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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Pierre, indeed, had remained standing. However, he now felt it necessary
to accept a chair, desirous as he was of hiding the embarrassment which
he still felt in this house, although he was /en famille/ there. Marie,
who could not live without occupation for her fingers, had just returned
to some embroidery, some of the fine needlework which she stubbornly
executed for a large establishment dealing in baby-linen and bridal
/trousseaux/; for she wished at any rate to earn her own pocket-money,
she often said with a laugh. Mere-Grand, too, from habit, which she
followed even when visitors were present, had once more started on her
perpetual stocking-mending; while Francois and Antoine had again seated
themselves at their table; and Thomas alone remained on his legs, leaning
against his bench. All the charm of industrious intimacy pervaded the
spacious, sun-lit room.
"But we'll all go to see father to-morrow," Thomas suddenly exclaimed.
Before Pierre could answer Marie raised her head. "No, no," said she, "he
does not wish any of us to go to him; for if we should be watched and
followed we should betray the secret of his retreat. Isn't that so,
Monsieur l'Abbe?"
"It would indeed be prudent of you to deprive yourselves of the pleasure
of embracing him until he himself can come back here. It will be a matter
of some two or three weeks," answered Pierre.
Mere-Grand at once expressed approval of this. "No doubt," said she.
"Nothing could be more sensible."
So the three sons did not insist, but bravely accepted the secret anxiety
in which they must for a time live, renouncing the visit which would have
caused them so much delight, because their father bade them do so and
because his safety depended perhaps on their obedience.
However, Thomas resumed: "Then, Monsieur l'Abbe, will you please tell him
that as work will be interrupted here, I shall return to the factory
during his absence. I shall be more at ease there for the researches on
which we are engaged."
"And please tell him from me," put in Francois, "that he mustn't worry
about my examination. Things are going very well. I feel almost certain
of success."
Pierre promised that he would forget nothing. However, Marie raised her
head, smiling and glancing at Antoine, who had remained silent with a
faraway look in his eyes. "And you, little one," said she, "don't you
send him any message?"
Emerging from a dream, the young fellow also began to smile. "Yes, yes, a
message that you love him dearly, and that he's to make haste back for
you to make him happy."
At this they all became merry, even Marie, who in lieu of embarrassment
showed a tranquil gaiety born of confidence in the future. Between her
and the young men there was naught but happy affection. And a grave smile
appeared even on the pale lips of Mere-Grand, who likewise approved of
the happiness which life seemed to be promising.
Pierre wished to stay a few minutes longer. They all began to chat, and
his astonishment increased. He had gone from surprise to surprise in this
house where he had expected to find that equivocal, disorderly life, that
rebellion against social laws, which destroy morality. But instead of
this he had found loving serenity, and such strong discipline that life
there partook of the gravity, almost the austerity, of convent life,
tempered by youth and gaiety. The vast room was redolent of industry and
quietude, warm with bright sunshine. However, what most particularly
struck him was the Spartan training, the bravery of mind and heart among
those sons who allowed nothing to be seen of their personal feelings, and
did not presume to judge their father, but remained content with his
message, ready to await events, stoical and silent, while carrying on
their daily tasks. Nothing could be more simple, more dignified, more
lofty. And there was also the smiling heroism of Mere-Grand and Marie,
those two women who slept over that laboratory where terrible
preparations were manipulated, and where an explosion was always
possible.
However, such courage, orderliness and dignity merely surprised Pierre,
without touching him. He had no cause for complaint, he had received a
polite greeting if not an affectionate one; but then he was as yet only a
stranger there, a priest. In spite of everything, however, he remained
hostile, feeling that he was in a sphere where none of his own torments
could be shared or even divined. How did these folks manage to be so calm
and happy amidst their religious unbelief, their sole faith in science,
and in presence of that terrifying Paris which spread before them the
boundless sea, the growling abomination of its injustice and its want? As
this thought came to him he turned his head and gazed at the city through
the huge window, whence it stretched away, ever present, ever living its
giant life. And at that hour, under the oblique sun-rays of the winter
afternoon, all Paris was speckled with luminous dust, as if some
invisible sower, hidden amidst the glory of the planet, were fast
scattering seed which fell upon every side in a stream of gold. The whole
field was covered with it; for the endless chaos of house roofs and
edifices seemed to be land in tilth, furrowed by some gigantic plough.
And Pierre in his uneasiness, stirred, despite everything, by an
invincible need of hope, asked himself if this was not a good sowing, the
furrows of Paris strewn with light by the divine sun for the great future
harvest, that harvest of truth and justice of whose advent he had
despaired.
At last he rose and took his leave, promising to return at once, if there
should be any bad news. It was Marie who showed him to the front door.
And there another of those childish blushes which worried her so much
suddenly rose to her face, just as she, in her turn, also wished to send
her loving message to the injured man. However, with her gay, candid eyes
fixed on those of the priest, she bravely spoke the words: "/Au revoir,
Monsieur l'Abbe/. Tell Guillaume that I love him and await him."
III
PENURY AND TOIL
THREE days went by, and every morning Guillaume, confined to his bed and
consumed by fever and impatience, experienced fresh anxiety directly the
newspapers arrived. Pierre had tried to keep them from him, but Guillaume
then worried himself the more, and so the priest had to read him column
by column all the extraordinary articles that were published respecting
the crime.
Never before had so many rumours inundated the press. Even the "Globe,"
usually so grave and circumspect, yielded to the general /furore/, and
printed whatever statements reached it. But the more unscrupulous papers
were the ones to read. The "Voix du Peuple" in particular made use of the
public feverishness to increase its sales. Each morning it employed some
fresh device, and printed some frightful story of a nature to drive
people mad with terror. It related that not a day passed without Baron
Duvillard receiving threatening letters of the coarsest description,
announcing that his wife, his son and his daughter would all be killed,
that he himself would be butchered in turn, and that do what he might his
house would none the less be blown up. And as a measure of precaution the
house was guarded day and night alike by a perfect army of plain-clothes
officers. Then another article contained an amazing piece of invention.
Some anarchists, after carrying barrels of powder into a sewer near the
Madeleine, were said to have undermined the whole district, planning a
perfect volcano there, into which one half of Paris would sink. And at
another time it was alleged that the police were on the track of a
terrible plot which embraced all Europe, from the depths of Russia to the
shores of Spain. The signal for putting it into execution was to be given
in France, and there would be a three days' massacre, with grape shot
sweeping everyone off the Boulevards, and the Seine running red, swollen
by a torrent of blood. Thanks to these able and intelligent devices of
the Press, terror now reigned in the city; frightened foreigners fled
from the hotels /en masse/; and Paris had become a mere mad-house, where
the most idiotic delusions at once found credit.
It was not all this, however, that worried Guillaume. He was only anxious
about Salvat and the various new "scents" which the newspaper reporters
attempted to follow up. The engineer was not yet arrested, and, so far
indeed, there had been no statement in print to indicate that the police
were on his track. At last, however, Pierre one morning read a paragraph
which made the injured man turn pale.
"Dear me! It seems that a tool has been found among the rubbish at the
entrance of the Duvillard mansion. It is a bradawl, and its handle bears
the name of Grandidier, which is that of a man who keeps some well-known
metal works. He is to appear before the investigating magistrate to-day."
Guillaume made a gesture of despair. "Ah!" said he, "they are on the
right track at last. That tool must certainly have been dropped by
Salvat. He worked at Grandidier's before he came to me for a few days.
And from Grandidier they will learn all that they need to know in order
to follow the scent."
Pierre then remembered that he had heard the Grandidier factory mentioned
at Montmartre. Guillaume's eldest son, Thomas, had served his
apprenticeship there, and even worked there occasionally nowadays.
"You told me," resumed Guillaume, "that during my absence Thomas intended
to go back to the factory. It's in connection with a new motor which he's
planning, and has almost hit upon. If there should be a perquisition
there, he may be questioned, and may refuse to answer, in order to guard
his secret. So he ought to be warned of this, warned at once!"
Without trying to extract any more precise statement from his brother,
Pierre obligingly offered his services. "If you like," said he, "I will
go to see Thomas this afternoon. Perhaps I may come across Monsieur
Grandidier himself and learn how far the affair has gone, and what was
said at the investigating magistrate's."
With a moist glance and an affectionate grasp of the hand, Guillaume at
once thanked Pierre: "Yes, yes, brother, go there, it will be good and
brave of you."
"Besides," continued the priest, "I really wanted to go to Montmartre
to-day. I haven't told you so, but something has been worrying me. If
Salvat has fled, he must have left the woman and the child all alone up
yonder. On the morning of the day when the explosion took place I saw the
poor creatures in such a state of destitution, such misery, that I can't
think of them without a heart-pang. Women and children so often die of
hunger when the man is no longer there."
At this, Guillaume, who had kept Pierre's hand in his own, pressed it
more tightly, and in a trembling voice exclaimed: "Yes, yes, and that
will be good and brave too. Go there, brother, go there."
That house of the Rue des Saules, that horrible home of want and agony,
had lingered in Pierre's memory. To him it was like an embodiment of the
whole filthy /cloaca/, in which the poor of Paris suffer unto death. And
on returning thither that afternoon, he found the same slimy mud around
it; its yard littered with the same filth, its dark, damp stairways
redolent of the same stench of neglect and poverty, as before. In winter
time, while the fine central districts of Paris are dried and cleansed,
the far-away districts of the poor remain gloomy and miry, beneath the
everlasting tramp of the wretched ones who dwell in them.
Remembering the staircase which conducted to Salvat's lodging, Pierre
began to climb it amidst a loud screaming of little children, who
suddenly became quiet, letting the house sink into death-like silence
once more. Then the thought of Laveuve, who had perished up there like a
stray dog, came back to Pierre. And he shuddered when, on the top
landing, he knocked at Salvat's door, and profound silence alone answered
him. Not a breath was to be heard.
However, he knocked again, and as nothing stirred he began to think that
nobody could be there. Perhaps Salvat had returned to fetch the woman and
the child, and perhaps they had followed him to some humble nook abroad.
Still this would have astonished him; for the poor seldom quit their
homes, but die where they have suffered. So he gave another gentle knock.
And at last a faint sound, the light tread of little feet, was heard
amidst the silence. Then a weak, childish voice ventured to inquire: "Who
is there?"
"Monsieur l'Abbe."
The silence fell again, nothing more stirred. There was evidently
hesitation on the other side.
"Monsieur l'Abbe who came the other day," said Pierre again.
This evidently put an end to all uncertainty, for the door was set ajar
and little Celine admitted the priest. "I beg your pardon, Monsieur
l'Abbe," said she, "but Mamma Theodore has gone out, and she told me not
to open the door to anyone."
Pierre had, for a moment, imagined that Salvat himself was hiding there.
But with a glance he took in the whole of the small bare room, where man,
woman and child dwelt together. At the same time, Madame Theodore
doubtless feared a visit from the police. Had she seen Salvat since the
crime? Did she know where he was hiding? Had he come back there to
embrace and tranquillise them both?
"And your papa, my dear," said Pierre to Celine, "isn't he here either?"
"Oh! no, monsieur, he has gone away."
"What, gone away?"
"Yes, he hasn't been home to sleep, and we don't know where he is."
"Perhaps he's working."
"Oh, no! he'd send us some money if he was."
"Then he's gone on a journey, perhaps?"
"I don't know."
"He wrote to Mamma Theodore, no doubt?"
"I don't know."
Pierre asked no further questions. In fact, he felt somewhat ashamed of
his attempt to extract information from this child of eleven, whom he
thus found alone. It was quite possible that she knew nothing, that
Salvat, in a spirit of prudence, had even refrained from sending any
tidings of himself. Indeed, there was an expression of truthfulness on
the child's fair, gentle and intelligent face, which was grave with the
gravity that extreme misery imparts to the young.
"I am sorry that Mamma Theodore isn't here," said Pierre, "I wanted to
speak to her."
"But perhaps you would like to wait for her, Monsieur l'Abbe. She has
gone to my Uncle Toussaint's in the Rue Marcadet; and she can't stop much
longer, for she's been away more than an hour."
Thereupon Celine cleared one of the chairs on which lay a handful of
scraps of wood, picked up on some waste ground.
The bare and fireless room was assuredly also a breadless one. Pierre
could divine the absence of the bread-winner, the disappearance of the
man who represents will and strength in the home, and on whom one still
relies even when weeks have gone by without work. He goes out and scours
the city, and often ends by bringing back the indispensable crust which
keeps death at bay. But with his disappearance comes complete
abandonment, the wife and child in danger, destitute of all prop and
help.
Pierre, who had sat down and was looking at that poor, little, blue-eyed
girl, to whose lips a smile returned in spite of everything, could not
keep from questioning her on another point. "So you don't go to school,
my child?" said he.
She faintly blushed and answered: "I've no shoes to go in."
He glanced at her feet, and saw that she was wearing a pair of ragged old
list-slippers, from which her little toes protruded, red with cold.
"Besides," she continued, "Mamma Theodore says that one doesn't go to
school when one's got nothing to eat. Mamma Theodore wanted to work but
she couldn't, because her eyes got burning hot and full of water. And so
we don't know what to do, for we've had nothing left since yesterday, and
if Uncle Toussaint can't lend us twenty sous it'll be all over."
She was still smiling in her unconscious way, but two big tears had
gathered in her eyes. And the sight of the child shut up in that bare
room, apart from all the happy ones of earth, so upset the priest that he
again felt his anger with want and misery awakening. Then, another ten
minutes having elapsed, he became impatient, for he had to go to the
Grandidier works before returning home.
"I don't know why Mamma Theodore doesn't come back," repeated Celine.
"Perhaps she's chatting." Then, an idea occurring to her she continued:
"I'll take you to my Uncle Toussaint's, Monsieur l'Abbe, if you like.
It's close by, just round the corner."
"But you have no shoes, my child."
"Oh! that don't matter, I walk all the same."
Thereupon he rose from the chair and said simply: "Well, yes, that will
be better, take me there. And I'll buy you some shoes."
Celine turned quite pink, and then made haste to follow him after
carefully locking the door of the room like a good little housewife,
though, truth to tell, there was nothing worth stealing in the place.
In the meantime it had occurred to Madame Theodore that before calling on
her brother Toussaint to try to borrow a franc from him, she might first
essay her luck with her younger sister, Hortense, who had married little
Chretiennot, the clerk, and occupied a flat of four rooms on the
Boulevard de Rochechouart. This was quite an affair, however, and the
poor woman only made the venture because Celine had been fasting since
the previous day.
Eugene Toussaint, the mechanician, a man of fifty, was her stepbrother,
by the first marriage contracted by her father. A young dressmaker whom
the latter had subsequently wedded, had borne him three daughters,
Pauline, Leonie and Hortense. And on his death, his son Eugene, who
already had a wife and child of his own, had found himself for a short
time with his stepmother and sisters on his hands. The stepmother,
fortunately, was an active and intelligent woman, and knew how to get out
of difficulties. She returned to her former workroom where her daughter
Pauline was already apprenticed, and she next placed Leonie there; so
that Hortense, the youngest girl, who was a spoilt child, prettier and
more delicate than her sisters, was alone left at school. And, later
on,--after Pauline had married Labitte the stonemason, and Leonie, Salvat
the journeyman-engineer,--Hortense, while serving as assistant at a
confectioner's in the Rue des Martyrs, there became acquainted with
Chretiennot, a clerk, who married her. Leonie had died young, only a few
weeks after her mother; Pauline, forsaken by her husband, lived with her
brother-in-law Salvat, and Hortense alone wore a light silk gown on
Sundays, resided in a new house, and ranked as a /bourgeoise/, at the
price, however, of interminable worries and great privation.
Madame Theodore knew that her sister was generally short of money towards
the month's end, and therefore felt rather ill at ease in thus venturing
to apply for a loan. Chretiennot, moreover, embittered by his own
mediocrity, had of late years accused his wife of being the cause of
their spoilt life, and had ceased all intercourse with her relatives.
Toussaint, no doubt, was a decent workman; but that Madame Theodore who
lived in misery with her brother-in-law, and that Salvat who wandered
from workshop to workshop like an incorrigible ranter whom no employer
would keep; those two, with their want and dirt and rebellion, had ended
by incensing the vain little clerk, who was not only a great stickler for
the proprieties, but was soured by all the difficulties he encountered in
his own life. And thus he had forbidden Hortense to receive her sister.
All the same, as Madame Theodore climbed the carpeted staircase of the
house on the Boulevard Rochechouart, she experienced a certain feeling of
pride at the thought that she had a relation living in such luxury. The
Chretiennot's rooms were on the third floor, and overlooked the
courtyard. Their /femme-de-menage/--a woman who goes out by the day or
hour charring, cleaning and cooking--came back every afternoon about four
o'clock to see to the dinner, and that day she was already there. She
admitted the visitor, though she could not conceal her anxious surprise
at her boldness in calling in such slatternly garb. However, on the very
threshold of the little salon, Madame Theodore stopped short in
wonderment herself, for her sister Hortense was sobbing and crouching on
one of the armchairs, upholstered in blue repp, of which she was so
proud.
"What is the matter? What has happened to you?" asked Madame Theodore.
Her sister, though scarcely two and thirty, was no longer "the beautiful
Hortense" of former days. She retained a doll-like appearance, with a
tall slim figure, pretty eyes and fine, fair hair. But she who had once
taken so much care of herself, had now come down to dressing-gowns of
doubtful cleanliness. Her eyelids, too, were reddening, and blotches were
appearing on her skin. She had begun to fade after giving birth to two
daughters, one of whom was now nine and the other seven years of age.
Very proud and egotistical, she herself had begun to regret her marriage,
for she had formerly considered herself a real beauty, worthy of the
palaces and equipages of some Prince Charming. And at this moment she was
plunged in such despair, that her sister's sudden appearance on the scene
did not even astonish her: "Ah! it's you," she gasped. "Ah! if you only
knew what a blow's fallen on me in the middle of all our worries!"
Madame Theodore at once thought of the children, Lucienne and Marcelle.
"Are your daughters ill?" she asked.
"No, no, our neighbour has taken them for a walk on the Boulevard. But
the fact is, my dear, I'm /enceinte/, and when I told Chretiennot of it
after /dejeuner/, he flew into a most fearful passion, saying the most
dreadful, the most cruel things!"
Then she again sobbed. Gentle and indolent by nature, desirous of peace
and quietness before anything else, she was incapable of deceiving her
husband, as he well knew. But the trouble was that an addition to the
family would upset the whole economy of the household.
"/Mon Dieu/!" said Madame Theodore at last, "you brought up the others,
and you'll bring up this one too."
At this an explosion of anger dried the other's eyes; and she rose,
exclaiming: "You are good, you are! One can see that our purse isn't
yours. How are we to bring up another child when we can scarcely make
both ends meet as it is?"
And thereupon, forgetting the /bourgeois/ pride which usually prompted
her to silence or falsehood, she freely explained their embarrassment,
the horrid pecuniary worries which made their life a perpetual misery.
Their rent amounted to 700 francs,* so that out of the 3000 francs**
which the husband earned at his office, barely a couple of hundred were
left them every month. And how were they to manage with that little sum,
provide food and clothes, keep up their rank and so forth? There was the
indispensable black coat for monsieur, the new dress which madame must
have at regular intervals, under penalty of losing caste, the new boots
which the children required almost every month, in fact, all sorts of
things that could not possibly be dispensed with. One might strike a dish
or two out of the daily menu, and even go without wine; but evenings came
when it was absolutely necessary to take a cab. And, apart from all this,
one had to reckon with the wastefulness of the children, the disorder in
which the discouraged wife left the house, and the despair of the
husband, who was convinced that he would never extricate himself from his
difficulties, even should his salary some day be raised to as high a
figure as 4000 francs. Briefly, one here found the unbearable penury of
the petty clerk, with consequences as disastrous as the black want of the
artisan: the mock facade and lying luxury; all the disorder and suffering
which lie behind intellectual pride at not earning one's living at a
bench or on a scaffolding.
* $140.
** $600.
"Well, well," repeated Madame Theodore, "you can't kill the child."
"No, of course not; but it's the end of everything," answered Hortense,
sinking into the armchair again. "What will become of us, /mon Dieu/!
What will become of us!" Then she collapsed in her unbuttoned dressing
gown, tears once more gushing from her red and swollen eyes.
Much vexed that circumstances should be so unpropitious, Madame Theodore
nevertheless ventured to ask for the loan of twenty sons; and this
brought her sister's despair and confusion to a climax. "I really haven't
a centime in the house," said she, "just now I borrowed ten sous for the
children from the servant. I had to get ten francs from the Mont de Piete
on a little ring the other day. And it's always the same at the end of
the month. However, Chretiennot will be paid to-day, and he's coming back
early with the money for dinner. So if I can I will send you something
to-morrow."
At this same moment the servant hastened in with a distracted air, being
well aware that monsieur was in no wise partial to madame's relatives.
"Oh madame, madame!" said she; "here's monsieur coming up the stairs."
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