Books: Conscience, v1
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Hector Malot >> Conscience, v1
The story that he had already told to Glady and Caffie he now told to
Phillis, adding what had passed with the concierge, the wine-seller, the
coal man, and Joseph.
She listened, stupefied.
"He took your coat?" she murmured.
"That was what he came for."
"And to-morrow?"
"Ah! to-morrow--to-morrow!"
"Working so hard as you have, how did you come to such a pass?"
"Like you, I believed in the virtue of work, and look at me! Because I
felt within me a will that nothing could weaken, a strength that nothing
could fatigue, a courage that nothing could, dishearten, I imagined that
I was armed for battle in such a way that I should never be conquered,
and I am conquered, as much by the fault of circumstances as by my own--"
"And in what are you to blame, poor dear?"
"For my ignorance of life, stupidity, presumption, and blindness.
If I had been less simple, should I have been taken in by Jardine's
propositions? Should I have accepted this furniture, this apartment?
He told me that the papers he made me sign were mere formalities, that
in reality I might pay when I could, and that he would be content with
a fair interest. That seemed reasonable, and, without inquiring further,
I accepted, happy and delighted to have a home, feeling sure of having
strength to bear this burden. To have confidence in one's self is
strength, but it is also weakness. Because you love me you do not know
me; you do not see me as I am. In reality, I am not sociable, and I
lack, absolutely, suppleness, delicacy, politeness, as much in my
character as in my manners. Being so, how can I obtain a large practice,
or succeed, unless it is by some stroke of luck? I have counted on the
luck, but its hour has not yet sounded. Because I lack suppleness I have
not been able to win the sympathy or interest of my masters. They see
only my reserve; and because I stay away from them, as much through
timidity as pride, they do not come to me--which is quite natural, I
admit. And because I have not yielded my ideas to the authority of
others, they have taken a dislike to me, which is still more natural.
Because I lack politeness, and am still an Auvergnat, heavy and awkward
as nature made me, men of the world disdain me, judging me by my
exterior, which they see and dislike. More wary, more sly, more
experienced, I should be, at least, sustained by friendship, but I have
given no thought to it. What good is it? I had no need of it, my force
was sufficient. I find it more easy to make myself feared than loved.
Thus formed, there are only two things for me to do: remain in my poor
room in the Hotel du Senat, living by giving lessons and by work from the
booksellers, until the examination and admission to the central bureau;
or to establish myself in an out-of-the-way quarter at Belleville,
Montrouge, or elsewhere, and there practise among people who will demand
neither politeness nor fine manners. As these two ways are reasonable,
I have made up my mind to neither. Belleville, because I should work
only with my legs, like one of my comrades whom I saw work at Villette:
'Your tongue, good. Your arm, good.' And while he is supposed to be
feeling the pulse of the patient with one hand, with the other he is
writing his prescription: 'Vomitive, purgative, forty sous;' and he
hurries away, his diagnosis having taken less than five minutes; he had
no time to waste. I object to the Hotel du Senat because I have had
enough of it, and it was there that Jardine tempted me with his
proposals. See what he has brought me to!"
"And now?"
CHAPTER VIII
EXPLANATIONS
At this moment, without warning, the candle on the table went out.
Phillis rose. "Where are the candles?" she asked.
"There are no more; this was the last."
"Then we must brighten up the fire."
She threw a small log on the hearth, and then, instead of resuming her
seat, she took a cushion from the sofa, and placing it before the
chimney, threw herself upon it, and leaned her elbow on Saniel's knee.
"And now?" she repeated, her eyes raised to his.
"Now I suppose the only thing for me to do is to return to Auvergne and
become a country doctor."
"My God! is it possible?" she murmured in a tone that surprised Saniel.
If there was sadness in this cry, there was also a sentiment that he did
not understand.
"On leaving the school I could continue to live at the Hotel du Senat,
and, while giving lessons, prepare my 'concours'; now, after having
reached a certain position, can I return to this life of poverty and
study? My creditors, who have fallen on me here, will harass me, and my
competitors will mock my misery--which is caused by my vices. They will
think that I dishonor the Faculty, and I shall be rebuffed. Neither
doctor of the hospitals nor fellow, I shall be reduced to nothing but a
doctor of the quarter. Of what use is it? The effort has been made
here; you see how it has succeeded."
"Then you mean to go?"
"Not without sorrow and despair, since it will be our separation, the
renouncement of all the hopes on which I have lived for ten years, the
abandonment of my work, death itself. You see now why, in spite of your
gayety, I have not been able to hide my preoccupation from you. The more
charming you were, the more I felt how dear you are, and the greater my
despair at the thought of separation."
"Why should we separate?"
"What do you mean?"
She turned toward him.
"To go with you. You must acknowledge that until this moment I have
never spoken to you of marriage, and never have I let the thought appear
that you might one day make me your wife. In your position, in the
struggle you have been through, a wife would have been a burden that
would have paralyzed you; above all, such a poor, miserable creature as
myself, with no dot but her misery and that of her family. But the
conditions are no longer the same. You are as miserable as I am, and
more desperate. In your own country, where you have only distant
relatives who are nothing to you, as they have not your education or
ideas, desires or habits, what will become of you all alone with your 158
disappointment and regrets? If you accept me, I will go with you;
together, and loving each other, we cannot be unhappy anywhere. When you
come home fatigued you will find me with a smile; when you stay at home
you will tell me your thoughts, and explain your work, and I will try to
understand. I have no fear of poverty, you know, and neither do I fear
solitude. Wherever we are together I shall be happy. All that I ask of
you is to take my mother with us, because you know I cannot leave her
alone. In attending her, you have learned to know her well enough to
know that she is not disagreeable or difficult to please. As for
Florentin, he will remain in Paris and work. His trip to America has
made him wise, and his ambition will now be easily satisfied; to earn a
small salary is all that he asks. Without doubt we shall be a burden,
but not so heavy as one might think at first. A woman, when she chooses,
brings order and economy into a house, and I promise you that I will be
that woman. And then I will work. I am sure my stationer will give me
as many menus when I am in Auvergne as he does now that I am in Paris.
I could, also, without doubt, procure other work. It would be a hundred
francs a month, perhaps a hundred and fifty, perhaps even two hundred.
While waiting for your patients to come, we could live on this money.
In Auvergne living must be cheap."
She had taken his hands in hers, and she watched anxiously his face as
the firelight shone on it, to see the effect of her words. It was the
life of both of them that was to be decided, and the fulness of her heart
made her voice tremble. What would he reply? She saw that his face was
agitated, without being able to read more.
As she remained silent, he took her head in his hands, and looked in her
face for several moments.
"How you love me!" he said.
"Let me prove it in some way besides in words."
"It would be cowardly to let you share my misery."
"It would be loving me enough to feel sure that I would be happy."
"And I?"
"Is not the love in your heart greater than pride? Do you not feel that
since I have loved you my love has filled all my life, and that there is
nothing in the world, in the present or in the future, but it and you?
Because I see you for several hours from time to time in Paris, I am
happy; whatever difficulties await us, I should be much happier in
Auvergne, because we should be together always."
He remained silent for some time.
"Could you love me there?" he murmured.
Evidently it was more to himself than to her that he addressed this
question, which was the sum of his reflections.
"O dear Victor!" she cried. "Why do you doubt me? Have I deserved it?
The past, the present, do they not assure the future?"
He shook his head.
"The man you have loved, whom you love, has never shown himself to you as
he really is. In spite of the trials and sorrows of his life he has been
able to answer your smile with a smile, because, cruel as his life was,
he was sustained by hope and confidence; in Auvergne there will be no
more hope or confidence, but the madness of a broken life, and the
dejection of impotence. What sort of man should I be? Could you love
such a man?"
"A thousand times more, for he would be unhappy, and I should have to
comfort him."
"Would you have the strength to do it? After a time you would become
weary, for the burden would be too heavy, however great your devotion or
profound your tenderness, to see my real position and my hopes, and,
descending into the future, to see my ruin. You know I am ambitious
without having ever compassed the scope of this ambition, and of the
hopes, dreams if you like, on which it rests. Understand that these
dreams are on the eve of being realized; two months more, and in December
or January I pass the 'concours' for the central bureau, which will make
me a physician of the hospitals, and at the same time the one for the
admission, which opens the Faculty of Medicine to me. Without pride, I
believe myself in a position to succeed--what sportsmen call 'in
condition.' And just when I have only a few days to wait, behold me
ruined forever."
"Why forever?"
"A man leaves his village for Paris to make a name for himself, and he
returns only when bad luck or inability sends him back. And then it is
only every four years that there is a 'concours' for admission. In four
years what will be my moral and intellectual condition? How should I
support this exile of four years? Imagine the effect that four years of
isolation in the mountains will produce. But this is not all. Besides
this ostensible end that I have pursued since I left my village, I have
my special work that I can carry out only in Paris. Without having
overwhelmed you with the details of medicine, you know that it is about
to undergo a revolution that will transform it. Until now it has been
taught officially, in pathology, that the human organism carries within
itself the germ of a great many infectious diseases which develop
spontaneously in certain conditions; for instance, that tuberculosis is
the result of fatigue, privations, and physiological miseries. Well,
recently it has been admitted, that is to say, the revolutionists admit,
a parasitical origin for these diseases, and in France and Germany there
is an army looking for these parasites. I am a soldier in this army, and
to help me in these researches I established a laboratory in the dining-
room. It is to the parasites of tuberculosis and cancers that I devote
myself, and for seven years, that is, since I was house-surgeon, my
comrades have called me the cancer topic. I have discovered the parasite
of the tuberculosis, but I have not yet been able to free it from all its
impurities by the process of culture. I am still at it. That is to say,
I am very near it, and to-morrow, perhaps, or in a few days, I may make a
discovery that will be a revolution, and cover its discoverer with glory.
The same with the cancer. I have found its microbe. But all is not
done. See what I must give up in leaving Paris."
"Why give all this up? Could you not continue your researches in
Auvergne?"
"It is impossible, for many reasons that are too long to explain, but one
will suffice. The culture of these parasites can be done only in certain
temperatures rigorously maintained at the necessary degree, and these
temperatures can be obtained only by stoves, like the one in my
laboratory, fed by gas, the entrance of which is automatically regulated
by the temperature of the water. How could I use this stove in a country
where there is no gas? No, no! If I leave Paris, everything is at an
end my position, as well as my work. I shall become a country doctor,
and nothing but a country doctor. Let the sheriff turn me out to-morrow,
and all the four years' accumulations in my laboratory, all my works en
train that demand only a few days or hours to complete, may go to the
second-hand dealer, or be thrown into the street. Of all my efforts,
weary nights, privations, and hopes, there remains only one souvenir--for
me. And yet, if it did not remain, perhaps I should be less exasperated,
and should accept with a heart less sore the life to which I shall never
resign myself. You know very well that I am a rebel, and do not submit
tamely."
She rose, and taking his hand, pressed it closely in her own.
"You must stay in Paris," she said. "Pardon me for having insisted that
you could live in the country. I thought more of myself than of you, of
our love and our marriage. It was an egotistic thought, a bad thought.
A way must be found, no matter what it costs, to enable you to continue
your work."
"But how to find it? Do you think I have not tried everything?"
He related his visits to Jardine, his solicitations, prayers, and also
his request of a loan from Glady, and his visit to Caffie.
"Caffie!" she cried. "What made you think of going to Caffie?"
"I went partly because you had often spoken of him."
"But I spoke of him to you as the most wicked of men, capable of anything
and everything that is bad."
"And partly, also, because I knew from one of my patients that he lends
to those of whom he can make use."
"What did he say to you?"
"That it was probable he would not be able to find any one who would lend
what I wished, but he would try to find some one, and would give me an
answer tomorrow evening. He also promised to protect me from Jardine."
"You have put yourself in his hands?"
"Well, what do you expect? In my position, I am not at liberty to go to
whom I wish and to those who inspire me with confidence in their honor.
If I should go to a notary or a banker they would not listen to me, for I
should be obliged to tell them, the first thing, that I have no security
to offer. That is how the unfortunate fall into the hands of rascals; at
least, these listen to them, and lend them something, small though it may
be."
"What did he give you?"
"Advice."
"And you took it?"
"There is time gained. To-morrow, perhaps, I shall be turned into the
street. Caffie will obtain a respite."
"And what price will he ask for this service?"
"It is only those who own something who worry about the price."
"You have your name, dignity, and honor, and once you are in Caffies
hands, who knows what he may exact from you, what he may make you do,
without your being able to resist him?."
"Then you wish me to leave Paris?"
"Certainly not; but I wish you to be on your guard against Caffie, whom
you do not know, but I do, through what Florentin told us when he was
with him. However secret a man may be, he cannot hide himself from his
clerk. He is not only guilty of rascalities, but also of real crimes.
I assure you that he deserves ten deaths. To gain a hundred francs he
will do anything; he makes money only for the pleasure of making it, for
he has neither child nor relative."
"Well, I promise to be on my guard as you advise. But, wicked as Caffie
may be, I believe that I shall accept the concours that he offered me.
Who knows what may happen in the short time that he gains for me?
Because I need not tell you that I know beforehand what his reply will be
to my request for a loan--he could find no one."
"I shall come, all the same, to-morrow evening to learn his answer."
CHAPTER IX
CAFFIE'S ANSWER
Although Saniel did not build any false hopes on Caffie's reply, he went
to see him the next afternoon at the same hour.
As before, he waited some time after ringing the bell. At last he heard
a slow step within.
"Who is there?" Caffie asked.
As soon as Saniel answered, the door was opened.
"As I do not like to be disturbed in the evening by troublesome people, I
do not always open the door," Caffie said. "But I have a signal for my
clients so that I may know them. After ringing, knock three times on the
door."
During this explanation they entered Caffie's office.
"Have you done anything about my affair?" Saniel asked, after a moment,
as Caffie seemed disinclined to open the conversation.
"Yes, my dear sir. I have been running about all the morning for you.
I never neglect my clients; their affairs are mine."
He paused.
"Well?" Saniel said.
Caffie put on an expression of despair.
"What did I tell you, my dear sir? Do you remember? Do me the honor to
believe that a man of my experience does not speak lightly. What I
foresaw has come to pass. Everywhere I received the same reply. The
risk is too great; no one would take it."
"Not even for a large interest?"
"Not even for a large interest; there is so much competition in your
profession. As for me, I believe in your future, and I have proved it by
my proposition; but, unfortunately, I am only an intermediary, and not
the lender of money."
Caffie emphasized the words, "my proposition," and underlined them with a
glance; but Saniel did not appear to understand.
"And the upholsterer's summons?" he asked.
"You may be easy on that point. I have attended to it. Your landlord,
to whom he owes rent, will interfere, and your creditor must indemnify
him before going farther. Will he submit? We shall see. If he does, we
shall defend ourselves on some other ground. I do not say victoriously,
but in a way to gain time."
"How much time?"
"That, my dear sir, I do not know; the whole thing depends upon our
adversary. But what do you mean by 'how much time?'--eternity?"
"I mean until April."
"That is eternity. Do you believe that you will be able to free yourself
in April? If you have expectations founded on something substantial, you
should tell me what they are, my dear sir."
This question was put with such an air of benevolence, that Saniel was
taken in by it.
"I have no guarantee," he said. "But, on the other hand, it is of the
utmost importance to me that I should have this length of time. As I
have explained to you, I am about to pass two examinations; they will
last three months, and in March, or, at the latest, in April, I shall be
a physician of the hospitals, and fellow of the Faculty. In that case I
should then offer a surface to the lenders, that would permit you,
without doubt, to find the sum necessary to pay Jardine, whatever
expenses there may be, and your fee."
As he spoke, Saniel saw that he was wrong in thus committing himself, but
he continued to the end.
"I should be unworthy of your confidence, my dear sir," Caffie replied,
"if I encouraged you with the idea that we could gain so much time.
Whatever it costs me--and it costs me much, I assure you--I must tell you
that it is impossible, radically impossible; a few days, yes, or a few
weeks, but that is all."
"Well, obtain a few weeks," Saniel said, rising, "that will be
something."
"And afterward?"
"We shall see."
"My dear sir, do not go. You would not believe how much I am touched by
your position; I think only of you. When I learned that I could not find
the sum you desire, I paid a friendly visit to my young client of whom I
spoke to you--"
"The one who received a superior education in a fashionable convent?"
"Exactly; and I asked her what she would think of a young doctor, full of
talent, future professor of the Faculty, actually considered already a
savant of the first order, handsome--because you are handsome, my dear
sir, and it is no flattery to say this--in good health, a peasant by
birth, who presented himself as a husband. She appeared flattered, I
tell you frankly. But immediately afterward she said, 'And the child?'
To which I replied that you were too good, too noble, too generous, not
to have the indulgence of superior men, who accept an involuntary fault
with serenity. Did I go too far?"
He did not wait for an answer.
"No?" he went on. "Exactly. The child was present, for the mother
watches over it with a solicitude that promises much for the future, and
I examined it leisurely. It is very delicate, my dear sir, and like its
father. The poor baby! I doubt if you, with all your skill, can make it
live. If it should die, as it is to be feared it will, it would not
injure your reputation. You can give it care, but not life."
"Speaking of health," interrupted Saniel, who did not wish to reply, "did
you do what I advised about yourself?"
"Not yet. The chemists of this quarter are only licensed cutthroats; but
I am going this evening to see one of my clients who is a chemist, and he
will deal honestly with me."
"I will see you again, then."
"When you wish, my dear sir; when you have reflected. You have the
password."
Before leaving home Saniel gave his key to the concierge, so that on her
arrival Phillis might go immediately to his rooms. On his return the
concierge told him that "madame" was up-stairs, and when he rang the
bell, Phillis opened the door.
"Well?" she asked in a trembling voice, before he had time to enter.
"It is as I told you yesterday; he has found no one."
She clasped him in a long, passionate embrace.
"And the upholsterer?"
"Caffie has promised to gain some time for me."
While speaking, they entered the office. A fire burned on the hearth,
and an inviting dinner was on the table. Saniel looked at it in
surprise.
"I have set the table, you see; I am going to dine with you."
And throwing herself in his arms:
"Knowing Caffie better than you do, I knew what his answer would be, and
I did not wish you to be alone on your return. I made an excuse for not
dining with mamma."
"But this chicken?"
"We must have a piece de resistance."
"This fire, and these candles?"
"There, that is the end of my economies. I should have been so happy if
they had been less miserable and more useful."
As on the previous evening, they sat before the fire, and she began to
talk of various things in order to distract him. But what their lips did
not say, their eyes, on meeting, expressed with more intensity than words
could do.
It was Saniel who suddenly betrayed his preoccupation.
"Your brother studied Caffie well," he said, as if speaking to himself.
"He did, indeed!"
"He is certainly the most thorough rascal that I have ever met."
"He proposed something infamous, I am sure."
"He proposed that I should marry."
"I suspected that."
"This is the reason why he refuses to lend me the money. I was foolish
enough to tell him frankly just how I am situated, and how important it
is for me to be free until April. He hopes that I shall be so pushed
that I will accept one of the women whom he has proposed to me. With the
knife at my throat, I should have to yield."
"And these women?" she asked, not daring to look at him.
"Do not be alarmed, you have nothing to fear. One is the drunken widow
of a butcher, and the other is a young girl who has a baby."
"He dares to propose such women to a man like you!"
And Saniel repeated all that Caffie had said to him about these two
women.
"What a monster he is!" Phillis said.
"While he was telling me these things I thought of what you said--that if
some one killed him, it would be no more than he deserved."
"That is perfectly true."
"Nothing would have been easier than for me to have made away with him.
He had the toothache, and when he showed me his teeth I could easily have
strangled him. We were alone, and a miserable diabetic, such as he is,
who has not more than six months to live, I am sure, could not have
resisted a grasp like this. I could take his keys from his pocket, open
his safe, and take the thirty, forty, sixty thousand francs that I saw
heaped up there. The devil take me if it were ever discovered. A doctor
does not strangle his patients, he poisons them. He kills them
scientifically, not brutally."
"People who have no conscience can do such things; but for us they are
impossible."
"I assure you it is not conscience that would have restrained me."
"The fear of remorse, if I may use an ugly word."