Books: The Three Cities Trilogy: Paris, Complete

E >> Emile Zola >> The Three Cities Trilogy: Paris, Complete

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46

One day, however, Pierre caught sight of Guillaume as he came out of it,
carrying a little valise which appeared to be very heavy. And Pierre
thereupon remembered both his brother's powder, one pound weight of which
would have sufficed to destroy a cathedral, and the destructive engine
which he had purposed bestowing upon France in order that she might be
victorious over all other nations, and become the one great initiatory
and liberative power. Pierre remembered too that the only person besides
himself who knew his brother's secret was Mere-Grand, who, at the time
when Guillaume was fearing some perquisition on the part of the police,
had long slept upon the cartridges of the terrible explosive. But now why
was Guillaume removing all the powder which he had been preparing for
some time past? As this question occurred to Pierre, a sudden suspicion,
a vague dread, came upon him, and gave him strength to ask his brother:
"Have you reason to fear anything, since you won't keep things here? If
they embarrass you, they can all be deposited at my house, nobody will
make a search there."

Guillaume, whom these words astonished, gazed at Pierre fixedly, and then
replied: "Yes, I have learnt that the arrests and perquisitions have
begun afresh since that poor devil was guillotined; for they are in
terror at the thought that some despairing fellow may avenge him.
Moreover, it is hardly prudent to keep destructive agents of such great
power here. I prefer to deposit them in a safe place. But not at
Neuilly--oh! no indeed! they are not a present for you, brother."
Guillaume spoke with outward calmness; and if he had started with
surprise at the first moment, it had been scarcely perceptible.

"So everything is ready?" Pierre resumed. "You will soon be handing your
engine of destruction over to the Minister of War, I presume?"

A gleam of hesitation appeared in the depths of Guillaume's eyes, and he
was for a moment about to tell a falsehood. However, he ended by replying
"No, I have renounced that intention. I have another idea."

He spoke these last words with so much energy and decision that Pierre
did not dare to question him further, to ask him, for instance, what that
other idea might be. From that moment, however, he quivered with anxious
expectancy. From hour to hour Mere-Grand's lofty silence and Guillaume's
rapt, energetic face seemed to tell him that some huge and terrifying
scheme had come into being, and was growing and threatening the whole of
Paris.

One afternoon, just as Thomas was about to repair to the Grandidier
works, some one came to Guillaume's with the news that old Toussaint, the
workman, had been stricken with a fresh attack of paralysis. Thomas
thereupon decided that he would call upon the poor fellow on his way, for
he held him in esteem and wished to ascertain if he could render him any
help. Pierre expressed a desire to accompany his nephew, and they started
off together about four o'clock.

On entering the one room which the Toussaints occupied, the room where
they ate and slept, the visitors found the mechanician seated on a low
chair near the table. He looked half dead, as if struck by lightning. It
was a case of hemiplegia, which had paralysed the whole of his right
side, his right leg and right arm, and had also spread to his face in
such wise that he could no longer speak. The only sound he could raise
was an incomprehensible guttural grunt. His mouth was drawn to the right,
and his once round, good-natured-looking face, with tanned skin and
bright eyes, had been twisted into a frightful mask of anguish. At fifty
years of age, the unhappy man was utterly done for. His unkempt beard was
as white as that of an octogenarian, and his knotty limbs, preyed upon by
toil, were henceforth dead. Only his eyes remained alive, and they
travelled around the room, going from one to another. By his side, eager
to do what she could for him, was his wife, who remained stout even when
she had little to eat, and still showed herself active and clear-headed,
however great her misfortunes.

"It's a friendly visit, Toussaint," said she. "It's Monsieur Thomas who
has come to see you with Monsieur l'Abbe." Then quietly correcting
herself she added: "With Monsieur Pierre, his uncle. You see that you are
not yet forsaken."

Toussaint wished to speak, but his fruitless efforts only brought two big
tears to his eyes. Then he gazed at his visitors with an expression of
indescribable woe, his jaws trembling convulsively.

"Don't put yourself out," repeated his wife. "The doctor told you that it
would do you no good."

At the moment of entering the room, Pierre had already noticed two
persons who had risen from their chairs and drawn somewhat on one side.
And now to his great surprise he recognised that they were Madame
Theodore and Celine, who were both decently clad, and looked as if they
led a life of comfort. On hearing of Toussaint's misfortune they had come
to see him, like good-hearted creatures, who, on their own side, had
experienced the most cruel suffering. Pierre, on noticing that they now
seemed to be beyond dire want, remembered what he had heard of the
wonderful sympathy lavished on the child after her father's execution,
the many presents and donations offered her, and the generous proposals
that had been made to adopt her. These last had ended in her being
adopted by a former friend of Salvat, who had sent her to school again,
pending the time when she might be apprenticed to some trade, while, on
the other hand, Madame Theodore had been placed as a nurse in a
convalescent home. In such wise both had been saved.

When Pierre drew near to little Celine in order to kiss her, Madame
Theodore told her to thank Monsieur l'Abbe--for so she still respectfully
called him--for all that he had previously done for her. "It was you who
brought us happiness, Monsieur l'Abbe," said she. "And that's a thing one
can never forget. I'm always telling Celine to remember you in her
prayers."

"And so, my child, you are now going to school again," said Pierre.

"Oh yes, Monsieur l'Abbe, and I'm well pleased at it. Besides, we no
longer lack anything." Then, however, sudden emotion came over the girl,
and she stammered with a sob: "Ah! if poor papa could only see us!"

Madame Theodore, meanwhile, had begun to take leave of Madame Toussaint.
"Well, good by, we must go," said she. "What has happened to you is very
sad, and we wanted to tell you how much it grieved us. The worry is that
when misfortune falls on one, courage isn't enough to set things right. .
. . Celine, come and kiss your uncle. . . . My poor brother, I hope
you'll get back the use of your legs as soon as possible."

They kissed the paralysed man on the cheeks, and then went off. Toussaint
had looked at them with his keen and still intelligent eyes, as if he
longed to participate in the life and activity into which they were
returning. And a jealous thought came to his wife, who usually was so
placid and good-natured. "Ah! my poor old man!" said she, after propping
him up with a pillow, "those two are luckier than we are. Everything
succeeds with them since that madman, Salvat, had his head cut off.
They're provided for. They've plenty of bread on the shelf."

Then, turning towards Pierre and Thomas, she continued: "We others are
done for, you know, we're down in the mud, with no hope of getting out of
it. But what would you have? My poor husband hasn't been guillotined,
he's done nothing but work his whole life long; and now, you see, that's
the end of him, he's like some old animal, no longer good for anything."

Having made her visitors sit down she next answered their compassionate
questions. The doctor had called twice already, and had promised to
restore the unhappy man's power of speech, and perhaps enable him to
crawl round the room with the help of a stick. But as for ever being able
to resume real work that must not be expected. And so what was the use of
living on? Toussaint's eyes plainly declared that he would much rather
die at once. When a workman can no longer work and no longer provide for
his wife he is ripe for the grave.

"Savings indeed!" Madame Toussaint resumed. "There are folks who ask if
we have any savings. . . . Well, we had nearly a thousand francs in the
Savings Bank when Toussaint had his first attack. And some people don't
know what a lot of prudence one needs to put by such a sum; for, after
all, we're not savages, we have to allow ourselves a little enjoyment now
and then, a good dish and a good bottle of wine. . . . Well, what with
five months of enforced idleness, and the medicines, and the underdone
meat that was ordered, we got to the end of our thousand francs; and now
that it's all begun again we're not likely to taste any more bottled wine
or roast mutton."

Fond of good cheer as she had always been, this cry, far more than the
tears she was forcing back, revealed how much the future terrified her.
She was there erect and brave in spite of everything; but what a downfall
if she were no longer able to keep her room tidy, stew a piece of veal on
Sundays, and gossip with the neighbours while awaiting her husband's
return from work! Why, they might just as well be thrown into the gutter
and carried off in the scavenger's cart.

However, Thomas intervened: "Isn't there an Asylum for the Invalids of
Labour, and couldn't your husband get admitted to it?" he asked. "It
seems to me that is just the place for him."

"Oh dear, no," the woman answered. "People spoke to me of that place
before, and I got particulars of it. They don't take sick people there.
When you call they tell you that there are hospitals for those who are
ill."

With a wave of his hand Pierre confirmed her statement: it was useless to
apply in that direction. He could again see himself scouring Paris,
hurrying from the Lady President, Baroness Duvillard, to Fonsegue, the
General Manager, and only securing a bed for Laveuve when the unhappy man
was dead.

However, at that moment an infant was heard wailing, and to the amazement
of both visitors Madame Toussaint entered the little closet where her son
Charles had so long slept, and came out of it carrying a child, who
looked scarcely twenty months old. "Well, yes," she explained, "this is
Charles's boy. He was sleeping there in his father's old bed, and now you
hear him, he's woke up. . . . You see, only last Wednesday, the day
before Toussaint had his stroke, I went to fetch the little one at the
nurse's at St. Denis, because she had threatened to cast him adrift since
Charles had got into bad habits, and no longer paid her. I said to myself
at the time that work was looking up, and that my husband and I would
always be able to provide for a little mouth like that. . . . But just
afterwards everything collapsed! At the same time, as the child's here
now I can't go and leave him in the street."

While speaking in this fashion she walked to and fro, rocking the baby in
her arms. And naturally enough she reverted to Charles's folly with the
girl, who had run away, leaving that infant behind her. Things might not
have been so very bad if Charles had still worked as steadily as he had
done before he went soldiering. In those days he had never lost an hour,
and had always brought all his pay home! But he had come back from the
army with much less taste for work. He argued, and had ideas of his own.
He certainly hadn't yet come to bomb-throwing like that madman Salvat,
but he spent half his time with Socialists and Anarchists, who put his
brain in a muddle. It was a real pity to see such a strong, good-hearted
young fellow turning out badly like that. But it was said in the
neighbourhood that many another was inclined the same way; that the best
and most intelligent of the younger men felt tired of want and
unremunerative labour, and would end by knocking everything to pieces
rather than go on toiling with no certainty of food in their old age.

"Ah! yes," continued Madame Toussaint, "the sons are not like the fathers
were. These fine fellows won't be as patient as my poor husband has been,
letting hard work wear him away till he's become the sorry thing you see
there. . . . Do you know what Charles said the other evening when he
found his father on that chair, crippled like that, and unable to speak?
Why, he shouted to him that he'd been a stupid jackass all his life,
working himself to death for those /bourgeois/, who now wouldn't bring
him so much as a glass of water. Then, as he none the less has a good
heart, he began to cry his eyes out."

The baby was no longer wailing, still the good woman continued walking to
and fro, rocking it in her arms and pressing it to her affectionate
heart. Her son Charles could do no more for them, she said; perhaps he
might be able to give them a five-franc piece now and again, but even
that wasn't certain. It was of no use for her to go back to her old
calling as a seamstress, she had lost all practice of it. And it would
even be difficult for her to earn anything as charwoman, for she had that
infant on her hands as well as her infirm husband--a big child, whom she
would have to wash and feed. And so what would become of the three of
them? She couldn't tell; but it made her shudder, however brave and
motherly she tried to be.

For their part, Pierre and Thomas quivered with compassion, particularly
when they saw big tears coursing down the cheeks of the wretched,
stricken Toussaint, as he sat quite motionless in that little and still
cleanly home of toil and want. The poor man had listened to his wife, and
he looked at her and at the infant now sleeping in her arms. Voiceless,
unable to cry his woe aloud, he experienced the most awful anguish. What
dupery his long life of labour had been! how frightfully unjust it was
that all his efforts should end in such sufferings! how exasperating it
was to feel himself powerless, and to see those whom he loved and who
were as innocent as himself suffer and die by reason of his own suffering
and death! Ah! poor old man, cripple that he was, ending like some beast
of burden that has foundered by the roadside--that goal of labour! And it
was all so revolting and so monstrous that he tried to put it into words,
and his desperate grief ended in a frightful, raucous grunt.

"Be quiet, don't do yourself harm!" concluded Madame Toussaint. "Things
are like that, and there's no mending them."

Then she went to put the child to bed again, and on her return, just as
Thomas and Pierre were about to speak to her of Toussaint's employer, M.
Grandidier, a fresh visitor arrived. Thereupon the others decided to
wait.

The new comer was Madame Chretiennot, Toussaint's other sister, eighteen
years younger than himself. Her husband, the little clerk, had compelled
her to break off almost all intercourse with her relatives, as he felt
ashamed of them; nevertheless, having heard of her brother's misfortune,
she had very properly come to condole with him. She wore a gown of cheap
flimsy silk, and a hat trimmed with red poppies, which she had freshened
up three times already; but in spite of this display her appearance
bespoke penury, and she did her best to hide her feet on account of the
shabbiness of her boots. Moreover, she was no longer the beautiful
Hortense. Since a recent miscarriage, all trace of her good looks had
disappeared.

The lamentable appearance of her brother and the bareness of that home of
suffering chilled her directly she crossed the threshold. And as soon as
she had kissed Toussaint, and said how sorry she was to find him in such
a condition, she began to lament her own fate, and recount her troubles,
for fear lest she should be asked for any help.

"Ah! my dear," she said to her sister-in-law, "you are certainly much to
be pitied! But if you only knew! We all have our troubles. Thus in my
case, obliged as I am to dress fairly well on account of my husband's
position, I have more trouble than you can imagine in making both ends
meet. One can't go far on a salary of three thousand francs a year, when
one has to pay seven hundred francs' rent out of it. You will perhaps say
that we might lodge ourselves in a more modest way; but we can't, my
dear, I must have a /salon/ on account of the visits I receive. So just
count! . . . Then there are my two girls. I've had to send them to
school; Lucienne has begun to learn the piano and Marcelle has some taste
for drawing. . . . By the way, I would have brought them with me, but I
feared it would upset them too much. You will excuse me, won't you?"

Then she spoke of all the worries which she had had with her husband on
account of Salvat's ignominious death. Chretiennot, vain, quarrelsome
little fellow that he was, felt exasperated at now having a /guillotine/
in his wife's family. And he had lately begun to treat the unfortunate
woman most harshly, charging her with having brought about all their
troubles, and even rendering her responsible for his own mediocrity,
embittered as he was more and more each day by a confined life of office
work. On some evenings they had downright quarrels; she stood up for
herself, and related that when she was at the confectionery shop in the
Rue des Martyrs she could have married a doctor had she only chosen, for
the doctor found her quite pretty enough. Now, however, she was becoming
plainer and plainer, and her husband felt that he was condemned to
everlasting penury; so that their life was becoming more and more dismal
and quarrelsome, and as unbearable--despite the pride of being
"gentleman" and "lady"--as was the destitution of the working classes.

"All the same, my dear," at last said Madame Toussaint, weary of her
sister-in-law's endless narrative of worries, "you have had one piece of
luck. You won't have the trouble of bringing up a third child, now."

"That's true," replied Hortense, with a sigh of relief. "How we should
have managed, I don't know. . . . Still, I was very ill, and I'm far from
being in good health now. The doctor says that I don't eat enough, and
that I ought to have good food."

Then she rose for the purpose of giving her brother another kiss and
taking her departure; for she feared a scene on her husband's part should
he happen to come home and find her absent. Once on her feet, however,
she lingered there a moment longer, saying that she also had just seen
her sister, Madame Theodore, and little Celine, both of them comfortably
clad and looking happy. And with a touch of jealousy she added: "Well, my
husband contents himself with slaving away at his office every day. He'll
never do anything to get his head cut off; and it's quite certain that
nobody will think of leaving an income to Marcelle and Lucienne. . . .
Well, good by, my dear, you must be brave, one must always hope that
things will turn out for the best."

When she had gone off, Pierre and Thomas inquired if M. Grandidier had
heard of Toussaint's misfortune and agreed to do anything for him. Madame
Toussaint answered that he had so far made only a vague promise; and on
learning this they resolved to speak to him as warmly as they could on
behalf of the old mechanician, who had spent as many as five and twenty
years at the works. The misfortune was that a scheme for establishing a
friendly society, and even a pension fund, which had been launched before
the crisis from which the works were now recovering, had collapsed
through a number of obstacles and complications. Had things turned out
otherwise, Thomas might have had a pittance assured him, even though he
was unable to work. But under the circumstances the only hope for the
poor stricken fellow lay in his employer's compassion, if not his sense
of justice.

As the baby again began to cry, Madame Toussaint went to fetch it, and
she was once more carrying it to and fro, when Thomas pressed her
husband's sound hand between both his own. "We will come back," said the
young man; "we won't forsake you, Toussaint. You know very well that
people like you, for you've always been a good and steady workman. So
rely on us, we will do all we can."

Then they left him tearful and overpowered, in that dismal room, while,
up and down beside him, his wife rocked the squealing infant--that other
luckless creature, who was now so heavy on the old folks' hands, and like
them was fated to die of want and unjust toil.

Toil, manual toil, panting at every effort, this was what Pierre and
Thomas once more found at the works. From the slender pipes above the
roofs spurted rhythmical puffs of steam, which seemed like the very
breath of all that labour. And in the work-shops one found a continuous
rumbling, a whole army of men in motion, forging, filing, and piercing,
amidst the spinning of leather gearing and the trembling of machinery.
The day was ending with a final feverish effort to complete some task or
other before the bell should ring for departure.

On inquiring for the master Thomas learnt that he had not been seen since
/dejeuner/, which was such an unusual occurrence that the young man at
once feared some terrible scene in the silent pavilion, whose shutters
were ever closed upon Grandidier's unhappy wife--that mad but beautiful
creature, whom he loved so passionately that he had never been willing to
part from her. The pavilion could be seen from the little glazed
work-shop which Thomas usually occupied, and as he and Pierre stood
waiting there, it looked very peaceful and pleasant amidst the big
lilac-bushes planted round about it. Surely, they thought, it ought to
have been brightened by the gay gown of a young woman and the laughter of
playful children. But all at once a loud, piercing shriek reached their
ears, followed by howls and moans, like those of an animal that is being
beaten or possibly slaughtered. Ah! those howls ringing out amidst all
the stir of the toiling works, punctuated it seemed by the rhythmical
puffing of the steam, accompanied too by the dull rumbling of the
machinery! The receipts of the business had been doubling and doubling
since the last stock-taking; there was increase of prosperity every
month, the bad times were over, far behind. Grandidier was realising a
large fortune with his famous bicycle for the million, the "Lisette"; and
the approaching vogue of motor-cars also promised huge gains, should he
again start making little motor-engines, as he meant to do, as soon as
Thomas's long-projected motor should be perfected. But what was wealth
when in that dismal pavilion, whose shutters were ever closed, those
frightful shrieks continued, proclaiming some terrible drama, which all
the stir and bustle of the prosperous works were unable to stifle?

Pierre and Thomas looked at one another, pale and quivering. And all at
once, as the cries ceased and the pavilion sank into death-like silence
once more, the latter said in an undertone: "She is usually very gentle,
she will sometimes spend whole days sitting on a carpet like a little
child. He is fond of her when she is like that; he lays her down and
picks her up, caresses her and makes her laugh as if she were a baby. Ah!
how dreadfully sad it is! When an attack comes upon her she gets frantic,
tries to bite herself, and kill herself by throwing herself against the
walls. And then he has to struggle with her, for no one else is allowed
to touch her. He tries to restrain her, and holds her in his arms to calm
her. . . . But how terrible it was just now! Did you hear? I do not think
she has ever had such a frightful attack before."

For a quarter of an hour longer profound silence prevailed. Then
Grandidier came out of the pavilion, bareheaded and still ghastly pale.
Passing the little glazed work-shop on his way, he perceived Thomas and
Pierre there, and at once came in. But he was obliged to lean against a
bench like a man who is dazed, haunted by a nightmare. His good-natured,
energetic face retained an expression of acute anguish; and his left ear
was scratched and bleeding. However, he at once wished to talk, overcome
his feelings, and return to his life of activity. "I am very pleased to
see you, my dear Thomas," said he, "I have been thinking over what you
told me about our little motor. We must go into the matter again."

Seeing how distracted he was, it occurred to the young man that some
sudden diversion, such as the story of another's misfortunes, might
perhaps draw him from his haunting thoughts. "Of course I am at your
disposal," he replied; "but before talking of that matter I should like
to tell you that we have just seen Toussaint, that poor old fellow who
has been stricken with paralysis. His awful fate has quite distressed us.
He is in the greatest destitution, forsaken as it were by the roadside,
after all his years of labour."

Thomas dwelt upon the quarter of a century which the old workman had
spent at the factory, and suggested that it would be only just to take
some account of his long efforts, the years of his life which he had
devoted to the establishment. And he asked that he might be assisted in
the name both of equity and compassion.