Books: The Three Cities Trilogy: Paris, Vol. 2
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Emile Zola >> The Three Cities Trilogy: Paris, Vol. 2
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From that moment a new life began. Since his father's death, Guillaume,
who had broken off all intercourse with his mother, had been receiving an
allowance of two hundred francs a month. This just represented daily
bread; however, he was already doubling the amount by his work as a
chemist,--his analyses and researches, which tended to the employment of
certain chemical products in industry. So he and Marguerite installed
themselves on the very summit of Montmartre, in a little house, at a
rental of eight hundred francs a year, the great convenience of the place
being a strip of garden, where one might, later on, erect a wooden
workshop. In all tranquillity Madame Leroi took up her abode with the
young people, helping them, and sparing them the necessity of keeping a
second servant. And at successive intervals of two years, her three
grandchildren were born, three sturdy boys: first Thomas, then Francois,
and then Antoine. And in the same way as she had devoted herself to her
husband and daughter, and then to Guillaume, so did she now devote
herself to the three children. She became "Mere-Grand"--an emphatic and
affectionate way of expressing the term "grandmother"--for all who lived
in the house, the older as well as the younger ones. She there
personified sense, and wisdom, and courage; it was she who was ever on
the watch, who directed everything, who was consulted about everything,
and whose opinion was always followed. Indeed, she reigned there like an
all-powerful queen-mother.
For fifteen years this life went on, a life of hard work and peaceful
affection, while the strictest economy was observed in contenting every
need of the modest little household. Then Guillaume lost his mother, took
his share of the family inheritance, and was able to satisfy his old
desire, which was to buy the house he lived in, and build a spacious
workshop in the garden. He was even able to build it of bricks, and add
an upper story to it. But the work was scarcely finished, and life seemed
to be on the point of expanding and smiling on them all, when misfortune
returned, and typhoid fever, with brutal force, carried off Marguerite,
after a week's illness. She was then five and thirty, and her eldest boy,
Thomas, was fourteen. Thus Guillaume, distracted by his loss, found
himself a widower at thirty-eight. The thought of introducing any unknown
woman into that retired home, where all hearts beat in tender unison, was
so unbearable to him that he determined to take no other mate. His work
absorbed him, and he would know how to quiet both his heart and his
flesh. Mere-Grand, fortunately, was still there, erect and courageous;
the household retained its queen, and in her the children found a
manageress and teacher, schooled in adversity and heroism.
Two years passed; and then came an addition to the family. A young woman,
Marie Couturier, the daughter of one of Guillaume's friends, suddenly
entered it. Couturier had been an inventor, a madman with some measure of
genius, and had spent a fairly large fortune in attempting all sorts of
fantastic schemes. His wife, a very pious woman, had died of grief at it
all; and although on the rare occasions when he saw his daughter, he
showed great fondness for her and loaded her with presents, he had first
placed her in a boarding college, and afterwards left her in the charge
of a poor female relative. Remembering her only on his death-bed, he had
begged Guillaume to give her an asylum, and find her a husband. The poor
relation, who dealt in ladies' and babies' linen, had just become a
bankrupt. So, at nineteen, the girl, Marie, found herself a penniless
outcast, possessed of nothing save a good education, health and courage.
Guillaume would never allow her to run about giving lessons. He took her,
in quite a natural way, to help Mere-Grand, who was no longer so active
as formerly. And the latter approved the arrangement, well pleased at the
advent of youth and gaiety, which would somewhat brighten the household,
whose life had been one of much gravity ever since Marguerite's death.
Marie would simply be an elder sister; she was too old for the boys, who
were still at college, to be disturbed by her presence. And she would
work in that house where everybody worked. She would help the little
community pending the time when she might meet and love some worthy
fellow who would marry her.
Five more years elapsed without Marie consenting to quit that happy home.
The sterling education she had received was lodged in a vigorous brain,
which contented itself with the acquirement of knowledge. Yet she had
remained very pure and healthy, even very /naive/, maidenly by reason of
her natural rectitude. And she was also very much a woman, beautifying
and amusing herself with a mere nothing, and ever showing gaiety and
contentment. Moreover, she was in no wise of a dreamy nature, but very
practical, always intent on some work or other, and only asking of life
such things as life could give, without anxiety as to what might lie
beyond it. She lovingly remembered her pious mother, who had prepared her
for her first Communion in tears, imagining that she was opening heaven's
portals to her. But since she had been an orphan she had of her own
accord ceased all practice of religion, her good sense revolting and
scorning the need of any moral police regulations to make her do her
duty. Indeed, she considered such regulations dangerous and destructive
of true health. Thus, like Mere-Grand, she had come to a sort of quiet
and almost unconscious atheism, not after the fashion of one who reasons,
but simply like the brave, healthy girl she was, one who had long endured
poverty without suffering from it, and believed in nothing save the
necessity of effort. She had been kept erect, indeed, by her conviction
that happiness was to be found in the normal joys of life, lived
courageously. And her happy equilibrium of mind had ever guided and saved
her, in such wise that she willingly listened to her natural instinct,
saying, with her pleasant laugh, that this was, after all, her best
adviser. She rejected two offers of marriage, and on the second occasion,
as Guillaume pressed her to accept, she grew astonished, and inquired if
he had had enough of her in the house. She found herself very
comfortable, and she rendered service there. So why should she leave and
run the risk of being less happy elsewhere, particularly as she was not
in love with anybody?
Then, by degrees, the idea of a marriage between Marie and Guillaume
presented itself; and indeed what could have been more reasonable and
advantageous for all? If Guillaume had not mated again it was for his
sons' sake, because he feared that by introducing a stranger to the house
he might impair its quietude and gaiety. But now there was a woman among
them who already showed herself maternal towards the boys, and whose
bright youth had ended by disturbing his own heart. He was still in his
prime, and had always held that it was not good for man to live alone,
although, personally, thanks to his ardour for work, he had hitherto
escaped excessive suffering in his bereavement. However, there was the
great difference of ages to be considered; and he would have bravely
remained in the background and have sought a younger husband for Marie,
if his three big sons and Mere-Grand herself had not conspired to effect
his happiness by doing all they could to bring about a marriage which
would strengthen every home tie and impart, as it were, a fresh
springtide to the house. As for Marie, touched and grateful to Guillaume
for the manner in which he had treated her for five years past, she
immediately consented with an impulse of sincere affection, in which, she
fancied, she could detect love. And at all events, could she act in a
more sensible, reasonable way, base her life on more certain prospects of
happiness? So the marriage had been resolved upon; and about a month
previously it had been decided that it should take place during the
ensuing spring, towards the end of April.
When Pierre, after alighting from the tramcar, began to climb the
interminable flights of steps leading to the Rue St. Eleuthere, a feeling
of uneasiness again came over him at the thought that he was about to
enter that suspicious ogre's den where everything would certainly wound
and irritate him. Given the letter which Sophie had carried thither on
the previous night, announcing that the master would not return, how
anxious and upset must all its inmates be! However, as Pierre ascended
the final flight and nervously raised his head, the little house appeared
to him right atop of the hill, looking very serene and quiet under the
bright wintry sun, which had peered forth as if to bestow upon the modest
dwelling an affectionate caress.
There was a door in the old garden wall alongside the Rue St. Eleuthere,
almost in front of the broad thoroughfare conducting to the basilica of
the Sacred Heart; but to reach the house itself one had to skirt the wall
and climb to the Place du Tertre, where one found the facade and the
entrance. Some children were playing on the Place, which, planted as it
was with a few scrubby trees, and edged with humble shops,--a
fruiterer's, a grocer's and a baker's,--looked like some square in a
small provincial town. In a corner, on the left, Guillaume's dwelling,
which had been whitewashed during the previous spring, showed its bright
frontage and five lifeless windows, for all its life was on the other,
the garden, side, which overlooked Paris and the far horizon.
Pierre mustered his courage and, pulling a brass knob which glittered
like gold, rang the bell. There came a gay, distant jingle; but for a
moment nobody appeared, and he was about to ring again, when the door was
thrown wide open, revealing a passage which ran right through the house,
beyond which appeared the ocean of Paris, the endless sea of house roofs
bathed in sunlight. And against this spacious, airy background, stood a
young woman of twenty-six, clad in a simple gown of black woolen stuff,
half covered by a large blue apron. She had her sleeves rolled up above
her elbows, and her arms and hands were still moist with water which she
had but imperfectly wiped away.
A moment's surprise and embarrassment ensued. The young woman, who had
hastened to the door with laughing mien, became grave and covertly
hostile at sight of the visitor's cassock. The priest thereupon realised
that he must give his name: "I am Abbe Pierre Froment."
At this the young woman's smile of welcome came back to her. "Oh! I beg
your pardon, monsieur--I ought to have recognised you, for I saw you wish
Guillaume good day one morning as you passed."
She said Guillaume; she, therefore, must be Marie. And Pierre looked at
her in astonishment, finding her very different from what he had
imagined. She was only of average height, but she was vigorously,
admirably built, broad of hip and broad of shoulder, with the small firm
bosom of an amazon. By her erect and easy step, instinct with all the
adorable grace of woman in her prime, one could divine that she was
strong, muscular and healthy. A brunette, but very white of skin, she had
a heavy helm of superb black hair, which she fastened in a negligent way,
without any show of coquetry. And under her dark locks, her pure,
intelligent brow, her delicate nose and gay eyes appeared full of intense
life; whilst the somewhat heavier character of her lower features, her
fleshy lips and full chin, bespoke her quiet kindliness. She had surely
come on earth as a promise of every form of tenderness, every form of
devotion. In a word, she was a true mate for man.
However, with her heavy, straying hair and superb arms, so ingenuous in
their nudity, she only gave Pierre an impression of superfluous health
and extreme self-assurance. She displeased him and even made him feel
somewhat anxious, as if she were a creature different from all others.
"It is my brother Guillaume who has sent me," he said.
At this her face again changed; she became grave and hastened to admit
him to the passage. And when the door was closed she answered: "You have
brought us news of him, then! I must apologise for receiving you in this
fashion. The servants have just finished some washing, and I was making
sure if the work had been well done. Pray excuse me, and come in here for
a moment; it is perhaps best that I should be the first to know the
news."
So saying, she led him past the kitchen to a little room which served as
scullery and wash-house. A tub full of soapy water stood there, and some
dripping linen hung over some wooden bars. "And so, Guillaume?" she
asked.
Pierre then told the truth in simple fashion: that his brother's wrist
had been injured; that he himself had witnessed the accident, and that
his brother had then sought an asylum with him at Neuilly, where he
wished to remain and get cured of his injury in peace and quietness,
without even receiving a visit from his sons. While speaking in this
fashion, the priest watched the effect of his words on Marie's face:
first fright and pity, and then an effort to calm herself and judge
things reasonably.
"His letter quite froze me last night," she ended by replying. "I felt
sure that some misfortune had happened. But one must be brave and hide
one's fear from others. His wrist injured, you say; it is not a serious
injury, is it?"
"No; but it is necessary that every precaution should be taken with it."
She looked him well in the face with her big frank eyes, which dived into
his own as if to reach the very depths of his being, though at the same
time she plainly sought to restrain the score of questions which rose to
her lips. "And that is all: he was injured in an accident," she resumed;
"he didn't ask you to tell us anything further about it?"
"No, he simply desires that you will not be anxious."
Thereupon she insisted no further, but showed herself obedient and
respectful of the decision which Guillaume had arrived at. It sufficed
that he should have sent a messenger to reassure the household--she did
not seek to learn any more. And even as she had returned to her work in
spite of the secret anxiety in which the letter of the previous evening
had left her, so now, with her air of quiet strength, she recovered an
appearance of serenity, a quiet smile and clear brave glance.
"Guillaume only gave me one other commission," resumed Pierre, "that of
handing a little key to Madame Leroi."
"Very good," Marie answered, "Mere-Grand is here; and, besides, the
children must see you. I will take you to them."
Once more quite tranquil, she examined Pierre without managing to conceal
her curiosity, which seemed of rather a kindly nature blended with an
element of vague pity. Her fresh white arms had remained bare. In all
candour she slowly drew down her sleeves; then took off the large blue
apron, and showed herself with her rounded figure, at once robust and
elegant, in her modest black gown. He meanwhile looked at her, and most
certainly he did not find her to his liking. On seeing her so natural,
healthy, and courageous, quite a feeling of revolt arose within him,
though he knew not why.
"Will you please follow me, Monsieur l'Abbe?" she said. "We must cross
the garden."
On the ground-floor of the house, across the passage, and facing the
kitchen and the scullery, there were two other rooms, a library
overlooking the Place du Tertre, and a dining-room whose windows opened
into the garden. The four rooms on the first floor served as bedchambers
for the father and the sons. As for the garden, originally but a small
one, it had now been reduced to a kind of gravelled yard by the erection
of the large workshop at one end of it. Of the former greenery, however,
there still remained two huge plum-trees with old knotted trunks, as well
as a big clump of lilac-bushes, which every spring were covered with
bloom. And in front of the latter Marie had arranged a broad flower-bed,
in which she amused herself with growing a few roses, some wallflowers
and some mignonette.
With a wave of her hand as she went past, she called Pierre's attention
to the black plum-trees and the lilacs and roses, which showed but a few
greenish spots, for winter still held the little nook in sleep. "Tell
Guillaume," she said, "that he must make haste to get well and be back
for the first shoots."
Then, as Pierre glanced at her, she all at once flushed purple. Much to
her distress, sudden and involuntary blushes would in this wise
occasionally come upon her, even at the most innocent remarks. She found
it ridiculous to feel such childish emotion when she had so brave a
heart. But her pure maidenly blood had retained exquisite delicacy, such
natural and instinctive modesty that she yielded to it perforce. And
doubtless she had merely blushed because she feared that the priest might
think she had referred to her marriage in speaking of the spring.
"Please go in, Monsieur l'Abbe. The children are there, all three." And
forthwith she ushered him into the workshop.
It was a very spacious place, over sixteen feet high, with a brick
flooring and bare walls painted an iron grey. A sheet of light, a stream
of sunshine, spread to every corner through a huge window facing the
south, where lay the immensity of Paris. The Venetian shutters often had
to be lowered in the summer to attenuate the great heat. From morn till
night the whole family lived here, closely and affectionately united in
work. Each was installed as fancy listed, having a particular chosen
place. One half of the building was occupied by the father's chemical
laboratory, with its stove, experiment tables, shelves for apparatus,
glass cases and cupboards for phials and jars. Near all this Thomas, the
eldest son, had installed a little forge, an anvil, a vice bench, in fact
everything necessary to a working mechanician, such as he had become
since taking his bachelor's degree, from his desire to remain with his
father and help him with certain researches and inventions. Then, at the
other end, the younger brothers, Francois and Antoine, got on very well
together on either side of a broad table which stood amidst a medley of
portfolios, nests of drawers and revolving book-stands. Francois, laden
with academical laurels, first on the pass list for the Ecole Normale,
had entered that college where young men are trained for university
professorships, and was there preparing for his Licentiate degree, while
Antoine, who on reaching the third class at the Lycee Condorcet had taken
a dislike to classical studies, now devoted himself to his calling as a
wood-engraver. And, in the full light under the window, Mere-Grand and
Marie likewise had their particular table, where needlework, embroidery,
all sorts of /chiffons/ and delicate things lay about near the somewhat
rough jumble of retorts, tools and big books.
Marie, however, on the very threshold called out in her calm voice, to
which she strove to impart a gay and cheering accent: "Children!
children! here is Monsieur l'Abbe with news of father!"
Children, indeed! Yet what motherliness she already set in the word as
she applied it to those big fellows whose elder sister she had long
considered herself to be! At three and twenty Thomas was quite a
colossus, already bearded and extremely like his father. But although he
had a lofty brow and energetic features, he was somewhat slow both in
mind and body. And he was also taciturn, almost unsociable, absorbed in
filial devotion, delighted with the manual toil which made him a mere
workman at his master's orders. Francois, two years younger than Thomas,
and nearly as tall, showed a more refined face, though he had the same
large brow and firm mouth, a perfect blending of health and strength, in
which the man of intellect, the scientific Normalian, could only be
detected by the brighter and more subtle sparkle of the eyes. The
youngest of the brothers, Antoine, who for his eighteen years was almost
as strong as his elders, and promised to become as tall, differed from
them by his lighter hair and soft, blue, dreamy eyes, which he had
inherited from his mother. It had been difficult, however, to distinguish
one from the other when all three were schoolboys at the Lycee Condorcet;
and even nowadays people made mistakes unless they saw them side by side,
so as to detect the points of difference which were becoming more marked
as age progressed.
On Pierre's arrival the brothers were so absorbed in their work that they
did not even hear the door open. And again, as in the case of Marie, the
priest was surprised by the discipline and firmness of mind, which amidst
the keenest anxiety gave the young fellows strength to take up their
daily task. Thomas, who stood at his vice-bench in a blouse, was
carefully filing a little piece of copper with rough but skilful hands.
Francois, leaning forward, was writing in a bold, firm fashion, whilst on
the other side of the table, Antoine, with a slender graver between his
fingers, finished a block for an illustrated newspaper.
However, Marie's clear voice made them raise their heads: "Children,
father has sent you some news!"
Then all three with the same impulse hurriedly quitted their work and
came forward. One could divine that directly there was any question of
their father they were drawn together, blended one with the other, so
that but one and the same heart beat in their three broad chests.
However, a door at the far end of the workroom opened at that moment, and
Mere-Grand, coming from the upper floor where she and Marie had their
bedrooms, made her appearance. She had just absented herself to fetch a
skein of wool; and she gazed fixedly at the priest, unable to understand
the reason of his presence.
Marie had to explain matters. "Mere-Grand," said she, "this is Monsieur
l'Abbe Froment, Guillaume's brother; he has come from him."
Pierre on his side was examining the old lady, astonished to find her so
erect and full of life at seventy. Her former beauty had left a stately
charm on her rather long face; youthful fire still lingered in her brown
eyes; and very firm was the contour of her pale lips, which in parting
showed that she had retained all her teeth. A few white hairs alone
silvered her black tresses, which were arranged in old-time fashion. Her
cheeks had but slightly withered, and her deep, symmetrical wrinkles gave
her countenance an expression of much nobility, a sovereign air as of a
queen-mother, which, tall and slight of stature as she was, and
invariably gowned in black woollen stuff, she always retained, no matter
how humble her occupation.
"So Guillaume sent you, monsieur," she said; "he is injured, is he not?"
Surprised by this proof of intuition, Pierre repeated his story. "Yes,
his wrist is injured--but oh! it's not a case of immediate gravity."
On the part of the three sons, he had divined a sudden quiver, an impulse
of their whole beings to rush to the help and defence of their father.
And for their sakes he sought words of comfort: "He is with me at
Neuilly. And with due care it is certain that no serious complications
will arise. He sent me to tell you to be in no wise uneasy about him."
Mere-Grand for her part evinced no fears, but preserved great calmness,
as if the priest's tidings contained nothing beyond what she had known
already. If anything, she seemed rather relieved, freed from anxiety
which she had confided to none. "If he is with you, monsieur," she
answered, "he is evidently as comfortable as he can be, and sheltered
from all risks. We were surprised, however, by his letter last night, as
it did not explain why he was detained, and we should have ended by
feeling frightened. But now everything is satisfactory."
Mere-Grand and the three sons, following Marie's example, asked no
explanations. On a table near at hand Pierre noticed several morning
newspapers lying open and displaying column after column of particulars
about the crime. The sons had certainly read these papers, and had feared
lest their father should be compromised in that frightful affair. How far
did their knowledge of the latter go? They must be ignorant of the part
played by Salvat. It was surely impossible for them to piece together all
the unforeseen circumstances which had brought about their father's
meeting with the workman, and then the crime. Mere-Grand, no doubt, was
in certain respects better informed than the others. But they, the sons
and Marie, neither knew nor sought to know anything. And thus what a
wealth of respect and affection there was in their unshakable confidence
in the father, in the tranquillity they displayed directly he sent them
word that they were not to be anxious about him!
"Madame," Pierre resumed, "Guillaume told me to give you this little key,
and to remind you to do what he charged you to do, if any misfortune
should befall him."
She started, but so slightly that it was scarcely perceptible; and taking
the key she answered as if some ordinary wish on the part of a sick
person were alone in question. "Very well. Tell him that his wishes shall
be carried out." Then she added, "But pray take a seat, monsieur."
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