A Million
It was a modest clerk’s household. The husband, who was employed in a Government office, was conventional and painstaking, and he always was very careful in the discharge of his duties. His name was Léopold Bonnin. He was a mediocre young man who held the right opinions about everything. He had been brought up a Christian, but he was inclined to be less religious since the country had begun to move in the direction of the separation of Church and State. He would say in loud tones at the office: “I am a believer, a true believer, but I believe in God, not in the clergy.” His greatest claim was that he was an honest man. He would strike his chest as he said so. And he was an honest man, in the most humdrum sense of the word. He arrived punctually at his office and left as punctually. He never idled and was always very straight in “money matters.” He had married the daughter of one of his poor colleagues, whose sister, however, was worth a million, having been married for love. She had had no children, which was a deep disappointment for her, and, consequently, she had no one to whom she could leave her money except her niece. This legacy was the constant preoccupation of the family. It haunted the house, and even the office. It was known that “the Bonnins would come in for a million.”
The young couple were also childless, a fact which did not distress them in the least, as they were perfectly satisfied with their humdrum, narrow life. Their home was well-kept, clean and thrifty; they were both very placid and moderate in all things, and they firmly believed that a child would upset their lives, and interfere with their habits.
They would not have endeavoured to remain without heirs; but, since Heaven had not blessed them in that particular respect, they thought it was no doubt for the best.
The wealthy aunt, however, was not to be consoled, and was profuse with practical advice. Years ago, she had vainly tried a number of methods recommended by clairvoyants and her women friends, and since she had reached the age where all thought of offspring had to be abandoned, she had heard of many more, which she supposed to be unfailing, and which she persisted in revealing to her niece. Every now and then she would inquire: “Well, have you tried what I told you about the other day?”
Finally she died. The young people experienced a delighted relief which they sought to conceal from themselves as well as from the outside world. Often one’s conscience is garbed in black while the soul sings with joy.
They were notified that a will had been deposited with a lawyer, and they went to the latter’s office immediately after leaving the church.
The aunt, faithful to her lifelong idea, had bequeathed her fortune to their firstborn child, with the provision that the income was to be used by the parents until their decease. Should the young couple have no offspring within three years, the money was to go to the poor and needy.
They were completely overwhelmed. The husband collapsed and stayed away from the office for a week. When he recovered, he resolved with sudden energy to become a parent.
He persisted in his endeavours for six months, until he was but the shadow of his former self. He remembered all the hints his aunt had given and put them into practice conscientiously, but without results. His desperate determination lent him a factitious strength, which, however, proved almost fatal.
He became hopelessly anaemic. His physician stood in dread of tuberculosis, and terrified him to such an extent that he forthwith resumed his peaceful habits, even more peaceful than before, and began a restorative treatment.
Broad rumours had begun to float around the office. All the clerks had heard about the disappointing will, and they made much fun over what they termed the “million franc deal.”
Some ventured to give Bonnin facetious advice; while others dared to offer themselves for the accomplishment of the distressing clause. One tall fellow, especially, who had the reputation of being quite a roué and whose many affairs were notorious throughout the office, teased him constantly with veiled allusions, broad hints and the boast that he, Morel, could make him, Bonnin, inherit in about twenty minutes.
However, one day, Léopold Bonnin became suddenly infuriated, and jumping out of his chair, his quill behind his ear, he shouted: “Sir, you are a cur; if I did not respect myself, I would spit in your face.”
Witnesses were despatched to the antagonists, and for days the whole department was in an uproar. They were to be found everywhere, in and out of the offices, meeting in the halls to discuss some important point and to exchange their views of the affair. Finally a document was drawn up by the four delegates and accepted by the interested parties, who gravely shook hands and mumbled a few words of apology in the presence of the department chief.
During the month that followed, the two men bowed ceremoniously and with affected courtesy, as became adversaries who had met on the field of honour. But one day, they happened to collide against each other in the hall, outside of the office, whereupon Monsieur Bonnin inquired with dignity: “I trust I did not hurt you?” And Monsieur Morel replied: “Not in the least.”
After that encounter, they saw fit to speak a few words whenever they met. And little by little they became more friendly, appreciated one another and grew to be inseparable.
But Léopold was unhappy. His wife kept taunting him with allusions, torturing him with thinly veiled sarcasm.
And the days were flitting by. One year had already elapsed since the aunt’s demise. The inheritance seemed lost to them.
When sitting down to dinner Madame Bonnin would remark: “We have not very much to eat; it would be different if we were well off.”
Or, when Léopold was ready to start for the office, his wife would hand him his walking-stick and observe: “If we had an income of fifty thousand francs, you would not have to kill yourself working, you poor quill-driver.”
When Madame Bonnin went out on a rainy day, she would invariably murmur: “If we had a carriage, I would not be compelled to ruin my clothes on a day like this.”
In fact, at all times, she seemed to blame her husband, rendering him alone responsible for the state of affairs and the loss of the fortune.
Finally, growing desperate, he took her to a well-known physician, who, after a lengthy consultation, expressed no opinion and declared he could discover nothing unusual; that similar cases were of frequent occurrence; that it was the same with bodies as with minds; that, after having seen so many couples separated through incompatibility of temper, it was not surprising to find some who were childless because of physical incompatibility. The consultation cost forty francs.
A year went by, and war was declared between the pair, incessant, bitter war, almost ferocious hatred. And Madame Bonnin never stopped saying over and over again: “Isn’t it dreadful to lose a fortune because one happens to have married a fool!” or “to think that if I had married another man, today I would have an income of forty thousand francs!” or again: “Some people are always in the way. They spoil everything.”
In the evening, after dinner, the tension became well-nigh insufferable. One night, fearing a terrible scene, and not knowing how to ward it off, Léopold brought his friend, Frédéric Morel, with whom he had almost had a duel, home with him. Soon Morel became the friend of the house, the counsellor of husband and wife.
The expiration of the delay stipulated in the will was drawing near; only six months more and the fortune would go to the poor and needy. And little by little Léopold’s attitude toward his wife changed. He, too, became aggressive, taunting, would make obscure insinuations, mentioning in a mysterious way wives of clerks who had built up their husbands’ careers.
Every little while he would bring up some story of promotion that had fallen to the luck of some obscure clerk. “Little Ravinot, who was only a temporary clerk, five years ago, has been made assistant chief clerk.” Then Madame Bonnin would reply: “It certainly is not you who could accomplish anything like that.”
Léopold would shrug his shoulders.
“As if he did more than anyone else! He has a bright wife, that is all. She captivated the head of the department and now gets everything she wants. In this life we have to look out that we are not fooled by circumstances.”
What did he really mean? What did she infer? What occurred? Each of them had a calendar on which the days which separated them from the fatal term were marked; and every week they were overcome by a sort of madness, a desperate rage, a wild exasperation, so that they felt capable of committing a crime if necessary.
And then one morning Madame Bonnin, with shining eyes and a radiant face, laid her hands on her husband’s shoulders, looked at him intently, joyfully, and whispered: “I believe that I am pregnant.” He experienced such a shock that he almost collapsed; and suddenly clasping his wife in his arms, he drew her down on his knee, kissed her like a beloved child and, overwhelmed by emotion, sobbed aloud.
Two months later, doubt was no longer possible. He went with her to a physician and had the latter make out a certificate which he handed to the executor of the will. The lawyer stated that, inasmuch as the child existed, whether born or unborn, he could do nothing but bow to circumstances, and would postpone the execution of the will until the birth of the heir.
A boy was born, whom they christened Dieudonné, in remembrance of the practice in royal households.
They were very rich.
One evening, when M. Bonnin came home—his friend Frédéric Morel was to dine with them—his wife remarked casually: “I have just requested our friend Frédéric never to enter this house again. He insulted me.” Léopold looked at her for a second with a light of gratitude in his eyes, and then he opened his arms; she flew to him and they kissed each other tenderly, like the good, united, upright little couple that they were.
And it is worth while to hear Madame Bonnin talk about women who have transgressed for love, and those whom a great passion has led to adultery.