Complete Works of Emile Zola (802 page)

Cazenove examined his hands. They all shuddered at the sight of those poor deformed stumps. The priest made another of his sensible remarks.

‘Such fingers as those are not adapted for playing draughts. That’s an amusement which you can’t have now.’

‘Be very careful about what you eat and drink,’ the Doctor urged. ‘Your elbow is highly inflamed, and the ulceration is increasing.’

‘How can I be more careful than I am?’ Chanteau wailed hopelessly. ‘My wine is all measured out and my meat is weighed! Must I give up taking anything at all? Indeed, it isn’t living to go on like this, and one might as well die at once. I can’t eat even without assistance — how is it likely with such things as these at the end of my arms? — and you may be quite sure that Pauline, who feeds me, takes care that I don’t get anything that I oughtn’t to have.’

The girl smiled.

‘Ah! yes, indeed,’ she said, ‘you ate too much yester­day. It was my fault, but I couldn’t refuse when I saw how your appetite was distressing you.’

At this they all pretended to grow merry, and began to tease him about the junketings in which they declared he still indulged. But their voices trembled with pity as they glanced at that remnant of a man, that inert mass of flesh, which now only lived enough to suffer. He had fallen back into his usual position, with his body leaning to the right and his hands lying on his knees.

‘This evening now, for instance,’ Pauline continued, ‘we are going to have a roast duck—’

But she suddenly checked herself to ask:

‘By the way, did you see anything of Véronique as you came through Verchemont?’

Then she told Lazare and the Doctor the story of Véronique’s disappearance. Neither of them had seen any­thing of her. They expressed some astonishment at the woman’s strange whims, and ended by growing merry over the subject. It would be a fine sight, they said, to see her face when she came back and found them already round the table with the dinner cooked and served.

‘I must leave you now,’ said Pauline gaily, ‘for I have to attend to the kitchen. If I let the stew get burnt, or serve the duck underdone, my uncle will give me notice!’

Abbé Horteur broke out into a loud laugh, and even Doctor Cazenove himself seemed tickled at the idea, when the window on the first floor was suddenly thrown open with a tremendous clatter. Louise did not show herself, but merely called in a sharp voice:

‘Come upstairs, Lazare!’

At first Lazare seemed inclined to rebel and to refuse obedience to a command given in such a voice. But Pauline, anxious to avoid a scene before visitors, gave him an entreat­ing look, and he went off to the house, while his cousin remained for a moment or two longer on the terrace to do what she could to dissipate the awkwardness of the situation. No one spoke, and they all looked at the sea in embarrass­ment. The westering sun was now casting a sheet of gold over it, crowning the little blue waves with quivering fires. Far away in the distance the horizon was changing to a soft lilac hue. The lovely day was drawing towards its close in perfect serenity, and not a cloud or a Bail flecked the infinite stretch of sky and sea.

‘Well, as he never came home last night,’ Pauline at last ventured to say with a smile, ‘I suppose it is necessary to lecture him a little.’

The Doctor looked at her, and on his face also appeared a smile, in which Pauline could read his prediction of former days, when he had told her that she wasn’t making them a very desirable present in bestowing them on one another. And at this she walked away towards the kitchen.

‘Well, I must really leave you now,’ she said. ‘Try to amuse yourselves. Call for me, uncle, if Paul wakes up again.’

In the kitchen, when she had stirred the stew and got the spit ready, she knocked the pots and pans about impatiently. The voices of Louise and Lazare reached her more and more distinctly through the ceiling, and she grew distressed as she thought that they would certainly be heard on the terrace. It was very absurd of them, she said to herself, to go on
shouting as though they were both deaf, and letting every­body know of their disagreements. But she did not care to go up to them, partly because she had to get the dinner ready, and partly because she felt ill at ease at the thought of interfering with them in their own room. It was generally downstairs, amid the common life of the family, that she played her part of reconciler.

She went into the dining-room for a few moments and busied herself with laying the table. But the shouting still continued, and she could no longer bear the thought that they were making themselves unhappy. So, impelled by that spirit of active charity which made the happiness of others the chief thought of her life, she at last went upstairs.

‘My dear children,’ she exclaimed, as she abruptly entered the room, ‘I daresay you will tell me it is no busi­ness of mine, but you are really making too much noise. It is very foolish of you to excite yourselves in this way and disturb the whole house.’

She had hastily stepped across the room, and at once closed the window, which Louise had left open. Fortunately neither the priest nor the Doctor had remained on the terrace. With one quick glance she had seen that there was nobody there except the drowsing Chanteau and little Paul, who was still asleep.

‘We could hear you out there as plainly as if you had been in the dining-room,’ she resumed. ‘Come, now, what is the matter this time?’

But, their tempers aroused, they continued quarrelling without taking any notice of Pauline. She now stood there, still and silent, feeling ill at ease again in that room. The yellow cretonne with its green pattern, the old mahogany furniture and the red carpet, had been replaced by heavy woollen hangings and furniture more in harmony with Louise’s delicacy of taste. There was nothing left to remind one of the dead mother. A scent of heliotrope arose from the toilet-table, on which lay some damp towels, and the perfume somewhat oppressed Pauline. She involuntarily glanced round the room, in which every object spoke of the familiar life of husband and wife. Though, as her rebellious thoughts calmed down, she had at last prevailed upon herself to continue living with them, she had never previously entered their room, where all things suggested conjugal privacy. And thus she quivered almost with the jealousy of former times.

‘How can you make each other so unhappy?’ she mur­mured, after a short interval of silence. ‘Won’t you ever be sensible?’

‘Well, no, I’ve had quite enough of it!’ cried Louise. ‘Do you think he will ever allow that he is in the wrong? I merely told him how uneasy he had made us all by not com­ing home last night, and then he flew at me like a wild beast and accused me of having ruined his life, and threatened that he would go off to America!’

Lazare interrupted her in furious tones:

‘You are lying! If you had chided me for my absence in that gentle fashion, I should have kissed you, and there would have been an end of the matter. But it was you who accused me of making you spend your life in tears. Yes, you threat­ened to go and throw yourself into the sea, if I continued to make your life unbearable.’

Then they flew at each other again, and gave vent to all the bitterness which the continual jarring of their tempera­ments aroused in them. The slightest little differences set them bickering, and brought them to a state of exasperated antipathy which made the rest of the day wretched. When­ever her husband interfered with her enjoyment Louise, despite her gentle face, proved as malicious as a fawning cat, that loves to be caressed, but strikes out with its claws at the slightest irritation; and Lazare, finding in these quarrels a relief from his besetting
ennui,
frequently persisted in them for the sake of the excitement they brought.

However, Pauline continued, listening to the quarrel. She was suffering greater unhappiness than they themselves were. That fashion of loving one another was beyond her comprehension. Why couldn’t they make mutual allowances and accommodate themselves to each other, since they had to live together? She was deeply pained, for she still regarded the marriage as her own work, and she longed to see it a happy and harmonious one, so that she might feel compensated for the sacrifice she had made by knowing that she had, at any rate, acted rightly.

‘I never reproach you for squandering my fortune,’ Louise continued.

‘There was only that accusation wanting!’ Lazare cried. ‘It wasn’t my fault that I was robbed of it.’

‘Oh! it’s only stupid folks who allow their pockets to be emptied, who are robbed. But, any way, we are now reduced to a wretched income of four or five thousand francs, barely sufficient to enable us to live in this hole of a place. If it were not for Pauline, our child would have to go naked one of these days, for I quite expect that you will squander all that we have left, what with all your extraordinary fads and specu­lations that come to grief one after the other.’

‘There! there! Prate away! Your father has already paid me similar pretty compliments. I guessed you had been writing to him. I’ve given up that speculation in manure in consequence; though I know it was a perfectly safe thing, with cent per cent to be gained. But now I’m like you, and I’ve had enough of it, and the deuce take me if I bestir myself any more. We will go on living here.’

‘A pretty life, isn’t it, for a woman of my age? It’s nothing but a gaol, with never an opportunity of going out or seeing anybody; and there’s that stupid sea for ever in front of one, which only seems to increase one’s
ennui —
Oh! If I had only known! If I had only known!’

‘And do you suppose that I enjoy myself here? If I were not married, I should be able to go away to some distant place and try my fortune. I have longed to do so a score of times. But that’s all at an end now; I’m nailed down to this lonely wilderness, where there’s nothing to do but to go to sleep. You have done for me; I feel that very clearly.’

‘I have done for you! I! — I didn’t force you to marry me, did I? It was you who ought to have seen that we were not suited to each other. It is your fault if our lives are wrecked.’

‘Ah! yes, indeed, our lives are certainly wrecked, and you do all you can to make them more intolerable every day.’

Pauline, though she had resolved not to interfere between them, could no longer restrain herself.

‘Oh! do give over, you unhappy creatures! You seem to take a pleasure in marring a life which might be such a happy one. Why will you goad each other into saying things which you cannot recall and which make you so wretched? Hold your tongues, both of you! I won’t let this go on any longer.’

Louise had fallen into a chair in a fit of tears, while Lazare, in a state of wild excitement, strode up and down the room.

‘Crying won’t do any good, my dear,’ Pauline continued. ‘You are really not tolerant; you have too many grievances. And you, my poor fellow, how can you treat her in this unkind fashion? It is abominable of you. I thought that, at any rate, you had a kind heart. You are, both of you, a couple of overgrown children, and are equally in fault, making yourselves wretched without knowing why. But I won’t have it any longer, do you hear? I won’t have unhappy people about me. Go and kiss each other at once!’

She tried to laugh; she no longer felt that tremor which had at first so disquieted her. She was only thrilled by a glow of kindliness, a desire to see them in each other’s arms, so that she might be sure their quarrel was at an end.

‘Kiss him, indeed! I should just think so!’ exclaimed Louise. ‘He has insulted me too much!’

‘Never!’ exclaimed Lazare.

Then Pauline broke into a merry laugh.

‘Come, come!’ she said; ‘don’t sulk with each other. You know, I am very determined about having my own way. The dinner is getting burnt, and our guests are waiting. If you don’t do as I tell you, Lazare, I shall come and make you. Go down on your knees before her, and clasp her affectionately to your heart. No, no! you must do it better than that!’

She made them twine their arms closely and lovingly about each other, and watched them kiss, with an air of joyful triumph, without the least sign of trouble in her clear, calm eyes. Within her glowed warm, thrilling joy, like some subtle fire, which raised her high above them. Lazare pressed his wife to his heart in remorse; and Louise, who was still in her dressing-wrap, with her neck and arms bare, returned his caresses, her tears streaming forth more freely than before.

‘There! that’s much nicer, isn’t it, than quarrelling?’ said Pauline. ‘I will be off, now that you no longer need me to make peace between you.’

She sprang to the door as she spoke, and quickly closed it upon that chamber of love, with its perfume of heliotrope, which now thrilled her with soft emotion, as though it were an accomplice perfume which would complete her task of reconciliation.

When she got downstairs to the kitchen, Pauline began to sing as she stirred her stew. Then she threw a bundle of wood on the fire, arranged the turnspit, and began to watch the duck roast with a critical eye. It amused her to have to play the servant’s part. She had tied a big white apron round her, and felt quite pleased at the thought of waiting upon them all and undertaking the most humble duties, so that she might be able to tell them that they were that day indebted to her for their gaiety and health. Now that, thanks to her, they were smiling and happy, she wanted to serve them a festive repast of very good things, of which they would par­take plentifully while growing bright and mirthful round the table.

She thought, however, of her uncle and the child again, and hastily ran out on to the terrace, where she was greatly astonished to find her cousin seated by the side of his little son.

‘What!’ she exclaimed, ‘have you come down already?’

He merely nodded his head in answer. He seemed to have fallen back into his former weary indifference; his shoulders were bent, and his hands were lying listlessly in front of him. Then Pauline said to him with an expression of uneasy anxiety:

‘I hope you didn’t begin again as soon as my back was turned?’

‘No, no!’ he at last made up his mind to reply. ‘She will be down as soon as she has put on her dress. We have quite forgiven each other and made it up. But how long will it last? To-morrow there will be something else; every day, every hour! You can’t change people, and you can’t prevent things happening.’