Hautot and His Son
I
In front of the building, half farmhouse, half manor house—one of those semi-feudal country dwellings of mixed character now occupied by wealthy farmers—the dogs chained to the apple trees in the courtyard were barking and howling at the sight of the bags carried by the gamekeepers, and at the mischievous boys. In the large dining room-kitchen, Hautot and his son, M. Bermont the tax-collector, and M. Mondarn the notary, were having a bite and a mouthful of wine before they went out shooting, for it was the first day of the season.
The elder Hautot, proud of his possessions, was boasting of the game that his guests would find in his shoot. He was a big Norman, one of those powerful, ruddy, big-boned men who can lift a cartload of apples on to their shoulders. Half peasant, half gentleman, rich, respected, influential, autocratic, he had first insisted that his son César should work up to the third form so that he might be well informed, and then he had stopped his education for fear of his becoming a fine gentleman without any interest in the farm.
Nearly as tall as his father, but thinner, César Hautot was a good son, docile, contented, full of admiration and respect and regard for the wishes and opinions of the elder Hautot.
M. Bermont, the tax-collector, a short stout man whose red cheeks showed a thin network of violet veins like the tributaries and winding streams of a river on a map, asked:
“And hares—are there any hares?”
The elder Hautot replied:
“As many as you please, especially in the hollows of Puysatier.”
“Where shall we begin?” asked the good-natured notary; he was pale and fat, his flesh bulging out in his tight-fitting, brand-new shooting-kit recently bought at Rouen.
“In that direction, through the bottoms. We will drive the partridges into the open and fall upon them.”
Hautot got up. The others followed his example, took their guns from the corner, examined the locks, stamped their feet to ease them in their boots, not yet softened by the warmth within. Then they went out, and the dogs straining at the leash barked and beat the air with their paws.
They set out towards the hollows, which were in a little glen, or rather in a long undulating stretch of poor land unfit for cultivation, furrowed with ditches and covered with ferns—an excellent preserve for game.
The sportsmen took their places, Hautot senior to the right, Hautot junior to the left, with the two guests in the centre. The keepers and game-bag carriers followed. The solemn moment had come when sportsmen are waiting for the first shot, their hearts beating more rapidly, and their nervous fingers unable to leave the trigger alone.
Suddenly there was a shot. Hautot had fired. They all stopped and saw a partridge, one of a covy flying as swiftly as possible, drop into a ditch covered with thick shrubs. The excited sportsman started to run, taking big strides, dragging aside the briers in his path, and disappeared into the thicket to look for the bird.
Almost immediately a second shot was heard.
“Ha! Ha! the rascal,” exclaimed M. Bermont, “he must have started a hare from the undergrowth.”
They all waited with eyes fixed on the mass of dense underwood. The notary, making a trumpet of his hands, shouted: “Have you got them?”
As there was no reply from the elder Hautot, César, turning towards the gamekeeper, said: “Go and help him, Joseph. We must keep in line. We’ll wait.”
And Joseph, a man with an old, lean body and swollen joints, set off at an easy pace down to the ditch, searching for a suitable opening with the caution of a fox. Then, suddenly, he shouted: “Oh, hurry up! Hurry up! There has been an accident!”
They all hurried along and plunged through the briers. Hautot had fallen on his side in a faint with both hands pressed on his abdomen, from which long trickles of blood flowed on to the grass through his linen jacket torn by a bullet. In letting go of his gun to pick up the dead partridge that lay within reach, he had dropped it and the second discharge going off in the fall had torn open his bowels. They drew him out of the ditch, undressed him and saw a frightful wound through which the intestines protruded. Then after binding him up as well as they could they carried him home and waited for the doctor who had been sent for, as well as the priest.
When the doctor arrived, he shook his head gravely, and turning towards young Hautot, who was sobbing on a chair, he said:
“My poor boy, this looks bad.”
But when the wound was dressed, the patient moved his fingers, first opened his mouth, then his eyes, cast around him a troubled, haggard glance, then appeared to be trying to recall, to understand, and he murmured:
“Good God, I am done for.”
The doctor held his hand.
“No, no; a question of a few days’ rest, it will be all right.”
Hautot resumed:
“I am done for! I am torn to bits! I know!”
Then, suddenly:
“I want to talk to my son, if there is time.”
In spite of himself, César was weeping, and repeated like a little boy:
“Papa, papa, poor papa!”
But the father said in a more determined tone:
“Come, stop crying, this is no time for tears. I have something to say to you. Sit down there, close to me, it will soon be over, and I shall be easier in my mind. You others, please leave us alone for a minute.”
As soon as they were alone:
“Listen, my boy. You are twenty-four, one can talk to you. After all there is not such a mystery about these matters as we attach to them. You know that your mother has been dead seven years and that I am only forty-five, seeing that I married when I was nineteen. Is that not true?”
The son stammered:
“Yes, quite true.”
“So then your mother has been dead for seven years, and I am still a widower. Well! a man like me cannot remain a widower at thirty-seven, you agree?”
The son replied:
“That’s quite true.”
Gasping for breath, very pale and his face drawn with pain, the father continued:
“God! how I suffer! Well, you understand. Man is not made to live alone, but I did not want to give your mother a successor, since I had promised I would not do so. Well … you understand?”
“Yes, father.”
“Well, I kept a girl at Rouen, number 18 Rue de l’Eperlan, the second door on the third floor—I am telling you all this, don’t forget—this young girl has been as nice as nice to me, loving, devoted, a real wife. You understand, my lad?”
“Yes, father.”
“Well, if I am taken, I owe her something, something substantial that will place her out of the reach of want. You understand?”
“Yes, father.”
“I tell you she is good, really good, and but for you and the memory of your mother and also because we three lived here together in this house, I would have brought her here, and then married her, sure enough … listen … listen … my lad, I might have made a will … I have not done so! I did not want to … you must never write things down … not things of that sort … it is bad for the rightful heirs … then it muddles up everything … it ruins everyone. … Look you, never go in for legal documents, never have anything to do with them. If I am rich it is because I have avoided them all my life. You understand, my boy!”
“Yes, father.”
“Now listen. … Listen attentively. … So I have made no will. … I did not want to. … Besides, I know you, you are kindhearted, you are not greedy, not stingy. I said to myself that when I saw the end within sight, I would tell you all about it and would beg you not to forget my darling: Caroline Donet, 18 Rue de l’Eperlan, the second door on the right, don’t forget. Further, go there directly I am gone—and make such arrangements that she will have no reason to complain. You have plenty. … You can spare it.—I am leaving you well provided for. Listen! You won’t find her at home on weekdays. She works at Madame Moreau’s in the Rue Beauvoisine. Go on a Thursday. She always expects me on Thursdays. It has been my day for six years. Poor thing, how she will cry! I tell you all this, my boy, because I know you so well. You cannot tell these things to everybody, either to the notary or to the priest. These things happen, everyone knows that, but no one talks about them except when they are obliged. Then again there must be no outsider in the secret, nobody except the family, because a family is the same as an individual! You understand?”
“Yes, father.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, father.”
“You swear to this?”
“Yes, father.”
“I beg, I pray, do not forget, my boy. It means so much to me.”
“No, father.”
“You will go yourself. I want you to make sure of everything.”
“Yes, father.”
“And then, you will see … you will see what she says. I can’t tell you more about it. You swear?”
“Yes, father.”
“That’s right, my boy. Embrace me. Adieu, I am done for, I know it. Tell the others they may come in.”
The son embraced his father, sobbing as he did so, then, obedient as usual, he opened the door and the priest appeared in a white surplice carrying the holy oils.
But the dying man had closed his eyes and refused to open them again, he would not make any response nor would he make any sign to show that he understood.
The man had talked enough, he could not continue. Besides, he now felt quiet in his mind and wanted to die in peace. He felt no need to confess to the priest when he had just made his confession to his son who at all events belonged to the family.
Surrounded by his friends and servants on their bended knees, he received the last rites, was purified, and was given absolution, no change of expression on his face showing that he still lived.
He died towards midnight after four hours of convulsive movements indicating terrible suffering.
II
He was buried on Tuesday, the shooting season having opened on Sunday. On returning home from the cemetery César Hautot spent the rest of the day weeping. He scarcely slept that night and felt so sad when he awoke that he wondered how he could manage to go on living.
However, until evening he kept on thinking that in accordance with his father’s dying wish he must go to Rouen the following day, and see this girl, Caroline Donet, who lived at 18 Rue de l’Eperlan, the second door on the third story. He went on repeating the name and address under his breath—just as a prayer is repeated—so as not to forget, and he ended by stammering them unceasingly, without thinking about anything, to such a point had his mind become obsessed by the set phrase.
Accordingly, about eight o’clock next day he ordered Graindorge to be harnessed to the tilbury and set out at the long, swinging pace of the heavy Norman horse along the high road from Ainville to Rouen. He was wearing a black frock-coat, a silk hat, and trousers strapped under his shoes. Owing to the circumstances he had not put on his flowing blue blouse, so easily taken off at the journey’s end, over his black clothes to protect them from dust and dirt.
He got to Rouen just as it was striking ten, put up as usual at the Hôtel des Bons Enfants, in the Rue des Trois-Mariés, submitted to being embraced by the landlord, his wife and their five sons, for they had heard the sad news; later on he had to tell them all about the accident, which made him shed tears, repel their offers of service thrust upon him on account of his wealth, and even refuse luncheon, which hurt their feelings.
Having wiped the dust off his hat, brushed his coat and cleaned his boots, he started off to seek the Rue de l’Eperlan without daring to make any inquiries, for fear of being recognised and of arousing suspicion.
At last, unable to find the place, he caught sight of a priest, and trusting to the professional discretion of the priesthood, he asked for help.
It was only about one hundred steps farther on—the second street to the right.
Then he hesitated. Up to the present he had blindly obeyed the will of his dead father. But now he felt agitated, confused, humiliated at the idea of finding himself—he, the son—in the presence of the woman who had been his father’s mistress.
All our better feelings developed by centuries of family training, all that he had been taught since early childhood about women of loose character, the instinctive distrust that all men feel of these women even when they marry them, all his narrow-minded peasant virtue; all combined to disturb him, to make him hesitate, and fill him with shame.
But he said to himself: “I promised my father. I must not fail.” So he pushed the partly-opened door of number 18, discovered a dark staircase, went up three flights, saw first one door, then a second, then found a bell rope, which he pulled.
The ding-dong that sounded in the next room sent a shiver through his body. The door opened and he found himself face to face with a well-dressed young lady, a brunette with rosy cheeks, who gazed at him with eyes full of astonishment.
He did not know what to say, and she, who suspected nothing and was expecting the father, did not invite him in. They looked at each other about thirty seconds until, at last, she said:
“What do you want, sir?”
He muttered:
“I am the young Hautot.”
She started, turned pale, and stammered as if she had known him for a long time:
“Monsieur César?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“I have a message for you from my father.”
She exclaimed: “My God!” and moved away so that he might enter. He closed the door and followed her.
Then he caught sight of a little boy of four or five years playing with a cat, seated on the ground in front of a stove from which rose the odour of food being kept hot.
“Sit down,” she said.
He sat down. She said: “Well?”
He dare not say anything, he fixed his eyes on the table standing in the middle of the room that was laid for two grownups and a child. He looked at the chair with its back to the fire, the plate, the table napkin and glasses, the bottle of red wine already opened, and the bottle of white wine still uncorked. That was his father’s chair, with its back to the fire. They were expecting him. That was his bread near the fork, he knew that because the crust had been removed on account of Hautot’s bad teeth. Then, raising his eyes, he noticed his father’s portrait hanging on the wall, the large photograph taken at Paris the year of the Exhibition, the same one that hung above the bed in the room at Ainville.
The young woman asked again:
“Well, Monsieur César?”
She stared at him. Her face was deathly white with anxiety, and she waited, her hands trembling with fear.
Then he picked up courage:
“Well, Miss, papa died on Sunday, the first day of the season.”
She was too overcome to make any movement. After a silence of a few seconds, she faltered almost inaudibly:
“Oh, it’s not possible?”
Then the tears came to her eyes, and covering her face with her hands, she burst out sobbing.
Seeing his mother cry, the little boy turned round and began to roar at the top of his voice. Then, understanding that the sudden grief was caused by the unknown visitor, he threw himself upon César, caught hold of his trousers with one hand and hit his shins as hard as he could with the other. César felt bewildered, deeply affected, thus placed between the woman mourning for his father, and the child who was defending his mother. Their emotion communicated itself to him and his eyes filled with tears, so, to regain his self-control, he began to talk.
“Yes,” he said, “the accident occurred on Sunday morning, at eight o’clock.” And he told the story in detail, as if she were listening to him, mentioning the most trivial matters with the characteristic thoroughness of the peasant. The child, who had kept on beating César, was now kicking his ankles.
When he reached the point of Hautot’s anxiety for her, she heard her name mentioned and, taking her hands from face, asked:
“Excuse me! I was not following you. I would like to know—would it be a bother to you to begin all over again?”
He began the story in the same words: “The accident occurred Sunday morning at eight o’clock.”
He repeated everything, at great length, with pauses and occasional reflections of his own. She listened eagerly, feeling with a woman’s keen sensitiveness the events as they were unfolded, and, trembling with horror, exclaimed at intervals: “My God!” The boy, thinking that she was all right again, took hold of his mother’s hand instead of beating César, and listened attentively as if he understood what was happening.
When the story was finished, young Hautot continued:
“Now, we’ll settle matters together according to his wishes. Listen! I am well off, he has left me plenty. I don’t want you to have anything to complain about.”
She interrupted quickly:
“Oh! Mr. César, not today. My heart is … Another time … another day. … No, not today. … If I accept, listen … it is not for myself … no, no, no, I swear. It is for the child. Besides, what you give will be placed to his account.”
Whereupon César, feeling troubled, guessed the truth and stammered:
“So then … it is his … the little one?”
“Why, yes,” she said.
The young Hautot looked at his brother with confused feelings both intense and painful.
After a long silence, for she was crying again, César, very embarrassed, went on:
“Well, Mam’zelle Donet, I am going. When would you like to talk this over?”
She exclaimed:
“Oh! no, don’t go! don’t go! Don’t leave me all alone with Emile. I would die of grief. I have nobody in the world, nobody but my little one. Oh! what misery, what misery, Mr. César. Do sit down. Tell me some more. Tell me how he spent his time at home.”
César, accustomed to obey, sat down again.
She drew another chair near to his, in front of the stove on which the food prepared for lunch was bubbling, took Emile on her lap and asked César hundreds of questions about his father—such simple questions about his ordinary everyday life that without reasoning on the subject he felt that she had loved Hautot with all the strength of her aching heart.
And by the natural association of his scanty thoughts he returned to the accident and began to tell her all about it again giving the same details as before.
When he said: “He had a hole in the stomach into which you could put your two fists,” she uttered a faint cry and her eyes again filled with tears. Infected by her grief, César began to weep too, and as tears always soften the heart, he bent over Emile, whose forehead was close to his own mouth, and kissed him.
Recovering her breath, the mother murmured:
“Poor boy, he is an orphan now.”
“And so am I,” said César.
They said no more.
But suddenly the housewife’s practical instinct, accustomed to think of everything, reawakened.
“I expect you have had nothing to eat this morning, Mr. César?”
“No, mam’zelle.”
“Oh! You must be hungry. You will have a bite?”
“Thank you,” he said, “I am not hungry; I have been too worried.”
She replied:
“In spite of grief one must go on living, you are surely not going to refuse. Then that will keep you here a little longer. When you are gone, I don’t know what I shall do.”
He yielded after a little hesitation, and sitting down with his back to the fire, facing her, he ate some of the tripe that was crackling in the oven and drank a glass of red wine. But he would not allow her to uncork the white wine. Several times he wiped the small boy’s mouth who had smeared his chin all over with gravy.
As he got up to go, he asked:
“When would you like me to come back to talk the matter over, Mam’zelle Donet?”
“If it is all the same to you, next Thursday, Mr. César. I shall not waste any time that way, as I am always free on Thursdays.”
“That will suit me—next Thursday.”
“You will come to lunch, won’t you?”
“Oh! as for that, I can’t promise.”
“Well, you know, it is easier to talk when eating. Besides, there is more time.”
“Well, all right. At twelve o’clock then.”
And off he went after having kissed little Emile and shaken hands with Mademoiselle Donet.
III
The week seemed long to César Hautot. He had never felt so lonely, and the solitude seemed unbearable. Hitherto he had lived with his father, just like his shadow, following him to the fields and superintending the execution of his orders; and when he did leave him for a short time it was only to meet again at dinner. They spent their evenings sitting opposite each other, smoking their pipes and talking about horses, cows or sheep; and the handshake they exchanged every morning was the symbol of deep family affection.
Now César was alone. He strolled about looking on while the harvesters worked, expecting at any moment to see his father’s tall gesticulating form at the far end of a field. To kill time he visited his neighbours, telling all about the accident to those who had not already heard it and telling it over again to those who had. Then having reached the end of all that interested him, he would sit down at the side of the road and wonder whether this kind of life would last very long.
He often thought of Mademoiselle Donet. He remembered her with pleasure. He had found her ladylike, gentle and good, exactly as father had described her. Undoubtedly, so far as goodness was concerned, she was good. He was determined to do the thing handsomely and give her two thousand francs a year, settling the capital on the child. He even felt a certain pleasure at the prospect of seeing her again on the following Thursday, and making all the arrangements for her future. Then, although the idea of the brother, the little chap of five—his father’s son—did worry and annoy him, it also filled him with a friendly feeling. This illegitimate youngster, though he would never bear the name of Hautot, was, in a sense, a member of the family life, whom he might adopt or abandon as he pleased but who would always remind him of his father.
So that when, on Thursday morning, he was trotting along the road to Rouen on Graindorge’s back, he felt lighter-hearted, more at peace than he had done since his bereavement.
On entering Mademoiselle Donet’s apartment, he saw the table laid as on the previous Thursday, the only difference being that the crust had been left on the bread.
He shook hands with the young woman, kissed Emile on both cheeks and sat down feeling more or less at home in spite of his heart being heavy. Mademoiselle Donet seemed to him to have grown thinner and paler. She must have wept bitterly. She appeared rather awkward in his presence, as if she now understood what she had not felt the previous week when under the first impression of her loss. She treated him with exaggerated respect, showing stricken humility, and waiting upon him with solicitude as if to repay by her attentions and devotion the kindness he had shown her. The lunch dragged on as they discussed the business that had brought him to the house. She did not want so much money. It was too much, far too much. She earned enough to keep herself and she only wanted Emile to find a small sum awaiting him when he was grown up. César was firm, and even added a present of one thousand francs for her mourning.
When he had finished his coffee, she asked:
“Do you smoke?”
“Yes … I have my pipe.”
He felt his pocket. Good heavens! he had forgotten it. He was quite miserable until she brought out his father’s pipe, which had been put away in a cupboard. He accepted her offer of the pipe, took hold of it, recognised it and smelt it, said what a good one it was, in a voice choked with feeling, filled it with tobacco and lighted it. Then he set Emile astride on his knee and let him play at horses while the mother removed the tablecloth and put the dirty dishes aside in the bottom of the cupboard, intending to wash up as soon as he had gone.
About three o’clock he got up reluctantly, very depressed at the idea of leaving.
“Well, Mademoiselle Donet,” he said, “I wish you good afternoon. It has been a pleasure to make your further acquaintance.”
She stood before him, blushing, deeply moved, and gazed at him while she thought of the father.
“Shall we never see each other again?” she said.
He replied simply:
“Why, yes, Mademoiselle, if it give you any pleasure.”
“Indeed it will, Mr. César. So till next Thursday, if that suits you?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle Donet.”
“You will come to lunch, without fail?”
“Well—as you are so kind, I won’t refuse.”
“It’s settled then, next Thursday, at twelve, the same as today.”
“Thursday at twelve, Mademoiselle Donet!”