The Legacy
I
Although it was not yet ten o’clock, the employees were pouring in like waves through the great doorway of the Ministry of Marine, having come in haste from every corner of Paris, for the first of the year was approaching, the time for renewed zeal—and for promotions. A noise of hurrying footsteps filled the vast building, which was as tortuous as a labyrinth, and honeycombed with inextricable passages, pierced by innumerable doors opening into the various offices.
Each one entered his particular room, pressed the hands of his colleagues who had already arrived, threw off his coat, put on his office jacket, and seated himself before the table, where a pile of papers awaited him. Then they went for news into the neighbouring offices. They asked whether their chief had arrived, if he was in an agreeable humour, and if the day’s mail was a heavy one.
The clerk in charge of “general matter,” M. César Cachelin, an old noncommissioned officer of the marine infantry, who had become chief-clerk by priority of office, registered in a big book all the documents as they were brought in by the messenger. Opposite him the copying-clerk, old father Savon, a stupid old fellow, celebrated throughout the whole ministry for his conjugal misfortunes, copied in a slow hand a dispatch from the chief, sitting with his body held sidewise and his eyes askew, in the stiff attitude of the careful copyist.
M. Cachelin, a big man, whose short, white hair stood up like a brush on his head, talked all the time while performing his daily work: “Thirty-two dispatches from Toulon. That port gives us as much as any four others put together.”
Then he asked the old man Savon the question he put to him every morning:
“Well, father Savon, how is Madame?”
The old man, without stopping his work, replied: “You know very well, Monsieur Cachelin, that subject is a most painful one to me.”
Then the chief clerk laughed as he laughed every day at hearing the same phrase.
The door opened and M. Maze entered. He was a handsome, dark young fellow dressed with an exaggerated elegance, who thought his position beneath his dignity, and his person and manners above his position. He wore large rings, a heavy gold watch chain, a monocle (which he discarded while at work), and he made a frequent movement of his wrists in order to bring into view his cuffs ornamented with great shining buttons.
At the door he asked: “Much work today?” M. Cachelin replied: “It is always Toulon which keeps sending in. One can easily see that the first of the year is at hand, from the way they are hustling down there.”
But another employee, a great joker, always in high spirits, appeared in his turn and said laughing:
“We are not hustling at all, are we?” Then taking out his watch he added: “Seven minutes to ten and every man at his post! By George, what do you think of that? and I’ll wager anything that his Dignity M. Lesable arrived at nine o’clock—at the same hour as our illustrious chief.”
The chief-clerk ceased writing, put his pen behind his ear, and leaning his elbow on the desk said: “Oh! there is a man for you! If he does not succeed, it will not be for want of trying.”
M. Pitolet, seating himself on the corner of the table and swinging his leg, replied:
“But he will succeed, papa Cachelin; he will succeed, you may be sure. I will bet you twenty francs to a sou that he will be chief within ten years.”
M. Maze, who rolled a cigarette while warming his calves before the fire, said:
“Pshaw! for my part I would rather remain all my life on a salary of twenty-four hundred francs than wear myself to a skeleton the way he is doing.”
Pitolet turned on his heels and said in a bantering tone: “But that does not prevent you, my dear fellow, from being here on this twentieth of December before ten o’clock.”
The other shrugged his shoulders with an air of indifference. “Hang it all! I do not want everybody to walk over my head, either! Since you come here to see the sun rise, I am going to do it, too, however much I may deplore your officiousness. From doing that to calling the chief ‘dear master,’ as Lesable does, and staying until half past six and then carrying work home with you is a long way. Besides, I am in society and I have other demands upon my time.”
M. Cachelin had ceased his registering and begun to dream, his eyes fixed on vacancy. At last he asked: “Do you believe that he will get an increase again this year?”
Pitolet cried: “I will bet you ten to one he gets it. He is not wearing himself out for nothing.”
And so they talked of the eternal question of promotion which for a month had excited the whole hive of clerks from the ground floor to the roof.
They calculated chances, computed figures, compared their various claims to promotion, and waxed indignant over former injustices. These discussions lasted from morning until evening, and the next day were begun all over again, with the same reasons, the same arguments, the same words.
A new clerk entered, a little, pale, sick-looking man, M. Boissel, who lived as in a romance of Alexandre Dumas, père. Everything with him was an extraordinary adventure, and he recounted every morning to his friend Pitolet his strange encounters of the previous evening, imaginary scenes enacted in his house, strange cries uttered in the street which caused him to open his window at half past three in the morning. Every day he had separated combatants, stopped runaway horses, rescued women from danger; and although of a deplorably weak constitution he talked unceasingly, in a slow and satisfied tone, of exploits accomplished by his strong arm.
As soon as he understood that they were talking of Lesable he declared: “Some day I will give that little pup his deserts; and if he ever walks over my head, I’ll give him something that will prevent him from trying again.”
Maze, continuing to smoke, sneered: “You would do well, then, to begin at once, for I hear on good authority that you are to be set aside this year for Lesable.”
Boissel raised his hand. “I swear that if—”
The door opened once more, and a dapper little man wearing the side-whiskers of an officer of marine or lawyer, and a high, stiff collar, who spoke his words rapidly as though he could not take the time to finish what he had to say, entered quickly with a preoccupied manner. He shook hands all around with the air of a man who had no leisure for dallying, and approaching the chief-clerk said: “My dear Cachelin, will you give me the Chapelou papers, rope yarn, Toulon A.T.V., 1875?”
The clerk rose, reached for a portfolio above his head, took out a package of sealed documents wrapped in blue linen, and presenting them said: “There, M. Lesable; you remember the chief took three dispatches from their package yesterday.”
“Yes, I have them. Thanks,” and the young man went out hurriedly.
Hardly had he gone when Maze ejaculated: “Well! what an air! One would swear he was already chief.”
And Pitolet replied: “Patience, patience; he will be before any of us.”
M. Cachelin had not resumed his writing. A fixed thought seemed to have taken possession of him. At last he said: “He has a fine future, that boy!”
But Maze murmured in a disdainful tone: “For those who think the ministry is a career—yes. For the others it is a little—”
Pitolet interrupted him: “Perhaps you intend to become ambassador?”
The other made an impatient gesture. “It is not a question of me. I can take care of myself. That has nothing to do with the fact that the position of the head of a department will never be anything very much.”
Father Savon, the copyist, had never ceased his work. But for some little time he had been dipping his pen in the inkstand, then wiping it vigorously on the sponge which stood in a little glass of water on his desk, without being able to trace a letter. The black liquid slipped along the point of the metal and fell in round spots on the paper. The good man, driven to despair as sheet after sheet of paper was thus spoiled, said in a deep and sorrowful voice:
“Here is more adulterated ink!”
A shout of laughter came from every mouth. Cachelin shook the table with his stomach. Maze bent double, as though he were going up the chimney backward. Pitolet stamped and roared and waved his hands in the air, and even Boissel was almost suffocated, although he generally looked at these things on the tragic rather than the comic side.
But father Savon, wiping his pen on the tail of his overcoat, said: “There is nothing to laugh at. I have to go over my whole work two or three times.”
He took from his box another sheet of paper, laid his wax sheet over it, and commenced again at the beginning: “Monsieur le Ministre and dear Colleague—” The pen now held the ink and traced the letters neatly. The old man settled down into his oblique posture and continued his copy.
The others had not stopped laughing. They were fairly choking. For six months they had played the same game on the poor old fellow, who had never detected it. It consisted in pouring several drops of oil on the damp sponge used for wiping pens. The metal, thus becoming coated with liquid grease, would not take the ink, and the perplexed copying-clerk would pass hours in using boxes of pens and bottles of ink, and finally declare that the supplies of the department were becoming perfectly worthless.
Then the jokers would torment the old man in other ways. They put gunpowder in his tobacco, pour drugs into his drinking water, and made him believe that, since the Commune, the majority of articles for general use had been adulterated by the socialists, to put the government in the wrong and bring about a revolution. He had conceived a terrible hatred against the anarchists, whom he believed to be concealed everywhere, and had a mysterious fear of an unknown woman—veiled and formidable.
A sharp ring of the bell sounded in the corridor. They well knew the emphatic ring of their chief, M. Torchebeuf, and each one sprang toward the door that he might regain his own compartment.
Cachelin returned to his work. Then he laid down his pen again, and took his head in his hands and began to think.
He turned over in his mind an idea which had tormented him for some time. An old noncommissioned officer of the marine infantry, retired after receiving three wounds, one at Senegal and two at Cochin China, who had been given a position in the ministry as an exceptional favour, he had had to endure many miseries, many hardships, and many griefs in his long career as an insignificant subordinate. He considered authority, official authority, as the finest thing in the world. The head of a Department seemed to him an exceptional being, living in a higher sphere; and the employee of whom he heard it said: “He is a sharp one; he will get there yet,” appeared to him of another race, another nature, than himself.
He had therefore for his colleague Lesable a high respect which approached veneration, and he cherished the secret desire, which was never absent from his mind, to have him marry his daughter.
She would be rich one day, very rich. This was known throughout the entire ministry, for his sister, Mlle. Cachelin, possessed a million, a clear, cool million, acquired through love, they said, but purified by belated piety.
This ancient spinster, who had led a gay life in her youth, had retired with five hundred thousand francs, which she had more than doubled in eighteen years, thanks to her ferocious economy and more than frugal habits. She had lived for a long time with her brother, who was a widower with one daughter, Coralie; but she did not contribute in the slightest degree to the expenses of the house, guarding and accumulating her gold, and always repeating to Cachelin: “It makes no difference, since it is all for your daughter; but marry her quickly, for I want to see my little nephews around me. It is she who will give me the joy of embracing a child of our blood.”
This was well understood at the office, and suitors were not lacking for Coralie’s hand. It was said that Maze himself, the handsome Maze, the lion of the bureau, hovered around father Cachelin with a palpable intent. But the former sergeant, who had roamed through all latitudes, wanted a young man with a future, a young man who would be chief, and who would be able to make some return to him, the old clerk. Lesable suited him to a nicety, and he cast about in his mind for a means of attaching him to himself.
All of a sudden he sat upright, striking his hands together. He had found it. He well understood the weakness of each one of his colleagues. Lesable could be approached only through his vanity, his professional vanity. He would go to him and demand his protection as one goes to a senator or a deputy—as one goes to a high personage.
Not having had any promotion for five years, Cachelin considered himself as certain to obtain one this year. He would make it appear then that he owed it to Lesable, and would invite him to dinner as a means of thanking him.
As soon as his project was conceived he began to put it into execution. He took off his office jacket, put on his coat, and, gathering up all the registered papers which concerned the services of his colleague, he betook himself to the office which Lesable occupied all alone, by special favour, because of his zeal and the importance of his functions.
The young man was writing at a great table, covered with bundles of documents and loose papers numbered with red or blue figures.
As soon as he saw the chief-clerk enter, he said in a familiar tone, which also betokened consideration: “Well, my dear fellow, do you bring me a lot of business?”
“Yes, a good deal. And then I want to speak to you.”
“Sit down, my friend; I am listening.”
Cachelin seated himself, coughed, put on a troubled look, and finally said in a despondent tone:
“This is what brings me here, Monsieur Lesable. I will not beat about the bush. I will be frank like an old soldier. I have come to demand a service of you.”
“What is it?”
“In few words, I wish very much to be promoted this year. I have nobody to help me, and I have thought of you.”
Lesable reddened somewhat. He was surprised, flattered, and filled with a pleased confusion. However, he replied:
“But I am nobody here, my friend. I am much less than you, who are going to be principal clerk. I can do nothing. Believe me that if—”
Cachelin cut him short with respectful brusqueness: “Oh, nonsense. You have the ear of the chief, and if you speak a word for me I shall get it. Remember that in eighteen months I shall have the right to retire, and I shall be just five hundred francs to the bad if I obtain nothing on the first of January. I know very well that they say: ‘Cachelin is all right; his sister has a million.’ It is true enough that my sister has a million, but she doesn’t give any of it away. It is also true that her fortune is for my daughter, but my daughter and I are two different persons. I shall be in a nice fix if, when my daughter and my son-in-law are rolling in their carriage, I have nothing to eat. You see my position, do you not?”
Lesable agreed. “It is true—what you say is very true. Your son-in-law may not be well disposed toward you. Besides, one is always more at ease when owing nothing to anybody. Well, I promise you I shall do my best; I shall speak to the chief, place the case before him, and shall insist if it be necessary. Count on me!”
Cachelin rose, took the hands of his colleague, and pressing them hard while he shook them in military fashion, stammered: “Thank you, thank you; believe me, if ever I have the opportunity—if I can ever—” He stopped, not being able to finish what he had begun, and went away making the corridor resound with the rhythmical tread of an old trooper.
But he heard from afar the sharp ring of a bell and he began to run. He knew that ring. It was the chief, M. Torchebeuf, who wanted him.
Eight days later Cachelin found one morning on his desk a sealed letter, which contained the following:
My Dear Colleague: I am happy to announce to you that the minister, at the instance of our director and our chief, yesterday signed your nomination to the position of principal clerk. You will receive tomorrow your official notification. Until then you know nothing, you understand?
César ran at once to the office of his young colleague, thanked him, excused himself, offered his everlasting devotion, overwhelmed him with his gratitude.
It was known on the morrow that MM. Lesable and Cachelin had each been promoted. The other employees must wait another year, receiving by way of compensation a gratuity which varied from one hundred and fifty to three hundred francs.
M. Boissel declared that he would lie in wait for Lesable at the corner of the street at midnight some night and give him a drubbing which would leave its mark. The other clerks kept silent.
The following Monday, on his arrival, Cachelin went to the office of his protector, entered with solemnity, and in a ceremonious tone said: “I hope that you will do me the honour to dine with us during the New Year holidays. You may choose the day yourself.”
The young man, somewhat surprised, raised his head and looked his colleague full in the face. Then he replied without removing his eyes, that he might read the thoughts of the other: “But, my dear fellow you see—all my evenings are promised here for some time to come.”
Cachelin insisted in a good-humoured tone: “Oh, but, I say, you will not disappoint us by refusing, after the service that you have rendered me. I beg you in the name of my family and in mine.”
Lesable hesitated, perplexed. He had understood well enough, but he did not know what to reply, not having had time to reflect and to weigh the pros and the cons. At last he thought: “I commit myself to nothing by going to dinner,” and he accepted with a satisfied air, choosing the Saturday following. He added, smiling: “So that I shall not have to get up too soon the next morning.”
II
M. Cachelin lived in a small apartment on the fifth floor of a house at the upper end of the Rue Rochechouart. There was a balcony from which one could see all Paris, and three rooms, one for his sister, one for his daughter, and one for himself. The dining room served also for a parlour.
He occupied himself during the whole week in preparing for this dinner. The menu was discussed at great length, in order that they might have a repast which should be at the same time homelike and elegant. The following was finally decided upon: A consommé with eggs, shrimps and sausage for hors d’oeuvre, a lobster, a fine chicken, preserved peas, a pâté de foie gras, a salad, an ice, and dessert.
The foie gras was ordered from a neighbouring pork butcher with the injunction to furnish the best quality. The pot alone cost three francs and a half.
For the wine, Cachelin applied to the wine merchant at the corner who supplied him with the red beverage with which he ordinarily quenched his thirst. He did not want to go to a big dealer reasoning thus: “The small dealers find few occasions to sell their best brands. On this account they keep them a long time in their cellars, and they are therefore better.”
He came home at the earliest possible hour on Saturday to assure himself that all was ready. The maid who opened the door for him was red as a tomato, for she had lighted her fire at midday through fear of not being ready in time, and had roasted her face at it all day. Emotion also excited her. He entered the dining room to inspect everything. In the middle of the little room the round table made a great white spot under the bright light of a lamp covered with a green shade.
The four plates were almost concealed by napkins folded in the form of an archbishop’s miter by Mlle. Cachelin, the aunt, and were flanked by knives and forks of white metal. In front of each stood two glasses, one large and one small. César found this insufficient at a glance, and he called: “Charlotte!”
The door at the left opened and a little old woman appeared. Older than her brother by ten years, she had a narrow face framed with white ringlets. She did these up in papers every night.
Her thin voice seemed too weak for her little bent body, and she moved with a slightly dragging step and tired gestures.
They had said of her when she was young: “What a dear little creature!”
She was now a shrivelled up old woman, very clean because of her early training, headstrong, spoiled, narrow-minded, fastidious, and easily irritated. Having become very devout, she seemed to have totally forgotten the adventures of her past.
She asked: “What do you want?”
He replied: “I find that two glasses do not make much of a show. If we could have champagne—it would not cost me more than three or four francs; we have the glasses already, and it would entirely change the aspect of the table.”
Mlle. Charlotte replied: “I do not see the use of going to that expense. But you are paying; it does not concern me.”
He hesitated, seeking to convince himself:
“I assure you it would be much better. And then, with the cake it would make things more lively.” This decided him. He took his hat and went downstairs, returning in five minutes with a bottle under his arm which bore on a large white label, ornamented with an enormous coat of arms, the words: “Grand vin mousseux de Champagne du Comte de Chatel-Rénovau.”
Cachelin declared: “It cost only three francs, and the man says it is delicious.”
He took the champagne glasses from the cupboard and placed them before each place.
The door at the right opened. His daughter entered. She was a tall girl with firm, rosy flesh—a handsome daughter of a strong race. She had chestnut hair and blue eyes. A simple gown outlined her round and supple figure; her voice was strong, almost the voice of a man, with those deep notes which make the nerves vibrate. She cried: “Heavens! Champagne! What luck!” clapping her hands like a child.
Her father said to her: “I wish you to be particularly nice to this gentleman; he has done such a lot for me.”
She began to laugh—a sonorous laugh, which said: “I know.”
The bell in the vestibule rang. The doors opened and closed and Lesable appeared.
He wore a black coat, a white cravat, and white gloves. He created a stir. Cachelin sprang forward, embarrassed and delighted: “But, my dear fellow, this is among ourselves. See me—I am in ordinary dress.”
The young man replied: “I know, you told me so; but I never go out in the evening without my dress-coat.” He saluted, his opera-hat under his arm, a flower in his buttonhole. César presented him: “My sister, Mlle. Charlotte; my daughter Coralie, whom at home we call Cora.”
Everybody bowed. Cachelin continued: “We have no salon. It is rather troublesome, but one gets used to it.”
Lesable replied: “It is charming.”
Then he was relieved of his hat, which he wished to hang up, and he began immediately to draw off his gloves.
They sat down and looked at one another across the table, and no one said anything more until Cachelin asked: “Did the chief remain late tonight? I left very early to help the ladies.”
Lesable replied in a careless tone: “No, we went away together, because we were obliged to discuss the matter of the payment for the canvasses at Brest. It is a very complicated affair, which will give us a great deal of trouble.”
Cachelin believed he ought to bring his sister into the conversation, and turning to her said: “It is M. Lesable who decides all the difficult questions at the office. One might say that he was the deputy chief.”
The old spinster bowed politely, saying: “Oh, I know that Monsieur has great capabilities.”
The maid entered, pushing open the door with her knee, and holding aloft with both hands a great soup tureen. Then the master of the house cried: “Come—dinner! Sit there, M. Lesable, between my sister and my daughter. I hope you are not afraid of the ladies,” and the dinner began.
Lesable made himself agreeable, with a little air of self-sufficiency, almost of condescension, and he glanced now and then at the young girl, astonished at her freshness, at her beautiful, appetising health. Mlle. Charlotte showed her best side, knowing the intentions of her brother, and she took part in the conversation so long as it was confined to commonplace topics. Cachelin was radiant; he talked and joked in a loud voice while he poured out the wine bought an hour previous at the store on the corner: “A glass of this little Burgundy, M. Lesable. I do not say that it is anything remarkable, but it is good; it is from the cellar and it is pure—I can say that much. We get it from some friends down there.”
The young girl said nothing; a little red, a little shy, she was awed by the presence of this man, whose thoughts she suspected.
When the lobster appeared, César declared: “Here comes a personage whose acquaintance I shall be glad to make.”
Lesable, smiling, told a story of a writer who had called the lobster “the cardinal of the seas,” not knowing that before being cooked the animal was a dark greenish black. Cachelin laughed with all his might, repeating: “Ha, ha, ha! that is first rate!” But Mlle. Charlotte, becoming serious, said sharply:
“I do not see anything amusing in that. That gentleman was an improper person. I understand all kinds of pleasantries, but I am opposed to anything which casts ridicule on the clergy in my presence.”
The young man, who wished to please the old maid, profited by this occasion to make a profession of the Catholic faith. He spoke of the bad taste of those who treated great truths with lightness. And in conclusion he said: “For myself I respect and venerate the religion of my fathers; I have been brought up in it, and I will remain in it till my death.”
Cachelin laughed no longer. He rolled little crumbs of bread between his finger and thumb while he murmured: “That’s right, that’s right.” Then he changed the conversation, and, with an impulse natural to those who follow the same routine every day, he said: “Our handsome Maze—must have been furious at not having been promoted?”
Lesable smiled. “Well, why not? To everyone according to his deserts.” And they continued talking about the ministry, which interested everybody, for the two women knew the employees almost as well as Cachelin himself, through hearing them spoken of every day.
Mlle. Charlotte was particularly pleased to hear about Boissel, on account of his romantic spirit, and the adventures he was always telling about, while Cora was secretly interested in the handsome Maze. They had never seen either of the men, however.
Lesable talked about them with a superior air, as a minister might have done in speaking of his staff.
“Maze is not lacking in a certain kind of merit, but when one wishes to accomplish anything it is necessary to work harder than he does. He is fond of society and of pleasure. All that distracts the mind; he will never advance much on this account. He will be an Assistant Secretary, perhaps, thanks to the influence he commands, but nothing more. As for Pitolet, he is a good clerk, I must say. He has a superficial elegance which cannot be gainsaid, but nothing deep. There is a young man whom one could never put at the head of an important bureau, but who can always be utilised by an intelligent chief who would lay out his work for him.”
“And M. Boissel?” asked Mlle. Charlotte.
Lesable shrugged his shoulders: “A poor chap, a poor chap. He can see nothing in its proper proportions, and is continually imagining wonderful stories while half asleep. To us he is of no earthly use.”
Cachelin began to laugh. “But the best of all,” he declared, “is old father Savon.”
Then everybody laughed.
After that they talked of the theatres and the different plays of the year. Lesable judged the dramatic literature of the day with the same authority, concisely classifying the authors, determining the strength and weakness of each, with the assurance of a man who believes himself to be infallible and universal.
They had finished the roast. César now uncovered the pot of foie gras with the most delicate precautions, which made one imagine the contents to be something wonderful. He said: “I do not know if this one will be a success, but generally they are perfect. We get them from a cousin who lives in Strasburg.”
With respectful deliberation each one ate the butcher’s pâté in its little yellow pot.
But disaster came with the ice. It was a sauce, a soup, a clear liquid which floated in the dish. The little maid had begged the pastry cook’s boy, who brought the ice at seven o’clock, to take it out of the mold himself, fearing that she would not know how.
Cachelin, in despair, wished to make her carry it back again; then he calmed himself at the thought of the Twelfth Night cake, which he divided with great mystery as though it contained a prime secret. All fixed their gaze on the symbolic cake, then Mlle. Charlotte directed that each one close his eyes while taking a piece.
Who would be the king? A childish, expectant smile was on the lips of everyone. M. Lesable uttered a little “ah” of astonishment, and showed between his thumb and forefinger a great white bean still covered with pastry. Cachelin began to applaud, then cried: “Choose the queen! choose the queen!”
The king hesitated an instant only. Would it not be a politic act to choose Mlle. Charlotte? She would be flattered, brought over, his friend ever after! Then he reflected that it was really Mlle. Cora for whom he had been invited, and that he would seem like a ninny in choosing the aunt. He turned toward his youthful neighbor, and handing her the royal bean said: “Mademoiselle, will you permit me to offer it to you?” And they looked one another in the face for the first time.
She replied: “Thank you, Monsieur,” and received the gage of sovereignty.
He thought: “She is enormously pretty, this girl. Her eyes are superb. She is gay, too, if I am not mistaken!”
A sharp detonation made the two women jump. Cachelin had just opened the champagne, which escaped from the bottle and ran over the tablecloth. Then the glasses were filled with the frothy stuff and the host declared: “It is of good quality, one can see that.” But as Lesable was about to drink to prevent his glass from running over, César cried: “The king drinks! the king drinks! the king drinks!” And Mlle. Charlotte, also excited, squeaked in her thin voice: “The king drinks! the king drinks!”
Lesable emptied his glass with composure, and replacing it on the table said: “You see I am not lacking in assurance.” Then turning toward Mlle. Cora he said: “It is yours, Mademoiselle!”
She wished to drink, but everybody having cried: “The queen drinks! the queen drinks!” she blushed, began to laugh, and put the glass down again.
The end of the dinner was full of gaiety; the king showed himself most attentive and gallant toward the queen. Then when they had finished the liqueurs, Cachelin announced:
“We will have the table cleared away now to give us more room. If it is not raining, we can go to the balcony for a few minutes.” He wanted Lesable to see the view, although it was night.
The glass door was thrown open. A moist, warm breeze entered. It was mild outdoors as in the month of April. They all mounted the step which separated the dining room from the large balcony. They could see nothing but a vague glimmer hovering over the great city, like the gilt halos which they put on the heads of the saints. In some spots this light seemed more brilliant, and Cachelin began to explain:
“See, that is the Eden blazing down there. Look at the line of the boulevards. Isn’t it wonderful, how you can distinguish them! In the daytime it is splendid, this view. You would have to travel a long way before you saw anything finer!”
Lesable was leaning on the iron balustrade, by the side of Cora, who gazed into the void, silent, distraught, seized of a sudden with one of those melancholy languors which sometimes oppress the soul. Mlle. Charlotte returned to the room, fearing the damp. Cachelin continued to speak, his outstretched hand indicating the places where they would find the Invalides, the Trocadéro, the Arc de Triomphe.
Lesable in a low voice asked: “And you, Mlle. Cora, do you like to look at Paris from this height?”
She gave a little shiver, as though she had been dreaming and answered: “I? Yes, especially at night. I think of all the things which are happening there in front of us. How many happy people and how many who are unhappy in all these houses! If one could see everything, how many things one might learn!”
He came a little nearer, until their elbows and their shoulders touched:
“By moonlight this should be like fairyland.”
She murmured: “Ah, yes, indeed. One would say it was an engraving by Gustave Doré. What a pleasure it would be to take a long walk on these roofs.”
Then he questioned her regarding her tastes, her dreams, her pleasures. And she replied without embarrassment, after the manner of an intelligent, sensible girl—one who was not more imaginative than was necessary.
He found her full of good sense, and he said to himself that it would be wonderfully sweet to put his arm about that firm, round figure, and to press a score of little slow kisses, as one drinks in little sips of excellent brandy, on that fresh cheek, near the ear, just where a ray from the lamp fell upon it. He felt himself attracted, moved by the sensation of the proximity of a beautiful woman, by the thirst for her ripe and virginal flesh and by that delicate seductive influence a young girl possesses. It seemed to him he could remain there for hours, nights, weeks, forever, leaning towards her, feeling her near to him, thrilled by the charm of that contact. And something like a poetic sentiment stirred his heart in the face of that great Paris, spread out before him, brilliant in her nocturnal life, her life of pleasure and debauchery. It seemed to him that he dominated the enormous city, that he hovered over it; and he thought how delicious it would be to recline every evening on such a balcony beside a woman, to love her and be loved by her, to press her to his breast, far above the vast city, and all the earthly loves it contained, above all the vulgar satisfactions and common desires, near to the stars.
There are nights when even the least exalted souls begin to dream, and Lesable felt as though he were spreading his wings for the first time. Perhaps he was a little tipsy.
Cachelin went inside to get his pipe, and came back lighting it. “I know,” he said, “that you do not smoke or I would offer you a cigarette. There is nothing more delightful than to smoke here. If I had to live on the ground floor I should die. We could do it if we wanted to, for the house belongs to my sister, as well as the two neighbouring ones—the one on the right and the one on the left. She has a nice little revenue from these alone. They did not cost a great deal, either, when she bought them.” And turning toward the window he cried: “How much did you pay for the ground here, Charlotte?”
Then the thin voice of the old spinster was heard speaking. Lesable could only hear broken fragments of the sentences: “In eighteen hundred and sixty-three—thirty-five francs—built afterward—the three houses—a banker—sold for at least five hundred thousand francs—”
She talked of her fortune with the complacency of an old soldier who reels off stories of his campaigns. She enumerated her purchases, the high offers she had since had, the rise in values, etc.
Lesable, immediately interested, turned about, resting now his back against the balustrade of the balcony. But as he still caught only tantalizing scraps of what the old woman said, he brusquely left his young companion and went within where he might hear everything; and seating himself beside Mademoiselle Charlotte conversed with her for a long time on the probable increase in rents and what income should accrue from money well placed in stocks and bonds. He left toward midnight, promising to return.
A month later there was nothing talked about in the whole office but the marriage of Jacques Léopold Lesable with Mademoiselle Céleste Coralie Cachelin.
III
The young people began housekeeping on the same floor with Cachelin and Mlle. Charlotte, in an apartment similar to theirs from which the tenant was expelled.
A certain uneasiness, however, disturbed the mind of Lesable: the aunt had not wished to assure her heritage to Cora by any definitive act. She had, however, consented to swear “before God” that her will was made and deposited with Maître Belhomme, the notary. She had promised, moreover, that her entire fortune should revert to her niece on one sole condition. Being pressed to reveal this condition she refused to explain herself, but averred with a little amiable smile that it was very easy of fulfillment.
Notwithstanding these explanations and the stubbornness of the pious old woman, Lesable thought he ought to have further assurance; but, as the young woman pleased him greatly, his desire triumphed over his incertitude, and he yielded to the determined efforts of Cachelin.
Now he was happy, notwithstanding that he was always tormented by a doubt, and he loved his wife, who had in nowise disappointed his expectations. His life flowed along, tranquil and monotonous. He became, in several weeks, perfectly inured to his new position of married man, and he continued to be the same faithful and accomplished employee as formerly.
A year rolled away. The first of the year came round again. He did not receive, to his great surprise, the promotion on which he had counted. Maze and Pitolet alone passed to the grade above, and Boissel declared confidentially to Cachelin that he had promised himself to give his two fellow-clerks a good thrashing at the main entrance before everybody. But he did nothing.
For a whole week Lesable did not sleep a wink because of the anguish he felt at not having been promoted, despite his zeal. He had been working like a dog; he had filled the place of the assistant-chief, M. Rabot, who had been in the hospital of Val-de-Grâce for nine months; he had been coming to the office at half past eight every morning, remaining until half past six in the evening. What more could they ask? If they could not appreciate such faithful service he would do like the others, that was all. To everyone according to his deserts. How could M. Torchebeuf, who had always treated him like a son, have sacrificed him thus? He wanted to get at the bottom of the thing. He would go to the chief and have an explanation with him.
On Monday morning, therefore, before the arrival of his comrades, he knocked at the door of that potentate.
A sharp voice cried: “Come in!” He entered.
Seated before a great table strewn with papers, his little body bent over a writing-pad which his big head almost touched, M. Torchebeuf was busily writing. On seeing his favorite employee he said cheerfully: “Good morning, Lesable; you are well?”
The young man replied: “Good morning, dear master, I am very well; and you?”
The chief ceased writing and turned about in his revolving chair. His frail, slender body, clad in a black surtout of severe cut, seemed ridiculously disproportioned to the great leather-covered chair. The brilliant rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honour, a hundred times too large for the small body which it decorated, burned like a live coal upon his narrow chest. His skull was of considerable size, as though the entire development of the individual had been at the top, after the manner of mushrooms.
His chin was pointed, his cheeks hollow, his eyes protruding, and his great bulging forehead was surmounted with white hair which he wore thrown backward.
M. Torchebeuf said: “Sit down, my friend, and tell me what brings you here.”
Toward all the other clerks he displayed a military brusqueness, considering himself to be their captain, for the ministry was to him as a great vessel, the flagship of all the French fleet.
Lesable, somewhat moved, a little pale, stammered: “Dear master, I come to ask you if I have been lacking in any way.”
“Certainly not, my dear fellow; why do you ask me such a question?”
“Because I was a little surprised at not receiving my promotion this year, as in former years. Allow me to finish my explanation, dear master, and pardon my audacity. I know that I have obtained from you exceptional favours and unlooked-for advantages. I know that promotions are only made, as a general thing, every two or three years; but permit me to remind you that I furnish the bureau with nearly four times the amount of work of an ordinary employee, and at least twice as much time. If, then, you put in the balance the result of labor and the renumeration, you will certainly find the one far outweighs the other.”
He had carefully prepared this speech, which he judged to be excellent.
M. Torchebeuf, surprised, hesitated before replying. At length he said in a rather cool tone: “Although it is not admissible, on principle, that these subjects should be discussed between chief and employee, I am willing to reply for this once to your question regarding your very meritorious services.
“I proposed your name for promotion as in preceding years. The chief, however, crossed out your name on the ground that by your marriage your fortune was assured. You are to come into an inheritance such as your modest colleagues can never hope to possess. Is it not, therefore, just to take into consideration the condition of each one? You will be rich, very rich. Three hundred francs more per year will be as nothing to you, whereas this little increase will count for a great deal in the pockets of the others. There, my friend, you have the reason why you remain stationary this year.”
Lesable, irritated and covered with confusion, retired.
That evening at dinner he was disagreeable to his wife. She, however, was gay and pleasant as usual. Although she was of an even temper, she was headstrong, and when she desired anything greatly she never yielded her point. She possessed no longer for him the sensual charm of the early days, and although he still looked upon her with the eye of desire, for she was fresh and charming, he experienced at times that disillusion so near to estrangement which soon comes to two beings who live a common life. The thousand trivial or grotesque details of existence, the loose toilettes of the morning, the common linen robe-de-chambre, the faded peignoir, for they were not rich, and all the necessary home duties which are seen too near at hand in a poor household—all these things took the glamour from marriage and withered the flower of poetry which, from a distance, is so attractive to lovers.
Aunt Charlotte also rendered herself as disagreeable as possible. She never went out, but stayed indoors and busied herself in everything which concerned the two young people. She wished everything conducted in accordance with her notions, made observations on everything, and as they had a horrible fear of offending her, they bore it all with resignation, but also with a suppressed and ever-increasing exasperation.
She went through their apartment with her slow, dragging step, constantly saying in her sharp, nasal voice: “You ought to do this; you certainly ought to do that.”
When the husband and wife found themselves alone together, Lesable, who was a perfect bundle of nerves, would cry out: “Your aunt is growing intolerable. I won’t stand her here any longer, do you hear? I won’t stand it!” And Cora would reply tranquilly: “What do you want me to do?”
Then flying into a passion he would say: “It is dreadful to have such a family!”
And she, still calm, would reply: “Yes, the family is dreadful, but the inheritance is good, isn’t it? Now don’t be an imbecile. You have as much interest as I in managing Aunt Charlotte.”
Then he would be silent, not knowing what to say.
The aunt now harried them unceasingly on the subject of a child. She pushed Lesable into corners and hissed in his face: “My nephew, I intend that you shall be a father before I die. I want to see my little heir. You cannot make me believe that Cora was not made to be a mother. It is only necessary to look at her. When one gets married, my nephew, it is to have a family—to send out little branches. Our holy mother, the Church, forbids sterile marriages. I know very well that you are not rich, and that a child causes extra expense. But after me you will want for nothing. I want a little Lesable, do you understand? I want him.”
When, after fifteen months of marriage, her desire was not yet realized, she began to have doubts and became very urgent; and she gave Cora in private advice—practical advice, that of a woman who has known many things in her time, and who has still the recollection of them on occasion.
But one morning she was not able to rise from her bed, feeling very unwell. As she had never been ill before, Cachelin ran in great agitation to the door of his son-in-law: “Run quickly for Dr. Barbette,” he said, “and you will tell the chief, won’t you, that I shall not be at the office today.”
Lesable passed an agonizing day, incapable of working himself, or of giving directions to the other clerks. M. Torchebeuf, surprised, remarked: “You are somewhat distraught today, M. Lesable.” And Lesable answered nervously: “I am greatly fatigued, dear master; I have passed the entire night at the bedside of our aunt, whose condition is very serious.”
The chief replied coldly: “As M. Cachelin is with her I think that should suffice. I cannot allow my bureau to be disorganized for the personal reasons of my employees.”
Lesable had placed his watch on the table before him, and he waited for five o’clock with feverish impatience. As soon as the big clock in the grand court struck he hurried away, quitting the office, for the first time, at the regular hour.
He even took a cab to return home, so great was his anxiety, and he mounted the staircase at a run. The nurse opened the door; he stammered: “How is she?”
“The doctor says that she is very low.”
His heart began to beat rapidly. He was greatly agitated. “Ah, indeed!”
Could she, by any chance, be going to die?
He did not dare to go into the sick woman’s chamber now, and he asked that Cachelin, who was watching by her side, be called.
His father-in-law appeared immediately, opening the door with precaution. He had on his dressing-gown and skullcap, as on the pleasant evenings which he passed in the corner by the fire; and he murmured in a low voice: “It’s very bad, very bad. She has been unconscious since four o’clock. She even received the viaticum this afternoon.”
Then Lesable felt a weakness descending into his legs, and he sat down.
“Where is my wife?”
“She is at the bedside.”
“What is it the doctor says? Tell me exactly.”
“He says it is a stroke. She may come out of it, but she may also die tonight.”
“Do you need me? If not, I would rather not go in. It would be very painful to me to see her in this state.”
“No, go to your own apartment. If there is anything new I will call you at once.”
Lesable went to his own quarters. The apartment seemed to him changed—it was larger, clearer. But, as he could not keep still, he went out onto the balcony.
They were then in the last days of July, and the great sun, on the point of disappearing behind the two towers of the Trocadéro, rained fire on the immense conglomeration of roofs.
The sky, a brilliant shining red at the horizon, took on, higher up, tints of pale gold, then of yellow, then of green—a delicate green flecked with light; then it became blue—a pure and fresh blue overhead.
The swallows passed like flashes, scarcely visible, painting against the vermilion sky the curved and flying profile of their wings. And above the infinite number of houses, above the far-off country, floated a rose-tinted cloud, a vapour of fire toward which ascended, as in an apotheosis, the points of the church-steeples and all the slender pinnacles of the monuments. The Arc de Triomphe appeared enormous and black against the conflagration on the horizon, and the dome of the Invalides seemed another sun fallen from the firmament upon the roof of a building.
Lesable held with his two hands to the iron railing, drinking in the air as one drinks of wine, feeling a desire to leap, to cry out, to make violent gestures, so completely was he given over to a profound and triumphant joy. Life seemed to him radiant, the future full of richness! What would he do? And he began to dream.
A noise behind him made him tremble. It was his wife. Her eyes were red, her cheeks slightly swollen: she looked tired. She bent down her forehead for him to kiss; then she said: “We are going to dine with papa so that we may be near her. The nurse will not leave her while we are eating.”
He followed her into the next apartment.
Cachelin was already at table awaiting his daughter and his son-in-law. A cold chicken, a potato salad, and a compote of strawberries were on the buffet, and the soup was smoking in the plates.
They sat down at table. Cachelin said: “These are days that I wouldn’t like to see often. They are not gay.” He said this with a tone of indifference and a sort of satisfaction in his face. He set himself to eat with the appetite of a hungry man, finding the chicken excellent and the potato salad most refreshing.
But Lesable felt his stomach oppressed and his mind ill at ease. He hardly ate at all, keeping his ear strained toward the next room, which was as still as though no one was within it. Nor was Cora hungry, but silent and tearful she wiped her eyes from time to time with the corner of her napkin. Cachelin asked: “What did the chief say?” and Lesable gave the details, which his father-in-law insisted on having to the last particular, making him repeat everything as though he had been absent from the ministry for a year.
“It must have made a sensation there when it became known that she was sick.” And he began to dream of his glorious reentry when she should be dead, at the head of all the other clerks. He said, however, as though in reply to a secret remorse: “It is not that I desire any evil to the dear woman. God knows I would have her preserved for many years yet, but it will have that effect all the same. Father Savon will even forget the Commune on account of it.”
They were commencing to eat their strawberries, when the door of the sickroom opened. The commotion among the diners was such that with a common impulse all three of them sprang to their feet, terrified. The little nurse appeared, still preserving her calm, stupid manner, and said tranquilly:
“She has stopped breathing.”
Cachelin, throwing his napkin among the dishes, sprang forward like a madman; Cora followed him, her heart beating; but Lesable remained standing near the door, spying from a distance the white spot of the bed, scarcely visible by the light of the dying day. He saw the back of his father-in-law as he stooped over the couch, examining but disturbing nothing; and suddenly he heard his voice, which seemed to him to come from afar—from very far off—the other end of the world, one of those voices which pass through our dreams and which tell us astonishing things. Cachelin said: “It is all over. She is dead.” He saw his wife fall upon her knees and bury her face in the bedclothes, sobbing. Then he decided to go in, and, as Cachelin straightened himself up, the young man saw on the whiteness of the pillow the face of Aunt Charlotte, so hollow, so rigid, so pale, that with its closed eyes it looked like the face of waxen figure.
He asked in a tone of anguish: “Is it over?”
Cachelin, who was gazing at his sister, too, turned towards Lesable, and the two men looked at each other.
“Yes,” replied the elder, wishing to force his face into an expression of sorrow, but the two understood one another at a glance, and without knowing why, instinctively, they shook hands, as though each would thank the other for a service rendered.
Then, without losing any time, they quickly occupied themselves with the offices required by the dead.
Lesable undertook to fetch the doctor, and to discharge as quickly as possible the most urgent errands.
He took his hat and ran down the staircase, in haste to be in the street, to be alone, to breathe, to think, to rejoice in solitude over his good fortune.
When he had attended to his errands, instead of returning he went across to the boulevard, possessed with a desire to see the crowds, to mingle in the movement of the happy life of the evening. He felt like crying out to the passersby: “I have fifty thousand francs a year,” and he walked along, his hands in his pockets, stopping before the show-windows, examining the rich stuffs, the jewels, the artistic furniture, with this joyous thought: “I can buy these for myself now.”
Suddenly he stopped in front of a mourning store and the startling thought came into his mind: “What if she is not dead? What if they are mistaken?”
And he quickly turned homeward with this doubt troubling his mind.
On entering he demanded: “Has the doctor come?”
Cachelin replied: “Yes, he has confirmed the death, and is now writing the certificate.”
They re-entered the death-chamber. Cora was still weeping, seated in an armchair. She wept very gently, without noise, almost without grief now, with that facility for tears which women have.
As soon as they were all three alone in the room Cachelin said in a low voice: “Now that the nurse has gone to bed, we might look around to see if anything is concealed in the furniture.”
The two men set about the work. They emptied the drawers, rummaged through the pockets, unfolded every scrap of paper. By midnight they had found nothing of interest. Cora had fallen asleep, and she snored a little, in a regular fashion. César said: “Are we going to stay here until daybreak?” Lesable, perplexed, thought it was the proper thing. Then the father-in-law said: “In that case let us bring in armchairs”; and they went out to get the two big, soft easy-chairs which furnished the room of the young married couple.
An hour later the three relatives slept, with uneven snorings, before the corpse, icy in its eternal immobility.
They awakened when, at daybreak, the little nurse entered the chamber. Cachelin immediately said, rubbing his eyes: “I have been a little drowsy for the last half hour.”
Lesable, who was now sitting very upright, declared: “Yes, I noticed it very plainly. As for me, I have not lost consciousness for a second; I just closed my eyes to rest them.”
Cora went to her own room.
Then Lesable asked with apparent indifference:
“When do you think we should go to the notary’s to find out about the will?”
“Why—this morning if you wish.”
“Is it necessary that Cora should accompany us?”
“That would be better, perhaps, since she is in fact the heir.”
“In that case I shall go and tell her to get ready.”
Lesable went out with a quick step.
The office of Maître Belhomme was just opening its doors when Cachelin, Lesable and his wife presented themselves in deep mourning, with faces full of woe.
The notary at once appeared and, greeting them, bade them sit down. Cachelin spoke up: “Monsieur, you remember me: I am the brother of Mlle. Charlotte Cachelin. These are my daughter and my son-in-law. My poor sister died yesterday; we will bury her tomorrow. As you are the depositary of her will, we come to ask you if she has not formulated some request relative to her inhumation, or if you have not some communication to make to us.”
The notary opened a drawer, took out an envelope from which he drew a paper, and said:
“Here, Monsieur, is a duplicate of the will, the contents of which I will make you acquainted with immediately. The other document, exactly similar to this, is to remain in my hands.” And he read:
“I, the undersigned, Victorine-Charlotte Cachelin, here express my last wishes:
“I leave my entire fortune, amounting to about one million one hundred and twenty thousand francs, to the children who will be born of the marriage of my niece Céleste-Coralie Cachelin, the possession of the income to go to the parents until the majority of the eldest of their descendants.
“The provisions which follow regulate the share which shall fall to each child, and the share remaining to the parents until their death.
“In the event of my death before my niece has an heir, all my fortune is to remain in the hands of my notary, for the term of three years, for my wish above expressed to be complied with if a child is born during that time.
“But in the case of Coralie’s not obtaining from Heaven a descendant during the three years following my death, my fortune is to be distributed, by the hands of my notary, among the poor and the benevolent institutions contained in the following list.”
There followed an interminable series of names of communities, of societies, of orders, and of instructions.
Then Maître Belhomme politely placed the paper in the hands of Cachelin, who stood speechless with astonishment.
The notary thought he ought to add something by way of explanation to his visitors.
“Mlle. Cachelin,” said he, “when she did me the honour to speak to me for the first time of her project of making her will according to this plan, expressed to me the great desire which she had to see an heir of her race. She replied to all my reasoning by a more and more positive expression of her wishes, which were based, moreover, on a religious sentiment, she holding every sterile union to be the sign of divine malediction. I have not been able to modify her intentions in the least. Believe me, I regret this fact exceedingly.” Then he added, smiling at Coralie: “But I do not doubt that the desideratum of the deceased will be quickly realized.”
And the three relatives went away, too bewildered to think of anything.
Side by side they walked home, without speaking, ashamed and furious, as though they had robbed each other. All of Cora’s grief, even, had suddenly disappeared, the ingratitude of her aunt driving away all disposition to weep.
At last Lesable, whose pale lips were drawn with rage, said to his father-in-law:
“Pass me that paper, that I may read it with my own eyes.” Cachelin handed him the document and the young man began to read. He had stopped on the footpath and, jostled by the passersby, he stood there scanning the words with his piercing and practical eye. The two others waited a few steps in front, still silent.
Then he handed back the paper, saying:
“There is nothing to be done. She has tricked us beautifully.”
Cachelin, who was irritated by the failure of his hopes, replied:
“It was for you to have a child, damn it! You knew well enough that she wanted it long ago.”
Lesable shrugged his shoulders without answering.
On entering they found a crowd of people awaiting them, those whose calling brings them where a corpse is. Lesable went to his room, not wishing to be bothered, and César spoke roughly to all of them, crying out to them to leave him in peace, demanding that they get through with it as quickly as possible, thinking that they were very long in relieving him of the dead.
Cora, shut up in her room, made no sound, but after an hour Cachelin came and rapped on the door of his son-in-law.
“I come, my dear Léopold,” said he, “to submit some reflections to you, for it is necessary to come to some understanding. My opinion is that we should give her a befitting funeral in order to give no hint at the Ministry of what has happened. We will arrange about the expense. Besides, nothing is lost. You have not been married very long, and it would be too great a misfortune if you had no children. You must set about it, that’s all. And now to business. Will you drop in at the Ministry after a while? I am going to address the envelopes for the death announcements.”
Lesable grudgingly agreed that his father-in-law was right, and they sat down face to face, each at an end of a long table, to fill in the black-bordered cards.
Then they lunched. Cora reappeared, indifferent as though nothing of what had passed concerned her, and she ate a good deal, having fasted the evening before.
As soon as the meal was finished she returned to her room. Lesable left to go to the Ministry, and Cachelin installed himself on the balcony, his chair tilted back, in order to enjoy a pipe.
The broad sun of a summer day fell perpendicularly upon the multitude of roofs, some of which were pierced with windows which blazed as with fire and threw back the dazzling rays which the sight could not sustain.
And Cachelin, in his shirtsleeves, looked, with his eyes blinking under this stream of light, upon the green hillocks far, far away beyond the great city, beyond the dusty suburbs. He thought of how the Seine flowed there, broad, calm, and fresh, at the foot of hills which had trees on their slopes, and how much better it would be to be lying on one’s stomach in that greenery on the bank of the river, gazing into the water, than to be sitting on the burning lead of his balcony. And an uneasiness oppressed him, the tormenting thought, the grievous sensation of their disaster, of that unfortunate, unexpected thing, so much more bitter and brutal because the hope had been so ardent and so long-lived; and he said aloud, as people do in time of great trouble of mind, in the uprooting of a fixed idea: “Damned old witch!”
Behind him in the bedroom he heard the movements of those who were busying themselves with the preparations for the funeral, and the continuous noise of the hammer which nailed up the coffin. He had not looked at his sister since his visit to the lawyer.
But little by little the warmth, the gaiety, the clear charm of this beautiful day penetrated to his mind and his soul, and he thought that things were not so desperate. Why should his daughter not have a child? She had not been married two years yet! His son-in-law appeared vigorous, well built, and in good health, although small. They would have a child, and then besides, by Jupiter, they had to!
Lesable furtively entered the Ministry and slunk to his room. He found on the table a paper bearing these words: “The chief wants you.” He made a gesture of impatience. He felt a revolt against this yoke which had again fallen on his back; then a sudden and violent desire to succeed seized him. He would be chief in his turn, and soon; he would then go higher still. Without removing his frock-coat he went at once to M. Torchebeuf. He presented himself with one of those solemn faces which one assumes on sad occasions. But there was something more—an expression of sincere and profound sorrow, that involuntary dejection which a deep disappointment leaves upon the features.
The head of the chief was bent over his papers. He raised it suddenly, and said in a sharp tone: “I have needed you all morning. Why have you not come?”
Lesable replied: “Dear master, we have had the misfortune to lose my aunt, Mademoiselle Cachelin, and I have just come to ask you to attend the funeral, which will take place tomorrow.”
The frown on the brow of M. Torchebeuf immediately disappeared, and he replied with a touch of consideration: “That alters the case, my dear friend. I thank you and give you the day, for you must have a great deal to attend to.”
But Lesable, desiring to show his zeal, said: “Thanks, dear master, everything is finished, and I expected to remain here until the regular hour for closing.”
And he returned to his desk.
The news soon spread, and his fellows came from all the departments to bring him their congratulation rather than their condolences, and also to see how he bore himself. He endured their speeches and their looks with the resigned appearance of an actor, and also with a tact which astonished them.
“He conducts himself very well,” said some.
“Well he may,” added others; “he ought to be content—lucky dog!”
Maze, more audacious than any of them, asked with the careless air of a man of the world: “Do you know exactly the amount of the fortune?”
Lesable replied in a perfectly disinterested tone: “No, not precisely. The will says about twelve hundred thousand francs. I know that, as the notary was obliged to make us acquainted immediately with certain clauses relative to the funeral.”
It was the general opinion that Lesable would not remain in the Ministry. With an income of sixty thousand francs one does not remain a quill-driver. One is somebody and can be something according to one’s inclination.
Some thought that he was aiming at the Cabinet; others believed that he thought of the Chamber of Deputies. The chief was expecting to receive his resignation to transmit to the head of the department.
The entire Ministry came to the funeral, which was thought to be very meagre. But the word was around: “It is Mlle. Cachelin herself who wished it so. It was in the will.”
On the very next day Cachelin was at his post, and Lesable, after a week of indisposition, also returned, a little pale but assiduous and zealous as formerly. One would have said that nothing unlooked-for had happened to them. It was only remarked that they ostentatiously smoked very large cigars, that they talked of consols, railways, of stocks and shares, like men who have scrip in their pockets, and it became known, in a short time, that they had rented a country-house in the neighbourhood of Paris, in which to spend the summer season.
“They are miserly like the old woman,” they said. “It runs in the family. Birds of a feather flock together. But it doesn’t look well to retain a clerkship with such a fortune.”
In a short time the matter was forgotten. They were rated and judged.
IV
After the burial of Aunt Charlotte, Lesable thought again of the million, and, tormented by a rage all the more violent because it must be kept secret, he hated all the world on account of his deplorable ill-luck. “Why, having been married two years, have I not had a child?” he asked himself, and the fear of seeing his household remain sterile made his heart sink. Then, as an urchin who sees from afar the shining prize at the end of the goal, and swears to himself to attain it, and exerts all the vigour and tenacity necessary to reach it, so Lesable took the desperate resolution to become a parent. So many others had, why might not he also? Perhaps he had been negligent, careless, ignorant of something, the consequence of complete indifference. Never having felt a violent desire for an heir, he had never directed all his energies to obtaining this result. He determined to concentrate all his efforts; he would neglect nothing, and he must succeed because he so much desired to. But when he returned home, he felt ill enough to take to his bed. The disappointment had been too bitter and he bowed himself to the blow.
This nervous strain brought him to such a state that the physician judged his condition serious enough to prescribe absolute rest as well as an interminable course of treatment. They feared brain fever. In eight days, however, he was about again and resumed his work at the office. But he dare not yet, he believed, approach the conjugal bed. He hesitated and trembled as a general who is going to give battle, a battle on which depends his future. Each evening he awaited the next day, hoping for an access of virility and energy, a happy moment in which he might accomplish his desire. He felt his pulse every minute, and if it was too feeble or too rapid, he took a tonic, ate raw meat, and strengthened himself in every possible way. As his improvement was not very rapid, Lesable determined to pass the hot months in the country. He persuaded himself that the country air would be a sovereign balm for his weakness, and he assured himself of the accomplishment of the hoped-for success. He said to his father-in-law, in a confidential tone: “When we are once in the country my health will improve, and all will go well.” That one word “country” seemed to carry for him a mysterious significance.
They rented a small house in the village of Bezons, and the whole family took up their residence there. The two men started out on foot every morning for the station of Colombes, returning in the evening.
Cora, enchanted at living thus on the banks of the peaceful river, would seat herself on the sward, gather flowers, and bring home great bunches of delicate, trembling ferns.
Every evening they all three walked along the river as far as the tollgate of Morue, and, entering, drank a bottle of beer at the Restaurant des Tilleuls. The river, retarded by the long file of stakes, poured between them and leaped, bubbled, and foamed for the distance of a hundred feet. The roaring of the falls made the ground tremble, while a fine mist of vapour floated in the air, rising from the cascade like a light smoke, throwing on the surroundings a delightful odour of spray and a savour of wet earth. As night fell, a great light below and in front indicated Paris, and Cachelin exclaimed every evening: “What a city, after all!”
From time to time, a train, passing on the iron bridge which crossed the end of the island, made a rolling as of thunder and suddenly disappeared, sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right, toward Paris or toward the sea. They returned home slowly, seating themselves on the bank, watching the moon rise and pour on the river her soft and yellow light, which seemed to fuse with the water, and the wrinkles of the current moved like waves of fire. The toads uttered their short and metallic cries. The calls of the night birds rang out on the air, and sometimes a large, mute shadow glided on the river, troubling her calm and luminous course. It was a band of freebooters who, throwing in suddenly their net, drew it back without noise into their boat, dragging in its vast and sombre mesh a shoal of shining and trembling gudgeons, like a treasure drawn from the bottom of the sea, a living treasure of silver fish.
Cora, deeply moved, leaned tenderly upon the arm of her husband, whose design she suspected, although nothing of it had been spoken between them. It was for them like a new betrothal, a second expectation of the kiss of love. Sometimes he would bestow a furtive caress behind her ear, on that charming spot of tender flesh where curls the first hair. She responded by a pressure of the hand, and they attracted while refusing each other, incited and held back by a will more energetic, by the phantom of the million. Cachelin, appeased by the hope which he felt around him, was happy. He drank deeply and ate much, feeling, born in him at twilight, the hour of poetry, that foolish tenderness which comes to the dullest persons in certain aspects of nature: a rain of light through the branches, a sunset behind the distant hills, with purple reflections on the water. He declared: “As for me, in the presence of such things I believe in God. It touches me here,” and he indicated the pit of his stomach. “I feel myself turned upside down. I feel queer. It seems to me I have been steeped in a bath which makes me want to cry.”
As for Lesable, his health rapidly improved. He was seized with sudden ardours, which he did not understand, and he felt a desire to run like a young colt, to roll in the grass and neigh with delight.
He thought the favoured time was approaching. It was a true wedding night. Then they had a new honeymoon full of caresses and hopes. Later they perceived that their experiments were fruitless and their confidence was in vain.
But in the midst of despair Lesable did not lose courage; he continued to make the most superhuman efforts. His wife, moved by the same desire and trembling with the same fear, more robust too than he, encouraged him in his attempts and stimulated his flagging ardour. They returned to Paris in the early days of October.
Life became hard for them again. Unkind words fell from their lips, and Cachelin, who scented the situation, harassed them with the coarse and venomous epigrams of an old trooper.
And one incessant thought pursued them, tortured them, and sharpened their mutual rancour—that of the unattainable legacy. Cora now carried a sharp tongue, and lashed her husband. She treated him like a little boy, a mere brat, a man of no importance. Cachelin at every meal repeated: “If I were rich, I should have children in plenty; when one is poor it is necessary to be reasonable.” Then turning to his daughter he added: “You must be like me; but there—” and he looked at his son-in-law significantly, accompanying the look with a movement of the shoulders full of contempt.
Lesable made no reply. He felt himself to be a superior man allied to a family of boors.
At the Ministry they noticed the alteration in his manner, and even the chief one day asked him: “Are you not ill? You appear to me to be somewhat changed.”
Lesable replied: “Not at all, my dear sir. I am a little tired, perhaps, having worked very constantly, as you may have seen.”
He counted very surely on his promotion at the end of the year, and he had resumed, in this hope, the laborious life of a model employee. But among the meagre bonuses that were distributed Lesable’s was the smallest of all, and Cachelin received nothing. Struck to the heart, Lesable sought the chief, whom, for the first time, he addressed as “Monsieur.”
“Of what use is it, Monsieur, to work as I do, if I do not reap any reward?”
The head of Monsieur Torchebeuf appeared to bristle.
“I have already told you, Monsieur Lesable, that I will admit of no discussion of this nature between us. I repeat to you again that your claim is unreasonable, your actual fortune being so great as compared to the poverty of your colleagues—”
Lesable could not contain himself. “But I have nothing, Monsieur. Our aunt has left her fortune to the first child which shall be born of our marriage. We live, my father-in-law and I, on our salaries.”
The chief was greatly surprised. “If you have no fortune today, you will be rich, in any case, at some future day. It amounts to the same thing.”
Lesable withdrew, more cast down by his failure than by the uncertainty of Aunt Charlotte’s million.
As Cachelin came to his desk some days later the handsome Maze entered with a smile on his lips; next Pitolet appeared, his eyes shining; then Boissel opened the door, and advanced with an excited air, tittering and exchanging meaning looks with the others. Old Savon continued his copying, his clay pipe in the corner of his mouth, seated on his high chair, his feet twisted about the rounds after the fashion of little boys. Nobody spoke. They seemed to be waiting for something, and Cachelin continued to register his papers, announcing in a loud voice according to his custom: “Toulon: Furniture for the officers of the Richelieu. Lorient: Diving apparatus for the Desaix. Brest: Samples of sails of English manufacture.”
Lesable entered. He came now every morning for information in regard to the affairs which concerned him, his father-in-law no longer taking the trouble to send him instructions by the office boy.
While he was looking amongst the papers spread out on the table of the chief-clerk, Maze watched him from his corner, rubbing his hands, and Pitolet, who was rolling a cigarette, seemed full of mirth he could not control. He turned toward the copying-clerk:
“Say now, papa Savon, you have learned many things in your time, haven’t you?”
The old man, knowing they meant to tease him and to speak to him of his wife, did not reply.
Pitolet began: “You must have discovered the secret of begetting children, since you have had several.”
The old clerk raised his head. “You know, M. Pitolet, that I do like any joking on this subject. I have had the misfortune to marry an unworthy woman, and when I became convinced of her faithlessness I separated from her.”
Maze asked in an indifferent tone: “You have had several proofs of her infidelity, have you not?”
And the old man gravely replied: “I have.”
Pitolet put in again: “That has not prevented you from becoming the father of three or four children, I am told.”
The poor old man, growing very red, stammered: “You are trying to wound me, Monsieur Pitolet; but you will not succeed. My wife has had, in fact, three children. I have reason to believe that the first born is mine, but I deny the two others.”
Pitolet continued: “Everybody says, in truth, that the first one is yours. That is sufficient. It is very gratifying to have a child, very gratifying and very delightful. I wager Lesable there would be enchanted to have one—only one, like you.”
Cachelin had stopped writing. He did not laugh, although old Savon was his butt ordinarily, and he had poured out his stock of cruel jokes on the subject of the old clerk’s conjugal sorrows.
Lesable had collected his papers; but feeling himself attacked he wished to remain, held back by pride, confused and irritated, and wishing to know who had betrayed his secret.
Then the recollection of the confidence he had made to his chief came back to him, and he at once understood it was necessary to express his indignation if he did not wish to become the butt of the whole Ministry.
Boissel marched up and down the room, all the time tittering. He imitated the hoarse voices of the street criers, and bellowed: “The secret of begetting children, for ten centimes—two sous! Buy the secret of begetting children—revealed by Monsieur Savon, with many horrible details.” Everybody began to laugh except Lesable and his father-in-law, and Pitolet, turning toward the order-clerk, said: “What is the matter with you, Cachelin? You seem to have lost your habitual gaiety. One would think that you do not find it amusing to believe that old Savon could have had a child by his wife. I think it very funny. Everybody cannot do as much.”
Lesable pretended to be deeply absorbed in his papers and to hear nothing of what was going on about him, but he was as white as a ghost.
Boissel took up the strain in the same mocking voice: “The utility of heirs for getting an inheritance, ten centimes, two sous; who will buy?”
Then Maze, who thought this was very poor sort of wit, and who personally was enraged at Lesable having robbed him of the hope of a fortune which he had secretly cherished, said pointedly: “What is the matter with you, Lesable? You are very pale.”
Lesable raised his head and looked his colleague full in the face. He hesitated a second, while his lip trembled as he tried to formulate a bitter reply, but, unable to find the phrase he sought, he responded: “There is nothing the matter with me. I am only astonished that you display so much delicacy.”
Maze, who stood with his back to the fire and his hands under his coattails, replied, laughing: “One does the best one can, old man. We are like you, we do not always succeed—”
An explosion of laughter interrupted his words. Old Savon, who now vaguely comprehended that the clerks no longer addressed their railleries to him, looked around with his mouth gaping and his pen suspended in the air. And Cachelin waited, ready to come to blows with the first person who came in his way.
Lesable stammered: “I do not understand. In what have I not succeeded?”
The handsome Maze dropped the tails of his coat, and began to stroke his mustache. “I know that you ordinarily succeed in all that you undertake. I have done wrong to speak of you. Besides, we were speaking of old Savon’s children, and not of yours, as you haven’t any. Now since you succeed in all your enterprises, it is evident that, if you do not have children, it is because you do not want them.”
“What business is it of yours?” demanded Lesable sharply.
At this provoking tone Maze in his turn raised his voice: “Hold on! what do you take me for? Try to be polite, or I’ll settle you!”
Lesable trembled with anger, and losing all self-control, replied: “Monsieur Maze, I am not, like you, a great booby, or a great coxcomb. And I forbid you ever to speak to me again. I care neither for you nor your kind.” And he threw a look of defiance at Pitolet and Boissel.
Maze suddenly understood that true force is in calmness and irony, but wounded in his most vulnerable part—his vanity—he wished to strike his enemy to the very heart, and replied in the protecting tone of a benevolent well-wisher, but with rage in his eyes: “My dear Lesable, you pass all bounds. But I understand your vexation. It is pitiful to lose a fortune, and to lose it for so little, for a thing so easy, so simple. If you wish, I will do you this service myself, for nothing, out of pure friendship. It is only an affair of five minutes—”
He was still speaking when Lesable hurled the inkstand of old Savon full at his head.
A flood of ink covered his face and metamorphosed him into a Negro with surprising rapidity. He sprang forward, rolling the whites of his eyes, with his hands raised ready to strike. But Cachelin covered his son-in-law, and grasping Maze by the arms pushed him aside, and, after pounding him well, dashed him against the wall. Maze disengaged himself with a violent effort, and rushed through the door, crying to the two men: “You shall soon hear from me!” Pitolet and Boissel followed him.
Boissel explained his moderation by declaring he should have killed someone if he had taken part in the struggle.
As soon as he entered his room Maze endeavoured to remove the stain, but without success. The ink was violet, and was indelible and ineffaceable. He stood before his glass furious and disconsolate, rubbing savagely at his face with a napkin rolled in a knot. He obtained only a richer black, mixed with red, the blood coming to the surface with the friction.
Boissel and Pitolet strove to advise and console him. One suggested the application of pure olive oil, the other prescribed a bath of ammonia. The office boy was sent to ask the advice of a chemist. He brought back a yellow liquid and pumice stone, which was used with no result.
Maze, disheartened, sank into a chair and declared: “Now it only remains to settle the question of honour. Will you act as seconds for me, and demand of Monsieur Lesable a sufficient apology, or the reparation by arms?”
They both at once consented, and began to discuss the steps to be taken. They had no idea about affairs of this kind, but not wishing to betray their ignorance, and desiring to appear correct, their advice were timorous and conflicting. It was finally decided that they should consult a sea captain who was attached to the Ministry to look after the coal distribution. But he was as ignorant as they were. After some moments of reflection, however, he advised them to go and see Lesable and ask to be put in touch with two of his friends.
As they proceeded to the office of their colleague, Boissel suddenly stopped. “Is it not imperative that we should have gloves?” he asked.
Pitolet hesitated an instant. “Perhaps it is,” he replied seriously. But in order to procure the gloves it would have been necessary to go out, and the chief was rather severe.
They sent the office boy to bring an assortment from the nearest glove-store.
To decide upon the colour was a question of time. Boissel preferred black. Pitolet thought that shade out of place in the circumstances. At last they chose violet.
Seeing the two men enter gloved and solemn, Lesable raised his head and brusquely demanded: “What do you want?”
Pitolet replied: “Monsieur, we are charged by our friend, Monsieur Maze, to ask of you an apology, or a reparation by arms for the insult you have inflicted on him.”
Lesable, still greatly exasperated, cried: “What, he insults me, and sends you to provoke me? Tell him that I despise him—that I despise all he can say or do.”
Boissel advanced with a tragic air. “You will force us, Monsieur, to publish in the papers an official report, which will be very disagreeable to you.”
Pitolet maliciously added: “And which will gravely injure your honour, and your future advancement.”
Lesable, overwhelmed, looked at them. What should he do? He sought to gain time. “Will you wait a moment in the office of Monsieur Pitolet? You shall have my answer in ten minutes.”
When at last alone he looked around him, seeking for some counsel, some protection.
A duel! He was going to fight a duel!
He sat terrified, with a beating heart. He, a peaceful man, who had never dreamed of such a possibility, who was not prepared for the risk, whose courage was not equal to such a formidable event. He rose from his chair and sat down again, his heart wildly beating, his legs sinking under him. His anger and his strength had totally deserted him.
But the thought of the opinion of the Ministry, the gossip the story would make among his acquaintances, aroused his failing pride, and, not knowing what to decide, he sought his chief to ask his advice. M. Torchebeuf was surprised and perplexed. An armed encounter seemed to him unnecessary, and he thought a duel would demoralise the service. He replied: “I can give you no advice. It is a question of honour, which does not concern me. Do you wish that I should give you a note to Commandant Bouc? He is a competent man in such matters, and will be able to advise you.”
Lesable accepted the offer, and saw the commandant, who even consented to be his second; he took an under-chief for another.
Boissel and Pitolet waited with their gloves on. They had borrowed two chairs from another office, in order to have four seats.
They saluted gravely and took their places, while Pitolet explained the situation. The commandant, having listened attentively, replied: “The case is serious, but it does not appear to me to be irreparable. Everything depends on the intention.” He was a sly old sailor, who was enjoying himself.
A long discussion began regarding the reciprocal apologies the principals should make. M. Maze acknowledging not to have had the intention to offend, M. Lesable should hasten to avow himself in the wrong in throwing the inkstand at the head of M. Maze, and pray to be excused for his inconsiderate violence.
The four proxies returned to their clients.
Maze, seated before his table, was agitated by the dread of the possible duel, although expecting to see his adversary retreat, and regarded his face attentively in one of those little, round tin mirrors which the employees concealed in a drawer for the purpose of adjusting their hair and ties before leaving in the evening. He read the letter of apology which had been prepared by the seconds of both parties, and declared with evident satisfaction: “That appears to me to be very honourable; I am willing to sign it.”
Lesable, for his part, accepted without discussion the arrangement of his seconds, and declared: “As this is the result of your mutual consultation, I can but acquiesce.”
The four plenipotentiaries assembled. The letters were exchanged, they saluted gravely, and so the affair terminated. An extraordinary excitement reigned in the Ministry. The employees, carrying the news, passed from one door to the other, and lingered to gossip about in the lobbies. When they heard how the affair had ended, there was general disappointment. Someone said: “Still, that will not get Lesable a baby.” And the saying took. One employee made a rhyme upon it.
But at the moment when everything seemed adjusted, a difficulty suggested itself to Boissel: “What would be the attitude of the two adversaries when they found themselves face to face? Would they speak, or would they ignore each other?” It was decided that they should meet, as if by chance, in the office of the chief, and exchange, in the presence of M. Torchebeuf, some words of politeness.
This ceremony was accordingly accomplished, and Maze, having sent for a carriage, returned home, to try to remove the stain from his face.
Lesable and Cachelin drove home together without speaking, mutually exasperated, each blaming the other for the disgraceful affair.
The moment he entered the house, Lesable threw his hat violently on the table and cried to his wife: “I have had enough of it! I have a duel on your account now!” She looked at him in angry surprise.
“A duel? How is that?”
“Because Maze has insulted me on your account.”
She approached him. “On my account? How?”
He threw himself passionately into an armchair and exclaimed: “He has insulted me—no need to say any more about it.”
But she would know. “You must repeat to me the words he used about me.”
Lesable blushed, and then stammered: “He told me—he told me—it was in regard to your sterility.”
She gave a start; then recoiling in fury, the paternal rudeness showing through the woman’s nature, she burst out:
“I! I am sterile, am I? What does that clown know about it? Sterile with you, yes; because you are not a man. But if I had married another, no matter who, do you hear? I should have had children. Ah, you had better talk! It has cost me dear to have married a softy like you! And what did you reply to this good-for-nothing?”
Lesable, frightened before this storm, stuttered: “I—I slapped his face.”
She looked at him in astonishment.
“And what did he do?”
“He sent me a challenge; that was all.”
She was instantly interested, attracted, like all women, by the dramatic element, and she asked, immediately softened, and suddenly seized with a sort of esteem for this man who was going to risk his life for her sake:
“When are you going to fight him?”
He replied tranquilly: “We are not going to fight: the matter has been arranged by our seconds. Maze has sent me an apology.”
Transported with rage, she boxed his ears. “Ah, he insults me in your presence, and you permit it, and refuse to fight him! It needed but this to make you a coward.”
Enraged at this he cried: “I command you to hold your tongue. I know better than you do how to protect my honour. To convince you, here is the letter of M. Maze; take it and read it, and see for yourself.”
She took the letter, ran her eye over it, and divining the whole truth, sneered: “You wrote him a letter also? You are afraid of each other. What cowards men are! If we were in your place, we women—after all, it is I who have been insulted, your wife, and you are willing to let it pass. That need not astonish me, for you are not man enough to beget a child. That explains everything. You are as impotent before women as you are cowardly among men. Ah, I have married a nice worm!”
She had suddenly assumed the voice and gestures of her father, the coarse and vulgar manners of an old trooper, and the intonations of a man.
Standing before him, her hands on her hips, tall, strong, vigorous, her chest protruding, her cheeks flushed, her voice deep and vibrant, she looked at this little man seated in front of her, a trifle bald, clean shaven except for the short side-whiskers of the lawyer, and she felt a desire to crush, to strangle him.
She continued: “You are capable of nothing—of nothing whatever! You allow everybody at the Ministry, even, to be promoted over your head!”
The door opened, and Cachelin entered, attracted by the sound of their voices, and demanded to know what was the matter. “I told the truth to that worm!” answered Cora.
Lesable raised his eyes, and for the first time noticed the resemblance between father and daughter. It seemed to him that a veil was lifted and the pair were revealed in their true colours—the same coarse nature was common to both; and he, a ruined man, was condemned to live between the two forever.
Cachelin exclaimed: “If you only could get a divorce! It is not very satisfactory to have married a capon.”
At that word, trembling and blazing with fury, Lesable sprang up with a bound. He rushed at his father-in-law shouting: “Get out of here! Begone! You are in my house—do you understand? and I order you to leave it.” He seized from the table a bottle of sedative water and brandished it like a club.
Cachelin, intimidated, backed out of the room, muttering: “What will he do next, I wonder?”
But Lesable was too angry to be easily appeased. He turned upon his wife, who regarded this outburst in astonishment, and placing the bottle on the table cried: “As for you—as for you—” But as words failed him to express his rage, he was choked into silence, and stood glaring at her with a distorted visage.
She began to laugh.
This mocking laughter put him beside himself, and springing upon her he seized her by the throat with his left hand, while he boxed her ears furiously with the right. She recoiled, terrified and suffocating, and fell backward on the bed, while he continued to strike her. Suddenly he raised himself, out of breath, exhausted and heartily ashamed of his brutality; he stammered: “There—there—there—that will do!”
But she did not move; it seemed as if he had killed her. She lay on her back, on the side of the bed, her face concealed by her hands.
He approached her in alarm, wondering what had happened, and expecting her to uncover her face and look at him. She made no sign, and suspense becoming intolerable he murmured: “Cora, Cora, speak!” But she did not move or reply.
What was the matter with her? What was she going to do?
His rage had passed—fallen as suddenly as it had been aroused. He felt that his conduct was odious, almost criminal. He had beaten his wife, his own wife—he who was circumspect, cold, and courteous. And in the softness his remorse awakened, he would ask her forgiveness. He threw himself on his knees at her side and covered with kisses the cheek he had just smitten. He softly touched the end of a finger of the hand that covered her face. She seemed to feel nothing. He coaxed her, caressing her as one caresses a beaten dog. She took no notice of him. “Cora, listen: I have done wrong! Cora, hear me!” She seemed as one dead. Then he tried to take her hand from her face. It obeyed his effort passively, and he saw an open eye, which stared at him with a fixed and alarming gaze.
He continued: “Listen, Cora, I was transported with fury. It was your father who drove me to do this shameful thing. A man cannot take such an insult as that.” She made no reply, as if she heard nothing. He did not know what to say, or what to do. He kissed her under the ear, and raising himself he saw a tear in the corner of her eye, a great tear which rolled slowly down her cheek, and her eyelids fluttered and closed convulsively. He was seized with shame, deeply moved, and opening his arms he threw himself on his wife; he removed the other hand from her face and covered it with kisses, crying: “My poor Cora, forgive me! forgive me!”
Still she wept, without a sound, without a sob, as one weeps from the deepest grief. He held her pressed closely against him, caressing her and whispering in her ear all the tender words he could command. But she remained insensible. However, she ceased to weep. They continued thus a long time locked in each other’s arms.
The night fell, folding in its sombre shadow the little room; and when it was entirely dark he was emboldened to solicit her pardon in a manner that was calculated to revive their hopes.
When they had risen he resumed his ordinary voice and manner, as if nothing had happened. She appeared, on the contrary, softened, and spoke in a gentler tone than usual, regarding her husband with submissive, almost caressing eyes, as if this unexpected correction had relaxed her nerves and softened her heart.
Lesable said quietly: “Your father must be tired of being alone so long. It will soon be dinnertime; go and fetch him.”
She obeyed him.
It was seven o’clock indeed, and the little maid announced dinner, as Cachelin, serene and smiling, appeared with his daughter. They seated themselves at table and talked on this evening with more cordiality than they had done for a long time, as if something agreeable had happened to everybody.
V
But their hopes, always sustained, always renewed, ended in nothing. From month to month their expectations declined, in spite of the persistence of Lesable and the cooperation of his wife. They were consumed with anxiety. Each without ceasing reproached the other for their want of success, and the husband in despair, emaciated, fatigued, had to suffer all the vulgarity of Cachelin, who in their domestic warfare called him “M. Lecoq,” in remembrance, no doubt, of the day that he missed receiving a bottle in his face for having called his son-in-law a capon.
He and his daughter, whose interests were in league, enraged by the constant thought of this great fortune so near, and yet impossible to seize, racked their invention to humiliate and torture this impotent man, who was the cause of all their misfortune.
As they sat at table, Cora repeated each day: “There is very little for dinner. If we were rich, it would be otherwise. It is not my fault.”
When Lesable set out for his office, she called from her room: “Do not forget your umbrella or you will come back as muddy as an omnibus wheel. It’s not my fault that you are still obliged to follow the trade of a quill-driver.”
When she went out herself, she never failed to cry: “If I had married another man, I should have a carriage of my own.”
Every hour and on every occasion she harped on this subject. She pricked her husband with reproaches, lashed him with insult, held him alone guilty, and made him responsible for the loss of the fortune that should have been hers.
At last, one evening, losing all patience, Lesable exclaimed: “In the dog’s name, can’t you hold your tongue? From first to last it is your fault, and yours alone, do you hear, if we have not a child, because I have already had one.”
He lied, preferring anything to this eternal reproach, to this shame of appearing impotent. She looked at him, astonished at first, seeking the truth in his eyes; at last comprehending, and full of disdain, she cried: “You have a child, have you?”
He replied with effrontery: “Yes, an illegitimate child, that I am bringing up at Asnières.”
She answered quietly: “We will go and see it tomorrow, so that I may find out how what he is like.”
He only blushed to the ears and stammered: “Just as you please.”
She rose the next morning at seven o’clock, very much to her husband’s astonishment.
“Are we not going to see your child? You promised me yesterday evening. Perhaps you haven’t got it any more today.”
He sprang from the bed hastily. “It is not my child we are going to see, but a physician, who will give us his opinion on your case.”
She replied in the tone of a woman who was sure of herself: “I shall ask nothing better.”
Cachelin was instructed to inform the chief that his son-in-law was ill, and Lesable and his wife advised by a neighbouring chemist, rang at one o’clock exactly the office-bell of Dr. Lefilleul, author of several works on the hygiene of generation.
They were shown into a salon decorated in white and gold, but scantily furnished in spite of the number of chairs and sofas. They seated themselves and waited. Lesable was excited, trembling, and also ashamed. Their turn came at last, and they were shown into a sort of office, where they were received by a short, stout man of dignified and ceremonious demeanour.
He waited till they should explain their case, but Lesable had not courage to utter a word, and blushed up to the roots of his hair. It therefore devolved on his wife to speak, and with a resolute manner and in a tranquil voice, she made known their errand.
“Monsieur, we have come to discover the reason why we cannot have children. A large fortune depends upon this for us.”
The consultation was long, minute, and painful. Cora alone seemed unembarrassed, and submitted to the critical examination of the medical expert, sustained by the great interest she had at stake.
After having studied for nearly two hours the constitutions of the married pair, the practitioner said: “I discover nothing either abnormal or special. Your case is by no means an uncommon one. There is as much divergence in constitutions as in characters. When we see so many households out of joint through incompatibility of temper, it is not astonishing to see others sterile through incompatibility of physique. Madame appears to be particularly well fitted for the offices of motherhood. Monsieur, on his side, although presenting no conformation outside of the general rule, seems to me enfeebled, perhaps the consequence of his ardent desire to become a parent. Will you permit me to make an auscultation?”
Lesable, greatly disturbed, removed his waistcoat, and the doctor glued his ear to the thorax, and then to the back of his patient, tapping him continuously from the throat to the stomach, and from the loins to the nape of his neck. He discovered a slight irregularity in the action of the heart, and even a menace to the right lung. “—It is necessary for you to be very careful, Monsieur, very careful. This is anaemia, and comes from exhaustion—nothing else. These conditions, although now insignificant, may in a short time become incurable.”
Lesable turned pale with anguish and begged for a prescription.
The doctor ordered a complicated regime consisting of iron, raw meat, and soup, combined with exercise, rest, and a sojourn in the country during the hot weather. He indicated, moreover, the symptoms that proclaimed the desired fecundity, and initiated them into the secrets which were usually practised with success in such cases.
The consultation cost forty francs.
When they were in the street, Cora burst out full of wrath:
“I have discovered what my fate is to be!”
Lesable made no reply. He was tormented by anxiety, he was recalling and weighing each word of the physician. Had the doctor made a mistake, or had he judged truly? He thought no more of the inheritance now, or the desired offspring; it was a question of life or death. He seemed to hear a whistling in his lungs, and his heart sounded as though it were beating in his ears. In crossing the garden of the Tuileries he was overcome with faintness and had to sit down to recover himself. His wife, as though to humiliate him by her superior strength, remained standing in front of him, regarding him from head to foot with pitying contempt. He breathed heavily, exaggerating the effort by his fears, and with the fingers of his left hand on his right wrist he counted the pulsations of the artery.
Cora, who was stamping with impatience, cried: “When will you be ready? It’s time to stop this nonsense!” He arose with the air of a martyr, and went on his way without uttering a word.
When Cachelin was informed of the result of the consultation, his fury knew no bounds. He bawled out: “We know now whose fault it is to a certainty. Ah, well!” And he looked at his son-in-law with his ferocious eyes as though he would devour him.
Lesable neither listened nor heard, being totally absorbed in thoughts of his health and the menace to his existence. Father and daughter might say what they pleased. They were not in his skin, and as for him he meant to preserve his skin at all hazards. He had the various prescriptions of the physician filled, and at each meal he produced an array of bottles with the contents of which he dosed himself regardless of the sneers of his wife and her father. He looked at himself in the glass every instant, placed his hand on his heart each moment to study its action, and removed his bed to a dark room which was used as a clothes closet to put himself beyond the reach of carnal temptation.
He conceived for his wife a hatred mingled with contempt and disgust. All women, moreover, appeared to him to be monsters, dangerous beasts, whose mission it was to destroy men; and he thought no more of the will of Aunt Charlotte, except as one recalls a past accident which might have been fatal.
Some months passed. There remained but one year before the fatal term.
Cachelin had suspended in the dining room an enormous calendar, from which he effaced a day each morning, raging at the impotence of his son-in-law, who was allowing this great fortune to escape week by week. And the thought that he would have to drudge at the office all his life, and limit his expenses to the pitiful sum of two thousand francs a year, filled him with a passion of anger that found vent in the most violent abuse. He could not look at Lesable without shaking with rage, with a brutal desire to beat, to crush, to trample on him. He hated him with an inordinate hatred. Every time he saw him open the door and enter the room, it seemed to him that a robber had broken into the house and robbed him of a sacred inheritance. He hated him more than his most mortal enemy, and he despised him at the same time for his weakness, and above all for the baseness which caused him to sacrifice their common hope of posterity to the fear of his health. Lesable, in fact, lived as completely apart from his wife as if no tie united them. He never approached or touched her; he avoided even looking at her, as much through shame as through fear.
Cachelin, every morning asked his daughter: “Well, how about your husband? Has he made up his mind?”
And she would reply: “No, papa.”
Each evening saw the most painful scenes take place at table. Cachelin continually reiterated: “When a man is not a man, he had better get out and yield his place to another.”
And Cora added: “The fact is, there are some men who are both useless and wearisome. I do not know why they are permitted to live only to become a burden to everyone.”
Lesable dosed himself and made no reply. At last one day his father-in-law cried: “Say, you, if you do not change your manners now that your health is improving, do you know what my daughter means to do?”
The son-in-law raised his eyes, foreseeing a new outrage. Cachelin continued: “She will take somebody else, confound you! You may consider yourself lucky if she hasn’t done so already. When a girl has married a weakling like you, she is entitled to do anything.”
Lesable, turning livid with wrath, replied: “It is not I who prevents her from following your good counsel.”
Cora lowered her eyes, and Cachelin, knowing that he had said an outrageous thing, remained silent and confused.
VI
At the office the two men seemed to live on good enough terms. A sort of tacit pact was entered into between them to conceal from their colleagues their internal warfare. They addressed each other as “my dear Cachelin,” “my dear Lesable”; they even feigned to laugh and talk together as men who were satisfied and happy in their domestic relations.
Lesable and Maze, for their part, comported themselves in the presence of each other with the ceremonious politeness of adversaries who had met in battle.
The duel they had escaped, but whose shadow had chilled them, exacted of them an exaggerated courtesy, a more marked consideration, and perhaps a secret desire for reconciliation, born of the vague fear of a new complication. Their attitude was recognised and approved as that of men of the world, who had had an affair of honour. They saluted each other from a distance with severe gravity, and with a flourish of hats that was graceful and dignified. They did not speak, their pride preventing either from making the first advances. But one day, Lesable, whom the Chief demanded to see immediately, to show his zeal, started with a great rush through the lobby and ran right into the stomach of an employee. It was Maze. They recoiled before each other, and Lesable exclaimed with eager politeness: “I hope I have not hurt you, Monsieur?”
Maze responded: “Not at all, sir.”
From this moment they thought it expedient to exchange some phrases when they met. Then, in the interchange of courtesies, there were little attentions they paid each other from which arose in a short time certain familiarities, then an intimacy tempered with reserve and restrained by a certain hesitation; then on the strength of their increasing goodwill and visits made to the room of each other, a comradeship was established. They often gossiped together now of the news that found its way into the bureau. Lesable laid aside his air of superiority, and Maze no longer paraded his social successes. Cachelin often joined in the conversation and watched with interest their growing friendship. Sometimes as the handsome Maze left the apartment with head erect and square shoulders, he turned to his son-in-law and hissed: “There goes a fine man!” One morning when they were all four together, for old Savon never left his copying, the chair of the old clerk, having been tampered with no doubt by some practical joker, collapsed under him, and the good man rolled on the floor uttering cries of affright. The three others flew to his assistance. The order-clerk attributed this machination to the communists, and Maze earnestly desired to see the wounded part. Cachelin and he even essayed to take off the poor old fellow’s clothes to dress the injury, they said, but he resisted desperately, crying that he was not hurt.
When the fun was over, Cachelin suddenly exclaimed: “I say, M. Maze, now that we are all together, can you not do us the honour of dining with us next Sunday? It will give pleasure to all three of us, myself, my son-in-law, and my daughter, who has often heard your name when we speak of the office. Shall it be yes?”
Lesable added his entreaty, but more coldly than his father-in-law:
“Pray come,” he said; “it will give us great pleasure.”
Maze hesitated, embarrassed and smiling at the remembrance of past events.
Cachelin urged him: “Come, say we may expect you!”
“Very well, then, I accept.”
Cachelin said on entering the house: “Cora, do you know that M. Maze is coming here to dinner next Sunday?”
Cora, surprised at first, stammered: “M. Maze? Really!” She blushed up to her hair without knowing why. She had so often heard him spoken of, his manners, his successes, for he was looked upon at the office as a man who was irresistible with women, that she had long felt a desire to know him.
Cachelin continued rubbing his hands: “You will see that he is a real man, and a fine fellow. He is as tall as a carbineer; he does not resemble your husband there.”
She did not reply, confused as if they had divined her dreams of him.
They prepared this dinner with as much solicitude as the one to which Lesable had been formerly invited. Cachelin discussed the dishes, wishing to have everything served in perfection; and as though a confidence unavowed and still undetermined had risen up in his heart, he seemed more gay, tranquilised by some secret and sure prevision.
Through all that Sunday he watched the preparations with the utmost solicitude, while Lesable was doing some urgent work, brought the evening before from the office.
It was the first week of November, and the new year was at hand.
At seven o’clock Maze arrived, in high good humour. He entered as though he felt very much at home, with a compliment and a great bouquet of roses for Cora. He added, as he presented them, in the familiar tone of a man of the world: “It seems to me, Madame, I know you already, and that I have known you from your childhood, for many years your father has spoken to me of you.”
Cachelin, seeing the flowers, cried: “Ah they are charming!” and his daughter recalled that Lesable had not brought her a bouquet the day he was introduced.
The handsome clerk seemed enchanted, laughing and bestowing on Cora the most delicate flatteries, which brought the colour to her cheeks.
He found her very attractive. She thought him charming and seductive. When he had gone, Cachelin exclaimed: “Isn’t he a fine fellow? What havoc he creates! They say he can wheedle any woman!”
Cora, less demonstrative, avowed, however, that she thought him very agreeable, and not so much of a poseur as she had believed.
Lesable, who seemed less sad and weary than usual, acknowledged that he had underrated Maze on his first acquaintance.
Maze returned at intervals, which gradually grew shorter. He delighted everybody. They petted and coddled him. Cora prepared for him the dishes he liked, and the intimacy of the three men soon became so great that they were seldom seen apart.
The new friend took the whole family to the theatre in boxes procured through the press. They returned on foot, through the streets thronged with people, to the door of Lesable’s apartments, Maze and Cora walking before, keeping step, hip to hip, swinging with the same movement, the same rhythm, like two beings created to walk side by side through life. They spoke to each other in a low tone, laughing softly together, and seemed to understand each other instinctively: sometimes the young woman would turn her head and throw behind her a glance at her husband and father.
Cachelin followed them with a look of benevolent regard, and often, forgetting that he spoke to his son-in-law, he declared: “They have the same physique exactly. It is a pleasure to see them together.”
Lesable replied quietly: “Yes, they are about the same figure.” He was happy now in the consciousness that his heart was beating more vigorously, that his lungs acted more freely, and that his health had improved in every respect; his rancour against his father-in-law, whose cruel taunts had now entirely ceased, vanished little by little.
The first day of January he was promoted to the chief clerkship. His joy was so excessive over his happy event that on returning home he embraced his wife for the first time in six months. She appeared embarrassed, as if he had done something improper, and she looked at Maze, who had called to present to her his devotion and respect on the first day of the year. He also had an embarrassed air, and turned toward the window like a man who does not wish to see.
But Cachelin very soon resumed his brutalities, and began to harass his son-in-law with his coarse jests.
Sometimes he even attacked Maze, as though he blamed him also for the catastrophe suspended over them—the inevitable date of which approached nearer every minute.
Cora alone appeared composed, entirely happy and radiant. She had forgotten, it seemed, the threatening nearness of the term.
March had come. All hope seemed lost, for it would be three years on the twentieth of July since Aunt Charlotte’s death.
An early spring had advanced the vegetation, and Maze proposed to his friends one Sunday to make an excursion to the banks of the Seine, to gather the violets in the shady places. They set out by a morning train and got off at Maisons-Laffitte. A breath of winter still lingered among the bare branches, but the turf was green and lustrous, flecked with flowers of white and blue, and the fruit-trees on the hillsides seemed garlanded with roses as their bare branches showed through the clustering blossoms. The Seine, thick and muddy from the late rains, flowed slowly between its banks gnawed by the frosts of winter; and all the country, steeped in vapour, exhaled a savour of sweet humidity under the warmth of the first days of spring.
They wandered in the park. Cachelin, more glum than usual, tapped his cane on the gravelled walk, thinking bitterly of their misfortune, so soon to be irremediable. Lesable, morose also, feared to wet his feet in the grass, while his wife and Maze were gathering flowers to make a bouquet. Cora for several days had seemed suffering, and looked weary and pale. She was soon tired and wished to return for luncheon. They came upon a little restaurant near an old ruined mill, and the traditional repast of a Parisian picnic party was soon served under a green arbour, on a little table covered with two napkins, and quite near the banks of the river. They had fried gudgeons, roast beef cooked with potatoes, and they had come to the salad of fresh green lettuce, when Cora rose brusquely and ran toward the river, pressing her napkin with both hands to her mouth.
Lesable, uneasy, wondered what could be the matter. Maze disconcerted, blushed, and stammered, “I do not know—she was well a moment since.”
Cachelin appeared frightened, and remained seated, with his fork in the air, a leaf of salad suspended at the end. Then he rose, trying to see his daughter. Bending forward, he perceived her leaning against a tree and seeming very ill. A swift suspicion flashed through his mind, and he fell back into his seat and regarded with an embarrassed air the two men, both of whom seemed now equally confused. He looked at them with anxious eyes, no longer daring to speak, wild with anguish and hope.
A quarter of an hour passed in utter silence. Then Cora reappeared, a little pale and walking slowly. No one questioned her; each seemed to divine a happy event, difficult to speak of. They burned to know, but feared also to hear, the truth. Cachelin alone had the courage to ask: “You are better now?” And she replied: “Yes, thank you; there is not much the matter; but we will return early, as I have a light headache.” When they set out she took the arm of her husband as if to signify something mysterious she had not yet dared to avow.
They separated at the station of Saint-Lazare. Maze, making a pretext of some business affair which he had just remembered, bade them adieu, after having shaken hands with all of them. As soon as Cachelin was alone with his daughter and his son-in-law, he asked: “What was the matter with you at breakfast?”
But Cora did not reply at first; after hesitating for a moment she said: “It was nothing much; a little sickness of the stomach was all.” She walked with a languid step, but with a smile on her lips.
Lesable was ill at ease, his mind distracted; haunted with confused and contradictory ideas, angry, feeling an unavowable shame, cherishing a cowardly jealousy, he was like those sleepers who close their eyes in the morning that they may not see the ray of light which glides between the curtains and strikes the bed like a brilliant shaft.
As soon as he entered the house, he shut himself in his own room, pretending to be occupied with some unfinished work. Then Cachelin, placing his hands on his daughter’s shoulders, exclaimed: “You are pregnant, aren’t you?”
She stammered: “Yes, I think so. Two months.”
Before she had finished speaking, he bounded with joy, then began to dance the cancan around her, an old recollection of his garrison days. He lifted his leg and leaped like a young kid in spite of his great paunch, and made the whole apartment shake with his gambols. The furniture jostled, the glasses on the buffet rattled, and the chandelier oscillated like the lamp of a ship.
He took his beloved daughter in his arms and embraced her frantically. Then tapping her lightly on the shoulder he cried: “Ah, it is done, then, at last! Have you told your husband?”
She murmured, suddenly intimidated: “No—not yet—I—I—was waiting—”
But Cachelin exclaimed: “Good, very good. You find it awkward. I will run and tell him myself.”
And he rushed to the apartment of his son-in-law. On seeing him enter, Lesable, who was doing nothing, rose and looked inquiringly at Cachelin, who left him no time for conjecture, but cried: “Do you know your wife is in the family way?”
The husband was stricken speechless, his countenance changed, and the blood surged to the roots of his hair: “What? How? Cora? you say—” he faltered when he recovered his voice.
“I say that she is pregnant; do you understand? Now is our chance!”
In his joy he took Lesable’s hands and pressed and shook them, as if to felicitate him, to thank him, and cried: “Ah, at last it is true, it is true! it is true! Think of the fortune we shall have!” and unable to contain himself longer, he caught his son-in-law in his arms and embraced him, crying: “More than a million! think of it! more than a million!” and he began to dance more violently than ever.
“But come, she is waiting for you, come and embrace her, at least,” and taking him by the shoulders he pushed Lesable before him, and threw him like a ball into the apartment where Cora stood anxiously waiting and listening.
The moment she saw her husband, she recoiled, stifled with a sudden emotion. He stood before her, pale and severe. He had the air of a judge, and she of a culprit. At last he said: “It seems that you are pregnant.”
She stammered in a trembling voice: “Yes, that seems to be the case.”
But Cachelin seized each of them by the neck, and, bringing them face to face, cried: “Now kiss each other, by George! It is a fitting occasion.”
And after releasing them, he capered about like a schoolboy, shouting: “Victory, victory, we have won our case! I say, Léopold, we must purchase a country house; there, at least, you will certainly recover your health.” At this idea Lesable trembled. His father-in-law continued: “We will invite M. Torchebeuf and his wife to visit us, and as the under-chief is at the end of his term you may take his place. That is the way to bring it about.”
Lesable was now beginning to regard things from Cachelin’s standpoint, and he saw himself receiving his chief at a beautiful country place on the banks of the river, dressed in coat of white twill, with a Panama hat on his head.
Something sweet entered into his heart with this hope, something warm and good seemed to melt within him, rendering him light of heart and healthier in feeling. He smiled, still without speaking.
Cachelin, intoxicated with joy, transported at the thought of his fine prospects, continued:
“Who knows, we may gain some political influence. Perhaps you will be deputy. At all events, we can see the society of the neighbourhood, and enjoy some luxuries. And you shall have a little pony to convey you every morning to the station.” These images of luxury, of elegance and prosperity aroused the drooping spirits of Lesable. The thought that he could be driven in his own carriage, like the rich people he had so often envied, filled him with satisfaction, and he could not refrain from exclaiming: “Ah, that will be delightful indeed.”
Cora, seeing him won over, smiled tenderly and gratefully, and Cachelin, who saw no obstacles now in the way of indulgence, declared: “We will dine at the restaurant, to celebrate the happy event.”
When they reached home, the two men were a little tipsy, and Lesable, who saw double and whose ideas were all topsy-turvy, could not find his bedroom. He made his way by mistake, or forgetfulness, into the long vacant bed of his wife. And all night long it seemed to him that the bed oscillated like a boat, rolling and pitching as though it would upset. He was even a little seasick.
He was surprised on awaking to find Cora in his arms. She opened her eyes with a smile and kissed him with a sudden effusion of gratitude and affection. Then she said to him, in that caressing voice which women employ in their cajoleries: “If you wish to be very nice, you will not go to your office today. There is no need to be so punctual now that we are going to be rich, and we will make a little visit to the country, all by ourselves.”
Lesable was content to remain quiet, with the feeling for self-indulgence which follows an evening of excess, and the warmth of the bed was grateful. He felt the drowsy wish to lie a long time, to do nothing more but to live in tranquil idleness. An unusual sloth paralyzed his soul and subdued his body, and one vague, happy, and continuous thought never left him—“He was going to be rich, independent.”
But suddenly a fear seized him, and he whispered softly, as if he thought the walls might hear him: “Are you very sure you are pregnant, after all?”
She reassured him at once. “Oh, yes! I am certain of it. I could not be mistaken.”
And, as if still doubting, he traced the outline of her figure with his hand, and feeling convinced declared: “Yes, it is true—but you will not be brought to bed before the date. They will contest our right on that account, perhaps.”
At this supposition she grew angry.
“Oh, no indeed, they are not going to trick us now after so much misery, so much trouble, and so many efforts. Oh, no, indeed!” She was overwhelmed with indignation. “Let us go at once to the notary,” she said.
But his advice was to get a physician’s certificate first, and they presented themselves again to Dr. Lefilleul.
He recognized them immediately, and exclaimed: “Ah well, have you succeeded?”
They both blushed up to their ears, and Cora a little shamefacedly stammered: “I believe we have, doctor.”
The doctor rubbed his hands, crying: “I expected it, I expected it. The means I recommended to you never fail; at least, only from some radical incapacity of one of the parties.”
When he had made an examination of the young wife, he declared: “It is true, bravo!” and he wrote on a sheet of paper:
“I, the undersigned, doctor of medicine, of the Faculty of Paris, certify that Madame Léopold Lesable, née Cachelin, presents all the symptoms of pregnancy, dating from over three months.”
Then, turning toward Lesable: “And you,” he said, “how is that chest and that heart?” and having made an auscultation, he declared that the patient was entirely cured. They set out happy and joyous, arm in arm, with elastic steps. But on the route Léopold had an idea. “We had better go home before we see the lawyer, and rearrange your dress; you’ll put two or three towels under your belt, it will draw attention to it and that will be better; he will not believe then that we are trying to gain time.”
They returned home, and he himself undressed his wife in order to adjust the deception. Ten consecutive times Lesable changed the position of the towels, and stepped back some paces to get the proper effect, wishing to obtain an absolutely perfect resemblance. Satisfied with the result at last, they set out again, and walked proudly through the streets, Lesable carrying himself with the air of one whose virility was established and patent to all the world.
The notary received them kindly. Then he listened to their explanation, ran his eye over the certificate, and, as Lesable insisted, “For the rest, Monsieur, it is only necessary to glance for a second,” he threw a convinced look on the telltale figure of the young woman.
There was a moment of anxious suspense, when the man of law declared: “Assuredly, whether the infant is born or to be born, it exists, it lives; so we will suspend the execution of the testament till the confinement of Madame.”
After leaving the office of the notary, they embraced each other on the stairway, so exuberant was their joy.
VII
From the moment of this happy discovery, the three relatives lived in the most perfect accord. They were good-humoured, reasonable, and kind. Cachelin had recovered all his old gaiety, and Cora loaded her husband with attentions. Lesable also seemed like another man, and more gay than he had ever been in his life. Maze came less often, and seemed ill at ease in the family circle; they received him kindly, but with less warmth than formerly, for happiness is egotistical and excludes strangers.
Cachelin himself seemed to feel a certain secret hostility against the handsome clerk whom some months before he had introduced so eagerly into his household. It was he who announced to this friend the pregnancy of Cora. He said to him brusquely: “You know my daughter is pregnant!”
Maze, feigning surprise, replied: “Ah, indeed! you ought to be very happy.”
Cachelin responded with a “Humph!” for he perceived that his colleague, on the contrary, did not appear to be delighted. Men care but little to see in this state (whether or not the cause lies with them) women in whom they are interested.
Every Sunday, however, Maze continued to dine with the family, but it was no longer pleasant to spend the evenings with them, albeit no serious difference had arisen; and this strange embarrassment increased from week to week. One evening, just after Maze had gone, Cachelin cried with an air of annoyance: “That fellow is beginning to weary me to death!”
Lesable replied: “The fact is, he does not improve on acquaintance.” Cora lowered her eyes. She did not give her opinion. She always seemed embarrassed in the presence of the handsome Maze, who, on his side, appeared almost ashamed when he found himself near her. He no longer smiled on looking at her as formerly, no longer asked her and her husband to accompany him to the theatre, and the intimacy, which till lately had been so cordial, seemed to have become but an irksome burden.
One Thursday, when her husband came home to dinner, Cora kissed him with more coquetry than usual and whispered in his ear:
“Perhaps you are going to scold me now?”
“Why should I?” he inquired.
“Well, because—M. Maze came to see me a little while ago, and, as I do not wish to be gossiped about on his account, I begged him never to come when you were not at home. He seemed a little hurt.”
Lesable, very much surprised, demanded: “Very well, what did he say to that?”
“Oh! he did not say much, but it did not please me all the same, and then I asked him to cease his visits entirely. You know very well that it is you and papa who brought him here—I was not consulted at all about it—and I feared you would be displeased because I had dismissed him.”
A grateful joy beamed from the face of her husband.
“You did right, perfectly right, and I even thank you for it.”
She went on, in order to establish the understanding between the two men, which she had arranged in advance: “At the office you must conduct yourself as though nothing had happened, and speak to him as you have been in the habit of doing; but he is not to come here any more.”
Taking his wife tenderly in his arms, Lesable impressed long kisses on her eyelids and on her cheeks. “You are an angel! You are an angel!” he repeated, and he felt pressing against his stomach the already lusty child.
VIII
Nothing of importance happened up to the date of Cora’s confinement, which occurred on the last day of September. The child, being a daughter, was called Désirée. As they wished to make the christening an imposing event, it was decided to postpone the ceremony until they were settled in the new country house which they were going to buy.
They chose a beautiful estate at Asnières, on the hills that overlook the Seine. Great changes had taken place during the winter. As soon as the legacy was secured, Cachelin asked for his pension, which was granted, and he left the office. He employed his leisure moments in cutting, with the aid of a little scroll-saw, the covers of cigar-boxes. He made clocks, caskets, jardinières, and all sorts of odd little pieces of furniture. He had a passion for this work, the taste for which had come to him on seeing a peripatetic merchant working thus with sheets of wood on the Avenue de l’Opéra; and each day he obliged everybody to admire some new design both complicated and puerile. He was amazed at his own work, and kept on saying: “It is astonishing what one can accomplish!”
The assistant-chief, M. Rabot, being dead at last, Lesable fulfilled the duties of his place, although he did not receive the title, for sufficient time had not elapsed since his last promotion.
Cora had become a wholly different woman, more refined, more elegant, instinctively divining all the transformations that wealth imposes. On New Year’s Day she made a visit to the wife of her husband’s chief, a commonplace person, who remained a provincial, notwithstanding a residence of thirty-five years in Paris, and she put so much grace and seductiveness into her prayer that Mme. Torchebeuf should stand godmother to her child that the good woman consented. Grandpapa Cachelin was the godfather.
The ceremony took place on a brilliant Sunday in June. All the employees of the office were invited to witness it, except the handsome Maze, who was seen no more in the Cachelin circle.
At nine o’clock Lesable waited at the railway station for the train from Paris, while a groom, in livery covered with great gilt buttons, held by the bridle a plump pony hitched to a brand-new phaeton.
The engine whistled, then appeared, dragging its train of cars, which soon discharged their freight of passengers.
M. Torchebeuf descended from a first-class carriage with his wife, in a magnificent toilette, while Pitolet and Boissel got out of a second-class carriage. They had not dared to invite old Savon, but it was understood that they were to meet him by chance in the afternoon and bring him to dinner with the consent of the chief.
Lesable hurried to meet his superior, who advanced slowly, the lapel of his frock-coat ornamented with a decoration that resembled a full-blown red rose. His enormous head, surmounted by a large hat that seemed to crush his small body, gave him the appearance of a phenomenon, and his wife, if she had stood on tiptoe, could have looked over his head without any trouble.
Léopold, radiant, bowed and thanked his guests. He seated them in the phaeton, then running toward his two colleagues, who were walking modestly behind, he pressed their hands, regretting that his phaeton was too small to accommodate them also. “Follow the quay,” he directed, “and you will reach my door—‘Villa Désirée,’ the fourth one after the turn. Make haste!”
And mounting the phaeton, he took the reins and drove off, while the groom leaped lightly to the little seat behind.
The ceremony was very brilliant, and afterwards they returned for luncheon. Each one found under his napkin a present proportioned to his station. The godmother received a bracelet of solid gold, her husband a scarf-pin of rubies, Boissel a pocket book of Russian leather, and Pitolet a superb meerschaum pipe. “It was Désirée,” they said, “who offered these presents to her new friends.”
Mme. Torchebeuf, blushing with confusion and pleasure, placed on her fat arm the brilliant circle, and, as the chief wore a narrow black cravat, which would not receive the pin, he stuck the jewel in the lapel of his frock-coat, under the Legion of Honour, as if it had been another decoration of an inferior order.
Outside the window the shining band of the river was seen, curving toward Suresnes, its banks shaded with trees. The sun fell in a rain on the water, making it seem a river of fire. The beginning of the repast was rather solemn, being made formal by the presence of M. and Mme. Torchebeuf. After a while, however, things began to go better. Cachelin threw out some heavy jokes, which he felt would be permitted him since he was rich, and everyone laughed at them. If Pitolet or Boissel had uttered them, the guests would certainly have been shocked.
At dessert, the infant was brought in and received a kiss from each of the company. Smothered in a cloud of snowy lace, the baby looked at the guests with its blue eyes void of intelligence or expression, and rolled its bald head from side to side with an air of newly awakened interest.
Pitolet, amid the confusion of voices, whispered in the ear of Boissel: “It looks like a little Mazette.” The joke went round the Ministry next day.
At two o’clock the health of the newly christened baby was drunk, and Cachelin proposed to show his guests over the property, and then to take them for a walk on the banks of the Seine.
They moved in a slow procession from room to room, from the cellar to the garret; then they examined the garden tree by tree, plant by plant; after which, separating into two parties, they set out for a walk.
Cachelin, who did not feel at home in the company of ladies, drew Boissel and Pitolet into a café on the bank of the river, while Mesdames Torchebeuf and Lesable, with their husbands, walked in the opposite direction, these refined ladies not being able to mingle with the common Sunday herd.
They walked slowly along the path, followed by the two men, who talked gravely of the affairs of the office. On the river the boats were continually passing, propelled by long strokes of the oars in the hands of jolly fellows, the muscles of whose bare arms rolled under the sunburned skin. Women, reclining on black or white fur rugs, managed the tillers, drowsing under the hot sun, holding open over their heads, like enormous flowers floating on the surface of the water, umbrellas of red, yellow, and blue silk. Cries from one boat to the other, calls, and shouts, and a remote murmur of human voices lower down, confused and continuous, indicated where the swarming crowds were enjoying a holiday.
Long files of fishermen stood motionless all along the river, while the swimmers, almost naked, standing in heavy fishing boats, plunged in head-foremost, climbed back upon the boats and leaped into the water again.
Mme. Torchebeuf looked on in surprise.
Cora said to her: “It is like this every Sunday; it spoils this charming country for me.”
A canoe moved softly by. Two women rowed, while two men were stretched in the bottom of the boat. One of the women, turning her head towards the shore, cried:
“Hello! hello! you respectable women! I have a man for sale, very cheap! Do you want him?”
Cora turned away contemptuously and taking the arm of her companion said: “We cannot remain here; let us go. What infamous creatures!”
They moved away as M. Torchebeuf was saying to Lesable: “It is settled for the first of January. The head of the Department has positively promised me.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, dear master,” Lesable replied.
When they reached home they found Cachelin, Pitolet, and Boissel laughing immoderately and almost carrying old Savon, whom they jokingly declared they had found on the beach in the company of a girl.
The frightened old man was crying: “It is not true, no, it is not true. It is not right to say that, M. Cachelin, it is not kind.”
And Cachelin, choking with laughter, cried: “Ah, you old rogue, did you not call her your ‘sweet goose quill’? We caught you, you rascal!”
Then the ladies, too, began to laugh at the dismay of the poor old man.
Cachelin continued: “With M. Torchebeuf’s permission, we will keep him prisoner as a punishment and make him dine with us.”
The chief good-humouredly consented, and they continued to laugh about the lady abandoned by the old man, who protested all the time, annoyed at this mischievous farce.
The subject was the occasion of inexhaustible wit throughout the evening, which sometimes even bordered on the obscene.
Cora and Mme. Torchebeuf, seated under a tent on the lawn, watched the reflections of the setting sun, which threw upon the leaves a purple glow.
Not a breath stirred the branches, a serene and infinite peace fell from the calm and flaming heavens. Some boats still passed, more slowly, drifting with the tide.
Cora remarked: “It appears that poor M. Savon married a bad woman.”
Mme. Torchebeuf, who was familiar with everything of the office, replied:
“Yes, she was an orphan, very much too young for him, and deceived him with a worthless fellow, and she ended in running away with him.”
Then the fat lady added: “I say he was a worthless fellow, but I know nothing about it. It is reported that they loved one another very much. In any case, old Savon is not very seductive.”
Mme. Lesable replied gravely:
“That is no excuse; the poor man is much to be pitied. Our next door neighbour, M. Barbou, has had the same experience. His wife fell in love with a sort of painter who passed his summers here, and she has gone abroad with him. I do not understand how women can fall so low. To my mind it seems a special chastisement should be meted out to those wicked creatures who bring shame upon their families.”
At the end of the alley the nurse appeared, carrying the little Désirée wrapped in her laces. The child, all rosy in the red gold of the evening light, was coming towards the two women. She stared at the fiery sky with the same pale and astonished eyes with which she regarded their faces.
All the men who were talking at a distance drew near, and Cachelin, seizing his little granddaughter, tossed her aloft in his arms as if he would carry her to the skies. Her figure was outlined against the brilliant line of the horizon, while her long white robe almost touched the ground; and the grandfather cried: “Look! isn’t this the best thing in the world, after all, father Savon?”
But the old man made no reply, having nothing to say, or perhaps thinking too many things.
A servant opened the door and announced: “Madame is served!”