by entertaining
a chemist.Then a vermicelli maker, a lawyer and a retired magistrate
put in an appearance; and thus it was that the cafe remained open,
although the waiter did not receive twenty orders a day.No objections
were raised by the authorities, as appearances were kept up; and,
indeed, it was not deemed advisable to interfere, for some respectable
folks might have been worried.Of an evening five or six well-to-do citizens would enter the front
room and play at dominoes there. Although Cartier was dead and the Café
de Paris had got a queer name, they saw nothing and kept up their old
habits.In course of time, the waiter having nothing to do, Melanie
dismissed him and made Phrosine light the solitary gas burner in the
corner where the domino players congregated.Occasionally a party of
young men, attracted by the gossip that circulated through the town,
would come in, wildly excited and laughing loudly and awkwardly. But
they were received there with icy dignity.As a rule they did not even
see the widow, and even if she happened to be present she treated them
with withering disdain, so that they withdrew, stammering and confused. Melanie was too astute to indulge in any compromising whims.While the
front room remained obscure, save in the corner where the few townsfolk
rattled their dominoes, she personally waited on the gentlemen of the
divan, showing herself amiable without being free, merely venturing in
moments of familiarity to lean on the shoulder of one or another of
them, the better to watch a skillfully played game of ecarte.One evening the gentlemen of the divan, who had ended by tolerating
each other’s presence, experienced a disagreeable surprise on finding
Captain Burle at home there.He had casually entered the cafe that same
morning to get a glass of vermouth, so it seemed, and he had found
Melanie there. They had conversed, and in the evening when he returned
Phrosine immediately showed him to the inner room.Two days later Burle reigned there supreme; still he had not frightened
the chemist, the vermicelli maker, the lawyer or the retired magistrate
away. The captain, who was short and dumpy, worshiped tall, plump
women.In his regiment he had been nicknamed “Petticoat Burle” on
account of his constant philandering.Whenever the officers, and even
the privates, met some monstrous-looking creature, some giantess puffed
out with fat, whether she were in velvet or in rags, they would
invariably exclaim, “There goes one to Petticoat Burle’s taste!” Thus
Melanie, with her opulent presence, quite conquered him.He was
lost—quite wrecked. In less than a fortnight he had fallen to vacuous
imbecility.With much the expression of a whipped hound in the tiny
sunken eyes which lighted up his bloated face, he was incessantly
watching the widow in mute adoration before her masculine features and
stubby hair.For fear that he might be dismissed, he put up with the
presence of the other gentlemen of the divan and spent his pay in the
place down to the last copper.A sergeant reviewed the situation in one
sentence: “Petticoat Burle is done for; he’s a buried man!”
It was nearly ten o’clock when Major Laguitte furiously flung the door
of the cafe open.For a moment those inside could see the deluged
square transformed into a dark sea of liquid mud, bubbling under the
terrible downpour.The major, now soaked to the skin and leaving a
stream behind him, strode up to the small counter where Phrosine was
reading a novel.“You little wretch,” he yelled, “you have dared to gammon an officer;
you deserve—”
And then he lifted his hand as if to deal a blow such as would have
felled an ox.The little maid shrank back, terrified, while the amazed
domino players looked, openmouthed.However, the major did not linger
there—he pushed the divan door open and appeared before Melanie and
Burle just as the widow was playfully making the captain sip his grog
in small spoonfuls, as if she were feeding a pet canary.Only the
ex-magistrate and the chemist had come that evening, and they had
retired early in a melancholy frame of mind. Then Melanie, being in
want of three hundred francs for the morrow, had taken advantage of the
opportunity to cajole the captain.“Come.” she said, “open your mouth; ain’t it nice, you greedy
piggy-wiggy?”
Burle, flushing scarlet, with glazed eyes and sunken figure, was
sucking the spoon with an air of intense enjoyment. “Good heavens!” roared the major from the threshold.“You now play
tricks on me, do you?I’m sent to the roundabout and told that you
never came here, and yet all the while here you are, addling your silly
brains.”
Burle shuddered, pushing the grog away, while Melanie stepped angrily
in front of him as if to shield him with her portly figure, but
Laguitte looked at her with that quiet, resolute expression well known
to women who are familiar with bodily chastisement.“Leave us,” he said curtly. She hesitated for the space of a second. She almost felt the gust of
the expected blow, and then, white with rage, she joined Phrosine in
the outer room.When the two men were alone Major Laguitte walked up to Burle, looked
at him and, slightly stooping, yelled into his face these two words:
“You pig!”
The captain, quite dazed, endeavored to retort, but he had not time to
do so.“Silence!” resumed the major. “You have bamboozled a friend. You palmed
off on me a lot of forged receipts which might have sent both of us to
the gallows. Do you call that proper behavior?Is that the sort of
trick to play a friend of thirty years’ standing?”
Burle, who had fallen back in his chair, was livid; his limbs shook as
if with ague.Meanwhile the major, striding up and down and striking
the tables wildly with his fists, continued: “So you have become a
thief like the veriest scribbling cur of a clerk, and all for the sake
of that creature here!If at least you had stolen for your mother’s
sake it would have been honorable! But, curse it, to play tricks and
bring the money into this shanty is what I cannot understand!Tell
me—what are you made of at your age to go to the dogs as you are going
all for the sake of a creature like a grenadier!”
“YOU gamble—” stammered the captain.“Yes, I do—curse it!” thundered the major, lashed into still greater
fury by this remark. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
“And I am a pitiful rogue to do so, because it
swallows up all my pay and doesn’t redound to the honor of the French
army. However, I don’t steal.Kill yourself, if it pleases you; starve
your mother and the boy, but respect the regimental cashbox and don’t
drag your friends down with you.”
He stopped. Burle was sitting there with fixed eyes and a stupid air.Nothing was heard for a moment save the clatter of the major’s heels. “And not a single copper,” he continued aggressively.“Can you picture
yourself between two gendarmes, eh?”
He then grew a little calmer, caught hold of Burle’s wrists and forced
him to rise. “Come!” he said gruffly.“Something must be done at once, for I cannot
go to bed with this affair on my mind—I have an idea.”
In the front room Melanie and Phrosine were talking eagerly in low
voices.When the widow saw the two men leaving the divan she moved
toward Burle and said coaxingly: “What, are you going already,
Captain?”
“Yes, he’s going,” brutally answered Laguitte, “and I don’t intend to
let him set foot here again.”
The little maid felt frightened and pulled her mistress back by the
skirt of her dress; in doing so she imprudently murmured the word
“drunkard” and thereby brought down the slap which the major’s hand had
been itching to deal for some time past.Both women having stooped,
however, the blow only fell on Phrosine’s back hair, flattening her cap
and breaking her comb. The domino players were indignant. “Let’s cut it,” shouted Laguitte, and he pushed Burle on the pavement.“If I remained I should smash everyone in the place.”
To cross the square they had to wade up to their ankles in mud. The
rain, driven by the wind, poured off their faces.The captain walked on
in silence, while the major kept on reproaching him with his cowardice
and its disastrous consequences. Wasn’t it sweet weather for tramping
the streets?If he hadn’t been such an idiot they would both be warmly
tucked in bed instead of paddling about in the mud. Then he spoke of
Gagneux—a scoundrel whose diseased meat had on three separate occasions
made the whole regiment ill.In a week, however, the contract would
come to an end, and the fiend himself would not get it renewed. “It rests with me,” the major grumbled.“I can select whomsoever I
choose, and I’d rather cut off my right arm than put that poisoner in
the way of earning another copper.”
Just then he slipped into a gutter and, half choked by a string of
oaths, he gasped:
“You understand—I am going to rout up Gagneux.You must stop outside
while I go in. I must know what the rascal is up to and if he’ll dare
to carry out his threat of informing the colonel tomorrow. A
butcher—curse him! The idea of compromising oneself with a butcher!Ah,
you aren’t over-proud, and I shall never forgive you for all this.”
They had now reached the Place aux Herbes. Gagneux’s house was quite
dark, but Laguitte knocked so loudly that he was eventually admitted.Burle remained alone in the dense obscurity and did not even attempt to
seek any shelter. He stood at a corner of the market under the pelting
rain, his head filled with a loud buzzing noise which prevented him
from thinking.He did not feel impatient, for he was unconscious of the
flight of time. He stood there looking at the house, which, with its
closed door and windows, seemed quite lifeless.When at the end of an
hour the major came out again it appeared to the captain as if he had
only just gone in. Laguitte was so grimly mute that Burle did not venture to question him.For a moment they sought each other, groping about in the dark; then
they resumed their walk through the somber streets, where the water
rolled as in the bed of a torrent.They moved on in silence side by
side, the major being so abstracted that he even forgot to swear.However, as they again crossed the Place du Palais, at the sight of the
Café de Paris, which was still lit up, he dropped his hand on Burle’s
shoulder and said, “If you ever re-enter that hole I—”
“No fear!” answered the captain without letting his friend finish his
sentence.Then he stretched out his hand. “No, no,” said Laguitte, “I’ll see you home; I’ll at least make sure
that you’ll sleep in your bed tonight.”
They went on, and as they ascended the Rue des Recollets they slackened
their pace.When the captain’s door was reached and Burle had taken out
his latchkey he ventured to ask:
“Well?”
“Well,” answered the major gruffly, “I am as dirty a rogue as you are. Yes! I have done a scurrilous thing. The fiend take you!Our soldiers
will eat carrion for three months longer.”
Then he explained that Gagneux, the disgusting Gagneux, had a horribly
level head and that he had persuaded him—the major—to strike a bargain.He would refrain from informing the colonel, and he would even make a
present of the two thousand francs and replace the forged receipts by
genuine ones, on condition that the major bound himself to renew the
meat contract. It was a settled thing.“Ah,” continued Laguitte, “calculate what profits the brute must make
out of the meat to part with such a sum as two thousand francs.”
Burle, choking with emotion, grasped his old friend’s hands, stammering
confused words of thanks.The vileness of the action committed for his
sake brought tears into his eyes. “I never did such a thing before,” growled Laguitte, “but I was driven
to it. Curse it, to think that I haven’t those two thousand francs in
my drawer!It is enough to make one hate cards. It is my own fault.I
am not worth much; only, mark my words, don’t begin again, for, curse
it—I shan’t.”
The captain embraced him, and when he had entered the house the major
stood a moment before the closed door to make certain that he had gone
upstairs to bed.Then as midnight was striking and the rain was still
belaboring the dark town, he slowly turned homeward. The thought of his
men almost broke his heart, and, stopping short, he said aloud in a
voice full of compassion:
“Poor devils!what a lot of cow beef they’ll have to swallow for those
two thousand francs!”
CHAPTER III
AGAIN? The regiment was altogether nonplused: Petticoat Burle had quarreled
with Melanie.When a week had elapsed it became a proved and undeniable
fact; the captain no longer set foot inside the Café de Paris, where
the chemist, it was averred, once more reigned in his stead, to the
profound sorrow of the retired magistrate.An even more incredible
statement was that Captain Burle led the life of a recluse in the Rue
des Recollets. He was becoming a reformed character; he spent his
evenings at his own fireside, hearing little Charles repeat his
lessons.His mother, who had never breathed a word to him of his
manipulations with Gagneux, maintained her old severity of demeanor as
she sat opposite to him in her armchair, but her looks seemed to imply
that she believed him reclaimed.A fortnight later Major Laguitte came one evening to invite himself to
dinner. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Now, my dear lady, I leave you happy; your
troubles are ended at last.I watched Burle closely, and I’ll take my
oath that he’s guileless as a child.Dash it—after all, it was high
time for Petticoat Burle to reform; he was going downhill fast.”
The major went away fully satisfied with the house and its inmates; the
walls were of glass and could harbor no equivocal conduct.What
particularly delighted him in his friend’s return to virtue was that it
absolved him from the obligation of verifying the accounts.Nothing was
more distasteful to him than the inspection of a number of ledgers, and
as long as Burle kept steady, he—Laguitte—could smoke his pipe in peace
and sign the books in all confidence.However, he continued to keep one
eye open for a little while longer and found the receipts genuine, the
entries correct, the columns admirably balanced.A month later he
contented himself with glancing at the receipts and running his eye
over the totals.Then one morning, without the slightest suspicion of
there being anything wrong, simply because he had lit a second pipe and
had nothing to do, he carelessly added up a row of figures and fancied
that he detected an error of thirteen francs.The balance seemed
perfectly correct, and yet he was not mistaken; the total outlay was
thirteen francs more than the various sums for which receipts were
furnished.It looked queer, but he said nothing to Burle, just making
up his mind to examine the next accounts closely.On the following week
he detected a fresh error of nineteen francs, and then, suddenly
becoming alarmed, he shut himself up with the books and spent a
wretched morning poring over them, perspiring, swearing and feeling as
if his very skull were bursting with the figures.At every page he
discovered thefts of a few francs—the most miserable petty thefts—ten,
eight, eleven francs, latterly, three and four; and, indeed, there was
one column showing that Burle had pilfered just one franc and a half.For two months, however, he had been steadily robbing the cashbox, and
by comparing dates the major found to his disgust that the famous
lesson respecting Gagneux had only kept him straight for one week!This
last discovery infuriated Laguitte, who struck the books with his
clenched fists, yelling through a shower of oaths:
“This is more abominable still! At least there was some pluck about
those forged receipts of Gagneux.But this time he is as contemptible
as a cook charging twopence extra for her cabbages. Powers of hell! To
pilfer a franc and a half and clap it in his pocket! Hasn’t the brute
got any pride then?Couldn’t he run away with the safe or play the fool
with actresses?”
The pitiful meanness of these pilferings revolted the major, and,
moreover, he was enraged at having been duped a second time, deceived
by the simple, stupid dodge of falsified additions.He rose at last and
paced his office for a whole hour, growling aloud. “This gives me his measure. Even if I were to thresh him to a jelly
every morning he would still drop a couple of coins into his pocket
every afternoon.But where can he spend it all? He is never seen
abroad; he goes to bed at nine, and everything looks so clean and
proper over there.Can the brute have vices that nobody knows of?”
He returned to the desk, added up the subtracted money and found a
total of five hundred and forty-five francs. Where was this deficiency
to come from?The inspection was close at hand, and if the crotchety
colonel should take it into his head to examine a single page, the
murder would be out and Burle would be done for.This idea froze the major, who left off cursing, picturing Mme Burle
erect and despairing, and at the same time he felt his heart swell with
personal grief and shame.“Well,” he muttered, “I must first of all look into the rogue’s
business; I will act afterward.”
As he walked over to Burle’s office he caught sight of a skirt
vanishing through the doorway.Fancying that he had a clue to the
mystery, he slipped up quietly and listened and speedily recognized
Melanie’s shrill voice. She was complaining of the gentlemen of the
divan.She had signed a promissory note which she was unable to meet;
the bailiffs were in the house, and all her goods would be sold. The
captain, however, barely replied to her.He alleged that he had no
money, whereupon she burst into tears and began to coax him. But her
blandishments were apparently ineffectual, for Burle’s husky voice
could be heard repeating, “Impossible!Impossible!” And finally the
widow withdrew in a towering passion. The major, amazed at the turn
affairs were taking, waited a few moments longer before entering the
office, where Burle had remained alone.He found him very calm, and
despite his furious inclination to call him names he also remained
calm, determined to begin by finding out the exact truth. The office certainly did not look like a swindler’s den.A cane-seated
chair, covered with an honest leather cushion, stood before the
captain’s desk, and in a corner there was the locked safe. Summer was
coming on, and the song of a canary sounded through the open window.The apartment was very neat and tidy, redolent of old papers, and
altogether its appearance inspired one with confidence. “Wasn’t it Melanie who was leaving here as I came along?” asked
Laguitte. Burle shrugged his shoulders. “Yes,” he mumbled.“She has been dunning me for two hundred francs, but
she can’t screw ten out of me—not even tenpence.”
“Indeed!” said the major, just to try him. “I heard that you had made
up with her.”
“I? Certainly not.I have done with the likes of her for good.”
Laguitte went away, feeling greatly perplexed. Where had the five
hundred and forty-five francs gone? Had the idiot taken to drinking or
gambling?He decided to pay Burle a surprise visit that very evening at
his own house, and maybe by questioning his mother he might learn
something.However, during the afternoon his leg became very painful;
latterly he had been feeling in ill-health, and he had to use a stick
so as not to limp too outrageously.This stick grieved him sorely, and
he declared with angry despair that he was now no better than a
pensioner.However, toward the evening, making a strong effort, he
pulled himself out of his armchair and, leaning heavily on his stick,
dragged himself through the darkness to the Rue des Recollets, which he
reached about nine o’clock.The street door was still unlocked, and on
going up he stood panting on the third landing, when he heard voices on
the upper floor. One of these voices was Burle’s, so he fancied, and
out of curiosity he ascended another flight of stairs.Then at the end
of a passage on the left he saw a ray of light coming from a door which
stood ajar. As the creaking of his boots resounded, this door was
sharply closed, and he found himself in the dark. “Some cook going to bed!” he muttered angrily.“I’m a fool.”
All the same he groped his way as gently as possible to the door and
listened. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Two people were talking in the room, and he stood aghast, for
it was Burle and that fright Rose!Then he listened, and the
conversation he heard left him no doubt of the awful truth. For a
moment he lifted his stick as if to beat down the door. Then he
shuddered and, staggering back, leaned against the wall.His legs were
trembling under him, while in the darkness of the staircase he
brandished his stick as if it had been a saber. What was to be done? After his first moment of passion there had come
thoughts of the poor old lady below.And these made him hesitate. It
was all over with the captain now; when a man sank as low as that he
was hardly worth the few shovelfuls of earth that are thrown over
carrion to prevent them from polluting the atmosphere.Whatever might
be said of Burle, however much one might try to shame him, he would
assuredly begin the next day. Ah, heavens, to think of it! The money! The honor of the army! The name of Burle, that respected name, dragged
through the mire!By all that was holy this could and should not be! Presently the major softened. If he had only possessed five hundred and
forty-five francs! But he had not got such an amount.On the previous
day he had drunk too much cognac, just like a mere sub, and had lost
shockingly at cards. It served him right—he ought to have known better!And if he was so lame he richly deserved it too; by rights, in fact,
his leg ought to be much worse. At last he crept downstairs and rang at the bell of Mme Burle’s flat. Five minutes elapsed, and then the old lady appeared.“I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting,” she said; “I thought that
dormouse Rose was still about. I must go and shake her.”
But the major detained her. “Where is Burle?” he asked. “Oh, he has been snoring since nine o’clock.Would you like to knock at
his door?”
“No, no, I only wanted to have a chat with you.”
In the parlor Charles sat at his usual place, having just finished his
exercises. He looked terrified, and his poor little white hands were
tremulous.In point of fact, his grandmother, before sending him to
bed, was wont to read some martial stories aloud so as to develop the
latent family heroism in his bosom.That night she had selected the
episode of the Vengeur, the man-of-war freighted with dying heroes and
sinking into the sea. The child, while listening, had become almost
hysterical, and his head was racked as with some ghastly nightmare.Mme Burle asked the major to let her finish the perusal. “Long live the
republic!” She solemnly closed the volume. Charles was as white as a
sheet.“You see,” said the old lady, “the duty of every French soldier is to
die for his country.”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
Then the lad kissed her on the forehead and, shivering with fear, went
to bed in his big room, where the faintest creak of the paneling threw
him into a cold sweat.The major had listened with a grave face. Yes, by heavens! Honor was
honor, and he would never permit that wretched Burle to disgrace the
old woman and the boy!As the lad was so devoted to the military
profession, it was necessary that he should be able to enter Saint-Cyr
with his head erect.When Mme Burle took up the lamp to show the major out, she passed the
door of the captain’s room, and stopped short, surprised to see the key
outside, which was a most unusual occurrence.“Do go in,” she said to Laguitte; “it is bad for him to sleep so much.”
And before he could interpose she had opened the door and stood
transfixed on finding the room empty.Laguitte turned crimson and
looked so foolish that she suddenly understood everything, enlightened
by the sudden recollection of several little incidents to which she had
previously attached no importance. “You knew it—you knew it!” she stammered.“Why was I not told? Oh, my
God, to think of it! Ah, he has been stealing again—I feel it!”
She remained erect, white and rigid.Then she added in a harsh voice:
“Look you—I wish he were dead!”
Laguitte caught hold of both her hands, which for a moment he kept
tightly clasped in his own.Then he left her hurriedly, for he felt a
lump rising in his throat and tears coming to his eyes. Ah, by all the
powers, this time his mind was quite made up.CHAPTER IV
INSPECTION
The regimental inspection was to take place at the end of the month. The major had ten days before him. On the very next morning, however,
he crawled, limping, as far as the Café de Paris, where he ordered some
beer.Melanie grew pale when she saw him enter, and it was with a
lively recollection of a certain slap that Phrosine hastened to serve
him.The major seemed very calm, however; he called for a second chair
to rest his bad leg upon and drank his beer quietly like any other
thirsty man.He had sat there for about an hour when he saw two
officers crossing the Place du Palais—Morandot, who commanded one of
the battalions of the regiment, and Captain Doucet.Thereupon he
excitedly waved his cane and shouted: “Come in and have a glass of beer
with me!”
The officers dared not refuse, but when the maid had brought the beer
Morandot said to the major: “So you patronize this place now?”
“Yes—the beer is good.”
Captain Doucet winked and asked archly: “Do you belong to the divan,
Major?”
Laguitte chuckled but did not answer.Then the others began to chaff
him about Melanie, and he took their remarks good-naturedly, simply
shrugging his shoulders. The widow was undoubtedly a fine woman,
however much people might talk.Some of those who disparaged her would,
in reality, be only too pleased to win her good graces.Then turning to
the little counter and assuming an engaging air, he shouted:
“Three more glasses, madame.”
Melanie was so taken aback that she rose and brought the beer herself.The major detained her at the table and forgot himself so far as to
softly pat the hand which she had carelessly placed on the back of a
chair.Used as she was to alternate brutality and flattery, she
immediately became confident, believing in a sudden whim of gallantry
on the part of the “old wreck,” as she was wont to style the major when
talking with Phrosine.Doucet and Morandot looked at each other in
surprise. Was the major actually stepping into Petticoat Burle’s shoes? The regiment would be convulsed if that were the case. Suddenly, however, Laguitte, who kept his eye on the square, gave a
start.“Hallo, there’s Burle!” he exclaimed. “Yes, it is his time,” explained Phrosine.“The captain passes every
afternoon on his way from the office.”
In spite of his lameness the major had risen to his feet, pushing aside
the chairs as he called out: “Burle!I say—come along and have a
glass.”
The captain, quite aghast and unable to understand why Laguitte was at
the widow’s, advanced mechanically. He was so perplexed that he again
hesitated at the door.“Another glass of beer,” ordered the major, and then turning to Burle,
he added, “What’s the matter with you? Come in. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Are you afraid of being
eaten alive?”
The captain took a seat, and an awkward pause followed.Melanie, who
brought the beer with trembling hands, dreaded some scene which might
result in the closing of her establishment.The major’s gallantry made
her uneasy, and she endeavored to slip away, but he invited her to
drink with them, and before she could refuse he had ordered Phrosine to
bring a liqueur glass of anisette, doing so with as much coolness as if
he had been master of the house.Melanie was thus compelled to sit down
between the captain and Laguitte, who exclaimed aggressively: “I WILL
have ladies respected. We are French officers!Let us drink Madame’s
health!”
Burle, with his eyes fixed on his glass, smiled in an embarrassed way. The two officers, shocked at the proceedings, had already tried to get
off.Fortunately the cafe was deserted, save that the domino players
were having their afternoon game.At every fresh oath which came from
the major they glanced around, scandalized by such an unusual accession
of customers and ready to threaten Melanie that they would leave her
for the Café de la Gare if the soldiery was going to invade her place
like flies that buzzed about, attracted by the stickiness of the tables
which Phrosine scoured only on Saturdays.She was now reclining behind
the counter, already reading a novel again. “How’s this—you are not drinking with Madame?” roughly said the major
to Burle. “Be civil at least!”
Then as Doucet and Morandot were again preparing to leave, he stopped
them.“Why can’t you wait? We’ll go together. It is only this brute who never
knows how to behave himself.”
The two officers looked surprised at the major’s sudden bad temper.Melanie attempted to restore peace and with a light laugh placed her
hands on the arms of both men. However, Laguitte disengaged himself. “No,” he roared, “leave me alone. Why does he refuse to chink glasses
with you?I shall not allow you to be insulted—do you hear? I am quite
sick of him.”
Burle, paling under the insult, turned slightly and said to Morandot,
“What does this mean? He calls me in here to insult me.Is he drunk?”
With a wild oath the major rose on his trembling legs and struck the
captain’s cheek with his open hand. Melanie dived and thus escaped one
half of the smack. An appalling uproar ensued.Phrosine screamed behind
the counter as if she herself had received the blow; the domino players
also entrenched themselves behind their table in fear lest the soldiers
should draw their swords and massacre them.However, Doucet and
Morandot pinioned the captain to prevent him from springing at the
major’s throat and forcibly let him to the door.When they got him
outside they succeeded in quieting him a little by repeating that
Laguitte was quite in the wrong. They would lay the affair before the
colonel, having witnessed it, and the colonel would give his decision.As soon as they had got Burle away they returned to the cafe where they
found Laguitte in reality greatly disturbed, with tears in his eyes but
affecting stolid indifference and slowly finishing his beer.“Listen, Major,” began Morandot, “that was very wrong on your part. The
captain is your inferior in rank, and you know that he won’t be allowed
to fight you.”
“That remains to be seen,” answered the major. “But how has he offended you?He never uttered a word. Two old comrades
too; it is absurd.”
The major made a vague gesture. “No matter. He annoyed me.”
He could never be made to say anything else. Nothing more as to his
motive was ever known.All the same, the scandal was a terrible one.The regiment was inclined to believe that Melanie, incensed by the
captain’s defection, had contrived to entrap the major, telling him
some abominable stories and prevailing upon him to insult and strike
Burle publicly.Who would have thought it of that old fogy Laguitte,
who professed to be a woman hater? they said. So he, too, had been
caught at last.Despite the general indignation against Melanie, this
adventure made her very conspicuous, and her establishment soon drove a
flourishing business. On the following day the colonel summoned the major and the captain
into his presence.He censured them sternly, accusing them of
disgracing their uniform by frequenting unseemly haunts. What
resolution had they come to, he asked, as he could not authorize them
to fight?This same question had occupied the whole regiment for the
last twenty-four hours.Apologies were unacceptable on account of the
blow, but as Laguitte was almost unable to stand, it was hoped that,
should the colonel insist upon it, some reconciliation might be patched
up.“Come,” said the colonel, “will you accept me as arbitrator?”
“I beg your pardon, Colonel,” interrupted the major; “I have brought
you my resignation. Here it is. That settles everything.Please name
the day for the duel.”
Burle looked at Laguitte in amazement, and the colonel thought it his
duty to protest. “This is a most serious step, Major,” he began.“Two years more and you
would be entitled to your full pension.”
But again did Laguitte cut him short, saying gruffly, “That is my own
affair.”
“Oh, certainly!Well, I will send in your resignation, and as soon as
it is accepted I will fix a day for the duel.”
The unexpected turn that events had taken startled the regiment.What
possessed that lunatic major to persist in cutting the throat of his
old comrade Burle? The officers again discussed Melanie; they even
began to dream of her.There must surely be something wonderful about
her since she had completely fascinated two such tough old veterans and
brought them to a deadly feud. Morandot, having met Laguitte, did not
disguise his concern.If he—the major—was not killed, what would he
live upon?He had no fortune, and the pension to which his cross of the
Legion of Honor entitled him, with the half of a full regimental
pension which he would obtain on resigning, would barely find him in
bread.While Morandot was thus speaking Laguitte simply stared before
him with his round eyes, persevering in the dumb obstinacy born of his
narrow mind; and when his companion tried to question him regarding his
hatred for Burle, he simply made the same vague gesture as before and
once again repeated:
“He annoyed me; so much the worse.”
Every morning at mess and at the canteen the first words were: “Has the
acceptance of the major’s resignation arrived?” The duel was
impatiently expected and ardently discussed.The majority believed that
Laguitte would be run through the body in three seconds, for it was
madness for a man to fight with a paralyzed leg which did not even
allow him to stand upright. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
A few, however, shook their heads.Laguitte
had never been a marvel of intellect, that was true; for the last
twenty years, indeed, he had been held up as an example of stupidity,
but there had been a time when he was known as the best fencer of the
regiment, and although he had begun as a drummer he had won his
epaulets as the commander of a battalion by the sanguine bravery of a
man who is quite unconscious of danger.On the other hand, Burle fenced
indifferently and passed for a poltroon. However, they would soon know
what to think. Meanwhile the excitement became more and more intense as the acceptance
of Laguitte’s resignation was so long in coming.The major was
unmistakably the most anxious and upset of everybody. A week had passed
by, and the general inspection would commence two days later. Nothing,
however, had come as yet.He shuddered at the thought that he had,
perhaps, struck his old friend and sent in his resignation all in vain,
without delaying the exposure for a single minute.He had in reality
reasoned thus: If he himself were killed he would not have the worry of
witnessing the scandal, and if he killed Burle, as he expected to do,
the affair would undoubtedly be hushed up.Thus he would save the honor
of the army, and the little chap would be able to get in at Saint-Cyr. Ah, why wouldn’t those wretched scribblers at the War Office hurry up a
bit?The major could not keep still but was forever wandering about
before the post office, stopping the estafettes and questioning the
colonel’s orderly to find out if the acceptance had arrived.He lost
his sleep and, careless as to people’s remarks, he leaned more and more
heavily on his stick, hobbling about with no attempt to steady his
gait.On the day before that fixed for the inspection he was, as usual, on
his way to the colonel’s quarters when he paused, startled, to see Mme
Burle (who was taking Charles to school) a few paces ahead of him.He
had not met her since the scene at the Café de Paris, for she had
remained in seclusion at home. Unmanned at thus meeting her, he stepped
down to leave the whole sidewalk free.Neither he nor the old lady
bowed, and the little boy lifted his large inquisitive eyes in mute
surprise. Mme Burle, cold and erect, brushed past the major without the
least sign of emotion or recognition.When she had passed he looked
after her with an expression of stupefied compassion. “Confound it, I am no longer a man,” he growled, dashing away a tear.When he arrived at the colonel’s quarters a captain in attendance
greeted him with the words: “It’s all right at last. The papers have
come.”
“Ah!” murmured Laguitte, growing very pale.And again he beheld the old lady walking on, relentlessly rigid and
holding the little boy’s hand. What! He had longed so eagerly for those
papers for eight days past, and now when the scraps had come he felt
his brain on fire and his heart lacerated.The duel took place on the morrow, in the barrack yard behind a low
wall. The air was keen, the sun shining brightly.Laguitte had almost
to be carried to the ground; one of his seconds supported him on one
side, while on the other he leaned heavily, on his stick.Burle looked
half asleep; his face was puffy with unhealthy fat, as if he had spent
a night of debauchery. Not a word was spoken. They were all anxious to
have it over.Captain Doucet crossed the swords of the two adversaries and then drew
back, saying: “Set to, gentlemen.”
Burle was the first to attack; he wanted to test Laguitte’s strength
and ascertain what he had to expect.For the last ten days the
encounter had seemed to him a ghastly nightmare which he could not
fathom.At times a hideous suspicion assailed him, but he put it aside
with terror, for it meant death, and he refused to believe that a
friend could play him such a trick, even to set things right.Besides,
Laguitte’s leg reasssured him; he would prick the major on the
shoulder, and then all would be over.During well-nigh a couple of minutes the swords clashed, and then the
captain lunged, but the major, recovering his old suppleness of wrist,
parried in a masterly style, and if he had returned the attack Burle
would have been pierced through.The captain now fell back; he was
livid, for he felt that he was at the mercy of the man who had just
spared him. At last he understood that this was an execution.Laguitte, squarely poised on his infirm legs and seemingly turned to
stone, stood waiting. The two men looked at each other fixedly. In
Burle’s blurred eyes there arose a supplication—a prayer for pardon.He
knew why he was going to die, and like a child he promised not to
transgress again. But the major’s eyes remained implacable; honor had
spoken, and he silenced his emotion and his pity. “Let it end,” he muttered between his teeth.Then it was he who attacked. Like a flash of lightning his sword
flamed, flying from right to left, and then with a resistless thrust it
pierced the breast of the captain, who fell like a log without even a
groan.Laguitte had released his hold upon his sword and stood gazing at that
poor old rascal Burle, who was stretched upon his back with his fat
stomach bulging out. “Oh, my God!My God!” repeated the major furiously and despairingly,
and then he began to swear. They led him away, and, both his legs failing him, he had to be
supported on either side, for he could not even use his stick.Two months later the ex-major was crawling slowly along in the sunlight
down a lonely street of Vauchamp, when he again found himself face to
face with Mme Burle and little Charles. They were both in deep
mourning.He tried to avoid them, but he now only walked with
difficulty, and they advanced straight upon him without hurrying or
slackening their steps.Charles still had the same gentle, girlish,
frightened face, and Mme Burle retained her stern, rigid demeanor,
looking even harsher than ever.As Laguitte shrank into the corner of a doorway to leave the whole
street to them, she abruptly stopped in front of him and stretched out
her hand.He hesitated and then took it and pressed it, but he trembled
so violently that he made the old lady’s arm shake. They exchanged
glances in silence.“Charles,” said the boy’s grandmother at last, “shake hands with the
major.” The boy obeyed without understanding.The major, who was very
pale, barely ventured to touch the child’s frail fingers; then, feeling
that he ought to speak, he stammered out: “You still intend to send him
to Saint-Cyr?”
“Of course, when he is old enough,” answered Mme Burle.But during the following week Charles was carried off by typhoid fever. One evening his grandmother had again read him the story of the Vengeur
to make him bold, and in the night he had become delirious. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
The poor
little fellow died of fright.THE DEATH OF OLIVIER BECAILLE
CHAPTER I
MY PASSING
It was on a Saturday, at six in the morning, that I died after a three
days’ illness.My wife was searching a trunk for some linen, and when
she rose and turned she saw me rigid, with open eyes and silent pulses. She ran to me, fancying that I had fainted, touched my hands and bent
over me.Then she suddenly grew alarmed, burst into tears and
stammered:
“My God, my God! He is dead!”
I heard everything, but the sounds seemed to come from a great
distance.My left eye still detected a faint glimmer, a whitish light
in which all objects melted, but my right eye was quite bereft of
sight. It was the coma of my whole being, as if a thunderbolt had
struck me.My will was annihilated; not a fiber of flesh obeyed my
bidding. And yet amid the impotency of my inert limbs my thoughts
subsisted, sluggish and lazy, still perfectly clear.My poor Marguerite was crying; she had dropped on her knees beside the
bed, repeating in heart-rending tones:
“He is dead!My God, he is dead!”
Was this strange state of torpor, this immobility of the flesh, really
death, although the functions of the intellect were not arrested? Was
my soul only lingering for a brief space before it soared away forever?From my childhood upward I had been subject to hysterical attacks, and
twice in early youth I had nearly succumbed to nervous fevers. By
degrees all those who surrounded me had got accustomed to consider me
an invalid and to see me sickly.So much so that I myself had forbidden
my wife to call in a doctor when I had taken to my bed on the day of
our arrival at the cheap lodginghouse of the Rue Dauphine in Paris.A
little rest would soon set me right again; it was only the fatigue of
the journey which had caused my intolerable weariness. And yet I was
conscious of having felt singularly uneasy.We had left our province
somewhat abruptly; we were very poor and had barely enough money to
support ourselves till I drew my first month’s salary in the office
where I had obtained a situation. And now a sudden seizure was carrying
me off!Was it really death? I had pictured to myself a darker night, a deeper
silence. As a little child I had already felt afraid to die.Being weak
and compassionately petted by everyone, I had concluded that I had not
long to live, that I should soon be buried, and the thought of the cold
earth filled me with a dread I could not master—a dread which haunted
me day and night.As I grew older the same terror pursued me. Sometimes, after long hours spent in reasoning with myself, I thought
that I had conquered my fear. I reflected, “After all, what does it
matter? One dies and all is over.It is the common fate; nothing could
be better or easier.”
I then prided myself on being able to look death boldly in the face,
but suddenly a shiver froze my blood, and my dizzy anguish returned, as
if a giant hand had swung me over a dark abyss.It was some vision of
the earth returning and setting reason at naught.How often at night
did I start up in bed, not knowing what cold breath had swept over my
slumbers but clasping my despairing hands and moaning, “Must I die?” In
those moments an icy horror would stop my pulses while an appalling
vision of dissolution rose before me.It was with difficulty that I
could get to sleep again. Indeed, sleep alarmed me; it so closely
resembled death. If I closed my eyes they might never open again—I
might slumber on forever.I cannot tell if others have endured the same torture; I only know that
my own life was made a torment by it. Death ever rose between me and
all I loved; I can remember how the thought of it poisoned the happiest
moments I spent with Marguerite.During the first months of our married
life, when she lay sleeping by my side and I dreamed of a fair future
for her and with her, the foreboding of some fatal separation dashed my
hopes aside and embittered my delights.Perhaps we should be parted on
the morrow—nay, perhaps in an hour’s time. Then utter discouragement
assailed me; I wondered what the bliss of being united availed me if it
were to end in so cruel a disruption.My morbid imagination reveled in scenes of mourning. I speculated as to
who would be the first to depart, Marguerite or I. Either alternative
caused me harrowing grief, and tears rose to my eyes at the thought of
our shattered lives.At the happiest periods of my existence I often
became a prey to grim dejection such as nobody could understand but
which was caused by the thought of impending nihility. When I was most
successful I was to general wonder most depressed.The fatal question,
“What avails it?” rang like a knell in my ears. But the sharpest sting
of this torment was that it came with a secret sense of shame, which
rendered me unable to confide my thoughts to another.Husband and wife
lying side by side in the darkened room may quiver with the same
shudder and yet remain mute, for people do not mention death any more
than they pronounce certain obscene words. Fear makes it nameless.I was musing thus while my dear Marguerite knelt sobbing at my feet. It
grieved me sorely to be unable to comfort her by telling her that I
suffered no pain.If death were merely the annihilation of the flesh it
had been foolish of me to harbor so much dread. I experienced a selfish
kind of restfulness in which all my cares were forgotten. My memory had
become extraordinarily vivid.My whole life passed before me rapidly
like a play in which I no longer acted a part; it was a curious and
enjoyable sensation—I seemed to hear a far-off voice relating my own
history.I saw in particular a certain spot in the country near Guerande, on the
way to Piriac. The road turns sharply, and some scattered pine trees
carelessly dot a rocky slope.When I was seven years old I used to pass
through those pines with my father as far as a crumbling old house,
where Marguerite’s parents gave me pancakes. They were salt gatherers
and earned a scanty livelihood by working the adjacent salt marshes.Then I remembered the school at Nantes, where I had grown up, leading a
monotonous life within its ancient walls and yearning for the broad
horizon of Guerande and the salt marshes stretching to the limitless
sea widening under the sky.Next came a blank—my father was dead. I entered the hospital as clerk
to the managing board and led a dreary life with one solitary
diversion: my Sunday visits to the old house on Piriac road.The
saltworks were doing badly; poverty reigned in the land, and
Marguerite’s parents were nearly penniless.Marguerite, when merely a
child, had been fond of me because I trundled her about in a
wheelbarrow, but on the morning when I asked her in marriage she shrank
from me with a frightened gesture, and I realized that she thought me
hideous.Her parents, however, consented at once; they looked upon my
offer as a godsend, and the daughter submissively acquiesced. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
When she
became accustomed to the idea of marrying me she did not seem to
dislike it so much.On our wedding day at Guerande the rain fell in
torrents, and when we got home my bride had to take off her dress,
which was soaked through, and sit in her petticoats. That was all the youth I ever had. We did not remain long in our
province.One day I found my wife in tears. She was miserable; life was
so dull; she wanted to get away.Six months later I had saved a little
money by taking in extra work after office hours, and through the
influence of a friend of my father’s I obtained a petty appointment in
Paris.I started off to settle there with the dear little woman so that
she might cry no more. During the night, which we spent in the
third-class railway carriage, the seats being very hard, I took her in
my arms in order that she might sleep.That was the past, and now I had just died on the narrow couch of a
Paris lodginghouse, and my wife was crouching on the floor, crying
bitterly. The white light before my left eye was growing dim, but I
remembered the room perfectly.On the left there was a chest of
drawers, on the right a mantelpiece surmounted by a damaged clock
without a pendulum, the hands of which marked ten minutes past ten. The
window overlooked the Rue Dauphine, a long, dark street.All Paris
seemed to pass below, and the noise was so great that the window shook. We knew nobody in the city; we had hurried our departure, but I was not
expected at the office till the following Monday.Since I had taken to
my bed I had wondered at my imprisonment in this narrow room into which
we had tumbled after a railway journey of fifteen hours, followed by a
hurried, confusing transit through the noisy streets.My wife had
nursed me with smiling tenderness, but I knew that she was anxious.She
would walk to the window, glance out and return to the bedside, looking
very pale and startled by the sight of the busy thoroughfare, the
aspect of the vast city of which she did not know a single stone and
which deafened her with its continuous roar.What would happen to her
if I never woke up again—alone, friendless and unknowing as she was? Marguerite had caught hold of one of my hands which lay passive on the
coverlet, and, covering it with kisses, she repeated wildly: “Olivier,
answer me.Oh, my God, he is dead, dead!”
So death was not complete annihilation. I could hear and think. I had
been uselessly alarmed all those years. I had not dropped into utter
vacancy as I had anticipated.I could not picture the disappearance of
my being, the suppression of all that I had been, without the
possibility of renewed existence. I had been wont to shudder whenever
in any book or newspaper I came across a date of a hundred years hence.A date at which I should no longer be alive, a future which I should
never see, filled me with unspeakable uneasiness. Was I not the whole
world, and would not the universe crumble away when I was no more?To dream of life had been a cherished vision, but this could not
possibly be death. I should assuredly awake presently. Yes, in a few
moments I would lean over, take Marguerite in my arms and dry her
tears.I would rest a little while longer before going to my office,
and then a new life would begin, brighter than the last. However, I did
not feel impatient; the commotion had been too strong.It was wrong of
Marguerite to give way like that when I had not even the strength to
turn my head on the pillow and smile at her. The next time that she
moaned out, “He is dead!Dead!” I would embrace her and murmur softly
so as not to startle her: “No, my darling, I was only asleep.You see,
I am alive, and I love you.”
CHAPTER II
FUNERAL PREPARATIONS
Marguerite’s cries had attracted attention, for all at once the door
was opened and a voice exclaimed: “What is the matter, neighbor?Is he
worse?”
I recognized the voice; it was that of an elderly woman, Mme Gabin, who
occupied a room on the same floor. She had been most obliging since our
arrival and had evidently become interested in our concerns.On her own
side she had lost no time in telling us her history.A stern landlord
had sold her furniture during the previous winter to pay himself his
rent, and since then she had resided at the lodginghouse in the Rue
Dauphine with her daughter Dede, a child of ten.They both cut and
pinked lamp shades, and between them they earned at the utmost only two
francs a day. “Heavens! Is it all over?” cried Mme Gabin, looking at me. I realized that she was drawing nearer.She examined me, touched me
and, turning to Marguerite, murmured compassionately: “Poor girl! Poor
girl!”
My wife, wearied out, was sobbing like a child.Mme Gabin lifted her,
placed her in a dilapidated armchair near the fireplace and proceeded
to comfort her. “Indeed, you’ll do yourself harm if you go on like this, my dear.It’s
no reason because your husband is gone that you should kill yourself
with weeping. Sure enough, when I lost Gabin I was just like you. I
remained three days without swallowing a morsel of food.But that
didn’t help me—on the contrary, it pulled me down. Come, for the Lord’s
sake, be sensible!”
By degrees Marguerite grew calmer; she was exhausted, and it was only
at intervals that she gave way to a fresh flow of tears.Meanwhile the
old woman had taken possession of the room with a sort of rough
authority. “Don’t worry yourself,” she said as she bustled about. “Neighbors must
help each other. Luckily Dede has just gone to take the work home.Ah,
I see your trunks are not yet all unpacked, but I suppose there is some
linen in the chest of drawers, isn’t there?”
I heard her pull a drawer open; she must have taken out a napkin which
she spread on the little table at the bedside.She then struck a match,
which made me think that she was lighting one of the candles on the
mantelpiece and placing it near me as a religious rite. I could follow
her movements in the room and divine all her actions. “Poor gentleman,” she muttered.“Luckily I heard you sobbing, poor
dear!” Suddenly the vague light which my left eye had detected
vanished. Mme Gabin had just closed my eyelids, but I had not felt her
finger on my face. When I understood this I felt chilled.The door had opened again, and Dede, the child of ten, now rushed in,
calling out in her shrill voice: “Mother, Mother! Ah, I knew you would
be here! Look here, there’s the money—three francs and four sous.I
took back three dozen lamp shades.”
“Hush, hush! Hold your tongue,” vainly repeated the mother, who, as the
little girl chattered on, must have pointed to the bed, for I guessed
that the child felt perplexed and was backing toward the door.“Is the gentleman asleep?” she whispered. “Yes, yes—go and play,” said Mme Gabin. But the child did not go. She was, no doubt, staring at me with widely
opened eyes, startled and vaguely comprehending.Suddenly she seemed
convulsed with terror and ran out, upsetting a chair. “He is dead, Mother; he is dead!” she gasped. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Profound silence followed. Marguerite, lying back in the armchair, had
left off crying.Mme Gabin was still rummaging about the room and
talking under her breath. “Children know everything nowadays. Look at that girl. Heaven knows how
carefully she’s brought up!When I send her on an errand or take the
shades back I calculate the time to a minute so that she can’t loiter
about, but for all that she learns everything.She saw at a glance what
had happened here—and yet I never showed her but one corpse, that of
her uncle Francois, and she was then only four years old.Ah well,
there are no children left—it can’t be helped.”
She paused and without any transition passed to another subject.“I say, dearie, we must think of the formalities—there’s the
declaration at the municipal offices to be made and the seeing about
the funeral. You are not in a fit state to attend to business.What do
you say if I look in at Monsieur Simoneau’s to find out if he’s at
home?”
Marguerite did not reply.It seemed to me that I watched her from afar
and at times changed into a subtle flame hovering above the room, while
a stranger lay heavy and unconscious on my bed. I wished that
Marguerite had declined the assistance of Simoneau.I had seen him
three or four times during my brief illness, for he occupied a room
close to ours and had been civil and neighborly.Mme Gabin had told us
that he was merely making a short stay in Paris, having come to collect
some old debts due to his father, who had settled in the country and
recently died.He was a tall, strong, handsome young man, and I hated
him, perhaps on account of his healthy appearance.On the previous
evening he had come in to make inquiries, and I had much disliked
seeing him at Marguerite’s side; she had looked so fair and pretty, and
he had gazed so intently into her face when she smilingly thanked him
for his kindness.“Ah, here is Monsieur Simoneau,” said Mme Gabin, introducing him. He gently pushed the door ajar, and as soon as Marguerite saw him enter
she burst into a flood of tears.The presence of a friend, of the only
person she knew in Paris besides the old woman, recalled her
bereavement. I could not see the young man, but in the darkness that
encompassed me I conjured up his appearance.I pictured him distinctly,
grave and sad at finding poor Marguerite in such distress. How lovely
she must have looked with her golden hair unbound, her pale face and
her dear little baby hands burning with fever!“I am at your disposal, madame,” he said softly. “Pray allow me to
manage everything.”
She only answered him with broken words, but as the young man was
leaving, accompanied by Mme Gabin, I heard the latter mention money.These things were always expensive, she said, and she feared that the
poor little body hadn’t a farthing—anyhow, he might ask her.But
Simoneau silenced the old woman; he did not want to have the widow
worried; he was going to the municipal office and to the undertaker’s. When silence reigned once more I wondered if my nightmare would last
much longer.I was certainly alive, for I was conscious of passing
incidents, and I began to realize my condition. I must have fallen into
one of those cataleptic states that I had read of.As a child I had
suffered from syncopes which had lasted several hours, but surely my
heart would beat anew, my blood circulate and my muscles relax. Yes, I
should wake up and comfort Marguerite, and, reasoning thus, I tried to
be patient.Time passed. Mme Gabin had brought in some breakfast, but Marguerite
refused to taste any food. Later on the afternoon waned. Through the
open window I heard the rising clamor of the Rue Dauphine.By and by a
slight ringing of the brass candlestick on the marble-topped table made
me think that a fresh candle had been lighted. At last Simoneau
returned. “Well?” whispered the old woman.“It is all settled,” he answered; “the funeral is ordered for tomorrow
at eleven.There is nothing for you to do, and you needn’t talk of
these things before the poor lady.”
Nevertheless, Mme Gabin remarked: “The doctor of the dead hasn’t come
yet.”
Simoneau took a seat beside Marguerite and after a few words of
encouragement remained silent.The funeral was to take place at eleven! Those words rang in my brain like a passing bell. And the doctor
coming—the doctor of the dead, as Mme Gabin had called him.HE could
not possibly fail to find out that I was only in a state of lethargy;
he would do whatever might be necessary to rouse me, so I longed for
his arrival with feverish anxiety. The day was drawing to a close.Mme Gabin, anxious to waste no time,
had brought in her lamp shades and summoned Dede without asking
Marguerite’s permission.“To tell the truth,” she observed, “I do not
like to leave children too long alone.”
“Come in, I say,” she whispered to the little girl; “come in, and don’t
be frightened.Only don’t look toward the bed or you’ll catch it.”
She thought it decorous to forbid Dede to look at me, but I was
convinced that the child was furtively glancing at the corner where I
lay, for every now and then I heard her mother rap her knuckles and
repeat angrily: “Get on with your work or you shall leave the room, and
the gentleman will come during the night and pull you by the feet.”
The mother and daughter had sat down at our table.I could plainly hear
the click of their scissors as they clipped the lamp shades, which no
doubt required very delicate manipulation, for they did not work
rapidly.I counted the shades one by one as they were laid aside, while
my anxiety grew more and more intense. The clicking of the scissors was the only noise in the room, so I
concluded that Marguerite had been overcome by fatigue and was dozing.Twice Simoneau rose, and the torturing thought flashed through me that
he might be taking advantage of her slumbers to touch her hair with his
lips. I hardly knew the man and yet felt sure that he loved my wife.At
last little Dede began to giggle, and her laugh exasperated me. “Why are you sniggering, you idiot?” asked her mother. “Do you want to
be turned out on the landing?Come, out with it; what makes you laugh
so?”
The child stammered: she had not laughed; she had only coughed, but I
felt certain she had seen Simoneau bending over Marguerite and had felt
amused.The lamp had been lit when a knock was heard at the door. “It must be the doctor at last,” said the old woman. It was the doctor; he did not apologize for coming so late, for he had
no doubt ascended many flights of stairs during the day.The room being
but imperfectly lighted by the lamp, he inquired: “Is the body here?”
“Yes, it is,” answered Simoneau. Marguerite had risen, trembling violently.Mme Gabin dismissed Dede,
saying it was useless that a child should be present, and then she
tried to lead my wife to the window, to spare her the sight of what was
about to take place. The doctor quickly approached the bed.I guessed that he was bored,
tired and impatient. Had he touched my wrist? | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Had he placed his hand on
my heart? I could not tell, but I fancied that he had only carelessly
bent over me.“Shall I bring the lamp so that you may see better?” asked Simoneau
obligingly. “No it is not necessary,” quietly answered the doctor. Not necessary!That man held my life in his hands, and he did not think
it worth while to proceed to a careful examination! I was not dead! I
wanted to cry out that I was not dead! “At what o’clock did he die?” asked the doctor.“At six this morning,” volunteered Simoneau. A feeling of frenzy and rebellion rose within me, bound as I was in
seemingly iron chains. Oh, for the power of uttering one word, of
moving a single limb!“This close weather is unhealthy,” resumed the doctor; “nothing is more
trying than these early spring days.”
And then he moved away. It was like my life departing.Screams, sobs
and insults were choking me, struggling in my convulsed throat, in
which even my breath was arrested. The wretch!Turned into a mere
machine by professional habits, he only came to a deathbed to
accomplish a perfunctory formality; he knew nothing; his science was a
lie, since he could not at a glance distinguish life from death—and now
he was going—going!“Good night, sir,” said Simoneau. There came a moment’s silence; the doctor was probably bowing to
Marguerite, who had turned while Mme Gabin was fastening the window. He
left the room, and I heard his footsteps descending the stairs.It was all over; I was condemned. My last hope had vanished with that
man. If I did not wake before eleven on the morrow I should be buried
alive.The horror of that thought was so great that I lost all
consciousness of my surroundings—’twas something like a fainting fit in
death. The last sound I heard was the clicking of the scissors handled
by Mme Gabin and Dede.The funeral vigil had begun; nobody spoke. Marguerite had refused to retire to rest in the neighbor’s room.She
remained reclining in her armchair, with her beautiful face pale, her
eyes closed and her long lashes wet with tears, while before her in the
gloom Simoneau sat silently watching her.CHAPTER III
THE PROCESSION
I cannot describe my agony during the morning of the following day. I
remember it as a hideous dream in which my impressions were so ghastly
and so confused that I could not formulate them.The persistent
yearning for a sudden awakening increased my torture, and as the hour
for the funeral drew nearer my anguish became more poignant still. It was only at daybreak that I had recovered a fuller consciousness of
what was going on around me.The creaking of hinges startled me out of
my stupor. Mme Gabin had just opened the window.It must have been
about seven o’clock, for I heard the cries of hawkers in the street,
the shrill voice of a girl offering groundsel and the hoarse voice of a
man shouting “Carrots!” The clamorous awakening of Paris pacified me at
first.I could not believe that I should be laid under the sod in the
midst of so much life; and, besides, a sudden thought helped to calm
me.It had just occurred to me that I had witnessed a case similar to
my own when I was employed at the hospital of Guerande.A man had been
sleeping twenty-eight hours, the doctors hesitating in presence of his
apparent lifelessness, when suddenly he had sat up in bed and was
almost at once able to rise.I myself had already been asleep for some
twenty-five hours; if I awoke at ten I should still be in time. I endeavored to ascertain who was in the room and what was going on
there.Dede must have been playing on the landing, for once when the
door opened I heard her shrill childish laughter outside. Simoneau must
have retired, for nothing indicated his presence. Mme Gabin’s slipshod
tread was still audible over the floor.At last she spoke. “Come, my dear,” she said. “It is wrong of you not to take it while it
is hot.It would cheer you up.”
She was addressing Marguerite, and a slow trickling sound as of
something filtering indicated that she had been making some coffee. “I don’t mind owning,” she continued, “that I needed it. At my age
sitting up IS trying.The night seems so dreary when there is a
misfortune in the house. DO have a cup of coffee, my dear—just a drop.”
She persuaded Marguerite to taste it. “Isn’t it nice and hot?” she continued, “and doesn’t it set one up?Ah,
you’ll be wanting all your strength presently for what you’ve got to go
through today. Now if you were sensible you’d step into my room and
just wait there.”
“No, I want to stay here,” said Marguerite resolutely.Her voice, which I had not heard since the previous evening, touched me
strangely. It was changed, broken as by tears. To feel my dear wife
near me was a last consolation.I knew that her eyes were fastened on
me and that she was weeping with all the anguish of her heart. The minutes flew by. An inexplicable noise sounded from beyond the
door.It seemed as if some people were bringing a bulky piece of
furniture upstairs and knocking against the walls as they did so. Suddenly I understood, as I heard Marguerite begin to sob; it was the
coffin. “You are too early,” said Mme Gabin crossly.“Put it behind the bed.”
What o’clock was it? Nine, perhaps. So the coffin had come. Amid the
opaque night around me I could see it plainly, quite new, with roughly
planed boards. Heavens! Was this the end then?Was I to be borne off in
that box which I realized was lying at my feet? However, I had one supreme joy. Marguerite, in spite of her weakness,
insisted upon discharging all the last offices.Assisted by the old
woman, she dressed me with all the tenderness of a wife and a sister. Once more I felt myself in her arms as she clothed me in various
garments.She paused at times, overcome by grief; she clasped me
convulsively, and her tears rained on my face. Oh, how I longed to
return her embrace and cry, “I live!” And yet I was lying there
powerless, motionless, inert!“You are foolish,” suddenly said Mme Gabin; “it is all wasted.”
“Never mind,” answered Marguerite, sobbing. “I want him to wear his
very best things.”
I understood that she was dressing me in the clothes I had worn on my
wedding day.I had kept them carefully for great occasions. When she
had finished she fell back exhausted in the armchair. Simoneau now spoke; he had probably just entered the room. “They are below,” he whispered.“Well, it ain’t any too soon,” answered Mme Gabin, also lowering her
voice.“Tell them to come up and get it over.”
“But I dread the despair of the poor little wife.”
The old woman seemed to reflect and presently resumed: “Listen to me,
Monsieur Simoneau. You must take her off to my room. I wouldn’t have
her stop here.It is for her own good. When she is out of the way we’ll
get it done in a jiffy.”
These words pierced my heart, and my anguish was intense when I
realized that a struggle was actually taking place.Simoneau had walked
up to Marguerite, imploring her to leave the room. “Do, for pity’s sake, come with me!” he pleaded. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
“Spare yourself
useless pain.”
“No, no!” she cried. “I will remain till the last minute.Remember that
I have only him in the world, and when he is gone I shall be all
alone!”
From the bedside Mme Gabin was prompting the young man.“Don’t parley—take hold of her, carry her off in your arms.”
Was Simoneau about to lay his hands on Marguerite and bear her away? She screamed. I wildly endeavored to rise, but the springs of my limbs
were broken.I remained rigid, unable to lift my eyelids to see what
was going on. The struggle continued, and my wife clung to the
furniture, repeating, “Oh, don’t, don’t! Have mercy! Let me go!I will
not—”
He must have lifted her in his stalwart arms, for I heard her moaning
like a child.He bore her away; her sobs were lost in the distance, and
I fancied I saw them both—he, tall and strong, pressing her to his
breast; she, fainting, powerless and conquered, following him wherever
he listed. “Drat it all!What a to-do!” muttered Mme Gabin. “Now for the tug of
war, as the coast is clear at last.”
In my jealous madness I looked upon this incident as a monstrous
outrage.I had not been able to see Marguerite for twenty-four hours,
but at least I had still heard her voice. Now even this was denied me;
she had been torn away; a man had eloped with her even before I was
laid under the sod.He was alone with her on the other side of the
wall, comforting her—embracing her, perhaps! But the door opened once more, and heavy footsteps shook the floor. “Quick, make haste,” repeated Mme Gabin.“Get it done before the lady
comes back.”
She was speaking to some strangers, who merely answered her with
uncouth grunts. “You understand,” she went on, “I am not a relation; I’m only a
neighbor. I have no interest in the matter.It is out of pure good
nature that I have mixed myself up in their affairs. And I ain’t
overcheerful, I can tell you. Yes, yes, I sat up the whole blessed
night—it was pretty cold, too, about four o’clock. That’s a fact.Well,
I have always been a fool—I’m too soft-hearted.”
The coffin had been dragged into the center of the room. As I had not
awakened I was condemned.All clearness departed from my ideas;
everything seemed to revolve in a black haze, and I experienced such
utter lassitude that it seemed almost a relief to leave off hoping.“They haven’t spared the material,” said one of the undertaker’s men in
a gruff voice. “The box is too long.”
“He’ll have all the more room,” said the other, laughing.I was not heavy, and they chuckled over it since they had three flights
of stairs to descend. As they were seizing me by the shoulders and feet
I heard Mme Gabin fly into a violent passion.“You cursed little brat,” she screamed, “what do you mean by poking
your nose where you’re not wanted?Look here, I’ll teach you to spy and
pry.”
Dede had slipped her tousled head through the doorway to see how the
gentleman was being put into the box. Two ringing slaps resounded,
however, by an explosion of sobs.And as soon as the mother returned
she began to gossip about her daughter for the benefit of the two men
who were settling me in the coffin. “She is only ten, you know. She is not a bad girl, but she is
frightfully inquisitive.I do not beat her often; only I WILL be
obeyed.”
“Oh,” said one of the men, “all kids are alike.Whenever there is a
corpse lying about they always want to see it.”
I was commodiously stretched out, and I might have thought myself still
in bed, had it not been that my left arm felt a trifle cramped from
being squeezed against a board.The men had been right. I was pretty
comfortable inside on account of my diminutive stature. “Stop!” suddenly exclaimed Mme Gabin. “I promised his wife to put a
pillow under his head.”
The men, who were in a hurry, stuffed in the pillow roughly.One of
them, who had mislaid his hammer, began to swear. He had left the tool
below and went to fetch it, dropping the lid, and when two sharp blows
of the hammer drove in the first nail, a shock ran through my being—I
had ceased to live.The nails then entered in rapid succession with a
rhythmical cadence. It was as if some packers had been closing a case
of dried fruit with easy dexterity.After that such sounds as reached
me were deadened and strangely prolonged, as if the deal coffin had
been changed into a huge musical box.The last words spoken in the room
of the Rue Dauphine—at least the last ones that I heard distinctly—were
uttered by Mme Gabin.“Mind the staircase,” she said; “the banister of the second flight
isn’t safe, so be careful.”
While I was being carried down I experienced a sensation similar to
that of pitching as when one is on board a ship in a rough sea.However, from that moment my impressions became more and more vague. I
remember that the only distinct thought that still possessed me was an
imbecile, impulsive curiosity as to the road by which I should be taken
to the cemetery.I was not acquainted with a single street of Paris,
and I was ignorant of the position of the large burial grounds (though
of course I had occasionally heard their names), and yet every effort
of my mind was directed toward ascertaining whether we were turning to
the right or to the left.Meanwhile the jolting of the hearse over the
paving stones, the rumbling of passing vehicles, the steps of the foot
passengers, all created a confused clamor, intensified by the
acoustical properties of the coffin.At first I followed our course pretty closely; then came a halt. I was
again lifted and carried about, and I concluded that we were in church,
but when the funeral procession once more moved onward I lost all
consciousness of the road we took.A ringing of bells informed me that
we were passing another church, and then the softer and easier progress
of the wheels indicated that we were skirting a garden or park.I was
like a victim being taken to the gallows, awaiting in stupor a
deathblow that never came. At last they stopped and pulled me out of the hearse. The business
proceeded rapidly.The noises had ceased; I knew that I was in a
deserted space amid avenues of trees and with the broad sky over my
head.No doubt a few persons followed the bier, some of the inhabitants
of the lodginghouse, perhaps—Simoneau and others, for instance—for
faint whisperings reached my ear.Then I heard a psalm chanted and some
Latin words mumbled by a priest, and afterward I suddenly felt myself
sinking, while the ropes rubbing against the edges of the coffin
elicited lugubrious sounds, as if a bow were being drawn across the
strings of a cracked violoncello.It was the end. On the left side of
my head I felt a violent shock like that produced by the bursting of a
bomb, with another under my feet and a third more violent still on my
chest.So forcible, indeed, was this last one that I thought the lid
was cleft atwain. I fainted from it. CHAPTER IV
THE NAIL
It is impossible for me to say how long my swoon lasted. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Eternity is
not of longer duration than one second spent in nihility.I was no
more. It was slowly and confusedly that I regained some degree of
consciousness.I was still asleep, but I began to dream; a nightmare
started into shape amid the blackness of my horizon, a nightmare
compounded of a strange fancy which in other days had haunted my morbid
imagination whenever with my propensity for dwelling upon hideous
thoughts I had conjured up catastrophes.Thus I dreamed that my wife was expecting me somewhere—at Guerande, I
believe—and that I was going to join her by rail.As we passed through
a tunnel a deafening roll thundered over our head, and a sudden
subsidence blocked up both issues of the tunnel, leaving our train
intact in the center. We were walled up by blocks of rock in the heart
of a mountain.Then a long and fearful agony commenced. No assistance
could possibly reach us; even with powerful engines and incessant labor
it would take a month to clear the tunnel.We were prisoners there with
no outlet, and so our death was only a question of time. My fancy had often dwelt on that hideous drama and had constantly
varied the details and touches.My actors were men, women and children;
their number increased to hundreds, and they were ever furnishing me
with new incidents.There were some provisions in the train, but these
were soon exhausted, and the hungry passengers, if they did not
actually devour human flesh, at least fought furiously over the last
piece of bread.Sometimes an aged man was driven back with blows and
slowly perished; a mother struggled like a she-wolf to keep three or
four mouthfuls for her child.In my own compartment a bride and
bridegroom were dying, clasped in each other’s arms in mute despair.The line was free along the whole length of the train, and people came
and went, prowling round the carriages like beasts of prey in search of
carrion. All classes were mingled together.A millionaire, a high
functionary, it was said, wept on a workman’s shoulder. The lamps had
been extinguished from the first, and the engine fire was nearly out.To pass from one carriage to another it was necessary to grope about,
and thus, too, one slowly reached the engine, recognizable by its
enormous barrel, its cold, motionless flanks, its useless strength, its
grim silence, in the overwhelming night.Nothing could be more
appalling than this train entombed alive with its passengers perishing
one by one.I gloated over the ghastliness of each detail; howls resounded through
the vault; somebody whom one could not see, whose vicinity was not even
suspected, would suddenly drop upon another’s shoulder.But what
affected me most of all was the cold and the want of air.I have never
felt so chilled; a mantle of snow seemed to enwrap me; heavy moisture
rained upon my skull; I was gasping; the rocky vault seemed to crush my
chest; the whole mountain was seemingly weighing upon me. Suddenly a cry of deliverance sounded.For some time past we fancied
that we could hear a dull sound, and we tried to hope that men were at
work and that help was coming, but it came not thus.One of the
passengers, however, had discovered an air shaft in the tunnel, and,
crowding round, we all saw this shaft, above which we could discern a
blue patch about the size of a wafer. That blue patch filled us with
rapture, for it was the sky.We stretched ourselves and stood on
tiptoes to breathe more freely. Then we distinguished some black specks
moving about, specks that must surely be workmen about to deliver us. A
furious clamor arose. The cry “Saved!Saved!” burst from every mouth,
while trembling arms were uplifted toward the tiny azure patch above. That roar of voices aroused me. Where was I? In the tunnel, of course. I was lying at full length; hard walls were pressing against my ribs.Then I attempted to rise and struck my head roughly. Was it the rock
closing in on all sides? The blue speck had vanished—aye, the sky had
disappeared and I was still suffocating, shivering, with chattering
teeth. All at once I remembered.Intense horror raised my hair on end. I felt
the hideous truth freeze me from head to foot like ice. I had shaken
off the long coma which for many hours had stricken me with corpselike
rigidity.Yes, I could move; my hands could feel the boards of my
coffin; my lips parted; words came to me, and instinctively I called
out Marguerite’s name. It was a scream I raised.In that deal box my
voice took so hoarse and weird a sound that it terrified me. Oh, my
God, was this thing true? I was able to walk, speak, cry out that I was
living, and yet my voice could not be heard; I was entombed under the
earth.I made a desperate effort to remain calm and reflect. Was there no
means of getting out? Then my dream began afresh in my troubled brain. The fanciful air shaft with the blue bit of sky overhead was mingled
with the real grave in which I was lying.I stared at the darkness with
widely opened eyes; perhaps I might discover a hole, a slit, a glimmer
of light, but only sparks of fire flitted through that night, with rays
that broadened and then faded away. I was in a somber abyss again.With
returning lucidity I struggled against these fatal visions. Indeed, I
should need all my reason if I meant to try to save myself. The most immediate peril lay in an increasing sense of suffocation.If
I had been able to live so long without air it was owing to suspended
animation, which had changed all the normal conditions of my existence,
but now that my heart beat and my lungs breathed I should die,
asphyxiated, if I did not promptly liberate myself.I also suffered
from cold and dreaded lest I should succumb to the mortal numbness of
those who fall asleep in the snow, never to wake again.Still, while
unceasingly realizing the necessity of remaining calm, I felt maddening
blasts sweep through my brain, and to quiet my senses I exhorted myself
to patience, trying to remember the circumstances of my burial.Probably the ground had been bought for five years, and this would be
against my chances of self-deliverance, for I remembered having noticed
at Nantes that in the trenches of the common graves one end of the last
lowered coffins protruded into the next open cavity, in which case I
should only have had to break through one plank.But if I were in a
separate hole, filled up above me with earth, the obstacles would prove
too great. Had I not been told that the dead were buried six feet deep
in Paris? How was I to get through the enormous mass of soil above me?Even if I succeeded in slitting the lid of my bier open the mold would
drift in like fine sand and fill my mouth and eyes. That would be death
again, a ghastly death, like drowning in mud. However, I began to feel the planks carefully.The coffin was roomy,
and I found that I was able to move my arms with tolerable ease. On
both sides the roughly planed boards were stout and resistive. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
I
slipped my arm onto my chest to raise it over my head.There I
discovered in the top plank a knot in the wood which yielded slightly
at my pressure. Working laboriously, I finally succeeded in driving out
this knot, and on passing my finger through the hole I found that the
earth was wet and clayey.But that availed me little. I even regretted
having removed the knot, vaguely dreading the irruption of the mold. A
second experiment occupied me for a while. I tapped all over the coffin
to ascertain if perhaps there were any vacuum outside.But the sound
was everywhere the same. At last, as I was slightly kicking the foot of
the coffin, I fancied that it gave out a clearer echoing noise, but
that might merely be produced by the sonority of the wood.At any rate, I began to press against the boards with my arms and my
closed fists. In the same way, too, I used my knees, my back and my
feet without eliciting even a creak from the wood.I strained with all
my strength, indeed, with so desperate an effort of my whole frame,
that my bruised bones seemed breaking. But nothing moved, and I became
insane. Until that moment I had held delirium at bay.I had mastered the
intoxicating rage which was mounting to my head like the fumes of
alcohol; I had silenced my screams, for I feared that if I again cried
out aloud I should be undone.But now I yelled; I shouted; unearthly
howls which I could not repress came from my relaxed throat. I called
for help in a voice that I did not recognize, growing wilder with each
fresh appeal and crying out that I would not die.I also tore at the
wood with my nails; I writhed with the contortions of a caged wolf.I
do not know how long this fit of madness lasted, but I can still feel
the relentless hardness of the box that imprisoned me; I can still hear
the storm of shrieks and sobs with which I filled it; a remaining
glimmer of reason made me try to stop, but I could not do so.Great exhaustion followed. I lay waiting for death in a state of
somnolent pain. The coffin was like stone, which no effort could break,
and the conviction that I was powerless left me unnerved, without
courage to make any fresh attempts.Another suffering—hunger—was
presently added to cold and want of air. The torture soon became
intolerable.With my finger I tried to pull small pinches of earth
through the hole of the dislodged knot, and I swallowed them eagerly,
only increasing my torment.Tempted by my flesh, I bit my arms and
sucked my skin with a fiendish desire to drive my teeth in, but I was
afraid of drawing blood. Then I ardently longed for death.All my life long I had trembled at
the thought of dissolution, but I had come to yearn for it, to crave
for an everlasting night that could never be dark enough.How childish
it had been of me to dread the long, dreamless sleep, the eternity of
silence and gloom! Death was kind, for in suppressing life it put an
end to suffering. Oh, to sleep like the stones, to be no more!With groping hands I still continued feeling the wood, and suddenly I
pricked my left thumb. That slight pain roused me from my growing
numbness.I felt again and found a nail—a nail which the undertaker’s
men had driven in crookedly and which had not caught in the lower wood. It was long and very sharp; the head was secured to the lid, but it
moved.Henceforth I had but one idea—to possess myself of that nail—and
I slipped my right hand across my body and began to shake it. I made
but little progress, however; it was a difficult job, for my hands soon
tired, and I had to use them alternately.The left one, too, was of
little use on account of the nail’s awkward position. While I was obstinately persevering a plan dawned on my mind. That nail
meant salvation, and I must have it. But should I get it in time?Hunger was torturing me; my brain was swimming; my limbs were losing
their strength; my mind was becoming confused. I had sucked the drops
that trickled from my punctured finger, and suddenly I bit my arm and
drank my own blood!Thereupon, spurred on by pain, revived by the
tepid, acrid liquor that moistened my lips, I tore desperately at the
nail and at last I wrenched it off! I then believed in success.My plan was a simple one; I pushed the
point of the nail into the lid, dragging it along as far as I could in
a straight line and working it so as to make a slit in the wood.My
fingers stiffened, but I doggedly persevered, and when I fancied that I
had sufficiently cut into the board I turned on my stomach and, lifting
myself on my knees and elbows thrust the whole strength of my back
against the lid.But although it creaked it did not yield; the notched
line was not deep enough. I had to resume my old position—which I only
managed to do with infinite trouble—and work afresh. At last after
another supreme effort the lid was cleft from end to end.I was not saved as yet, but my heart beat with renewed hope. I had
ceased pushing and remained motionless, lest a sudden fall of earth
should bury me.I intended to use the lid as a screen and, thus
protected, to open a sort of shaft in the clayey soil. Unfortunately I
was assailed by unexpected difficulties.Some heavy clods of earth
weighed upon the boards and made them unmanageable; I foresaw that I
should never reach the surface in that way, for the mass of soil was
already bending my spine and crushing my face.Once more I stopped, affrighted; then suddenly, while I was stretching
my legs, trying to find something firm against which I might rest my
feet, I felt the end board of the coffin yielding.I at once gave a
desperate kick with my heels in the faint hope that there might be a
freshly dug grave in that direction. It was so. My feet abruptly forced their way into space.An open grave
was there; I had only a slight partition of earth to displace, and soon
I rolled into the cavity. I was saved! I remained for a time lying on my back in the open grave, with my eyes
raised to heaven.It was dark; the stars were shining in a sky of
velvety blueness. Now and then the rising breeze wafted a springlike
freshness, a perfume of foliage, upon me. I was saved!I could breathe;
I felt warm, and I wept and I stammered, with my arms prayerfully
extended toward the starry sky. O God, how sweet seemed life!CHAPTER V
MY RESURRECTION
My first impulse was to find the custodian of the cemetery and ask him
to have me conducted home, but various thoughts that came to me
restrained me from following that course.My return would create
general alarm; why should I hurry now that I was master of the
situation? I felt my limbs; I had only an insignificant wound on my
left arm, where I had bitten myself, and a slight feverishness lent me
unhoped-for strength.I should no doubt be able to walk unaided. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
Still I lingered; all sorts of dim visions confused my mind.I had felt
beside me in the open grave some sextons’ tools which had been left
there, and I conceived a sudden desire to repair the damage I had done,
to close up the hole through which I had crept, so as to conceal all
traces of my resurrection.I do not believe that I had any positive
motive in doing so. I only deemed it useless to proclaim my adventure
aloud, feeling ashamed to find myself alive when the whole world
thought me dead.In half an hour every trace of my escape was
obliterated, and then I climbed out of the hole. The night was splendid, and deep silence reigned in the cemetery; the
black trees threw motionless shadows over the white tombs.When I
endeavored to ascertain my bearings I noticed that one half of the sky
was ruddy, as if lit by a huge conflagration; Paris lay in that
direction, and I moved toward it, following a long avenue amid the
darkness of the branches.However, after I had gone some fifty yards I was compelled to stop,
feeling faint and weary. I then sat down on a stone bench and for the
first time looked at myself. I was fully attired with the exception
that I had no hat.I blessed my beloved Marguerite for the pious
thought which had prompted her to dress me in my best clothes—those
which I had worn at our wedding. That remembrance of my wife brought me
to my feet again. I longed to see her without delay.At the farther end of the avenue I had taken a wall arrested my
progress. However, I climbed to the top of a monument, reached the
summit of the wall and then dropped over the other side.Although
roughly shaken by the fall, I managed to walk for a few minutes along a
broad deserted street skirting the cemetery.I had no notion as to
where I might be, but with the reiteration of monomania I kept saying
to myself that I was going toward Paris and that I should find the Rue
Dauphine somehow or other.Several people passed me but, seized with
sudden distrust, I would not stop them and ask my way. I have since
realized that I was then in a burning fever and already nearly
delirious.Finally, just as I reached a large thoroughfare, I became
giddy and fell heavily upon the pavement. Here there is a blank in my life. For three whole weeks I remained
unconscious. When I awoke at last I found myself in a strange room.A
man who was nursing me told me quietly that he had picked me up one
morning on the Boulevard Montparnasse and had brought me to his house. He was an old doctor who had given up practicing.When I attempted to thank him he sharply answered that my case had
seemed a curious one and that he had wished to study it.Moreover,
during the first days of my convalescence he would not allow me to ask
a single question, and later on he never put one to me.For eight days
longer I remained in bed, feeling very weak and not even trying to
remember, for memory was a weariness and a pain. I felt half ashamed
and half afraid.As soon as I could leave the house I would go and find
out whatever I wanted to know. Possibly in the delirium of fever a name
had escaped me; however, the doctor never alluded to anything I may
have said.His charity was not only generous; it was discreet. The summer had come at last, and one warm June morning I was permitted
to take a short walk. The sun was shining with that joyous brightness
which imparts renewed youth to the streets of old Paris.I went along
slowly, questioning the passers-by at every crossing I came to and
asking the way to Rue Dauphine. When I reached the street I had some
difficulty in recognizing the lodginghouse where we had alighted on our
arrival in the capital.A childish terror made me hesitate. If I
appeared suddenly before Marguerite the shock might kill her. It might
be wiser to begin by revealing myself to our neighbor Mme Gabin; still
I shrank from taking a third party into confidence.I seemed unable to
arrive at a resolution, and yet in my innermost heart I felt a great
void, like that left by some sacrifice long since consummated. The building looked quite yellow in the sunshine.I had just recognized
it by a shabby eating house on the ground floor, where we had ordered
our meals, having them sent up to us.Then I raised my eyes to the last
window of the third floor on the left-hand side, and as I looked at it
a young woman with tumbled hair, wearing a loose dressing gown,
appeared and leaned her elbows on the sill.A young man followed and
printed a kiss upon her neck. It was not Marguerite. Still I felt no
surprise. It seemed to me that I had dreamed all this with other
things, too, which I was to learn presently.For a moment I remained in the street, uncertain whether I had better
go upstairs and question the lovers, who were still laughing in the
sunshine. However, I decided to enter the little restaurant below.When
I started on my walk the old doctor had placed a five-franc piece in my
hand. No doubt I was changed beyond recognition, for my beard had grown
during the brain fever, and my face was wrinkled and haggard.As I took
a seat at a small table I saw Mme Gabin come in carrying a cup; she
wished to buy a penny-worth of coffee. Standing in front of the
counter, she began to gossip with the landlady of the establishment.“Well,” asked the latter, “so the poor little woman of the third floor
has made up her mind at last, eh?”
“How could she help herself?” answered Mme Gabin. “It was the very best
thing for her to do. Monsieur Simoneau showed her so much kindness.You
see, he had finished his business in Paris to his satisfaction, for he
has inherited a pot of money.Well, he offered to take her away with
him to his own part of the country and place her with an aunt of his,
who wants a housekeeper and companion.”
The landlady laughed archly. I buried my face in a newspaper which I
picked off the table.My lips were white and my hands shook. “It will end in a marriage, of course,” resumed Mme Gabin. “The little
widow mourned for her husband very properly, and the young man was
extremely well behaved.Well, they left last night—and, after all, they
were free to please themselves.”
Just then the side door of the restaurant, communicating with the
passage of the house, opened, and Dede appeared. “Mother, ain’t you coming?” she cried.“I’m waiting, you know; do be
quick.”
“Presently,” said the mother testily. “Don’t bother.”
The girl stood listening to the two women with the precocious
shrewdness of a child born and reared amid the streets of Paris.“When all is said and done,” explained Mme Gabin, “the dear departed
did not come up to Monsieur Simoneau. I didn’t fancy him overmuch; he
was a puny sort of a man, a poor, fretful fellow, and he hadn’t a penny
to bless himself with.No, candidly, he wasn’t the kind of husband for
a young and healthy wife, whereas Monsieur Simoneau is rich, you know,
and as strong as a Turk.”
“Oh yes!” interrupted Dede. | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
“I saw him once when he was washing—his
door was open.His arms are so hairy!”
“Get along with you,” screamed the old woman, shoving the girl out of
the restaurant.“You are always poking your nose where it has no
business to be.”
Then she concluded with these words: “Look here, to my mind the other
one did quite right to take himself off.It was fine luck for the
little woman!”
When I found myself in the street again I walked along slowly with
trembling limbs. And yet I was not suffering much; I think I smiled
once at my shadow in the sun. It was quite true. I WAS very puny.It
had been a queer notion of mine to marry Marguerite. I recalled her
weariness at Guerande, her impatience, her dull, monotonous life.The
dear creature had been very good to me, but I had never been a real
lover; she had mourned for me as a sister for her brother, not
otherwise. Why should I again disturb her life? A dead man is not
jealous.When I lifted my eyelids I saw the garden of the Luxembourg before me. I entered it and took a seat in the sun, dreaming with a sense of
infinite restfulness. The thought of Marguerite stirred me softly.I
pictured her in the provinces, beloved, petted and very happy. She had
grown handsomer, and she was the mother of three boys and two girls. It
was all right.I had behaved like an honest man in dying, and I would
not commit the cruel folly of coming to life again. Since then I have traveled a good deal. I have been a little
everywhere. I am an ordinary man who has toiled and eaten like anybody
else.Death no longer frightens me, but it does not seem to care for me
now that I have no motive in living, and I sometimes fear that I have | Zola, Émile - Four Short Stories By Emile Zola |
ABOUT THE WICKED COLIN.All men, however, are not endowed with tender sympathy; some have
hearts hardened like Pharaoh's.This arises, no doubt, from that natural
depravity which has come upon men in consequence of the fall of Adam, or
because, at their baptism, the devil is not brought sufficiently under
subjection.A remarkable example of this hardness of heart was given by one Colin,
the richest farmer and proprietor in Napoule, whose vineyards and olive
gardens, whose lemon and orange trees could hardly be counted in a day.One thing particularly demonstrates the perverseness of his disposition;
he was twenty-seven years old, and had never yet asked for what purpose
girls had been created!True, all the people, especially damsels of a certain age, willingly
forgave him this sin, and looked upon him as one of the best young men
under the sun.His fine figure, his fresh, unembarrassed manner, his
look, his laugh, enabled him to gain the favorable opinion of the
aforesaid people, who would have forgiven him, had there been occasion,
any one of the deadly sins.But the decision of such judges is not
always to be trusted. While both old and young at Napoule had become
reconciled to the innocent Marietta, and proffered their sympathies
to her, Colin was the only one who had no pity upon the poor child.If
Marietta was talked of he became as dumb as a fish. If he met her in the
street he would turn red and white with anger, and cast sidelong glances
at her of the most malicious kind.If at evening the young people met upon the seashore near the old castle
ruins for sprightly pastimes, or rural dances, or to sing catches,
Colin was the merriest among them.But as soon as Marietta arrived the
rascally fellow was silent, and all the gold in the world couldn't
make him sing.--What a pity, when he had such a fine voice! Everybody
listened to it so willingly, and its store of songs was endless.All the maidens looked kindly upon Colin, and he was friendly with all
of them. He had, as we have said, a roguish glance, which the lasses
feared and loved; and it was so sweet they would like to have had it
painted.But, as might naturally be expected, the offended Marietta
did not look graciously upon him. And in that he was perfectly right. Whether he smiled or not, it was all the same to her.As to his roguish
glance, why she would never hear it mentioned; and therein too she
was perfectly right.When he told a tale (and he knew thousands) and
everybody listened, she nudged her neighbor, or perhaps threw tufts of
grass at Peter or Paul, and laughed and chattered, and did not listen to
Colin at all.This behavior quite provoked the proud fellow, so that he
would break off in the middle of his story and stalk sullenly away. Revenge is sweet. The daughter of Mother Manon well knew how to triumph.Yet Marietta was a right good child and quite too tenderhearted. If
Colin was silent, it gave her pain. If he was downcast, she laughed no
more.If he went away, she did not stay long behind: but hurried to her
home, and wept tears of repentance, more beautiful than those of the
Magdalen, although she had not sinned like the Magdalen. THE CUP.Father Jerome, the pastor of Napoule, was an old man of seventy, who
possessed all the virtues of a saint, and only one failing; which was,
that by reason of his advanced years, he was hard of hearing.But, on
that very account, his homilies were more acceptable to the children of
his baptism and blessing. True, he preached only of two subjects, as if
they comprehended the whole of religion.It was either "Little children,
love one another," or it was "Mysterious are the ways of Providence." And truly there is so much Faith, Love, and Hope in these that one might
at a pinch be saved by them.The little children loved one another most
obediently, and trusted in the ways of Providence. Only Colin, with his
flinty heart, would know nothing of either: for even when he professed
to be friendly, he entertained the deepest malice.The Napoulese went to the annual market or fair of the city of Vence. It was truly a joyful time, and though they had but little gold to buy
with, there were many goods to look at.Now Marietta and Mother Manon
went to the fair with the rest, and Colin was also there. He bought a
great many curiosities and trifles for his friends--but he would not
spend a farthing for Marietta.And yet he was always at her elbow,
though he did not speak to her, nor she to him. It was easy to see that
he was brooding over some scheme of wickedness. Mother Manon stood gazing before a shop, when she suddenly exclaimed:
"Oh!Marietta, see that beautiful cup! A queen would not be ashamed to
raise it to her lips. Only see: the edge is of dazzling gold, and the
flowers upon it could not bloom more beautifully in the garden, although
they are only painted.And in the midst of this Paradise! pray see,
Marietta, how the apples are smiling on the trees. They are verily
tempting. And Adam cannot withstand it, as the enchanting Eve offers
him one for food!And do see how prettily the little frisking lamb skips
around the old tiger, and the snow-white dove with her golden throat
stands there before the vulture, as if she would caress him." Marietta could not satisfy herself with looking. "Had I such a cup,
mother!" said she, "it is far too beautiful to drink out of: I would
place my flowers in it and constantly peep into Paradise. We are at the
fair in Vence, but when I look on the picture I feel as if I were in
Paradise. "So spoke Marietta, and called her companions to the spot, to share her
admiration of the cup: but the young men soon joined the maidens, until
at length almost half the inhabitants of Napoule were assembled before
the wonderfully beautiful cup.But miraculously beautiful was it mainly
from its inestimable, translucent porcelain, with gilded handles and
glowing colors. They asked the merchant timidly: "Sir, what is the price
of it? "And he answered: "Among friends, it is worth a hundred livres." Then they all became silent, and went away in despair.When the
Napoulese were all gone from the front of the shop, Colin came there by
stealth, threw the merchant a hundred livres upon the counter, had the
cup put in a box well packed with cotton, and then carried it off.What
evil plans he had in view no one would have surmised. Near Napoule, on his way home, it being already dusk, he met old
Jacques, the Justice's servant, returning from the fields. Jacques was a
very good man, but excessively stupid. "I will give thee money enough to get something to drink, Jacques," said
Colin, "if thou wilt bear this box to Manon's house, and leave it there;
and if any one should see thee, and inquire from whom the box came, say
'A stranger gave it to me. 'But never disclose my name, or I will always
detest thee." Jacques promised this, took the drink-money and the box, and went with
it toward the little dwelling between the olive trees and the African
acacias. | Zschokke, Heinrich - The Broken Cup |
THE CARRIER.Before he arrived there he encountered his master, Justice Hautmartin,
who asked; "Jacques, what art thou carrying?" "A box for Mother Manon. But, sir, I cannot say from whom it comes." "Why not?" "Because Colin would always detest me. ""It is well that thou canst keep a secret. But it is already late; give
me the box, for I am going to-morrow to see Mother Manon; I will deliver
it to her and not betray that it came from Colin.It will save thee a
walk, and furnish me a good excuse for calling on the old lady." Jacques gave the box to his master, whom he was accustomed to obey
implicitly in all things.The justice bore it into his chamber, and
examined it by the light with some curiosity. On the lid was neatly
written with red chalk: "For the lovely and dear Marietta. "But Monsieur
Hautmartin well knew that this was some of Colin's mischief, and that
some knavish trick lurked under the whole. He therefore opened the box
carefully for fear that a mouse or rat should be concealed within.When he beheld the wondrous cup, which he had seen at Vence, he was
dreadfully shocked, for Monsieur Hautmartin was a skilful casuist, and
knew that the inventions and devices of the human heart are evil from
our youth upward.He saw at once that Colin designed this cup as a
means of bringing misfortune upon Marietta: perhaps to give out, when it
should be in her possession, that it was the present of some successful
lover in the town, or the like, so that all decent people would
thereafter keep aloof from Marietta.Therefore Monsieur Hautmartin
resolved, in order to prevent any evil reports, to profess himself
the giver.Moreover, he loved Marietta, and would gladly have seen her
observe more strictly toward himself the sayings of the gray-headed
priest Jerome, "Little children, love one another. "In truth, Monsieur
Hautmartin was a little child of fifty years old, and Marietta did
not think the saying applied particularly to him.Mother Manon, on the
contrary, thought that the justice was a clever little child, he had
gold and a high reputation from one end of Napoule to the other.And
when the justice spoke of marriage, and Marietta ran away in affright,
Mother Manon remained sitting, and had no fear for the tall, staid
gentleman. It must also be confessed there were no faults in his person.And although Colin might be the handsomest man in the village, yet the
justice far surpassed him in two things, namely, in the number of years,
and in a very, very big nose.Yes, this nose, which always went before
the justice like a herald to proclaim his approach, was a real elephant
among human noses.With this proboscis, his good purpose, and the cup, the justice went the
following morning to the house between the olive trees and the African
acacias. "For the beautiful Marietta," said he, "I hold nothing too costly.Yesterday you admired the cup at Vence; to-day allow me, lovely
Marietta, to lay it and my devoted heart at your feet." Manon and Marietta were transported beyond measure when they beheld the
cup.Manon's eyes glistened with delight, but Marietta turned and said:
"I can neither take your heart nor your cup." Then Mother Marion was angry, and cried out: "But I accept both heart
and cup.Oh, thou little fool, how long wilt thou despise thy good
fortune! For whom dost thou tarry? Will a count of Provence make thee
his bride, that thou scornest the Justice of Napoule? I know better how
to look after my interests.Monsieur Hautmartin, I deem it an honor to
call thee my son-in-law." Then Marietta went out and wept bitterly, and hated the beautiful cup
with all her heart.But the justice, drawing the palm of his flabby hand over his nose,
spoke thus judiciously:
"Mother Manon, hurry nothing. The dove will at length, when it learns
to know me better, give way. I am not impetuous.I have some skill among
women, and before a quarter of a year passes by I will insinuate myself
into Marietta's good graces." "Thy nose is too large for that," whispered Marietta, who listened
outside the door and laughed to herself.In fact, the quarter of a year
passed by and Monsieur Hautmartin had not yet pierced the heart even
with the tip of his nose. THE FLOWERS. During this quarter of a year Marietta had other affairs to attend to.The cup gave her much vexation and trouble, and something else besides. For a fortnight nothing else was talked of in Napoule, and every one
said it is a present from the justice, and the marriage is already
agreed upon.Marietta solemnly declared to all her companions that she
would rather plunge to the bottom of the sea than marry the justice,
but the maidens continued to banter her all the more, saying: "Oh, how
blissful it must be to repose in the shadow of his nose! "This was her
first vexation. Then Mother Manon had the cruelty to force Marietta to rinse out the
cup every morning at the spring under the rock and to fill it with fresh
flowers.She hoped by this to accustom Marietta to the cup and heart of
the giver. But Marietta continued to hate both the gift and giver, and
her work at the spring became an actual punishment. Second vexation.Then, when in the morning, she came to the spring, twice every week she
found on the rock, immediately over it, some most beautiful flowers,
handsomely arranged, all ready for the decoration of the cup.And on the
flower-stalks a strip of paper was always tied, on which was written,
"Dear Marietta." Now no one need expect to impose upon little Marietta
as if magicians and fairies were still in the world.Consequently she
knew that both the flowers and papers must have come from Monsieur
Hautmartin. Marietta, indeed, would not smell them because the living
breath from out of the justice's nose had perfumed them.Nevertheless
she took the flowers, because they were finer than wild flowers, and
tore the slip of paper into a thousand pieces, which she strewed upon
the spot where the flowers usually lay.But this did not vex Justice
Hautmartin, whose love was unparalleled in its kind as his nose was in
its kind. Third vexation. At length it came out in conversation with Monsieur Hautmartin that
he was not the giver of the beautiful flowers.Then who could it be? Marietta was utterly astounded at the unexpected discovery. Thenceforth
she took the flowers from the rock more kindly; but, further, Marietta
was--what maidens are not wont to be--very inquisitive.She conjectured
first this and then that young man in Napoule. Yet her conjectures were
in vain. She looked and listened far into the night; she rose earlier
than usual But she looked and listened in vain.And still twice a week
in the morning the miraculous flowers lay upon the rock, and upon the
strip of paper wound round them she always read the silent sigh, "Dear
Marietta!" Such an incident would have made even the most indifferent
inquisitive.But curiosity at length became a burning pain. Fourth
vexation. WICKEDNESS UPON WICKEDNESS. | Zschokke, Heinrich - The Broken Cup |
Now Father Jerome, on Sunday, had again preached from the text:
"Mysterious are the dispensations of Providence. "And little Marietta
thought, if Providence would only dispense that I might at length find
out who is the flower dispenser. Father Jerome was never wrong.On a summer night, when it was far too warm to rest, Marietta awoke very
early, and could not resume her sleep.Therefore she sprang joyously
from her couch as the first streaks of dawn flashed against the window
of her little chamber, over the waves of the sea and the Lerinian Isles,
dressed herself, and went out to wash her forehead, breast, and arms in
the cool spring.She took her hat with her, intending to take a walk by
the sea-shore, as she knew of a retired place for bathing.In order to reach this retired spot, it was necessary to pass over the
rocks behind the house, and thence down through the orange and palm
trees.On this occasion Marietta could not pass through them; for,
under the youngest and most slender of the palms lay a tall young man
in profound sleep--near him a nosegay of most splendid flowers.A white
paper lay thereon, from which probably a sigh was again breathing. How
could Marietta get by there? She stood still, trembling with fright. She would go home again.Hardly
had she retreated a couple of steps, ere she looked again at the sleeper
and remained motionless. Yet the distance prevented her from recognizing
his face. Now the mystery was to be solved, or never.She tripped
lightly nearer to the palms; but he seemed to stir--then she ran again
toward the cottage. His movements were but the fearful imaginings of
Marietta.Now she returned again on her way toward the palms; but his
sleep might perhaps be only dissembled--swiftly she ran toward the
cottage--but who would flee for a mere probability? She trod more boldly
the path toward the palms.With these fluctuations of her timid and joyous spirit, between fright
and curiosity, with these to-and-fro trippings between the house and
the palm-trees, she at length nearly approached the sleeper; at the same
time curiosity became more powerful than fear. "What is he to me? My way leads me directly past him. Whether he sleeps
or wakes, I will go straight on." So thought Manon's daughter.But
she passed not by, but stood looking directly in the face of the
flower-giver, in order to be certain who it was. Besides, he slept as if
it were the first time in a month. And who was it? Now, who else should
it be but the archwicked Colin.So it was _he_ who had annoyed the gentle maiden, and given her so much
trouble with Monsieur Hautmartin, because he bore a grudge against her;
he had been the one who had teased her with flowers, in order to torture
her curiosity. Wherefore?He hated Marietta. He behaved himself always
most shamefully toward the poor child. He avoided her when he could; and
when he could not, he grieved the good-natured little one.With all the
other maidens of Napoule he was more chatty, friendly, courteous, than
toward Marietta. Consider--he had never once asked her to dance, and yet
she danced bewitchingly. Now there he lay, surprised, taken in the act.Revenge swelled in
Marietta's bosom. What disgrace could she subject him to? She took the
nosegay, unloosened it, strewed his present over the sleeper in scorn. But the paper, on which appeared again the sigh, "Dear Marietta! "she
retained, and thrust quickly into her bosom. She wished to preserve this
proof of his handwriting. Marietta was sly. Now she would go away. But
her revenge was not yet satisfied. She could not leave the place without
returning Colin's ill-will.She took the violet-colored silken ribbon from her hat, and threw it
lightly around the sleeper's arm and around the tree, and with three
knots tied Colin fast. Now when he awoke, how astonished he would be!How his curiosity would torment him to ascertain who had played him this
trick! He could not possibly know. So much the better; it served him
right. She seemed to regret her work when she had finished it. Her bosom
throbbed impetuously.Indeed, I believe that a little tear filled her
eye, as she compassionately gazed upon the guilty one.Slowly
she retreated to the orange grove by the rocks--she looked around
often--slowly ascended the rocks, looking down among the palm trees as
she ascended. Then she hastened to Mother Manon, who was calling her. THE HAT BAND.That very day Colin practised new mischief. What did he? He wished to
shame the poor Marietta publicly. Ah! she never thought that every one
in Napoule knew her violet-colored ribbon! Colin remembered it but too
well.Proudly he bound it around his hat, and exhibited it to the gaze
of all the world as a conquest. And male and female cried out: "He has
received it from Marietta." --And all the maidens said angrily: "The
reprobate! "And all the young men who liked to see Marietta cried out:
"The reprobate!" "How! Mother Manon?" shrieked the Justice Hautmartin when he came to her
house, and he shrieked so loudly that it re-echoed wonderfully through
his nose. "How!do you suffer this? my betrothed presents the young
proprietor Colin with her hat-band! It is high time that we celebrate
our nuptials. When that is over, then I shall have a right to speak." "You have a right! "answered Mother Manon, "if things are so, the
marriage must take place forthwith. When that is done, all will go
right." "But, Mother Manon, Marietta always refuses to give me her consent." "Prepare the marriage feast. ""But she will not even look kindly at me; and when I seat myself at her
side, the little savage jumps up and runs away." "Justice, only prepare the marriage feast." "But if Marietta resists--"
"We will take her by surprise.We will go to Father Jerome on Monday
morning early, and he shall quietly celebrate the marriage. This we can
easily accomplish with him. I am her mother, you the first judicial
person in Napoule. He must obey. Marietta need know nothing about it.Early on Monday morning I will send her to Father Jerome all alone, with
a message so that she will suspect nothing. Then the priest shall speak
earnestly to her. Half an hour afterward we two will come. Then swiftly
to the altar.And even if Marietta should then say No, what does it
matter? The old Priest can hear nothing. But till then, mum to Marietta
and all Napoule." So the secret remained with the two. Marietta dreamed not of the good
luck which was in store for her.She thought only of Colin's wickedness,
which had made her the common talk of the whole place. Oh! how she
repented her heedlessness about the ribbon; and yet in her heart she
forgave the reprobate his crime. Marietta was far too good.She told her
mother, she told all her playmates, "Colin has found my lost hat band. I
never gave it to him. He only wishes to vex me with it. You all know
that Colin was always ill-disposed towards me, and always sought to
mortify me!" Ah!the poor child! | Zschokke, Heinrich - The Broken Cup |
she knew not what new abomination the malicious
fellow was again contriving. THE BROKEN CUP. Early in the morning Marietta went to the spring with the cup. There
were no flowers yet on the rock.It was still quite too early; for the
sun had scarcely risen from the sea. Footsteps were heard. Colin came in sight, the flowers in his hand. Marietta became very red.Colin stammered out "good morning, Marietta,"
but the greeting came not from his heart, he could hardly bring it over
his lips. "Why dost thou wear my ribbon so publicly, Colin?" said Marietta, and
placed the cup upon the rock. "I did not give it thee." "Thou didst not give it to me, dear Marietta?" asked he, and inward rage
made him deadly pale.Marietta was ashamed of the falsehood, drooped her eyelids, and said
after a while, "Well, I did give it to thee, yet thou shouldst not have
worn it so openly. Give it me back again. "Slowly he untied it; his anger was so great that he could not prevent
the tears from filling his eyes, nor the sighs from escaping his
breast.--"Dear Marietta, leave thy ribbon with me," said he softly. "No," answered she.Then his suppressed passion changed into desperation. Sighing, he looked
towards Heaven, then sadly on Marietta, who, silent and abashed, stood
by the spring with downcast eyes.He wound the violet coloured ribbon around the stalks of the flowers,
said "there, take them all," and threw the flowers so spitefully against
the magnificent cup upon the rock, that it was thrown down and dashed to
pieces. Maliciously he fled away.Mother Manon lurking behind the window, had seen and heard all. When the
cup broke, hearing and sight left her. She was scarcely able to speak
for very horror.And as she pushed with all her strength against the
narrow window, to shout after the guilty one, it gave way, and with one
crash fell to the earth and was shattered in pieces. So much ill luck would have discomposed any other woman.But Manon soon
recovered herself. "How lucky that I was a witness to this roguery!" exclaimed she; "he must to the Justice.--He shall replace both cup and
window-sash with his gold.It will give a rich dowry to Marietta But
when Marietta brought in the fragments of the shattered cup, when Manon
saw the Paradise lost, the good man Adam without a head, and of Eve not
a solitary limb remaining, the serpent unhurt, triumphing, the tiger
safe, but the little lamb gone even to the very tail, as if the tiger
had swallowed it, then Mother Manon screamed forth curses against Colin,
and said: 'One can easily see that this _fall_ came from the hand of the
devil. '"THE TRIBUNAL. She took the cup in one hand, Marietta in the other, and went, about
nine o'clock, to when Monsieur Hautmartin was wont to sit in judgment. She there made a great outcry, and showed the broken cup and the
Paradise lost.Marietta wept bitterly.The justice, when he saw the broken cup and his beautiful bride in
tears, flew into so violent a rage toward Colin that his nose was
as violet-colored as Marietta's well-known hat-band, He immediately
despatched his bailiffs to bring the criminal before him.Colin came, overwhelmed with grief. Mother Manon now repeated
her complaint with great eloquence before justice, bailiffs, and
scribes.--But Colin listened not. He stepped to Marietta and whispered
to hen "Forgive me, dear Marietta, as I forgive thee.I broke thy cup
unintentionally; but thou, thou hast broken my heart!" "What whispering is that?" cried Justice Hautmartin, with magisterial
authority. "Harken to this accusation, and defend yourself." "I have naught to defend.I broke the cup against my will," said Colin. "That I verily believe," said Marietta, sobbing. "I am as guilty as he;
for I offended him--then he threw the ribbon and flowers to me. He could
not help it." "Well!" cried Mother Manon. "Do you intend to defend him? Mr. Justice,
pronounce his sentence. He has broken the cup, and he does not deny it. ""Since you cannot deny it, Mr. Colin," said the Justice, "you must pay
three hundred livres for the cup, for it is worth that; and then for--"
"No," interrupted Colin, "it is not worth that. I bought it at Vence for
Marietta for a hundred livres. ""You bought it, sir brazen face?" shrieked the Justice, and his whole
face became like Marietta's hat-hand. He could not and would not say
more, for he dreaded a disagreeable investigation of the matter.But Colin was vexed at the imputation, and said: "I sent this cup on
the evening of the fair, by your own servant, to Marietta. There stands
Jacques in the door. Speak, Jacques, did I not give thee the box to
carry to Mother Manon? "Monsieur Hautmartin wished to interrupt this conversation by speaking
loudly. But the simple Jacques said: "Only recollect, Justice, you took
away Colin's box from me, and carried what was in it to Mother Manon. The box lies there under the papers. "Then the bailiffs were ordered to remove the simpleton; and Colin was
also directed to retire, until he should be sent for again. "Very well, Mr. Justice," interposed Colin, "but this business shall be
your last in Napoule.I know this, that you would ingratiate yourself
with Mother Manon and Marietta by means of my property. When you want
me, you will have to ride to Grasse to the Governor's." With that, Colin
departed.Monsieur Hautmartin was quite puzzled with this affair, and in his
confusion knew not what he was about. Manon shook her head. The affair
was dark and mysterious to her. "Who will now pay me for the broken
cup?" she asked. "To me," said Marietta, with glowing, brightened countenance, "_to me_
it is already paid for." MYSTERIOUS DISPENSATIONS. Colin rode that same day to the Governor at Grasse, and came back
early the next morning.But Justice Hautmartin only laughed at him, and
removed all of Mother Manon's suspicions by swearing he would let his
nose be cut off if Colin did not pay three hundred livres for the broken
cup.He also went with Mother Manon to talk with Father Jerome about
the marriage, and impressed upon him the necessity of earnestly setting
before Marietta her duty _as_ an obedient daughter in not opposing
the will of her mother.This the pious old man promised, although he
understood not the half of what they shouted in his ear.When Monday morning came Mother Manon said to her daughter: "Dress
yourself handsomely, and carry this myrtle wreath to Father Jerome; he
wants it for a bride. "Marietta dressed herself in her Sunday clothes,
took the myrtle wreath unsuspiciously, and carried it to Father Jerome.On the way Colin met her, and greeted her joyfully, though timidly; and
when she told him where she was taking the wreath, Colin said: "I am
going the same way, for I am carrying the money for the church's tenths
to the priest. "And as they went on he took her hand silently, and both
trembled as if they designed some crime against each other. "Hast thou forgiven me?" whispered Colin, anxiously. "Ah! | Zschokke, Heinrich - The Broken Cup |
Marietta, what
have I done to thee, that thou art so cruel toward me? "She could only say: "Be quiet, Colin, you shall have the ribbon again;
and I will preserve the cup since it came from you! Did it really come
from you?" "Ah! Marietta, canst thou doubt it? All I have I would gladly give thee.Wilt thou, hereafter, be as kind to me as thou art to others?" She replied not. But as she entered the parsonage she looked aside at
him, and when she saw his fine eyes filled with tears, she whispered
softly: "Dear Colin! "Then he bent down and kissed her hand. With this
the door of a chamber opened and Father Jerome, with venerable aspect,
stood before them. The young couple held fast to each other.I know not
whether this was the effect of the hand-kissing, or the awe they felt
for the sage. Marietta handed him the myrtle wreath.He laid it upon her head and
said: "Little children, love one another;" and then urged the good
maiden, in the most touching and pathetic manner, to love Colin.For
the old gentleman, from his hardness of hearing, had either mistaken the
name of the bridegroom, or forgotten it, and thought Colin must be the
bridegroom.Then Marietta's heart softened under the exhortation, and with tears and
sobs she exclaimed: "Ah! I have loved him for a long time, but he hates
me." "I hate thee, Marietta?" cried Colin. "My soul has lived only in thee
since thou earnest to Napoule.Oh! Marietta, how could I hope and
believe that thou didst love me? Does not all Napoule worship thee?" "Why, then, dost thou avoid me, Colin, and prefer all my companions
before me?" "Oh!Marietta, I feared and trembled with love and anxiety when I beheld
thee; I had not the courage to approach thee; and when I was away from
thee I was most miserable. "As they talked thus with each other the good father thought they were
quarreling; and he threw his arms around them, brought them together,
and said imploringly: "Little children, love one another. "Then Marietta sank on Colin's breast, and Colin threw his arms around
her, and both faces beamed with rapture. They forgot the priest, the
whole world.Each was sunk into the other, Both had so completely lost
their recollection that, unwittingly, they followed the delightful
Father Jerome into the church and before the altar. "Marietta!" sighed he. "Colin!" sighed she.In the church there were many devout worshipers; but they witnessed
Colin's and Marietta's marriage with amazement. Many ran out before the
close of the ceremony, to spread the news throughout Napoule: "Colin and
Marietta are married. "When the solemnization was over, Father Jerome rejoiced that he had
succeeded so well, and that such little opposition had been made by the
parties. He led them into the parsonage. END OF THIS MEMORABLE HISTORY.Then Mother Manon arrived, breathless; she had waited at home a long
time for the bride-groom. He had not arrived. At the last stroke of the
clock she grew anxious and went to Monsieur Hautmartin's. There anew
surprise awaited her.She learned that the Governor, together with
the officers of the Viguerie, had appeared and taken possession of
the accounts, chests, and papers of the justice and at the same time
arrested Monsieur Hautmartin. "This, surely, is the work of that wicked Colin," thought she, and
hurried to the parsonage in order to apologize to Father Jerome for
delaying the marriage.The good gray-headed old man advanced toward her,
proud of his work, and leading by the hand the newly married pair. Now Mother Manon lost her wits and her speech in good earnest when she
learned what had happened.But Colin had more thoughts and power of
speech than in his whole previous life. He told of his love and the
broken cup, the falsehood of the justice, and how he had unmasked this
unjust magistrate in the Viguerie at Grasse.Then he besought Mother
Manon's blessing, since all this had happened without any fault on the
part of Marietta or himself.Father Jerome, who for a long while could not make out what had
happened, when he received a full explanation of the marriage through
mistake, piously folded his hands and exclaimed, with uplifted eyes:
"Wonderful are the dispensations of Providence! "Colin and Marietta
kissed his hands; Mother Manon, through sheer veneration of heaven, gave
the young couple her blessing, but remarked incidentally that her head
seemed turned round.Mother Manon herself was pleased with her son-in-law when she came to
know the full extent of his property, and especially when she found that
Monsieur Hautmartin and his nose had been arrested. "But am I then really a wife? "asked Marietta; "and really Colin's
wife?" Mother Manon nodded her head, and Marietta hung upon Colin's arm. Thus
they went to Colin's farm, to his dwelling-house, through the garden. "Look at the flowers, Marietta," said Colin; "how carefully I cultivated
them for your cup!" Colin, who had not expected so pleasant an event, now prepared a wedding
feast on the spur of the occasion. Two days was it continued.All
Napoule was feasted. Who shall describe Colin's extravagance? The broken cup is preserved in the family to the present day as a
memorial and sacred relic. | Zschokke, Heinrich - The Broken Cup |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE SUPER OPENER
BY MICHAEL ZUROY
_Here's why you should ask for
a "Feetch M-D" next time
you get a can opener!_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1958.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "Feetch! "grated Ogden Piltdon, president of the Piltdon Opener
Company, slamming the drafting board with his hairy fist, "I want
results!" Heads lifted over boards. Kalvin Feetch shrunk visibly. "As chief engineer you're not carrying the ball," Piltdon went on
savagely. "The Piltdon Can-Opener is trailing the competition. Advertising and Sales are breaking their necks. It's Engineering
that's missing the boat! ""But Mr. Piltdon," remonstrated Feetch unsteadily under his employer's
glare, "don't you remember? I tried to...."
"For two years there hasn't been one lousy improvement in the Piltdon
Can-Opener!" roared Mr. Piltdon. "Look at our competitors.The
International rips apart cans in three and three-tenths seconds. Universal does it in four." "But Mr. Piltdon--"
"The Minerva Mighty Midget does it in four point two two and plays Home
Sweet Home in chimes.Our own Piltdon opener barely manages to open a
can in eight point nine without chimes. Is this what I'm paying you
for?" Feetch adjusted his spectacles with shaking hands. "But Mr. Piltdon,
our opener still has stability, solidity.It is built to last. It has
dignity...."
"Dignity," pronounced Piltdon, "is for museums. Four months, Feetch! In four months I want a new can-opener that will be faster, lighter,
stronger, flashier and more musical than any other on the market.I
want it completely developed, engineered and tooled-up, ready for
production. Otherwise, Feetch--"
Feetch's body twitched. "But Mr. Piltdon, four months is hardly time
enough for development, even with an adequate staff.I've been trying
to tell you for years that we're bound to fall behind because we don't
have enough personnel to conduct research. Our men can barely keep
up with production and maintenance.If you would let me put on a few
draftsmen and...."
"Excuses," sneered Mr. Piltdon. "Your staff is more than adequate. I will not allow you to throw out my money. Four months, Feetch,
no more! "Piltdon trudged out of the room, leaving behind him an
oppressive silence. How could you set a time limit on research and development? A designer
had to dream at his board, investigate, search, build, test, compare,
discard.He had always wanted to devote all his time to research, but
Piltdon Opener had not given him that opportunity. Twenty-five years! thought Feetch.Twenty-five years of close supervision, dead-lines,
production headaches, inadequate facilities and assistance.What had
happened, to the proud dream he once had, the dream of exploring
uncharted engineering regions, of unlimited time to investigate and
develop?Ah, well, thought Feetch straightening his thin shoulders, he had
managed somehow to design a few good things during his twenty-five
years with Piltdon. That was some satisfaction. What now? He had to hang on to his job. Technical work was scarce.Since the early 1980's the schools had been turning out more
technicians than industry could absorb. He was too old to compete in
the employment market. He couldn't afford to lose any money. Jenny
wasn't well. How to meet this four month dead-line?He would get right on it
himself, of course; Hanson--good man--could work with him. He shook his
head despairingly. Something would be sure to blow up.Well, he had to
start--
* * * * *
"Chief," said Hanson a few weeks later as they entered the lab, "I'm
beginning to wonder if the answer is in the hand mechanical type at
all." "Got to be," answered Feetch tiredly. "We must work along classical
can-opener lines. Departures, such as the thermal or motor-driven
types, would be too expensive for mass production." Three new models and a group of cans were waiting for them on the
bench.They began testing, Hanson operating the openers and Feetch
clocking. "Four point four," announced Feetch after the last test. "Good, but not good enough. Too bulky. Appearance unsatisfactory. Chimes tinny.We've made progress, but we've a long way to go." The problem was tricky. It might seem that use of the proper gear
ratios would give the required velocity, but there were too many
other factors that negated this direct approach.The mechanism had to
be compact and streamlined. Gear sizes had to be kept down.Can-top
resistance, internal resistance, cutting tooth performance, handle
size and moment, the minimum strength of a woman's hand were some of
the variables that had to be balanced within rigid limits.Sector
type cutters, traversing several arcs at the same time, had seemed to
offer the answer for a while, but the adjusting mechanism necessary to
compensate for variable can sizes had been too complex to be practical.There was the ever-present limit to production cost. Hanson's eyes were upon him. "Chief," he said, "it's a rotten shame. Twenty-five years of your life you put in with Piltdon, and he'd fire
you just like that if you don't do the impossible.The Piltdon Company
is built upon your designs and you get handed this deal!" "Well, well," said Feetch. "I drew my pay every week so I suppose I
have no complaints.Although," a wistful note crept into his voice "I
would have liked a little recognition. Piltdon is a household word,
but who has heard of Feetch? Well,"--Feetch blew his nose--"how do we
stand, Hanson?" Hanson's bull-dog features drew into a scowl. "Piltdon ought to
be rayed," he growled. "O.K., Chief. Eleven experimental models
designed to date. Two more on the boards. Nine completed and tested,
two in work. Best performance, four point four, but model otherwise
unsatisfactory. ""Hello," said Feetch as an aproned machinist entered carrying a
glistening mechanism. "Here's another model. Let's try it." The
machinist departed and Hanson locked the opener on a can. "I hope----"
he turned the handle, and stopped abruptly, staring down open-mouthed. A cylinder of close-packed beans rested on the bench under the opener. The can itself had disappeared. "Chief," said Hanson. "Chief." "Yes," said Feetch. "I see it too. Try another can." "Vegetable soup or spinach?" inquired Hanson dreamily. "Spinach, I think," said Feetch. "Where did the can go, do you suppose?" The spinach can disappeared.Likewise several corn cans, sweet potato
cans and corned-beef hash cans, leaving their contents intact. It was
rather disconcerting. "Dear, dear," said Feetch, regarding the piles of food on the bench. | Zuroy, Michael - The Super Opener |
"There must be some explanation.I designed this opener with sixteen
degree, twenty-two minute pressure angle modified involute gear
teeth, seven degree, nineteen minute front clearance cutter angle and
thirty-six degree, twelve minute back rake angle.I expected that such
departures from the norm might achieve unconventional performance, but
this--Dear, dear. Where do the cans go, I wonder?" "What's the difference? Don't you see what you've got here? It's the
answer! It's more than the answer!We can put this right into work and
beat the dead-line." Feetch shook his head. "No, Hanson. We're producing something we don't
understand. What forces have we uncovered here? Where do the cans go? What makes them disappear?Are we dealing with a kinetic or a kinematic
effect? What motions can we plot in the area of disappearance and what
are their analytical mathematical formulae? What masses may be critical
here? What transformations of energy are involved?No, Hanson, we must
learn a lot more." "But Chief, your job." "I'll risk that. Not a word to Piltdon. "Several days later, however, Piltdon himself charged into the drawing
room and slapped Feetch heartily on the back, causing him to break a
pencil point. "Feetch!" roared Piltdon. "Is this talk that's going
around the plant true?Why didn't you tell me? Let's see it." After Piltdon had seen it his eyes took on a feverish glint. "This,"
he exulted, "will make can-opener history. Instantaneous opening! Automatic disposal! Wait until Advertising and Sales get hold of this!We'll throttle our competitors! The Piltdon Super-Opener we'll call it." "Mr. Piltdon--" said Feetch shakily. Piltdon stared at his chief engineer sharply. "What's the matter,
Feetch? The thing can be duplicated, can't it?" "Yes, sir.I've just finished checking that. But I'm in the midst of
further investigation of the effect. There's more here than just a new
type can-opener, sir. A whole new field of physics. New principles. This is big, Mr. Piltdon.I recommend that we delay production until
further research can be completed. Hire a few top scientists and
engineers. Find out where the cans go. Put out a scientific paper on
the effect." "Feetch," bit out Piltdon, his face growing hard. "Stow this hooey. I
don't give a damn where the cans go. May I remind you that under our
standard patent agreement, all rights to your invention belong to the
company?As well as anything you may produce in the field within a year
after leaving our employ? We have a good thing here, and I don't want
you holding it back. We're going into production immediately. "* * * * *
Close, thought Feetch, wearily. It had been a man-killing job, and it
had been close, but he'd made it. Beat the time limit by a half-day.The first tentative shipments of Piltdon Super-Openers had gone to
distributors along the Eastern seaboard. The first advertisements
blazed in selected media. The first reorders came back, and then: "It's
a sell-out! "crowed Piltdon, waving a sheaf of telegrams. "Step up
production! Let 'er rip!" The Super-Openers rolled over the country. In a remarkably short time
they appeared in millions of kitchens from coast-to-coast.Sales
climbed to hundreds of thousands per day. Piltdon Opener went into
peak production in three shifts, but was still unable to keep up with
the demand. Construction was begun on a new plant, and additional
plants were planned.Long lines waited in front of houseware stores. Department stores, lucky enough to have Super-Openers on hand, limited
sales to one to a customer. Piltdon cancelled his advertising program.Newspapers, magazines, radio, television and word-of-mouth spread the
fame of the opener so that advertising was unnecessary.Meanwhile, of course, government scientists, research foundations,
universities and independent investigators began to look into this new
phenomonen. Receiving no satisfactory explanation from Piltdon, they
set up their own research.Far into the night burned the lights of countless laboratories.Noted
physicists probed, measured, weighed, traced, X-rayed, dissolved,
spun, peered at, photographed, magnetized, exploded, shattered and
analyzed Super-Openers without achieving the glimmer of a satisfactory
explanation.Competitors found the patent impossible to circumvent, for
any departure from its exact specifications nullified the effect. Piltdon, genial these days with success and acclaim, roared at Feetch:
"I'm putting you in for a raise. Yes sir!To reward you for assisting
me with my invention I'm raising your pay two hundred dollars a year. That's almost four dollars a week, man." "Thank you, Mr. Piltdon." And still, thought Feetch wryly, he received
no recognition.His name did not even appear on the patent. Well,
well, that was the way it went. He must find his satisfaction in his
work.And it had been interesting lately, the work he had been doing
nights at home investigating what had been named the Piltdon Effect. It had been difficult, working alone and buying his own equipment.The
oscillator and ultra microwave tracking unit had been particularly
expensive. He was a fool, he supposed, to try independent research when
so many huge scientific organizations were working on it.But he could
no more keep away from it than he could stop eating. He still didn't know where the cans went, but somehow he felt that he
was close to the answer. When he finally found the answer, it was too late.The Borenchuck
incident was only hours away. As soon as he could get hold of Piltdon, Feetch said trembling, "Sir, I
think I know where those cans are going. I recommend--"
"Are you still worrying about that?" Piltdon roared jovially. "Leave
that to the long-hairs. We're making money, that's all that counts, eh
Feetch?" * * * * *
That night, at six-ten p.m., the Borenchuck family of Selby, South
Dakota, sat down to their evening meal.Just as they started in on the
soup, a rain of empty tin cans clattered down, splashed into the soup,
raised a welt on the forehead of Borenchuck senior, settled down to a
gentle, steady klunk! klunk! klunk!and inexorably began to pile up on
the dining-room floor. They seemed to materialize from a plane just
below the ceiling. The police called the fire department and the fire
department stared helplessly and recommended the sanitation department.The incident made headlines in the local papers. The next day other local papers in widely scattered locations reported
similar incidents. The following day, cans began falling on Chicago.St. Louis was next,
and then over the entire nation the cans began to rain down. They fell
outdoors and indoors, usually materializing at heights that were not
dangerous. The deluge followed no pattern.Sometimes it would slacken,
sometimes it would stop, sometimes begin heavily again. It fell in
homes, on the streets, in theatres, trains, ships, universities and
dog-food factories. | Zuroy, Michael - The Super Opener |
No place was immune.People took to wearing hats indoors and out, and the sale of helmets
boomed. All activity was seriously curtailed. A state of national emergency was declared.Government investigators went to work and soon confirmed what was
generally suspected: these were the same cans that had been opened by
the Piltdon Super-Opener.Statisticians and mathematicians calculated the mean rate of can
precipitation and estimated that if all the cans opened by Piltdon
openers were to come back, the deluge should be over in fifteen point
twenty-nine days.Super-Opener sales of course immediately plummeted to zero and stayed
there. Anti-Piltdon editorials appeared in the papers. Commentators
accused Piltdon of deliberately hoaxing the public for his own gain. A
Congressional investigation was demanded.Piltdon received threats of
bodily injury. Lawsuits were filed against him. He barricaded himself
in the plant, surrounded by bodyguards. Livid with fury and apprehension, he screamed at Feetch, "This is your
doing, you vandal! I'm a ruined man! "A falling can caught him neatly
on the tip of his nose. "But sir," trembled Feetch, dodging three spaghetti cans, "I tried to
warn you." "You're through, Feetch!" raved Piltdon. "Fired! Get out!But before
you go, I want you to know that I've directed the blame where it
belongs. I've just released to the press the truth about who created
the Super-Opener. Now, get out!" "Yes, sir," said Feetch paling. "Then you don't want to hear about my
discovery of a way to prevent the cans from coming back?" Klunk! A barrage of cans hit the floor, and both men took refuge under
Piltdon's huge desk. "No!" yelled Piltdon at Feetch's face which was
inches away. "No, I----What did you say?" "A small design improvement sir, and the cans would disappear forever." Klunk! "Forever, Feetch?" "Yes sir." Klunk! Klunk! "You're positive, Feetch?" Piltdon's eyes glared into Feetch's. "Sir, I never make careless claims." "That's true," said Piltdon. His eyes grew dreamy. "It can be done,"
he mused. "The New Type Super-Opener. Free exchanges for the old. Cash guarantee that empty cans will never bother you.Take a licking
at first, but then monopolize the market. All right, Feetch, I'll
give you another chance. You'll turn over all the details to me. The
patent on the improvement will naturally be mine. I'll get the credit
for rectifying your blunder.Fine, fine. We'll work it out. Hop on
production, at once, Feetch." Feetch felt himself sag inwardly. "Mr. Piltdon," he said. "I'm asking
only one favor. Let me work full time on research and development,
especially on the Piltdon effect.Hire a couple of extra men to help
with production. I assure you the company will benefit in the end." "Damn it, no!" roared Piltdon. "How many times must I tell you? You got
your job back, didn't you? "The prospect of long years of heavy production schedules, restricted
engineering and tight supervision suddenly made Kalvin Feetch feel
very tired. Research, he thought. Development. What he had always
wanted.Over the years he had waited, thinking that there would be
opportunities later. But now he was growing older, and he felt that
there might not be a later. Somehow he would manage to get along.Perhaps someone would give him a job working in the new field he had
pioneered. With a sense of relief he realized that he had made his
decision. "Mr. Piltdon," Feetch said. "I--" klunk!--"resign. "Piltdon started, extreme astonishment crossing his face. "No use," said Feetch. "Nothing you can say--" klunk! klunk! klunk!--"will make any difference now." "But see here, the New Type Super-Opener...!" "Will remain my secret. Good day." "Feetch! "howled Piltdon. "I order you to remain!" Feetch almost submitted from force of habit. He hesitated for a moment,
then turned abruptly. "Good-day," said Feetch firmly, sprinting through the falling cans to
the door. * * * * *
Money, Feetch decided after a while, was a good thing to have. His
supply was running pretty low. He was not having any luck finding
another job.Although the cans had stopped falling on the fifteenth
day, as predicted by the statisticians, industry would not soon forget
the inconvenience and losses caused by the deluge.It was not anxious
to hire the man it regarded as responsible for the whole thing. "Feetch," the personnel man would read. "Kalvin Feetch." Then, looking
up, "Not the Kalvin Feetch who--"
"Yes," Feetch would admit miserably. "I am sorry, but--"
He did no better with research organizations.Typical was a letter
from the Van Terrel Foundation: "--cannot accept your application
inasmuch as we feel your premature application of your discovery to
profit-making denotes a lack of scientific responsibility and ethics
not desirable in a member of our organization--former employer states
the decision was yours entirely.Unfavorable reference--"
Piltdon, Feetch thought, feeling a strange sensation deep within his
chest that he had not the experience to recognize as the beginning of a
slow anger, Piltdon was hitting low and getting away with it.Of course, if he were to agree to reveal his latest discoveries to a
research organization, he would undoubtedly get an appointment. But how
could he?Everything patentable in his work would automatically revert
to Piltdon under the one year clause in the company patent agreement. No, Feetch told himself, he was revealing nothing that Piltdon might
grab. The anger began to mount.But he was beginning to need money desperately. Jenny wasn't getting
any better and medical bills were running high. The phone rang. Feetch seized it and said to the image: "Absolutely
not. ""I'll go up another ten dollars," grated the little Piltdon image. "Do you realize, man, this is the fourteenth raise I've offered you? A total increase of one hundred and twenty-six dollars? Be sensible,
Feetch.I know you can't find work anywhere else." "Thanks to you. Mr. Piltdon, I wouldn't work for you if--"
A barrage of rocks crashed against the heavy steel screening of the
window. "What's going on!" yelled Piltdon. "Oh, I see.People throwing
rocks at your house again? Oh, I know all about that, Feetch. I know
that you're probably the most unpopular man alive to-day.I know about
the rocks, the tomatoes, the rotten eggs, the sneaking out at night,
the disguises you've had to use. Why don't you come back to us and
change all that, Feetch?We'll put out the New Type Super-Opener and
the world will soon forget about the old one." "No," said Feetch. "People will forget anyway--I hope. ""If you won't think of yourself, at least think of your fellow
workmen," begged Piltdon, his voice going blurry. "Do you realize that
Piltdon Opener will soon be forced to close down, throwing all your
former associates out of work?Think of Hanson, Sanchez, Forbes. They
have families too. Think of the men in the shop, the girls in the
office, the salesmen on the road. All, all unemployed because of you. | Zuroy, Michael - The Super Opener |
Think of that, Feetch." Feetch blinked. This had not occurred to him.Piltdon eyed him sharply, then smiled with a hint of triumph. "Think it
over, Feetch." Feetch sat, thinking it over. Was it right to let all these people lose
their jobs? Frowning, he dialed Hanson's number. "Chief," said Hanson, "Forget it.The boys are behind you one hundred
per cent. We'll make out." "But that's the trouble. I thought you'd feel like this, and I can't
let you." "You're beginning to weaken. Don't. Think, chief, think.The brain that
figured the Super-Opener can solve this." Feetch hung up. A glow of anger that had been building up in his chest
grew warmer. He began pacing the floor. How he hated to do it. Think,
Hanson had said. But he had.He's considered every angle, and there was
no solution. Feetch walked into the kitchen and carefully poured himself a drink of
water. He drank the water slowly and placed the glass on the washstand
with a tiny click. It was the tiny click that did it.Something about
it touched off the growing rage. If Piltdon were there he would have
punched him in the nose. The twenty-five years. The tricks. The threats. Think? He'd figured the solution long ago, only he hadn't allowed
himself to see it.Not lack of brains, lack of guts. Well, he thought
grimly, dialing Piltdon's number, he was going through with it now. "Piltdon!" he barked. "Three p.m. tomorrow. My place. Be here. That's
all." He hung up.In the same grim mood the following morning, he placed a few more calls. * * * * *
In the same mood that afternoon he stood in the middle of his
living-room and looked at his visitors: Piltdon, Williams, the
Government man; Billings from the Van Terrel Foundation; Steiner of
Westchester University; the members of the press. "Gentlemen," he said. "I'll make it brief." He waved the papers in his
hand. "Here is everything I know about what I call the Feetch Effect,
including plans and specifications for the New Type Super-Opener.All of you have special reasons for being keenly interested in this
information. I am now going to give a copy to each of you, providing
one condition is met by Mr. Piltdon." He stared at Piltdon. "In short,
I want fifty-one per cent of the stock of Piltdon Opener." Piltdon leaped from his chair. "Outrageous!" He roared. "Ridiculous!" "Fifty-one percent," said Feetch firmly. "Don't bother with any
counterproposals or the interview is at an end." "Gentlemen!" squawked Piltdon, "I appeal to you--"
"Stop bluffing," said Feetch coldly. "There's no other way out for
you. Otherwise you're ruined. Here, sign this agreement. "Piltdon threw the paper to the floor and screamed: "Gentlemen, will you
be a party to this?" "Well," murmured the Government man, "I never did think Feetch got a
fair shake." "This information is important to science," said the Van Terrel man.After Piltdon had signed, the papers were distributed.Published in the newspapers the following day, Feetch's statement read,
in part: "The motion in space and time of the singular curvilinear
proportions of the original Super-Opener combined with the capacitor
effect built up as it increased its frictional electro-static charge
in inverse proportion to the cube root of the tolerance between the
involute teeth caused an instantaneous disruption of what I call the
Alpha multi-dimensional screen.The can, being metallic, dropped
through, leaving its non-metallic contents behind. The disruption was
instantly repaired by the stable nature of the screen. "Beyond the screen is what I call Alpha space, a space apparently quite
as extensive as our own universe. Unfortunately, as my investigations
indicated, Alpha space seems to be thickly inhabited.These
inhabitants, the nature of whom I have not yet ascertained, obviously
resented the intrusion of the cans, developed a method of disrupting
the screen from their side, and hurled the cans back at us. "However, I have established the existence of other spaces up to Mu
space, and suspect that others exist beyond that. Beta space, which is
also adjacent to our own space, is devoid of any form of life.The New
Type Super-Opener is designed to pass cans through the Beta screen. Beta space will safely absorb an infinite number of cans. "I sincerely and humbly venture the opinion that we are on the
threshold of tremendous and mighty discoveries.It is my belief that
possibly an infinite number of universes exist in a type of laminated
block separated by screens. "Therefore, might it not be that an infinite number of laminated blocks
exist--? "* * * * *
"Mr Feetch--" said Piltdon. Feetch looked up from his desk in the newly constructed Feetch
Multi-Dimensional Development Division of the Piltdon Opener Company. "Piltdon, don't bother me about production.Production is your problem." "But Mr. Feetch--"
"Get out," said Feetch. Piltdon blanched and left. | Zuroy, Michael - The Super Opener |