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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/10720-0.txt b/10720-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f81ab6 --- /dev/null +++ b/10720-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12415 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10720 *** + +DOCTOR PASCAL + +By Émile Zola + +Translated By Mary J. Serrano + + +Contents + + I. + II. + III. + IV. + V. + VI. + VII. + VIII. + IX. + X. + XI. + XII. + XIII. + XIV. + + + + +I. + + +In the heat of the glowing July afternoon, the room, with blinds +carefully closed, was full of a great calm. From the three windows, +through the cracks of the old wooden shutters, came only a few +scattered sunbeams which, in the midst of the obscurity, made a soft +brightness that bathed surrounding objects in a diffused and tender +light. It was cool here in comparison with the overpowering heat that +was felt outside, under the fierce rays of the sun that blazed upon the +front of the house. + +Standing before the press which faced the windows, Dr. Pascal was +looking for a paper that he had come in search of. With doors wide +open, this immense press of carved oak, adorned with strong and +handsome mountings of metal, dating from the last century, displayed +within its capacious depths an extraordinary collection of papers and +manuscripts of all sorts, piled up in confusion and filling every shelf +to overflowing. For more than thirty years the doctor had thrown into +it every page he wrote, from brief notes to the complete texts of his +great works on heredity. Thus it was that his searches here were not +always easy. He rummaged patiently among the papers, and when he at +last found the one he was looking for, he smiled. + +For an instant longer he remained near the bookcase, reading the note +by a golden sunbeam that came to him from the middle window. He +himself, in this dawnlike light, appeared, with his snow-white hair and +beard, strong and vigorous; although he was near sixty, his color was +so fresh, his features were so finely cut, his eyes were still so +clear, and he had so youthful an air that one might have taken him, in +his close-fitting, maroon velvet jacket, for a young man with powdered +hair. + +“Here, Clotilde,” he said at last, “you will copy this note. Ramond +would never be able to decipher my diabolical writing.” + +And he crossed the room and laid the paper beside the young girl, who +stood working at a high desk in the embrasure of the window to the +right. + +“Very well, master,” she answered. + +She did not even turn round, so engrossed was her attention with the +pastel which she was at the moment rapidly sketching in with broad +strokes of the crayon. Near her in a vase bloomed a stalk of hollyhocks +of a singular shade of violet, striped with yellow. But the profile of +her small round head, with its short, fair hair, was clearly +distinguishable; an exquisite and serious profile, the straight +forehead contracted in a frown of attention, the eyes of an azure blue, +the nose delicately molded, the chin firm. Her bent neck, especially, +of a milky whiteness, looked adorably youthful under the gold of the +clustering curls. In her long black blouse she seemed very tall, with +her slight figure, slender throat, and flexible form, the flexible +slenderness of the divine figures of the Renaissance. In spite of her +twenty-five years, she still retained a childlike air and looked hardly +eighteen. + +“And,” resumed the doctor, “you will arrange the press a little. +Nothing can be found there any longer.” + +“Very well, master,” she repeated, without raising her head; +“presently.” + +Pascal had turned round to seat himself at his desk, at the other end +of the room, before the window to the left. It was a plain black wooden +table, and was littered also with papers and pamphlets of all sorts. +And silence again reigned in the peaceful semi-obscurity, contrasting +with the overpowering glare outside. The vast apartment, a dozen meters +long and six wide, had, in addition to the press, only two bookcases, +filled with books. Antique chairs of various kinds stood around in +disorder, while for sole adornment, along the walls, hung with an old +_salon_ Empire paper of a rose pattern, were nailed pastels of flowers +of strange coloring dimly visible. The woodwork of three folding-doors, +the door opening on the hall and two others at opposite ends of the +apartment, the one leading to the doctor’s room, the other to that of +the young girl, as well as the cornice of the smoke-darkened ceiling, +dated from the time of Louis XV. + +An hour passed without a sound, without a breath. Then Pascal, who, as +a diversion from his work, had opened a newspaper—_Le Temps_—which had +lain forgotten on the table, uttered a slight exclamation: + +“Why! your father has been appointed editor of the _Époque_, the +prosperous republican journal which has the publishing of the papers of +the Tuileries.” + +This news must have been unexpected by him, for he laughed frankly, at +once pleased and saddened, and in an undertone he continued: + +“My word! If things had been invented, they could not have been finer. +Life is a strange thing. This is a very interesting article.” + +Clotilde made no answer, as if her thoughts were a hundred leagues away +from what her uncle was saying. And he did not speak again, but taking +his scissors after he had read the article, he cut it out and pasted it +on a sheet of paper, on which he made some marginal notes in his large, +irregular handwriting. Then he went back to the press to classify this +new document in it. But he was obliged to take a chair, the shelf being +so high that he could not reach it notwithstanding his tall stature. + +On this high shelf a whole series of enormous bundles of papers were +arranged in order, methodically classified. Here were papers of all +sorts: sheets of manuscript, documents on stamped paper, articles cut +out of newspapers, arranged in envelopes of strong blue paper, each of +which bore on the outside a name written in large characters. One felt +that these documents were tenderly kept in view, taken out continually, +and carefully replaced; for of the whole press, this corner was the +only one kept in order. + +When Pascal, mounted on the chair, had found the package he was looking +for, one of the bulkiest of the envelopes, on which was written the +name “Saccard,” he added to it the new document, and then replaced the +whole under its corresponding alphabetical letter. A moment later he +had forgotten the subject, and was complacently straightening a pile of +papers that were falling down. And when he at last jumped down off the +chair, he said: + +“When you are arranging the press, Clotilde, don’t touch the packages +at the top; do you hear?” + +“Very well, master,” she responded, for the third time, docilely. + +He laughed again, with the gaiety that was natural to him. + +“That is forbidden.” + +“I know it, master.” + +And he closed the press with a vigorous turn of the key, which he then +threw into a drawer of his writing table. The young girl was +sufficiently acquainted with his researches to keep his manuscripts in +some degree of order; and he gladly employed her as his secretary; he +made her copy his notes when some _confrère_ and friend, like Dr. +Ramond asked him to send him some document. But she was not a +_savante_; he simply forbade her to read what he deemed it useless that +she should know. + +At last, perceiving her so completely absorbed in her work, his +attention was aroused. + +“What is the matter with you, that you don’t open your lips?” he said. +“Are you so taken up with the copying of those flowers that you can’t +speak?” + +This was another of the labors which he often intrusted to her—to make +drawings, aquarelles, and pastels, which he afterward used in his works +as plates. Thus, for the past five years he had been making some +curious experiments on a collection of hollyhocks; he had obtained a +whole series of new colorings by artificial fecundations. She made +these sorts of copies with extraordinary minuteness, an exactitude of +design and of coloring so extreme that he marveled unceasingly at the +conscientiousness of her work, and he often told her that she had a +“good, round, strong, clear little headpiece.” + +But, this time, when he approached her to look over her shoulder, he +uttered a cry of comic fury. + +“There you are at your nonsense! Now you are off in the clouds again! +Will you do me the favor to tear that up at once?” + +She straightened herself, her cheeks flushed, her eyes aglow with the +delight she took in her work, her slender fingers stained with the red +and blue crayon that she had crushed. + +“Oh, master!” + +And in this “master,” so tender, so caressingly submissive, this term +of complete abandonment by which she called him, in order to avoid +using the words godfather or uncle, which she thought silly, there was, +for the first time, a passionate accent of revolt, the revindication of +a being recovering possession of and asserting itself. + +For nearly two hours she had been zealously striving to produce an +exact and faithful copy of the hollyhocks, and she had just thrown on +another sheet a whole bunch of imaginary flowers, of dream-flowers, +extravagant and superb. She had, at times, these abrupt shiftings, a +need of breaking away in wild fancies in the midst of the most precise +of reproductions. She satisfied it at once, falling always into this +extraordinary efflorescence of such spirit and fancy that it never +repeated itself; creating roses, with bleeding hearts, weeping tears of +sulphur, lilies like crystal urns, flowers without any known form, +even, spreading out starry rays, with corollas floating like clouds. +To-day, on a groundwork dashed in with a few bold strokes of black +crayon, it was a rain of pale stars, a whole shower of infinitely soft +petals; while, in a corner, an unknown bloom, a bud, chastely veiled, +was opening. + +“Another to nail there!” resumed the doctor, pointing to the wall, on +which there was already a row of strangely curious pastels. “But what +may that represent, I ask you?” + +She remained very grave, drawing back a step, the better to contemplate +her work. + +“I know nothing about it; it is beautiful.” + +At this moment appeared Martine, the only servant, become the real +mistress of the house, after nearly thirty years of service with the +doctor. Although she had passed her sixtieth year, she, too, still +retained a youthful air as she went about, silent and active, in her +eternal black gown and white cap that gave her the look of a nun, with +her small, white, calm face, and lusterless eyes, the light in which +seemed to have been extinguished. + +Without speaking, she went and sat down on the floor before an +easy-chair, through a rent in the old covering of which the hair was +escaping, and drawing from her pocket a needle and a skein of worsted, +she set to work to mend it. For three days past she had been waiting +for an hour’s time to do this piece of mending, which haunted her. + +“While you are about it, Martine,” said Pascal jestingly, taking +between both his hands the mutinous head of Clotilde, “sew me fast, +too, this little noodle, which sometimes wanders off into the clouds.” + +Martine raised her pale eyes, and looked at her master with her +habitual air of adoration? + +“Why does monsieur say that?” + +“Because, my good girl, in very truth, I believe it is you who have +stuffed this good little round, clear, strong headpiece full of notions +of the other world, with all your devoutness.” + +The two women exchanged a glance of intelligence. + +“Oh, monsieur! religion has never done any harm to any one. And when +people have not the same ideas, it is certainly better not to talk +about them.” + +An embarrassed silence followed; this was the one difference of opinion +which, at times, brought about disagreements among these three united +beings who led so restricted a life. Martine was only twenty-nine, a +year older than the doctor, when she entered his house, at the time +when he made his _début_ as a physician at Plassans, in a bright little +house of the new town. And thirteen years later, when Saccard, a +brother of Pascal, sent him his daughter Clotilde, aged seven, after +his wife’s death and at the moment when he was about to marry again, it +was she who brought up the child, taking it to church, and +communicating to it a little of the devout flame with which she had +always burned; while the doctor, who had a broad mind, left them to +their joy of believing, for he did not feel that he had the right to +interdict to any one the happiness of faith; he contented himself later +on with watching over the young girl’s education and giving her clear +and sound ideas about everything. For thirteen years, during which the +three had lived this retired life at La Souleiade, a small property +situated in the outskirts of the town, a quarter of an hour’s walk from +St. Saturnin, the cathedral, his life had flowed happily along, +occupied in secret great works, a little troubled, however, by an ever +increasing uneasiness—the collision, more and more violent, every day, +between their beliefs. + +Pascal took a few turns gloomily up and down the room. Then, like a man +who did not mince his words, he said: + +“See, my dear, all this phantasmagoria of mystery has turned your +pretty head. Your good God had no need of you; I should have kept you +for myself alone; and you would have been all the better for it.” + +But Clotilde, trembling with excitement, her clear eyes fixed boldly +upon his, held her ground. + +“It is you, master, who would be all the better, if you did not shut +yourself up in your eyes of flesh. That is another thing, why do you +not wish to see?” + +And Martine came to her assistance, in her own style. + +“Indeed, it is true, monsieur, that you, who are a saint, as I say +everywhere, should accompany us to church. Assuredly, God will save +you. But at the bare idea that you should not go straight to paradise, +I tremble all over.” + +He paused, for he had before him, in open revolt, those two whom he had +been accustomed to see submissive at his feet, with the tenderness of +women won over by his gaiety and his goodness. Already he opened his +mouth, and was going to answer roughly, when the uselessness of the +discussion became apparent to him. + +“There! Let us have peace. I would do better to go and work. And above +all, let no one interrupt me!” + +With hasty steps he gained his chamber, where he had installed a sort +of laboratory, and shut himself up in it. The prohibition to enter it +was formal. It was here that he gave himself up to special +preparations, of which he spoke to no one. Almost immediately the slow +and regular sound of a pestle grinding in a mortar was heard. + +“Come,” said Clotilde, smiling, “there he is, at his devil’s cookery, +as grandmother says.” + +And she tranquilly resumed her copying of the hollyhocks. She completed +the drawing with mathematical precision, she found the exact tone of +the violet petals, striped with yellow, even to the most delicate +discoloration of the shades. + +“Ah!” murmured Martine, after a moment, again seated on the ground, and +occupied in mending the chair, “what a misfortune for a good man like +that to lose his soul wilfully. For there is no denying it; I have +known him now for thirty years, and in all that time he has never so +much as spoken an unkind word to any one. A real heart of gold, who +would take the bit from his own mouth. And handsome, too, and always +well, and always gay, a real blessing! It is a murder that he does not +wish to make his peace with the good God. We will force him to do it, +mademoiselle, will we not?” + +Clotilde, surprised at hearing her speak so long at one time on the +subject, gave her word with a grave air. + +“Certainly, Martine, it is a promise. We will force him.” + +Silence reigned again, broken a moment afterward by the ringing of the +bell attached to the street door below. It had been attached to the +door so that they might have notice when any one entered the house, too +vast for the three persons who inhabited it. The servant appeared +surprised, and grumbled a few words under her breath. Who could have +come in such heat as this? She rose, opened the door, and went and +leaned over the balustrade; then she returned, saying: + +“It is Mme. Félicité.” + +Old Mme. Rougon entered briskly. In spite of her eighty years, she had +mounted the stairs with the activity of a young girl; she was still the +brown, lean, shrill grasshopper of old. Dressed elegantly now in black +silk, she might still be taken, seen from behind, thanks to the +slenderness of her figure, for some coquette, or some ambitious woman +following her favorite pursuit. Seen in front, her eyes still lighted +up her withered visage with their fires, and she smiled with an +engaging smile when she so desired. + +“What! is it you, grandmother?” cried Clotilde, going to meet her. +“Why, this sun is enough to bake one.” + +Félicité, kissing her on the forehead, laughed, saying: + +“Oh, the sun is my friend!” + +Then, moving with short, quick steps, she crossed the room, and turned +the fastening of one of the shutters. + +“Open the shutters a little! It is too gloomy to live in the dark in +this way. At my house I let the sun come in.” + +Through the opening a jet of hot light, a flood of dancing sparks +entered. And under the sky, of the violet blue of a conflagration, the +parched plain could be seen, stretching away in the distance, as if +asleep or dead in the overpowering, furnace-like heat, while to the +right, above the pink roofs, rose the belfry of St. Saturnin, a gilded +tower with arises that, in the blinding light, looked like whitened +bones. + +“Yes,” continued Félicité, “I think of going shortly to the Tulettes, +and I wished to know if Charles were here, to take him with me. He is +not here—I see that—I will take him another day.” + +But while she gave this pretext for her visit, her ferret-like eyes +were making the tour of the apartment. Besides, she did not insist, +speaking immediately afterward of her son Pascal, on hearing the +rhythmical noise of the pestle, which had not ceased in the adjoining +chamber. + +“Ah! he is still at his devil’s cookery! Don’t disturb him, I have +nothing to say to him.” + +Martine, who had resumed her work on the chair, shook her head, as if +to say that she had no mind to disturb her master, and there was +silence again, while Clotilde wiped her fingers, stained with crayon, +on a cloth, and Félicité began to walk about the room with short steps, +looking around inquisitively. + +Old Mme. Rougon would soon be two years a widow. Her husband who had +grown so corpulent that he could no longer move, had succumbed to an +attack of indigestion on the 3d of September, 1870, on the night of the +day on which he had learned of the catastrophe of Sedan. The ruin of +the government of which he flattered himself with being one of the +founders, seemed to have crushed him. Thus, Félicité affected to occupy +herself no longer with politics, living, thenceforward, like a +dethroned queen, the only surviving power of a vanished world. No one +was unaware that the Rougons, in 1851, had saved Plassans from anarchy, +by causing the _coup d’état_ of the 2d of December to triumph there, +and that, a few years later, they had won it again from the legitimist +and republican candidates, to give it to a Bonapartist deputy. Up to +the time of the war, the Empire had continued all-powerful in the town, +so popular that it had obtained there at the plebiscite an overwhelming +majority. But since the disasters the town had become republican, the +quarter St. Marc had returned to its secret royalist intrigues, while +the old quarter and the new town had sent to the chamber a liberal +representative, slightly tinged with Orleanism, and ready to take sides +with the republic, if it should triumph. And, therefore, it was that +Félicité, like the intelligent woman she was, had withdrawn her +attention from politics, and consented to be nothing more than the +dethroned queen of a fallen government. + +But this was still an exalted position, surrounded by a melancholy +poetry. For eighteen years she had reigned. The tradition of her two +_salons_, the yellow _salon_, in which the _coup d’état_ had matured, +and the green _salon_, later the neutral ground on which the conquest +of Plassans was completed, embellished itself with the reflection of +the vanished past, and was for her a glorious history. And besides, she +was very rich. Then, too, she had shown herself dignified in her fall, +never uttering a regret or a complaint, parading, with her eighty +years, so long a succession of fierce appetites, of abominable +maneuvers, of inordinate gratifications, that she became august through +them. Her only happiness, now, was to enjoy in peace her large fortune +and her past royalty, and she had but one passion left—to defend her +past, to extend its fame, suppressing everything that might tarnish it +later. Her pride, which lived on the double exploit of which the +inhabitants still spoke, watched with jealous care, resolved to leave +in existence only creditable documents, those traditions which caused +her to be saluted like a fallen queen when she walked through the town. + +She went to the door of the chamber and listened to the persistent +noise of the pestle, which did not cease. Then, with an anxious brow, +she returned to Clotilde. + +“Good Heavens! What is he making? You know that he is doing himself the +greatest harm with his new drug. I was told, the other day, that he +came near killing one of his patients.” + +“Oh, grandmother!” cried the young girl. + +But she was now launched. + +“Yes, exactly. The good wives say many other things, besides! Why, go +question them, in the faubourg! They will tell you that he grinds dead +men’s bones in infants’ blood.” + +This time, while even Martine protested, Clotilde, wounded in her +affection, grew angry. + +“Oh, grandmother, do not repeat such abominations! Master has so great +a heart that he thinks only of making every one happy!” + +Then, when she saw that they were both angry, Félicité, comprehending +that she had gone too far, resumed her coaxing manner. + +“But, my kitten, it is not I who say those frightful things. I repeat +to you the stupid reports they spread, so that you may comprehend that +Pascal is wrong to pay no heed to public opinion. He thinks he has +found a new remedy—nothing could be better! and I will even admit that +he will be able to cure everybody, as he hopes. Only, why affect these +mysterious ways; why not speak of the matter openly; why, above all, +try it only on the rabble of the old quarter and of the country, +instead of, attempting among the well-to-do people of the town, +striking cures which would do him honor? No, my child, you see your +uncle has never been able to act like other people.” + +She had assumed a grieved tone, lowering her voice, to display the +secret wound of her heart. + +“God be thanked! it is not men of worth who are wanting in our family; +my other sons have given me satisfaction enough. Is it not so? Your +Uncle Eugène rose high enough, minister for twelve years, almost +emperor! And your father himself handled many a million, and had a part +in many a one of the great works which have made Paris a new city. Not +to speak at all of your brother, Maxime, so rich, so distinguished, nor +of your cousin, Octave Mouret, one of the kings of the new commerce, +nor of our dear Abbé Mouret, who is a saint! Well, then, why does +Pascal, who might have followed in the footsteps of them all, persist +in living in his hole, like an eccentric old fool?” + +And as the young girl was again going to protest, she closed her mouth, +with a caressing gesture of her hand. + +“No, no, let me finish. I know very well that Pascal is not a fool, +that he has written remarkable works, that his communications to the +Academy of Medicine have even won for him a reputation among _savants_. +But what does that count for, compared to what I have dreamed of for +him? Yes, all the best practice of the town, a large fortune, the +decoration—honors, in short, and a position worthy of the family. My +word! I used to say to him when he was a child: ‘But where do you come +from? You are not one of us!’ As for me, I have sacrificed everything +for the family; I would let myself be hacked to pieces, that the family +might always be great and glorious!” + +She straightened her small figure, she seemed to grow tall with the one +passion that had formed the joy and pride of her life. But as she +resumed her walk, she was startled by suddenly perceiving on the floor +the copy of the _Temps_, which the doctor had thrown there, after +cutting out the article, to add it to the Saccard papers, and the light +from the open window, falling full upon the sheet, enlightened her, no +doubt, for she suddenly stopped walking, and threw herself into a +chair, as if she at last knew what she had come to learn. + +“Your father has been appointed editor of the _Époque_,” she said +abruptly. + +“Yes,” answered Clotilde tranquilly, “master told me so; it was in the +paper.” + +With an anxious and attentive expression, Félicité looked at her, for +this appointment of Saccard, this rallying to the republic, was +something of vast significance. After the fall of the empire he had +dared return to France, notwithstanding his condemnation as director of +the Banque Universelle, the colossal fall of which had preceded that of +the government. New influences, some incredible intrigue must have +placed him on his feet again, for not only had he received his pardon, +but he was once more in a position to undertake affairs of considerable +importance, launched into journalism, having his share again of all the +good things going. And the recollection came to her of the quarrels of +other days between him and his brother Eugène Rougon, whom he had so +often compromised, and whom, by an ironical turn of events, he was +perhaps going to protect, now that the former minister of the Empire +was only a simple deputy, resigned to the single role of standing by +his fallen master with the obstinacy with which his mother stood by her +family. She still obeyed docilely the orders of her eldest son, the +genius, fallen though he was; but Saccard, whatever he might do, had +also a part in her heart, from his indomitable determination to +succeed, and she was also proud of Maxime, Clotilde’s brother, who had +taken up his quarters again, after the war, in his mansion in the +Avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, where he was consuming the fortune left +him by his wife, Louise de Mareuil, become prudent, with the wisdom of +a man struck in a vital part, and trying to cheat the paralysis which +threatened him. + +“Editor of the _Époque_,” she repeated; “it is really the position of a +minister which your father has won. And I forgot to tell you, I have +written again to your brother, to persuade him to come and see us. That +would divert him, it would do him good. Then, there is that child, that +poor Charles—” + +She did not continue. This was another of the wounds from which her +pride bled; a son whom Maxime had had when seventeen by a servant, and +who now, at the age of fifteen, weak of intellect, a half-idiot, lived +at Plassans, going from the house of one to that of another, a burden +to all. + +She remained silent a moment longer, waiting for some remark from +Clotilde, some transition by which she might come to the subject she +wished to touch upon. When she saw that the young girl, occupied in +arranging the papers on her desk, was no longer listening, she came to +a sudden decision, after casting a glance at Martine, who continued +mending the chair, as if she were deaf and dumb. + +“Your uncle cut the article out of the _Temps_, then?” + +Clotilde smiled calmly. + +“Yes, master put it away among his papers. Ah! how many notes he buries +in there! Births, deaths, the smallest event in life, everything goes +in there. And the genealogical tree is there also, our famous +genealogical tree, which he keeps up to date!” + +The eyes of old Mme. Rougon flamed. She looked fixedly at the young +girl. + +“You know them, those papers?” + +“Oh, no, grandmother; master has never spoken to me of them; and he has +forbidden me to touch them.” + +But she did not believe her. + +“Come! you have them under your hands, you must have read them.” + +Very simple, with her calm rectitude, Clotilde answered, smilingly +again. + +“No, when master forbids me to do anything, it is because he has his +reasons, and I do not do it.” + +“Well, my child,” cried Félicité vehemently, dominated by her passion, +“you, whom Pascal loves tenderly, and whom he would listen to, perhaps, +you ought to entreat him to burn all that, for if he should chance to +die, and those frightful things which he has in there were to be found, +we should all be dishonored!” + +Ah, those abominable papers! she saw them at night, in her nightmares, +revealing in letters of fire, the true histories, the physiological +blemishes of the family, all that wrong side of her glory which she +would have wished to bury forever with the ancestors already dead! She +knew how it was that the doctor had conceived the idea of collecting +these documents at the beginning of his great studies on heredity; how +he had found himself led to take his own family as an example, struck +by the typical cases which he saw in it, and which helped to support +laws discovered by him. Was it not a perfectly natural field of +observation, close at hand and with which he was thoroughly familiar? +And with the fine, careless justness of the scientist, he had been +accumulating for the last thirty years the most private data, +collecting and classifying everything, raising this genealogical tree +of the Rougon-Macquarts, of which the voluminous papers, crammed full +of proofs, were only the commentary. + +“Ah, yes,” continued Mme. Rougon hotly, “to the fire, to the fire with +all those papers that would tarnish our name!” + +And as the servant rose to leave the room, seeing the turn the +conversation was taking, she stopped her by a quick gesture. + +“No, no, Martine; stay! You are not in the way, since you are now one +of the family.” + +Then, in a hissing voice: + +“A collection of falsehoods, of gossip, all the lies that our enemies, +enraged by our triumph, hurled against us in former days! Think a +little of that, my child. Against all of us, against your father, +against your mother, against your brother, all those horrors!” + +“But how do you know they are horrors, grandmother?” + +She was disconcerted for a moment. + +“Oh, well; I suspect it! Where is the family that has not had +misfortunes which might be injuriously interpreted? Thus, the mother of +us all, that dear and venerable Aunt Dide, your great-grandmother, has +she not been for the past twenty-one years in the madhouse at the +Tulettes? If God has granted her the grace of allowing her to live to +the age of one hundred and four years, he has also cruelly afflicted +her in depriving her of her reason. Certainly, there is no shame in +that; only, what exasperates me—what must not be—is that they should +say afterward that we are all mad. And, then, regarding your +grand-uncle Macquart, too, deplorable rumors have been spread. Macquart +had his faults in past days, I do not seek to defend him. But to-day, +is he not living very reputably on his little property at the Tulettes, +two steps away from our unhappy mother, over whom he watches like a +good son? And listen! one last example. Your brother, Maxime, committed +a great fault when he had by a servant that poor little Charles, and it +is certain, besides, that the unhappy child is of unsound mind. No +matter. Will it please you if they tell you that your nephew is +degenerate; that he reproduces from four generations back, his +great-great-grandmother the dear woman to whom we sometimes take him, +and with whom he likes so much to be? No! there is no longer any family +possible, if people begin to lay bare everything—the nerves of this +one, the muscles of that. It is enough to disgust one with living!” + +Clotilde, standing in her long black blouse, had listened to her +grandmother attentively. She had grown very serious; her arms hung by +her sides, her eyes were fixed upon the ground. There was silence for a +moment; then she said slowly: + +“It is science, grandmother.” + +“Science!” cried Félicité, trotting about again. “A fine thing, their +science, that goes against all that is most sacred in the world! When +they shall have demolished everything they will have advanced greatly! +They kill respect, they kill the family, they kill the good God!” + +“Oh! don’t say that, madame!” interrupted Martine, in a grieved voice, +her narrow devoutness wounded. “Do not say that M. Pascal kills the +good God!” + +“Yes, my poor girl, he kills him. And look you, it is a crime, from the +religious point of view, to let one’s self be damned in that way. You +do not love him, on my word of honor! No, you do not love him, you two +who have the happiness of believing, since you do nothing to bring him +back to the right path. Ah! if I were in your place, I would split that +press open with a hatchet. I would make a famous bonfire with all the +insults to the good God which it contains!” + +She had planted herself before the immense press and was measuring it +with her fiery glance, as if to take it by assault, to sack it, to +destroy it, in spite of the withered and fragile thinness of her eighty +years. Then, with a gesture of ironical disdain: + +“If, even with his science, he could know everything!” + +Clotilde remained for a moment absorbed in thought, her gaze lost in +vacancy. Then she said in an undertone, as if speaking to herself: + +“It is true, he cannot know everything. There is always something else +below. That is what irritates me; that is what makes us quarrel: for I +cannot, like him, put the mystery aside. I am troubled by it, so much +so that I suffer cruelly. Below, what wills and acts in the shuddering +darkness, all the unknown forces—” + +Her voice had gradually become lower and now dropped to an indistinct +murmur. + +Then Martine, whose face for a moment past had worn a somber +expression, interrupted in her turn: + +“If it was true, however, mademoiselle, that monsieur would be damned +on account of those villainous papers, tell me, ought we to let it +happen? For my part, look you, if he were to tell me to throw myself +down from the terrace, I would shut my eyes and throw myself, because I +know that he is always right. But for his salvation! Oh! if I could, I +would work for that, in spite of him. In every way, yes! I would force +him; it is too cruel to me to think that he will not be in heaven with +us.” + +“You are quite right, my girl,” said Félicité approvingly. “You, at +least, love your master in an intelligent fashion.” + +Between the two, Clotilde still seemed irresolute. In her, belief did +not bend to the strict rule of dogma; the religious sentiment did not +materialize in the hope of a paradise, of a place of delights, where +she was to meet her own again. It was in her simply a need of a beyond, +a certainty that the vast world does not stop short at sensation, that +there is a whole unknown world, besides, which must be taken into +account. But her grandmother, who was so old, this servant, who was so +devoted, shook her in her uneasy affection for her uncle. Did they not +love him better, in a more enlightened and more upright fashion, they +who desired him to be without a stain, freed from his manias as a +scientist, pure enough to be among the elect? Phrases of devotional +books recurred to her; the continual battle waged against the spirit of +evil; the glory of conversions effected after a violent struggle. What +if she set herself to this holy task; what if, after all, in spite of +himself, she should be able to save him! And an exaltation gradually +gained her spirit, naturally inclined to adventurous enterprises. + +“Certainly,” she said at last, “I should be very happy if he would not +persist in his notion of heaping up all those scraps of paper, and if +he would come to church with us.” + +Seeing her about to yield, Mme. Rougon cried out that it was necessary +to act, and Martine herself added the weight of all her real authority. +They both approached the young girl, and began to instruct her, +lowering their voices as if they were engaged in a conspiracy, whence +was to result a miraculous benefit, a divine joy with which the whole +house would be perfumed. What a triumph if they reconciled the doctor +with God! and what sweetness, afterward, to live altogether in the +celestial communion of the same faith! + +“Well, then, what must I do?” asked Clotilde, vanquished, won over. + +But at this moment the doctor’s pestle was heard in the silence, with +its continued rhythm. And the victorious Félicité, who was about to +speak, turned her head uneasily, and looked for a moment at the door of +the adjoining chamber. Then, in an undertone, she said: + +“Do you know where the key of the press is?” + +Clotilde answered only with an artless gesture, that expressed all her +repugnance to betray her master in this way. + +“What a child you are! I swear to you that I will take nothing; I will +not even disturb anything. Only as we are alone and as Pascal never +reappears before dinner, we might assure ourselves of what there is in +there, might we not? Oh! nothing but a glance, on my word of honor.” + +The young girl stood motionless, unwilling, still, to give her consent. + +“And then, it may be that I am mistaken; no doubt there are none of +those bad things there that I have told you of.” + +This was decisive; she ran to take the key from the drawer, and she +herself opened wide the press. + +“There, grandmother, the papers are up there.” + +Martine had gone, without a word, to station herself at the door of the +doctor’s chamber, her ear on the alert, listening to the pestle, while +Félicité, as if riveted to the spot by emotion, regarded the papers. At +last, there they were, those terrible documents, the nightmare that had +poisoned her life! She saw them, she was going to touch them, to carry +them away! And she reached up, straining her little legs, in the +eagerness of her desire. + +“It is too high, my kitten,” she said. “Help me; give them to me!” + +“Oh! not that, grandmother! Take a chair!” + +Félicité took a chair, and mounted slowly upon it. But she was still +too short. By an extraordinary effort she raised herself, lengthening +her stature until she was able to touch the envelopes of strong blue +paper with the tips of her fingers; and her fingers traveled over them, +contracting nervously, scratching like claws. Suddenly there was a +crash—it was a geological specimen, a fragment of marble that had been +on a lower shelf, and that she had just thrown down. + +Instantly the pestle stopped, and Martine said in a stifled voice: + +“Take care; here he comes!” + +But Félicité, grown desperate, did not hear, did not let go her hold +when Pascal entered hastily. He had supposed that some accident had +happened, that some one had fallen, and he stood stupefied at what he +saw—his mother on the chair, her arm still in the air, while Martine +had withdrawn to one side, and Clotilde, very pale, stood waiting, +without turning her head. When he comprehended the scene, he himself +became as white as a sheet. A terrible anger arose within him. + +Old Mme. Rougon, however, troubled herself in no wise. When she saw +that the opportunity was lost, she descended from the chair, without +making any illusion whatever to the task at which he had surprised her. + +“Oh, it is you! I do not wish to disturb you. I came to embrace +Clotilde. But here I have been talking for nearly two hours, and I must +run away at once. They will be expecting me at home; they won’t know +what has become of me at this hour. Good-by until Sunday.” + +She went away quite at her ease, after smiling at her son, who stood +before her silent and respectful. It was an attitude that he had long +since adopted, to avoid an explanation which he felt must be cruel, and +which he had always feared. He knew her, he was willing to pardon her +everything, in his broad tolerance as a scientist, who made allowance +for heredity, environment, and circumstances. And, then, was she not +his mother? That ought to have sufficed, for, in spite of the frightful +blows which his researches inflicted upon the family, he preserved a +great affection for those belonging to him. + +When his mother was no longer there, his anger burst forth, and fell +upon Clotilde. He had turned his eyes away from Martine, and fixed them +on the young girl, who did not turn hers away, however, with a courage +which accepted the responsibility of her act. + +“You! you!” he said at last. + +He seized her arm, and pressed it until she cried. But she continued to +look him full in the face, without quailing before him, with the +indomitable will of her individuality, of her selfhood. She was +beautiful and provoking, with her tall, slender figure, robed in its +black blouse; and her exquisite, youthful fairness, her straight +forehead, her finely cut nose, her firm chin, took on something of a +warlike charm in her rebellion. + +“You, whom I have made, you who are my pupil, my friend, my other mind, +to whom I have given a part of my heart and of my brain! Ah, yes! I +should have kept you entirely for myself, and not have allowed your +stupid good God to take the best part of you!” + +“Oh, monsieur, you blaspheme!” cried Martine, who had approached him, +in order to draw upon herself a part of his anger. + +But he did not even see her. Only Clotilde existed for him. And he was +as if transfigured, stirred up by so great a passion that his handsome +face, crowned by his white hair, framed by his white beard, flamed with +youthful passion, with an immense tenderness that had been wounded and +exasperated. + +“You, you!” he repeated in a trembling voice. + +“Yes, I! Why then, master, should I not love you better than you love +me? And why, if I believe you to be in peril, should I not try to save +you? You are greatly concerned about what I think; you would like well +to make me think as you do!” + +She had never before defied him in this way. + +“But you are a little girl; you know nothing!” + +“No, I am a soul, and you know no more about souls than I do!” + +He released her arm, and waved his hand vaguely toward heaven, and then +a great silence fell—a silence full of grave meaning, of the +uselessness of the discussion which he did not wish to enter upon. +Thrusting her aside rudely, he crossed over to the middle window and +opened the blinds, for the sun was declining, and the room was growing +dark. Then he returned. + +But she, feeling a need of air and space, went to the open window. The +burning rain of sparks had ceased, and there fell now, from on high, +only the last shiver of the overheated and paling sky; and from the +still burning earth ascended warm odors, with the freer respiration of +evening. At the foot of the terrace was the railroad, with the outlying +dependencies of the station, of which the buildings were to be seen in +the distance; then, crossing the vast arid plain, a line of trees +marked the course of the Viorne, beyond which rose the hills of +Sainte-Marthe, red fields planted with olive trees, supported on +terraces by walls of uncemented stones and crowned by somber pine +woods—broad amphitheaters, bare and desolate, corroded by the heats of +summer, of the color of old baked brick, which this fringe of dark +verdure, standing out against the background of the sky, bordered +above. To the left opened the gorges of the Seille, great yellow stones +that had broken away from the soil, and lay in the midst of +blood-colored fields, dominated by an immense band of rocks like the +wall of a gigantic fortress; while to the right, at the very entrance +to the valley through which flowed the Viorne, rose, one above another, +the discolored pink-tiled roofs of the town of Plassans, the compact +and confused mass of an old town, pierced by the tops of ancient elms, +and dominated by the high tower of St. Saturnin, solitary and serene at +this hour in the limpid gold of sunset. + +“Ah, my God!” said Clotilde slowly, “one must be arrogant, indeed, to +imagine that one can take everything in one’s hand and know +everything!” + +Pascal had just mounted on the chair to assure himself that not one of +his packages was missing. Then he took up the fragment of marble, and +replaced it on the shelf, and when he had again locked the press with a +vigorous turn of the hand, he put the key into his pocket. + +“Yes,” he replied; “try not to know everything, and above all, try not +to bewilder your brain about what we do not know, what we shall +doubtless never know!” + +Martine again approached Clotilde, to lend her her support, to show her +that they both had a common cause. And now the doctor perceived her, +also, and felt that they were both united in the same desire for +conquest. After years of secret attempts, it was at last open war; the +_savant_ saw his household turn against his opinions, and menace them +with destruction. There is no worse torture than to have treason in +one’s own home, around one; to be trapped, dispossessed, crushed, by +those whom you love, and who love you! + +Suddenly this frightful idea presented itself to him. + +“And yet both of you love me!” he cried. + +He saw their eyes grow dim with tears; he was filled with an infinite +sadness, on this tranquil close of a beautiful day. All his gaiety, all +his kindness of heart, which came from his intense love of life, were +shaken by it. + +“Ah, my dear! and you, my poor girl,” he said, “you are doing this for +my happiness, are you not? But, alas, how unhappy we are going to be!” + + + + +II. + + +On the following morning Clotilde was awake at six o’clock. She had +gone to bed angry with Pascal; they were at variance with each other. +And her first feeling was one of uneasiness, of secret distress, an +instant need of making her peace, so that she might no longer have upon +her heart the heavy weight that lay there now. + +Springing quickly out of bed, she went and half opened the shutters of +both windows. The sun, already high, sent his light across the chamber +in two golden bars. Into this drowsy room that exhaled a sweet odor of +youth, the bright morning brought with it fresh, cheerful air; but the +young girl went back and sat down on the edge of the bed in a +thoughtful attitude, clad only in her scant nightdress, which made her +look still more slender, with her long tapering limbs, her strong, +slender body, with its round throat, round neck, round and supple arms; +and her adorable neck and throat, of a milky whiteness, had the +exquisite softness and smoothness of white satin. For a long time, at +the ungraceful age between twelve and eighteen, she had looked +awkwardly tall, climbing trees like a boy. Then, from the ungainly +hoyden had been evolved this charming, delicate and lovely creature. + +With absent gaze she sat looking at the walls of the chamber. Although +La Souleiade dated from the last century, it must have been refurnished +under the First Empire, for it was hung with an old-fashioned printed +calico, with a pattern representing busts of the Sphinx, and garlands +of oak leaves. Originally of a bright red, this calico had faded to a +pink—an undecided pink, inclining to orange. The curtains of the two +windows and of the bed were still in existence, but it had been +necessary to clean them, and this had made them still paler. And this +faded purple, this dawnlike tint, so delicately soft, was in truth +exquisite. As for the bed, covered with the same stuff, it had come +down from so remote an antiquity that it had been replaced by another +bed found in an adjoining room; another Empire bed, low and very broad, +of massive mahogany, ornamented with brasses, its four square pillars +adorned also with busts of the Sphinx, like those on the wall. The rest +of the furniture matched, however—a press, with whole doors and +pillars; a chest of drawers with a marble top, surrounded by a railing; +a tall and massive cheval-glass, a large lounge with straight feet, and +seats with straight, lyre-shaped backs. But a coverlet made of an old +Louis XV. silk skirt brightened the majestic bed, that occupied the +middle of the wall fronting the windows; a heap of cushions made the +lounge soft; and there were, besides, two _étagères_ and a table also +covered with old flowered silk, at the further end of the room. + +Clotilde at last put on her stockings and slipped on a morning gown of +white _piqué_, and thrusting the tips of her feet into her gray canvas +slippers, she ran into her dressing-room, a back room looking out on +the rear of the house. She had had it hung plainly with an _écru_ drill +with blue stripes, and it contained only furniture of varnished +pine—the toilette table, two presses, and two chairs. It revealed, +however, a natural and delicate coquetry which was very feminine. This +had grown with her at the same time with her beauty. Headstrong and +boyish though she still was at times, she had become a submissive and +affectionate woman, desiring to be loved, above everything. The truth +was that she had grown up in freedom, without having learned anything +more than to read and write, having acquired by herself, later, while +assisting her uncle, a vast fund of information. But there had been no +plan settled upon between them. He had not wished to make her a +prodigy; she had merely conceived a passion for natural history, which +revealed to her the mysteries of life. And she had kept her innocence +unsullied like a fruit which no hand has touched, thanks, no doubt, to +her unconscious and religious waiting for the coming of love—that +profound feminine feeling which made her reserve the gift of her whole +being for the man whom she should love. + +She pushed back her hair and bathed her face; then, yielding to her +impatience, she again softly opened the door of her chamber and +ventured to cross the vast workroom, noiselessly and on tiptoe. The +shutters were still closed, but she could see clearly enough not to +stumble against the furniture. When she was at the other end before the +door of the doctor’s room, she bent forward, holding her breath. Was he +already up? What could he be doing? She heard him plainly, walking +about with short steps, dressing himself, no doubt. She never entered +this chamber in which he chose to hide certain labors; and which thus +remained closed, like a tabernacle. One fear had taken possession of +her; that of being discovered here by him if he should open the door; +and the agitation produced by the struggle between her rebellious pride +and a desire to show her submission caused her to grow hot and cold by +turns, with sensations until now unknown to her. For an instant her +desire for reconciliation was so strong that she was on the point of +knocking. Then, as footsteps approached, she ran precipitately away. + +Until eight o’clock Clotilde was agitated by an ever-increasing +impatience. At every instant she looked at the clock on the mantelpiece +of her room; an Empire clock of gilded bronze, representing Love +leaning against a pillar, contemplating Time asleep. + +Eight was the hour at which she generally descended to the dining-room +to breakfast with the doctor. And while waiting she made a careful +toilette, arranged her hair, and put on another morning gown of white +muslin with red spots. Then, having still a quarter of an hour on her +hands, she satisfied an old desire and sat down to sew a piece of +narrow lace, an imitation of Chantilly, on her working blouse, that +black blouse which she had begun to find too boyish, not feminine +enough. But on the stroke of eight she laid down her work, and went +downstairs quickly. + +“You are going to breakfast entirely alone,” said Martine tranquilly to +her, when she entered the dining-room. + +“How is that?” + +“Yes, the doctor called me, and I passed him in his egg through the +half-open door. There he is again, at his mortar and his filter. We +won’t see him now before noon.” + +Clotilde turned pale with disappointment. She drank her milk standing, +took her roll in her hand, and followed the servant into the kitchen. +There were on the ground floor, besides this kitchen and the +dining-room, only an uninhabited room in which the potatoes were +stored, and which had formerly been used as an office by the doctor, +when he received his patients in his house—the desk and the armchair +had years ago been taken up to his chamber—and another small room, +which opened into the kitchen; the old servant’s room, scrupulously +clean, and furnished with a walnut chest of drawers and a bed like a +nun’s with white hangings. + +“Do you think he has begun to make his liquor again?” asked Clotilde. + +“Well, it can be only that. You know that he thinks of neither eating +nor drinking when that takes possession of him!” + +Then all the young girl’s vexation was exhaled in a low plaint: + +“Ah, my God! my God!” + +And while Martine went to make up her room, she took an umbrella from +the hall stand and went disconsolately to eat her roll in the garden, +not knowing now how she should occupy her time until midday. + +It was now almost seventeen years since Dr. Pascal, having resolved to +leave his little house in the new town, had bought La Souleiade for +twenty thousand francs, in order to live there in seclusion, and also +to give more space and more happiness to the little girl sent him by +his brother Saccard from Paris. This Souleiade, situated outside the +town gates on a plateau dominating the plain, was part of a large +estate whose once vast grounds were reduced to less than two hectares +in consequence of successive sales, without counting that the +construction of the railroad had taken away the last arable fields. The +house itself had been half destroyed by a conflagration and only one of +the two buildings remained—a quadrangular wing “of four walls,” as they +say in Provence, with five front windows and roofed with large pink +tiles. And the doctor, who had bought it completely furnished, had +contented himself with repairing it and finishing the boundary walls, +so as to be undisturbed in his house. + +Generally Clotilde loved this solitude passionately; this narrow +kingdom which she could go over in ten minutes, and which still +retained remnants of its past grandeur. But this morning she brought +there something like a nervous disquietude. She walked for a few +moments along the terrace, at the two extremities of which stood two +secular cypresses like two enormous funeral tapers, which could be seen +three leagues off. The slope then descended to the railroad, walls of +uncemented stones supporting the red earth, in which the last vines +were dead; and on these giant steps grew only rows of olive and almond +trees, with sickly foliage. The heat was already overpowering; she saw +the little lizards running about on the disjointed flags, among the +hairy tufts of caper bushes. + +Then, as if irritated by the vast horizon, she crossed the orchard and +the kitchen garden, which Martine still persisted in cultivating in +spite of her age, calling in a man only twice a week for the heavier +labors; and she ascended to a little pine wood on the right, all that +remained of the superb pines which had formerly covered the plateau; +but, here, too, she was ill at ease; the pine needles crackled under +her feet, a resinous, stifling odor descended from the branches. And +walking along the boundary wall past the entrance gate, which opened on +the road to Les Fenouilleres, three hundred meters from the first +houses of Plassans, she emerged at last on the threshing-yard; an +immense yard, fifteen meters in radius, which would of itself have +sufficed to prove the former importance of the domain. Ah! this antique +area, paved with small round stones, as in the days of the Romans; this +species of vast esplanade, covered with short dry grass of the color of +gold as with a thick woolen carpet; how joyously she had played there +in other days, running about, rolling on the grass, lying for hours on +her back, watching the stars coming out one by one in the depths of the +illimitable sky! + +She opened her umbrella again, and crossed the yard with slower steps. +Now she was on the left of the terrace. She had made the tour of the +estate, so that she had returned by the back of the house, through the +clump of enormous plane trees that on this side cast a thick shade. +This was the side on which opened the two windows of the doctor’s room. +And she raised her eyes to them, for she had approached only in the +sudden hope of at last seeing him. But the windows remained closed, and +she was wounded by this as by an unkindness to herself. Then only did +she perceive that she still held in her hand her roll, which she had +forgotten to eat; and she plunged among the trees, biting it +impatiently with her fine young teeth. + +It was a delicious retreat, this old quincunx of plane trees, another +remnant of the past splendor of La Souleiade. Under these giant trees, +with their monstrous trunks, there was only a dim light, a greenish +light, exquisitely cool, even on the hottest days of summer. Formerly a +French garden had been laid out here, of which only the box borders +remained; bushes which had habituated themselves to the shade, no +doubt, for they grew vigorously, as tall as trees. And the charm of +this shady nook was a fountain, a simple leaden pipe fixed in the shaft +of a column; whence flowed perpetually, even in the greatest drought, a +thread of water as thick as the little finger, which supplied a large +mossy basin, the greenish stones of which were cleaned only once in +three or four years. When all the wells of the neighborhood were dry, +La Souleiade still kept its spring, of which the great plane trees were +assuredly the secular children. Night and day for centuries past this +slender thread of water, unvarying and continuous, had sung the same +pure song with crystal sound. + +Clotilde, after wandering awhile among the bushes of box, which reached +to her shoulder, went back to the house for a piece of embroidery, and +returning with it, sat down at a stone table beside the fountain. Some +garden chairs had been placed around it, and they often took coffee +here. And after this she affected not to look up again from her work, +as if she was completely absorbed in it. Now and then, while seeming to +look between the trunks of trees toward the sultry distance, toward the +yard, on which the sun blazed fiercely and which glowed like a brazier, +she stole a glance from under her long lashes up to the doctor’s +windows. Nothing appeared, not a shadow. And a feeling of sadness, of +resentment, arose within her at this neglect, this contempt in which he +seemed to hold her after their quarrel of the day before. She who had +got up with so great a desire to make peace at once! He was in no +hurry, however; he did not love her then, since he could be satisfied +to live at variance with her. And gradually a feeling of gloom took +possession of her, her rebellious thoughts returned, and she resolved +anew to yield in nothing. + +At eleven o’clock, before setting her breakfast on the fire, Martine +came to her for a moment, the eternal stocking in her hand which she +was always knitting even while walking, when she was not occupied in +the affairs of the house. + +“Do you know that he is still shut up there like a wolf in his hole, at +his villainous cookery?” + +Clotilde shrugged her shoulders, without lifting her eyes from her +embroidery. + +“And then, mademoiselle, if you only knew what they say! Mme. Félicité +was right yesterday when she said that it was really enough to make one +blush. They threw it in my face that he had killed old Boutin, that +poor old man, you know, who had the falling sickness and who died on +the road. To believe those women of the faubourg, every one into whom +he injects his remedy gets the true cholera from it, without counting +that they accuse him of having taken the devil into partnership.” + +A short silence followed. Then, as the young girl became more gloomy +than before, the servant resumed, moving her fingers still more +rapidly: + +“As for me, I know nothing about the matter, but what he is making +there enrages me. And you, mademoiselle, do you approve of that +cookery?” + +At last Clotilde raised her head quickly, yielding to the flood of +passion that swept over her. + +“Listen; I wish to know no more about it than you do, but I think that +he is on a very dangerous path. He no longer loves us.” + +“Oh, yes, mademoiselle; he loves us.” + +“No, no; not as we love him. If he loved us, he would be here with us, +instead of endangering his soul and his happiness and ours, up there, +in his desire to save everybody.” + +And the two women looked at each other for a moment with eyes burning +with affection, in their jealous anger. Then they resumed their work in +silence, enveloped in shadow. + +Above, in his room, Dr. Pascal was working with the serenity of perfect +joy. He had practised his profession for only about a dozen years, from +his return to Paris up to the time when he had retired to La Souleiade. +Satisfied with the hundred and odd thousand francs which he had earned +and which he had invested prudently, he devoted himself almost +exclusively to his favorite studies, retaining only a practise among +friends, never refusing to go to the bedside of a patient but never +sending in his account. When he was paid he threw the money into a +drawer in his writing desk, regarding this as pocket-money for his +experiments and caprices, apart from his income which sufficed for his +wants. And he laughed at the bad reputation for eccentricity which his +way of life had gained him; he was happy only when in the midst of his +researches on the subjects for which he had a passion. It was matter +for surprise to many that this scientist, whose intellectual gifts had +been spoiled by a too lively imagination, should have remained at +Plassans, this out-of-the-way town where it seemed as if every +requirement for his studies must be wanting. But he explained very well +the advantages which he had discovered here; in the first place, an +utterly peaceful retreat in which he might live the secluded life he +desired; then, an unsuspected field for continuous research in the +light of the facts of heredity, which was his passion, in this little +town where he knew every family and where he could follow the phenomena +kept most secret, through two or three generations. And then he was +near the seashore; he went there almost every summer, to study the +swarming life that is born and propagates itself in the depths of the +vast waters. And there was finally, at the hospital in Plassans, a +dissecting room to which he was almost the only visitor; a large, +bright, quiet room, in which for more than twenty years every unclaimed +body had passed under his scalpel. A modest man besides, of a timidity +that had long since become shyness, it had been sufficient for him to +maintain a correspondence with his old professors and his new friends, +concerning the very remarkable papers which he from time to time sent +to the Academy of Medicine. He was altogether wanting in militant +ambition. + +Ah, this heredity! what a subject of endless meditation it was for him! +The strangest, the most wonderful part of it all, was it not that the +resemblance between parents and children should not be perfect, +mathematically exact? He had in the beginning made a genealogical tree +of his family, logically traced, in which the influences from +generation to generation were distributed equally—the father’s part and +the mother’s part. But the living reality contradicted the theory +almost at every point. Heredity, instead of being resemblance, was an +effort toward resemblance thwarted by circumstances and environment. +And he had arrived at what he called the hypothesis of the abortion of +cells. Life is only motion, and heredity being a communicated motion, +it happened that the cells in their multiplication from one another +jostled one another, pressed one another, made room for themselves, +putting forth, each one, the hereditary effort; so that if during this +struggle the weaker cells succumbed, considerable disturbances took +place, with the final result of organs totally different. Did not +variation, the constant invention of nature, which clashed with his +theories, come from this? Did not he himself differ from his parents +only in consequence of similar accidents, or even as the effect of +larvated heredity, in which he had for a time believed? For every +genealogical tree has roots which extend as far back into humanity as +the first man; one cannot proceed from a single ancestor; one may +always resemble a still older, unknown ancestor. He doubted atavism, +however; it seemed to him, in spite of a remarkable example taken from +his own family, that resemblance at the end of two or three generations +must disappear by reason of accidents, of interferences, of a thousand +possible combinations. There was then a perpetual becoming, a constant +transformation in this communicated effort, this transmitted power, +this shock which breathes into matter the breath of life, and which is +life itself. And a multiplicity of questions presented themselves to +him. Was there a physical and intellectual progress through the ages? +Did the brain grow with the growth of the sciences with which it +occupied itself? Might one hope, in time, for a larger sum of reason +and of happiness? Then there were special problems; one among others, +the mystery of which had for a long time irritated him, that of sex; +would science never be able to predict, or at least to explain the sex +of the embryo being? He had written a very curious paper crammed full +of facts on this subject, but which left it in the end in the complete +ignorance in which the most exhaustive researches had left it. +Doubtless the question of heredity fascinated him as it did only +because it remained obscure, vast, and unfathomable, like all the +infant sciences where imagination holds sway. Finally, a long study +which he had made on the heredity of phthisis revived in him the +wavering faith of the healer, arousing in him the noble and wild hope +of regenerating humanity. + +In short, Dr. Pascal had only one belief—the belief in life. Life was +the only divine manifestation. Life was God, the grand motor, the soul +of the universe. And life had no other instrument than heredity; +heredity made the world; so that if its laws could be known and +directed, the world could be made to one’s will. In him, to whom +sickness, suffering, and death had been a familiar sight, the militant +pity of the physician awoke. Ah! to have no more sickness, no more +suffering, as little death as possible! His dream ended in this +thought—that universal happiness, the future community of perfection +and of felicity, could be hastened by intervention, by giving health to +all. When all should be healthy, strong, and intelligent, there would +be only a superior race, infinitely wise and happy. In India, was not a +Brahmin developed from a Soudra in seven generations, thus raising, +experimentally, the lowest of beings to the highest type of humanity? +And as in his study of consumption he had arrived at the conclusion +that it was not hereditary, but that every child of a consumptive +carried within him a degenerate soil in which consumption developed +with extraordinary facility at the slightest contagion, he had come to +think only of invigorating this soil impoverished by heredity; to give +it the strength to resist the parasites, or rather the destructive +leaven, which he had suspected to exist in the organism, long before +the microbe theory. To give strength—the whole problem was there; and +to give strength was also to give will, to enlarge the brain by +fortifying the other organs. + +About this time the doctor, reading an old medical book of the +fifteenth century, was greatly struck by a method of treating disease +called signature. To cure a diseased organ, it was only necessary to +take from a sheep or an ox the corresponding organ in sound condition, +boil it, and give the soup to the patient to drink. The theory was to +cure like by like, and in diseases of the liver, especially, the old +work stated that the cures were numberless. This set the doctor’s vivid +imagination working. Why not make the trial? If he wished to regenerate +those enfeebled by hereditary influences, he had only to give them the +normal and healthy nerve substance. The method of the soup, however, +seemed to him childish, and he invented in its stead that of grinding +in a mortar the brain of a sheep, moistening it with distilled water, +and then decanting and filtering the liquor thus obtained. He tried +this liquor then mixed with Malaga wine, on his patients, without +obtaining any appreciable result. Suddenly, as he was beginning to grow +discouraged, he had an inspiration one day, when he was giving a lady +suffering from hepatic colics an injection of morphine with the little +syringe of Pravaz. What if he were to try hypodermic injections with +his liquor? And as soon as he returned home he tried the experiment on +himself, making an injection in his side, which he repeated night and +morning. The first doses, of a gram only, were without effect. But +having doubled, and then tripled the dose, he was enchanted, one +morning on getting up, to find that his limbs had all the vigor of +twenty. He went on increasing the dose up to five grams, and then his +respiration became deeper, and above all he worked with a clearness of +mind, an ease, which he had not known for years. A great flood of +happiness, of joy in living, inundated his being. From this time, after +he had had a syringe made at Paris capable of containing five grams, he +was surprised at the happy results which he obtained with his patients, +whom he had on their feet again in a few days, full of energy and +activity, as if endowed with new life. His method was still tentative +and rude, and he divined in it all sorts of dangers, and especially, +that of inducing embolism, if the liquor was not perfectly pure. Then +he suspected that the strength of his patients came in part from the +fever his treatment produced in them. But he was only a pioneer; the +method would improve later. Was it not already a miracle to make the +ataxic walk, to bring consumptives back to life, as it were; even to +give hours of lucidity to the insane? And at the thought of this +discovery of the alchemy of the twentieth century, an immense hope +opened up before him; he believed he had discovered the universal +panacea, the elixir of life, which was to combat human debility, the +one real cause of every ill; a veritable scientific Fountain of Youth, +which, in giving vigor, health, and will would create an altogether new +and superior humanity. + +This particular morning in his chamber, a room with a northern aspect +and somewhat dark owing to the vicinity of the plane trees, furnished +simply with an iron bedstead, a mahogany writing desk, and a large +writing table, on which were a mortar and a microscope, he was +completing with infinite care the preparation of a vial of his liquor. +Since the day before, after pounding the nerve substance of a sheep in +distilled water, he had been decanting and filtering it. And he had at +last obtained a small bottle of a turbid, opaline liquid, irised by +bluish gleams, which he regarded for a long time in the light as if he +held in his hand the regenerating blood and symbol of the world. + +But a few light knocks at the door and an urgent voice drew him from +his dream. + +“Why, what is the matter, monsieur? It is a quarter-past twelve; don’t +you intend to come to breakfast?” + +For downstairs breakfast had been waiting for some time past in the +large, cool dining-room. The blinds were closed, with the exception of +one which had just been half opened. It was a cheerful room, with pearl +gray panels relieved by blue mouldings. The table, the sideboard, and +the chairs must have formed part of the set of Empire furniture in the +bedrooms; and the old mahogany, of a deep red, stood out in strong +relief against the light background. A hanging lamp of polished brass, +always shining, gleamed like a sun; while on the four walls bloomed +four large bouquets in pastel, of gillyflowers, carnations, hyacinths, +and roses. + +Joyous, radiant, Dr. Pascal entered. + +“Ah, the deuce! I had forgotten! I wanted to finish. Look at this, +quite fresh, and perfectly pure this time; something to work miracles +with!” + +And he showed the vial, which he had brought down in his enthusiasm. +But his eye fell on Clotilde standing erect and silent, with a serious +air. The secret vexation caused by waiting had brought back all her +hostility, and she, who had burned to throw herself on his neck in the +morning, remained motionless as if chilled and repelled by him. + +“Good!” he resumed, without losing anything of his gaiety, “we are +still at odds, it seems. That is something very ugly. So you don’t +admire my sorcerer’s liquor, which resuscitates the dead?” + +He seated himself at the table, and the young girl, sitting down +opposite him, was obliged at last to answer: + +“You know well, master, that I admire everything belonging to you. +Only, my most ardent desire is that others also should admire you. And +there is the death of poor old Boutin—” + +“Oh!” he cried, without letting her finish, “an epileptic, who +succumbed to a congestive attack! See! since you are in a bad humor, +let us talk no more about that—you would grieve me, and that would +spoil my day.” + +There were soft boiled eggs, cutlets, and cream. Silence reigned for a +few moments, during which in spite of her ill-humor she ate heartily, +with a good appetite which she had not the coquetry to conceal. Then he +resumed, laughing: + +“What reassures me is to see that your stomach is in good order. +Martine, hand mademoiselle the bread.” + +The servant waited on them as she was accustomed to do, watching them +eat, with her quiet air of familiarity. + +Sometimes she even chatted with them. + +“Monsieur,” she said, when she had cut the bread, “the butcher has +brought his bill. Is he to be paid?” + +He looked up at her in surprise. + +“Why do you ask me that?” he said. “Do you not always pay him without +consulting me?” + +It was, in effect, Martine who kept the purse. The amount deposited +with M. Grandguillot, notary at Plassans, produced a round sum of six +thousand francs income. Every three months the fifteen hundred francs +were remitted to the servant, and she disposed of them to the best +interests of the house; bought and paid for everything with the +strictest economy, for she was of so saving a disposition that they +bantered her about it continually. Clotilde, who spent very little, had +never thought of asking a separate purse for herself. As for the +doctor, he took what he required for his experiments and his pocket +money from the three or four thousand francs which he still earned +every year, and which he kept lying in the drawer of his writing desk; +so that there was quite a little treasure there in gold and bank bills, +of which he never knew the exact amount. + +“Undoubtedly, monsieur, I pay, when it is I who have bought the things; +but this time the bill is so large on account of the brains which the +butcher has furnished you—” + +The doctor interrupted her brusquely: + +“Ah, come! so you, too, are going to set yourself against me, are you? +No, no; both of you—that would be too much! Yesterday you pained me +greatly, and I was angry. But this must cease. I will not have the +house turned into a hell. Two women against me, and they the only ones +who love me at all? Do you know, I would sooner quit the house at +once!” + +He did not speak angrily, he even smiled; but the disquietude of his +heart was perceptible in the trembling of his voice. And he added with +his indulgent, cheerful air: + +“If you are afraid for the end of the month, my girl, tell the butcher +to send my bill apart. And don’t fear; you are not going to be asked +for any of your money to settle it with; your sous may lie sleeping.” + +This was an allusion to Martine’s little personal fortune. In thirty +years, with four hundred francs wages she had earned twelve thousand +francs, from which she had taken only what was strictly necessary for +her wants; and increased, almost trebled, by the interest, her savings +amounted now to thirty thousand francs, which through a caprice, a +desire to have her money apart, she had not chosen to place with M. +Grandguillot. They were elsewhere, safely invested in the funds. + +“Sous that lie sleeping are honest sous,” she said gravely. “But +monsieur is right; I will tell the butcher to send a bill apart, as all +the brains are for monsieur’s cookery and not for mine.” + +This explanation brought a smile to the face of Clotilde, who was +always amused by the jests about Martine’s avarice; and the breakfast +ended more cheerfully. The doctor desired to take the coffee under the +plane trees, saying that he felt the need of air after being shut up +all the morning. The coffee was served then on the stone table beside +the fountain; and how pleasant it was there in the shade, listening to +the cool murmur of the water, while around, the pine wood, the court, +the whole place, were glowing in the early afternoon sun. + +The doctor had complacently brought with him the vial of nerve +substance, which he looked at as it stood on the table. + +“So, then, mademoiselle,” he resumed, with an air of brusque +pleasantry, “you do not believe in my elixir of resurrection, and you +believe in miracles!” + +“Master,” responded Clotilde, “I believe that we do not know +everything.” + +He made a gesture of impatience. + +“But we must know everything. Understand then, obstinate little girl, +that not a single deviation from the invariable laws which govern the +universe has ever been scientifically proved. Up to this day there has +been no proof of the existence of any intelligence other than the +human. I defy you to find any real will, any reasoning force, outside +of life. And everything is there; there is in the world no other will +than this force which impels everything to life, to a life ever broader +and higher.” + +He rose with a wave of the hand, animated by so firm a faith that she +regarded him in surprise, noticing how youthful he looked in spite of +his white hair. + +“Do you wish me to repeat my ‘Credo’ for you, since you accuse me of +not wanting yours? I believe that the future of humanity is in the +progress of reason through science. I believe that the pursuit of +truth, through science, is the divine ideal which man should propose to +himself. I believe that all is illusion and vanity outside the treasure +of truths slowly accumulated, and which will never again be lost. I +believe that the sum of these truths, always increasing, will at last +confer on man incalculable power and peace, if not happiness. Yes, I +believe in the final triumph of life.” + +And with a broader sweep of the hand that took in the vast horizon, as +if calling on these burning plains in which fermented the saps of all +existences to bear him witness, he added: + +“But the continual miracle, my child, is life. Only open your eyes, and +look.” + +She shook her head. + +“It is in vain that I open my eyes; I cannot see everything. It is you, +master, who are blind, since you do not wish to admit that there is +beyond an unknown realm which you will never enter. Oh, I know you are +too intelligent to be ignorant of that! Only you do not wish to take it +into account; you put the unknown aside, because it would embarrass you +in your researches. It is in vain that you tell me to put aside the +mysterious; to start from the known for the conquest of the unknown. I +cannot; the mysterious at once calls me back and disturbs me.” + +He listened to her, smiling, glad to see her become animated, while he +smoothed her fair curls with his hand. + +“Yes, yes, I know you are like the rest; you do not wish to live +without illusions and without lies. Well, there, there; we understand +each other still, even so. Keep well; that is the half of wisdom and of +happiness.” + +Then, changing the conversation: + +“Come, you will accompany me, notwithstanding, and help me in my round +of miracles. This is Thursday, my visiting day. When the heat shall +have abated a little, we will go out together.” + +She refused at first, in order not to seem to yield; but she at last +consented, seeing the pain she gave him. She was accustomed to +accompany him on his round of visits. They remained for some time +longer under the plane trees, until the doctor went upstairs to dress. +When he came down again, correctly attired in a close-fitting coat and +wearing a broad-brimmed silk hat, he spoke of harnessing Bonhomme, the +horse that for a quarter of a century had taken him on his visits +through the streets and the environs of Plassans. But the poor old +beast was growing blind, and through gratitude for his past services +and affection for himself they now rarely disturbed him. On this +afternoon he was very drowsy, his gaze wandered, his legs were stiff +with rheumatism. So that the doctor and the young girl, when they went +to the stable to see him, gave him a hearty kiss on either side of his +nose, telling him to rest on a bundle of fresh hay which the servant +had brought. And they decided to walk. + +Clotilde, keeping on her spotted white muslin, merely tied on over her +curls a large straw hat adorned with a bunch of lilacs; and she looked +charming, with her large eyes and her complexion of milk-and-roses +under the shadow of its broad brim. When she went out thus on Pascal’s +arm, she tall, slender, and youthful, he radiant, his face illuminated, +so to say, by the whiteness of his beard, with a vigor that made him +still lift her across the rivulets, people smiled as they passed, and +turned around to look at them again, they seemed so innocent and so +happy. On this day, as they left the road to Les Fenouilleres to enter +Plassans, a group of gossips stopped short in their talk. It reminded +one of one of those ancient kings one sees in pictures; one of those +powerful and gentle kings who never grew old, resting his hand on the +shoulder of a girl beautiful as the day, whose docile and dazzling +youth lends him its support. + +They were turning into the Cours Sauvair to gain the Rue de la Banne, +when a tall, dark young man of about thirty stopped them. + +“Ah, master, you have forgotten me. I am still waiting for your notes +on consumption.” + +It was Dr. Ramond, a young physician, who had settled two years before +at Plassans, where he was building up a fine practise. With a superb +head, in the brilliant prime of a gracious manhood, he was adored by +the women, but he had fortunately a great deal of good sense and a +great deal of prudence. + +“Why, Ramond, good day! Not at all, my dear friend; I have not +forgotten you. It is this little girl, to whom I gave the notes +yesterday to copy, and who has not touched them yet.” + +The two young people shook hands with an air of cordial intimacy. + +“Good day, Mlle. Clotilde.” + +“Good day, M. Ramond.” + +During a gastric fever, happily mild, which the young girl had had the +preceding year, Dr. Pascal had lost his head to the extent of +distrusting his own skill, and he had asked his young colleague to +assist him—to reassure him. Thus it was that an intimacy, a sort of +comradeship, had sprung up among the three. + +“You shall have your notes to-morrow, I promise you,” she said, +smiling. + +Ramond walked on with them, however, until they reached the end of the +Rue de la Banne, at the entrance of the old quarter whither they were +going. And there was in the manner in which he leaned, smiling, toward +Clotilde, the revelation of a secret love that had grown slowly, +awaiting patiently the hour fixed for the most reasonable of +_dénouements_. Besides, he listened with deference to Dr. Pascal, whose +works he admired greatly. + +“And it just happens, my dear friend, that I am going to Guiraude’s, +that woman, you know, whose husband, a tanner, died of consumption five +years ago. She has two children living—Sophie, a girl now going on +sixteen, whom I fortunately succeeded in having sent four years before +her father’s death to a neighboring village, to one of her aunts; and a +son, Valentin, who has just completed his twenty-first year, and whom +his mother insisted on keeping with her through a blind affection, +notwithstanding that I warned her of the dreadful results that might +ensue. Well, see if I am right in asserting that consumption is not +hereditary, but only that consumptive parents transmit to their +children a degenerate soil, in which the disease develops at the +slightest contagion. Now, Valentin, who lived in daily contact with his +father, is consumptive, while Sophie, who grew up in the open air, has +superb health.” + +He added with a triumphant smile: + +“But that will not prevent me, perhaps, from saving Valentin, for he is +visibly improved, and is growing fat since I have used my injections +with him. Ah, Ramond, you will come to them yet; you will come to my +injections!” + +The young physician shook hands with both of them, saying: + +“I don’t say no. You know that I am always with you.” + +When they were alone they quickened their steps and were soon in the +Rue Canquoin, one of the narrowest and darkest streets of the old +quarter. Hot as was the sun, there reigned here the semi-obscurity and +the coolness of a cave. Here it was, on a ground floor, that Guiraude +lived with her son Valentin. She opened the door herself. She was a +thin, wasted-looking woman, who was herself affected with a slow +decomposition of the blood. From morning till night she crushed almonds +with the end of an ox-bone on a large paving stone, which she held +between her knees. This work was their only means of living, the son +having been obliged to give up all labor. She smiled, however, to-day +on seeing the doctor, for Valentin had just eaten a cutlet with a good +appetite, a thing which he had not done for months. Valentin, a +sickly-looking young man, with scanty hair and beard and prominent +cheek bones, on each of which was a bright red spot, while the rest of +his face was of a waxen hue, rose quickly to show how much more +sprightly he felt! And Clotilde was touched by the reception given to +Pascal as a saviour, the awaited Messiah. These poor people pressed his +hands—they would like to have kissed his feet; looking at him with eyes +shining with gratitude. True, the disease was not yet cured: perhaps +this was only the effect of the stimulus, perhaps what he felt was only +the excitement of fever. But was it not something to gain time? He gave +him another injection while Clotilde, standing before the window, +turned her back to them; and when they were leaving she saw him lay +twenty francs upon the table. This often happened to him, to pay his +patients instead of being paid by them. + +He made three other visits in the old quarter, and then went to see a +lady in the new town. When they found themselves in the street again, +he said: + +“Do you know that, if you were a courageous girl, we should walk to +Séguiranne, to see Sophie at her aunt’s. That would give me pleasure.” + +The distance was scarcely three kilometers; that would be only a +pleasant walk in this delightful weather. And she agreed gaily, not +sulky now, but pressing close to him, happy to hang on his arm. It was +five o’clock. The setting sun spread over the fields a great sheet of +gold. But as soon as they left Plassans they were obliged to cross the +corner of the vast, arid plain, which extended to the right of the +Viorne. The new canal, whose irrigating waters were soon to transform +the face of the country parched with thirst, did not yet water this +quarter, and red fields and yellow fields stretched away into the +distance under the melancholy and blighting glare of the sun, planted +only with puny almond trees and dwarf olives, constantly cut down and +pruned, whose branches twisted and writhed in attitudes of suffering +and revolt. In the distance, on the bare hillsides, were to be seen +only like pale patches the country houses, flanked by the regulation +cypress. The vast, barren expanse, however, with broad belts of +desolate fields of hard and distinct coloring, had classic lines of a +severe grandeur. And on the road the dust lay twenty centimeters thick, +a dust like snow, that the slightest breath of wind raised in broad, +flying clouds, and that covered with white powder the fig trees and the +brambles on either side. + +Clotilde, who amused herself like a child, listening to this dust +crackling under her little feet, wished to hold her parasol over +Pascal. + +“You have the sun in your eyes. Lean a little this way.” + +But at last he took possession of the parasol, to hold it himself. + +“It is you who do not hold it right; and then it tires you. Besides, we +are almost there now.” + +In the parched plain they could already perceive an island of verdure, +an enormous clump of trees. This was La Séguiranne, the farm on which +Sophie had grown up in the house of her Aunt Dieudonné, the wife of the +cross old man. Wherever there was a spring, wherever there was a +rivulet, this ardent soil broke out in rich vegetation; and then there +were walks bordered by trees, whose luxuriant foliage afforded a +delightful coolness and shade. Plane trees, chestnut trees, and young +elms grew vigorously. They entered an avenue of magnificent green oaks. + +As they approached the farm, a girl who was making hay in the meadow +dropped her fork and ran toward them. It was Sophie, who had recognized +the doctor and the young lady, as she called Clotilde. She adored them, +but she stood looking at them in confusion, unable to express the glad +greeting with which her heart overflowed. She resembled her brother +Valentin; she had his small stature, his prominent cheek bones, his +pale hair; but in the country, far from the contagion of the paternal +environment, she had, it seemed, gained flesh; acquired with her robust +limbs a firm step; her cheeks had filled out, her hair had grown +luxuriant. And she had fine eyes, which shone with health and +gratitude. Her Aunt Dieudonné, who was making hay with her, had come +toward them also, crying from afar jestingly, with something of +Provençal rudeness: + +“Ah, M. Pascal, we have no need of you here! There is no one sick!” + +The doctor, who had simply come in search of this fine spectacle of +health, answered in the same tone: + +“I hope so, indeed. But that does not prevent this little girl here +from owing you and me a fine taper!” + +“Well, that is the pure truth! And she knows it, M. Pascal. There is +not a day that she does not say that but for you she would be at this +time like her brother Valentin.” + +“Bah! We will save him, too. He is getting better, Valentin is. I have +just been to see him.” + +Sophie seized the doctor’s hands; large tears stood in her eyes, and +she could only stammer: + +“Oh, M. Pascal!” + +How they loved him! And Clotilde felt her affection for him increase, +seeing the affection of all these people for him. They remained +chatting there for a few moments longer, in the salubrious shade of the +green oaks. Then they took the road back to Plassans, having still +another visit to make. + +This was to a tavern, that stood at the crossing of two roads and was +white with the flying dust. A steam mill had recently been established +opposite, utilizing the old buildings of Le Paradou, an estate dating +from the last century, and Lafouasse, the tavern keeper, still carried +on his little business, thanks to the workmen at the mill and to the +peasants who brought their corn to it. He had still for customers on +Sundays the few inhabitants of Les Artauds, a neighboring hamlet. But +misfortune had struck him; for the last three years he had been +dragging himself about groaning with rheumatism, in which the doctor +had finally recognized the beginning of ataxia. But he had obstinately +refused to take a servant, persisting in waiting on his customers +himself, holding on by the furniture. So that once more firm on his +feet, after a dozen punctures, he already proclaimed his cure +everywhere. + +He chanced to be just then at his door, and looked strong and vigorous, +with his tall figure, fiery face, and fiery red hair. + +“I was waiting for you, M. Pascal. Do you know that I have been able to +bottle two casks of wine without being tired!” + +Clotilde remained outside, sitting on a stone bench; while Pascal +entered the room to give Lafouasse the injection. She could hear them +speaking, and the latter, who in spite of his stoutness was very +cowardly in regard to pain, complained that the puncture hurt, adding, +however, that after all a little suffering was a small price to pay for +good health. Then he declared he would be offended if the doctor did +not take a glass of something. The young lady would not affront him by +refusing to take some syrup. He carried a table outside, and there was +nothing for it but they must touch glasses with him. + +“To your health, M. Pascal, and to the health of all the poor devils to +whom you give back a relish for their victuals!” + +Clotilde thought with a smile of the gossip of which Martine had spoken +to her, of Father Boutin, whom they accused the doctor of having +killed. He did not kill all his patients, then; his remedy worked real +miracles, since he brought back to life the consumptive and the ataxic. +And her faith in her master returned with the warm affection for him +which welled up in her heart. When they left Lafouasse, she was once +more completely his; he could do what he willed with her. + +But a few moments before, sitting on the stone bench looking at the +steam mill, a confused story had recurred to her mind; was it not here +in these smoke-blackened buildings, to-day white with flour, that a +drama of love had once been enacted? And the story came back to her; +details given by Martine; allusions made by the doctor himself; the +whole tragic love adventure of her cousin the Abbé Serge Mouret, then +rector of Les Artauds, with an adorable young girl of a wild and +passionate nature who lived at Le Paradou. + +Returning by the same road Clotilde stopped, and pointing to the vast, +melancholy expanse of stubble fields, cultivated plains, and fallow +land, said: + +“Master, was there not once there a large garden? Did you not tell me +some story about it?” + +“Yes, yes; Le Paradou, an immense garden—woods, meadows, orchards, +parterres, fountains, and brooks that flowed into the Viorne. A garden +abandoned for an age; the garden of the Sleeping Beauty, returned to +Nature’s rule. And as you see they have cut down the woods, and cleared +and leveled the ground, to divide it into lots, and sell it by auction. +The springs themselves have dried up. There is nothing there now but +that fever-breeding marsh. Ah, when I pass by here, it makes my heart +ache!” + +She ventured to question him further: + +“But was it not in Le Paradou that my cousin Serge and your great +friend Albine fell in love with each other?” + +He had forgotten her presence. He went on talking, his gaze fixed on +space, lost in recollections of the past. + +“Albine, my God! I can see her now, in the sunny garden, like a great, +fragrant bouquet, her head thrown back, her bosom swelling with joy, +happy in her flowers, with wild flowers braided among her blond +tresses, fastened at her throat, on her corsage, around her slender, +bare brown arms. And I can see her again, after she had asphyxiated +herself; dead in the midst of her flowers; very white, sleeping with +folded hands, and a smile on her lips, on her couch of hyacinths and +tuberoses. Dead for love; and how passionately Albine and Serge loved +each other, in the great garden their tempter, in the bosom of Nature +their accomplice! And what a flood of life swept away all false bonds, +and what a triumph of life!” + +Clotilde, she too troubled by this passionate flow of murmured words, +gazed at him intently. She had never ventured to speak to him of +another story that she had heard—the story of the one love of his +life—a love which he had cherished in secret for a lady now dead. It +was said that he had attended her for a long time without ever so much +as venturing to kiss the tips of her fingers. Up to the present, up to +near sixty, study and his natural timidity had made him shun women. +But, notwithstanding, one felt that he was reserved for some great +passion, with his feelings still fresh and ardent, in spite of his +white hair. + +“And the girl that died, the girl they mourned,” she resumed, her voice +trembling, her cheeks scarlet, without knowing why. “Serge did not love +her, then, since he let her die?” + +Pascal started as though awakening from a dream, seeing her beside him +in her youthful beauty, with her large, clear eyes shining under the +shadow of her broad-brimmed hat. Something had happened; the same +breath of life had passed through them both; they did not take each +other’s arms again. They walked side by side. + +“Ah, my dear, the world would be too beautiful, if men did not spoil it +all! Albine is dead, and Serge is now rector of St. Eutrope, where he +lives with his sister Désirée, a worthy creature who has the good +fortune to be half an idiot. He is a holy man; I have never said the +contrary. One may be an assassin and serve God.” + +And he went on speaking of the hard things of life, of the blackness +and execrableness of humanity, without losing his gentle smile. He +loved life; and the continuous work of life was a continual joy to him +in spite of all the evil, all the misery, that it might contain. It +mattered not how dreadful life might appear, it must be great and good, +since it was lived with so tenacious a will, for the purpose no doubt +of this will itself, and of the great work which it unconsciously +accomplished. True, he was a scientist, a clear-sighted man; he did not +believe in any idyllic humanity living in a world of perpetual peace; +he saw, on the contrary, its woes and its vices; he had laid them bare; +he had examined them; he had catalogued them for thirty years past, but +his passion for life, his admiration for the forces of life, sufficed +to produce in him a perpetual gaiety, whence seemed to flow naturally +his love for others, a fraternal compassion, a sympathy, which were +felt under the roughness of the anatomist and under the affected +impersonality of his studies. + +“Bah!” he ended, taking a last glance at the vast, melancholy plains. +“Le Paradou is no more. They have sacked it, defiled it, destroyed it; +but what does that matter! Vines will be planted, corn will spring up, +a whole growth of new crops; and people will still fall in love in +vintages and harvests yet to come. Life is eternal; it is a perpetual +renewal of birth and growth.” + +He took her arm again and they returned to the town thus, arm in arm +like good friends, while the glow of the sunset was slowly fading away +in a tranquil sea of violets and roses. And seeing them both pass +again, the ancient king, powerful and gentle, leaning against the +shoulder of a charming and docile girl, supported by her youth, the +women of the faubourg, sitting at their doors, looked after them with a +smile of tender emotion. + +At La Souleiade Martine was watching for them. She waved her hand to +them from afar. What! Were they not going to dine to-day? Then, when +they were near, she said: + +“Ah! you will have to wait a little while. I did not venture to put on +my leg of mutton yet.” + +They remained outside to enjoy the charm of the closing day. The pine +grove, wrapped in shadow, exhaled a balsamic resinous odor, and from +the yard, still heated, in which a last red gleam was dying away, a +chillness arose. It was like an assuagement, a sigh of relief, a +resting of surrounding Nature, of the puny almond trees, the twisted +olives, under the paling sky, cloudless and serene; while at the back +of the house the clump of plane trees was a mass of black and +impenetrable shadows, where the fountain was heard singing its eternal +crystal song. + +“Look!” said the doctor, “M. Bellombre has already dined, and he is +taking the air.” + +He pointed to a bench, on which a tall, thin old man of seventy was +sitting, with a long face, furrowed with wrinkles, and large, staring +eyes, and very correctly attired in a close-fitting coat and cravat. + +“He is a wise man,” murmured Clotilde. “He is happy.” + +“He!” cried Pascal. “I should hope not!” + +He hated no one, and M. Bellombre, the old college professor, now +retired, and living in his little house without any other company than +that of a gardener who was deaf and dumb and older than himself, was +the only person who had the power to exasperate him. + +“A fellow who has been afraid of life; think of that! afraid of life! +Yes, a hard and avaricious egotist! If he banished woman from his +existence, it was only through fear of having to pay for her shoes. And +he has known only the children of others, who have made him +suffer—hence his hatred of the child—that flesh made to be flogged. The +fear of life, the fear of burdens and of duties, of annoyances and of +catastrophes! The fear of life, which makes us through dread of its +sufferings refuse its joys. Ah! I tell you, this cowardliness enrages +me; I cannot forgive it. We must live—live a complete life—live all our +life. Better even suffering, suffering only, than such renunciation—the +death of all there is in us that is living and human!” + +M. Bellombre had risen, and was walking along one of the walks with +slow, tranquil steps. Then, Clotilde, who had been watching him in +silence, at last said: + +“There is, however, the joy of renunciation. To renounce, not to live; +to keep one’s self for the spiritual, has not this always been the +great happiness of the saints?” + +“If they had not lived,” cried Pascal, “they could not now be saints. +Let suffering come, and I will bless it, for it is perhaps the only +great happiness!” + +But he felt that she rebelled against this; that he was going to lose +her again. At the bottom of our anxiety about the beyond is the secret +fear and hatred of life. So that he hastily assumed again his pleasant +smile, so affectionate and conciliating. + +“No, no! Enough for to-day; let us dispute no more; let us love each +other dearly. And see! Martine is calling us, let us go in to dinner.” + + + + +III. + + +For a month this unpleasant state of affairs continued, every day +growing worse, and Clotilde suffered especially at seeing that Pascal +now locked up everything. He had no longer the same tranquil confidence +in her as before, and this wounded her so deeply that, if she had at +any time found the press open, she would have thrown the papers into +the fire as her grandmother Félicité had urged her to do. And the +disagreements began again, so that they often remained without speaking +to each other for two days together. + +One morning, after one of these misunderstandings which had lasted +since the day before, Martine said as she was serving the breakfast: + +“Just now as I was crossing the Place de la Sous-Préfecture, I saw a +stranger whom I thought I recognized going into Mme. Félicité’s house. +Yes, mademoiselle, I should not be surprised if it were your brother.” + +On the impulse of the moment, Pascal and Clotilde spoke. + +“Your brother! Did your grandmother expect him, then?” + +“No, I don’t think so, though she has been expecting him at any time +for the past six months, I know that she wrote to him again a week +ago.” + +They questioned Martine. + +“Indeed, monsieur, I cannot say; since I last saw M. Maxime four years +ago, when he stayed two hours with us on his way to Italy, he may +perhaps have changed greatly—I thought, however, that I recognized his +back.” + +The conversation continued, Clotilde seeming to be glad of this event, +which broke at last the oppressive silence between them, and Pascal +ended: + +“Well, if it is he, he will come to see us.” + +It was indeed Maxime. He had yielded, after months of refusal, to the +urgent solicitations of old Mme. Rougon, who had still in this quarter +an open family wound to heal. The trouble was an old one, and it grew +worse every day. + +Fifteen years before, when he was seventeen, Maxime had had a child by +a servant whom he had seduced. His father Saccard, and his stepmother +Renée—the latter vexed more especially at his unworthy choice—had acted +in the matter with indulgence. The servant, Justine Mégot, belonged to +one of the neighboring villages, and was a fair-haired girl, also +seventeen, gentle and docile; and they had sent her back to Plassans, +with an allowance of twelve hundred francs a year, to bring up little +Charles. Three years later she had married there a harness-maker of the +faubourg, Frederic Thomas by name, a good workman and a sensible +fellow, who was tempted by the allowance. For the rest her conduct was +now most exemplary, she had grown fat, and she appeared to be cured of +a cough that had threatened a hereditary malady due to the alcoholic +propensities of a long line of progenitors. And two other children born +of her marriage, a boy who was now ten and a girl who was seven, both +plump and rosy, enjoyed perfect health; so that she would have been the +most respected and the happiest of women, if it had not been for the +trouble which Charles caused in the household. Thomas, notwithstanding +the allowance, execrated this son of another man and gave him no peace, +which made the mother suffer in secret, being an uncomplaining and +submissive wife. So that, although she adored him, she would willingly +have given him up to his father’s family. + +Charles, at fifteen, seemed scarcely twelve, and he had the infantine +intelligence of a child of five, resembling in an extraordinary degree +his great-great-grandmother, Aunt Dide, the madwoman at the Tulettes. +He had the slender and delicate grace of one of those bloodless little +kings with whom a race ends, crowned with their long, fair locks, light +as spun silk. His large, clear eyes were expressionless, and on his +disquieting beauty lay the shadow of death. And he had neither brain +nor heart—he was nothing but a vicious little dog, who rubbed himself +against people to be fondled. His great-grandmother Félicité, won by +this beauty, in which she affected to recognize her blood, had at first +put him in a boarding school, taking charge of him, but he had been +expelled from it at the end of six months for misconduct. Three times +she had changed his boarding school, and each time he had been expelled +in disgrace. Then, as he neither would nor could learn anything, and as +his health was declining rapidly, they kept him at home, sending him +from one to another of the family. Dr. Pascal, moved to pity, had tried +to cure him, and had abandoned the hopeless task only after he had kept +him with him for nearly a year, fearing the companionship for Clotilde. +And now, when Charles was not at his mother’s, where he scarcely ever +lived at present, he was to be found at the house of Félicité, or that +of some other relative, prettily dressed, laden with toys, living like +the effeminate little dauphin of an ancient and fallen race. + +Old Mme. Rougon, however, suffered because of this bastard, and she had +planned to get him away from the gossiping tongues of Plassans, by +persuading Maxime to take him and keep him with him in Paris. It would +still be an ugly story of the fallen family. But Maxime had for a long +time turned a deaf ear to her solicitations, in the fear which +continually haunted him of spoiling his life. After the war, enriched +by the death of his wife, he had come back to live prudently on his +fortune in his mansion on the avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, tormented +by the hereditary malady of which he was to die young, having gained +from his precocious debauchery a salutary fear of pleasure, resolved +above all to shun emotions and responsibilities, so that he might last +as long as possible. Acute pains in the limbs, rheumatic he thought +them, had been alarming him for some time past; he saw himself in fancy +already an invalid tied down to an easy-chair; and his father’s sudden +return to France, the fresh activity which Saccard was putting forth, +completed his disquietude. He knew well this devourer of millions; he +trembled at finding him again bustling about him with his good-humored, +malicious laugh. He felt that he was being watched, and he had the +conviction that he would be cut up and devoured if he should be for a +single day at his mercy, rendered helpless by the pains which were +invading his limbs. And so great a fear of solitude had taken +possession of him that he had now yielded to the idea of seeing his son +again. If he found the boy gentle, intelligent, and healthy, why should +he not take him to live with him? He would thus have a companion, an +heir, who would protect him against the machinations of his father. +Gradually he came to see himself, in his selfish forethought, loved, +petted, and protected; yet for all that he might not have risked such a +journey, if his physician had not just at that time sent him to the +waters of St. Gervais. Thus, having to go only a few leagues out of his +way, he had dropped in unexpectedly that morning on old Mme. Rougon, +firmly resolved to take the train again in the evening, after having +questioned her and seen the boy. + +At two o’clock Pascal and Clotilde were still beside the fountain under +the plane trees where they had taken their coffee, when Félicité +arrived with Maxime. + +“My dear, here’s a surprise! I have brought you your brother.” + +Startled, the young girl had risen, seeing this thin and sallow +stranger, whom she scarcely recognized. Since their parting in 1854 she +had seen him only twice, once at Paris and again at Plassans. Yet his +image, refined, elegant, and vivacious, had remained engraven on her +mind; his face had grown hollow, his hair was streaked with silver +threads. But notwithstanding, she found in him still, with his +delicately handsome head, a languid grace, like that of a girl, even in +his premature decrepitude. + +“How well you look!” he said simply, as he embraced his sister. + +“But,” she responded, “to be well one must live in the sunshine. Ah, +how happy it makes me to see you again!” + +Pascal, with the eye of the physician, had examined his nephew +critically. He embraced him in his turn. + +“Goodday, my boy. And she is right, mind you; one can be well only out +in the sunshine—like the trees.” + +Félicité had gone hastily to the house. She returned, crying: + +“Charles is not here, then?” + +“No,” said Clotilde. “We went to see him yesterday. Uncle Macquart has +taken him, and he is to remain for a few days at the Tulettes.” + +Félicité was in despair. She had come only in the certainty of finding +the boy at Pascal’s. What was to be done now? The doctor, with his +tranquil air, proposed to write to Uncle Macquart, who would bring him +back in the morning. But when he learned that Maxime wished positively +to go away again by the nine o’clock train, without remaining over +night, another idea occurred to him. He would send to the livery stable +for a landau, and all four would go to see Charles at Uncle Macquart’s. +It would even be a delightful drive. It was not quite three leagues +from Plassans to the Tulettes—an hour to go, and an hour to return, and +they would still have almost two hours to remain there, if they wished +to be back by seven. Martine would get dinner, and Maxime would have +time enough to dine and catch his train. + +But Félicité objected, visibly disquieted by this visit to Macquart. + +“Oh, no, indeed! If you think I am going down there in this frightful +weather, you are mistaken. It is much simpler to send some one to bring +Charles to us.” + +Pascal shook his head. Charles was not always to be brought back when +one wished. He was a boy without reason, who sometimes, if the whim +seized him, would gallop off like an untamed animal. And old Mme. +Rougon, overruled and furious at having been unable to make any +preparation, was at last obliged to yield, in the necessity in which +she found herself of leaving the matter to chance. + +“Well, be it as you wish, then! Good Heavens, how unfortunately things +have turned out!” + +Martine hurried away to order the landau, and before three o’clock had +struck the horses were on the Nice road, descending the declivity which +slopes down to the bridge over the Viorne. Then they turned to the +left, and followed the wooded banks of the river for about two miles. +After this the road entered the gorges of the Seille, a narrow pass +between two giant walls of rock scorched by the ardent rays of the +summer sun. Pine trees pushed their way through the clefts; clumps of +trees, scarcely thicker at the roots than tufts of grass, fringed the +crests and hung over the abyss. It was a chaos; a blasted landscape, a +mouth of hell, with its wild turns, its droppings of blood-colored +earth sliding down from every cut, its desolate solitude invaded only +by the eagles’ flight. + +Félicité did not open her lips; her brain was at work, and she seemed +completely absorbed in her thoughts. The atmosphere was oppressive, the +sun sent his burning rays from behind a veil of great livid clouds. +Pascal was almost the only one who talked, in his passionate love for +this scorched land—a love which he endeavored to make his nephew share. +But it was in vain that he uttered enthusiastic exclamations, in vain +that he called his attention to the persistence of the olives, the fig +trees, and the thorn bushes in pushing through the rock; the life of +the rock itself, that colossal and puissant frame of the earth, from +which they could almost fancy they heard a sound of breathing arise. +Maxime remained cold, filled with a secret anguish in presence of those +blocks of savage majesty, whose mass seemed to crush him. And he +preferred to turn his eyes toward his sister, who was seated in front +of him. He was becoming more and more charmed with her. She looked so +healthy and so happy, with her pretty round head, with its straight, +well-molded forehead. Now and then their glances met, and she gave him +an affectionate smile which consoled him. + +But the wildness of the gorge was beginning to soften, the two walls of +rock to grow lower; they passed between two peaceful hills, with gentle +slopes covered with thyme and lavender. It was the desert still, there +were still bare spaces, green or violet hued, from which the faintest +breeze brought a pungent perfume. + +Then abruptly, after a last turn they descended to the valley of the +Tulettes, which was refreshed by springs. In the distance stretched +meadows dotted by large trees. The village was seated midway on the +slope, among olive trees, and the country house of Uncle Macquart stood +a little apart on the left, full in view. The landau turned into the +road which led to the insane asylum, whose white walls they could see +before them in the distance. + +Félicité’s silence had grown somber, for she was not fond of exhibiting +Uncle Macquart. Another whom the family would be well rid of the day +when he should take his departure. For the credit of every one he ought +to have been sleeping long ago under the sod. But he persisted in +living, he carried his eighty-three years well, like an old drunkard +saturated with liquor, whom the alcohol seemed to preserve. At Plassans +he had left a terrible reputation as a do-nothing and a scoundrel, and +the old men whispered the execrable story of the corpses that lay +between him and the Rougons, an act of treachery in the troublous days +of December, 1851, an ambuscade in which he had left comrades with +their bellies ripped open, lying on the bloody pavement. Later, when he +had returned to France, he had preferred to the good place of which he +had obtained the promise this little domain of the Tulettes, which +Félicité had bought for him. And he had lived comfortably here ever +since; he had no longer any other ambition than that of enlarging it, +looking out once more for the good chances, and he had even found the +means of obtaining a field which he had long coveted, by making himself +useful to his sister-in-law at the time when the latter again +reconquered Plassans from the legitimists—another frightful story that +was whispered also, of a madman secretly let loose from the asylum, +running in the night to avenge himself, setting fire to his house in +which four persons were burned. But these were old stories and +Macquart, settled down now, was no longer the redoubtable scoundrel who +had made all the family tremble. He led a perfectly correct life; he +was a wily diplomat, and he had retained nothing of his air of jeering +at the world but his bantering smile. + +“Uncle is at home,” said Pascal, as they approached the house. + +This was one of those Provençal structures of a single story, with +discolored tiles and four walls washed with a bright yellow. Before the +facade extended a narrow terrace shaded by ancient mulberry trees, +whose thick, gnarled branches drooped down, forming an arbor. It was +here that Uncle Macquart smoked his pipe in the cool shade, in summer. +And on hearing the sound of the carriage, he came and stood at the edge +of the terrace, straightening his tall form neatly clad in blue cloth, +his head covered with the eternal fur cap which he wore from one year’s +end to the other. + +As soon as he recognized his visitors, he called out with a sneer: + +“Oh, here come some fine company! How kind of you; you are out for an +airing.” + +But the presence of Maxime puzzled him. Who was he? Whom had he come to +see? They mentioned his name to him, and he immediately cut short the +explanations they were adding, to enable him to straighten out the +tangled skein of relationship. + +“The father of Charles—I know, I know! The son of my nephew Saccard, +_pardi_! the one who made a fine marriage, and whose wife died—” + +He stared at Maxime, seeming happy to find him already wrinkled at +thirty-two, with his hair and beard sprinkled with snow. + +“Ah, well!” he added, “we are all growing old. But I, at least, have no +great reason to complain. I am solid.” + +And he planted himself firmly on his legs with his air of ferocious +mockery, while his fiery red face seemed to flame and burn. For a long +time past ordinary brandy had seemed to him like pure water; only +spirits of 36 degrees tickled his blunted palate; and he took such +draughts of it that he was full of it—his flesh saturated with it—like +a sponge. He perspired alcohol. At the slightest breath whenever he +spoke, he exhaled from his mouth a vapor of alcohol. + +“Yes, truly; you are solid, uncle!” said Pascal, amazed. “And you have +done nothing to make you so; you have good reason to ridicule us. Only +there is one thing I am afraid of, look you, that some day in lighting +your pipe, you may set yourself on fire—like a bowl of punch.” + +Macquart, flattered, gave a sneering laugh. + +“Have your jest, have your jest, my boy! A glass of cognac is worth +more than all your filthy drugs. And you will all touch glasses with +me, hey? So that it may be said truly that your uncle is a credit to +you all. As for me, I laugh at evil tongues. I have corn and olive +trees, I have almond trees and vines and land, like any _bourgeois_. In +summer I smoke my pipe under the shade of my mulberry trees; in winter +I go to smoke it against my wall, there in the sunshine. One has no +need to blush for an uncle like that, hey? Clotilde, I have syrup, if +you would like some. And you, Félicité, my dear, I know that you prefer +anisette. There is everything here, I tell you, there is everything +here!” + +He waved his arm as if to take possession of the comforts he enjoyed, +now that from an old sinner he had become a hermit, while Félicité, +whom he had disturbed a moment before by the enumeration of his riches, +did not take her eyes from his face, waiting to interrupt him. + +“Thank you, Macquart, we will take nothing; we are in a hurry. Where is +Charles?” + +“Charles? Very good, presently! I understand, papa has come to see his +boy. But that is not going to prevent you taking a glass.” + +And as they positively refused he became offended, and said, with his +malicious laugh: + +“Charles is not here; he is at the asylum with the old woman.” + +Then, taking Maxime to the end of the terrace, he pointed out to him +the great white buildings, whose inner gardens resembled prison yards. + +“Look, nephew, you see those three trees in front of you? Well, beyond +the one to the left, there is a fountain in a court. Follow the ground +floor, and the fifth window to the right is Aunt Dide’s. And that is +where the boy is. Yes, I took him there a little while ago.” + +This was an indulgence of the directors. In the twenty years that she +had been in the asylum the old woman had not given a moment’s +uneasiness to her keeper. Very quiet, very gentle, she passed the days +motionless in her easy-chair, looking straight before her; and as the +boy liked to be with her, and as she herself seemed to take an interest +in him, they shut their eyes to this infraction of the rules and left +him there sometimes for two or three hours at a time, busily occupied +in cutting out pictures. + +But this new disappointment put the finishing stroke to Félicité’s +ill-humor; she grew angry when Macquart proposed that all five should +go in a body in search of the boy. + +“What an idea! Go you alone, and come back quickly. We have no time to +lose.” + +Her suppressed rage seemed to amuse Uncle Macquart, and perceiving how +disagreeable his proposition was to her, he insisted, with his sneering +laugh: + +“But, my children, we should at the same time have an opportunity of +seeing the old mother; the mother of us all. There is no use in +talking; you know that we are all descended from her, and it would +hardly be polite not to go wish her a good-day, when my grandnephew, +who has come from such a distance, has perhaps never before had a good +look at her. I’ll not disown her, may the devil take me if I do. To be +sure she is mad, but all the same, old mothers who have passed their +hundredth year are not often to be seen, and she well deserves that we +should show ourselves a little kind to her.” + +There was silence for a moment. A little shiver had run through every +one. And it was Clotilde, silent until now, who first declared in a +voice full of feeling: + +“You are right, uncle; we will all go.” + +Félicité herself was obliged to consent. They re-entered the landau, +Macquart taking the seat beside the coachman. A feeling of disquietude +had given a sallow look to Maxime’s worn face; and during the short +drive he questioned Pascal concerning Charles with an air of paternal +interest, which concealed a growing anxiety. The doctor constrained by +his mother’s imperious glances, softened the truth. Well, the boy’s +health was certainly not very robust; it was on that account, indeed, +that they were glad to leave him for weeks together in the country with +his uncle: but he had no definite disease. Pascal did not add that he +had for a moment cherished the dream of giving him a brain and muscles +by treating him with his hypodermic injections of nerve substance, but +that he had always been met by the same difficulty; the slightest +puncture brought on a hemorrhage which it was found necessary to stop +by compresses; there was a laxness of the tissues, due to degeneracy; a +bloody dew which exuded from the skin; he had especially, bleedings at +the nose so sudden and so violent that they did not dare to leave him +alone, fearing lest all the blood in his veins should flow out. And the +doctor ended by saying that although the boy’s intelligence had been +sluggish, he still hoped that it would develop in an environment of +quicker mental activity. + +They arrived at the asylum and Macquart, who had been listening to the +doctor, descended from his seat, saying: + +“He is a gentle little fellow, a very gentle little fellow! And then, +he is so beautiful—an angel!” + +Maxime, who was still pale, and who shivered in spite of the stifling +heat, put no more questions. He looked at the vast buildings of the +asylum, the wings of the various quarters separated by gardens, the +men’s quarters from those of the women, those of the harmless insane +from those of the violent insane. A scrupulous cleanliness reigned +everywhere, a gloomy silence—broken from time to time by footsteps and +the noise of keys. Old Macquart knew all the keepers. Besides, the +doors were always to open to Dr. Pascal, who had been authorized to +attend certain of the inmates. They followed a passage and entered a +court; it was here—one of the chambers on the ground floor, a room +covered with a light carpet, furnished with a bed, a press, a table, an +armchair, and two chairs. The nurse, who had orders never to quit her +charge, happened just now to be absent, and the only occupants of the +room were the madwoman, sitting rigid in her armchair at one side of +the table, and the boy, sitting on a chair on the opposite side, +absorbed in cutting out his pictures. + +“Go in, go in!” Macquart repeated. “Oh, there is no danger, she is very +gentle!” + +The grandmother, Adelaïde Fouqué, whom her grandchildren, a whole swarm +of descendants, called by the pet name of Aunt Dide, did not even turn +her head at the noise. In her youth hysterical troubles had unbalanced +her mind. Of an ardent and passionate nature and subject to nervous +attacks, she had yet reached the great age of eighty-three when a +dreadful grief, a terrible moral shock, destroyed her reason. At that +time, twenty-one years before, her mind had ceased to act; it had +become suddenly weakened without the possibility of recovery. And now, +at the age of 104 years, she lived here as if forgotten by the world, a +quiet madwoman with an ossified brain, with whom insanity might remain +stationary for an indefinite length of time without causing death. Old +age had come, however, and had gradually atrophied her muscles. Her +flesh was as if eaten away by age. The skin only remained on her bones, +so that she had to be carried from her chair to her bed, for it had +become impossible for her to walk or even to move. And yet she held +herself erect against the back of her chair, a yellow, dried-up +skeleton—like an ancient tree of which the bark only remains—with only +her eyes still living in her thin, long visage, in which the wrinkles +had been, so to say, worn away. She was looking fixedly at Charles. + +Clotilde approached her a little tremblingly. + +“Aunt Dide, it is we; we have come to see you. Don’t you know me, then? +Your little girl who comes sometimes to kiss you.” + +But the madwoman did not seem to hear. Her eyes remained fixed upon the +boy, who was finishing cutting out a picture—a purple king in a golden +mantle. + +“Come, mamma,” said Macquart, “don’t pretend to be stupid. You may very +well look at us. Here is a gentleman, a grandson of yours, who has come +from Paris expressly to see you.” + +At this voice Aunt Dide at last turned her head. Her clear, +expressionless eyes wandered slowly from one to another, then rested +again on Charles with the same fixed look as before. + +They all shivered, and no one spoke again. + +“Since the terrible shock she received,” explained Pascal in a low +voice, “she has been that way; all intelligence, all memory seem +extinguished in her. For the most part she is silent; at times she +pours forth a flood of stammering and indistinct words. She laughs and +cries without cause, she is a thing that nothing affects. And yet I +should not venture to say that the darkness of her mind is complete, +that no memories remain stored up in its depths. Ah! the poor old +mother, how I pity her, if the light has not yet been finally +extinguished. What can her thoughts have been for the last twenty-one +years, if she still remembers?” + +With a gesture he put this dreadful past which he knew from him. He saw +her again young, a tall, pale, slender girl with frightened eyes, a +widow, after fifteen months of married life with Rougon, the clumsy +gardener whom she had chosen for a husband, throwing herself +immediately afterwards into the arms of the smuggler Macquart, whom she +loved with a wolfish love, and whom she did not even marry. She had +lived thus for fifteen years, with her three children, one the child of +her marriage, the other two illegitimate, a capricious and tumultuous +existence, disappearing for weeks at a time, and returning all bruised, +her arms black and blue. Then Macquart had been killed, shot down like +a dog by a _gendarme_; and the first shock had paralyzed her, so that +even then she retained nothing living but her water-clear eyes in her +livid face; and she shut herself up from the world in the hut which her +lover had left her, leading there for forty years the dead existence of +a nun, broken by terrible nervous attacks. But the other shock was to +finish her, to overthrow her reason, and Pascal recalled the atrocious +scene, for he had witnessed it—a poor child whom the grandmother had +taken to live with her, her grandson Silvère, the victim of family +hatred and strife, whose head another _gendarme_ shattered with a +pistol shot, at the suppression of the insurrectionary movement of +1851. She was always to be bespattered with blood. + +Félicité, meanwhile, had approached Charles, who was so engrossed with +his pictures that all these people did not disturb him. + +“My darling, this gentleman is your father. Kiss him,” she said. + +And then they all occupied themselves with Charles. He was very +prettily dressed in a jacket and short trousers of black velvet, +braided with gold cord. Pale as a lily, he resembled in truth one of +those king’s sons whose pictures he was cutting out, with his large, +light eyes and his shower of fair curls. But what especially struck the +attention at this moment was his resemblance to Aunt Dide; this +resemblance which had overleaped three generations, which had passed +from this withered centenarian’s countenance, from these dead features +wasted by life, to this delicate child’s face that was also as if worn, +aged, and wasted, through the wear of the race. Fronting each other, +the imbecile child of a deathlike beauty seemed the last of the race of +which she, forgotten by the world, was the ancestress. + +Maxime bent over to press a kiss on the boy’s forehead; and a chill +struck to his heart—this very beauty disquieted him; his uneasiness +grew in this chamber of madness, whence, it seemed to him, breathed a +secret horror come from the far-off past. + +“How beautiful you are, my pet! Don’t you love me a little?” + +Charles looked at him without comprehending, and went back to his play. + +But all were chilled. Without the set expression of her countenance +changing Aunt Dide wept, a flood of tears rolled from her living eyes +over her dead cheeks. Her gaze fixed immovably upon the boy, she wept +slowly, endlessly. A great thing had happened. + +And now an extraordinary emotion took possession of Pascal. He caught +Clotilde by the arm and pressed it hard, trying to make her understand. +Before his eyes appeared the whole line, the legitimate branch and the +bastard branch, which had sprung from this trunk already vitiated by +neurosis. Five generations were there present—the Rougons and the +Macquarts, Adelaïde Fouqué at the root, then the scoundrelly old uncle, +then himself, then Clotilde and Maxime, and lastly, Charles. Félicité +occupied the place of her dead husband. There was no link wanting; the +chain of heredity, logical and implacable, was unbroken. And what a +world was evoked from the depths of the tragic cabin which breathed +this horror that came from the far-off past in such appalling shape +that every one, notwithstanding the oppressive heat, shivered. + +“What is it, master?” whispered Clotilde, trembling. + +“No, no, nothing!” murmured the doctor. “I will tell you later.” + +Macquart, who alone continued to sneer, scolded the old mother. What an +idea was hers, to receive people with tears when they put themselves +out to come and make her a visit. It was scarcely polite. And then he +turned to Maxime and Charles. + +“Well, nephew, you have seen your boy at last. Is it not true that he +is pretty, and that he is a credit to you, after all?” + +Félicité hastened to interfere. Greatly dissatisfied with the turn +which affairs were taking, she was now anxious only to get away. + +“He is certainly a handsome boy, and less backward than people think. +Just see how skilful he is with his hands. And you will see when you +have brightened him up in Paris, in a different way from what we have +been able to do at Plassans, eh?” + +“No doubt,” murmured Maxime. “I do not say no; I will think about it.” + +He seemed embarrassed for a moment, and then added: + +“You know I came only to see him. I cannot take him with me now as I am +to spend a month at St. Gervais. But as soon as I return to Paris I +will think of it, I will write to you.” + +Then, taking out his watch, he cried: + +“The devil! Half-past five. You know that I would not miss the nine +o’clock train for anything in the world.” + +“Yes, yes, let us go,” said Félicité brusquely. “We have nothing more +to do here.” + +Macquart, whom his sister-in-law’s anger seemed still to divert, +endeavored to delay them with all sorts of stories. He told of the days +when Aunt Dide talked, and he affirmed that he had found her one +morning singing a romance of her youth. And then he had no need of the +carriage, he would take the boy back on foot, since they left him to +him. + +“Kiss your papa, my boy, for you know now that you see him, but you +don’t know whether you shall ever see him again or not.” + +With the same surprised and indifferent movement Charles raised his +head, and Maxime, troubled, pressed another kiss on his forehead. + +“Be very good and very pretty, my pet. And love me a little.” + +“Come, come, we have no time to lose,” repeated Félicité. + +But the keeper here re-entered the room. She was a stout, vigorous +girl, attached especially to the service of the madwoman. She carried +her to and from her bed, night and morning; she fed her and took care +of her like a child. And she at once entered into conversation with Dr. +Pascal, who questioned her. One of the doctor’s most cherished dreams +was to cure the mad by his treatment of hypodermic injections. Since in +their case it was the brain that was in danger, why should not +hypodermic injections of nerve substance give them strength and will, +repairing the breaches made in the organ? So that for a moment he had +dreamed of trying the treatment with the old mother; then he began to +have scruples, he felt a sort of awe, without counting that madness at +that age was total, irreparable ruin. So that he had chosen another +subject—a hatter named Sarteur, who had been for a year past in the +asylum, to which he had come himself to beg them to shut him up to +prevent him from committing a crime. In his paroxysms, so strong an +impulse to kill seized him that he would have thrown himself upon the +first passer-by. He was of small stature, very dark, with a retreating +forehead, an aquiline face with a large nose and a very short chin, and +his left cheek was noticeably larger than his right. And the doctor had +obtained miraculous results with this victim of emotional insanity, who +for a month past had had no attack. The nurse, indeed being questioned, +answered that Sarteur had become quiet and was growing better every +day. + +“Do you hear, Clotilde?” cried Pascal, enchanted. “I have not the time +to see him this evening, but I will come again to-morrow. It is my +visiting day. Ah, if I only dared; if she were young still—” + +His eyes turned toward Aunt Dide. But Clotilde, whom his enthusiasm +made smile, said gently: + +“No, no, master, you cannot make life anew. There, come. We are the +last.” + +It was true; the others had already gone. Macquart, on the threshold, +followed Félicité and Maxime with his mocking glance as they went away. +Aunt Dide, the forgotten one, sat motionless, appalling in her +leanness, her eyes again fixed upon Charles with his white, worn face +framed in his royal locks. + +The drive back was full of constraint. In the heat which exhaled from +the earth, the landau rolled on heavily to the measured trot of the +horses. The stormy sky took on an ashen, copper-colored hue in the +deepening twilight. At first a few indifferent words were exchanged; +but from the moment in which they entered the gorges of the Seille all +conversation ceased, as if they felt oppressed by the menacing walls of +giant rock that seemed closing in upon them. Was not this the end of +the earth, and were they not going to roll into the unknown, over the +edge of some abyss? An eagle soared by, uttering a shrill cry. + +Willows appeared again, and the carriage was rolling lightly along the +bank of the Viorne, when Félicité began without transition, as if she +were resuming a conversation already commenced. + +“You have no refusal to fear from the mother. She loves Charles dearly, +but she is a very sensible woman, and she understands perfectly that it +is to the boy’s advantage that you should take him with you. And I must +tell you, too, that the poor boy is not very happy with her, since, +naturally, the husband prefers his own son and daughter. For you ought +to know everything.” + +And she went on in this strain, hoping, no doubt, to persuade Maxime +and draw a formal promise from him. She talked until they reached +Plassans. Then, suddenly, as the landau rolled over the pavement of the +faubourg, she said: + +“But look! there is his mother. That stout blond at the door there.” + +At the threshold of a harness-maker’s shop hung round with horse +trappings and halters, Justine sat, knitting a stocking, taking the +air, while the little girl and boy were playing on the ground at her +feet. And behind them in the shadow of the shop was to be seen Thomas, +a stout, dark man, occupied in repairing a saddle. + +Maxime leaned forward without emotion, simply curious. He was greatly +surprised at sight of this robust woman of thirty-two, with so sensible +and so commonplace an air, in whom there was not a trace of the wild +little girl with whom he had been in love when both of the same age +were entering their seventeenth year. Perhaps a pang shot through his +heart to see her plump and tranquil and blooming, while he was ill and +already aged. + +“I should never have recognized her,” he said. + +And the landau, still rolling on, turned into the Rue de Rome. Justine +had disappeared; this vision of the past—a past so different from the +present—had sunk into the shadowy twilight, with Thomas, the children, +and the shop. + +At La Souleiade the table was set; Martine had an eel from the Viorne, +a _sautéd_ rabbit, and a leg of mutton. Seven o’clock was striking, and +they had plenty of time to dine quietly. + +“Don’t be uneasy,” said Dr. Pascal to his nephew. “We will accompany +you to the station; it is not ten minutes’ walk from here. As you left +your trunk, you have nothing to do but to get your ticket and jump on +board the train.” + +Then, meeting Clotilde in the vestibule, where she was hanging up her +hat and her umbrella, he said to her in an undertone: + +“Do you know that I am uneasy about your brother?” + +“Why so?” + +“I have observed him attentively. I don’t like the way in which he +walks; and have you noticed what an anxious look he has at times? That +has never deceived me. In short, your brother is threatened with +ataxia.” + +“Ataxia!” she repeated turning very pale. + +A cruel image rose before her, that of a neighbor, a man still young, +whom for the past ten years she had seen driven about in a little +carriage by a servant. Was not this infirmity the worst of all ills, +the ax stroke that separates a living being from social and active +life? + +“But,” she murmured, “he complains only of rheumatism.” + +Pascal shrugged his shoulders; and putting a finger to his lip he went +into the dining-room, where Félicité and Maxime were seated. + +The dinner was very friendly. The sudden disquietude which had sprung +up in Clotilde’s heart made her still more affectionate to her brother, +who sat beside her. She attended to his wants gayly, forcing him to +take the most delicate morsels. Twice she called back Martine, who was +passing the dishes too quickly. And Maxime was more and more enchanted +by this sister, who was so good, so healthy, so sensible, whose charm +enveloped him like a caress. So greatly was he captivated by her that +gradually a project, vague at first, took definite shape within him. +Since little Charles, his son, terrified him so greatly with his +deathlike beauty, his royal air of sickly imbecility, why should he not +take his sister Clotilde to live with him? The idea of having a woman +in his house alarmed him, indeed, for he was afraid of all women, +having had too much experience of them in his youth; but this one +seemed to him truly maternal. And then, too, a good woman in his house +would make a change in it, which would be a desirable thing. He would +at least be left no longer at the mercy of his father, whom he +suspected of desiring his death so that he might get possession of his +money at once. His hatred and terror of his father decided him. + +“Don’t you think of marrying, then?” he asked, wishing to try the +ground. + +The young girl laughed. + +“Oh, there is no hurry,” she answered. + +Then, suddenly, looking at Pascal, who had raised his head, she added: + +“How can I tell? Oh, I shall never marry.” + +But Félicité protested. When she saw her so attached to the doctor, she +often wished for a marriage that would separate her from him, that +would leave her son alone in a deserted home, where she herself might +become all powerful, mistress of everything. Therefore she appealed to +him. Was it not true that a woman ought to marry, that it was against +nature to remain an old maid? + +And he gravely assented, without taking his eyes from Clotilde’s face. + +“Yes, yes, she must marry. She is too sensible not to marry.” + +“Bah!” interrupted Maxime, “would it be really sensible in her to +marry? In order to be unhappy, perhaps; there are so many ill-assorted +marriages!” + +And coming to a resolution, he added: + +“Don’t you know what you ought to do? Well, you ought to come and live +with me in Paris. I have thought the matter over. The idea of taking +charge of a child in my state of health terrifies me. Am I not a child +myself, an invalid who needs to be taken care of? You will take care of +me; you will be with me, if I should end by losing the use of my +limbs.” + +There was a sound of tears in his voice, so great a pity did he feel +for himself. He saw himself, in fancy, sick; he saw his sister at his +bedside, like a Sister of Charity; if she consented to remain unmarried +he would willingly leave her his fortune, so that his father might not +have it. The dread which he had of solitude, the need in which he +should perhaps stand of having a sick-nurse, made him very pathetic. + +“It would be very kind on your part, and you should have no cause to +repent it.” + +Martine, who was serving the mutton, stopped short in surprise; and the +proposition caused the same surprise at the table. Félicité was the +first to approve, feeling that the girl’s departure would further her +plans. She looked at Clotilde, who was still silent and stunned, as it +were; while Dr. Pascal waited with a pale face. + +“Oh, brother, brother,” stammered the young girl, unable at first to +think of anything else to say. + +Then her grandmother cried: + +“Is that all you have to say? Why, the proposition your brother has +just made you is a very advantageous one. If he is afraid of taking +Charles now, why, you can go with him, and later on you can send for +the child. Come, come, that can be very well arranged. Your brother +makes an appeal to your heart. Is it not true, Pascal, that she owes +him a favorable answer?” + +The doctor, by an effort, recovered his self-possession. The chill that +had seized him made itself felt, however, in the slowness with which he +spoke. + +“The offer, in effect, is very kind. Clotilde, as I said before, is +very sensible and she will accept it, if it is right that she should do +so.” + +The young girl, greatly agitated, rebelled at this. + +“Do you wish to send me away, then, master? Maxime is very good, and I +thank him from the bottom of my heart. But to leave everything, my God! +To leave all that love me, all that I have loved until now!” + +She made a despairing gesture, indicating the place and the people, +taking in all La Souleiade. + +“But,” responded Pascal, looking at her fixedly, “what if Maxime should +need you, what if you had a duty to fulfil toward him?” + +Her eyes grew moist, and she remained for a moment trembling and +desperate; for she alone understood. The cruel vision again arose +before her—Maxime, helpless, driven, about in a little carriage by a +servant, like the neighbor whom she used to pity. Had she indeed any +duty toward a brother who for fifteen years had been a stranger to her? +Did not her duty lie where her heart was? Nevertheless, her distress of +mind continued; she still suffered in the struggle. + +“Listen, Maxime,” she said at last, “give me also time to reflect. I +will see. Be assured that I am very grateful to you. And if you should +one day really have need of me, well, I should no doubt decide to go.” + +This was all they could make her promise. Félicité, with her usual +vehemence, exhausted all her efforts in vain, while the doctor now +affected to say that she had given her word. Martine brought a cream, +without thinking of hiding her joy. To take away mademoiselle! what an +idea, in order that monsieur might die of grief at finding himself all +alone. And the dinner was delayed, too, by this unexpected incident. +They were still at the dessert when half-past eight struck. + +Then Maxime grew restless, tapped the floor with his foot, and declared +that he must go. + +At the station, whither they all accompanied him he kissed his sister a +last time, saying: + +“Remember!” + +“Don’t be afraid,” declared Félicité, “we are here to remind her of her +promise.” + +The doctor smiled, and all three, as soon as the train was in motion, +waved their handkerchiefs. + +On this day, after accompanying the grandmother to her door, Dr. Pascal +and Clotilde returned peacefully to La Souleiade, and spent a +delightful evening there. The constraint of the past few weeks, the +secret antagonism which had separated them, seemed to have vanished. +Never had it seemed so sweet to them to feel so united, inseparable. +Doubtless it was only this first pang of uneasiness suffered by their +affection, this threatened separation, the postponement of which +delighted them. It was for them like a return to health after an +illness, a new hope of life. They remained for long time in the warm +night, under the plane trees, listening to the crystal murmur of the +fountain. And they did not even speak, so profoundly did they enjoy the +happiness of being together. + + + + +IV. + + +Ten days later the household had fallen back into its former state of +unhappiness. Pascal and Clotilde remained entire afternoons without +exchanging a word; and there were continual outbursts of ill-humor. +Even Martine was constantly out of temper. The home of these three had +again become a hell. + +Then suddenly the condition of affairs was still further aggravated. A +Capuchin monk of great sanctity, such as often pass through the towns +of the South, came to Plassans to conduct a mission. The pulpit of St. +Saturnin resounded with his bursts of eloquence. He was a sort of +apostle, a popular and fiery orator, a florid speaker, much given to +the use of metaphors. And he preached on the nothingness of modern +science with an extraordinary mystical exaltation, denying the reality +of this world, and disclosing the unknown, the mysteries of the Beyond. +All the devout women of the town were full of excitement about his +preaching. + +On the very first evening on which Clotilde, accompanied by Martine, +attended the sermon, Pascal noticed her feverish excitement when she +returned. On the following day her excitement increased, and she +returned home later, having remained to pray for an hour in a dark +corner of a chapel. From this time she was never absent from the +services, returning languid, and with the luminous eyes of a seer; and +the Capuchin’s burning words haunted her; certain of his images stirred +her to ecstasy. She grew irritable, and she seemed to have conceived a +feeling of anger and contempt for every one and everything around her. + +Pascal, filled with uneasiness, determined to have an explanation with +Martine. He came down early one morning as she was sweeping the +dining-room. + +“You know that I leave you and Clotilde free to go to church, if that +pleases you,” he said. “I do not believe in oppressing any one’s +conscience. But I do not wish that you should make her sick.” + +The servant, without stopping in her work, said in a low voice: + +“Perhaps the sick people are those who don’t think that they are sick.” + +She said this with such an air of conviction that he smiled. + +“Yes,” he returned; “I am the sick soul whose conversion you pray for; +while both of you are in possession of health and of perfect wisdom. +Martine, if you continue to torment me and to torment yourselves, as +you are doing, I shall grow angry.” + +He spoke in so furious and so harsh a voice that the servant stopped +suddenly in her sweeping, and looked him full in the face. An infinite +tenderness, an immense desolation passed over the face of the old maid +cloistered in his service. And tears filled her eyes and she hurried +out of the room stammering: + +“Ah, monsieur, you do not love us.” + +Then Pascal, filled with an overwhelming sadness, gave up the contest. +His remorse increased for having shown so much tolerance, for not +having exercised his authority as master, in directing Clotilde’s +education and bringing up. In his belief that trees grew straight if +they were not interfered with, he had allowed her to grow up in her own +way, after teaching her merely to read and write. It was without any +preconceived plan, while aiding him in making his researches and +correcting his manuscripts, and simply by the force of circumstances, +that she had read everything and acquired a fondness for the natural +sciences. How bitterly he now regretted his indifference! What a +powerful impulse he might have given to this clear mind, so eager for +knowledge, instead of allowing it to go astray, and waste itself in +that desire for the Beyond, which Grandmother Félicité and the good +Martine favored. While he had occupied himself with facts, endeavoring +to keep from going beyond the phenomenon, and succeeding in doing so, +through his scientific discipline, he had seen her give all her +thoughts to the unknown, the mysterious. It was with her an obsession, +an instinctive curiosity which amounted to torture when she could not +satisfy it. There was in her a longing which nothing could appease, an +irresistible call toward the unattainable, the unknowable. Even when +she was a child, and still more, later, when she grew up, she went +straight to the why and the how of things, she demanded ultimate +causes. If he showed her a flower, she asked why this flower produced a +seed, why this seed would germinate. Then, it would be the mystery of +birth and death, and the unknown forces, and God, and all things. In +half a dozen questions she would drive him into a corner, obliging him +each time to acknowledge his fatal ignorance; and when he no longer +knew what to answer her, when he would get rid of her with a gesture of +comic fury, she would give a gay laugh of triumph, and go to lose +herself again in her dreams, in the limitless vision of all that we do +not know, and all that we may believe. Often she astounded him by her +explanations. Her mind, nourished on science, started from proved +truths, but with such an impetus that she bounded at once straight into +the heaven of the legends. All sorts of mediators passed there, angels +and saints and supernatural inspirations, modifying matter, endowing it +with life; or, again, it was only one single force, the soul of the +world, working to fuse things and beings in a final kiss of love in +fifty centuries more. She had calculated the number of them, she said. + +For the rest, Pascal had never before seen her so excited. For the past +week, during which she had attended the Capuchin’s mission in the +cathedral, she had spent the days visibly in the expectation of the +sermon of the evening; and she went to hear it with the rapt exaltation +of a girl who is going to her first rendezvous of love. Then, on the +following day, everything about her declared her detachment from the +exterior life, from her accustomed existence, as if the visible world, +the necessary actions of every moment, were but a snare and a folly. +She retired within herself in the vision of what was not. Thus she had +almost completely given up her habitual occupations, abandoning herself +to a sort of unconquerable indolence, remaining for hours at a time +with her hands in her lap, her gaze lost in vacancy, rapt in the +contemplation of some far-off vision. Now she, who had been so active, +so early a riser, rose late, appearing barely in time for the second +breakfast, and it could not have been at her toilet that she spent +these long hours, for she forgot her feminine coquetry, and would come +down with her hair scarcely combed, negligently attired in a gown +buttoned awry, but even thus adorable, thanks to her triumphant youth. +The morning walks through La Souleiade that she had been so fond of, +the races from the top to the bottom of the terraces planted with olive +and almond trees, the visits to the pine grove balmy with the odor of +resin, the long sun baths in the hot threshing yard, she indulged in no +more; she preferred to remain shut up in her darkened room, from which +not a movement was to be heard. Then, in the afternoon, in the work +room, she would drag herself about languidly from chair to chair, doing +nothing, tired and disgusted with everything that had formerly +interested her. + +Pascal was obliged to renounce her assistance; a paper which he gave +her to copy remained three days untouched on her desk. She no longer +classified anything; she would not have stooped down to pick up a paper +from the floor. More than all, she abandoned the pastels, copies of +flowers from nature that she had been making, to serve as plates to a +work on artificial fecundations. Some large red mallows, of a new and +singular coloring, faded in their vase before she had finished copying +them. And yet for a whole afternoon she worked enthusiastically at a +fantastic design of dream flowers, an extraordinary efflorescence +blooming in the light of a miraculous sun, a burst of golden +spike-shaped rays in the center of large purple corollas, resembling +open hearts, whence shot, for pistils, a shower of stars, myriads of +worlds streaming into the sky, like a milky way. + +“Ah, my poor girl,” said the doctor to her on this day, “how can you +lose your time in such conceits! And I waiting for the copy of those +mallows that you have left to die there. And you will make yourself +ill. There is no health, nor beauty, even, possible outside reality.” + +Often now she did not answer, intrenching herself behind her fierce +convictions, not wishing to dispute. But doubtless he had this time +touched her beliefs to the quick. + +“There is no reality,” she answered sharply. + +The doctor, amused by this bold philosophy from this big child, +laughed. + +“Yes, I know,” he said; “our senses are fallible. We know this world +only through our senses, consequently it is possible that the world +does not exist. Let us open the door to madness, then; let us accept as +possible the most absurd chimeras, let us live in the realm of +nightmare, outside of laws and facts. For do you not see that there is +no longer any law if you suppress nature, and that the only thing that +gives life any interest is to believe in life, to love it, and to put +all the forces of our intelligence to the better understanding of it?” + +She made a gesture of mingled indifference and bravado, and the +conversation dropped. Now she was laying large strokes of blue crayon +on the pastel, bringing out its flaming splendor in strong relief on +the background of a clear summer night. + +But two days later, in consequence of a fresh discussion, matters went +still further amiss. In the evening, on leaving the table, Pascal went +up to the study to write, while she remained out of doors, sitting on +the terrace. Hours passed by, and he was surprised and uneasy, when +midnight struck, that he had not yet heard her return to her room. She +would have had to pass through the study, and he was very certain that +she had not passed unnoticed by him. Going downstairs, he found that +Martine was asleep; the vestibule door was not locked, and Clotilde +must have remained outside, oblivious of the flight of time. This often +happened to her on these warm nights, but she had never before remained +out so late. + +The doctor’s uneasiness increased when he perceived on the terrace the +chair, now vacant, in which the young girl had been sitting. He had +expected to find her asleep in it. Since she was not there, why had she +not come in. Where could she have gone at such an hour? The night was +beautiful: a September night, still warm, with a wide sky whose dark, +velvety expanse was studded with stars; and from the depths of this +moonless sky the stars shone so large and bright that they lighted the +earth with a pale, mysterious radiance. He leaned over the balustrade +of the terrace, and examined the slope and the stone steps which led +down to the railroad; but there was not a movement. He saw nothing but +the round motionless tops of the little olive trees. The idea then +occurred to him that she must certainly be under the plane trees beside +the fountain, whose murmuring waters made perpetual coolness around. He +hurried there, and found himself enveloped in such thick darkness that +he, who knew every tree, was obliged to walk with outstretched hands to +avoid stumbling. Then he groped his way through the dark pine grove, +still without meeting any one. And at last he called in a muffled +voice: + +“Clotilde! Clotilde!” + +The darkness remained silent and impenetrable. + +“Clotilde! Clotilde!” he cried again, in a louder voice. Not a sound, +not a breath. The very echoes seemed asleep. His cry was drowned in the +infinitely soft lake of blue shadows. And then he called her with all +the force of his lungs. He returned to the plane trees. He went back to +the pine grove, beside himself with fright, scouring the entire domain. +Then, suddenly, he found himself in the threshing yard. + +At this cool and tranquil hour, the immense yard, the vast circular +paved court, slept too. It was so many years since grain had been +threshed here that grass had sprung up among the stones, quickly +scorched a russet brown by the sun, resembling the long threads of a +woolen carpet. And, under the tufts of this feeble vegetation, the +ancient pavement did not cool during the whole summer, smoking from +sunset, exhaling in the night the heat stored up from so many sultry +noons. + +The yard stretched around, bare and deserted, in the cooling +atmosphere, under the infinite calm of the sky, and Pascal was crossing +it to hurry to the orchard, when he almost fell over a form that he had +not before observed, extended at full length upon the ground. He +uttered a frightened cry. + +“What! Are you here?” + +Clotilde did not deign even to answer. She was lying on her back, her +hands clasped under the back of her neck, her face turned toward the +sky; and in her pale countenance, only her large shining eyes were +visible. + +“And here I have been tormenting myself and calling you for an hour +past! Did you not hear me shouting?” + +She at last unclosed her lips. + +“Yes.” + +“Then that is very senseless! Why did you not answer me?” + +But she fell back into her former silence, refusing all explanation, +and with a stubborn brow kept her gaze fixed steadily on the sky. + +“There, come in and go to bed, naughty child. You will tell me +to-morrow.” + +She did not stir, however; he begged her ten times over to go into the +house, but she would not move. He ended by sitting down beside her on +the short grass, through which penetrated the warmth of the pavement +beneath. + +“But you cannot sleep out of doors. At least answer me. What are you +doing here?” + +“I am looking.” + +And from her large eyes, fixed and motionless, her gaze seemed to mount +up among the stars. She seemed wholly absorbed in the contemplation of +the pure starry depths of the summer sky. + +“Ah, master!” she continued, in a low monotone; “how narrow and limited +is all that you know compared to what there is surely up there. Yes, if +I did not answer you it was because I was thinking of you, and I was +filled with grief. You must not think me bad.” + +In her voice there was a thrill of such tenderness that it moved him +profoundly. He stretched himself on the grass beside her, so that their +elbows touched, and they went on talking. + +“I greatly fear, my dear, that your griefs are not rational. It gives +you pain to think of me. Why so?” + +“Oh, because of things that I should find it hard to explain to you; I +am not a _savante_. You have taught me much, however, and I have +learned more myself, being with you. Besides, they are things that I +feel. Perhaps I might try to tell them to you, as we are all alone +here, and the night is so beautiful.” + +Her full heart overflowed, after hours of meditation, in the peaceful +confidence of the beautiful night. He did not speak, fearing to disturb +her, but awaited her confidences in silence. + +“When I was a little girl and you used to talk to me about science, it +seemed to me that you were speaking to me of God, your words burned so +with faith and hope. Nothing seemed impossible to you. With science you +were going to penetrate the secret of the world, and make the perfect +happiness of humanity a reality. According to you, we were progressing +with giant strides. Each day brought its discovery, its certainty. Ten, +fifty, a hundred years more, perhaps, and the heavens would open and we +should see truth face to face. Well, the years pass, and nothing opens, +and truth recedes.” + +“You are an impatient girl,” he answered simply. “If ten centuries more +be necessary we must only wait for them to pass.” + +“It is true. I cannot wait. I need to know; I need to be happy at once, +and to know everything at once, and to be perfectly and forever happy. +Oh, that is what makes me suffer, not to be able to reach at a bound +complete knowledge, not to be able to rest in perfect felicity, freed +from scruples and doubts. Is it living to advance with tortoiselike +pace in the darkness, not to be able to enjoy an hour’s tranquillity, +without trembling at the thought of the coming anguish? No, no! All +knowledge and all happiness in a single day? Science has promised them +to us, and if she does not give them to us, then she fails in her +engagements.” + +Then he, too, began to grow heated. + +“But what you are saying is folly, little girl. Science is not +revelation. It marches at its human pace, its very effort is its glory. +And then it is not true that science has promised happiness.” + +She interrupted him hastily. + +“How, not true! Open your books up there, then. You know that I have +read them. Do they not overflow with promises? To read them one would +think we were marching on to the conquest of earth and heaven. They +demolish everything, and they swear to replace everything—and that by +pure reason, with stability and wisdom. Doubtless I am like the +children. When I am promised anything I wish that it shall be given me +at once. My imagination sets to work, and the object must be very +beautiful to satisfy me. But it would have been easy not to have +promised anything. And above all, at this hour, in view of my eager and +painful longing, it would be very ill done to tell me that nothing has +been promised me.” + +He made a gesture, a simple gesture of protestation and impatience, in +the serene and silent night. + +“In any case,” she continued, “science has swept away all our past +beliefs. The earth is bare, the heavens are empty, and what do you wish +that I should become, even if you acquit science of having inspired the +hopes I have conceived? For I cannot live without belief and without +happiness. On what solid ground shall I build my house when science +shall have demolished the old world, and while she is waiting to +construct the new? All the ancient city has fallen to pieces in this +catastrophe of examination and analysis; and all that remains of it is +a mad population vainly seeking a shelter among its ruins, while +anxiously looking for a solid and permanent refuge where they may begin +life anew. You must not be surprised, then, at our discouragement and +our impatience. We can wait no longer. Since tardy science has failed +in her promises, we prefer to fall back on the old beliefs, which for +centuries have sufficed for the happiness of the world.” + +“Ah! that is just it,” he responded in a low voice; “we are just at the +turning point, at the end of the century, fatigued and exhausted with +the appalling accumulation of knowledge which it has set moving. And it +is the eternal need for falsehood, the eternal need for illusion which +distracts humanity, and throws it back upon the delusive charm of the +unknown. Since we can never know all, what is the use of trying to know +more than we know already? Since the truth, when we have attained it, +does not confer immediate and certain happiness, why not be satisfied +with ignorance, the darkened cradle in which humanity slept the deep +sleep of infancy? Yes, this is the aggressive return of the mysterious, +it is the reaction against a century of experimental research. And this +had to be; desertions were to be expected, since every need could not +be satisfied at once. But this is only a halt; the onward march will +continue, up there, beyond our view, in the illimitable fields of +space.” + +For a moment they remained silent, still motionless on their backs, +their gaze lost among the myriads of worlds shining in the dark sky. A +falling star shot across the constellation of Cassiopeia, like a +flaming arrow. And the luminous universe above turned slowly on its +axis, in solemn splendor, while from the dark earth around them arose +only a faint breath, like the soft, warm breath of a sleeping woman. + +“Tell me,” he said, in his good-natured voice, “did your Capuchin turn +your head this evening, then?” + +“Yes,” she answered frankly; “he says from the pulpit things that +disturb me. He preaches against everything you have taught me, and it +is as if the knowledge which I owe to you, transformed into a poison, +were consuming me. My God! What is going to become of me?” + +“My poor child! It is terrible that you should torture yourself in this +way! And yet I had been quite tranquil about you, for you have a +well-balanced mind—you have a good, little, round, clear, solid +headpiece, as I have often told you. You will soon calm down. But what +confusion in the brains of others, at the end of the century, if you, +who are so sane, are troubled! Have you not faith, then?” + +She answered only by a heavy sigh. + +“Assuredly, viewed from the standpoint of happiness, faith is a strong +staff for the traveler to lean upon, and the march becomes easy and +tranquil when one is fortunate enough to possess it.” + +“Oh, I no longer know whether I believe or not!” she cried. “There are +days when I believe, and there are other days when I side with you and +with your books. It is you who have disturbed me; it is through you I +suffer. And perhaps all my suffering springs from this, from my revolt +against you whom I love. No, no! tell me nothing; do not tell me that I +shall soon calm down. At this moment that would only irritate me still +more. I know well that you deny the supernatural. The mysterious for +you is only the inexplicable. Even you concede that we shall never know +all; and therefore you consider that the only interest life can have is +the continual conquest over the unknown, the eternal effort to know +more. Ah, I know too much already to believe. You have already +succeeded but too well in shaking my faith, and there are times when it +seems to me that this will kill me.” + +He took her hand that lay on the still warm grass, and pressed it hard. + +“No, no; it is life that frightens you, little girl. And how right you +are in saying that happiness consists in continual effort. For from +this time forward tranquil ignorance is impossible. There is no halt to +be looked for, no tranquillity in renunciation and wilful blindness. We +must go on, go on in any case with life, which goes on always. +Everything that is proposed, a return to the past, to dead religions, +patched up religions arranged to suit new wants, is a snare. Learn to +know life, then; to love it, live it as it ought to be lived—that is +the only wisdom.” + +But she shook off his hand angrily. And her voice trembled with +vexation. + +“Life is horrible. How do you wish me to live it tranquil and happy? It +is a terrible light that your science throws upon the world. Your +analysis opens up all the wounds of humanity to display their horror. +You tell everything; you speak too plainly; you leave us nothing but +disgust for people and for things, without any possible consolation.” + +He interrupted her with a cry of ardent conviction. + +“We tell everything. Ah, yes; in order to know everything and to remedy +everything!” + +Her anger rose, and she sat erect. + +“If even equality and justice existed in your nature—but you +acknowledge it yourself, life is for the strongest, the weak infallibly +perishes because he is weak—there are no two beings equal, either in +health, in beauty, or intelligence; everything is left to haphazard +meeting, to the chance of selection. And everything falls into ruin, +when grand and sacred justice ceases to exist.” + +“It is true,” he said, in an undertone, as if speaking to himself, +“there is no such thing as equality. No society based upon it could +continue to exist. For centuries, men thought to remedy evil by +character. But that idea is being exploded, and now they propose +justice. Is nature just? I think her logical, rather. Logic is perhaps +a natural and higher justice, going straight to the sum of the common +labor, to the grand final labor.” + +“Then it is justice,” she cried, “that crushes the individual for the +happiness of the race, that destroys an enfeebled species to fatten the +victorious species. No, no; that is crime. There is in that only +foulness and murder. He was right this evening in the church. The earth +is corrupt, science only serves to show its rottenness. It is on high +that we must all seek a refuge. Oh, master, I entreat you, let me save +myself, let me save you!” + +She burst into tears, and the sound of her sobs rose despairingly on +the stillness of the night. He tried in vain to soothe her, her voice +dominated his. + +“Listen to me, master. You know that I love you, for you are everything +to me. And it is you who are the cause of all my suffering. I can +scarcely endure it when I think that we are not in accord, that we +should be separated forever if we were both to die to-morrow. Why will +you not believe?” + +He still tried to reason with her. + +“Come, don’t be foolish, my dear—” + +But she threw herself on her knees, she seized him by the hands, she +clung to him with a feverish force. And she sobbed louder and louder, +in such a clamor of despair that the dark fields afar off were startled +by it. + +“Listen to me, he said it in the church. You must change your life and +do penance; you must burn everything belonging to your past errors—your +books, your papers, your manuscripts. Make this sacrifice, master, I +entreat it of you on my knees. And you will see the delightful +existence we shall lead together.” + +At last he rebelled. + +“No, this is too much. Be silent!” + +“If you listen to me, master, you will do what I wish. I assure you +that I am horribly unhappy, even in loving you as I love you. There is +something wanting in our affection. So far it has been profound but +unavailing, and I have an irresistible longing to fill it, oh, with all +that is divine and eternal. What can be wanting to us but God? Kneel +down and pray with me!” + +With an abrupt movement he released himself, angry in his turn. + +“Be silent; you are talking nonsense. I have left you free, leave me +free.” + +“Master, master! it is our happiness that I desire! I will take you +far, far away. We will go to some solitude to live there in God!” + +“Be silent! No, never!” + +Then they remained for a moment confronting each other, mute and +menacing. Around them stretched La Souleiade in the deep silence of the +night, with the light shadows of its olive trees, the darkness of its +pine and plane trees, in which the saddened voice of the fountain was +singing, and above their heads it seemed as if the spacious sky, +studded with stars, shuddered and grew pale, although the dawn was +still far off. + +Clotilde raised her arm as if to point to this infinite, shuddering +sky; but with a quick gesture Pascal seized her hand and drew it down +toward the earth in his. And no word further was spoken; they were +beside themselves with rage and hate. The quarrel was fierce and +bitter. + +She drew her hand away abruptly, and sprang backward, like some proud, +untamable animal, rearing; then she rushed quickly through the darkness +toward the house. He heard the patter of her little boots on the stones +of the yard, deadened afterward by the sand of the walk. He, on his +side, already grieved and uneasy, called her back in urgent tones. But +she ran on without answering, without hearing. Alarmed, and with a +heavy heart, he hurried after her, and rounded the clump of plane trees +just in time to see her rush into the house like a whirlwind. He darted +in after her, ran up the stairs, and struck against the door of her +room, which she violently bolted. And here he stopped and grew calm, by +a strong effort resisting the desire to cry out, to call her again, to +break in the door so as to see her once more, to convince her, to have +her all to himself. For a moment he remained motionless, chilled by the +deathlike silence of the room, from which not the faintest sound +issued. Doubtless she had thrown herself on the bed, and was stifling +her cries and her sobs in the pillow. He determined at last to go +downstairs again and close the hall door, and then he returned softly +and listened, waiting for some sound of moaning. And day was breaking +when he went disconsolately to bed, choking back his tears. + +Thenceforward it was war without mercy. Pascal felt himself spied upon, +trapped, menaced. He was no longer master of his house; he had no +longer any home. The enemy was always there, forcing him to be +constantly on his guard, to lock up everything. One after the other, +two vials of nerve-substance which he had compounded were found in +fragments, and he was obliged to barricade himself in his room, where +he could be heard pounding for days together, without showing himself +even at mealtime. He no longer took Clotilde with him on his visiting +days, because she discouraged his patients by her attitude of +aggressive incredulity. But from the moment he left the house, the +doctor had only one desire—to return to it quickly, for he trembled +lest he should find his locks forced, and his drawers rifled on his +return. He no longer employed the young girl to classify and copy his +notes, for several of them had disappeared, as if they had been carried +away by the wind. He did not even venture to employ her to correct his +proofs, having ascertained that she had cut out of an article an entire +passage, the sentiment of which offended her Catholic belief. And thus +she remained idle, prowling about the rooms, and having an abundance of +time to watch for an occasion which would put in her possession the key +of the large press. This was her dream, the plan which she revolved in +her mind during her long silence, while her eyes shone and her hands +burned with fever—to have the key, to open the press, to take and burn +everything in an _auto da fé_ which would be pleasing to God. A few +pages of manuscript, forgotten by him on a corner of the table, while +he went to wash his hands and put on his coat, had disappeared, leaving +behind only a little heap of ashes in the fireplace. He could no longer +leave a scrap of paper about. He carried away everything; he hid +everything. One evening, when he had remained late with a patient, as +he was returning home in the dusk a wild terror seized him at the +faubourg, at sight of a thick black smoke rising up in clouds that +darkened the heavens. Was it not La Souleiade that was burning down, +set on fire by the bonfire made with his papers? He ran toward the +house, and was reassured only on seeing in a neighboring field a fire +of roots burning slowly. + +But how terrible are the tortures of the scientist who feels himself +menaced in this way in the labors of his intellect! The discoveries +which he has made, the writings which he has counted upon leaving +behind him, these are his pride, they are creatures of his blood—his +children—and whoever destroys, whoever burns them, burns a part of +himself. Especially, in this perpetual lying in wait for the creatures +of his brain, was Pascal tortured by the thought that the enemy was in +his house, installed in his very heart, and that he loved her in spite +of everything, this creature whom he had made what she was. He was left +disarmed, without possible defense; not wishing to act, and having no +other resources than to watch with vigilance. On all sides the +investment was closing around him. He fancied he felt the little +pilfering hands stealing into his pockets. He had no longer any +tranquillity, even with the doors closed, for he feared that he was +being robbed through the crevices. + +“But, unhappy child,” he cried one day, “I love but you in the world, +and you are killing me! And yet you love me, too; you act in this way +because you love me, and it is abominable. It would be better to have +done with it all at once, and throw ourselves into the river with a +stone tied around our necks.” + +She did not answer, but her dauntless eyes said ardently that she would +willingly die on the instant, if it were with him. + +“And if I should suddenly die to-night, what would happen to-morrow? +You would empty the press, you would empty the drawers, you would make +a great heap of all my works and burn them! You would, would you not? +Do you know that that would be a real murder, as much as if you +assassinated some one? And what abominable cowardice, to kill the +thoughts!” + +“No,” she said at last, in a low voice; “to kill evil, to prevent it +from spreading and springing up again!” + +All their explanations only served to kindle anew their anger. And they +had terrible ones. And one evening, when old Mme. Rougon had chanced in +on one of these quarrels, she remained alone with Pascal, after +Clotilde had fled to hide herself in her room. There was silence for a +moment. In spite of the heartbroken air which she had assumed, a wicked +joy shone in the depths of her sparkling eyes. + +“But your unhappy house is a hell!” she cried at last. + +The doctor avoided an answer by a gesture. He had always felt that his +mother backed the young girl, inflaming her religious faith, utilizing +this ferment of revolt to bring trouble into his house. He was not +deceived. He knew perfectly well that the two women had seen each other +during the day, and that he owed to this meeting, to a skilful +embittering of Clotilde’s mind, the frightful scene at which he still +trembled. Doubtless his mother had come to learn what mischief had been +wrought, and to see if the _denouement_ was not at last at hand. + +“Things cannot go on in this way,” she resumed. “Why do you not +separate since you can no longer agree. You ought to send her to her +brother Maxime. He wrote to me not long since asking her again.” + +He straightened himself, pale and determined. + +“To part angry with each other? Ah, no, no! that would be an eternal +remorse, an incurable wound. If she must one day go away, I wish that +we may be able to love each other at a distance. But why go away? +Neither of us complains of the other.” + +Félicité felt that she had been too hasty. Therefore she assumed her +hypocritical, conciliating air. + +“Of course, if it pleases you both to quarrel, no one has anything to +say in the matter. Only, my poor friend, permit me, in that case, to +say that I think Clotilde is not altogether in the wrong. You force me +to confess that I saw her a little while ago; yes, it is better that +you should know, notwithstanding my promise to be silent. Well, she is +not happy; she makes a great many complaints, and you may imagine that +I scolded her and preached complete submission to her. But that does +not prevent me from being unable to understand you myself, and from +thinking that you do everything you can to make yourself unhappy.” + +She sat down in a corner of the room, and obliged him to sit down with +her, seeming delighted to have him here alone, at her mercy. She had +already, more than once before, tried to force him to an explanation in +this way, but he had always avoided it. Although she had tortured him +for years past, and he knew her thoroughly, he yet remained a +deferential son, he had sworn never to abandon this stubbornly +respectful attitude. Thus, the moment she touched certain subjects, he +took refuge in absolute silence. + +“Come,” she continued; “I can understand that you should not wish to +yield to Clotilde; but to me? How if I were to entreat you to make me +the sacrifice of all those abominable papers which are there in the +press! Consider for an instant if you should die suddenly, and those +papers should fall into strange hands. We should all be disgraced. You +would not wish that, would you? What is your object, then? Why do you +persist in so dangerous a game? Promise me that you will burn them.” + +He remained silent for a time, but at last he answered: + +“Mother, I have already begged of you never to speak on that subject. I +cannot do what you ask.” + +“But at least,” she cried, “give me a reason. Any one would think our +family was as indifferent to you as that drove of oxen passing below +there. Yet you belong to it. Oh, I know you do all you can not to +belong to it! I myself am sometimes astonished at you. I ask myself +where you can have come from. But for all that, it is very wicked of +you to run this risk, without stopping to think of the grief you are +causing to me, your mother. It is simply wicked.” + +He grew still paler, and yielding for an instant to his desire to +defend himself, in spite of his determination to keep silent, he said: + +“You are hard; you are wrong. I have always believed in the necessity, +the absolute efficacy of truth. It is true that I tell the truth about +others and about myself, and it is because I believe firmly that in +telling the truth I do the only good possible. In the first place, +those papers are not intended for the public; they are only personal +notes which it would be painful to me to part with. And then, I know +well that you would not burn only them—all my other works would also be +thrown into the fire. Would they not? And that is what I do not wish; +do you understand? Never, while I live, shall a line of my writing be +destroyed here.” + +But he already regretted having said so much, for he saw that she was +urging him, leading him on to the cruel explanation she desired. + +“Then finish, and tell me what it is that you reproach us with. Yes, +me, for instance; what do you reproach me with? Not with having brought +you up with so much difficulty. Ah, fortune was slow to win! If we +enjoy a little happiness now, we have earned it hard. Since you have +seen everything, and since you put down everything in your papers, you +can testify with truth that the family has rendered greater services to +others than it has ever received. On two occasions, but for us, +Plassans would have been in a fine pickle. And it is perfectly natural +that we should have reaped only ingratitude and envy, to the extent +that even to-day the whole town would be enchanted with a scandal that +should bespatter us with mud. You cannot wish that, and I am sure that +you will do justice to the dignity of my attitude since the fall of the +Empire, and the misfortunes from which France will no doubt never +recover.” + +“Let France rest, mother,” he said, speaking again, for she had touched +the spot where she knew he was most sensitive. “France is tenacious of +life, and I think she is going to astonish the world by the rapidity of +her convalescence. True, she has many elements of corruption. I have +not sought to hide them, I have rather, perhaps, exposed them to view. +But you greatly misunderstand me if you imagine that I believe in her +final dissolution, because I point out her wounds and her lesions. I +believe in the life which ceaselessly eliminates hurtful substances, +which makes new flesh to fill the holes eaten away by gangrene, which +infallibly advances toward health, toward constant renovation, amid +impurities and death.” + +He was growing excited, and he was conscious of it, and making an angry +gesture, he spoke no more. His mother had recourse to tears, a few +little tears which came with difficulty, and which were quickly dried. +And the fears which saddened her old age returned to her, and she +entreated him to make his peace with God, if only out of regard for the +family. Had she not given an example of courage ever since the downfall +of the Empire? Did not all Plassans, the quarter of St. Marc, the old +quarter and the new town, render homage to the noble attitude she +maintained in her fall? All she asked was to be helped; she demanded +from all her children an effort like her own. Thus she cited the +example of Eugène, the great man who had fallen from so lofty a height, +and who resigned himself to being a simple deputy, defending until his +latest breath the fallen government from which he had derived his +glory. She was also full of eulogies of Aristide, who had never lost +hope, who had reconquered, under the new government, an exalted +position, in spite of the terrible and unjust catastrophe which had for +a moment buried him under the ruins of the Union Universelle. And would +he, Pascal, hold himself aloof, would he do nothing that she might die +in peace, in the joy of the final triumph of the Rougons, he who was so +intelligent, so affectionate, so good? He would go to mass, would he +not, next Sunday? and he would burn all those vile papers, only to +think of which made her ill. She entreated, commanded, threatened. But +he no longer answered her, calm and invincible in his attitude of +perfect deference. He wished to have no discussion. He knew her too +well either to hope to convince her or to venture to discuss the past +with her. + +“Why!” she cried, when she saw that he was not to be moved, “you do not +belong to us. I have always said so. You are a disgrace to us.” + +He bent his head and said: + +“Mother, when you reflect you will forgive me.” + +On this day Félicité was beside herself with rage when she went away; +and when she met Martine at the door of the house, in front of the +plane trees, she unburdened her mind to her, without knowing that +Pascal, who had just gone into his room, heard all. She gave vent to +her resentment, vowing, in spite of everything, that she would in the +end succeed in obtaining possession of the papers and destroying them, +since he did not wish to make the sacrifice. But what turned the doctor +cold was the manner in which Martine, in a subdued voice, soothed her. +She was evidently her accomplice. She repeated that it was necessary to +wait; not to do anything hastily; that mademoiselle and she had taken a +vow to get the better of monsieur, by not leaving him an hour’s peace. +They had sworn it. They would reconcile him with the good God, because +it was not possible that an upright man like monsieur should remain +without religion. And the voices of the two women became lower and +lower, until they finally sank to a whisper, an indistinct murmur of +gossiping and plotting, of which he caught only a word here and there; +orders given, measures to be taken, an invasion of his personal +liberty. When his mother at last departed, with her light step and +slender, youthful figure, he saw that she went away very well +satisfied. + +Then came a moment of weakness, of utter despair. Pascal dropped into a +chair, and asked himself what was the use of struggling, since the only +beings he loved allied themselves against him. Martine, who would have +thrown herself into the fire at a word from him, betraying him in this +way for his good! And Clotilde leagued with this servant, plotting with +her against him in holes and corners, seeking her aid to set traps for +him! Now he was indeed alone; he had around him only traitresses, who +poisoned the very air he breathed. But these two still loved him. He +might perhaps have succeeded in softening them, but when he knew that +his mother urged them on, he understood their fierce persistence, and +he gave up the hope of winning them back. With the timidity of a man +who had spent his life in study, aloof from women, notwithstanding his +secret passion, the thought that they were there to oppose him, to +attempt to bend him to their will, overwhelmed him. He felt that some +one of them was always behind him. Even when he shut himself up in his +room, he fancied that they were on the other side of the wall; and he +was constantly haunted by the idea that they would rob him of his +thought, if they could perceive it in his brain, before he should have +formulated it. + +This was assuredly the period in his life in which Dr. Pascal was most +unhappy. To live constantly on the defensive, as he was obliged to do, +crushed him, and it seemed to him as if the ground on which his house +stood was no longer his, as if it was receding from beneath his feet. +He now regretted keenly that he had not married, and that he had no +children. Had not he himself been afraid of life? And had he not been +well punished for his selfishness? This regret for not having children +now never left him. His eyes now filled with tears whenever he met on +the road bright-eyed little girls who smiled at him. True, Clotilde was +there, but his affection for her was of a different kind—crossed at +present by storms—not a calm, infinitely sweet affection, like that for +a child with which he might have soothed his lacerated heart. And then, +no doubt what he desired in his isolation, feeling that his days were +drawing to an end, was above all, continuance; in a child he would +survive, he would live forever. The more he suffered, the greater the +consolation he would have found in bequeathing this suffering, in the +faith which he still had in life. He considered himself indemnified for +the physiological defects of his family. But even the thought that +heredity sometimes passes over a generation, and that the disorders of +his ancestors might reappear in a child of his did not deter him; and +this unknown child, in spite of the old corrupt stock, in spite of the +long succession of execrable relations, he desired ardently at certain +times: as one desires unexpected gain, rare happiness, the stroke of +fortune which is to console and enrich forever. In the shock which his +other affections had received, his heart bled because it was too late. + +One sultry night toward the end of September, Pascal found himself +unable to sleep. He opened one of the windows of his room; the sky was +dark, some storm must be passing in the distance, for there was a +continuous rumbling of thunder. He could distinguish vaguely the dark +mass of the plane trees, which occasional flashes of lightning +detached, in a dull green, from the darkness. His soul was full of +anguish; he lived over again the last unhappy days, days of fresh +quarrels, of torture caused by acts of treachery, by suspicions, which +grew stronger every day, when a sudden recollection made him start. In +his fear of being robbed, he had finally adopted the plan of carrying +the key of the large press in his pocket. But this afternoon, oppressed +by the heat, he had taken off his jacket, and he remembered having seen +Clotilde hang it up on a nail in the study. A sudden pang of terror +shot through him, sharp and cold as a steel point; if she had felt the +key in the pocket she had stolen it. He hastened to search the jacket +which he had a little before thrown upon a chair; the key was not here. +At this very moment he was being robbed; he had the clear conviction of +it. Two o’clock struck. He did not again dress himself, but, remaining +in his trousers only, with his bare feet thrust into slippers, his +chest bare under his unfastened nightshirt, he hastily pushed open the +door, and rushed into the workroom, his candle in his hand. + +“Ah! I knew it,” he cried. “Thief! Assassin!” + +It was true; Clotilde was there, undressed like himself, her bare feet +covered by canvas slippers, her legs bare, her arms bare, her shoulders +bare, clad only in her chemise and a short skirt. Through caution, she +had not brought a candle. She had contented herself with opening one of +the window shutters, and the continual lightning flashes of the storm +which was passing southward in the dark sky, sufficed her, bathing +everything in a livid phosphorescence. The old press, with its broad +sides, was wide open. Already she had emptied the top shelf, taking +down the papers in armfuls, and throwing them on the long table in the +middle of the room, where they lay in a confused heap. And with +feverish haste, fearing lest she should not have the time to burn them, +she was making them up into bundles, intending to hide them, and send +them afterward to her grandmother, when the sudden flare of the candle, +lighting up the room, caused her to stop short in an attitude of +surprise and resistance. + +“You rob me; you assassinate me!” repeated Pascal furiously. + +She still held one of the bundles in her bare arms. He wished to take +it away from her, but she pressed it to her with all her strength, +obstinately resolved upon her work of destruction, without showing +confusion or repentance, like a combatant who has right upon his side. +Then, madly, blindly, he threw himself upon her, and they struggled +together. He clutched her bare flesh so that he hurt her. + +“Kill me!” she gasped. “Kill me, or I shall destroy everything!” + +He held her close to him, with so rough a grasp that she could scarcely +breathe, crying: + +“When a child steals, it is punished!” + +A few drops of blood appeared and trickled down her rounded shoulder, +where an abrasion had cut the delicate satin skin. And, on the instant, +seeing her so breathless, so divine, in her virginal slender height, +with her tapering limbs, her supple arms, her slim body with its +slender, firm throat, he released her. By a last effort he tore the +package from her. + +“And you shall help me to put them all up there again, by Heaven! Come +here: begin by arranging them on the table. Obey me, do you hear?” + +“Yes, master!” + +She approached, and helped him to arrange the papers, subjugated, +crushed by this masculine grasp, which had entered into her flesh, as +it were. The candle which flared up in the heavy night air, lighted +them; and the distant rolling of the thunder still continued, the +window facing the storm seeming on fire. + + + + +V. + + +For an instant Pascal looked at the papers, the heap of which seemed +enormous, lying thus in disorder on the long table that stood in the +middle of the room. In the confusion several of the blue paper +envelopes had burst open, and their contents had fallen out—letters, +newspaper clippings, documents on stamped paper, and manuscript notes. + +He was already mechanically beginning to seek out the names written on +the envelopes in large characters, to classify the packages again, +when, with an abrupt gesture, he emerged from the somber meditation +into which he had fallen. And turning to Clotilde who stood waiting, +pale, silent, and erect, he said: + +“Listen to me; I have always forbidden you to read these papers, and I +know that you have obeyed me. Yes, I had scruples of delicacy. It is +not that you are an ignorant girl, like so many others, for I have +allowed you to learn everything concerning man and woman, which is +assuredly bad only for bad natures. But to what end disclose to you too +early these terrible truths of human life? I have therefore spared you +the history of our family, which is the history of every family, of all +humanity; a great deal of evil and a great deal of good.” + +He paused as if to confirm himself in his resolution and then resumed +quite calmly and with supreme energy: + +“You are twenty-five years old; you ought to know. And then the life we +are leading is no longer possible. You live and you make me live in a +constant nightmare, with your ecstatic dreams. I prefer to show you the +reality, however execrable it may be. Perhaps the blow which it will +inflict upon you will make of you the woman you ought to be. We will +classify these papers again together, and read them, and learn from +them a terrible lesson of life!” + +Then, as she still continued motionless, he resumed: + +“Come, we must be able to see well. Light those other two candles +there.” + +He was seized by a desire for light, a flood of light; he would have +desired the blinding light of the sun; and thinking that the light of +the three candles was not sufficient, he went into his room for a pair +of three-branched candelabra which were there. The nine candles were +blazing, yet neither of them, in their disorder—he with his chest bare, +she with her left shoulder stained with blood, her throat and arms +bare—saw the other. It was past two o’clock, but neither of them had +any consciousness of the hour; they were going to spend the night in +this eager desire for knowledge, without feeling the need of sleep, +outside time and space. The mutterings of the storm, which, through the +open window, they could see gathering, grew louder and louder. + +Clotilde had never before seen in Pascal’s eyes the feverish light +which burned in them now. He had been overworking himself for some time +past, and his mental sufferings made him at times abrupt, in spite of +his good-natured complacency. But it seemed as if an infinite +tenderness, trembling with fraternal pity, awoke within him, now that +he was about to plunge into the painful truths of existence; and it was +something emanating from himself, something very great and very good +which was to render innocuous the terrible avalanche of facts which was +impending. He was determined that he would reveal everything, since it +was necessary that he should do so in order to remedy everything. Was +not this an unanswerable, a final argument for evolution, the story of +these beings who were so near to them? Such was life, and it must be +lived. Doubtless she would emerge from it like the steel tempered by +the fire, full of tolerance and courage. + +“They are setting you against me,” he resumed; “they are making you +commit abominable acts, and I wish to restore your conscience to you. +When you know, you will judge and you will act. Come here, and read +with me.” + +She obeyed. But these papers, about which her grandmother had spoken so +angrily, frightened her a little; while a curiosity that grew with +every moment awoke within her. And then, dominated though she was by +the virile authority which had just constrained and subjugated her, she +did not yet yield. But might she not listen to him, read with him? Did +she not retain the right to refuse or to give herself afterward? He +spoke at last. + +“Will you come?” + +“Yes, master, I will.” + +He showed her first the genealogical tree of the Rougon-Macquarts. He +did not usually lock it in the press, but kept it in the desk in his +room, from which he had taken it when he went there for the candelabra. +For more than twenty years past he had kept it up to date, inscribing +the births, deaths, marriages, and other important events that had +taken place in the family, making brief notes in each case, in +accordance with his theory of heredity. + +It was a large sheet of paper, yellow with age, with folds cut by wear, +on which was drawn boldly a symbolical tree, whose branches spread and +subdivided into five rows of broad leaves; and each leaf bore a name, +and contained, in minute handwriting, a biography, a hereditary case. + +A scientist’s joy took possession of the doctor at sight of this labor +of twenty years, in which the laws of heredity established by him were +so clearly and so completely applied. + +“Look, child! You know enough about the matter, you have copied enough +of my notes to understand. Is it not beautiful? A document so complete, +so conclusive, in which there is not a gap? It is like an experiment +made in the laboratory, a problem stated and solved on the blackboard. +You see below, the trunk, the common stock, Aunt Dide; then the three +branches issuing from it, the legitimate branch, Pierre Rougon, and the +two illegitimate branches, Ursule Macquart and Antoine Macquart; then, +new branches arise, and ramify, on one side, Maxime, Clotilde, and +Victor, the three children of Saccard, and Angelique, the daughter of +Sidonie Rougon; on the other, Pauline, the daughter of Lisa Macquart, +and Claude, Jacques, Étienne, and Anna, the four children of Gervaise, +her sister; there, at the extremity, is Jean, their brother, and here +in the middle, you see what I call the knot, the legitimate issue and +the illegitimate issue, uniting in Marthe Rougon and her cousin +François Mouret, to give rise to three new branches, Octave, Serge, and +Désirée Mouret; while there is also the issue of Ursule and the hatter +Mouret; Silvère, whose tragic death you know; Hélène and her daughter +Jean; finally, at the top are the latest offshoots, our poor Charles, +your brother Maxime’s son, and two other children, who are dead, +Jacques Louis, the son of Claude Lantier, and Louiset, the son of Anna +Coupeau. In all five generations, a human tree which, for five springs +already, five springtides of humanity, has sent forth shoots, at the +impulse of the sap of eternal life.” + +He became more and more animated, pointing out each case on the sheet +of old yellow paper, as if it were an anatomical chart. + +“And as I have already said, everything is here. You see in direct +heredity, the differentiations, that of the mother, Silvère, Lisa, +Désirée, Jacques, Louiset, yourself; that of the father, Sidonie, +François, Gervaise, Octave, Jacques, Louis. Then there are the three +cases of crossing: by conjugation, Ursule, Aristide, Anna, Victor; by +dissemination, Maxime, Serge, Étienne; by fusion, Antoine, Eugène, +Claude. I even noted a fourth case, a very remarkable one, an even +cross, Pierre and Pauline; and varieties are established, the +differentiation of the mother, for example, often accords with the +physical resemblance of the father; or, it is the contrary which takes +place, so that, in the crossing, the physical and mental predominance +remains with one parent or the other, according to circumstances. Then +here is indirect heredity, that of the collateral branches. I have but +one well established example of this, the striking personal resemblance +of Octave Mouret to his uncle Eugène Rougon. I have also but one +example of transmission by influence, Anna, the daughter of Gervaise +and Coupeau, who bore a striking resemblance, especially in her +childhood, to Lantier, her mother’s first lover. But what I am very +rich in is in examples of reversion to the original stock—the three +finest cases, Marthe, Jeanne, and Charles, resembling Aunt Dide; the +resemblance thus passing over one, two, and three generations. This is +certainly exceptional, for I scarcely believe in atavism; it seems to +me that the new elements brought by the partners, accidents, and the +infinite variety of crossings must rapidly efface particular +characteristics, so as to bring back the individual to the general +type. And there remains variation—Hélène, Jean, Angelique. This is the +combination, the chemical mixture in which the physical and mental +characteristics of the parents are blended, without any of their traits +seeming to reappear in the new being.” + +There was silence for a moment. Clotilde had listened to him with +profound attention, wishing to understand. And he remained absorbed in +thought, his eyes still fixed on the tree, in the desire to judge his +work impartially. He then continued in a low tone, as if speaking to +himself: + +“Yes, that is as scientific as possible. I have placed there only the +members of the family, and I had to give an equal part to the partners, +to the fathers and mothers come from outside, whose blood has mingled +with ours, and therefore modified it. I had indeed made a +mathematically exact tree, the father and the mother bequeathing +themselves, by halves, to the child, from generation to generation, so +that in Charles, for example, Aunt Dide’s part would have been only a +twelfth—which would be absurd, since the physical resemblance is there +complete. I have therefore thought it sufficient to indicate the +elements come from elsewhere, taking into account marriages and the new +factor which each introduced. Ah! these sciences that are yet in their +infancy, in which hypothesis speaks stammeringly, and imagination +rules, these are the domain of the poet as much as of the scientist. +Poets go as pioneers in the advance guard, and they often discover new +countries, suggesting solutions. There is there a borderland which +belongs to them, between the conquered, the definitive truth, and the +unknown, whence the truth of to-morrow will be torn. What an immense +fresco there is to be painted, what a stupendous human tragedy, what a +comedy there is to be written with heredity, which is the very genesis +of families, of societies, and of the world!” + +His eyes fixed on vacancy, he remained for a time lost in thought. +Then, with an abrupt movement, he came back to the envelopes and, +pushing the tree aside, said: + +“We will take it up again presently; for, in order that you may +understand now, it is necessary that events should pass in review +before you, and that you should see in action all these actors ticketed +here, each one summed up in a brief note. I will call for the +envelopes, you will hand them to me one by one, and I will show you the +papers in each, and tell you their contents, before putting it away +again up there on the shelf. I will not follow the alphabetical order, +but the order of events themselves. I have long wished to make this +classification. Come, look for the names on the envelopes; Aunt Dide +first.” + +At this moment the edge of the storm which lighted up the sky caught La +Souleiade slantingly, and burst over the house in a deluge of rain. But +they did not even close the window. They heard neither the peals of +thunder nor the ceaseless beating of the rain upon the roof. She handed +him the envelope bearing the name of Aunt Dide in large characters; and +he took from it papers of all sorts, notes taken by him long ago, which +he proceeded to read. + +“Hand me Pierre Rougon. Hand me Ursule Macquart. Hand me Antoine +Macquart.” + +Silently she obeyed him, her heart oppressed by a dreadful anguish at +all she was hearing. And the envelopes were passed on, displayed their +contents, and were piled up again in the press. + +First was the foundress of the family, Adelaïde Fouqué, the tall, crazy +girl, the first nervous lesion giving rise to the legitimate branch, +Pierre Rougon, and to the two illegitimate branches, Ursule and Antoine +Macquart, all that _bourgeois_ and sanguinary tragedy, with the _coup +d’etat_ of December, 1854, for a background, the Rougons, Pierre and +Félicité, preserving order at Plassans, bespattering with the blood of +Silvère their rising fortunes, while Adelaïde, grown old, the miserable +Aunt Dide, was shut up in the Tulettes, like a specter of expiation and +of waiting. + +Then like a pack of hounds, the appetites were let loose. The supreme +appetite of power in Eugène Rougon, the great man, the disdainful +genius of the family, free from base interests, loving power for its +own sake, conquering Paris in old boots with the adventurers of the +coming Empire, rising from the legislative body to the senate, passing +from the presidency of the council of state to the portfolio of +minister; made by his party, a hungry crowd of followers, who at the +same time supported and devoured him; conquered for an instant by a +woman, the beautiful Clorinde, with whom he had been imbecile enough to +fall in love, but having so strong a will, and burning with so vehement +a desire to rule, that he won back power by giving the lie to his whole +life, marching to his triumphal sovereignty of vice emperor. + +With Aristide Saccard, appetite ran to low pleasures, the whole hot +quarry of money, luxury, women—a devouring hunger which left him +homeless, at the time when millions were changing hands, when the +whirlwind of wild speculation was blowing through the city, tearing +down everywhere to construct anew, when princely fortunes were made, +squandered, and remade in six months; a greed of gold whose ever +increasing fury carried him away, causing him, almost before the body +of his wife Angèle was cold in death, to sell his name, in order to +have the first indispensable thousand francs, by marrying Renée. And it +was Saccard, too, who, a few years later, put in motion the immense +money-press of the Banque Universelle. Saccard, the never vanquished; +Saccard, grown more powerful, risen to be the clever and daring grand +financier, comprehending the fierce and civilizing role that money +plays, fighting, winning, and losing battles on the Bourse, like +Napoleon at Austerlitz and Waterloo; engulfing in disaster a world of +miserable people; sending forth into the unknown realms of crime his +natural son Victor, who disappeared, fleeing through the dark night, +while he himself, under the impassable protection of unjust nature, was +loved by the adorable Mme. Caroline, no doubt in recompense of all the +evil he had done. + +Here a tall, spotless lily had bloomed in this compost, Sidonie Rougon, +the sycophant of her brother, the go-between in a hundred suspicious +affairs, giving birth to the pure and divine Angelique, the little +embroiderer with fairylike fingers who worked into the gold of the +chasubles the dream of her Prince Charming, so happy among her +companions the saints, so little made for the hard realities of life, +that she obtained the grace of dying of love, on the day of her +marriage, at the first kiss of Félicien de Hautecœur, in the triumphant +peal of bells ringing for her splendid nuptials. + +The union of the two branches, the legitimate and the illegitimate, +took place then, Marthe Rougon espousing her cousin François Mouret, a +peaceful household slowly disunited, ending in the direst +catastrophes—a sad and gentle woman taken, made use of, and crushed in +the vast machine of war erected for the conquest of a city; her three +children torn from her, she herself leaving her heart in the rude grasp +of the Abbé Faujas. And the Rougons saved Plassans a second time, while +she was dying in the glare of the conflagration in which her husband +was being consumed, mad with long pent-up rage and the desire for +revenge. + +Of the three children, Octave Mouret was the audacious conqueror, the +clear intellect, resolved to demand from the women the sovereignty of +Paris, fallen at his _début_ into the midst of a corrupt _bourgeois_ +society, acquiring there a terrible sentimental education, passing from +the capricious refusal of one woman to the unresisting abandonment of +another, remaining, fortunately, active, laborious, and combative, +gradually emerging, and improved even, from the low plotting, the +ceaseless ferment of a rotten society that could be heard already +cracking to its foundations. And Octave Mouret, victorious, +revolutionized commerce; swallowed up the cautious little shops that +carried on business in the old-fashioned way; established in the midst +of feverish Paris the colossal palace of temptation, blazing with +lights, overflowing with velvets, silks, and laces; won fortunes +exploiting woman; lived in smiling scorn of woman until the day when a +little girl, the avenger of her sex, the innocent and wise Denise, +vanquished him and held him captive at her feet, groaning with anguish, +until she did him the favor, she who was so poor, to marry him in the +midst of the apotheosis of his Louvre, under the golden shower of his +receipts. + +There remained the two other children, Serge Mouret and Désirée Mouret, +the latter innocent and healthy, like some happy young animal; the +former refined and mystical, who was thrown into the priesthood by a +nervous malady hereditary in his family, and who lived again the story +of Adam, in the Eden of Le Paradou. He was born again to love Albine, +and to lose her, in the bosom of sublime nature, their accomplice; to +be recovered, afterward by the Church, to war eternally with life, +striving to kill his manhood, throwing on the body of the dead Albine +the handful of earth, as officiating priest, at the very time when +Désirée, the sister and friend of animals, was rejoicing in the midst +of the swarming life of her poultry yard. + +Further on there opened a calm glimpse of gentle and tragic life, +Hélène Mouret living peacefully with her little girl, Jeanne, on the +heights of Passy, overlooking Paris, the bottomless, boundless human +sea, in face of which was unrolled this page of love: the sudden +passion of Hélène for a stranger, a physician, brought one night by +chance to the bedside of her daughter; the morbid jealousy of +Jeanne—the instinctive jealousy of a loving girl—disputing her mother +with love, her mother already so wasted by her unhappy passion that the +daughter died because of her fault; terrible price of one hour of +desire in the entire cold and discreet life of a woman, poor dead +child, lying alone in the silent cemetery, in face of eternal Paris. + +With Lisa Macquart began the illegitimate branch; appearing fresh and +strong in her, as she displayed her portly, prosperous figure, sitting +at the door of her pork shop in a light colored apron, watching the +central market, where the hunger of a people muttered, the age-long +battle of the Fat and the Lean, the lean Florent, her brother-in-law, +execrated, and set upon by the fat fishwomen and the fat shopwomen, and +whom even the fat pork-seller herself, honest, but unforgiving, caused +to be arrested as a republican who had broken his ban, convinced that +she was laboring for the good digestion of all honest people. + +From this mother sprang the sanest, the most human of girls, Pauline +Quenu, the well-balanced, the reasonable, the virgin; who, knowing +everything, accepted the joy of living in so ardent a love for others +that, in spite of the revolt of her youthful heart, she resigned to her +friend her cousin and betrothed, Lazare, and afterward saved the child +of the disunited household, becoming its true mother; always +triumphant, always gay, notwithstanding her sacrificed and ruined life, +in her monotonous solitude, facing the great sea, in the midst of a +little world of sufferers groaning with pain, but who did not wish to +die. + +Then came Gervaise Macquart with her four children: bandy-legged, +pretty, and industrious Gervaise, whom her lover Lantier turned into +the street in the faubourg, where she met the zinc worker Coupeau, the +skilful, steady workman whom she married, and with whom she lived so +happily at first, having three women working in her laundry, but +afterward sinking with her husband, as was inevitable, to the +degradation of her surroundings. He, gradually conquered by alcohol, +brought by it to madness and death; she herself perverted, become a +slattern, her moral ruin completed by the return of Lantier, living in +the tranquil ignominy of a household of three, thenceforward the +wretched victim of want, her accomplice, to which she at last +succumbed, dying one night of starvation. + +Her eldest son, Claude, had the unhappy genius of a great painter +struck with madness, the impotent madness of feeling within him the +masterpiece to which his fingers refused to give shape; a giant +wrestler always defeated, a crucified martyr to his work, adoring +woman, sacrificing his wife Christine, so loving and for a time so +beloved, to the increate, divine woman of his visions, but whom his +pencil was unable to delineate in her nude perfection, possessed by a +devouring passion for producing, an insatiable longing to create, a +longing so torturing when it could not be satisfied, that he ended it +by hanging himself. + +Jacques brought crime, the hereditary taint being transmuted in him +into an instinctive appetite for blood, the young and fresh blood from +the gashed throat of a woman, the first comer, the passer-by in the +street: a horrible malady against which he struggled, but which took +possession of him again in the course of his _amour_ with the +submissive and sensual Severine, whom a tragic story of assassination +caused to live in constant terror, and whom he stabbed one evening in +an excess of frenzy, maddened by the sight of her white throat. Then +this savage human beast rushed among the trains filing past swiftly, +and mounted the snorting engine of which he was the engineer, the +beloved engine which was one day to crush him to atoms, and then, left +without a guide, to rush furiously off into space braving unknown +disasters. + +Étienne, in his turn driven out, arrived in the black country on a +freezing night in March, descended into the voracious pit, fell in love +with the melancholy Catherine, of whom a ruffian robbed him; lived with +the miners their gloomy life of misery and base promiscuousness, until +one day when hunger, prompting rebellion, sent across the barren plain +a howling mob of wretches who demanded bread, tearing down and burning +as they went, under the menace of the guns of the band that went off of +themselves, a terrible convulsion announcing the end of the world. The +avenging blood of the Maheus was to rise up later; of Alzire dead of +starvation, Maheu killed by a bullet, Zacharie killed by an explosion +of fire-damp, Catherine under the ground. La Maheude alone survived to +weep her dead, descending again into the mine to earn her thirty sons, +while Étienne, the beaten chief of the band, haunted by the dread of +future demands, went away on a warm April morning, listening to the +secret growth of the new world whose germination was soon to dazzle the +earth. + +Nana then became the avenger; the girl born among the social filth of +the faubourgs; the golden fly sprung from the rottenness below, that +was tolerated and concealed, carrying in the fluttering of its wings +the ferment of destruction, rising and contaminating the aristocracy, +poisoning men only by alighting upon them, in the palaces through whose +windows it entered; the unconscious instrument of ruin and death—fierce +flame of Vandeuvres, the melancholy fate of Foucarmont, lost in the +Chinese waters, the disaster of Steiner, reduced to live as an honest +man, the imbecility of La Faloise and the tragic ruin of the Muffats, +and the white corpse of Georges, watched by Philippe, come out of +prison the day before, when the air of the epoch was so contaminated +that she herself was infected, and died of malignant smallpox, caught +at the death-bed of her son Louiset, while Paris passed beneath her +windows, intoxicated, possessed by the frenzy of war, rushing to +general ruin. + +Lastly comes Jean Macquart, the workman and soldier become again a +peasant, fighting with the hard earth, which exacts that every grain of +corn shall be purchased with a drop of sweat, fighting, above all, with +the country people, whom covetousness and the long and difficult battle +with the soil cause to burn with the desire, incessantly stimulated, of +possession. Witness the Fouans, grown old, parting with their fields as +if they were parting with their flesh; the Buteaus in their eager greed +committing parricide, to hasten the inheritance of a field of lucern; +the stubborn Françoise dying from the stroke of a scythe, without +speaking, rather than that a sod should go out of the family—all this +drama of simple natures governed by instinct, scarcely emerged from +primitive barbarism—all this human filth on the great earth, which +alone remains immortal, the mother from whom they issue and to whom +they return again, she whom they love even to crime, who continually +remakes life, for its unknown end, even with the misery and the +abomination of the beings she nourishes. And it was Jean, too, who, +become a widower and having enlisted again at the first rumor of war, +brought the inexhaustible reserve, the stock of eternal rejuvenation +which the earth keeps; Jean, the humblest, the staunchest soldier at +the final downfall, swept along in the terrible and fatal storm which, +from the frontier to Sedan, in sweeping away the Empire, threatened to +sweep away the country; always wise, circumspect, firm in his hope, +loving with fraternal affection his comrade Maurice, the demented child +of the people, the holocaust doomed to expiation, weeping tears of +blood when inexorable destiny chose himself to hew off this rotten +limb, and after all had ended—the continual defeats, the frightful +civil war, the lost provinces, the thousands of millions of francs to +pay—taking up the march again, notwithstanding, returning to the land +which awaited him, to the great and difficult task of making a new +France. + +Pascal paused; Clotilde had handed him all the packages, one by one, +and he had gone over them all, laid bare the contents of all, +classified them anew, and placed them again on the top shelf of the +press. He was out of breath, exhausted by his swift course through all +this humanity, while, without voice, without movement, the young girl, +stunned by this overflowing torrent of life, waited still, incapable of +thought or judgment. The rain still beat furiously upon the dark +fields. The lightning had just struck a tree in the neighborhood, that +had split with a terrible crash. The candles flared up in the wind that +came in from the open window. + +“Ah!” he resumed, pointing to the papers again, “there is a world in +itself, a society, a civilization, the whole of life is there, with its +manifestations, good and bad, in the heat and labor of the forge which +shapes everything. Yes, our family of itself would suffice as an +example to science, which will perhaps one day establish with +mathematical exactness the laws governing the diseases of the blood and +nerves that show themselves in a race, after a first organic lesion, +and that determine, according to environment, the sentiments, desires, +and passions of each individual of that race, all the human, natural +and instinctive manifestations which take the names of virtues and +vices. And it is also a historical document, it relates the story of +the Second Empire, from the _coup d’etat_ to Sedan; for our family +spring from the people, they spread themselves through the whole of +contemporary society, invaded every place, impelled by their unbridled +appetites, by that impulse, essentially modern, that eager desire that +urges the lower classes to enjoyment, in their ascent through the +social strata. We started, as I have said, from Plassans, and here we +are now arrived once more at Plassans.” + +He paused again, and then resumed in a low, dreamy voice: + +“What an appalling mass stirred up! how many passions, how many joys, +how many sufferings crammed into this colossal heap of facts! There is +pure history: the Empire founded in blood, at first pleasure-loving and +despotic, conquering rebellious cities, then gliding to a slow +disintegration, dissolving in blood—in such a sea of blood that the +entire nation came near being swamped in it. There are social studies: +wholesale and retail trade, prostitution, crime, land, money, the +_bourgeoisie_, the people—that people who rot in the sewer of the +faubourgs, who rebel in the great industrial centers, all that +ever-increasing growth of mighty socialism, big with the new century. +There are simple human studies: domestic pages, love stories, the +struggle of minds and hearts against unjust nature, the destruction of +those who cry out under their too difficult task, the cry of virtue +immolating itself, victorious over pain, There are fancies, flights of +the imagination beyond the real: vast gardens always in bloom, +cathedrals with slender, exquisitely wrought spires, marvelous tales +come down from paradise, ideal affections remounting to heaven in a +kiss. There is everything: the good and the bad, the vulgar and the +sublime, flowers, mud, blood, laughter, the torrent of life itself, +bearing humanity endlessly on!” + +He took up again the genealogical tree which had remained neglected on +the table, spread it out and began to go over it once more with his +finger, enumerating now the members of the family who were still +living: Eugène Rougon, a fallen majesty, who remained in the Chamber, +the witness, the impassible defender of the old world swept away at the +downfall of the Empire. Aristide Saccard, who, after having changed his +principles, had fallen upon his feet a republican, the editor of a +great journal, on the way to make new millions, while his natural son +Victor, who had never reappeared, was living still in the shade, since +he was not in the galleys, cast forth by the world into the future, +into the unknown, like a human beast foaming with the hereditary virus, +who must communicate his malady with every bite he gives. Sidonie +Rougon, who had for a time disappeared, weary of disreputable affairs, +had lately retired to a sort of religious house, where she was living +in monastic austerity, the treasurer of the Marriage Fund, for aiding +in the marriage of girls who were mothers. Octave Mouret, proprietor of +the great establishment _Au Bonheur des Dames_, whose colossal fortune +still continued increasing, had had, toward the end of the winter, a +third child by his wife Denise Baudu, whom he adored, although his mind +was beginning to be deranged again. The Abbé Mouret, curé at St. +Eutrope, in the heart of a marshy gorge, lived there in great +retirement, and very modestly, with his sister Désirée, refusing all +advancement from his bishop, and waiting for death like a holy man, +rejecting all medicines, although he was already suffering from +consumption in its first stage. Hélène Mouret was living very happily +in seclusion with her second husband, M. Rambaud, on the little estate +which they owned near Marseilles, on the seashore; she had had no child +by her second husband. Pauline Quenu was still at Bonneville at the +other extremity of France, in face of the vast ocean, alone with little +Paul, since the death of Uncle Chanteau, having resolved never to +marry, in order to devote herself entirely to the son of her cousin +Lazare, who had become a widower and had gone to America to make a +fortune. Étienne Lantier, returning to Paris after the strike at +Montsou, had compromised himself later in the insurrection of the +Commune, whose principles he had defended with ardor; he had been +condemned to death, but his sentence being commuted was transported and +was now at Nouméa. It was even said that he had married immediately on +his arrival there, and that he had had a child, the sex of which, +however, was not known with certainty. Finally, Jean Macquart, who had +received his discharge after the Bloody Week, had settled at +Valqueyras, near Plassans, where he had had the good fortune to marry a +healthy girl, Mélanie Vial, the daughter of a well-to-do peasant, whose +lands he farmed, and his wife had borne him a son in May. + +“Yes, it is true,” he resumed, in a low voice; “races degenerate. There +is here a veritable exhaustion, rapid deterioration, as if our family, +in their fury of enjoyment, in the gluttonous satisfaction of their +appetites, had consumed themselves too quickly. Louiset, dead in +infancy; Jacques Louis, a half imbecile, carried off by a nervous +disease; Victor returned to the savage state, wandering about in who +knows what dark places; our poor Charles, so beautiful and so frail; +these are the latest branches of the tree, the last pale offshoots into +which the puissant sap of the larger branches seems to have been unable +to mount. The worm was in the trunk, it has ascended into the fruit, +and is devouring it. But one must never despair; families are a +continual growth. They go back beyond the common ancestor, into the +unfathomable strata of the races that have lived, to the first being; +and they will put forth new shoots without end, they will spread and +ramify to infinity, through future ages. Look at our tree; it counts +only five generations. It has not so much importance as a blade of +grass, even, in the human forest, vast and dark, of which the peoples +are the great secular oaks. Think only of the immense roots which +spread through the soil; think of the continual putting forth of new +leaves above, which mingle with other leaves of the ever-rolling sea of +treetops, at the fructifying, eternal breath of life. Well, hope lies +there, in the daily reconstruction of the race by the new blood which +comes from without. Each marriage brings other elements, good or bad, +of which the effect is, however, to prevent certain and progressive +regeneration. Breaches are repaired, faults effaced, an equilibrium is +inevitably re-established at the end of a few generations, and it is +the average man that always results; vague humanity, obstinately +pursuing its mysterious labor, marching toward its unknown end.” + +He paused, and heaved a deep sigh. + +“Ah! our family, what is it going to become; in what being will it +finally end?” + +He continued, not now taking into account the survivors whom he had +just named; having classified these, he knew what they were capable of, +but he was full of keen curiosity regarding the children who were still +infants. He had written to a _confrère_ in Nouméa for precise +information regarding the wife whom Étienne had lately married there, +and the child which she had had, but he had heard nothing, and he +feared greatly that on that side the tree would remain incomplete. He +was more fully furnished with documents regarding the two children of +Octave Mouret, with whom he continued to correspond; the little girl +was growing up puny and delicate, while the little boy, who strongly +resembled his mother, had developed superbly, and was perfectly +healthy. His strongest hope, besides these, was in Jean’s children, the +eldest of whom was a magnificent boy, full of the youthful vigor of the +races that go back to the soil to regenerate themselves. Pascal +occasionally went to Valqueyras, and he returned happy from that +fertile spot, where the father, quiet and rational, was always at his +plow, the mother cheerful and simple, with her vigorous frame, capable +of bearing a world. Who knew what sound branch was to spring from that +side? Perhaps the wise and puissant of the future were to germinate +there. The worst of it, for the beauty of his tree, was that all these +little boys and girls were still so young that he could not classify +them. And his voice grew tender as he spoke of this hope of the future, +these fair-haired children, in the unavowed regret for his celibacy. + +Still contemplating the tree spread out before him, he cried: + +“And yet it is complete, it is decisive. Look! I repeat to you that all +hereditary cases are to be found there. To establish my theory, I had +only to base it on the collection of these facts. And indeed, the +marvelous thing is that there you can put your finger on the cause why +creatures born of the same stock can appear radically different, +although they are only logical modifications of common ancestors. The +trunk explains the branches, and these explain the leaves. In your +father Saccard and your Uncle Eugène Rougon, so different in their +temperaments and their lives, it is the same impulse which made the +inordinate appetites of the one and the towering ambition of the other. +Angelique, that pure lily, is born from the disreputable Sidonie, in +the rapture which makes mystics or lovers, according to the +environment. The three children of the Mourets are born of the same +breath which makes of the clever Octave the dry goods merchant, a +millionaire; of the devout Serge, a poor country priest; of the +imbecile Désirée, a beautiful and happy girl. But the example is still +more striking in the children of Gervaise; the neurosis passes down, +and Nana sells herself; Étienne is a rebel; Jacques, a murderer; +Claude, a genius; while Pauline, their cousin german, near by, is +victorious virtue—virtue which struggles and immolates itself. It is +heredity, life itself which makes imbeciles, madmen, criminals and +great men. Cells abort, others take their place, and we have a +scoundrel or a madman instead of a man of genius, or simply an honest +man. And humanity rolls on, bearing everything on its tide.” + +Then in a new shifting of his thought, growing still more animated, he +continued: + +“And animals—the beast that suffers and that loves, which is the rough +sketch, as it were, of man—all the animals our brothers, that live our +life, yes, I would have put them in the ark, I would give them a place +among our family, show them continually mingling with us, completing +our existence. I have known cats whose presence was the mysterious +charm of the household; dogs that were adored, whose death was mourned, +and left in the heart an inconsolable grief. I have known goats, cows, +and asses of very great importance, and whose personality played such a +part that their history ought to be written. And there is our Bonhomme, +our poor old horse, that has served us for a quarter of a century. Do +you not think that he has mingled his life with ours, and that +henceforth he is one of the family? We have modified him, as he has +influenced us a little; we shall end by being made in the same image, +and this is so true that now, when I see him, half blind, with +wandering gaze, his legs stiff with rheumatism, I kiss him on both +cheeks as if he were a poor old relation who had fallen to my charge. +Ah, animals, all creeping and crawling things, all creatures that +lament, below man, how large a place in our sympathies it would be +necessary to give them in a history of life!” + +This was a last cry in which Pascal gave utterance to his passionate +tenderness for all created beings. He had gradually become more and +more excited, and had so come to make this confession of his faith in +the continuous and victorious work of animated nature. And Clotilde, +who thus far had not spoken, pale from the catastrophe in which her +plans had ended, at last opened her lips to ask: + +“Well, master, and what am I here?” + +She placed one of her slender fingers on the leaf of the tree on which +she saw her name written. He had always passed this leaf by. She +insisted. + +“Yes, I; what am I? Why have you not read me my envelope?” + +For a moment he remained silent, as if surprised at the question. + +“Why? For no reason. It is true, I have nothing to conceal from you. +You see what is written here? ‘Clotilde, born in 1847. Selection of the +mother. Reversional heredity, with moral and physical predominance of +the maternal grandfather.’ Nothing can be clearer. Your mother has +predominated in you; you have her fine intelligence, and you have also +something of her coquetry, at times of her indolence and of her +submissiveness. Yes, you are very feminine, like her. Without your +being aware of it, I would say that you love to be loved. Besides, your +mother was a great novel reader, an imaginative being who loved to +spend whole days dreaming over a book; she doted on nursery tales, had +her fortune told by cards, consulted clairvoyants; and I have always +thought that your concern about spiritual matters, your anxiety about +the unknown, came from that source. But what completed your character +by giving you a dual nature, was the influence of your grandfather, +Commandant Sicardot. I knew him; he was not a genius, but he had at +least a great deal of uprightness and energy. Frankly, if it were not +for him, I do not believe that you would be worth much, for the other +influences are hardly good. He has given you the best part of your +nature, combativeness, pride, and frankness.” + +She had listened to him with attention. She nodded slightly, to signify +that it was indeed so, that she was not offended, although her lips +trembled visibly at these new details regarding her people and her +mother. + +“Well,” she resumed, “and you, master?” + +This time he did not hesitate. + +“Oh, I!” he cried, “what is the use of speaking of me? I do not belong +to the family. You see what is written here. ‘Pascal, born in 1813. +Individual variation. Combination in which the physical and moral +characters of the parents are blended, without any of their traits +seeming to appear in the new being.’ My mother has told me often enough +that I did not belong to it, that in truth she did not know where I +could have come from.” + +Those words came from him like a cry of relief, of involuntary joy. + +“And the people make no mistake in the matter. Have you ever heard me +called Pascal Rougon in the town? No; people always say simply Dr. +Pascal. It is because I stand apart. And it may not be very +affectionate to feel so, but I am delighted at it, for there are in +truth inheritances too heavy to bear. It is of no use that I love them +all. My heart beats none the less joyously when I feel myself another +being, different from them, without any community with them. Not to be +of them, my God! not to be of them! It is a breath of pure air; it is +what gives me the courage to have them all here, to put them, in all +their nakedness, in their envelopes, and still to find the courage to +live!” + +He stopped, and there was silence for a time. The rain had ceased, the +storm was passing away, the thunderclaps sounded more and more distant, +while from the refreshed fields, still dark, there came in through the +open window a delicious odor of moist earth. In the calm air the +candles were burning out with a tall, tranquil flame. + +“Ah!” said Clotilde simply, with a gesture of discouragement, “what are +we to become finally?” + +She had declared it to herself one night, in the threshing yard; life +was horrible, how could one live peaceful and happy? It was a terrible +light that science threw on the world. Analysis searched every wound of +humanity, in order to expose its horror. And now he had spoken still +more bluntly; he had increased the disgust which she had for persons +and things, pitilessly dissecting her family. The muddy torrent had +rolled on before her for nearly three hours, and she had heard the most +dreadful revelations, the harsh and terrible truth about her people, +her people who were so dear to her, whom it was her duty to love; her +father grown powerful through pecuniary crimes; her brother dissolute; +her grandmother unscrupulous, covered with the blood of the just; the +others almost all tainted, drunkards, ruffians, murderers, the +monstrous blossoming of the human tree. + +The blow had been so rude that she could not yet recover from it, +stunned as she was by the revelation of her whole family history, made +to her in this way at a stroke. And yet the lesson was rendered +innocuous, so to say, by something great and good, a breath of profound +humanity which had borne her through it. Nothing bad had come to her +from it. She felt herself beaten by a sharp sea wind, the storm wind +which strengthens and expands the lungs. He had revealed everything, +speaking freely even of his mother, without judging her, continuing to +preserve toward her his deferential attitude, as a scientist who does +not judge events. To tell everything in order to know everything, in +order to remedy everything, was not this the cry which he had uttered +on that beautiful summer night? + +And by the very excess of what he had just revealed to her, she +remained shaken, blinded by this too strong light, but understanding +him at last, and confessing to herself that he was attempting in this +an immense work. In spite of everything, it was a cry of health, of +hope in the future. He spoke as a benefactor who, since heredity made +the world, wished to fix its laws, in order to control it, and to make +a new and happy world. Was there then only mud in this overflowing +stream, whose sluices he had opened? How much gold had passed, mingled +with the grass and the flowers on its borders? Hundreds of beings were +still flying swiftly before her, and she was haunted by good and +charming faces, delicate girlish profiles, by the serene beauty of +women. All passion bled there, hearts swelled with every tender +rapture. They were numerous, the Jeannes, the Angeliques, the Paulines, +the Marthes, the Gervaises, the Hélènes. They and others, even those +who were least good, even terrible men, the worst of the band, showed a +brotherhood with humanity. + +And it was precisely this breath which she had felt pass, this broad +current of sympathy, that he had introduced naturally into his exact +scientific lesson. He did not seem to be moved; he preserved the +impersonal and correct attitude of the demonstrator, but within him +what tender suffering, what a fever of devotion, what a giving up of +his whole being to the happiness of others? His entire work, +constructed with such mathematical precision, was steeped in this +fraternal suffering, even in its most cruel ironies. Had he not just +spoken of the animals, like an elder brother of the wretched living +beings that suffer? Suffering exasperated him; his wrath was because of +his too lofty dream, and he had become harsh only in his hatred of the +factitious and the transitory; dreaming of working, not for the polite +society of a time, but for all humanity in the gravest hours of its +history. Perhaps, even, it was this revolt against the vulgarity of the +time which had made him throw himself, in bold defiance, into theories +and their application. And the work remained human, overflowing as it +was with an infinite pity for beings and things. + +Besides, was it not life? There is no absolute evil. Most often a +virtue presents itself side by side with a defect. No man is bad to +every one, each man makes the happiness of some one; so that, when one +does not view things from a single standpoint only, one recognizes in +the end the utility of every human being. Those who believe in God +should say to themselves that if their God does not strike the wicked +dead, it is because he sees his work in its totality, and that he +cannot descend to the individual. Labor ends to begin anew; the living, +as a whole, continue, in spite of everything, admirable in their +courage and their industry; and love of life prevails over all. + +This giant labor of men, this obstinacy in living, is their excuse, is +redemption. And then, from a great height the eye saw only this +continual struggle, and a great deal of good, in spite of everything, +even though there might be a great deal of evil. One shared the general +indulgence, one pardoned, one had only an infinite pity and an ardent +charity. The haven was surely there, waiting those who have lost faith +in dogmas, who wish to understand the meaning of their lives, in the +midst of the apparent iniquity of the world. One must live for the +effort of living, for the stone to be carried to the distant and +unknown work, and the only possible peace in the world is in the joy of +making this effort. + +Another hour passed; the entire night had flown by in this terrible +lesson of life, without either Pascal or Clotilde being conscious of +where they were, or of the flight of time. And he, overworked for some +time past, and worn out by the life of suspicion and sadness which he +had been leading, started nervously, as if he had suddenly awakened. + +“Come, you know all; do you feel your heart strong, tempered by the +truth, full of pardon and of hope? Are you with me?” + +But, still stunned by the frightful moral shock which she had received, +she too, started, bewildered. Her old beliefs had been so completely +overthrown, so many new ideas were awakening within her, that she did +not dare to question herself, in order to find an answer. She felt +herself seized and carried away by the omnipotence of truth. She +endured it without being convinced. + +“Master,” she stammered, “master—” + +And they remained for a moment face to face, looking at each other. Day +was breaking, a dawn of exquisite purity, far off in the vast, clear +sky, washed by the storm. Not a cloud now stained the pale azure tinged +with rose color. All the cheerful sounds of awakening life in the +rain-drenched fields came in through the window, while the candles, +burned down to the socket, paled in the growing light. + +“Answer; are you with me, altogether with me?” + +For a moment he thought she was going to throw herself on his neck and +burst into tears. A sudden impulse seemed to impel her. But they saw +each other in their semi-nudity. She, who had not noticed it before, +was now conscious that she was only half dressed, that her arms were +bare, her shoulders bare, covered only by the scattered locks of her +unbound hair, and on her right shoulder, near the armpit, on lowering +her eyes, she perceived again the few drops of blood of the bruise +which he had given her, when he had grasped her roughly, in struggling +to master her. Then an extraordinary confusion took possession of her, +a certainty that she was going to be vanquished, as if by this grasp he +had become her master, and forever. This sensation was prolonged; she +was seized and drawn on, without the consent of her will, by an +irresistible impulse to submit. + +Abruptly Clotilde straightened herself, struggling with herself, +wishing to reflect and to recover herself. She pressed her bare arms +against her naked throat. All the blood in her body rushed to her skin +in a rosy blush of shame. Then, in her divine and slender grace, she +turned to flee. + +“Master, master, let me go—I will see—” + +With the swiftness of alarmed maidenhood, she took refuge in her +chamber, as she had done once before. He heard her lock the door +hastily, with a double turn of the key. He remained alone, and he asked +himself suddenly, seized by infinite discouragement and sadness, if he +had done right in speaking, if the truth would germinate in this dear +and adored creature, and bear one day a harvest of happiness. + + + + +VI. + + +The days wore on. October began with magnificent weather—a sultry +autumn in which the fervid heat of summer was prolonged, with a +cloudless sky. Then the weather changed, fierce winds began to blow, +and a last storm channeled gullies in the hillsides. And to the +melancholy household at La Souleiade the approach of winter seemed to +have brought an infinite sadness. + +It was a new hell. There were no more violent quarrels between Pascal +and Clotilde. The doors were no longer slammed. Voices raised in +dispute no longer obliged Martine to go continually upstairs to listen +outside the door. They scarcely spoke to each other now; and not a +single word had been exchanged between them regarding the midnight +scene, although weeks had passed since it had taken place. He, through +an inexplicable scruple, a strange delicacy of which he was not himself +conscious, did not wish to renew the conversation, and to demand the +answer which he expected—a promise of faith in him and of submission. +She, after the great moral shock which had completely transformed her, +still reflected, hesitated, struggled, fighting against herself, +putting off her decision in order not to surrender, in her instinctive +rebelliousness. And the misunderstanding continued, in the midst of the +mournful silence of the miserable house, where there was no longer any +happiness. + +During all this time Pascal suffered terribly, without making any +complaint. He had sunk into a dull distrust, imagining that he was +still being watched, and that if they seemed to leave him at peace it +was only in order to concoct in secret the darkest plots. His +uneasiness increased, even, and he expected every day some catastrophe +to happen—the earth suddenly to open and swallow up his papers, La +Souleiade itself to be razed to the ground, carried away bodily, +scattered to the winds. + +The persecution against his thought, against his moral and intellectual +life, in thus hiding itself, and so rendering him helpless to defend +himself, became so intolerable to him that he went to bed every night +in a fever. He would often start and turn round suddenly, thinking he +was going to surprise the enemy behind him engaged in some piece of +treachery, to find nothing there but the shadow of his own fears. At +other times, seized by some suspicion, he would remain on the watch for +hours together, hidden, behind his blinds, or lying in wait in a +passage; but not a soul stirred, he heard nothing but the violent +beating of his heart. His fears kept him in a state of constant +agitation; he never went to bed at night without visiting every room; +he no longer slept, or, if he did, he would waken with a start at the +slightest noise, ready to defend himself. + +And what still further aggravated Pascal’s sufferings was the constant, +the ever more bitter thought that the wound was inflicted upon him by +the only creature he loved in the world, the adored Clotilde, whom for +twenty years he had seen grow in beauty and in grace, whose life had +hitherto bloomed like a beautiful flower, perfuming his. She, great +God! for whom his heart was full of affection, whom he had never +analyzed, she, who had become his joy, his courage, his hope, in whose +young life he lived over again. When she passed by, with her delicate +neck, so round, so fresh, he was invigorated, bathed in health and joy, +as at the coming of spring. + +His whole life, besides, explained this invasion, this subjugation of +his being by the young girl who had entered into his heart while she +was still a little child, and who, as she grew up, had gradually taken +possession of the whole place. Since he had settled at Plassans, he had +led a blest existence, wrapped up in his books, far from women. The +only passion he was ever known to have had, was his love for the lady +who had died, whose finger tips he had never kissed. He had not lived; +he had within him a reserve of youthfulness, of vigor, whose surging +flood now clamored rebelliously at the menace of approaching age. He +would have become attached to an animal, a stray dog that he had +chanced to pick up in the street, and that had licked his hand. And it +was this child whom he loved, all at once become an adorable woman, who +now distracted him, who tortured him by her hostility. + +Pascal, so gay, so kind, now became insupportably gloomy and harsh. He +grew angry at the slightest word; he would push aside the astonished +Martine, who would look up at him with the submissive eyes of a beaten +animal. From morning till night he went about the gloomy house, +carrying his misery about with him, with so forbidding a countenance +that no one ventured to speak to him. + +He never took Clotilde with him now on his visits, but went alone. And +thus it was that he returned home one afternoon, his mind distracted +because of an accident which had happened; having on his conscience, as +a physician, the death of a man. + +He had gone to give a hypodermic injection to Lafouasse, the tavern +keeper, whose ataxia had within a short time made such rapid progress +that he regarded him as doomed. But, notwithstanding, Pascal still +fought obstinately against the disease, continuing the treatment, and +as ill luck would have it, on this day the little syringe had caught up +at the bottom of the vial an impure particle, which had escaped the +filter. Immediately a drop of blood appeared; to complete his +misfortune, he had punctured a vein. He was at once alarmed, seeing the +tavern keeper turn pale and gasp for breath, while large drops of cold +perspiration broke out upon his face. Then he understood; death came as +if by a stroke of lightning, the lips turning blue, the face black. It +was an embolism; he had nothing to blame but the insufficiency of his +preparations, his still rude method. No doubt Lafouasse had been +doomed. He could not, perhaps, have lived six months longer, and that +in the midst of atrocious sufferings, but the brutal fact of this +terrible death was none the less there, and what despairing regret, +what rage against impotent and murderous science, and what a shock to +his faith! He returned home, livid, and did not make his appearance +again until the following day, after having remained sixteen hours shut +up in his room, lying in a semi-stupor on the bed, across which he had +thrown himself, dressed as he was. + +On the afternoon of this day Clotilde, who was sitting beside him in +the study, sewing, ventured to break the oppressive silence. She looked +up, and saw him turning over the leaves of a book wearily, searching +for some information which he was unable to find. + +“Master, are you ill? Why do you not tell me, if you are. I would take +care of you.” + +He kept his eyes bent upon the book, and muttered: + +“What does it matter to you whether I am ill or not? I need no one to +take care of me.” + +She resumed, in a conciliating voice: + +“If you have troubles, and can tell them to me, it would perhaps be a +relief to you to do so. Yesterday you came in looking so sad. You must +not allow yourself to be cast down in that way. I have spent a very +anxious night. I came to your door three times to listen, tormented by +the idea that you were suffering.” + +Gently as she spoke, her words were like the cut of a whip. In his weak +and nervous condition a sudden access of rage made him push away the +book and rise up trembling. + +“So you spy upon me, then. I cannot even retire to my room without +people coming to glue their ears to the walls. Yes, you listen even to +the beatings of my heart. You watch for my death, to pillage and burn +everything here.” + +His voice rose and all his unjust suffering vented itself in complaints +and threats. + +“I forbid you to occupy yourself about me. Is there nothing else that +you have to say to me? Have you reflected? Can you put your hand in +mine loyally, and say to me that we are in accord?” + +She did not answer. She only continued to look at him with her large +clear eyes, frankly declaring that she would not surrender yet, while +he, exasperated more and more by this attitude, lost all self-control. + +“Go away, go away,” he stammered, pointing to the door. “I do not wish +you to remain near me. I do not wish to have enemies near me. I do not +wish you to remain near me to drive me mad!” + +She rose, very pale, and went at once out of the room, without looking +behind, carrying her work with her. + +During the month which followed, Pascal took refuge in furious and +incessant work. He now remained obstinately, for whole days at a time, +alone in the study, sometimes passing even the nights there, going over +old documents, to revise all his works on heredity. It seemed as if a +sort of frenzy had seized him to assure himself of the legitimacy of +his hopes, to force science to give him the certainty that humanity +could be remade—made a higher, a healthy humanity. He no longer left +the house, he abandoned his patients even, and lived among his papers, +without air or exercise. And after a month of this overwork, which +exhausted him without appeasing his domestic torments, he fell into +such a state of nervous exhaustion that illness, for some time latent, +declared itself at last with alarming violence. + +Pascal, when he rose in the morning, felt worn out with fatigue, +wearier and less refreshed than he had been on going to bed the night +before. He constantly had pains all over his body; his limbs failed +him, after five minutes’ walk; the slightest exertion tired him; the +least movement caused him intense pain. At times the floor seemed +suddenly to sway beneath his feet. He had a constant buzzing in his +ears, flashes of light dazzled his eyes. He took a loathing for wine, +he had no longer any appetite, and his digestion was seriously +impaired. Then, in the midst of the apathy of his constantly increasing +idleness he would have sudden fits of aimless activity. The equilibrium +was destroyed, he had at times outbreaks of nervous irritability, +without any cause. The slightest emotion brought tears to his eyes. +Finally, he would shut himself up in his room, and give way to +paroxysms of despair so violent that he would sob for hours at a time, +without any immediate cause of grief, overwhelmed simply by the immense +sadness of things. + +In the early part of December Pascal had a severe attack of neuralgia. +Violent pains in the bones of the skull made him feel at times as if +his head must split. Old Mme. Rougon, who had been informed of his +illness, came to inquire after her son. But she went straight to the +kitchen, wishing to have a talk with Martine first. The latter, with a +heart-broken and terrified air, said to her that monsieur must +certainly be going mad; and she told her of his singular behavior, the +continual tramping about in his room, the locking of all the drawers, +the rounds which he made from the top to the bottom of the house, until +two o’clock in the morning. Tears filled her eyes and she at last +hazarded the opinion that monsieur must be possessed with a devil, and +that it would be well to notify the curé of St. Saturnin. + +“So good a man,” she said, “a man for whom one would let one’s self be +cut in pieces! How unfortunate it is that one cannot get him to go to +church, for that would certainly cure him at once.” + +Clotilde, who had heard her grandmother’s voice, entered at this +moment. She, too, wandered through the empty rooms, spending most of +her time in the deserted apartment on the ground floor. She did not +speak, however, but only listened with her thoughtful and expectant +air. + +“Ah, goodday! It is you, my dear. Martine tells me that Pascal is +possessed with a devil. That is indeed my opinion also; only the devil +is called pride. He thinks that he knows everything. He is Pope and +Emperor in one, and naturally it exasperates him when people don’t +agree with him.” + +She shrugged her shoulders with supreme disdain. + +“As for me, all that would only make me laugh if it were not so sad. A +fellow who knows nothing about anything; who has always been wrapped up +in his books; who has not lived. Put him in a drawing-room, and he +would know as little how to act as a new-born babe. And as for women, +he does not even know what they are.” + +Forgetting to whom she was speaking, a young girl and a servant, she +lowered her voice, and said confidentially: + +“Well, one pays for being too sensible, too. Neither a wife nor a +sweetheart nor anything. That is what has finally turned his brain.” + +Clotilde did not move. She only lowered her eyelids slowly over her +large thoughtful eyes; then she raised them again, maintaining her +impenetrable countenance, unwilling, unable, perhaps, to give +expression to what was passing within her. This was no doubt all still +confused, a complete evolution, a great change which was taking place, +and which she herself did not clearly understand. + +“He is upstairs, is he not?” resumed Félicité. “I have come to see him, +for this must end; it is too stupid.” + +And she went upstairs, while Martine returned to her saucepans, and +Clotilde went to wander again through the empty house. + +Upstairs in the study Pascal sat seemingly in a stupor, his face bent +over a large open book. He could no longer read, the words danced +before his eyes, conveying no meaning to his mind. But he persisted, +for it was death to him to lose his faculty for work, hitherto so +powerful. His mother at once began to scold him, snatching the book +from him, and flinging it upon a distant table, crying that when one +was sick one should take care of one’s self. He rose with a quick, +angry movement, about to order her away as he had ordered Clotilde. +Then, by a last effort of the will, he became again deferential. + +“Mother, you know that I have never wished to dispute with you. Leave +me, I beg of you.” + +She did not heed him, but began instead to take him to task about his +continual distrust. It was he himself who had given himself a fever, +always fancying that he was surrounded by enemies who were setting +traps for him, and watching him to rob him. Was there any common sense +in imagining that people were persecuting him in that way? And then she +accused him of allowing his head to be turned by his discovery, his +famous remedy for curing every disease. That was as much as to think +himself equal to the good God; which only made it all the more cruel +when he found out how mistaken he was. And she mentioned Lafouasse, the +man whom he had killed—naturally, she could understand that that had +not been very pleasant for him; indeed there was cause enough in it to +make him take to his bed. + +Pascal, still controlling himself, very pale and with eyes cast on the +ground, contented himself with repeating: + +“Mother, leave me, I beg of you.” + +“No, I won’t leave you,” she cried with the impetuosity which was +natural to her, and which her great age had in no wise diminished. “I +have come precisely to stir you up a little, to rid you of this fever +which is consuming you. No, this cannot continue. I don’t wish that we +should again become the talk of the whole town on your account. I wish +you to take care of yourself.” + +He shrugged his shoulders, and said in a low voice, as if speaking to +himself, with an uneasy look, half of conviction, half of doubt: + +“I am not ill.” + +But Félicité, beside herself, burst out, gesticulating violently: + +“Not ill! not ill! Truly, there is no one like a physician for not +being able to see himself. Why, my poor boy, every one that comes near +you is shocked by your appearance. You are becoming insane through +pride and fear!” + +This time Pascal raised his head quickly, and looked her straight in +the eyes, while she continued: + +“This is what I had to tell you, since it seems that no one else would +undertake the task. You are old enough to know what you ought to do. +You should make an effort to shake off all this; you should think of +something else; you should not let a fixed idea take possession of you, +especially when you belong to a family like ours. You know it; have +sense, and take care of yourself.” + +He grew paler than before, looking fixedly at her still, as if he were +sounding her, to know what there was of her in him. And he contented +himself with answering: + +“You are right, mother. I thank you.” + +When he was again alone, he dropped into his seat before the table, and +tried once more to read his book. But he could not succeed, any more +than before, in fixing his attention sufficiently to understand the +words, whose letters mingled confusedly together before his eyes. And +his mother’s words buzzed in his ears; a vague terror, which had some +time before sprung up within him, grew and took shape, haunting him now +as an immediate and clearly defined danger. He who two months before +had boasted triumphantly of not belonging to the family, was he about +to receive the most terrible of contradictions? Ah, this egotistic joy, +this intense joy of not belonging to it, was it to give place to the +terrible anguish of being struck in his turn? Was he to have the +humiliation of seeing the taint revive in him? Was he to be dragged +down to the horror of feeling himself in the clutches of the monster of +heredity? The sublime idea, the lofty certitude which he had of +abolishing suffering, of strengthening man’s will, of making a new and +a higher humanity, a healthy humanity, was assuredly only the beginning +of the monomania of vanity. And in his bitter complaint of being +watched, in his desire to watch the enemies who, he thought, were +obstinately bent on his destruction, were easily to be recognized the +symptoms of the monomania of suspicion. So then all the diseases of the +race were to end in this terrible case—madness within a brief space, +then general paralysis, and a dreadful death. + +From this day forth Pascal was as if possessed. The state of nervous +exhaustion into which overwork and anxiety had thrown him left him an +unresisting prey to this haunting fear of madness and death. All the +morbid sensations which he felt, his excessive fatigue on rising, the +buzzing in his ears, the flashes of light before his eyes, even his +attacks of indigestion and his paroxysms of tears, were so many +infallible symptoms of the near insanity with which he believed himself +threatened. He had completely lost, in his own case, the keen power of +diagnosis of the observant physician, and if he still continued to +reason about it, it was only to confound and pervert symptoms, under +the influence of the moral and physical depression into which he had +fallen. He was no longer master of himself; he was mad, so to say, to +convince himself hour by hour that he must become so. + +All the days of this pale December were spent by him in going deeper +and deeper into his malady. Every morning he tried to escape from the +haunting subject, but he invariably ended by shutting himself in the +study to take up again, in spite of himself, the tangled skein of the +day before. + +The long study which he had made of heredity, his important researches, +his works, completed the poisoning of his peace, furnishing him with +ever renewed causes of disquietude. To the question which he put to +himself continually as to his own hereditary case, the documents were +there to answer it by all possible combinations. They were so numerous +that he lost himself among them now. If he had deceived himself, if he +could not set himself apart, as a remarkable case of variation, should +he place himself under the head of reversional heredity, passing over +one, two, or even three generations? Or was his case rather a +manifestation of larvated heredity, which would bring anew proof to the +support of his theory of the germ plasm, or was it simply a singular +case of hereditary resemblance, the sudden apparition of some unknown +ancestor at the very decline of life? + +From this moment he never rested, giving himself up completely to the +investigation of his case, searching his notes, rereading his books. +And he studied himself, watching the least of his sensations, to deduce +from them the facts on which he might judge himself. On the days when +his mind was most sluggish, or when he thought he experienced +particular phenomena of vision, he inclined to a predominance of the +original nervous lesion; while, if he felt that his limbs were +affected, his feet heavy and painful, he imagined he was suffering the +indirect influence of some ancestor come from outside. Everything +became confused, until at last he could recognize himself no longer, in +the midst of the imaginary troubles which agitated his disturbed +organism. And every evening the conclusion was the same, the same knell +sounded in his brain—heredity, appalling heredity, the fear of becoming +mad. + +In the early part of January Clotilde was an involuntary spectator of a +scene which wrung her heart. She was sitting before one of the windows +of the study, reading, concealed by the high back of her chair, when +she saw Pascal, who had been shut up in his room since the day before, +entering. He held open before his eyes with both hands a sheet of +yellow paper, in which she recognized the genealogical tree. He was so +completely absorbed, his gaze was so fixed, that she might have come +forward without his observing her. He spread the tree upon the table, +continuing to look at it for a long time, with the terrified expression +of interrogation which had become habitual to him, which gradually +changed to one of supplication, the tears coursing down his cheeks. + +Why, great God! would not the tree answer him, and tell him what +ancestor he resembled, in order that he might inscribe his case on his +own leaf, beside the others? If he was to become mad, why did not the +tree tell him so clearly, which would have calmed him, for he believed +that his suffering came only from his uncertainty? Tears clouded his +vision, yet still he looked, he exhausted himself in this longing to +know, in which his reason must finally give way. + +Clotilde hastily concealed herself as she saw him walk over to the +press, which he opened wide. He seized the envelopes, threw them on the +table, and searched among them feverishly. It was the scene of the +terrible night of the storm that was beginning over again, the gallop +of nightmares, the procession of phantoms, rising at his call from this +heap of old papers. As they passed by, he addressed to each of them a +question, an ardent prayer, demanding the origin of his malady, hoping +for a word, a whisper which should set his doubts at rest. First, it +was only an indistinct murmur, then came words and fragments of +phrases. + +“Is it you—is it you—is it you—oh, old mother, the mother of us all—who +are to give me your madness? Is it you, inebriate uncle, old scoundrel +of an uncle, whose drunkenness I am to pay for? Is it you, ataxic +nephew, or you, mystic nephew, or yet you, idiot niece, who are to +reveal to me the truth, showing me one of the forms of the lesion from +which I suffer? Or is it rather you, second cousin, who hanged +yourself; or you, second cousin, who committed murder; or you, second +cousin, who died of rottenness, whose tragic ends announce to me +mine—death in a cell, the horrible decomposition of being?” + +And the gallop continued, they rose and passed by with the speed of the +wind. The papers became animate, incarnate, they jostled one another, +they trampled on one another, in a wild rush of suffering humanity. + +“Ah, who will tell me, who will tell me, who will tell me?—Is it he who +died mad? he who was carried off by phthisis? he who was killed by +paralysis? she whose constitutional feebleness caused her to die in +early youth?—Whose is the poison of which I am to die? What is it, +hysteria, alcoholism, tuberculosis, scrofula? And what is it going to +make of me, an ataxic or a madman? A madman. Who was it said a madman? +They all say it—a madman, a madman, a madman!” + +Sobs choked Pascal. He let his dejected head fall among the papers, he +wept endlessly, shaken by shuddering sobs. And Clotilde, seized by a +sort of awe, feeling the presence of the fate which rules over races, +left the room softly, holding her breath; for she knew that it would +mortify him exceedingly if he knew that she had been present. + +Long periods of prostration followed. January was very cold. But the +sky remained wonderfully clear, a brilliant sun shone in the limpid +blue; and at La Souleiade, the windows of the study facing south formed +a sort of hothouse, preserving there a delightfully mild temperature. +They did not even light a fire, for the room was always filled with a +flood of sunshine, in which the flies that had survived the winter flew +about lazily. The only sound to be heard was the buzzing of their +wings. It was a close and drowsy warmth, like a breath of spring that +had lingered in the old house baked by the heat of summer. + +Pascal, still gloomy, dragged through the days there, and it was there, +too, that he overheard one day the closing words of a conversation +which aggravated his suffering. As he never left his room now before +breakfast, Clotilde had received Dr. Ramond this morning in the study, +and they were talking there together in an undertone, sitting beside +each other in the bright sunshine. + +It was the third visit which Ramond had made during the last week. +Personal reasons, the necessity, especially, of establishing definitely +his position as a physician at Plassans, made it expedient for him not +to defer his marriage much longer: and he wished to obtain from +Clotilde a decisive answer. On each of his former visits the presence +of a third person had prevented him from speaking. As he desired to +receive her answer from herself directly he had resolved to declare +himself to her in a frank conversation. Their intimate friendship, and +the discretion and good sense of both, justified him in taking this +step. And he ended, smiling, looking into her eyes: + +“I assure you, Clotilde, that it is the most reasonable of +_dénouements_. You know that I have loved you for a long time. I have a +profound affection and esteem for you. That alone might perhaps not be +sufficient, but, in addition, we understand each other perfectly, and +we should be very happy together, I am convinced of it.” + +She did not cast down her eyes; she, too, looked at him frankly, with a +friendly smile. He was, in truth, very handsome, in his vigorous young +manhood. + +“Why do you not marry Mlle. Leveque, the lawyer’s daughter?” she asked. +“She is prettier and richer than I am, and I know that she would gladly +accept you. My dear friend, I fear that you are committing a folly in +choosing me.” + +He did not grow impatient, seeming still convinced of the wisdom of his +determination. + +“But I do not love Mlle. Leveque, and I do love you. Besides, I have +considered everything, and I repeat that I know very well what I am +about. Say yes; you can take no better course.” + +Then she grew very serious, and a shadow passed over her face, the +shadow of those reflections, of those almost unconscious inward +struggles, which kept her silent for days at a time. She did not see +clearly yet, she still struggled against herself, and she wished to +wait. + +“Well, my friend, since you are really serious, do not ask me to give +you an answer to-day; grant me a few weeks longer. Master is indeed +very ill. I am greatly troubled about him; and you would not like to +owe my consent to a hasty impulse. I assure you, for my part, that I +have a great deal of affection for you, but it would be wrong to decide +at this moment; the house is too unhappy. It is agreed, is it not? I +will not make you wait long.” + +And to change the conversation she added: + +“Yes, I am uneasy about master. I wished to see you, in order to tell +you so. The other day I surprised him weeping violently, and I am +certain the fear of becoming mad haunts him. The day before yesterday, +when you were talking to him, I saw that you were examining him. Tell +me frankly, what do you think of his condition? Is he in any danger?” + +“Not the slightest!” exclaimed Dr. Ramond. “His system is a little out +of order, that is all. How can a man of his ability, who has made so +close a study of nervous diseases, deceive himself to such an extent? +It is discouraging, indeed, if the clearest and most vigorous minds can +go so far astray. In his case his own discovery of hypodermic +injections would be excellent. Why does he not use them with himself?” + +And as the young girl replied, with a despairing gesture, that he would +not listen to her, that he would not even allow her to speak to him +now, Ramond said: + +“Well, then, I will speak to him.” + +It was at this moment that Pascal came out of his room, attracted by +the sound of voices. But on seeing them both so close to each other, so +animated, so youthful, and so handsome in the sunshine—clothed with +sunshine, as it were—he stood still in the doorway. He looked fixedly +at them, and his pale face altered. + +Ramond had a moment before taken Clotilde’s hand, and he was holding it +in his. + +“It is a promise, is it not? I should like the marriage to take place +this summer. You know how much I love you, and I shall eagerly await +your answer.” + +“Very well,” she answered. “Before a month all will be settled.” + +A sudden giddiness made Pascal stagger. Here now was this boy, his +friend, his pupil, who had introduced himself into his house to rob him +of his treasure! He ought to have expected this _denouement_, yet the +sudden news of a possible marriage surprised him, overwhelmed him like +an unforeseen catastrophe that had forever ruined his life. This girl +whom he had fashioned, whom he had believed his own, she would leave +him, then, without regret, she would leave him to die alone in his +solitude. Only the day before she had made him suffer so intensely that +he had asked himself whether he should not part from her and send her +to her brother, who was always writing for her. For an instant he had +even decided on this separation, for the good of both. Yet to find her +here suddenly, with this man, to hear her promise to give him an +answer, to think that she would marry, that she would soon leave him, +this stabbed him to the heart. + +At the sound of his heavy step as he came forward, the two young people +turned round in some embarrassment. + +“Why, master, we were just talking about you,” said Ramond gaily. “Yes, +to be frank with you, we were conspiring. Come, why do you not take +care of yourself? There is nothing serious the matter with you; you +would be on your feet again in a fortnight if you did.” + +Pascal, who had dropped into a chair, continued to look at them. He had +still the power to control himself, and his countenance gave no +evidence of the wound which he had just received. He would assuredly +die of it, and no one would suspect the malady which had carried him +off. But it was a relief to him to be able to give vent to his +feelings, and he declared violently that he would not take even so much +as a glass of tisane. + +“Take care of myself!” he cried; “what for? Is it not all over with my +old carcass?” + +Ramond insisted, with a good-tempered smile. + +“You are sounder than any of us. This is a trifling disturbance, and +you know that you have the remedy in your own hands. Use your +hypodermic injection.” + +Pascal did not allow him to finish. This filled the measure of his +rage. He angrily asked if they wished him to kill himself, as he had +killed Lafouasse. His injections! A pretty invention, of which he had +good reason to be proud. He abjured medicine, and he swore that he +would never again go near a patient. When people were no longer good +for anything they ought to die; that would be the best thing for +everybody. And that was what he was going to try to do, so as to have +done with it all. + +“Bah! bah!” said Ramond at last, resolving to take his leave, through +fear of exciting him still further; “I will leave you with Clotilde; I +am not at all uneasy, Clotilde will take care of you.” + +But Pascal had on this morning received the final blow. He took to his +bed toward evening, and remained for two whole days without opening the +door of his room. It was in vain that Clotilde, at last becoming +alarmed, knocked loudly at the door. There was no answer. Martine went +in her turn and begged monsieur, through the keyhole, at least to tell +her if he needed anything. A deathlike silence reigned; the room seemed +to be empty. + +Then, on the morning of the third day, as the young girl by chance +turned the knob, the door yielded; perhaps it had been unlocked for +hours. And she might enter freely this room in which she had never set +foot: a large room, rendered cold by its northern exposure, in which +she saw a small iron bed without curtains, a shower bath in a corner, a +long black wooden table, a few chairs, and on the table, on the floor, +along the walls, an array of chemical apparatus, mortars, furnaces, +machines, instrument cases. Pascal, up and dressed, was sitting on the +edge of his bed, in trying to arrange which he had exhausted himself. + +“Don’t you want me to nurse you, then?” she asked with anxious +tenderness, without venturing to advance into the room. + +“Oh, you can come in,” he said with a dejected gesture. “I won’t beat +you. I have not the strength to do that now.” + +And from this day on he tolerated her about him, and allowed her to +wait on him. But he had caprices still. He would not let her enter the +room when he was in bed, possessed by a sort of morbid shame; then he +made her send him Martine. But he seldom remained in bed, dragging +himself about from chair to chair, in his utter inability to do any +kind of work. His malady continued to grow worse, until at last he was +reduced to utter despair, tortured by sick headaches, and without the +strength, as he said, to put one foot before the other, convinced every +morning that he would spend the night at the Tulettes, a raving maniac. +He grew thin; his face, under its crown of white hair—which he still +cared for through a last remnant of vanity—acquired a look of +suffering, of tragic beauty. And although he allowed himself to be +waited on, he refused roughly all remedies, in the distrust of medicine +into which he had fallen. + +Clotilde now devoted herself to him entirely. She gave up everything +else; at first she attended low mass, then she left off going to church +altogether. In her impatience for some certain happiness, she felt as +if she were taking a step toward that end by thus devoting all her +moments to the service of a beloved being whom she wished to see once +more well and happy. She made a complete sacrifice of herself, she +sought to find happiness in the happiness of another; and all this +unconsciously, solely at the impulse of her woman’s heart, in the midst +of the crisis through which she was still passing, and which was +modifying her character profoundly, without her knowledge. She remained +silent regarding the disagreement which separated them. The idea did +not again occur to her to throw herself on his neck, crying that she +was his, that he might return to life, since she gave herself to him. +In her thoughts she grieved to see him suffer; she was only an +affectionate girl, who took care of him, as any female relative would +have done. And her attentions were very pure, very delicate, occupying +her life so completely that her days now passed swiftly, exempt from +tormenting thoughts of the Beyond, filled with the one wish of curing +him. + +But where she had a hard battle to fight was in prevailing upon him to +use his hypodermic injections upon himself. He flew into a passion, +disowned his discovery, and called himself an imbecile. She too cried +out. It was she now who had faith in science, who grew indignant at +seeing him doubt his own genius. He resisted for a long time; then +yielding to the empire which she had acquired over him, he consented, +simply to avoid the affectionate dispute which she renewed with him +every morning. From the very first he experienced great relief from the +injections, although he refused to acknowledge it. His mind became +clearer, and he gradually gained strength. Then she was exultant, +filled with enthusiastic pride in him. She vaunted his treatment, and +became indignant because he did not admire himself, as an example of +the miracles which he was able to work. He smiled; he was now beginning +to see clearly into his own condition. Ramond had spoken truly, his +illness had been nothing but nervous exhaustion. Perhaps he would get +over it after all. + +“Ah, it is you who are curing me, little girl,” he would say, not +wishing to confess his hopes. “Medicines, you see, act according to the +hand that gives them.” + +The convalescence was slow, lasting through the whole of February. The +weather remained clear and cold; there was not a single day in which +the study was not flooded with warm, pale sunshine. There were hours of +relapse, however, hours of the blackest melancholy, in which all the +patient’s terrors returned; when his guardian, disconsolate, was +obliged to sit at the other end of the room, in order not to irritate +him still more. He despaired anew of his recovery. He became again +bitter and aggressively ironical. + +It was on one of those bad days that Pascal, approaching a window, saw +his neighbor, M. Bellombre, the retired professor, making the round of +his garden to see if his fruit trees were well covered with blossoms. +The sight of the old man, so neat and so erect, with the fine placidity +of the egoist, on whom illness had apparently never laid hold, suddenly +put Pascal beside himself. + +“Ah!” he growled, “there is one who will never overwork himself, who +will never endanger his health by worrying!” + +And he launched forth into an ironical eulogy on selfishness. To be +alone in the world, not to have a friend, to have neither wife nor +child, what happiness! That hard-hearted miser, who for forty years had +had only other people’s children to cuff, who lived aloof from the +world, without even a dog, with a deaf and dumb gardener older than +himself, was he not an example of the greatest happiness possible on +earth? Without a responsibility, without a duty, without an anxiety, +other than that of taking care of his dear health! He was a wise man, +he would live a hundred years. + +“Ah, the fear of life! that is cowardice which is truly the best +wisdom. To think that I should ever have regretted not having a child +of my own! Has any one a right to bring miserable creatures into the +world? Bad heredity should be ended, life should be ended. The only +honest man is that old coward there!” + +M. Bellombre continued peacefully making the round of his pear trees in +the March sunshine. He did not risk a too hasty movement; he economized +his fresh old age. If he met a stone in his path, he pushed it aside +with the end of his cane, and then walked tranquilly on. + +“Look at him! Is he not well preserved; is he not handsome? Have not +all the blessings of heaven been showered down upon him? He is the +happiest man I know.” + +Clotilde, who had listened in silence, suffered from the irony of +Pascal, the full bitterness of which she divined. She, who usually took +M. Bellombre’s part, felt a protest rise up within her. Tears came to +her eyes, and she answered simply in a low voice: + +“Yes; but he is not loved.” + +These words put a sudden end to the painful scene. Pascal, as if he had +received an electric shock, turned and looked at her. A sudden rush of +tenderness brought tears to his eyes also, and he left the room to keep +from weeping. + +The days wore on in the midst of these alternations of good and bad +hours. He recovered his strength but slowly, and what put him in +despair was that whenever he attempted to work he was seized by a +profuse perspiration. If he had persisted, he would assuredly have +fainted. So long as he did not work he felt that his convalescence was +making little progress. He began to take an interest again, however, in +his accustomed investigations. He read over again the last pages that +he had written, and, with this reawakening of the scientist in him, his +former anxieties returned. At one time he fell into a state of such +depression, that the house and all it contained ceased to exist for +him. He might have been robbed, everything he possessed might have been +taken and destroyed, without his even being conscious of the disaster. +Now he became again watchful, from time to time he would feel his +pocket, to assure himself that the key of the press was there. + +But one morning when he had overslept himself, and did not leave his +room until eleven o’clock, he saw Clotilde in the study, quietly +occupied in copying with great exactness in pastel a branch of +flowering almond. She looked up, smiling; and taking a key that was +lying beside her on the desk, she offered it to him, saying: + +“Here, master.” + +Surprised, not yet comprehending, he looked at the object which she +held toward him. + +“What is that?” he asked. + +“It is the key of the press, which you must have dropped from your +pocket yesterday, and which I picked up here this morning.” + +Pascal took it with extraordinary emotion. He looked at it, and then at +Clotilde. Was it ended, then? She would persecute him no more. She was +no longer eager to rob everything, to burn everything. And seeing her +still smiling, she also looking moved, an immense joy filled his heart. + +He caught her in his arms, crying: + +“Ah, little girl, if we might only not be too unhappy!” + +Then he opened a drawer of his table and threw the key into it, as he +used to do formerly. + +From this time on he gained strength, and his convalescence progressed +more rapidly. Relapses were still possible, for he was still very weak. +But he was able to write, and this made the days less heavy. The sun, +too, shone more brightly, the study being so warm at times that it +became necessary to half close the shutters. He refused to see +visitors, barely tolerated Martine, and had his mother told that he was +sleeping, when she came at long intervals to inquire for him. He was +happy only in this delightful solitude, nursed by the rebel, the enemy +of yesterday, the docile pupil of to-day. They would often sit together +in silence for a long time, without feeling any constraint. They +meditated, or lost themselves in infinitely sweet reveries. + +One day, however, Pascal seemed very grave. He was now convinced that +his illness had resulted from purely accidental causes, and that +heredity had had no part in it. But this filled him none the less with +humility. + +“My God!” he murmured, “how insignificant we are! I who thought myself +so strong, who was so proud of my sane reason! And here have I barely +escaped being made insane by a little trouble and overwork!” + +He was silent, and sank again into thought. After a time his eyes +brightened, he had conquered himself. And in a moment of reason and +courage, he came to a resolution. + +“If I am getting better,” he said, “it is especially for your sake that +I am glad.” + +Clotilde, not understanding, looked up and said: + +“How is that?” + +“Yes, on account of your marriage. Now you will be able to fix the +day.” + +She still seemed surprised. + +“Ah, true—my marriage!” + +“Shall we decide at once upon the second week in June?” + +“Yes, the second week in June; that will do very well.” + +They spoke no more; she fixed her eyes again on the piece of sewing on +which she was engaged, while he, motionless, and with a grave face, sat +looking into space. + + + + +VII. + + +On this day, on arriving at La Souleiade, old Mme. Rougon perceived +Martine in the kitchen garden, engaged in planting leeks; and, as she +sometimes did, she went over to the servant to have a chat with her, +and find out from her how things were going on, before entering the +house. + +For some time past she had been in despair about what she called +Clotilde’s desertion. She felt truly that she would now never obtain +the documents through her. The girl was behaving disgracefully, she was +siding with Pascal, after all she had done for her; and she was +becoming perverted to such a degree that for a month past she had not +been seen in Church. Thus she returned to her first idea, to get +Clotilde away and win her son over when, left alone, he should be +weakened by solitude. Since she had not been able to persuade the girl +to go live with her brother, she eagerly desired the marriage. She +would like to throw her into Dr. Ramond’s arms to-morrow, in her +impatience at so many delays. And she had come this afternoon with a +feverish desire to hurry on matters. + +“Good-day, Martine. How is every one here?” + +The servant, kneeling down, her hands full of clay, lifted up her pale +face, protected against the sun by a handkerchief tied over her cap. + +“As usual, madame, pretty well.” + +They went on talking, Félicité treating her as a confidante, as a +devoted daughter, one of the family, to whom she could tell everything. +She began by questioning her; she wished to know if Dr. Ramond had come +that morning. He had come, but they had talked only about indifferent +matters. This put her in despair, for she had seen the doctor on the +previous day, and he had unbosomed himself to her, chagrined at not +having yet received a decisive answer, and eager now to obtain at least +Clotilde’s promise. Things could not go on in this way, the young girl +must be compelled to engage herself to him. + +“He has too much delicacy,” she cried. “I have told him so. I knew very +well that this morning, even, he would not venture to demand a positive +answer. And I have come to interfere in the matter. We shall see if I +cannot oblige her to come to a decision.” + +Then, more calmly: + +“My son is on his feet now; he does not need her.” + +Martine, who was again stooping over the bed, planting her leeks, +straightened herself quickly. + +“Ah, that for sure!” + +And a flush passed over her face, worn by thirty years of service. For +a wound bled within her; for some time past the master scarcely +tolerated her about him. During the whole time of his illness he had +kept her at a distance, accepting her services less and less every day, +and finally closing altogether to her the door of his room and of the +workroom. She had a vague consciousness of what was taking place, an +instinctive jealousy tortured her, in her adoration of the master, +whose chattel she had been satisfied to be for so many years. + +“For sure, we have no need of mademoiselle. I am quite able to take +care of monsieur.” + +Then she, who was so discreet, spoke of her labors in the garden, +saying that she made time to cultivate the vegetables, so as to save a +few days’ wages of a man. True, the house was large, but when one was +not afraid of work, one could manage to do all there was to be done. +And then, when mademoiselle should have left them, that would be always +one less to wait upon. And her eyes brightened unconsciously at the +thought of the great solitude, of the happy peace in which they should +live after this departure. + +“It would give me pain,” she said, lowering her voice, “for it would +certainly give monsieur a great deal. I would never have believed that +I could be brought to wish for such a separation. Only, madame, I agree +with you that it is necessary, for I am greatly afraid that +mademoiselle will end by going to ruin here, and that there will be +another soul lost to the good God. Ah, it is very sad; my heart is so +heavy about it sometimes that it is ready to burst.” + +“They are both upstairs, are they not?” said Félicité. “I will go up +and see them, and I will undertake to oblige them to end the matter.” + +An hour later, when she came down again, she found Martine still on her +knees on the soft earth, finishing her planting. Upstairs, from her +first words, when she said that she had been talking with Dr. Ramond, +and that he had shown himself anxious to know his fate quickly, she saw +that Dr. Pascal approved—he looked grave, he nodded his head as if to +say that this wish seemed to him very natural. Clotilde, herself, +ceasing to smile, seemed to listen to him with deference. But she +manifested some surprise. Why did they press her? Master had fixed the +marriage for the second week in June; she had, then, two full months +before her. Very soon she would speak about it with Ramond. Marriage +was so serious a matter that they might very well give her time to +reflect, and let her wait until the last moment to engage herself. And +she said all this with her air of good sense, like a person resolved on +coming to a decision. And Félicité was obliged to content herself with +the evident desire that both had that matters should have the most +reasonable conclusion. + +“Indeed I believe that it is settled,” ended Félicité. “He seems to +place no obstacle in the way, and she seems only to wish not to act +hastily, like a girl who desires to examine her heart closely, before +engaging herself for life. I will give her a week more for reflection.” + +Martine, sitting on her heels, was looking fixedly on the ground with a +clouded face. + +“Yes, yes,” she murmured, in a low voice, “mademoiselle has been +reflecting a great deal of late. I am always meeting her in some +corner. You speak to her, and she does not answer you. That is the way +people are when they are breeding a disease, or when they have a secret +on their mind. There is something going on; she is no longer the same, +no longer the same.” + +And she took the dibble again and planted a leek, in her rage for work; +while old Mme. Rougon went away, somewhat tranquillized; certain, she +said, that the marriage would take place. + +Pascal, in effect, seemed to accept Clotilde’s marriage as a thing +settled, inevitable. He had not spoken with her about it again, the +rare allusions which they made to it between themselves, in their +hourly conversations, left them undisturbed; and it was simply as if +the two months which they still had to live together were to be without +end, an eternity stretching beyond their view. + +She, especially, would look at him smiling, putting off to a future day +troubles and decisions with a pretty vague gesture, as if to leave +everything to beneficent life. He, now well and gaining strength daily, +grew melancholy only when he returned to the solitude of his chamber at +night, after she had retired. He shuddered and turned cold at the +thought that a time would come when he would be always alone. Was it +the beginning of old age that made him shiver in this way? He seemed to +see it stretching before him, like a shadowy region in which he already +began to feel all his energy melting away. And then the regret of +having neither wife nor child filled him with rebelliousness, and wrung +his heart with intolerable anguish. + +Ah, why had he not lived! There were times when he cursed science, +accusing it of having taken from him the best part of his manhood. He +had let himself be devoured by work; work had consumed his brain, +consumed his heart, consumed his flesh. All this solitary, passionate +labor had produced only books, blackened paper, that would be scattered +to the winds, whose cold leaves chilled his hands as he turned them +over. And no living woman’s breast to lean upon, no child’s warm locks +to kiss! He had lived the cold, solitary life of a selfish scientist, +and he would die in cold solitude. Was he indeed going to die thus? +Would he never taste the happiness enjoyed by even the common porters, +by the carters who cracked their whips, passing by under his windows? +But he must hasten, if he would; soon, no doubt, it would be too late. +All his unemployed youth, all his pent-up desires, surged tumultuously +through his veins. He swore that he would yet love, that he would live +a new life, that he would drain the cup of every passion that he had +not yet tasted, before he should be an old man. He would knock at the +doors, he would stop the passers-by, he would scour the fields and +town. + +On the following day, when he had taken his shower bath and left his +room, all his fever was calmed, the burning pictures had faded away, +and he fell back into his natural timidity. Then, on the next night, +the fear of solitude drove sleep away as before, his blood kindled +again, and the same despair, the same rebelliousness, the same longing +not to die without having known family joys returned. He suffered a +great deal in this crisis. + +During these feverish nights, with eyes wide open in the darkness, he +dreamed always, over and over again the same dream. A girl would come +along the road, a girl of twenty, marvelously beautiful; and she would +enter and kneel down before him in an attitude of submissive adoration, +and he would marry her. She was one of those pilgrims of love such as +we find in ancient story, who have followed a star to come and restore +health and strength to some aged king, powerful and covered with glory. +He was the aged king, and she adored him, she wrought the miracle, with +her twenty years, of bestowing on him a part of her youth. In her love +he recovered his courage and his faith in life. + +Ah, youth! he hungered fiercely for it. In his declining days this +passionate longing for youth was like a revolt against approaching age, +a desperate desire to turn back, to be young again, to begin life over +again. And in this longing to begin life over again, there was not only +regret for the vanished joys of youth, the inestimable treasure of dead +hours, to which memory lent its charm; there was also the determined +will to enjoy, now, his health and strength, to lose nothing of the joy +of loving! Ah, youth! how eagerly he would taste of its every pleasure, +how eagerly he would drain every cup, before his teeth should fall out, +before his limbs should grow feeble, before the blood should be chilled +in his veins. A pang pierced his heart when he remembered himself, a +slender youth of twenty, running and leaping agilely, vigorous and +hardy as a young oak, his teeth glistening, his hair black and +luxuriant. How he would cherish them, these gifts scorned before, if a +miracle could restore them to him! + +And youthful womanhood, a young girl who might chance to pass by, +disturbed him, causing him profound emotion. This was often even +altogether apart from the individual: the image, merely, of youth, the +perfume and the dazzling freshness which emanated from it, bright eyes, +healthy lips, blooming cheeks, a delicate neck, above all, rounded and +satin-smooth, shaded on the back with down; and youthful womanhood +always presented itself to him tall and slight, divinely slender in its +chaste nudeness. His eyes, gazing into vacancy, followed the vision, +his heart was steeped in infinite longing. There was nothing good or +desirable but youth; it was the flower of the world, the only beauty, +the only joy, the only true good, with health, which nature could +bestow on man. Ah, to begin life over again, to be young again, to +clasp in his embrace youthful womanhood! + +Pascal and Clotilde, now that the fine April days had come, covering +the fruit trees with blossoms, resumed their morning walks in La +Souleiade. It was the first time that he had gone out since his +illness, and she led him to the threshing yard, along the paths in the +pine wood, and back again to the terrace crossed by the two bars of +shadows thrown by the secular cypresses. The sun had already warmed the +old flagstones there, and the wide horizon stretched out under a +dazzling sky. + +One morning when Clotilde had been running, she returned to the house +in such exuberant spirits and so full of pleasant excitement that she +went up to the workroom without taking off either her garden hat or the +lace scarf which she had tied around her neck. + +“Oh,” she said, “I am so warm! And how stupid I am, not to have taken +off my things downstairs. I will go down again at once.” + +She had thrown the scarf on a chair on entering. + +But her feverish fingers became impatient when she tried to untie the +strings of her large straw hat. + +“There, now! I have fastened the knot. I cannot undo it, and you must +come to my assistance.” + +Pascal, happy and excited too by the pleasure of the walk, rejoiced to +see her so beautiful and so merry. He went over and stood in front of +her. + +“Wait; hold up your chin. Oh, if you keep moving like that, how do you +suppose I can do it?” + +She laughed aloud. He could see the laughter swelling her throat, like +a wave of sound. His fingers became entangled under her chin, that +delicious part of the throat whose warm satin he involuntarily touched. +She had on a gown cut sloping in the neck, and through the opening he +inhaled all the living perfume of the woman, the pure fragrance of her +youth, warmed by the sunshine. All at once a vertigo seized him and he +thought he was going to faint. + +“No, no! I cannot do it,” he said, “unless you keep still!” + +The blood throbbed in his temples, and his fingers trembled, while she +leaned further back, unconsciously offering the temptation of her fresh +girlish beauty. It was the vision of royal youth, the bright eyes, the +healthy lips, the blooming cheeks, above all, the delicate neck, +satin-smooth and round, shaded on the back by down. And she seemed to +him so delicately graceful, with her slender throat, in her divine +bloom! + +“There, it is done!” she cried. + +Without knowing how, he had untied the strings. The room whirled round, +and then he saw her again, bareheaded now, with her starlike face, +shaking back her golden curls laughingly. Then he was seized with a +fear that he would catch her in his arms and press mad kisses on her +bare neck, and arms, and throat. And he fled from the room, taking with +him the hat, which he had kept in his hand, saying: + +“I will hang it in the hall. Wait for me; I want to speak to Martine.” + +Once downstairs, he hurried to the abandoned room and locked himself +into it, trembling lest she should become uneasy and come down here to +seek him. He looked wild and haggard, as if he had just committed a +crime. He spoke aloud, and he trembled as he gave utterance for the +first time to the cry that he had always loved her madly, passionately. +Yes, ever since she had grown into womanhood he had adored her. And he +saw her clearly before him, as if a curtain had been suddenly torn +aside, as she was when, from an awkward girl, she became a charming and +lovely creature, with her long tapering limbs, her strong slender body, +with its round throat, round neck, and round and supple arms. And it +was monstrous, but it was true—he hungered for all this with a +devouring hunger, for this youth, this fresh, blooming, fragrant flesh. + +Then Pascal, dropping into a rickety chair, hid his face in his hands, +as if to shut out the light of day, and burst into great sobs. Good +God! what was to become of him? A girl whom his brother had confided to +him, whom he had brought up like a good father, and who was now—this +temptress of twenty-five—a woman in her supreme omnipotence! He felt +himself more defenseless, weaker than a child. + +And above this physical desire, he loved her also with an immense +tenderness, enamored of her moral and intellectual being, of her +right-mindedness, of her fine intelligence, so fearless and so clear. +Even their discord, the disquietude about spiritual things by which she +was tortured, made her only all the more precious to him, as if she +were a being different from himself, in whom he found a little of the +infinity of things. She pleased him in her rebellions, when she held +her ground against him,—she was his companion and pupil; he saw her +such as he had made her, with her great heart, her passionate +frankness, her triumphant reason. And she was always present with him; +he did not believe that he could exist where she was not; he had need +of her breath; of the flutter of her skirts near him; of her +thoughtfulness and affection, by which he felt himself constantly +surrounded; of her looks; of her smile; of her whole daily woman’s +life, which she had given him, which she would not have the cruelty to +take back from him again. At the thought that she was going away, that +she would not be always here, it seemed to him as if the heavens were +about to fall and crush him; as if the end of all things had come; as +if he were about to be plunged in icy darkness. She alone existed in +the world, she alone was lofty and virtuous, intelligent and beautiful, +with a miraculous beauty. Why, then, since he adored her and since he +was her master, did he not go upstairs and take her in his arms and +kiss her like an idol? They were both free, she was ignorant of +nothing, she was a woman in age. This would be happiness. + +Pascal, who had ceased to weep, rose, and would have walked to the +door. But suddenly he dropped again into his chair, bursting into a +fresh passion of sobs. No, no, it was abominable, it could not be! He +felt on his head the frost of his white hair; and he had a horror of +his age, of his fifty-nine years, when he thought of her twenty-five +years. His former chill fear again took possession of him, the +certainty that she had subjugated him, that he would be powerless +against the daily temptation. And he saw her giving him the strings of +her hat to untie; compelling him to lean over her to make some +correction in her work; and he saw himself, too, blind, mad, devouring +her neck with ardent kisses. His indignation against himself at this +was so great that he arose, now courageously, and had the strength to +go upstairs to the workroom, determined to conquer himself. + +Upstairs Clotilde had tranquilly resumed her drawing. She did not even +look around at his entrance, but contented herself with saying: + +“How long you have been! I was beginning to think that Martine must +have made a mistake of at least ten sous in her accounts.” + +This customary jest about the servant’s miserliness made him laugh. And +he went and sat down quietly at his table. They did not speak again +until breakfast time. A great sweetness bathed him and calmed him, now +that he was near her. He ventured to look at her, and he was touched by +her delicate profile, by her serious, womanly air of application. Had +he been the prey of a nightmare, downstairs, then? Would he be able to +conquer himself so easily? + +“Ah!” he cried, when Martine called them, “how hungry I am! You shall +see how I am going to make new muscle!” + +She went over to him, and took him by the arm, saying: + +“That’s right, master; you must be gay and strong!” + +But that night, when he was in his own room, the agony began again. At +the thought of losing her he was obliged to bury his face in the pillow +to stifle his cries. He pictured her to himself in the arms of another, +and all the tortures of jealousy racked his soul. Never could he find +the courage to consent to such a sacrifice. All sorts of plans clasped +together in his seething brain; he would turn her from the marriage, +and keep her with him, without ever allowing her to suspect his +passion; he would take her away, and they would go from city to city, +occupying their minds with endless studies, in order to keep up their +companionship as master and pupil; or even, if it should be necessary, +he would send her to her brother to nurse him, he would lose her +forever rather than give her to a husband. And at each of these +resolutions he felt his heart, torn asunder, cry out with anguish in +the imperious need of possessing her entirely. He was no longer +satisfied with her presence, he wished to keep her for himself, with +himself, as she appeared to him in her radiant beauty, in the darkness +of his chamber, with her unbound hair falling around her. + +His arms clasped the empty air, and he sprang out of bed, staggering +like a drunken man; and it was only in the darkness and silence of the +workroom that he awoke from this sudden fit of madness. Where, then, +was he going, great God? To knock at the door of this sleeping child? +to break it in, perhaps, with a blow of his shoulder? The soft, pure +respiration, which he fancied he heard like a sacred wind in the midst +of the profound silence, struck him on the face and turned him back. +And he returned to his room and threw himself on his bed, in a passion +of shame and wild despair. + +On the following day when he arose, Pascal, worn out by want of sleep, +had come to a decision. He took his daily shower bath, and he felt +himself stronger and saner. The resolution to which he had come was to +compel Clotilde to give her word. When she should have formally +promised to marry Ramond, it seemed to him that this final solution +would calm him, would forbid his indulging in any false hopes. This +would be a barrier the more, an insurmountable barrier between her and +him. He would be from that moment armed against his desire, and if he +still suffered, it would be suffering only, without the horrible fear +of becoming a dishonorable man. + +On this morning, when he told the young girl that she ought to delay no +longer, that she owed a decisive answer to the worthy fellow who had +been awaiting it so long, she seemed at first astonished. She looked +straight into his eyes, but he had sufficient command over himself not +to show confusion; he insisted merely, with a slightly grieved air, as +if it distressed him to have to say these things to her. Finally, she +smiled faintly and turned her head aside, saying: + +“Then, master, you wish me to leave you?” + +“My dear,” he answered evasively, “I assure you that this is becoming +ridiculous. Ramond will have the right to be angry.” + +She went over to her desk, to arrange some papers which were on it. +Then, after a moment’s silence, she said: + +“It is odd; now you are siding with grandmother and Martine. They, too, +are persecuting me to end this matter. I thought I had a few days more. +But, in truth, if you all three urge me—” + +She did not finish, and he did not press her to explain herself more +clearly. + +“When do you wish me to tell Ramond to come, then?” + +“Why, he may come whenever he wishes; it does not displease me to see +him. But don’t trouble yourself. I will let him know that we will +expect him one of these afternoons.” + +On the following day the same scene began over again. Clotilde had +taken no step yet, and Pascal was now angry. He suffered martyrdom; he +had crises of anguish and rebelliousness when she was not present to +calm him by her smiling freshness. And he insisted, in emphatic +language, that she should behave seriously and not trifle any longer +with an honorable man who loved her. + +“The devil! Since the thing is decided, let us be done with it. I warn +you that I will send word to Ramond, and that he will be here to-morrow +at three o’clock.” + +She listened in silence, her eyes fixed on the ground. Neither seemed +to wish to touch upon the question as to whether the marriage had +really been decided on or not, and they took the standpoint that there +had been a previous decision, which was irrevocable. When she looked up +again he trembled, for he felt a breath pass by; he thought she was on +the point of saying that she had questioned herself, and that she +refused this marriage. What would he have done, what would have become +of him, good God! Already he was filled with an immense joy and a wild +terror. But she looked at him with the discreet and affectionate smile +which never now left her lips, and she answered with a submissive air: + +“As you please, master. Send him word to be here to-morrow at three +o’clock.” + +Pascal spent so dreadful a night that he rose late, saying, as an +excuse, that he had one of his old headaches. He found relief only +under the icy deluge of the shower bath. At ten o’clock he left the +house, saying he would go himself to see Ramond; but he had another +object in going out—he had seen at a show in Plassans a corsage of old +point d’Alençon; a marvel of beauty which lay there awaiting some +lover’s generous folly, and the thought had come to him in the midst of +the tortures of the night, to make a present of it to Clotilde, to +adorn her wedding gown. This bitter idea of himself adorning her, of +making her beautiful and fair for the gift of herself, touched his +heart, exhausted by sacrifice. She knew the corsage, she had admired it +with him one day wonderingly, wishing for it only to place it on the +shoulders of the Virgin at St. Saturnin, an antique Virgin adored by +the faithful. The shopkeeper gave it to him in a little box which he +could conceal, and which he hid, on his return to the house, in the +bottom of his writing-desk. + +At three o’clock Dr. Ramond presented himself, and he found Pascal and +Clotilde in the parlor, where they had been awaiting him with secret +excitement and a somewhat forced gaiety, avoiding any further allusion +to his visit. They received him smilingly with exaggerated cordiality. + +“Why, you are perfectly well again, master!” said the young man. “You +never looked so strong.” + +Pascal shook his head. + +“Oh, oh, strong, perhaps! only the heart is no longer here.” + +This involuntary avowal made Clotilde start, and she looked from one to +the other, as if, by the force of circumstances, she compared them with +each other—Ramond, with his smiling and superb face—the face of the +handsome physician adored by the women—his luxuriant black hair and +beard, in all the splendor of his young manhood; and Pascal, with his +white hair and his white beard. This fleece of snow, still so abundant, +retained the tragic beauty of the six months of torture that he had +just passed through. His sorrowful face had aged a little, only his +eyes remained still youthful; brown eyes, brilliant and limpid. But at +this moment all his features expressed so much gentleness, such exalted +goodness, that Clotilde ended by letting her gaze rest upon him with +profound tenderness. There was silence for a moment and each heart +thrilled. + +“Well, my children,” resumed Pascal heroically, “I think you have +something to say to each other. I have something to do, too, +downstairs. I will come up again presently.” + +And he left the room, smiling back at them. + +And soon as they were alone, Clotilde went frankly straight over to +Ramond, with both hands outstretched. Taking his hands in hers, she +held them as she spoke. + +“Listen, my dear friend; I am going to give you a great grief. You must +not be too angry with me, for I assure you that I have a very profound +friendship for you.” + +He understood at once, and he turned very pale. + +“Clotilde give me no answer now, I beg of you; take more time, if you +wish to reflect further.” + +“It is useless, my dear friend, my decision is made.” + +She looked at him with her fine, loyal look. She had not released his +hands, in order that he might know that she was not excited, and that +she was his friend. And it was he who resumed, in a low voice: + +“Then you say no?” + +“I say no, and I assure you that it pains me greatly to say it. Ask me +nothing; you will no doubt know later on.” + +He sat down, crushed by the emotion which he repressed like a strong +and self-contained man, whose mental balance the greatest sufferings +cannot disturb. Never before had any grief agitated him like this. He +remained mute, while she, standing, continued: + +“And above all, my friend, do not believe that I have played the +coquette with you. If I have allowed you to hope, if I have made you +wait so long for my answer, it was because I did not in very truth see +clearly myself. You cannot imagine through what a crisis I have just +passed—a veritable tempest of emotions, surrounded by darkness from out +of which I have but just found my way.” + +He spoke at last. + +“Since it is your wish, I will ask you nothing. Besides, it is +sufficient for you to answer one question. You do not love me, +Clotilde?” + +She did not hesitate, but said gravely, with an emotion which softened +the frankness of her answer: + +“It is true, I do not love you; I have only a very sincere affection +for you.” + +He rose, and stopped by a gesture the kind words which she would have +added. + +“It is ended; let us never speak of it again. I wished you to be happy. +Do not grieve for me. At this moment I feel as if the house had just +fallen about me in ruins. But I must only extricate myself as best I +can.” + +A wave of color passed over his pale face, he gasped for air, he +crossed over to the window, then he walked back with a heavy step, +seeking to recover his self-possession. He drew a long breath. In the +painful silence which had fallen they heard Pascal coming upstairs +noisily, to announce his return. + +“I entreat you,” murmured Clotilde hurriedly, “to say nothing to +master. He does not know my decision, and I wish to break it to him +myself, for he was bent upon this marriage.” + +Pascal stood still in the doorway. He was trembling and breathless, as +if he had come upstairs too quickly. He still found strength to smile +at them, saying: + +“Well, children, have you come to an understanding?” + +“Yes, undoubtedly,” responded Ramond, as agitated as himself. + +“Then it is all settled?” + +“Quite,” said Clotilde, who had been seized by a faintness. + +Pascal walked over to his work-table, supporting himself by the +furniture, and dropped into the chair beside it. + +“Ah, ah! you see the legs are not so strong after all. It is this old +carcass of a body. But the heart is strong. And I am very happy, my +children, your happiness will make me well again.” + +But when Ramond, after a few minutes’ further conversation, had gone +away, he seemed troubled at finding himself alone with the young girl, +and he again asked her: + +“It is settled, quite settled; you swear it to me?” + +“Entirely settled.” + +After this he did not speak again. He nodded his head, as if to repeat +that he was delighted; that nothing could be better; that at last they +were all going to live in peace. He closed his eyes, feigning to drop +asleep, as he sometimes did in the afternoon. But his heart beat +violently, and his closely shut eyelids held back the tears. + +That evening, at about ten o’clock, when Clotilde went downstairs for a +moment to give an order to Martine before she should have gone to bed, +Pascal profited by the opportunity of being left alone, to go and lay +the little box containing the lace corsage on the young girl’s bed. She +came upstairs again, wished him the accustomed good-night, and he had +been for at least twenty minutes in his own room, and was already in +his shirt sleeves, when a burst of gaiety sounded outside his door. A +little hand tapped, and a fresh voice cried, laughing: + +“Come, come and look!” + +He opened the door, unable to resist this appeal of youth, conquered by +his joy. + +“Oh, come, come and see what a beautiful little bird has put on my +bed!” + +And she drew him to her room, taking no refusal. She had lighted the +two candles in it, and the antique, pleasant chamber, with its hangings +of faded rose color, seemed transformed into a chapel; and on the bed, +like a sacred cloth offered to the adoration of the faithful, she had +spread the corsage of old point d’Alençon. + +“You would not believe it! Imagine, I did not see the box at first. I +set things in order a little, as I do every evening. I undressed, and +it was only when I was getting into bed that I noticed your present. +Ah, what a surprise! I was overwhelmed by it! I felt that I could never +wait for the morning, and I put on a skirt and ran to look for you.” + +It was not until then that he perceived that she was only half dressed, +as on the night of the storm, when he had surprised her stealing his +papers. And she seemed divine, with her tall, girlish form, her +tapering limbs, her supple arms, her slender body, with its small, firm +throat. + +She took his hands and pressed them caressingly in her little ones. + +“How good you are; how I thank you! Such a marvel of beauty, so lovely +a present for me, who am nobody! And you remember that I had admired +it, this antique relic of art. I said to you that only the Virgin of +St. Saturnin was worthy of wearing it on her shoulders. I am so happy! +oh, so happy! For it is true, I love beautiful things; I love them so +passionately that at times I wish for impossibilities, gowns woven of +sunbeams, impalpable veils made of the blue of heaven. How beautiful I +am going to look! how beautiful I am going to look!” + +Radiant in her ecstatic gratitude, she drew close to him, still looking +at the corsage, and compelling him to admire it with her. Then a sudden +curiosity seized her. + +“But why did you make me this royal present?” + +Ever since she had come to seek him in her joyful excitement, Pascal +had been walking in a dream. He was moved to tears by this affectionate +gratitude; he stood there, not feeling the terror which he had dreaded, +but seeming, on the contrary, to be filled with joy, as at the approach +of a great and miraculous happiness. This chamber, which he never +entered, had the religious sweetness of holy places that satisfy all +longings for the unattainable. + +His countenance, however, expressed surprise. And he answered: + +“Why, this present, my dear, is for your wedding gown.” + +She, in her turn, looked for a moment surprised as if she had not +understood him. Then, with the sweet and singular smile which she had +worn of late she said gayly: + +“Ah, true, my marriage!” + +Then she grew serious again, and said: + +“Then you want to get rid of me? It was in order to have me here no +longer that you were so bent upon marrying me. Do you still think me +your enemy, then?” + +He felt his tortures return, and he looked away from her, wishing to +retain his courage. + +“My enemy, yes. Are you not so? We have suffered so much through each +other these last days. It is better in truth that we should separate. +And then I do not know what your thoughts are; you have never given me +the answer I have been waiting for.” + +She tried in vain to catch his glance, which he still kept turned away. +She began to talk of the terrible night on which they had gone together +through the papers. It was true, in the shock which her whole being had +suffered, she had not yet told him whether she was with him or against +him. He had a right to demand an answer. + +She again took his hands in hers, and forced him to look at her. + +“And it is because I am your enemy that you are sending me away? I am +not your enemy. I am your servant, your chattel, your property. Do you +hear? I am with you and for you, for you alone!” + +His face grew radiant; an intense joy shone within his eyes. + +“Yes, I will wear this lace. It is for my wedding day, for I wish to be +beautiful, very beautiful for you. But do you not understand me, then? +You are my master; it is you I love.” + +“No, no! be silent; you will make me mad! You are betrothed to another. +You have given your word. All this madness is happily impossible.” + +“The other! I have compared him with you, and I have chosen you. I have +dismissed him. He has gone away, and he will never return. There are +only we two now, and it is you I love, and you love me. I know it, and +I give myself to you.” + +He trembled violently. He had ceased to struggle, vanquished by the +longing of eternal love. + +The spacious chamber, with its antique furniture, warmed by youth, was +as if filled with light. There was no longer either fear or suffering; +they were free. She gave herself to him knowingly, willingly, and he +accepted the supreme gift like a priceless treasure which the strength +of his love had won. Suddenly she murmured in his ear, in a caressing +voice, lingering tenderly on the words: + +“Master, oh, master, master!” + +And this word, which she used formerly as a matter of habit, at this +hour acquired a profound significance, lengthening out and prolonging +itself, as if it expressed the gift of her whole being. She uttered it +with grateful fervor, like a woman who accepts, and who surrenders +herself. Was not the mystic vanquished, the real acknowledged, life +glorified with love at last confessed and shared. + +“Master, master, this comes from far back. I must tell you; I must make +my confession. It is true that I went to church in order to be happy. +But I could not believe. I wished to understand too much; my reason +rebelled against their dogmas; their paradise appeared to me an +incredible puerility. But I believed that the world does not stop at +sensation; that there is a whole unknown world, which must be taken +into account; and this, master, I believe still. It is the idea of the +Beyond, which not even happiness, found at last upon your neck, will +efface. But this longing for happiness, this longing to be happy at +once, to have some certainty—how I have suffered from it. If I went to +church, it was because I missed something, and I went there to seek it. +My anguish consisted in this irresistible need to satisfy my longing. +You remember what you used to call my eternal thirst for illusion and +falsehood. One night, in the threshing yard, under the great starry +sky, do you remember? I burst out against your science, I was indignant +because of the ruins with which it strews the earth, I turned my eyes +away from the dreadful wounds which it exposes. And I wished, master, +to take you to a solitude where we might both live in God, far from the +world, forgotten by it. Ah, what torture, to long, to struggle, and not +to be satisfied!” + +Softly, without speaking, he kissed her on both eyes. + +“Then, master, do you remember again, there was the great moral shock +on the night of the storm, when you gave me that terrible lesson of +life, emptying out your envelopes before me. You had said to me +already: ‘Know life, love it, live it as it ought to be lived.’ But +what a vast, what a frightful flood, rolling ever onward toward a human +sea, swelling it unceasingly for the unknown future! And, master, the +silent work within me began then. There was born, in my heart and in my +flesh, the bitter strength of the real. At first I was as if crushed, +the blow was so rude. I could not recover myself. I kept silent, +because I did not know clearly what to say. Then, gradually, the +evolution was effected. I still had struggles, I still rebelled against +confessing my defeat. But every day after this the truth grew clearer +within me, I knew well that you were my master, and that there was no +happiness for me outside of you, of your science and your goodness. You +were life itself, broad and tolerant life; saying all, accepting all, +solely through the love of energy and effort, believing in the work of +the world, placing the meaning of destiny in the labor which we all +accomplish with love, in our desperate eagerness to live, to love, to +live anew, to live always, in spite of all the abominations and +miseries of life. Oh, to live, to live! This is the great task, the +work that always goes on, and that will doubtless one day be +completed!” + +Silent still, he smiled radiantly, and kissed her on the mouth. + +“And, master, though I have always loved you, even from my earliest +youth, it was, I believe, on that terrible night that you marked me +for, and made me your own. You remember how you crushed me in your +grasp. It left a bruise, and a few drops of blood on my shoulder. Then +your being entered, as it were into mine. We struggled; you were the +stronger, and from that time I have felt the need of a support. At +first I thought myself humiliated; then I saw that it was but an +infinitely sweet submission. I always felt your power within me. A +gesture of your hand in the distance thrilled me as though it had +touched me. I would have wished that you had seized me again in your +grasp, that you had crushed me in it, until my being had mingled with +yours forever. And I was not blind; I knew well that your wish was the +same as mine, that the violence which had made me yours had made you +mine; that you struggled with yourself not to seize me and hold me as I +passed by you. To nurse you when you were ill was some slight +satisfaction. From that time, light began to break upon me, and I at +last understood. I went no more to church, I began to be happy near +you, you had become certainty and happiness. Do you remember that I +cried to you, in the threshing yard, that something was wanting in our +affection. There was a void in it which I longed to fill. What could be +wanting to us unless it were God? And it was God—love, and life.” + + + + +VIII. + + +Then came a period of idyllic happiness. Clotilde was the spring, the +tardy rejuvenation that came to Pascal in his declining years. She +came, bringing to him, with her love, sunshine and flowers. Their +rapture lifted them above the earth; and all this youth she bestowed on +him after his thirty years of toil, when he was already weary and worn +probing the frightful wounds of humanity. He revived in the light of +her great shining eyes, in the fragrance of her pure breath. He had +faith again in life, in health, in strength, in the eternal renewal of +nature. + +On the morning after her avowal it was ten o’clock before Clotilde left +her room. In the middle of the workroom she suddenly came upon Martine +and, in her radiant happiness, with a burst of joy that carried +everything before it, she rushed toward her, crying: + +“Martine, I am not going away! Master and I—we love each other.” + +The old servant staggered under the blow. Her poor worn face, nunlike +under its white cap and with its look of renunciation, grew white in +the keenness of her anguish. Without a word, she turned and fled for +refuge to her kitchen, where, leaning her elbows on her chopping-table, +and burying her face in her clasped hands, she burst into a passion of +sobs. + +Clotilde, grieved and uneasy, followed her. And she tried to comprehend +and to console her. + +“Come, come, how foolish you are! What possesses you? Master and I will +love you all the same; we will always keep you with us. You are not +going to be unhappy because we love each other. On the contrary, the +house is going to be gay now from morning till night.” + +But Martine only sobbed all the more desperately. + +“Answer me, at least. Tell me why you are angry and why you cry. Does +it not please you then to know that master is so happy, so happy! See, +I will call master and he will make you answer.” + +At this threat the old servant suddenly rose and rushed into her own +room, which opened out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. In +vain the young girl called and knocked until she was tired; she could +obtain no answer. At last Pascal, attracted by the noise, came +downstairs, saying: + +“Why, what is the matter?” + +“Oh, it is that obstinate Martine! Only fancy, she began to cry when +she knew that we loved each other. And she has barricaded herself in +there, and she will not stir.” + +She did not stir, in fact. Pascal, in his turn, called and knocked. He +scolded; he entreated. Then, one after the other, they began all over +again. Still there was no answer. A deathlike silence reigned in the +little room. And he pictured it to himself, this little room, +religiously clean, with its walnut bureau, and its monastic bed +furnished with white hangings. No doubt the servant had thrown herself +across this bed, in which she had slept alone all her woman’s life, and +was burying her face in the bolster to stifle her sobs. + +“Ah, so much the worse for her?” said Clotilde at last, in the egotism +of her joy, “let her sulk!” + +Then throwing her arms around Pascal, and raising to his her charming +face, still glowing with the ardor of self-surrender, she said: + +“Master, I will be your servant to-day.” + +He kissed her on the eyes with grateful emotion; and she at once set +about preparing the breakfast, turning the kitchen upside down. She had +put on an enormous white apron, and she looked charming, with her +sleeves rolled up, showing her delicate arms, as if for some great +undertaking. There chanced to be some cutlets in the kitchen which she +cooked to a turn. She added some scrambled eggs, and she even succeeded +in frying some potatoes. And they had a delicious breakfast, twenty +times interrupted by her getting up in her eager zeal, to run for the +bread, the water, a forgotten fork. If he had allowed her, she would +have waited upon him on her knees. Ah! to be alone, to be only they two +in this large friendly house, and to be free to laugh and to love each +other in peace. + +They spent the whole afternoon in sweeping and putting things in order. +He insisted upon helping her. It was a play; they amused themselves +like two merry children. From time to time, however, they went back to +knock at Martine’s door to remonstrate with her. Come, this was +foolish, she was not going to let herself starve! Was there ever seen +such a mule, when no one had said or done anything to her! But only the +echo of their knocks came back mournfully from the silent room. Not the +slightest sound, not a breath responded. Night fell, and they were +obliged to make the dinner also, which they ate, sitting beside each +other, from the same plate. Before going to bed, they made a last +attempt, threatening to break open the door, but their ears, glued to +the wood, could not catch the slightest sound. And on the following +day, when they went downstairs and found the door still hermetically +closed, they began to be seriously uneasy. For twenty-four hours the +servant had given no sign of life. + +Then, on returning to the kitchen after a moment’s absence, Clotilde +and Pascal were stupefied to see Martine sitting at her table, picking +some sorrel for the breakfast. She had silently resumed her place as +servant. + +“But what was the matter with you?” cried Clotilde. “Will you speak +now?” + +She lifted up her sad face, stained by tears. It was very calm, +however, and it expressed now only the resigned melancholy of old age. +She looked at the young girl with an air of infinite reproach; then she +bent her head again without speaking. + +“Are you angry with us, then?” + +And as she still remained silent, Pascal interposed: + +“Are you angry with us, my good Martine?” + +Then the old servant looked up at him with her former look of +adoration, as if she loved him sufficiently to endure all and to remain +in spite of all. At last she spoke. + +“No, I am angry with no one. The master is free. It is all right, if he +is satisfied.” + +A new life began from this time. Clotilde, who in spite of her +twenty-five years had still remained childlike, now, under the +influence of love, suddenly bloomed into exquisite womanhood. Since her +heart had awakened, the serious and intelligent boy that she had looked +like, with her round head covered with its short curls, had given place +to an adorable woman, altogether womanly, submissive and tender, loving +to be loved. Her great charm, notwithstanding her learning picked up at +random from her reading and her work, was her virginal _naïveté_, as if +her unconscious awaiting of love had made her reserve the gift of her +whole being to be utterly absorbed in the man whom she should love. No +doubt she had given her love as much through gratitude and admiration +as through tenderness; happy to make him happy; experiencing a profound +joy in being no longer only a little girl to be petted, but something +of his very own which he adored, a precious possession, a thing of +grace and joy, which he worshiped on bended knees. She still had the +religious submissiveness of the former devotee, in the hands of a +master mature and strong, from whom she derived consolation and +support, retaining, above and beyond affection, the sacred awe of the +believer in the spiritual which she still was. But more than all, this +woman, so intoxicated with love, was a delightful personification of +health and gaiety; eating with a hearty appetite; having something of +the valor of her grandfather the soldier; filling the house with her +swift and graceful movements, with the bloom of her satin skin, the +slender grace of her neck, of all her young form, divinely fresh. + +And Pascal, too, had grown handsome again under the influence of love, +with the serene beauty of a man who had retained his vigor, +notwithstanding his white hairs. His countenance had no longer the +sorrowful expression which it had worn during the months of grief and +suffering through which he had lately passed; his eyes, youthful still, +had recovered their brightness, his features their smiling grace; while +his white hair and beard grew thicker, in a leonine abundance which +lent him a youthful air. He had kept himself, in his solitary life as a +passionate worker, so free from vice and dissipation that he found now +within him a reserve of life and vigor eager to expend itself at last. +There awoke within him new energy, a youthful impetuosity that broke +forth in gestures and exclamations, in a continual need of expansion, +of living. Everything wore a new and enchanting aspect to him; the +smallest glimpse of sky moved him to wonder; the perfume of a simple +flower threw him into an ecstasy; an everyday expression of affection, +worn by use, touched him to tears, as if it had sprung fresh from the +heart and had not been hackneyed by millions of lips. Clotilde’s “I +love you,” was an infinite caress, whose celestial sweetness no human +being had ever before known. And with health and beauty he recovered +also his gaiety, that tranquil gaiety which had formerly been inspired +by his love of life, and which now threw sunshine over his love, over +everything that made life worth living. + +They two, blooming youth and vigorous maturity, so healthy, so gay, so +happy, made a radiant couple. For a whole month they remained in +seclusion, not once leaving La Souleiade. The place where both now +liked to be was the spacious workroom, so intimately associated with +their habits and their past affection. They would spend whole days +there, scarcely working at all, however. The large carved oak press +remained with closed doors; so, too, did the bookcases. Books and +papers lay undisturbed upon the tables. Like a young married couple +they were absorbed in their one passion, oblivious of their former +occupations, oblivious of life. The hours seemed all too short to enjoy +the charm of being together, often seated in the same large antique +easy-chair, happy in the depths of this solitude in which they secluded +themselves, in the tranquillity of this lofty room, in this domain +which was altogether theirs, without luxury and without order, full of +familiar objects, brightened from morning till night by the returning +gaiety of the April sunshine. When, seized with remorse, he would talk +about working, she would link her supple arms through his and +laughingly hold him prisoner, so that he should not make himself ill +again with overwork. And downstairs, they loved, too, the dining-room, +so gay with its light panels relieved by blue bands, its antique +mahogany furniture, its large flower pastels, its brass hanging lamp, +always shining. They ate in it with a hearty appetite and they left it, +after each meal, only to go upstairs again to their dear solitude. + +Then when the house seemed too small, they had the garden, all La +Souleiade. Spring advanced with the advancing sun, and at the end of +April the roses were beginning to bloom. And what a joy was this +domain, walled around, where nothing from the outside world could +trouble them! Hours flew by unnoted, as they sat on the terrace facing +the vast horizon and the shady banks of the Viorne, and the slopes of +Sainte-Marthe, from the rocky bars of the Seille to the valley of +Plassans in the dusty distance. There was no shade on the terrace but +that of the two secular cypresses planted at its two extremities, like +two enormous green tapers, which could be seen three leagues away. At +times they descended the slope for the pleasure of ascending the giant +steps, and climbing the low walls of uncemented stones which supported +the plantations, to see if the stunted olive trees and the puny almonds +were budding. More often there were delightful walks under the delicate +needles of the pine wood, steeped in sunshine and exhaling a strong +odor of resin; endless walks along the wall of inclosure, from behind +which the only sound they could hear was, at rare intervals, the +grating noise of some cart jolting along the narrow road to Les +Fenouilleres; and they spent delightful hours in the old threshing +yard, where they could see the whole horizon, and where they loved to +stretch themselves, tenderly remembering their former tears, when, +loving each other unconsciously to themselves, they had quarreled under +the stars. But their favorite retreat, where they always ended by +losing themselves, was the quincunx of tall plane trees, whose +branches, now of a tender green, looked like lacework. Below, the +enormous box trees, the old borders of the French garden, of which now +scarcely a trace remained, formed a sort of labyrinth of which they +could never find the end. And the slender stream of the fountain, with +its eternal crystalline murmur, seemed to sing within their hearts. +They would sit hand in hand beside the mossy basin, while the twilight +fell around them, their forms gradually fading into the shadow of the +trees, while the water which they could no longer see, sang its +flutelike song. + +Up to the middle of May Pascal and Clotilde secluded themselves in this +way, without even crossing the threshold of their retreat. One morning +he disappeared and returned an hour later, bringing her a pair of +diamond earrings which he had hurried out to buy, remembering this was +her birthday. She adored jewels, and the gift astonished and delighted +her. From this time not a week passed in which he did not go out once +or twice in this way to bring her back some present. The slightest +excuse was sufficient for him—a _fête_, a wish, a simple pleasure. He +brought her rings, bracelets, a necklace, a slender diadem. He would +take out the other jewels and please himself by putting them all upon +her in the midst of their laughter. She was like an idol, seated on her +chair, covered with gold,—a band of gold on her hair, gold on her bare +arms and on her bare throat, all shining with gold and precious stones. +Her woman’s vanity was delightfully gratified by this. She allowed +herself to be adored thus, to be adored on bended knees, like a +divinity, knowing well that this was only an exalted form of love. She +began at last to scold a little, however; to make prudent +remonstrances; for, in truth, it was an absurdity to bring her all +these gifts which she must afterward shut up in a drawer, without ever +wearing them, as she went nowhere. + +They were forgotten after the hour of joy and gratitude which they gave +her in their novelty was over. But he would not listen to her, carried +away by a veritable mania for giving; unable, from the moment the idea +of giving her an article took possession of him, to resist the desire +of buying it. It was a munificence of the heart; an imperious desire to +prove to her that he thought of her always; a pride in seeing her the +most magnificent, the happiest, the most envied of women; a generosity +more profound even, which impelled him to despoil himself of +everything, of his money, of his life. And then, what a delight, when +he saw he had given her a real pleasure, and she threw herself on his +neck, blushing, thanking him with kisses. After the jewels, it was +gowns, articles of dress, toilet articles. Her room was littered, the +drawers were filled to overflowing. + +One morning she could not help getting angry. He had brought her +another ring. + +“Why, I never wear them! And if I did, my fingers would be covered to +the tips. Be reasonable, I beg of you.” + +“Then I have not given you pleasure?” he said with confusion. + +She threw her arms about his neck, and assured him with tears in her +eyes that she was very happy. He was so good to her! He was so +unwearied in his devotion to her! And when, later in the morning, he +ventured to speak of making some changes in her room, of covering the +walls with tapestry, of putting down a carpet, she again remonstrated. + +“Oh! no, no! I beg of you. Do not touch my old room, so full of +memories, where I have grown up, where I told you I loved you. I should +no longer feel myself at home in it.” + +Downstairs, Martine’s obstinate silence condemned still more strongly +these excessive and useless expenses. She had adopted a less familiar +attitude, as if, in the new situation, she had fallen from her role of +housekeeper and friend to her former station of servant. Toward +Clotilde, especially, she changed, treating her like a young lady, like +a mistress to whom she was less affectionate but more obedient than +formerly. Two or three times, however, she had appeared in the morning +with her face discolored and her eyes sunken with weeping, answering +evasively when questioned, saying that nothing was the matter, that she +had taken cold. And she never made any remark about the gifts with +which the drawers were filled. She did not even seem to see them, +arranging them without a word either of praise or dispraise. But her +whole nature rebelled against this extravagant generosity, of which she +could never have conceived the possibility. She protested in her own +fashion; exaggerating her economy and reducing still further the +expenses of the housekeeping, which she now conducted on so narrow a +scale that she retrenched even in the smallest expenses. For instance, +she took only two-thirds of the milk which she had been in the habit of +taking, and she served sweet dishes only on Sundays. Pascal and +Clotilde, without venturing to complain, laughed between themselves at +this parsimony, repeating the jests which had amused them for ten years +past, saying that after dressing the vegetables she strained them in +the colander, in order to save the butter for future use. + +But this quarter she insisted upon rendering an account. She was in the +habit of going every three months to Master Grandguillot, the notary, +to receive the fifteen hundred francs income, of which she disposed +afterward according to her judgment, entering the expenses in a book +which the doctor had years ago ceased to verify. She brought it to him +now and insisted upon his looking over it. He excused himself, saying +that it was all right. + +“The thing is, monsieur,” she said, “that this time I have been able to +put some money aside. Yes, three hundred francs. Here they are.” + +He looked at her in amazement. Generally she just made both ends meet. +By what miracle of stinginess had she been able to save such a sum? + +“Ah! my poor Martine,” he said at last, laughing, “that is the reason, +then, that we have been eating so many potatoes of late. You are a +pearl of economy, but indeed you must treat us a little better in the +future.” + +This discreet reproach wounded her so profoundly that she allowed +herself at last to say: + +“Well, monsieur, when there is so much extravagance on the one hand, it +is well to be prudent on the other.” + +He understood the allusion, but instead of being angry, he was amused +by the lesson. + +“Ah, ah! it is you who are examining my accounts! But you know very +well, Martine, that I, too, have my savings laid by.” + +He alluded to the money which he still received occasionally from his +patients, and which he threw into a drawer of his writing-desk. For +more than sixteen years past he had put into this drawer every year +about four thousand francs, which would have amounted to a little +fortune if he had not taken from it, from day to day, without counting +them, considerable sums for his experiments and his whims. All the +money for the presents came out of this drawer, which he now opened +continually. He thought that it would never be empty; he had been so +accustomed to take from it whatever he required that it had never +occurred to him to fear that he would ever come to the bottom of it. + +“One may very well have a little enjoyment out of one’s savings,” he +said gayly. “Since it is you who go to the notary’s, Martine, you are +not ignorant that I have my income apart.” + +Then she said, with the colorless voice of the miser who is haunted by +the dread of an impending disaster: + +“And what would you do if you hadn’t it?” + +Pascal looked at her in astonishment, and contented himself with +answering with a shrug, for the possibility of such a misfortune had +never even entered his mind. He fancied that avarice was turning her +brain, and he laughed over the incident that evening with Clotilde. + +In Plassans, too, the presents were the cause of endless gossip. The +rumor of what was going on at La Souleiade, this strange and sudden +passion, had spread, no one could tell how, by that force of expansion +which sustains curiosity, always on the alert in small towns. The +servant certainly had not spoken, but her air was perhaps sufficient; +words perhaps had dropped from her involuntarily; the lovers might have +been watched over the walls. And then came the buying of the presents, +confirming the reports and exaggerating them. When the doctor, in the +early morning, scoured the streets and visited the jeweler’s and the +dressmaker’s, eyes spied him from the windows, his smallest purchases +were watched, all the town knew in the evening that he had given her a +silk bonnet, a bracelet set with sapphires. And all this was turned +into a scandal. This uncle in love with his niece, committing a young +man’s follies for her, adorning her like a holy Virgin. The most +extraordinary stories began to circulate, and people pointed to La +Souleiade as they passed by. + +But old Mme. Rougon was, of all persons, the most bitterly indignant. +She had ceased going to her son’s house when she learned that +Clotilde’s marriage with Dr. Ramond had been broken off. They had made +sport of her. They did nothing to please her, and she wished to show +how deep her displeasure was. Then a full month after the rupture, +during which she had understood nothing of the pitying looks, the +discreet condolences, the vague smiles which met her everywhere, she +learned everything with a suddenness that stunned her. She, who, at the +time of Pascal’s illness, in her mortification at the idea of again +becoming the talk of the town through that ugly story, had raised such +a storm! It was far worse this time; the height of scandal, a love +affair for people to regale themselves with. The Rougon legend was +again in peril; her unhappy son was decidedly doing his best to find +some way to destroy the family glory won with so much difficulty. So +that in her anger she, who had made herself the guardian of this glory, +resolving to purify the legend by every means in her power, put on her +hat one morning and hurried to La Souleiade with the youthful vivacity +of her eighty years. + +Pascal, whom the rupture with his mother enchanted, was fortunately not +at home, having gone out an hour before to look for a silver buckle +which he had thought of for a belt. And Félicité fell upon Clotilde as +the latter was finishing her toilet, her arms bare, her hair loose, +looking as fresh and smiling as a rose. + +The first shock was rude. The old lady unburdened her mind, grew +indignant, spoke of the scandal they were giving. Suddenly her anger +vanished. She looked at the young girl, and she thought her adorable. +In her heart she was not surprised at what was going on. She laughed at +it, all she desired was that it should end in a correct fashion, so as +to silence evil tongues. And she cried with a conciliating air: + +“Get married then! Why do you not get married?” + +Clotilde remained silent for a moment, surprised. She had not thought +of marriage. Then she smiled again. + +“No doubt we will get married, grandmother. But later on, there is no +hurry.” + +Old Mme. Rougon went away, obliged to be satisfied with this vague +promise. + +It was at this time that Pascal and Clotilde ceased to seclude +themselves. Not through any spirit of bravado, not because they wished +to answer ugly rumors by making a display of their happiness, but as a +natural amplification of their joy; their love had slowly acquired the +need of expansion and of space, at first beyond the house, then beyond +the garden, into the town, as far as the whole vast horizon. It filled +everything; it took in the whole world. + +The doctor then tranquilly resumed his visits, and he took the young +girl with him. They walked together along the promenades, along the +streets, she on his arm, in a light gown, with flowers in her hat, he +buttoned up in his coat with his broad-brimmed hat. He was all white; +she all blond. They walked with their heads high, erect and smiling, +radiating such happiness that they seemed to walk in a halo. At first +the excitement was extraordinary. The shopkeepers came and stood at +their doors, the women leaned out of the windows, the passers-by +stopped to look after them. People whispered and laughed and pointed to +them. Then they were so handsome; he superb and triumphant, she so +youthful, so submissive, and so proud, that an involuntary indulgence +gradually gained on every one. People could not help defending them and +loving them, and they ended by smiling on them in a delightful +contagion of tenderness. A charm emanated from them which brought back +all hearts to them. The new town, with its _bourgeois_ population of +functionaries and townspeople who had grown wealthy, was the last +conquest. But the Quartier St. Marc, in spite of its austerity, showed +itself at once kind and discreetly tolerant when they walked along its +deserted grass-worn sidewalks, beside the antique houses, now closed +and silent, which exhaled the evaporated perfume of the loves of other +days. But it was the old quarter, more especially, that promptly +received them with cordiality, this quarter of which the common people, +instinctively touched, felt the grace of the legend, the profound myth +of the couple, the beautiful young girl supporting the royal and +rejuvenated master. The doctor was adored here for his goodness, and +his companion quickly became popular, and was greeted with tokens of +admiration and approval as soon as she appeared. They, meantime, if +they had seemed ignorant of the former hostility, now divined easily +the forgiveness and the indulgent tenderness which surrounded them, and +this made them more beautiful; their happiness charmed the entire town. + +One afternoon, as Pascal and Clotilde turned the corner of the Rue de +la Banne, they perceived Dr. Ramond on the opposite side of the street. +It had chanced that they had learned the day before that he had asked +and had obtained the hand of Mlle. Leveque, the advocate’s daughter. It +was certainly the most sensible course he could have taken, for his +business interests made it advisable that he should marry, and the +young girl, who was very pretty and very rich, loved him. He, too, +would certainly love her in time. Therefore Clotilde joyfully smiled +her congratulations to him as a sincere friend. Pascal saluted him with +an affectionate gesture. For a moment Ramond, a little moved by the +meeting, stood perplexed. His first impulse seemed to have been to +cross over to them. But a feeling of delicacy must have prevented him, +the thought that it would be brutal to interrupt their dream, to break +in upon this solitude _à deux_, in which they moved, even amid the +elbowings of the street. And he contented himself with a friendly +salutation, a smile in which he forgave them their happiness. This was +very pleasant for all three. + +At this time Clotilde amused herself for several days by painting a +large pastel representing the tender scene of old King David and +Abishag, the young Shunammite. It was a dream picture, one of those +fantastic compositions into which her other self, her romantic self, +put her love of the mysterious. Against a background of flowers thrown +on the canvas, flowers that looked like a shower of stars, of barbaric +richness, the old king stood facing the spectator, his hand resting on +the bare shoulder of Abishag. He was attired sumptuously in a robe +heavy with precious stones, that fell in straight folds, and he wore +the royal fillet on his snowy locks. But she was more sumptuous still, +with only the lilylike satin of her skin, her tall, slender figure, her +round, slender throat, her supple arms, divinely graceful. He reigned +over, he leaned, as a powerful and beloved master, on this subject, +chosen from among all others, so proud of having been chosen, so +rejoiced to give to her king the rejuvenating gift of her youth. All +her pure and triumphant beauty expressed the serenity of her +submission, the tranquillity with which she gave herself, before the +assembled people, in the full light of day. And he was very great and +she was very fair, and there radiated from both a starry radiance. + +Up to the last moment Clotilde had left the faces of the two figures +vaguely outlined in a sort of mist. Pascal, standing behind her, jested +with her to hide his emotion, for he fancied he divined her intention. +And it was as he thought; she finished the faces with a few strokes of +the crayon—old King David was he, and she was Abishag, the Shunammite. +But they were enveloped in a dreamlike brightness, it was themselves +deified; the one with hair all white, the other with hair all blond, +covering them like an imperial mantle, with features lengthened by +ecstasy, exalted to the bliss of angels, with the glance and the smile +of immortal youth. + +“Ah, dear!” he cried, “you have made us too beautiful; you have +wandered off again to dreamland—yes, as in the days, do you remember, +when I used to scold you for putting there all the fantastic flowers of +the Unknown?” + +And he pointed to the walls, on which bloomed the fantastic _parterre_ +of the old pastels, flowers not of the earth, grown in the soil of +paradise. + +But she protested gayly. + +“Too beautiful? We could not be too beautiful! I assure you it is thus +that I picture us to myself, thus that I see us; and thus it is that we +are. There! see if it is not the pure reality.” + +She took the old fifteenth century Bible which was beside her, and +showed him the simple wood engraving. + +“You see it is exactly the same.” + +He smiled gently at this tranquil and extraordinary affirmation. + +“Oh, you laugh, you look only at the details of the picture. It is the +spirit which it is necessary to penetrate. And look at the other +engravings, it is the same theme in all—Abraham and Hagar, Ruth and +Boaz. And you see they are all handsome and happy.” + +Then they ceased to laugh, leaning over the old Bible whose pages she +turned with her white fingers, he standing behind her, his white beard +mingling with her blond, youthful tresses. + +Suddenly he whispered to her softly: + +“But you, so young, do you never regret that you have chosen me—me, who +am so old, as old as the world?” + +She gave a start of surprise, and turning round looked at him. + +“You old! No, you are young, younger than I!” + +And she laughed so joyously that he, too, could not help smiling. But +he insisted a little tremulously: + +“You do not answer me. Do you not sometimes desire a younger lover, you +who are so youthful?” + +She put up her lips and kissed him, saying in a low voice: + +“I have but one desire, to be loved—loved as you love me, above and +beyond everything.” + +The day on which Martine saw the pastel nailed to the wall, she looked +at it a moment in silence, then she made the sign of the cross, but +whether it was because she had seen God or the devil, no one could say. +A few days before Easter she had asked Clotilde if she would not +accompany her to church, and the latter having made a sign in the +negative, she departed for an instant from the deferential silence +which she now habitually maintained. Of all the new things which +astonished her in the house, what most astonished her was the sudden +irreligiousness of her young mistress. So she allowed herself to resume +her former tone of remonstrance, and to scold her as she used to do +when she was a little girl and refused to say her prayers. “Had she no +longer the fear of the Lord before her, then? Did she no longer tremble +at the idea of going to hell, to burn there forever?” + +Clotilde could not suppress a smile. + +“Oh, hell! you know that it has never troubled me a great deal. But you +are mistaken if you think I am no longer religious. If I have left off +going to church it is because I perform my devotions elsewhere, that is +all.” + +Martine looked at her, open-mouthed, not comprehending her. It was all +over; mademoiselle was indeed lost. And she never again asked her to +accompany her to St. Saturnin. But her own devotion increased until it +at last became a mania. She was no longer to be met, as before, with +the eternal stocking in her hand which she knitted even when walking, +when not occupied in her household duties. Whenever she had a moment to +spare, she ran to church and remained there, repeating endless prayers. +One day when old Mme. Rougon, always on the alert, found her behind a +pillar, an hour after she had seen her there before, Martine excused +herself, blushing like a servant who had been caught idling, saying: + +“I was praying for monsieur.” + +Meanwhile Pascal and Clotilde enlarged still more their domain, taking +longer and longer walks every day, extending them now outside the town +into the open country. One afternoon, as they were going to La +Séguiranne, they were deeply moved, passing by the melancholy fields +where the enchanted gardens of Le Paradou had formerly extended. The +vision of Albine rose before them. Pascal saw her again blooming like +the spring, in the rejuvenation which this living flower had brought +him too, feeling the pressure of this pure arm against his heart. Never +could he have believed, he who had already thought himself very old +when he used to enter this garden to give a smile to the little fairy +within, that she would have been dead for years when life, the good +mother, should bestow upon him the gift of so fresh a spring, +sweetening his declining years. And Clotilde, having felt the vision +rise before them, lifted up her face to his in a renewed longing for +tenderness. She was Albine, the eternal lover. He kissed her on the +lips, and though no word had been uttered, the level fields sown with +corn and oats, where Le Paradou had once rolled its billows of +luxuriant verdure, thrilled in sympathy. + +Pascal and Clotilde were now walking along the dusty road, through the +bare and arid country. They loved this sun-scorched land, these fields +thinly planted with puny almond trees and dwarf olives, these stretches +of bare hills dotted with country houses, that showed on them like pale +patches accentuated by the dark bars of the secular cypresses. It was +like an antique landscape, one of those classic landscapes represented +in the paintings of the old schools, with harsh coloring and well +balanced and majestic lines. All the ardent sunshine of successive +summers that had parched this land flowed through their veins, and lent +them a new beauty and animation, as they walked under the sky forever +blue, glowing with the clear flame of eternal love. She, protected from +the sun by her straw hat, bloomed and luxuriated in this bath of light +like a tropical flower, while he, in his renewed youth, felt the +burning sap of the soil ascend into his veins in a flood of virile joy. + +This walk to La Séguiranne had been an idea of the doctor’s, who had +learned through Aunt Dieudonné of the approaching marriage of Sophie to +a young miller of the neighborhood; and he desired to see if every one +was well and happy in this retired corner. All at once they were +refreshed by a delightful coolness as they entered the avenue of tall +green oaks. On either side the springs, the mothers of these giant +shade trees, flowed on in their eternal course. And when they reached +the house of the shrew they came, as chance would have it, upon the two +lovers, Sophie and her miller, kissing each other beside the well; for +the girl’s aunt had just gone down to the lavatory behind the willows +of the Viorne. Confused, the couple stood in blushing silence. But the +doctor and his companion laughed indulgently, and the lovers, +reassured, told them that the marriage was set for St. John’s Day, +which was a long way off, to be sure, but which would come all the +same. Sophie, saved from the hereditary malady, had improved in health +and beauty, and was growing as strong as one of the trees that stood +with their feet in the moist grass beside the springs, and their heads +bare to the sunshine. Ah, the vast, glowing sky, what life it breathed +into all created things! She had but one grief, and tears came to her +eyes when she spoke of her brother Valentin, who perhaps would not live +through the week. She had had news of him the day before; he was past +hope. And the doctor was obliged to prevaricate a little to console +her, for he himself expected hourly the inevitable termination. When he +and his companion left La Séguiranne they returned slowly to Plassans, +touched by this happy, healthy love saddened by the chill of death. + +In the old quarter a woman whom Pascal was attending informed him that +Valentin had just died. Two of the neighbors were obliged to take away +La Guiraude, who, half-crazed, clung, shrieking, to her son’s body. The +doctor entered the house, leaving Clotilde outside. At last, they again +took their way to La Souleiade in silence. Since Pascal had resumed his +visits he seemed to make them only through professional duty; he no +longer became enthusiastic about the miracles wrought by his treatment. +But as far as Valentin’s death was concerned, he was surprised that it +had not occurred before; he was convinced that he had prolonged the +patient’s life for at least a year. In spite of the extraordinary +results which he had obtained at first, he knew well that death was the +inevitable end. That he had held it in check for months ought then to +have consoled him and soothed his remorse, still unassuaged, for having +involuntarily caused the death of Lafouasse, a few weeks sooner than it +would otherwise have occurred. But this did not seem to be the case, +and his brow was knitted in a frown as they returned to their beloved +solitude. But there a new emotion awaited him; sitting under the plane +trees, whither Martine had sent him, he saw Sarteur, the hatter, the +inmate of the Tulettes whom he had been so long treating by his +hypodermic injections, and the experiment so zealously continued seemed +to have succeeded. The injections of nerve substance had evidently +given strength to his will, since the madman was here, having left the +asylum that morning, declaring that he no longer had any attacks, that +he was entirely cured of the homicidal mania that impelled him to throw +himself upon any passer-by to strangle him. The doctor looked at him as +he spoke. He was a small dark man, with a retreating forehead and +aquiline features, with one cheek perceptibly larger than the other. He +was perfectly quiet and rational, and filled with so lively a gratitude +that he kissed his saviour’s hands. The doctor could not help being +greatly affected by all this, and he dismissed the man kindly, advising +him to return to his life of labor, which was the best hygiene, +physical and moral. Then he recovered his calmness and sat down to +table, talking gaily of other matters. + +Clotilde looked at him with astonishment and even with a little +indignation. + +“What is the matter, master?” she said. “You are no longer satisfied +with yourself.” + +“Oh, with myself I am never satisfied!” he answered jestingly. “And +with medicine, you know—it is according to the day.” + +It was on this night that they had their first quarrel. She was angry +with him because he no longer had any pride in his profession. She +returned to her complaint of the afternoon, reproaching him for not +taking more credit to himself for the cure of Sarteur, and even for the +prolongation of Valentin’s life. It was she who now had a passion for +his fame. She reminded him of his cures; had he not cured himself? +Could he deny the efficacy of his treatment? A thrill ran through him +as he recalled the great dream which he had once cherished—to combat +debility, the sole cause of disease; to cure suffering humanity; to +make a higher, and healthy humanity; to hasten the coming of happiness, +the future kingdom of perfection and felicity, by intervening and +giving health to all! And he possessed the liquor of life, the +universal panacea which opened up this immense hope! + +Pascal was silent for a moment. Then he murmured: + +“It is true. I cured myself, I have cured others, and I still think +that my injections are efficacious in many cases. I do not deny +medicine. Remorse for a deplorable accident, like that of Lafouasse, +does not render me unjust. Besides, work has been my passion, it is in +work that I have up to this time spent my energies; it was in wishing +to prove to myself the possibility of making decrepit humanity one day +strong and intelligent that I came near dying lately. Yes, a dream, a +beautiful dream!” + +“No, no! a reality, the reality of your genius, master.” + +Then, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, he breathed this +confession: + +“Listen, I am going to say to you what I would say to no one else in +the world, what I would not say to myself aloud. To correct nature, to +interfere, in order to modify it and thwart it in its purpose, is this +a laudable task? To cure the individual, to retard his death, for his +personal pleasure, to prolong his existence, doubtless to the injury of +the species, is not this to defeat the aims of nature? And have we the +right to desire a stronger, a healthier humanity, modeled after our +idea of health and strength? What have we to do in the matter? Why +should we interfere in this work of life, neither the means nor the end +of which are known to us? Perhaps everything is as it ought to be. +Perhaps we should risk killing love, genius, life itself. Remember, I +make the confession to you alone; but doubt has taken possession of me, +I tremble at the thought of my twentieth century alchemy. I have come +to believe that it is greater and wiser to allow evolution to take its +course.” + +He paused; then he added so softly that she could scarcely hear him: + +“Do you know that instead of nerve-substance I often use only water +with my patients. You no longer hear me grinding for days at a time. I +told you that I had some of the liquor in reserve. Water soothes them, +this is no doubt simply a mechanical effect. Ah! to soothe, to prevent +suffering—that indeed I still desire! It is perhaps my greatest +weakness, but I cannot bear to see any one suffer. Suffering puts me +beside myself, it seems a monstrous and useless cruelty of nature. I +practise now only to prevent suffering.” + +“Then, master,” she asked, in the same indistinct murmur, “if you no +longer desire to cure, do you still think everything must be told? For +the frightful necessity of displaying the wounds of humanity had no +other excuse than the hope of curing them.” + +“Yes, yes, it is necessary to know, in every case, and to conceal +nothing; to tell everything regarding things and individuals. Happiness +is no longer possible in ignorance; certainty alone makes life +tranquil. When people know more they will doubtless accept everything. +Do you not comprehend that to desire to cure everything, to regenerate +everything is a false ambition inspired by our egotism, a revolt +against life, which we declare to be bad, because we judge it from the +point of view of self-interest? I know that I am more tranquil, that my +intellect has broadened and deepened ever since I have held evolution +in respect. It is my love of life which triumphs, even to the extent of +not questioning its purpose, to the extent of confiding absolutely in +it, of losing myself in it, without wishing to remake it according to +my own conception of good and evil. Life alone is sovereign, life alone +knows its aim and its end. I can only try to know it in order to live +it as it should be lived. And this I have understood only since I have +possessed your love. Before I possessed it I sought the truth +elsewhere, I struggled with the fixed idea of saving the world. You +have come, and life is full; the world is saved every hour by love, by +the immense and incessant labor of all that live and love throughout +space. Impeccable life, omnipotent life, immortal life!” + +They continued to talk together in low tones for some time longer, +planning an idyllic life, a calm and healthful existence in the +country. It was in this simple prescription of an invigorating +environment that the experiments of the physician ended. He exclaimed +against cities. People could be well and happy only in the country, in +the sunshine, on the condition of renouncing money, ambition, even the +proud excesses of intellectual labor. They should do nothing but live +and love, cultivate the soil, and bring up their children. + + + + +IX. + + +Dr. Pascal then resumed his professional visits in the town and the +surrounding country. And he was generally accompanied by Clotilde, who +went with him into the houses of the poor, where she, too, brought +health and cheerfulness. + +But, as he had one night confessed to her in secret, his visits were +now only visits of relief and consolation. If he had before practised +with repugnance it was because he had felt how vain was medical +science. Empiricism disheartened him. From the moment that medicine +ceased to be an experimental science and became an art, he was filled +with disquiet at the thought of the infinite variety of diseases and of +their remedies, according to the constitution of the patient. Treatment +changed with every new hypothesis; how many people, then, must the +methods now abandoned have killed! The perspicacity of the physician +became everything, the healer was only a happily endowed diviner, +himself groping in the dark and effecting cures through his fortunate +endowment. And this explained why he had given up his patients almost +altogether, after a dozen years of practise, to devote himself entirely +to study. Then, when his great labors on heredity had restored to him +for a time the hope of intervening and curing disease by his hypodermic +injections, he had become again enthusiastic, until the day when his +faith in life, after having impelled him, to aid its action in this +way, by restoring the vital forces, became still broader and gave him +the higher conviction that life was self-sufficing, that it was the +only giver of health and strength, in spite of everything. And he +continued to visit, with his tranquil smile, only those of his patients +who clamored for him loudly, and who found themselves miraculously +relieved when he injected into them only pure water. + +Clotilde now sometimes allowed herself to jest about these hypodermic +injections. She was still at heart, however, a fervent worshiper of his +skill; and she said jestingly that if he performed miracles as he did +it was because he had in himself the godlike power to do so. Then he +would reply jestingly, attributing to her the efficacy of their common +visits, saying that he cured no one now when she was absent, that it +was she who brought the breath of life, the unknown and necessary force +from the Beyond. So that the rich people, the _bourgeois_, whose houses +she did not enter, continued to groan without his being able to relieve +them. And this affectionate dispute diverted them; they set out each +time as if for new discoveries, they exchanged glances of kindly +intelligence with the sick. Ah, this wretched suffering which revolted +them, and which was now all they went to combat; how happy they were +when they thought it vanquished! They were divinely recompensed when +they saw the cold sweats disappear, the moaning lips become stilled, +the deathlike faces recover animation. It was assuredly the love which +they brought to this humble, suffering humanity that produced the +alleviation. + +“To die is nothing; that is in the natural order of things,” Pascal +would often say. “But why suffer? It is cruel and unnecessary!” + +One afternoon the doctor was going with the young girl to the little +village of Sainte-Marthe to see a patient, and at the station, for they +were going by train, so as to spare Bonhomme, they had a reencounter. +The train which they were waiting for was from the Tulettes. +Sainte-Marthe was the first station in the opposite direction, going to +Marseilles. When the train arrived, they hurried on board and, opening +the door of a compartment which they thought empty, they saw old Mme. +Rougon about to leave it. She did not speak to them, but passing them +by, sprang down quickly in spite of her age, and walked away with a +stiff and haughty air. + +“It is the 1st of July,” said Clotilde when the train had started. +“Grandmother is returning from the Tulettes, after making her monthly +visit to Aunt Dide. Did you see the glance she cast at me?” + +Pascal was at heart glad of the quarrel with his mother, which freed +him from the continual annoyance of her visits. + +“Bah!” he said simply, “when people cannot agree it is better for them +not to see each other.” + +But the young girl remained troubled and thoughtful. After a few +moments she said in an undertone: + +“I thought her changed—looking paler. And did you notice? she who is +usually so carefully dressed had only one glove on—a yellow glove, on +the right hand. I don’t know why it was, but she made me feel sick at +heart.” + +Pascal, who was also disturbed, made a vague gesture. His mother would +no doubt grow old at last, like everybody else. But she was very +active, very full of fire still. She was thinking, he said, of +bequeathing her fortune to the town of Plassans, to build a house of +refuge, which should bear the name of Rougon. Both had recovered their +gaiety when he cried suddenly: + +“Why, it is to-morrow that you and I are to go to the Tulettes to see +our patients. And you know that I promised to take Charles to Uncle +Macquart’s.” + +Félicité was in fact returning from the Tulettes, where she went +regularly on the first of every month to inquire after Aunt Dide. For +many years past she had taken a keen interest in the madwoman’s health, +amazed to see her lasting so long, and furious with her for persisting +in living so far beyond the common term of life, until she had become a +very prodigy of longevity. What a relief, the fine morning on which +they should put under ground this troublesome witness of the past, this +specter of expiation and of waiting, who brought living before her the +abominations of the family! When so many others had been taken she, who +was demented and who had only a spark of life left in her eyes, seemed +forgotten. On this day she had found her as usual, skeleton-like, stiff +and erect in her armchair. As the keeper said, there was now no reason +why she should ever die. She was a hundred and five years old. + +When she left the asylum Félicité was furious. She thought of Uncle +Macquart. Another who troubled her, who persisted in living with +exasperating obstinacy! Although he was only eighty-four years old, +three years older than herself, she thought him ridiculously aged, past +the allotted term of life. And a man who led so dissipated a life, who +had gone to bed dead drunk every night for the last sixty years! The +good and the sober were taken away; he flourished in spite of +everything, blooming with health and gaiety. In days past, just after +he had settled at the Tulettes, she had made him presents of wines, +liqueurs and brandy, in the unavowed hope of ridding the family of a +fellow who was really disreputable, and from whom they had nothing to +expect but annoyance and shame. But she had soon perceived that all +this liquor served, on the contrary, to keep up his health and spirits +and his sarcastic humor, and she had left off making him presents, +seeing that he throve on what she had hoped would prove a poison to +him. She had cherished a deadly hatred toward him since then. She would +have killed him if she had dared, every time she saw him, standing +firmly on his drunken legs, and laughing at her to her face, knowing +well that she was watching for his death, and triumphant because he did +not give her the pleasure of burying with him all the old dirty linen +of the family, the blood and mud of the two conquests of Plassans. + +“You see, Félicité,” he would often say to her with his air of wicked +mockery, “I am here to take care of the old mother, and the day on +which we both make up our minds to die it would be through compliment +to you—yes, simply to spare you the trouble of running to see us so +good-naturedly, in this way, every month.” + +Generally she did not now give herself the disappointment of going to +Macquart’s, but inquired for him at the asylum. But on this occasion, +having learned there that he was passing through an extraordinary +attack of drunkenness, not having drawn a sober breath for a fortnight, +and so intoxicated that he was probably unable to leave the house, she +was seized with the curiosity to learn for herself what his condition +really was. And as she was going back to the station, she went out of +her way in order to stop at Macquart’s house. + +The day was superb—a warm and brilliant summer day. On either side of +the path which she had taken, she saw the fields that she had given him +in former days—all this fertile land, the price of his secrecy and his +good behavior. Before her appeared the house, with its pink tiles and +its bright yellow walls, looking gay in the sunshine. Under the ancient +mulberry trees on the terrace she enjoyed the delightful coolness and +the beautiful view. What a pleasant and safe retreat, what a happy +solitude was this for an old man to end in joy and peace a long and +well-spent life! + +But she did not see him, she did not hear him. The silence was +profound. The only sound to be heard was the humming of the bees +circling around the tall marshmallows. And on the terrace there was +nothing to be seen but a little yellow dog, stretched at full length on +the bare ground, seeking the coolness of the shade. He raised his head +growling, about to bark, but, recognizing the visitor, he lay down +again quietly. + +Then, in this peaceful and sunny solitude she was seized with a strange +chill, and she called: + +“Macquart! Macquart!” + +The door of the house under the mulberry trees stood wide open. But she +did not dare to go in; this empty house with its wide open door gave +her a vague uneasiness. And she called again: + +“Macquart! Macquart!” + +Not a sound, not a breath. Profound silence reigned again, but the +humming of the bees circling around the tall marshmallows sounded +louder than before. + +At last Félicité, ashamed of her fears, summoned courage to enter. The +door on the left of the hall, opening into the kitchen, where Uncle +Macquart generally sat, was closed. She pushed it open, but she could +distinguish nothing at first, as the blinds had been closed, probably +in order to shut out the heat. Her first sensation was one of choking, +caused by an overpowering odor of alcohol which filled the room; every +article of furniture seemed to exude this odor, the whole house was +impregnated with it. At last, when her eyes had become accustomed to +the semi-obscurity, she perceived Macquart. He was seated at the table, +on which were a glass and a bottle of spirits of thirty-six degrees, +completely empty. Settled in his chair, he was sleeping profoundly, +dead drunk. This spectacle revived her anger and contempt. + +“Come, Macquart,” she cried, “is it not vile and senseless to put one’s +self in such a state! Wake up, I say, this is shameful!” + +His sleep was so profound that she could not even hear him breathing. +In vain she raised her voice, and slapped him smartly on the hands. + +“Macquart! Macquart! Macquart! Ah, faugh! You are disgusting, my dear!” + +Then she left him, troubling herself no further about him, and walked +around the room, evidently seeking something. Coming down the dusky +road from the asylum she had been seized with a consuming thirst, and +she wished to get a glass of water. Her gloves embarrassed her, and she +took them off and put them on a corner of the table. Then she succeeded +in finding the jug, and she washed a glass and filled it to the brim, +and was about to empty it when she saw an extraordinary sight—a sight +which agitated her so greatly that she set the glass down again beside +her gloves, without drinking. + +By degrees she had begun to see objects more clearly in the room, which +was lighted dimly by a few stray sunbeams that filtered through the +cracks of the old shutters. She now saw Uncle Macquart distinctly, +neatly dressed in a blue cloth suit, as usual, and on his head the +eternal fur cap which he wore from one year’s end to the other. He had +grown stout during the last five or six years, and he looked like a +veritable mountain of flesh overlaid with rolls of fat. And she noticed +that he must have fallen asleep while smoking, for his pipe—a short +black pipe—had fallen into his lap. Then she stood still, stupefied +with amazement—the burning tobacco had been scattered in the fall, and +the cloth of the trousers had caught fire, and through a hole in the +stuff, as large already as a hundred-sous piece, she saw the bare +thigh, whence issued a little blue flame. + +At first Félicité had thought that it was linen—the drawers or the +shirt—that was burning. But soon doubt was no longer possible, she saw +distinctly the bare flesh and the little blue flame issuing from it, +lightly dancing, like a flame wandering over the surface of a vessel of +lighted alcohol. It was as yet scarcely higher than the flame of a +night light, pale and soft, and so unstable that the slightest breath +of air caused it to change its place. But it increased and spread +rapidly, and the skin cracked and the fat began to melt. + +An involuntary cry escaped from Félicité’s throat. + +“Macquart! Macquart!” + +But still he did not stir. His insensibility must have been complete; +intoxication must have produced a sort of coma, in which there was an +absolute paralysis of sensation, for he was living, his breast could be +seen rising and falling, in slow and even respiration. + +“Macquart! Macquart!” + +Now the fat was running through the cracks of the skin, feeding the +flame, which was invading the abdomen. And Félicité comprehended +vaguely that Uncle Macquart was burning before her like a sponge soaked +with brandy. He had, indeed, been saturated with it for years past, and +of the strongest and most inflammable kind. He would no doubt soon be +blazing from head to foot, like a bowl of punch. + +Then she ceased to try to awaken him, since he was sleeping so soundly. +For a full minute she had the courage to look at him, awe-stricken, but +gradually coming to a determination. Her hands, however, began to +tremble, with a little shiver which she could not control. She was +choking, and taking up the glass of water again with both hands, she +emptied it at a draught. And she was going away on tiptoe, when she +remembered her gloves. She went back, groped for them anxiously on the +table and, as she thought, picked them both up. Then she left the room, +closing the door behind her carefully, and as gently as if she were +afraid of disturbing some one. + +When she found herself once more on the terrace, in the cheerful +sunshine and the pure air, in face of the vast horizon bathed in light, +she heaved a sigh of relief. The country was deserted; no one could +have seen her entering or leaving the house. Only the yellow dog was +still stretched there, and he did not even deign to look up. And she +went away with her quick, short step, her youthful figure lightly +swaying. A hundred steps away, an irresistible impulse compelled her to +turn round to give a last look at the house, so tranquil and so +cheerful on the hillside, in the declining light of the beautiful day. + +Only when she was in the train and went to put on her gloves did she +perceive that one of them was missing. But she supposed that it had +fallen on the platform at the station as she was getting into the car. +She believed herself to be quite calm, but she remained with one hand +gloved and one hand bare, which, with her, could only be the result of +great agitation. + +On the following day Pascal and Clotilde took the three o’clock train +to go to the Tulettes. The mother of Charles, the harness-maker’s wife, +had brought the boy to them, as they had offered to take him to Uncle +Macquart’s, where he was to remain for the rest of the week. Fresh +quarrels had disturbed the peace of the household, the husband having +resolved to tolerate no longer in his house another man’s child, that +do-nothing, imbecile prince’s son. As it was Grandmother Rougon who had +dressed him, he was, indeed, dressed on this day, again, in black +velvet trimmed with gold braid, like a young lord, a page of former +times going to court. And during the quarter of an hour which the +journey lasted, Clotilde amused herself in the compartment, in which +they were alone, by taking off his cap and smoothing his beautiful +blond locks, his royal hair that fell in curls over his shoulders. She +had a ring on her finger, and as she passed her hand over his neck she +was startled to perceive that her caress had left behind it a trace of +blood. One could not touch the boy’s skin without the red dew exuding +from it; the tissues had become so lax through extreme degeneration +that the slightest scratch brought on a hemorrhage. The doctor became +at once uneasy, and asked him if he still bled at the nose as +frequently as formerly. Charles hardly knew what to answer; first +saying no, then, recollecting himself, he said that he had bled a great +deal the other day. He seemed, indeed, weaker; he grew more childish as +he grew older; his intelligence, which had never developed, had become +clouded. This tall boy of fifteen, so beautiful, so girlish-looking, +with the color of a flower that had grown in the shade, did not look +ten. + +At the Tulettes Pascal decided that they would first take the boy to +Uncle Macquart’s. They ascended the steep road. In the distance the +little house looked gay in the sunshine, as it had looked on the day +before, with its yellow walls and its green mulberry trees extending +their twisted branches and covering the terrace with a thick, leafy +roof. A delightful sense of peace pervaded this solitary spot, this +sage’s retreat, where the only sound to be heard was the humming of the +bees, circling round the tall marshmallows. + +“Ah, that rascal of an uncle!” said Pascal, smiling, “how I envy him!” + +But he was surprised not to have already seen him standing at the edge +of the terrace. And as Charles had run off dragging Clotilde with him +to see the rabbits, as he said, the doctor continued the ascent alone, +and was astonished when he reached the top to see no one. The blinds +were closed, the hill door yawned wide open. Only the yellow dog was at +the threshold, his legs stiff, his hair bristling, howling with a low +and continuous moan. When he saw the visitor, whom he no doubt +recognized, approaching, he stopped howling for an instant and went and +stood further off, then he began again to whine softly. + +Pascal, filled with apprehension, could not keep back the uneasy cry +that rose to his lips: + +“Macquart! Macquart!” + +No one answered; a deathlike silence reigned over the house, with its +door yawning wide open, like the mouth of a cavern. The dog continued +to howl. + +Then Pascal grew impatient, and cried more loudly. + +“Macquart! Macquart!” + +There was not a stir; the bees hummed, the sky looked down serenely on +the peaceful scene. Then he hesitated no longer. Perhaps Macquart was +asleep. But the instant he pushed open the door of the kitchen on the +left of the hall, a horrible odor escaped from it, an odor of burned +flesh and bones. When he entered the room he could hardly breathe, so +filled was it by a thick vapor, a stagnant and nauseous cloud, which +choked and blinded him. The sunbeams that filtered through the cracks +made only a dim light. He hurried to the fireplace, thinking that +perhaps there had been a fire, but the fireplace was empty, and the +articles of furniture around appeared to be uninjured. Bewildered, and +feeling himself growing faint in the poisoned atmosphere, he ran to the +window and threw the shutters wide open. A flood of light entered. + +Then the scene presented to the doctor’s view filled him with +amazement. Everything was in its place; the glass and the empty bottle +of spirits were on the table; only the chair in which Uncle Macquart +must have been sitting bore traces of fire, the front legs were +blackened and the straw was partially consumed. What had become of +Macquart? Where could he have disappeared? In front of the chair, on +the brick floor, which was saturated with grease, there was a little +heap of ashes, beside which lay the pipe—a black pipe, which had not +even broken in falling. All of Uncle Macquart was there, in this +handful of fine ashes; and he was in the red cloud, also, which floated +through the open window; in the layer of soot which carpeted the entire +kitchen; the horrible grease of burnt flesh, enveloping everything, +sticky and foul to the touch. + +It was the finest case of spontaneous combustion physician had ever +seen. The doctor had, indeed, read in medical papers of surprising +cases, among others that of a shoemaker’s wife, a drunken woman who had +fallen asleep over her foot warmer, and of whom they had found only a +hand and foot. He had, until now, put little faith in these cases, +unwilling to admit, like the ancients, that a body impregnated with +alcohol could disengage an unknown gas, capable of taking fire +spontaneously and consuming the flesh and the bones. But he denied the +truth of them no longer; besides, everything became clear to him as he +reconstructed the scene—the coma of drunkenness producing absolute +insensibility; the pipe falling on the clothes, which had taken fire; +the flesh, saturated with liquor, burning and cracking; the fat +melting, part of it running over the ground and part of it aiding the +combustion, and all, at last—muscles, organs, and bones—consumed in a +general blaze. Uncle Macquart was all there, with his blue cloth suit, +and his fur cap, which he wore from one year’s end to the other. +Doubtless, as soon as he had begun to burn like a bonfire he had fallen +forward, which would account for the chair being only blackened; and +nothing of him was left, not a bone, not a tooth, not a nail, nothing +but this little heap of gray dust which the draught of air from the +door threatened at every moment to sweep away. + +Clotilde had meanwhile entered, Charles remaining outside, his +attention attracted by the continued howling of the dog. + +“Good Heavens, what a smell!” she cried. “What is the matter?” + +When Pascal explained to her the extraordinary catastrophe that had +taken place, she shuddered. She took up the bottle to examine it, but +she put it down again with horror, feeling it moist and sticky with +Uncle Macquart’s flesh. Nothing could be touched, the smallest objects +were coated, as it were, with this yellowish grease which stuck to the +hands. + +A shudder of mingled awe and disgust passed through her, and she burst +into tears, faltering: + +“What a sad death! What a horrible death!” + +Pascal had recovered from his first shock, and he was almost smiling. + +“Why horrible? He was eighty-four years old; he did not suffer. As for +me, I think it a superb death for that old rascal of an uncle, who, it +may be now said, did not lead a very exemplary life. You remember his +envelope; he had some very terrible and vile things upon his +conscience, which did not prevent him, however, from settling down +later and growing old, surrounded by every comfort, like an old humbug, +receiving the recompense of virtues which he did not possess. And here +he lies like the prince of drunkards, burning up of himself, consumed +on the burning funeral pile of his own body!” + +And the doctor waved his hand in admiration. + +“Just think of it. To be drunk to the point of not feeling that one is +on fire; to set one’s self aflame, like a bonfire on St. John’s day; to +disappear in smoke to the last bone. Think of Uncle Macquart starting +on his journey through space; first diffused through the four corners +of the room, dissolved in air and floating about, bathing all that +belonged to him; then escaping in a cloud of dust through the window, +when I opened it for him, soaring up into the sky, filling the horizon. +Why, that is an admirable death! To disappear, to leave nothing of +himself behind but a little heap of ashes and a pipe beside it!” + +And he picked up the pipe to keep it, as he said, as a relic of Uncle +Macquart; while Clotilde, who thought she perceived a touch of bitter +mockery in his eulogistic rhapsody, shuddered anew with horror and +disgust. But suddenly she perceived something under the table—part of +the remains, perhaps. + +“Look at that fragment there.” + +He stooped down and picked up with surprise a woman’s glove, a yellow +glove. + +“Why!” she cried, “it is grandmother’s glove; the glove that was +missing last evening.” + +They looked at each other; by a common impulse the same explanation +rose to their lips, Félicité was certainly there yesterday; and a +sudden conviction forced itself on the doctor’s mind—the conviction +that his mother had seen Uncle Macquart burning and that she had not +quenched him. Various indications pointed to this—the state of complete +coolness in which he found the room, the number of hours which he +calculated to have been necessary for the combustion of the body. He +saw clearly the same thought dawning in the terrified eyes of his +companion. But as it seemed impossible that they should ever know the +truth, he fabricated aloud the simplest explanation: + +“No doubt your grandmother came in yesterday on her way back from the +asylum, to say good day to Uncle Macquart, before he had begun +drinking.” + +“Let us go away! let us go away!” cried Clotilde. “I am stifling here; +I cannot remain here!” + +Pascal, too, wished to go and give information of the death. He went +out after her, shut up the house, and put the key in his pocket. +Outside, they heard the little yellow dog still howling. He had taken +refuge between Charles’ legs, and the boy amused himself pushing him +with his foot and listening to him whining, without comprehending. + +The doctor went at once to the house of M. Maurin, the notary at the +Tulettes, who was also mayor of the commune. A widower for ten years +past, and living with his daughter, who was a childless widow, he had +maintained neighborly relations with old Macquart, and had occasionally +kept little Charles with him for several days at a time, his daughter +having become interested in the boy who was so handsome and so much to +be pitied. M. Maurin, horrified at the news, went at once with the +doctor to draw up a statement of the accident, and promised to make out +the death certificate in due form. As for religious ceremonies, funeral +obsequies, they seemed scarcely possible. When they entered the kitchen +the draught from the door scattered the ashes about, and when they +piously attempted to collect them again they succeeded only in +gathering together the scrapings of the flags, a collection of +accumulated dirt, in which there could be but little of Uncle Macquart. +What, then, could they bury? It was better to give up the idea. So they +gave it up. Besides, Uncle Macquart had been hardly a devout Catholic, +and the family contented themselves with causing masses to be said +later on for the repose of his soul. + +The notary, meantime, had immediately declared that there existed a +will, which had been deposited with him, and he asked Pascal to meet +him at his house on the next day but one for the reading; for he +thought he might tell the doctor at once that Uncle Macquart had chosen +him as his executor. And he ended by offering, like a kindhearted man, +to keep Charles with him until then, comprehending how greatly the boy, +who was so unwelcome at his mother’s, would be in the way in the midst +of all these occurrences. Charles seemed enchanted, and he remained at +the Tulettes. + +It was not until very late, until seven o’clock, that Clotilde and +Pascal were able to take the train to return to Plassans, after the +doctor had at last visited the two patients whom he had to see. But +when they returned together to the notary’s on the day appointed for +the meeting, they had the disagreeable surprise of finding old Mme. +Rougon installed there. She had naturally learned of Macquart’s death, +and had hurried there on the following day, full of excitement, and +making a great show of grief; and she had just made her appearance +again to-day, having heard the famous testament spoken of. The reading +of the will, however, was a simple matter, unmarked by any incident. +Macquart had left all the fortune that he could dispose of for the +purpose of erecting a superb marble monument to himself, with two +angels with folded wings, weeping. It was his own idea, a reminiscence +of a similar tomb which he had seen abroad—in Germany, perhaps—when he +was a soldier. And he had charged his nephew Pascal to superintend the +erection of the monument, as he was the only one of the family, he +said, who had any taste. + +During the reading of the will Clotilde had remained in the notary’s +garden, sitting on a bench under the shade of an ancient chestnut tree. +When Pascal and Félicité again appeared, there was a moment of great +embarrassment, for they had not spoken to one another for some months +past. The old lady, however, affected to be perfectly at her ease, +making no allusion whatever to the new situation, and giving it to be +understood that they might very well meet and appear united before the +world, without for that reason entering into an explanation or becoming +reconciled. But she committed the mistake of laying too much stress on +the great grief which Macquart’s death had caused her. Pascal, who +suspected the overflowing joy, the unbounded delight which it gave her +to think that this family ulcer was to be at last healed, that this +abominable uncle was at last out of the way, became gradually possessed +by an impatience, an indignation, which he could not control. His eyes +fastened themselves involuntarily on his mother’s gloves, which were +black. + +Just then she was expressing her grief in lowered tones: + +“But how imprudent it was, at his age, to persist in living alone—like +a wolf in his lair! If he had only had a servant in the house with +him!” + +Then the doctor, hardly conscious of what he was saying, terrified at +hearing himself say the words, but impelled by an irresistible force, +said: + +“But, mother, since you were there, why did you not quench him?” + +Old Mme. Rougon turned frightfully pale. How could her son have known? +She looked at him for an instant in open-mouthed amazement; while +Clotilde grew as pale as she, in the certainty of the crime, which was +now evident. It was an avowal, this terrified silence which had fallen +between the mother, the son, and the granddaughter—the shuddering +silence in which families bury their domestic tragedies. The doctor, in +despair at having spoken, he who avoided so carefully all disagreeable +and useless explanations, was trying desperately to retract his words, +when a new catastrophe extricated him from his terrible embarrassment. + +Félicité desired to take Charles away with her, in order not to +trespass on the notary’s kind hospitality; and as the latter had sent +the boy after breakfast to spend an hour or two with Aunt Dide, he had +sent the maid servant to the asylum with orders to bring him back +immediately. It was at this juncture that the servant, whom they were +waiting for in the garden, made her appearance, covered with +perspiration, out of breath, and greatly excited, crying from a +distance: + +“My God! My God! come quickly. Master Charles is bathed in blood.” + +Filled with consternation, all three set off for the asylum. This day +chanced to be one of Aunt Dide’s good days; very calm and gentle she +sat erect in the armchair in which she had spent the hours, the long +hours for twenty-two years past, looking straight before her into +vacancy. She seemed to have grown still thinner, all the flesh had +disappeared, her limbs were now only bones covered with parchment-like +skin; and her keeper, the stout fair-haired girl, carried her, fed her, +took her up and laid her down as if she had been a bundle. The +ancestress, the forgotten one, tall, bony, ghastly, remained +motionless, her eyes, only seeming to have life, her eyes shining clear +as spring water in her thin withered face. But on this morning, again a +sudden rush of tears had streamed down her cheeks, and she had begun to +stammer words without any connection; which seemed to prove that in the +midst of her senile exhaustion and the incurable torpor of madness, the +slow induration of the brain and the limbs was not yet complete; there +still were memories stored away, gleams of intelligence still were +possible. Then her face had resumed its vacant expression. She seemed +indifferent to every one and everything, laughing, sometimes, at an +accident, at a fall, but most often seeing nothing and hearing nothing, +gazing fixedly into vacancy. + +When Charles had been brought to her the keeper had immediately +installed him before the little table, in front of his +great-great-grandmother. The girl kept a package of pictures for +him—soldiers, captains, kings clad in purple and gold, and she gave +them to him with a pair of scissors, saying: + +“There, amuse yourself quietly, and behave well. You see that to-day +grandmother is very good. You must be good, too.” + +The boy raised his eyes to the madwoman’s face, and both looked at each +other. At this moment the resemblance between them was extraordinary. +Their eyes, especially, their vacant and limpid eyes, seemed to lose +themselves in one another, to be identical. Then it was the +physiognomy, the whole face, the worn features of the centenarian, that +passed over three generations to this delicate child’s face, it, too, +worn already, as it were, and aged by the wear of the race. Neither +smiled, they regarded each other intently, with an air of grave +imbecility. + +“Well!” continued the keeper, who had acquired the habit of talking to +herself to cheer herself when with her mad charge, “you cannot deny +each other. The same hand made you both. You are the very spit-down of +each other. Come, laugh a bit, amuse yourselves, since you like to be +together.” + +But to fix his attention for any length of time fatigued Charles, and +he was the first to lower his eyes; he seemed to be interested in his +pictures, while Aunt Dide, who had an astonishing power of fixing her +attention, as if she had been turned into stone, continued to look at +him fixedly, without even winking an eyelid. + +The keeper busied herself for a few moments in the little sunny room, +made gay by its light, blue-flowered paper. She made the bed which she +had been airing, she arranged the linen on the shelves of the press. +But she generally profited by the presence of the boy to take a little +relaxation. She had orders never to leave her charge alone, and now +that he was here she ventured to trust her with him. + +“Listen to me well,” she went on, “I have to go out for a little, and +if she stirs, if she should need me, ring for me, call me at once; do +you hear? You understand, you are a big enough boy to be able to call +one.” + +He had looked up again, and made a sign that he had understood and that +he would call her. And when he found himself alone with Aunt Dide he +returned to his pictures quietly. This lasted for a quarter of an hour +amid the profound silence of the asylum, broken only at intervals by +some prison sound—a stealthy step, the jingling of a bunch of keys, and +occasionally a loud cry, immediately silenced. But the boy must have +been tired by the excessive heat of the day, for sleep gradually stole +over him. Soon his head, fair as a lily, drooped, and as if weighed +down by the too heavy casque of his royal locks, he let it sink gently +on the pictures and fell asleep, with his cheek resting on the gold and +purple kings. The lashes of his closed eyelids cast a shadow on his +delicate skin, with its small blue veins, through which life pulsed +feebly. He was beautiful as an angel, but with the indefinable +corruption of a whole race spread over his countenance. And Aunt Dide +looked at him with her vacant stare in which there was neither pleasure +nor pain, the stare of eternity contemplating things earthly. + +At the end of a few moments, however, an expression of interest seemed +to dawn in the clear eyes. Something had just happened, a drop of blood +was forming on the edge of the left nostril of the boy. This drop fell +and another formed and followed it. It was the blood, the dew of blood, +exuding this time, without a scratch, without a bruise, which issued +and flowed of itself in the laxity of the degenerate tissues. The drops +became a slender thread which flowed over the gold of the pictures. A +little pool covered them, and made its way to a corner of the table; +then the drops began again, splashing dully one by one upon the floor. +And he still slept, with the divinely calm look of a cherub, not even +conscious of the life that was escaping from him; and the madwoman +continued to look at him, with an air of increasing interest, but +without terror, amused, rather, her attention engaged by this, as by +the flight of the big flies, which her gaze often followed for hours. + +Several minutes more passed, the slender thread had grown larger, the +drops followed one another more rapidly, falling on the floor with a +monotonous and persistent drip. And Charles, at one moment, stirred, +opened his eyes, and perceived that he was covered with blood. But he +was not frightened; he was accustomed to this bloody spring, which +issued from him at the slightest cause. He merely gave a sigh of +weariness. Instinct, however, must have warned him, for he moaned more +loudly than before, and called confusedly in stammering accents: + +“Mamma! mamma!” + +His weakness was no doubt already excessive, for an irresistible stupor +once more took possession of him, his head dropped, his eyes closed, +and he seemed to fall asleep again, continuing his plaint, as if in a +dream, moaning in fainter and fainter accents: + +“Mamma! mamma!” + +Now the pictures were inundated; the black velvet jacket and trousers, +braided with gold, were stained with long streaks of blood, and the +little red stream began again to flow persistently from his left +nostril, without stopping, crossed the red pool on the table and fell +upon the ground, where it at last formed a veritable lake. A loud cry +from the madwoman, a terrified call would have sufficed. But she did +not cry, she did not call; motionless, rigid, emaciated, sitting there +forgotten of the world, she gazed with the fixed look of the ancestress +who sees the destinies of her race being accomplished. She sat there as +if dried up, bound; her limbs and her tongue tied by her hundred years, +her brain ossified by madness, incapable of willing or of acting. And +yet the sight of the little red stream began to stir some feeling in +her. A tremor passed over her deathlike countenance, a flush mounted to +her cheeks. Finally, a last plaint roused her completely: + +“Mamma! mamma!” + +Then it was evident that a terrible struggle was taking place in Aunt +Dide. She carried her skeleton-like hand to her forehead as if she felt +her brain bursting. Her mouth was wide open, but no sound issued from +it; the dreadful tumult that had arisen within her had no doubt +paralyzed her tongue. She tried to rise, to run, but she had no longer +any muscles; she remained fastened to her seat. All her poor body +trembled in the superhuman effort which she was making to cry for help, +without being able to break the bonds of old age and madness which held +her prisoner. Her face was distorted with terror; memory gradually +awakening, she must have comprehended everything. + +And it was a slow and gentle agony, of which the spectacle lasted for +several minutes more. Charles, silent now, as if he had again fallen +asleep, was losing the last drops of blood that had remained in his +veins, which were emptying themselves softly. His lily-like whiteness +increased until it became a deathlike pallor. His lips lost their rosy +color, became a pale pink, then white. And, as he was about to expire, +he opened his large eyes and fixed them on his great-great-grandmother, +who watched the light dying in them. All the waxen face was already +dead, the eyes only were still living. They still kept their limpidity, +their brightness. All at once they became vacant, the light in them was +extinguished. This was the end—the death of the eyes, and Charles had +died, without a struggle, exhausted, like a fountain from which all the +water has run out. Life no longer pulsed through the veins of his +delicate skin, there was now only the shadow of its wings on his white +face. But he remained divinely beautiful, his face lying in blood, +surrounded by his royal blond locks, like one of those little bloodless +dauphins who, unable to bear the execrable heritage of their race, die +of decrepitude and imbecility at sixteen. + +The boy exhaled his latest breath as Dr. Pascal entered the room, +followed by Félicité and Clotilde. And when he saw the quantity of +blood that inundated the floor, he cried: + +“Ah, my God! it is as I feared, a hemorrhage from the nose! The poor +darling, no one was with him, and it is all over!” + +But all three were struck with terror at the extraordinary spectacle +that now met their gaze. Aunt Dide, who seemed to have grown taller, in +the superhuman effort she was making, had almost succeeded in raising +herself up, and her eyes, fixed on the dead boy, so fair and so gentle, +and on the red sea of blood, beginning to congeal, that was lying +around him, kindled with a thought, after a long sleep of twenty-two +years. This final lesion of madness, this irremediable darkness of the +mind, was evidently not so complete but that some memory of the past, +lying hidden there, might awaken suddenly under the terrible blow which +had struck her. And the ancestress, the forgotten one, lived again, +emerged from her oblivion, rigid and wasted, like a specter of terror +and grief. + +For an instant she remained panting. Then with a shudder, which made +her teeth chatter, she stammered a single phrase: + +“The _gendarme_! the _gendarme_!” + +Pascal and Félicité and Clotilde understood. They looked at one another +involuntarily, turning very pale. The whole dreadful history of the old +mother—of the mother of them all—rose before them, the ardent love of +her youth, the long suffering of her mature age. Already two moral +shocks had shaken her terribly—the first, when she was in her ardent +prime, when a _gendarme_ shot down her lover Macquart, the smuggler, +like a dog; the second, years ago, when another _gendarme_ shattered +with a pistol shot the skull of her grandson Silvère, the insurgent, +the victim of the hatred and the sanguinary strife of the family. Blood +had always bespattered her. And a third moral shock finished her; blood +bespattered her again, the impoverished blood of her race, which she +had just beheld flowing slowly, and which lay upon the ground, while +the fair royal child, his veins and his heart empty, slept. + +Three times—face to face with her past life, her life red with passion +and suffering, haunted by the image of expiation—she stammered: + +“The _gendarme_! the _gendarme_! the _gendarme_!” + +Then she sank back into her armchair. They thought she was dead, killed +by the shock. + +But the keeper at this moment at last appeared, endeavoring to excuse +herself, fearing that she would be dismissed. When, aided by her, Dr. +Pascal had placed Aunt Dide on the bed, he found that the old mother +was still alive. She was not to die until the following day, at the age +of one hundred and five years, three months, and seven days, of +congestion of the brain, caused by the last shock she had received. + +Pascal, turning to his mother, said: + +“She will not live twenty-four hours; to-morrow she will be dead. Ah! +Uncle Macquart, then she, and this poor boy, one after another. How +much misery and grief!” + +He paused and added in a lower tone: + +“The family is thinning out; the old trees fall and the young die +standing.” + +Félicité must have thought this another allusion. She was sincerely +shocked by the tragic death of little Charles. But, notwithstanding, +above the horror which she felt there arose a sense of immense relief. +Next week, when they should have ceased to weep, what a rest to be able +to say to herself that all this abomination of the Tulettes was at an +end, that the family might at last rise, and shine in history! + +Then she remembered that she had not answered the involuntary +accusation made against her by her son at the notary’s; and she spoke +again of Macquart, through bravado: + +“You see now that servants are of no use. There was one here, and yet +she prevented nothing; it would have been useless for Uncle Macquart to +have had one to take care of him; he would be in ashes now, all the +same.” + +She sighed, and then continued in a broken voice: + +“Well, well, neither our own fate nor that of others is in our hands; +things happen as they will. These are great blows that have fallen upon +us. We must only trust to God for the preservation and the prosperity +of our family.” + +Dr. Pascal bowed with his habitual air of deference and said: + +“You are right, mother.” + +Clotilde knelt down. Her former fervent Catholic faith had revived in +this chamber of blood, of madness, and of death. Tears streamed down +her cheeks, and with clasped hands she was praying fervently for the +dear ones who were no more. She prayed that God would grant that their +sufferings might indeed be ended, their faults pardoned, and that they +might live again in another life, a life of unending happiness. And she +prayed with the utmost fervor, in her terror of a hell, which after +this miserable life would make suffering eternal. + +From this day Pascal and Clotilde went to visit their sick side by +side, filled with greater pity than ever. Perhaps, with Pascal, the +feeling of his powerlessness against inevitable disease was even +stronger than before. The only wisdom was to let nature take its +course, to eliminate dangerous elements, and to labor only in the +supreme work of giving health and strength. But the suffering and the +death of those who are dear to us awaken in us a hatred of disease, an +irresistible desire to combat and to vanquish it. And the doctor never +tasted so great a joy as when he succeeded, with his hypodermic +injections, in soothing a paroxysm of pain, in seeing the groaning +patient grow tranquil and fall asleep. Clotilde, in return, adored him, +proud of their love, as if it were a consolation which they carried, +like the viaticum, to the poor. + + + + +X. + + +Martine one morning obtained from Dr. Pascal, as she did every three +months, his receipt for fifteen hundred francs, to take it to the +notary Grandguillot, to get from him what she called their “income.” +The doctor seemed surprised that the payment should have fallen due +again so soon; he had never been so indifferent as he was now about +money matters, leaving to Martine the care of settling everything. And +he and Clotilde were under the plane trees, absorbed in the joy that +filled their life, lulled by the ceaseless song of the fountain, when +the servant returned with a frightened face, and in a state of +extraordinary agitation. She was so breathless with excitement that for +a moment she could not speak. + +“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” she cried at last. “M. Grandguillot has gone +away!” + +Pascal did not at first comprehend. + +“Well, my girl, there is no hurry,” he said; “you can go back another +day.” + +“No, no! He has gone away; don’t you hear? He has gone away forever—” + +And as the waters rush forth in the bursting of a dam, her emotion +vented itself in a torrent of words. + +“I reached the street, and I saw from a distance a crowd gathered +before the door. A chill ran through me; I felt that some misfortune +had happened. The door closed, and not a blind open, as if there was +somebody dead in the house. They told me when I got there that he had +run away; that he had not left a sou behind him; that many families +would be ruined.” + +She laid the receipt on the stone table. + +“There! There is your paper! It is all over with us, we have not a sou +left, we are going to die of starvation!” And she sobbed aloud in the +anguish of her miserly heart, distracted by this loss of a fortune, and +trembling at the prospect of impending want. + +Clotilde sat stunned and speechless, her eyes fixed on Pascal, whose +predominating feeling at first seemed to be one of incredulity. He +endeavored to calm Martine. Why! why! it would not do to give up in +this way. If all she knew of the affair was what she had heard from the +people in the street, it might be only gossip, after all, which always +exaggerates everything. M. Grandguillot a fugitive; M. Grandguillot a +thief; that was monstrous, impossible! A man of such probity, a house +liked and respected by all Plassans for more than a century past. Why +people thought money safer there than in the Bank of France. + +“Consider, Martine, this would not have come all of a sudden, like a +thunderclap; there would have been some rumors of it beforehand. The +deuce! an old reputation does not fall to pieces in that way, in a +night.” + +At this she made a gesture of despair. + +“Ah, monsieur, that is what most afflicts me, because, you see, it +throws some of the responsibility on me. For weeks past I have been +hearing stories on all sides. As for you two, naturally you hear +nothing; you don’t even know whether you are alive or dead.” + +Neither Pascal nor Clotilde could refrain from smiling; for it was +indeed true that their love lifted them so far above the earth that +none of the common sounds of existence reached them. + +“But the stories I heard were so ugly that I didn’t like to worry you +with them. I thought they were lies.” + +She was silent for a moment, and then added that while some people +merely accused M. Grandguillot of having speculated on the Bourse, +there were others who accused him of still worse practises. And she +burst into fresh sobs. + +“My God! My God! what is going to become of us? We are all going to die +of starvation!” + +Shaken, then, moved by seeing Clotilde’s eyes, too, filled with tears, +Pascal made an effort to remember, to see clearly into the past. Years +ago, when he had been practising in Plassans, he had deposited at +different times, with M. Grandguillot, the twenty thousand francs on +the interest of which he had lived comfortably for the past sixteen +years, and on each occasion the notary had given him a receipt for the +sum deposited. This would no doubt enable him to establish his position +as a personal creditor. Then a vague recollection awoke in his memory; +he remembered, without being able to fix the date, that at the request +of the notary, and in consequence of certain representations made by +him, which Pascal had forgotten, he had given the lawyer a power of +attorney for the purpose of investing the whole or a part of his money, +in mortgages, and he was even certain that in this power the name of +the attorney had been left in blank. But he was ignorant as to whether +this document had ever been used or not; he had never taken the trouble +to inquire how his money had been invested. A fresh pang of miserly +anguish made Martine cry out: + +“Ah, monsieur, you are well punished for your sin. Was that a way to +abandon one’s money? For my part, I know almost to a sou how my account +stands every quarter; I have every figure and every document at my +fingers’ ends.” + +In the midst of her distress an unconscious smile broke over her face, +lighting it all up. Her long cherished passion had been gratified; her +four hundred francs wages, saved almost intact, put out at interest for +thirty years, at last amounted to the enormous sum of twenty thousand +francs. And this treasure was put away in a safe place which no one +knew. She beamed with delight at the recollection, and she said no +more. + +“But who says that our money is lost?” cried Pascal. + +“M. Grandguillot had a private fortune; he has not taken away with him +his house and his lands, I suppose. They will look into the affair; +they will make an investigation. I cannot make up my mind to believe +him a common thief. The only trouble is the delay: a liquidation drags +on so long.” + +He spoke in this way in order to reassure Clotilde, whose growing +anxiety he observed. She looked at him, and she looked around her at La +Souleiade; her only care his happiness; her most ardent desire to live +here always, as she had lived in the past, to love him always in this +beloved solitude. And he, wishing to tranquilize her, recovered his +fine indifference; never having lived for money, he did not imagine +that one could suffer from the want of it. + +“But I have some money!” he cried, at last. “What does Martine mean by +saying that we have not a sou left, and that we are going to die of +starvation!” + +And he rose gaily, and made them both follow him saying: + +“Come, come, I am going to show you some money. And I will give some of +it to Martine that she may make us a good dinner this evening.” + +Upstairs in his room he triumphantly opened his desk before them. It +was in a drawer of this desk that for years past he had thrown the +money which his later patients had brought him of their own accord, for +he had never sent them an account. Nor had he ever known the exact +amount of his little treasure, of the gold and bank bills mingled +together in confusion, from which he took the sums he required for his +pocket money, his experiments, his presents, and his alms. During the +last few months he had made frequent visits to his desk, making deep +inroads into its contents. But he had been so accustomed to find there +the sums he required, after years of economy during which he had spent +scarcely anything, that he had come to believe his savings +inexhaustible. + +He gave a satisfied laugh, then, as he opened the drawer, crying: + +“Now you shall see! Now you shall see!” + +And he was confounded, when, after searching among the heap of notes +and bills, he succeeded in collecting only a sum of 615 francs—two +notes of 100 francs each, 400 francs in gold, and 15 francs in change. +He shook out the papers, he felt in every corner of the drawer, crying: + +“But it cannot be! There was always money here before, there was a heap +of money here a few days ago. It must have been all those old bills +that misled me. I assure you that last week I saw a great deal of +money. I had it in my hand.” + +He spoke with such amusing good faith, his childlike surprise was so +sincere, that Clotilde could not keep from smiling. Ah, the poor +master, what a wretched business man he was! Then, as she observed +Martine’s look of anguish, her utter despair at sight of this +insignificant sum, which was now all there was for the maintenance of +all three, she was seized with a feeling of despair; her eyes filled +with tears, and she murmured: + +“My God, it is for me that you have spent everything; if we have +nothing now, if we are ruined, it is I who am the cause of it!” + +Pascal had already forgotten the money he had taken for the presents. +Evidently that was where it had gone. The explanation tranquilized him. +And as she began to speak in her grief of returning everything to the +dealers, he grew angry. + +“Give back what I have given you! You would give a piece of my heart +with it, then! No, I would rather die of hunger, I tell you!” + +Then his confidence already restored, seeing a future of unlimited +possibilities opening out before him, he said: + +“Besides, we are not going to die of hunger to-night, are we, Martine? +There is enough here to keep us for a long time.” + +Martine shook her head. She would undertake to manage with it for two +months, for two and a half, perhaps, if people had sense, but not +longer. Formerly the drawer was replenished; there was always some +money coming in; but now that monsieur had given up his patients, they +had absolutely no income. They must not count on any help from outside, +then. And she ended by saying: + +“Give me the two one-hundred-franc bills. I’ll try and make them last +for a month. Then we shall see. But be very prudent; don’t touch the +four hundred francs in gold; lock the drawer and don’t open it again.” + +“Oh, as to that,” cried the doctor, “you may make your mind easy. I +would rather cut off my right hand.” + +And thus it was settled. Martine was to have entire control of this +last purse; and they might trust to her economy, they were sure that +she would save the centimes. As for Clotilde, who had never had a +private purse, she would not even feel the want of money. Pascal only +would suffer from no longer having his inexhaustible treasure to draw +upon, but he had given his promise to allow the servant to buy +everything. + +“There! That is a good piece of work!” he said, relieved, as happy as +if he had just settled some important affair which would assure them a +living for a long time to come. + +A week passed during which nothing seemed to have changed at La +Souleiade. In the midst of their tender raptures neither Pascal nor +Clotilde thought any more of the want which was impending. And one +morning during the absence of the latter, who had gone with Martine to +market, the doctor received a visit which filled him at first with a +sort of terror. It was from the woman who had sold him the beautiful +corsage of old point d’Alençon, his first present to Clotilde. He felt +himself so weak against a possible temptation that he trembled. Even +before the woman had uttered a word he had already begun to defend +himself—no, no, he neither could nor would buy anything. And with +outstretched hands he prevented her from taking anything out of her +little bag, declaring to himself that he would look at nothing. The +dealer, however, a fat, amiable woman, smiled, certain of victory. In +an insinuating voice she began to tell him a long story of how a lady, +whom she was not at liberty to name, one of the most distinguished +ladies in Plassans, who had suddenly met with a reverse of fortune, had +been obliged to part with one of her jewels; and she then enlarged on +the splendid chance—a piece of jewelry that had cost twelve hundred +francs, and she was willing to let it go for five hundred. She opened +her bag slowly, in spite of the terrified and ever-louder protestations +of the doctor, and took from it a slender gold necklace set simply with +seven pearls in front; but the pearls were of wonderful +brilliancy—flawless, and perfect in shape. The ornament was simple, +chaste, and of exquisite delicacy. And instantly he saw in fancy the +necklace on Clotilde’s beautiful neck, as its natural adornment. Any +other jewel would have been a useless ornament, these pearls would be +the fitting symbol of her youth. And he took the necklace in his +trembling fingers, experiencing a mortal anguish at the idea of +returning it. He defended himself still, however; he declared that he +had not five hundred francs, while the dealer continued, in her smooth +voice, to push the advantage she had gained. After another quarter an +hour, when she thought she had him secure, she suddenly offered him the +necklace for three hundred francs, and he yielded; his mania for +giving, his desire to please his idol, to adorn her, conquered. When he +went to the desk to take the fifteen gold pieces to count them out to +the dealer, he felt convinced that the notary’s affairs would be +arranged, and that they would soon have plenty of money. + +When Pascal found himself once more alone, with the ornament in his +pocket, he was seized with a childish delight, and he planned his +little surprise, while waiting, excited and impatient, for Clotilde’s +return. The moment she made her appearance his heart began to beat +violently. She was very warm, for an August sun was blazing in the sky, +and she laid aside her things quickly, pleased with her walk, telling +him, laughing, of the good bargain Martine had made—two pigeons for +eighteen sous. While she was speaking he pretended to notice something +on her neck. + +“Why, what have you on your neck? Let me see.” + +He had the necklace in his hand, and he succeeded in putting it around +her neck, while feigning to pass his fingers over it, to assure himself +that there was nothing there. But she resisted, saying gaily: + +“Don’t! There is nothing on my neck. Here, what are you doing? What +have you in your hand that is tickling me?” + +He caught hold of her, and drew her before the long mirror, in which +she had a full view of herself. On her neck the slender chain showed +like a thread of gold, and the seven pearls, like seven milky stars, +shone with soft luster against her satin skin. She looked charmingly +childlike. Suddenly she gave a delighted laugh, like the cooing of a +dove swelling out its throat proudly. + +“Oh, master, master, how good you are! Do you think of nothing but me, +then? How happy you make me!” + +And the joy which shone in her eyes, the joy of the woman and the +lover, happy to be beautiful and to be adored, recompensed him divinely +for his folly. + +She drew back her head, radiant, and held up her mouth to him. He bent +over and kissed her. + +“Are you happy?” + +“Oh, yes, master, happy, happy! Pearls are so sweet, so pure! And these +are so becoming to me!” + +For an instant longer she admired herself in the glass, innocently vain +of her fair flower-like skin, under the nacre drops of the pearls. +Then, yielding to a desire to show herself, hearing the servant moving +about outside, she ran out, crying: + +“Martine, Martine! See what master has just given me! Say, am I not +beautiful!” + +But all at once, seeing the old maid’s severe face, that had suddenly +turned an ashen hue, she became confused, and all her pleasure was +spoiled. Perhaps she had a consciousness of the jealous pang which her +brilliant youth caused this poor creature, worn out in the dumb +resignation of her servitude, in adoration of her master. This, +however, was only a momentary feeling, unconscious in the one, hardly +suspected by the other, and what remained was the evident +disapprobation of the economical servant, condemning the present with +her sidelong glance. + +Clotilde was seized with a little chill. + +“Only,” she murmured, “master has rummaged his desk again. Pearls are +very dear, are they not?” + +Pascal, embarrassed, too, protested volubly, telling them of the +splendid opportunity presented by the dealer’s visit. An incredibly +good stroke of business—it was impossible to avoid buying the necklace. + +“How much?” asked the young girl with real anxiety. + +“Three hundred francs.” + +Martine, who had not yet opened her lips, but who looked terrible in +her silence, could not restrain a cry. + +“Good God! enough to live upon for six weeks, and we have not bread!” + +Large tears welled from Clotilde’s eyes. She would have torn the +necklace from her neck if Pascal had not prevented her. She wished to +give it to him on the instant, and she faltered in heart-broken tones: + +“It is true, Martine is right. Master is mad, and I am mad, too, to +keep this for an instant, in the situation in which we are. It would +burn my flesh. Let me take it back, I beg of you.” + +Never would he consent to this, he said. Now his eyes, too, were moist, +he joined in their grief, crying that he was incorrigible, that they +ought to have taken all the money away from him. And running to the +desk he took the hundred francs that were left, and forced Martine to +take them, saying: + +“I tell you that I will not keep another sou. I should spend this, too. +Take it, Martine; you are the only one of us who has any sense. You +will make the money last, I am very certain, until our affairs are +settled. And you, dear, keep that; do not grieve me.” + +Nothing more was said about this incident. But Clotilde kept the +necklace, wearing it under her gown; and there was a sort of delightful +mystery in feeling on her neck, unknown to every one, this simple, +pretty ornament. Sometimes, when they were alone, she would smile at +Pascal and draw the pearls from her dress quickly, and show them to him +without a word; and as quickly she would replace them again on her warm +neck, filled with delightful emotion. It was their fond folly which she +thus recalled to him, with a confused gratitude, a vivid and radiant +joy—a joy which nevermore left her. + +A straitened existence, sweet in spite of everything, now began for +them. Martine made an exact inventory of the resources of the house, +and it was not reassuring. The provision of potatoes only promised to +be of any importance. As ill luck would have it, the jar of oil was +almost out, and the last cask of wine was also nearly empty. La +Souleiade, having neither vines nor olive trees, produced only a few +vegetables and some fruits—pears, not yet ripe, and trellis grapes, +which were to be their only delicacies. And meat and bread had to be +bought every day. So that from the first day the servant put Pascal and +Clotilde on rations, suppressing the former sweets, creams, and pastry, +and reducing the food to the quantity barely necessary to sustain life. +She resumed all her former authority, treating them like children who +were not to be consulted, even with regard to their wishes or their +tastes. It was she who arranged the menus, who knew better than +themselves what they wanted; but all this like a mother, surrounding +them with unceasing care, performing the miracle of enabling them to +live still with comfort on their scanty resources; occasionally severe +with them, for their own good, as one is severe with a child when it +refuses to eat its food. And it seemed as if this maternal care, this +last immolation, the illusory peace with which she surrounded their +love, gave her, too, a little happiness, and drew her out of the dumb +despair into which she had fallen. Since she had thus watched over them +she had begun to look like her old self, with her little white face, +the face of a nun vowed to chastity; her calm ash-colored eyes, which +expressed the resignation of her thirty years of servitude. When, after +the eternal potatoes and the little cutlet at four sous, +undistinguishable among the vegetables, she was able, on certain days, +without compromising her budget, to give them pancakes, she was +triumphant, she laughed to see them laugh. + +Pascal and Clotilde thought everything she did was right, which did not +prevent them, however, from jesting about her when she was not present. +The old jests about her avarice were repeated over and over again. They +said that she counted the grains of pepper, so many grains for each +dish, in her passion for economy. When the potatoes had too little oil, +when the cutlets were reduced to a mouthful, they would exchange a +quick glance, stifling their laughter in their napkins, until she had +left the room. Everything was a source of amusement to them, and they +laughed innocently at their misery. + +At the end of the first month Pascal thought of Martine’s wages. +Usually she took her forty francs herself from the common purse which +she kept. + +“My poor girl,” he said to her one evening, “what are you going to do +for your wages, now that we have no more money?” + +She remained for a moment with her eyes fixed on the ground, with an +air of consternation, then she said: + +“Well, monsieur, I must only wait.” + +But he saw that she had not said all that was in her mind, that she had +thought of some arrangement which she did not know how to propose to +him, so he encouraged her. + +“Well, then, if monsieur would consent to it, I should like monsieur to +sign me a paper.” + +“How, a paper?” + +“Yes, a paper, in which monsieur should say, every month, that he owes +me forty francs.” + +Pascal at once made out the paper for her, and this made her quite +happy. She put it away as carefully as if it had been real money. This +evidently tranquilized her. But the paper became a new subject of +wondering amusement to the doctor and his companion. In what did the +extraordinary power consist which money has on certain natures? This +old maid, who would serve him on bended knees, who adored him above +everything, to the extent of having devoted to him her whole life, to +ask for this silly guarantee, this scrap of paper which was of no +value, if he should be unable to pay her. + +So far neither Pascal nor Clotilde had any great merit in preserving +their serenity in misfortune, for they did not feel it. They lived high +above it, in the rich and happy realm of their love. At table they did +not know what they were eating; they might fancy they were partaking of +a princely banquet, served on silver dishes. They were unconscious of +the increasing destitution around them, of the hunger of the servant +who lived upon the crumbs from their table; and they walked through the +empty house as through a palace hung with silk and filled with riches. +This was undoubtedly the happiest period of their love. The workroom +had pleasant memories of the past, and they spent whole days there, +wrapped luxuriously in the joy of having lived so long in it together. +Then, out of doors, in every corner of La Souleiade, royal summer had +set up his blue tent, dazzling with gold. In the morning, in the +embalsamed walks on the pine grove; at noon under the dark shadow of +the plane trees, lulled by the murmur of the fountain; in the evening +on the cool terrace, or in the still warm threshing yard bathed in the +faint blue radiance of the first stars, they lived with rapture their +straitened life, their only ambition to live always together, +indifferent to all else. The earth was theirs, with all its riches, its +pomps, and its dominions, since they loved each other. + +Toward the end of August however, matters grew bad again. At times they +had rude awakenings, in the midst of this life without ties, without +duties, without work; this life which was so sweet, but which it would +be impossible, hurtful, they knew, to lead always. One evening Martine +told them that she had only fifty francs left, and that they would have +difficulty in managing for two weeks longer, even giving up wine. In +addition to this the news was very serious; the notary Grandguillot was +beyond a doubt insolvent, so that not even the personal creditors would +receive anything. In the beginning they had relied on the house and the +two farms which the fugitive notary had left perforce behind him, but +it was now certain that this property was in his wife’s name and, while +he was enjoying in Switzerland, as it was said, the beauty of the +mountains, she lived on one of the farms, which she cultivated quietly, +away from the annoyances of the liquidation. In short, it was +infamous—a hundred families ruined; left without bread. An assignee had +indeed been appointed, but he had served only to confirm the disaster, +since not a centime of assets had been discovered. And Pascal, with his +usual indifference, neglected even to go and see him to speak to him +about his own case, thinking that he already knew all that there was to +be known about it, and that it was useless to stir up this ugly +business, since there was neither honor nor profit to be derived from +it. + +Then, indeed, the future looked threatening at La Souleiade. Black want +stared them in the face. And Clotilde, who, in reality, had a great +deal of good sense, was the first to take alarm. She maintained her +cheerfulness while Pascal was present, but, more prescient than he, in +her womanly tenderness, she fell into a state of absolute terror if he +left her for an instant, asking herself what was to become of him at +his age with so heavy a burden upon his shoulders. For several days she +cherished in secret a project—to work and earn money, a great deal of +money, with her pastels. People had so often praised her extraordinary +and original talent that, taking Martine into her confidence, she sent +her one fine morning to offer some of her fantastic bouquets to the +color dealer of the Cours Sauvaire, who was a relation, it was said, of +a Parisian artist. It was with the express condition that nothing was +to be exhibited in Plassans, that everything was to be sent to a +distance. But the result was disastrous; the merchant was frightened by +the strangeness of the design, and by the fantastic boldness of the +execution, and he declared that they would never sell. This threw her +into despair; great tears welled her eyes. Of what use was she? It was +a grief and a humiliation to be good for nothing. And the servant was +obliged to console her, saying that no doubt all women were not born +for work; that some grew like the flowers in the gardens, for the sake +of their fragrance; while others were the wheat of the fields that is +ground up and used for food. + +Martine, meantime, cherished another project; it was to urge the doctor +to resume his practise. At last she mentioned it to Clotilde, who at +once pointed out to her the difficulty, the impossibility almost, of +such an attempt. She and Pascal had been talking about his doing so +only the day before. He, too, was anxious, and had thought of work as +the only chance of salvation. The idea of opening an office again was +naturally the first that had presented itself to him. But he had been +for so long a time the physician of the poor! How could he venture now +to ask payment when it was so many years since he had left off doing +so? Besides, was it not too late, at his age, to recommence a career? +not to speak of the absurd rumors that had been circulating about him, +the name which they had given him of a crack-brained genius. He would +not find a single patient now, it would be a useless cruelty to force +him to make an attempt which would assuredly result only in a lacerated +heart and empty hands. Clotilde, on the contrary, had used all her +influence to turn him from the idea. Martine comprehended the +reasonableness of these objections, and she too declared that he must +be prevented from running the risk of so great a chagrin. But while she +was speaking a new idea occurred to her, as she suddenly remembered an +old register, which she had met with in a press, and in which she had +in former times entered the doctor’s visits. For a long time it was she +who had kept the accounts. There were so many patients who had never +paid that a list of them filled three of the large pages of the +register. Why, then, now that they had fallen into misfortune, should +they not ask from these people the money which they justly owed? It +might be done without saying anything to monsieur, who had never been +willing to appeal to the law. And this time Clotilde approved of her +idea. It was a perfect conspiracy. Clotilde consulted the register, and +made out the bills, and the servant presented them. But nowhere did she +receive a sou; they told her at every door that they would look over +the account; that they would stop in and see the doctor himself. Ten +days passed, no one came, and there were now only six francs in the +house, barely enough to live upon for two or three days longer. + +Martine, when she returned with empty hands on the following day from a +new application to an old patient, took Clotilde aside and told her +that she had just been talking with Mme. Félicité at the corner of the +Rue de la Banne. The latter had undoubtedly been watching for her. She +had not again set foot in La Souleiade. Not even the misfortune which +had befallen her son—the sudden loss of his money, of which the whole +town was talking—had brought her to him; she still continued stern and +indignant. But she waited in trembling excitement, she maintained her +attitude as an offended mother only in the certainty that she would at +last have Pascal at her feet, shrewdly calculating that he would sooner +or later be compelled to appeal to her for assistance. When he had not +a sou left, when he knocked at her door, then she would dictate her +terms; he should marry Clotilde, or, better still, she would demand the +departure of the latter. But the days passed, and he did not come. And +this was why she had stopped Martine, assuming a pitying air, asking +what news there was, and seeming to be surprised that they had not had +recourse to her purse, while giving it to be understood that her +dignity forbade her to take the first step. + +“You should speak to monsieur, and persuade him,” ended the servant. +And indeed, why should he not appeal to his mother? That would be +entirely natural. + +“Oh! never would I undertake such a commission,” cried Clotilde. +“Master would be angry, and with reason. I truly believe he would die +of starvation before he would eat grandmother’s bread.” + +But on the evening of the second day after this, at dinner, as Martine +was putting on the table a piece of boiled beef left over from the day +before, she gave them notice. + +“I have no more money, monsieur, and to-morrow there will be only +potatoes, without oil or butter. It is three weeks now that you have +had only water to drink; now you will have to do without meat.” + +They were still cheerful, they could still jest. + +“Have you salt, my good girl?” + +“Oh, that; yes, monsieur, there is still a little left.” + +“Well, potatoes and salt are very good when one is hungry.” + +That night, however, Pascal noticed that Clotilde was feverish; this +was the hour in which they exchanged confidences, and she ventured to +tell him of her anxiety on his account, on her own, on that of the +whole house. What was going to become of them when all their resources +should be exhausted? For a moment she thought of speaking to him of his +mother. But she was afraid, and she contented herself with confessing +to him what she and Martine had done—the old register examined, the +bills made out and sent, the money asked everywhere in vain. In other +circumstances he would have been greatly annoyed and very angry at this +confession; offended that they should have acted without his knowledge, +and contrary to the attitude he had maintained during his whole +professional life. He remained for a long tine silent, strongly +agitated, and this would have sufficed to prove how great must be his +secret anguish at times, under his apparent indifference to poverty. +Then he forgave Clotilde, clasping her wildly to his breast, and +finally he said that she had done right, that they could not continue +to live much longer as they were living, in a destitution which +increased every day. Then they fell into silence, each trying to think +of a means of procuring the money necessary for their daily wants, each +suffering keenly; she, desperate at the thought of the tortures that +awaited him; he unable to accustom himself to the idea of seeing her +wanting bread. Was their happiness forever ended, then? Was poverty +going to blight their spring with its chill breath? + +At breakfast, on the following day, they ate only fruit. The doctor was +very silent during the morning, a prey to a visible struggle. And it +was not until three o’clock that he took a resolution. + +“Come, we must stir ourselves,” he said to his companion. “I do not +wish you to fast this evening again; so put on your hat, we will go out +together.” + +She looked at him, waiting for an explanation. + +“Yes, since they owe us money, and have refused to give it to you, I +will see whether they will also refuse to give it to me.” + +His hands trembled; the thought of demanding payment in this way, after +so many years, evidently made him suffer terribly; but he forced a +smile, he affected to be very brave. And she, who knew from the +trembling of his voice the extent of his sacrifice, had tears in her +eyes. + +“No, no, master; don’t go if it makes you suffer so much. Martine can +go again.” + +But the servant, who was present, approved highly of monsieur’s +intention. + +“And why should not monsieur go? There’s no shame in asking what is +owed to one, is there? Every one should have his own; for my part, I +think it quite right that monsieur should show at last that he is a +man.” + +Then, as before, in their hours of happiness, old King David, as Pascal +jestingly called himself, left the house, leaning on Abishag’s arm. +Neither of them was yet in rags; he still wore his tightly buttoned +overcoat; she had on her pretty linen gown with red spots, but +doubtless the consciousness of their poverty lowered them in their own +estimation, making them feel that they were now only two poor people +who occupied a very insignificant place in the world, for they walked +along by the houses, shunning observation. The sunny streets were +almost deserted. A few curious glances embarrassed them. They did not +hasten their steps, however; only their hearts were oppressed at the +thought of the visits they were about to make. + +Pascal resolved to begin with an old magistrate whom he had treated for +an affection of the liver. He entered the house, leaving Clotilde +sitting on the bench in the Cours Sauvaire. But he was greatly relieved +when the magistrate, anticipating his demand, told him that he did not +receive his rents until October, and that he would pay him then. At the +house of an old lady of seventy, a paralytic, the rebuff was of a +different kind. She was offended because her account had been sent to +her through a servant who had been impolite; so that he hastened to +offer her his excuses, giving her all the time she desired. Then he +climbed up three flights of stairs to the apartment of a clerk in the +tax collector’s office, whom he found still ill, and so poor that he +did not even venture to make his demand. Then followed a mercer, a +lawyer’s wife, an oil merchant, a baker—all well-to-do people; and all +turned him away, some with excuses, others by denying him admittance; a +few even pretended not to know what he meant. There remained the +Marquise de Valqueyras, the sole representative of a very ancient +family, a widow with a girl of ten, who was very rich, and whose +avarice was notorious. He had left her for the last, for he was greatly +afraid of her. Finally he knocked at the door of her ancient mansion, +at the foot of the Cours Sauvaire, a massive structure of the time of +Mazarin. He remained so long in the house that Clotilde, who was +walking under the trees, at last became uneasy. + +When he finally made his appearance, at the end of a full half hour, +she said jestingly, greatly relieved: + +“Why, what was the matter? Had she no money?” + +But here, too, he had been unsuccessful; she complained that her +tenants did not pay her. + +“Imagine,” he continued, in explanation of his long absence, “the +little girl is ill. I am afraid that it is the beginning of a gastric +fever. So she wished me to see the child, and I examined her.” + +A smile which she could not suppress came to Clotilde’s lips. + +“And you prescribed for her?” + +“Of course; could I do otherwise?” + +She took his arm again, deeply affected, and he felt her press it +against her heart. For a time they walked on aimlessly. It was all +over; they had knocked at every debtor’s door, and nothing now remained +for them to do but to return home with empty hands. But this Pascal +refused to do, determined that Clotilde should have something more than +the potatoes and water which awaited them. When they ascended the Cours +Sauvaire, they turned to the left, to the new town; drifting now +whither cruel fate led them. + +“Listen,” said Pascal at last; “I have an idea. If I were to speak to +Ramond he would willingly lend us a thousand francs, which we could +return to him when our affairs are arranged.” + +She did not answer at once. Ramond, whom she had rejected, who was now +married and settled in a house in the new town, in a fair way to become +the fashionable physician of the place, and to make a fortune! She +knew, indeed, that he had a magnanimous soul and a kind heart. If he +had not visited them again it had been undoubtedly through delicacy. +Whenever they chanced to meet, he saluted them with so admiring an air, +he seemed so pleased to see their happiness. + +“Would that be disagreeable to you?” asked Pascal ingenuously. For his +part, he would have thrown open to the young physician his house, his +purse, and his heart. + +“No, no,” she answered quickly. “There has never been anything between +us but affection and frankness. I think I gave him a great deal of +pain, but he has forgiven me. You are right; we have no other friend. +It is to Ramond that we must apply.” + +Ill luck pursued them, however. Ramond was absent from home, attending +a consultation at Marseilles, and he would not be back until the +following evening. And it young Mme. Ramond, an old friend of +Clotilde’s, some three years her junior, who received them. She seemed +a little embarrassed, but she was very amiable, notwithstanding. But +the doctor, naturally, did not prefer his request, and contented +himself with saying, in explanation of his visit, that he had missed +Ramond. When they were in the street again, Pascal and Clotilde felt +themselves once more abandoned and alone. Where now should they turn? +What new effort should they make? And they walked on again aimlessly. + +“I did not tell you, master,” Clotilde at last ventured to murmur, “but +it seems that Martine met grandmother the other day. Yes, grandmother +has been uneasy about us. She asked Martine why we did not go to her, +if we were in want. And see, here is her house.” + +They were in fact, in the Rue de la Banne. They could see the corner of +the Place de la Sous-Préfecture. But he at once silenced her. + +“Never, do you hear! Nor shall you go either. You say that because it +grieves you to see me in this poverty. My heart, too, is heavy, to +think that you also are in want, that you also suffer. But it is better +to suffer than to do a thing that would leave one an eternal remorse. I +will not. I cannot.” + +They emerged from the Rue de la Banne, and entered the old quarter. + +“I would a thousand times rather apply to a stranger. Perhaps we still +have friends, even if they are only among the poor.” + +And resolved to beg, David continued his walk, leaning on the arm of +Abishag; the old mendicant king went from door to door, leaning on the +shoulder of the loving subject whose youth was now his only support. It +was almost six o’clock; the heat had abated; the narrow streets were +filling with people; and in this populous quarter where they were +loved, they were everywhere greeted with smiles. Something of pity was +mingled with the admiration they awakened, for every one knew of their +ruin. But they seemed of a nobler beauty than before, he all white, she +all blond, pressing close to each other in their misfortune. They +seemed more united, more one with each other than ever; holding their +heads erect, proud of their glorious love, though touched by +misfortune; he shaken, while she, with a courageous heart, sustained +him. And in spite of the poverty that had so suddenly overtaken them +they walked without shame, very poor and very great, with the sorrowful +smile under which they concealed the desolation of their souls. Workmen +in dirty blouses passed them by, who had more money in their pockets +than they. No one ventured to offer them the sou which is not refused +to those who are hungry. At the Rue Canoquin they stopped at the house +of Gulraude. She had died the week before. Two other attempts which +they made failed. They were reduced now to consider where they could +borrow ten francs. They had been walking about the town for three +hours, but they could not resolve to go home empty-handed. + +Ah, this Plassans, with its Cours Sauvaire, its Rue de Rome, and its +Rue de la Banne, dividing it into three quarters; this Plassans; with +its windows always closed, this sun-baked town, dead in appearance, but +which concealed under this sleeping surface a whole nocturnal life of +the clubhouse and the gaming table. They walked through it three times +more with slackened pace, on this clear, calm close of a glowing August +day. In the yard of the coach office a few old stage-coaches, which +still plied between the town and the mountain villages, were standing +unharnessed; and under the thick shade of the plane trees at the doors +of the cafes, the customers, who were to be seen from seven o’clock in +the morning, looked after them smiling. In the new town, too, the +servants came and stood at the doors of the wealthy houses; they met +with less sympathy here than in the deserted streets of the Quartier +St. Marc, whose antique houses maintained a friendly silence. They +returned to the heart of the old quarter where they were most liked; +they went as far as St. Saturnin, the cathedral, whose apse was shaded +by the garden of the chapter, a sweet and peaceful solitude, from which +a beggar drove them by himself asking an alms from them. They were +building rapidly in the neighborhood of the railway station; a new +quarter was growing up there, and they bent their steps in that +direction. Then they returned a last time to the Place de la +Sous-Préfecture, with a sudden reawakening of hope, thinking that they +might meet some one who would offer them money. But they were followed +only by the indulgent smile of the town, at seeing them so united and +so beautiful. Only one woman had tears in her eyes, foreseeing, +perhaps, the sufferings that awaited them. The stones of the Viorne, +the little sharp paving stones, wounded their feet. And they had at +last to return to La Souleiade, without having succeeded in obtaining +anything, the old mendicant king and his submissive subject; Abishag, +in the flower of her youth, leading back David, old and despoiled of +his wealth, and weary from having walked the streets in vain. + +It was eight o’clock, and Martine, who was waiting for them, +comprehended that she would have no cooking to do this evening. She +pretended that she had dined, and as she looked ill Pascal sent her at +once to bed. + +“We do not need you,” said Clotilde. “As the potatoes are on the fire +we can take them up very well ourselves.” + +The servant, who was feverish and out of humor, yielded. She muttered +some indistinct words—when people had eaten up everything what was the +use of sitting down to table? Then, before shutting herself into her +room, she added: + +“Monsieur, there is no more hay for Bonhomme. I thought he was looking +badly a little while ago; monsieur ought to go and see him.” + +Pascal and Clotilde, filled with uneasiness, went to the stable. The +old horse was, in fact, lying on the straw in the somnolence of +expiring old age. They had not taken him out for six months past, for +his legs, stiff with rheumatism, refused to support him, and he had +become completely blind. No one could understand why the doctor kept +the old beast. Even Martine had at last said that he ought to be +slaughtered, if only through pity. But Pascal and Clotilde cried out at +this, as much excited as if it had been proposed to them to put an end +to some aged relative who was not dying fast enough. No, no, he had +served them for more than a quarter of a century; he should die +comfortably with them, like the worthy fellow he had always been. And +to-night the doctor did not scorn to examine him, as if he had never +attended any other patients than animals. He lifted up his hoofs, +looked at his gums, and listened to the beating of his heart. + +“No, there is nothing the matter with him,” he said at last. “It is +simply old age. Ah, my poor old fellow, I think, indeed, we shall never +again travel the roads together.” + +The idea that there was no more hay distressed Clotilde. But Pascal +reassured her—an animal of that age, that no longer moved about, needed +so little. She stooped down and took a few handfuls of grass from a +heap which the servant had left there, and both were rejoiced when +Bonhomme deigned, solely and simply through friendship, as it seemed, +to eat the grass out of her hand. + +“Oh,” she said, laughing, “so you still have an appetite! You cannot be +very sick, then; you must not try to work upon our feelings. Good +night, and sleep well.” + +And they left him to his slumbers after having each given him, as +usual, a hearty kiss on either side of his nose. + +Night fell, and an idea occurred to them, in order not to remain +downstairs in the empty house—to close up everything and eat their +dinner upstairs. Clotilde quickly took up the dish of potatoes, the +salt-cellar, and a fine decanter of water; while Pascal took charge of +a basket of grapes, the first which they had yet gathered from an early +vine at the foot of the terrace. They closed the door, and laid the +cloth on a little table, putting the potatoes in the middle between the +salt-cellar and the decanter, and the basket of grapes on a chair +beside them. And it was a wonderful feast, which reminded them of the +delicious breakfast they had made on the morning on which Martine had +obstinately shut herself up in her room, and refused to answer them. +They experienced the same delight as then at being alone, at waiting +upon themselves, at eating from the same plate, sitting close beside +each other. This evening, which they had anticipated with so much +dread, had in store for them the most delightful hours of their +existence. As soon as they found themselves at home in the large +friendly room, as far removed from the town which they had just been +scouring as if they had been a hundred leagues away from it, all +uneasiness and all sadness vanished—even to the recollection of the +wretched afternoon wasted in useless wanderings. They were once more +indifferent to all that was not their affection; they no longer +remembered that they had lost their fortune; that they might have to +hunt up a friend on the morrow in order to be able to dine in the +evening. Why torture themselves with fears of coming want, when all +they required to enjoy the greatest possible happiness was to be +together? + +But Pascal felt a sudden terror. + +“My God! and we dreaded this evening so greatly! Is it wise to be happy +in this way? Who knows what to-morrow may have in store for us?” + +But she put her little hand over his mouth; she desired that he should +have one more evening of perfect happiness. + +“No, no; to-morrow we shall love each other as we love each other +to-day. Love me with all your strength, as I love you.” + +And never had they eaten with more relish. She displayed the appetite +of a healthy young girl with a good digestion; she ate the potatoes +with a hearty appetite, laughing, thinking them delicious, better than +the most vaunted delicacies. He, too, recovered the appetite of his +youthful days. They drank with delight deep draughts of pure water. +Then the grapes for dessert filled them with admiration; these grapes +so fresh, this blood of the earth which the sun had touched with gold. +They ate to excess; they became drunk on water and fruit, and more than +all on gaiety. They did not remember ever before to have enjoyed such a +feast together; even the famous breakfast they had made, with its +luxuries of cutlets and bread and wine, had not given them this +intoxication, this joy in living, when to be together was happiness +enough, changing the china to dishes of gold, and the miserable food to +celestial fare such as not even the gods enjoyed. + +It was now quite dark, but they did not light the lamp. Through the +wide open windows they could see the vast summer sky. The night breeze +entered, still warm and laden with a faint odor of lavender. The moon +had just risen above the horizon, large and round, flooding the room +with a silvery light, in which they saw each other as in a dream light +infinitely bright and sweet. + + + + +XI. + + +But on the following day their disquietude all returned. They were now +obliged to go in debt. Martine obtained on credit bread, wine, and a +little meat, much to her shame, be it said, forced as she was to +maneuver and tell lies, for no one was ignorant of the ruin that had +overtaken the house. The doctor had indeed thought of mortgaging La +Souleiade, but only as a last resource. All he now possessed was this +property, which was worth twenty thousand francs, but for which he +would perhaps not get fifteen thousand, if he should sell it; and when +these should be spent black want would be before them, the street, +without even a stone of their own on which to lay their heads. Clotilde +therefore begged Pascal to wait and not to take any irrevocable step so +long as things were not utterly desperate. + +Three or four days passed. It was the beginning of September, and the +weather unfortunately changed; terrible storms ravaged the entire +country; a part of the garden wall was blown down, and as Pascal was +unable to rebuild it, the yawning breach remained. Already they were +beginning to be rude at the baker’s. And one morning the old servant +came home with the meat from the butcher’s in tears, saying that he had +given her the refuse. A few days more and they would be unable to +obtain anything on credit. It had become absolutely necessary to +consider how they should find the money for their small daily expenses. + +One Monday morning, the beginning of another week of torture, Clotilde +was very restless. A struggle seemed to be going on within her, and it +was only when she saw Pascal refuse at breakfast his share of a piece +of beef which had been left over from the day before that she at last +came to a decision. Then with a calm and resolute air, she went out +after breakfast with Martine, after quietly putting into the basket of +the latter a little package—some articles of dress which she was giving +her, she said. + +When she returned two hours later she was very pale. But her large +eyes, so clear and frank, were shining. She went up to the doctor at +once and made her confession. + +“I must ask your forgiveness, master, for I have just been disobeying +you, and I know that I am going to pain you greatly.” + +“Why, what have you been doing?” he asked uneasily, not understanding +what she meant. + +Slowly, without removing her eyes from him, she drew from her pocket an +envelope, from which she took some bank-notes. A sudden intuition +enlightened him, and he cried: + +“Ah, my God! the jewels, the presents I gave you!” + +And he, who was usually so good-tempered and gentle, was convulsed with +grief and anger. He seized her hands in his, crushing with almost +brutal force the fingers which held the notes. + +“My God! what have you done, unhappy girl? It is my heart that you have +sold, both our hearts, that had entered into those jewels, which you +have given with them for money! The jewels which I gave you, the +souvenirs of our divinest hours, your property, yours only, how can you +wish me to take them back, to turn them to my profit? Can it be +possible—have you thought of the anguish that this would give me?” + +“And you, master,” she answered gently, “do you think that I could +consent to our remaining in the unhappy situation in which we are, in +want of everything, while I had these rings and necklaces and earrings +laid away in the bottom of a drawer? Why, my whole being would rise in +protest. I should think myself a miser, a selfish wretch, if I had kept +them any longer. And, although it was a grief for me to part with +them—ah, yes, I confess it, so great a grief that I could hardly find +the courage to do it—I am certain that I have only done what I ought to +have done as an obedient and loving woman.” + +And as he still grasped her hands, tears came to her eyes, and she +added in the same gentle voice and with a faint smile: + +“Don’t press so hard; you hurt me.” + +Then repentant and deeply moved, Pascal, too, wept. + +“I am a brute to get angry in this way. You acted rightly; you could +not do otherwise. But forgive me; it was hard for me to see you despoil +yourself. Give me your hands, your poor hands, and let me kiss away the +marks of my stupid violence.” + +He took her hands again in his tenderly; he covered them with kisses; +he thought them inestimably precious, so delicate and bare, thus +stripped of their rings. Consoled now, and joyous, she told him of her +escapade—how she had taken Martine into her confidence, and how both +had gone to the dealer who had sold him the corsage of point d’Alençon, +and how after interminable examining and bargaining the woman had given +six thousand francs for all the jewels. Again he repressed a gesture of +despair—six thousand francs! when the jewels had cost him more than +three times that amount—twenty thousand francs at the very least. + +“Listen,” he said to her at last; “I will take this money, since, in +the goodness of your heart, you have brought it to me. But it is +clearly understood that it is yours. I swear to you that I will, for +the future, be more miserly than Martine herself. I will give her only +the few sous that are absolutely necessary for our maintenance, and you +will find in the desk all that may be left of this sum, if I should +never be able to complete it and give it back to you entire.” + +He clasped her in an embrace that still trembled with emotion. +Presently, lowering his voice to a whisper, he said: + +“And did you sell everything, absolutely everything?” + +Without speaking, she disengaged herself a little from his embrace, and +put her fingers to her throat, with her pretty gesture, smiling and +blushing. Finally, she drew out the slender chain on which shone the +seven pearls, like milky stars. Then she put it back again out of +sight. + +He, too, blushed, and a great joy filled his heart. He embraced her +passionately. + +“Ah!” he cried, “how good you are, and how I love you!” + +But from this time forth the recollection of the jewels which had been +sold rested like a weight upon his heart; and he could not look at the +money in his desk without pain. He was haunted by the thought of +approaching want, inevitable want, and by a still more bitter +thought—the thought of his age, of his sixty years which rendered him +useless, incapable of earning a comfortable living for a wife; he had +been suddenly and rudely awakened from his illusory dream of eternal +love to the disquieting reality. He had fallen unexpectedly into +poverty, and he felt himself very old—this terrified him and filled him +with a sort of remorse, of desperate rage against himself, as if he had +been guilty of a crime. And this embittered his every hour; if through +momentary forgetfulness he permitted himself to indulge in a little +gaiety his distress soon returned with greater poignancy than ever, +bringing with it a sudden and inexplicable sadness. He did not dare to +question himself, and his dissatisfaction with himself and his +suffering increased every day. + +Then a frightful revelation came to him. One morning, when he was +alone, he received a letter bearing the Plassans postmark, the +superscription on which he examined with surprise, not recognizing the +writing. This letter was not signed; and after reading a few lines he +made an angry movement as if to tear it up and throw it away; but he +sat down trembling instead, and read it to the end. The style was +perfectly courteous; the long phrases rolled on, measured and carefully +worded, like diplomatic phrases, whose only aim is to convince. It was +demonstrated to him with a superabundance of arguments that the scandal +of La Souleiade had lasted too long already. If passion, up to a +certain point, explained the fault, yet a man of his age and in his +situation was rendering himself contemptible by persisting in wrecking +the happiness of the young relative whose trustfulness he abused. No +one was ignorant of the ascendency which he had acquired over her; it +was admitted that she gloried in sacrificing herself for him; but ought +he not, on his side, to comprehend that it was impossible that she +should love an old man, that what she felt was merely pity and +gratitude, and that it was high time to deliver her from this senile +love, which would finally leave her with a dishonored name! Since he +could not even assure her a small fortune, the writer hoped he would +act like an honorable man, and have the strength to separate from her, +through consideration for her happiness, if it were not yet too late. +And the letter concluded with the reflection that evil conduct was +always punished in the end. + +From the first sentence Pascal felt that this anonymous letter came +from his mother. Old Mme. Rougon must have dictated it; he could hear +in it the very inflections of her voice. But after having begun the +letter angry and indignant, he finished it pale and trembling, seized +by the shiver which now passed through him continually and without +apparent cause. The letter was right, it enlightened him cruelly +regarding the source of his mental distress, showing him that it was +remorse for keeping Clotilde with him, old and poor as he was. He got +up and walked over to a mirror, before which he stood for a long time, +his eyes gradually filling with tears of despair at sight of his +wrinkles and his white beard. The feeling of terror which arose within +him, the mortal chill which invaded his heart, was caused by the +thought that separation had become necessary, inevitable. He repelled +the thought, he felt that he would never have the strength for a +separation, but it still returned; he would never now pass a single day +without being assailed by it, without being torn by the struggle +between his love and his reason until the terrible day when he should +become resigned, his strength and his tears exhausted. In his present +weakness, he trembled merely at the thought of one day having this +courage. And all was indeed over, the irrevocable had begun; he was +filled with fear for Clotilde, so young and so beautiful, and all there +was left him now was the duty of saving her from himself. + +Then, haunted by every word, by every phrase of the letter, he tortured +himself at first by trying to persuade himself that she did not love +him, that all she felt for him was pity and gratitude. It would make +the rupture more easy to him, he thought, if he were once convinced +that she sacrificed herself, and that in keeping her with him longer he +was only gratifying his monstrous selfishness. But it was in vain that +he studied her, that he subjected her to proofs, she remained as tender +and devoted as ever, making the dreaded decision still more difficult. +Then he pondered over all the causes that vaguely, but ceaselessly +urged their separation. The life which they had been leading for months +past, this life without ties or duties, without work of any sort, was +not good. He thought no longer of himself, he considered himself good +for nothing now but to go away and bury himself out of sight in some +remote corner; but for her was it not an injurious life, a life which +would deteriorate her character and weaken her will? And suddenly he +saw himself in fancy dying, leaving her alone to perish of hunger in +the streets. No, no! this would be a crime; he could not, for the sake +of the happiness of his few remaining days, bequeath to her this +heritage of shame and misery. + +One morning Clotilde went for a walk in the neighborhood, from which +she returned greatly agitated, pale and trembling, and as soon as she +was upstairs in the workroom, she almost fainted in Pascal’s arms, +faltering: + +“Oh, my God! oh, my God! those women!” + +Terrified, he pressed her with questions. + +“Come, tell me! What has happened?” + +A flush mounted to her face. She flung her arms around his neck and hid +her head on his shoulder. + +“It was those women! Reaching a shady spot, I was closing my parasol, +and I had the misfortune to throw down a child. And they all rose +against me, crying out such things, oh, such things—things that I +cannot repeat, that I could not understand!” + +She burst into sobs. He was livid; he could find nothing to say to her; +he kissed her wildly, weeping like herself. He pictured to himself the +whole scene; he saw her pursued, hooted at, reviled. Presently he +faltered: + +“It is my fault, it is through me you suffer. Listen, we will go away +from here, far, far away, where we shall not be known, where you will +be honored, where you will be happy.” + +But seeing him weep, she recovered her calmness by a violent effort. +And drying her tears, she said: + +“Ah! I have behaved like a coward in telling you all this. After +promising myself that I would say nothing of it to you. But when I +found myself at home again, my anguish was so great that it all came +out. But you see now it is all over, don’t grieve about it. I love +you.” + +She smiled, and putting her arms about him she kissed him in her turn, +trying to soothe his despair. + +“I love you. I love you so dearly that it will console me for +everything. There is only you in the world, what matters anything that +is not you? You are so good; you make me so happy!” + +But he continued to weep, and she, too, began to weep again, and there +was a moment of infinite sadness, of anguish, in which they mingled +their kisses and their tears. + +Pascal, when she left him alone for an instant, thought himself a +wretch. He could no longer be the cause of misfortune to this child, +whom he adored. And on the evening of the same day an event took place +which brought about the solution hitherto sought in vain, with the fear +of finding it. After dinner Martine beckoned him aside, and gave him a +letter, with all sorts of precautions, saying: + +“I met Mme. Félicité, and she charged me to give you this letter, +monsieur, and she told me to tell you that she would have brought it to +you herself, only that regard for her reputation prevented her from +returning here. She begs you to send her back M. Maxime’s letter, +letting her know mademoiselle’s answer.” + +It was, in fact, a letter from Maxime, and Mme. Félicité, glad to have +received it, used it as a new means of conquering her son, after having +waited in vain for misery to deliver him up to her, repentant and +imploring. As neither Pascal nor Clotilde had come to demand aid or +succor from her, she had once more changed her plan, returning to her +old idea of separating them; and, this time, the opportunity seemed to +her decisive. Maxime’s letter was a pressing one; he urged his +grandmother to plead his cause with his sister. Ataxia had declared +itself; he was able to walk now only leaning on his servant’s arm. His +solitude terrified him, and he urgently entreated his sister to come to +him. He wished to have her with him as a rampart against his father’s +abominable designs; as a sweet and upright woman after all, who would +take care of him. The letter gave it to be understood that if she +conducted herself well toward him she would have no reason to repent +it; and ended by reminding the young girl of the promise she had made +him, at the time of his visit to Plassans, to come to him, if the day +ever arrived when he really needed her. + +Pascal turned cold. He read the four pages over again. Here an +opportunity to separate presented itself, acceptable to him and +advantageous for Clotilde, so easy and so natural that they ought to +accept it at once; yet, in spite of all his reasoning he felt so weak, +so irresolute still that his limbs trembled under him, and he was +obliged to sit down for a moment. But he wished to be heroic, and +controlling himself, he called to his companion. + +“Here!” he said, “read this letter which your grandmother has sent me.” + +Clotilde read the letter attentively to the end without a word, without +a sign. Then she said simply: + +“Well, you are going to answer it, are you not? I refuse.” + +He was obliged to exercise a strong effort of self-control to avoid +uttering a great cry of joy, as he pressed her to his heart. As if it +were another person who spoke, he heard himself saying quietly: + +“You refuse—impossible! You must reflect. Let us wait till to-morrow to +give an answer; and let us talk it over, shall we?” + +Surprised, she cried excitedly: + +“Part from each other! and why? And would you really consent to it? +What folly! we love each other, and you would have me leave you and go +away where no one cares for me! How could you think of such a thing? It +would be stupid.” + +He avoided touching on this side of the question, and hastened to speak +of promises made—of duty. + +“Remember, my dear, how greatly affected you were when I told you that +Maxime was in danger. And think of him now, struck down by disease, +helpless and alone, calling you to his side. Can you abandon him in +that situation? You have a duty to fulfil toward him.” + +“A duty?” she cried. “Have I any duties toward a brother who has never +occupied himself with me? My only duty is where my heart is.” + +“But you have promised. I have promised for you. I have said that you +were rational, and you are not going to belie my words.” + +“Rational? It is you who are not rational. It is not rational to +separate when to do so would make us both die of grief.” + +And with an angry gesture she closed the discussion, saying: + +“Besides, what is the use of talking about it? There is nothing +simpler; it is only necessary to say a single word. Answer me. Are you +tired of me? Do you wish to send me away?” + +He uttered a cry. + +“Send you away! I! Great God!” + +“Then it is all settled. If you do not send me away I shall remain.” + +She laughed now, and, running to her desk, wrote in red pencil across +her brother’s letter two words—“I refuse;” then she called Martine and +insisted upon her taking the letter back at once. Pascal was radiant; a +wave of happiness so intense inundated his being that he let her have +her way. The joy of keeping her with him deprived him even of his power +of reasoning. + +But that very night, what remorse did he not feel for having been so +cowardly! He had again yielded to his longing for happiness. A +deathlike sweat broke out upon him when he saw her in imagination far +away; himself alone, without her, without that caressing and subtle +essence that pervaded the atmosphere when she was near; her breath, her +brightness, her courageous rectitude, and the dear presence, physical +and mental, which had now become as necessary to his life as the light +of day itself. She must leave him, and he must find the strength to die +of it. He despised himself for his want of courage, he judged the +situation with terrible clear-sightedness. All was ended. An honorable +existence and a fortune awaited her with her brother; he could not +carry his senile selfishness so far as to keep her any longer in the +misery in which he was, to be scorned and despised. And fainting at the +thought of all he was losing, he swore to himself that he would be +strong, that he would not accept the sacrifice of this child, that he +would restore her to happiness and to life, in her own despite. + +And now the struggle of self-abnegation began. Some days passed; he had +demonstrated to her so clearly the rudeness of her “I refuse,” on +Maxime’s letter, that she had written a long letter to her grandmother, +explaining to her the reasons for her refusal. But still she would not +leave La Souleiade. As Pascal had grown extremely parsimonious, in his +desire to trench as little as possible on the money obtained by the +sale of the jewels, she surpassed herself, eating her dry bread with +merry laughter. One morning he surprised her giving lessons of economy +to Martine. Twenty times a day she would look at him intently and then +throw herself on his neck and cover his face with kisses, to combat the +dreadful idea of a separation, which she saw always in his eyes. Then +she had another argument. One evening after dinner he was seized with a +palpitation of the heart, and almost fainted. This surprised him; he +had never suffered from the heart, and he believed it to be simply a +return of his old nervous trouble. Since his great happiness he had +felt less strong, with an odd sensation, as if some delicate hidden +spring had snapped within him. Greatly alarmed, she hurried to his +assistance. Well! now he would no doubt never speak again of her going +away. When one loved people, and they were ill, one stayed with them to +take care of them. + +The struggle thus became a daily, an hourly one. It was a continual +assault made by affection, by devotion, by self-abnegation, in the one +desire for another’s happiness. But while her kindness and tenderness +made the thought of her departure only the more cruel for Pascal, he +felt every day more and more strongly the necessity for it. His +resolution was now taken. But he remained at bay, trembling and +hesitating as to the means of persuading her. He pictured to himself +her despair, her tears; what should he do? how should he tell her? how +could they bring themselves to give each other a last embrace, never to +see each other again? And the days passed, and he could think of +nothing, and he began once more to accuse himself of cowardice. + +Sometimes she would say jestingly, with a touch of affectionate malice: + +“Master, you are too kind-hearted not to keep me.” + +But this vexed him; he grew excited, and with gloomy despair answered: + +“No, no! don’t talk of my kindness. If I were really kind you would +have been long ago with your brother, leading an easy and honorable +life, with a bright and tranquil future before you, instead of +obstinately remaining here, despised, poor, and without any prospect, +to be the sad companion of an old fool like me! No, I am nothing but a +coward and a dishonorable man!” + +She hastily stopped him. And it was in truth his kindness of heart, +above all, that bled, that immense kindness of heart which sprang from +his love of life, which he diffused over persons and things, in his +continual care for the happiness of every one and everything. To be +kind, was not this to love her, to make her happy, at the price of his +own happiness? This was the kindness which it was necessary for him to +exercise, and which he felt that he would one day exercise, heroic and +decisive. But like the wretch who has resolved upon suicide, he waited +for the opportunity, the hour, and the means, to carry out his design. +Early one morning, on going into the workroom, Clotilde was surprised +to see Dr. Pascal seated at his table. It was many weeks since he had +either opened a book or touched a pen. + +“Why! you are working?” she said. + +Without raising his head he answered absently: + +“Yes; this is the genealogical tree that I had not even brought up to +date.” + +She stood behind him for a few moments, looking at him writing. He was +completing the notices of Aunt Dide, of Uncle Macquart, and of little +Charles, writing the dates of their death. Then, as he did not stir, +seeming not to know that she was there, waiting for the kisses and the +smiles of other mornings, she walked idly over to the window and back +again. + +“So you are in earnest,” she said, “you are really working?” + +“Certainly; you see I ought to have noted down these deaths last month. +And I have a heap of work waiting there for me.” + +She looked at him fixedly, with that steady inquiring gaze with which +she sought to read his thoughts. + +“Very well, let us work. If you have papers to examine, or notes to +copy, give them to me.” + +And from this day forth he affected to give himself up entirely to +work. Besides, it was one of his theories that absolute rest was +unprofitable, that it should never be prescribed, even to the +overworked. As the fish lives in the water, so a man lives only in the +external medium which surrounds him, the sensations which he receives +from it transforming themselves in him into impulses, thoughts, and +acts; so that if there were absolute rest, if he continued to receive +sensations without giving them out again, digested and transformed, an +engorgement would result, a _malaise_, an inevitable loss of +equilibrium. For himself he had always found work to be the best +regulator of his existence. Even on the mornings when he felt ill, if +he set to work he recovered his equipoise. He never felt better than +when he was engaged on some long work, methodically planned out +beforehand, so many pages to so many hours every morning, and he +compared this work to a balancing-pole, which enabled him to maintain +his equilibrium in the midst of daily miseries, weaknesses, and +mistakes. So that he attributed entirely to the idleness in which he +had been living for some weeks past, the palpitation which at times +made him feel as if he were going to suffocate. If he wished to recover +his health he had only to take up again his great work. + +And Pascal spent hours developing and explaining these theories to +Clotilde, with a feverish and exaggerated enthusiasm. He seemed to be +once more possessed by the love of knowledge and study in which, up to +the time of his sudden passion for her, he had spent his life +exclusively. He repeated to her that he could not leave his work +unfinished, that he had still a great deal to do, if he desired to +leave a lasting monument behind him. His anxiety about the envelopes +seemed to have taken possession of him again; he opened the large press +twenty times a day, taking them down from the upper shelf and enriching +them by new notes. His ideas on heredity were already undergoing a +transformation; he would have liked to review the whole, to recast the +whole, to deduce from the family history, natural and social, a vast +synthesis, a resume, in broad strokes, of all humanity. Then, besides, +he reviewed his method of treatment by hypodermic injections, with the +purpose of amplifying it—a confused vision of a new therapeutics; a +vague and remote theory based on his convictions and his personal +experience of the beneficent dynamic influence of work. + +Now every morning, when he seated himself at his table, he would +lament: + +“I shall not live long enough; life is too short.” + +He seemed to feel that he must not lose another hour. And one morning +he looked up abruptly and said to his companion, who was copying a +manuscript at his side: + +“Listen well, Clotilde. If I should die—” + +“What an idea!” she protested, terrified. + +“If I should die,” he resumed, “listen to me well—close all the doors +immediately. You are to keep the envelopes, you, you only. And when you +have collected all my other manuscripts, send them to Ramond. These are +my last wishes, do you hear?” + +But she refused to listen to him. + +“No, no!” she cried hastily, “you talk nonsense!” + +“Clotilde, swear to me that you will keep the envelopes, and that you +will send all my other papers to Ramond.” + +At last, now very serious, and her eyes filled with tears, she gave him +the promise he desired. He caught her in his arms, he, too, deeply +moved, and lavished caresses upon her, as if his heart had all at once +reopened to her. Presently he recovered his calmness, and spoke of his +fears. Since he had been trying to work they seemed to have returned. +He kept constant watch upon the press, pretending to have observed +Martine prowling about it. Might they not work upon the fanaticism of +this girl, and urge her to a bad action, persuading her that she was +securing her master’s eternal welfare? He had suffered so much from +suspicion! In the dread of approaching solitude his former tortures +returned—the tortures of the scientist, who is menaced and persecuted +by his own, at his own fireside, in his very flesh, in the work of his +brain. + +One evening, when he was again discussing this subject with Clotilde, +he said unthinkingly: + +“You know that when you are no longer here—” + +She turned very pale and, as he stopped with a start, she cried: + +“Oh, master, master, you have not given up that dreadful idea, then? I +can see in your eyes that you are hiding something from me, that you +have a thought which you no longer share with me. But if I go away and +you should die, who will be here then to protect your work?” + +Thinking that she had become reconciled, to the idea of her departure, +he had the strength to answer gaily: + +“Do you suppose that I would allow myself to die without seeing you +once more. I will write to you, of course. You must come back to close +my eyes.” + +Now she burst out sobbing, and sank into a chair. + +“My God! Can it be! You wish that to-morrow we should be together no +longer, we who have never been separated!” + +From this day forth Pascal seemed more engrossed than ever in his work. +He would sit for four or five hours at a time, whole mornings and +afternoons, without once raising his head. He overacted his zeal. He +would allow no one to disturb him, by so much as a word. And when +Clotilde would leave the room on tiptoe to give an order downstairs or +to go on some errand, he would assure himself by a furtive glance that +she was gone, and then let his head drop on the table, with an air of +profound dejection. It was a painful relief from the extraordinary +effort which he compelled himself to make when she was present; to +remain at his table, instead of going over and taking her in his arms +and covering her face with sweet kisses. Ah, work! how ardently he +called on it as his only refuge from torturing thoughts. But for the +most part he was unable to work; he was obliged to feign attention, +keeping his eyes fixed upon the page, his sorrowful eyes that grew dim +with tears, while his mind, confused, distracted, filled always with +one image, suffered the pangs of death. Was he then doomed to see work +fail now its effect, he who had always considered it of sovereign +power, the creator and ruler of the world? Must he then throw away his +pen, renounce action, and do nothing in future but exist? And tears +would flow down his white beard; and if he heard Clotilde coming +upstairs again he would seize his pen quickly, in order that she might +find him as she had left him, buried seemingly in profound meditation, +when his mind was now only an aching void. + +It was now the middle of September; two weeks that had seemed +interminable had passed in this distressing condition of things, +without bringing any solution, when one morning Clotilde was greatly +surprised by seeing her grandmother, Félicité, enter. Pascal had met +his mother the day before in the Rue de la Banne, and, impatient to +consummate the sacrifice, and not finding in himself the strength to +make the rupture, he had confided in her, in spite of his repugnance, +and begged her to come on the following day. As it happened, she had +just received another letter from Maxime, a despairing and imploring +letter. + +She began by explaining her presence. + +“Yes, it is I, my dear, and you can understand that only very weighty +reasons could have induced me to set my foot here again. But, indeed, +you are getting crazy; I cannot allow you to ruin your life in this +way, without making a last effort to open your eyes.” + +She then read Maxime’s letter in a tearful voice. He was nailed to an +armchair. It seemed he was suffering from a form of ataxia, rapid in +its progress and very painful. Therefore he requested a decided answer +from his sister, hoping still that she would come, and trembling at the +thought of being compelled to seek another nurse. This was what he +would be obliged to do, however, if they abandoned him in his sad +condition. And when she had finished reading the letter she hinted that +it would be a great pity to let Maxime’s fortune pass into the hands of +strangers; but, above all, she spoke of duty; of the assistance one +owed to a relation, she, too, affecting to believe that a formal +promise had been given. + +“Come, my dear, call upon your memory. You told him that if he should +ever need you, you would go to him; I can hear you saying it now. Was +it not so, my son?” + +Pascal, his face pale, his head slightly bent, had kept silence since +his mother’s entrance, leaving her to act. He answered only by an +affirmative nod. + +Then Félicité went over all the arguments that he himself had employed +to persuade Clotilde—the dreadful scandal, to which insult was now +added; impending want, so hard for them both; the impossibility of +continuing the life they were leading. What future could they hope for, +now that they had been overtaken by poverty? It was stupid and cruel to +persist longer in her obstinate refusal. + +Clotilde, standing erect and with an impenetrable countenance, remained +silent, refusing even to discuss the question. But as her grandmother +tormented her to give an answer, she said at last: + +“Once more, I have no duty whatever toward my brother; my duty is here. +He can dispose of his fortune as he chooses; I want none of it. When we +are too poor, master shall send away Martine and keep me as his +servant.” + +Old Mme. Rougon wagged her chin. + +“Before being his servant it would be better if you had begun by being +his wife. Why have you not got married? It would have been simpler and +more proper.” + +And Félicité reminded her how she had come one day to urge this +marriage, in order to put an end to gossip, and how the young girl had +seemed greatly surprised, saying that neither she nor the doctor had +thought of it, but that, notwithstanding, they would get married later +on, if necessary, for there was no hurry. + +“Get married; I am quite willing!” cried Clotilde. “You are right, +grandmother.” + +And turning to Pascal: + +“You have told me a hundred times that you would do whatever I wished. +Marry me; do you hear? I will be your wife, and I will stay here. A +wife does not leave her husband.” + +But he answered only by a gesture, as if he feared that his voice would +betray him, and that he should accept, in a cry of gratitude, the +eternal bond which she had proposed to him. His gesture might signify a +hesitation, a refusal. What was the good of this marriage _in +extremis_, when everything was falling to pieces? + +“Those are very fine sentiments, no doubt,” returned Félicité. “You +have settled it all in your own little head. But marriage will not give +you an income; and, meantime, you are a great expense to him; you are +the heaviest of his burdens.” + +The effect which these words had upon Clotilde was extraordinary. She +turned violently to Pascal, her cheeks crimson, her eyes filled with +tears. + +“Master, master! is what grandmother has just said true? Has it come to +this, that you regret the money I cost you here?” + +Pascal grew still paler; he remained motionless, in an attitude of +utter dejection. But in a far-away voice, as if he were talking to +himself, he murmured: + +“I have so much work to do! I should like to go over my envelopes, my +manuscripts, my notes, and complete the work of my life. If I were +alone perhaps I might be able to arrange everything. I would sell La +Souleiade, oh! for a crust of bread, for it is not worth much. I should +shut myself and my papers in a little room. I should work from morning +till night, and I should try not to be too unhappy.” + +But he avoided her glance; and, agitated as she was, these painful and +stammering utterances were not calculated to satisfy her. She grew +every moment more and more terrified, for she felt that the irrevocable +word was about to be spoken. + +“Look at me, master, look me in the face. And I conjure you, be brave, +choose between your work and me, since you say, it seems, that you send +me away that you may work the better.” + +The moment for the heroic falsehood had come. He lifted his head and +looked her bravely in the face, and with the smile of a dying man who +desires death, recovering his voice of divine goodness, he said: + +“How excited you get! Can you not do your duty quietly, like everybody +else? I have a great deal of work to do, and I need to be alone; and +you, dear, you ought to go to your brother. Go then, everything is +ended.” + +There was a terrible silence for the space of a few seconds. She looked +at him earnestly, hoping that he would change his mind. Was he really +speaking the truth? was he not sacrificing himself in order that she +might be happy? For a moment she had an intuition that this was the +case, as if some subtle breath, emanating from him, had warned her of +it. + +“And you are sending me away forever? You will not permit me to come +back to-morrow?” + +But he held out bravely; with another smile he seemed to answer that +when one went away like this it was not to come back again on the +following day. She was now completely bewildered; she knew not what to +think. It might be possible that he had chosen work sincerely; that the +man of science had gained the victory over the lover. She grew still +paler, and she waited a little longer, in the terrible silence; then, +slowly, with her air of tender and absolute submission, she said: + +“Very well, master, I will go away whenever you wish, and I will not +return until you send for me.” + +The die was cast. The irrevocable was accomplished. Each felt that +neither would attempt to recall the decision that had been made; and, +from this instant, every minute that passed would bring nearer the +separation. + +Félicité, surprised at not being obliged to say more, at once desired +to fix the time for Clotilde’s departure. She applauded herself for her +tenacity; she thought she had gained the victory by main force. It was +now Friday, and it was settled that Clotilde should leave on the +following Sunday. A despatch was even sent to Maxime. + +For the past three days the mistral had been blowing. But on this +evening its fury was redoubled, and Martine declared, in accordance +with the popular belief, that it would last for three days longer. The +winds at the end of September, in the valley of the Viorne, are +terrible. So that the servant took care to go into every room in the +house to assure herself that the shutters were securely fastened. When +the mistral blew it caught La Souleiade slantingly, above the roofs of +the houses of Plassans, on the little plateau on which the house was +built. And now it raged and beat against the house, shaking it from +garret to cellar, day and night, without a moment’s cessation. The +tiles were blown off, the fastenings of the windows were torn away, +while the wind, entering the crevices, moaned and sobbed wildly through +the house; and the doors, if they were left open for a moment, through +forgetfulness, slammed to with a noise like the report of a cannon. +They might have fancied they were sustaining a siege, so great were the +noise and the discomfort. + +It was in this melancholy house shaken by the storm that Pascal, on the +following day, helped Clotilde to make her preparations for her +departure. Old Mme. Rougon was not to return until Sunday, to say +good-by. When Martine was informed of the approaching separation, she +stood still in dumb amazement, and a flash, quickly extinguished, +lighted her eyes; and as they sent her out of the room, saying that +they would not require her assistance in packing the trunks, she +returned to the kitchen and busied herself in her usual occupations, +seeming to ignore the catastrophe which was about to revolutionize +their household of three. But at Pascal’s slightest call she would run +so promptly and with such alacrity, her face so bright and so cheerful, +in her zeal to serve him, that she seemed like a young girl. Pascal did +not leave Clotilde for a moment, helping her, desiring to assure +himself that she was taking with her everything she could need. Two +large trunks stood open in the middle of the disordered room; bundles +and articles of clothing lay about everywhere; twenty times the drawers +and the presses had been visited. And in this work, this anxiety to +forget nothing, the painful sinking of the heart which they both felt +was in some measure lessened. They forgot for an instant—he watching +carefully to see that no space was lost, utilizing the hat-case for the +smaller articles of clothing, slipping boxes in between the folds of +the linen; while she, taking down the gowns, folded them on the bed, +waiting to put them last in the top tray. Then, when a little tired +they stood up and found themselves again face to face, they would smile +at each other at first; then choke back the sudden tears that started +at the recollection of the impending and inevitable misfortune. But +though their hearts bled they remained firm. Good God! was it then true +that they were to be no longer together? And then they heard the wind, +the terrible wind, which threatened to blow down the house. + +How many times during this last day did they not go over to the window, +attracted by the storm, wishing that it would sweep away the world. +During these squalls the sun did not cease to shine, the sky remained +constantly blue, but a livid blue, windswept and dusty, and the sun was +a yellow sun, pale and cold. They saw in the distance the vast white +clouds rising from the roads, the trees bending before the blast, +looking as if they were flying all in the same direction, at the same +rate of speed; the whole country parched and exhausted by the unvarying +violence of the wind that blew ceaselessly, with a roar like thunder. +Branches were snapped and whirled out of sight; roofs were lifted up +and carried so far away that they were never afterward found. Why could +not the mistral take them all up together and carry them off to some +unknown land, where they might be happy? The trunks were almost packed +when Pascal went to open one of the shutters that the wind had blown +to, but so fierce a gust swept in through the half open window that +Clotilde had to go to his assistance. Leaning with all their weight, +they were able at last to turn the catch. The articles of clothing in +the room were blown about, and they gathered up in fragments a little +hand mirror which had fallen from a chair. Was this a sign of +approaching death, as the women of the faubourg said? + +In the evening, after a mournful dinner in the bright dining-room, with +its great bouquets of flowers, Pascal said he would retire early. +Clotilde was to leave on the following morning by the ten o’clock +train, and he feared for her the long journey—twenty hours of railway +traveling. But when he had retired he was unable to sleep. At first he +thought it was the wind that kept him awake. The sleeping house was +full of cries, voices of entreaty and voices of anger, mingled +together, accompanied by endless sobbing. Twice he got up and went to +listen at Clotilde’s door, but he heard nothing. He went downstairs to +close a door that banged persistently, like misfortune knocking at the +walls. Gusts blew through the dark rooms, and he went to bed again, +shivering and haunted by lugubrious visions. + +At six o’clock Martine, fancying she heard her master knocking for her +on the floor of his room, went upstairs. She entered the room with the +alert and excited expression which she had worn for the past two days; +but she stood still, astonished and uneasy, when she saw him lying, +half-dressed, across his bed, haggard, biting the pillow to stifle his +sobs. He got out of bed and tried to finish dressing himself, but a +fresh attack seized him, and, his head giddy and his heart palpitating +to suffocation, recovering from a momentary faintness, he faltered in +agonized tones: + +“No, no, I cannot; I suffer too much. I would rather die, die now—” + +He recognized Martine, and abandoning himself to his grief, his +strength totally gone, he made his confession to her: + +“My poor girl, I suffer too much, my heart is breaking. She is taking +away my heart with her, she is taking away my whole being. I cannot +live without her. I almost died last night. I would be glad to die +before her departure, not to have the anguish of seeing her go away. +Oh, my God! she is going away, and I shall have her no longer, and I +shall be left alone, alone, alone!” + +The servant, who had gone upstairs so gaily, turned as pale as wax, and +a hard and bitter look came into her face. For a moment she watched him +clutching the bedclothes convulsively, uttering hoarse cries of +despair, his face pressed against the coverlet. Then, by a violent +effort, she seemed to make up her mind. + +“But, monsieur, there is no sense in making trouble for yourself in +this way. It is ridiculous. Since that is how it is, and you cannot do +without mademoiselle, I shall go and tell her what a state you have let +yourself get into.” + +At these words he got up hastily, staggering still, and, leaning for +support on the back of a chair, he cried: + +“I positively forbid you to do so, Martine!” + +“A likely thing that I should listen to you, seeing you like that! To +find you some other time half dead, crying your eyes out! No, no! I +shall go to mademoiselle and tell her the truth, and compel her to +remain with us.” + +But he caught her angrily by the arm and held her fast. + +“I command you to keep quiet, do you hear? Or you shall go with her! +Why did you come in? It was this wind that made me ill. That concerns +no one.” + +Then, yielding to a good-natured impulse, with his usual kindness of +heart, he smiled. + +“My poor girl, see how you vex me? Let me act as I ought, for the +happiness of others. And not another word; you would pain me greatly.” + +Martine’s eyes, too, filled with tears. It was just in time that they +made peace, for Clotilde entered almost immediately. She had risen +early, eager to see Pascal, hoping doubtless, up to the last moment, +that he would keep her. Her own eyelids were heavy from want of sleep, +and she looked at him steadily as she entered, with her inquiring air. +But he was still so discomposed that she began to grow uneasy. + +“No, indeed, I assure you, I would even have slept well but for the +mistral. I was just telling you so, Martine, was I not?” + +The servant confirmed his words by an affirmative nod. And Clotilde, +too, submitted, saying nothing of the night of anguish and mental +conflict she had spent while he, on his side, had been suffering the +pangs of death. Both of the women now docilely obeyed and aided him, in +his heroic self-abnegation. + +“What,” he continued, opening his desk, “I have something here for you. +There! there are seven hundred francs in that envelope.” + +And in spite of her exclamations and protestations he persisted in +rendering her an account. Of the six thousand francs obtained by the +sale of the jewels two hundred only had been spent, and he had kept one +hundred to last till the end of the month, with the strict economy, the +penuriousness, which he now displayed. Afterward he would no doubt sell +La Souleiade, he would work, he would be able to extricate himself from +his difficulties. But he would not touch the five thousand francs which +remained, for they were her property, her own, and she would find them +again in the drawer. + +“Master, master, you are giving me a great deal of pain—” + +“I wish it,” he interrupted, “and it is you who are trying to break my +heart. Come, it is half-past seven, I will go and cord your trunks +since they are locked.” + +When Martine and Clotilde were alone and face to face they looked at +each other for a moment in silence. Ever since the commencement of the +new situation, they had been fully conscious of their secret +antagonism, the open triumph of the young mistress, the half concealed +jealousy of the old servant about her adored master. Now it seemed that +the victory remained with the servant. But in this final moment their +common emotion drew them together. + +“Martine, you must not let him eat like a poor man. You promise me that +he shall have wine and meat every day?” + +“Have no fear, mademoiselle.” + +“And the five thousand francs lying there, you know belong to him. You +are not going to let yourselves starve to death, I suppose, with those +there. I want you to treat him very well.” + +“I tell you that I will make it my business to do so, mademoiselle, and +that monsieur shall want for nothing.” + +There was a moment’s silence. They were still regarding each other. + +“And watch him, to see that he does not overwork himself. I am going +away very uneasy; he has not been well for some time past. Take good +care of him.” + +“Make your mind easy, mademoiselle, I will take care of him.” + +“Well, I give him into your charge. He will have only you now; and it +is some consolation to me to know that you love him dearly. Love him +with all your strength. Love him for us both.” + +“Yes, mademoiselle, as much as I can.” + +Tears came into their eyes; Clotilde spoke again. + +“Will you embrace me, Martine?” + +“Oh, mademoiselle, very gladly.” + +They were in each other’s arms when Pascal reentered the room. He +pretended not to see them, doubtless afraid of giving way to his +emotion. In an unnaturally loud voice he spoke of the final +preparations for Clotilde’s departure, like a man who had a great deal +on his hands and was afraid that the train might be missed. He had +corded the trunks, a man had taken them away in a little wagon, and +they would find them at the station. But it was only eight o’clock, and +they had still two long hours before them. Two hours of mortal anguish, +spent in unoccupied and weary waiting, during which they tasted a +hundred times over the bitterness of parting. The breakfast took hardly +a quarter of an hour. Then they got up, to sit down again. Their eyes +never left the clock. The minutes seemed long as those of a death +watch, throughout the mournful house. + +“How the wind blows!” said Clotilde, as a sudden gust made all the +doors creak. + +Pascal went over to the window and watched the wild flight of the +storm-blown trees. + +“It has increased since morning,” he said. “Presently I must see to the +roof, for some of the tiles have been blown away.” + +Already they had ceased to be one household. They listened in silence +to the furious wind, sweeping everything before it, carrying with it +their life. + +Finally Pascal looked for a last time at the clock, and said simply: + +“It is time, Clotilde.” + +She rose from the chair on which she had been sitting. She had for an +instant forgotten that she was going away, and all at once the dreadful +reality came back to her. Once more she looked at him, but he did not +open his arms to keep her. It was over; her hope was dead. And from +this moment her face was like that of one struck with death. + +At first they exchanged the usual commonplaces. + +“You will write to me, will you not?” + +“Certainly, and you must let me hear from you as often as possible.” + +“Above all, if you should fall ill, send for me at once.” + +“I promise you that I will do so. But there is no danger. I am very +strong.” + +Then, when the moment came in which she was to leave this dear house, +Clotilde looked around with unsteady gaze; then she threw herself on +Pascal’s breast, she held him for an instant in her arms, faltering: + +“I wish to embrace you here, I wish to thank you. Master, it is you who +have made me what I am. As you have often told me, you have corrected +my heredity. What should I have become amid the surroundings in which +Maxime has grown up? Yes, if I am worth anything, it is to you alone I +owe it, you, who transplanted me into this abode of kindness and +affection, where you have brought me up worthy of you. Now, after +having taken me and overwhelmed me with benefits, you send me away. Be +it as you will, you are my master, and I will obey you. I love you, in +spite of all, and I shall always love you.” + +He pressed her to his heart, answering: + +“I desire only your good, I am completing my work.” + +When they reached the station, Clotilde vowed to herself that she would +one day come back. Old Mme. Rougon was there, very gay and very brisk, +in spite of her eighty-and-odd years. She was triumphant now; she +thought she would have her son Pascal at her mercy. When she saw them +both stupefied with grief she took charge of everything; got the +ticket, registered the baggage, and installed the traveler in a +compartment in which there were only ladies. Then she spoke for a long +time about Maxime, giving instructions and asking to be kept informed +of everything. But the train did not start; there were still five cruel +minutes during which they remained face to face, without speaking to +each other. Then came the end, there were embraces, a great noise of +wheels, and waving of handkerchiefs. + +Suddenly Pascal became aware that he was standing alone upon the +platform, while the train was disappearing around a bend in the road. +Then, without listening to his mother, he ran furiously up the slope, +sprang up the stone steps like a young man, and found himself in three +minutes on the terrace of La Souleiade. The mistral was raging there—a +fierce squall which bent the secular cypresses like straws. In the +colorless sky the sun seemed weary of the violence of the wind, which +for six days had been sweeping over its face. And like the wind-blown +trees Pascal stood firm, his garments flapping like banners, his beard +and hair blown about and lashed by the storm. His breath caught by the +wind, his hands pressed upon his heart to quiet its throbbing, he saw +the train flying in the distance across the bare plain, a little train +which the mistral seemed to sweep before it like a dry branch. + + + + +XII. + + +From the day following Clotilde’s departure, Pascal shut himself up in +the great empty house. He did not leave it again, ceasing entirely the +rare professional visits which he had still continued to make, living +there with doors and windows closed, in absolute silence and solitude. +Martine had received formal orders to admit no one under any pretext +whatever. + +“But your mother, monsieur, Mme. Félicité?” + +“My mother, less than any one else; I have my reasons. Tell her that I +am working, that I require to concentrate my thoughts, and that I +request her to excuse me.” + +Three times in succession old Mme. Rougon had presented herself. She +would storm at the hall door. He would hear her voice rising in anger +as she tried in vain to force her way in. Then the noise would be +stilled, and there would be only a whisper of complaint and plotting +between her and the servant. But not once did he yield, not once did he +lean over the banisters and call to her to come up. + +One day Martine ventured to say to him: + +“It is very hard, all the same, monsieur, to refuse admittance to one’s +mother. The more so, as Mme. Félicité comes with good intentions, for +she knows the straits that monsieur is in, and she insists only in +order to offer her services.” + +“Money!” he cried, exasperated. “I want no money, do you hear? And from +her less than anybody. I will work, I will earn my own living; why +should I not?” + +The question of money, however, began to grow pressing. He obstinately +refused to take another sou from the five thousand francs locked up in +the desk. Now that he was alone, he was completely indifferent to +material things; he would have been satisfied to live on bread and +water; and every time the servant asked him for money to buy wine, +meat, or sweets, he shrugged his shoulders—what was the use? there +remained a crust from the day before, was not that sufficient? But in +her affection for her master, whom she felt to be suffering, the old +servant was heart-broken at this miserliness which exceeded her own; +this utter destitution to which he abandoned himself and the whole +house. The workmen of the faubourgs lived better. Thus it was that for +a whole day a terrible conflict went on within her. Her doglike love +struggled with her love for her money, amassed sou by sou, hidden away, +“making more,” as she said. She would rather have parted with a piece +of her flesh. So long as her master had not suffered alone the idea of +touching her treasure had not even occurred to her. And she displayed +extraordinary heroism the morning when, driven to extremity, seeing her +stove cold and the larder empty, she disappeared for an hour and then +returned with provisions and the change of a hundred-franc note. + +Pascal, who just then chanced to come downstairs, asked her in +astonishment where the money had come from, furious already, and +prepared to throw it all into the street, imagining she had applied to +his mother. + +“Why, no; why, no, monsieur!” she stammered, “it is not that at all.” + +And she told him the story that she had prepared. + +“Imagine, M. Grandguillot’s affairs are going to be settled—or at least +I think so. It occurred to me this morning to go to the assignee’s to +inquire, and he told me that you would undoubtedly recover something, +and that I might have a hundred francs now. Yes, he was even satisfied +with a receipt from me. He knows me, and you can make it all right +afterward.” + +Pascal seemed scarcely surprised. She had calculated correctly that he +would not go out to verify her account. She was relieved, however, to +see with what easy indifference he accepted her story. + +“Ah, so much the better!” he said. “You see now that one must never +despair. That will give me time to settle my affairs.” + +His “affairs” was the sale of La Souleiade, about which he had been +thinking vaguely. But what a grief to leave this house in which +Clotilde had grown up, where they had lived together for nearly +eighteen years! He had taken two or three weeks already to reflect over +the matter. Now that he had the hope of getting back a little of the +money he had lost through the notary’s failure, he ceased to think any +more about it. He relapsed into his former indifference, eating +whatever Martine served him, not even noticing the comforts with which +she once more surrounded him, in humble adoration, heart-broken at +giving her money, but very happy to support him now, without his +suspecting that his sustenance came from her. + +But Pascal rewarded her very ill. Afterward he would be sorry, and +regret his outbursts. But in the state of feverish desperation in which +he lived this did not prevent him from again flying into a passion with +her, at the slightest cause of dissatisfaction. One evening, after he +had been listening to his mother talking for an interminable time with +her in the kitchen, he cried in sudden fury: + +“Martine, I do not wish her to enter La Souleiade again, do you hear? +If you ever let her into the house again I will turn you out!” + +She listened to him in surprise. Never, during the thirty-two years in +which she had been in his service, had he threatened to dismiss her in +this way. Big tears came to her eyes. + +“Oh, monsieur! you would not have the courage to do it! And I would not +go. I would lie down across the threshold first.” + +He already regretted his anger, and he said more gently: + +“The thing is that I know perfectly well what is going on. She comes to +indoctrinate you, to put you against me, is it not so? Yes, she is +watching my papers; she wishes to steal and destroy everything up there +in the press. I know her; when she wants anything, she never gives up +until she gets it. Well, you can tell her that I am on my guard; that +while I am alive she shall never even come near the press. And the key +is here in my pocket.” + +In effect, all his former terror—the terror of the scientist who feels +himself surrounded by secret enemies, had returned. Ever since he had +been living alone in the deserted house he had had a feeling of +returning danger, of being constantly watched in secret. The circle had +narrowed, and if he showed such anger at these attempts at invasion, if +he repulsed his mother’s assaults, it was because he did not deceive +himself as to her real plans, and he was afraid that he might yield. If +she were there she would gradually take possession of him, until she +had subjugated him completely. Therefore his former tortures returned, +and he passed the days watching; he shut up the house himself in the +evening, and he would often rise during the night, to assure himself +that the locks were not being forced. What he feared was that the +servant, won over by his mother, and believing she was securing his +eternal welfare, would open the door to Mme. Félicité. In fancy he saw +the papers blazing in the fireplace; he kept constant guard over them, +seized again by a morbid love, a torturing affection for this icy heap +of papers, these cold pages of manuscript, to which he had sacrificed +the love of woman, and which he tried to love sufficiently to be able +to forget everything else for them. + +Pascal, now that Clotilde was no longer there, threw himself eagerly +into work, trying to submerge himself in it, to lose himself in it. If +he secluded himself, if he did not set foot even in the garden, if he +had had the strength, one day when Martine came up to announce Dr. +Ramond, to answer that he would not receive him, he had, in this bitter +desire for solitude, no other aim than to kill thought by incessant +labor. That poor Ramond, how gladly he would have embraced him! for he +divined clearly the delicacy of feeling that had made him hasten to +console his old master. But why lose an hour? Why risk emotions and +tears which would leave him so weak? From daylight he was at his table, +he spent at it his mornings and his afternoons, extended often into the +evening after the lamp was lighted, and far into the night. He wished +to put his old project into execution—to revise his whole theory of +heredity, employing the documents furnished by his own family to +establish the laws according to which, in a certain group of human +beings, life is distributed and conducted with mathematical precision +from one to another, taking into account the environment—a vast bible, +the genesis of families, of societies, of all humanity. He hoped that +the vastness of such a plan, the effort necessary to develop so +colossal an idea, would take complete possession of him, restoring to +him his health, his faith, his pride in the supreme joy of the +accomplished work. But it was in vain that he threw himself +passionately, persistently, without reserve, into his work; he +succeeded only in fatiguing his body and his mind, without even being +able to fix his thoughts or to put his heart into his work, every day +sicker and more despairing. Had work, then, finally lost its power? He +whose life had been spent in work, who had regarded it as the sole +motor, the benefactor, and the consoler, must he then conclude that to +love and to be loved is beyond all else in the world? Occasionally he +would have great thoughts, he continued to sketch out his new theory of +the equilibrium of forces, demonstrating that what man receives in +sensation he should return in action. How natural, full, and happy +would life be if it could be lived entire, performing its functions +like a well-ordered machine, giving back in power what was consumed in +fuel, maintaining itself in vigor and in beauty by the simultaneous and +logical play of all its organs. He believed physical and intellectual +labor, feeling and reasoning should be in equal proportions, and never +excessive, for excess meant disturbance of the equilibrium and, +consequently, disease. Yes, yes, to begin life over again and to know +how to live it, to dig the earth, to study man, to love woman, to +attain to human perfection, the future city of universal happiness, +through the harmonious working of the entire being, what a beautiful +legacy for a philosophical physician to leave behind him would this be! +And this dream of the future, this theory, confusedly perceived, filled +him with bitterness at the thought that now his life was a force wasted +and lost. + +At the very bottom of his grief Pascal had the dominating feeling that +for him life was ended. Regret for Clotilde, sorrow at having her no +longer beside him, the certainty that he would never see her again, +filled him with overwhelming grief. Work had lost its power, and he +would sometimes let his head drop on the page he was writing, and weep +for hours together, unable to summon courage to take up the pen again. +His passion for work, his days of voluntary fatigue, led to terrible +nights, nights of feverish sleeplessness, in which he would stuff the +bedclothes into his mouth to keep from crying out Clotilde’s name. She +was everywhere in this mournful house in which he secluded himself. He +saw her again, walking through the rooms, sitting on the chairs, +standing behind the doors. Downstairs, in the dining-room, he could not +sit at table, without seeing her opposite him. In the workroom upstairs +she was still his constant companion, for she, too, had lived so long +secluded in it that her image seemed reflected from everything; he felt +her constantly beside him, he could fancy he saw her standing before +her desk, straight and slender—her delicate face bent over a pastel. +And if he did not leave the house to escape from the dear and torturing +memory it was because he had the certainty that he should find her +everywhere in the garden, too: dreaming on the terrace; walking with +slow steps through the alleys in the pine grove; sitting under the +shade of the plane trees; lulled by the eternal song of the fountain; +lying in the threshing yard at twilight, her gaze fixed on space, +waiting for the stars to come out. But above all, there existed for him +a sacred sanctuary which he could not enter without trembling—the +chamber where she had confessed her love. He kept the key of it; he had +not moved a single object from its place since the sorrowful morning of +her departure; and a skirt which she had forgotten lay still upon her +armchair. He opened his arms wildly to clasp her shade floating in the +soft half light of the room, with its closed shutters and its walls +hung with the old faded pink calico, of a dawnlike tint. + +In the midst of his unremitting toil Pascal had another melancholy +pleasure—Clotilde’s letters. She wrote to him regularly twice a week, +long letters of eight or ten pages, in which she described to him all +her daily life. She did not seem to lead a very happy life in Paris. +Maxime, who did not now leave his sick chair, evidently tortured her +with the exactions of a spoiled child and an invalid. She spoke as if +she lived in complete retirement, always waiting on him, so that she +could not even go over to the window to look out on the avenue, along +which rolled the fashionable stream of the promenaders of the Bois; and +from certain of her expressions it could be divined that her brother, +after having entreated her so urgently to go to him, suspected her +already, and had begun to regard her with hatred and distrust, as he +did every one who approached him, in his continual fear of being made +use of and robbed. He did not give her the keys, treating her like a +servant to whom he found it difficult to accustom himself. Twice she +had seen her father, who was, as always, very gay, and overwhelmed with +business; he had been converted to the Republic, and was at the height +of political and financial success. Saccard had even taken her aside, +to sympathize with her, saying that poor Maxime was really +insupportable, and that she would be truly courageous if she consented +to be made his victim. As she could not do everything, he had even had +the kindness to send her, on the following day, the niece of his +hairdresser, a fair-haired, innocent-looking girl of eighteen, named +Rose, who was assisting her now to take care of the invalid. But +Clotilde made no complaint; she affected, on the contrary, to be +perfectly tranquil, contented, and resigned to everything. Her letters +were full of courage, showing neither anger nor sorrow at the cruel +separation, making no desperate appeal to Pascal’s affection to recall +her. But between the lines, he could perceive that she trembled with +rebellious anger, that her whole being yearned for him, that she was +ready to commit the folly of returning to him immediately, at his +lightest word. + +And this was the one word that Pascal would not write. Everything would +be arranged in time. Maxime would become accustomed to his sister; the +sacrifice must be completed now that it had been begun. A single line +written by him in a moment of weakness, and all the advantage of the +effort he had made would be lost, and their misery would begin again. +Never had Pascal had greater need of courage than when he was answering +Clotilde’s letters. At night, burning with fever, he would toss about, +calling on her wildly; then he would get up and write to her to come +back at once. But when day came, and he had exhausted himself with +weeping, his fever abated, and his answer was always very short, almost +cold. He studied every sentence, beginning the letter over again when +he thought he had forgotten himself. But what a torture, these dreadful +letters, so short, so icy, in which he went against his heart, solely +in order to wean her from him gradually, to take upon himself all the +blame, and to make her believe that she could forget him, since he +forgot her. They left him covered with perspiration, and as exhausted +as if he had just performed some great act of heroism. + +One morning toward the end of October, a month after Clotilde’s +departure, Pascal had a sudden attack of suffocation. He had had, +several times already, slight attacks, which he attributed to overwork. +But this time the symptoms were so plain that he could not mistake +them—a sharp pain in the region of the heart, extending over the whole +chest and along the left arm, and a dreadful sensation of oppression +and distress, while cold perspiration broke out upon him. It was an +attack of angina pectoris. It lasted hardly more than a minute, and he +was at first more surprised than frightened. With that blindness which +physicians often show where their own health is concerned, he never +suspected that his heart might be affected. + +As he was recovering his breath Martine came up to say that Dr. Ramond +was downstairs, and again begged the doctor to see him. And Pascal, +yielding perhaps to an unconscious desire to know the truth, cried: + +“Well, let him come up, since he insists upon it. I will be glad to see +him.” + +The two men embraced each other, and no other allusion was made to the +absent one, to her whose departure had left the house empty, than an +energetic and sad hand clasp. + +“You don’t know why I have come?” cried Ramond immediately. “It is +about a question of money. Yes, my father-in-law, M. Leveque, the +advocate, whom you know, spoke to me yesterday again about the funds +which you had with the notary Grandguillot. And he advises you strongly +to take some action in the matter, for some persons have succeeded, he +says, in recovering something.” + +“Yes, I know that that business is being settled,” said Pascal. +“Martine has already got two hundred francs out of it, I believe.” + +“Martine?” said Ramond, looking greatly surprised, “how could she do +that without your intervention? However, will you authorize my +father-in-law to undertake your case? He will see the assignee, and +sift the whole affair, since you have neither the time nor the +inclination to attend to it.” + +“Certainly, I authorize M. Leveque to do so, and tell him that I thank +him a thousand times.” + +Then this matter being settled, the young man, remarking the doctor’s +pallor, and questioning him as to its cause, Pascal answered with a +smile: + +“Imagine, my friend, I have just had an attack of angina pectoris. Oh, +it is not imagination, all the symptoms were there. And stay! since you +are here you shall sound me.” + +At first Ramond refused, affecting to turn the consultation into a +jest. Could a raw recruit like him venture to pronounce judgment on his +general? But he examined him, notwithstanding, seeing that his face +looked drawn and pained, with a singular look of fright in the eyes. He +ended by auscultating him carefully, keeping his ear pressed closely to +his chest for a considerable time. Several minutes passed in profound +silence. + +“Well?” asked Pascal, when the young physician stood up. + +The latter did not answer at once. He felt the doctor’s eyes looking +straight into his; and as the question had been put to him with quiet +courage, he answered in the same way: + +“Well, it is true, I think there is some sclerosis.” + +“Ah! it was kind of you not to attempt to deceive me,” returned the +doctor, smiling. “I feared for an instant that you would tell me an +untruth, and that would have hurt me.” + +Ramond, listening again, said in an undertone: + +“Yes, the beat is strong, the first sound is dull, while the second, on +the contrary, is sharp. It is evident that the apex has descended and +is turned toward the armpit. There is some sclerosis, at least it is +very probable. One may live twenty years with that,” he ended, +straightening himself. + +“No doubt, sometimes,” said Pascal. “At least, unless one chances to +die of a sudden attack.” + +They talked for some time longer, discussed a remarkable case of +sclerosis of the heart, which they had seen at the hospital at +Plassans. And when the young physician went away, he said that he would +return as soon as he should have news of the Grandguillot liquidation. + +But when he was alone Pascal felt that he was lost. Everything was now +explained: his palpitations for some weeks past, his attacks of vertigo +and suffocation; above all that weakness of the organ, of his poor +heart, overtasked by feeling and by work, that sense of intense fatigue +and impending death, regarding which he could no longer deceive +himself. It was not as yet fear that he experienced, however. His first +thought was that he, too, would have to pay for his heredity, that +sclerosis was the species of degeneration which was to be his share of +the physiological misery, the inevitable inheritance bequeathed him by +his terrible ancestry. In others the neurosis, the original lesion, had +turned to vice or virtue, genius, crime, drunkenness, sanctity; others +again had died of consumption, of epilepsy, of ataxia; he had lived in +his feelings and he would die of an affection of the heart. And he +trembled no longer, he rebelled no longer against this manifest +heredity, fated and inevitable, no doubt. On the contrary, a feeling of +humility took possession of him; the idea that all revolt against +natural laws is bad, that wisdom does not consist in holding one’s self +apart, but in resigning one’s self to be only a member of the whole +great body. Why, then, was he so unwilling to belong to his family that +it filled him with triumph, that his heart beat with joy, when he +believed himself different from them, without any community with them? +Nothing could be less philosophical. Only monsters grew apart. And to +belong to his family seemed to him in the end as good and as fine as to +belong to any other family, for did not all families, in the main, +resemble one another, was not humanity everywhere identical with the +same amount of good and evil? He came at last, humbly and gently, even +in the face of impending suffering and death, to accept everything life +had to give him. + +From this time Pascal lived with the thought that he might die at any +moment. And this helped to perfect his character, to elevate him to a +complete forgetfulness of self. He did not cease to work, but he had +never understood so well how much effort must seek its reward in +itself, the work being always transitory, and remaining of necessity +incomplete. One evening at dinner Martine informed him that Sarteur, +the journeyman hatter, the former inmate of the asylum at the Tulettes, +had just hanged himself. All the evening he thought of this strange +case, of this man whom he had believed he had cured of homicidal mania +by his treatment of hypodermic injections, and who, seized by a fresh +attack, had evidently had sufficient lucidity to hang himself, instead +of springing at the throat of some passer-by. He again saw him, so +gentle, so reasonable, kissing his hands, while he was advising him to +return to his life of healthful labor. What then was this destructive +and transforming force, the desire to murder, changing to suicide, +death performing its task in spite of everything? With the death of +this man his last vestige of pride as a healer disappeared; and each +day when he returned to his work he felt as if he were only a learner, +spelling out his task, constantly seeking the truth, which as +constantly receded from him, assuming ever more formidable proportions. + +But in the midst of his resignation one thought still troubled him—what +would become of Bonhomme, his old horse, if he himself should die +before him? The poor brute, completely blind and his limbs paralyzed, +did not now leave his litter. When his master went to see him, however, +he turned his head, he could feel the two hearty kisses which were +pressed on his nose. All the neighbors shrugged their shoulders and +joked about this old relation whom the doctor would not allow to be +slaughtered. Was he then to be the first to go, with the thought that +the knacker would be called in on the following day. But one morning, +when he entered the stable, Bonhomme did not hear him, did not raise +his head. He was dead; he lay there, with a peaceful expression, as if +relieved that death had come to him so gently. His master knelt beside +him and kissed him again and bade him farewell, while two big tears +rolled down his cheeks. + +It was on this day that Pascal saw his neighbor, M. Bellombre, for the +last time. Going over to the window he perceived him in his garden, in +the pale sunshine of early November, taking his accustomed walk; and +the sight of the old professor, living so completely happy in his +solitude, filled him at first with astonishment. He could never have +imagined such a thing possible, as that a man of sixty-nine should live +thus, without wife or child, or even a dog, deriving his selfish +happiness from the joy of living outside of life. Then he recalled his +fits of anger against this man, his sarcasms about his fear of life, +the catastrophes which he had wished might happen to him, the hope that +punishment would come to him, in the shape of some housekeeper, or some +female relation dropping down on him unexpectedly. But no, he was still +as fresh as ever, and Pascal was sure that for a long time to come he +would continue to grow old like this, hard, avaricious, useless, and +happy. And yet he no longer execrated him; he could even have found it +in his heart to pity him, so ridiculous and miserable did he think him +for not being loved. Pascal, who suffered the pangs of death because he +was alone! He whose heart was breaking because he was too full of +others. Rather suffering, suffering only, than this selfishness, this +death of all there is in us of living and human! + +In the night which followed Pascal had another attack of angina +pectoris. It lasted for five minutes, and he thought that he would +suffocate without having the strength to call Martine. Then when he +recovered his breath, he did not disturb himself, preferring to speak +to no one of this aggravation of his malady; but he had the certainty +that it was all over with him, that he might not perhaps live a month +longer. His first thought was Clotilde. Should he then never see her +again? and so sharp a pang seized him that he believed another attack +was coming on. Why should he not write to her to come to him? He had +received a letter from her the day before; he would answer it this +morning. Then the thought of the envelopes occurred to him. If he +should die suddenly, his mother would be the mistress and she would +destroy them; and not only the envelopes, but his manuscripts, all his +papers, thirty years of his intelligence and his labor. Thus the crime +which he had so greatly dreaded would be consummated, the crime of +which the fear alone, during his nights of fever, had made him get up +out of bed trembling, his ear on the stretch, listening to hear if they +were forcing open the press. The perspiration broke out upon him, he +saw himself dispossessed, outraged, the ashes of his work thrown to the +four winds. And when his thoughts reverted to Clotilde, he told himself +that everything would be satisfactorily arranged, that he had only to +call her back—she would be here, she would close his eyes, she would +defend his memory. And he sat down to write at once to her, so that the +letter might go by the morning mail. + +But when Pascal was seated before the white paper, with the pen between +his fingers, a growing doubt, a feeling of dissatisfaction with +himself, took possession of him. Was not this idea of his papers, this +fine project of providing a guardian for them and saving them, a +suggestion of his weakness, an excuse which he gave himself to bring +back Clotilde, and see her again? Selfishness was at the bottom of it. +He was thinking of himself, not of her. He saw her returning to this +poor house, condemned to nurse a sick old man; and he saw her, above +all, in her grief, in her awful agony, when he should terrify her some +day by dropping down dead at her side. No, no! this was the dreadful +moment which he must spare her, those days of cruel adieus and want +afterward, a sad legacy which he could not leave her without thinking +himself a criminal. Her tranquillity, her happiness only, were of any +consequence, the rest did not matter. He would die in his hole, then, +abandoned, happy to think her happy, to spare her the cruel blow of his +death. As for saving his manuscripts he would perhaps find a means of +doing so, he would try to have the strength to part from them and give +them to Ramond. But even if all his papers were to perish, this was +less of a sacrifice than to resign himself not to see her again, and he +accepted it, and he was willing that nothing of him should survive, not +even his thoughts, provided only that nothing of him should henceforth +trouble her dear existence. + +Pascal accordingly proceeded to write one of his usual answers, which, +by a great effort, he purposely made colorless and almost cold. +Clotilde, in her last letter, without complaining of Maxime, had given +it to be understood that her brother had lost his interest in her, +preferring the society of Rose, the niece of Saccard’s hairdresser, the +fair-haired young girl with the innocent look. And he suspected +strongly some maneuver of the father: a cunning plan to obtain +possession of the inheritance of the sick man, whose vices, so +precocious formerly, gained new force as his last hour approached. But +in spite of his uneasiness he gave Clotilde very good advice, telling +her that she must make allowance for Maxime’s sufferings, that he had +undoubtedly a great deal of affection and gratitude for her, in short +that it was her duty to devote herself to him to the end. When he +signed the letter tears dimmed his sight. It was his death warrant—a +death like that of an old and solitary brute, a death without a kiss, +without the touch of a friendly hand—that he was signing. Never again +would he embrace her. Then doubts assailed him; was he doing right in +leaving her amid such evil surroundings, where he felt that she was in +continual contact with every species of wickedness? + +The postman brought the letters and newspapers to La Souleiade every +morning at about nine o’clock; and Pascal, when he wrote to Clotilde, +was accustomed to watch for him, to give him his letter, so as to be +certain that his correspondence was not intercepted. But on this +morning, when he went downstairs to give him the letter he had just +written, he was surprised to receive one from him from Clotilde, +although it was not the usual day for her letters. He allowed his own +to go, however. Then he went upstairs, resumed his seat at his table, +and tore open the envelope. + +The letter was short, but its contents filled Pascal with a great joy. + + +But the sound of footsteps made him control himself. He turned round +and saw Martine, who was saying: + +“Dr. Ramond is downstairs.” + +“Ah! let him come up, let him come up,” he said. + +It was another piece of good fortune that had come to him. Ramond cried +gaily from the door: + +“Victory, master! I have brought you your money—not all, but a good +sum.” + +And he told the story—an unexpected piece of good luck which his +father-in-law, M. Leveque, had brought to light. The receipts for the +hundred and twenty thousand francs, which constituted Pascal the +personal creditor of Grandguillot, were valueless, since the latter was +insolvent. Salvation was to come from the power of attorney which the +doctor had sent him years before, at his request, that he might invest +all or part of his money in mortgages. As the name of the proxy was in +blank in the document, the notary, as is sometimes done, had made use +of the name of one of his clerks, and eighty thousand francs, which had +been invested in good mortgages, had thus been recovered through the +agency of a worthy man who was not in the secrets of his employer. If +Pascal had taken action in the matter, if he had gone to the public +prosecutor’s office and the chamber of notaries, he would have +disentangled the matter long before. However, he had recovered a sure +income of four thousand francs. + +He seized the young man’s hands and pressed them, smiling, his eyes +still moist with tears. + +“Ah! my friend, if you knew how happy I am! This letter of Clotilde’s +has brought me a great happiness. Yes, I was going to send for her; but +the thought of my poverty, of the privations she would have to endure +here, spoiled for me the joy of her return. And now fortune has come +back, at least enough to set up my little establishment again!” + +In the expansion of his feelings he held out the letter to Ramond, and +forced him to read it. Then when the young man gave it back to him, +smiling, comprehending the doctor’s emotion, and profoundly touched by +it, yielding to an overpowering need of affection, he caught him in his +arms, like a comrade, a brother. The two men kissed each other +vigorously on either cheek. + +“Come, since good fortune has sent you, I am going to ask another +service from you. You know I distrust every one around me, even my old +housekeeper. Will you take my despatch to the telegraph office!” + +He sat down again at the table, and wrote simply, “I await you; start +to-night.” + +“Let me see,” he said, “to-day is the 6th of November, is it not? It is +now near ten o’clock; she will have my despatch at noon. That will give +her time enough to pack her trunks and to take the eight o’clock +express this evening, which will bring her to Marseilles in time for +breakfast. But as there is no train which connects with it, she cannot +be here until to-morrow, the 7th, at five o’clock.” + +After folding the despatch he rose: + +“My God, at five o’clock to-morrow! How long to wait still! What shall +I do with myself until then?” + +Then a sudden recollection filled him with anxiety, and he became +grave. + +“Ramond, my comrade, will you give me a great proof of your friendship +by being perfectly frank with me?” + +“How so, master?” + +“Ah, you understand me very well. The other day you examined me. Do you +think I can live another year?” + +He fixed his eyes on the young man as he spoke, compelling him to look +at him. Ramond evaded a direct answer, however, with a jest—was it +really a physician who put such a question? + +“Let us be serious, Ramond, I beg of you.” + +Then Ramond answered in all sincerity that, in his opinion, the doctor +might very justly entertain the hope of living another year. He gave +his reasons—the comparatively slight progress which the sclerosis had +made, and the absolute soundness of the other organs. Of course they +must make allowance for what they did not and could not know, for a +sudden accident was always possible. And the two men discussed the case +as if they been in consultation at the bedside of a patient, weighing +the pros and cons, each stating his views and prognosticating a fatal +termination, in accordance with the symptoms as defined by the best +authorities. + +Pascal, as if it were some one else who was in question, had recovered +all his composure and his heroic self-forgetfulness. + +“Yes,” he murmured at last, “you are right; a year of life is still +possible. Ah, my friend, how I wish I might live two years; a mad wish, +no doubt, an eternity of joy. And yet, two years, that would not be +impossible. I had a very curious case once, a wheelwright of the +faubourg, who lived for four years, giving the lie to all my +prognostications. Two years, two years, I will live two years! I must +live two years!” + +Ramond sat with bent head, without answering. He was beginning to be +uneasy, fearing that he had shown himself too optimistic; and the +doctor’s joy disquieted and grieved him, as if this very exaltation, +this disturbance of a once strong brain, warned him of a secret and +imminent danger. + +“Did you not wish to send that despatch at once?” he said. + +“Yes, yes, go quickly, my good Ramond, and come back again to see us +the day after to-morrow. She will be here then, and I want you to come +and embrace us.” + +The day was long, and the following morning, at about four o’clock, +shortly after Pascal had fallen asleep, after a happy vigil filled with +hopes and dreams, he was wakened by a dreadful attack. He felt as if an +enormous weight, as if the whole house, had fallen down upon his chest, +so that the thorax, flattened down, touched the back. He could not +breathe; the pain reached the shoulders, then the neck, and paralyzed +the left arm. But he was perfectly conscious; he had the feeling that +his heart was about to stop, that life was about to leave him, in the +dreadful oppression, like that of a vise, which was suffocating him. +Before the attack reached its height he had the strength to rise and to +knock on the floor with a stick for Martine. Then he fell back on his +bed, unable to speak or to move, and covered with a cold sweat. + +Martine, fortunately, in the profound silence of the empty house, heard +the knock. She dressed herself, wrapped a shawl about her, and went +upstairs, carrying her candle. The darkness was still profound; dawn +was about to break. And when she perceived her master, whose eyes alone +seemed living, looking at her with locked jaws, speechless, his face +distorted by pain, she was awed and terrified, and she could only rush +toward the bed crying: + +“My God! My God! what is the matter, monsieur? Answer me, monsieur, you +frighten me!” + +For a full minute Pascal struggled in vain to recover his breath. Then, +the viselike pressure on his chest relaxing slowly, he murmured in a +faint voice: + +“The five thousand francs in the desk are Clotilde’s. Tell her that the +affair of the notary is settled, that she will recover from it enough +to live upon.” + +Then Martine, who had listened to him in open-mouthed wonder, confessed +the falsehood she had told him, ignorant of the good news that had been +brought by Ramond. + +“Monsieur, you must forgive me; I told you an untruth. But it would be +wrong to deceive you longer. When I saw you alone and so unhappy, I +took some of my own money.” + +“My poor girl, you did that!” + +“Oh, I had some hope that monsieur would return it to me one day.” + +By this time the attack had passed off, and he was able to turn his +head and look at her. He was amazed and moved. What was passing in the +heart of this avaricious old maid, who for thirty years had been saving +up her treasure painfully, who had never taken a sou from it, either +for herself or for any one else? He did not yet comprehend, but he +wished to show himself kind and grateful. + +“You are a good woman, Martine. All that will be returned to you. I +truly think I am going to die—” + +She did not allow him to finish, her whole being rose up in rebellious +protest. + +“Die; you, monsieur! Die before me! I do not wish it. I will not let +you die!” + +She threw herself on her knees beside the bed; she caught him wildly in +her arms, feeling him, to see if he suffered, holding him as if she +thought that death would not dare to take him from her. + +“You must tell me what is the matter with you. I will take care of you. +I will save you. If it were necessary to give my life for you, I would +give it, monsieur. I will sit up day and night with you. I am strong +still; I will be stronger than the disease, you shall see. To die! to +die! oh, no, it cannot be! The good God cannot wish so great an +injustice. I have prayed so much in my life that he ought to listen to +me a little now, and he will grant my prayer, monsieur; he will save +you.” + +Pascal looked at her, listened to her, and a sudden light broke in upon +his mind. She loved him, this miserable woman; she had always loved +him. He thought of her thirty years of blind devotion, her mute +adoration, when she had waited upon him, on her knees, as it were, when +she was young; her secret jealousy of Clotilde later; what she must +have secretly suffered all that time! And she was here on her knees now +again, beside his deathbed; her hair gray; her eyes the color of ashes +in her pale nun-like face, dulled by her solitary life. And he felt +that she was unconscious of it all; that she did not even know with +what sort of love she loved him, loving him only for the happiness of +loving him: of being with him, and of waiting on him. + +Tears rose to Pascal’s eyes; a dolorous pity and an infinite human +tenderness flowed from his poor, half-broken heart. + +“My poor girl,” he said, “you are the best of girls. Come, embrace me, +as you love me, with all your strength.” + +She, too, sobbed. She let her gray head, her face worn by her long +servitude, fall on her master’s breast. Wildly she kissed him, putting +all her life into the kiss. + +“There, let us not give way to emotion, for you see we can do nothing; +this will be the end, just the same. If you wish me to love you, obey +me. Now that I am better, that I can breathe easier, do me the favor to +run to Dr. Ramond’s. Waken him and bring him back with you.” + +She was leaving the room when he called to her, seized by a sudden +fear. + +“And remember, I forbid you to go to inform my mother.” + +She turned back, embarrassed, and in a voice of entreaty, said: + +“Oh, monsieur, Mme. Félicité has made me promise so often—” + +But he was inflexible. All his life he had treated his mother with +deference, and he thought he had acquired the right to defend himself +against her in the hour of his death. He would not let the servant go +until she had promised him that she would be silent. Then he smiled +once more. + +“Go quickly. Oh, you will see me again; it will not be yet.” + +Day broke at last, the melancholy dawn of the pale November day. Pascal +had had the shutters opened, and when he was left alone he watched the +brightening dawn, doubtless that of his last day of life. It had rained +the night before, and the mild sun was still veiled by clouds. From the +plane trees came the morning carols of the birds, while far away in the +sleeping country a locomotive whistled with a prolonged moan. And he +was alone; alone in the great melancholy house, whose emptiness he felt +around him, whose silence he heard. The light slowly increased, and he +watched the patches it made on the window-panes broadening and +brightening. Then the candle paled in the growing light, and the whole +room became visible. And with the dawn, as he had anticipated, came +relief. The sight of the familiar objects around him brought him +consolation. + +But Pascal, although the attack had passed away, still suffered +horribly. A sharp pain remained in the hollow of his chest, and his +left arm, benumbed, hung from his shoulder like lead. In his long +waiting for the help that Martine had gone to bring, he had reflected +on the suffering which made the flesh cry out. And he found that he was +resigned; he no longer felt the rebelliousness which the mere sight of +physical pain had formerly awakened in him. It had exasperated him, as +if it had been a monstrous and useless cruelty of nature. In his doubts +as a physician, he had attended his patients only to combat it, and to +relieve it. If he ended by accepting it, now that he himself suffered +its horrible torture, was it that he had risen one degree higher in his +faith of life, to that serene height whence life appeared altogether +good, even with the fatal condition of suffering attached to it; +suffering which is perhaps its spring? Yes, to live all of life, to +live it and to suffer it all without rebellion, without believing that +it is made better by being made painless, this presented itself clearly +to his dying eyes, as the greatest courage and the greatest wisdom. And +to cheat pain while he waited, he reviewed his latest theories; he +dreamed of a means of utilizing suffering by transforming it into +action, into work. If it be true that man feels pain more acutely +according as he rises in the scale of civilization, it is also certain +that he becomes stronger through it, better armed against it, more +capable of resisting it. The organ, the brain which works, develops and +grows stronger, provided the equilibrium between the sensations which +it receives and the work which it gives back be not broken. Might not +one hope, then, for a humanity in which the amount of work accomplished +would so exactly equal the sum of sensations received, that suffering +would be utilized and, as it were, abolished? + +The sun had risen, and Pascal was confusedly revolving these distant +hopes in his mind, in the drowsiness produced by his disease, when he +felt a new attack coming on. He had a moment of cruel anxiety—was this +the end? Was he going to die alone? But at this instant hurried +footsteps mounted the stairs, and a moment later Ramond entered, +followed by Martine. And the patient had time to say before the attack +began: + +“Quick! quick! a hypodermic injection of pure water.” + +Unfortunately the doctor had to look for the little syringe and then to +prepare everything. This occupied some minutes, and the attack was +terrible. He followed its progress with anxiety—the face becoming +distorted, the lips growing livid. Then when he had given the +injection, he observed that the phenomena, for a moment stationary, +slowly diminished in intensity. Once more the catastrophe was averted. + +As soon as he recovered his breath Pascal, glancing at the clock, said +in his calm, faint voice: + +“My friend, it is seven o’clock—in twelve hours, at seven o’clock +to-night, I shall be dead.” + +And as the young man was about to protest, to argue the question, “No,” +he resumed, “do not try to deceive me. You have witnessed the attack. +You know what it means as well as I do. Everything will now proceed +with mathematical exactness; and, hour by hour, I could describe to you +the phases of the disease.” + +He stopped, gasped for breath, and then added: + +“And then, all is well; I am content. Clotilde will be here at five; +all I ask is to see her and to die in her arms.” + +A few moments later, however, he experienced a sensible improvement. +The effect of the injection seemed truly miraculous; and he was able to +sit up in bed, his back resting against the pillows. He spoke clearly, +and with more ease, and never had the lucidity of his mind appeared +greater. + +“You know, master,” said, Ramond, “that I will not leave you. I have +told my wife, and we will spend the day together; and, whatever you may +say to the contrary, I am very confident that it will not be the last. +You will let me make myself at home, here, will you not?” + +Pascal smiled, and gave orders to Martine to go and prepare breakfast +for Ramond, saying that if they needed her they would call her. And the +two men remained alone, conversing with friendly intimacy; the one with +his white hair and long white beard, lying down, discoursing like a +sage, the other sitting at his bedside, listening with the respect of a +disciple. + +“In truth,” murmured the master, as if he were speaking to himself, +“the effect of those injections is extraordinary.” + +Then in a stronger voice, he said almost gaily: + +“My friend Ramond, it may not be a very great present that I am giving +you, but I am going to leave you my manuscripts. Yes, Clotilde has +orders to send them to you when I shall be no more. Look through them, +and you will perhaps find among them things that are not so very bad. +If you get a good idea from them some day—well, that will be so much +the better for the world.” + +And then he made his scientific testament. He was clearly conscious +that he had been himself only a solitary pioneer, a precursor, planning +theories which he tried to put in practise, but which failed because of +the imperfection of his method. He recalled his enthusiasm when he +believed he had discovered, in his injections of nerve substance, the +universal panacea, then his disappointments, his fits of despair, the +shocking death of Lafouasse, consumption carrying off Valentin in spite +of all his efforts, madness again conquering Sarteur and causing him to +hang himself. So that he would depart full of doubt, having no longer +the confidence necessary to the physician, and so enamored of life that +he had ended by putting all his faith in it, certain that it must draw +from itself alone its health and strength. But he did not wish to close +up the future; he was glad, on the contrary, to bequeath his hypotheses +to the younger generation. Every twenty years theories changed; +established truths only, on which science continued to build, remained +unshaken. Even if he had only the merit of giving to science a +momentary hypothesis, his work would not be lost, for progress +consisted assuredly in the effort, in the onward march of the +intellect. + +And then who could say that he had died in vain, troubled and weary, +his hopes concerning the injections unrealized—other workers would +come, young, ardent, confident, who would take up the idea, elucidate +it, expand it. And perhaps a new epoch, a new world would date from +this. + +“Ah, my dear Ramond,” he continued, “if one could only live life over +again. Yes, I would take up my idea again, for I have been struck +lately by the singular efficacy of injections even of pure water. It is +not the liquid, then, that matters, but simply the mechanical action. +During the last month I have written a great deal on that subject. You +will find some curious notes and observations there. In short, I should +be inclined to put all my faith in work, to place health in the +harmonious working of all the organs, a sort of dynamic therapeutics, +if I may venture to use the expression.” + +He had gradually grown excited, forgetting his approaching death in his +ardent curiosity about life. And he sketched, with broad strokes, his +last theory. Man was surrounded by a medium—nature—which irritated by +perpetual contact the sensitive extremities of the nerves. Hence the +action, not only of the senses, but of the entire surface of the body, +external and internal. For it was these sensations which, reverberating +in the brain, in the marrow, and in the nervous centers, were there +converted into tonicity, movements, and thoughts; and he was convinced +that health consisted in the natural progress of this work, in +receiving sensations, and in giving them back in thoughts and in +actions, the human machine being thus fed by the regular play of the +organs. Work thus became the great law, the regulator of the living +universe. Hence it became necessary if the equilibrium were broken, if +the external excitations ceased to be sufficient, for therapeutics to +create artificial excitations, in order to reestablish the tonicity +which is the state of perfect health. And he dreamed of a whole new +system of treatment—suggestion, the all-powerful authority of the +physician, for the senses; electricity, friction, massage for the skin +and for the tendons; diet for the stomach; air cures on high plateaus +for the lungs, and, finally, transfusion, injections of distilled +water, for the circulatory system. It was the undeniable and purely +mechanical action of these latter that had put him on the track; all he +did now was to extend the hypothesis, impelled by his generalizing +spirit; he saw the world saved anew in this perfect equilibrium, as +much work given as sensation received, the balance of the world +restored by unceasing labor. + +Here he burst into a frank laugh. + +“There! I have started off again. I, who was firmly convinced that the +only wisdom was not to interfere, to let nature take its course. Ah, +what an incorrigible old fool I am!” + +Ramond caught his hands in an outburst of admiration and affection. + +“Master, master! it is of enthusiasm, of folly like yours that genius +is made. Have no fear, I have listened to you, I will endeavor to be +worthy of the heritage you leave; and I think, with you, that perhaps +the great future lies entirely there.” + +In the sad and quiet room Pascal began to speak again, with the +courageous tranquillity of a dying philosopher giving his last lesson. +He now reviewed his personal observations; he said that he had often +cured himself by work, regular and methodical work, not carried to +excess. Eleven o’clock struck; he urged Ramond to take his breakfast, +and he continued the conversation, soaring to lofty and distant +heights, while Martine served the meal. The sun had at last burst +through the morning mists, a sun still half-veiled in clouds, and mild, +whose golden light warmed the room. Presently, after taking a few sips +of milk, Pascal remained silent. + +At this moment the young physician was eating a pear. + +“Are you in pain again?” he asked. + +“No, no; finish.” + +But he could not deceive Ramond. It was an attack, and a terrible one. +The suffocation came with the swiftness of a thunderbolt, and he fell +back on the pillow, his face already blue. He clutched at the +bedclothes to support himself, to raise the dreadful weight which +oppressed his chest. Terrified, livid, he kept his wide open eyes fixed +upon the clock, with a dreadful expression of despair and grief; and +for ten minutes it seemed as if every moment must be his last. + +Ramond had immediately given him a hypodermic injection. The relief was +slow to come, the efficacy less than before. + +When Pascal revived, large tears stood in his eyes. He did not speak +now, he wept. Presently, looking at the clock with his darkening +vision, he said: + +“My friend, I shall die at four o’clock; I shall not see her.” + +And as his young colleague, in order to divert his thoughts, declared, +in spite of appearances, that the end was not so near, Pascal, again +becoming enthusiastic, wished to give him a last lesson, based on +direct observation. He had, as it happened, attended several cases +similar to his own, and he remembered especially to have dissected at +the hospital the heart of a poor old man affected with sclerosis. + +“I can see it—my heart. It is the color of a dead leaf; its fibers are +brittle, wasted, one would say, although it has augmented slightly in +volume. The inflammatory process has hardened it; it would be difficult +to cut—” + +He continued in a lower voice. A little before, he had felt his heart +growing weaker, its contractions becoming feebler and slower. Instead +of the normal jet of blood there now issued from the aorta only a red +froth. Back of it all the veins were engorged with black blood; the +suffocation increased, according as the lift and force pump, the +regulator of the whole machine, moved more slowly. And after the +injection he had been able to follow in spite of his suffering the +gradual reviving of the organ as the stimulus set it beating again, +removing the black venous blood, and sending life into it anew, with +the red arterial blood. But the attack would return as soon as the +mechanical effect of the injection should cease. He could predict it +almost within a few minutes. Thanks to the injections he would have +three attacks more. The third would carry him off; he would die at four +o’clock. + +Then, while his voice grew gradually weaker, in a last outburst of +enthusiasm, he apostrophized the courage of the heart, that persistent +life maker, working ceaselessly, even during sleep, when the other +organs rested. + +“Ah, brave heart! how heroically you struggle! What faithful, what +generous muscles, never wearied! You have loved too much, you have beat +too fast in the past months, and that is why you are breaking now, +brave heart, who do not wish to die, and who strive rebelliously to +beat still!” + +But now the first of the attacks which had been announced came on. +Pascal came out of this panting, haggard, his speech sibilant and +painful. Low moans escaped him, in spite of his courage. Good God! +would this torture never end? And yet his most ardent desire was to +prolong his agony, to live long enough to embrace Clotilde a last time. +If he might only be deceiving himself, as Ramond persisted in +declaring. If he might only live until five o’clock. His eyes again +turned to the clock, they never now left the hands, every minute +seeming an eternity. They marked three o’clock. Then half-past three. +Ah, God! only two hours of life, two hours more of life. The sun was +already sinking toward the horizon; a great calm descended from the +pale winter sky, and he heard at intervals the whistles of the distant +locomotives crossing the bare plain. The train that was passing now was +the one going to the Tulettes; the other, the one coming from +Marseilles, would it never arrive, then! + +At twenty minutes to four Pascal signed to Ramond to approach. He could +no longer speak loud enough to be heard. + +“You see, in order that I might live until six o’clock, the pulse +should be stronger. I have still some hope, however, but the second +movement is almost imperceptible, the heart will soon cease to beat.” + +And in faint, despairing accents he called on Clotilde again and again. +The immeasurable grief which he felt at not being able to see her again +broke forth in this faltering and agonized appeal. Then his anxiety +about his manuscripts returned, an ardent entreaty shone in his eyes, +until at last he found the strength to falter again: + +“Do not leave me; the key is under my pillow; tell Clotilde to take it; +she has my directions.” + +At ten minutes to four another hypodermic injection was given, but +without effect. And just as four o’clock was striking, the second +attack declared itself. Suddenly, after a fit of suffocation, he threw +himself out of bed; he desired to rise, to walk, in a last revival of +his strength. A need of space, of light, of air, urged him toward the +skies. Then there came to him an irresistible appeal from life, his +whole life, from the adjoining workroom, where he had spent his days. +And he went there, staggering, suffocating, bending to the left side, +supporting himself by the furniture. + +Dr. Ramond precipitated himself quickly toward him to stop him, crying: + +“Master, master! lie down again, I entreat you!” + +But Pascal paid no heed to him, obstinately determined to die on his +feet. The desire to live, the heroic idea of work, alone survived in +him, carrying him onward bodily. He faltered hoarsely: + +“No, no—out there, out there—” + +His friend was obliged to support him, and he walked thus, stumbling +and haggard, to the end of the workroom, and dropped into his chair +beside his table, on which an unfinished page still lay among a +confusion of papers and books. + +Here he gasped for breath and his eyes closed. After a moment he opened +them again, while his hands groped about, seeking his work, no doubt. +They encountered the genealogical tree in the midst of other papers +scattered about. Only two days before he had corrected some dates in +it. He recognized it, and drawing it toward him, spread it out. + +“Master, master! you will kill yourself!” cried Ramond, overcome with +pity and admiration at this extraordinary spectacle. + +Pascal did not listen, did not hear. He felt a pencil under his +fingers. He took it and bent over the tree, as if his dying eyes no +longer saw. The name of Maxime arrested his attention, and he wrote: +“Died of ataxia in 1873,” in the certainty that his nephew would not +live through the year. Then Clotilde’s name, beside it, struck him and +he completed the note thus: “Has a son, by her Uncle Pascal, in 1874.” +But it was his own name that he sought wearily and confusedly. When he +at last found it his hand grew firmer, and he finished his note, in +upright and bold characters: “Died of heart disease, November 7, 1873.” +This was the supreme effort, the rattle in his throat increased, +everything was fading into nothingness, when he perceived the blank +leaf above Clotilde’s name. His vision grew dark, his fingers could no +longer hold the pencil, but he was still able to add, in unsteady +letters, into which passed the tortured tenderness, the wild disorder +of his poor heart: “The unknown child, to be born in 1874. What will it +be?” Then he swooned, and Martine and Ramond with difficulty carried +him back to bed. + +The third attack came on about four o’clock. In this last access of +suffocation Pascal’s countenance expressed excruciating suffering. +Death was to be very painful; he must endure to the end his martyrdom, +as a man and a scientist. His wandering gaze still seemed to seek the +clock, to ascertain the hour. And Ramond, seeing his lips move, bent +down and placed his ear to the mouth of the dying man. The latter, in +effect, was stammering some vague words, so faint that they scarcely +rose above a breath: + +“Four o’clock—the heart is stopping; no more red blood in the aorta—the +valve relaxes and bursts.” + +A dreadful spasm shook him; his breathing grew fainter. + +“Its progress is too rapid. Do not leave me; the key is under the +pillow—Clotilde, Clotilde—” + +At the foot of the bed Martine was kneeling, choked with sobs. She saw +well that monsieur was dying. She had not dared to go for a priest +notwithstanding her great desire to do so; and she was herself reciting +the prayers for the dying; she prayed ardently that God would pardon +monsieur, and that monsieur might go straight to Paradise. + +Pascal was dying. His face was quite blue. After a few seconds of +immobility, he tried to breathe: he put out his lips, opened his poor +mouth, like a little bird opening its beak to get a last mouthful of +air. And he was dead. + + + + +XIII. + + +It was not until after breakfast, at about one o’clock, that Clotilde +received the despatch. On this day it had chanced that she had +quarreled with her brother Maxime, who, taking advantage of his +privileges as an invalid, had tormented her more and more every day by +his unreasonable caprices and his outbursts of ill temper. In short, +her visit to him had not proved a success. He found that she was too +simple and too serious to cheer him; and he had preferred, of late, the +society of Rose, the fair-haired young girl, with the innocent look, +who amused him. So that when his sister told him that their uncle had +sent for her, and that she was going away, he gave his approval at +once, and although he asked her to return as soon as she should have +settled her affairs at home, he did so only with the desire of showing +himself amiable, and he did not press the invitation. + +Clotilde spent the afternoon in packing her trunks. In the feverish +excitement of so sudden a decision she had thought of nothing but the +joy of her return. But after the hurry of dinner was over, after she +had said good-by to her brother, after the interminable drive in a +hackney coach along the avenue of the Bois de Boulogne to the Lyons +railway station, when she found herself in the ladies’ compartment, +starting on the long journey on a cold and rainy November night, +already rolling away from Paris, her excitement began to abate, and +reflections forced their way into her mind and began to trouble her. +Why this brief and urgent despatch: “I await you; start this evening.” +Doubtless it was the answer to her letter; but she knew how greatly +Pascal had desired that she should remain in Paris, where he thought +she was happy, and she was astonished at his hasty summons. She had not +expected a despatch, but a letter, arranging for her return a few weeks +later. There must be something else, then; perhaps he was ill and felt +a desire, a longing to see her again at once. And from this time +forward this fear seized her with the force of a presentiment, and grew +stronger and stronger, until it soon took complete possession of her. + +All night long the rain beat furiously against the windows of the train +while they were crossing the plains of Burgundy, and did not cease +until they reached Macon. When they had passed Lyons the day broke. +Clotilde had Pascal’s letters with her, and she had waited impatiently +for the daylight that she might read again carefully these letters, the +writing of which had seemed changed to her. And noticing the unsteady +characters, the breaks in the words, she felt a chill at her heart. He +was ill, very ill—she had become certain of this now, by a divination +in which there was less of reasoning than of subtle prescience. And the +rest of the journey seemed terribly long, for her anguish increased in +proportion as she approached its termination. And worse than all, +arriving at Marseilles at half-past twelve, there was no train for +Plassans until twenty minutes past three. Three long hours of waiting! +She breakfasted at the buffet in the railway station, eating hurriedly, +as if she was afraid of missing this train; then she dragged herself +into the dusty garden, going from bench to bench in the pale, mild +sunshine, among omnibuses and hackney coaches. At last she was once +more in the train, which stopped at every little way station. When they +were approaching Plassans she put her head out of the window eagerly, +longing to see the town again after her short absence of two months. It +seemed to her as if she had been away for twenty years, and that +everything must be changed. When the train was leaving the little +station of Sainte-Marthe her emotion reached its height when, leaning +out, she saw in the distance La Souleiade with the two secular +cypresses on the terrace, which could be seen three leagues off. + +It was five o’clock, and twilight was already falling. The train +stopped, and Clotilde descended. But it was a surprise and a keen grief +to her not to see Pascal waiting for her on the platform. She had been +saying to herself since they had left Lyons: “If I do not see him at +once, on the arrival of the train, it will be because he is ill.” He +might be in the waiting-room, however, or with a carriage outside. She +hurried forward, but she saw no one but Father Durieu, a driver whom +the doctor was in the habit of employing. She questioned him eagerly. +The old man, a taciturn Provençal, was in no haste to answer. His wagon +was there, and he asked her for the checks for her luggage, wishing to +see about the trunks before anything else. In a trembling voice she +repeated her question: + +“Is everybody well, Father Durieu?” + +“Yes, mademoiselle.” + +And she was obliged to put question after question to him before she +succeeded in eliciting the information that it was Martine who had told +him, at about six o’clock the day before, to be at the station with his +wagon, in time to meet the train. He had not seen the doctor, no one +had seen him, for two months past. It might very well be since he was +not here that he had been obliged to take to his bed, for there was a +report in the town that he was not very well. + +“Wait until I get the luggage, mademoiselle,” he ended, “there is room +for you on the seat.” + +“No, Father Durieu, it would be too long to wait. I will walk.” + +She ascended the slope rapidly. Her heart was so tightened that she +could scarcely breathe. The sun had sunk behind the hills of +Sainte-Marthe, and a fine mist was falling from the chill gray November +sky, and as she took the road to Les Fenouilleres she caught another +glimpse of La Souleiade, which struck a chill to her heart—the front of +the house, with all its shutters closed, and wearing a look of +abandonment and desolation in the melancholy twilight. + +But Clotilde received the final and terrible blow when she saw Ramond +standing at the hall door, apparently waiting for her. He had indeed +been watching for her, and had come downstairs to break the dreadful +news gently to her. She arrived out of breath; she had crossed the +quincunx of plane trees near the fountain to shorten the way, and on +seeing the young man there instead of Pascal, whom she had in spite of +everything expected to see, she had a presentiment of overwhelming +ruin, of irreparable misfortune. Ramond was pale and agitated, +notwithstanding the effort he made to control his feelings. At the +first moment he could not find a word to say, but waited to be +questioned. Clotilde, who was herself suffocating, said nothing. And +they entered the house thus; he led her to the dining-room, where they +remained for a few seconds, face to face, in mute anguish. + +“He is ill, is he not?” she at last faltered. + +“Yes,” he said, “he is ill.” + +“I knew it at once when I saw you,” she replied. “I knew when he was +not here that he must be ill. He is very ill, is he not?” she +persisted. + +As he did not answer but grew still paler, she looked at him fixedly. +And on the instant she saw the shadow of death upon him; on his hands +that still trembled, that had assisted the dying man; on his sad face; +in his troubled eyes, which still retained the reflection of the death +agony; in the neglected and disordered appearance of the physician who, +for twelve hours, had maintained an unavailing struggle against death. + +She gave a loud cry: + +“He is dead!” + +She tottered, and fell fainting into the arms of Ramond, who with a +great sob pressed her in a brotherly embrace. And thus they wept on +each other’s neck. + +When he had seated her in a chair, and she was able to speak, he said: + +“It was I who took the despatch you received to the telegraph office +yesterday, at half-past ten o’clock. He was so happy, so full of hope! +He was forming plans for the future—a year, two years of life. And this +morning, at four o’clock, he had the first attack, and he sent for me. +He saw at once that he was doomed, but he expected to last until six +o’clock, to live long enough to see you again. But the disease +progressed too rapidly. He described its progress to me, minute by +minute, like a professor in the dissecting room. He died with your name +upon his lips, calm, but full of anguish, like a hero.” + +Clotilde listened, her eyes drowned in tears which flowed endlessly. +Every word of the relation of this piteous and stoical death penetrated +her heart and stamped itself there. She reconstructed every hour of the +dreadful day. She followed to its close its grand and mournful drama. +She would live it over in her thoughts forever. + +But her despairing grief overflowed when Martine, who had entered the +room a moment before, said in a harsh voice: + +“Ah, mademoiselle has good reason to cry! for if monsieur is dead, +mademoiselle is to blame for it.” + +The old servant stood apart, near the door of her kitchen, in such a +passion of angry grief, because they had taken her master from her, +because they had killed him, that she did not even try to find a word +of welcome or consolation for this child whom she had brought up. And +without calculating the consequences of her indiscretion, the grief or +the joy which she might cause, she relieved herself by telling all she +knew. + +“Yes, if monsieur has died, it is because mademoiselle went away.” + +From the depths of her overpowering grief Clotilde protested. She had +expected to see Martine weeping with her, like Ramond, and she was +surprised to feel that she was an enemy. + +“Why, it was he who would not let me stay, who insisted upon my going +away,” she said. + +“Oh, well! mademoiselle must have been willing to go or she would have +been more clear-sighted. The night before your departure I found +monsieur half-suffocated with grief; and when I wished to inform +mademoiselle, he himself prevented me; he had such courage. Then I +could see it all, after mademoiselle had gone. Every night it was the +same thing over again, and he could hardly keep from writing to you to +come back. In short, he died of it, that is the pure truth.” + +A great light broke in on Clotilde’s mind, making her at the same time +very happy and very wretched. Good God! what she had suspected for a +moment, was then true. Afterward she had been convinced, seeing +Pascal’s angry persistence, that he was speaking the truth; that +between her and work he had chosen work sincerely, like a man of +science with whom love of work has gained the victory over the love of +woman. And yet he had not spoken the truth; he had carried his +devotion, his self-forgetfulness to the point of immolating himself to +what he believed to be her happiness. And the misery of things willed +that he should have been mistaken, that he should have thus consummated +the unhappiness of both. + +Clotilde again protested wildly: + +“But how could I have known? I obeyed; I put all my love in my +obedience.” + +“Ah,” cried Martine again, “it seems to me that I should have guessed.” + +Ramond interposed gently. He took Clotilde’s hands once more in his, +and explained to her that grief might indeed have hastened the fatal +issue, but that the master had unhappily been doomed for some time +past. The affection of the heart from which he had suffered must have +been of long standing—a great deal of overwork, a certain part of +heredity, and, finally, his late absorbing love, and the poor heart had +broken. + +“Let us go upstairs,” said Clotilde simply. “I wish to see him.” + +Upstairs in the death-chamber the blinds were closed, shutting out even +the melancholy twilight. On a little table at the foot of the bed +burned two tapers in two candlesticks. And they cast a pale yellow +light on Pascal’s form extended on the bed, the feet close together, +the hands folded on the breast. The eyes had been piously closed. The +face, of a bluish hue still, but already looking calm and peaceful, +framed by the flowing white hair and beard, seemed asleep. He had been +dead scarcely an hour and a half, yet already infinite serenity, +eternal silence, eternal repose, had begun. + +Seeing him thus, at the thought that he no longer heard her, that he no +longer saw her, that she was alone now, that she was to kiss him for +the last time, and then lose him forever, Clotilde, in an outburst of +grief, threw herself upon the bed, and in broken accents of passionate +tenderness cried: + +“Oh, master, master, master—” + +She pressed her lips to the dead man’s forehead, and, feeling it still +warm with life, she had a momentary illusion: she fancied that he felt +this last caress, so cruelly awaited. Did he not smile in his +immobility, happy at last, and able to die, now that he felt her here +beside him? Then, overcome by the dreadful reality, she burst again +into wild sobs. + +Martine entered, bringing a lamp, which she placed on a corner of the +chimney-piece, and she heard Ramond, who was watching Clotilde, +disquieted at seeing her passionate grief, say: + +“I shall take you away from the room if you give way like this. +Consider that you have some one else to think of now.” + +The servant had been surprised at certain words which she had overheard +by chance during the day. Suddenly she understood, and she turned paler +even than before, and on her way out of the room, she stopped at the +door to hear more. + +“The key of the press is under his pillow,” said Ramond, lowering his +voice; “he told me repeatedly to tell you so. You know what you have to +do?” + +Clotilde made an effort to remember and to answer. + +“What I have to do? About the papers, is it not? Yes, yes, I remember; +I am to keep the envelopes and to give you the other manuscripts. Have +no fear, I am quite calm, I will be very reasonable. But I will not +leave him; I will spend the night here very quietly, I promise you.” + +She was so unhappy, she seemed so resolved to watch by him, to remain +with him, until he should be taken away, that the young physician +allowed her to have her way. + +“Well, I will leave you now. They will be expecting me at home. Then +there are all sorts of formalities to be gone through—to give notice at +the mayor’s office, the funeral, of which I wish to spare you the +details. Trouble yourself about nothing. Everything will be arranged +to-morrow when I return.” + +He embraced her once more and then went away. And it was only then that +Martine left the room, behind him, and locking the hall door she ran +out into the darkness. + +Clotilde was now alone in the chamber; and all around and about her, in +the unbroken silence, she felt the emptiness of the house. Clotilde was +alone with the dead Pascal. She placed a chair at the head of the bed +and sat there motionless, alone. On arriving, she had merely removed +her hat: now, perceiving that she still had on her gloves, she took +them off also. But she kept on her traveling dress, crumpled and dusty, +after twenty hours of railway travel. No doubt Father Durieu had +brought the trunks long ago, and left them downstairs. But it did not +occur to her, nor had she the strength to wash herself and change her +clothes, but remained sitting, overwhelmed with grief, on the chair +into which she had dropped. One regret, a great remorse, filled her to +the exclusion of all else. Why had she obeyed him? Why had she +consented to leave him? If she had remained she had the ardent +conviction that he would not have died. She would have lavished so much +love, so many caresses upon him, that she would have cured him. If one +was anxious to keep a beloved being from dying one should remain with +him and, if necessary, give one’s heart’s blood to keep him alive. It +was her own fault if she had lost him, if she could not now with a +caress awaken him from his eternal sleep. And she thought herself +imbecile not to have understood; cowardly, not to have devoted herself +to him; culpable, and to be forever punished for having gone away when +plain common sense, in default of feeling, ought to have kept her here, +bound, as a submissive and affectionate subject, to the task of +watching over her king. + +The silence had become so complete, so profound, that Clotilde lifted +her eyes for a moment from Pascal’s face to look around the room. She +saw only vague shadows—the two tapers threw two yellow patches on the +high ceiling. At this moment she remembered the letters he had written +to her, so short, so cold; and she comprehended his heroic sacrifice, +the torture it had been to him to silence his heart, desiring to +immolate himself to the end. What strength must he not have required +for the accomplishment of the plan of happiness, sublime and +disastrous, which he had formed for her. He had resolved to pass out of +her life in order to save her from his old age and his poverty; he +wished her to be rich and free, to enjoy her youth, far away from him; +this indeed was utter self-effacement, complete absorption in the love +of another. And she felt a profound gratitude, a sweet solace in the +thought, mingled with a sort of angry bitterness against evil fortune. +Then, suddenly, the happy years of her childhood and her long youth +spent beside him who had always been so kind and so good-humored, rose +before her—how he had gradually won her affection, how she had felt +that she was his, after the quarrels which had separated them for a +time, and with what a transport of joy she had at last given herself to +him. + +Seven o’clock struck. Clotilde started as the clear tones broke the +profound silence. Who was it that had spoken? Then she remembered, and +she looked at the clock. And when the last sound of the seven strokes, +each of which had fallen like a knell upon her heart, had died away, +she turned her eyes again on the motionless face of Pascal, and once +more she abandoned herself to her grief. + +It was in the midst of this ever-increasing prostration that Clotilde, +a few minutes later, heard a sudden sound of sobbing. Some one had +rushed into the room; she looked round and saw her Grandmother +Félicité. But she did not stir, she did not speak, so benumbed was she +with grief. Martine, anticipating the orders which Clotilde would +undoubtedly have given her, had hurried to old Mme. Rougon’s, to give +her the dreadful news; and the latter, dazed at first by the suddenness +of the catastrophe, and afterward greatly agitated, had hurried to the +house, overflowing with noisy grief. She burst into tears at sight of +her son, and then embraced Clotilde, who returned her kiss, as in a +dream. And from this instant the latter, without emerging from the +overwhelming grief in which she isolated herself, felt that she was no +longer alone, hearing a continual stir and bustle going on around her. +It was Félicité crying, coming in and going out on tiptoe, setting +things in order, spying about, whispering, dropping into a chair, to +get up again a moment afterward, after saying that she was going to die +in it. At nine o’clock she made a last effort to persuade her +granddaughter to eat something. Twice already she had lectured her in a +low voice; she came now again to whisper to her: + +“Clotilde, my dear, I assure you you are wrong. You must keep up your +strength or you will never be able to hold out.” + +But the young woman, with a shake of her head, again refused. + +“Come, you breakfasted at the buffet at Marseilles, I suppose, but you +have eaten nothing since. Is that reasonable? I do not wish you to fall +ill also. Martine has some broth. I have told her to make a light soup +and to roast a chicken. Go down and eat a mouthful, only a mouthful, +and I will remain here.” + +With the same patient gesture Clotilde again refused. At last she +faltered: + +“Do not ask me, grandmother, I entreat you. I could not; it would choke +me.” + +She did not speak again, falling back into her former state of apathy. +She did not sleep, however, her wide open eyes were fixed persistently +on Pascal’s face. For hours she sat there, motionless, erect, rigid, as +if her spirit were far away with the dead. At ten o’clock she heard a +noise; it was Martine bringing up the lamp. Toward eleven Félicité, who +was sitting watching in an armchair, seemed to grow restless, got up +and went out of the room, and came back again. From this forth there +was a continual coming and going as of impatient footsteps prowling +around the young woman, who was still awake, her large eyes fixed +motionless on Pascal. Twelve o’clock struck, and one persistent thought +alone pierced her weary brain, like a nail, and prevented sleep—why had +she obeyed him? If she had remained she would have revived him with her +youth, and he would not have died. And it was not until a little before +one that she felt this thought, too, grow confused and lose itself in a +nightmare. And she fell into a heavy sleep, worn out with grief and +fatigue. + +When Martine had announced to Mme. Rougon the unexpected death of her +son Pascal, in the shock which she received there was as much of anger +as of grief. What! her dying son had not wished to see her; he had made +this servant swear not to inform her of his illness! This thought sent +the blood coursing swiftly through her veins, as if the struggle +between them, which had lasted during his whole life, was to be +continued beyond the grave. Then, when after hastily dressing herself +she had hurried to La Souleiade, the thought of the terrible envelopes, +of all the manuscripts piled up in the press, had filled her with +trembling rage. Now that Uncle Macquart and Aunt Dide were dead, she no +longer feared what she called the abomination of the Tulettes; and even +poor little Charles, in dying, had carried with him one of the most +humiliating of the blots on the family. There remained only the +envelopes, the abominable envelopes, to menace the glorious Rougon +legend which she had spent her whole life in creating, which was the +sole thought of her old age, the work to the triumph of which she had +persistently devoted the last efforts of her wily and active brain. For +long years she had watched these envelopes, never wearying, beginning +the struggle over again, when he had thought her beaten, always alert +and persistent. Ah! if she could only succeed in obtaining possession +of them and destroying them! It would be the execrable past destroyed, +effaced; it would be the glory of her family, so hardly won, at last +freed from all fear, at last shining untarnished, imposing its lie upon +history. And she saw herself traversing the three quarters of Plassans, +saluted by every one, bearing herself as proudly as a queen, mourning +nobly for the fallen Empire. So that when Martine informed her that +Clotilde had come, she quickened her steps as she approached La +Souleiade, spurred by the fear of arriving too late. + +But as soon as she was installed in the house, Félicité at once +regained her composure. There was no hurry, they had the whole night +before them. She wished, however, to win over Martine without delay, +and she knew well how to influence this simple creature, bound up in +the doctrines of a narrow religion. Going down to the kitchen, then, to +see the chicken roasting, she began by affecting to be heartbroken at +the thought of her son dying without having made his peace with the +Church. She questioned the servant, pressing her for particulars. But +the latter shook her head disconsolately—no, no priest had come, +monsieur had not even made the sign of the cross. She, only, had knelt +down to say the prayers for the dying, which certainly could not be +enough for the salvation of a soul. And yet with what fervor she had +prayed to the good God that monsieur might go straight to Paradise! + +With her eyes fixed on the chicken turning on the spit, before a bright +fire, Félicité resumed in a lower voice, with an absorbed air: + +“Ah, my poor girl, what will most prevent him from going to Paradise +are the abominable papers which the unhappy man has left behind him up +there in the press. I cannot understand why it is that lightning from +heaven has not struck those papers before this and reduced them to +ashes. If they are allowed to leave this house it will be ruin and +disgrace and eternal perdition!” + +Martine listened, very pale. + +“Then madame thinks it would be a good work to destroy them, a work +that would assure the repose of monsieur’s soul?” + +“Great God! Do I believe it! Why, if I had those dreadful papers in my +hands, I would throw every one of them into the fire. Oh, you would not +need then to put on any more sticks; with the manuscripts upstairs +alone you would have fuel enough to roast three chickens like that.” + +The servant took a long spoon and began to baste the fowl. She, too, +seemed now to reflect. + +“Only we haven’t got them. I even overheard some words on the subject, +which I may repeat to madame. It was when mademoiselle went upstairs. +Dr. Raymond spoke to her about the papers, asking her if she remembered +some orders which she had received, before she went away, no doubt; and +she answered that she remembered, that she was to keep the envelopes +and to give him all the other manuscripts.” + +Félicité trembled; she could not restrain a terrified movement. Already +she saw the papers slipping out of her reach; and it was not the +envelopes only which she desired, but all the manuscripts, all that +unknown, suspicious, and secret work, from which nothing but scandal +could come, according to the obtuse and excitable mind of the proud old +_bourgeoise_. + +“But we must act!” she cried, “act immediately, this very night! +To-morrow it may be too late.” + +“I know where the key of the press is,” answered Martine in a low +voice. “The doctor told mademoiselle.” + +Félicité immediately pricked up her ears. + +“The key; where is it?” + +“Under the pillow, under monsieur’s head.” + +In spite of the bright blaze of the fire of vine branches the air +seemed to grow suddenly chill, and the two old women were silent. The +only sound to be heard was the drip of the chicken juice falling into +the pan. + +But after Mme. Rougon had eaten a hasty and solitary dinner she went +upstairs again with Martine. Without another word being spoken they +understood each other, it was decided that they would use all possible +means to obtain possession of the papers before daybreak. The simplest +was to take the key from under the pillow. Clotilde would no doubt at +last fall asleep—she seemed too exhausted not to succumb to fatigue. +All they had to do was to wait. They set themselves to watch, then, +going back and forth on tiptoe between the study and the bedroom, +waiting for the moment when the young woman’s large motionless eyes +should close in sleep. One of them would go to see, while the other +waited impatiently in the study, where a lamp burned dully on the +table. This was repeated every fifteen minutes until midnight. The +fathomless eyes, full of gloom and of an immense despair, did not +close. A little before midnight Félicité installed herself in an +armchair at the foot of the bed, resolved not to leave the spot until +her granddaughter should have fallen asleep. From this forth she did +not take her eyes off Clotilde, and it filled her with a sort of fear +to remark that the girl scarcely moved her eyelids, looking with that +inconsolable fixity which defies sleep. Then she herself began to feel +sleep stealing over her. Exasperated, trembling with nervous +impatience, she could remain where she was no longer. And she went to +rejoin the servant, who was watching in the study. + +“It is useless; she will not sleep,” she said in a stifled and +trembling voice. “We must find some other way.” + +It had indeed occurred to her to break open the press. + +But the old oaken boards were strong, the old iron held firmly. How +could they break the lock—not to speak of the noise they would make and +which would certainly be heard in the adjoining room? + +She stood before the thick doors, however, and felt them with her +fingers, seeking some weak spot. + +“If I only had an instrument,” she said. + +Martine, less eager, interrupted her, objecting: “Oh, no, no, madame! +We might be surprised! Wait, I will go again and see if mademoiselle is +asleep now.” + +She went to the bedroom on tiptoe and returned immediately, saying: + +“Yes, she is asleep. Her eyes are closed, and she does not stir.” + +Then both went to look at her, holding their breath and walking with +the utmost caution, so that the boards might not creak. Clotilde had +indeed just fallen asleep: and her stupor seemed so profound that the +two old women grew bold. They feared, however, that they might touch +and waken her, for her chair stood close beside the bed. And then, to +put one’s hand under a dead man’s pillow to rob him was a terrible and +sacrilegious act, the thought of which filled them with terror. Might +it not disturb his repose? Might he not move at the shock? The thought +made them turn pale. + +Félicité had advanced with outstretched hand, but she drew back, +stammering: + +“I am too short. You try, Martine.” + +The servant in her turn approached the bed. But she was seized with +such a fit of trembling that she was obliged to retreat lest she should +fall. + +“No, no, I cannot!” she said. “It seems to me that monsieur is going to +open his eyes.” + +And trembling and awe-struck they remained an instant longer in the +lugubrious chamber full of the silence and the majesty of death, facing +Pascal, motionless forever, and Clotilde, overwhelmed by the grief of +her widowhood. Perhaps they saw, glorifying that mute head, guarding +its work with all its weight, the nobility of a life spent in honorable +labor. The flame of the tapers burned palely. A sacred awe filled the +air, driving them from the chamber. + +Félicité, who was so brave, who had never in her life flinched from +anything, not even from bloodshed, fled as if she was pursued, saying: + +“Come, come, Martine, we will find some other way; we will go look for +an instrument.” + +In the study they drew a breath of relief. Félicité looked in vain +among the papers on Pascal’s work-table for the genealogical tree, +which she knew was usually there. She would so gladly have begun her +work of destruction with this. It was there, but in her feverish +excitement she did not perceive it. + +Her desire drew her back again to the press, and she stood before it, +measuring it and examining it with eager and covetous look. In spite of +her short stature, in spite of her eighty-odd years, she displayed an +activity and an energy that were truly extraordinary. + +“Ah!” she repeated, “if I only had an instrument!” + +And she again sought the crevice in the colossus, the crack into which +she might introduce her fingers, to break it open. She imagined plans +of assault, she thought of using force, and then she fell back on +stratagem, on some piece of treachery which would open to her the +doors, merely by breathing upon them. + +Suddenly her glance kindled; she had discovered the means. + +“Tell me, Martine; there is a hook fastening one of the doors, is there +not?” + +“Yes, madame; it catches in a ring above the middle shelf. See, it is +about the height of this molding.” + +Félicité made a triumphant gesture. + +“Have you a gimlet—a large gimlet? Give me a gimlet!” + +Martine went down into her kitchen and brought back the tool that had +been asked. + +“In that way, you see, we shall make no noise,” resumed the old woman, +setting herself to her task. + +With a strength which one would not have suspected in her little hands, +withered by age, she inserted the gimlet, and made a hole at the height +indicated by the servant. But it was too low; she felt the point, after +a time, entering the shelf. A second attempt brought the instrument in +direct contact with the iron hook. This time the hole was too near. And +she multiplied the holes to right and left, until finally she succeeded +in pushing the hook out of the ring. The bolt of the lock slipped, and +both doors opened. + +“At last!” cried Félicité, beside herself. + +Then she remained motionless for a moment, her ear turned uneasily +toward the bedroom, fearing that she had wakened Clotilde. But silence +reigned throughout the dark and sleeping house. There came from the +bedroom only the august peace of death; she heard nothing but the clear +vibration of the clock; Clotilde fell asleep near one. And the press +yawned wide open, displaying the papers with which it overflowed, +heaped up on its three shelves. Then she threw herself upon it, and the +work of destruction began, in the midst of the sacred obscurity of the +infinite repose of this funereal vigil. + +“At last!” she repeated, in a low voice, “after thirty years of +waiting. Let us hurry—let us hurry. Martine, help me!” + +She had already drawn forward the high chair of the desk, and mounted +on it at a bound, to take down, first of all, the papers on the top +shelf, for she remembered that the envelopes were there. But she was +surprised not to see the thick blue paper wrappers; there was nothing +there but bulky manuscripts, the doctor’s completed but unpublished +works, works of inestimable value, all his researches, all his +discoveries, the monument of his future fame, which he had left in +Ramond’s charge. Doubtless, some days before his death, thinking that +only the envelopes were in danger, and that no one in the world would +be so daring as to destroy his other works, he had begun to classify +and arrange the papers anew, and removed the envelopes out of sight. + +“Ah, so much the worse!” murmured Félicité; “let us begin anywhere; +there are so many of them that if we wish to get through we must hurry. +While I am up here, let us clear these away forever. Here, catch +Martine!” + +And she emptied the shelf, throwing the manuscripts, one by one, into +the arms of the servant, who laid them on the table with as little +noise as possible. Soon the whole heap was on it, and Félicité sprang +down from the chair. + +“To the fire! to the fire! We shall lay our hands on the others, and +too, by and by, on those I am looking for. These can go into it, +meantime. It will be a good riddance, at any rate, a fine clearance, +yes, indeed! To the fire, to the fire with them all, even to the +smallest scrap of paper, even to the most illegible scrawl, if we wish +to be certain of destroying the contamination of evil.” + +She herself, fanatical and fierce, in her hatred of the truth, in her +eagerness to destroy the testimony of science, tore off the first page +of one of the manuscripts, lighted it at the lamp, and then threw this +burning brand into the great fireplace, in which there had not been a +fire for perhaps twenty years, and she fed the fire, continuing to +throw on it the rest of the manuscript, piece by piece. The servant, as +determined as herself, came to her assistance, taking another enormous +notebook, which she tore up leaf by leaf. From this forth the fire did +not cease to burn, filling the wide fireplace with a bright blaze, with +tongues of flame that seemed to die away from time to time, only to +burn up more brightly than ever when fresh fuel fed them. The fire grew +larger, the heap of ashes rose higher and higher—a thick bed of +blackened leaves among which ran millions of sparks. But it was a long, +a never-ending task; for when several pages were thrown on at a time, +they would not burn; it was necessary to move them and turn them over +with the tongs; the best way was to stir them up and then wait until +they were in a blaze, before adding more. The women soon grew skilful +at their task, and the work progressed at a rapid rate. + +In her haste to get a fresh armful of papers Félicité stumbled against +a chair. + +“Oh, madame, take care,” said Martine. “Some one might come!” + +“Come? who should come? Clotilde? She is too sound asleep, poor girl. +And even if any one should come, once it is finished, I don’t care; I +won’t hide myself, you may be sure; I shall leave the empty press +standing wide open; I shall say aloud that it is I who have purified +the house. When there is not a line of writing left, ah, good heavens! +I shall laugh at everything else!” + +For almost two hours the fireplace blazed. They went back to the press +and emptied the two other shelves, and now there remained only the +bottom, which was heaped with a confusion of papers. Little by little, +intoxicated by the heat of the bonfire, out of breath and perspiring, +they gave themselves up to the savage joy of destruction. They stooped +down, they blackened their hands, pushing in the partially consumed +fragments, with gestures so violent, so feverishly excited, that their +gray locks fell in disorder over their shoulders. It was like a dance +of witches, feeding a hellish fire for some abominable act—the +martyrdom of a saint, the burning of written thought in the public +square; a whole world of truth and hope destroyed. And the blaze of +this fire, which at moments made the flame of the lamp grow pale, +lighted up the vast apartment, and made the gigantic shadows of the two +women dance upon the ceiling. + +But as she was emptying the bottom of the press, after having burned, +handful by handful, the papers with which it had been filled, Félicité +uttered a stifled cry of triumph. + +“Ah, here they are! To the fire! to the fire!” + +She had at last come upon the envelopes. Far back, behind the rampart +formed by the notes, the doctor had hidden the blue paper wrappers. And +then began a mad work of havoc, a fury of destruction; the envelopes +were gathered up in handfuls and thrown into the flames, filling the +fireplace with a roar like that of a conflagration. + +“They are burning, they are burning! They are burning at last! Here is +another, Martine, here is another. Ah, what a fire, what a glorious +fire!” + +But the servant was becoming uneasy. + +“Take care, madame, you are going to set the house on fire. Don’t you +hear that roar?” + +“Ah! what does that matter? Let it all burn. They are burning, they are +burning; what a fine sight! Three more, two more, and, see, now the +last is burning!” + +She laughed with delight, beside herself, terrible to see, when some +fragment of lighted soot fell down. The roar was becoming more and more +fierce; the chimney, which was never swept, had caught fire. This +seemed to excite her still more, while the servant, losing her head, +began to scream and run about the room. + +Clotilde slept beside the dead Pascal, in the supreme calm of the +bedroom, unbroken save by the light vibration of the clock striking the +hours. The tapers burned with a tall, still flame, the air was +motionless. And yet, in the midst of her heavy, dreamless sleep, she +heard, as in a nightmare, a tumult, an ever-increasing rush and roar. +And when she opened her eyes she could not at first understand. Where +was she? Why this enormous weight that crushed her heart? She came back +to reality with a start of terror—she saw Pascal, she heard Martine’s +cries in the adjoining room, and she rushed out, in alarm, to learn +their cause. + +But at the threshold Clotilde took in the whole scene with cruel +distinctness—the press wide open and completely empty; Martine maddened +by her fear of fire; Félicité radiant, pushing into the flames with her +foot the last fragments of the envelopes. Smoke and flying soot filled +the study, where the roaring of the fire sounded like the hoarse +gasping of a murdered man—the fierce roar which she had just heard in +her sleep. + +And the cry which sprang from her lips was the same cry that Pascal +himself had uttered on the night of the storm, when he surprised her in +the act of stealing his papers. + +“Thieves! assassins!” + +She precipitated herself toward the fireplace, and, in spite of the +dreadful roaring of the flames, in spite of the falling pieces of soot, +at the risk of setting her hair on fire, and of burning her hands, she +gathered up the leaves which remained yet unconsumed and bravely +extinguished them, pressing them against her. But all this was very +little, only some _debris_; not a complete page remained, not even a +few fragments of the colossal labor, of the vast and patient work of a +lifetime, which the fire had destroyed there in two hours. And with +growing anger, in a burst of furious indignation, she cried: + +“You are thieves, assassins! It is a wicked murder which you have just +committed. You have profaned death, you have slain the mind, you have +slain genius.” + +Old Mme. Rougon did not quail. She advanced, on the contrary, feeling +no remorse, her head erect, defending the sentence of destruction +pronounced and executed by her. + +“It is to me you are speaking, to your grandmother. Is there nothing, +then, that you respect? I have done what I ought to have done, what you +yourself wished to do with us before.” + +“Before, you had made me mad; but since then I have lived, I have +loved, I have understood, and it is life that I defend. Even if it be +terrible and cruel, the truth ought to be respected. Besides, it was a +sacred legacy bequeathed to my protection, the last thoughts of a dead +man, all that remained of a great mind, and which I should have obliged +every one to respect. Yes, you are my grandmother; I am well aware of +it, and it is as if you had just burned your son!” + +“Burn Pascal because I have burned his papers!” cried Félicité. “Do you +not know that I would have burned the town to save the honor of our +family!” + +She continued to advance, belligerent and victorious; and Clotilde, who +had laid on the table the blackened fragments rescued by her from the +burning flames, protected them with her body, fearing that her +grandmother would throw them back again into the fire. She regarded the +two women scornfully; she did not even trouble herself about the fire +in the fireplace, which fortunately went out of itself, while Martine +extinguished with the shovel the burning soot and the last flames of +the smoldering ashes. + +“You know very well, however,” continued the old woman, whose little +figure seemed to grow taller, “that I have had only one ambition, one +passion in life—to see our family rich and powerful. I have fought, I +have watched all my life, I have lived as long as I have done, only to +put down ugly stories and to leave our name a glorious one. Yes, I have +never despaired; I have never laid down my arms; I have been +continually on the alert, ready to profit by the slightest +circumstance. And all I desired to do I have done, because I have known +how to wait.” + +And she waved her hand toward the empty press and the fireplace, where +the last sparks were dying out. + +“Now it is ended, our honor is safe; those abominable papers will no +longer accuse us, and I shall leave behind me nothing to be feared. The +Rougons have triumphed.” + +Clotilde, in a frenzy of grief, raised her arm, as if to drive her out +of the room. But she left it of her own accord, and went down to the +kitchen to wash her blackened hands and to fasten up her hair. The +servant was about to follow her when, turning her head, she saw her +young mistress’ gesture, and she returned. + +“Oh! as for me, mademoiselle, I will go away the day after to-morrow, +when monsieur shall be in the cemetery.” + +There was a moment’s silence. + +“But I am not sending you away, Martine. I know well that it is not you +who are most to blame. You have lived in this house for thirty years. +Remain, remain with me.” + +The old maid shook her gray head, looking very pale and tired. + +“No, I have served monsieur; I will serve no one after monsieur.” + +“But I!” + +“You, no!” + +Clotilde looked embarrassed, hesitated a moment, and remained silent. +But Martine understood; she too seemed to reflect for an instant, and +then she said distinctly: + +“I know what you would say, but—no!” + +And she went on to settle her account, arranging the affair like a +practical woman who knew the value of money. + +“Since I have the means, I will go and live quietly on my income +somewhere. As for you, mademoiselle, I can leave you, for you are not +poor. M. Ramond will explain to you to-morrow how an income of four +thousand francs was saved for you out of the money at the notary’s. +Meantime, here is the key of the desk, where you will find the five +thousand francs which monsieur left there. Oh? I know that there will +be no trouble between us. Monsieur did not pay me for the last three +months; I have papers from him which prove it. In addition, I advanced +lately almost two hundred francs out of my own pocket, without his +knowing where the money came from. It is all written down; I am not at +all uneasy; mademoiselle will not wrong me by a centime. The day after +to-morrow, when monsieur is no longer here, I will go away.” + +Then she went down to the kitchen, and Clotilde, in spite of the +fanaticism of this woman, which had made her take part in a crime, felt +inexpressibly sad at this desertion. When she was gathering up the +fragments of the papers, however, before returning to the bedroom, she +had a thrill of joy, on suddenly seeing the genealogical tree, which +the two women had not perceived, lying unharmed on the table. It was +the only entire document saved from the wreck. She took it and locked +it, with the half-consumed fragments, in the bureau in the bedroom. + +But when she found herself again in this august chamber a great emotion +took possession of her. What supreme calm, what immortal peace, reigned +here, beside the savage destruction that had filled the adjoining room +with smoke and ashes. A sacred serenity pervaded the obscurity; the two +tapers burned with a pure, still, unwavering flame. Then she saw that +Pascal’s face, framed in his flowing white hair and beard, had become +very white. He slept with the light falling upon him, surrounded by a +halo, supremely beautiful. She bent down, kissed him again, felt on her +lips the cold of the marble face, with its closed eyelids, dreaming its +dream of eternity. Her grief at not being able to save the work which +he had left to her care was so overpowering that she fell on her knees +and burst into a passion of sobs. Genius had been violated; it seemed +to her as if the world was about to be destroyed in this savage +destruction of a whole life of labor. + + + + +XIV. + + +In the study Clotilde was buttoning her dress, holding her child, whom +she had been nursing, still in her lap. It was after lunch, about three +o’clock on a hot sunny day at the end of August, and through the +crevices of the carefully closed shutters only a few scattered sunbeams +entered, piercing the drowsy and warm obscurity of the vast apartment. +The rest and peace of the Sunday seemed to enter and diffuse itself in +the room with the last sounds of the distant vesper bell. Profound +silence reigned in the empty house in which the mother and child were +to remain alone until dinner time, the servant having asked permission +to go see a cousin in the faubourg. + +For an instant Clotilde looked at her child, now a big boy of three +months. She had been wearing mourning for Pascal for almost ten +months—a long and simple black gown, in which she looked divinely +beautiful, with her tall, slender figure and her sad, youthful face +surrounded by its aureole of fair hair. And although she could not +smile, it filled her with sweet emotion to see the beautiful child, so +plump and rosy, with his mouth still wet with milk, whose gaze had been +arrested by the sunbeam full of dancing motes. His eyes were fixed +wonderingly on the golden brightness, the dazzling miracle of light. +Then sleep came over him, and he let his little, round, bare head, +covered thinly with fair hair, fall back on his mother’s arm. + +Clotilde rose softly and laid him in the cradle, which stood beside the +table. She remained leaning over him for an instant to assure herself +that he was asleep; then she let down the curtain in the already +darkened room. Then she busied herself with supple and noiseless +movements, walking with so light a step that she scarcely touched the +floor, in putting away some linen which was on the table. Twice she +crossed the room in search of a little missing sock. She was very +silent, very gentle, and very active. And now, in the solitude of the +house, she fell into a reverie and all the past year arose before her. + +First, after the dreadful shock of the funeral, came the departure of +Martine, who had obstinately kept to her determination of going away at +once, not even remaining for the customary week, bringing to replace +her the young cousin of a baker in the neighborhood—a stout brunette, +who fortunately proved very neat and faithful. Martine herself lived at +Sainte-Marthe, in a retired corner, so penuriously that she must be +still saving even out of her small income. She was not known to have +any heir. Who, then, would profit by this miserliness? In ten months +she had not once set foot in La Souleiade—monsieur was not there, and +she had not even the desire to see monsieur’s son. + +Then in Clotilde’s reverie rose the figure of her grandmother Félicité. +The latter came to see her from time to time with the condescension of +a powerful relation who is liberal-minded enough to pardon all faults +when they have been cruelly expiated. She would come unexpectedly, kiss +the child, moralize, and give advice, and the young mother had adopted +toward her the respectful attitude which Pascal had always maintained. +Félicité was now wholly absorbed in her triumph. She was at last about +to realize a plan that she had long cherished and maturely deliberated, +which would perpetuate by an imperishable monument the untarnished +glory of the family. The plan was to devote her fortune, which had +become considerable, to the construction and endowment of an asylum for +the aged, to be called Rougon Asylum. She had already bought the +ground, a part of the old mall outside the town, near the railway +station; and precisely on this Sunday, at five o’clock, when the heat +should have abated a little, the first stone was to be laid, a really +solemn ceremony, to be honored by the presence of all the authorities, +and of which she was to be the acknowledged queen, before a vast +concourse of people. + +Clotilde felt, besides, some gratitude toward her grandmother, who had +shown perfect disinterestedness on the occasion of the opening of +Pascal’s will. The latter had constituted the young woman his sole +legatee; and the mother, who had a right to a fourth part, after +declaring her intention to respect her son’s wishes, had simply +renounced her right to the succession. She wished, indeed, to +disinherit all her family, bequeathing to them glory only, by employing +her large fortune in the erection of this asylum, which was to carry +down to future ages the revered and glorious name of the Rougons; and +after having, for more than half a century, so eagerly striven to +acquire money, she now disdained it, moved by a higher and purer +ambition. And Clotilde, thanks to this liberality, had no uneasiness +regarding the future—the four thousand francs income would be +sufficient for her and her child. She would bring him up to be a man. +She had sunk the five thousand francs that she had found in the desk in +an annuity for him; and she owned, besides, La Souleiade, which +everybody advised her to sell. True, it cost but little to keep it up, +but what a sad and solitary life she would lead in that great deserted +house, much too large for her, where she would be lost. Thus far, +however, she had not been able to make up her mind to leave it. Perhaps +she would never be able to do so. + +Ah, this La Souleiade! all her love, all her life, all her memories +were centered in it. It seemed to her at times as if Pascal were living +here still, for she had changed nothing of their former manner of +living. The furniture remained in the same places, the hours were the +same, the habits the same. The only change she had made was to lock his +room, into which only she went, as into a sanctuary, to weep when she +felt her heart too heavy. And although indeed she felt very lonely, +very lost, at each meal in the bright dining-room downstairs, in fancy +she heard there the echoes of their laughter, she recalled the healthy +appetite of her youth; when they two had eaten and drank so gaily, +rejoicing in their existence. And the garden, too, the whole place was +bound up with the most intimate fibers of her being, for she could not +take a step in it that their united images did not appear before her—on +the terrace; in the slender shadow of the great secular cypresses, +where they had so often contemplated the valley of the Viorne, closed +in by the ridges of the Seille and the parched hills of Sainte-Marthe; +the stone steps among the puny olive and almond trees, which they had +so often challenged each other to run up in a trial of speed, like boys +just let loose from school; and there was the pine grove, too, the +warm, embalsamed shade, where the needles crackled under their feet; +the vast threshing yard, carpeted with soft grass, where they could see +the whole sky at night, when the stars were coming out; and above all +there were the giant plane trees, whose delightful shade they had +enjoyed every day in summer, listening to the soothing song of the +fountain, the crystal clear song which it had sung for centuries. Even +to the old stones of the house, even to the earth of the grounds, there +was not an atom at La Souleiade in which she did not feel a little of +their blood warmly throbbing, with which she did not feel a little of +their life diffused and mingled. + +But she preferred to spend her days in the workroom, and here it was +that she lived over again her best hours. There was nothing new in it +but the cradle. The doctor’s table was in its place before the window +to the left—she could fancy him coming in and sitting down at it, for +his chair had not even been moved. On the long table in the center, +among the old heap of books and papers, there was nothing new but the +cheerful note of the little baby linen, which she was looking over. The +bookcases displayed the same rows of volumes; the large oaken press +seemed to guard within its sides the same treasure, securely shut in. +Under the smoky ceiling the room was still redolent of work, with its +confusion of chairs, the pleasant disorder of this common workroom, +filled with the caprices of the girl and the researches of the +scientist. But what most moved her to-day was the sight of her old +pastels hanging against the wall, the copies which she had made of +living flowers, scrupulously exact copies, and of dream flowers of an +imaginary world, whither her wild fancy sometimes carried her. + +Clotilde had just finished arranging the little garments on the table +when, lifting her eyes, she perceived before her the pastel of old King +David, with his hand resting on the shoulder of Abishag the young +Shunammite. And she, who now never smiled, felt her face flush with a +thrill of tender and pleasing emotion. How they had loved each other, +how they had dreamed of an eternity of love the day on which she had +amused herself painting this proud and loving allegory! The old king, +sumptuously clad in a robe hanging in straight folds, heavy with +precious stones, wore the royal bandeau on his snowy locks; but she was +more sumptuous still, with only her tall slender figure, her delicate +round throat, and her supple arms, divinely graceful. Now he was gone, +he was sleeping under the ground, while she, her pure and triumphant +beauty concealed by her black robes, had only her child to express the +love she had given him before the assembled people, in the full light +of day. + +Then Clotilde sat down beside the cradle. The slender sunbeams +lengthened, crossing the room from end to end, the heat of the warm +afternoon grew oppressive in the drowsy obscurity made by the closed +shutters, and the silence of the house seemed more profound than +before. She set apart some little waists, she sewed on some tapes with +slow-moving needle, and gradually she fell into a reverie in the warm +deep peacefulness of the room, in the midst of the glowing heat +outside. Her thoughts first turned to her pastels, the exact copies and +the fantastic dream flowers; she said to herself now that all her dual +nature was to be found in that passion for truth, which had at times +kept her a whole day before a flower in order to copy it with +exactness, and in her need of the spiritual, which at other times took +her outside the real, and carried her in wild dreams to the paradise of +flowers such as had never grown on earth. She had always been thus. She +felt that she was in reality the same to-day as she had been yesterday, +in the midst of the flow of new life which ceaselessly transformed her. +And then she thought of Pascal, full of gratitude that he had made her +what she was. In days past when, a little girl, he had removed her from +her execrable surroundings and taken her home with him, he had +undoubtedly followed the impulses of his good heart, but he had also +undoubtedly desired to try an experiment with her, to see how she would +grow up in the different environment, in an atmosphere of truthfulness +and affection. This had always been an idea of his. It was an old +theory of his which he would have liked to test on a large scale: +culture through environment, complete regeneration even, the +improvement, the salvation of the individual, physically as well as +morally. She owed to him undoubtedly the best part of her nature; she +guessed how fanciful and violent she might have become, while he had +made her only enthusiastic and courageous. + +In this retrospection she was clearly conscious of the gradual change +that had taken place within her. Pascal had corrected her heredity, and +she lived over again the slow evolution, the struggle between the +fantastic and the real in her. It had begun with her outbursts of anger +as a child, a ferment of rebellion, a want of mental balance that had +caused her to indulge in most hurtful reveries. Then came her fits of +extreme devotion, the need of illusion and falsehood, of immediate +happiness in the thought that the inequalities and injustices of this +wicked world would he compensated by the eternal joys of a future +paradise. This was the epoch of her struggles with Pascal, of the +torture which she had caused him, planning to destroy the work of his +genius. And at this point her nature had changed; she had acknowledged +him for her master. He had conquered her by the terrible lesson of life +which he had given her on the night of the storm. Then, environment had +acted upon her, evolution had proceeded rapidly, and she had ended by +becoming a well-balanced and rational woman, willing to live life as it +ought to be lived, satisfied with doing her work in the hope that the +sum of the common labor would one day free the world from evil and +pain. She had loved, she was a mother now, and she understood. + +Suddenly she remembered the night which they had spent in the threshing +yard. She could still hear her lamentation under the stars—the cruelty +of nature, the inefficacy of science, the wickedness of humanity, and +the need she felt of losing herself in God, in the Unknown. Happiness +consisted in self-renunciation. Then she heard him repeat his creed—the +progress of reason through science, truths acquired slowly and forever +the only possible good, the belief that the sum of these truths, always +augmenting, would finally confer upon man incalculable power and peace, +if not happiness. All was summed up in his ardent faith in life. As he +expressed it, it was necessary to march with life, which marched +always. No halt was to be expected, no peace in immobility and +renunciation, no consolation in turning back. One must keep a steadfast +soul, the only ambition to perform one’s work, modestly looking for no +other reward of life than to have lived it bravely, accomplishing the +task which it imposes. Evil was only an accident not yet explained, +humanity appearing from a great height like an immense wheel in action, +working ceaselessly for the future. Why should the workman who +disappeared, having finished his day’s work, abuse the work because he +could neither see nor know its end? Even if it were to have no end why +should he not enjoy the delight of action, the exhilarating air of the +march, the sweetness of sleep after the fatigue of a long and busy day? +The children would carry on the task of the parents; they were born and +cherished only for this, for the task of life which is transmitted to +them, which they in their turn will transmit to others. All that +remained, then, was to be courageously resigned to the grand common +labor, without the rebellion of the ego, which demands personal +happiness, perfect and complete. + +She questioned herself, and she found that she did not experience that +anguish which had filled her formerly at the thought of what was to +follow death. This anxiety about the Beyond no longer haunted her until +it became a torture. Formerly she would have liked to wrest by force +from heaven the secrets of destiny. It had been a source of infinite +grief to her not to know why she existed. Why are we born? What do we +come on earth to do? What is the meaning of this execrable existence, +without equality, without justice, which seemed to her like a fevered +dream? Now her terror was calmed; she could think of these things +courageously. Perhaps it was her child, the continuation of herself, +which now concealed from her the horror of her end. But her regular +life contributed also to this, the thought that it was necessary to +live for the effort of living, and that the only peace possible in this +world was in the joy of the accomplishment of this effort. She repeated +to herself a remark of the doctor, who would often say when he saw a +peasant returning home with a contented look after his day’s work: +“There is a man whom anxiety about the Beyond will not prevent from +sleeping.” He meant to say that this anxiety troubles and perverts only +excitable and idle brains. If all performed their healthful task, all +would sleep peacefully at night. She herself had felt the beneficent +power of work in the midst of her sufferings and her grief. Since he +had taught her to employ every one of her hours; since she had been a +mother, especially, occupied constantly with her child, she no longer +felt a chill of horror when she thought of the Unknown. She put aside +without an effort disquieting reveries; and if she still felt an +occasional fear, if some of her daily griefs made her sick at heart, +she found comfort and unfailing strength in the thought that her child +was this day a day older, that he would be another day older on the +morrow, that day by day, page by page, his work of life was being +accomplished. This consoled her delightfully for all her miseries. She +had a duty, an object, and she felt in her happy serenity that she was +doing surely what she had been sent here to do. + +Yet, even at this very moment she knew that the mystic was not entirely +dead within her. In the midst of the profound silence she heard a +slight noise, and she raised her head. Who was the divine mediator that +had passed? Perhaps the beloved dead for whom she mourned, and whose +presence near her she fancied she could divine. There must always be in +her something of the childlike believer she had always been, curious +about the Unknown, having an instinctive longing for the mysterious. +She accounted to herself for this longing, she even explained it +scientifically. However far science may extend the limits of human +knowledge, there is undoubtedly a point which it cannot pass; and it +was here precisely that Pascal placed the only interest in life—in the +effort which we ceaselessly make to know more—there was only one +reasonable meaning in life, this continual conquest of the unknown. +Therefore, she admitted the existence of undiscovered forces +surrounding the world, an immense and obscure domain, ten times larger +than the domain already won, an infinite and unexplored realm through +which future humanity would endlessly ascend. Here, indeed, was a field +vast enough for the imagination to lose itself in. In her hours of +reverie she satisfied in it the imperious need which man seems to have +for the spiritual, a need of escaping from the visible world, of +interrogating the Unknown, of satisfying in it the dream of absolute +justice and of future happiness. All that remained of her former +torture, her last mystic transports, were there appeased. She satisfied +there that hunger for consoling illusions which suffering humanity must +satisfy in order to live. But in her all was happily balanced. At this +crisis, in an epoch overburdened with science, disquieted at the ruins +it has made, and seized with fright in the face of the new century, +wildly desiring to stop and to return to the past, Clotilde kept the +happy mean; in her the passion for truth was broadened by her eagerness +to penetrate the Unknown. If sectarian scientists shut out the horizon +to keep strictly to the phenomenon, it was permitted to her, a good, +simple creature, to reserve the part that she did not know, that she +would never know. And if Pascal’s creed was the logical deduction from +the whole work, the eternal question of the Beyond, which she still +continued to put to heaven, reopened the door of the infinite to +humanity marching ever onward. Since we must always learn, while +resigning ourselves never to know all, was it not to will action, life +itself, to reserve the Unknown—an eternal doubt and an eternal hope? + +Another sound, as of a wing passing, the light touch of a kiss upon her +hair, this time made her smile. He was surely here; and her whole being +went out toward him, in the great flood of tenderness with which her +heart overflowed. How kind and cheerful he was, and what a love for +others underlay his passionate love of life! Perhaps he, too, had been +only a dreamer, for he had dreamed the most beautiful of dreams, the +final belief in a better world, when science should have bestowed +incalculable power upon man—to accept everything, to turn everything to +our happiness, to know everything and to foresee everything, to make +nature our servant, to live in the tranquillity of intelligence +satisfied. Meantime faith in life, voluntary and regular labor, would +suffice for health. Evil was only the unexplained side of things; +suffering would one day be assuredly utilized. And regarding from above +the enormous labor of the world, seeing the sum total of humanity, good +and bad—admirable, in spite of everything, for their courage and their +industry—she now regarded all mankind as united in a common +brotherhood, she now felt only boundless indulgence, an infinite pity, +and an ardent charity. Love, like the sun, bathes the earth, and +goodness is the great river at which all hearts drink. + +Clotilde had been plying her needle for two hours, with the same +regular movement, while her thoughts wandered away in the profound +silence. But the tapes were sewed on the little waists, she had even +marked some new wrappers, which she had bought the day before. And, her +sewing finished, she rose to put the linen away. Outside the sun was +declining, and only slender and oblique sunbeams entered through the +crevices of the shutters. She could not see clearly, and she opened one +of the shutters, then she forgot herself for a moment, at the sight of +the vast horizon suddenly unrolled before her. The intense heat had +abated, a delicious breeze was blowing, and the sky was of a cloudless +blue. To the left could be distinguished even the smallest clumps of +pines, among the blood-colored ravines of the rocks of the Seille, +while to the right, beyond the hills of Sainte-Marthe, the valley of +the Viorne stretched away in the golden dust of the setting sun. She +looked for a moment at the tower of St. Saturnin, all golden also, +dominating the rose-colored town; and she was about to leave the window +when she saw a sight that drew her back and kept her there, leaning on +her elbow for a long time still. + +Beyond the railroad a multitude of people were crowded together on the +old mall. Clotilde at once remembered the ceremony. She knew that her +Grandmother Félicité was going to lay the first stone of the Rougon +Asylum, the triumphant monument destined to carry down to future ages +the glory of the family. Vast preparations had been going on for a week +past. There was talk of a silver hod and trowel, which the old lady was +to use herself, determined to figure to triumph, with her eighty-two +years. What swelled her heart with regal pride was that on this +occasion she made the conquest of Plassans for the third time, for she +compelled the whole town, all the three quarters, to range themselves +around her, to form an escort for her, and to applaud her as a +benefactress. For, of course, there had to be present lady patronesses, +chosen from among the noblest ladies of the Quartier St. Marc; a +delegation from the societies of working-women of the old quarter, and, +finally, the most distinguished residents of the new town, advocates, +notaries, physicians, without counting the common people, a stream of +people dressed in their Sunday clothes, crowding there eagerly, as to a +festival. And in the midst of this supreme triumph she was perhaps most +proud—she, one of the queens of the Second Empire, the widow who +mourned with so much dignity the fallen government—in having conquered +the young republic itself, obliging it, in the person of the +sub-prefect, to come and salute her and thank her. At first there had +been question only of a discourse of the mayor; but it was known with +certainty, since the previous day, that the sub-prefect also would +speak. From so great a distance Clotilde could distinguish only a +moving crowd of black coats and light dresses, under the scorching sun. +Then there was a distant sound of music, the music of the amateur band +of the town, the sonorous strains of whose brass instruments were borne +to her at intervals on the breeze. + +She left the window and went and opened the large oaken press to put +away in it the linen that had remained on the table. It was in this +press, formerly so full of the doctor’s manuscripts, and now empty, +that she kept the baby’s wardrobe. It yawned open, vast, seemingly +bottomless, and on the large bare shelves there was nothing but the +baby linen, the little waists, the little caps, the little socks, all +the fine clothing, the down of the bird still in the nest. Where so +many thoughts had been stored up, where a man’s unremitting labor for +thirty years had accumulated in an overflowing heap of papers, there +was now only a baby’s clothing, only the first garments which would +protect it for an hour, as it were, and which very soon it could no +longer use. The vastness of the antique press seemed brightened and all +refreshed by them. + +When Clotilde had arranged the wrappers and the waists upon a shelf, +she perceived a large envelope containing the fragments of the +documents which she had placed there after she had rescued them from +the fire. And she remembered a request which Dr. Ramond had come only +the day before to make her—that she would see if there remained among +this _debris_ any fragment of importance having a scientific interest. +He was inconsolable for the loss of the precious manuscripts which the +master had bequeathed to him. Immediately after the doctor’s death he +had made an attempt to write from memory his last talk, that summary of +vast theories expounded by the dying man with so heroic a serenity; but +he could recall only parts of it. He would have needed complete notes, +observations made from day to day, the results obtained, and the laws +formulated. The loss was irreparable, the task was to be begun over +again, and he lamented having only indications; he said that it would +be at least twenty years before science could make up the loss, and +take up and utilize the ideas of the solitary pioneer whose labors a +wicked and imbecile catastrophe had destroyed. + +The genealogical tree, the only document that had remained intact, was +attached to the envelope, and Clotilde carried the whole to the table +beside the cradle. After she had taken out the fragments, one by one, +she found, what she had been already almost certain of, that not a +single entire page of manuscript remained, not a single complete note +having any meaning. There were only fragments of documents, scraps of +half-burned and blackened paper, without sequence or connection. But as +she examined them, these incomplete phrases, these words half consumed +by fire, assumed for her an interest which no one else could have +understood. She remembered the night of the storm, and the phrases +completed themselves, the beginning of a word evoked before her persons +and histories. Thus her eye fell on Maxime’s name, and she reviewed the +life of this brother who had remained a stranger to her, and whose +death, two months before, had left her almost indifferent. Then, a +half-burned scrap containing her father’s name gave her an uneasy +feeling, for she believed that her father had obtained possession of +the fortune and the house on the avenue of Bois de Boulogne through the +good offices of his hairdresser’s niece, the innocent Rose, repaid, no +doubt, by a generous percentage. Then she met with other names, that of +her uncle Eugène, the former vice emperor, now dead, the curé of +Saint-Eutrope, who, she had been told yesterday, was dying of +consumption. And each fragment became animated in this way; the +execrable family lived again in these scraps, these black ashes, where +were now only disconnected words. + +Then Clotilde had the curiosity to unfold the genealogical tree and +spread it out upon the table. A strong emotion gained on her; she was +deeply affected by these relics; and when she read once more the notes +added in pencil by Pascal, a few moments before his death, tears rose +to her eyes. With what courage he had written down the date of his +death! And what despairing regret for life one divined in the trembling +words announcing the birth of the child! The tree ascended, spread out +its branches, unfolded its leaves, and she remained for a long time +contemplating it, saying to herself that all the work of the master was +to be found here in the classified records of this family tree. She +could still hear certain of his words commenting on each hereditary +case, she recalled his lessons. But the children, above all, interested +her; she read again and again the notes on the leaves which bore their +names. The doctor’s colleague in Nouméa, to whom he had written for +information about the child born of the marriage of the convict +Étienne, had at last made up his mind to answer; but the only +information he gave was in regard to the sex—it was a girl, he said, +and she seemed to be healthy. Octave Mouret had come near losing his +daughter, who had always been very frail, while his little boy +continued to enjoy superb health. But the chosen abode of vigorous +health and of extraordinary fecundity was still the house of Jean, at +Valqueyras, whose wife had had two children in three years and was +about to have a third. The nestlings throve in the sunshine, in the +heart of a fertile country, while the father sang as he guided his +plow, and the mother at home cleverly made the soup and kept the +children in order. There was enough new vitality and industry there to +make another family, a whole race. Clotilde fancied at this moment that +she could hear Pascal’s cry: “Ah, our family! what is it going to be, +in what kind of being will it end?” And she fell again into a reverie, +looking at the tree sending its latest branches into the future. Who +could tell whence the healthy branch would spring? Perhaps the great +and good man so long awaited was germinating there. + +A slight cry drew Clotilde from her reflections. The muslin curtain of +the cradle seemed to become animate. It was the child who had wakened +up and was moving about and calling to her. She at once took him out of +the cradle and held him up gaily, that he might bathe in the golden +light of the setting sun. But he was insensible to the beauty of the +closing day; his little vacant eyes, still full of sleep, turned away +from the vast sky, while he opened wide his rosy and ever hungry mouth, +like a bird opening its beak. And he cried so loud, he had wakened up +so ravenous, that she decided to nurse him again. Besides, it was his +hour; it would soon be three hours since she had last nursed him. + +Clotilde sat down again beside the table. She took him on her lap, but +he was not very good, crying louder and louder, growing more and more +impatient; and she looked at him with a smile while she unfastened her +dress, showing her round, slender throat. Already the child knew, and +raising himself he felt with his lips for the breast. When she placed +it in his mouth he gave a little grunt of satisfaction; he threw +himself upon her with the fine, voracious appetite of a young gentleman +who was determined to live. At first he had clutched the breast with +his little free hand, as if to show that it was his, to defend it and +to guard it. Then, in the joy of the warm stream that filled his throat +he raised his little arm straight up, like a flag. And Clotilde kept +her unconscious smile, seeing him so healthy, so rosy, and so plump, +thriving so well on the nourishment he drew from her. During the first +few weeks she had suffered from a fissure, and even now her breast was +sensitive; but she smiled, notwithstanding, with that peaceful look +which mothers wear, happy in giving their milk as they would give their +blood. + +When she had unfastened her dress, showing her bare throat and breast, +in the solitude and silence of the study, another of her mysteries, one +of her sweetest and most hidden secrets, was revealed at the same +time—the slender necklace with the seven pearls, the seven fine, milky +stars which the master had put around her neck on a day of misery, in +his mania for giving. Since it had been there no one else had seen it. +It seemed as if she guarded it with as much modesty as if it were a +part of her flesh, so simple, so pure, so childlike. And all the time +the child was nursing she alone looked at it in a dreamy reverie, moved +by the tender memory of the kisses whose warm perfume it still seemed +to keep. + +A burst of distant music seemed to surprise Clotilde. She turned her +head and looked across the fields gilded by the oblique rays of the +sun. Ah, yes! the ceremony, the laying of the corner stone yonder! Then +she turned her eyes again on the child, and she gave herself up to the +delight of seeing him with so fine an appetite. She had drawn forward a +little bench, to raise one of her knees, resting her foot upon it, and +she leaned one shoulder against the table, beside the tree and the +blackened fragments of the envelopes. Her thoughts wandered away in an +infinitely sweet reverie, while she felt the best part of herself, the +pure milk, flowing softly, making more and more her own the dear being +she had borne. The child had come, the redeemer, perhaps. The bells +rang, the three wise men had set out, followed by the people, by +rejoicing nature, smiling on the infant in its swaddling clothes. She, +the mother, while he drank life in long draughts, was dreaming already +of his future. What would he be when she should have made him tall and +strong, giving herself to him entirely? A scientist, perhaps, who would +reveal to the world something of the eternal truth; or a great captain, +who would confer glory on his country; or, still better, one of those +shepherds of the people who appease the passions and bring about the +reign of justice. She saw him, in fancy, beautiful, good and powerful. +Hers was the dream of every mother—the conviction that she had brought +the expected Messiah into the world; and there was in this hope, in +this obstinate belief, which every mother has in the certain triumph of +her child, the hope which itself makes life, the belief which gives +humanity the ever renewed strength to live still. + +What would the child be? She looked at him, trying to discover whom he +resembled. He had certainly his father’s brow and eyes, there was +something noble and strong in the breadth of the head. She saw a +resemblance to herself, too, in his fine mouth and his delicate chin. +Then, with secret uneasiness, she sought a resemblance to the others, +the terrible ancestors, all those whose names were there inscribed on +the tree, unfolding its growth of hereditary leaves. Was it this one, +or this, or yet this other, whom he would resemble? She grew calm, +however, she could not but hope, her heart swelled with eternal hope. +The faith in life which the master had implanted in her kept her brave +and steadfast. What did misery, suffering and wickedness matter! Health +was in universal labor, in the effort made, in the power which +fecundates and which produces. The work was good when the child blessed +love. Then hope bloomed anew, in spite of the open wounds, the dark +picture of human shame. It was life perpetuated, tried anew, life which +we can never weary of believing good, since we live it so eagerly, with +all its injustice and suffering. + +Clotilde had glanced involuntarily at the ancestral tree spread out +beside her. Yes, the menace was there—so many crimes, so much filth, +side by side with so many tears, and so much patient goodness; so +extraordinary a mixture of the best and the most vile, a humanity in +little, with all its defects and all its struggles. It was a question +whether it would not be better that a thunderbolt should come and +destroy all this corrupt and miserable ant-hill. And after so many +terrible Rougons, so many vile Macquarts, still another had been born. +Life did not fear to create another of them, in the brave defiance of +its eternity. It continued its work, propagated itself according to its +laws, indifferent to theories, marching on in its endless labor. Even +at the risk of making monsters, it must of necessity create, since, in +spite of all it creates, it never wearies of creating in the hope, no +doubt, that the healthy and the good will one day come. Life, life, +which flows like a torrent, which continues its work, beginning it over +and over again, without pause, to the unknown end! life in which we +bathe, life with its infinity of contrary currents, always in motion, +and vast as a boundless sea! + +A transport of maternal fervor thrilled Clotilde’s heart, and she +smiled, seeing the little voracious mouth drinking her life. It was a +prayer, an invocation, to the unknown child, as to the unknown God! To +the child of the future, to the genius, perhaps, that was to be, to the +Messiah that the coming century awaited, who would deliver the people +from their doubt and their suffering! Since the nation was to be +regenerated, had he not come for this work? He would make the +experiment anew, he would raise up walls, give certainty to those who +were in doubt, he would build the city of justice, where the sole law +of labor would insure happiness. In troublous times prophets were to be +expected—at least let him not be the Antichrist, the destroyer, the +beast foretold in the Apocalypse—who would purge the earth of its +wickedness, when this should become too great. And life would go on in +spite of everything, only it would be necessary to wait for other +myriads of years before the other unknown child, the benefactor, should +appear. + +But the child had drained her right breast, and, as he was growing +angry, Clotilde turned him round and gave him the left. Then she began +to smile, feeling the caress of his greedy little lips. At all events +she herself was hope. A mother nursing, was she not the image of the +world continued and saved? She bent over, she looked into his limpid +eyes, which opened joyously, eager for the light. What did the child +say to her that she felt her heart beat more quickly under the breast +which he was draining? To what cause would he give his blood when he +should be a man, strong with all the milk which he would have drunk? +Perhaps he said nothing to her, perhaps he already deceived her, and +yet she was so happy, so full of perfect confidence in him. + +Again there was a distant burst of music. This must be the apotheosis, +the moment when Grandmother Félicité, with her silver trowel, laid the +first stone of the monument to the glory of the Rougons. The vast blue +sky, gladdened by the Sunday festivities, rejoiced. And in the warm +silence, in the solitary peace of the workroom, Clotilde smiled at the +child, who was still nursing, his little arm held straight up in the +air, like a signal flag of life. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10720 *** diff --git a/10720-h/10720-h.htm b/10720-h/10720-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..164a9a7 --- /dev/null +++ b/10720-h/10720-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,15444 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Doctor Pascal, by Emile Zola</title> + +<style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10720 ***</div> + +<h1>DOCTOR PASCAL</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">By Émile Zola</h2> + +<h3>Translated By Mary J. Serrano</h3> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0001">I.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0002">II.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003">III.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0004">IV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0005">V.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0006">VI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0007">VII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0008">VIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0009">IX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0010">X.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0011">XI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0012">XII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0013">XIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0014">XIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a> +I.</h2> + +<p> +In the heat of the glowing July afternoon, the room, with blinds carefully +closed, was full of a great calm. From the three windows, through the cracks of +the old wooden shutters, came only a few scattered sunbeams which, in the midst +of the obscurity, made a soft brightness that bathed surrounding objects in a +diffused and tender light. It was cool here in comparison with the overpowering +heat that was felt outside, under the fierce rays of the sun that blazed upon +the front of the house. +</p> + +<p> +Standing before the press which faced the windows, Dr. Pascal was looking for a +paper that he had come in search of. With doors wide open, this immense press +of carved oak, adorned with strong and handsome mountings of metal, dating from +the last century, displayed within its capacious depths an extraordinary +collection of papers and manuscripts of all sorts, piled up in confusion and +filling every shelf to overflowing. For more than thirty years the doctor had +thrown into it every page he wrote, from brief notes to the complete texts of +his great works on heredity. Thus it was that his searches here were not always +easy. He rummaged patiently among the papers, and when he at last found the one +he was looking for, he smiled. +</p> + +<p> +For an instant longer he remained near the bookcase, reading the note by a +golden sunbeam that came to him from the middle window. He himself, in this +dawnlike light, appeared, with his snow-white hair and beard, strong and +vigorous; although he was near sixty, his color was so fresh, his features were +so finely cut, his eyes were still so clear, and he had so youthful an air that +one might have taken him, in his close-fitting, maroon velvet jacket, for a +young man with powdered hair. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Clotilde,” he said at last, “you will copy this note. +Ramond would never be able to decipher my diabolical writing.” +</p> + +<p> +And he crossed the room and laid the paper beside the young girl, who stood +working at a high desk in the embrasure of the window to the right. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, master,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +She did not even turn round, so engrossed was her attention with the pastel +which she was at the moment rapidly sketching in with broad strokes of the +crayon. Near her in a vase bloomed a stalk of hollyhocks of a singular shade of +violet, striped with yellow. But the profile of her small round head, with its +short, fair hair, was clearly distinguishable; an exquisite and serious +profile, the straight forehead contracted in a frown of attention, the eyes of +an azure blue, the nose delicately molded, the chin firm. Her bent neck, +especially, of a milky whiteness, looked adorably youthful under the gold of +the clustering curls. In her long black blouse she seemed very tall, with her +slight figure, slender throat, and flexible form, the flexible slenderness of +the divine figures of the Renaissance. In spite of her twenty-five years, she +still retained a childlike air and looked hardly eighteen. +</p> + +<p> +“And,” resumed the doctor, “you will arrange the press a +little. Nothing can be found there any longer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, master,” she repeated, without raising her head; +“presently.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal had turned round to seat himself at his desk, at the other end of the +room, before the window to the left. It was a plain black wooden table, and was +littered also with papers and pamphlets of all sorts. And silence again reigned +in the peaceful semi-obscurity, contrasting with the overpowering glare +outside. The vast apartment, a dozen meters long and six wide, had, in addition +to the press, only two bookcases, filled with books. Antique chairs of various +kinds stood around in disorder, while for sole adornment, along the walls, hung +with an old <i>salon</i> Empire paper of a rose pattern, were nailed pastels of +flowers of strange coloring dimly visible. The woodwork of three folding-doors, +the door opening on the hall and two others at opposite ends of the apartment, +the one leading to the doctor’s room, the other to that of the young +girl, as well as the cornice of the smoke-darkened ceiling, dated from the time +of Louis XV. +</p> + +<p> +An hour passed without a sound, without a breath. Then Pascal, who, as a +diversion from his work, had opened a newspaper—<i>Le +Temps</i>—which had lain forgotten on the table, uttered a slight +exclamation: +</p> + +<p> +“Why! your father has been appointed editor of the <i>Époque</i>, the +prosperous republican journal which has the publishing of the papers of the +Tuileries.” +</p> + +<p> +This news must have been unexpected by him, for he laughed frankly, at once +pleased and saddened, and in an undertone he continued: +</p> + +<p> +“My word! If things had been invented, they could not have been finer. +Life is a strange thing. This is a very interesting article.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde made no answer, as if her thoughts were a hundred leagues away from +what her uncle was saying. And he did not speak again, but taking his scissors +after he had read the article, he cut it out and pasted it on a sheet of paper, +on which he made some marginal notes in his large, irregular handwriting. Then +he went back to the press to classify this new document in it. But he was +obliged to take a chair, the shelf being so high that he could not reach it +notwithstanding his tall stature. +</p> + +<p> +On this high shelf a whole series of enormous bundles of papers were arranged +in order, methodically classified. Here were papers of all sorts: sheets of +manuscript, documents on stamped paper, articles cut out of newspapers, +arranged in envelopes of strong blue paper, each of which bore on the outside a +name written in large characters. One felt that these documents were tenderly +kept in view, taken out continually, and carefully replaced; for of the whole +press, this corner was the only one kept in order. +</p> + +<p> +When Pascal, mounted on the chair, had found the package he was looking for, +one of the bulkiest of the envelopes, on which was written the name +“Saccard,” he added to it the new document, and then replaced the +whole under its corresponding alphabetical letter. A moment later he had +forgotten the subject, and was complacently straightening a pile of papers that +were falling down. And when he at last jumped down off the chair, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“When you are arranging the press, Clotilde, don’t touch the +packages at the top; do you hear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, master,” she responded, for the third time, docilely. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed again, with the gaiety that was natural to him. +</p> + +<p> +“That is forbidden.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it, master.” +</p> + +<p> +And he closed the press with a vigorous turn of the key, which he then threw +into a drawer of his writing table. The young girl was sufficiently acquainted +with his researches to keep his manuscripts in some degree of order; and he +gladly employed her as his secretary; he made her copy his notes when some +<i>confrère</i> and friend, like Dr. Ramond asked him to send him some +document. But she was not a <i>savante</i>; he simply forbade her to read what +he deemed it useless that she should know. +</p> + +<p> +At last, perceiving her so completely absorbed in her work, his attention was +aroused. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter with you, that you don’t open your lips?” +he said. “Are you so taken up with the copying of those flowers that you +can’t speak?” +</p> + +<p> +This was another of the labors which he often intrusted to her—to make +drawings, aquarelles, and pastels, which he afterward used in his works as +plates. Thus, for the past five years he had been making some curious +experiments on a collection of hollyhocks; he had obtained a whole series of +new colorings by artificial fecundations. She made these sorts of copies with +extraordinary minuteness, an exactitude of design and of coloring so extreme +that he marveled unceasingly at the conscientiousness of her work, and he often +told her that she had a “good, round, strong, clear little +headpiece.” +</p> + +<p> +But, this time, when he approached her to look over her shoulder, he uttered a +cry of comic fury. +</p> + +<p> +“There you are at your nonsense! Now you are off in the clouds again! +Will you do me the favor to tear that up at once?” +</p> + +<p> +She straightened herself, her cheeks flushed, her eyes aglow with the delight +she took in her work, her slender fingers stained with the red and blue crayon +that she had crushed. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, master!” +</p> + +<p> +And in this “master,” so tender, so caressingly submissive, this +term of complete abandonment by which she called him, in order to avoid using +the words godfather or uncle, which she thought silly, there was, for the first +time, a passionate accent of revolt, the revindication of a being recovering +possession of and asserting itself. +</p> + +<p> +For nearly two hours she had been zealously striving to produce an exact and +faithful copy of the hollyhocks, and she had just thrown on another sheet a +whole bunch of imaginary flowers, of dream-flowers, extravagant and superb. She +had, at times, these abrupt shiftings, a need of breaking away in wild fancies +in the midst of the most precise of reproductions. She satisfied it at once, +falling always into this extraordinary efflorescence of such spirit and fancy +that it never repeated itself; creating roses, with bleeding hearts, weeping +tears of sulphur, lilies like crystal urns, flowers without any known form, +even, spreading out starry rays, with corollas floating like clouds. To-day, on +a groundwork dashed in with a few bold strokes of black crayon, it was a rain +of pale stars, a whole shower of infinitely soft petals; while, in a corner, an +unknown bloom, a bud, chastely veiled, was opening. +</p> + +<p> +“Another to nail there!” resumed the doctor, pointing to the wall, +on which there was already a row of strangely curious pastels. “But what +may that represent, I ask you?” +</p> + +<p> +She remained very grave, drawing back a step, the better to contemplate her +work. +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing about it; it is beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment appeared Martine, the only servant, become the real mistress of +the house, after nearly thirty years of service with the doctor. Although she +had passed her sixtieth year, she, too, still retained a youthful air as she +went about, silent and active, in her eternal black gown and white cap that +gave her the look of a nun, with her small, white, calm face, and lusterless +eyes, the light in which seemed to have been extinguished. +</p> + +<p> +Without speaking, she went and sat down on the floor before an easy-chair, +through a rent in the old covering of which the hair was escaping, and drawing +from her pocket a needle and a skein of worsted, she set to work to mend it. +For three days past she had been waiting for an hour’s time to do this +piece of mending, which haunted her. +</p> + +<p> +“While you are about it, Martine,” said Pascal jestingly, taking +between both his hands the mutinous head of Clotilde, “sew me fast, too, +this little noodle, which sometimes wanders off into the clouds.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine raised her pale eyes, and looked at her master with her habitual air of +adoration? +</p> + +<p> +“Why does monsieur say that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because, my good girl, in very truth, I believe it is you who have +stuffed this good little round, clear, strong headpiece full of notions of the +other world, with all your devoutness.” +</p> + +<p> +The two women exchanged a glance of intelligence. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, monsieur! religion has never done any harm to any one. And when +people have not the same ideas, it is certainly better not to talk about +them.” +</p> + +<p> +An embarrassed silence followed; this was the one difference of opinion which, +at times, brought about disagreements among these three united beings who led +so restricted a life. Martine was only twenty-nine, a year older than the +doctor, when she entered his house, at the time when he made his <i>début</i> +as a physician at Plassans, in a bright little house of the new town. And +thirteen years later, when Saccard, a brother of Pascal, sent him his daughter +Clotilde, aged seven, after his wife’s death and at the moment when he +was about to marry again, it was she who brought up the child, taking it to +church, and communicating to it a little of the devout flame with which she had +always burned; while the doctor, who had a broad mind, left them to their joy +of believing, for he did not feel that he had the right to interdict to any one +the happiness of faith; he contented himself later on with watching over the +young girl’s education and giving her clear and sound ideas about +everything. For thirteen years, during which the three had lived this retired +life at La Souleiade, a small property situated in the outskirts of the town, a +quarter of an hour’s walk from St. Saturnin, the cathedral, his life had +flowed happily along, occupied in secret great works, a little troubled, +however, by an ever increasing uneasiness—the collision, more and more +violent, every day, between their beliefs. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal took a few turns gloomily up and down the room. Then, like a man who did +not mince his words, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“See, my dear, all this phantasmagoria of mystery has turned your pretty +head. Your good God had no need of you; I should have kept you for myself +alone; and you would have been all the better for it.” +</p> + +<p> +But Clotilde, trembling with excitement, her clear eyes fixed boldly upon his, +held her ground. +</p> + +<p> +“It is you, master, who would be all the better, if you did not shut +yourself up in your eyes of flesh. That is another thing, why do you not wish +to see?” +</p> + +<p> +And Martine came to her assistance, in her own style. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, it is true, monsieur, that you, who are a saint, as I say +everywhere, should accompany us to church. Assuredly, God will save you. But at +the bare idea that you should not go straight to paradise, I tremble all +over.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused, for he had before him, in open revolt, those two whom he had been +accustomed to see submissive at his feet, with the tenderness of women won over +by his gaiety and his goodness. Already he opened his mouth, and was going to +answer roughly, when the uselessness of the discussion became apparent to him. +</p> + +<p> +“There! Let us have peace. I would do better to go and work. And above +all, let no one interrupt me!” +</p> + +<p> +With hasty steps he gained his chamber, where he had installed a sort of +laboratory, and shut himself up in it. The prohibition to enter it was formal. +It was here that he gave himself up to special preparations, of which he spoke +to no one. Almost immediately the slow and regular sound of a pestle grinding +in a mortar was heard. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said Clotilde, smiling, “there he is, at his +devil’s cookery, as grandmother says.” +</p> + +<p> +And she tranquilly resumed her copying of the hollyhocks. She completed the +drawing with mathematical precision, she found the exact tone of the violet +petals, striped with yellow, even to the most delicate discoloration of the +shades. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” murmured Martine, after a moment, again seated on the ground, +and occupied in mending the chair, “what a misfortune for a good man like +that to lose his soul wilfully. For there is no denying it; I have known him +now for thirty years, and in all that time he has never so much as spoken an +unkind word to any one. A real heart of gold, who would take the bit from his +own mouth. And handsome, too, and always well, and always gay, a real blessing! +It is a murder that he does not wish to make his peace with the good God. We +will force him to do it, mademoiselle, will we not?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, surprised at hearing her speak so long at one time on the subject, +gave her word with a grave air. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, Martine, it is a promise. We will force him.” +</p> + +<p> +Silence reigned again, broken a moment afterward by the ringing of the bell +attached to the street door below. It had been attached to the door so that +they might have notice when any one entered the house, too vast for the three +persons who inhabited it. The servant appeared surprised, and grumbled a few +words under her breath. Who could have come in such heat as this? She rose, +opened the door, and went and leaned over the balustrade; then she returned, +saying: +</p> + +<p> +“It is Mme. Félicité.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon entered briskly. In spite of her eighty years, she had mounted +the stairs with the activity of a young girl; she was still the brown, lean, +shrill grasshopper of old. Dressed elegantly now in black silk, she might still +be taken, seen from behind, thanks to the slenderness of her figure, for some +coquette, or some ambitious woman following her favorite pursuit. Seen in +front, her eyes still lighted up her withered visage with their fires, and she +smiled with an engaging smile when she so desired. +</p> + +<p> +“What! is it you, grandmother?” cried Clotilde, going to meet her. +“Why, this sun is enough to bake one.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité, kissing her on the forehead, laughed, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, the sun is my friend!” +</p> + +<p> +Then, moving with short, quick steps, she crossed the room, and turned the +fastening of one of the shutters. +</p> + +<p> +“Open the shutters a little! It is too gloomy to live in the dark in this +way. At my house I let the sun come in.” +</p> + +<p> +Through the opening a jet of hot light, a flood of dancing sparks entered. And +under the sky, of the violet blue of a conflagration, the parched plain could +be seen, stretching away in the distance, as if asleep or dead in the +overpowering, furnace-like heat, while to the right, above the pink roofs, rose +the belfry of St. Saturnin, a gilded tower with arises that, in the blinding +light, looked like whitened bones. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” continued Félicité, “I think of going shortly to the +Tulettes, and I wished to know if Charles were here, to take him with me. He is +not here—I see that—I will take him another day.” +</p> + +<p> +But while she gave this pretext for her visit, her ferret-like eyes were making +the tour of the apartment. Besides, she did not insist, speaking immediately +afterward of her son Pascal, on hearing the rhythmical noise of the pestle, +which had not ceased in the adjoining chamber. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! he is still at his devil’s cookery! Don’t disturb him, I +have nothing to say to him.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine, who had resumed her work on the chair, shook her head, as if to say +that she had no mind to disturb her master, and there was silence again, while +Clotilde wiped her fingers, stained with crayon, on a cloth, and Félicité began +to walk about the room with short steps, looking around inquisitively. +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon would soon be two years a widow. Her husband who had grown so +corpulent that he could no longer move, had succumbed to an attack of +indigestion on the 3d of September, 1870, on the night of the day on which he +had learned of the catastrophe of Sedan. The ruin of the government of which he +flattered himself with being one of the founders, seemed to have crushed him. +Thus, Félicité affected to occupy herself no longer with politics, living, +thenceforward, like a dethroned queen, the only surviving power of a vanished +world. No one was unaware that the Rougons, in 1851, had saved Plassans from +anarchy, by causing the <i>coup d’état</i> of the 2d of December to +triumph there, and that, a few years later, they had won it again from the +legitimist and republican candidates, to give it to a Bonapartist deputy. Up to +the time of the war, the Empire had continued all-powerful in the town, so +popular that it had obtained there at the plebiscite an overwhelming majority. +But since the disasters the town had become republican, the quarter St. Marc +had returned to its secret royalist intrigues, while the old quarter and the +new town had sent to the chamber a liberal representative, slightly tinged with +Orleanism, and ready to take sides with the republic, if it should triumph. +And, therefore, it was that Félicité, like the intelligent woman she was, had +withdrawn her attention from politics, and consented to be nothing more than +the dethroned queen of a fallen government. +</p> + +<p> +But this was still an exalted position, surrounded by a melancholy poetry. For +eighteen years she had reigned. The tradition of her two <i>salons</i>, the +yellow <i>salon</i>, in which the <i>coup d’état</i> had matured, and the +green <i>salon</i>, later the neutral ground on which the conquest of Plassans +was completed, embellished itself with the reflection of the vanished past, and +was for her a glorious history. And besides, she was very rich. Then, too, she +had shown herself dignified in her fall, never uttering a regret or a +complaint, parading, with her eighty years, so long a succession of fierce +appetites, of abominable maneuvers, of inordinate gratifications, that she +became august through them. Her only happiness, now, was to enjoy in peace her +large fortune and her past royalty, and she had but one passion left—to +defend her past, to extend its fame, suppressing everything that might tarnish +it later. Her pride, which lived on the double exploit of which the inhabitants +still spoke, watched with jealous care, resolved to leave in existence only +creditable documents, those traditions which caused her to be saluted like a +fallen queen when she walked through the town. +</p> + +<p> +She went to the door of the chamber and listened to the persistent noise of the +pestle, which did not cease. Then, with an anxious brow, she returned to +Clotilde. +</p> + +<p> +“Good Heavens! What is he making? You know that he is doing himself the +greatest harm with his new drug. I was told, the other day, that he came near +killing one of his patients.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, grandmother!” cried the young girl. +</p> + +<p> +But she was now launched. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, exactly. The good wives say many other things, besides! Why, go +question them, in the faubourg! They will tell you that he grinds dead +men’s bones in infants’ blood.” +</p> + +<p> +This time, while even Martine protested, Clotilde, wounded in her affection, +grew angry. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, grandmother, do not repeat such abominations! Master has so great a +heart that he thinks only of making every one happy!” +</p> + +<p> +Then, when she saw that they were both angry, Félicité, comprehending that she +had gone too far, resumed her coaxing manner. +</p> + +<p> +“But, my kitten, it is not I who say those frightful things. I repeat to +you the stupid reports they spread, so that you may comprehend that Pascal is +wrong to pay no heed to public opinion. He thinks he has found a new +remedy—nothing could be better! and I will even admit that he will be +able to cure everybody, as he hopes. Only, why affect these mysterious ways; +why not speak of the matter openly; why, above all, try it only on the rabble +of the old quarter and of the country, instead of, attempting among the +well-to-do people of the town, striking cures which would do him honor? No, my +child, you see your uncle has never been able to act like other people.” +</p> + +<p> +She had assumed a grieved tone, lowering her voice, to display the secret wound +of her heart. +</p> + +<p> +“God be thanked! it is not men of worth who are wanting in our family; my +other sons have given me satisfaction enough. Is it not so? Your Uncle Eugène +rose high enough, minister for twelve years, almost emperor! And your father +himself handled many a million, and had a part in many a one of the great works +which have made Paris a new city. Not to speak at all of your brother, Maxime, +so rich, so distinguished, nor of your cousin, Octave Mouret, one of the kings +of the new commerce, nor of our dear Abbé Mouret, who is a saint! Well, then, +why does Pascal, who might have followed in the footsteps of them all, persist +in living in his hole, like an eccentric old fool?” +</p> + +<p> +And as the young girl was again going to protest, she closed her mouth, with a +caressing gesture of her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, let me finish. I know very well that Pascal is not a fool, that +he has written remarkable works, that his communications to the Academy of +Medicine have even won for him a reputation among <i>savants</i>. But what does +that count for, compared to what I have dreamed of for him? Yes, all the best +practice of the town, a large fortune, the decoration—honors, in short, +and a position worthy of the family. My word! I used to say to him when he was +a child: ‘But where do you come from? You are not one of us!’ As +for me, I have sacrificed everything for the family; I would let myself be +hacked to pieces, that the family might always be great and glorious!” +</p> + +<p> +She straightened her small figure, she seemed to grow tall with the one passion +that had formed the joy and pride of her life. But as she resumed her walk, she +was startled by suddenly perceiving on the floor the copy of the <i>Temps</i>, +which the doctor had thrown there, after cutting out the article, to add it to +the Saccard papers, and the light from the open window, falling full upon the +sheet, enlightened her, no doubt, for she suddenly stopped walking, and threw +herself into a chair, as if she at last knew what she had come to learn. +</p> + +<p> +“Your father has been appointed editor of the <i>Époque</i>,” she +said abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Clotilde tranquilly, “master told me so; it +was in the paper.” +</p> + +<p> +With an anxious and attentive expression, Félicité looked at her, for this +appointment of Saccard, this rallying to the republic, was something of vast +significance. After the fall of the empire he had dared return to France, +notwithstanding his condemnation as director of the Banque Universelle, the +colossal fall of which had preceded that of the government. New influences, +some incredible intrigue must have placed him on his feet again, for not only +had he received his pardon, but he was once more in a position to undertake +affairs of considerable importance, launched into journalism, having his share +again of all the good things going. And the recollection came to her of the +quarrels of other days between him and his brother Eugène Rougon, whom he had +so often compromised, and whom, by an ironical turn of events, he was perhaps +going to protect, now that the former minister of the Empire was only a simple +deputy, resigned to the single role of standing by his fallen master with the +obstinacy with which his mother stood by her family. She still obeyed docilely +the orders of her eldest son, the genius, fallen though he was; but Saccard, +whatever he might do, had also a part in her heart, from his indomitable +determination to succeed, and she was also proud of Maxime, Clotilde’s +brother, who had taken up his quarters again, after the war, in his mansion in +the Avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, where he was consuming the fortune left him +by his wife, Louise de Mareuil, become prudent, with the wisdom of a man struck +in a vital part, and trying to cheat the paralysis which threatened him. +</p> + +<p> +“Editor of the <i>Époque</i>,” she repeated; “it is really +the position of a minister which your father has won. And I forgot to tell you, +I have written again to your brother, to persuade him to come and see us. That +would divert him, it would do him good. Then, there is that child, that poor +Charles—” +</p> + +<p> +She did not continue. This was another of the wounds from which her pride bled; +a son whom Maxime had had when seventeen by a servant, and who now, at the age +of fifteen, weak of intellect, a half-idiot, lived at Plassans, going from the +house of one to that of another, a burden to all. +</p> + +<p> +She remained silent a moment longer, waiting for some remark from Clotilde, +some transition by which she might come to the subject she wished to touch +upon. When she saw that the young girl, occupied in arranging the papers on her +desk, was no longer listening, she came to a sudden decision, after casting a +glance at Martine, who continued mending the chair, as if she were deaf and +dumb. +</p> + +<p> +“Your uncle cut the article out of the <i>Temps</i>, then?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde smiled calmly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, master put it away among his papers. Ah! how many notes he buries +in there! Births, deaths, the smallest event in life, everything goes in there. +And the genealogical tree is there also, our famous genealogical tree, which he +keeps up to date!” +</p> + +<p> +The eyes of old Mme. Rougon flamed. She looked fixedly at the young girl. +</p> + +<p> +“You know them, those papers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, grandmother; master has never spoken to me of them; and he has +forbidden me to touch them.” +</p> + +<p> +But she did not believe her. +</p> + +<p> +“Come! you have them under your hands, you must have read them.” +</p> + +<p> +Very simple, with her calm rectitude, Clotilde answered, smilingly again. +</p> + +<p> +“No, when master forbids me to do anything, it is because he has his +reasons, and I do not do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my child,” cried Félicité vehemently, dominated by her +passion, “you, whom Pascal loves tenderly, and whom he would listen to, +perhaps, you ought to entreat him to burn all that, for if he should chance to +die, and those frightful things which he has in there were to be found, we +should all be dishonored!” +</p> + +<p> +Ah, those abominable papers! she saw them at night, in her nightmares, +revealing in letters of fire, the true histories, the physiological blemishes +of the family, all that wrong side of her glory which she would have wished to +bury forever with the ancestors already dead! She knew how it was that the +doctor had conceived the idea of collecting these documents at the beginning of +his great studies on heredity; how he had found himself led to take his own +family as an example, struck by the typical cases which he saw in it, and which +helped to support laws discovered by him. Was it not a perfectly natural field +of observation, close at hand and with which he was thoroughly familiar? And +with the fine, careless justness of the scientist, he had been accumulating for +the last thirty years the most private data, collecting and classifying +everything, raising this genealogical tree of the Rougon-Macquarts, of which +the voluminous papers, crammed full of proofs, were only the commentary. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes,” continued Mme. Rougon hotly, “to the fire, to the +fire with all those papers that would tarnish our name!” +</p> + +<p> +And as the servant rose to leave the room, seeing the turn the conversation was +taking, she stopped her by a quick gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Martine; stay! You are not in the way, since you are now one of +the family.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, in a hissing voice: +</p> + +<p> +“A collection of falsehoods, of gossip, all the lies that our enemies, +enraged by our triumph, hurled against us in former days! Think a little of +that, my child. Against all of us, against your father, against your mother, +against your brother, all those horrors!” +</p> + +<p> +“But how do you know they are horrors, grandmother?” +</p> + +<p> +She was disconcerted for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well; I suspect it! Where is the family that has not had misfortunes +which might be injuriously interpreted? Thus, the mother of us all, that dear +and venerable Aunt Dide, your great-grandmother, has she not been for the past +twenty-one years in the madhouse at the Tulettes? If God has granted her the +grace of allowing her to live to the age of one hundred and four years, he has +also cruelly afflicted her in depriving her of her reason. Certainly, there is +no shame in that; only, what exasperates me—what must not be—is +that they should say afterward that we are all mad. And, then, regarding your +grand-uncle Macquart, too, deplorable rumors have been spread. Macquart had his +faults in past days, I do not seek to defend him. But to-day, is he not living +very reputably on his little property at the Tulettes, two steps away from our +unhappy mother, over whom he watches like a good son? And listen! one last +example. Your brother, Maxime, committed a great fault when he had by a servant +that poor little Charles, and it is certain, besides, that the unhappy child is +of unsound mind. No matter. Will it please you if they tell you that your +nephew is degenerate; that he reproduces from four generations back, his +great-great-grandmother the dear woman to whom we sometimes take him, and with +whom he likes so much to be? No! there is no longer any family possible, if +people begin to lay bare everything—the nerves of this one, the muscles +of that. It is enough to disgust one with living!” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, standing in her long black blouse, had listened to her grandmother +attentively. She had grown very serious; her arms hung by her sides, her eyes +were fixed upon the ground. There was silence for a moment; then she said +slowly: +</p> + +<p> +“It is science, grandmother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Science!” cried Félicité, trotting about again. “A fine +thing, their science, that goes against all that is most sacred in the world! +When they shall have demolished everything they will have advanced greatly! +They kill respect, they kill the family, they kill the good God!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! don’t say that, madame!” interrupted Martine, in a +grieved voice, her narrow devoutness wounded. “Do not say that M. Pascal +kills the good God!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my poor girl, he kills him. And look you, it is a crime, from the +religious point of view, to let one’s self be damned in that way. You do +not love him, on my word of honor! No, you do not love him, you two who have +the happiness of believing, since you do nothing to bring him back to the right +path. Ah! if I were in your place, I would split that press open with a +hatchet. I would make a famous bonfire with all the insults to the good God +which it contains!” +</p> + +<p> +She had planted herself before the immense press and was measuring it with her +fiery glance, as if to take it by assault, to sack it, to destroy it, in spite +of the withered and fragile thinness of her eighty years. Then, with a gesture +of ironical disdain: +</p> + +<p> +“If, even with his science, he could know everything!” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde remained for a moment absorbed in thought, her gaze lost in vacancy. +Then she said in an undertone, as if speaking to herself: +</p> + +<p> +“It is true, he cannot know everything. There is always something else +below. That is what irritates me; that is what makes us quarrel: for I cannot, +like him, put the mystery aside. I am troubled by it, so much so that I suffer +cruelly. Below, what wills and acts in the shuddering darkness, all the unknown +forces—” +</p> + +<p> +Her voice had gradually become lower and now dropped to an indistinct murmur. +</p> + +<p> +Then Martine, whose face for a moment past had worn a somber expression, +interrupted in her turn: +</p> + +<p> +“If it was true, however, mademoiselle, that monsieur would be damned on +account of those villainous papers, tell me, ought we to let it happen? For my +part, look you, if he were to tell me to throw myself down from the terrace, I +would shut my eyes and throw myself, because I know that he is always right. +But for his salvation! Oh! if I could, I would work for that, in spite of him. +In every way, yes! I would force him; it is too cruel to me to think that he +will not be in heaven with us.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite right, my girl,” said Félicité approvingly. +“You, at least, love your master in an intelligent fashion.” +</p> + +<p> +Between the two, Clotilde still seemed irresolute. In her, belief did not bend +to the strict rule of dogma; the religious sentiment did not materialize in the +hope of a paradise, of a place of delights, where she was to meet her own +again. It was in her simply a need of a beyond, a certainty that the vast world +does not stop short at sensation, that there is a whole unknown world, besides, +which must be taken into account. But her grandmother, who was so old, this +servant, who was so devoted, shook her in her uneasy affection for her uncle. +Did they not love him better, in a more enlightened and more upright fashion, +they who desired him to be without a stain, freed from his manias as a +scientist, pure enough to be among the elect? Phrases of devotional books +recurred to her; the continual battle waged against the spirit of evil; the +glory of conversions effected after a violent struggle. What if she set herself +to this holy task; what if, after all, in spite of himself, she should be able +to save him! And an exaltation gradually gained her spirit, naturally inclined +to adventurous enterprises. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” she said at last, “I should be very happy if he +would not persist in his notion of heaping up all those scraps of paper, and if +he would come to church with us.” +</p> + +<p> +Seeing her about to yield, Mme. Rougon cried out that it was necessary to act, +and Martine herself added the weight of all her real authority. They both +approached the young girl, and began to instruct her, lowering their voices as +if they were engaged in a conspiracy, whence was to result a miraculous +benefit, a divine joy with which the whole house would be perfumed. What a +triumph if they reconciled the doctor with God! and what sweetness, afterward, +to live altogether in the celestial communion of the same faith! +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, what must I do?” asked Clotilde, vanquished, won over. +</p> + +<p> +But at this moment the doctor’s pestle was heard in the silence, with its +continued rhythm. And the victorious Félicité, who was about to speak, turned +her head uneasily, and looked for a moment at the door of the adjoining +chamber. Then, in an undertone, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know where the key of the press is?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde answered only with an artless gesture, that expressed all her +repugnance to betray her master in this way. +</p> + +<p> +“What a child you are! I swear to you that I will take nothing; I will +not even disturb anything. Only as we are alone and as Pascal never reappears +before dinner, we might assure ourselves of what there is in there, might we +not? Oh! nothing but a glance, on my word of honor.” +</p> + +<p> +The young girl stood motionless, unwilling, still, to give her consent. +</p> + +<p> +“And then, it may be that I am mistaken; no doubt there are none of those +bad things there that I have told you of.” +</p> + +<p> +This was decisive; she ran to take the key from the drawer, and she herself +opened wide the press. +</p> + +<p> +“There, grandmother, the papers are up there.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine had gone, without a word, to station herself at the door of the +doctor’s chamber, her ear on the alert, listening to the pestle, while +Félicité, as if riveted to the spot by emotion, regarded the papers. At last, +there they were, those terrible documents, the nightmare that had poisoned her +life! She saw them, she was going to touch them, to carry them away! And she +reached up, straining her little legs, in the eagerness of her desire. +</p> + +<p> +“It is too high, my kitten,” she said. “Help me; give them to +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! not that, grandmother! Take a chair!” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité took a chair, and mounted slowly upon it. But she was still too short. +By an extraordinary effort she raised herself, lengthening her stature until +she was able to touch the envelopes of strong blue paper with the tips of her +fingers; and her fingers traveled over them, contracting nervously, scratching +like claws. Suddenly there was a crash—it was a geological specimen, a +fragment of marble that had been on a lower shelf, and that she had just thrown +down. +</p> + +<p> +Instantly the pestle stopped, and Martine said in a stifled voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Take care; here he comes!” +</p> + +<p> +But Félicité, grown desperate, did not hear, did not let go her hold when +Pascal entered hastily. He had supposed that some accident had happened, that +some one had fallen, and he stood stupefied at what he saw—his mother on +the chair, her arm still in the air, while Martine had withdrawn to one side, +and Clotilde, very pale, stood waiting, without turning her head. When he +comprehended the scene, he himself became as white as a sheet. A terrible anger +arose within him. +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon, however, troubled herself in no wise. When she saw that the +opportunity was lost, she descended from the chair, without making any illusion +whatever to the task at which he had surprised her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it is you! I do not wish to disturb you. I came to embrace Clotilde. +But here I have been talking for nearly two hours, and I must run away at once. +They will be expecting me at home; they won’t know what has become of me +at this hour. Good-by until Sunday.” +</p> + +<p> +She went away quite at her ease, after smiling at her son, who stood before her +silent and respectful. It was an attitude that he had long since adopted, to +avoid an explanation which he felt must be cruel, and which he had always +feared. He knew her, he was willing to pardon her everything, in his broad +tolerance as a scientist, who made allowance for heredity, environment, and +circumstances. And, then, was she not his mother? That ought to have sufficed, +for, in spite of the frightful blows which his researches inflicted upon the +family, he preserved a great affection for those belonging to him. +</p> + +<p> +When his mother was no longer there, his anger burst forth, and fell upon +Clotilde. He had turned his eyes away from Martine, and fixed them on the young +girl, who did not turn hers away, however, with a courage which accepted the +responsibility of her act. +</p> + +<p> +“You! you!” he said at last. +</p> + +<p> +He seized her arm, and pressed it until she cried. But she continued to look +him full in the face, without quailing before him, with the indomitable will of +her individuality, of her selfhood. She was beautiful and provoking, with her +tall, slender figure, robed in its black blouse; and her exquisite, youthful +fairness, her straight forehead, her finely cut nose, her firm chin, took on +something of a warlike charm in her rebellion. +</p> + +<p> +“You, whom I have made, you who are my pupil, my friend, my other mind, +to whom I have given a part of my heart and of my brain! Ah, yes! I should have +kept you entirely for myself, and not have allowed your stupid good God to take +the best part of you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, monsieur, you blaspheme!” cried Martine, who had approached +him, in order to draw upon herself a part of his anger. +</p> + +<p> +But he did not even see her. Only Clotilde existed for him. And he was as if +transfigured, stirred up by so great a passion that his handsome face, crowned +by his white hair, framed by his white beard, flamed with youthful passion, +with an immense tenderness that had been wounded and exasperated. +</p> + +<p> +“You, you!” he repeated in a trembling voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I! Why then, master, should I not love you better than you love me? +And why, if I believe you to be in peril, should I not try to save you? You are +greatly concerned about what I think; you would like well to make me think as +you do!” +</p> + +<p> +She had never before defied him in this way. +</p> + +<p> +“But you are a little girl; you know nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am a soul, and you know no more about souls than I do!” +</p> + +<p> +He released her arm, and waved his hand vaguely toward heaven, and then a great +silence fell—a silence full of grave meaning, of the uselessness of the +discussion which he did not wish to enter upon. Thrusting her aside rudely, he +crossed over to the middle window and opened the blinds, for the sun was +declining, and the room was growing dark. Then he returned. +</p> + +<p> +But she, feeling a need of air and space, went to the open window. The burning +rain of sparks had ceased, and there fell now, from on high, only the last +shiver of the overheated and paling sky; and from the still burning earth +ascended warm odors, with the freer respiration of evening. At the foot of the +terrace was the railroad, with the outlying dependencies of the station, of +which the buildings were to be seen in the distance; then, crossing the vast +arid plain, a line of trees marked the course of the Viorne, beyond which rose +the hills of Sainte-Marthe, red fields planted with olive trees, supported on +terraces by walls of uncemented stones and crowned by somber pine +woods—broad amphitheaters, bare and desolate, corroded by the heats of +summer, of the color of old baked brick, which this fringe of dark verdure, +standing out against the background of the sky, bordered above. To the left +opened the gorges of the Seille, great yellow stones that had broken away from +the soil, and lay in the midst of blood-colored fields, dominated by an immense +band of rocks like the wall of a gigantic fortress; while to the right, at the +very entrance to the valley through which flowed the Viorne, rose, one above +another, the discolored pink-tiled roofs of the town of Plassans, the compact +and confused mass of an old town, pierced by the tops of ancient elms, and +dominated by the high tower of St. Saturnin, solitary and serene at this hour +in the limpid gold of sunset. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my God!” said Clotilde slowly, “one must be arrogant, +indeed, to imagine that one can take everything in one’s hand and know +everything!” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal had just mounted on the chair to assure himself that not one of his +packages was missing. Then he took up the fragment of marble, and replaced it +on the shelf, and when he had again locked the press with a vigorous turn of +the hand, he put the key into his pocket. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he replied; “try not to know everything, and above +all, try not to bewilder your brain about what we do not know, what we shall +doubtless never know!” +</p> + +<p> +Martine again approached Clotilde, to lend her her support, to show her that +they both had a common cause. And now the doctor perceived her, also, and felt +that they were both united in the same desire for conquest. After years of +secret attempts, it was at last open war; the <i>savant</i> saw his household +turn against his opinions, and menace them with destruction. There is no worse +torture than to have treason in one’s own home, around one; to be +trapped, dispossessed, crushed, by those whom you love, and who love you! +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly this frightful idea presented itself to him. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet both of you love me!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +He saw their eyes grow dim with tears; he was filled with an infinite sadness, +on this tranquil close of a beautiful day. All his gaiety, all his kindness of +heart, which came from his intense love of life, were shaken by it. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my dear! and you, my poor girl,” he said, “you are doing +this for my happiness, are you not? But, alas, how unhappy we are going to +be!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a> +II.</h2> + +<p> +On the following morning Clotilde was awake at six o’clock. She had gone +to bed angry with Pascal; they were at variance with each other. And her first +feeling was one of uneasiness, of secret distress, an instant need of making +her peace, so that she might no longer have upon her heart the heavy weight +that lay there now. +</p> + +<p> +Springing quickly out of bed, she went and half opened the shutters of both +windows. The sun, already high, sent his light across the chamber in two golden +bars. Into this drowsy room that exhaled a sweet odor of youth, the bright +morning brought with it fresh, cheerful air; but the young girl went back and +sat down on the edge of the bed in a thoughtful attitude, clad only in her +scant nightdress, which made her look still more slender, with her long +tapering limbs, her strong, slender body, with its round throat, round neck, +round and supple arms; and her adorable neck and throat, of a milky whiteness, +had the exquisite softness and smoothness of white satin. For a long time, at +the ungraceful age between twelve and eighteen, she had looked awkwardly tall, +climbing trees like a boy. Then, from the ungainly hoyden had been evolved this +charming, delicate and lovely creature. +</p> + +<p> +With absent gaze she sat looking at the walls of the chamber. Although La +Souleiade dated from the last century, it must have been refurnished under the +First Empire, for it was hung with an old-fashioned printed calico, with a +pattern representing busts of the Sphinx, and garlands of oak leaves. +Originally of a bright red, this calico had faded to a pink—an undecided +pink, inclining to orange. The curtains of the two windows and of the bed were +still in existence, but it had been necessary to clean them, and this had made +them still paler. And this faded purple, this dawnlike tint, so delicately +soft, was in truth exquisite. As for the bed, covered with the same stuff, it +had come down from so remote an antiquity that it had been replaced by another +bed found in an adjoining room; another Empire bed, low and very broad, of +massive mahogany, ornamented with brasses, its four square pillars adorned also +with busts of the Sphinx, like those on the wall. The rest of the furniture +matched, however—a press, with whole doors and pillars; a chest of +drawers with a marble top, surrounded by a railing; a tall and massive +cheval-glass, a large lounge with straight feet, and seats with straight, +lyre-shaped backs. But a coverlet made of an old Louis XV. silk skirt +brightened the majestic bed, that occupied the middle of the wall fronting the +windows; a heap of cushions made the lounge soft; and there were, besides, two +<i>étagères</i> and a table also covered with old flowered silk, at the further +end of the room. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde at last put on her stockings and slipped on a morning gown of white +<i>piqué</i>, and thrusting the tips of her feet into her gray canvas slippers, +she ran into her dressing-room, a back room looking out on the rear of the +house. She had had it hung plainly with an <i>écru</i> drill with blue stripes, +and it contained only furniture of varnished pine—the toilette table, two +presses, and two chairs. It revealed, however, a natural and delicate coquetry +which was very feminine. This had grown with her at the same time with her +beauty. Headstrong and boyish though she still was at times, she had become a +submissive and affectionate woman, desiring to be loved, above everything. The +truth was that she had grown up in freedom, without having learned anything +more than to read and write, having acquired by herself, later, while assisting +her uncle, a vast fund of information. But there had been no plan settled upon +between them. He had not wished to make her a prodigy; she had merely conceived +a passion for natural history, which revealed to her the mysteries of life. And +she had kept her innocence unsullied like a fruit which no hand has touched, +thanks, no doubt, to her unconscious and religious waiting for the coming of +love—that profound feminine feeling which made her reserve the gift of +her whole being for the man whom she should love. +</p> + +<p> +She pushed back her hair and bathed her face; then, yielding to her impatience, +she again softly opened the door of her chamber and ventured to cross the vast +workroom, noiselessly and on tiptoe. The shutters were still closed, but she +could see clearly enough not to stumble against the furniture. When she was at +the other end before the door of the doctor’s room, she bent forward, +holding her breath. Was he already up? What could he be doing? She heard him +plainly, walking about with short steps, dressing himself, no doubt. She never +entered this chamber in which he chose to hide certain labors; and which thus +remained closed, like a tabernacle. One fear had taken possession of her; that +of being discovered here by him if he should open the door; and the agitation +produced by the struggle between her rebellious pride and a desire to show her +submission caused her to grow hot and cold by turns, with sensations until now +unknown to her. For an instant her desire for reconciliation was so strong that +she was on the point of knocking. Then, as footsteps approached, she ran +precipitately away. +</p> + +<p> +Until eight o’clock Clotilde was agitated by an ever-increasing +impatience. At every instant she looked at the clock on the mantelpiece of her +room; an Empire clock of gilded bronze, representing Love leaning against a +pillar, contemplating Time asleep. +</p> + +<p> +Eight was the hour at which she generally descended to the dining-room to +breakfast with the doctor. And while waiting she made a careful toilette, +arranged her hair, and put on another morning gown of white muslin with red +spots. Then, having still a quarter of an hour on her hands, she satisfied an +old desire and sat down to sew a piece of narrow lace, an imitation of +Chantilly, on her working blouse, that black blouse which she had begun to find +too boyish, not feminine enough. But on the stroke of eight she laid down her +work, and went downstairs quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“You are going to breakfast entirely alone,” said Martine +tranquilly to her, when she entered the dining-room. +</p> + +<p> +“How is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the doctor called me, and I passed him in his egg through the +half-open door. There he is again, at his mortar and his filter. We won’t +see him now before noon.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde turned pale with disappointment. She drank her milk standing, took her +roll in her hand, and followed the servant into the kitchen. There were on the +ground floor, besides this kitchen and the dining-room, only an uninhabited +room in which the potatoes were stored, and which had formerly been used as an +office by the doctor, when he received his patients in his house—the desk +and the armchair had years ago been taken up to his chamber—and another +small room, which opened into the kitchen; the old servant’s room, +scrupulously clean, and furnished with a walnut chest of drawers and a bed like +a nun’s with white hangings. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think he has begun to make his liquor again?” asked +Clotilde. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it can be only that. You know that he thinks of neither eating nor +drinking when that takes possession of him!” +</p> + +<p> +Then all the young girl’s vexation was exhaled in a low plaint: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my God! my God!” +</p> + +<p> +And while Martine went to make up her room, she took an umbrella from the hall +stand and went disconsolately to eat her roll in the garden, not knowing now +how she should occupy her time until midday. +</p> + +<p> +It was now almost seventeen years since Dr. Pascal, having resolved to leave +his little house in the new town, had bought La Souleiade for twenty thousand +francs, in order to live there in seclusion, and also to give more space and +more happiness to the little girl sent him by his brother Saccard from Paris. +This Souleiade, situated outside the town gates on a plateau dominating the +plain, was part of a large estate whose once vast grounds were reduced to less +than two hectares in consequence of successive sales, without counting that the +construction of the railroad had taken away the last arable fields. The house +itself had been half destroyed by a conflagration and only one of the two +buildings remained—a quadrangular wing “of four walls,” as +they say in Provence, with five front windows and roofed with large pink tiles. +And the doctor, who had bought it completely furnished, had contented himself +with repairing it and finishing the boundary walls, so as to be undisturbed in +his house. +</p> + +<p> +Generally Clotilde loved this solitude passionately; this narrow kingdom which +she could go over in ten minutes, and which still retained remnants of its past +grandeur. But this morning she brought there something like a nervous +disquietude. She walked for a few moments along the terrace, at the two +extremities of which stood two secular cypresses like two enormous funeral +tapers, which could be seen three leagues off. The slope then descended to the +railroad, walls of uncemented stones supporting the red earth, in which the +last vines were dead; and on these giant steps grew only rows of olive and +almond trees, with sickly foliage. The heat was already overpowering; she saw +the little lizards running about on the disjointed flags, among the hairy tufts +of caper bushes. +</p> + +<p> +Then, as if irritated by the vast horizon, she crossed the orchard and the +kitchen garden, which Martine still persisted in cultivating in spite of her +age, calling in a man only twice a week for the heavier labors; and she +ascended to a little pine wood on the right, all that remained of the superb +pines which had formerly covered the plateau; but, here, too, she was ill at +ease; the pine needles crackled under her feet, a resinous, stifling odor +descended from the branches. And walking along the boundary wall past the +entrance gate, which opened on the road to Les Fenouilleres, three hundred +meters from the first houses of Plassans, she emerged at last on the +threshing-yard; an immense yard, fifteen meters in radius, which would of +itself have sufficed to prove the former importance of the domain. Ah! this +antique area, paved with small round stones, as in the days of the Romans; this +species of vast esplanade, covered with short dry grass of the color of gold as +with a thick woolen carpet; how joyously she had played there in other days, +running about, rolling on the grass, lying for hours on her back, watching the +stars coming out one by one in the depths of the illimitable sky! +</p> + +<p> +She opened her umbrella again, and crossed the yard with slower steps. Now she +was on the left of the terrace. She had made the tour of the estate, so that +she had returned by the back of the house, through the clump of enormous plane +trees that on this side cast a thick shade. This was the side on which opened +the two windows of the doctor’s room. And she raised her eyes to them, +for she had approached only in the sudden hope of at last seeing him. But the +windows remained closed, and she was wounded by this as by an unkindness to +herself. Then only did she perceive that she still held in her hand her roll, +which she had forgotten to eat; and she plunged among the trees, biting it +impatiently with her fine young teeth. +</p> + +<p> +It was a delicious retreat, this old quincunx of plane trees, another remnant +of the past splendor of La Souleiade. Under these giant trees, with their +monstrous trunks, there was only a dim light, a greenish light, exquisitely +cool, even on the hottest days of summer. Formerly a French garden had been +laid out here, of which only the box borders remained; bushes which had +habituated themselves to the shade, no doubt, for they grew vigorously, as tall +as trees. And the charm of this shady nook was a fountain, a simple leaden pipe +fixed in the shaft of a column; whence flowed perpetually, even in the greatest +drought, a thread of water as thick as the little finger, which supplied a +large mossy basin, the greenish stones of which were cleaned only once in three +or four years. When all the wells of the neighborhood were dry, La Souleiade +still kept its spring, of which the great plane trees were assuredly the +secular children. Night and day for centuries past this slender thread of +water, unvarying and continuous, had sung the same pure song with crystal +sound. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, after wandering awhile among the bushes of box, which reached to her +shoulder, went back to the house for a piece of embroidery, and returning with +it, sat down at a stone table beside the fountain. Some garden chairs had been +placed around it, and they often took coffee here. And after this she affected +not to look up again from her work, as if she was completely absorbed in it. +Now and then, while seeming to look between the trunks of trees toward the +sultry distance, toward the yard, on which the sun blazed fiercely and which +glowed like a brazier, she stole a glance from under her long lashes up to the +doctor’s windows. Nothing appeared, not a shadow. And a feeling of +sadness, of resentment, arose within her at this neglect, this contempt in +which he seemed to hold her after their quarrel of the day before. She who had +got up with so great a desire to make peace at once! He was in no hurry, +however; he did not love her then, since he could be satisfied to live at +variance with her. And gradually a feeling of gloom took possession of her, her +rebellious thoughts returned, and she resolved anew to yield in nothing. +</p> + +<p> +At eleven o’clock, before setting her breakfast on the fire, Martine came +to her for a moment, the eternal stocking in her hand which she was always +knitting even while walking, when she was not occupied in the affairs of the +house. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that he is still shut up there like a wolf in his hole, at +his villainous cookery?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde shrugged her shoulders, without lifting her eyes from her embroidery. +</p> + +<p> +“And then, mademoiselle, if you only knew what they say! Mme. Félicité +was right yesterday when she said that it was really enough to make one blush. +They threw it in my face that he had killed old Boutin, that poor old man, you +know, who had the falling sickness and who died on the road. To believe those +women of the faubourg, every one into whom he injects his remedy gets the true +cholera from it, without counting that they accuse him of having taken the +devil into partnership.” +</p> + +<p> +A short silence followed. Then, as the young girl became more gloomy than +before, the servant resumed, moving her fingers still more rapidly: +</p> + +<p> +“As for me, I know nothing about the matter, but what he is making there +enrages me. And you, mademoiselle, do you approve of that cookery?” +</p> + +<p> +At last Clotilde raised her head quickly, yielding to the flood of passion that +swept over her. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen; I wish to know no more about it than you do, but I think that he +is on a very dangerous path. He no longer loves us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, mademoiselle; he loves us.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; not as we love him. If he loved us, he would be here with us, +instead of endangering his soul and his happiness and ours, up there, in his +desire to save everybody.” +</p> + +<p> +And the two women looked at each other for a moment with eyes burning with +affection, in their jealous anger. Then they resumed their work in silence, +enveloped in shadow. +</p> + +<p> +Above, in his room, Dr. Pascal was working with the serenity of perfect joy. He +had practised his profession for only about a dozen years, from his return to +Paris up to the time when he had retired to La Souleiade. Satisfied with the +hundred and odd thousand francs which he had earned and which he had invested +prudently, he devoted himself almost exclusively to his favorite studies, +retaining only a practise among friends, never refusing to go to the bedside of +a patient but never sending in his account. When he was paid he threw the money +into a drawer in his writing desk, regarding this as pocket-money for his +experiments and caprices, apart from his income which sufficed for his wants. +And he laughed at the bad reputation for eccentricity which his way of life had +gained him; he was happy only when in the midst of his researches on the +subjects for which he had a passion. It was matter for surprise to many that +this scientist, whose intellectual gifts had been spoiled by a too lively +imagination, should have remained at Plassans, this out-of-the-way town where +it seemed as if every requirement for his studies must be wanting. But he +explained very well the advantages which he had discovered here; in the first +place, an utterly peaceful retreat in which he might live the secluded life he +desired; then, an unsuspected field for continuous research in the light of the +facts of heredity, which was his passion, in this little town where he knew +every family and where he could follow the phenomena kept most secret, through +two or three generations. And then he was near the seashore; he went there +almost every summer, to study the swarming life that is born and propagates +itself in the depths of the vast waters. And there was finally, at the hospital +in Plassans, a dissecting room to which he was almost the only visitor; a +large, bright, quiet room, in which for more than twenty years every unclaimed +body had passed under his scalpel. A modest man besides, of a timidity that had +long since become shyness, it had been sufficient for him to maintain a +correspondence with his old professors and his new friends, concerning the very +remarkable papers which he from time to time sent to the Academy of Medicine. +He was altogether wanting in militant ambition. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, this heredity! what a subject of endless meditation it was for him! The +strangest, the most wonderful part of it all, was it not that the resemblance +between parents and children should not be perfect, mathematically exact? He +had in the beginning made a genealogical tree of his family, logically traced, +in which the influences from generation to generation were distributed +equally—the father’s part and the mother’s part. But the +living reality contradicted the theory almost at every point. Heredity, instead +of being resemblance, was an effort toward resemblance thwarted by +circumstances and environment. And he had arrived at what he called the +hypothesis of the abortion of cells. Life is only motion, and heredity being a +communicated motion, it happened that the cells in their multiplication from +one another jostled one another, pressed one another, made room for themselves, +putting forth, each one, the hereditary effort; so that if during this struggle +the weaker cells succumbed, considerable disturbances took place, with the +final result of organs totally different. Did not variation, the constant +invention of nature, which clashed with his theories, come from this? Did not +he himself differ from his parents only in consequence of similar accidents, or +even as the effect of larvated heredity, in which he had for a time believed? +For every genealogical tree has roots which extend as far back into humanity as +the first man; one cannot proceed from a single ancestor; one may always +resemble a still older, unknown ancestor. He doubted atavism, however; it +seemed to him, in spite of a remarkable example taken from his own family, that +resemblance at the end of two or three generations must disappear by reason of +accidents, of interferences, of a thousand possible combinations. There was +then a perpetual becoming, a constant transformation in this communicated +effort, this transmitted power, this shock which breathes into matter the +breath of life, and which is life itself. And a multiplicity of questions +presented themselves to him. Was there a physical and intellectual progress +through the ages? Did the brain grow with the growth of the sciences with which +it occupied itself? Might one hope, in time, for a larger sum of reason and of +happiness? Then there were special problems; one among others, the mystery of +which had for a long time irritated him, that of sex; would science never be +able to predict, or at least to explain the sex of the embryo being? He had +written a very curious paper crammed full of facts on this subject, but which +left it in the end in the complete ignorance in which the most exhaustive +researches had left it. Doubtless the question of heredity fascinated him as it +did only because it remained obscure, vast, and unfathomable, like all the +infant sciences where imagination holds sway. Finally, a long study which he +had made on the heredity of phthisis revived in him the wavering faith of the +healer, arousing in him the noble and wild hope of regenerating humanity. +</p> + +<p> +In short, Dr. Pascal had only one belief—the belief in life. Life was the +only divine manifestation. Life was God, the grand motor, the soul of the +universe. And life had no other instrument than heredity; heredity made the +world; so that if its laws could be known and directed, the world could be made +to one’s will. In him, to whom sickness, suffering, and death had been a +familiar sight, the militant pity of the physician awoke. Ah! to have no more +sickness, no more suffering, as little death as possible! His dream ended in +this thought—that universal happiness, the future community of perfection +and of felicity, could be hastened by intervention, by giving health to all. +When all should be healthy, strong, and intelligent, there would be only a +superior race, infinitely wise and happy. In India, was not a Brahmin developed +from a Soudra in seven generations, thus raising, experimentally, the lowest of +beings to the highest type of humanity? And as in his study of consumption he +had arrived at the conclusion that it was not hereditary, but that every child +of a consumptive carried within him a degenerate soil in which consumption +developed with extraordinary facility at the slightest contagion, he had come +to think only of invigorating this soil impoverished by heredity; to give it +the strength to resist the parasites, or rather the destructive leaven, which +he had suspected to exist in the organism, long before the microbe theory. To +give strength—the whole problem was there; and to give strength was also +to give will, to enlarge the brain by fortifying the other organs. +</p> + +<p> +About this time the doctor, reading an old medical book of the fifteenth +century, was greatly struck by a method of treating disease called signature. +To cure a diseased organ, it was only necessary to take from a sheep or an ox +the corresponding organ in sound condition, boil it, and give the soup to the +patient to drink. The theory was to cure like by like, and in diseases of the +liver, especially, the old work stated that the cures were numberless. This set +the doctor’s vivid imagination working. Why not make the trial? If he +wished to regenerate those enfeebled by hereditary influences, he had only to +give them the normal and healthy nerve substance. The method of the soup, +however, seemed to him childish, and he invented in its stead that of grinding +in a mortar the brain of a sheep, moistening it with distilled water, and then +decanting and filtering the liquor thus obtained. He tried this liquor then +mixed with Malaga wine, on his patients, without obtaining any appreciable +result. Suddenly, as he was beginning to grow discouraged, he had an +inspiration one day, when he was giving a lady suffering from hepatic colics an +injection of morphine with the little syringe of Pravaz. What if he were to try +hypodermic injections with his liquor? And as soon as he returned home he tried +the experiment on himself, making an injection in his side, which he repeated +night and morning. The first doses, of a gram only, were without effect. But +having doubled, and then tripled the dose, he was enchanted, one morning on +getting up, to find that his limbs had all the vigor of twenty. He went on +increasing the dose up to five grams, and then his respiration became deeper, +and above all he worked with a clearness of mind, an ease, which he had not +known for years. A great flood of happiness, of joy in living, inundated his +being. From this time, after he had had a syringe made at Paris capable of +containing five grams, he was surprised at the happy results which he obtained +with his patients, whom he had on their feet again in a few days, full of +energy and activity, as if endowed with new life. His method was still +tentative and rude, and he divined in it all sorts of dangers, and especially, +that of inducing embolism, if the liquor was not perfectly pure. Then he +suspected that the strength of his patients came in part from the fever his +treatment produced in them. But he was only a pioneer; the method would improve +later. Was it not already a miracle to make the ataxic walk, to bring +consumptives back to life, as it were; even to give hours of lucidity to the +insane? And at the thought of this discovery of the alchemy of the twentieth +century, an immense hope opened up before him; he believed he had discovered +the universal panacea, the elixir of life, which was to combat human debility, +the one real cause of every ill; a veritable scientific Fountain of Youth, +which, in giving vigor, health, and will would create an altogether new and +superior humanity. +</p> + +<p> +This particular morning in his chamber, a room with a northern aspect and +somewhat dark owing to the vicinity of the plane trees, furnished simply with +an iron bedstead, a mahogany writing desk, and a large writing table, on which +were a mortar and a microscope, he was completing with infinite care the +preparation of a vial of his liquor. Since the day before, after pounding the +nerve substance of a sheep in distilled water, he had been decanting and +filtering it. And he had at last obtained a small bottle of a turbid, opaline +liquid, irised by bluish gleams, which he regarded for a long time in the light +as if he held in his hand the regenerating blood and symbol of the world. +</p> + +<p> +But a few light knocks at the door and an urgent voice drew him from his dream. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what is the matter, monsieur? It is a quarter-past twelve; +don’t you intend to come to breakfast?” +</p> + +<p> +For downstairs breakfast had been waiting for some time past in the large, cool +dining-room. The blinds were closed, with the exception of one which had just +been half opened. It was a cheerful room, with pearl gray panels relieved by +blue mouldings. The table, the sideboard, and the chairs must have formed part +of the set of Empire furniture in the bedrooms; and the old mahogany, of a deep +red, stood out in strong relief against the light background. A hanging lamp of +polished brass, always shining, gleamed like a sun; while on the four walls +bloomed four large bouquets in pastel, of gillyflowers, carnations, hyacinths, +and roses. +</p> + +<p> +Joyous, radiant, Dr. Pascal entered. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, the deuce! I had forgotten! I wanted to finish. Look at this, quite +fresh, and perfectly pure this time; something to work miracles with!” +</p> + +<p> +And he showed the vial, which he had brought down in his enthusiasm. But his +eye fell on Clotilde standing erect and silent, with a serious air. The secret +vexation caused by waiting had brought back all her hostility, and she, who had +burned to throw herself on his neck in the morning, remained motionless as if +chilled and repelled by him. +</p> + +<p> +“Good!” he resumed, without losing anything of his gaiety, +“we are still at odds, it seems. That is something very ugly. So you +don’t admire my sorcerer’s liquor, which resuscitates the +dead?” +</p> + +<p> +He seated himself at the table, and the young girl, sitting down opposite him, +was obliged at last to answer: +</p> + +<p> +“You know well, master, that I admire everything belonging to you. Only, +my most ardent desire is that others also should admire you. And there is the +death of poor old Boutin—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he cried, without letting her finish, “an epileptic, +who succumbed to a congestive attack! See! since you are in a bad humor, let us +talk no more about that—you would grieve me, and that would spoil my +day.” +</p> + +<p> +There were soft boiled eggs, cutlets, and cream. Silence reigned for a few +moments, during which in spite of her ill-humor she ate heartily, with a good +appetite which she had not the coquetry to conceal. Then he resumed, laughing: +</p> + +<p> +“What reassures me is to see that your stomach is in good order. Martine, +hand mademoiselle the bread.” +</p> + +<p> +The servant waited on them as she was accustomed to do, watching them eat, with +her quiet air of familiarity. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes she even chatted with them. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” she said, when she had cut the bread, “the +butcher has brought his bill. Is he to be paid?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked up at her in surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you ask me that?” he said. “Do you not always pay him +without consulting me?” +</p> + +<p> +It was, in effect, Martine who kept the purse. The amount deposited with M. +Grandguillot, notary at Plassans, produced a round sum of six thousand francs +income. Every three months the fifteen hundred francs were remitted to the +servant, and she disposed of them to the best interests of the house; bought +and paid for everything with the strictest economy, for she was of so saving a +disposition that they bantered her about it continually. Clotilde, who spent +very little, had never thought of asking a separate purse for herself. As for +the doctor, he took what he required for his experiments and his pocket money +from the three or four thousand francs which he still earned every year, and +which he kept lying in the drawer of his writing desk; so that there was quite +a little treasure there in gold and bank bills, of which he never knew the +exact amount. +</p> + +<p> +“Undoubtedly, monsieur, I pay, when it is I who have bought the things; +but this time the bill is so large on account of the brains which the butcher +has furnished you—” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor interrupted her brusquely: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, come! so you, too, are going to set yourself against me, are you? +No, no; both of you—that would be too much! Yesterday you pained me +greatly, and I was angry. But this must cease. I will not have the house turned +into a hell. Two women against me, and they the only ones who love me at all? +Do you know, I would sooner quit the house at once!” +</p> + +<p> +He did not speak angrily, he even smiled; but the disquietude of his heart was +perceptible in the trembling of his voice. And he added with his indulgent, +cheerful air: +</p> + +<p> +“If you are afraid for the end of the month, my girl, tell the butcher to +send my bill apart. And don’t fear; you are not going to be asked for any +of your money to settle it with; your sous may lie sleeping.” +</p> + +<p> +This was an allusion to Martine’s little personal fortune. In thirty +years, with four hundred francs wages she had earned twelve thousand francs, +from which she had taken only what was strictly necessary for her wants; and +increased, almost trebled, by the interest, her savings amounted now to thirty +thousand francs, which through a caprice, a desire to have her money apart, she +had not chosen to place with M. Grandguillot. They were elsewhere, safely +invested in the funds. +</p> + +<p> +“Sous that lie sleeping are honest sous,” she said gravely. +“But monsieur is right; I will tell the butcher to send a bill apart, as +all the brains are for monsieur’s cookery and not for mine.” +</p> + +<p> +This explanation brought a smile to the face of Clotilde, who was always amused +by the jests about Martine’s avarice; and the breakfast ended more +cheerfully. The doctor desired to take the coffee under the plane trees, saying +that he felt the need of air after being shut up all the morning. The coffee +was served then on the stone table beside the fountain; and how pleasant it was +there in the shade, listening to the cool murmur of the water, while around, +the pine wood, the court, the whole place, were glowing in the early afternoon +sun. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor had complacently brought with him the vial of nerve substance, which +he looked at as it stood on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“So, then, mademoiselle,” he resumed, with an air of brusque +pleasantry, “you do not believe in my elixir of resurrection, and you +believe in miracles!” +</p> + +<p> +“Master,” responded Clotilde, “I believe that we do not know +everything.” +</p> + +<p> +He made a gesture of impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“But we must know everything. Understand then, obstinate little girl, +that not a single deviation from the invariable laws which govern the universe +has ever been scientifically proved. Up to this day there has been no proof of +the existence of any intelligence other than the human. I defy you to find any +real will, any reasoning force, outside of life. And everything is there; there +is in the world no other will than this force which impels everything to life, +to a life ever broader and higher.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose with a wave of the hand, animated by so firm a faith that she regarded +him in surprise, noticing how youthful he looked in spite of his white hair. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you wish me to repeat my ‘Credo’ for you, since you +accuse me of not wanting yours? I believe that the future of humanity is in the +progress of reason through science. I believe that the pursuit of truth, +through science, is the divine ideal which man should propose to himself. I +believe that all is illusion and vanity outside the treasure of truths slowly +accumulated, and which will never again be lost. I believe that the sum of +these truths, always increasing, will at last confer on man incalculable power +and peace, if not happiness. Yes, I believe in the final triumph of +life.” +</p> + +<p> +And with a broader sweep of the hand that took in the vast horizon, as if +calling on these burning plains in which fermented the saps of all existences +to bear him witness, he added: +</p> + +<p> +“But the continual miracle, my child, is life. Only open your eyes, and +look.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“It is in vain that I open my eyes; I cannot see everything. It is you, +master, who are blind, since you do not wish to admit that there is beyond an +unknown realm which you will never enter. Oh, I know you are too intelligent to +be ignorant of that! Only you do not wish to take it into account; you put the +unknown aside, because it would embarrass you in your researches. It is in vain +that you tell me to put aside the mysterious; to start from the known for the +conquest of the unknown. I cannot; the mysterious at once calls me back and +disturbs me.” +</p> + +<p> +He listened to her, smiling, glad to see her become animated, while he smoothed +her fair curls with his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, I know you are like the rest; you do not wish to live without +illusions and without lies. Well, there, there; we understand each other still, +even so. Keep well; that is the half of wisdom and of happiness.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, changing the conversation: +</p> + +<p> +“Come, you will accompany me, notwithstanding, and help me in my round of +miracles. This is Thursday, my visiting day. When the heat shall have abated a +little, we will go out together.” +</p> + +<p> +She refused at first, in order not to seem to yield; but she at last consented, +seeing the pain she gave him. She was accustomed to accompany him on his round +of visits. They remained for some time longer under the plane trees, until the +doctor went upstairs to dress. When he came down again, correctly attired in a +close-fitting coat and wearing a broad-brimmed silk hat, he spoke of harnessing +Bonhomme, the horse that for a quarter of a century had taken him on his visits +through the streets and the environs of Plassans. But the poor old beast was +growing blind, and through gratitude for his past services and affection for +himself they now rarely disturbed him. On this afternoon he was very drowsy, +his gaze wandered, his legs were stiff with rheumatism. So that the doctor and +the young girl, when they went to the stable to see him, gave him a hearty kiss +on either side of his nose, telling him to rest on a bundle of fresh hay which +the servant had brought. And they decided to walk. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, keeping on her spotted white muslin, merely tied on over her curls a +large straw hat adorned with a bunch of lilacs; and she looked charming, with +her large eyes and her complexion of milk-and-roses under the shadow of its +broad brim. When she went out thus on Pascal’s arm, she tall, slender, +and youthful, he radiant, his face illuminated, so to say, by the whiteness of +his beard, with a vigor that made him still lift her across the rivulets, +people smiled as they passed, and turned around to look at them again, they +seemed so innocent and so happy. On this day, as they left the road to Les +Fenouilleres to enter Plassans, a group of gossips stopped short in their talk. +It reminded one of one of those ancient kings one sees in pictures; one of +those powerful and gentle kings who never grew old, resting his hand on the +shoulder of a girl beautiful as the day, whose docile and dazzling youth lends +him its support. +</p> + +<p> +They were turning into the Cours Sauvair to gain the Rue de la Banne, when a +tall, dark young man of about thirty stopped them. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, master, you have forgotten me. I am still waiting for your notes on +consumption.” +</p> + +<p> +It was Dr. Ramond, a young physician, who had settled two years before at +Plassans, where he was building up a fine practise. With a superb head, in the +brilliant prime of a gracious manhood, he was adored by the women, but he had +fortunately a great deal of good sense and a great deal of prudence. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Ramond, good day! Not at all, my dear friend; I have not forgotten +you. It is this little girl, to whom I gave the notes yesterday to copy, and +who has not touched them yet.” +</p> + +<p> +The two young people shook hands with an air of cordial intimacy. +</p> + +<p> +“Good day, Mlle. Clotilde.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good day, M. Ramond.” +</p> + +<p> +During a gastric fever, happily mild, which the young girl had had the +preceding year, Dr. Pascal had lost his head to the extent of distrusting his +own skill, and he had asked his young colleague to assist him—to reassure +him. Thus it was that an intimacy, a sort of comradeship, had sprung up among +the three. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall have your notes to-morrow, I promise you,” she said, +smiling. +</p> + +<p> +Ramond walked on with them, however, until they reached the end of the Rue de +la Banne, at the entrance of the old quarter whither they were going. And there +was in the manner in which he leaned, smiling, toward Clotilde, the revelation +of a secret love that had grown slowly, awaiting patiently the hour fixed for +the most reasonable of <i>dénouements</i>. Besides, he listened with deference +to Dr. Pascal, whose works he admired greatly. +</p> + +<p> +“And it just happens, my dear friend, that I am going to +Guiraude’s, that woman, you know, whose husband, a tanner, died of +consumption five years ago. She has two children living—Sophie, a girl +now going on sixteen, whom I fortunately succeeded in having sent four years +before her father’s death to a neighboring village, to one of her aunts; +and a son, Valentin, who has just completed his twenty-first year, and whom his +mother insisted on keeping with her through a blind affection, notwithstanding +that I warned her of the dreadful results that might ensue. Well, see if I am +right in asserting that consumption is not hereditary, but only that +consumptive parents transmit to their children a degenerate soil, in which the +disease develops at the slightest contagion. Now, Valentin, who lived in daily +contact with his father, is consumptive, while Sophie, who grew up in the open +air, has superb health.” +</p> + +<p> +He added with a triumphant smile: +</p> + +<p> +“But that will not prevent me, perhaps, from saving Valentin, for he is +visibly improved, and is growing fat since I have used my injections with him. +Ah, Ramond, you will come to them yet; you will come to my injections!” +</p> + +<p> +The young physician shook hands with both of them, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t say no. You know that I am always with you.” +</p> + +<p> +When they were alone they quickened their steps and were soon in the Rue +Canquoin, one of the narrowest and darkest streets of the old quarter. Hot as +was the sun, there reigned here the semi-obscurity and the coolness of a cave. +Here it was, on a ground floor, that Guiraude lived with her son Valentin. She +opened the door herself. She was a thin, wasted-looking woman, who was herself +affected with a slow decomposition of the blood. From morning till night she +crushed almonds with the end of an ox-bone on a large paving stone, which she +held between her knees. This work was their only means of living, the son +having been obliged to give up all labor. She smiled, however, to-day on seeing +the doctor, for Valentin had just eaten a cutlet with a good appetite, a thing +which he had not done for months. Valentin, a sickly-looking young man, with +scanty hair and beard and prominent cheek bones, on each of which was a bright +red spot, while the rest of his face was of a waxen hue, rose quickly to show +how much more sprightly he felt! And Clotilde was touched by the reception +given to Pascal as a saviour, the awaited Messiah. These poor people pressed +his hands—they would like to have kissed his feet; looking at him with +eyes shining with gratitude. True, the disease was not yet cured: perhaps this +was only the effect of the stimulus, perhaps what he felt was only the +excitement of fever. But was it not something to gain time? He gave him another +injection while Clotilde, standing before the window, turned her back to them; +and when they were leaving she saw him lay twenty francs upon the table. This +often happened to him, to pay his patients instead of being paid by them. +</p> + +<p> +He made three other visits in the old quarter, and then went to see a lady in +the new town. When they found themselves in the street again, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that, if you were a courageous girl, we should walk to +Séguiranne, to see Sophie at her aunt’s. That would give me +pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +The distance was scarcely three kilometers; that would be only a pleasant walk +in this delightful weather. And she agreed gaily, not sulky now, but pressing +close to him, happy to hang on his arm. It was five o’clock. The setting +sun spread over the fields a great sheet of gold. But as soon as they left +Plassans they were obliged to cross the corner of the vast, arid plain, which +extended to the right of the Viorne. The new canal, whose irrigating waters +were soon to transform the face of the country parched with thirst, did not yet +water this quarter, and red fields and yellow fields stretched away into the +distance under the melancholy and blighting glare of the sun, planted only with +puny almond trees and dwarf olives, constantly cut down and pruned, whose +branches twisted and writhed in attitudes of suffering and revolt. In the +distance, on the bare hillsides, were to be seen only like pale patches the +country houses, flanked by the regulation cypress. The vast, barren expanse, +however, with broad belts of desolate fields of hard and distinct coloring, had +classic lines of a severe grandeur. And on the road the dust lay twenty +centimeters thick, a dust like snow, that the slightest breath of wind raised +in broad, flying clouds, and that covered with white powder the fig trees and +the brambles on either side. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, who amused herself like a child, listening to this dust crackling +under her little feet, wished to hold her parasol over Pascal. +</p> + +<p> +“You have the sun in your eyes. Lean a little this way.” +</p> + +<p> +But at last he took possession of the parasol, to hold it himself. +</p> + +<p> +“It is you who do not hold it right; and then it tires you. Besides, we +are almost there now.” +</p> + +<p> +In the parched plain they could already perceive an island of verdure, an +enormous clump of trees. This was La Séguiranne, the farm on which Sophie had +grown up in the house of her Aunt Dieudonné, the wife of the cross old man. +Wherever there was a spring, wherever there was a rivulet, this ardent soil +broke out in rich vegetation; and then there were walks bordered by trees, +whose luxuriant foliage afforded a delightful coolness and shade. Plane trees, +chestnut trees, and young elms grew vigorously. They entered an avenue of +magnificent green oaks. +</p> + +<p> +As they approached the farm, a girl who was making hay in the meadow dropped +her fork and ran toward them. It was Sophie, who had recognized the doctor and +the young lady, as she called Clotilde. She adored them, but she stood looking +at them in confusion, unable to express the glad greeting with which her heart +overflowed. She resembled her brother Valentin; she had his small stature, his +prominent cheek bones, his pale hair; but in the country, far from the +contagion of the paternal environment, she had, it seemed, gained flesh; +acquired with her robust limbs a firm step; her cheeks had filled out, her hair +had grown luxuriant. And she had fine eyes, which shone with health and +gratitude. Her Aunt Dieudonné, who was making hay with her, had come toward +them also, crying from afar jestingly, with something of Provençal rudeness: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, M. Pascal, we have no need of you here! There is no one sick!” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor, who had simply come in search of this fine spectacle of health, +answered in the same tone: +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so, indeed. But that does not prevent this little girl here from +owing you and me a fine taper!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that is the pure truth! And she knows it, M. Pascal. There is not +a day that she does not say that but for you she would be at this time like her +brother Valentin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah! We will save him, too. He is getting better, Valentin is. I have +just been to see him.” +</p> + +<p> +Sophie seized the doctor’s hands; large tears stood in her eyes, and she +could only stammer: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, M. Pascal!” +</p> + +<p> +How they loved him! And Clotilde felt her affection for him increase, seeing +the affection of all these people for him. They remained chatting there for a +few moments longer, in the salubrious shade of the green oaks. Then they took +the road back to Plassans, having still another visit to make. +</p> + +<p> +This was to a tavern, that stood at the crossing of two roads and was white +with the flying dust. A steam mill had recently been established opposite, +utilizing the old buildings of Le Paradou, an estate dating from the last +century, and Lafouasse, the tavern keeper, still carried on his little +business, thanks to the workmen at the mill and to the peasants who brought +their corn to it. He had still for customers on Sundays the few inhabitants of +Les Artauds, a neighboring hamlet. But misfortune had struck him; for the last +three years he had been dragging himself about groaning with rheumatism, in +which the doctor had finally recognized the beginning of ataxia. But he had +obstinately refused to take a servant, persisting in waiting on his customers +himself, holding on by the furniture. So that once more firm on his feet, after +a dozen punctures, he already proclaimed his cure everywhere. +</p> + +<p> +He chanced to be just then at his door, and looked strong and vigorous, with +his tall figure, fiery face, and fiery red hair. +</p> + +<p> +“I was waiting for you, M. Pascal. Do you know that I have been able to +bottle two casks of wine without being tired!” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde remained outside, sitting on a stone bench; while Pascal entered the +room to give Lafouasse the injection. She could hear them speaking, and the +latter, who in spite of his stoutness was very cowardly in regard to pain, +complained that the puncture hurt, adding, however, that after all a little +suffering was a small price to pay for good health. Then he declared he would +be offended if the doctor did not take a glass of something. The young lady +would not affront him by refusing to take some syrup. He carried a table +outside, and there was nothing for it but they must touch glasses with him. +</p> + +<p> +“To your health, M. Pascal, and to the health of all the poor devils to +whom you give back a relish for their victuals!” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde thought with a smile of the gossip of which Martine had spoken to her, +of Father Boutin, whom they accused the doctor of having killed. He did not +kill all his patients, then; his remedy worked real miracles, since he brought +back to life the consumptive and the ataxic. And her faith in her master +returned with the warm affection for him which welled up in her heart. When +they left Lafouasse, she was once more completely his; he could do what he +willed with her. +</p> + +<p> +But a few moments before, sitting on the stone bench looking at the steam mill, +a confused story had recurred to her mind; was it not here in these +smoke-blackened buildings, to-day white with flour, that a drama of love had +once been enacted? And the story came back to her; details given by Martine; +allusions made by the doctor himself; the whole tragic love adventure of her +cousin the Abbé Serge Mouret, then rector of Les Artauds, with an adorable +young girl of a wild and passionate nature who lived at Le Paradou. +</p> + +<p> +Returning by the same road Clotilde stopped, and pointing to the vast, +melancholy expanse of stubble fields, cultivated plains, and fallow land, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Master, was there not once there a large garden? Did you not tell me +some story about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes; Le Paradou, an immense garden—woods, meadows, orchards, +parterres, fountains, and brooks that flowed into the Viorne. A garden +abandoned for an age; the garden of the Sleeping Beauty, returned to +Nature’s rule. And as you see they have cut down the woods, and cleared +and leveled the ground, to divide it into lots, and sell it by auction. The +springs themselves have dried up. There is nothing there now but that +fever-breeding marsh. Ah, when I pass by here, it makes my heart ache!” +</p> + +<p> +She ventured to question him further: +</p> + +<p> +“But was it not in Le Paradou that my cousin Serge and your great friend +Albine fell in love with each other?” +</p> + +<p> +He had forgotten her presence. He went on talking, his gaze fixed on space, +lost in recollections of the past. +</p> + +<p> +“Albine, my God! I can see her now, in the sunny garden, like a great, +fragrant bouquet, her head thrown back, her bosom swelling with joy, happy in +her flowers, with wild flowers braided among her blond tresses, fastened at her +throat, on her corsage, around her slender, bare brown arms. And I can see her +again, after she had asphyxiated herself; dead in the midst of her flowers; +very white, sleeping with folded hands, and a smile on her lips, on her couch +of hyacinths and tuberoses. Dead for love; and how passionately Albine and +Serge loved each other, in the great garden their tempter, in the bosom of +Nature their accomplice! And what a flood of life swept away all false bonds, +and what a triumph of life!” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, she too troubled by this passionate flow of murmured words, gazed at +him intently. She had never ventured to speak to him of another story that she +had heard—the story of the one love of his life—a love which he had +cherished in secret for a lady now dead. It was said that he had attended her +for a long time without ever so much as venturing to kiss the tips of her +fingers. Up to the present, up to near sixty, study and his natural timidity +had made him shun women. But, notwithstanding, one felt that he was reserved +for some great passion, with his feelings still fresh and ardent, in spite of +his white hair. +</p> + +<p> +“And the girl that died, the girl they mourned,” she resumed, her +voice trembling, her cheeks scarlet, without knowing why. “Serge did not +love her, then, since he let her die?” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal started as though awakening from a dream, seeing her beside him in her +youthful beauty, with her large, clear eyes shining under the shadow of her +broad-brimmed hat. Something had happened; the same breath of life had passed +through them both; they did not take each other’s arms again. They walked +side by side. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my dear, the world would be too beautiful, if men did not spoil it +all! Albine is dead, and Serge is now rector of St. Eutrope, where he lives +with his sister Désirée, a worthy creature who has the good fortune to be half +an idiot. He is a holy man; I have never said the contrary. One may be an +assassin and serve God.” +</p> + +<p> +And he went on speaking of the hard things of life, of the blackness and +execrableness of humanity, without losing his gentle smile. He loved life; and +the continuous work of life was a continual joy to him in spite of all the +evil, all the misery, that it might contain. It mattered not how dreadful life +might appear, it must be great and good, since it was lived with so tenacious a +will, for the purpose no doubt of this will itself, and of the great work which +it unconsciously accomplished. True, he was a scientist, a clear-sighted man; +he did not believe in any idyllic humanity living in a world of perpetual +peace; he saw, on the contrary, its woes and its vices; he had laid them bare; +he had examined them; he had catalogued them for thirty years past, but his +passion for life, his admiration for the forces of life, sufficed to produce in +him a perpetual gaiety, whence seemed to flow naturally his love for others, a +fraternal compassion, a sympathy, which were felt under the roughness of the +anatomist and under the affected impersonality of his studies. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” he ended, taking a last glance at the vast, melancholy +plains. “Le Paradou is no more. They have sacked it, defiled it, +destroyed it; but what does that matter! Vines will be planted, corn will +spring up, a whole growth of new crops; and people will still fall in love in +vintages and harvests yet to come. Life is eternal; it is a perpetual renewal +of birth and growth.” +</p> + +<p> +He took her arm again and they returned to the town thus, arm in arm like good +friends, while the glow of the sunset was slowly fading away in a tranquil sea +of violets and roses. And seeing them both pass again, the ancient king, +powerful and gentle, leaning against the shoulder of a charming and docile +girl, supported by her youth, the women of the faubourg, sitting at their +doors, looked after them with a smile of tender emotion. +</p> + +<p> +At La Souleiade Martine was watching for them. She waved her hand to them from +afar. What! Were they not going to dine to-day? Then, when they were near, she +said: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! you will have to wait a little while. I did not venture to put on my +leg of mutton yet.” +</p> + +<p> +They remained outside to enjoy the charm of the closing day. The pine grove, +wrapped in shadow, exhaled a balsamic resinous odor, and from the yard, still +heated, in which a last red gleam was dying away, a chillness arose. It was +like an assuagement, a sigh of relief, a resting of surrounding Nature, of the +puny almond trees, the twisted olives, under the paling sky, cloudless and +serene; while at the back of the house the clump of plane trees was a mass of +black and impenetrable shadows, where the fountain was heard singing its +eternal crystal song. +</p> + +<p> +“Look!” said the doctor, “M. Bellombre has already dined, and +he is taking the air.” +</p> + +<p> +He pointed to a bench, on which a tall, thin old man of seventy was sitting, +with a long face, furrowed with wrinkles, and large, staring eyes, and very +correctly attired in a close-fitting coat and cravat. +</p> + +<p> +“He is a wise man,” murmured Clotilde. “He is happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“He!” cried Pascal. “I should hope not!” +</p> + +<p> +He hated no one, and M. Bellombre, the old college professor, now retired, and +living in his little house without any other company than that of a gardener +who was deaf and dumb and older than himself, was the only person who had the +power to exasperate him. +</p> + +<p> +“A fellow who has been afraid of life; think of that! afraid of life! +Yes, a hard and avaricious egotist! If he banished woman from his existence, it +was only through fear of having to pay for her shoes. And he has known only the +children of others, who have made him suffer—hence his hatred of the +child—that flesh made to be flogged. The fear of life, the fear of +burdens and of duties, of annoyances and of catastrophes! The fear of life, +which makes us through dread of its sufferings refuse its joys. Ah! I tell you, +this cowardliness enrages me; I cannot forgive it. We must live—live a +complete life—live all our life. Better even suffering, suffering only, +than such renunciation—the death of all there is in us that is living and +human!” +</p> + +<p> +M. Bellombre had risen, and was walking along one of the walks with slow, +tranquil steps. Then, Clotilde, who had been watching him in silence, at last +said: +</p> + +<p> +“There is, however, the joy of renunciation. To renounce, not to live; to +keep one’s self for the spiritual, has not this always been the great +happiness of the saints?” +</p> + +<p> +“If they had not lived,” cried Pascal, “they could not now be +saints. Let suffering come, and I will bless it, for it is perhaps the only +great happiness!” +</p> + +<p> +But he felt that she rebelled against this; that he was going to lose her +again. At the bottom of our anxiety about the beyond is the secret fear and +hatred of life. So that he hastily assumed again his pleasant smile, so +affectionate and conciliating. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! Enough for to-day; let us dispute no more; let us love each +other dearly. And see! Martine is calling us, let us go in to dinner.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"></a> +III.</h2> + +<p> +For a month this unpleasant state of affairs continued, every day growing +worse, and Clotilde suffered especially at seeing that Pascal now locked up +everything. He had no longer the same tranquil confidence in her as before, and +this wounded her so deeply that, if she had at any time found the press open, +she would have thrown the papers into the fire as her grandmother Félicité had +urged her to do. And the disagreements began again, so that they often remained +without speaking to each other for two days together. +</p> + +<p> +One morning, after one of these misunderstandings which had lasted since the +day before, Martine said as she was serving the breakfast: +</p> + +<p> +“Just now as I was crossing the Place de la Sous-Préfecture, I saw a +stranger whom I thought I recognized going into Mme. Félicité’s house. +Yes, mademoiselle, I should not be surprised if it were your brother.” +</p> + +<p> +On the impulse of the moment, Pascal and Clotilde spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Your brother! Did your grandmother expect him, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t think so, though she has been expecting him at any +time for the past six months, I know that she wrote to him again a week +ago.” +</p> + +<p> +They questioned Martine. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, monsieur, I cannot say; since I last saw M. Maxime four years +ago, when he stayed two hours with us on his way to Italy, he may perhaps have +changed greatly—I thought, however, that I recognized his back.” +</p> + +<p> +The conversation continued, Clotilde seeming to be glad of this event, which +broke at last the oppressive silence between them, and Pascal ended: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if it is he, he will come to see us.” +</p> + +<p> +It was indeed Maxime. He had yielded, after months of refusal, to the urgent +solicitations of old Mme. Rougon, who had still in this quarter an open family +wound to heal. The trouble was an old one, and it grew worse every day. +</p> + +<p> +Fifteen years before, when he was seventeen, Maxime had had a child by a +servant whom he had seduced. His father Saccard, and his stepmother +Renée—the latter vexed more especially at his unworthy choice—had +acted in the matter with indulgence. The servant, Justine Mégot, belonged to +one of the neighboring villages, and was a fair-haired girl, also seventeen, +gentle and docile; and they had sent her back to Plassans, with an allowance of +twelve hundred francs a year, to bring up little Charles. Three years later she +had married there a harness-maker of the faubourg, Frederic Thomas by name, a +good workman and a sensible fellow, who was tempted by the allowance. For the +rest her conduct was now most exemplary, she had grown fat, and she appeared to +be cured of a cough that had threatened a hereditary malady due to the +alcoholic propensities of a long line of progenitors. And two other children +born of her marriage, a boy who was now ten and a girl who was seven, both +plump and rosy, enjoyed perfect health; so that she would have been the most +respected and the happiest of women, if it had not been for the trouble which +Charles caused in the household. Thomas, notwithstanding the allowance, +execrated this son of another man and gave him no peace, which made the mother +suffer in secret, being an uncomplaining and submissive wife. So that, although +she adored him, she would willingly have given him up to his father’s +family. +</p> + +<p> +Charles, at fifteen, seemed scarcely twelve, and he had the infantine +intelligence of a child of five, resembling in an extraordinary degree his +great-great-grandmother, Aunt Dide, the madwoman at the Tulettes. He had the +slender and delicate grace of one of those bloodless little kings with whom a +race ends, crowned with their long, fair locks, light as spun silk. His large, +clear eyes were expressionless, and on his disquieting beauty lay the shadow of +death. And he had neither brain nor heart—he was nothing but a vicious +little dog, who rubbed himself against people to be fondled. His +great-grandmother Félicité, won by this beauty, in which she affected to +recognize her blood, had at first put him in a boarding school, taking charge +of him, but he had been expelled from it at the end of six months for +misconduct. Three times she had changed his boarding school, and each time he +had been expelled in disgrace. Then, as he neither would nor could learn +anything, and as his health was declining rapidly, they kept him at home, +sending him from one to another of the family. Dr. Pascal, moved to pity, had +tried to cure him, and had abandoned the hopeless task only after he had kept +him with him for nearly a year, fearing the companionship for Clotilde. And +now, when Charles was not at his mother’s, where he scarcely ever lived +at present, he was to be found at the house of Félicité, or that of some other +relative, prettily dressed, laden with toys, living like the effeminate little +dauphin of an ancient and fallen race. +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon, however, suffered because of this bastard, and she had planned +to get him away from the gossiping tongues of Plassans, by persuading Maxime to +take him and keep him with him in Paris. It would still be an ugly story of the +fallen family. But Maxime had for a long time turned a deaf ear to her +solicitations, in the fear which continually haunted him of spoiling his life. +After the war, enriched by the death of his wife, he had come back to live +prudently on his fortune in his mansion on the avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, +tormented by the hereditary malady of which he was to die young, having gained +from his precocious debauchery a salutary fear of pleasure, resolved above all +to shun emotions and responsibilities, so that he might last as long as +possible. Acute pains in the limbs, rheumatic he thought them, had been +alarming him for some time past; he saw himself in fancy already an invalid +tied down to an easy-chair; and his father’s sudden return to France, the +fresh activity which Saccard was putting forth, completed his disquietude. He +knew well this devourer of millions; he trembled at finding him again bustling +about him with his good-humored, malicious laugh. He felt that he was being +watched, and he had the conviction that he would be cut up and devoured if he +should be for a single day at his mercy, rendered helpless by the pains which +were invading his limbs. And so great a fear of solitude had taken possession +of him that he had now yielded to the idea of seeing his son again. If he found +the boy gentle, intelligent, and healthy, why should he not take him to live +with him? He would thus have a companion, an heir, who would protect him +against the machinations of his father. Gradually he came to see himself, in +his selfish forethought, loved, petted, and protected; yet for all that he +might not have risked such a journey, if his physician had not just at that +time sent him to the waters of St. Gervais. Thus, having to go only a few +leagues out of his way, he had dropped in unexpectedly that morning on old Mme. +Rougon, firmly resolved to take the train again in the evening, after having +questioned her and seen the boy. +</p> + +<p> +At two o’clock Pascal and Clotilde were still beside the fountain under +the plane trees where they had taken their coffee, when Félicité arrived with +Maxime. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, here’s a surprise! I have brought you your +brother.” +</p> + +<p> +Startled, the young girl had risen, seeing this thin and sallow stranger, whom +she scarcely recognized. Since their parting in 1854 she had seen him only +twice, once at Paris and again at Plassans. Yet his image, refined, elegant, +and vivacious, had remained engraven on her mind; his face had grown hollow, +his hair was streaked with silver threads. But notwithstanding, she found in +him still, with his delicately handsome head, a languid grace, like that of a +girl, even in his premature decrepitude. +</p> + +<p> +“How well you look!” he said simply, as he embraced his sister. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” she responded, “to be well one must live in the +sunshine. Ah, how happy it makes me to see you again!” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, with the eye of the physician, had examined his nephew critically. He +embraced him in his turn. +</p> + +<p> +“Goodday, my boy. And she is right, mind you; one can be well only out in +the sunshine—like the trees.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité had gone hastily to the house. She returned, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Charles is not here, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Clotilde. “We went to see him yesterday. Uncle +Macquart has taken him, and he is to remain for a few days at the +Tulettes.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité was in despair. She had come only in the certainty of finding the boy +at Pascal’s. What was to be done now? The doctor, with his tranquil air, +proposed to write to Uncle Macquart, who would bring him back in the morning. +But when he learned that Maxime wished positively to go away again by the nine +o’clock train, without remaining over night, another idea occurred to +him. He would send to the livery stable for a landau, and all four would go to +see Charles at Uncle Macquart’s. It would even be a delightful drive. It +was not quite three leagues from Plassans to the Tulettes—an hour to go, +and an hour to return, and they would still have almost two hours to remain +there, if they wished to be back by seven. Martine would get dinner, and Maxime +would have time enough to dine and catch his train. +</p> + +<p> +But Félicité objected, visibly disquieted by this visit to Macquart. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, indeed! If you think I am going down there in this frightful +weather, you are mistaken. It is much simpler to send some one to bring Charles +to us.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal shook his head. Charles was not always to be brought back when one +wished. He was a boy without reason, who sometimes, if the whim seized him, +would gallop off like an untamed animal. And old Mme. Rougon, overruled and +furious at having been unable to make any preparation, was at last obliged to +yield, in the necessity in which she found herself of leaving the matter to +chance. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, be it as you wish, then! Good Heavens, how unfortunately things +have turned out!” +</p> + +<p> +Martine hurried away to order the landau, and before three o’clock had +struck the horses were on the Nice road, descending the declivity which slopes +down to the bridge over the Viorne. Then they turned to the left, and followed +the wooded banks of the river for about two miles. After this the road entered +the gorges of the Seille, a narrow pass between two giant walls of rock +scorched by the ardent rays of the summer sun. Pine trees pushed their way +through the clefts; clumps of trees, scarcely thicker at the roots than tufts +of grass, fringed the crests and hung over the abyss. It was a chaos; a blasted +landscape, a mouth of hell, with its wild turns, its droppings of blood-colored +earth sliding down from every cut, its desolate solitude invaded only by the +eagles’ flight. +</p> + +<p> +Félicité did not open her lips; her brain was at work, and she seemed +completely absorbed in her thoughts. The atmosphere was oppressive, the sun +sent his burning rays from behind a veil of great livid clouds. Pascal was +almost the only one who talked, in his passionate love for this scorched +land—a love which he endeavored to make his nephew share. But it was in +vain that he uttered enthusiastic exclamations, in vain that he called his +attention to the persistence of the olives, the fig trees, and the thorn bushes +in pushing through the rock; the life of the rock itself, that colossal and +puissant frame of the earth, from which they could almost fancy they heard a +sound of breathing arise. Maxime remained cold, filled with a secret anguish in +presence of those blocks of savage majesty, whose mass seemed to crush him. And +he preferred to turn his eyes toward his sister, who was seated in front of +him. He was becoming more and more charmed with her. She looked so healthy and +so happy, with her pretty round head, with its straight, well-molded forehead. +Now and then their glances met, and she gave him an affectionate smile which +consoled him. +</p> + +<p> +But the wildness of the gorge was beginning to soften, the two walls of rock to +grow lower; they passed between two peaceful hills, with gentle slopes covered +with thyme and lavender. It was the desert still, there were still bare spaces, +green or violet hued, from which the faintest breeze brought a pungent perfume. +</p> + +<p> +Then abruptly, after a last turn they descended to the valley of the Tulettes, +which was refreshed by springs. In the distance stretched meadows dotted by +large trees. The village was seated midway on the slope, among olive trees, and +the country house of Uncle Macquart stood a little apart on the left, full in +view. The landau turned into the road which led to the insane asylum, whose +white walls they could see before them in the distance. +</p> + +<p> +Félicité’s silence had grown somber, for she was not fond of exhibiting +Uncle Macquart. Another whom the family would be well rid of the day when he +should take his departure. For the credit of every one he ought to have been +sleeping long ago under the sod. But he persisted in living, he carried his +eighty-three years well, like an old drunkard saturated with liquor, whom the +alcohol seemed to preserve. At Plassans he had left a terrible reputation as a +do-nothing and a scoundrel, and the old men whispered the execrable story of +the corpses that lay between him and the Rougons, an act of treachery in the +troublous days of December, 1851, an ambuscade in which he had left comrades +with their bellies ripped open, lying on the bloody pavement. Later, when he +had returned to France, he had preferred to the good place of which he had +obtained the promise this little domain of the Tulettes, which Félicité had +bought for him. And he had lived comfortably here ever since; he had no longer +any other ambition than that of enlarging it, looking out once more for the +good chances, and he had even found the means of obtaining a field which he had +long coveted, by making himself useful to his sister-in-law at the time when +the latter again reconquered Plassans from the legitimists—another +frightful story that was whispered also, of a madman secretly let loose from +the asylum, running in the night to avenge himself, setting fire to his house +in which four persons were burned. But these were old stories and Macquart, +settled down now, was no longer the redoubtable scoundrel who had made all the +family tremble. He led a perfectly correct life; he was a wily diplomat, and he +had retained nothing of his air of jeering at the world but his bantering +smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle is at home,” said Pascal, as they approached the house. +</p> + +<p> +This was one of those Provençal structures of a single story, with discolored +tiles and four walls washed with a bright yellow. Before the facade extended a +narrow terrace shaded by ancient mulberry trees, whose thick, gnarled branches +drooped down, forming an arbor. It was here that Uncle Macquart smoked his pipe +in the cool shade, in summer. And on hearing the sound of the carriage, he came +and stood at the edge of the terrace, straightening his tall form neatly clad +in blue cloth, his head covered with the eternal fur cap which he wore from one +year’s end to the other. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as he recognized his visitors, he called out with a sneer: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, here come some fine company! How kind of you; you are out for an +airing.” +</p> + +<p> +But the presence of Maxime puzzled him. Who was he? Whom had he come to see? +They mentioned his name to him, and he immediately cut short the explanations +they were adding, to enable him to straighten out the tangled skein of +relationship. +</p> + +<p> +“The father of Charles—I know, I know! The son of my nephew +Saccard, <i>pardi</i>! the one who made a fine marriage, and whose wife +died—” +</p> + +<p> +He stared at Maxime, seeming happy to find him already wrinkled at thirty-two, +with his hair and beard sprinkled with snow. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well!” he added, “we are all growing old. But I, at +least, have no great reason to complain. I am solid.” +</p> + +<p> +And he planted himself firmly on his legs with his air of ferocious mockery, +while his fiery red face seemed to flame and burn. For a long time past +ordinary brandy had seemed to him like pure water; only spirits of 36 degrees +tickled his blunted palate; and he took such draughts of it that he was full of +it—his flesh saturated with it—like a sponge. He perspired alcohol. +At the slightest breath whenever he spoke, he exhaled from his mouth a vapor of +alcohol. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, truly; you are solid, uncle!” said Pascal, amazed. “And +you have done nothing to make you so; you have good reason to ridicule us. Only +there is one thing I am afraid of, look you, that some day in lighting your +pipe, you may set yourself on fire—like a bowl of punch.” +</p> + +<p> +Macquart, flattered, gave a sneering laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Have your jest, have your jest, my boy! A glass of cognac is worth more +than all your filthy drugs. And you will all touch glasses with me, hey? So +that it may be said truly that your uncle is a credit to you all. As for me, I +laugh at evil tongues. I have corn and olive trees, I have almond trees and +vines and land, like any <i>bourgeois</i>. In summer I smoke my pipe under the +shade of my mulberry trees; in winter I go to smoke it against my wall, there +in the sunshine. One has no need to blush for an uncle like that, hey? +Clotilde, I have syrup, if you would like some. And you, Félicité, my dear, I +know that you prefer anisette. There is everything here, I tell you, there is +everything here!” +</p> + +<p> +He waved his arm as if to take possession of the comforts he enjoyed, now that +from an old sinner he had become a hermit, while Félicité, whom he had +disturbed a moment before by the enumeration of his riches, did not take her +eyes from his face, waiting to interrupt him. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Macquart, we will take nothing; we are in a hurry. Where is +Charles?” +</p> + +<p> +“Charles? Very good, presently! I understand, papa has come to see his +boy. But that is not going to prevent you taking a glass.” +</p> + +<p> +And as they positively refused he became offended, and said, with his malicious +laugh: +</p> + +<p> +“Charles is not here; he is at the asylum with the old woman.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, taking Maxime to the end of the terrace, he pointed out to him the great +white buildings, whose inner gardens resembled prison yards. +</p> + +<p> +“Look, nephew, you see those three trees in front of you? Well, beyond +the one to the left, there is a fountain in a court. Follow the ground floor, +and the fifth window to the right is Aunt Dide’s. And that is where the +boy is. Yes, I took him there a little while ago.” +</p> + +<p> +This was an indulgence of the directors. In the twenty years that she had been +in the asylum the old woman had not given a moment’s uneasiness to her +keeper. Very quiet, very gentle, she passed the days motionless in her +easy-chair, looking straight before her; and as the boy liked to be with her, +and as she herself seemed to take an interest in him, they shut their eyes to +this infraction of the rules and left him there sometimes for two or three +hours at a time, busily occupied in cutting out pictures. +</p> + +<p> +But this new disappointment put the finishing stroke to Félicité’s +ill-humor; she grew angry when Macquart proposed that all five should go in a +body in search of the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“What an idea! Go you alone, and come back quickly. We have no time to +lose.” +</p> + +<p> +Her suppressed rage seemed to amuse Uncle Macquart, and perceiving how +disagreeable his proposition was to her, he insisted, with his sneering laugh: +</p> + +<p> +“But, my children, we should at the same time have an opportunity of +seeing the old mother; the mother of us all. There is no use in talking; you +know that we are all descended from her, and it would hardly be polite not to +go wish her a good-day, when my grandnephew, who has come from such a distance, +has perhaps never before had a good look at her. I’ll not disown her, may +the devil take me if I do. To be sure she is mad, but all the same, old mothers +who have passed their hundredth year are not often to be seen, and she well +deserves that we should show ourselves a little kind to her.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a moment. A little shiver had run through every one. And +it was Clotilde, silent until now, who first declared in a voice full of +feeling: +</p> + +<p> +“You are right, uncle; we will all go.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité herself was obliged to consent. They re-entered the landau, Macquart +taking the seat beside the coachman. A feeling of disquietude had given a +sallow look to Maxime’s worn face; and during the short drive he +questioned Pascal concerning Charles with an air of paternal interest, which +concealed a growing anxiety. The doctor constrained by his mother’s +imperious glances, softened the truth. Well, the boy’s health was +certainly not very robust; it was on that account, indeed, that they were glad +to leave him for weeks together in the country with his uncle: but he had no +definite disease. Pascal did not add that he had for a moment cherished the +dream of giving him a brain and muscles by treating him with his hypodermic +injections of nerve substance, but that he had always been met by the same +difficulty; the slightest puncture brought on a hemorrhage which it was found +necessary to stop by compresses; there was a laxness of the tissues, due to +degeneracy; a bloody dew which exuded from the skin; he had especially, +bleedings at the nose so sudden and so violent that they did not dare to leave +him alone, fearing lest all the blood in his veins should flow out. And the +doctor ended by saying that although the boy’s intelligence had been +sluggish, he still hoped that it would develop in an environment of quicker +mental activity. +</p> + +<p> +They arrived at the asylum and Macquart, who had been listening to the doctor, +descended from his seat, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“He is a gentle little fellow, a very gentle little fellow! And then, he +is so beautiful—an angel!” +</p> + +<p> +Maxime, who was still pale, and who shivered in spite of the stifling heat, put +no more questions. He looked at the vast buildings of the asylum, the wings of +the various quarters separated by gardens, the men’s quarters from those +of the women, those of the harmless insane from those of the violent insane. A +scrupulous cleanliness reigned everywhere, a gloomy silence—broken from +time to time by footsteps and the noise of keys. Old Macquart knew all the +keepers. Besides, the doors were always to open to Dr. Pascal, who had been +authorized to attend certain of the inmates. They followed a passage and +entered a court; it was here—one of the chambers on the ground floor, a +room covered with a light carpet, furnished with a bed, a press, a table, an +armchair, and two chairs. The nurse, who had orders never to quit her charge, +happened just now to be absent, and the only occupants of the room were the +madwoman, sitting rigid in her armchair at one side of the table, and the boy, +sitting on a chair on the opposite side, absorbed in cutting out his pictures. +</p> + +<p> +“Go in, go in!” Macquart repeated. “Oh, there is no danger, +she is very gentle!” +</p> + +<p> +The grandmother, Adelaïde Fouqué, whom her grandchildren, a whole swarm of +descendants, called by the pet name of Aunt Dide, did not even turn her head at +the noise. In her youth hysterical troubles had unbalanced her mind. Of an +ardent and passionate nature and subject to nervous attacks, she had yet +reached the great age of eighty-three when a dreadful grief, a terrible moral +shock, destroyed her reason. At that time, twenty-one years before, her mind +had ceased to act; it had become suddenly weakened without the possibility of +recovery. And now, at the age of 104 years, she lived here as if forgotten by +the world, a quiet madwoman with an ossified brain, with whom insanity might +remain stationary for an indefinite length of time without causing death. Old +age had come, however, and had gradually atrophied her muscles. Her flesh was +as if eaten away by age. The skin only remained on her bones, so that she had +to be carried from her chair to her bed, for it had become impossible for her +to walk or even to move. And yet she held herself erect against the back of her +chair, a yellow, dried-up skeleton—like an ancient tree of which the bark +only remains—with only her eyes still living in her thin, long visage, in +which the wrinkles had been, so to say, worn away. She was looking fixedly at +Charles. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde approached her a little tremblingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Aunt Dide, it is we; we have come to see you. Don’t you know me, +then? Your little girl who comes sometimes to kiss you.” +</p> + +<p> +But the madwoman did not seem to hear. Her eyes remained fixed upon the boy, +who was finishing cutting out a picture—a purple king in a golden mantle. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, mamma,” said Macquart, “don’t pretend to be +stupid. You may very well look at us. Here is a gentleman, a grandson of yours, +who has come from Paris expressly to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +At this voice Aunt Dide at last turned her head. Her clear, expressionless eyes +wandered slowly from one to another, then rested again on Charles with the same +fixed look as before. +</p> + +<p> +They all shivered, and no one spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“Since the terrible shock she received,” explained Pascal in a low +voice, “she has been that way; all intelligence, all memory seem +extinguished in her. For the most part she is silent; at times she pours forth +a flood of stammering and indistinct words. She laughs and cries without cause, +she is a thing that nothing affects. And yet I should not venture to say that +the darkness of her mind is complete, that no memories remain stored up in its +depths. Ah! the poor old mother, how I pity her, if the light has not yet been +finally extinguished. What can her thoughts have been for the last twenty-one +years, if she still remembers?” +</p> + +<p> +With a gesture he put this dreadful past which he knew from him. He saw her +again young, a tall, pale, slender girl with frightened eyes, a widow, after +fifteen months of married life with Rougon, the clumsy gardener whom she had +chosen for a husband, throwing herself immediately afterwards into the arms of +the smuggler Macquart, whom she loved with a wolfish love, and whom she did not +even marry. She had lived thus for fifteen years, with her three children, one +the child of her marriage, the other two illegitimate, a capricious and +tumultuous existence, disappearing for weeks at a time, and returning all +bruised, her arms black and blue. Then Macquart had been killed, shot down like +a dog by a <i>gendarme</i>; and the first shock had paralyzed her, so that even +then she retained nothing living but her water-clear eyes in her livid face; +and she shut herself up from the world in the hut which her lover had left her, +leading there for forty years the dead existence of a nun, broken by terrible +nervous attacks. But the other shock was to finish her, to overthrow her +reason, and Pascal recalled the atrocious scene, for he had witnessed +it—a poor child whom the grandmother had taken to live with her, her +grandson Silvère, the victim of family hatred and strife, whose head another +<i>gendarme</i> shattered with a pistol shot, at the suppression of the +insurrectionary movement of 1851. She was always to be bespattered with blood. +</p> + +<p> +Félicité, meanwhile, had approached Charles, who was so engrossed with his +pictures that all these people did not disturb him. +</p> + +<p> +“My darling, this gentleman is your father. Kiss him,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +And then they all occupied themselves with Charles. He was very prettily +dressed in a jacket and short trousers of black velvet, braided with gold cord. +Pale as a lily, he resembled in truth one of those king’s sons whose +pictures he was cutting out, with his large, light eyes and his shower of fair +curls. But what especially struck the attention at this moment was his +resemblance to Aunt Dide; this resemblance which had overleaped three +generations, which had passed from this withered centenarian’s +countenance, from these dead features wasted by life, to this delicate +child’s face that was also as if worn, aged, and wasted, through the wear +of the race. Fronting each other, the imbecile child of a deathlike beauty +seemed the last of the race of which she, forgotten by the world, was the +ancestress. +</p> + +<p> +Maxime bent over to press a kiss on the boy’s forehead; and a chill +struck to his heart—this very beauty disquieted him; his uneasiness grew +in this chamber of madness, whence, it seemed to him, breathed a secret horror +come from the far-off past. +</p> + +<p> +“How beautiful you are, my pet! Don’t you love me a little?” +</p> + +<p> +Charles looked at him without comprehending, and went back to his play. +</p> + +<p> +But all were chilled. Without the set expression of her countenance changing +Aunt Dide wept, a flood of tears rolled from her living eyes over her dead +cheeks. Her gaze fixed immovably upon the boy, she wept slowly, endlessly. A +great thing had happened. +</p> + +<p> +And now an extraordinary emotion took possession of Pascal. He caught Clotilde +by the arm and pressed it hard, trying to make her understand. Before his eyes +appeared the whole line, the legitimate branch and the bastard branch, which +had sprung from this trunk already vitiated by neurosis. Five generations were +there present—the Rougons and the Macquarts, Adelaïde Fouqué at the root, +then the scoundrelly old uncle, then himself, then Clotilde and Maxime, and +lastly, Charles. Félicité occupied the place of her dead husband. There was no +link wanting; the chain of heredity, logical and implacable, was unbroken. And +what a world was evoked from the depths of the tragic cabin which breathed this +horror that came from the far-off past in such appalling shape that every one, +notwithstanding the oppressive heat, shivered. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, master?” whispered Clotilde, trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, nothing!” murmured the doctor. “I will tell you +later.” +</p> + +<p> +Macquart, who alone continued to sneer, scolded the old mother. What an idea +was hers, to receive people with tears when they put themselves out to come and +make her a visit. It was scarcely polite. And then he turned to Maxime and +Charles. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, nephew, you have seen your boy at last. Is it not true that he is +pretty, and that he is a credit to you, after all?” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité hastened to interfere. Greatly dissatisfied with the turn which +affairs were taking, she was now anxious only to get away. +</p> + +<p> +“He is certainly a handsome boy, and less backward than people think. +Just see how skilful he is with his hands. And you will see when you have +brightened him up in Paris, in a different way from what we have been able to +do at Plassans, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt,” murmured Maxime. “I do not say no; I will think +about it.” +</p> + +<p> +He seemed embarrassed for a moment, and then added: +</p> + +<p> +“You know I came only to see him. I cannot take him with me now as I am +to spend a month at St. Gervais. But as soon as I return to Paris I will think +of it, I will write to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, taking out his watch, he cried: +</p> + +<p> +“The devil! Half-past five. You know that I would not miss the nine +o’clock train for anything in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, let us go,” said Félicité brusquely. “We have +nothing more to do here.” +</p> + +<p> +Macquart, whom his sister-in-law’s anger seemed still to divert, +endeavored to delay them with all sorts of stories. He told of the days when +Aunt Dide talked, and he affirmed that he had found her one morning singing a +romance of her youth. And then he had no need of the carriage, he would take +the boy back on foot, since they left him to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Kiss your papa, my boy, for you know now that you see him, but you +don’t know whether you shall ever see him again or not.” +</p> + +<p> +With the same surprised and indifferent movement Charles raised his head, and +Maxime, troubled, pressed another kiss on his forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“Be very good and very pretty, my pet. And love me a little.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, we have no time to lose,” repeated Félicité. +</p> + +<p> +But the keeper here re-entered the room. She was a stout, vigorous girl, +attached especially to the service of the madwoman. She carried her to and from +her bed, night and morning; she fed her and took care of her like a child. And +she at once entered into conversation with Dr. Pascal, who questioned her. One +of the doctor’s most cherished dreams was to cure the mad by his +treatment of hypodermic injections. Since in their case it was the brain that +was in danger, why should not hypodermic injections of nerve substance give +them strength and will, repairing the breaches made in the organ? So that for a +moment he had dreamed of trying the treatment with the old mother; then he +began to have scruples, he felt a sort of awe, without counting that madness at +that age was total, irreparable ruin. So that he had chosen another +subject—a hatter named Sarteur, who had been for a year past in the +asylum, to which he had come himself to beg them to shut him up to prevent him +from committing a crime. In his paroxysms, so strong an impulse to kill seized +him that he would have thrown himself upon the first passer-by. He was of small +stature, very dark, with a retreating forehead, an aquiline face with a large +nose and a very short chin, and his left cheek was noticeably larger than his +right. And the doctor had obtained miraculous results with this victim of +emotional insanity, who for a month past had had no attack. The nurse, indeed +being questioned, answered that Sarteur had become quiet and was growing better +every day. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you hear, Clotilde?” cried Pascal, enchanted. “I have not +the time to see him this evening, but I will come again to-morrow. It is my +visiting day. Ah, if I only dared; if she were young still—” +</p> + +<p> +His eyes turned toward Aunt Dide. But Clotilde, whom his enthusiasm made smile, +said gently: +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, master, you cannot make life anew. There, come. We are the +last.” +</p> + +<p> +It was true; the others had already gone. Macquart, on the threshold, followed +Félicité and Maxime with his mocking glance as they went away. Aunt Dide, the +forgotten one, sat motionless, appalling in her leanness, her eyes again fixed +upon Charles with his white, worn face framed in his royal locks. +</p> + +<p> +The drive back was full of constraint. In the heat which exhaled from the +earth, the landau rolled on heavily to the measured trot of the horses. The +stormy sky took on an ashen, copper-colored hue in the deepening twilight. At +first a few indifferent words were exchanged; but from the moment in which they +entered the gorges of the Seille all conversation ceased, as if they felt +oppressed by the menacing walls of giant rock that seemed closing in upon them. +Was not this the end of the earth, and were they not going to roll into the +unknown, over the edge of some abyss? An eagle soared by, uttering a shrill +cry. +</p> + +<p> +Willows appeared again, and the carriage was rolling lightly along the bank of +the Viorne, when Félicité began without transition, as if she were resuming a +conversation already commenced. +</p> + +<p> +“You have no refusal to fear from the mother. She loves Charles dearly, +but she is a very sensible woman, and she understands perfectly that it is to +the boy’s advantage that you should take him with you. And I must tell +you, too, that the poor boy is not very happy with her, since, naturally, the +husband prefers his own son and daughter. For you ought to know +everything.” +</p> + +<p> +And she went on in this strain, hoping, no doubt, to persuade Maxime and draw a +formal promise from him. She talked until they reached Plassans. Then, +suddenly, as the landau rolled over the pavement of the faubourg, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“But look! there is his mother. That stout blond at the door +there.” +</p> + +<p> +At the threshold of a harness-maker’s shop hung round with horse +trappings and halters, Justine sat, knitting a stocking, taking the air, while +the little girl and boy were playing on the ground at her feet. And behind them +in the shadow of the shop was to be seen Thomas, a stout, dark man, occupied in +repairing a saddle. +</p> + +<p> +Maxime leaned forward without emotion, simply curious. He was greatly surprised +at sight of this robust woman of thirty-two, with so sensible and so +commonplace an air, in whom there was not a trace of the wild little girl with +whom he had been in love when both of the same age were entering their +seventeenth year. Perhaps a pang shot through his heart to see her plump and +tranquil and blooming, while he was ill and already aged. +</p> + +<p> +“I should never have recognized her,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +And the landau, still rolling on, turned into the Rue de Rome. Justine had +disappeared; this vision of the past—a past so different from the +present—had sunk into the shadowy twilight, with Thomas, the children, +and the shop. +</p> + +<p> +At La Souleiade the table was set; Martine had an eel from the Viorne, a +<i>sautéd</i> rabbit, and a leg of mutton. Seven o’clock was striking, +and they had plenty of time to dine quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be uneasy,” said Dr. Pascal to his nephew. “We +will accompany you to the station; it is not ten minutes’ walk from here. +As you left your trunk, you have nothing to do but to get your ticket and jump +on board the train.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, meeting Clotilde in the vestibule, where she was hanging up her hat and +her umbrella, he said to her in an undertone: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that I am uneasy about your brother?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why so?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have observed him attentively. I don’t like the way in which he +walks; and have you noticed what an anxious look he has at times? That has +never deceived me. In short, your brother is threatened with ataxia.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ataxia!” she repeated turning very pale. +</p> + +<p> +A cruel image rose before her, that of a neighbor, a man still young, whom for +the past ten years she had seen driven about in a little carriage by a servant. +Was not this infirmity the worst of all ills, the ax stroke that separates a +living being from social and active life? +</p> + +<p> +“But,” she murmured, “he complains only of rheumatism.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal shrugged his shoulders; and putting a finger to his lip he went into the +dining-room, where Félicité and Maxime were seated. +</p> + +<p> +The dinner was very friendly. The sudden disquietude which had sprung up in +Clotilde’s heart made her still more affectionate to her brother, who sat +beside her. She attended to his wants gayly, forcing him to take the most +delicate morsels. Twice she called back Martine, who was passing the dishes too +quickly. And Maxime was more and more enchanted by this sister, who was so +good, so healthy, so sensible, whose charm enveloped him like a caress. So +greatly was he captivated by her that gradually a project, vague at first, took +definite shape within him. Since little Charles, his son, terrified him so +greatly with his deathlike beauty, his royal air of sickly imbecility, why +should he not take his sister Clotilde to live with him? The idea of having a +woman in his house alarmed him, indeed, for he was afraid of all women, having +had too much experience of them in his youth; but this one seemed to him truly +maternal. And then, too, a good woman in his house would make a change in it, +which would be a desirable thing. He would at least be left no longer at the +mercy of his father, whom he suspected of desiring his death so that he might +get possession of his money at once. His hatred and terror of his father +decided him. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think of marrying, then?” he asked, wishing to try +the ground. +</p> + +<p> +The young girl laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, there is no hurry,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +Then, suddenly, looking at Pascal, who had raised his head, she added: +</p> + +<p> +“How can I tell? Oh, I shall never marry.” +</p> + +<p> +But Félicité protested. When she saw her so attached to the doctor, she often +wished for a marriage that would separate her from him, that would leave her +son alone in a deserted home, where she herself might become all powerful, +mistress of everything. Therefore she appealed to him. Was it not true that a +woman ought to marry, that it was against nature to remain an old maid? +</p> + +<p> +And he gravely assented, without taking his eyes from Clotilde’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, she must marry. She is too sensible not to marry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” interrupted Maxime, “would it be really sensible in +her to marry? In order to be unhappy, perhaps; there are so many ill-assorted +marriages!” +</p> + +<p> +And coming to a resolution, he added: +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know what you ought to do? Well, you ought to come and +live with me in Paris. I have thought the matter over. The idea of taking +charge of a child in my state of health terrifies me. Am I not a child myself, +an invalid who needs to be taken care of? You will take care of me; you will be +with me, if I should end by losing the use of my limbs.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a sound of tears in his voice, so great a pity did he feel for +himself. He saw himself, in fancy, sick; he saw his sister at his bedside, like +a Sister of Charity; if she consented to remain unmarried he would willingly +leave her his fortune, so that his father might not have it. The dread which he +had of solitude, the need in which he should perhaps stand of having a +sick-nurse, made him very pathetic. +</p> + +<p> +“It would be very kind on your part, and you should have no cause to +repent it.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine, who was serving the mutton, stopped short in surprise; and the +proposition caused the same surprise at the table. Félicité was the first to +approve, feeling that the girl’s departure would further her plans. She +looked at Clotilde, who was still silent and stunned, as it were; while Dr. +Pascal waited with a pale face. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, brother, brother,” stammered the young girl, unable at first +to think of anything else to say. +</p> + +<p> +Then her grandmother cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all you have to say? Why, the proposition your brother has just +made you is a very advantageous one. If he is afraid of taking Charles now, +why, you can go with him, and later on you can send for the child. Come, come, +that can be very well arranged. Your brother makes an appeal to your heart. Is +it not true, Pascal, that she owes him a favorable answer?” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor, by an effort, recovered his self-possession. The chill that had +seized him made itself felt, however, in the slowness with which he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“The offer, in effect, is very kind. Clotilde, as I said before, is very +sensible and she will accept it, if it is right that she should do so.” +</p> + +<p> +The young girl, greatly agitated, rebelled at this. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you wish to send me away, then, master? Maxime is very good, and I +thank him from the bottom of my heart. But to leave everything, my God! To +leave all that love me, all that I have loved until now!” +</p> + +<p> +She made a despairing gesture, indicating the place and the people, taking in +all La Souleiade. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” responded Pascal, looking at her fixedly, “what if +Maxime should need you, what if you had a duty to fulfil toward him?” +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes grew moist, and she remained for a moment trembling and desperate; for +she alone understood. The cruel vision again arose before her—Maxime, +helpless, driven, about in a little carriage by a servant, like the neighbor +whom she used to pity. Had she indeed any duty toward a brother who for fifteen +years had been a stranger to her? Did not her duty lie where her heart was? +Nevertheless, her distress of mind continued; she still suffered in the +struggle. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, Maxime,” she said at last, “give me also time to +reflect. I will see. Be assured that I am very grateful to you. And if you +should one day really have need of me, well, I should no doubt decide to +go.” +</p> + +<p> +This was all they could make her promise. Félicité, with her usual vehemence, +exhausted all her efforts in vain, while the doctor now affected to say that +she had given her word. Martine brought a cream, without thinking of hiding her +joy. To take away mademoiselle! what an idea, in order that monsieur might die +of grief at finding himself all alone. And the dinner was delayed, too, by this +unexpected incident. They were still at the dessert when half-past eight +struck. +</p> + +<p> +Then Maxime grew restless, tapped the floor with his foot, and declared that he +must go. +</p> + +<p> +At the station, whither they all accompanied him he kissed his sister a last +time, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Remember!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be afraid,” declared Félicité, “we are here to +remind her of her promise.” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor smiled, and all three, as soon as the train was in motion, waved +their handkerchiefs. +</p> + +<p> +On this day, after accompanying the grandmother to her door, Dr. Pascal and +Clotilde returned peacefully to La Souleiade, and spent a delightful evening +there. The constraint of the past few weeks, the secret antagonism which had +separated them, seemed to have vanished. Never had it seemed so sweet to them +to feel so united, inseparable. Doubtless it was only this first pang of +uneasiness suffered by their affection, this threatened separation, the +postponement of which delighted them. It was for them like a return to health +after an illness, a new hope of life. They remained for long time in the warm +night, under the plane trees, listening to the crystal murmur of the fountain. +And they did not even speak, so profoundly did they enjoy the happiness of +being together. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"></a> +IV.</h2> + +<p> +Ten days later the household had fallen back into its former state of +unhappiness. Pascal and Clotilde remained entire afternoons without exchanging +a word; and there were continual outbursts of ill-humor. Even Martine was +constantly out of temper. The home of these three had again become a hell. +</p> + +<p> +Then suddenly the condition of affairs was still further aggravated. A Capuchin +monk of great sanctity, such as often pass through the towns of the South, came +to Plassans to conduct a mission. The pulpit of St. Saturnin resounded with his +bursts of eloquence. He was a sort of apostle, a popular and fiery orator, a +florid speaker, much given to the use of metaphors. And he preached on the +nothingness of modern science with an extraordinary mystical exaltation, +denying the reality of this world, and disclosing the unknown, the mysteries of +the Beyond. All the devout women of the town were full of excitement about his +preaching. +</p> + +<p> +On the very first evening on which Clotilde, accompanied by Martine, attended +the sermon, Pascal noticed her feverish excitement when she returned. On the +following day her excitement increased, and she returned home later, having +remained to pray for an hour in a dark corner of a chapel. From this time she +was never absent from the services, returning languid, and with the luminous +eyes of a seer; and the Capuchin’s burning words haunted her; certain of +his images stirred her to ecstasy. She grew irritable, and she seemed to have +conceived a feeling of anger and contempt for every one and everything around +her. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, filled with uneasiness, determined to have an explanation with Martine. +He came down early one morning as she was sweeping the dining-room. +</p> + +<p> +“You know that I leave you and Clotilde free to go to church, if that +pleases you,” he said. “I do not believe in oppressing any +one’s conscience. But I do not wish that you should make her sick.” +</p> + +<p> +The servant, without stopping in her work, said in a low voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps the sick people are those who don’t think that they are +sick.” +</p> + +<p> +She said this with such an air of conviction that he smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he returned; “I am the sick soul whose conversion you +pray for; while both of you are in possession of health and of perfect wisdom. +Martine, if you continue to torment me and to torment yourselves, as you are +doing, I shall grow angry.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke in so furious and so harsh a voice that the servant stopped suddenly +in her sweeping, and looked him full in the face. An infinite tenderness, an +immense desolation passed over the face of the old maid cloistered in his +service. And tears filled her eyes and she hurried out of the room stammering: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, monsieur, you do not love us.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Pascal, filled with an overwhelming sadness, gave up the contest. His +remorse increased for having shown so much tolerance, for not having exercised +his authority as master, in directing Clotilde’s education and bringing +up. In his belief that trees grew straight if they were not interfered with, he +had allowed her to grow up in her own way, after teaching her merely to read +and write. It was without any preconceived plan, while aiding him in making his +researches and correcting his manuscripts, and simply by the force of +circumstances, that she had read everything and acquired a fondness for the +natural sciences. How bitterly he now regretted his indifference! What a +powerful impulse he might have given to this clear mind, so eager for +knowledge, instead of allowing it to go astray, and waste itself in that desire +for the Beyond, which Grandmother Félicité and the good Martine favored. While +he had occupied himself with facts, endeavoring to keep from going beyond the +phenomenon, and succeeding in doing so, through his scientific discipline, he +had seen her give all her thoughts to the unknown, the mysterious. It was with +her an obsession, an instinctive curiosity which amounted to torture when she +could not satisfy it. There was in her a longing which nothing could appease, +an irresistible call toward the unattainable, the unknowable. Even when she was +a child, and still more, later, when she grew up, she went straight to the why +and the how of things, she demanded ultimate causes. If he showed her a flower, +she asked why this flower produced a seed, why this seed would germinate. Then, +it would be the mystery of birth and death, and the unknown forces, and God, +and all things. In half a dozen questions she would drive him into a corner, +obliging him each time to acknowledge his fatal ignorance; and when he no +longer knew what to answer her, when he would get rid of her with a gesture of +comic fury, she would give a gay laugh of triumph, and go to lose herself again +in her dreams, in the limitless vision of all that we do not know, and all that +we may believe. Often she astounded him by her explanations. Her mind, +nourished on science, started from proved truths, but with such an impetus that +she bounded at once straight into the heaven of the legends. All sorts of +mediators passed there, angels and saints and supernatural inspirations, +modifying matter, endowing it with life; or, again, it was only one single +force, the soul of the world, working to fuse things and beings in a final kiss +of love in fifty centuries more. She had calculated the number of them, she +said. +</p> + +<p> +For the rest, Pascal had never before seen her so excited. For the past week, +during which she had attended the Capuchin’s mission in the cathedral, +she had spent the days visibly in the expectation of the sermon of the evening; +and she went to hear it with the rapt exaltation of a girl who is going to her +first rendezvous of love. Then, on the following day, everything about her +declared her detachment from the exterior life, from her accustomed existence, +as if the visible world, the necessary actions of every moment, were but a +snare and a folly. She retired within herself in the vision of what was not. +Thus she had almost completely given up her habitual occupations, abandoning +herself to a sort of unconquerable indolence, remaining for hours at a time +with her hands in her lap, her gaze lost in vacancy, rapt in the contemplation +of some far-off vision. Now she, who had been so active, so early a riser, rose +late, appearing barely in time for the second breakfast, and it could not have +been at her toilet that she spent these long hours, for she forgot her feminine +coquetry, and would come down with her hair scarcely combed, negligently +attired in a gown buttoned awry, but even thus adorable, thanks to her +triumphant youth. The morning walks through La Souleiade that she had been so +fond of, the races from the top to the bottom of the terraces planted with +olive and almond trees, the visits to the pine grove balmy with the odor of +resin, the long sun baths in the hot threshing yard, she indulged in no more; +she preferred to remain shut up in her darkened room, from which not a movement +was to be heard. Then, in the afternoon, in the work room, she would drag +herself about languidly from chair to chair, doing nothing, tired and disgusted +with everything that had formerly interested her. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal was obliged to renounce her assistance; a paper which he gave her to +copy remained three days untouched on her desk. She no longer classified +anything; she would not have stooped down to pick up a paper from the floor. +More than all, she abandoned the pastels, copies of flowers from nature that +she had been making, to serve as plates to a work on artificial fecundations. +Some large red mallows, of a new and singular coloring, faded in their vase +before she had finished copying them. And yet for a whole afternoon she worked +enthusiastically at a fantastic design of dream flowers, an extraordinary +efflorescence blooming in the light of a miraculous sun, a burst of golden +spike-shaped rays in the center of large purple corollas, resembling open +hearts, whence shot, for pistils, a shower of stars, myriads of worlds +streaming into the sky, like a milky way. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my poor girl,” said the doctor to her on this day, “how +can you lose your time in such conceits! And I waiting for the copy of those +mallows that you have left to die there. And you will make yourself ill. There +is no health, nor beauty, even, possible outside reality.” +</p> + +<p> +Often now she did not answer, intrenching herself behind her fierce +convictions, not wishing to dispute. But doubtless he had this time touched her +beliefs to the quick. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no reality,” she answered sharply. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor, amused by this bold philosophy from this big child, laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know,” he said; “our senses are fallible. We know +this world only through our senses, consequently it is possible that the world +does not exist. Let us open the door to madness, then; let us accept as +possible the most absurd chimeras, let us live in the realm of nightmare, +outside of laws and facts. For do you not see that there is no longer any law +if you suppress nature, and that the only thing that gives life any interest is +to believe in life, to love it, and to put all the forces of our intelligence +to the better understanding of it?” +</p> + +<p> +She made a gesture of mingled indifference and bravado, and the conversation +dropped. Now she was laying large strokes of blue crayon on the pastel, +bringing out its flaming splendor in strong relief on the background of a clear +summer night. +</p> + +<p> +But two days later, in consequence of a fresh discussion, matters went still +further amiss. In the evening, on leaving the table, Pascal went up to the +study to write, while she remained out of doors, sitting on the terrace. Hours +passed by, and he was surprised and uneasy, when midnight struck, that he had +not yet heard her return to her room. She would have had to pass through the +study, and he was very certain that she had not passed unnoticed by him. Going +downstairs, he found that Martine was asleep; the vestibule door was not +locked, and Clotilde must have remained outside, oblivious of the flight of +time. This often happened to her on these warm nights, but she had never before +remained out so late. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor’s uneasiness increased when he perceived on the terrace the +chair, now vacant, in which the young girl had been sitting. He had expected to +find her asleep in it. Since she was not there, why had she not come in. Where +could she have gone at such an hour? The night was beautiful: a September +night, still warm, with a wide sky whose dark, velvety expanse was studded with +stars; and from the depths of this moonless sky the stars shone so large and +bright that they lighted the earth with a pale, mysterious radiance. He leaned +over the balustrade of the terrace, and examined the slope and the stone steps +which led down to the railroad; but there was not a movement. He saw nothing +but the round motionless tops of the little olive trees. The idea then occurred +to him that she must certainly be under the plane trees beside the fountain, +whose murmuring waters made perpetual coolness around. He hurried there, and +found himself enveloped in such thick darkness that he, who knew every tree, +was obliged to walk with outstretched hands to avoid stumbling. Then he groped +his way through the dark pine grove, still without meeting any one. And at last +he called in a muffled voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Clotilde! Clotilde!” +</p> + +<p> +The darkness remained silent and impenetrable. +</p> + +<p> +“Clotilde! Clotilde!” he cried again, in a louder voice. Not a +sound, not a breath. The very echoes seemed asleep. His cry was drowned in the +infinitely soft lake of blue shadows. And then he called her with all the force +of his lungs. He returned to the plane trees. He went back to the pine grove, +beside himself with fright, scouring the entire domain. Then, suddenly, he +found himself in the threshing yard. +</p> + +<p> +At this cool and tranquil hour, the immense yard, the vast circular paved +court, slept too. It was so many years since grain had been threshed here that +grass had sprung up among the stones, quickly scorched a russet brown by the +sun, resembling the long threads of a woolen carpet. And, under the tufts of +this feeble vegetation, the ancient pavement did not cool during the whole +summer, smoking from sunset, exhaling in the night the heat stored up from so +many sultry noons. +</p> + +<p> +The yard stretched around, bare and deserted, in the cooling atmosphere, under +the infinite calm of the sky, and Pascal was crossing it to hurry to the +orchard, when he almost fell over a form that he had not before observed, +extended at full length upon the ground. He uttered a frightened cry. +</p> + +<p> +“What! Are you here?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde did not deign even to answer. She was lying on her back, her hands +clasped under the back of her neck, her face turned toward the sky; and in her +pale countenance, only her large shining eyes were visible. +</p> + +<p> +“And here I have been tormenting myself and calling you for an hour past! +Did you not hear me shouting?” +</p> + +<p> +She at last unclosed her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then that is very senseless! Why did you not answer me?” +</p> + +<p> +But she fell back into her former silence, refusing all explanation, and with a +stubborn brow kept her gaze fixed steadily on the sky. +</p> + +<p> +“There, come in and go to bed, naughty child. You will tell me +to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not stir, however; he begged her ten times over to go into the house, +but she would not move. He ended by sitting down beside her on the short grass, +through which penetrated the warmth of the pavement beneath. +</p> + +<p> +“But you cannot sleep out of doors. At least answer me. What are you +doing here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am looking.” +</p> + +<p> +And from her large eyes, fixed and motionless, her gaze seemed to mount up +among the stars. She seemed wholly absorbed in the contemplation of the pure +starry depths of the summer sky. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, master!” she continued, in a low monotone; “how narrow +and limited is all that you know compared to what there is surely up there. +Yes, if I did not answer you it was because I was thinking of you, and I was +filled with grief. You must not think me bad.” +</p> + +<p> +In her voice there was a thrill of such tenderness that it moved him +profoundly. He stretched himself on the grass beside her, so that their elbows +touched, and they went on talking. +</p> + +<p> +“I greatly fear, my dear, that your griefs are not rational. It gives you +pain to think of me. Why so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, because of things that I should find it hard to explain to you; I am +not a <i>savante</i>. You have taught me much, however, and I have learned more +myself, being with you. Besides, they are things that I feel. Perhaps I might +try to tell them to you, as we are all alone here, and the night is so +beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +Her full heart overflowed, after hours of meditation, in the peaceful +confidence of the beautiful night. He did not speak, fearing to disturb her, +but awaited her confidences in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“When I was a little girl and you used to talk to me about science, it +seemed to me that you were speaking to me of God, your words burned so with +faith and hope. Nothing seemed impossible to you. With science you were going +to penetrate the secret of the world, and make the perfect happiness of +humanity a reality. According to you, we were progressing with giant strides. +Each day brought its discovery, its certainty. Ten, fifty, a hundred years +more, perhaps, and the heavens would open and we should see truth face to face. +Well, the years pass, and nothing opens, and truth recedes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are an impatient girl,” he answered simply. “If ten +centuries more be necessary we must only wait for them to pass.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true. I cannot wait. I need to know; I need to be happy at once, +and to know everything at once, and to be perfectly and forever happy. Oh, that +is what makes me suffer, not to be able to reach at a bound complete knowledge, +not to be able to rest in perfect felicity, freed from scruples and doubts. Is +it living to advance with tortoiselike pace in the darkness, not to be able to +enjoy an hour’s tranquillity, without trembling at the thought of the +coming anguish? No, no! All knowledge and all happiness in a single day? +Science has promised them to us, and if she does not give them to us, then she +fails in her engagements.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he, too, began to grow heated. +</p> + +<p> +“But what you are saying is folly, little girl. Science is not +revelation. It marches at its human pace, its very effort is its glory. And +then it is not true that science has promised happiness.” +</p> + +<p> +She interrupted him hastily. +</p> + +<p> +“How, not true! Open your books up there, then. You know that I have read +them. Do they not overflow with promises? To read them one would think we were +marching on to the conquest of earth and heaven. They demolish everything, and +they swear to replace everything—and that by pure reason, with stability +and wisdom. Doubtless I am like the children. When I am promised anything I +wish that it shall be given me at once. My imagination sets to work, and the +object must be very beautiful to satisfy me. But it would have been easy not to +have promised anything. And above all, at this hour, in view of my eager and +painful longing, it would be very ill done to tell me that nothing has been +promised me.” +</p> + +<p> +He made a gesture, a simple gesture of protestation and impatience, in the +serene and silent night. +</p> + +<p> +“In any case,” she continued, “science has swept away all our +past beliefs. The earth is bare, the heavens are empty, and what do you wish +that I should become, even if you acquit science of having inspired the hopes I +have conceived? For I cannot live without belief and without happiness. On what +solid ground shall I build my house when science shall have demolished the old +world, and while she is waiting to construct the new? All the ancient city has +fallen to pieces in this catastrophe of examination and analysis; and all that +remains of it is a mad population vainly seeking a shelter among its ruins, +while anxiously looking for a solid and permanent refuge where they may begin +life anew. You must not be surprised, then, at our discouragement and our +impatience. We can wait no longer. Since tardy science has failed in her +promises, we prefer to fall back on the old beliefs, which for centuries have +sufficed for the happiness of the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! that is just it,” he responded in a low voice; “we are +just at the turning point, at the end of the century, fatigued and exhausted +with the appalling accumulation of knowledge which it has set moving. And it is +the eternal need for falsehood, the eternal need for illusion which distracts +humanity, and throws it back upon the delusive charm of the unknown. Since we +can never know all, what is the use of trying to know more than we know +already? Since the truth, when we have attained it, does not confer immediate +and certain happiness, why not be satisfied with ignorance, the darkened cradle +in which humanity slept the deep sleep of infancy? Yes, this is the aggressive +return of the mysterious, it is the reaction against a century of experimental +research. And this had to be; desertions were to be expected, since every need +could not be satisfied at once. But this is only a halt; the onward march will +continue, up there, beyond our view, in the illimitable fields of space.” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment they remained silent, still motionless on their backs, their gaze +lost among the myriads of worlds shining in the dark sky. A falling star shot +across the constellation of Cassiopeia, like a flaming arrow. And the luminous +universe above turned slowly on its axis, in solemn splendor, while from the +dark earth around them arose only a faint breath, like the soft, warm breath of +a sleeping woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” he said, in his good-natured voice, “did your +Capuchin turn your head this evening, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered frankly; “he says from the pulpit things +that disturb me. He preaches against everything you have taught me, and it is +as if the knowledge which I owe to you, transformed into a poison, were +consuming me. My God! What is going to become of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“My poor child! It is terrible that you should torture yourself in this +way! And yet I had been quite tranquil about you, for you have a well-balanced +mind—you have a good, little, round, clear, solid headpiece, as I have +often told you. You will soon calm down. But what confusion in the brains of +others, at the end of the century, if you, who are so sane, are troubled! Have +you not faith, then?” +</p> + +<p> +She answered only by a heavy sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“Assuredly, viewed from the standpoint of happiness, faith is a strong +staff for the traveler to lean upon, and the march becomes easy and tranquil +when one is fortunate enough to possess it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I no longer know whether I believe or not!” she cried. +“There are days when I believe, and there are other days when I side with +you and with your books. It is you who have disturbed me; it is through you I +suffer. And perhaps all my suffering springs from this, from my revolt against +you whom I love. No, no! tell me nothing; do not tell me that I shall soon calm +down. At this moment that would only irritate me still more. I know well that +you deny the supernatural. The mysterious for you is only the inexplicable. +Even you concede that we shall never know all; and therefore you consider that +the only interest life can have is the continual conquest over the unknown, the +eternal effort to know more. Ah, I know too much already to believe. You have +already succeeded but too well in shaking my faith, and there are times when it +seems to me that this will kill me.” +</p> + +<p> +He took her hand that lay on the still warm grass, and pressed it hard. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; it is life that frightens you, little girl. And how right you +are in saying that happiness consists in continual effort. For from this time +forward tranquil ignorance is impossible. There is no halt to be looked for, no +tranquillity in renunciation and wilful blindness. We must go on, go on in any +case with life, which goes on always. Everything that is proposed, a return to +the past, to dead religions, patched up religions arranged to suit new wants, +is a snare. Learn to know life, then; to love it, live it as it ought to be +lived—that is the only wisdom.” +</p> + +<p> +But she shook off his hand angrily. And her voice trembled with vexation. +</p> + +<p> +“Life is horrible. How do you wish me to live it tranquil and happy? It +is a terrible light that your science throws upon the world. Your analysis +opens up all the wounds of humanity to display their horror. You tell +everything; you speak too plainly; you leave us nothing but disgust for people +and for things, without any possible consolation.” +</p> + +<p> +He interrupted her with a cry of ardent conviction. +</p> + +<p> +“We tell everything. Ah, yes; in order to know everything and to remedy +everything!” +</p> + +<p> +Her anger rose, and she sat erect. +</p> + +<p> +“If even equality and justice existed in your nature—but you +acknowledge it yourself, life is for the strongest, the weak infallibly +perishes because he is weak—there are no two beings equal, either in +health, in beauty, or intelligence; everything is left to haphazard meeting, to +the chance of selection. And everything falls into ruin, when grand and sacred +justice ceases to exist.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true,” he said, in an undertone, as if speaking to himself, +“there is no such thing as equality. No society based upon it could +continue to exist. For centuries, men thought to remedy evil by character. But +that idea is being exploded, and now they propose justice. Is nature just? I +think her logical, rather. Logic is perhaps a natural and higher justice, going +straight to the sum of the common labor, to the grand final labor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it is justice,” she cried, “that crushes the individual +for the happiness of the race, that destroys an enfeebled species to fatten the +victorious species. No, no; that is crime. There is in that only foulness and +murder. He was right this evening in the church. The earth is corrupt, science +only serves to show its rottenness. It is on high that we must all seek a +refuge. Oh, master, I entreat you, let me save myself, let me save you!” +</p> + +<p> +She burst into tears, and the sound of her sobs rose despairingly on the +stillness of the night. He tried in vain to soothe her, her voice dominated +his. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to me, master. You know that I love you, for you are everything +to me. And it is you who are the cause of all my suffering. I can scarcely +endure it when I think that we are not in accord, that we should be separated +forever if we were both to die to-morrow. Why will you not believe?” +</p> + +<p> +He still tried to reason with her. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, don’t be foolish, my dear—” +</p> + +<p> +But she threw herself on her knees, she seized him by the hands, she clung to +him with a feverish force. And she sobbed louder and louder, in such a clamor +of despair that the dark fields afar off were startled by it. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to me, he said it in the church. You must change your life and do +penance; you must burn everything belonging to your past errors—your +books, your papers, your manuscripts. Make this sacrifice, master, I entreat it +of you on my knees. And you will see the delightful existence we shall lead +together.” +</p> + +<p> +At last he rebelled. +</p> + +<p> +“No, this is too much. Be silent!” +</p> + +<p> +“If you listen to me, master, you will do what I wish. I assure you that +I am horribly unhappy, even in loving you as I love you. There is something +wanting in our affection. So far it has been profound but unavailing, and I +have an irresistible longing to fill it, oh, with all that is divine and +eternal. What can be wanting to us but God? Kneel down and pray with me!” +</p> + +<p> +With an abrupt movement he released himself, angry in his turn. +</p> + +<p> +“Be silent; you are talking nonsense. I have left you free, leave me +free.” +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master! it is our happiness that I desire! I will take you far, +far away. We will go to some solitude to live there in God!” +</p> + +<p> +“Be silent! No, never!” +</p> + +<p> +Then they remained for a moment confronting each other, mute and menacing. +Around them stretched La Souleiade in the deep silence of the night, with the +light shadows of its olive trees, the darkness of its pine and plane trees, in +which the saddened voice of the fountain was singing, and above their heads it +seemed as if the spacious sky, studded with stars, shuddered and grew pale, +although the dawn was still far off. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde raised her arm as if to point to this infinite, shuddering sky; but +with a quick gesture Pascal seized her hand and drew it down toward the earth +in his. And no word further was spoken; they were beside themselves with rage +and hate. The quarrel was fierce and bitter. +</p> + +<p> +She drew her hand away abruptly, and sprang backward, like some proud, +untamable animal, rearing; then she rushed quickly through the darkness toward +the house. He heard the patter of her little boots on the stones of the yard, +deadened afterward by the sand of the walk. He, on his side, already grieved +and uneasy, called her back in urgent tones. But she ran on without answering, +without hearing. Alarmed, and with a heavy heart, he hurried after her, and +rounded the clump of plane trees just in time to see her rush into the house +like a whirlwind. He darted in after her, ran up the stairs, and struck against +the door of her room, which she violently bolted. And here he stopped and grew +calm, by a strong effort resisting the desire to cry out, to call her again, to +break in the door so as to see her once more, to convince her, to have her all +to himself. For a moment he remained motionless, chilled by the deathlike +silence of the room, from which not the faintest sound issued. Doubtless she +had thrown herself on the bed, and was stifling her cries and her sobs in the +pillow. He determined at last to go downstairs again and close the hall door, +and then he returned softly and listened, waiting for some sound of moaning. +And day was breaking when he went disconsolately to bed, choking back his +tears. +</p> + +<p> +Thenceforward it was war without mercy. Pascal felt himself spied upon, +trapped, menaced. He was no longer master of his house; he had no longer any +home. The enemy was always there, forcing him to be constantly on his guard, to +lock up everything. One after the other, two vials of nerve-substance which he +had compounded were found in fragments, and he was obliged to barricade himself +in his room, where he could be heard pounding for days together, without +showing himself even at mealtime. He no longer took Clotilde with him on his +visiting days, because she discouraged his patients by her attitude of +aggressive incredulity. But from the moment he left the house, the doctor had +only one desire—to return to it quickly, for he trembled lest he should +find his locks forced, and his drawers rifled on his return. He no longer +employed the young girl to classify and copy his notes, for several of them had +disappeared, as if they had been carried away by the wind. He did not even +venture to employ her to correct his proofs, having ascertained that she had +cut out of an article an entire passage, the sentiment of which offended her +Catholic belief. And thus she remained idle, prowling about the rooms, and +having an abundance of time to watch for an occasion which would put in her +possession the key of the large press. This was her dream, the plan which she +revolved in her mind during her long silence, while her eyes shone and her +hands burned with fever—to have the key, to open the press, to take and +burn everything in an <i>auto da fé</i> which would be pleasing to God. A few +pages of manuscript, forgotten by him on a corner of the table, while he went +to wash his hands and put on his coat, had disappeared, leaving behind only a +little heap of ashes in the fireplace. He could no longer leave a scrap of +paper about. He carried away everything; he hid everything. One evening, when +he had remained late with a patient, as he was returning home in the dusk a +wild terror seized him at the faubourg, at sight of a thick black smoke rising +up in clouds that darkened the heavens. Was it not La Souleiade that was +burning down, set on fire by the bonfire made with his papers? He ran toward +the house, and was reassured only on seeing in a neighboring field a fire of +roots burning slowly. +</p> + +<p> +But how terrible are the tortures of the scientist who feels himself menaced in +this way in the labors of his intellect! The discoveries which he has made, the +writings which he has counted upon leaving behind him, these are his pride, +they are creatures of his blood—his children—and whoever destroys, +whoever burns them, burns a part of himself. Especially, in this perpetual +lying in wait for the creatures of his brain, was Pascal tortured by the +thought that the enemy was in his house, installed in his very heart, and that +he loved her in spite of everything, this creature whom he had made what she +was. He was left disarmed, without possible defense; not wishing to act, and +having no other resources than to watch with vigilance. On all sides the +investment was closing around him. He fancied he felt the little pilfering +hands stealing into his pockets. He had no longer any tranquillity, even with +the doors closed, for he feared that he was being robbed through the crevices. +</p> + +<p> +“But, unhappy child,” he cried one day, “I love but you in +the world, and you are killing me! And yet you love me, too; you act in this +way because you love me, and it is abominable. It would be better to have done +with it all at once, and throw ourselves into the river with a stone tied +around our necks.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer, but her dauntless eyes said ardently that she would +willingly die on the instant, if it were with him. +</p> + +<p> +“And if I should suddenly die to-night, what would happen to-morrow? You +would empty the press, you would empty the drawers, you would make a great heap +of all my works and burn them! You would, would you not? Do you know that that +would be a real murder, as much as if you assassinated some one? And what +abominable cowardice, to kill the thoughts!” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said at last, in a low voice; “to kill evil, to +prevent it from spreading and springing up again!” +</p> + +<p> +All their explanations only served to kindle anew their anger. And they had +terrible ones. And one evening, when old Mme. Rougon had chanced in on one of +these quarrels, she remained alone with Pascal, after Clotilde had fled to hide +herself in her room. There was silence for a moment. In spite of the +heartbroken air which she had assumed, a wicked joy shone in the depths of her +sparkling eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“But your unhappy house is a hell!” she cried at last. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor avoided an answer by a gesture. He had always felt that his mother +backed the young girl, inflaming her religious faith, utilizing this ferment of +revolt to bring trouble into his house. He was not deceived. He knew perfectly +well that the two women had seen each other during the day, and that he owed to +this meeting, to a skilful embittering of Clotilde’s mind, the frightful +scene at which he still trembled. Doubtless his mother had come to learn what +mischief had been wrought, and to see if the <i>denouement</i> was not at last +at hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Things cannot go on in this way,” she resumed. “Why do you +not separate since you can no longer agree. You ought to send her to her +brother Maxime. He wrote to me not long since asking her again.” +</p> + +<p> +He straightened himself, pale and determined. +</p> + +<p> +“To part angry with each other? Ah, no, no! that would be an eternal +remorse, an incurable wound. If she must one day go away, I wish that we may be +able to love each other at a distance. But why go away? Neither of us complains +of the other.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité felt that she had been too hasty. Therefore she assumed her +hypocritical, conciliating air. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, if it pleases you both to quarrel, no one has anything to say +in the matter. Only, my poor friend, permit me, in that case, to say that I +think Clotilde is not altogether in the wrong. You force me to confess that I +saw her a little while ago; yes, it is better that you should know, +notwithstanding my promise to be silent. Well, she is not happy; she makes a +great many complaints, and you may imagine that I scolded her and preached +complete submission to her. But that does not prevent me from being unable to +understand you myself, and from thinking that you do everything you can to make +yourself unhappy.” +</p> + +<p> +She sat down in a corner of the room, and obliged him to sit down with her, +seeming delighted to have him here alone, at her mercy. She had already, more +than once before, tried to force him to an explanation in this way, but he had +always avoided it. Although she had tortured him for years past, and he knew +her thoroughly, he yet remained a deferential son, he had sworn never to +abandon this stubbornly respectful attitude. Thus, the moment she touched +certain subjects, he took refuge in absolute silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” she continued; “I can understand that you should not +wish to yield to Clotilde; but to me? How if I were to entreat you to make me +the sacrifice of all those abominable papers which are there in the press! +Consider for an instant if you should die suddenly, and those papers should +fall into strange hands. We should all be disgraced. You would not wish that, +would you? What is your object, then? Why do you persist in so dangerous a +game? Promise me that you will burn them.” +</p> + +<p> +He remained silent for a time, but at last he answered: +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, I have already begged of you never to speak on that subject. I +cannot do what you ask.” +</p> + +<p> +“But at least,” she cried, “give me a reason. Any one would +think our family was as indifferent to you as that drove of oxen passing below +there. Yet you belong to it. Oh, I know you do all you can not to belong to it! +I myself am sometimes astonished at you. I ask myself where you can have come +from. But for all that, it is very wicked of you to run this risk, without +stopping to think of the grief you are causing to me, your mother. It is simply +wicked.” +</p> + +<p> +He grew still paler, and yielding for an instant to his desire to defend +himself, in spite of his determination to keep silent, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“You are hard; you are wrong. I have always believed in the necessity, +the absolute efficacy of truth. It is true that I tell the truth about others +and about myself, and it is because I believe firmly that in telling the truth +I do the only good possible. In the first place, those papers are not intended +for the public; they are only personal notes which it would be painful to me to +part with. And then, I know well that you would not burn only them—all my +other works would also be thrown into the fire. Would they not? And that is +what I do not wish; do you understand? Never, while I live, shall a line of my +writing be destroyed here.” +</p> + +<p> +But he already regretted having said so much, for he saw that she was urging +him, leading him on to the cruel explanation she desired. +</p> + +<p> +“Then finish, and tell me what it is that you reproach us with. Yes, me, +for instance; what do you reproach me with? Not with having brought you up with +so much difficulty. Ah, fortune was slow to win! If we enjoy a little happiness +now, we have earned it hard. Since you have seen everything, and since you put +down everything in your papers, you can testify with truth that the family has +rendered greater services to others than it has ever received. On two +occasions, but for us, Plassans would have been in a fine pickle. And it is +perfectly natural that we should have reaped only ingratitude and envy, to the +extent that even to-day the whole town would be enchanted with a scandal that +should bespatter us with mud. You cannot wish that, and I am sure that you will +do justice to the dignity of my attitude since the fall of the Empire, and the +misfortunes from which France will no doubt never recover.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let France rest, mother,” he said, speaking again, for she had +touched the spot where she knew he was most sensitive. “France is +tenacious of life, and I think she is going to astonish the world by the +rapidity of her convalescence. True, she has many elements of corruption. I +have not sought to hide them, I have rather, perhaps, exposed them to view. But +you greatly misunderstand me if you imagine that I believe in her final +dissolution, because I point out her wounds and her lesions. I believe in the +life which ceaselessly eliminates hurtful substances, which makes new flesh to +fill the holes eaten away by gangrene, which infallibly advances toward health, +toward constant renovation, amid impurities and death.” +</p> + +<p> +He was growing excited, and he was conscious of it, and making an angry +gesture, he spoke no more. His mother had recourse to tears, a few little tears +which came with difficulty, and which were quickly dried. And the fears which +saddened her old age returned to her, and she entreated him to make his peace +with God, if only out of regard for the family. Had she not given an example of +courage ever since the downfall of the Empire? Did not all Plassans, the +quarter of St. Marc, the old quarter and the new town, render homage to the +noble attitude she maintained in her fall? All she asked was to be helped; she +demanded from all her children an effort like her own. Thus she cited the +example of Eugène, the great man who had fallen from so lofty a height, and who +resigned himself to being a simple deputy, defending until his latest breath +the fallen government from which he had derived his glory. She was also full of +eulogies of Aristide, who had never lost hope, who had reconquered, under the +new government, an exalted position, in spite of the terrible and unjust +catastrophe which had for a moment buried him under the ruins of the Union +Universelle. And would he, Pascal, hold himself aloof, would he do nothing that +she might die in peace, in the joy of the final triumph of the Rougons, he who +was so intelligent, so affectionate, so good? He would go to mass, would he +not, next Sunday? and he would burn all those vile papers, only to think of +which made her ill. She entreated, commanded, threatened. But he no longer +answered her, calm and invincible in his attitude of perfect deference. He +wished to have no discussion. He knew her too well either to hope to convince +her or to venture to discuss the past with her. +</p> + +<p> +“Why!” she cried, when she saw that he was not to be moved, +“you do not belong to us. I have always said so. You are a disgrace to +us.” +</p> + +<p> +He bent his head and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, when you reflect you will forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +On this day Félicité was beside herself with rage when she went away; and when +she met Martine at the door of the house, in front of the plane trees, she +unburdened her mind to her, without knowing that Pascal, who had just gone into +his room, heard all. She gave vent to her resentment, vowing, in spite of +everything, that she would in the end succeed in obtaining possession of the +papers and destroying them, since he did not wish to make the sacrifice. But +what turned the doctor cold was the manner in which Martine, in a subdued +voice, soothed her. She was evidently her accomplice. She repeated that it was +necessary to wait; not to do anything hastily; that mademoiselle and she had +taken a vow to get the better of monsieur, by not leaving him an hour’s +peace. They had sworn it. They would reconcile him with the good God, because +it was not possible that an upright man like monsieur should remain without +religion. And the voices of the two women became lower and lower, until they +finally sank to a whisper, an indistinct murmur of gossiping and plotting, of +which he caught only a word here and there; orders given, measures to be taken, +an invasion of his personal liberty. When his mother at last departed, with her +light step and slender, youthful figure, he saw that she went away very well +satisfied. +</p> + +<p> +Then came a moment of weakness, of utter despair. Pascal dropped into a chair, +and asked himself what was the use of struggling, since the only beings he +loved allied themselves against him. Martine, who would have thrown herself +into the fire at a word from him, betraying him in this way for his good! And +Clotilde leagued with this servant, plotting with her against him in holes and +corners, seeking her aid to set traps for him! Now he was indeed alone; he had +around him only traitresses, who poisoned the very air he breathed. But these +two still loved him. He might perhaps have succeeded in softening them, but +when he knew that his mother urged them on, he understood their fierce +persistence, and he gave up the hope of winning them back. With the timidity of +a man who had spent his life in study, aloof from women, notwithstanding his +secret passion, the thought that they were there to oppose him, to attempt to +bend him to their will, overwhelmed him. He felt that some one of them was +always behind him. Even when he shut himself up in his room, he fancied that +they were on the other side of the wall; and he was constantly haunted by the +idea that they would rob him of his thought, if they could perceive it in his +brain, before he should have formulated it. +</p> + +<p> +This was assuredly the period in his life in which Dr. Pascal was most unhappy. +To live constantly on the defensive, as he was obliged to do, crushed him, and +it seemed to him as if the ground on which his house stood was no longer his, +as if it was receding from beneath his feet. He now regretted keenly that he +had not married, and that he had no children. Had not he himself been afraid of +life? And had he not been well punished for his selfishness? This regret for +not having children now never left him. His eyes now filled with tears whenever +he met on the road bright-eyed little girls who smiled at him. True, Clotilde +was there, but his affection for her was of a different kind—crossed at +present by storms—not a calm, infinitely sweet affection, like that for a +child with which he might have soothed his lacerated heart. And then, no doubt +what he desired in his isolation, feeling that his days were drawing to an end, +was above all, continuance; in a child he would survive, he would live forever. +The more he suffered, the greater the consolation he would have found in +bequeathing this suffering, in the faith which he still had in life. He +considered himself indemnified for the physiological defects of his family. But +even the thought that heredity sometimes passes over a generation, and that the +disorders of his ancestors might reappear in a child of his did not deter him; +and this unknown child, in spite of the old corrupt stock, in spite of the long +succession of execrable relations, he desired ardently at certain times: as one +desires unexpected gain, rare happiness, the stroke of fortune which is to +console and enrich forever. In the shock which his other affections had +received, his heart bled because it was too late. +</p> + +<p> +One sultry night toward the end of September, Pascal found himself unable to +sleep. He opened one of the windows of his room; the sky was dark, some storm +must be passing in the distance, for there was a continuous rumbling of +thunder. He could distinguish vaguely the dark mass of the plane trees, which +occasional flashes of lightning detached, in a dull green, from the darkness. +His soul was full of anguish; he lived over again the last unhappy days, days +of fresh quarrels, of torture caused by acts of treachery, by suspicions, which +grew stronger every day, when a sudden recollection made him start. In his fear +of being robbed, he had finally adopted the plan of carrying the key of the +large press in his pocket. But this afternoon, oppressed by the heat, he had +taken off his jacket, and he remembered having seen Clotilde hang it up on a +nail in the study. A sudden pang of terror shot through him, sharp and cold as +a steel point; if she had felt the key in the pocket she had stolen it. He +hastened to search the jacket which he had a little before thrown upon a chair; +the key was not here. At this very moment he was being robbed; he had the clear +conviction of it. Two o’clock struck. He did not again dress himself, +but, remaining in his trousers only, with his bare feet thrust into slippers, +his chest bare under his unfastened nightshirt, he hastily pushed open the +door, and rushed into the workroom, his candle in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I knew it,” he cried. “Thief! Assassin!” +</p> + +<p> +It was true; Clotilde was there, undressed like himself, her bare feet covered +by canvas slippers, her legs bare, her arms bare, her shoulders bare, clad only +in her chemise and a short skirt. Through caution, she had not brought a +candle. She had contented herself with opening one of the window shutters, and +the continual lightning flashes of the storm which was passing southward in the +dark sky, sufficed her, bathing everything in a livid phosphorescence. The old +press, with its broad sides, was wide open. Already she had emptied the top +shelf, taking down the papers in armfuls, and throwing them on the long table +in the middle of the room, where they lay in a confused heap. And with feverish +haste, fearing lest she should not have the time to burn them, she was making +them up into bundles, intending to hide them, and send them afterward to her +grandmother, when the sudden flare of the candle, lighting up the room, caused +her to stop short in an attitude of surprise and resistance. +</p> + +<p> +“You rob me; you assassinate me!” repeated Pascal furiously. +</p> + +<p> +She still held one of the bundles in her bare arms. He wished to take it away +from her, but she pressed it to her with all her strength, obstinately resolved +upon her work of destruction, without showing confusion or repentance, like a +combatant who has right upon his side. Then, madly, blindly, he threw himself +upon her, and they struggled together. He clutched her bare flesh so that he +hurt her. +</p> + +<p> +“Kill me!” she gasped. “Kill me, or I shall destroy +everything!” +</p> + +<p> +He held her close to him, with so rough a grasp that she could scarcely +breathe, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“When a child steals, it is punished!” +</p> + +<p> +A few drops of blood appeared and trickled down her rounded shoulder, where an +abrasion had cut the delicate satin skin. And, on the instant, seeing her so +breathless, so divine, in her virginal slender height, with her tapering limbs, +her supple arms, her slim body with its slender, firm throat, he released her. +By a last effort he tore the package from her. +</p> + +<p> +“And you shall help me to put them all up there again, by Heaven! Come +here: begin by arranging them on the table. Obey me, do you hear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, master!” +</p> + +<p> +She approached, and helped him to arrange the papers, subjugated, crushed by +this masculine grasp, which had entered into her flesh, as it were. The candle +which flared up in the heavy night air, lighted them; and the distant rolling +of the thunder still continued, the window facing the storm seeming on fire. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"></a> +V.</h2> + +<p> +For an instant Pascal looked at the papers, the heap of which seemed enormous, +lying thus in disorder on the long table that stood in the middle of the room. +In the confusion several of the blue paper envelopes had burst open, and their +contents had fallen out—letters, newspaper clippings, documents on +stamped paper, and manuscript notes. +</p> + +<p> +He was already mechanically beginning to seek out the names written on the +envelopes in large characters, to classify the packages again, when, with an +abrupt gesture, he emerged from the somber meditation into which he had fallen. +And turning to Clotilde who stood waiting, pale, silent, and erect, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to me; I have always forbidden you to read these papers, and I +know that you have obeyed me. Yes, I had scruples of delicacy. It is not that +you are an ignorant girl, like so many others, for I have allowed you to learn +everything concerning man and woman, which is assuredly bad only for bad +natures. But to what end disclose to you too early these terrible truths of +human life? I have therefore spared you the history of our family, which is the +history of every family, of all humanity; a great deal of evil and a great deal +of good.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused as if to confirm himself in his resolution and then resumed quite +calmly and with supreme energy: +</p> + +<p> +“You are twenty-five years old; you ought to know. And then the life we +are leading is no longer possible. You live and you make me live in a constant +nightmare, with your ecstatic dreams. I prefer to show you the reality, however +execrable it may be. Perhaps the blow which it will inflict upon you will make +of you the woman you ought to be. We will classify these papers again together, +and read them, and learn from them a terrible lesson of life!” +</p> + +<p> +Then, as she still continued motionless, he resumed: +</p> + +<p> +“Come, we must be able to see well. Light those other two candles +there.” +</p> + +<p> +He was seized by a desire for light, a flood of light; he would have desired +the blinding light of the sun; and thinking that the light of the three candles +was not sufficient, he went into his room for a pair of three-branched +candelabra which were there. The nine candles were blazing, yet neither of +them, in their disorder—he with his chest bare, she with her left +shoulder stained with blood, her throat and arms bare—saw the other. It +was past two o’clock, but neither of them had any consciousness of the +hour; they were going to spend the night in this eager desire for knowledge, +without feeling the need of sleep, outside time and space. The mutterings of +the storm, which, through the open window, they could see gathering, grew +louder and louder. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde had never before seen in Pascal’s eyes the feverish light which +burned in them now. He had been overworking himself for some time past, and his +mental sufferings made him at times abrupt, in spite of his good-natured +complacency. But it seemed as if an infinite tenderness, trembling with +fraternal pity, awoke within him, now that he was about to plunge into the +painful truths of existence; and it was something emanating from himself, +something very great and very good which was to render innocuous the terrible +avalanche of facts which was impending. He was determined that he would reveal +everything, since it was necessary that he should do so in order to remedy +everything. Was not this an unanswerable, a final argument for evolution, the +story of these beings who were so near to them? Such was life, and it must be +lived. Doubtless she would emerge from it like the steel tempered by the fire, +full of tolerance and courage. +</p> + +<p> +“They are setting you against me,” he resumed; “they are +making you commit abominable acts, and I wish to restore your conscience to +you. When you know, you will judge and you will act. Come here, and read with +me.” +</p> + +<p> +She obeyed. But these papers, about which her grandmother had spoken so +angrily, frightened her a little; while a curiosity that grew with every moment +awoke within her. And then, dominated though she was by the virile authority +which had just constrained and subjugated her, she did not yet yield. But might +she not listen to him, read with him? Did she not retain the right to refuse or +to give herself afterward? He spoke at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you come?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, master, I will.” +</p> + +<p> +He showed her first the genealogical tree of the Rougon-Macquarts. He did not +usually lock it in the press, but kept it in the desk in his room, from which +he had taken it when he went there for the candelabra. For more than twenty +years past he had kept it up to date, inscribing the births, deaths, marriages, +and other important events that had taken place in the family, making brief +notes in each case, in accordance with his theory of heredity. +</p> + +<p> +It was a large sheet of paper, yellow with age, with folds cut by wear, on +which was drawn boldly a symbolical tree, whose branches spread and subdivided +into five rows of broad leaves; and each leaf bore a name, and contained, in +minute handwriting, a biography, a hereditary case. +</p> + +<p> +A scientist’s joy took possession of the doctor at sight of this labor of +twenty years, in which the laws of heredity established by him were so clearly +and so completely applied. +</p> + +<p> +“Look, child! You know enough about the matter, you have copied enough of +my notes to understand. Is it not beautiful? A document so complete, so +conclusive, in which there is not a gap? It is like an experiment made in the +laboratory, a problem stated and solved on the blackboard. You see below, the +trunk, the common stock, Aunt Dide; then the three branches issuing from it, +the legitimate branch, Pierre Rougon, and the two illegitimate branches, Ursule +Macquart and Antoine Macquart; then, new branches arise, and ramify, on one +side, Maxime, Clotilde, and Victor, the three children of Saccard, and +Angelique, the daughter of Sidonie Rougon; on the other, Pauline, the daughter +of Lisa Macquart, and Claude, Jacques, Étienne, and Anna, the four children of +Gervaise, her sister; there, at the extremity, is Jean, their brother, and here +in the middle, you see what I call the knot, the legitimate issue and the +illegitimate issue, uniting in Marthe Rougon and her cousin François Mouret, to +give rise to three new branches, Octave, Serge, and Désirée Mouret; while there +is also the issue of Ursule and the hatter Mouret; Silvère, whose tragic death +you know; Hélène and her daughter Jean; finally, at the top are the latest +offshoots, our poor Charles, your brother Maxime’s son, and two other +children, who are dead, Jacques Louis, the son of Claude Lantier, and Louiset, +the son of Anna Coupeau. In all five generations, a human tree which, for five +springs already, five springtides of humanity, has sent forth shoots, at the +impulse of the sap of eternal life.” +</p> + +<p> +He became more and more animated, pointing out each case on the sheet of old +yellow paper, as if it were an anatomical chart. +</p> + +<p> +“And as I have already said, everything is here. You see in direct +heredity, the differentiations, that of the mother, Silvère, Lisa, Désirée, +Jacques, Louiset, yourself; that of the father, Sidonie, François, Gervaise, +Octave, Jacques, Louis. Then there are the three cases of crossing: by +conjugation, Ursule, Aristide, Anna, Victor; by dissemination, Maxime, Serge, +Étienne; by fusion, Antoine, Eugène, Claude. I even noted a fourth case, a very +remarkable one, an even cross, Pierre and Pauline; and varieties are +established, the differentiation of the mother, for example, often accords with +the physical resemblance of the father; or, it is the contrary which takes +place, so that, in the crossing, the physical and mental predominance remains +with one parent or the other, according to circumstances. Then here is indirect +heredity, that of the collateral branches. I have but one well established +example of this, the striking personal resemblance of Octave Mouret to his +uncle Eugène Rougon. I have also but one example of transmission by influence, +Anna, the daughter of Gervaise and Coupeau, who bore a striking resemblance, +especially in her childhood, to Lantier, her mother’s first lover. But +what I am very rich in is in examples of reversion to the original +stock—the three finest cases, Marthe, Jeanne, and Charles, resembling +Aunt Dide; the resemblance thus passing over one, two, and three generations. +This is certainly exceptional, for I scarcely believe in atavism; it seems to +me that the new elements brought by the partners, accidents, and the infinite +variety of crossings must rapidly efface particular characteristics, so as to +bring back the individual to the general type. And there remains +variation—Hélène, Jean, Angelique. This is the combination, the chemical +mixture in which the physical and mental characteristics of the parents are +blended, without any of their traits seeming to reappear in the new +being.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a moment. Clotilde had listened to him with profound +attention, wishing to understand. And he remained absorbed in thought, his eyes +still fixed on the tree, in the desire to judge his work impartially. He then +continued in a low tone, as if speaking to himself: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that is as scientific as possible. I have placed there only the +members of the family, and I had to give an equal part to the partners, to the +fathers and mothers come from outside, whose blood has mingled with ours, and +therefore modified it. I had indeed made a mathematically exact tree, the +father and the mother bequeathing themselves, by halves, to the child, from +generation to generation, so that in Charles, for example, Aunt Dide’s +part would have been only a twelfth—which would be absurd, since the +physical resemblance is there complete. I have therefore thought it sufficient +to indicate the elements come from elsewhere, taking into account marriages and +the new factor which each introduced. Ah! these sciences that are yet in their +infancy, in which hypothesis speaks stammeringly, and imagination rules, these +are the domain of the poet as much as of the scientist. Poets go as pioneers in +the advance guard, and they often discover new countries, suggesting solutions. +There is there a borderland which belongs to them, between the conquered, the +definitive truth, and the unknown, whence the truth of to-morrow will be torn. +What an immense fresco there is to be painted, what a stupendous human tragedy, +what a comedy there is to be written with heredity, which is the very genesis +of families, of societies, and of the world!” +</p> + +<p> +His eyes fixed on vacancy, he remained for a time lost in thought. Then, with +an abrupt movement, he came back to the envelopes and, pushing the tree aside, +said: +</p> + +<p> +“We will take it up again presently; for, in order that you may +understand now, it is necessary that events should pass in review before you, +and that you should see in action all these actors ticketed here, each one +summed up in a brief note. I will call for the envelopes, you will hand them to +me one by one, and I will show you the papers in each, and tell you their +contents, before putting it away again up there on the shelf. I will not follow +the alphabetical order, but the order of events themselves. I have long wished +to make this classification. Come, look for the names on the envelopes; Aunt +Dide first.” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment the edge of the storm which lighted up the sky caught La +Souleiade slantingly, and burst over the house in a deluge of rain. But they +did not even close the window. They heard neither the peals of thunder nor the +ceaseless beating of the rain upon the roof. She handed him the envelope +bearing the name of Aunt Dide in large characters; and he took from it papers +of all sorts, notes taken by him long ago, which he proceeded to read. +</p> + +<p> +“Hand me Pierre Rougon. Hand me Ursule Macquart. Hand me Antoine +Macquart.” +</p> + +<p> +Silently she obeyed him, her heart oppressed by a dreadful anguish at all she +was hearing. And the envelopes were passed on, displayed their contents, and +were piled up again in the press. +</p> + +<p> +First was the foundress of the family, Adelaïde Fouqué, the tall, crazy girl, +the first nervous lesion giving rise to the legitimate branch, Pierre Rougon, +and to the two illegitimate branches, Ursule and Antoine Macquart, all that +<i>bourgeois</i> and sanguinary tragedy, with the <i>coup d’etat</i> of +December, 1854, for a background, the Rougons, Pierre and Félicité, preserving +order at Plassans, bespattering with the blood of Silvère their rising +fortunes, while Adelaïde, grown old, the miserable Aunt Dide, was shut up in +the Tulettes, like a specter of expiation and of waiting. +</p> + +<p> +Then like a pack of hounds, the appetites were let loose. The supreme appetite +of power in Eugène Rougon, the great man, the disdainful genius of the family, +free from base interests, loving power for its own sake, conquering Paris in +old boots with the adventurers of the coming Empire, rising from the +legislative body to the senate, passing from the presidency of the council of +state to the portfolio of minister; made by his party, a hungry crowd of +followers, who at the same time supported and devoured him; conquered for an +instant by a woman, the beautiful Clorinde, with whom he had been imbecile +enough to fall in love, but having so strong a will, and burning with so +vehement a desire to rule, that he won back power by giving the lie to his +whole life, marching to his triumphal sovereignty of vice emperor. +</p> + +<p> +With Aristide Saccard, appetite ran to low pleasures, the whole hot quarry of +money, luxury, women—a devouring hunger which left him homeless, at the +time when millions were changing hands, when the whirlwind of wild speculation +was blowing through the city, tearing down everywhere to construct anew, when +princely fortunes were made, squandered, and remade in six months; a greed of +gold whose ever increasing fury carried him away, causing him, almost before +the body of his wife Angèle was cold in death, to sell his name, in order to +have the first indispensable thousand francs, by marrying Renée. And it was +Saccard, too, who, a few years later, put in motion the immense money-press of +the Banque Universelle. Saccard, the never vanquished; Saccard, grown more +powerful, risen to be the clever and daring grand financier, comprehending the +fierce and civilizing role that money plays, fighting, winning, and losing +battles on the Bourse, like Napoleon at Austerlitz and Waterloo; engulfing in +disaster a world of miserable people; sending forth into the unknown realms of +crime his natural son Victor, who disappeared, fleeing through the dark night, +while he himself, under the impassable protection of unjust nature, was loved +by the adorable Mme. Caroline, no doubt in recompense of all the evil he had +done. +</p> + +<p> +Here a tall, spotless lily had bloomed in this compost, Sidonie Rougon, the +sycophant of her brother, the go-between in a hundred suspicious affairs, +giving birth to the pure and divine Angelique, the little embroiderer with +fairylike fingers who worked into the gold of the chasubles the dream of her +Prince Charming, so happy among her companions the saints, so little made for +the hard realities of life, that she obtained the grace of dying of love, on +the day of her marriage, at the first kiss of Félicien de Hautecœur, in the +triumphant peal of bells ringing for her splendid nuptials. +</p> + +<p> +The union of the two branches, the legitimate and the illegitimate, took place +then, Marthe Rougon espousing her cousin François Mouret, a peaceful household +slowly disunited, ending in the direst catastrophes—a sad and gentle +woman taken, made use of, and crushed in the vast machine of war erected for +the conquest of a city; her three children torn from her, she herself leaving +her heart in the rude grasp of the Abbé Faujas. And the Rougons saved Plassans +a second time, while she was dying in the glare of the conflagration in which +her husband was being consumed, mad with long pent-up rage and the desire for +revenge. +</p> + +<p> +Of the three children, Octave Mouret was the audacious conqueror, the clear +intellect, resolved to demand from the women the sovereignty of Paris, fallen +at his <i>début</i> into the midst of a corrupt <i>bourgeois</i> society, +acquiring there a terrible sentimental education, passing from the capricious +refusal of one woman to the unresisting abandonment of another, remaining, +fortunately, active, laborious, and combative, gradually emerging, and improved +even, from the low plotting, the ceaseless ferment of a rotten society that +could be heard already cracking to its foundations. And Octave Mouret, +victorious, revolutionized commerce; swallowed up the cautious little shops +that carried on business in the old-fashioned way; established in the midst of +feverish Paris the colossal palace of temptation, blazing with lights, +overflowing with velvets, silks, and laces; won fortunes exploiting woman; +lived in smiling scorn of woman until the day when a little girl, the avenger +of her sex, the innocent and wise Denise, vanquished him and held him captive +at her feet, groaning with anguish, until she did him the favor, she who was so +poor, to marry him in the midst of the apotheosis of his Louvre, under the +golden shower of his receipts. +</p> + +<p> +There remained the two other children, Serge Mouret and Désirée Mouret, the +latter innocent and healthy, like some happy young animal; the former refined +and mystical, who was thrown into the priesthood by a nervous malady hereditary +in his family, and who lived again the story of Adam, in the Eden of Le +Paradou. He was born again to love Albine, and to lose her, in the bosom of +sublime nature, their accomplice; to be recovered, afterward by the Church, to +war eternally with life, striving to kill his manhood, throwing on the body of +the dead Albine the handful of earth, as officiating priest, at the very time +when Désirée, the sister and friend of animals, was rejoicing in the midst of +the swarming life of her poultry yard. +</p> + +<p> +Further on there opened a calm glimpse of gentle and tragic life, Hélène Mouret +living peacefully with her little girl, Jeanne, on the heights of Passy, +overlooking Paris, the bottomless, boundless human sea, in face of which was +unrolled this page of love: the sudden passion of Hélène for a stranger, a +physician, brought one night by chance to the bedside of her daughter; the +morbid jealousy of Jeanne—the instinctive jealousy of a loving +girl—disputing her mother with love, her mother already so wasted by her +unhappy passion that the daughter died because of her fault; terrible price of +one hour of desire in the entire cold and discreet life of a woman, poor dead +child, lying alone in the silent cemetery, in face of eternal Paris. +</p> + +<p> +With Lisa Macquart began the illegitimate branch; appearing fresh and strong in +her, as she displayed her portly, prosperous figure, sitting at the door of her +pork shop in a light colored apron, watching the central market, where the +hunger of a people muttered, the age-long battle of the Fat and the Lean, the +lean Florent, her brother-in-law, execrated, and set upon by the fat fishwomen +and the fat shopwomen, and whom even the fat pork-seller herself, honest, but +unforgiving, caused to be arrested as a republican who had broken his ban, +convinced that she was laboring for the good digestion of all honest people. +</p> + +<p> +From this mother sprang the sanest, the most human of girls, Pauline Quenu, the +well-balanced, the reasonable, the virgin; who, knowing everything, accepted +the joy of living in so ardent a love for others that, in spite of the revolt +of her youthful heart, she resigned to her friend her cousin and betrothed, +Lazare, and afterward saved the child of the disunited household, becoming its +true mother; always triumphant, always gay, notwithstanding her sacrificed and +ruined life, in her monotonous solitude, facing the great sea, in the midst of +a little world of sufferers groaning with pain, but who did not wish to die. +</p> + +<p> +Then came Gervaise Macquart with her four children: bandy-legged, pretty, and +industrious Gervaise, whom her lover Lantier turned into the street in the +faubourg, where she met the zinc worker Coupeau, the skilful, steady workman +whom she married, and with whom she lived so happily at first, having three +women working in her laundry, but afterward sinking with her husband, as was +inevitable, to the degradation of her surroundings. He, gradually conquered by +alcohol, brought by it to madness and death; she herself perverted, become a +slattern, her moral ruin completed by the return of Lantier, living in the +tranquil ignominy of a household of three, thenceforward the wretched victim of +want, her accomplice, to which she at last succumbed, dying one night of +starvation. +</p> + +<p> +Her eldest son, Claude, had the unhappy genius of a great painter struck with +madness, the impotent madness of feeling within him the masterpiece to which +his fingers refused to give shape; a giant wrestler always defeated, a +crucified martyr to his work, adoring woman, sacrificing his wife Christine, so +loving and for a time so beloved, to the increate, divine woman of his visions, +but whom his pencil was unable to delineate in her nude perfection, possessed +by a devouring passion for producing, an insatiable longing to create, a +longing so torturing when it could not be satisfied, that he ended it by +hanging himself. +</p> + +<p> +Jacques brought crime, the hereditary taint being transmuted in him into an +instinctive appetite for blood, the young and fresh blood from the gashed +throat of a woman, the first comer, the passer-by in the street: a horrible +malady against which he struggled, but which took possession of him again in +the course of his <i>amour</i> with the submissive and sensual Severine, whom a +tragic story of assassination caused to live in constant terror, and whom he +stabbed one evening in an excess of frenzy, maddened by the sight of her white +throat. Then this savage human beast rushed among the trains filing past +swiftly, and mounted the snorting engine of which he was the engineer, the +beloved engine which was one day to crush him to atoms, and then, left without +a guide, to rush furiously off into space braving unknown disasters. +</p> + +<p> +Étienne, in his turn driven out, arrived in the black country on a freezing +night in March, descended into the voracious pit, fell in love with the +melancholy Catherine, of whom a ruffian robbed him; lived with the miners their +gloomy life of misery and base promiscuousness, until one day when hunger, +prompting rebellion, sent across the barren plain a howling mob of wretches who +demanded bread, tearing down and burning as they went, under the menace of the +guns of the band that went off of themselves, a terrible convulsion announcing +the end of the world. The avenging blood of the Maheus was to rise up later; of +Alzire dead of starvation, Maheu killed by a bullet, Zacharie killed by an +explosion of fire-damp, Catherine under the ground. La Maheude alone survived +to weep her dead, descending again into the mine to earn her thirty sons, while +Étienne, the beaten chief of the band, haunted by the dread of future demands, +went away on a warm April morning, listening to the secret growth of the new +world whose germination was soon to dazzle the earth. +</p> + +<p> +Nana then became the avenger; the girl born among the social filth of the +faubourgs; the golden fly sprung from the rottenness below, that was tolerated +and concealed, carrying in the fluttering of its wings the ferment of +destruction, rising and contaminating the aristocracy, poisoning men only by +alighting upon them, in the palaces through whose windows it entered; the +unconscious instrument of ruin and death—fierce flame of Vandeuvres, the +melancholy fate of Foucarmont, lost in the Chinese waters, the disaster of +Steiner, reduced to live as an honest man, the imbecility of La Faloise and the +tragic ruin of the Muffats, and the white corpse of Georges, watched by +Philippe, come out of prison the day before, when the air of the epoch was so +contaminated that she herself was infected, and died of malignant smallpox, +caught at the death-bed of her son Louiset, while Paris passed beneath her +windows, intoxicated, possessed by the frenzy of war, rushing to general ruin. +</p> + +<p> +Lastly comes Jean Macquart, the workman and soldier become again a peasant, +fighting with the hard earth, which exacts that every grain of corn shall be +purchased with a drop of sweat, fighting, above all, with the country people, +whom covetousness and the long and difficult battle with the soil cause to burn +with the desire, incessantly stimulated, of possession. Witness the Fouans, +grown old, parting with their fields as if they were parting with their flesh; +the Buteaus in their eager greed committing parricide, to hasten the +inheritance of a field of lucern; the stubborn Françoise dying from the stroke +of a scythe, without speaking, rather than that a sod should go out of the +family—all this drama of simple natures governed by instinct, scarcely +emerged from primitive barbarism—all this human filth on the great earth, +which alone remains immortal, the mother from whom they issue and to whom they +return again, she whom they love even to crime, who continually remakes life, +for its unknown end, even with the misery and the abomination of the beings she +nourishes. And it was Jean, too, who, become a widower and having enlisted +again at the first rumor of war, brought the inexhaustible reserve, the stock +of eternal rejuvenation which the earth keeps; Jean, the humblest, the +staunchest soldier at the final downfall, swept along in the terrible and fatal +storm which, from the frontier to Sedan, in sweeping away the Empire, +threatened to sweep away the country; always wise, circumspect, firm in his +hope, loving with fraternal affection his comrade Maurice, the demented child +of the people, the holocaust doomed to expiation, weeping tears of blood when +inexorable destiny chose himself to hew off this rotten limb, and after all had +ended—the continual defeats, the frightful civil war, the lost provinces, +the thousands of millions of francs to pay—taking up the march again, +notwithstanding, returning to the land which awaited him, to the great and +difficult task of making a new France. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal paused; Clotilde had handed him all the packages, one by one, and he had +gone over them all, laid bare the contents of all, classified them anew, and +placed them again on the top shelf of the press. He was out of breath, +exhausted by his swift course through all this humanity, while, without voice, +without movement, the young girl, stunned by this overflowing torrent of life, +waited still, incapable of thought or judgment. The rain still beat furiously +upon the dark fields. The lightning had just struck a tree in the neighborhood, +that had split with a terrible crash. The candles flared up in the wind that +came in from the open window. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he resumed, pointing to the papers again, “there is a +world in itself, a society, a civilization, the whole of life is there, with +its manifestations, good and bad, in the heat and labor of the forge which +shapes everything. Yes, our family of itself would suffice as an example to +science, which will perhaps one day establish with mathematical exactness the +laws governing the diseases of the blood and nerves that show themselves in a +race, after a first organic lesion, and that determine, according to +environment, the sentiments, desires, and passions of each individual of that +race, all the human, natural and instinctive manifestations which take the +names of virtues and vices. And it is also a historical document, it relates +the story of the Second Empire, from the <i>coup d’etat</i> to Sedan; for +our family spring from the people, they spread themselves through the whole of +contemporary society, invaded every place, impelled by their unbridled +appetites, by that impulse, essentially modern, that eager desire that urges +the lower classes to enjoyment, in their ascent through the social strata. We +started, as I have said, from Plassans, and here we are now arrived once more +at Plassans.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused again, and then resumed in a low, dreamy voice: +</p> + +<p> +“What an appalling mass stirred up! how many passions, how many joys, how +many sufferings crammed into this colossal heap of facts! There is pure +history: the Empire founded in blood, at first pleasure-loving and despotic, +conquering rebellious cities, then gliding to a slow disintegration, dissolving +in blood—in such a sea of blood that the entire nation came near being +swamped in it. There are social studies: wholesale and retail trade, +prostitution, crime, land, money, the <i>bourgeoisie</i>, the people—that +people who rot in the sewer of the faubourgs, who rebel in the great industrial +centers, all that ever-increasing growth of mighty socialism, big with the new +century. There are simple human studies: domestic pages, love stories, the +struggle of minds and hearts against unjust nature, the destruction of those +who cry out under their too difficult task, the cry of virtue immolating +itself, victorious over pain, There are fancies, flights of the imagination +beyond the real: vast gardens always in bloom, cathedrals with slender, +exquisitely wrought spires, marvelous tales come down from paradise, ideal +affections remounting to heaven in a kiss. There is everything: the good and +the bad, the vulgar and the sublime, flowers, mud, blood, laughter, the torrent +of life itself, bearing humanity endlessly on!” +</p> + +<p> +He took up again the genealogical tree which had remained neglected on the +table, spread it out and began to go over it once more with his finger, +enumerating now the members of the family who were still living: Eugène Rougon, +a fallen majesty, who remained in the Chamber, the witness, the impassible +defender of the old world swept away at the downfall of the Empire. Aristide +Saccard, who, after having changed his principles, had fallen upon his feet a +republican, the editor of a great journal, on the way to make new millions, +while his natural son Victor, who had never reappeared, was living still in the +shade, since he was not in the galleys, cast forth by the world into the +future, into the unknown, like a human beast foaming with the hereditary virus, +who must communicate his malady with every bite he gives. Sidonie Rougon, who +had for a time disappeared, weary of disreputable affairs, had lately retired +to a sort of religious house, where she was living in monastic austerity, the +treasurer of the Marriage Fund, for aiding in the marriage of girls who were +mothers. Octave Mouret, proprietor of the great establishment <i>Au Bonheur des +Dames</i>, whose colossal fortune still continued increasing, had had, toward +the end of the winter, a third child by his wife Denise Baudu, whom he adored, +although his mind was beginning to be deranged again. The Abbé Mouret, curé at +St. Eutrope, in the heart of a marshy gorge, lived there in great retirement, +and very modestly, with his sister Désirée, refusing all advancement from his +bishop, and waiting for death like a holy man, rejecting all medicines, +although he was already suffering from consumption in its first stage. Hélène +Mouret was living very happily in seclusion with her second husband, M. +Rambaud, on the little estate which they owned near Marseilles, on the +seashore; she had had no child by her second husband. Pauline Quenu was still +at Bonneville at the other extremity of France, in face of the vast ocean, +alone with little Paul, since the death of Uncle Chanteau, having resolved +never to marry, in order to devote herself entirely to the son of her cousin +Lazare, who had become a widower and had gone to America to make a fortune. +Étienne Lantier, returning to Paris after the strike at Montsou, had +compromised himself later in the insurrection of the Commune, whose principles +he had defended with ardor; he had been condemned to death, but his sentence +being commuted was transported and was now at Nouméa. It was even said that he +had married immediately on his arrival there, and that he had had a child, the +sex of which, however, was not known with certainty. Finally, Jean Macquart, +who had received his discharge after the Bloody Week, had settled at +Valqueyras, near Plassans, where he had had the good fortune to marry a healthy +girl, Mélanie Vial, the daughter of a well-to-do peasant, whose lands he +farmed, and his wife had borne him a son in May. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is true,” he resumed, in a low voice; “races +degenerate. There is here a veritable exhaustion, rapid deterioration, as if +our family, in their fury of enjoyment, in the gluttonous satisfaction of their +appetites, had consumed themselves too quickly. Louiset, dead in infancy; +Jacques Louis, a half imbecile, carried off by a nervous disease; Victor +returned to the savage state, wandering about in who knows what dark places; +our poor Charles, so beautiful and so frail; these are the latest branches of +the tree, the last pale offshoots into which the puissant sap of the larger +branches seems to have been unable to mount. The worm was in the trunk, it has +ascended into the fruit, and is devouring it. But one must never despair; +families are a continual growth. They go back beyond the common ancestor, into +the unfathomable strata of the races that have lived, to the first being; and +they will put forth new shoots without end, they will spread and ramify to +infinity, through future ages. Look at our tree; it counts only five +generations. It has not so much importance as a blade of grass, even, in the +human forest, vast and dark, of which the peoples are the great secular oaks. +Think only of the immense roots which spread through the soil; think of the +continual putting forth of new leaves above, which mingle with other leaves of +the ever-rolling sea of treetops, at the fructifying, eternal breath of life. +Well, hope lies there, in the daily reconstruction of the race by the new blood +which comes from without. Each marriage brings other elements, good or bad, of +which the effect is, however, to prevent certain and progressive regeneration. +Breaches are repaired, faults effaced, an equilibrium is inevitably +re-established at the end of a few generations, and it is the average man that +always results; vague humanity, obstinately pursuing its mysterious labor, +marching toward its unknown end.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused, and heaved a deep sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! our family, what is it going to become; in what being will it +finally end?” +</p> + +<p> +He continued, not now taking into account the survivors whom he had just named; +having classified these, he knew what they were capable of, but he was full of +keen curiosity regarding the children who were still infants. He had written to +a <i>confrère</i> in Nouméa for precise information regarding the wife whom +Étienne had lately married there, and the child which she had had, but he had +heard nothing, and he feared greatly that on that side the tree would remain +incomplete. He was more fully furnished with documents regarding the two +children of Octave Mouret, with whom he continued to correspond; the little +girl was growing up puny and delicate, while the little boy, who strongly +resembled his mother, had developed superbly, and was perfectly healthy. His +strongest hope, besides these, was in Jean’s children, the eldest of whom +was a magnificent boy, full of the youthful vigor of the races that go back to +the soil to regenerate themselves. Pascal occasionally went to Valqueyras, and +he returned happy from that fertile spot, where the father, quiet and rational, +was always at his plow, the mother cheerful and simple, with her vigorous +frame, capable of bearing a world. Who knew what sound branch was to spring +from that side? Perhaps the wise and puissant of the future were to germinate +there. The worst of it, for the beauty of his tree, was that all these little +boys and girls were still so young that he could not classify them. And his +voice grew tender as he spoke of this hope of the future, these fair-haired +children, in the unavowed regret for his celibacy. +</p> + +<p> +Still contemplating the tree spread out before him, he cried: +</p> + +<p> +“And yet it is complete, it is decisive. Look! I repeat to you that all +hereditary cases are to be found there. To establish my theory, I had only to +base it on the collection of these facts. And indeed, the marvelous thing is +that there you can put your finger on the cause why creatures born of the same +stock can appear radically different, although they are only logical +modifications of common ancestors. The trunk explains the branches, and these +explain the leaves. In your father Saccard and your Uncle Eugène Rougon, so +different in their temperaments and their lives, it is the same impulse which +made the inordinate appetites of the one and the towering ambition of the +other. Angelique, that pure lily, is born from the disreputable Sidonie, in the +rapture which makes mystics or lovers, according to the environment. The three +children of the Mourets are born of the same breath which makes of the clever +Octave the dry goods merchant, a millionaire; of the devout Serge, a poor +country priest; of the imbecile Désirée, a beautiful and happy girl. But the +example is still more striking in the children of Gervaise; the neurosis passes +down, and Nana sells herself; Étienne is a rebel; Jacques, a murderer; Claude, +a genius; while Pauline, their cousin german, near by, is victorious +virtue—virtue which struggles and immolates itself. It is heredity, life +itself which makes imbeciles, madmen, criminals and great men. Cells abort, +others take their place, and we have a scoundrel or a madman instead of a man +of genius, or simply an honest man. And humanity rolls on, bearing everything +on its tide.” +</p> + +<p> +Then in a new shifting of his thought, growing still more animated, he +continued: +</p> + +<p> +“And animals—the beast that suffers and that loves, which is the +rough sketch, as it were, of man—all the animals our brothers, that live +our life, yes, I would have put them in the ark, I would give them a place +among our family, show them continually mingling with us, completing our +existence. I have known cats whose presence was the mysterious charm of the +household; dogs that were adored, whose death was mourned, and left in the +heart an inconsolable grief. I have known goats, cows, and asses of very great +importance, and whose personality played such a part that their history ought +to be written. And there is our Bonhomme, our poor old horse, that has served +us for a quarter of a century. Do you not think that he has mingled his life +with ours, and that henceforth he is one of the family? We have modified him, +as he has influenced us a little; we shall end by being made in the same image, +and this is so true that now, when I see him, half blind, with wandering gaze, +his legs stiff with rheumatism, I kiss him on both cheeks as if he were a poor +old relation who had fallen to my charge. Ah, animals, all creeping and +crawling things, all creatures that lament, below man, how large a place in our +sympathies it would be necessary to give them in a history of life!” +</p> + +<p> +This was a last cry in which Pascal gave utterance to his passionate tenderness +for all created beings. He had gradually become more and more excited, and had +so come to make this confession of his faith in the continuous and victorious +work of animated nature. And Clotilde, who thus far had not spoken, pale from +the catastrophe in which her plans had ended, at last opened her lips to ask: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, master, and what am I here?” +</p> + +<p> +She placed one of her slender fingers on the leaf of the tree on which she saw +her name written. He had always passed this leaf by. She insisted. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I; what am I? Why have you not read me my envelope?” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment he remained silent, as if surprised at the question. +</p> + +<p> +“Why? For no reason. It is true, I have nothing to conceal from you. You +see what is written here? ‘Clotilde, born in 1847. Selection of the +mother. Reversional heredity, with moral and physical predominance of the +maternal grandfather.’ Nothing can be clearer. Your mother has +predominated in you; you have her fine intelligence, and you have also +something of her coquetry, at times of her indolence and of her submissiveness. +Yes, you are very feminine, like her. Without your being aware of it, I would +say that you love to be loved. Besides, your mother was a great novel reader, +an imaginative being who loved to spend whole days dreaming over a book; she +doted on nursery tales, had her fortune told by cards, consulted clairvoyants; +and I have always thought that your concern about spiritual matters, your +anxiety about the unknown, came from that source. But what completed your +character by giving you a dual nature, was the influence of your grandfather, +Commandant Sicardot. I knew him; he was not a genius, but he had at least a +great deal of uprightness and energy. Frankly, if it were not for him, I do not +believe that you would be worth much, for the other influences are hardly good. +He has given you the best part of your nature, combativeness, pride, and +frankness.” +</p> + +<p> +She had listened to him with attention. She nodded slightly, to signify that it +was indeed so, that she was not offended, although her lips trembled visibly at +these new details regarding her people and her mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she resumed, “and you, master?” +</p> + +<p> +This time he did not hesitate. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I!” he cried, “what is the use of speaking of me? I do +not belong to the family. You see what is written here. ‘Pascal, born in +1813. Individual variation. Combination in which the physical and moral +characters of the parents are blended, without any of their traits seeming to +appear in the new being.’ My mother has told me often enough that I did +not belong to it, that in truth she did not know where I could have come +from.” +</p> + +<p> +Those words came from him like a cry of relief, of involuntary joy. +</p> + +<p> +“And the people make no mistake in the matter. Have you ever heard me +called Pascal Rougon in the town? No; people always say simply Dr. Pascal. It +is because I stand apart. And it may not be very affectionate to feel so, but I +am delighted at it, for there are in truth inheritances too heavy to bear. It +is of no use that I love them all. My heart beats none the less joyously when I +feel myself another being, different from them, without any community with +them. Not to be of them, my God! not to be of them! It is a breath of pure air; +it is what gives me the courage to have them all here, to put them, in all +their nakedness, in their envelopes, and still to find the courage to +live!” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped, and there was silence for a time. The rain had ceased, the storm +was passing away, the thunderclaps sounded more and more distant, while from +the refreshed fields, still dark, there came in through the open window a +delicious odor of moist earth. In the calm air the candles were burning out +with a tall, tranquil flame. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Clotilde simply, with a gesture of discouragement, +“what are we to become finally?” +</p> + +<p> +She had declared it to herself one night, in the threshing yard; life was +horrible, how could one live peaceful and happy? It was a terrible light that +science threw on the world. Analysis searched every wound of humanity, in order +to expose its horror. And now he had spoken still more bluntly; he had +increased the disgust which she had for persons and things, pitilessly +dissecting her family. The muddy torrent had rolled on before her for nearly +three hours, and she had heard the most dreadful revelations, the harsh and +terrible truth about her people, her people who were so dear to her, whom it +was her duty to love; her father grown powerful through pecuniary crimes; her +brother dissolute; her grandmother unscrupulous, covered with the blood of the +just; the others almost all tainted, drunkards, ruffians, murderers, the +monstrous blossoming of the human tree. +</p> + +<p> +The blow had been so rude that she could not yet recover from it, stunned as +she was by the revelation of her whole family history, made to her in this way +at a stroke. And yet the lesson was rendered innocuous, so to say, by something +great and good, a breath of profound humanity which had borne her through it. +Nothing bad had come to her from it. She felt herself beaten by a sharp sea +wind, the storm wind which strengthens and expands the lungs. He had revealed +everything, speaking freely even of his mother, without judging her, continuing +to preserve toward her his deferential attitude, as a scientist who does not +judge events. To tell everything in order to know everything, in order to +remedy everything, was not this the cry which he had uttered on that beautiful +summer night? +</p> + +<p> +And by the very excess of what he had just revealed to her, she remained +shaken, blinded by this too strong light, but understanding him at last, and +confessing to herself that he was attempting in this an immense work. In spite +of everything, it was a cry of health, of hope in the future. He spoke as a +benefactor who, since heredity made the world, wished to fix its laws, in order +to control it, and to make a new and happy world. Was there then only mud in +this overflowing stream, whose sluices he had opened? How much gold had passed, +mingled with the grass and the flowers on its borders? Hundreds of beings were +still flying swiftly before her, and she was haunted by good and charming +faces, delicate girlish profiles, by the serene beauty of women. All passion +bled there, hearts swelled with every tender rapture. They were numerous, the +Jeannes, the Angeliques, the Paulines, the Marthes, the Gervaises, the Hélènes. +They and others, even those who were least good, even terrible men, the worst +of the band, showed a brotherhood with humanity. +</p> + +<p> +And it was precisely this breath which she had felt pass, this broad current of +sympathy, that he had introduced naturally into his exact scientific lesson. He +did not seem to be moved; he preserved the impersonal and correct attitude of +the demonstrator, but within him what tender suffering, what a fever of +devotion, what a giving up of his whole being to the happiness of others? His +entire work, constructed with such mathematical precision, was steeped in this +fraternal suffering, even in its most cruel ironies. Had he not just spoken of +the animals, like an elder brother of the wretched living beings that suffer? +Suffering exasperated him; his wrath was because of his too lofty dream, and he +had become harsh only in his hatred of the factitious and the transitory; +dreaming of working, not for the polite society of a time, but for all humanity +in the gravest hours of its history. Perhaps, even, it was this revolt against +the vulgarity of the time which had made him throw himself, in bold defiance, +into theories and their application. And the work remained human, overflowing +as it was with an infinite pity for beings and things. +</p> + +<p> +Besides, was it not life? There is no absolute evil. Most often a virtue +presents itself side by side with a defect. No man is bad to every one, each +man makes the happiness of some one; so that, when one does not view things +from a single standpoint only, one recognizes in the end the utility of every +human being. Those who believe in God should say to themselves that if their +God does not strike the wicked dead, it is because he sees his work in its +totality, and that he cannot descend to the individual. Labor ends to begin +anew; the living, as a whole, continue, in spite of everything, admirable in +their courage and their industry; and love of life prevails over all. +</p> + +<p> +This giant labor of men, this obstinacy in living, is their excuse, is +redemption. And then, from a great height the eye saw only this continual +struggle, and a great deal of good, in spite of everything, even though there +might be a great deal of evil. One shared the general indulgence, one pardoned, +one had only an infinite pity and an ardent charity. The haven was surely +there, waiting those who have lost faith in dogmas, who wish to understand the +meaning of their lives, in the midst of the apparent iniquity of the world. One +must live for the effort of living, for the stone to be carried to the distant +and unknown work, and the only possible peace in the world is in the joy of +making this effort. +</p> + +<p> +Another hour passed; the entire night had flown by in this terrible lesson of +life, without either Pascal or Clotilde being conscious of where they were, or +of the flight of time. And he, overworked for some time past, and worn out by +the life of suspicion and sadness which he had been leading, started nervously, +as if he had suddenly awakened. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, you know all; do you feel your heart strong, tempered by the +truth, full of pardon and of hope? Are you with me?” +</p> + +<p> +But, still stunned by the frightful moral shock which she had received, she +too, started, bewildered. Her old beliefs had been so completely overthrown, so +many new ideas were awakening within her, that she did not dare to question +herself, in order to find an answer. She felt herself seized and carried away +by the omnipotence of truth. She endured it without being convinced. +</p> + +<p> +“Master,” she stammered, “master—” +</p> + +<p> +And they remained for a moment face to face, looking at each other. Day was +breaking, a dawn of exquisite purity, far off in the vast, clear sky, washed by +the storm. Not a cloud now stained the pale azure tinged with rose color. All +the cheerful sounds of awakening life in the rain-drenched fields came in +through the window, while the candles, burned down to the socket, paled in the +growing light. +</p> + +<p> +“Answer; are you with me, altogether with me?” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment he thought she was going to throw herself on his neck and burst +into tears. A sudden impulse seemed to impel her. But they saw each other in +their semi-nudity. She, who had not noticed it before, was now conscious that +she was only half dressed, that her arms were bare, her shoulders bare, covered +only by the scattered locks of her unbound hair, and on her right shoulder, +near the armpit, on lowering her eyes, she perceived again the few drops of +blood of the bruise which he had given her, when he had grasped her roughly, in +struggling to master her. Then an extraordinary confusion took possession of +her, a certainty that she was going to be vanquished, as if by this grasp he +had become her master, and forever. This sensation was prolonged; she was +seized and drawn on, without the consent of her will, by an irresistible +impulse to submit. +</p> + +<p> +Abruptly Clotilde straightened herself, struggling with herself, wishing to +reflect and to recover herself. She pressed her bare arms against her naked +throat. All the blood in her body rushed to her skin in a rosy blush of shame. +Then, in her divine and slender grace, she turned to flee. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master, let me go—I will see—” +</p> + +<p> +With the swiftness of alarmed maidenhood, she took refuge in her chamber, as +she had done once before. He heard her lock the door hastily, with a double +turn of the key. He remained alone, and he asked himself suddenly, seized by +infinite discouragement and sadness, if he had done right in speaking, if the +truth would germinate in this dear and adored creature, and bear one day a +harvest of happiness. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"></a> +VI.</h2> + +<p> +The days wore on. October began with magnificent weather—a sultry autumn +in which the fervid heat of summer was prolonged, with a cloudless sky. Then +the weather changed, fierce winds began to blow, and a last storm channeled +gullies in the hillsides. And to the melancholy household at La Souleiade the +approach of winter seemed to have brought an infinite sadness. +</p> + +<p> +It was a new hell. There were no more violent quarrels between Pascal and +Clotilde. The doors were no longer slammed. Voices raised in dispute no longer +obliged Martine to go continually upstairs to listen outside the door. They +scarcely spoke to each other now; and not a single word had been exchanged +between them regarding the midnight scene, although weeks had passed since it +had taken place. He, through an inexplicable scruple, a strange delicacy of +which he was not himself conscious, did not wish to renew the conversation, and +to demand the answer which he expected—a promise of faith in him and of +submission. She, after the great moral shock which had completely transformed +her, still reflected, hesitated, struggled, fighting against herself, putting +off her decision in order not to surrender, in her instinctive rebelliousness. +And the misunderstanding continued, in the midst of the mournful silence of the +miserable house, where there was no longer any happiness. +</p> + +<p> +During all this time Pascal suffered terribly, without making any complaint. He +had sunk into a dull distrust, imagining that he was still being watched, and +that if they seemed to leave him at peace it was only in order to concoct in +secret the darkest plots. His uneasiness increased, even, and he expected every +day some catastrophe to happen—the earth suddenly to open and swallow up +his papers, La Souleiade itself to be razed to the ground, carried away bodily, +scattered to the winds. +</p> + +<p> +The persecution against his thought, against his moral and intellectual life, +in thus hiding itself, and so rendering him helpless to defend himself, became +so intolerable to him that he went to bed every night in a fever. He would +often start and turn round suddenly, thinking he was going to surprise the +enemy behind him engaged in some piece of treachery, to find nothing there but +the shadow of his own fears. At other times, seized by some suspicion, he would +remain on the watch for hours together, hidden, behind his blinds, or lying in +wait in a passage; but not a soul stirred, he heard nothing but the violent +beating of his heart. His fears kept him in a state of constant agitation; he +never went to bed at night without visiting every room; he no longer slept, or, +if he did, he would waken with a start at the slightest noise, ready to defend +himself. +</p> + +<p> +And what still further aggravated Pascal’s sufferings was the constant, +the ever more bitter thought that the wound was inflicted upon him by the only +creature he loved in the world, the adored Clotilde, whom for twenty years he +had seen grow in beauty and in grace, whose life had hitherto bloomed like a +beautiful flower, perfuming his. She, great God! for whom his heart was full of +affection, whom he had never analyzed, she, who had become his joy, his +courage, his hope, in whose young life he lived over again. When she passed by, +with her delicate neck, so round, so fresh, he was invigorated, bathed in +health and joy, as at the coming of spring. +</p> + +<p> +His whole life, besides, explained this invasion, this subjugation of his being +by the young girl who had entered into his heart while she was still a little +child, and who, as she grew up, had gradually taken possession of the whole +place. Since he had settled at Plassans, he had led a blest existence, wrapped +up in his books, far from women. The only passion he was ever known to have +had, was his love for the lady who had died, whose finger tips he had never +kissed. He had not lived; he had within him a reserve of youthfulness, of +vigor, whose surging flood now clamored rebelliously at the menace of +approaching age. He would have become attached to an animal, a stray dog that +he had chanced to pick up in the street, and that had licked his hand. And it +was this child whom he loved, all at once become an adorable woman, who now +distracted him, who tortured him by her hostility. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, so gay, so kind, now became insupportably gloomy and harsh. He grew +angry at the slightest word; he would push aside the astonished Martine, who +would look up at him with the submissive eyes of a beaten animal. From morning +till night he went about the gloomy house, carrying his misery about with him, +with so forbidding a countenance that no one ventured to speak to him. +</p> + +<p> +He never took Clotilde with him now on his visits, but went alone. And thus it +was that he returned home one afternoon, his mind distracted because of an +accident which had happened; having on his conscience, as a physician, the +death of a man. +</p> + +<p> +He had gone to give a hypodermic injection to Lafouasse, the tavern keeper, +whose ataxia had within a short time made such rapid progress that he regarded +him as doomed. But, notwithstanding, Pascal still fought obstinately against +the disease, continuing the treatment, and as ill luck would have it, on this +day the little syringe had caught up at the bottom of the vial an impure +particle, which had escaped the filter. Immediately a drop of blood appeared; +to complete his misfortune, he had punctured a vein. He was at once alarmed, +seeing the tavern keeper turn pale and gasp for breath, while large drops of +cold perspiration broke out upon his face. Then he understood; death came as if +by a stroke of lightning, the lips turning blue, the face black. It was an +embolism; he had nothing to blame but the insufficiency of his preparations, +his still rude method. No doubt Lafouasse had been doomed. He could not, +perhaps, have lived six months longer, and that in the midst of atrocious +sufferings, but the brutal fact of this terrible death was none the less there, +and what despairing regret, what rage against impotent and murderous science, +and what a shock to his faith! He returned home, livid, and did not make his +appearance again until the following day, after having remained sixteen hours +shut up in his room, lying in a semi-stupor on the bed, across which he had +thrown himself, dressed as he was. +</p> + +<p> +On the afternoon of this day Clotilde, who was sitting beside him in the study, +sewing, ventured to break the oppressive silence. She looked up, and saw him +turning over the leaves of a book wearily, searching for some information which +he was unable to find. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, are you ill? Why do you not tell me, if you are. I would take +care of you.” +</p> + +<p> +He kept his eyes bent upon the book, and muttered: +</p> + +<p> +“What does it matter to you whether I am ill or not? I need no one to +take care of me.” +</p> + +<p> +She resumed, in a conciliating voice: +</p> + +<p> +“If you have troubles, and can tell them to me, it would perhaps be a +relief to you to do so. Yesterday you came in looking so sad. You must not +allow yourself to be cast down in that way. I have spent a very anxious night. +I came to your door three times to listen, tormented by the idea that you were +suffering.” +</p> + +<p> +Gently as she spoke, her words were like the cut of a whip. In his weak and +nervous condition a sudden access of rage made him push away the book and rise +up trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“So you spy upon me, then. I cannot even retire to my room without people +coming to glue their ears to the walls. Yes, you listen even to the beatings of +my heart. You watch for my death, to pillage and burn everything here.” +</p> + +<p> +His voice rose and all his unjust suffering vented itself in complaints and +threats. +</p> + +<p> +“I forbid you to occupy yourself about me. Is there nothing else that you +have to say to me? Have you reflected? Can you put your hand in mine loyally, +and say to me that we are in accord?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer. She only continued to look at him with her large clear +eyes, frankly declaring that she would not surrender yet, while he, exasperated +more and more by this attitude, lost all self-control. +</p> + +<p> +“Go away, go away,” he stammered, pointing to the door. “I do +not wish you to remain near me. I do not wish to have enemies near me. I do not +wish you to remain near me to drive me mad!” +</p> + +<p> +She rose, very pale, and went at once out of the room, without looking behind, +carrying her work with her. +</p> + +<p> +During the month which followed, Pascal took refuge in furious and incessant +work. He now remained obstinately, for whole days at a time, alone in the +study, sometimes passing even the nights there, going over old documents, to +revise all his works on heredity. It seemed as if a sort of frenzy had seized +him to assure himself of the legitimacy of his hopes, to force science to give +him the certainty that humanity could be remade—made a higher, a healthy +humanity. He no longer left the house, he abandoned his patients even, and +lived among his papers, without air or exercise. And after a month of this +overwork, which exhausted him without appeasing his domestic torments, he fell +into such a state of nervous exhaustion that illness, for some time latent, +declared itself at last with alarming violence. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, when he rose in the morning, felt worn out with fatigue, wearier and +less refreshed than he had been on going to bed the night before. He constantly +had pains all over his body; his limbs failed him, after five minutes’ +walk; the slightest exertion tired him; the least movement caused him intense +pain. At times the floor seemed suddenly to sway beneath his feet. He had a +constant buzzing in his ears, flashes of light dazzled his eyes. He took a +loathing for wine, he had no longer any appetite, and his digestion was +seriously impaired. Then, in the midst of the apathy of his constantly +increasing idleness he would have sudden fits of aimless activity. The +equilibrium was destroyed, he had at times outbreaks of nervous irritability, +without any cause. The slightest emotion brought tears to his eyes. Finally, he +would shut himself up in his room, and give way to paroxysms of despair so +violent that he would sob for hours at a time, without any immediate cause of +grief, overwhelmed simply by the immense sadness of things. +</p> + +<p> +In the early part of December Pascal had a severe attack of neuralgia. Violent +pains in the bones of the skull made him feel at times as if his head must +split. Old Mme. Rougon, who had been informed of his illness, came to inquire +after her son. But she went straight to the kitchen, wishing to have a talk +with Martine first. The latter, with a heart-broken and terrified air, said to +her that monsieur must certainly be going mad; and she told her of his singular +behavior, the continual tramping about in his room, the locking of all the +drawers, the rounds which he made from the top to the bottom of the house, +until two o’clock in the morning. Tears filled her eyes and she at last +hazarded the opinion that monsieur must be possessed with a devil, and that it +would be well to notify the curé of St. Saturnin. +</p> + +<p> +“So good a man,” she said, “a man for whom one would let +one’s self be cut in pieces! How unfortunate it is that one cannot get +him to go to church, for that would certainly cure him at once.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, who had heard her grandmother’s voice, entered at this moment. +She, too, wandered through the empty rooms, spending most of her time in the +deserted apartment on the ground floor. She did not speak, however, but only +listened with her thoughtful and expectant air. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, goodday! It is you, my dear. Martine tells me that Pascal is +possessed with a devil. That is indeed my opinion also; only the devil is +called pride. He thinks that he knows everything. He is Pope and Emperor in +one, and naturally it exasperates him when people don’t agree with +him.” +</p> + +<p> +She shrugged her shoulders with supreme disdain. +</p> + +<p> +“As for me, all that would only make me laugh if it were not so sad. A +fellow who knows nothing about anything; who has always been wrapped up in his +books; who has not lived. Put him in a drawing-room, and he would know as +little how to act as a new-born babe. And as for women, he does not even know +what they are.” +</p> + +<p> +Forgetting to whom she was speaking, a young girl and a servant, she lowered +her voice, and said confidentially: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, one pays for being too sensible, too. Neither a wife nor a +sweetheart nor anything. That is what has finally turned his brain.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde did not move. She only lowered her eyelids slowly over her large +thoughtful eyes; then she raised them again, maintaining her impenetrable +countenance, unwilling, unable, perhaps, to give expression to what was passing +within her. This was no doubt all still confused, a complete evolution, a great +change which was taking place, and which she herself did not clearly +understand. +</p> + +<p> +“He is upstairs, is he not?” resumed Félicité. “I have come +to see him, for this must end; it is too stupid.” +</p> + +<p> +And she went upstairs, while Martine returned to her saucepans, and Clotilde +went to wander again through the empty house. +</p> + +<p> +Upstairs in the study Pascal sat seemingly in a stupor, his face bent over a +large open book. He could no longer read, the words danced before his eyes, +conveying no meaning to his mind. But he persisted, for it was death to him to +lose his faculty for work, hitherto so powerful. His mother at once began to +scold him, snatching the book from him, and flinging it upon a distant table, +crying that when one was sick one should take care of one’s self. He rose +with a quick, angry movement, about to order her away as he had ordered +Clotilde. Then, by a last effort of the will, he became again deferential. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, you know that I have never wished to dispute with you. Leave me, +I beg of you.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not heed him, but began instead to take him to task about his continual +distrust. It was he himself who had given himself a fever, always fancying that +he was surrounded by enemies who were setting traps for him, and watching him +to rob him. Was there any common sense in imagining that people were +persecuting him in that way? And then she accused him of allowing his head to +be turned by his discovery, his famous remedy for curing every disease. That +was as much as to think himself equal to the good God; which only made it all +the more cruel when he found out how mistaken he was. And she mentioned +Lafouasse, the man whom he had killed—naturally, she could understand +that that had not been very pleasant for him; indeed there was cause enough in +it to make him take to his bed. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, still controlling himself, very pale and with eyes cast on the ground, +contented himself with repeating: +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, leave me, I beg of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I won’t leave you,” she cried with the impetuosity which +was natural to her, and which her great age had in no wise diminished. “I +have come precisely to stir you up a little, to rid you of this fever which is +consuming you. No, this cannot continue. I don’t wish that we should +again become the talk of the whole town on your account. I wish you to take +care of yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +He shrugged his shoulders, and said in a low voice, as if speaking to himself, +with an uneasy look, half of conviction, half of doubt: +</p> + +<p> +“I am not ill.” +</p> + +<p> +But Félicité, beside herself, burst out, gesticulating violently: +</p> + +<p> +“Not ill! not ill! Truly, there is no one like a physician for not being +able to see himself. Why, my poor boy, every one that comes near you is shocked +by your appearance. You are becoming insane through pride and fear!” +</p> + +<p> +This time Pascal raised his head quickly, and looked her straight in the eyes, +while she continued: +</p> + +<p> +“This is what I had to tell you, since it seems that no one else would +undertake the task. You are old enough to know what you ought to do. You should +make an effort to shake off all this; you should think of something else; you +should not let a fixed idea take possession of you, especially when you belong +to a family like ours. You know it; have sense, and take care of +yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +He grew paler than before, looking fixedly at her still, as if he were sounding +her, to know what there was of her in him. And he contented himself with +answering: +</p> + +<p> +“You are right, mother. I thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +When he was again alone, he dropped into his seat before the table, and tried +once more to read his book. But he could not succeed, any more than before, in +fixing his attention sufficiently to understand the words, whose letters +mingled confusedly together before his eyes. And his mother’s words +buzzed in his ears; a vague terror, which had some time before sprung up within +him, grew and took shape, haunting him now as an immediate and clearly defined +danger. He who two months before had boasted triumphantly of not belonging to +the family, was he about to receive the most terrible of contradictions? Ah, +this egotistic joy, this intense joy of not belonging to it, was it to give +place to the terrible anguish of being struck in his turn? Was he to have the +humiliation of seeing the taint revive in him? Was he to be dragged down to the +horror of feeling himself in the clutches of the monster of heredity? The +sublime idea, the lofty certitude which he had of abolishing suffering, of +strengthening man’s will, of making a new and a higher humanity, a +healthy humanity, was assuredly only the beginning of the monomania of vanity. +And in his bitter complaint of being watched, in his desire to watch the +enemies who, he thought, were obstinately bent on his destruction, were easily +to be recognized the symptoms of the monomania of suspicion. So then all the +diseases of the race were to end in this terrible case—madness within a +brief space, then general paralysis, and a dreadful death. +</p> + +<p> +From this day forth Pascal was as if possessed. The state of nervous exhaustion +into which overwork and anxiety had thrown him left him an unresisting prey to +this haunting fear of madness and death. All the morbid sensations which he +felt, his excessive fatigue on rising, the buzzing in his ears, the flashes of +light before his eyes, even his attacks of indigestion and his paroxysms of +tears, were so many infallible symptoms of the near insanity with which he +believed himself threatened. He had completely lost, in his own case, the keen +power of diagnosis of the observant physician, and if he still continued to +reason about it, it was only to confound and pervert symptoms, under the +influence of the moral and physical depression into which he had fallen. He was +no longer master of himself; he was mad, so to say, to convince himself hour by +hour that he must become so. +</p> + +<p> +All the days of this pale December were spent by him in going deeper and deeper +into his malady. Every morning he tried to escape from the haunting subject, +but he invariably ended by shutting himself in the study to take up again, in +spite of himself, the tangled skein of the day before. +</p> + +<p> +The long study which he had made of heredity, his important researches, his +works, completed the poisoning of his peace, furnishing him with ever renewed +causes of disquietude. To the question which he put to himself continually as +to his own hereditary case, the documents were there to answer it by all +possible combinations. They were so numerous that he lost himself among them +now. If he had deceived himself, if he could not set himself apart, as a +remarkable case of variation, should he place himself under the head of +reversional heredity, passing over one, two, or even three generations? Or was +his case rather a manifestation of larvated heredity, which would bring anew +proof to the support of his theory of the germ plasm, or was it simply a +singular case of hereditary resemblance, the sudden apparition of some unknown +ancestor at the very decline of life? +</p> + +<p> +From this moment he never rested, giving himself up completely to the +investigation of his case, searching his notes, rereading his books. And he +studied himself, watching the least of his sensations, to deduce from them the +facts on which he might judge himself. On the days when his mind was most +sluggish, or when he thought he experienced particular phenomena of vision, he +inclined to a predominance of the original nervous lesion; while, if he felt +that his limbs were affected, his feet heavy and painful, he imagined he was +suffering the indirect influence of some ancestor come from outside. Everything +became confused, until at last he could recognize himself no longer, in the +midst of the imaginary troubles which agitated his disturbed organism. And +every evening the conclusion was the same, the same knell sounded in his +brain—heredity, appalling heredity, the fear of becoming mad. +</p> + +<p> +In the early part of January Clotilde was an involuntary spectator of a scene +which wrung her heart. She was sitting before one of the windows of the study, +reading, concealed by the high back of her chair, when she saw Pascal, who had +been shut up in his room since the day before, entering. He held open before +his eyes with both hands a sheet of yellow paper, in which she recognized the +genealogical tree. He was so completely absorbed, his gaze was so fixed, that +she might have come forward without his observing her. He spread the tree upon +the table, continuing to look at it for a long time, with the terrified +expression of interrogation which had become habitual to him, which gradually +changed to one of supplication, the tears coursing down his cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +Why, great God! would not the tree answer him, and tell him what ancestor he +resembled, in order that he might inscribe his case on his own leaf, beside the +others? If he was to become mad, why did not the tree tell him so clearly, +which would have calmed him, for he believed that his suffering came only from +his uncertainty? Tears clouded his vision, yet still he looked, he exhausted +himself in this longing to know, in which his reason must finally give way. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde hastily concealed herself as she saw him walk over to the press, which +he opened wide. He seized the envelopes, threw them on the table, and searched +among them feverishly. It was the scene of the terrible night of the storm that +was beginning over again, the gallop of nightmares, the procession of phantoms, +rising at his call from this heap of old papers. As they passed by, he +addressed to each of them a question, an ardent prayer, demanding the origin of +his malady, hoping for a word, a whisper which should set his doubts at rest. +First, it was only an indistinct murmur, then came words and fragments of +phrases. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it you—is it you—is it you—oh, old mother, the +mother of us all—who are to give me your madness? Is it you, inebriate +uncle, old scoundrel of an uncle, whose drunkenness I am to pay for? Is it you, +ataxic nephew, or you, mystic nephew, or yet you, idiot niece, who are to +reveal to me the truth, showing me one of the forms of the lesion from which I +suffer? Or is it rather you, second cousin, who hanged yourself; or you, second +cousin, who committed murder; or you, second cousin, who died of rottenness, +whose tragic ends announce to me mine—death in a cell, the horrible +decomposition of being?” +</p> + +<p> +And the gallop continued, they rose and passed by with the speed of the wind. +The papers became animate, incarnate, they jostled one another, they trampled +on one another, in a wild rush of suffering humanity. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, who will tell me, who will tell me, who will tell me?—Is it he +who died mad? he who was carried off by phthisis? he who was killed by +paralysis? she whose constitutional feebleness caused her to die in early +youth?—Whose is the poison of which I am to die? What is it, hysteria, +alcoholism, tuberculosis, scrofula? And what is it going to make of me, an +ataxic or a madman? A madman. Who was it said a madman? They all say it—a +madman, a madman, a madman!” +</p> + +<p> +Sobs choked Pascal. He let his dejected head fall among the papers, he wept +endlessly, shaken by shuddering sobs. And Clotilde, seized by a sort of awe, +feeling the presence of the fate which rules over races, left the room softly, +holding her breath; for she knew that it would mortify him exceedingly if he +knew that she had been present. +</p> + +<p> +Long periods of prostration followed. January was very cold. But the sky +remained wonderfully clear, a brilliant sun shone in the limpid blue; and at La +Souleiade, the windows of the study facing south formed a sort of hothouse, +preserving there a delightfully mild temperature. They did not even light a +fire, for the room was always filled with a flood of sunshine, in which the +flies that had survived the winter flew about lazily. The only sound to be +heard was the buzzing of their wings. It was a close and drowsy warmth, like a +breath of spring that had lingered in the old house baked by the heat of +summer. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, still gloomy, dragged through the days there, and it was there, too, +that he overheard one day the closing words of a conversation which aggravated +his suffering. As he never left his room now before breakfast, Clotilde had +received Dr. Ramond this morning in the study, and they were talking there +together in an undertone, sitting beside each other in the bright sunshine. +</p> + +<p> +It was the third visit which Ramond had made during the last week. Personal +reasons, the necessity, especially, of establishing definitely his position as +a physician at Plassans, made it expedient for him not to defer his marriage +much longer: and he wished to obtain from Clotilde a decisive answer. On each +of his former visits the presence of a third person had prevented him from +speaking. As he desired to receive her answer from herself directly he had +resolved to declare himself to her in a frank conversation. Their intimate +friendship, and the discretion and good sense of both, justified him in taking +this step. And he ended, smiling, looking into her eyes: +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you, Clotilde, that it is the most reasonable of +<i>dénouements</i>. You know that I have loved you for a long time. I have a +profound affection and esteem for you. That alone might perhaps not be +sufficient, but, in addition, we understand each other perfectly, and we should +be very happy together, I am convinced of it.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not cast down her eyes; she, too, looked at him frankly, with a +friendly smile. He was, in truth, very handsome, in his vigorous young manhood. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you not marry Mlle. Leveque, the lawyer’s daughter?” +she asked. “She is prettier and richer than I am, and I know that she +would gladly accept you. My dear friend, I fear that you are committing a folly +in choosing me.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not grow impatient, seeming still convinced of the wisdom of his +determination. +</p> + +<p> +“But I do not love Mlle. Leveque, and I do love you. Besides, I have +considered everything, and I repeat that I know very well what I am about. Say +yes; you can take no better course.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she grew very serious, and a shadow passed over her face, the shadow of +those reflections, of those almost unconscious inward struggles, which kept her +silent for days at a time. She did not see clearly yet, she still struggled +against herself, and she wished to wait. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my friend, since you are really serious, do not ask me to give you +an answer to-day; grant me a few weeks longer. Master is indeed very ill. I am +greatly troubled about him; and you would not like to owe my consent to a hasty +impulse. I assure you, for my part, that I have a great deal of affection for +you, but it would be wrong to decide at this moment; the house is too unhappy. +It is agreed, is it not? I will not make you wait long.” +</p> + +<p> +And to change the conversation she added: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am uneasy about master. I wished to see you, in order to tell you +so. The other day I surprised him weeping violently, and I am certain the fear +of becoming mad haunts him. The day before yesterday, when you were talking to +him, I saw that you were examining him. Tell me frankly, what do you think of +his condition? Is he in any danger?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not the slightest!” exclaimed Dr. Ramond. “His system is a +little out of order, that is all. How can a man of his ability, who has made so +close a study of nervous diseases, deceive himself to such an extent? It is +discouraging, indeed, if the clearest and most vigorous minds can go so far +astray. In his case his own discovery of hypodermic injections would be +excellent. Why does he not use them with himself?” +</p> + +<p> +And as the young girl replied, with a despairing gesture, that he would not +listen to her, that he would not even allow her to speak to him now, Ramond +said: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, I will speak to him.” +</p> + +<p> +It was at this moment that Pascal came out of his room, attracted by the sound +of voices. But on seeing them both so close to each other, so animated, so +youthful, and so handsome in the sunshine—clothed with sunshine, as it +were—he stood still in the doorway. He looked fixedly at them, and his +pale face altered. +</p> + +<p> +Ramond had a moment before taken Clotilde’s hand, and he was holding it +in his. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a promise, is it not? I should like the marriage to take place +this summer. You know how much I love you, and I shall eagerly await your +answer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” she answered. “Before a month all will be +settled.” +</p> + +<p> +A sudden giddiness made Pascal stagger. Here now was this boy, his friend, his +pupil, who had introduced himself into his house to rob him of his treasure! He +ought to have expected this <i>denouement</i>, yet the sudden news of a +possible marriage surprised him, overwhelmed him like an unforeseen catastrophe +that had forever ruined his life. This girl whom he had fashioned, whom he had +believed his own, she would leave him, then, without regret, she would leave +him to die alone in his solitude. Only the day before she had made him suffer +so intensely that he had asked himself whether he should not part from her and +send her to her brother, who was always writing for her. For an instant he had +even decided on this separation, for the good of both. Yet to find her here +suddenly, with this man, to hear her promise to give him an answer, to think +that she would marry, that she would soon leave him, this stabbed him to the +heart. +</p> + +<p> +At the sound of his heavy step as he came forward, the two young people turned +round in some embarrassment. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, master, we were just talking about you,” said Ramond gaily. +“Yes, to be frank with you, we were conspiring. Come, why do you not take +care of yourself? There is nothing serious the matter with you; you would be on +your feet again in a fortnight if you did.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, who had dropped into a chair, continued to look at them. He had still +the power to control himself, and his countenance gave no evidence of the wound +which he had just received. He would assuredly die of it, and no one would +suspect the malady which had carried him off. But it was a relief to him to be +able to give vent to his feelings, and he declared violently that he would not +take even so much as a glass of tisane. +</p> + +<p> +“Take care of myself!” he cried; “what for? Is it not all +over with my old carcass?” +</p> + +<p> +Ramond insisted, with a good-tempered smile. +</p> + +<p> +“You are sounder than any of us. This is a trifling disturbance, and you +know that you have the remedy in your own hands. Use your hypodermic +injection.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal did not allow him to finish. This filled the measure of his rage. He +angrily asked if they wished him to kill himself, as he had killed Lafouasse. +His injections! A pretty invention, of which he had good reason to be proud. He +abjured medicine, and he swore that he would never again go near a patient. +When people were no longer good for anything they ought to die; that would be +the best thing for everybody. And that was what he was going to try to do, so +as to have done with it all. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah! bah!” said Ramond at last, resolving to take his leave, +through fear of exciting him still further; “I will leave you with +Clotilde; I am not at all uneasy, Clotilde will take care of you.” +</p> + +<p> +But Pascal had on this morning received the final blow. He took to his bed +toward evening, and remained for two whole days without opening the door of his +room. It was in vain that Clotilde, at last becoming alarmed, knocked loudly at +the door. There was no answer. Martine went in her turn and begged monsieur, +through the keyhole, at least to tell her if he needed anything. A deathlike +silence reigned; the room seemed to be empty. +</p> + +<p> +Then, on the morning of the third day, as the young girl by chance turned the +knob, the door yielded; perhaps it had been unlocked for hours. And she might +enter freely this room in which she had never set foot: a large room, rendered +cold by its northern exposure, in which she saw a small iron bed without +curtains, a shower bath in a corner, a long black wooden table, a few chairs, +and on the table, on the floor, along the walls, an array of chemical +apparatus, mortars, furnaces, machines, instrument cases. Pascal, up and +dressed, was sitting on the edge of his bed, in trying to arrange which he had +exhausted himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you want me to nurse you, then?” she asked with +anxious tenderness, without venturing to advance into the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you can come in,” he said with a dejected gesture. “I +won’t beat you. I have not the strength to do that now.” +</p> + +<p> +And from this day on he tolerated her about him, and allowed her to wait on +him. But he had caprices still. He would not let her enter the room when he was +in bed, possessed by a sort of morbid shame; then he made her send him Martine. +But he seldom remained in bed, dragging himself about from chair to chair, in +his utter inability to do any kind of work. His malady continued to grow worse, +until at last he was reduced to utter despair, tortured by sick headaches, and +without the strength, as he said, to put one foot before the other, convinced +every morning that he would spend the night at the Tulettes, a raving maniac. +He grew thin; his face, under its crown of white hair—which he still +cared for through a last remnant of vanity—acquired a look of suffering, +of tragic beauty. And although he allowed himself to be waited on, he refused +roughly all remedies, in the distrust of medicine into which he had fallen. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde now devoted herself to him entirely. She gave up everything else; at +first she attended low mass, then she left off going to church altogether. In +her impatience for some certain happiness, she felt as if she were taking a +step toward that end by thus devoting all her moments to the service of a +beloved being whom she wished to see once more well and happy. She made a +complete sacrifice of herself, she sought to find happiness in the happiness of +another; and all this unconsciously, solely at the impulse of her woman’s +heart, in the midst of the crisis through which she was still passing, and +which was modifying her character profoundly, without her knowledge. She +remained silent regarding the disagreement which separated them. The idea did +not again occur to her to throw herself on his neck, crying that she was his, +that he might return to life, since she gave herself to him. In her thoughts +she grieved to see him suffer; she was only an affectionate girl, who took care +of him, as any female relative would have done. And her attentions were very +pure, very delicate, occupying her life so completely that her days now passed +swiftly, exempt from tormenting thoughts of the Beyond, filled with the one +wish of curing him. +</p> + +<p> +But where she had a hard battle to fight was in prevailing upon him to use his +hypodermic injections upon himself. He flew into a passion, disowned his +discovery, and called himself an imbecile. She too cried out. It was she now +who had faith in science, who grew indignant at seeing him doubt his own +genius. He resisted for a long time; then yielding to the empire which she had +acquired over him, he consented, simply to avoid the affectionate dispute which +she renewed with him every morning. From the very first he experienced great +relief from the injections, although he refused to acknowledge it. His mind +became clearer, and he gradually gained strength. Then she was exultant, filled +with enthusiastic pride in him. She vaunted his treatment, and became indignant +because he did not admire himself, as an example of the miracles which he was +able to work. He smiled; he was now beginning to see clearly into his own +condition. Ramond had spoken truly, his illness had been nothing but nervous +exhaustion. Perhaps he would get over it after all. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, it is you who are curing me, little girl,” he would say, not +wishing to confess his hopes. “Medicines, you see, act according to the +hand that gives them.” +</p> + +<p> +The convalescence was slow, lasting through the whole of February. The weather +remained clear and cold; there was not a single day in which the study was not +flooded with warm, pale sunshine. There were hours of relapse, however, hours +of the blackest melancholy, in which all the patient’s terrors returned; +when his guardian, disconsolate, was obliged to sit at the other end of the +room, in order not to irritate him still more. He despaired anew of his +recovery. He became again bitter and aggressively ironical. +</p> + +<p> +It was on one of those bad days that Pascal, approaching a window, saw his +neighbor, M. Bellombre, the retired professor, making the round of his garden +to see if his fruit trees were well covered with blossoms. The sight of the old +man, so neat and so erect, with the fine placidity of the egoist, on whom +illness had apparently never laid hold, suddenly put Pascal beside himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he growled, “there is one who will never overwork +himself, who will never endanger his health by worrying!” +</p> + +<p> +And he launched forth into an ironical eulogy on selfishness. To be alone in +the world, not to have a friend, to have neither wife nor child, what +happiness! That hard-hearted miser, who for forty years had had only other +people’s children to cuff, who lived aloof from the world, without even a +dog, with a deaf and dumb gardener older than himself, was he not an example of +the greatest happiness possible on earth? Without a responsibility, without a +duty, without an anxiety, other than that of taking care of his dear health! He +was a wise man, he would live a hundred years. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, the fear of life! that is cowardice which is truly the best wisdom. +To think that I should ever have regretted not having a child of my own! Has +any one a right to bring miserable creatures into the world? Bad heredity +should be ended, life should be ended. The only honest man is that old coward +there!” +</p> + +<p> +M. Bellombre continued peacefully making the round of his pear trees in the +March sunshine. He did not risk a too hasty movement; he economized his fresh +old age. If he met a stone in his path, he pushed it aside with the end of his +cane, and then walked tranquilly on. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at him! Is he not well preserved; is he not handsome? Have not all +the blessings of heaven been showered down upon him? He is the happiest man I +know.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, who had listened in silence, suffered from the irony of Pascal, the +full bitterness of which she divined. She, who usually took M. +Bellombre’s part, felt a protest rise up within her. Tears came to her +eyes, and she answered simply in a low voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but he is not loved.” +</p> + +<p> +These words put a sudden end to the painful scene. Pascal, as if he had +received an electric shock, turned and looked at her. A sudden rush of +tenderness brought tears to his eyes also, and he left the room to keep from +weeping. +</p> + +<p> +The days wore on in the midst of these alternations of good and bad hours. He +recovered his strength but slowly, and what put him in despair was that +whenever he attempted to work he was seized by a profuse perspiration. If he +had persisted, he would assuredly have fainted. So long as he did not work he +felt that his convalescence was making little progress. He began to take an +interest again, however, in his accustomed investigations. He read over again +the last pages that he had written, and, with this reawakening of the scientist +in him, his former anxieties returned. At one time he fell into a state of such +depression, that the house and all it contained ceased to exist for him. He +might have been robbed, everything he possessed might have been taken and +destroyed, without his even being conscious of the disaster. Now he became +again watchful, from time to time he would feel his pocket, to assure himself +that the key of the press was there. +</p> + +<p> +But one morning when he had overslept himself, and did not leave his room until +eleven o’clock, he saw Clotilde in the study, quietly occupied in copying +with great exactness in pastel a branch of flowering almond. She looked up, +smiling; and taking a key that was lying beside her on the desk, she offered it +to him, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Here, master.” +</p> + +<p> +Surprised, not yet comprehending, he looked at the object which she held toward +him. +</p> + +<p> +“What is that?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the key of the press, which you must have dropped from your pocket +yesterday, and which I picked up here this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal took it with extraordinary emotion. He looked at it, and then at +Clotilde. Was it ended, then? She would persecute him no more. She was no +longer eager to rob everything, to burn everything. And seeing her still +smiling, she also looking moved, an immense joy filled his heart. +</p> + +<p> +He caught her in his arms, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, little girl, if we might only not be too unhappy!” +</p> + +<p> +Then he opened a drawer of his table and threw the key into it, as he used to +do formerly. +</p> + +<p> +From this time on he gained strength, and his convalescence progressed more +rapidly. Relapses were still possible, for he was still very weak. But he was +able to write, and this made the days less heavy. The sun, too, shone more +brightly, the study being so warm at times that it became necessary to half +close the shutters. He refused to see visitors, barely tolerated Martine, and +had his mother told that he was sleeping, when she came at long intervals to +inquire for him. He was happy only in this delightful solitude, nursed by the +rebel, the enemy of yesterday, the docile pupil of to-day. They would often sit +together in silence for a long time, without feeling any constraint. They +meditated, or lost themselves in infinitely sweet reveries. +</p> + +<p> +One day, however, Pascal seemed very grave. He was now convinced that his +illness had resulted from purely accidental causes, and that heredity had had +no part in it. But this filled him none the less with humility. +</p> + +<p> +“My God!” he murmured, “how insignificant we are! I who +thought myself so strong, who was so proud of my sane reason! And here have I +barely escaped being made insane by a little trouble and overwork!” +</p> + +<p> +He was silent, and sank again into thought. After a time his eyes brightened, +he had conquered himself. And in a moment of reason and courage, he came to a +resolution. +</p> + +<p> +“If I am getting better,” he said, “it is especially for your +sake that I am glad.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, not understanding, looked up and said: +</p> + +<p> +“How is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, on account of your marriage. Now you will be able to fix the +day.” +</p> + +<p> +She still seemed surprised. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, true—my marriage!” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we decide at once upon the second week in June?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the second week in June; that will do very well.” +</p> + +<p> +They spoke no more; she fixed her eyes again on the piece of sewing on which +she was engaged, while he, motionless, and with a grave face, sat looking into +space. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"></a> +VII.</h2> + +<p> +On this day, on arriving at La Souleiade, old Mme. Rougon perceived Martine in +the kitchen garden, engaged in planting leeks; and, as she sometimes did, she +went over to the servant to have a chat with her, and find out from her how +things were going on, before entering the house. +</p> + +<p> +For some time past she had been in despair about what she called +Clotilde’s desertion. She felt truly that she would now never obtain the +documents through her. The girl was behaving disgracefully, she was siding with +Pascal, after all she had done for her; and she was becoming perverted to such +a degree that for a month past she had not been seen in Church. Thus she +returned to her first idea, to get Clotilde away and win her son over when, +left alone, he should be weakened by solitude. Since she had not been able to +persuade the girl to go live with her brother, she eagerly desired the +marriage. She would like to throw her into Dr. Ramond’s arms to-morrow, +in her impatience at so many delays. And she had come this afternoon with a +feverish desire to hurry on matters. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-day, Martine. How is every one here?” +</p> + +<p> +The servant, kneeling down, her hands full of clay, lifted up her pale face, +protected against the sun by a handkerchief tied over her cap. +</p> + +<p> +“As usual, madame, pretty well.” +</p> + +<p> +They went on talking, Félicité treating her as a confidante, as a devoted +daughter, one of the family, to whom she could tell everything. She began by +questioning her; she wished to know if Dr. Ramond had come that morning. He had +come, but they had talked only about indifferent matters. This put her in +despair, for she had seen the doctor on the previous day, and he had unbosomed +himself to her, chagrined at not having yet received a decisive answer, and +eager now to obtain at least Clotilde’s promise. Things could not go on +in this way, the young girl must be compelled to engage herself to him. +</p> + +<p> +“He has too much delicacy,” she cried. “I have told him so. I +knew very well that this morning, even, he would not venture to demand a +positive answer. And I have come to interfere in the matter. We shall see if I +cannot oblige her to come to a decision.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, more calmly: +</p> + +<p> +“My son is on his feet now; he does not need her.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine, who was again stooping over the bed, planting her leeks, straightened +herself quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, that for sure!” +</p> + +<p> +And a flush passed over her face, worn by thirty years of service. For a wound +bled within her; for some time past the master scarcely tolerated her about +him. During the whole time of his illness he had kept her at a distance, +accepting her services less and less every day, and finally closing altogether +to her the door of his room and of the workroom. She had a vague consciousness +of what was taking place, an instinctive jealousy tortured her, in her +adoration of the master, whose chattel she had been satisfied to be for so many +years. +</p> + +<p> +“For sure, we have no need of mademoiselle. I am quite able to take care +of monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she, who was so discreet, spoke of her labors in the garden, saying that +she made time to cultivate the vegetables, so as to save a few days’ +wages of a man. True, the house was large, but when one was not afraid of work, +one could manage to do all there was to be done. And then, when mademoiselle +should have left them, that would be always one less to wait upon. And her eyes +brightened unconsciously at the thought of the great solitude, of the happy +peace in which they should live after this departure. +</p> + +<p> +“It would give me pain,” she said, lowering her voice, “for +it would certainly give monsieur a great deal. I would never have believed that +I could be brought to wish for such a separation. Only, madame, I agree with +you that it is necessary, for I am greatly afraid that mademoiselle will end by +going to ruin here, and that there will be another soul lost to the good God. +Ah, it is very sad; my heart is so heavy about it sometimes that it is ready to +burst.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are both upstairs, are they not?” said Félicité. “I +will go up and see them, and I will undertake to oblige them to end the +matter.” +</p> + +<p> +An hour later, when she came down again, she found Martine still on her knees +on the soft earth, finishing her planting. Upstairs, from her first words, when +she said that she had been talking with Dr. Ramond, and that he had shown +himself anxious to know his fate quickly, she saw that Dr. Pascal +approved—he looked grave, he nodded his head as if to say that this wish +seemed to him very natural. Clotilde, herself, ceasing to smile, seemed to +listen to him with deference. But she manifested some surprise. Why did they +press her? Master had fixed the marriage for the second week in June; she had, +then, two full months before her. Very soon she would speak about it with +Ramond. Marriage was so serious a matter that they might very well give her +time to reflect, and let her wait until the last moment to engage herself. And +she said all this with her air of good sense, like a person resolved on coming +to a decision. And Félicité was obliged to content herself with the evident +desire that both had that matters should have the most reasonable conclusion. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed I believe that it is settled,” ended Félicité. “He +seems to place no obstacle in the way, and she seems only to wish not to act +hastily, like a girl who desires to examine her heart closely, before engaging +herself for life. I will give her a week more for reflection.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine, sitting on her heels, was looking fixedly on the ground with a clouded +face. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” she murmured, in a low voice, “mademoiselle has +been reflecting a great deal of late. I am always meeting her in some corner. +You speak to her, and she does not answer you. That is the way people are when +they are breeding a disease, or when they have a secret on their mind. There is +something going on; she is no longer the same, no longer the same.” +</p> + +<p> +And she took the dibble again and planted a leek, in her rage for work; while +old Mme. Rougon went away, somewhat tranquillized; certain, she said, that the +marriage would take place. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, in effect, seemed to accept Clotilde’s marriage as a thing +settled, inevitable. He had not spoken with her about it again, the rare +allusions which they made to it between themselves, in their hourly +conversations, left them undisturbed; and it was simply as if the two months +which they still had to live together were to be without end, an eternity +stretching beyond their view. +</p> + +<p> +She, especially, would look at him smiling, putting off to a future day +troubles and decisions with a pretty vague gesture, as if to leave everything +to beneficent life. He, now well and gaining strength daily, grew melancholy +only when he returned to the solitude of his chamber at night, after she had +retired. He shuddered and turned cold at the thought that a time would come +when he would be always alone. Was it the beginning of old age that made him +shiver in this way? He seemed to see it stretching before him, like a shadowy +region in which he already began to feel all his energy melting away. And then +the regret of having neither wife nor child filled him with rebelliousness, and +wrung his heart with intolerable anguish. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, why had he not lived! There were times when he cursed science, accusing it +of having taken from him the best part of his manhood. He had let himself be +devoured by work; work had consumed his brain, consumed his heart, consumed his +flesh. All this solitary, passionate labor had produced only books, blackened +paper, that would be scattered to the winds, whose cold leaves chilled his +hands as he turned them over. And no living woman’s breast to lean upon, +no child’s warm locks to kiss! He had lived the cold, solitary life of a +selfish scientist, and he would die in cold solitude. Was he indeed going to +die thus? Would he never taste the happiness enjoyed by even the common +porters, by the carters who cracked their whips, passing by under his windows? +But he must hasten, if he would; soon, no doubt, it would be too late. All his +unemployed youth, all his pent-up desires, surged tumultuously through his +veins. He swore that he would yet love, that he would live a new life, that he +would drain the cup of every passion that he had not yet tasted, before he +should be an old man. He would knock at the doors, he would stop the +passers-by, he would scour the fields and town. +</p> + +<p> +On the following day, when he had taken his shower bath and left his room, all +his fever was calmed, the burning pictures had faded away, and he fell back +into his natural timidity. Then, on the next night, the fear of solitude drove +sleep away as before, his blood kindled again, and the same despair, the same +rebelliousness, the same longing not to die without having known family joys +returned. He suffered a great deal in this crisis. +</p> + +<p> +During these feverish nights, with eyes wide open in the darkness, he dreamed +always, over and over again the same dream. A girl would come along the road, a +girl of twenty, marvelously beautiful; and she would enter and kneel down +before him in an attitude of submissive adoration, and he would marry her. She +was one of those pilgrims of love such as we find in ancient story, who have +followed a star to come and restore health and strength to some aged king, +powerful and covered with glory. He was the aged king, and she adored him, she +wrought the miracle, with her twenty years, of bestowing on him a part of her +youth. In her love he recovered his courage and his faith in life. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, youth! he hungered fiercely for it. In his declining days this passionate +longing for youth was like a revolt against approaching age, a desperate desire +to turn back, to be young again, to begin life over again. And in this longing +to begin life over again, there was not only regret for the vanished joys of +youth, the inestimable treasure of dead hours, to which memory lent its charm; +there was also the determined will to enjoy, now, his health and strength, to +lose nothing of the joy of loving! Ah, youth! how eagerly he would taste of its +every pleasure, how eagerly he would drain every cup, before his teeth should +fall out, before his limbs should grow feeble, before the blood should be +chilled in his veins. A pang pierced his heart when he remembered himself, a +slender youth of twenty, running and leaping agilely, vigorous and hardy as a +young oak, his teeth glistening, his hair black and luxuriant. How he would +cherish them, these gifts scorned before, if a miracle could restore them to +him! +</p> + +<p> +And youthful womanhood, a young girl who might chance to pass by, disturbed +him, causing him profound emotion. This was often even altogether apart from +the individual: the image, merely, of youth, the perfume and the dazzling +freshness which emanated from it, bright eyes, healthy lips, blooming cheeks, a +delicate neck, above all, rounded and satin-smooth, shaded on the back with +down; and youthful womanhood always presented itself to him tall and slight, +divinely slender in its chaste nudeness. His eyes, gazing into vacancy, +followed the vision, his heart was steeped in infinite longing. There was +nothing good or desirable but youth; it was the flower of the world, the only +beauty, the only joy, the only true good, with health, which nature could +bestow on man. Ah, to begin life over again, to be young again, to clasp in his +embrace youthful womanhood! +</p> + +<p> +Pascal and Clotilde, now that the fine April days had come, covering the fruit +trees with blossoms, resumed their morning walks in La Souleiade. It was the +first time that he had gone out since his illness, and she led him to the +threshing yard, along the paths in the pine wood, and back again to the terrace +crossed by the two bars of shadows thrown by the secular cypresses. The sun had +already warmed the old flagstones there, and the wide horizon stretched out +under a dazzling sky. +</p> + +<p> +One morning when Clotilde had been running, she returned to the house in such +exuberant spirits and so full of pleasant excitement that she went up to the +workroom without taking off either her garden hat or the lace scarf which she +had tied around her neck. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, “I am so warm! And how stupid I am, not to +have taken off my things downstairs. I will go down again at once.” +</p> + +<p> +She had thrown the scarf on a chair on entering. +</p> + +<p> +But her feverish fingers became impatient when she tried to untie the strings +of her large straw hat. +</p> + +<p> +“There, now! I have fastened the knot. I cannot undo it, and you must +come to my assistance.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, happy and excited too by the pleasure of the walk, rejoiced to see her +so beautiful and so merry. He went over and stood in front of her. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait; hold up your chin. Oh, if you keep moving like that, how do you +suppose I can do it?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed aloud. He could see the laughter swelling her throat, like a wave +of sound. His fingers became entangled under her chin, that delicious part of +the throat whose warm satin he involuntarily touched. She had on a gown cut +sloping in the neck, and through the opening he inhaled all the living perfume +of the woman, the pure fragrance of her youth, warmed by the sunshine. All at +once a vertigo seized him and he thought he was going to faint. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! I cannot do it,” he said, “unless you keep +still!” +</p> + +<p> +The blood throbbed in his temples, and his fingers trembled, while she leaned +further back, unconsciously offering the temptation of her fresh girlish +beauty. It was the vision of royal youth, the bright eyes, the healthy lips, +the blooming cheeks, above all, the delicate neck, satin-smooth and round, +shaded on the back by down. And she seemed to him so delicately graceful, with +her slender throat, in her divine bloom! +</p> + +<p> +“There, it is done!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +Without knowing how, he had untied the strings. The room whirled round, and +then he saw her again, bareheaded now, with her starlike face, shaking back her +golden curls laughingly. Then he was seized with a fear that he would catch her +in his arms and press mad kisses on her bare neck, and arms, and throat. And he +fled from the room, taking with him the hat, which he had kept in his hand, +saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I will hang it in the hall. Wait for me; I want to speak to +Martine.” +</p> + +<p> +Once downstairs, he hurried to the abandoned room and locked himself into it, +trembling lest she should become uneasy and come down here to seek him. He +looked wild and haggard, as if he had just committed a crime. He spoke aloud, +and he trembled as he gave utterance for the first time to the cry that he had +always loved her madly, passionately. Yes, ever since she had grown into +womanhood he had adored her. And he saw her clearly before him, as if a curtain +had been suddenly torn aside, as she was when, from an awkward girl, she became +a charming and lovely creature, with her long tapering limbs, her strong +slender body, with its round throat, round neck, and round and supple arms. And +it was monstrous, but it was true—he hungered for all this with a +devouring hunger, for this youth, this fresh, blooming, fragrant flesh. +</p> + +<p> +Then Pascal, dropping into a rickety chair, hid his face in his hands, as if to +shut out the light of day, and burst into great sobs. Good God! what was to +become of him? A girl whom his brother had confided to him, whom he had brought +up like a good father, and who was now—this temptress of +twenty-five—a woman in her supreme omnipotence! He felt himself more +defenseless, weaker than a child. +</p> + +<p> +And above this physical desire, he loved her also with an immense tenderness, +enamored of her moral and intellectual being, of her right-mindedness, of her +fine intelligence, so fearless and so clear. Even their discord, the +disquietude about spiritual things by which she was tortured, made her only all +the more precious to him, as if she were a being different from himself, in +whom he found a little of the infinity of things. She pleased him in her +rebellions, when she held her ground against him,—she was his companion +and pupil; he saw her such as he had made her, with her great heart, her +passionate frankness, her triumphant reason. And she was always present with +him; he did not believe that he could exist where she was not; he had need of +her breath; of the flutter of her skirts near him; of her thoughtfulness and +affection, by which he felt himself constantly surrounded; of her looks; of her +smile; of her whole daily woman’s life, which she had given him, which +she would not have the cruelty to take back from him again. At the thought that +she was going away, that she would not be always here, it seemed to him as if +the heavens were about to fall and crush him; as if the end of all things had +come; as if he were about to be plunged in icy darkness. She alone existed in +the world, she alone was lofty and virtuous, intelligent and beautiful, with a +miraculous beauty. Why, then, since he adored her and since he was her master, +did he not go upstairs and take her in his arms and kiss her like an idol? They +were both free, she was ignorant of nothing, she was a woman in age. This would +be happiness. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, who had ceased to weep, rose, and would have walked to the door. But +suddenly he dropped again into his chair, bursting into a fresh passion of +sobs. No, no, it was abominable, it could not be! He felt on his head the frost +of his white hair; and he had a horror of his age, of his fifty-nine years, +when he thought of her twenty-five years. His former chill fear again took +possession of him, the certainty that she had subjugated him, that he would be +powerless against the daily temptation. And he saw her giving him the strings +of her hat to untie; compelling him to lean over her to make some correction in +her work; and he saw himself, too, blind, mad, devouring her neck with ardent +kisses. His indignation against himself at this was so great that he arose, now +courageously, and had the strength to go upstairs to the workroom, determined +to conquer himself. +</p> + +<p> +Upstairs Clotilde had tranquilly resumed her drawing. She did not even look +around at his entrance, but contented herself with saying: +</p> + +<p> +“How long you have been! I was beginning to think that Martine must have +made a mistake of at least ten sous in her accounts.” +</p> + +<p> +This customary jest about the servant’s miserliness made him laugh. And +he went and sat down quietly at his table. They did not speak again until +breakfast time. A great sweetness bathed him and calmed him, now that he was +near her. He ventured to look at her, and he was touched by her delicate +profile, by her serious, womanly air of application. Had he been the prey of a +nightmare, downstairs, then? Would he be able to conquer himself so easily? +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he cried, when Martine called them, “how hungry I am! +You shall see how I am going to make new muscle!” +</p> + +<p> +She went over to him, and took him by the arm, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right, master; you must be gay and strong!” +</p> + +<p> +But that night, when he was in his own room, the agony began again. At the +thought of losing her he was obliged to bury his face in the pillow to stifle +his cries. He pictured her to himself in the arms of another, and all the +tortures of jealousy racked his soul. Never could he find the courage to +consent to such a sacrifice. All sorts of plans clasped together in his +seething brain; he would turn her from the marriage, and keep her with him, +without ever allowing her to suspect his passion; he would take her away, and +they would go from city to city, occupying their minds with endless studies, in +order to keep up their companionship as master and pupil; or even, if it should +be necessary, he would send her to her brother to nurse him, he would lose her +forever rather than give her to a husband. And at each of these resolutions he +felt his heart, torn asunder, cry out with anguish in the imperious need of +possessing her entirely. He was no longer satisfied with her presence, he +wished to keep her for himself, with himself, as she appeared to him in her +radiant beauty, in the darkness of his chamber, with her unbound hair falling +around her. +</p> + +<p> +His arms clasped the empty air, and he sprang out of bed, staggering like a +drunken man; and it was only in the darkness and silence of the workroom that +he awoke from this sudden fit of madness. Where, then, was he going, great God? +To knock at the door of this sleeping child? to break it in, perhaps, with a +blow of his shoulder? The soft, pure respiration, which he fancied he heard +like a sacred wind in the midst of the profound silence, struck him on the face +and turned him back. And he returned to his room and threw himself on his bed, +in a passion of shame and wild despair. +</p> + +<p> +On the following day when he arose, Pascal, worn out by want of sleep, had come +to a decision. He took his daily shower bath, and he felt himself stronger and +saner. The resolution to which he had come was to compel Clotilde to give her +word. When she should have formally promised to marry Ramond, it seemed to him +that this final solution would calm him, would forbid his indulging in any +false hopes. This would be a barrier the more, an insurmountable barrier +between her and him. He would be from that moment armed against his desire, and +if he still suffered, it would be suffering only, without the horrible fear of +becoming a dishonorable man. +</p> + +<p> +On this morning, when he told the young girl that she ought to delay no longer, +that she owed a decisive answer to the worthy fellow who had been awaiting it +so long, she seemed at first astonished. She looked straight into his eyes, but +he had sufficient command over himself not to show confusion; he insisted +merely, with a slightly grieved air, as if it distressed him to have to say +these things to her. Finally, she smiled faintly and turned her head aside, +saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Then, master, you wish me to leave you?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” he answered evasively, “I assure you that this is +becoming ridiculous. Ramond will have the right to be angry.” +</p> + +<p> +She went over to her desk, to arrange some papers which were on it. Then, after +a moment’s silence, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“It is odd; now you are siding with grandmother and Martine. They, too, +are persecuting me to end this matter. I thought I had a few days more. But, in +truth, if you all three urge me—” +</p> + +<p> +She did not finish, and he did not press her to explain herself more clearly. +</p> + +<p> +“When do you wish me to tell Ramond to come, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, he may come whenever he wishes; it does not displease me to see +him. But don’t trouble yourself. I will let him know that we will expect +him one of these afternoons.” +</p> + +<p> +On the following day the same scene began over again. Clotilde had taken no +step yet, and Pascal was now angry. He suffered martyrdom; he had crises of +anguish and rebelliousness when she was not present to calm him by her smiling +freshness. And he insisted, in emphatic language, that she should behave +seriously and not trifle any longer with an honorable man who loved her. +</p> + +<p> +“The devil! Since the thing is decided, let us be done with it. I warn +you that I will send word to Ramond, and that he will be here to-morrow at +three o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +She listened in silence, her eyes fixed on the ground. Neither seemed to wish +to touch upon the question as to whether the marriage had really been decided +on or not, and they took the standpoint that there had been a previous +decision, which was irrevocable. When she looked up again he trembled, for he +felt a breath pass by; he thought she was on the point of saying that she had +questioned herself, and that she refused this marriage. What would he have +done, what would have become of him, good God! Already he was filled with an +immense joy and a wild terror. But she looked at him with the discreet and +affectionate smile which never now left her lips, and she answered with a +submissive air: +</p> + +<p> +“As you please, master. Send him word to be here to-morrow at three +o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal spent so dreadful a night that he rose late, saying, as an excuse, that +he had one of his old headaches. He found relief only under the icy deluge of +the shower bath. At ten o’clock he left the house, saying he would go +himself to see Ramond; but he had another object in going out—he had seen +at a show in Plassans a corsage of old point d’Alençon; a marvel of +beauty which lay there awaiting some lover’s generous folly, and the +thought had come to him in the midst of the tortures of the night, to make a +present of it to Clotilde, to adorn her wedding gown. This bitter idea of +himself adorning her, of making her beautiful and fair for the gift of herself, +touched his heart, exhausted by sacrifice. She knew the corsage, she had +admired it with him one day wonderingly, wishing for it only to place it on the +shoulders of the Virgin at St. Saturnin, an antique Virgin adored by the +faithful. The shopkeeper gave it to him in a little box which he could conceal, +and which he hid, on his return to the house, in the bottom of his +writing-desk. +</p> + +<p> +At three o’clock Dr. Ramond presented himself, and he found Pascal and +Clotilde in the parlor, where they had been awaiting him with secret excitement +and a somewhat forced gaiety, avoiding any further allusion to his visit. They +received him smilingly with exaggerated cordiality. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you are perfectly well again, master!” said the young man. +“You never looked so strong.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, oh, strong, perhaps! only the heart is no longer here.” +</p> + +<p> +This involuntary avowal made Clotilde start, and she looked from one to the +other, as if, by the force of circumstances, she compared them with each +other—Ramond, with his smiling and superb face—the face of the +handsome physician adored by the women—his luxuriant black hair and +beard, in all the splendor of his young manhood; and Pascal, with his white +hair and his white beard. This fleece of snow, still so abundant, retained the +tragic beauty of the six months of torture that he had just passed through. His +sorrowful face had aged a little, only his eyes remained still youthful; brown +eyes, brilliant and limpid. But at this moment all his features expressed so +much gentleness, such exalted goodness, that Clotilde ended by letting her gaze +rest upon him with profound tenderness. There was silence for a moment and each +heart thrilled. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my children,” resumed Pascal heroically, “I think you +have something to say to each other. I have something to do, too, downstairs. I +will come up again presently.” +</p> + +<p> +And he left the room, smiling back at them. +</p> + +<p> +And soon as they were alone, Clotilde went frankly straight over to Ramond, +with both hands outstretched. Taking his hands in hers, she held them as she +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, my dear friend; I am going to give you a great grief. You must +not be too angry with me, for I assure you that I have a very profound +friendship for you.” +</p> + +<p> +He understood at once, and he turned very pale. +</p> + +<p> +“Clotilde give me no answer now, I beg of you; take more time, if you +wish to reflect further.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is useless, my dear friend, my decision is made.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with her fine, loyal look. She had not released his hands, in +order that he might know that she was not excited, and that she was his friend. +And it was he who resumed, in a low voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Then you say no?” +</p> + +<p> +“I say no, and I assure you that it pains me greatly to say it. Ask me +nothing; you will no doubt know later on.” +</p> + +<p> +He sat down, crushed by the emotion which he repressed like a strong and +self-contained man, whose mental balance the greatest sufferings cannot +disturb. Never before had any grief agitated him like this. He remained mute, +while she, standing, continued: +</p> + +<p> +“And above all, my friend, do not believe that I have played the coquette +with you. If I have allowed you to hope, if I have made you wait so long for my +answer, it was because I did not in very truth see clearly myself. You cannot +imagine through what a crisis I have just passed—a veritable tempest of +emotions, surrounded by darkness from out of which I have but just found my +way.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Since it is your wish, I will ask you nothing. Besides, it is sufficient +for you to answer one question. You do not love me, Clotilde?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not hesitate, but said gravely, with an emotion which softened the +frankness of her answer: +</p> + +<p> +“It is true, I do not love you; I have only a very sincere affection for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose, and stopped by a gesture the kind words which she would have added. +</p> + +<p> +“It is ended; let us never speak of it again. I wished you to be happy. +Do not grieve for me. At this moment I feel as if the house had just fallen +about me in ruins. But I must only extricate myself as best I can.” +</p> + +<p> +A wave of color passed over his pale face, he gasped for air, he crossed over +to the window, then he walked back with a heavy step, seeking to recover his +self-possession. He drew a long breath. In the painful silence which had fallen +they heard Pascal coming upstairs noisily, to announce his return. +</p> + +<p> +“I entreat you,” murmured Clotilde hurriedly, “to say nothing +to master. He does not know my decision, and I wish to break it to him myself, +for he was bent upon this marriage.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal stood still in the doorway. He was trembling and breathless, as if he +had come upstairs too quickly. He still found strength to smile at them, +saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, children, have you come to an understanding?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, undoubtedly,” responded Ramond, as agitated as himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Then it is all settled?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite,” said Clotilde, who had been seized by a faintness. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal walked over to his work-table, supporting himself by the furniture, and +dropped into the chair beside it. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, ah! you see the legs are not so strong after all. It is this old +carcass of a body. But the heart is strong. And I am very happy, my children, +your happiness will make me well again.” +</p> + +<p> +But when Ramond, after a few minutes’ further conversation, had gone +away, he seemed troubled at finding himself alone with the young girl, and he +again asked her: +</p> + +<p> +“It is settled, quite settled; you swear it to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Entirely settled.” +</p> + +<p> +After this he did not speak again. He nodded his head, as if to repeat that he +was delighted; that nothing could be better; that at last they were all going +to live in peace. He closed his eyes, feigning to drop asleep, as he sometimes +did in the afternoon. But his heart beat violently, and his closely shut +eyelids held back the tears. +</p> + +<p> +That evening, at about ten o’clock, when Clotilde went downstairs for a +moment to give an order to Martine before she should have gone to bed, Pascal +profited by the opportunity of being left alone, to go and lay the little box +containing the lace corsage on the young girl’s bed. She came upstairs +again, wished him the accustomed good-night, and he had been for at least +twenty minutes in his own room, and was already in his shirt sleeves, when a +burst of gaiety sounded outside his door. A little hand tapped, and a fresh +voice cried, laughing: +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come and look!” +</p> + +<p> +He opened the door, unable to resist this appeal of youth, conquered by his +joy. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, come, come and see what a beautiful little bird has put on my +bed!” +</p> + +<p> +And she drew him to her room, taking no refusal. She had lighted the two +candles in it, and the antique, pleasant chamber, with its hangings of faded +rose color, seemed transformed into a chapel; and on the bed, like a sacred +cloth offered to the adoration of the faithful, she had spread the corsage of +old point d’Alençon. +</p> + +<p> +“You would not believe it! Imagine, I did not see the box at first. I set +things in order a little, as I do every evening. I undressed, and it was only +when I was getting into bed that I noticed your present. Ah, what a surprise! I +was overwhelmed by it! I felt that I could never wait for the morning, and I +put on a skirt and ran to look for you.” +</p> + +<p> +It was not until then that he perceived that she was only half dressed, as on +the night of the storm, when he had surprised her stealing his papers. And she +seemed divine, with her tall, girlish form, her tapering limbs, her supple +arms, her slender body, with its small, firm throat. +</p> + +<p> +She took his hands and pressed them caressingly in her little ones. +</p> + +<p> +“How good you are; how I thank you! Such a marvel of beauty, so lovely a +present for me, who am nobody! And you remember that I had admired it, this +antique relic of art. I said to you that only the Virgin of St. Saturnin was +worthy of wearing it on her shoulders. I am so happy! oh, so happy! For it is +true, I love beautiful things; I love them so passionately that at times I wish +for impossibilities, gowns woven of sunbeams, impalpable veils made of the blue +of heaven. How beautiful I am going to look! how beautiful I am going to +look!” +</p> + +<p> +Radiant in her ecstatic gratitude, she drew close to him, still looking at the +corsage, and compelling him to admire it with her. Then a sudden curiosity +seized her. +</p> + +<p> +“But why did you make me this royal present?” +</p> + +<p> +Ever since she had come to seek him in her joyful excitement, Pascal had been +walking in a dream. He was moved to tears by this affectionate gratitude; he +stood there, not feeling the terror which he had dreaded, but seeming, on the +contrary, to be filled with joy, as at the approach of a great and miraculous +happiness. This chamber, which he never entered, had the religious sweetness of +holy places that satisfy all longings for the unattainable. +</p> + +<p> +His countenance, however, expressed surprise. And he answered: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, this present, my dear, is for your wedding gown.” +</p> + +<p> +She, in her turn, looked for a moment surprised as if she had not understood +him. Then, with the sweet and singular smile which she had worn of late she +said gayly: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, true, my marriage!” +</p> + +<p> +Then she grew serious again, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Then you want to get rid of me? It was in order to have me here no +longer that you were so bent upon marrying me. Do you still think me your +enemy, then?” +</p> + +<p> +He felt his tortures return, and he looked away from her, wishing to retain his +courage. +</p> + +<p> +“My enemy, yes. Are you not so? We have suffered so much through each +other these last days. It is better in truth that we should separate. And then +I do not know what your thoughts are; you have never given me the answer I have +been waiting for.” +</p> + +<p> +She tried in vain to catch his glance, which he still kept turned away. She +began to talk of the terrible night on which they had gone together through the +papers. It was true, in the shock which her whole being had suffered, she had +not yet told him whether she was with him or against him. He had a right to +demand an answer. +</p> + +<p> +She again took his hands in hers, and forced him to look at her. +</p> + +<p> +“And it is because I am your enemy that you are sending me away? I am not +your enemy. I am your servant, your chattel, your property. Do you hear? I am +with you and for you, for you alone!” +</p> + +<p> +His face grew radiant; an intense joy shone within his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I will wear this lace. It is for my wedding day, for I wish to be +beautiful, very beautiful for you. But do you not understand me, then? You are +my master; it is you I love.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! be silent; you will make me mad! You are betrothed to another. +You have given your word. All this madness is happily impossible.” +</p> + +<p> +“The other! I have compared him with you, and I have chosen you. I have +dismissed him. He has gone away, and he will never return. There are only we +two now, and it is you I love, and you love me. I know it, and I give myself to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +He trembled violently. He had ceased to struggle, vanquished by the longing of +eternal love. +</p> + +<p> +The spacious chamber, with its antique furniture, warmed by youth, was as if +filled with light. There was no longer either fear or suffering; they were +free. She gave herself to him knowingly, willingly, and he accepted the supreme +gift like a priceless treasure which the strength of his love had won. Suddenly +she murmured in his ear, in a caressing voice, lingering tenderly on the words: +</p> + +<p> +“Master, oh, master, master!” +</p> + +<p> +And this word, which she used formerly as a matter of habit, at this hour +acquired a profound significance, lengthening out and prolonging itself, as if +it expressed the gift of her whole being. She uttered it with grateful fervor, +like a woman who accepts, and who surrenders herself. Was not the mystic +vanquished, the real acknowledged, life glorified with love at last confessed +and shared. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master, this comes from far back. I must tell you; I must make +my confession. It is true that I went to church in order to be happy. But I +could not believe. I wished to understand too much; my reason rebelled against +their dogmas; their paradise appeared to me an incredible puerility. But I +believed that the world does not stop at sensation; that there is a whole +unknown world, which must be taken into account; and this, master, I believe +still. It is the idea of the Beyond, which not even happiness, found at last +upon your neck, will efface. But this longing for happiness, this longing to be +happy at once, to have some certainty—how I have suffered from it. If I +went to church, it was because I missed something, and I went there to seek it. +My anguish consisted in this irresistible need to satisfy my longing. You +remember what you used to call my eternal thirst for illusion and falsehood. +One night, in the threshing yard, under the great starry sky, do you remember? +I burst out against your science, I was indignant because of the ruins with +which it strews the earth, I turned my eyes away from the dreadful wounds which +it exposes. And I wished, master, to take you to a solitude where we might both +live in God, far from the world, forgotten by it. Ah, what torture, to long, to +struggle, and not to be satisfied!” +</p> + +<p> +Softly, without speaking, he kissed her on both eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, master, do you remember again, there was the great moral shock on +the night of the storm, when you gave me that terrible lesson of life, emptying +out your envelopes before me. You had said to me already: ‘Know life, +love it, live it as it ought to be lived.’ But what a vast, what a +frightful flood, rolling ever onward toward a human sea, swelling it +unceasingly for the unknown future! And, master, the silent work within me +began then. There was born, in my heart and in my flesh, the bitter strength of +the real. At first I was as if crushed, the blow was so rude. I could not +recover myself. I kept silent, because I did not know clearly what to say. +Then, gradually, the evolution was effected. I still had struggles, I still +rebelled against confessing my defeat. But every day after this the truth grew +clearer within me, I knew well that you were my master, and that there was no +happiness for me outside of you, of your science and your goodness. You were +life itself, broad and tolerant life; saying all, accepting all, solely through +the love of energy and effort, believing in the work of the world, placing the +meaning of destiny in the labor which we all accomplish with love, in our +desperate eagerness to live, to love, to live anew, to live always, in spite of +all the abominations and miseries of life. Oh, to live, to live! This is the +great task, the work that always goes on, and that will doubtless one day be +completed!” +</p> + +<p> +Silent still, he smiled radiantly, and kissed her on the mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“And, master, though I have always loved you, even from my earliest +youth, it was, I believe, on that terrible night that you marked me for, and +made me your own. You remember how you crushed me in your grasp. It left a +bruise, and a few drops of blood on my shoulder. Then your being entered, as it +were into mine. We struggled; you were the stronger, and from that time I have +felt the need of a support. At first I thought myself humiliated; then I saw +that it was but an infinitely sweet submission. I always felt your power within +me. A gesture of your hand in the distance thrilled me as though it had touched +me. I would have wished that you had seized me again in your grasp, that you +had crushed me in it, until my being had mingled with yours forever. And I was +not blind; I knew well that your wish was the same as mine, that the violence +which had made me yours had made you mine; that you struggled with yourself not +to seize me and hold me as I passed by you. To nurse you when you were ill was +some slight satisfaction. From that time, light began to break upon me, and I +at last understood. I went no more to church, I began to be happy near you, you +had become certainty and happiness. Do you remember that I cried to you, in the +threshing yard, that something was wanting in our affection. There was a void +in it which I longed to fill. What could be wanting to us unless it were God? +And it was God—love, and life.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"></a> +VIII.</h2> + +<p> +Then came a period of idyllic happiness. Clotilde was the spring, the tardy +rejuvenation that came to Pascal in his declining years. She came, bringing to +him, with her love, sunshine and flowers. Their rapture lifted them above the +earth; and all this youth she bestowed on him after his thirty years of toil, +when he was already weary and worn probing the frightful wounds of humanity. He +revived in the light of her great shining eyes, in the fragrance of her pure +breath. He had faith again in life, in health, in strength, in the eternal +renewal of nature. +</p> + +<p> +On the morning after her avowal it was ten o’clock before Clotilde left +her room. In the middle of the workroom she suddenly came upon Martine and, in +her radiant happiness, with a burst of joy that carried everything before it, +she rushed toward her, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Martine, I am not going away! Master and I—we love each +other.” +</p> + +<p> +The old servant staggered under the blow. Her poor worn face, nunlike under its +white cap and with its look of renunciation, grew white in the keenness of her +anguish. Without a word, she turned and fled for refuge to her kitchen, where, +leaning her elbows on her chopping-table, and burying her face in her clasped +hands, she burst into a passion of sobs. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, grieved and uneasy, followed her. And she tried to comprehend and to +console her. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, how foolish you are! What possesses you? Master and I will +love you all the same; we will always keep you with us. You are not going to be +unhappy because we love each other. On the contrary, the house is going to be +gay now from morning till night.” +</p> + +<p> +But Martine only sobbed all the more desperately. +</p> + +<p> +“Answer me, at least. Tell me why you are angry and why you cry. Does it +not please you then to know that master is so happy, so happy! See, I will call +master and he will make you answer.” +</p> + +<p> +At this threat the old servant suddenly rose and rushed into her own room, +which opened out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. In vain the +young girl called and knocked until she was tired; she could obtain no answer. +At last Pascal, attracted by the noise, came downstairs, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it is that obstinate Martine! Only fancy, she began to cry when she +knew that we loved each other. And she has barricaded herself in there, and she +will not stir.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not stir, in fact. Pascal, in his turn, called and knocked. He scolded; +he entreated. Then, one after the other, they began all over again. Still there +was no answer. A deathlike silence reigned in the little room. And he pictured +it to himself, this little room, religiously clean, with its walnut bureau, and +its monastic bed furnished with white hangings. No doubt the servant had thrown +herself across this bed, in which she had slept alone all her woman’s +life, and was burying her face in the bolster to stifle her sobs. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, so much the worse for her?” said Clotilde at last, in the +egotism of her joy, “let her sulk!” +</p> + +<p> +Then throwing her arms around Pascal, and raising to his her charming face, +still glowing with the ardor of self-surrender, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Master, I will be your servant to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +He kissed her on the eyes with grateful emotion; and she at once set about +preparing the breakfast, turning the kitchen upside down. She had put on an +enormous white apron, and she looked charming, with her sleeves rolled up, +showing her delicate arms, as if for some great undertaking. There chanced to +be some cutlets in the kitchen which she cooked to a turn. She added some +scrambled eggs, and she even succeeded in frying some potatoes. And they had a +delicious breakfast, twenty times interrupted by her getting up in her eager +zeal, to run for the bread, the water, a forgotten fork. If he had allowed her, +she would have waited upon him on her knees. Ah! to be alone, to be only they +two in this large friendly house, and to be free to laugh and to love each +other in peace. +</p> + +<p> +They spent the whole afternoon in sweeping and putting things in order. He +insisted upon helping her. It was a play; they amused themselves like two merry +children. From time to time, however, they went back to knock at +Martine’s door to remonstrate with her. Come, this was foolish, she was +not going to let herself starve! Was there ever seen such a mule, when no one +had said or done anything to her! But only the echo of their knocks came back +mournfully from the silent room. Not the slightest sound, not a breath +responded. Night fell, and they were obliged to make the dinner also, which +they ate, sitting beside each other, from the same plate. Before going to bed, +they made a last attempt, threatening to break open the door, but their ears, +glued to the wood, could not catch the slightest sound. And on the following +day, when they went downstairs and found the door still hermetically closed, +they began to be seriously uneasy. For twenty-four hours the servant had given +no sign of life. +</p> + +<p> +Then, on returning to the kitchen after a moment’s absence, Clotilde and +Pascal were stupefied to see Martine sitting at her table, picking some sorrel +for the breakfast. She had silently resumed her place as servant. +</p> + +<p> +“But what was the matter with you?” cried Clotilde. “Will you +speak now?” +</p> + +<p> +She lifted up her sad face, stained by tears. It was very calm, however, and it +expressed now only the resigned melancholy of old age. She looked at the young +girl with an air of infinite reproach; then she bent her head again without +speaking. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you angry with us, then?” +</p> + +<p> +And as she still remained silent, Pascal interposed: +</p> + +<p> +“Are you angry with us, my good Martine?” +</p> + +<p> +Then the old servant looked up at him with her former look of adoration, as if +she loved him sufficiently to endure all and to remain in spite of all. At last +she spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am angry with no one. The master is free. It is all right, if he +is satisfied.” +</p> + +<p> +A new life began from this time. Clotilde, who in spite of her twenty-five +years had still remained childlike, now, under the influence of love, suddenly +bloomed into exquisite womanhood. Since her heart had awakened, the serious and +intelligent boy that she had looked like, with her round head covered with its +short curls, had given place to an adorable woman, altogether womanly, +submissive and tender, loving to be loved. Her great charm, notwithstanding her +learning picked up at random from her reading and her work, was her virginal +<i>naïveté</i>, as if her unconscious awaiting of love had made her reserve the +gift of her whole being to be utterly absorbed in the man whom she should love. +No doubt she had given her love as much through gratitude and admiration as +through tenderness; happy to make him happy; experiencing a profound joy in +being no longer only a little girl to be petted, but something of his very own +which he adored, a precious possession, a thing of grace and joy, which he +worshiped on bended knees. She still had the religious submissiveness of the +former devotee, in the hands of a master mature and strong, from whom she +derived consolation and support, retaining, above and beyond affection, the +sacred awe of the believer in the spiritual which she still was. But more than +all, this woman, so intoxicated with love, was a delightful personification of +health and gaiety; eating with a hearty appetite; having something of the valor +of her grandfather the soldier; filling the house with her swift and graceful +movements, with the bloom of her satin skin, the slender grace of her neck, of +all her young form, divinely fresh. +</p> + +<p> +And Pascal, too, had grown handsome again under the influence of love, with the +serene beauty of a man who had retained his vigor, notwithstanding his white +hairs. His countenance had no longer the sorrowful expression which it had worn +during the months of grief and suffering through which he had lately passed; +his eyes, youthful still, had recovered their brightness, his features their +smiling grace; while his white hair and beard grew thicker, in a leonine +abundance which lent him a youthful air. He had kept himself, in his solitary +life as a passionate worker, so free from vice and dissipation that he found +now within him a reserve of life and vigor eager to expend itself at last. +There awoke within him new energy, a youthful impetuosity that broke forth in +gestures and exclamations, in a continual need of expansion, of living. +Everything wore a new and enchanting aspect to him; the smallest glimpse of sky +moved him to wonder; the perfume of a simple flower threw him into an ecstasy; +an everyday expression of affection, worn by use, touched him to tears, as if +it had sprung fresh from the heart and had not been hackneyed by millions of +lips. Clotilde’s “I love you,” was an infinite caress, whose +celestial sweetness no human being had ever before known. And with health and +beauty he recovered also his gaiety, that tranquil gaiety which had formerly +been inspired by his love of life, and which now threw sunshine over his love, +over everything that made life worth living. +</p> + +<p> +They two, blooming youth and vigorous maturity, so healthy, so gay, so happy, +made a radiant couple. For a whole month they remained in seclusion, not once +leaving La Souleiade. The place where both now liked to be was the spacious +workroom, so intimately associated with their habits and their past affection. +They would spend whole days there, scarcely working at all, however. The large +carved oak press remained with closed doors; so, too, did the bookcases. Books +and papers lay undisturbed upon the tables. Like a young married couple they +were absorbed in their one passion, oblivious of their former occupations, +oblivious of life. The hours seemed all too short to enjoy the charm of being +together, often seated in the same large antique easy-chair, happy in the +depths of this solitude in which they secluded themselves, in the tranquillity +of this lofty room, in this domain which was altogether theirs, without luxury +and without order, full of familiar objects, brightened from morning till night +by the returning gaiety of the April sunshine. When, seized with remorse, he +would talk about working, she would link her supple arms through his and +laughingly hold him prisoner, so that he should not make himself ill again with +overwork. And downstairs, they loved, too, the dining-room, so gay with its +light panels relieved by blue bands, its antique mahogany furniture, its large +flower pastels, its brass hanging lamp, always shining. They ate in it with a +hearty appetite and they left it, after each meal, only to go upstairs again to +their dear solitude. +</p> + +<p> +Then when the house seemed too small, they had the garden, all La Souleiade. +Spring advanced with the advancing sun, and at the end of April the roses were +beginning to bloom. And what a joy was this domain, walled around, where +nothing from the outside world could trouble them! Hours flew by unnoted, as +they sat on the terrace facing the vast horizon and the shady banks of the +Viorne, and the slopes of Sainte-Marthe, from the rocky bars of the Seille to +the valley of Plassans in the dusty distance. There was no shade on the terrace +but that of the two secular cypresses planted at its two extremities, like two +enormous green tapers, which could be seen three leagues away. At times they +descended the slope for the pleasure of ascending the giant steps, and climbing +the low walls of uncemented stones which supported the plantations, to see if +the stunted olive trees and the puny almonds were budding. More often there +were delightful walks under the delicate needles of the pine wood, steeped in +sunshine and exhaling a strong odor of resin; endless walks along the wall of +inclosure, from behind which the only sound they could hear was, at rare +intervals, the grating noise of some cart jolting along the narrow road to Les +Fenouilleres; and they spent delightful hours in the old threshing yard, where +they could see the whole horizon, and where they loved to stretch themselves, +tenderly remembering their former tears, when, loving each other unconsciously +to themselves, they had quarreled under the stars. But their favorite retreat, +where they always ended by losing themselves, was the quincunx of tall plane +trees, whose branches, now of a tender green, looked like lacework. Below, the +enormous box trees, the old borders of the French garden, of which now scarcely +a trace remained, formed a sort of labyrinth of which they could never find the +end. And the slender stream of the fountain, with its eternal crystalline +murmur, seemed to sing within their hearts. They would sit hand in hand beside +the mossy basin, while the twilight fell around them, their forms gradually +fading into the shadow of the trees, while the water which they could no longer +see, sang its flutelike song. +</p> + +<p> +Up to the middle of May Pascal and Clotilde secluded themselves in this way, +without even crossing the threshold of their retreat. One morning he +disappeared and returned an hour later, bringing her a pair of diamond earrings +which he had hurried out to buy, remembering this was her birthday. She adored +jewels, and the gift astonished and delighted her. From this time not a week +passed in which he did not go out once or twice in this way to bring her back +some present. The slightest excuse was sufficient for him—a <i>fête</i>, +a wish, a simple pleasure. He brought her rings, bracelets, a necklace, a +slender diadem. He would take out the other jewels and please himself by +putting them all upon her in the midst of their laughter. She was like an idol, +seated on her chair, covered with gold,—a band of gold on her hair, gold +on her bare arms and on her bare throat, all shining with gold and precious +stones. Her woman’s vanity was delightfully gratified by this. She +allowed herself to be adored thus, to be adored on bended knees, like a +divinity, knowing well that this was only an exalted form of love. She began at +last to scold a little, however; to make prudent remonstrances; for, in truth, +it was an absurdity to bring her all these gifts which she must afterward shut +up in a drawer, without ever wearing them, as she went nowhere. +</p> + +<p> +They were forgotten after the hour of joy and gratitude which they gave her in +their novelty was over. But he would not listen to her, carried away by a +veritable mania for giving; unable, from the moment the idea of giving her an +article took possession of him, to resist the desire of buying it. It was a +munificence of the heart; an imperious desire to prove to her that he thought +of her always; a pride in seeing her the most magnificent, the happiest, the +most envied of women; a generosity more profound even, which impelled him to +despoil himself of everything, of his money, of his life. And then, what a +delight, when he saw he had given her a real pleasure, and she threw herself on +his neck, blushing, thanking him with kisses. After the jewels, it was gowns, +articles of dress, toilet articles. Her room was littered, the drawers were +filled to overflowing. +</p> + +<p> +One morning she could not help getting angry. He had brought her another ring. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I never wear them! And if I did, my fingers would be covered to the +tips. Be reasonable, I beg of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I have not given you pleasure?” he said with confusion. +</p> + +<p> +She threw her arms about his neck, and assured him with tears in her eyes that +she was very happy. He was so good to her! He was so unwearied in his devotion +to her! And when, later in the morning, he ventured to speak of making some +changes in her room, of covering the walls with tapestry, of putting down a +carpet, she again remonstrated. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! no, no! I beg of you. Do not touch my old room, so full of memories, +where I have grown up, where I told you I loved you. I should no longer feel +myself at home in it.” +</p> + +<p> +Downstairs, Martine’s obstinate silence condemned still more strongly +these excessive and useless expenses. She had adopted a less familiar attitude, +as if, in the new situation, she had fallen from her role of housekeeper and +friend to her former station of servant. Toward Clotilde, especially, she +changed, treating her like a young lady, like a mistress to whom she was less +affectionate but more obedient than formerly. Two or three times, however, she +had appeared in the morning with her face discolored and her eyes sunken with +weeping, answering evasively when questioned, saying that nothing was the +matter, that she had taken cold. And she never made any remark about the gifts +with which the drawers were filled. She did not even seem to see them, +arranging them without a word either of praise or dispraise. But her whole +nature rebelled against this extravagant generosity, of which she could never +have conceived the possibility. She protested in her own fashion; exaggerating +her economy and reducing still further the expenses of the housekeeping, which +she now conducted on so narrow a scale that she retrenched even in the smallest +expenses. For instance, she took only two-thirds of the milk which she had been +in the habit of taking, and she served sweet dishes only on Sundays. Pascal and +Clotilde, without venturing to complain, laughed between themselves at this +parsimony, repeating the jests which had amused them for ten years past, saying +that after dressing the vegetables she strained them in the colander, in order +to save the butter for future use. +</p> + +<p> +But this quarter she insisted upon rendering an account. She was in the habit +of going every three months to Master Grandguillot, the notary, to receive the +fifteen hundred francs income, of which she disposed afterward according to her +judgment, entering the expenses in a book which the doctor had years ago ceased +to verify. She brought it to him now and insisted upon his looking over it. He +excused himself, saying that it was all right. +</p> + +<p> +“The thing is, monsieur,” she said, “that this time I have +been able to put some money aside. Yes, three hundred francs. Here they +are.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her in amazement. Generally she just made both ends meet. By what +miracle of stinginess had she been able to save such a sum? +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! my poor Martine,” he said at last, laughing, “that is +the reason, then, that we have been eating so many potatoes of late. You are a +pearl of economy, but indeed you must treat us a little better in the +future.” +</p> + +<p> +This discreet reproach wounded her so profoundly that she allowed herself at +last to say: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, monsieur, when there is so much extravagance on the one hand, it +is well to be prudent on the other.” +</p> + +<p> +He understood the allusion, but instead of being angry, he was amused by the +lesson. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, ah! it is you who are examining my accounts! But you know very well, +Martine, that I, too, have my savings laid by.” +</p> + +<p> +He alluded to the money which he still received occasionally from his patients, +and which he threw into a drawer of his writing-desk. For more than sixteen +years past he had put into this drawer every year about four thousand francs, +which would have amounted to a little fortune if he had not taken from it, from +day to day, without counting them, considerable sums for his experiments and +his whims. All the money for the presents came out of this drawer, which he now +opened continually. He thought that it would never be empty; he had been so +accustomed to take from it whatever he required that it had never occurred to +him to fear that he would ever come to the bottom of it. +</p> + +<p> +“One may very well have a little enjoyment out of one’s +savings,” he said gayly. “Since it is you who go to the +notary’s, Martine, you are not ignorant that I have my income +apart.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she said, with the colorless voice of the miser who is haunted by the +dread of an impending disaster: +</p> + +<p> +“And what would you do if you hadn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal looked at her in astonishment, and contented himself with answering with +a shrug, for the possibility of such a misfortune had never even entered his +mind. He fancied that avarice was turning her brain, and he laughed over the +incident that evening with Clotilde. +</p> + +<p> +In Plassans, too, the presents were the cause of endless gossip. The rumor of +what was going on at La Souleiade, this strange and sudden passion, had spread, +no one could tell how, by that force of expansion which sustains curiosity, +always on the alert in small towns. The servant certainly had not spoken, but +her air was perhaps sufficient; words perhaps had dropped from her +involuntarily; the lovers might have been watched over the walls. And then came +the buying of the presents, confirming the reports and exaggerating them. When +the doctor, in the early morning, scoured the streets and visited the +jeweler’s and the dressmaker’s, eyes spied him from the windows, +his smallest purchases were watched, all the town knew in the evening that he +had given her a silk bonnet, a bracelet set with sapphires. And all this was +turned into a scandal. This uncle in love with his niece, committing a young +man’s follies for her, adorning her like a holy Virgin. The most +extraordinary stories began to circulate, and people pointed to La Souleiade as +they passed by. +</p> + +<p> +But old Mme. Rougon was, of all persons, the most bitterly indignant. She had +ceased going to her son’s house when she learned that Clotilde’s +marriage with Dr. Ramond had been broken off. They had made sport of her. They +did nothing to please her, and she wished to show how deep her displeasure was. +Then a full month after the rupture, during which she had understood nothing of +the pitying looks, the discreet condolences, the vague smiles which met her +everywhere, she learned everything with a suddenness that stunned her. She, +who, at the time of Pascal’s illness, in her mortification at the idea of +again becoming the talk of the town through that ugly story, had raised such a +storm! It was far worse this time; the height of scandal, a love affair for +people to regale themselves with. The Rougon legend was again in peril; her +unhappy son was decidedly doing his best to find some way to destroy the family +glory won with so much difficulty. So that in her anger she, who had made +herself the guardian of this glory, resolving to purify the legend by every +means in her power, put on her hat one morning and hurried to La Souleiade with +the youthful vivacity of her eighty years. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, whom the rupture with his mother enchanted, was fortunately not at +home, having gone out an hour before to look for a silver buckle which he had +thought of for a belt. And Félicité fell upon Clotilde as the latter was +finishing her toilet, her arms bare, her hair loose, looking as fresh and +smiling as a rose. +</p> + +<p> +The first shock was rude. The old lady unburdened her mind, grew indignant, +spoke of the scandal they were giving. Suddenly her anger vanished. She looked +at the young girl, and she thought her adorable. In her heart she was not +surprised at what was going on. She laughed at it, all she desired was that it +should end in a correct fashion, so as to silence evil tongues. And she cried +with a conciliating air: +</p> + +<p> +“Get married then! Why do you not get married?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde remained silent for a moment, surprised. She had not thought of +marriage. Then she smiled again. +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt we will get married, grandmother. But later on, there is no +hurry.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon went away, obliged to be satisfied with this vague promise. +</p> + +<p> +It was at this time that Pascal and Clotilde ceased to seclude themselves. Not +through any spirit of bravado, not because they wished to answer ugly rumors by +making a display of their happiness, but as a natural amplification of their +joy; their love had slowly acquired the need of expansion and of space, at +first beyond the house, then beyond the garden, into the town, as far as the +whole vast horizon. It filled everything; it took in the whole world. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor then tranquilly resumed his visits, and he took the young girl with +him. They walked together along the promenades, along the streets, she on his +arm, in a light gown, with flowers in her hat, he buttoned up in his coat with +his broad-brimmed hat. He was all white; she all blond. They walked with their +heads high, erect and smiling, radiating such happiness that they seemed to +walk in a halo. At first the excitement was extraordinary. The shopkeepers came +and stood at their doors, the women leaned out of the windows, the passers-by +stopped to look after them. People whispered and laughed and pointed to them. +Then they were so handsome; he superb and triumphant, she so youthful, so +submissive, and so proud, that an involuntary indulgence gradually gained on +every one. People could not help defending them and loving them, and they ended +by smiling on them in a delightful contagion of tenderness. A charm emanated +from them which brought back all hearts to them. The new town, with its +<i>bourgeois</i> population of functionaries and townspeople who had grown +wealthy, was the last conquest. But the Quartier St. Marc, in spite of its +austerity, showed itself at once kind and discreetly tolerant when they walked +along its deserted grass-worn sidewalks, beside the antique houses, now closed +and silent, which exhaled the evaporated perfume of the loves of other days. +But it was the old quarter, more especially, that promptly received them with +cordiality, this quarter of which the common people, instinctively touched, +felt the grace of the legend, the profound myth of the couple, the beautiful +young girl supporting the royal and rejuvenated master. The doctor was adored +here for his goodness, and his companion quickly became popular, and was +greeted with tokens of admiration and approval as soon as she appeared. They, +meantime, if they had seemed ignorant of the former hostility, now divined +easily the forgiveness and the indulgent tenderness which surrounded them, and +this made them more beautiful; their happiness charmed the entire town. +</p> + +<p> +One afternoon, as Pascal and Clotilde turned the corner of the Rue de la Banne, +they perceived Dr. Ramond on the opposite side of the street. It had chanced +that they had learned the day before that he had asked and had obtained the +hand of Mlle. Leveque, the advocate’s daughter. It was certainly the most +sensible course he could have taken, for his business interests made it +advisable that he should marry, and the young girl, who was very pretty and +very rich, loved him. He, too, would certainly love her in time. Therefore +Clotilde joyfully smiled her congratulations to him as a sincere friend. Pascal +saluted him with an affectionate gesture. For a moment Ramond, a little moved +by the meeting, stood perplexed. His first impulse seemed to have been to cross +over to them. But a feeling of delicacy must have prevented him, the thought +that it would be brutal to interrupt their dream, to break in upon this +solitude <i>à deux</i>, in which they moved, even amid the elbowings of the +street. And he contented himself with a friendly salutation, a smile in which +he forgave them their happiness. This was very pleasant for all three. +</p> + +<p> +At this time Clotilde amused herself for several days by painting a large +pastel representing the tender scene of old King David and Abishag, the young +Shunammite. It was a dream picture, one of those fantastic compositions into +which her other self, her romantic self, put her love of the mysterious. +Against a background of flowers thrown on the canvas, flowers that looked like +a shower of stars, of barbaric richness, the old king stood facing the +spectator, his hand resting on the bare shoulder of Abishag. He was attired +sumptuously in a robe heavy with precious stones, that fell in straight folds, +and he wore the royal fillet on his snowy locks. But she was more sumptuous +still, with only the lilylike satin of her skin, her tall, slender figure, her +round, slender throat, her supple arms, divinely graceful. He reigned over, he +leaned, as a powerful and beloved master, on this subject, chosen from among +all others, so proud of having been chosen, so rejoiced to give to her king the +rejuvenating gift of her youth. All her pure and triumphant beauty expressed +the serenity of her submission, the tranquillity with which she gave herself, +before the assembled people, in the full light of day. And he was very great +and she was very fair, and there radiated from both a starry radiance. +</p> + +<p> +Up to the last moment Clotilde had left the faces of the two figures vaguely +outlined in a sort of mist. Pascal, standing behind her, jested with her to +hide his emotion, for he fancied he divined her intention. And it was as he +thought; she finished the faces with a few strokes of the crayon—old King +David was he, and she was Abishag, the Shunammite. But they were enveloped in a +dreamlike brightness, it was themselves deified; the one with hair all white, +the other with hair all blond, covering them like an imperial mantle, with +features lengthened by ecstasy, exalted to the bliss of angels, with the glance +and the smile of immortal youth. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, dear!” he cried, “you have made us too beautiful; you +have wandered off again to dreamland—yes, as in the days, do you +remember, when I used to scold you for putting there all the fantastic flowers +of the Unknown?” +</p> + +<p> +And he pointed to the walls, on which bloomed the fantastic <i>parterre</i> of +the old pastels, flowers not of the earth, grown in the soil of paradise. +</p> + +<p> +But she protested gayly. +</p> + +<p> +“Too beautiful? We could not be too beautiful! I assure you it is thus +that I picture us to myself, thus that I see us; and thus it is that we are. +There! see if it is not the pure reality.” +</p> + +<p> +She took the old fifteenth century Bible which was beside her, and showed him +the simple wood engraving. +</p> + +<p> +“You see it is exactly the same.” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled gently at this tranquil and extraordinary affirmation. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you laugh, you look only at the details of the picture. It is the +spirit which it is necessary to penetrate. And look at the other engravings, it +is the same theme in all—Abraham and Hagar, Ruth and Boaz. And you see +they are all handsome and happy.” +</p> + +<p> +Then they ceased to laugh, leaning over the old Bible whose pages she turned +with her white fingers, he standing behind her, his white beard mingling with +her blond, youthful tresses. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he whispered to her softly: +</p> + +<p> +“But you, so young, do you never regret that you have chosen me—me, +who am so old, as old as the world?” +</p> + +<p> +She gave a start of surprise, and turning round looked at him. +</p> + +<p> +“You old! No, you are young, younger than I!” +</p> + +<p> +And she laughed so joyously that he, too, could not help smiling. But he +insisted a little tremulously: +</p> + +<p> +“You do not answer me. Do you not sometimes desire a younger lover, you +who are so youthful?” +</p> + +<p> +She put up her lips and kissed him, saying in a low voice: +</p> + +<p> +“I have but one desire, to be loved—loved as you love me, above and +beyond everything.” +</p> + +<p> +The day on which Martine saw the pastel nailed to the wall, she looked at it a +moment in silence, then she made the sign of the cross, but whether it was +because she had seen God or the devil, no one could say. A few days before +Easter she had asked Clotilde if she would not accompany her to church, and the +latter having made a sign in the negative, she departed for an instant from the +deferential silence which she now habitually maintained. Of all the new things +which astonished her in the house, what most astonished her was the sudden +irreligiousness of her young mistress. So she allowed herself to resume her +former tone of remonstrance, and to scold her as she used to do when she was a +little girl and refused to say her prayers. “Had she no longer the fear +of the Lord before her, then? Did she no longer tremble at the idea of going to +hell, to burn there forever?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde could not suppress a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, hell! you know that it has never troubled me a great deal. But you +are mistaken if you think I am no longer religious. If I have left off going to +church it is because I perform my devotions elsewhere, that is all.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine looked at her, open-mouthed, not comprehending her. It was all over; +mademoiselle was indeed lost. And she never again asked her to accompany her to +St. Saturnin. But her own devotion increased until it at last became a mania. +She was no longer to be met, as before, with the eternal stocking in her hand +which she knitted even when walking, when not occupied in her household duties. +Whenever she had a moment to spare, she ran to church and remained there, +repeating endless prayers. One day when old Mme. Rougon, always on the alert, +found her behind a pillar, an hour after she had seen her there before, Martine +excused herself, blushing like a servant who had been caught idling, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I was praying for monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Pascal and Clotilde enlarged still more their domain, taking longer +and longer walks every day, extending them now outside the town into the open +country. One afternoon, as they were going to La Séguiranne, they were deeply +moved, passing by the melancholy fields where the enchanted gardens of Le +Paradou had formerly extended. The vision of Albine rose before them. Pascal +saw her again blooming like the spring, in the rejuvenation which this living +flower had brought him too, feeling the pressure of this pure arm against his +heart. Never could he have believed, he who had already thought himself very +old when he used to enter this garden to give a smile to the little fairy +within, that she would have been dead for years when life, the good mother, +should bestow upon him the gift of so fresh a spring, sweetening his declining +years. And Clotilde, having felt the vision rise before them, lifted up her +face to his in a renewed longing for tenderness. She was Albine, the eternal +lover. He kissed her on the lips, and though no word had been uttered, the +level fields sown with corn and oats, where Le Paradou had once rolled its +billows of luxuriant verdure, thrilled in sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal and Clotilde were now walking along the dusty road, through the bare and +arid country. They loved this sun-scorched land, these fields thinly planted +with puny almond trees and dwarf olives, these stretches of bare hills dotted +with country houses, that showed on them like pale patches accentuated by the +dark bars of the secular cypresses. It was like an antique landscape, one of +those classic landscapes represented in the paintings of the old schools, with +harsh coloring and well balanced and majestic lines. All the ardent sunshine of +successive summers that had parched this land flowed through their veins, and +lent them a new beauty and animation, as they walked under the sky forever +blue, glowing with the clear flame of eternal love. She, protected from the sun +by her straw hat, bloomed and luxuriated in this bath of light like a tropical +flower, while he, in his renewed youth, felt the burning sap of the soil ascend +into his veins in a flood of virile joy. +</p> + +<p> +This walk to La Séguiranne had been an idea of the doctor’s, who had +learned through Aunt Dieudonné of the approaching marriage of Sophie to a young +miller of the neighborhood; and he desired to see if every one was well and +happy in this retired corner. All at once they were refreshed by a delightful +coolness as they entered the avenue of tall green oaks. On either side the +springs, the mothers of these giant shade trees, flowed on in their eternal +course. And when they reached the house of the shrew they came, as chance would +have it, upon the two lovers, Sophie and her miller, kissing each other beside +the well; for the girl’s aunt had just gone down to the lavatory behind +the willows of the Viorne. Confused, the couple stood in blushing silence. But +the doctor and his companion laughed indulgently, and the lovers, reassured, +told them that the marriage was set for St. John’s Day, which was a long +way off, to be sure, but which would come all the same. Sophie, saved from the +hereditary malady, had improved in health and beauty, and was growing as strong +as one of the trees that stood with their feet in the moist grass beside the +springs, and their heads bare to the sunshine. Ah, the vast, glowing sky, what +life it breathed into all created things! She had but one grief, and tears came +to her eyes when she spoke of her brother Valentin, who perhaps would not live +through the week. She had had news of him the day before; he was past hope. And +the doctor was obliged to prevaricate a little to console her, for he himself +expected hourly the inevitable termination. When he and his companion left La +Séguiranne they returned slowly to Plassans, touched by this happy, healthy +love saddened by the chill of death. +</p> + +<p> +In the old quarter a woman whom Pascal was attending informed him that Valentin +had just died. Two of the neighbors were obliged to take away La Guiraude, who, +half-crazed, clung, shrieking, to her son’s body. The doctor entered the +house, leaving Clotilde outside. At last, they again took their way to La +Souleiade in silence. Since Pascal had resumed his visits he seemed to make +them only through professional duty; he no longer became enthusiastic about the +miracles wrought by his treatment. But as far as Valentin’s death was +concerned, he was surprised that it had not occurred before; he was convinced +that he had prolonged the patient’s life for at least a year. In spite of +the extraordinary results which he had obtained at first, he knew well that +death was the inevitable end. That he had held it in check for months ought +then to have consoled him and soothed his remorse, still unassuaged, for having +involuntarily caused the death of Lafouasse, a few weeks sooner than it would +otherwise have occurred. But this did not seem to be the case, and his brow was +knitted in a frown as they returned to their beloved solitude. But there a new +emotion awaited him; sitting under the plane trees, whither Martine had sent +him, he saw Sarteur, the hatter, the inmate of the Tulettes whom he had been so +long treating by his hypodermic injections, and the experiment so zealously +continued seemed to have succeeded. The injections of nerve substance had +evidently given strength to his will, since the madman was here, having left +the asylum that morning, declaring that he no longer had any attacks, that he +was entirely cured of the homicidal mania that impelled him to throw himself +upon any passer-by to strangle him. The doctor looked at him as he spoke. He +was a small dark man, with a retreating forehead and aquiline features, with +one cheek perceptibly larger than the other. He was perfectly quiet and +rational, and filled with so lively a gratitude that he kissed his +saviour’s hands. The doctor could not help being greatly affected by all +this, and he dismissed the man kindly, advising him to return to his life of +labor, which was the best hygiene, physical and moral. Then he recovered his +calmness and sat down to table, talking gaily of other matters. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde looked at him with astonishment and even with a little indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, master?” she said. “You are no longer +satisfied with yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, with myself I am never satisfied!” he answered jestingly. +“And with medicine, you know—it is according to the day.” +</p> + +<p> +It was on this night that they had their first quarrel. She was angry with him +because he no longer had any pride in his profession. She returned to her +complaint of the afternoon, reproaching him for not taking more credit to +himself for the cure of Sarteur, and even for the prolongation of +Valentin’s life. It was she who now had a passion for his fame. She +reminded him of his cures; had he not cured himself? Could he deny the efficacy +of his treatment? A thrill ran through him as he recalled the great dream which +he had once cherished—to combat debility, the sole cause of disease; to +cure suffering humanity; to make a higher, and healthy humanity; to hasten the +coming of happiness, the future kingdom of perfection and felicity, by +intervening and giving health to all! And he possessed the liquor of life, the +universal panacea which opened up this immense hope! +</p> + +<p> +Pascal was silent for a moment. Then he murmured: +</p> + +<p> +“It is true. I cured myself, I have cured others, and I still think that +my injections are efficacious in many cases. I do not deny medicine. Remorse +for a deplorable accident, like that of Lafouasse, does not render me unjust. +Besides, work has been my passion, it is in work that I have up to this time +spent my energies; it was in wishing to prove to myself the possibility of +making decrepit humanity one day strong and intelligent that I came near dying +lately. Yes, a dream, a beautiful dream!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! a reality, the reality of your genius, master.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, he breathed this confession: +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, I am going to say to you what I would say to no one else in the +world, what I would not say to myself aloud. To correct nature, to interfere, +in order to modify it and thwart it in its purpose, is this a laudable task? To +cure the individual, to retard his death, for his personal pleasure, to prolong +his existence, doubtless to the injury of the species, is not this to defeat +the aims of nature? And have we the right to desire a stronger, a healthier +humanity, modeled after our idea of health and strength? What have we to do in +the matter? Why should we interfere in this work of life, neither the means nor +the end of which are known to us? Perhaps everything is as it ought to be. +Perhaps we should risk killing love, genius, life itself. Remember, I make the +confession to you alone; but doubt has taken possession of me, I tremble at the +thought of my twentieth century alchemy. I have come to believe that it is +greater and wiser to allow evolution to take its course.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused; then he added so softly that she could scarcely hear him: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that instead of nerve-substance I often use only water with +my patients. You no longer hear me grinding for days at a time. I told you that +I had some of the liquor in reserve. Water soothes them, this is no doubt +simply a mechanical effect. Ah! to soothe, to prevent suffering—that +indeed I still desire! It is perhaps my greatest weakness, but I cannot bear to +see any one suffer. Suffering puts me beside myself, it seems a monstrous and +useless cruelty of nature. I practise now only to prevent suffering.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, master,” she asked, in the same indistinct murmur, “if +you no longer desire to cure, do you still think everything must be told? For +the frightful necessity of displaying the wounds of humanity had no other +excuse than the hope of curing them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, it is necessary to know, in every case, and to conceal +nothing; to tell everything regarding things and individuals. Happiness is no +longer possible in ignorance; certainty alone makes life tranquil. When people +know more they will doubtless accept everything. Do you not comprehend that to +desire to cure everything, to regenerate everything is a false ambition +inspired by our egotism, a revolt against life, which we declare to be bad, +because we judge it from the point of view of self-interest? I know that I am +more tranquil, that my intellect has broadened and deepened ever since I have +held evolution in respect. It is my love of life which triumphs, even to the +extent of not questioning its purpose, to the extent of confiding absolutely in +it, of losing myself in it, without wishing to remake it according to my own +conception of good and evil. Life alone is sovereign, life alone knows its aim +and its end. I can only try to know it in order to live it as it should be +lived. And this I have understood only since I have possessed your love. Before +I possessed it I sought the truth elsewhere, I struggled with the fixed idea of +saving the world. You have come, and life is full; the world is saved every +hour by love, by the immense and incessant labor of all that live and love +throughout space. Impeccable life, omnipotent life, immortal life!” +</p> + +<p> +They continued to talk together in low tones for some time longer, planning an +idyllic life, a calm and healthful existence in the country. It was in this +simple prescription of an invigorating environment that the experiments of the +physician ended. He exclaimed against cities. People could be well and happy +only in the country, in the sunshine, on the condition of renouncing money, +ambition, even the proud excesses of intellectual labor. They should do nothing +but live and love, cultivate the soil, and bring up their children. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"></a> +IX.</h2> + +<p> +Dr. Pascal then resumed his professional visits in the town and the surrounding +country. And he was generally accompanied by Clotilde, who went with him into +the houses of the poor, where she, too, brought health and cheerfulness. +</p> + +<p> +But, as he had one night confessed to her in secret, his visits were now only +visits of relief and consolation. If he had before practised with repugnance it +was because he had felt how vain was medical science. Empiricism disheartened +him. From the moment that medicine ceased to be an experimental science and +became an art, he was filled with disquiet at the thought of the infinite +variety of diseases and of their remedies, according to the constitution of the +patient. Treatment changed with every new hypothesis; how many people, then, +must the methods now abandoned have killed! The perspicacity of the physician +became everything, the healer was only a happily endowed diviner, himself +groping in the dark and effecting cures through his fortunate endowment. And +this explained why he had given up his patients almost altogether, after a +dozen years of practise, to devote himself entirely to study. Then, when his +great labors on heredity had restored to him for a time the hope of intervening +and curing disease by his hypodermic injections, he had become again +enthusiastic, until the day when his faith in life, after having impelled him, +to aid its action in this way, by restoring the vital forces, became still +broader and gave him the higher conviction that life was self-sufficing, that +it was the only giver of health and strength, in spite of everything. And he +continued to visit, with his tranquil smile, only those of his patients who +clamored for him loudly, and who found themselves miraculously relieved when he +injected into them only pure water. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde now sometimes allowed herself to jest about these hypodermic +injections. She was still at heart, however, a fervent worshiper of his skill; +and she said jestingly that if he performed miracles as he did it was because +he had in himself the godlike power to do so. Then he would reply jestingly, +attributing to her the efficacy of their common visits, saying that he cured no +one now when she was absent, that it was she who brought the breath of life, +the unknown and necessary force from the Beyond. So that the rich people, the +<i>bourgeois</i>, whose houses she did not enter, continued to groan without +his being able to relieve them. And this affectionate dispute diverted them; +they set out each time as if for new discoveries, they exchanged glances of +kindly intelligence with the sick. Ah, this wretched suffering which revolted +them, and which was now all they went to combat; how happy they were when they +thought it vanquished! They were divinely recompensed when they saw the cold +sweats disappear, the moaning lips become stilled, the deathlike faces recover +animation. It was assuredly the love which they brought to this humble, +suffering humanity that produced the alleviation. +</p> + +<p> +“To die is nothing; that is in the natural order of things,” Pascal +would often say. “But why suffer? It is cruel and unnecessary!” +</p> + +<p> +One afternoon the doctor was going with the young girl to the little village of +Sainte-Marthe to see a patient, and at the station, for they were going by +train, so as to spare Bonhomme, they had a reencounter. The train which they +were waiting for was from the Tulettes. Sainte-Marthe was the first station in +the opposite direction, going to Marseilles. When the train arrived, they +hurried on board and, opening the door of a compartment which they thought +empty, they saw old Mme. Rougon about to leave it. She did not speak to them, +but passing them by, sprang down quickly in spite of her age, and walked away +with a stiff and haughty air. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the 1st of July,” said Clotilde when the train had started. +“Grandmother is returning from the Tulettes, after making her monthly +visit to Aunt Dide. Did you see the glance she cast at me?” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal was at heart glad of the quarrel with his mother, which freed him from +the continual annoyance of her visits. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” he said simply, “when people cannot agree it is better +for them not to see each other.” +</p> + +<p> +But the young girl remained troubled and thoughtful. After a few moments she +said in an undertone: +</p> + +<p> +“I thought her changed—looking paler. And did you notice? she who +is usually so carefully dressed had only one glove on—a yellow glove, on +the right hand. I don’t know why it was, but she made me feel sick at +heart.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, who was also disturbed, made a vague gesture. His mother would no doubt +grow old at last, like everybody else. But she was very active, very full of +fire still. She was thinking, he said, of bequeathing her fortune to the town +of Plassans, to build a house of refuge, which should bear the name of Rougon. +Both had recovered their gaiety when he cried suddenly: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, it is to-morrow that you and I are to go to the Tulettes to see our +patients. And you know that I promised to take Charles to Uncle +Macquart’s.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité was in fact returning from the Tulettes, where she went regularly on +the first of every month to inquire after Aunt Dide. For many years past she +had taken a keen interest in the madwoman’s health, amazed to see her +lasting so long, and furious with her for persisting in living so far beyond +the common term of life, until she had become a very prodigy of longevity. What +a relief, the fine morning on which they should put under ground this +troublesome witness of the past, this specter of expiation and of waiting, who +brought living before her the abominations of the family! When so many others +had been taken she, who was demented and who had only a spark of life left in +her eyes, seemed forgotten. On this day she had found her as usual, +skeleton-like, stiff and erect in her armchair. As the keeper said, there was +now no reason why she should ever die. She was a hundred and five years old. +</p> + +<p> +When she left the asylum Félicité was furious. She thought of Uncle Macquart. +Another who troubled her, who persisted in living with exasperating obstinacy! +Although he was only eighty-four years old, three years older than herself, she +thought him ridiculously aged, past the allotted term of life. And a man who +led so dissipated a life, who had gone to bed dead drunk every night for the +last sixty years! The good and the sober were taken away; he flourished in +spite of everything, blooming with health and gaiety. In days past, just after +he had settled at the Tulettes, she had made him presents of wines, liqueurs +and brandy, in the unavowed hope of ridding the family of a fellow who was +really disreputable, and from whom they had nothing to expect but annoyance and +shame. But she had soon perceived that all this liquor served, on the contrary, +to keep up his health and spirits and his sarcastic humor, and she had left off +making him presents, seeing that he throve on what she had hoped would prove a +poison to him. She had cherished a deadly hatred toward him since then. She +would have killed him if she had dared, every time she saw him, standing firmly +on his drunken legs, and laughing at her to her face, knowing well that she was +watching for his death, and triumphant because he did not give her the pleasure +of burying with him all the old dirty linen of the family, the blood and mud of +the two conquests of Plassans. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, Félicité,” he would often say to her with his air of +wicked mockery, “I am here to take care of the old mother, and the day on +which we both make up our minds to die it would be through compliment to +you—yes, simply to spare you the trouble of running to see us so +good-naturedly, in this way, every month.” +</p> + +<p> +Generally she did not now give herself the disappointment of going to +Macquart’s, but inquired for him at the asylum. But on this occasion, +having learned there that he was passing through an extraordinary attack of +drunkenness, not having drawn a sober breath for a fortnight, and so +intoxicated that he was probably unable to leave the house, she was seized with +the curiosity to learn for herself what his condition really was. And as she +was going back to the station, she went out of her way in order to stop at +Macquart’s house. +</p> + +<p> +The day was superb—a warm and brilliant summer day. On either side of the +path which she had taken, she saw the fields that she had given him in former +days—all this fertile land, the price of his secrecy and his good +behavior. Before her appeared the house, with its pink tiles and its bright +yellow walls, looking gay in the sunshine. Under the ancient mulberry trees on +the terrace she enjoyed the delightful coolness and the beautiful view. What a +pleasant and safe retreat, what a happy solitude was this for an old man to end +in joy and peace a long and well-spent life! +</p> + +<p> +But she did not see him, she did not hear him. The silence was profound. The +only sound to be heard was the humming of the bees circling around the tall +marshmallows. And on the terrace there was nothing to be seen but a little +yellow dog, stretched at full length on the bare ground, seeking the coolness +of the shade. He raised his head growling, about to bark, but, recognizing the +visitor, he lay down again quietly. +</p> + +<p> +Then, in this peaceful and sunny solitude she was seized with a strange chill, +and she called: +</p> + +<p> +“Macquart! Macquart!” +</p> + +<p> +The door of the house under the mulberry trees stood wide open. But she did not +dare to go in; this empty house with its wide open door gave her a vague +uneasiness. And she called again: +</p> + +<p> +“Macquart! Macquart!” +</p> + +<p> +Not a sound, not a breath. Profound silence reigned again, but the humming of +the bees circling around the tall marshmallows sounded louder than before. +</p> + +<p> +At last Félicité, ashamed of her fears, summoned courage to enter. The door on +the left of the hall, opening into the kitchen, where Uncle Macquart generally +sat, was closed. She pushed it open, but she could distinguish nothing at +first, as the blinds had been closed, probably in order to shut out the heat. +Her first sensation was one of choking, caused by an overpowering odor of +alcohol which filled the room; every article of furniture seemed to exude this +odor, the whole house was impregnated with it. At last, when her eyes had +become accustomed to the semi-obscurity, she perceived Macquart. He was seated +at the table, on which were a glass and a bottle of spirits of thirty-six +degrees, completely empty. Settled in his chair, he was sleeping profoundly, +dead drunk. This spectacle revived her anger and contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Macquart,” she cried, “is it not vile and senseless to +put one’s self in such a state! Wake up, I say, this is shameful!” +</p> + +<p> +His sleep was so profound that she could not even hear him breathing. In vain +she raised her voice, and slapped him smartly on the hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Macquart! Macquart! Macquart! Ah, faugh! You are disgusting, my +dear!” +</p> + +<p> +Then she left him, troubling herself no further about him, and walked around +the room, evidently seeking something. Coming down the dusky road from the +asylum she had been seized with a consuming thirst, and she wished to get a +glass of water. Her gloves embarrassed her, and she took them off and put them +on a corner of the table. Then she succeeded in finding the jug, and she washed +a glass and filled it to the brim, and was about to empty it when she saw an +extraordinary sight—a sight which agitated her so greatly that she set +the glass down again beside her gloves, without drinking. +</p> + +<p> +By degrees she had begun to see objects more clearly in the room, which was +lighted dimly by a few stray sunbeams that filtered through the cracks of the +old shutters. She now saw Uncle Macquart distinctly, neatly dressed in a blue +cloth suit, as usual, and on his head the eternal fur cap which he wore from +one year’s end to the other. He had grown stout during the last five or +six years, and he looked like a veritable mountain of flesh overlaid with rolls +of fat. And she noticed that he must have fallen asleep while smoking, for his +pipe—a short black pipe—had fallen into his lap. Then she stood +still, stupefied with amazement—the burning tobacco had been scattered in +the fall, and the cloth of the trousers had caught fire, and through a hole in +the stuff, as large already as a hundred-sous piece, she saw the bare thigh, +whence issued a little blue flame. +</p> + +<p> +At first Félicité had thought that it was linen—the drawers or the +shirt—that was burning. But soon doubt was no longer possible, she saw +distinctly the bare flesh and the little blue flame issuing from it, lightly +dancing, like a flame wandering over the surface of a vessel of lighted +alcohol. It was as yet scarcely higher than the flame of a night light, pale +and soft, and so unstable that the slightest breath of air caused it to change +its place. But it increased and spread rapidly, and the skin cracked and the +fat began to melt. +</p> + +<p> +An involuntary cry escaped from Félicité’s throat. +</p> + +<p> +“Macquart! Macquart!” +</p> + +<p> +But still he did not stir. His insensibility must have been complete; +intoxication must have produced a sort of coma, in which there was an absolute +paralysis of sensation, for he was living, his breast could be seen rising and +falling, in slow and even respiration. +</p> + +<p> +“Macquart! Macquart!” +</p> + +<p> +Now the fat was running through the cracks of the skin, feeding the flame, +which was invading the abdomen. And Félicité comprehended vaguely that Uncle +Macquart was burning before her like a sponge soaked with brandy. He had, +indeed, been saturated with it for years past, and of the strongest and most +inflammable kind. He would no doubt soon be blazing from head to foot, like a +bowl of punch. +</p> + +<p> +Then she ceased to try to awaken him, since he was sleeping so soundly. For a +full minute she had the courage to look at him, awe-stricken, but gradually +coming to a determination. Her hands, however, began to tremble, with a little +shiver which she could not control. She was choking, and taking up the glass of +water again with both hands, she emptied it at a draught. And she was going +away on tiptoe, when she remembered her gloves. She went back, groped for them +anxiously on the table and, as she thought, picked them both up. Then she left +the room, closing the door behind her carefully, and as gently as if she were +afraid of disturbing some one. +</p> + +<p> +When she found herself once more on the terrace, in the cheerful sunshine and +the pure air, in face of the vast horizon bathed in light, she heaved a sigh of +relief. The country was deserted; no one could have seen her entering or +leaving the house. Only the yellow dog was still stretched there, and he did +not even deign to look up. And she went away with her quick, short step, her +youthful figure lightly swaying. A hundred steps away, an irresistible impulse +compelled her to turn round to give a last look at the house, so tranquil and +so cheerful on the hillside, in the declining light of the beautiful day. +</p> + +<p> +Only when she was in the train and went to put on her gloves did she perceive +that one of them was missing. But she supposed that it had fallen on the +platform at the station as she was getting into the car. She believed herself +to be quite calm, but she remained with one hand gloved and one hand bare, +which, with her, could only be the result of great agitation. +</p> + +<p> +On the following day Pascal and Clotilde took the three o’clock train to +go to the Tulettes. The mother of Charles, the harness-maker’s wife, had +brought the boy to them, as they had offered to take him to Uncle +Macquart’s, where he was to remain for the rest of the week. Fresh +quarrels had disturbed the peace of the household, the husband having resolved +to tolerate no longer in his house another man’s child, that do-nothing, +imbecile prince’s son. As it was Grandmother Rougon who had dressed him, +he was, indeed, dressed on this day, again, in black velvet trimmed with gold +braid, like a young lord, a page of former times going to court. And during the +quarter of an hour which the journey lasted, Clotilde amused herself in the +compartment, in which they were alone, by taking off his cap and smoothing his +beautiful blond locks, his royal hair that fell in curls over his shoulders. +She had a ring on her finger, and as she passed her hand over his neck she was +startled to perceive that her caress had left behind it a trace of blood. One +could not touch the boy’s skin without the red dew exuding from it; the +tissues had become so lax through extreme degeneration that the slightest +scratch brought on a hemorrhage. The doctor became at once uneasy, and asked +him if he still bled at the nose as frequently as formerly. Charles hardly knew +what to answer; first saying no, then, recollecting himself, he said that he +had bled a great deal the other day. He seemed, indeed, weaker; he grew more +childish as he grew older; his intelligence, which had never developed, had +become clouded. This tall boy of fifteen, so beautiful, so girlish-looking, +with the color of a flower that had grown in the shade, did not look ten. +</p> + +<p> +At the Tulettes Pascal decided that they would first take the boy to Uncle +Macquart’s. They ascended the steep road. In the distance the little +house looked gay in the sunshine, as it had looked on the day before, with its +yellow walls and its green mulberry trees extending their twisted branches and +covering the terrace with a thick, leafy roof. A delightful sense of peace +pervaded this solitary spot, this sage’s retreat, where the only sound to +be heard was the humming of the bees, circling round the tall marshmallows. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, that rascal of an uncle!” said Pascal, smiling, “how I +envy him!” +</p> + +<p> +But he was surprised not to have already seen him standing at the edge of the +terrace. And as Charles had run off dragging Clotilde with him to see the +rabbits, as he said, the doctor continued the ascent alone, and was astonished +when he reached the top to see no one. The blinds were closed, the hill door +yawned wide open. Only the yellow dog was at the threshold, his legs stiff, his +hair bristling, howling with a low and continuous moan. When he saw the +visitor, whom he no doubt recognized, approaching, he stopped howling for an +instant and went and stood further off, then he began again to whine softly. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, filled with apprehension, could not keep back the uneasy cry that rose +to his lips: +</p> + +<p> +“Macquart! Macquart!” +</p> + +<p> +No one answered; a deathlike silence reigned over the house, with its door +yawning wide open, like the mouth of a cavern. The dog continued to howl. +</p> + +<p> +Then Pascal grew impatient, and cried more loudly. +</p> + +<p> +“Macquart! Macquart!” +</p> + +<p> +There was not a stir; the bees hummed, the sky looked down serenely on the +peaceful scene. Then he hesitated no longer. Perhaps Macquart was asleep. But +the instant he pushed open the door of the kitchen on the left of the hall, a +horrible odor escaped from it, an odor of burned flesh and bones. When he +entered the room he could hardly breathe, so filled was it by a thick vapor, a +stagnant and nauseous cloud, which choked and blinded him. The sunbeams that +filtered through the cracks made only a dim light. He hurried to the fireplace, +thinking that perhaps there had been a fire, but the fireplace was empty, and +the articles of furniture around appeared to be uninjured. Bewildered, and +feeling himself growing faint in the poisoned atmosphere, he ran to the window +and threw the shutters wide open. A flood of light entered. +</p> + +<p> +Then the scene presented to the doctor’s view filled him with amazement. +Everything was in its place; the glass and the empty bottle of spirits were on +the table; only the chair in which Uncle Macquart must have been sitting bore +traces of fire, the front legs were blackened and the straw was partially +consumed. What had become of Macquart? Where could he have disappeared? In +front of the chair, on the brick floor, which was saturated with grease, there +was a little heap of ashes, beside which lay the pipe—a black pipe, which +had not even broken in falling. All of Uncle Macquart was there, in this +handful of fine ashes; and he was in the red cloud, also, which floated through +the open window; in the layer of soot which carpeted the entire kitchen; the +horrible grease of burnt flesh, enveloping everything, sticky and foul to the +touch. +</p> + +<p> +It was the finest case of spontaneous combustion physician had ever seen. The +doctor had, indeed, read in medical papers of surprising cases, among others +that of a shoemaker’s wife, a drunken woman who had fallen asleep over +her foot warmer, and of whom they had found only a hand and foot. He had, until +now, put little faith in these cases, unwilling to admit, like the ancients, +that a body impregnated with alcohol could disengage an unknown gas, capable of +taking fire spontaneously and consuming the flesh and the bones. But he denied +the truth of them no longer; besides, everything became clear to him as he +reconstructed the scene—the coma of drunkenness producing absolute +insensibility; the pipe falling on the clothes, which had taken fire; the +flesh, saturated with liquor, burning and cracking; the fat melting, part of it +running over the ground and part of it aiding the combustion, and all, at +last—muscles, organs, and bones—consumed in a general blaze. Uncle +Macquart was all there, with his blue cloth suit, and his fur cap, which he +wore from one year’s end to the other. Doubtless, as soon as he had begun +to burn like a bonfire he had fallen forward, which would account for the chair +being only blackened; and nothing of him was left, not a bone, not a tooth, not +a nail, nothing but this little heap of gray dust which the draught of air from +the door threatened at every moment to sweep away. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde had meanwhile entered, Charles remaining outside, his attention +attracted by the continued howling of the dog. +</p> + +<p> +“Good Heavens, what a smell!” she cried. “What is the +matter?” +</p> + +<p> +When Pascal explained to her the extraordinary catastrophe that had taken +place, she shuddered. She took up the bottle to examine it, but she put it down +again with horror, feeling it moist and sticky with Uncle Macquart’s +flesh. Nothing could be touched, the smallest objects were coated, as it were, +with this yellowish grease which stuck to the hands. +</p> + +<p> +A shudder of mingled awe and disgust passed through her, and she burst into +tears, faltering: +</p> + +<p> +“What a sad death! What a horrible death!” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal had recovered from his first shock, and he was almost smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Why horrible? He was eighty-four years old; he did not suffer. As for +me, I think it a superb death for that old rascal of an uncle, who, it may be +now said, did not lead a very exemplary life. You remember his envelope; he had +some very terrible and vile things upon his conscience, which did not prevent +him, however, from settling down later and growing old, surrounded by every +comfort, like an old humbug, receiving the recompense of virtues which he did +not possess. And here he lies like the prince of drunkards, burning up of +himself, consumed on the burning funeral pile of his own body!” +</p> + +<p> +And the doctor waved his hand in admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“Just think of it. To be drunk to the point of not feeling that one is on +fire; to set one’s self aflame, like a bonfire on St. John’s day; +to disappear in smoke to the last bone. Think of Uncle Macquart starting on his +journey through space; first diffused through the four corners of the room, +dissolved in air and floating about, bathing all that belonged to him; then +escaping in a cloud of dust through the window, when I opened it for him, +soaring up into the sky, filling the horizon. Why, that is an admirable death! +To disappear, to leave nothing of himself behind but a little heap of ashes and +a pipe beside it!” +</p> + +<p> +And he picked up the pipe to keep it, as he said, as a relic of Uncle Macquart; +while Clotilde, who thought she perceived a touch of bitter mockery in his +eulogistic rhapsody, shuddered anew with horror and disgust. But suddenly she +perceived something under the table—part of the remains, perhaps. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at that fragment there.” +</p> + +<p> +He stooped down and picked up with surprise a woman’s glove, a yellow +glove. +</p> + +<p> +“Why!” she cried, “it is grandmother’s glove; the glove +that was missing last evening.” +</p> + +<p> +They looked at each other; by a common impulse the same explanation rose to +their lips, Félicité was certainly there yesterday; and a sudden conviction +forced itself on the doctor’s mind—the conviction that his mother +had seen Uncle Macquart burning and that she had not quenched him. Various +indications pointed to this—the state of complete coolness in which he +found the room, the number of hours which he calculated to have been necessary +for the combustion of the body. He saw clearly the same thought dawning in the +terrified eyes of his companion. But as it seemed impossible that they should +ever know the truth, he fabricated aloud the simplest explanation: +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt your grandmother came in yesterday on her way back from the +asylum, to say good day to Uncle Macquart, before he had begun drinking.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go away! let us go away!” cried Clotilde. “I am +stifling here; I cannot remain here!” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, too, wished to go and give information of the death. He went out after +her, shut up the house, and put the key in his pocket. Outside, they heard the +little yellow dog still howling. He had taken refuge between Charles’ +legs, and the boy amused himself pushing him with his foot and listening to him +whining, without comprehending. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor went at once to the house of M. Maurin, the notary at the Tulettes, +who was also mayor of the commune. A widower for ten years past, and living +with his daughter, who was a childless widow, he had maintained neighborly +relations with old Macquart, and had occasionally kept little Charles with him +for several days at a time, his daughter having become interested in the boy +who was so handsome and so much to be pitied. M. Maurin, horrified at the news, +went at once with the doctor to draw up a statement of the accident, and +promised to make out the death certificate in due form. As for religious +ceremonies, funeral obsequies, they seemed scarcely possible. When they entered +the kitchen the draught from the door scattered the ashes about, and when they +piously attempted to collect them again they succeeded only in gathering +together the scrapings of the flags, a collection of accumulated dirt, in which +there could be but little of Uncle Macquart. What, then, could they bury? It +was better to give up the idea. So they gave it up. Besides, Uncle Macquart had +been hardly a devout Catholic, and the family contented themselves with causing +masses to be said later on for the repose of his soul. +</p> + +<p> +The notary, meantime, had immediately declared that there existed a will, which +had been deposited with him, and he asked Pascal to meet him at his house on +the next day but one for the reading; for he thought he might tell the doctor +at once that Uncle Macquart had chosen him as his executor. And he ended by +offering, like a kindhearted man, to keep Charles with him until then, +comprehending how greatly the boy, who was so unwelcome at his mother’s, +would be in the way in the midst of all these occurrences. Charles seemed +enchanted, and he remained at the Tulettes. +</p> + +<p> +It was not until very late, until seven o’clock, that Clotilde and Pascal +were able to take the train to return to Plassans, after the doctor had at last +visited the two patients whom he had to see. But when they returned together to +the notary’s on the day appointed for the meeting, they had the +disagreeable surprise of finding old Mme. Rougon installed there. She had +naturally learned of Macquart’s death, and had hurried there on the +following day, full of excitement, and making a great show of grief; and she +had just made her appearance again to-day, having heard the famous testament +spoken of. The reading of the will, however, was a simple matter, unmarked by +any incident. Macquart had left all the fortune that he could dispose of for +the purpose of erecting a superb marble monument to himself, with two angels +with folded wings, weeping. It was his own idea, a reminiscence of a similar +tomb which he had seen abroad—in Germany, perhaps—when he was a +soldier. And he had charged his nephew Pascal to superintend the erection of +the monument, as he was the only one of the family, he said, who had any taste. +</p> + +<p> +During the reading of the will Clotilde had remained in the notary’s +garden, sitting on a bench under the shade of an ancient chestnut tree. When +Pascal and Félicité again appeared, there was a moment of great embarrassment, +for they had not spoken to one another for some months past. The old lady, +however, affected to be perfectly at her ease, making no allusion whatever to +the new situation, and giving it to be understood that they might very well +meet and appear united before the world, without for that reason entering into +an explanation or becoming reconciled. But she committed the mistake of laying +too much stress on the great grief which Macquart’s death had caused her. +Pascal, who suspected the overflowing joy, the unbounded delight which it gave +her to think that this family ulcer was to be at last healed, that this +abominable uncle was at last out of the way, became gradually possessed by an +impatience, an indignation, which he could not control. His eyes fastened +themselves involuntarily on his mother’s gloves, which were black. +</p> + +<p> +Just then she was expressing her grief in lowered tones: +</p> + +<p> +“But how imprudent it was, at his age, to persist in living +alone—like a wolf in his lair! If he had only had a servant in the house +with him!” +</p> + +<p> +Then the doctor, hardly conscious of what he was saying, terrified at hearing +himself say the words, but impelled by an irresistible force, said: +</p> + +<p> +“But, mother, since you were there, why did you not quench him?” +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon turned frightfully pale. How could her son have known? She +looked at him for an instant in open-mouthed amazement; while Clotilde grew as +pale as she, in the certainty of the crime, which was now evident. It was an +avowal, this terrified silence which had fallen between the mother, the son, +and the granddaughter—the shuddering silence in which families bury their +domestic tragedies. The doctor, in despair at having spoken, he who avoided so +carefully all disagreeable and useless explanations, was trying desperately to +retract his words, when a new catastrophe extricated him from his terrible +embarrassment. +</p> + +<p> +Félicité desired to take Charles away with her, in order not to trespass on the +notary’s kind hospitality; and as the latter had sent the boy after +breakfast to spend an hour or two with Aunt Dide, he had sent the maid servant +to the asylum with orders to bring him back immediately. It was at this +juncture that the servant, whom they were waiting for in the garden, made her +appearance, covered with perspiration, out of breath, and greatly excited, +crying from a distance: +</p> + +<p> +“My God! My God! come quickly. Master Charles is bathed in blood.” +</p> + +<p> +Filled with consternation, all three set off for the asylum. This day chanced +to be one of Aunt Dide’s good days; very calm and gentle she sat erect in +the armchair in which she had spent the hours, the long hours for twenty-two +years past, looking straight before her into vacancy. She seemed to have grown +still thinner, all the flesh had disappeared, her limbs were now only bones +covered with parchment-like skin; and her keeper, the stout fair-haired girl, +carried her, fed her, took her up and laid her down as if she had been a +bundle. The ancestress, the forgotten one, tall, bony, ghastly, remained +motionless, her eyes, only seeming to have life, her eyes shining clear as +spring water in her thin withered face. But on this morning, again a sudden +rush of tears had streamed down her cheeks, and she had begun to stammer words +without any connection; which seemed to prove that in the midst of her senile +exhaustion and the incurable torpor of madness, the slow induration of the +brain and the limbs was not yet complete; there still were memories stored +away, gleams of intelligence still were possible. Then her face had resumed its +vacant expression. She seemed indifferent to every one and everything, +laughing, sometimes, at an accident, at a fall, but most often seeing nothing +and hearing nothing, gazing fixedly into vacancy. +</p> + +<p> +When Charles had been brought to her the keeper had immediately installed him +before the little table, in front of his great-great-grandmother. The girl kept +a package of pictures for him—soldiers, captains, kings clad in purple +and gold, and she gave them to him with a pair of scissors, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“There, amuse yourself quietly, and behave well. You see that to-day +grandmother is very good. You must be good, too.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy raised his eyes to the madwoman’s face, and both looked at each +other. At this moment the resemblance between them was extraordinary. Their +eyes, especially, their vacant and limpid eyes, seemed to lose themselves in +one another, to be identical. Then it was the physiognomy, the whole face, the +worn features of the centenarian, that passed over three generations to this +delicate child’s face, it, too, worn already, as it were, and aged by the +wear of the race. Neither smiled, they regarded each other intently, with an +air of grave imbecility. +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” continued the keeper, who had acquired the habit of talking +to herself to cheer herself when with her mad charge, “you cannot deny +each other. The same hand made you both. You are the very spit-down of each +other. Come, laugh a bit, amuse yourselves, since you like to be +together.” +</p> + +<p> +But to fix his attention for any length of time fatigued Charles, and he was +the first to lower his eyes; he seemed to be interested in his pictures, while +Aunt Dide, who had an astonishing power of fixing her attention, as if she had +been turned into stone, continued to look at him fixedly, without even winking +an eyelid. +</p> + +<p> +The keeper busied herself for a few moments in the little sunny room, made gay +by its light, blue-flowered paper. She made the bed which she had been airing, +she arranged the linen on the shelves of the press. But she generally profited +by the presence of the boy to take a little relaxation. She had orders never to +leave her charge alone, and now that he was here she ventured to trust her with +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to me well,” she went on, “I have to go out for a +little, and if she stirs, if she should need me, ring for me, call me at once; +do you hear? You understand, you are a big enough boy to be able to call +one.” +</p> + +<p> +He had looked up again, and made a sign that he had understood and that he +would call her. And when he found himself alone with Aunt Dide he returned to +his pictures quietly. This lasted for a quarter of an hour amid the profound +silence of the asylum, broken only at intervals by some prison sound—a +stealthy step, the jingling of a bunch of keys, and occasionally a loud cry, +immediately silenced. But the boy must have been tired by the excessive heat of +the day, for sleep gradually stole over him. Soon his head, fair as a lily, +drooped, and as if weighed down by the too heavy casque of his royal locks, he +let it sink gently on the pictures and fell asleep, with his cheek resting on +the gold and purple kings. The lashes of his closed eyelids cast a shadow on +his delicate skin, with its small blue veins, through which life pulsed feebly. +He was beautiful as an angel, but with the indefinable corruption of a whole +race spread over his countenance. And Aunt Dide looked at him with her vacant +stare in which there was neither pleasure nor pain, the stare of eternity +contemplating things earthly. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of a few moments, however, an expression of interest seemed to dawn +in the clear eyes. Something had just happened, a drop of blood was forming on +the edge of the left nostril of the boy. This drop fell and another formed and +followed it. It was the blood, the dew of blood, exuding this time, without a +scratch, without a bruise, which issued and flowed of itself in the laxity of +the degenerate tissues. The drops became a slender thread which flowed over the +gold of the pictures. A little pool covered them, and made its way to a corner +of the table; then the drops began again, splashing dully one by one upon the +floor. And he still slept, with the divinely calm look of a cherub, not even +conscious of the life that was escaping from him; and the madwoman continued to +look at him, with an air of increasing interest, but without terror, amused, +rather, her attention engaged by this, as by the flight of the big flies, which +her gaze often followed for hours. +</p> + +<p> +Several minutes more passed, the slender thread had grown larger, the drops +followed one another more rapidly, falling on the floor with a monotonous and +persistent drip. And Charles, at one moment, stirred, opened his eyes, and +perceived that he was covered with blood. But he was not frightened; he was +accustomed to this bloody spring, which issued from him at the slightest cause. +He merely gave a sigh of weariness. Instinct, however, must have warned him, +for he moaned more loudly than before, and called confusedly in stammering +accents: +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma! mamma!” +</p> + +<p> +His weakness was no doubt already excessive, for an irresistible stupor once +more took possession of him, his head dropped, his eyes closed, and he seemed +to fall asleep again, continuing his plaint, as if in a dream, moaning in +fainter and fainter accents: +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma! mamma!” +</p> + +<p> +Now the pictures were inundated; the black velvet jacket and trousers, braided +with gold, were stained with long streaks of blood, and the little red stream +began again to flow persistently from his left nostril, without stopping, +crossed the red pool on the table and fell upon the ground, where it at last +formed a veritable lake. A loud cry from the madwoman, a terrified call would +have sufficed. But she did not cry, she did not call; motionless, rigid, +emaciated, sitting there forgotten of the world, she gazed with the fixed look +of the ancestress who sees the destinies of her race being accomplished. She +sat there as if dried up, bound; her limbs and her tongue tied by her hundred +years, her brain ossified by madness, incapable of willing or of acting. And +yet the sight of the little red stream began to stir some feeling in her. A +tremor passed over her deathlike countenance, a flush mounted to her cheeks. +Finally, a last plaint roused her completely: +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma! mamma!” +</p> + +<p> +Then it was evident that a terrible struggle was taking place in Aunt Dide. She +carried her skeleton-like hand to her forehead as if she felt her brain +bursting. Her mouth was wide open, but no sound issued from it; the dreadful +tumult that had arisen within her had no doubt paralyzed her tongue. She tried +to rise, to run, but she had no longer any muscles; she remained fastened to +her seat. All her poor body trembled in the superhuman effort which she was +making to cry for help, without being able to break the bonds of old age and +madness which held her prisoner. Her face was distorted with terror; memory +gradually awakening, she must have comprehended everything. +</p> + +<p> +And it was a slow and gentle agony, of which the spectacle lasted for several +minutes more. Charles, silent now, as if he had again fallen asleep, was losing +the last drops of blood that had remained in his veins, which were emptying +themselves softly. His lily-like whiteness increased until it became a +deathlike pallor. His lips lost their rosy color, became a pale pink, then +white. And, as he was about to expire, he opened his large eyes and fixed them +on his great-great-grandmother, who watched the light dying in them. All the +waxen face was already dead, the eyes only were still living. They still kept +their limpidity, their brightness. All at once they became vacant, the light in +them was extinguished. This was the end—the death of the eyes, and +Charles had died, without a struggle, exhausted, like a fountain from which all +the water has run out. Life no longer pulsed through the veins of his delicate +skin, there was now only the shadow of its wings on his white face. But he +remained divinely beautiful, his face lying in blood, surrounded by his royal +blond locks, like one of those little bloodless dauphins who, unable to bear +the execrable heritage of their race, die of decrepitude and imbecility at +sixteen. +</p> + +<p> +The boy exhaled his latest breath as Dr. Pascal entered the room, followed by +Félicité and Clotilde. And when he saw the quantity of blood that inundated the +floor, he cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my God! it is as I feared, a hemorrhage from the nose! The poor +darling, no one was with him, and it is all over!” +</p> + +<p> +But all three were struck with terror at the extraordinary spectacle that now +met their gaze. Aunt Dide, who seemed to have grown taller, in the superhuman +effort she was making, had almost succeeded in raising herself up, and her +eyes, fixed on the dead boy, so fair and so gentle, and on the red sea of +blood, beginning to congeal, that was lying around him, kindled with a thought, +after a long sleep of twenty-two years. This final lesion of madness, this +irremediable darkness of the mind, was evidently not so complete but that some +memory of the past, lying hidden there, might awaken suddenly under the +terrible blow which had struck her. And the ancestress, the forgotten one, +lived again, emerged from her oblivion, rigid and wasted, like a specter of +terror and grief. +</p> + +<p> +For an instant she remained panting. Then with a shudder, which made her teeth +chatter, she stammered a single phrase: +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>gendarme</i>! the <i>gendarme</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal and Félicité and Clotilde understood. They looked at one another +involuntarily, turning very pale. The whole dreadful history of the old +mother—of the mother of them all—rose before them, the ardent love +of her youth, the long suffering of her mature age. Already two moral shocks +had shaken her terribly—the first, when she was in her ardent prime, when +a <i>gendarme</i> shot down her lover Macquart, the smuggler, like a dog; the +second, years ago, when another <i>gendarme</i> shattered with a pistol shot +the skull of her grandson Silvère, the insurgent, the victim of the hatred and +the sanguinary strife of the family. Blood had always bespattered her. And a +third moral shock finished her; blood bespattered her again, the impoverished +blood of her race, which she had just beheld flowing slowly, and which lay upon +the ground, while the fair royal child, his veins and his heart empty, slept. +</p> + +<p> +Three times—face to face with her past life, her life red with passion +and suffering, haunted by the image of expiation—she stammered: +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>gendarme</i>! the <i>gendarme</i>! the <i>gendarme</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +Then she sank back into her armchair. They thought she was dead, killed by the +shock. +</p> + +<p> +But the keeper at this moment at last appeared, endeavoring to excuse herself, +fearing that she would be dismissed. When, aided by her, Dr. Pascal had placed +Aunt Dide on the bed, he found that the old mother was still alive. She was not +to die until the following day, at the age of one hundred and five years, three +months, and seven days, of congestion of the brain, caused by the last shock +she had received. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, turning to his mother, said: +</p> + +<p> +“She will not live twenty-four hours; to-morrow she will be dead. Ah! +Uncle Macquart, then she, and this poor boy, one after another. How much misery +and grief!” +</p> + +<p> +He paused and added in a lower tone: +</p> + +<p> +“The family is thinning out; the old trees fall and the young die +standing.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité must have thought this another allusion. She was sincerely shocked by +the tragic death of little Charles. But, notwithstanding, above the horror +which she felt there arose a sense of immense relief. Next week, when they +should have ceased to weep, what a rest to be able to say to herself that all +this abomination of the Tulettes was at an end, that the family might at last +rise, and shine in history! +</p> + +<p> +Then she remembered that she had not answered the involuntary accusation made +against her by her son at the notary’s; and she spoke again of Macquart, +through bravado: +</p> + +<p> +“You see now that servants are of no use. There was one here, and yet she +prevented nothing; it would have been useless for Uncle Macquart to have had +one to take care of him; he would be in ashes now, all the same.” +</p> + +<p> +She sighed, and then continued in a broken voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, neither our own fate nor that of others is in our hands; +things happen as they will. These are great blows that have fallen upon us. We +must only trust to God for the preservation and the prosperity of our +family.” +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Pascal bowed with his habitual air of deference and said: +</p> + +<p> +“You are right, mother.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde knelt down. Her former fervent Catholic faith had revived in this +chamber of blood, of madness, and of death. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and +with clasped hands she was praying fervently for the dear ones who were no +more. She prayed that God would grant that their sufferings might indeed be +ended, their faults pardoned, and that they might live again in another life, a +life of unending happiness. And she prayed with the utmost fervor, in her +terror of a hell, which after this miserable life would make suffering eternal. +</p> + +<p> +From this day Pascal and Clotilde went to visit their sick side by side, filled +with greater pity than ever. Perhaps, with Pascal, the feeling of his +powerlessness against inevitable disease was even stronger than before. The +only wisdom was to let nature take its course, to eliminate dangerous elements, +and to labor only in the supreme work of giving health and strength. But the +suffering and the death of those who are dear to us awaken in us a hatred of +disease, an irresistible desire to combat and to vanquish it. And the doctor +never tasted so great a joy as when he succeeded, with his hypodermic +injections, in soothing a paroxysm of pain, in seeing the groaning patient grow +tranquil and fall asleep. Clotilde, in return, adored him, proud of their love, +as if it were a consolation which they carried, like the viaticum, to the poor. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"></a> +X.</h2> + +<p> +Martine one morning obtained from Dr. Pascal, as she did every three months, +his receipt for fifteen hundred francs, to take it to the notary Grandguillot, +to get from him what she called their “income.” The doctor seemed +surprised that the payment should have fallen due again so soon; he had never +been so indifferent as he was now about money matters, leaving to Martine the +care of settling everything. And he and Clotilde were under the plane trees, +absorbed in the joy that filled their life, lulled by the ceaseless song of the +fountain, when the servant returned with a frightened face, and in a state of +extraordinary agitation. She was so breathless with excitement that for a +moment she could not speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” she cried at last. “M. Grandguillot +has gone away!” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal did not at first comprehend. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my girl, there is no hurry,” he said; “you can go back +another day.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! He has gone away; don’t you hear? He has gone away +forever—” +</p> + +<p> +And as the waters rush forth in the bursting of a dam, her emotion vented +itself in a torrent of words. +</p> + +<p> +“I reached the street, and I saw from a distance a crowd gathered before +the door. A chill ran through me; I felt that some misfortune had happened. The +door closed, and not a blind open, as if there was somebody dead in the house. +They told me when I got there that he had run away; that he had not left a sou +behind him; that many families would be ruined.” +</p> + +<p> +She laid the receipt on the stone table. +</p> + +<p> +“There! There is your paper! It is all over with us, we have not a sou +left, we are going to die of starvation!” And she sobbed aloud in the +anguish of her miserly heart, distracted by this loss of a fortune, and +trembling at the prospect of impending want. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde sat stunned and speechless, her eyes fixed on Pascal, whose +predominating feeling at first seemed to be one of incredulity. He endeavored +to calm Martine. Why! why! it would not do to give up in this way. If all she +knew of the affair was what she had heard from the people in the street, it +might be only gossip, after all, which always exaggerates everything. M. +Grandguillot a fugitive; M. Grandguillot a thief; that was monstrous, +impossible! A man of such probity, a house liked and respected by all Plassans +for more than a century past. Why people thought money safer there than in the +Bank of France. +</p> + +<p> +“Consider, Martine, this would not have come all of a sudden, like a +thunderclap; there would have been some rumors of it beforehand. The deuce! an +old reputation does not fall to pieces in that way, in a night.” +</p> + +<p> +At this she made a gesture of despair. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, monsieur, that is what most afflicts me, because, you see, it throws +some of the responsibility on me. For weeks past I have been hearing stories on +all sides. As for you two, naturally you hear nothing; you don’t even +know whether you are alive or dead.” +</p> + +<p> +Neither Pascal nor Clotilde could refrain from smiling; for it was indeed true +that their love lifted them so far above the earth that none of the common +sounds of existence reached them. +</p> + +<p> +“But the stories I heard were so ugly that I didn’t like to worry +you with them. I thought they were lies.” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent for a moment, and then added that while some people merely +accused M. Grandguillot of having speculated on the Bourse, there were others +who accused him of still worse practises. And she burst into fresh sobs. +</p> + +<p> +“My God! My God! what is going to become of us? We are all going to die +of starvation!” +</p> + +<p> +Shaken, then, moved by seeing Clotilde’s eyes, too, filled with tears, +Pascal made an effort to remember, to see clearly into the past. Years ago, +when he had been practising in Plassans, he had deposited at different times, +with M. Grandguillot, the twenty thousand francs on the interest of which he +had lived comfortably for the past sixteen years, and on each occasion the +notary had given him a receipt for the sum deposited. This would no doubt +enable him to establish his position as a personal creditor. Then a vague +recollection awoke in his memory; he remembered, without being able to fix the +date, that at the request of the notary, and in consequence of certain +representations made by him, which Pascal had forgotten, he had given the +lawyer a power of attorney for the purpose of investing the whole or a part of +his money, in mortgages, and he was even certain that in this power the name of +the attorney had been left in blank. But he was ignorant as to whether this +document had ever been used or not; he had never taken the trouble to inquire +how his money had been invested. A fresh pang of miserly anguish made Martine +cry out: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, monsieur, you are well punished for your sin. Was that a way to +abandon one’s money? For my part, I know almost to a sou how my account +stands every quarter; I have every figure and every document at my +fingers’ ends.” +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of her distress an unconscious smile broke over her face, lighting +it all up. Her long cherished passion had been gratified; her four hundred +francs wages, saved almost intact, put out at interest for thirty years, at +last amounted to the enormous sum of twenty thousand francs. And this treasure +was put away in a safe place which no one knew. She beamed with delight at the +recollection, and she said no more. +</p> + +<p> +“But who says that our money is lost?” cried Pascal. +</p> + +<p> +“M. Grandguillot had a private fortune; he has not taken away with him +his house and his lands, I suppose. They will look into the affair; they will +make an investigation. I cannot make up my mind to believe him a common thief. +The only trouble is the delay: a liquidation drags on so long.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke in this way in order to reassure Clotilde, whose growing anxiety he +observed. She looked at him, and she looked around her at La Souleiade; her +only care his happiness; her most ardent desire to live here always, as she had +lived in the past, to love him always in this beloved solitude. And he, wishing +to tranquilize her, recovered his fine indifference; never having lived for +money, he did not imagine that one could suffer from the want of it. +</p> + +<p> +“But I have some money!” he cried, at last. “What does +Martine mean by saying that we have not a sou left, and that we are going to +die of starvation!” +</p> + +<p> +And he rose gaily, and made them both follow him saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, I am going to show you some money. And I will give some of +it to Martine that she may make us a good dinner this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +Upstairs in his room he triumphantly opened his desk before them. It was in a +drawer of this desk that for years past he had thrown the money which his later +patients had brought him of their own accord, for he had never sent them an +account. Nor had he ever known the exact amount of his little treasure, of the +gold and bank bills mingled together in confusion, from which he took the sums +he required for his pocket money, his experiments, his presents, and his alms. +During the last few months he had made frequent visits to his desk, making deep +inroads into its contents. But he had been so accustomed to find there the sums +he required, after years of economy during which he had spent scarcely +anything, that he had come to believe his savings inexhaustible. +</p> + +<p> +He gave a satisfied laugh, then, as he opened the drawer, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Now you shall see! Now you shall see!” +</p> + +<p> +And he was confounded, when, after searching among the heap of notes and bills, +he succeeded in collecting only a sum of 615 francs—two notes of 100 +francs each, 400 francs in gold, and 15 francs in change. He shook out the +papers, he felt in every corner of the drawer, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“But it cannot be! There was always money here before, there was a heap +of money here a few days ago. It must have been all those old bills that misled +me. I assure you that last week I saw a great deal of money. I had it in my +hand.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke with such amusing good faith, his childlike surprise was so sincere, +that Clotilde could not keep from smiling. Ah, the poor master, what a wretched +business man he was! Then, as she observed Martine’s look of anguish, her +utter despair at sight of this insignificant sum, which was now all there was +for the maintenance of all three, she was seized with a feeling of despair; her +eyes filled with tears, and she murmured: +</p> + +<p> +“My God, it is for me that you have spent everything; if we have nothing +now, if we are ruined, it is I who am the cause of it!” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal had already forgotten the money he had taken for the presents. Evidently +that was where it had gone. The explanation tranquilized him. And as she began +to speak in her grief of returning everything to the dealers, he grew angry. +</p> + +<p> +“Give back what I have given you! You would give a piece of my heart with +it, then! No, I would rather die of hunger, I tell you!” +</p> + +<p> +Then his confidence already restored, seeing a future of unlimited +possibilities opening out before him, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“Besides, we are not going to die of hunger to-night, are we, Martine? +There is enough here to keep us for a long time.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine shook her head. She would undertake to manage with it for two months, +for two and a half, perhaps, if people had sense, but not longer. Formerly the +drawer was replenished; there was always some money coming in; but now that +monsieur had given up his patients, they had absolutely no income. They must +not count on any help from outside, then. And she ended by saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Give me the two one-hundred-franc bills. I’ll try and make them +last for a month. Then we shall see. But be very prudent; don’t touch the +four hundred francs in gold; lock the drawer and don’t open it +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, as to that,” cried the doctor, “you may make your mind +easy. I would rather cut off my right hand.” +</p> + +<p> +And thus it was settled. Martine was to have entire control of this last purse; +and they might trust to her economy, they were sure that she would save the +centimes. As for Clotilde, who had never had a private purse, she would not +even feel the want of money. Pascal only would suffer from no longer having his +inexhaustible treasure to draw upon, but he had given his promise to allow the +servant to buy everything. +</p> + +<p> +“There! That is a good piece of work!” he said, relieved, as happy +as if he had just settled some important affair which would assure them a +living for a long time to come. +</p> + +<p> +A week passed during which nothing seemed to have changed at La Souleiade. In +the midst of their tender raptures neither Pascal nor Clotilde thought any more +of the want which was impending. And one morning during the absence of the +latter, who had gone with Martine to market, the doctor received a visit which +filled him at first with a sort of terror. It was from the woman who had sold +him the beautiful corsage of old point d’Alençon, his first present to +Clotilde. He felt himself so weak against a possible temptation that he +trembled. Even before the woman had uttered a word he had already begun to +defend himself—no, no, he neither could nor would buy anything. And with +outstretched hands he prevented her from taking anything out of her little bag, +declaring to himself that he would look at nothing. The dealer, however, a fat, +amiable woman, smiled, certain of victory. In an insinuating voice she began to +tell him a long story of how a lady, whom she was not at liberty to name, one +of the most distinguished ladies in Plassans, who had suddenly met with a +reverse of fortune, had been obliged to part with one of her jewels; and she +then enlarged on the splendid chance—a piece of jewelry that had cost +twelve hundred francs, and she was willing to let it go for five hundred. She +opened her bag slowly, in spite of the terrified and ever-louder protestations +of the doctor, and took from it a slender gold necklace set simply with seven +pearls in front; but the pearls were of wonderful brilliancy—flawless, +and perfect in shape. The ornament was simple, chaste, and of exquisite +delicacy. And instantly he saw in fancy the necklace on Clotilde’s +beautiful neck, as its natural adornment. Any other jewel would have been a +useless ornament, these pearls would be the fitting symbol of her youth. And he +took the necklace in his trembling fingers, experiencing a mortal anguish at +the idea of returning it. He defended himself still, however; he declared that +he had not five hundred francs, while the dealer continued, in her smooth +voice, to push the advantage she had gained. After another quarter an hour, +when she thought she had him secure, she suddenly offered him the necklace for +three hundred francs, and he yielded; his mania for giving, his desire to +please his idol, to adorn her, conquered. When he went to the desk to take the +fifteen gold pieces to count them out to the dealer, he felt convinced that the +notary’s affairs would be arranged, and that they would soon have plenty +of money. +</p> + +<p> +When Pascal found himself once more alone, with the ornament in his pocket, he +was seized with a childish delight, and he planned his little surprise, while +waiting, excited and impatient, for Clotilde’s return. The moment she +made her appearance his heart began to beat violently. She was very warm, for +an August sun was blazing in the sky, and she laid aside her things quickly, +pleased with her walk, telling him, laughing, of the good bargain Martine had +made—two pigeons for eighteen sous. While she was speaking he pretended +to notice something on her neck. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what have you on your neck? Let me see.” +</p> + +<p> +He had the necklace in his hand, and he succeeded in putting it around her +neck, while feigning to pass his fingers over it, to assure himself that there +was nothing there. But she resisted, saying gaily: +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t! There is nothing on my neck. Here, what are you doing? What +have you in your hand that is tickling me?” +</p> + +<p> +He caught hold of her, and drew her before the long mirror, in which she had a +full view of herself. On her neck the slender chain showed like a thread of +gold, and the seven pearls, like seven milky stars, shone with soft luster +against her satin skin. She looked charmingly childlike. Suddenly she gave a +delighted laugh, like the cooing of a dove swelling out its throat proudly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, master, master, how good you are! Do you think of nothing but me, +then? How happy you make me!” +</p> + +<p> +And the joy which shone in her eyes, the joy of the woman and the lover, happy +to be beautiful and to be adored, recompensed him divinely for his folly. +</p> + +<p> +She drew back her head, radiant, and held up her mouth to him. He bent over and +kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you happy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, master, happy, happy! Pearls are so sweet, so pure! And these +are so becoming to me!” +</p> + +<p> +For an instant longer she admired herself in the glass, innocently vain of her +fair flower-like skin, under the nacre drops of the pearls. Then, yielding to a +desire to show herself, hearing the servant moving about outside, she ran out, +crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Martine, Martine! See what master has just given me! Say, am I not +beautiful!” +</p> + +<p> +But all at once, seeing the old maid’s severe face, that had suddenly +turned an ashen hue, she became confused, and all her pleasure was spoiled. +Perhaps she had a consciousness of the jealous pang which her brilliant youth +caused this poor creature, worn out in the dumb resignation of her servitude, +in adoration of her master. This, however, was only a momentary feeling, +unconscious in the one, hardly suspected by the other, and what remained was +the evident disapprobation of the economical servant, condemning the present +with her sidelong glance. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde was seized with a little chill. +</p> + +<p> +“Only,” she murmured, “master has rummaged his desk again. +Pearls are very dear, are they not?” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, embarrassed, too, protested volubly, telling them of the splendid +opportunity presented by the dealer’s visit. An incredibly good stroke of +business—it was impossible to avoid buying the necklace. +</p> + +<p> +“How much?” asked the young girl with real anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +“Three hundred francs.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine, who had not yet opened her lips, but who looked terrible in her +silence, could not restrain a cry. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God! enough to live upon for six weeks, and we have not +bread!” +</p> + +<p> +Large tears welled from Clotilde’s eyes. She would have torn the necklace +from her neck if Pascal had not prevented her. She wished to give it to him on +the instant, and she faltered in heart-broken tones: +</p> + +<p> +“It is true, Martine is right. Master is mad, and I am mad, too, to keep +this for an instant, in the situation in which we are. It would burn my flesh. +Let me take it back, I beg of you.” +</p> + +<p> +Never would he consent to this, he said. Now his eyes, too, were moist, he +joined in their grief, crying that he was incorrigible, that they ought to have +taken all the money away from him. And running to the desk he took the hundred +francs that were left, and forced Martine to take them, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you that I will not keep another sou. I should spend this, too. +Take it, Martine; you are the only one of us who has any sense. You will make +the money last, I am very certain, until our affairs are settled. And you, +dear, keep that; do not grieve me.” +</p> + +<p> +Nothing more was said about this incident. But Clotilde kept the necklace, +wearing it under her gown; and there was a sort of delightful mystery in +feeling on her neck, unknown to every one, this simple, pretty ornament. +Sometimes, when they were alone, she would smile at Pascal and draw the pearls +from her dress quickly, and show them to him without a word; and as quickly she +would replace them again on her warm neck, filled with delightful emotion. It +was their fond folly which she thus recalled to him, with a confused gratitude, +a vivid and radiant joy—a joy which nevermore left her. +</p> + +<p> +A straitened existence, sweet in spite of everything, now began for them. +Martine made an exact inventory of the resources of the house, and it was not +reassuring. The provision of potatoes only promised to be of any importance. As +ill luck would have it, the jar of oil was almost out, and the last cask of +wine was also nearly empty. La Souleiade, having neither vines nor olive trees, +produced only a few vegetables and some fruits—pears, not yet ripe, and +trellis grapes, which were to be their only delicacies. And meat and bread had +to be bought every day. So that from the first day the servant put Pascal and +Clotilde on rations, suppressing the former sweets, creams, and pastry, and +reducing the food to the quantity barely necessary to sustain life. She resumed +all her former authority, treating them like children who were not to be +consulted, even with regard to their wishes or their tastes. It was she who +arranged the menus, who knew better than themselves what they wanted; but all +this like a mother, surrounding them with unceasing care, performing the +miracle of enabling them to live still with comfort on their scanty resources; +occasionally severe with them, for their own good, as one is severe with a +child when it refuses to eat its food. And it seemed as if this maternal care, +this last immolation, the illusory peace with which she surrounded their love, +gave her, too, a little happiness, and drew her out of the dumb despair into +which she had fallen. Since she had thus watched over them she had begun to +look like her old self, with her little white face, the face of a nun vowed to +chastity; her calm ash-colored eyes, which expressed the resignation of her +thirty years of servitude. When, after the eternal potatoes and the little +cutlet at four sous, undistinguishable among the vegetables, she was able, on +certain days, without compromising her budget, to give them pancakes, she was +triumphant, she laughed to see them laugh. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal and Clotilde thought everything she did was right, which did not prevent +them, however, from jesting about her when she was not present. The old jests +about her avarice were repeated over and over again. They said that she counted +the grains of pepper, so many grains for each dish, in her passion for economy. +When the potatoes had too little oil, when the cutlets were reduced to a +mouthful, they would exchange a quick glance, stifling their laughter in their +napkins, until she had left the room. Everything was a source of amusement to +them, and they laughed innocently at their misery. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of the first month Pascal thought of Martine’s wages. Usually +she took her forty francs herself from the common purse which she kept. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor girl,” he said to her one evening, “what are you +going to do for your wages, now that we have no more money?” +</p> + +<p> +She remained for a moment with her eyes fixed on the ground, with an air of +consternation, then she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, monsieur, I must only wait.” +</p> + +<p> +But he saw that she had not said all that was in her mind, that she had thought +of some arrangement which she did not know how to propose to him, so he +encouraged her. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, if monsieur would consent to it, I should like monsieur to +sign me a paper.” +</p> + +<p> +“How, a paper?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, a paper, in which monsieur should say, every month, that he owes me +forty francs.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal at once made out the paper for her, and this made her quite happy. She +put it away as carefully as if it had been real money. This evidently +tranquilized her. But the paper became a new subject of wondering amusement to +the doctor and his companion. In what did the extraordinary power consist which +money has on certain natures? This old maid, who would serve him on bended +knees, who adored him above everything, to the extent of having devoted to him +her whole life, to ask for this silly guarantee, this scrap of paper which was +of no value, if he should be unable to pay her. +</p> + +<p> +So far neither Pascal nor Clotilde had any great merit in preserving their +serenity in misfortune, for they did not feel it. They lived high above it, in +the rich and happy realm of their love. At table they did not know what they +were eating; they might fancy they were partaking of a princely banquet, served +on silver dishes. They were unconscious of the increasing destitution around +them, of the hunger of the servant who lived upon the crumbs from their table; +and they walked through the empty house as through a palace hung with silk and +filled with riches. This was undoubtedly the happiest period of their love. The +workroom had pleasant memories of the past, and they spent whole days there, +wrapped luxuriously in the joy of having lived so long in it together. Then, +out of doors, in every corner of La Souleiade, royal summer had set up his blue +tent, dazzling with gold. In the morning, in the embalsamed walks on the pine +grove; at noon under the dark shadow of the plane trees, lulled by the murmur +of the fountain; in the evening on the cool terrace, or in the still warm +threshing yard bathed in the faint blue radiance of the first stars, they lived +with rapture their straitened life, their only ambition to live always +together, indifferent to all else. The earth was theirs, with all its riches, +its pomps, and its dominions, since they loved each other. +</p> + +<p> +Toward the end of August however, matters grew bad again. At times they had +rude awakenings, in the midst of this life without ties, without duties, +without work; this life which was so sweet, but which it would be impossible, +hurtful, they knew, to lead always. One evening Martine told them that she had +only fifty francs left, and that they would have difficulty in managing for two +weeks longer, even giving up wine. In addition to this the news was very +serious; the notary Grandguillot was beyond a doubt insolvent, so that not even +the personal creditors would receive anything. In the beginning they had relied +on the house and the two farms which the fugitive notary had left perforce +behind him, but it was now certain that this property was in his wife’s +name and, while he was enjoying in Switzerland, as it was said, the beauty of +the mountains, she lived on one of the farms, which she cultivated quietly, +away from the annoyances of the liquidation. In short, it was infamous—a +hundred families ruined; left without bread. An assignee had indeed been +appointed, but he had served only to confirm the disaster, since not a centime +of assets had been discovered. And Pascal, with his usual indifference, +neglected even to go and see him to speak to him about his own case, thinking +that he already knew all that there was to be known about it, and that it was +useless to stir up this ugly business, since there was neither honor nor profit +to be derived from it. +</p> + +<p> +Then, indeed, the future looked threatening at La Souleiade. Black want stared +them in the face. And Clotilde, who, in reality, had a great deal of good +sense, was the first to take alarm. She maintained her cheerfulness while +Pascal was present, but, more prescient than he, in her womanly tenderness, she +fell into a state of absolute terror if he left her for an instant, asking +herself what was to become of him at his age with so heavy a burden upon his +shoulders. For several days she cherished in secret a project—to work and +earn money, a great deal of money, with her pastels. People had so often +praised her extraordinary and original talent that, taking Martine into her +confidence, she sent her one fine morning to offer some of her fantastic +bouquets to the color dealer of the Cours Sauvaire, who was a relation, it was +said, of a Parisian artist. It was with the express condition that nothing was +to be exhibited in Plassans, that everything was to be sent to a distance. But +the result was disastrous; the merchant was frightened by the strangeness of +the design, and by the fantastic boldness of the execution, and he declared +that they would never sell. This threw her into despair; great tears welled her +eyes. Of what use was she? It was a grief and a humiliation to be good for +nothing. And the servant was obliged to console her, saying that no doubt all +women were not born for work; that some grew like the flowers in the gardens, +for the sake of their fragrance; while others were the wheat of the fields that +is ground up and used for food. +</p> + +<p> +Martine, meantime, cherished another project; it was to urge the doctor to +resume his practise. At last she mentioned it to Clotilde, who at once pointed +out to her the difficulty, the impossibility almost, of such an attempt. She +and Pascal had been talking about his doing so only the day before. He, too, +was anxious, and had thought of work as the only chance of salvation. The idea +of opening an office again was naturally the first that had presented itself to +him. But he had been for so long a time the physician of the poor! How could he +venture now to ask payment when it was so many years since he had left off +doing so? Besides, was it not too late, at his age, to recommence a career? not +to speak of the absurd rumors that had been circulating about him, the name +which they had given him of a crack-brained genius. He would not find a single +patient now, it would be a useless cruelty to force him to make an attempt +which would assuredly result only in a lacerated heart and empty hands. +Clotilde, on the contrary, had used all her influence to turn him from the +idea. Martine comprehended the reasonableness of these objections, and she too +declared that he must be prevented from running the risk of so great a chagrin. +But while she was speaking a new idea occurred to her, as she suddenly +remembered an old register, which she had met with in a press, and in which she +had in former times entered the doctor’s visits. For a long time it was +she who had kept the accounts. There were so many patients who had never paid +that a list of them filled three of the large pages of the register. Why, then, +now that they had fallen into misfortune, should they not ask from these people +the money which they justly owed? It might be done without saying anything to +monsieur, who had never been willing to appeal to the law. And this time +Clotilde approved of her idea. It was a perfect conspiracy. Clotilde consulted +the register, and made out the bills, and the servant presented them. But +nowhere did she receive a sou; they told her at every door that they would look +over the account; that they would stop in and see the doctor himself. Ten days +passed, no one came, and there were now only six francs in the house, barely +enough to live upon for two or three days longer. +</p> + +<p> +Martine, when she returned with empty hands on the following day from a new +application to an old patient, took Clotilde aside and told her that she had +just been talking with Mme. Félicité at the corner of the Rue de la Banne. The +latter had undoubtedly been watching for her. She had not again set foot in La +Souleiade. Not even the misfortune which had befallen her son—the sudden +loss of his money, of which the whole town was talking—had brought her to +him; she still continued stern and indignant. But she waited in trembling +excitement, she maintained her attitude as an offended mother only in the +certainty that she would at last have Pascal at her feet, shrewdly calculating +that he would sooner or later be compelled to appeal to her for assistance. +When he had not a sou left, when he knocked at her door, then she would dictate +her terms; he should marry Clotilde, or, better still, she would demand the +departure of the latter. But the days passed, and he did not come. And this was +why she had stopped Martine, assuming a pitying air, asking what news there +was, and seeming to be surprised that they had not had recourse to her purse, +while giving it to be understood that her dignity forbade her to take the first +step. +</p> + +<p> +“You should speak to monsieur, and persuade him,” ended the +servant. And indeed, why should he not appeal to his mother? That would be +entirely natural. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! never would I undertake such a commission,” cried Clotilde. +“Master would be angry, and with reason. I truly believe he would die of +starvation before he would eat grandmother’s bread.” +</p> + +<p> +But on the evening of the second day after this, at dinner, as Martine was +putting on the table a piece of boiled beef left over from the day before, she +gave them notice. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no more money, monsieur, and to-morrow there will be only +potatoes, without oil or butter. It is three weeks now that you have had only +water to drink; now you will have to do without meat.” +</p> + +<p> +They were still cheerful, they could still jest. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you salt, my good girl?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that; yes, monsieur, there is still a little left.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, potatoes and salt are very good when one is hungry.” +</p> + +<p> +That night, however, Pascal noticed that Clotilde was feverish; this was the +hour in which they exchanged confidences, and she ventured to tell him of her +anxiety on his account, on her own, on that of the whole house. What was going +to become of them when all their resources should be exhausted? For a moment +she thought of speaking to him of his mother. But she was afraid, and she +contented herself with confessing to him what she and Martine had +done—the old register examined, the bills made out and sent, the money +asked everywhere in vain. In other circumstances he would have been greatly +annoyed and very angry at this confession; offended that they should have acted +without his knowledge, and contrary to the attitude he had maintained during +his whole professional life. He remained for a long tine silent, strongly +agitated, and this would have sufficed to prove how great must be his secret +anguish at times, under his apparent indifference to poverty. Then he forgave +Clotilde, clasping her wildly to his breast, and finally he said that she had +done right, that they could not continue to live much longer as they were +living, in a destitution which increased every day. Then they fell into +silence, each trying to think of a means of procuring the money necessary for +their daily wants, each suffering keenly; she, desperate at the thought of the +tortures that awaited him; he unable to accustom himself to the idea of seeing +her wanting bread. Was their happiness forever ended, then? Was poverty going +to blight their spring with its chill breath? +</p> + +<p> +At breakfast, on the following day, they ate only fruit. The doctor was very +silent during the morning, a prey to a visible struggle. And it was not until +three o’clock that he took a resolution. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, we must stir ourselves,” he said to his companion. “I +do not wish you to fast this evening again; so put on your hat, we will go out +together.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him, waiting for an explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, since they owe us money, and have refused to give it to you, I will +see whether they will also refuse to give it to me.” +</p> + +<p> +His hands trembled; the thought of demanding payment in this way, after so many +years, evidently made him suffer terribly; but he forced a smile, he affected +to be very brave. And she, who knew from the trembling of his voice the extent +of his sacrifice, had tears in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, master; don’t go if it makes you suffer so much. Martine +can go again.” +</p> + +<p> +But the servant, who was present, approved highly of monsieur’s +intention. +</p> + +<p> +“And why should not monsieur go? There’s no shame in asking what is +owed to one, is there? Every one should have his own; for my part, I think it +quite right that monsieur should show at last that he is a man.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, as before, in their hours of happiness, old King David, as Pascal +jestingly called himself, left the house, leaning on Abishag’s arm. +Neither of them was yet in rags; he still wore his tightly buttoned overcoat; +she had on her pretty linen gown with red spots, but doubtless the +consciousness of their poverty lowered them in their own estimation, making +them feel that they were now only two poor people who occupied a very +insignificant place in the world, for they walked along by the houses, shunning +observation. The sunny streets were almost deserted. A few curious glances +embarrassed them. They did not hasten their steps, however; only their hearts +were oppressed at the thought of the visits they were about to make. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal resolved to begin with an old magistrate whom he had treated for an +affection of the liver. He entered the house, leaving Clotilde sitting on the +bench in the Cours Sauvaire. But he was greatly relieved when the magistrate, +anticipating his demand, told him that he did not receive his rents until +October, and that he would pay him then. At the house of an old lady of +seventy, a paralytic, the rebuff was of a different kind. She was offended +because her account had been sent to her through a servant who had been +impolite; so that he hastened to offer her his excuses, giving her all the time +she desired. Then he climbed up three flights of stairs to the apartment of a +clerk in the tax collector’s office, whom he found still ill, and so poor +that he did not even venture to make his demand. Then followed a mercer, a +lawyer’s wife, an oil merchant, a baker—all well-to-do people; and +all turned him away, some with excuses, others by denying him admittance; a few +even pretended not to know what he meant. There remained the Marquise de +Valqueyras, the sole representative of a very ancient family, a widow with a +girl of ten, who was very rich, and whose avarice was notorious. He had left +her for the last, for he was greatly afraid of her. Finally he knocked at the +door of her ancient mansion, at the foot of the Cours Sauvaire, a massive +structure of the time of Mazarin. He remained so long in the house that +Clotilde, who was walking under the trees, at last became uneasy. +</p> + +<p> +When he finally made his appearance, at the end of a full half hour, she said +jestingly, greatly relieved: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what was the matter? Had she no money?” +</p> + +<p> +But here, too, he had been unsuccessful; she complained that her tenants did +not pay her. +</p> + +<p> +“Imagine,” he continued, in explanation of his long absence, +“the little girl is ill. I am afraid that it is the beginning of a +gastric fever. So she wished me to see the child, and I examined her.” +</p> + +<p> +A smile which she could not suppress came to Clotilde’s lips. +</p> + +<p> +“And you prescribed for her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course; could I do otherwise?” +</p> + +<p> +She took his arm again, deeply affected, and he felt her press it against her +heart. For a time they walked on aimlessly. It was all over; they had knocked +at every debtor’s door, and nothing now remained for them to do but to +return home with empty hands. But this Pascal refused to do, determined that +Clotilde should have something more than the potatoes and water which awaited +them. When they ascended the Cours Sauvaire, they turned to the left, to the +new town; drifting now whither cruel fate led them. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” said Pascal at last; “I have an idea. If I were to +speak to Ramond he would willingly lend us a thousand francs, which we could +return to him when our affairs are arranged.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer at once. Ramond, whom she had rejected, who was now married +and settled in a house in the new town, in a fair way to become the fashionable +physician of the place, and to make a fortune! She knew, indeed, that he had a +magnanimous soul and a kind heart. If he had not visited them again it had been +undoubtedly through delicacy. Whenever they chanced to meet, he saluted them +with so admiring an air, he seemed so pleased to see their happiness. +</p> + +<p> +“Would that be disagreeable to you?” asked Pascal ingenuously. For +his part, he would have thrown open to the young physician his house, his +purse, and his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she answered quickly. “There has never been +anything between us but affection and frankness. I think I gave him a great +deal of pain, but he has forgiven me. You are right; we have no other friend. +It is to Ramond that we must apply.” +</p> + +<p> +Ill luck pursued them, however. Ramond was absent from home, attending a +consultation at Marseilles, and he would not be back until the following +evening. And it young Mme. Ramond, an old friend of Clotilde’s, some +three years her junior, who received them. She seemed a little embarrassed, but +she was very amiable, notwithstanding. But the doctor, naturally, did not +prefer his request, and contented himself with saying, in explanation of his +visit, that he had missed Ramond. When they were in the street again, Pascal +and Clotilde felt themselves once more abandoned and alone. Where now should +they turn? What new effort should they make? And they walked on again +aimlessly. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not tell you, master,” Clotilde at last ventured to murmur, +“but it seems that Martine met grandmother the other day. Yes, +grandmother has been uneasy about us. She asked Martine why we did not go to +her, if we were in want. And see, here is her house.” +</p> + +<p> +They were in fact, in the Rue de la Banne. They could see the corner of the +Place de la Sous-Préfecture. But he at once silenced her. +</p> + +<p> +“Never, do you hear! Nor shall you go either. You say that because it +grieves you to see me in this poverty. My heart, too, is heavy, to think that +you also are in want, that you also suffer. But it is better to suffer than to +do a thing that would leave one an eternal remorse. I will not. I +cannot.” +</p> + +<p> +They emerged from the Rue de la Banne, and entered the old quarter. +</p> + +<p> +“I would a thousand times rather apply to a stranger. Perhaps we still +have friends, even if they are only among the poor.” +</p> + +<p> +And resolved to beg, David continued his walk, leaning on the arm of Abishag; +the old mendicant king went from door to door, leaning on the shoulder of the +loving subject whose youth was now his only support. It was almost six +o’clock; the heat had abated; the narrow streets were filling with +people; and in this populous quarter where they were loved, they were +everywhere greeted with smiles. Something of pity was mingled with the +admiration they awakened, for every one knew of their ruin. But they seemed of +a nobler beauty than before, he all white, she all blond, pressing close to +each other in their misfortune. They seemed more united, more one with each +other than ever; holding their heads erect, proud of their glorious love, +though touched by misfortune; he shaken, while she, with a courageous heart, +sustained him. And in spite of the poverty that had so suddenly overtaken them +they walked without shame, very poor and very great, with the sorrowful smile +under which they concealed the desolation of their souls. Workmen in dirty +blouses passed them by, who had more money in their pockets than they. No one +ventured to offer them the sou which is not refused to those who are hungry. At +the Rue Canoquin they stopped at the house of Gulraude. She had died the week +before. Two other attempts which they made failed. They were reduced now to +consider where they could borrow ten francs. They had been walking about the +town for three hours, but they could not resolve to go home empty-handed. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, this Plassans, with its Cours Sauvaire, its Rue de Rome, and its Rue de la +Banne, dividing it into three quarters; this Plassans; with its windows always +closed, this sun-baked town, dead in appearance, but which concealed under this +sleeping surface a whole nocturnal life of the clubhouse and the gaming table. +They walked through it three times more with slackened pace, on this clear, +calm close of a glowing August day. In the yard of the coach office a few old +stage-coaches, which still plied between the town and the mountain villages, +were standing unharnessed; and under the thick shade of the plane trees at the +doors of the cafes, the customers, who were to be seen from seven o’clock +in the morning, looked after them smiling. In the new town, too, the servants +came and stood at the doors of the wealthy houses; they met with less sympathy +here than in the deserted streets of the Quartier St. Marc, whose antique +houses maintained a friendly silence. They returned to the heart of the old +quarter where they were most liked; they went as far as St. Saturnin, the +cathedral, whose apse was shaded by the garden of the chapter, a sweet and +peaceful solitude, from which a beggar drove them by himself asking an alms +from them. They were building rapidly in the neighborhood of the railway +station; a new quarter was growing up there, and they bent their steps in that +direction. Then they returned a last time to the Place de la Sous-Préfecture, +with a sudden reawakening of hope, thinking that they might meet some one who +would offer them money. But they were followed only by the indulgent smile of +the town, at seeing them so united and so beautiful. Only one woman had tears +in her eyes, foreseeing, perhaps, the sufferings that awaited them. The stones +of the Viorne, the little sharp paving stones, wounded their feet. And they had +at last to return to La Souleiade, without having succeeded in obtaining +anything, the old mendicant king and his submissive subject; Abishag, in the +flower of her youth, leading back David, old and despoiled of his wealth, and +weary from having walked the streets in vain. +</p> + +<p> +It was eight o’clock, and Martine, who was waiting for them, comprehended +that she would have no cooking to do this evening. She pretended that she had +dined, and as she looked ill Pascal sent her at once to bed. +</p> + +<p> +“We do not need you,” said Clotilde. “As the potatoes are on +the fire we can take them up very well ourselves.” +</p> + +<p> +The servant, who was feverish and out of humor, yielded. She muttered some +indistinct words—when people had eaten up everything what was the use of +sitting down to table? Then, before shutting herself into her room, she added: +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur, there is no more hay for Bonhomme. I thought he was looking +badly a little while ago; monsieur ought to go and see him.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal and Clotilde, filled with uneasiness, went to the stable. The old horse +was, in fact, lying on the straw in the somnolence of expiring old age. They +had not taken him out for six months past, for his legs, stiff with rheumatism, +refused to support him, and he had become completely blind. No one could +understand why the doctor kept the old beast. Even Martine had at last said +that he ought to be slaughtered, if only through pity. But Pascal and Clotilde +cried out at this, as much excited as if it had been proposed to them to put an +end to some aged relative who was not dying fast enough. No, no, he had served +them for more than a quarter of a century; he should die comfortably with them, +like the worthy fellow he had always been. And to-night the doctor did not +scorn to examine him, as if he had never attended any other patients than +animals. He lifted up his hoofs, looked at his gums, and listened to the +beating of his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“No, there is nothing the matter with him,” he said at last. +“It is simply old age. Ah, my poor old fellow, I think, indeed, we shall +never again travel the roads together.” +</p> + +<p> +The idea that there was no more hay distressed Clotilde. But Pascal reassured +her—an animal of that age, that no longer moved about, needed so little. +She stooped down and took a few handfuls of grass from a heap which the servant +had left there, and both were rejoiced when Bonhomme deigned, solely and simply +through friendship, as it seemed, to eat the grass out of her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, laughing, “so you still have an appetite! You +cannot be very sick, then; you must not try to work upon our feelings. Good +night, and sleep well.” +</p> + +<p> +And they left him to his slumbers after having each given him, as usual, a +hearty kiss on either side of his nose. +</p> + +<p> +Night fell, and an idea occurred to them, in order not to remain downstairs in +the empty house—to close up everything and eat their dinner upstairs. +Clotilde quickly took up the dish of potatoes, the salt-cellar, and a fine +decanter of water; while Pascal took charge of a basket of grapes, the first +which they had yet gathered from an early vine at the foot of the terrace. They +closed the door, and laid the cloth on a little table, putting the potatoes in +the middle between the salt-cellar and the decanter, and the basket of grapes +on a chair beside them. And it was a wonderful feast, which reminded them of +the delicious breakfast they had made on the morning on which Martine had +obstinately shut herself up in her room, and refused to answer them. They +experienced the same delight as then at being alone, at waiting upon +themselves, at eating from the same plate, sitting close beside each other. +This evening, which they had anticipated with so much dread, had in store for +them the most delightful hours of their existence. As soon as they found +themselves at home in the large friendly room, as far removed from the town +which they had just been scouring as if they had been a hundred leagues away +from it, all uneasiness and all sadness vanished—even to the recollection +of the wretched afternoon wasted in useless wanderings. They were once more +indifferent to all that was not their affection; they no longer remembered that +they had lost their fortune; that they might have to hunt up a friend on the +morrow in order to be able to dine in the evening. Why torture themselves with +fears of coming want, when all they required to enjoy the greatest possible +happiness was to be together? +</p> + +<p> +But Pascal felt a sudden terror. +</p> + +<p> +“My God! and we dreaded this evening so greatly! Is it wise to be happy +in this way? Who knows what to-morrow may have in store for us?” +</p> + +<p> +But she put her little hand over his mouth; she desired that he should have one +more evening of perfect happiness. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; to-morrow we shall love each other as we love each other to-day. +Love me with all your strength, as I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +And never had they eaten with more relish. She displayed the appetite of a +healthy young girl with a good digestion; she ate the potatoes with a hearty +appetite, laughing, thinking them delicious, better than the most vaunted +delicacies. He, too, recovered the appetite of his youthful days. They drank +with delight deep draughts of pure water. Then the grapes for dessert filled +them with admiration; these grapes so fresh, this blood of the earth which the +sun had touched with gold. They ate to excess; they became drunk on water and +fruit, and more than all on gaiety. They did not remember ever before to have +enjoyed such a feast together; even the famous breakfast they had made, with +its luxuries of cutlets and bread and wine, had not given them this +intoxication, this joy in living, when to be together was happiness enough, +changing the china to dishes of gold, and the miserable food to celestial fare +such as not even the gods enjoyed. +</p> + +<p> +It was now quite dark, but they did not light the lamp. Through the wide open +windows they could see the vast summer sky. The night breeze entered, still +warm and laden with a faint odor of lavender. The moon had just risen above the +horizon, large and round, flooding the room with a silvery light, in which they +saw each other as in a dream light infinitely bright and sweet. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"></a> +XI.</h2> + +<p> +But on the following day their disquietude all returned. They were now obliged +to go in debt. Martine obtained on credit bread, wine, and a little meat, much +to her shame, be it said, forced as she was to maneuver and tell lies, for no +one was ignorant of the ruin that had overtaken the house. The doctor had +indeed thought of mortgaging La Souleiade, but only as a last resource. All he +now possessed was this property, which was worth twenty thousand francs, but +for which he would perhaps not get fifteen thousand, if he should sell it; and +when these should be spent black want would be before them, the street, without +even a stone of their own on which to lay their heads. Clotilde therefore +begged Pascal to wait and not to take any irrevocable step so long as things +were not utterly desperate. +</p> + +<p> +Three or four days passed. It was the beginning of September, and the weather +unfortunately changed; terrible storms ravaged the entire country; a part of +the garden wall was blown down, and as Pascal was unable to rebuild it, the +yawning breach remained. Already they were beginning to be rude at the +baker’s. And one morning the old servant came home with the meat from the +butcher’s in tears, saying that he had given her the refuse. A few days +more and they would be unable to obtain anything on credit. It had become +absolutely necessary to consider how they should find the money for their small +daily expenses. +</p> + +<p> +One Monday morning, the beginning of another week of torture, Clotilde was very +restless. A struggle seemed to be going on within her, and it was only when she +saw Pascal refuse at breakfast his share of a piece of beef which had been left +over from the day before that she at last came to a decision. Then with a calm +and resolute air, she went out after breakfast with Martine, after quietly +putting into the basket of the latter a little package—some articles of +dress which she was giving her, she said. +</p> + +<p> +When she returned two hours later she was very pale. But her large eyes, so +clear and frank, were shining. She went up to the doctor at once and made her +confession. +</p> + +<p> +“I must ask your forgiveness, master, for I have just been disobeying +you, and I know that I am going to pain you greatly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what have you been doing?” he asked uneasily, not +understanding what she meant. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly, without removing her eyes from him, she drew from her pocket an +envelope, from which she took some bank-notes. A sudden intuition enlightened +him, and he cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my God! the jewels, the presents I gave you!” +</p> + +<p> +And he, who was usually so good-tempered and gentle, was convulsed with grief +and anger. He seized her hands in his, crushing with almost brutal force the +fingers which held the notes. +</p> + +<p> +“My God! what have you done, unhappy girl? It is my heart that you have +sold, both our hearts, that had entered into those jewels, which you have given +with them for money! The jewels which I gave you, the souvenirs of our divinest +hours, your property, yours only, how can you wish me to take them back, to +turn them to my profit? Can it be possible—have you thought of the +anguish that this would give me?” +</p> + +<p> +“And you, master,” she answered gently, “do you think that I +could consent to our remaining in the unhappy situation in which we are, in +want of everything, while I had these rings and necklaces and earrings laid +away in the bottom of a drawer? Why, my whole being would rise in protest. I +should think myself a miser, a selfish wretch, if I had kept them any longer. +And, although it was a grief for me to part with them—ah, yes, I confess +it, so great a grief that I could hardly find the courage to do it—I am +certain that I have only done what I ought to have done as an obedient and +loving woman.” +</p> + +<p> +And as he still grasped her hands, tears came to her eyes, and she added in the +same gentle voice and with a faint smile: +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t press so hard; you hurt me.” +</p> + +<p> +Then repentant and deeply moved, Pascal, too, wept. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a brute to get angry in this way. You acted rightly; you could not +do otherwise. But forgive me; it was hard for me to see you despoil yourself. +Give me your hands, your poor hands, and let me kiss away the marks of my +stupid violence.” +</p> + +<p> +He took her hands again in his tenderly; he covered them with kisses; he +thought them inestimably precious, so delicate and bare, thus stripped of their +rings. Consoled now, and joyous, she told him of her escapade—how she had +taken Martine into her confidence, and how both had gone to the dealer who had +sold him the corsage of point d’Alençon, and how after interminable +examining and bargaining the woman had given six thousand francs for all the +jewels. Again he repressed a gesture of despair—six thousand francs! when +the jewels had cost him more than three times that amount—twenty thousand +francs at the very least. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” he said to her at last; “I will take this money, +since, in the goodness of your heart, you have brought it to me. But it is +clearly understood that it is yours. I swear to you that I will, for the +future, be more miserly than Martine herself. I will give her only the few sous +that are absolutely necessary for our maintenance, and you will find in the +desk all that may be left of this sum, if I should never be able to complete it +and give it back to you entire.” +</p> + +<p> +He clasped her in an embrace that still trembled with emotion. Presently, +lowering his voice to a whisper, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“And did you sell everything, absolutely everything?” +</p> + +<p> +Without speaking, she disengaged herself a little from his embrace, and put her +fingers to her throat, with her pretty gesture, smiling and blushing. Finally, +she drew out the slender chain on which shone the seven pearls, like milky +stars. Then she put it back again out of sight. +</p> + +<p> +He, too, blushed, and a great joy filled his heart. He embraced her +passionately. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he cried, “how good you are, and how I love you!” +</p> + +<p> +But from this time forth the recollection of the jewels which had been sold +rested like a weight upon his heart; and he could not look at the money in his +desk without pain. He was haunted by the thought of approaching want, +inevitable want, and by a still more bitter thought—the thought of his +age, of his sixty years which rendered him useless, incapable of earning a +comfortable living for a wife; he had been suddenly and rudely awakened from +his illusory dream of eternal love to the disquieting reality. He had fallen +unexpectedly into poverty, and he felt himself very old—this terrified +him and filled him with a sort of remorse, of desperate rage against himself, +as if he had been guilty of a crime. And this embittered his every hour; if +through momentary forgetfulness he permitted himself to indulge in a little +gaiety his distress soon returned with greater poignancy than ever, bringing +with it a sudden and inexplicable sadness. He did not dare to question himself, +and his dissatisfaction with himself and his suffering increased every day. +</p> + +<p> +Then a frightful revelation came to him. One morning, when he was alone, he +received a letter bearing the Plassans postmark, the superscription on which he +examined with surprise, not recognizing the writing. This letter was not +signed; and after reading a few lines he made an angry movement as if to tear +it up and throw it away; but he sat down trembling instead, and read it to the +end. The style was perfectly courteous; the long phrases rolled on, measured +and carefully worded, like diplomatic phrases, whose only aim is to convince. +It was demonstrated to him with a superabundance of arguments that the scandal +of La Souleiade had lasted too long already. If passion, up to a certain point, +explained the fault, yet a man of his age and in his situation was rendering +himself contemptible by persisting in wrecking the happiness of the young +relative whose trustfulness he abused. No one was ignorant of the ascendency +which he had acquired over her; it was admitted that she gloried in sacrificing +herself for him; but ought he not, on his side, to comprehend that it was +impossible that she should love an old man, that what she felt was merely pity +and gratitude, and that it was high time to deliver her from this senile love, +which would finally leave her with a dishonored name! Since he could not even +assure her a small fortune, the writer hoped he would act like an honorable +man, and have the strength to separate from her, through consideration for her +happiness, if it were not yet too late. And the letter concluded with the +reflection that evil conduct was always punished in the end. +</p> + +<p> +From the first sentence Pascal felt that this anonymous letter came from his +mother. Old Mme. Rougon must have dictated it; he could hear in it the very +inflections of her voice. But after having begun the letter angry and +indignant, he finished it pale and trembling, seized by the shiver which now +passed through him continually and without apparent cause. The letter was +right, it enlightened him cruelly regarding the source of his mental distress, +showing him that it was remorse for keeping Clotilde with him, old and poor as +he was. He got up and walked over to a mirror, before which he stood for a long +time, his eyes gradually filling with tears of despair at sight of his wrinkles +and his white beard. The feeling of terror which arose within him, the mortal +chill which invaded his heart, was caused by the thought that separation had +become necessary, inevitable. He repelled the thought, he felt that he would +never have the strength for a separation, but it still returned; he would never +now pass a single day without being assailed by it, without being torn by the +struggle between his love and his reason until the terrible day when he should +become resigned, his strength and his tears exhausted. In his present weakness, +he trembled merely at the thought of one day having this courage. And all was +indeed over, the irrevocable had begun; he was filled with fear for Clotilde, +so young and so beautiful, and all there was left him now was the duty of +saving her from himself. +</p> + +<p> +Then, haunted by every word, by every phrase of the letter, he tortured himself +at first by trying to persuade himself that she did not love him, that all she +felt for him was pity and gratitude. It would make the rupture more easy to +him, he thought, if he were once convinced that she sacrificed herself, and +that in keeping her with him longer he was only gratifying his monstrous +selfishness. But it was in vain that he studied her, that he subjected her to +proofs, she remained as tender and devoted as ever, making the dreaded decision +still more difficult. Then he pondered over all the causes that vaguely, but +ceaselessly urged their separation. The life which they had been leading for +months past, this life without ties or duties, without work of any sort, was +not good. He thought no longer of himself, he considered himself good for +nothing now but to go away and bury himself out of sight in some remote corner; +but for her was it not an injurious life, a life which would deteriorate her +character and weaken her will? And suddenly he saw himself in fancy dying, +leaving her alone to perish of hunger in the streets. No, no! this would be a +crime; he could not, for the sake of the happiness of his few remaining days, +bequeath to her this heritage of shame and misery. +</p> + +<p> +One morning Clotilde went for a walk in the neighborhood, from which she +returned greatly agitated, pale and trembling, and as soon as she was upstairs +in the workroom, she almost fainted in Pascal’s arms, faltering: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my God! oh, my God! those women!” +</p> + +<p> +Terrified, he pressed her with questions. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, tell me! What has happened?” +</p> + +<p> +A flush mounted to her face. She flung her arms around his neck and hid her +head on his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“It was those women! Reaching a shady spot, I was closing my parasol, and +I had the misfortune to throw down a child. And they all rose against me, +crying out such things, oh, such things—things that I cannot repeat, that +I could not understand!” +</p> + +<p> +She burst into sobs. He was livid; he could find nothing to say to her; he +kissed her wildly, weeping like herself. He pictured to himself the whole +scene; he saw her pursued, hooted at, reviled. Presently he faltered: +</p> + +<p> +“It is my fault, it is through me you suffer. Listen, we will go away +from here, far, far away, where we shall not be known, where you will be +honored, where you will be happy.” +</p> + +<p> +But seeing him weep, she recovered her calmness by a violent effort. And drying +her tears, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I have behaved like a coward in telling you all this. After +promising myself that I would say nothing of it to you. But when I found myself +at home again, my anguish was so great that it all came out. But you see now it +is all over, don’t grieve about it. I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled, and putting her arms about him she kissed him in her turn, trying +to soothe his despair. +</p> + +<p> +“I love you. I love you so dearly that it will console me for everything. +There is only you in the world, what matters anything that is not you? You are +so good; you make me so happy!” +</p> + +<p> +But he continued to weep, and she, too, began to weep again, and there was a +moment of infinite sadness, of anguish, in which they mingled their kisses and +their tears. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, when she left him alone for an instant, thought himself a wretch. He +could no longer be the cause of misfortune to this child, whom he adored. And +on the evening of the same day an event took place which brought about the +solution hitherto sought in vain, with the fear of finding it. After dinner +Martine beckoned him aside, and gave him a letter, with all sorts of +precautions, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I met Mme. Félicité, and she charged me to give you this letter, +monsieur, and she told me to tell you that she would have brought it to you +herself, only that regard for her reputation prevented her from returning here. +She begs you to send her back M. Maxime’s letter, letting her know +mademoiselle’s answer.” +</p> + +<p> +It was, in fact, a letter from Maxime, and Mme. Félicité, glad to have received +it, used it as a new means of conquering her son, after having waited in vain +for misery to deliver him up to her, repentant and imploring. As neither Pascal +nor Clotilde had come to demand aid or succor from her, she had once more +changed her plan, returning to her old idea of separating them; and, this time, +the opportunity seemed to her decisive. Maxime’s letter was a pressing +one; he urged his grandmother to plead his cause with his sister. Ataxia had +declared itself; he was able to walk now only leaning on his servant’s +arm. His solitude terrified him, and he urgently entreated his sister to come +to him. He wished to have her with him as a rampart against his father’s +abominable designs; as a sweet and upright woman after all, who would take care +of him. The letter gave it to be understood that if she conducted herself well +toward him she would have no reason to repent it; and ended by reminding the +young girl of the promise she had made him, at the time of his visit to +Plassans, to come to him, if the day ever arrived when he really needed her. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal turned cold. He read the four pages over again. Here an opportunity to +separate presented itself, acceptable to him and advantageous for Clotilde, so +easy and so natural that they ought to accept it at once; yet, in spite of all +his reasoning he felt so weak, so irresolute still that his limbs trembled +under him, and he was obliged to sit down for a moment. But he wished to be +heroic, and controlling himself, he called to his companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Here!” he said, “read this letter which your grandmother has +sent me.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde read the letter attentively to the end without a word, without a sign. +Then she said simply: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you are going to answer it, are you not? I refuse.” +</p> + +<p> +He was obliged to exercise a strong effort of self-control to avoid uttering a +great cry of joy, as he pressed her to his heart. As if it were another person +who spoke, he heard himself saying quietly: +</p> + +<p> +“You refuse—impossible! You must reflect. Let us wait till +to-morrow to give an answer; and let us talk it over, shall we?” +</p> + +<p> +Surprised, she cried excitedly: +</p> + +<p> +“Part from each other! and why? And would you really consent to it? What +folly! we love each other, and you would have me leave you and go away where no +one cares for me! How could you think of such a thing? It would be +stupid.” +</p> + +<p> +He avoided touching on this side of the question, and hastened to speak of +promises made—of duty. +</p> + +<p> +“Remember, my dear, how greatly affected you were when I told you that +Maxime was in danger. And think of him now, struck down by disease, helpless +and alone, calling you to his side. Can you abandon him in that situation? You +have a duty to fulfil toward him.” +</p> + +<p> +“A duty?” she cried. “Have I any duties toward a brother who +has never occupied himself with me? My only duty is where my heart is.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you have promised. I have promised for you. I have said that you +were rational, and you are not going to belie my words.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rational? It is you who are not rational. It is not rational to separate +when to do so would make us both die of grief.” +</p> + +<p> +And with an angry gesture she closed the discussion, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Besides, what is the use of talking about it? There is nothing simpler; +it is only necessary to say a single word. Answer me. Are you tired of me? Do +you wish to send me away?” +</p> + +<p> +He uttered a cry. +</p> + +<p> +“Send you away! I! Great God!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it is all settled. If you do not send me away I shall +remain.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed now, and, running to her desk, wrote in red pencil across her +brother’s letter two words—“I refuse;” then she called +Martine and insisted upon her taking the letter back at once. Pascal was +radiant; a wave of happiness so intense inundated his being that he let her +have her way. The joy of keeping her with him deprived him even of his power of +reasoning. +</p> + +<p> +But that very night, what remorse did he not feel for having been so cowardly! +He had again yielded to his longing for happiness. A deathlike sweat broke out +upon him when he saw her in imagination far away; himself alone, without her, +without that caressing and subtle essence that pervaded the atmosphere when she +was near; her breath, her brightness, her courageous rectitude, and the dear +presence, physical and mental, which had now become as necessary to his life as +the light of day itself. She must leave him, and he must find the strength to +die of it. He despised himself for his want of courage, he judged the situation +with terrible clear-sightedness. All was ended. An honorable existence and a +fortune awaited her with her brother; he could not carry his senile selfishness +so far as to keep her any longer in the misery in which he was, to be scorned +and despised. And fainting at the thought of all he was losing, he swore to +himself that he would be strong, that he would not accept the sacrifice of this +child, that he would restore her to happiness and to life, in her own despite. +</p> + +<p> +And now the struggle of self-abnegation began. Some days passed; he had +demonstrated to her so clearly the rudeness of her “I refuse,” on +Maxime’s letter, that she had written a long letter to her grandmother, +explaining to her the reasons for her refusal. But still she would not leave La +Souleiade. As Pascal had grown extremely parsimonious, in his desire to trench +as little as possible on the money obtained by the sale of the jewels, she +surpassed herself, eating her dry bread with merry laughter. One morning he +surprised her giving lessons of economy to Martine. Twenty times a day she +would look at him intently and then throw herself on his neck and cover his +face with kisses, to combat the dreadful idea of a separation, which she saw +always in his eyes. Then she had another argument. One evening after dinner he +was seized with a palpitation of the heart, and almost fainted. This surprised +him; he had never suffered from the heart, and he believed it to be simply a +return of his old nervous trouble. Since his great happiness he had felt less +strong, with an odd sensation, as if some delicate hidden spring had snapped +within him. Greatly alarmed, she hurried to his assistance. Well! now he would +no doubt never speak again of her going away. When one loved people, and they +were ill, one stayed with them to take care of them. +</p> + +<p> +The struggle thus became a daily, an hourly one. It was a continual assault +made by affection, by devotion, by self-abnegation, in the one desire for +another’s happiness. But while her kindness and tenderness made the +thought of her departure only the more cruel for Pascal, he felt every day more +and more strongly the necessity for it. His resolution was now taken. But he +remained at bay, trembling and hesitating as to the means of persuading her. He +pictured to himself her despair, her tears; what should he do? how should he +tell her? how could they bring themselves to give each other a last embrace, +never to see each other again? And the days passed, and he could think of +nothing, and he began once more to accuse himself of cowardice. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes she would say jestingly, with a touch of affectionate malice: +</p> + +<p> +“Master, you are too kind-hearted not to keep me.” +</p> + +<p> +But this vexed him; he grew excited, and with gloomy despair answered: +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! don’t talk of my kindness. If I were really kind you would +have been long ago with your brother, leading an easy and honorable life, with +a bright and tranquil future before you, instead of obstinately remaining here, +despised, poor, and without any prospect, to be the sad companion of an old +fool like me! No, I am nothing but a coward and a dishonorable man!” +</p> + +<p> +She hastily stopped him. And it was in truth his kindness of heart, above all, +that bled, that immense kindness of heart which sprang from his love of life, +which he diffused over persons and things, in his continual care for the +happiness of every one and everything. To be kind, was not this to love her, to +make her happy, at the price of his own happiness? This was the kindness which +it was necessary for him to exercise, and which he felt that he would one day +exercise, heroic and decisive. But like the wretch who has resolved upon +suicide, he waited for the opportunity, the hour, and the means, to carry out +his design. Early one morning, on going into the workroom, Clotilde was +surprised to see Dr. Pascal seated at his table. It was many weeks since he had +either opened a book or touched a pen. +</p> + +<p> +“Why! you are working?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Without raising his head he answered absently: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; this is the genealogical tree that I had not even brought up to +date.” +</p> + +<p> +She stood behind him for a few moments, looking at him writing. He was +completing the notices of Aunt Dide, of Uncle Macquart, and of little Charles, +writing the dates of their death. Then, as he did not stir, seeming not to know +that she was there, waiting for the kisses and the smiles of other mornings, +she walked idly over to the window and back again. +</p> + +<p> +“So you are in earnest,” she said, “you are really +working?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly; you see I ought to have noted down these deaths last month. +And I have a heap of work waiting there for me.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him fixedly, with that steady inquiring gaze with which she +sought to read his thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, let us work. If you have papers to examine, or notes to copy, +give them to me.” +</p> + +<p> +And from this day forth he affected to give himself up entirely to work. +Besides, it was one of his theories that absolute rest was unprofitable, that +it should never be prescribed, even to the overworked. As the fish lives in the +water, so a man lives only in the external medium which surrounds him, the +sensations which he receives from it transforming themselves in him into +impulses, thoughts, and acts; so that if there were absolute rest, if he +continued to receive sensations without giving them out again, digested and +transformed, an engorgement would result, a <i>malaise</i>, an inevitable loss +of equilibrium. For himself he had always found work to be the best regulator +of his existence. Even on the mornings when he felt ill, if he set to work he +recovered his equipoise. He never felt better than when he was engaged on some +long work, methodically planned out beforehand, so many pages to so many hours +every morning, and he compared this work to a balancing-pole, which enabled him +to maintain his equilibrium in the midst of daily miseries, weaknesses, and +mistakes. So that he attributed entirely to the idleness in which he had been +living for some weeks past, the palpitation which at times made him feel as if +he were going to suffocate. If he wished to recover his health he had only to +take up again his great work. +</p> + +<p> +And Pascal spent hours developing and explaining these theories to Clotilde, +with a feverish and exaggerated enthusiasm. He seemed to be once more possessed +by the love of knowledge and study in which, up to the time of his sudden +passion for her, he had spent his life exclusively. He repeated to her that he +could not leave his work unfinished, that he had still a great deal to do, if +he desired to leave a lasting monument behind him. His anxiety about the +envelopes seemed to have taken possession of him again; he opened the large +press twenty times a day, taking them down from the upper shelf and enriching +them by new notes. His ideas on heredity were already undergoing a +transformation; he would have liked to review the whole, to recast the whole, +to deduce from the family history, natural and social, a vast synthesis, a +resume, in broad strokes, of all humanity. Then, besides, he reviewed his +method of treatment by hypodermic injections, with the purpose of amplifying +it—a confused vision of a new therapeutics; a vague and remote theory +based on his convictions and his personal experience of the beneficent dynamic +influence of work. +</p> + +<p> +Now every morning, when he seated himself at his table, he would lament: +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not live long enough; life is too short.” +</p> + +<p> +He seemed to feel that he must not lose another hour. And one morning he looked +up abruptly and said to his companion, who was copying a manuscript at his +side: +</p> + +<p> +“Listen well, Clotilde. If I should die—” +</p> + +<p> +“What an idea!” she protested, terrified. +</p> + +<p> +“If I should die,” he resumed, “listen to me well—close +all the doors immediately. You are to keep the envelopes, you, you only. And +when you have collected all my other manuscripts, send them to Ramond. These +are my last wishes, do you hear?” +</p> + +<p> +But she refused to listen to him. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” she cried hastily, “you talk nonsense!” +</p> + +<p> +“Clotilde, swear to me that you will keep the envelopes, and that you +will send all my other papers to Ramond.” +</p> + +<p> +At last, now very serious, and her eyes filled with tears, she gave him the +promise he desired. He caught her in his arms, he, too, deeply moved, and +lavished caresses upon her, as if his heart had all at once reopened to her. +Presently he recovered his calmness, and spoke of his fears. Since he had been +trying to work they seemed to have returned. He kept constant watch upon the +press, pretending to have observed Martine prowling about it. Might they not +work upon the fanaticism of this girl, and urge her to a bad action, persuading +her that she was securing her master’s eternal welfare? He had suffered +so much from suspicion! In the dread of approaching solitude his former +tortures returned—the tortures of the scientist, who is menaced and +persecuted by his own, at his own fireside, in his very flesh, in the work of +his brain. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, when he was again discussing this subject with Clotilde, he said +unthinkingly: +</p> + +<p> +“You know that when you are no longer here—” +</p> + +<p> +She turned very pale and, as he stopped with a start, she cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, master, master, you have not given up that dreadful idea, then? I +can see in your eyes that you are hiding something from me, that you have a +thought which you no longer share with me. But if I go away and you should die, +who will be here then to protect your work?” +</p> + +<p> +Thinking that she had become reconciled, to the idea of her departure, he had +the strength to answer gaily: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you suppose that I would allow myself to die without seeing you once +more. I will write to you, of course. You must come back to close my +eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +Now she burst out sobbing, and sank into a chair. +</p> + +<p> +“My God! Can it be! You wish that to-morrow we should be together no +longer, we who have never been separated!” +</p> + +<p> +From this day forth Pascal seemed more engrossed than ever in his work. He +would sit for four or five hours at a time, whole mornings and afternoons, +without once raising his head. He overacted his zeal. He would allow no one to +disturb him, by so much as a word. And when Clotilde would leave the room on +tiptoe to give an order downstairs or to go on some errand, he would assure +himself by a furtive glance that she was gone, and then let his head drop on +the table, with an air of profound dejection. It was a painful relief from the +extraordinary effort which he compelled himself to make when she was present; +to remain at his table, instead of going over and taking her in his arms and +covering her face with sweet kisses. Ah, work! how ardently he called on it as +his only refuge from torturing thoughts. But for the most part he was unable to +work; he was obliged to feign attention, keeping his eyes fixed upon the page, +his sorrowful eyes that grew dim with tears, while his mind, confused, +distracted, filled always with one image, suffered the pangs of death. Was he +then doomed to see work fail now its effect, he who had always considered it of +sovereign power, the creator and ruler of the world? Must he then throw away +his pen, renounce action, and do nothing in future but exist? And tears would +flow down his white beard; and if he heard Clotilde coming upstairs again he +would seize his pen quickly, in order that she might find him as she had left +him, buried seemingly in profound meditation, when his mind was now only an +aching void. +</p> + +<p> +It was now the middle of September; two weeks that had seemed interminable had +passed in this distressing condition of things, without bringing any solution, +when one morning Clotilde was greatly surprised by seeing her grandmother, +Félicité, enter. Pascal had met his mother the day before in the Rue de la +Banne, and, impatient to consummate the sacrifice, and not finding in himself +the strength to make the rupture, he had confided in her, in spite of his +repugnance, and begged her to come on the following day. As it happened, she +had just received another letter from Maxime, a despairing and imploring +letter. +</p> + +<p> +She began by explaining her presence. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is I, my dear, and you can understand that only very weighty +reasons could have induced me to set my foot here again. But, indeed, you are +getting crazy; I cannot allow you to ruin your life in this way, without making +a last effort to open your eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +She then read Maxime’s letter in a tearful voice. He was nailed to an +armchair. It seemed he was suffering from a form of ataxia, rapid in its +progress and very painful. Therefore he requested a decided answer from his +sister, hoping still that she would come, and trembling at the thought of being +compelled to seek another nurse. This was what he would be obliged to do, +however, if they abandoned him in his sad condition. And when she had finished +reading the letter she hinted that it would be a great pity to let +Maxime’s fortune pass into the hands of strangers; but, above all, she +spoke of duty; of the assistance one owed to a relation, she, too, affecting to +believe that a formal promise had been given. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, my dear, call upon your memory. You told him that if he should +ever need you, you would go to him; I can hear you saying it now. Was it not +so, my son?” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, his face pale, his head slightly bent, had kept silence since his +mother’s entrance, leaving her to act. He answered only by an affirmative +nod. +</p> + +<p> +Then Félicité went over all the arguments that he himself had employed to +persuade Clotilde—the dreadful scandal, to which insult was now added; +impending want, so hard for them both; the impossibility of continuing the life +they were leading. What future could they hope for, now that they had been +overtaken by poverty? It was stupid and cruel to persist longer in her +obstinate refusal. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, standing erect and with an impenetrable countenance, remained silent, +refusing even to discuss the question. But as her grandmother tormented her to +give an answer, she said at last: +</p> + +<p> +“Once more, I have no duty whatever toward my brother; my duty is here. +He can dispose of his fortune as he chooses; I want none of it. When we are too +poor, master shall send away Martine and keep me as his servant.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon wagged her chin. +</p> + +<p> +“Before being his servant it would be better if you had begun by being +his wife. Why have you not got married? It would have been simpler and more +proper.” +</p> + +<p> +And Félicité reminded her how she had come one day to urge this marriage, in +order to put an end to gossip, and how the young girl had seemed greatly +surprised, saying that neither she nor the doctor had thought of it, but that, +notwithstanding, they would get married later on, if necessary, for there was +no hurry. +</p> + +<p> +“Get married; I am quite willing!” cried Clotilde. “You are +right, grandmother.” +</p> + +<p> +And turning to Pascal: +</p> + +<p> +“You have told me a hundred times that you would do whatever I wished. +Marry me; do you hear? I will be your wife, and I will stay here. A wife does +not leave her husband.” +</p> + +<p> +But he answered only by a gesture, as if he feared that his voice would betray +him, and that he should accept, in a cry of gratitude, the eternal bond which +she had proposed to him. His gesture might signify a hesitation, a refusal. +What was the good of this marriage <i>in extremis</i>, when everything was +falling to pieces? +</p> + +<p> +“Those are very fine sentiments, no doubt,” returned Félicité. +“You have settled it all in your own little head. But marriage will not +give you an income; and, meantime, you are a great expense to him; you are the +heaviest of his burdens.” +</p> + +<p> +The effect which these words had upon Clotilde was extraordinary. She turned +violently to Pascal, her cheeks crimson, her eyes filled with tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master! is what grandmother has just said true? Has it come to +this, that you regret the money I cost you here?” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal grew still paler; he remained motionless, in an attitude of utter +dejection. But in a far-away voice, as if he were talking to himself, he +murmured: +</p> + +<p> +“I have so much work to do! I should like to go over my envelopes, my +manuscripts, my notes, and complete the work of my life. If I were alone +perhaps I might be able to arrange everything. I would sell La Souleiade, oh! +for a crust of bread, for it is not worth much. I should shut myself and my +papers in a little room. I should work from morning till night, and I should +try not to be too unhappy.” +</p> + +<p> +But he avoided her glance; and, agitated as she was, these painful and +stammering utterances were not calculated to satisfy her. She grew every moment +more and more terrified, for she felt that the irrevocable word was about to be +spoken. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at me, master, look me in the face. And I conjure you, be brave, +choose between your work and me, since you say, it seems, that you send me away +that you may work the better.” +</p> + +<p> +The moment for the heroic falsehood had come. He lifted his head and looked her +bravely in the face, and with the smile of a dying man who desires death, +recovering his voice of divine goodness, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“How excited you get! Can you not do your duty quietly, like everybody +else? I have a great deal of work to do, and I need to be alone; and you, dear, +you ought to go to your brother. Go then, everything is ended.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a terrible silence for the space of a few seconds. She looked at him +earnestly, hoping that he would change his mind. Was he really speaking the +truth? was he not sacrificing himself in order that she might be happy? For a +moment she had an intuition that this was the case, as if some subtle breath, +emanating from him, had warned her of it. +</p> + +<p> +“And you are sending me away forever? You will not permit me to come back +to-morrow?” +</p> + +<p> +But he held out bravely; with another smile he seemed to answer that when one +went away like this it was not to come back again on the following day. She was +now completely bewildered; she knew not what to think. It might be possible +that he had chosen work sincerely; that the man of science had gained the +victory over the lover. She grew still paler, and she waited a little longer, +in the terrible silence; then, slowly, with her air of tender and absolute +submission, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, master, I will go away whenever you wish, and I will not +return until you send for me.” +</p> + +<p> +The die was cast. The irrevocable was accomplished. Each felt that neither +would attempt to recall the decision that had been made; and, from this +instant, every minute that passed would bring nearer the separation. +</p> + +<p> +Félicité, surprised at not being obliged to say more, at once desired to fix +the time for Clotilde’s departure. She applauded herself for her +tenacity; she thought she had gained the victory by main force. It was now +Friday, and it was settled that Clotilde should leave on the following Sunday. +A despatch was even sent to Maxime. +</p> + +<p> +For the past three days the mistral had been blowing. But on this evening its +fury was redoubled, and Martine declared, in accordance with the popular +belief, that it would last for three days longer. The winds at the end of +September, in the valley of the Viorne, are terrible. So that the servant took +care to go into every room in the house to assure herself that the shutters +were securely fastened. When the mistral blew it caught La Souleiade +slantingly, above the roofs of the houses of Plassans, on the little plateau on +which the house was built. And now it raged and beat against the house, shaking +it from garret to cellar, day and night, without a moment’s cessation. +The tiles were blown off, the fastenings of the windows were torn away, while +the wind, entering the crevices, moaned and sobbed wildly through the house; +and the doors, if they were left open for a moment, through forgetfulness, +slammed to with a noise like the report of a cannon. They might have fancied +they were sustaining a siege, so great were the noise and the discomfort. +</p> + +<p> +It was in this melancholy house shaken by the storm that Pascal, on the +following day, helped Clotilde to make her preparations for her departure. Old +Mme. Rougon was not to return until Sunday, to say good-by. When Martine was +informed of the approaching separation, she stood still in dumb amazement, and +a flash, quickly extinguished, lighted her eyes; and as they sent her out of +the room, saying that they would not require her assistance in packing the +trunks, she returned to the kitchen and busied herself in her usual +occupations, seeming to ignore the catastrophe which was about to revolutionize +their household of three. But at Pascal’s slightest call she would run so +promptly and with such alacrity, her face so bright and so cheerful, in her +zeal to serve him, that she seemed like a young girl. Pascal did not leave +Clotilde for a moment, helping her, desiring to assure himself that she was +taking with her everything she could need. Two large trunks stood open in the +middle of the disordered room; bundles and articles of clothing lay about +everywhere; twenty times the drawers and the presses had been visited. And in +this work, this anxiety to forget nothing, the painful sinking of the heart +which they both felt was in some measure lessened. They forgot for an +instant—he watching carefully to see that no space was lost, utilizing +the hat-case for the smaller articles of clothing, slipping boxes in between +the folds of the linen; while she, taking down the gowns, folded them on the +bed, waiting to put them last in the top tray. Then, when a little tired they +stood up and found themselves again face to face, they would smile at each +other at first; then choke back the sudden tears that started at the +recollection of the impending and inevitable misfortune. But though their +hearts bled they remained firm. Good God! was it then true that they were to be +no longer together? And then they heard the wind, the terrible wind, which +threatened to blow down the house. +</p> + +<p> +How many times during this last day did they not go over to the window, +attracted by the storm, wishing that it would sweep away the world. During +these squalls the sun did not cease to shine, the sky remained constantly blue, +but a livid blue, windswept and dusty, and the sun was a yellow sun, pale and +cold. They saw in the distance the vast white clouds rising from the roads, the +trees bending before the blast, looking as if they were flying all in the same +direction, at the same rate of speed; the whole country parched and exhausted +by the unvarying violence of the wind that blew ceaselessly, with a roar like +thunder. Branches were snapped and whirled out of sight; roofs were lifted up +and carried so far away that they were never afterward found. Why could not the +mistral take them all up together and carry them off to some unknown land, +where they might be happy? The trunks were almost packed when Pascal went to +open one of the shutters that the wind had blown to, but so fierce a gust swept +in through the half open window that Clotilde had to go to his assistance. +Leaning with all their weight, they were able at last to turn the catch. The +articles of clothing in the room were blown about, and they gathered up in +fragments a little hand mirror which had fallen from a chair. Was this a sign +of approaching death, as the women of the faubourg said? +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, after a mournful dinner in the bright dining-room, with its +great bouquets of flowers, Pascal said he would retire early. Clotilde was to +leave on the following morning by the ten o’clock train, and he feared +for her the long journey—twenty hours of railway traveling. But when he +had retired he was unable to sleep. At first he thought it was the wind that +kept him awake. The sleeping house was full of cries, voices of entreaty and +voices of anger, mingled together, accompanied by endless sobbing. Twice he got +up and went to listen at Clotilde’s door, but he heard nothing. He went +downstairs to close a door that banged persistently, like misfortune knocking +at the walls. Gusts blew through the dark rooms, and he went to bed again, +shivering and haunted by lugubrious visions. +</p> + +<p> +At six o’clock Martine, fancying she heard her master knocking for her on +the floor of his room, went upstairs. She entered the room with the alert and +excited expression which she had worn for the past two days; but she stood +still, astonished and uneasy, when she saw him lying, half-dressed, across his +bed, haggard, biting the pillow to stifle his sobs. He got out of bed and tried +to finish dressing himself, but a fresh attack seized him, and, his head giddy +and his heart palpitating to suffocation, recovering from a momentary +faintness, he faltered in agonized tones: +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, I cannot; I suffer too much. I would rather die, die +now—” +</p> + +<p> +He recognized Martine, and abandoning himself to his grief, his strength +totally gone, he made his confession to her: +</p> + +<p> +“My poor girl, I suffer too much, my heart is breaking. She is taking +away my heart with her, she is taking away my whole being. I cannot live +without her. I almost died last night. I would be glad to die before her +departure, not to have the anguish of seeing her go away. Oh, my God! she is +going away, and I shall have her no longer, and I shall be left alone, alone, +alone!” +</p> + +<p> +The servant, who had gone upstairs so gaily, turned as pale as wax, and a hard +and bitter look came into her face. For a moment she watched him clutching the +bedclothes convulsively, uttering hoarse cries of despair, his face pressed +against the coverlet. Then, by a violent effort, she seemed to make up her +mind. +</p> + +<p> +“But, monsieur, there is no sense in making trouble for yourself in this +way. It is ridiculous. Since that is how it is, and you cannot do without +mademoiselle, I shall go and tell her what a state you have let yourself get +into.” +</p> + +<p> +At these words he got up hastily, staggering still, and, leaning for support on +the back of a chair, he cried: +</p> + +<p> +“I positively forbid you to do so, Martine!” +</p> + +<p> +“A likely thing that I should listen to you, seeing you like that! To +find you some other time half dead, crying your eyes out! No, no! I shall go to +mademoiselle and tell her the truth, and compel her to remain with us.” +</p> + +<p> +But he caught her angrily by the arm and held her fast. +</p> + +<p> +“I command you to keep quiet, do you hear? Or you shall go with her! Why +did you come in? It was this wind that made me ill. That concerns no +one.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, yielding to a good-natured impulse, with his usual kindness of heart, he +smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor girl, see how you vex me? Let me act as I ought, for the +happiness of others. And not another word; you would pain me greatly.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine’s eyes, too, filled with tears. It was just in time that they +made peace, for Clotilde entered almost immediately. She had risen early, eager +to see Pascal, hoping doubtless, up to the last moment, that he would keep her. +Her own eyelids were heavy from want of sleep, and she looked at him steadily +as she entered, with her inquiring air. But he was still so discomposed that +she began to grow uneasy. +</p> + +<p> +“No, indeed, I assure you, I would even have slept well but for the +mistral. I was just telling you so, Martine, was I not?” +</p> + +<p> +The servant confirmed his words by an affirmative nod. And Clotilde, too, +submitted, saying nothing of the night of anguish and mental conflict she had +spent while he, on his side, had been suffering the pangs of death. Both of the +women now docilely obeyed and aided him, in his heroic self-abnegation. +</p> + +<p> +“What,” he continued, opening his desk, “I have something +here for you. There! there are seven hundred francs in that envelope.” +</p> + +<p> +And in spite of her exclamations and protestations he persisted in rendering +her an account. Of the six thousand francs obtained by the sale of the jewels +two hundred only had been spent, and he had kept one hundred to last till the +end of the month, with the strict economy, the penuriousness, which he now +displayed. Afterward he would no doubt sell La Souleiade, he would work, he +would be able to extricate himself from his difficulties. But he would not +touch the five thousand francs which remained, for they were her property, her +own, and she would find them again in the drawer. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master, you are giving me a great deal of pain—” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish it,” he interrupted, “and it is you who are trying to +break my heart. Come, it is half-past seven, I will go and cord your trunks +since they are locked.” +</p> + +<p> +When Martine and Clotilde were alone and face to face they looked at each other +for a moment in silence. Ever since the commencement of the new situation, they +had been fully conscious of their secret antagonism, the open triumph of the +young mistress, the half concealed jealousy of the old servant about her adored +master. Now it seemed that the victory remained with the servant. But in this +final moment their common emotion drew them together. +</p> + +<p> +“Martine, you must not let him eat like a poor man. You promise me that +he shall have wine and meat every day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Have no fear, mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the five thousand francs lying there, you know belong to him. You +are not going to let yourselves starve to death, I suppose, with those there. I +want you to treat him very well.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you that I will make it my business to do so, mademoiselle, and +that monsieur shall want for nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a moment’s silence. They were still regarding each other. +</p> + +<p> +“And watch him, to see that he does not overwork himself. I am going away +very uneasy; he has not been well for some time past. Take good care of +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Make your mind easy, mademoiselle, I will take care of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I give him into your charge. He will have only you now; and it is +some consolation to me to know that you love him dearly. Love him with all your +strength. Love him for us both.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, mademoiselle, as much as I can.” +</p> + +<p> +Tears came into their eyes; Clotilde spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you embrace me, Martine?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, mademoiselle, very gladly.” +</p> + +<p> +They were in each other’s arms when Pascal reentered the room. He +pretended not to see them, doubtless afraid of giving way to his emotion. In an +unnaturally loud voice he spoke of the final preparations for Clotilde’s +departure, like a man who had a great deal on his hands and was afraid that the +train might be missed. He had corded the trunks, a man had taken them away in a +little wagon, and they would find them at the station. But it was only eight +o’clock, and they had still two long hours before them. Two hours of +mortal anguish, spent in unoccupied and weary waiting, during which they tasted +a hundred times over the bitterness of parting. The breakfast took hardly a +quarter of an hour. Then they got up, to sit down again. Their eyes never left +the clock. The minutes seemed long as those of a death watch, throughout the +mournful house. +</p> + +<p> +“How the wind blows!” said Clotilde, as a sudden gust made all the +doors creak. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal went over to the window and watched the wild flight of the storm-blown +trees. +</p> + +<p> +“It has increased since morning,” he said. “Presently I must +see to the roof, for some of the tiles have been blown away.” +</p> + +<p> +Already they had ceased to be one household. They listened in silence to the +furious wind, sweeping everything before it, carrying with it their life. +</p> + +<p> +Finally Pascal looked for a last time at the clock, and said simply: +</p> + +<p> +“It is time, Clotilde.” +</p> + +<p> +She rose from the chair on which she had been sitting. She had for an instant +forgotten that she was going away, and all at once the dreadful reality came +back to her. Once more she looked at him, but he did not open his arms to keep +her. It was over; her hope was dead. And from this moment her face was like +that of one struck with death. +</p> + +<p> +At first they exchanged the usual commonplaces. +</p> + +<p> +“You will write to me, will you not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, and you must let me hear from you as often as +possible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Above all, if you should fall ill, send for me at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“I promise you that I will do so. But there is no danger. I am very +strong.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, when the moment came in which she was to leave this dear house, Clotilde +looked around with unsteady gaze; then she threw herself on Pascal’s +breast, she held him for an instant in her arms, faltering: +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to embrace you here, I wish to thank you. Master, it is you who +have made me what I am. As you have often told me, you have corrected my +heredity. What should I have become amid the surroundings in which Maxime has +grown up? Yes, if I am worth anything, it is to you alone I owe it, you, who +transplanted me into this abode of kindness and affection, where you have +brought me up worthy of you. Now, after having taken me and overwhelmed me with +benefits, you send me away. Be it as you will, you are my master, and I will +obey you. I love you, in spite of all, and I shall always love you.” +</p> + +<p> +He pressed her to his heart, answering: +</p> + +<p> +“I desire only your good, I am completing my work.” +</p> + +<p> +When they reached the station, Clotilde vowed to herself that she would one day +come back. Old Mme. Rougon was there, very gay and very brisk, in spite of her +eighty-and-odd years. She was triumphant now; she thought she would have her +son Pascal at her mercy. When she saw them both stupefied with grief she took +charge of everything; got the ticket, registered the baggage, and installed the +traveler in a compartment in which there were only ladies. Then she spoke for a +long time about Maxime, giving instructions and asking to be kept informed of +everything. But the train did not start; there were still five cruel minutes +during which they remained face to face, without speaking to each other. Then +came the end, there were embraces, a great noise of wheels, and waving of +handkerchiefs. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Pascal became aware that he was standing alone upon the platform, +while the train was disappearing around a bend in the road. Then, without +listening to his mother, he ran furiously up the slope, sprang up the stone +steps like a young man, and found himself in three minutes on the terrace of La +Souleiade. The mistral was raging there—a fierce squall which bent the +secular cypresses like straws. In the colorless sky the sun seemed weary of the +violence of the wind, which for six days had been sweeping over its face. And +like the wind-blown trees Pascal stood firm, his garments flapping like +banners, his beard and hair blown about and lashed by the storm. His breath +caught by the wind, his hands pressed upon his heart to quiet its throbbing, he +saw the train flying in the distance across the bare plain, a little train +which the mistral seemed to sweep before it like a dry branch. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"></a> +XII.</h2> + +<p> +From the day following Clotilde’s departure, Pascal shut himself up in +the great empty house. He did not leave it again, ceasing entirely the rare +professional visits which he had still continued to make, living there with +doors and windows closed, in absolute silence and solitude. Martine had +received formal orders to admit no one under any pretext whatever. +</p> + +<p> +“But your mother, monsieur, Mme. Félicité?” +</p> + +<p> +“My mother, less than any one else; I have my reasons. Tell her that I am +working, that I require to concentrate my thoughts, and that I request her to +excuse me.” +</p> + +<p> +Three times in succession old Mme. Rougon had presented herself. She would +storm at the hall door. He would hear her voice rising in anger as she tried in +vain to force her way in. Then the noise would be stilled, and there would be +only a whisper of complaint and plotting between her and the servant. But not +once did he yield, not once did he lean over the banisters and call to her to +come up. +</p> + +<p> +One day Martine ventured to say to him: +</p> + +<p> +“It is very hard, all the same, monsieur, to refuse admittance to +one’s mother. The more so, as Mme. Félicité comes with good intentions, +for she knows the straits that monsieur is in, and she insists only in order to +offer her services.” +</p> + +<p> +“Money!” he cried, exasperated. “I want no money, do you +hear? And from her less than anybody. I will work, I will earn my own living; +why should I not?” +</p> + +<p> +The question of money, however, began to grow pressing. He obstinately refused +to take another sou from the five thousand francs locked up in the desk. Now +that he was alone, he was completely indifferent to material things; he would +have been satisfied to live on bread and water; and every time the servant +asked him for money to buy wine, meat, or sweets, he shrugged his +shoulders—what was the use? there remained a crust from the day before, +was not that sufficient? But in her affection for her master, whom she felt to +be suffering, the old servant was heart-broken at this miserliness which +exceeded her own; this utter destitution to which he abandoned himself and the +whole house. The workmen of the faubourgs lived better. Thus it was that for a +whole day a terrible conflict went on within her. Her doglike love struggled +with her love for her money, amassed sou by sou, hidden away, “making +more,” as she said. She would rather have parted with a piece of her +flesh. So long as her master had not suffered alone the idea of touching her +treasure had not even occurred to her. And she displayed extraordinary heroism +the morning when, driven to extremity, seeing her stove cold and the larder +empty, she disappeared for an hour and then returned with provisions and the +change of a hundred-franc note. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, who just then chanced to come downstairs, asked her in astonishment +where the money had come from, furious already, and prepared to throw it all +into the street, imagining she had applied to his mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, no; why, no, monsieur!” she stammered, “it is not that +at all.” +</p> + +<p> +And she told him the story that she had prepared. +</p> + +<p> +“Imagine, M. Grandguillot’s affairs are going to be +settled—or at least I think so. It occurred to me this morning to go to +the assignee’s to inquire, and he told me that you would undoubtedly +recover something, and that I might have a hundred francs now. Yes, he was even +satisfied with a receipt from me. He knows me, and you can make it all right +afterward.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal seemed scarcely surprised. She had calculated correctly that he would +not go out to verify her account. She was relieved, however, to see with what +easy indifference he accepted her story. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, so much the better!” he said. “You see now that one must +never despair. That will give me time to settle my affairs.” +</p> + +<p> +His “affairs” was the sale of La Souleiade, about which he had been +thinking vaguely. But what a grief to leave this house in which Clotilde had +grown up, where they had lived together for nearly eighteen years! He had taken +two or three weeks already to reflect over the matter. Now that he had the hope +of getting back a little of the money he had lost through the notary’s +failure, he ceased to think any more about it. He relapsed into his former +indifference, eating whatever Martine served him, not even noticing the +comforts with which she once more surrounded him, in humble adoration, +heart-broken at giving her money, but very happy to support him now, without +his suspecting that his sustenance came from her. +</p> + +<p> +But Pascal rewarded her very ill. Afterward he would be sorry, and regret his +outbursts. But in the state of feverish desperation in which he lived this did +not prevent him from again flying into a passion with her, at the slightest +cause of dissatisfaction. One evening, after he had been listening to his +mother talking for an interminable time with her in the kitchen, he cried in +sudden fury: +</p> + +<p> +“Martine, I do not wish her to enter La Souleiade again, do you hear? If +you ever let her into the house again I will turn you out!” +</p> + +<p> +She listened to him in surprise. Never, during the thirty-two years in which +she had been in his service, had he threatened to dismiss her in this way. Big +tears came to her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, monsieur! you would not have the courage to do it! And I would not +go. I would lie down across the threshold first.” +</p> + +<p> +He already regretted his anger, and he said more gently: +</p> + +<p> +“The thing is that I know perfectly well what is going on. She comes to +indoctrinate you, to put you against me, is it not so? Yes, she is watching my +papers; she wishes to steal and destroy everything up there in the press. I +know her; when she wants anything, she never gives up until she gets it. Well, +you can tell her that I am on my guard; that while I am alive she shall never +even come near the press. And the key is here in my pocket.” +</p> + +<p> +In effect, all his former terror—the terror of the scientist who feels +himself surrounded by secret enemies, had returned. Ever since he had been +living alone in the deserted house he had had a feeling of returning danger, of +being constantly watched in secret. The circle had narrowed, and if he showed +such anger at these attempts at invasion, if he repulsed his mother’s +assaults, it was because he did not deceive himself as to her real plans, and +he was afraid that he might yield. If she were there she would gradually take +possession of him, until she had subjugated him completely. Therefore his +former tortures returned, and he passed the days watching; he shut up the house +himself in the evening, and he would often rise during the night, to assure +himself that the locks were not being forced. What he feared was that the +servant, won over by his mother, and believing she was securing his eternal +welfare, would open the door to Mme. Félicité. In fancy he saw the papers +blazing in the fireplace; he kept constant guard over them, seized again by a +morbid love, a torturing affection for this icy heap of papers, these cold +pages of manuscript, to which he had sacrificed the love of woman, and which he +tried to love sufficiently to be able to forget everything else for them. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, now that Clotilde was no longer there, threw himself eagerly into work, +trying to submerge himself in it, to lose himself in it. If he secluded +himself, if he did not set foot even in the garden, if he had had the strength, +one day when Martine came up to announce Dr. Ramond, to answer that he would +not receive him, he had, in this bitter desire for solitude, no other aim than +to kill thought by incessant labor. That poor Ramond, how gladly he would have +embraced him! for he divined clearly the delicacy of feeling that had made him +hasten to console his old master. But why lose an hour? Why risk emotions and +tears which would leave him so weak? From daylight he was at his table, he +spent at it his mornings and his afternoons, extended often into the evening +after the lamp was lighted, and far into the night. He wished to put his old +project into execution—to revise his whole theory of heredity, employing +the documents furnished by his own family to establish the laws according to +which, in a certain group of human beings, life is distributed and conducted +with mathematical precision from one to another, taking into account the +environment—a vast bible, the genesis of families, of societies, of all +humanity. He hoped that the vastness of such a plan, the effort necessary to +develop so colossal an idea, would take complete possession of him, restoring +to him his health, his faith, his pride in the supreme joy of the accomplished +work. But it was in vain that he threw himself passionately, persistently, +without reserve, into his work; he succeeded only in fatiguing his body and his +mind, without even being able to fix his thoughts or to put his heart into his +work, every day sicker and more despairing. Had work, then, finally lost its +power? He whose life had been spent in work, who had regarded it as the sole +motor, the benefactor, and the consoler, must he then conclude that to love and +to be loved is beyond all else in the world? Occasionally he would have great +thoughts, he continued to sketch out his new theory of the equilibrium of +forces, demonstrating that what man receives in sensation he should return in +action. How natural, full, and happy would life be if it could be lived entire, +performing its functions like a well-ordered machine, giving back in power what +was consumed in fuel, maintaining itself in vigor and in beauty by the +simultaneous and logical play of all its organs. He believed physical and +intellectual labor, feeling and reasoning should be in equal proportions, and +never excessive, for excess meant disturbance of the equilibrium and, +consequently, disease. Yes, yes, to begin life over again and to know how to +live it, to dig the earth, to study man, to love woman, to attain to human +perfection, the future city of universal happiness, through the harmonious +working of the entire being, what a beautiful legacy for a philosophical +physician to leave behind him would this be! And this dream of the future, this +theory, confusedly perceived, filled him with bitterness at the thought that +now his life was a force wasted and lost. +</p> + +<p> +At the very bottom of his grief Pascal had the dominating feeling that for him +life was ended. Regret for Clotilde, sorrow at having her no longer beside him, +the certainty that he would never see her again, filled him with overwhelming +grief. Work had lost its power, and he would sometimes let his head drop on the +page he was writing, and weep for hours together, unable to summon courage to +take up the pen again. His passion for work, his days of voluntary fatigue, led +to terrible nights, nights of feverish sleeplessness, in which he would stuff +the bedclothes into his mouth to keep from crying out Clotilde’s name. +She was everywhere in this mournful house in which he secluded himself. He saw +her again, walking through the rooms, sitting on the chairs, standing behind +the doors. Downstairs, in the dining-room, he could not sit at table, without +seeing her opposite him. In the workroom upstairs she was still his constant +companion, for she, too, had lived so long secluded in it that her image seemed +reflected from everything; he felt her constantly beside him, he could fancy he +saw her standing before her desk, straight and slender—her delicate face +bent over a pastel. And if he did not leave the house to escape from the dear +and torturing memory it was because he had the certainty that he should find +her everywhere in the garden, too: dreaming on the terrace; walking with slow +steps through the alleys in the pine grove; sitting under the shade of the +plane trees; lulled by the eternal song of the fountain; lying in the threshing +yard at twilight, her gaze fixed on space, waiting for the stars to come out. +But above all, there existed for him a sacred sanctuary which he could not +enter without trembling—the chamber where she had confessed her love. He +kept the key of it; he had not moved a single object from its place since the +sorrowful morning of her departure; and a skirt which she had forgotten lay +still upon her armchair. He opened his arms wildly to clasp her shade floating +in the soft half light of the room, with its closed shutters and its walls hung +with the old faded pink calico, of a dawnlike tint. +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of his unremitting toil Pascal had another melancholy +pleasure—Clotilde’s letters. She wrote to him regularly twice a +week, long letters of eight or ten pages, in which she described to him all her +daily life. She did not seem to lead a very happy life in Paris. Maxime, who +did not now leave his sick chair, evidently tortured her with the exactions of +a spoiled child and an invalid. She spoke as if she lived in complete +retirement, always waiting on him, so that she could not even go over to the +window to look out on the avenue, along which rolled the fashionable stream of +the promenaders of the Bois; and from certain of her expressions it could be +divined that her brother, after having entreated her so urgently to go to him, +suspected her already, and had begun to regard her with hatred and distrust, as +he did every one who approached him, in his continual fear of being made use of +and robbed. He did not give her the keys, treating her like a servant to whom +he found it difficult to accustom himself. Twice she had seen her father, who +was, as always, very gay, and overwhelmed with business; he had been converted +to the Republic, and was at the height of political and financial success. +Saccard had even taken her aside, to sympathize with her, saying that poor +Maxime was really insupportable, and that she would be truly courageous if she +consented to be made his victim. As she could not do everything, he had even +had the kindness to send her, on the following day, the niece of his +hairdresser, a fair-haired, innocent-looking girl of eighteen, named Rose, who +was assisting her now to take care of the invalid. But Clotilde made no +complaint; she affected, on the contrary, to be perfectly tranquil, contented, +and resigned to everything. Her letters were full of courage, showing neither +anger nor sorrow at the cruel separation, making no desperate appeal to +Pascal’s affection to recall her. But between the lines, he could +perceive that she trembled with rebellious anger, that her whole being yearned +for him, that she was ready to commit the folly of returning to him +immediately, at his lightest word. +</p> + +<p> +And this was the one word that Pascal would not write. Everything would be +arranged in time. Maxime would become accustomed to his sister; the sacrifice +must be completed now that it had been begun. A single line written by him in a +moment of weakness, and all the advantage of the effort he had made would be +lost, and their misery would begin again. Never had Pascal had greater need of +courage than when he was answering Clotilde’s letters. At night, burning +with fever, he would toss about, calling on her wildly; then he would get up +and write to her to come back at once. But when day came, and he had exhausted +himself with weeping, his fever abated, and his answer was always very short, +almost cold. He studied every sentence, beginning the letter over again when he +thought he had forgotten himself. But what a torture, these dreadful letters, +so short, so icy, in which he went against his heart, solely in order to wean +her from him gradually, to take upon himself all the blame, and to make her +believe that she could forget him, since he forgot her. They left him covered +with perspiration, and as exhausted as if he had just performed some great act +of heroism. +</p> + +<p> +One morning toward the end of October, a month after Clotilde’s +departure, Pascal had a sudden attack of suffocation. He had had, several times +already, slight attacks, which he attributed to overwork. But this time the +symptoms were so plain that he could not mistake them—a sharp pain in the +region of the heart, extending over the whole chest and along the left arm, and +a dreadful sensation of oppression and distress, while cold perspiration broke +out upon him. It was an attack of angina pectoris. It lasted hardly more than a +minute, and he was at first more surprised than frightened. With that blindness +which physicians often show where their own health is concerned, he never +suspected that his heart might be affected. +</p> + +<p> +As he was recovering his breath Martine came up to say that Dr. Ramond was +downstairs, and again begged the doctor to see him. And Pascal, yielding +perhaps to an unconscious desire to know the truth, cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, let him come up, since he insists upon it. I will be glad to see +him.” +</p> + +<p> +The two men embraced each other, and no other allusion was made to the absent +one, to her whose departure had left the house empty, than an energetic and sad +hand clasp. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know why I have come?” cried Ramond immediately. +“It is about a question of money. Yes, my father-in-law, M. Leveque, the +advocate, whom you know, spoke to me yesterday again about the funds which you +had with the notary Grandguillot. And he advises you strongly to take some +action in the matter, for some persons have succeeded, he says, in recovering +something.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know that that business is being settled,” said Pascal. +“Martine has already got two hundred francs out of it, I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Martine?” said Ramond, looking greatly surprised, “how could +she do that without your intervention? However, will you authorize my +father-in-law to undertake your case? He will see the assignee, and sift the +whole affair, since you have neither the time nor the inclination to attend to +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, I authorize M. Leveque to do so, and tell him that I thank +him a thousand times.” +</p> + +<p> +Then this matter being settled, the young man, remarking the doctor’s +pallor, and questioning him as to its cause, Pascal answered with a smile: +</p> + +<p> +“Imagine, my friend, I have just had an attack of angina pectoris. Oh, it +is not imagination, all the symptoms were there. And stay! since you are here +you shall sound me.” +</p> + +<p> +At first Ramond refused, affecting to turn the consultation into a jest. Could +a raw recruit like him venture to pronounce judgment on his general? But he +examined him, notwithstanding, seeing that his face looked drawn and pained, +with a singular look of fright in the eyes. He ended by auscultating him +carefully, keeping his ear pressed closely to his chest for a considerable +time. Several minutes passed in profound silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” asked Pascal, when the young physician stood up. +</p> + +<p> +The latter did not answer at once. He felt the doctor’s eyes looking +straight into his; and as the question had been put to him with quiet courage, +he answered in the same way: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is true, I think there is some sclerosis.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! it was kind of you not to attempt to deceive me,” returned the +doctor, smiling. “I feared for an instant that you would tell me an +untruth, and that would have hurt me.” +</p> + +<p> +Ramond, listening again, said in an undertone: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the beat is strong, the first sound is dull, while the second, on +the contrary, is sharp. It is evident that the apex has descended and is turned +toward the armpit. There is some sclerosis, at least it is very probable. One +may live twenty years with that,” he ended, straightening himself. +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt, sometimes,” said Pascal. “At least, unless one +chances to die of a sudden attack.” +</p> + +<p> +They talked for some time longer, discussed a remarkable case of sclerosis of +the heart, which they had seen at the hospital at Plassans. And when the young +physician went away, he said that he would return as soon as he should have +news of the Grandguillot liquidation. +</p> + +<p> +But when he was alone Pascal felt that he was lost. Everything was now +explained: his palpitations for some weeks past, his attacks of vertigo and +suffocation; above all that weakness of the organ, of his poor heart, +overtasked by feeling and by work, that sense of intense fatigue and impending +death, regarding which he could no longer deceive himself. It was not as yet +fear that he experienced, however. His first thought was that he, too, would +have to pay for his heredity, that sclerosis was the species of degeneration +which was to be his share of the physiological misery, the inevitable +inheritance bequeathed him by his terrible ancestry. In others the neurosis, +the original lesion, had turned to vice or virtue, genius, crime, drunkenness, +sanctity; others again had died of consumption, of epilepsy, of ataxia; he had +lived in his feelings and he would die of an affection of the heart. And he +trembled no longer, he rebelled no longer against this manifest heredity, fated +and inevitable, no doubt. On the contrary, a feeling of humility took +possession of him; the idea that all revolt against natural laws is bad, that +wisdom does not consist in holding one’s self apart, but in resigning +one’s self to be only a member of the whole great body. Why, then, was he +so unwilling to belong to his family that it filled him with triumph, that his +heart beat with joy, when he believed himself different from them, without any +community with them? Nothing could be less philosophical. Only monsters grew +apart. And to belong to his family seemed to him in the end as good and as fine +as to belong to any other family, for did not all families, in the main, +resemble one another, was not humanity everywhere identical with the same +amount of good and evil? He came at last, humbly and gently, even in the face +of impending suffering and death, to accept everything life had to give him. +</p> + +<p> +From this time Pascal lived with the thought that he might die at any moment. +And this helped to perfect his character, to elevate him to a complete +forgetfulness of self. He did not cease to work, but he had never understood so +well how much effort must seek its reward in itself, the work being always +transitory, and remaining of necessity incomplete. One evening at dinner +Martine informed him that Sarteur, the journeyman hatter, the former inmate of +the asylum at the Tulettes, had just hanged himself. All the evening he thought +of this strange case, of this man whom he had believed he had cured of +homicidal mania by his treatment of hypodermic injections, and who, seized by a +fresh attack, had evidently had sufficient lucidity to hang himself, instead of +springing at the throat of some passer-by. He again saw him, so gentle, so +reasonable, kissing his hands, while he was advising him to return to his life +of healthful labor. What then was this destructive and transforming force, the +desire to murder, changing to suicide, death performing its task in spite of +everything? With the death of this man his last vestige of pride as a healer +disappeared; and each day when he returned to his work he felt as if he were +only a learner, spelling out his task, constantly seeking the truth, which as +constantly receded from him, assuming ever more formidable proportions. +</p> + +<p> +But in the midst of his resignation one thought still troubled him—what +would become of Bonhomme, his old horse, if he himself should die before him? +The poor brute, completely blind and his limbs paralyzed, did not now leave his +litter. When his master went to see him, however, he turned his head, he could +feel the two hearty kisses which were pressed on his nose. All the neighbors +shrugged their shoulders and joked about this old relation whom the doctor +would not allow to be slaughtered. Was he then to be the first to go, with the +thought that the knacker would be called in on the following day. But one +morning, when he entered the stable, Bonhomme did not hear him, did not raise +his head. He was dead; he lay there, with a peaceful expression, as if relieved +that death had come to him so gently. His master knelt beside him and kissed +him again and bade him farewell, while two big tears rolled down his cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +It was on this day that Pascal saw his neighbor, M. Bellombre, for the last +time. Going over to the window he perceived him in his garden, in the pale +sunshine of early November, taking his accustomed walk; and the sight of the +old professor, living so completely happy in his solitude, filled him at first +with astonishment. He could never have imagined such a thing possible, as that +a man of sixty-nine should live thus, without wife or child, or even a dog, +deriving his selfish happiness from the joy of living outside of life. Then he +recalled his fits of anger against this man, his sarcasms about his fear of +life, the catastrophes which he had wished might happen to him, the hope that +punishment would come to him, in the shape of some housekeeper, or some female +relation dropping down on him unexpectedly. But no, he was still as fresh as +ever, and Pascal was sure that for a long time to come he would continue to +grow old like this, hard, avaricious, useless, and happy. And yet he no longer +execrated him; he could even have found it in his heart to pity him, so +ridiculous and miserable did he think him for not being loved. Pascal, who +suffered the pangs of death because he was alone! He whose heart was breaking +because he was too full of others. Rather suffering, suffering only, than this +selfishness, this death of all there is in us of living and human! +</p> + +<p> +In the night which followed Pascal had another attack of angina pectoris. It +lasted for five minutes, and he thought that he would suffocate without having +the strength to call Martine. Then when he recovered his breath, he did not +disturb himself, preferring to speak to no one of this aggravation of his +malady; but he had the certainty that it was all over with him, that he might +not perhaps live a month longer. His first thought was Clotilde. Should he then +never see her again? and so sharp a pang seized him that he believed another +attack was coming on. Why should he not write to her to come to him? He had +received a letter from her the day before; he would answer it this morning. +Then the thought of the envelopes occurred to him. If he should die suddenly, +his mother would be the mistress and she would destroy them; and not only the +envelopes, but his manuscripts, all his papers, thirty years of his +intelligence and his labor. Thus the crime which he had so greatly dreaded +would be consummated, the crime of which the fear alone, during his nights of +fever, had made him get up out of bed trembling, his ear on the stretch, +listening to hear if they were forcing open the press. The perspiration broke +out upon him, he saw himself dispossessed, outraged, the ashes of his work +thrown to the four winds. And when his thoughts reverted to Clotilde, he told +himself that everything would be satisfactorily arranged, that he had only to +call her back—she would be here, she would close his eyes, she would +defend his memory. And he sat down to write at once to her, so that the letter +might go by the morning mail. +</p> + +<p> +But when Pascal was seated before the white paper, with the pen between his +fingers, a growing doubt, a feeling of dissatisfaction with himself, took +possession of him. Was not this idea of his papers, this fine project of +providing a guardian for them and saving them, a suggestion of his weakness, an +excuse which he gave himself to bring back Clotilde, and see her again? +Selfishness was at the bottom of it. He was thinking of himself, not of her. He +saw her returning to this poor house, condemned to nurse a sick old man; and he +saw her, above all, in her grief, in her awful agony, when he should terrify +her some day by dropping down dead at her side. No, no! this was the dreadful +moment which he must spare her, those days of cruel adieus and want afterward, +a sad legacy which he could not leave her without thinking himself a criminal. +Her tranquillity, her happiness only, were of any consequence, the rest did not +matter. He would die in his hole, then, abandoned, happy to think her happy, to +spare her the cruel blow of his death. As for saving his manuscripts he would +perhaps find a means of doing so, he would try to have the strength to part +from them and give them to Ramond. But even if all his papers were to perish, +this was less of a sacrifice than to resign himself not to see her again, and +he accepted it, and he was willing that nothing of him should survive, not even +his thoughts, provided only that nothing of him should henceforth trouble her +dear existence. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal accordingly proceeded to write one of his usual answers, which, by a +great effort, he purposely made colorless and almost cold. Clotilde, in her +last letter, without complaining of Maxime, had given it to be understood that +her brother had lost his interest in her, preferring the society of Rose, the +niece of Saccard’s hairdresser, the fair-haired young girl with the +innocent look. And he suspected strongly some maneuver of the father: a cunning +plan to obtain possession of the inheritance of the sick man, whose vices, so +precocious formerly, gained new force as his last hour approached. But in spite +of his uneasiness he gave Clotilde very good advice, telling her that she must +make allowance for Maxime’s sufferings, that he had undoubtedly a great +deal of affection and gratitude for her, in short that it was her duty to +devote herself to him to the end. When he signed the letter tears dimmed his +sight. It was his death warrant—a death like that of an old and solitary +brute, a death without a kiss, without the touch of a friendly hand—that +he was signing. Never again would he embrace her. Then doubts assailed him; was +he doing right in leaving her amid such evil surroundings, where he felt that +she was in continual contact with every species of wickedness? +</p> + +<p> +The postman brought the letters and newspapers to La Souleiade every morning at +about nine o’clock; and Pascal, when he wrote to Clotilde, was accustomed +to watch for him, to give him his letter, so as to be certain that his +correspondence was not intercepted. But on this morning, when he went +downstairs to give him the letter he had just written, he was surprised to +receive one from him from Clotilde, although it was not the usual day for her +letters. He allowed his own to go, however. Then he went upstairs, resumed his +seat at his table, and tore open the envelope. +</p> + +<p> +The letter was short, but its contents filled Pascal with a great joy. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +But the sound of footsteps made him control himself. He turned round and saw +Martine, who was saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Dr. Ramond is downstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! let him come up, let him come up,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +It was another piece of good fortune that had come to him. Ramond cried gaily +from the door: +</p> + +<p> +“Victory, master! I have brought you your money—not all, but a good +sum.” +</p> + +<p> +And he told the story—an unexpected piece of good luck which his +father-in-law, M. Leveque, had brought to light. The receipts for the hundred +and twenty thousand francs, which constituted Pascal the personal creditor of +Grandguillot, were valueless, since the latter was insolvent. Salvation was to +come from the power of attorney which the doctor had sent him years before, at +his request, that he might invest all or part of his money in mortgages. As the +name of the proxy was in blank in the document, the notary, as is sometimes +done, had made use of the name of one of his clerks, and eighty thousand +francs, which had been invested in good mortgages, had thus been recovered +through the agency of a worthy man who was not in the secrets of his employer. +If Pascal had taken action in the matter, if he had gone to the public +prosecutor’s office and the chamber of notaries, he would have +disentangled the matter long before. However, he had recovered a sure income of +four thousand francs. +</p> + +<p> +He seized the young man’s hands and pressed them, smiling, his eyes still +moist with tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! my friend, if you knew how happy I am! This letter of +Clotilde’s has brought me a great happiness. Yes, I was going to send for +her; but the thought of my poverty, of the privations she would have to endure +here, spoiled for me the joy of her return. And now fortune has come back, at +least enough to set up my little establishment again!” +</p> + +<p> +In the expansion of his feelings he held out the letter to Ramond, and forced +him to read it. Then when the young man gave it back to him, smiling, +comprehending the doctor’s emotion, and profoundly touched by it, +yielding to an overpowering need of affection, he caught him in his arms, like +a comrade, a brother. The two men kissed each other vigorously on either cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, since good fortune has sent you, I am going to ask another service +from you. You know I distrust every one around me, even my old housekeeper. +Will you take my despatch to the telegraph office!” +</p> + +<p> +He sat down again at the table, and wrote simply, “I await you; start +to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see,” he said, “to-day is the 6th of November, is it +not? It is now near ten o’clock; she will have my despatch at noon. That +will give her time enough to pack her trunks and to take the eight +o’clock express this evening, which will bring her to Marseilles in time +for breakfast. But as there is no train which connects with it, she cannot be +here until to-morrow, the 7th, at five o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +After folding the despatch he rose: +</p> + +<p> +“My God, at five o’clock to-morrow! How long to wait still! What +shall I do with myself until then?” +</p> + +<p> +Then a sudden recollection filled him with anxiety, and he became grave. +</p> + +<p> +“Ramond, my comrade, will you give me a great proof of your friendship by +being perfectly frank with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“How so, master?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you understand me very well. The other day you examined me. Do you +think I can live another year?” +</p> + +<p> +He fixed his eyes on the young man as he spoke, compelling him to look at him. +Ramond evaded a direct answer, however, with a jest—was it really a +physician who put such a question? +</p> + +<p> +“Let us be serious, Ramond, I beg of you.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Ramond answered in all sincerity that, in his opinion, the doctor might +very justly entertain the hope of living another year. He gave his +reasons—the comparatively slight progress which the sclerosis had made, +and the absolute soundness of the other organs. Of course they must make +allowance for what they did not and could not know, for a sudden accident was +always possible. And the two men discussed the case as if they been in +consultation at the bedside of a patient, weighing the pros and cons, each +stating his views and prognosticating a fatal termination, in accordance with +the symptoms as defined by the best authorities. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, as if it were some one else who was in question, had recovered all his +composure and his heroic self-forgetfulness. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he murmured at last, “you are right; a year of life is +still possible. Ah, my friend, how I wish I might live two years; a mad wish, +no doubt, an eternity of joy. And yet, two years, that would not be impossible. +I had a very curious case once, a wheelwright of the faubourg, who lived for +four years, giving the lie to all my prognostications. Two years, two years, I +will live two years! I must live two years!” +</p> + +<p> +Ramond sat with bent head, without answering. He was beginning to be uneasy, +fearing that he had shown himself too optimistic; and the doctor’s joy +disquieted and grieved him, as if this very exaltation, this disturbance of a +once strong brain, warned him of a secret and imminent danger. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you not wish to send that despatch at once?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, go quickly, my good Ramond, and come back again to see us the +day after to-morrow. She will be here then, and I want you to come and embrace +us.” +</p> + +<p> +The day was long, and the following morning, at about four o’clock, +shortly after Pascal had fallen asleep, after a happy vigil filled with hopes +and dreams, he was wakened by a dreadful attack. He felt as if an enormous +weight, as if the whole house, had fallen down upon his chest, so that the +thorax, flattened down, touched the back. He could not breathe; the pain +reached the shoulders, then the neck, and paralyzed the left arm. But he was +perfectly conscious; he had the feeling that his heart was about to stop, that +life was about to leave him, in the dreadful oppression, like that of a vise, +which was suffocating him. Before the attack reached its height he had the +strength to rise and to knock on the floor with a stick for Martine. Then he +fell back on his bed, unable to speak or to move, and covered with a cold +sweat. +</p> + +<p> +Martine, fortunately, in the profound silence of the empty house, heard the +knock. She dressed herself, wrapped a shawl about her, and went upstairs, +carrying her candle. The darkness was still profound; dawn was about to break. +And when she perceived her master, whose eyes alone seemed living, looking at +her with locked jaws, speechless, his face distorted by pain, she was awed and +terrified, and she could only rush toward the bed crying: +</p> + +<p> +“My God! My God! what is the matter, monsieur? Answer me, monsieur, you +frighten me!” +</p> + +<p> +For a full minute Pascal struggled in vain to recover his breath. Then, the +viselike pressure on his chest relaxing slowly, he murmured in a faint voice: +</p> + +<p> +“The five thousand francs in the desk are Clotilde’s. Tell her that +the affair of the notary is settled, that she will recover from it enough to +live upon.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Martine, who had listened to him in open-mouthed wonder, confessed the +falsehood she had told him, ignorant of the good news that had been brought by +Ramond. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur, you must forgive me; I told you an untruth. But it would be +wrong to deceive you longer. When I saw you alone and so unhappy, I took some +of my own money.” +</p> + +<p> +“My poor girl, you did that!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I had some hope that monsieur would return it to me one day.” +</p> + +<p> +By this time the attack had passed off, and he was able to turn his head and +look at her. He was amazed and moved. What was passing in the heart of this +avaricious old maid, who for thirty years had been saving up her treasure +painfully, who had never taken a sou from it, either for herself or for any one +else? He did not yet comprehend, but he wished to show himself kind and +grateful. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a good woman, Martine. All that will be returned to you. I truly +think I am going to die—” +</p> + +<p> +She did not allow him to finish, her whole being rose up in rebellious protest. +</p> + +<p> +“Die; you, monsieur! Die before me! I do not wish it. I will not let you +die!” +</p> + +<p> +She threw herself on her knees beside the bed; she caught him wildly in her +arms, feeling him, to see if he suffered, holding him as if she thought that +death would not dare to take him from her. +</p> + +<p> +“You must tell me what is the matter with you. I will take care of you. I +will save you. If it were necessary to give my life for you, I would give it, +monsieur. I will sit up day and night with you. I am strong still; I will be +stronger than the disease, you shall see. To die! to die! oh, no, it cannot be! +The good God cannot wish so great an injustice. I have prayed so much in my +life that he ought to listen to me a little now, and he will grant my prayer, +monsieur; he will save you.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal looked at her, listened to her, and a sudden light broke in upon his +mind. She loved him, this miserable woman; she had always loved him. He thought +of her thirty years of blind devotion, her mute adoration, when she had waited +upon him, on her knees, as it were, when she was young; her secret jealousy of +Clotilde later; what she must have secretly suffered all that time! And she was +here on her knees now again, beside his deathbed; her hair gray; her eyes the +color of ashes in her pale nun-like face, dulled by her solitary life. And he +felt that she was unconscious of it all; that she did not even know with what +sort of love she loved him, loving him only for the happiness of loving him: of +being with him, and of waiting on him. +</p> + +<p> +Tears rose to Pascal’s eyes; a dolorous pity and an infinite human +tenderness flowed from his poor, half-broken heart. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor girl,” he said, “you are the best of girls. Come, +embrace me, as you love me, with all your strength.” +</p> + +<p> +She, too, sobbed. She let her gray head, her face worn by her long servitude, +fall on her master’s breast. Wildly she kissed him, putting all her life +into the kiss. +</p> + +<p> +“There, let us not give way to emotion, for you see we can do nothing; +this will be the end, just the same. If you wish me to love you, obey me. Now +that I am better, that I can breathe easier, do me the favor to run to Dr. +Ramond’s. Waken him and bring him back with you.” +</p> + +<p> +She was leaving the room when he called to her, seized by a sudden fear. +</p> + +<p> +“And remember, I forbid you to go to inform my mother.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned back, embarrassed, and in a voice of entreaty, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, monsieur, Mme. Félicité has made me promise so often—” +</p> + +<p> +But he was inflexible. All his life he had treated his mother with deference, +and he thought he had acquired the right to defend himself against her in the +hour of his death. He would not let the servant go until she had promised him +that she would be silent. Then he smiled once more. +</p> + +<p> +“Go quickly. Oh, you will see me again; it will not be yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Day broke at last, the melancholy dawn of the pale November day. Pascal had had +the shutters opened, and when he was left alone he watched the brightening +dawn, doubtless that of his last day of life. It had rained the night before, +and the mild sun was still veiled by clouds. From the plane trees came the +morning carols of the birds, while far away in the sleeping country a +locomotive whistled with a prolonged moan. And he was alone; alone in the great +melancholy house, whose emptiness he felt around him, whose silence he heard. +The light slowly increased, and he watched the patches it made on the +window-panes broadening and brightening. Then the candle paled in the growing +light, and the whole room became visible. And with the dawn, as he had +anticipated, came relief. The sight of the familiar objects around him brought +him consolation. +</p> + +<p> +But Pascal, although the attack had passed away, still suffered horribly. A +sharp pain remained in the hollow of his chest, and his left arm, benumbed, +hung from his shoulder like lead. In his long waiting for the help that Martine +had gone to bring, he had reflected on the suffering which made the flesh cry +out. And he found that he was resigned; he no longer felt the rebelliousness +which the mere sight of physical pain had formerly awakened in him. It had +exasperated him, as if it had been a monstrous and useless cruelty of nature. +In his doubts as a physician, he had attended his patients only to combat it, +and to relieve it. If he ended by accepting it, now that he himself suffered +its horrible torture, was it that he had risen one degree higher in his faith +of life, to that serene height whence life appeared altogether good, even with +the fatal condition of suffering attached to it; suffering which is perhaps its +spring? Yes, to live all of life, to live it and to suffer it all without +rebellion, without believing that it is made better by being made painless, +this presented itself clearly to his dying eyes, as the greatest courage and +the greatest wisdom. And to cheat pain while he waited, he reviewed his latest +theories; he dreamed of a means of utilizing suffering by transforming it into +action, into work. If it be true that man feels pain more acutely according as +he rises in the scale of civilization, it is also certain that he becomes +stronger through it, better armed against it, more capable of resisting it. The +organ, the brain which works, develops and grows stronger, provided the +equilibrium between the sensations which it receives and the work which it +gives back be not broken. Might not one hope, then, for a humanity in which the +amount of work accomplished would so exactly equal the sum of sensations +received, that suffering would be utilized and, as it were, abolished? +</p> + +<p> +The sun had risen, and Pascal was confusedly revolving these distant hopes in +his mind, in the drowsiness produced by his disease, when he felt a new attack +coming on. He had a moment of cruel anxiety—was this the end? Was he +going to die alone? But at this instant hurried footsteps mounted the stairs, +and a moment later Ramond entered, followed by Martine. And the patient had +time to say before the attack began: +</p> + +<p> +“Quick! quick! a hypodermic injection of pure water.” +</p> + +<p> +Unfortunately the doctor had to look for the little syringe and then to prepare +everything. This occupied some minutes, and the attack was terrible. He +followed its progress with anxiety—the face becoming distorted, the lips +growing livid. Then when he had given the injection, he observed that the +phenomena, for a moment stationary, slowly diminished in intensity. Once more +the catastrophe was averted. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as he recovered his breath Pascal, glancing at the clock, said in his +calm, faint voice: +</p> + +<p> +“My friend, it is seven o’clock—in twelve hours, at seven +o’clock to-night, I shall be dead.” +</p> + +<p> +And as the young man was about to protest, to argue the question, +“No,” he resumed, “do not try to deceive me. You have +witnessed the attack. You know what it means as well as I do. Everything will +now proceed with mathematical exactness; and, hour by hour, I could describe to +you the phases of the disease.” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped, gasped for breath, and then added: +</p> + +<p> +“And then, all is well; I am content. Clotilde will be here at five; all +I ask is to see her and to die in her arms.” +</p> + +<p> +A few moments later, however, he experienced a sensible improvement. The effect +of the injection seemed truly miraculous; and he was able to sit up in bed, his +back resting against the pillows. He spoke clearly, and with more ease, and +never had the lucidity of his mind appeared greater. +</p> + +<p> +“You know, master,” said, Ramond, “that I will not leave you. +I have told my wife, and we will spend the day together; and, whatever you may +say to the contrary, I am very confident that it will not be the last. You will +let me make myself at home, here, will you not?” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal smiled, and gave orders to Martine to go and prepare breakfast for +Ramond, saying that if they needed her they would call her. And the two men +remained alone, conversing with friendly intimacy; the one with his white hair +and long white beard, lying down, discoursing like a sage, the other sitting at +his bedside, listening with the respect of a disciple. +</p> + +<p> +“In truth,” murmured the master, as if he were speaking to himself, +“the effect of those injections is extraordinary.” +</p> + +<p> +Then in a stronger voice, he said almost gaily: +</p> + +<p> +“My friend Ramond, it may not be a very great present that I am giving +you, but I am going to leave you my manuscripts. Yes, Clotilde has orders to +send them to you when I shall be no more. Look through them, and you will +perhaps find among them things that are not so very bad. If you get a good idea +from them some day—well, that will be so much the better for the +world.” +</p> + +<p> +And then he made his scientific testament. He was clearly conscious that he had +been himself only a solitary pioneer, a precursor, planning theories which he +tried to put in practise, but which failed because of the imperfection of his +method. He recalled his enthusiasm when he believed he had discovered, in his +injections of nerve substance, the universal panacea, then his disappointments, +his fits of despair, the shocking death of Lafouasse, consumption carrying off +Valentin in spite of all his efforts, madness again conquering Sarteur and +causing him to hang himself. So that he would depart full of doubt, having no +longer the confidence necessary to the physician, and so enamored of life that +he had ended by putting all his faith in it, certain that it must draw from +itself alone its health and strength. But he did not wish to close up the +future; he was glad, on the contrary, to bequeath his hypotheses to the younger +generation. Every twenty years theories changed; established truths only, on +which science continued to build, remained unshaken. Even if he had only the +merit of giving to science a momentary hypothesis, his work would not be lost, +for progress consisted assuredly in the effort, in the onward march of the +intellect. +</p> + +<p> +And then who could say that he had died in vain, troubled and weary, his hopes +concerning the injections unrealized—other workers would come, young, +ardent, confident, who would take up the idea, elucidate it, expand it. And +perhaps a new epoch, a new world would date from this. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my dear Ramond,” he continued, “if one could only live +life over again. Yes, I would take up my idea again, for I have been struck +lately by the singular efficacy of injections even of pure water. It is not the +liquid, then, that matters, but simply the mechanical action. During the last +month I have written a great deal on that subject. You will find some curious +notes and observations there. In short, I should be inclined to put all my +faith in work, to place health in the harmonious working of all the organs, a +sort of dynamic therapeutics, if I may venture to use the expression.” +</p> + +<p> +He had gradually grown excited, forgetting his approaching death in his ardent +curiosity about life. And he sketched, with broad strokes, his last theory. Man +was surrounded by a medium—nature—which irritated by perpetual +contact the sensitive extremities of the nerves. Hence the action, not only of +the senses, but of the entire surface of the body, external and internal. For +it was these sensations which, reverberating in the brain, in the marrow, and +in the nervous centers, were there converted into tonicity, movements, and +thoughts; and he was convinced that health consisted in the natural progress of +this work, in receiving sensations, and in giving them back in thoughts and in +actions, the human machine being thus fed by the regular play of the organs. +Work thus became the great law, the regulator of the living universe. Hence it +became necessary if the equilibrium were broken, if the external excitations +ceased to be sufficient, for therapeutics to create artificial excitations, in +order to reestablish the tonicity which is the state of perfect health. And he +dreamed of a whole new system of treatment—suggestion, the all-powerful +authority of the physician, for the senses; electricity, friction, massage for +the skin and for the tendons; diet for the stomach; air cures on high plateaus +for the lungs, and, finally, transfusion, injections of distilled water, for +the circulatory system. It was the undeniable and purely mechanical action of +these latter that had put him on the track; all he did now was to extend the +hypothesis, impelled by his generalizing spirit; he saw the world saved anew in +this perfect equilibrium, as much work given as sensation received, the balance +of the world restored by unceasing labor. +</p> + +<p> +Here he burst into a frank laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“There! I have started off again. I, who was firmly convinced that the +only wisdom was not to interfere, to let nature take its course. Ah, what an +incorrigible old fool I am!” +</p> + +<p> +Ramond caught his hands in an outburst of admiration and affection. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master! it is of enthusiasm, of folly like yours that genius is +made. Have no fear, I have listened to you, I will endeavor to be worthy of the +heritage you leave; and I think, with you, that perhaps the great future lies +entirely there.” +</p> + +<p> +In the sad and quiet room Pascal began to speak again, with the courageous +tranquillity of a dying philosopher giving his last lesson. He now reviewed his +personal observations; he said that he had often cured himself by work, regular +and methodical work, not carried to excess. Eleven o’clock struck; he +urged Ramond to take his breakfast, and he continued the conversation, soaring +to lofty and distant heights, while Martine served the meal. The sun had at +last burst through the morning mists, a sun still half-veiled in clouds, and +mild, whose golden light warmed the room. Presently, after taking a few sips of +milk, Pascal remained silent. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment the young physician was eating a pear. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you in pain again?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; finish.” +</p> + +<p> +But he could not deceive Ramond. It was an attack, and a terrible one. The +suffocation came with the swiftness of a thunderbolt, and he fell back on the +pillow, his face already blue. He clutched at the bedclothes to support +himself, to raise the dreadful weight which oppressed his chest. Terrified, +livid, he kept his wide open eyes fixed upon the clock, with a dreadful +expression of despair and grief; and for ten minutes it seemed as if every +moment must be his last. +</p> + +<p> +Ramond had immediately given him a hypodermic injection. The relief was slow to +come, the efficacy less than before. +</p> + +<p> +When Pascal revived, large tears stood in his eyes. He did not speak now, he +wept. Presently, looking at the clock with his darkening vision, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“My friend, I shall die at four o’clock; I shall not see +her.” +</p> + +<p> +And as his young colleague, in order to divert his thoughts, declared, in spite +of appearances, that the end was not so near, Pascal, again becoming +enthusiastic, wished to give him a last lesson, based on direct observation. He +had, as it happened, attended several cases similar to his own, and he +remembered especially to have dissected at the hospital the heart of a poor old +man affected with sclerosis. +</p> + +<p> +“I can see it—my heart. It is the color of a dead leaf; its fibers +are brittle, wasted, one would say, although it has augmented slightly in +volume. The inflammatory process has hardened it; it would be difficult to +cut—” +</p> + +<p> +He continued in a lower voice. A little before, he had felt his heart growing +weaker, its contractions becoming feebler and slower. Instead of the normal jet +of blood there now issued from the aorta only a red froth. Back of it all the +veins were engorged with black blood; the suffocation increased, according as +the lift and force pump, the regulator of the whole machine, moved more slowly. +And after the injection he had been able to follow in spite of his suffering +the gradual reviving of the organ as the stimulus set it beating again, +removing the black venous blood, and sending life into it anew, with the red +arterial blood. But the attack would return as soon as the mechanical effect of +the injection should cease. He could predict it almost within a few minutes. +Thanks to the injections he would have three attacks more. The third would +carry him off; he would die at four o’clock. +</p> + +<p> +Then, while his voice grew gradually weaker, in a last outburst of enthusiasm, +he apostrophized the courage of the heart, that persistent life maker, working +ceaselessly, even during sleep, when the other organs rested. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, brave heart! how heroically you struggle! What faithful, what +generous muscles, never wearied! You have loved too much, you have beat too +fast in the past months, and that is why you are breaking now, brave heart, who +do not wish to die, and who strive rebelliously to beat still!” +</p> + +<p> +But now the first of the attacks which had been announced came on. Pascal came +out of this panting, haggard, his speech sibilant and painful. Low moans +escaped him, in spite of his courage. Good God! would this torture never end? +And yet his most ardent desire was to prolong his agony, to live long enough to +embrace Clotilde a last time. If he might only be deceiving himself, as Ramond +persisted in declaring. If he might only live until five o’clock. His +eyes again turned to the clock, they never now left the hands, every minute +seeming an eternity. They marked three o’clock. Then half-past three. Ah, +God! only two hours of life, two hours more of life. The sun was already +sinking toward the horizon; a great calm descended from the pale winter sky, +and he heard at intervals the whistles of the distant locomotives crossing the +bare plain. The train that was passing now was the one going to the Tulettes; +the other, the one coming from Marseilles, would it never arrive, then! +</p> + +<p> +At twenty minutes to four Pascal signed to Ramond to approach. He could no +longer speak loud enough to be heard. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, in order that I might live until six o’clock, the pulse +should be stronger. I have still some hope, however, but the second movement is +almost imperceptible, the heart will soon cease to beat.” +</p> + +<p> +And in faint, despairing accents he called on Clotilde again and again. The +immeasurable grief which he felt at not being able to see her again broke forth +in this faltering and agonized appeal. Then his anxiety about his manuscripts +returned, an ardent entreaty shone in his eyes, until at last he found the +strength to falter again: +</p> + +<p> +“Do not leave me; the key is under my pillow; tell Clotilde to take it; +she has my directions.” +</p> + +<p> +At ten minutes to four another hypodermic injection was given, but without +effect. And just as four o’clock was striking, the second attack declared +itself. Suddenly, after a fit of suffocation, he threw himself out of bed; he +desired to rise, to walk, in a last revival of his strength. A need of space, +of light, of air, urged him toward the skies. Then there came to him an +irresistible appeal from life, his whole life, from the adjoining workroom, +where he had spent his days. And he went there, staggering, suffocating, +bending to the left side, supporting himself by the furniture. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Ramond precipitated himself quickly toward him to stop him, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master! lie down again, I entreat you!” +</p> + +<p> +But Pascal paid no heed to him, obstinately determined to die on his feet. The +desire to live, the heroic idea of work, alone survived in him, carrying him +onward bodily. He faltered hoarsely: +</p> + +<p> +“No, no—out there, out there—” +</p> + +<p> +His friend was obliged to support him, and he walked thus, stumbling and +haggard, to the end of the workroom, and dropped into his chair beside his +table, on which an unfinished page still lay among a confusion of papers and +books. +</p> + +<p> +Here he gasped for breath and his eyes closed. After a moment he opened them +again, while his hands groped about, seeking his work, no doubt. They +encountered the genealogical tree in the midst of other papers scattered about. +Only two days before he had corrected some dates in it. He recognized it, and +drawing it toward him, spread it out. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master! you will kill yourself!” cried Ramond, overcome +with pity and admiration at this extraordinary spectacle. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal did not listen, did not hear. He felt a pencil under his fingers. He +took it and bent over the tree, as if his dying eyes no longer saw. The name of +Maxime arrested his attention, and he wrote: “Died of ataxia in +1873,” in the certainty that his nephew would not live through the year. +Then Clotilde’s name, beside it, struck him and he completed the note +thus: “Has a son, by her Uncle Pascal, in 1874.” But it was his own +name that he sought wearily and confusedly. When he at last found it his hand +grew firmer, and he finished his note, in upright and bold characters: +“Died of heart disease, November 7, 1873.” This was the supreme +effort, the rattle in his throat increased, everything was fading into +nothingness, when he perceived the blank leaf above Clotilde’s name. His +vision grew dark, his fingers could no longer hold the pencil, but he was still +able to add, in unsteady letters, into which passed the tortured tenderness, +the wild disorder of his poor heart: “The unknown child, to be born in +1874. What will it be?” Then he swooned, and Martine and Ramond with +difficulty carried him back to bed. +</p> + +<p> +The third attack came on about four o’clock. In this last access of +suffocation Pascal’s countenance expressed excruciating suffering. Death +was to be very painful; he must endure to the end his martyrdom, as a man and a +scientist. His wandering gaze still seemed to seek the clock, to ascertain the +hour. And Ramond, seeing his lips move, bent down and placed his ear to the +mouth of the dying man. The latter, in effect, was stammering some vague words, +so faint that they scarcely rose above a breath: +</p> + +<p> +“Four o’clock—the heart is stopping; no more red blood in the +aorta—the valve relaxes and bursts.” +</p> + +<p> +A dreadful spasm shook him; his breathing grew fainter. +</p> + +<p> +“Its progress is too rapid. Do not leave me; the key is under the +pillow—Clotilde, Clotilde—” +</p> + +<p> +At the foot of the bed Martine was kneeling, choked with sobs. She saw well +that monsieur was dying. She had not dared to go for a priest notwithstanding +her great desire to do so; and she was herself reciting the prayers for the +dying; she prayed ardently that God would pardon monsieur, and that monsieur +might go straight to Paradise. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal was dying. His face was quite blue. After a few seconds of immobility, +he tried to breathe: he put out his lips, opened his poor mouth, like a little +bird opening its beak to get a last mouthful of air. And he was dead. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"></a> +XIII.</h2> + +<p> +It was not until after breakfast, at about one o’clock, that Clotilde +received the despatch. On this day it had chanced that she had quarreled with +her brother Maxime, who, taking advantage of his privileges as an invalid, had +tormented her more and more every day by his unreasonable caprices and his +outbursts of ill temper. In short, her visit to him had not proved a success. +He found that she was too simple and too serious to cheer him; and he had +preferred, of late, the society of Rose, the fair-haired young girl, with the +innocent look, who amused him. So that when his sister told him that their +uncle had sent for her, and that she was going away, he gave his approval at +once, and although he asked her to return as soon as she should have settled +her affairs at home, he did so only with the desire of showing himself amiable, +and he did not press the invitation. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde spent the afternoon in packing her trunks. In the feverish excitement +of so sudden a decision she had thought of nothing but the joy of her return. +But after the hurry of dinner was over, after she had said good-by to her +brother, after the interminable drive in a hackney coach along the avenue of +the Bois de Boulogne to the Lyons railway station, when she found herself in +the ladies’ compartment, starting on the long journey on a cold and rainy +November night, already rolling away from Paris, her excitement began to abate, +and reflections forced their way into her mind and began to trouble her. Why +this brief and urgent despatch: “I await you; start this evening.” +Doubtless it was the answer to her letter; but she knew how greatly Pascal had +desired that she should remain in Paris, where he thought she was happy, and +she was astonished at his hasty summons. She had not expected a despatch, but a +letter, arranging for her return a few weeks later. There must be something +else, then; perhaps he was ill and felt a desire, a longing to see her again at +once. And from this time forward this fear seized her with the force of a +presentiment, and grew stronger and stronger, until it soon took complete +possession of her. +</p> + +<p> +All night long the rain beat furiously against the windows of the train while +they were crossing the plains of Burgundy, and did not cease until they reached +Macon. When they had passed Lyons the day broke. Clotilde had Pascal’s +letters with her, and she had waited impatiently for the daylight that she +might read again carefully these letters, the writing of which had seemed +changed to her. And noticing the unsteady characters, the breaks in the words, +she felt a chill at her heart. He was ill, very ill—she had become +certain of this now, by a divination in which there was less of reasoning than +of subtle prescience. And the rest of the journey seemed terribly long, for her +anguish increased in proportion as she approached its termination. And worse +than all, arriving at Marseilles at half-past twelve, there was no train for +Plassans until twenty minutes past three. Three long hours of waiting! She +breakfasted at the buffet in the railway station, eating hurriedly, as if she +was afraid of missing this train; then she dragged herself into the dusty +garden, going from bench to bench in the pale, mild sunshine, among omnibuses +and hackney coaches. At last she was once more in the train, which stopped at +every little way station. When they were approaching Plassans she put her head +out of the window eagerly, longing to see the town again after her short +absence of two months. It seemed to her as if she had been away for twenty +years, and that everything must be changed. When the train was leaving the +little station of Sainte-Marthe her emotion reached its height when, leaning +out, she saw in the distance La Souleiade with the two secular cypresses on the +terrace, which could be seen three leagues off. +</p> + +<p> +It was five o’clock, and twilight was already falling. The train stopped, +and Clotilde descended. But it was a surprise and a keen grief to her not to +see Pascal waiting for her on the platform. She had been saying to herself +since they had left Lyons: “If I do not see him at once, on the arrival +of the train, it will be because he is ill.” He might be in the +waiting-room, however, or with a carriage outside. She hurried forward, but she +saw no one but Father Durieu, a driver whom the doctor was in the habit of +employing. She questioned him eagerly. The old man, a taciturn Provençal, was +in no haste to answer. His wagon was there, and he asked her for the checks for +her luggage, wishing to see about the trunks before anything else. In a +trembling voice she repeated her question: +</p> + +<p> +“Is everybody well, Father Durieu?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +And she was obliged to put question after question to him before she succeeded +in eliciting the information that it was Martine who had told him, at about six +o’clock the day before, to be at the station with his wagon, in time to +meet the train. He had not seen the doctor, no one had seen him, for two months +past. It might very well be since he was not here that he had been obliged to +take to his bed, for there was a report in the town that he was not very well. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait until I get the luggage, mademoiselle,” he ended, +“there is room for you on the seat.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Father Durieu, it would be too long to wait. I will walk.” +</p> + +<p> +She ascended the slope rapidly. Her heart was so tightened that she could +scarcely breathe. The sun had sunk behind the hills of Sainte-Marthe, and a +fine mist was falling from the chill gray November sky, and as she took the +road to Les Fenouilleres she caught another glimpse of La Souleiade, which +struck a chill to her heart—the front of the house, with all its shutters +closed, and wearing a look of abandonment and desolation in the melancholy +twilight. +</p> + +<p> +But Clotilde received the final and terrible blow when she saw Ramond standing +at the hall door, apparently waiting for her. He had indeed been watching for +her, and had come downstairs to break the dreadful news gently to her. She +arrived out of breath; she had crossed the quincunx of plane trees near the +fountain to shorten the way, and on seeing the young man there instead of +Pascal, whom she had in spite of everything expected to see, she had a +presentiment of overwhelming ruin, of irreparable misfortune. Ramond was pale +and agitated, notwithstanding the effort he made to control his feelings. At +the first moment he could not find a word to say, but waited to be questioned. +Clotilde, who was herself suffocating, said nothing. And they entered the house +thus; he led her to the dining-room, where they remained for a few seconds, +face to face, in mute anguish. +</p> + +<p> +“He is ill, is he not?” she at last faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “he is ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew it at once when I saw you,” she replied. “I knew when +he was not here that he must be ill. He is very ill, is he not?” she +persisted. +</p> + +<p> +As he did not answer but grew still paler, she looked at him fixedly. And on +the instant she saw the shadow of death upon him; on his hands that still +trembled, that had assisted the dying man; on his sad face; in his troubled +eyes, which still retained the reflection of the death agony; in the neglected +and disordered appearance of the physician who, for twelve hours, had +maintained an unavailing struggle against death. +</p> + +<p> +She gave a loud cry: +</p> + +<p> +“He is dead!” +</p> + +<p> +She tottered, and fell fainting into the arms of Ramond, who with a great sob +pressed her in a brotherly embrace. And thus they wept on each other’s +neck. +</p> + +<p> +When he had seated her in a chair, and she was able to speak, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“It was I who took the despatch you received to the telegraph office +yesterday, at half-past ten o’clock. He was so happy, so full of hope! He +was forming plans for the future—a year, two years of life. And this +morning, at four o’clock, he had the first attack, and he sent for me. He +saw at once that he was doomed, but he expected to last until six +o’clock, to live long enough to see you again. But the disease progressed +too rapidly. He described its progress to me, minute by minute, like a +professor in the dissecting room. He died with your name upon his lips, calm, +but full of anguish, like a hero.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde listened, her eyes drowned in tears which flowed endlessly. Every word +of the relation of this piteous and stoical death penetrated her heart and +stamped itself there. She reconstructed every hour of the dreadful day. She +followed to its close its grand and mournful drama. She would live it over in +her thoughts forever. +</p> + +<p> +But her despairing grief overflowed when Martine, who had entered the room a +moment before, said in a harsh voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, mademoiselle has good reason to cry! for if monsieur is dead, +mademoiselle is to blame for it.” +</p> + +<p> +The old servant stood apart, near the door of her kitchen, in such a passion of +angry grief, because they had taken her master from her, because they had +killed him, that she did not even try to find a word of welcome or consolation +for this child whom she had brought up. And without calculating the +consequences of her indiscretion, the grief or the joy which she might cause, +she relieved herself by telling all she knew. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if monsieur has died, it is because mademoiselle went away.” +</p> + +<p> +From the depths of her overpowering grief Clotilde protested. She had expected +to see Martine weeping with her, like Ramond, and she was surprised to feel +that she was an enemy. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, it was he who would not let me stay, who insisted upon my going +away,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well! mademoiselle must have been willing to go or she would have +been more clear-sighted. The night before your departure I found monsieur +half-suffocated with grief; and when I wished to inform mademoiselle, he +himself prevented me; he had such courage. Then I could see it all, after +mademoiselle had gone. Every night it was the same thing over again, and he +could hardly keep from writing to you to come back. In short, he died of it, +that is the pure truth.” +</p> + +<p> +A great light broke in on Clotilde’s mind, making her at the same time +very happy and very wretched. Good God! what she had suspected for a moment, +was then true. Afterward she had been convinced, seeing Pascal’s angry +persistence, that he was speaking the truth; that between her and work he had +chosen work sincerely, like a man of science with whom love of work has gained +the victory over the love of woman. And yet he had not spoken the truth; he had +carried his devotion, his self-forgetfulness to the point of immolating himself +to what he believed to be her happiness. And the misery of things willed that +he should have been mistaken, that he should have thus consummated the +unhappiness of both. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde again protested wildly: +</p> + +<p> +“But how could I have known? I obeyed; I put all my love in my +obedience.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” cried Martine again, “it seems to me that I should have +guessed.” +</p> + +<p> +Ramond interposed gently. He took Clotilde’s hands once more in his, and +explained to her that grief might indeed have hastened the fatal issue, but +that the master had unhappily been doomed for some time past. The affection of +the heart from which he had suffered must have been of long standing—a +great deal of overwork, a certain part of heredity, and, finally, his late +absorbing love, and the poor heart had broken. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go upstairs,” said Clotilde simply. “I wish to see +him.” +</p> + +<p> +Upstairs in the death-chamber the blinds were closed, shutting out even the +melancholy twilight. On a little table at the foot of the bed burned two tapers +in two candlesticks. And they cast a pale yellow light on Pascal’s form +extended on the bed, the feet close together, the hands folded on the breast. +The eyes had been piously closed. The face, of a bluish hue still, but already +looking calm and peaceful, framed by the flowing white hair and beard, seemed +asleep. He had been dead scarcely an hour and a half, yet already infinite +serenity, eternal silence, eternal repose, had begun. +</p> + +<p> +Seeing him thus, at the thought that he no longer heard her, that he no longer +saw her, that she was alone now, that she was to kiss him for the last time, +and then lose him forever, Clotilde, in an outburst of grief, threw herself +upon the bed, and in broken accents of passionate tenderness cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, master, master, master—” +</p> + +<p> +She pressed her lips to the dead man’s forehead, and, feeling it still +warm with life, she had a momentary illusion: she fancied that he felt this +last caress, so cruelly awaited. Did he not smile in his immobility, happy at +last, and able to die, now that he felt her here beside him? Then, overcome by +the dreadful reality, she burst again into wild sobs. +</p> + +<p> +Martine entered, bringing a lamp, which she placed on a corner of the +chimney-piece, and she heard Ramond, who was watching Clotilde, disquieted at +seeing her passionate grief, say: +</p> + +<p> +“I shall take you away from the room if you give way like this. Consider +that you have some one else to think of now.” +</p> + +<p> +The servant had been surprised at certain words which she had overheard by +chance during the day. Suddenly she understood, and she turned paler even than +before, and on her way out of the room, she stopped at the door to hear more. +</p> + +<p> +“The key of the press is under his pillow,” said Ramond, lowering +his voice; “he told me repeatedly to tell you so. You know what you have +to do?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde made an effort to remember and to answer. +</p> + +<p> +“What I have to do? About the papers, is it not? Yes, yes, I remember; I +am to keep the envelopes and to give you the other manuscripts. Have no fear, I +am quite calm, I will be very reasonable. But I will not leave him; I will +spend the night here very quietly, I promise you.” +</p> + +<p> +She was so unhappy, she seemed so resolved to watch by him, to remain with him, +until he should be taken away, that the young physician allowed her to have her +way. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I will leave you now. They will be expecting me at home. Then +there are all sorts of formalities to be gone through—to give notice at +the mayor’s office, the funeral, of which I wish to spare you the +details. Trouble yourself about nothing. Everything will be arranged to-morrow +when I return.” +</p> + +<p> +He embraced her once more and then went away. And it was only then that Martine +left the room, behind him, and locking the hall door she ran out into the +darkness. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde was now alone in the chamber; and all around and about her, in the +unbroken silence, she felt the emptiness of the house. Clotilde was alone with +the dead Pascal. She placed a chair at the head of the bed and sat there +motionless, alone. On arriving, she had merely removed her hat: now, perceiving +that she still had on her gloves, she took them off also. But she kept on her +traveling dress, crumpled and dusty, after twenty hours of railway travel. No +doubt Father Durieu had brought the trunks long ago, and left them downstairs. +But it did not occur to her, nor had she the strength to wash herself and +change her clothes, but remained sitting, overwhelmed with grief, on the chair +into which she had dropped. One regret, a great remorse, filled her to the +exclusion of all else. Why had she obeyed him? Why had she consented to leave +him? If she had remained she had the ardent conviction that he would not have +died. She would have lavished so much love, so many caresses upon him, that she +would have cured him. If one was anxious to keep a beloved being from dying one +should remain with him and, if necessary, give one’s heart’s blood +to keep him alive. It was her own fault if she had lost him, if she could not +now with a caress awaken him from his eternal sleep. And she thought herself +imbecile not to have understood; cowardly, not to have devoted herself to him; +culpable, and to be forever punished for having gone away when plain common +sense, in default of feeling, ought to have kept her here, bound, as a +submissive and affectionate subject, to the task of watching over her king. +</p> + +<p> +The silence had become so complete, so profound, that Clotilde lifted her eyes +for a moment from Pascal’s face to look around the room. She saw only +vague shadows—the two tapers threw two yellow patches on the high +ceiling. At this moment she remembered the letters he had written to her, so +short, so cold; and she comprehended his heroic sacrifice, the torture it had +been to him to silence his heart, desiring to immolate himself to the end. What +strength must he not have required for the accomplishment of the plan of +happiness, sublime and disastrous, which he had formed for her. He had resolved +to pass out of her life in order to save her from his old age and his poverty; +he wished her to be rich and free, to enjoy her youth, far away from him; this +indeed was utter self-effacement, complete absorption in the love of another. +And she felt a profound gratitude, a sweet solace in the thought, mingled with +a sort of angry bitterness against evil fortune. Then, suddenly, the happy +years of her childhood and her long youth spent beside him who had always been +so kind and so good-humored, rose before her—how he had gradually won her +affection, how she had felt that she was his, after the quarrels which had +separated them for a time, and with what a transport of joy she had at last +given herself to him. +</p> + +<p> +Seven o’clock struck. Clotilde started as the clear tones broke the +profound silence. Who was it that had spoken? Then she remembered, and she +looked at the clock. And when the last sound of the seven strokes, each of +which had fallen like a knell upon her heart, had died away, she turned her +eyes again on the motionless face of Pascal, and once more she abandoned +herself to her grief. +</p> + +<p> +It was in the midst of this ever-increasing prostration that Clotilde, a few +minutes later, heard a sudden sound of sobbing. Some one had rushed into the +room; she looked round and saw her Grandmother Félicité. But she did not stir, +she did not speak, so benumbed was she with grief. Martine, anticipating the +orders which Clotilde would undoubtedly have given her, had hurried to old Mme. +Rougon’s, to give her the dreadful news; and the latter, dazed at first +by the suddenness of the catastrophe, and afterward greatly agitated, had +hurried to the house, overflowing with noisy grief. She burst into tears at +sight of her son, and then embraced Clotilde, who returned her kiss, as in a +dream. And from this instant the latter, without emerging from the overwhelming +grief in which she isolated herself, felt that she was no longer alone, hearing +a continual stir and bustle going on around her. It was Félicité crying, coming +in and going out on tiptoe, setting things in order, spying about, whispering, +dropping into a chair, to get up again a moment afterward, after saying that +she was going to die in it. At nine o’clock she made a last effort to +persuade her granddaughter to eat something. Twice already she had lectured her +in a low voice; she came now again to whisper to her: +</p> + +<p> +“Clotilde, my dear, I assure you you are wrong. You must keep up your +strength or you will never be able to hold out.” +</p> + +<p> +But the young woman, with a shake of her head, again refused. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, you breakfasted at the buffet at Marseilles, I suppose, but you +have eaten nothing since. Is that reasonable? I do not wish you to fall ill +also. Martine has some broth. I have told her to make a light soup and to roast +a chicken. Go down and eat a mouthful, only a mouthful, and I will remain +here.” +</p> + +<p> +With the same patient gesture Clotilde again refused. At last she faltered: +</p> + +<p> +“Do not ask me, grandmother, I entreat you. I could not; it would choke +me.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not speak again, falling back into her former state of apathy. She did +not sleep, however, her wide open eyes were fixed persistently on +Pascal’s face. For hours she sat there, motionless, erect, rigid, as if +her spirit were far away with the dead. At ten o’clock she heard a noise; +it was Martine bringing up the lamp. Toward eleven Félicité, who was sitting +watching in an armchair, seemed to grow restless, got up and went out of the +room, and came back again. From this forth there was a continual coming and +going as of impatient footsteps prowling around the young woman, who was still +awake, her large eyes fixed motionless on Pascal. Twelve o’clock struck, +and one persistent thought alone pierced her weary brain, like a nail, and +prevented sleep—why had she obeyed him? If she had remained she would +have revived him with her youth, and he would not have died. And it was not +until a little before one that she felt this thought, too, grow confused and +lose itself in a nightmare. And she fell into a heavy sleep, worn out with +grief and fatigue. +</p> + +<p> +When Martine had announced to Mme. Rougon the unexpected death of her son +Pascal, in the shock which she received there was as much of anger as of grief. +What! her dying son had not wished to see her; he had made this servant swear +not to inform her of his illness! This thought sent the blood coursing swiftly +through her veins, as if the struggle between them, which had lasted during his +whole life, was to be continued beyond the grave. Then, when after hastily +dressing herself she had hurried to La Souleiade, the thought of the terrible +envelopes, of all the manuscripts piled up in the press, had filled her with +trembling rage. Now that Uncle Macquart and Aunt Dide were dead, she no longer +feared what she called the abomination of the Tulettes; and even poor little +Charles, in dying, had carried with him one of the most humiliating of the +blots on the family. There remained only the envelopes, the abominable +envelopes, to menace the glorious Rougon legend which she had spent her whole +life in creating, which was the sole thought of her old age, the work to the +triumph of which she had persistently devoted the last efforts of her wily and +active brain. For long years she had watched these envelopes, never wearying, +beginning the struggle over again, when he had thought her beaten, always alert +and persistent. Ah! if she could only succeed in obtaining possession of them +and destroying them! It would be the execrable past destroyed, effaced; it +would be the glory of her family, so hardly won, at last freed from all fear, +at last shining untarnished, imposing its lie upon history. And she saw herself +traversing the three quarters of Plassans, saluted by every one, bearing +herself as proudly as a queen, mourning nobly for the fallen Empire. So that +when Martine informed her that Clotilde had come, she quickened her steps as +she approached La Souleiade, spurred by the fear of arriving too late. +</p> + +<p> +But as soon as she was installed in the house, Félicité at once regained her +composure. There was no hurry, they had the whole night before them. She +wished, however, to win over Martine without delay, and she knew well how to +influence this simple creature, bound up in the doctrines of a narrow religion. +Going down to the kitchen, then, to see the chicken roasting, she began by +affecting to be heartbroken at the thought of her son dying without having made +his peace with the Church. She questioned the servant, pressing her for +particulars. But the latter shook her head disconsolately—no, no priest +had come, monsieur had not even made the sign of the cross. She, only, had +knelt down to say the prayers for the dying, which certainly could not be +enough for the salvation of a soul. And yet with what fervor she had prayed to +the good God that monsieur might go straight to Paradise! +</p> + +<p> +With her eyes fixed on the chicken turning on the spit, before a bright fire, +Félicité resumed in a lower voice, with an absorbed air: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my poor girl, what will most prevent him from going to Paradise are +the abominable papers which the unhappy man has left behind him up there in the +press. I cannot understand why it is that lightning from heaven has not struck +those papers before this and reduced them to ashes. If they are allowed to +leave this house it will be ruin and disgrace and eternal perdition!” +</p> + +<p> +Martine listened, very pale. +</p> + +<p> +“Then madame thinks it would be a good work to destroy them, a work that +would assure the repose of monsieur’s soul?” +</p> + +<p> +“Great God! Do I believe it! Why, if I had those dreadful papers in my +hands, I would throw every one of them into the fire. Oh, you would not need +then to put on any more sticks; with the manuscripts upstairs alone you would +have fuel enough to roast three chickens like that.” +</p> + +<p> +The servant took a long spoon and began to baste the fowl. She, too, seemed now +to reflect. +</p> + +<p> +“Only we haven’t got them. I even overheard some words on the +subject, which I may repeat to madame. It was when mademoiselle went upstairs. +Dr. Raymond spoke to her about the papers, asking her if she remembered some +orders which she had received, before she went away, no doubt; and she answered +that she remembered, that she was to keep the envelopes and to give him all the +other manuscripts.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité trembled; she could not restrain a terrified movement. Already she saw +the papers slipping out of her reach; and it was not the envelopes only which +she desired, but all the manuscripts, all that unknown, suspicious, and secret +work, from which nothing but scandal could come, according to the obtuse and +excitable mind of the proud old <i>bourgeoise</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“But we must act!” she cried, “act immediately, this very +night! To-morrow it may be too late.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know where the key of the press is,” answered Martine in a low +voice. “The doctor told mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité immediately pricked up her ears. +</p> + +<p> +“The key; where is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Under the pillow, under monsieur’s head.” +</p> + +<p> +In spite of the bright blaze of the fire of vine branches the air seemed to +grow suddenly chill, and the two old women were silent. The only sound to be +heard was the drip of the chicken juice falling into the pan. +</p> + +<p> +But after Mme. Rougon had eaten a hasty and solitary dinner she went upstairs +again with Martine. Without another word being spoken they understood each +other, it was decided that they would use all possible means to obtain +possession of the papers before daybreak. The simplest was to take the key from +under the pillow. Clotilde would no doubt at last fall asleep—she seemed +too exhausted not to succumb to fatigue. All they had to do was to wait. They +set themselves to watch, then, going back and forth on tiptoe between the study +and the bedroom, waiting for the moment when the young woman’s large +motionless eyes should close in sleep. One of them would go to see, while the +other waited impatiently in the study, where a lamp burned dully on the table. +This was repeated every fifteen minutes until midnight. The fathomless eyes, +full of gloom and of an immense despair, did not close. A little before +midnight Félicité installed herself in an armchair at the foot of the bed, +resolved not to leave the spot until her granddaughter should have fallen +asleep. From this forth she did not take her eyes off Clotilde, and it filled +her with a sort of fear to remark that the girl scarcely moved her eyelids, +looking with that inconsolable fixity which defies sleep. Then she herself +began to feel sleep stealing over her. Exasperated, trembling with nervous +impatience, she could remain where she was no longer. And she went to rejoin +the servant, who was watching in the study. +</p> + +<p> +“It is useless; she will not sleep,” she said in a stifled and +trembling voice. “We must find some other way.” +</p> + +<p> +It had indeed occurred to her to break open the press. +</p> + +<p> +But the old oaken boards were strong, the old iron held firmly. How could they +break the lock—not to speak of the noise they would make and which would +certainly be heard in the adjoining room? +</p> + +<p> +She stood before the thick doors, however, and felt them with her fingers, +seeking some weak spot. +</p> + +<p> +“If I only had an instrument,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Martine, less eager, interrupted her, objecting: “Oh, no, no, madame! We +might be surprised! Wait, I will go again and see if mademoiselle is asleep +now.” +</p> + +<p> +She went to the bedroom on tiptoe and returned immediately, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, she is asleep. Her eyes are closed, and she does not stir.” +</p> + +<p> +Then both went to look at her, holding their breath and walking with the utmost +caution, so that the boards might not creak. Clotilde had indeed just fallen +asleep: and her stupor seemed so profound that the two old women grew bold. +They feared, however, that they might touch and waken her, for her chair stood +close beside the bed. And then, to put one’s hand under a dead +man’s pillow to rob him was a terrible and sacrilegious act, the thought +of which filled them with terror. Might it not disturb his repose? Might he not +move at the shock? The thought made them turn pale. +</p> + +<p> +Félicité had advanced with outstretched hand, but she drew back, stammering: +</p> + +<p> +“I am too short. You try, Martine.” +</p> + +<p> +The servant in her turn approached the bed. But she was seized with such a fit +of trembling that she was obliged to retreat lest she should fall. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, I cannot!” she said. “It seems to me that monsieur +is going to open his eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +And trembling and awe-struck they remained an instant longer in the lugubrious +chamber full of the silence and the majesty of death, facing Pascal, motionless +forever, and Clotilde, overwhelmed by the grief of her widowhood. Perhaps they +saw, glorifying that mute head, guarding its work with all its weight, the +nobility of a life spent in honorable labor. The flame of the tapers burned +palely. A sacred awe filled the air, driving them from the chamber. +</p> + +<p> +Félicité, who was so brave, who had never in her life flinched from anything, +not even from bloodshed, fled as if she was pursued, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, Martine, we will find some other way; we will go look for an +instrument.” +</p> + +<p> +In the study they drew a breath of relief. Félicité looked in vain among the +papers on Pascal’s work-table for the genealogical tree, which she knew +was usually there. She would so gladly have begun her work of destruction with +this. It was there, but in her feverish excitement she did not perceive it. +</p> + +<p> +Her desire drew her back again to the press, and she stood before it, measuring +it and examining it with eager and covetous look. In spite of her short +stature, in spite of her eighty-odd years, she displayed an activity and an +energy that were truly extraordinary. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she repeated, “if I only had an instrument!” +</p> + +<p> +And she again sought the crevice in the colossus, the crack into which she +might introduce her fingers, to break it open. She imagined plans of assault, +she thought of using force, and then she fell back on stratagem, on some piece +of treachery which would open to her the doors, merely by breathing upon them. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly her glance kindled; she had discovered the means. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, Martine; there is a hook fastening one of the doors, is there +not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, madame; it catches in a ring above the middle shelf. See, it is +about the height of this molding.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité made a triumphant gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you a gimlet—a large gimlet? Give me a gimlet!” +</p> + +<p> +Martine went down into her kitchen and brought back the tool that had been +asked. +</p> + +<p> +“In that way, you see, we shall make no noise,” resumed the old +woman, setting herself to her task. +</p> + +<p> +With a strength which one would not have suspected in her little hands, +withered by age, she inserted the gimlet, and made a hole at the height +indicated by the servant. But it was too low; she felt the point, after a time, +entering the shelf. A second attempt brought the instrument in direct contact +with the iron hook. This time the hole was too near. And she multiplied the +holes to right and left, until finally she succeeded in pushing the hook out of +the ring. The bolt of the lock slipped, and both doors opened. +</p> + +<p> +“At last!” cried Félicité, beside herself. +</p> + +<p> +Then she remained motionless for a moment, her ear turned uneasily toward the +bedroom, fearing that she had wakened Clotilde. But silence reigned throughout +the dark and sleeping house. There came from the bedroom only the august peace +of death; she heard nothing but the clear vibration of the clock; Clotilde fell +asleep near one. And the press yawned wide open, displaying the papers with +which it overflowed, heaped up on its three shelves. Then she threw herself +upon it, and the work of destruction began, in the midst of the sacred +obscurity of the infinite repose of this funereal vigil. +</p> + +<p> +“At last!” she repeated, in a low voice, “after thirty years +of waiting. Let us hurry—let us hurry. Martine, help me!” +</p> + +<p> +She had already drawn forward the high chair of the desk, and mounted on it at +a bound, to take down, first of all, the papers on the top shelf, for she +remembered that the envelopes were there. But she was surprised not to see the +thick blue paper wrappers; there was nothing there but bulky manuscripts, the +doctor’s completed but unpublished works, works of inestimable value, all +his researches, all his discoveries, the monument of his future fame, which he +had left in Ramond’s charge. Doubtless, some days before his death, +thinking that only the envelopes were in danger, and that no one in the world +would be so daring as to destroy his other works, he had begun to classify and +arrange the papers anew, and removed the envelopes out of sight. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, so much the worse!” murmured Félicité; “let us begin +anywhere; there are so many of them that if we wish to get through we must +hurry. While I am up here, let us clear these away forever. Here, catch +Martine!” +</p> + +<p> +And she emptied the shelf, throwing the manuscripts, one by one, into the arms +of the servant, who laid them on the table with as little noise as possible. +Soon the whole heap was on it, and Félicité sprang down from the chair. +</p> + +<p> +“To the fire! to the fire! We shall lay our hands on the others, and too, +by and by, on those I am looking for. These can go into it, meantime. It will +be a good riddance, at any rate, a fine clearance, yes, indeed! To the fire, to +the fire with them all, even to the smallest scrap of paper, even to the most +illegible scrawl, if we wish to be certain of destroying the contamination of +evil.” +</p> + +<p> +She herself, fanatical and fierce, in her hatred of the truth, in her eagerness +to destroy the testimony of science, tore off the first page of one of the +manuscripts, lighted it at the lamp, and then threw this burning brand into the +great fireplace, in which there had not been a fire for perhaps twenty years, +and she fed the fire, continuing to throw on it the rest of the manuscript, +piece by piece. The servant, as determined as herself, came to her assistance, +taking another enormous notebook, which she tore up leaf by leaf. From this +forth the fire did not cease to burn, filling the wide fireplace with a bright +blaze, with tongues of flame that seemed to die away from time to time, only to +burn up more brightly than ever when fresh fuel fed them. The fire grew larger, +the heap of ashes rose higher and higher—a thick bed of blackened leaves +among which ran millions of sparks. But it was a long, a never-ending task; for +when several pages were thrown on at a time, they would not burn; it was +necessary to move them and turn them over with the tongs; the best way was to +stir them up and then wait until they were in a blaze, before adding more. The +women soon grew skilful at their task, and the work progressed at a rapid rate. +</p> + +<p> +In her haste to get a fresh armful of papers Félicité stumbled against a chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, madame, take care,” said Martine. “Some one might +come!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come? who should come? Clotilde? She is too sound asleep, poor girl. And +even if any one should come, once it is finished, I don’t care; I +won’t hide myself, you may be sure; I shall leave the empty press +standing wide open; I shall say aloud that it is I who have purified the house. +When there is not a line of writing left, ah, good heavens! I shall laugh at +everything else!” +</p> + +<p> +For almost two hours the fireplace blazed. They went back to the press and +emptied the two other shelves, and now there remained only the bottom, which +was heaped with a confusion of papers. Little by little, intoxicated by the +heat of the bonfire, out of breath and perspiring, they gave themselves up to +the savage joy of destruction. They stooped down, they blackened their hands, +pushing in the partially consumed fragments, with gestures so violent, so +feverishly excited, that their gray locks fell in disorder over their +shoulders. It was like a dance of witches, feeding a hellish fire for some +abominable act—the martyrdom of a saint, the burning of written thought +in the public square; a whole world of truth and hope destroyed. And the blaze +of this fire, which at moments made the flame of the lamp grow pale, lighted up +the vast apartment, and made the gigantic shadows of the two women dance upon +the ceiling. +</p> + +<p> +But as she was emptying the bottom of the press, after having burned, handful +by handful, the papers with which it had been filled, Félicité uttered a +stifled cry of triumph. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, here they are! To the fire! to the fire!” +</p> + +<p> +She had at last come upon the envelopes. Far back, behind the rampart formed by +the notes, the doctor had hidden the blue paper wrappers. And then began a mad +work of havoc, a fury of destruction; the envelopes were gathered up in +handfuls and thrown into the flames, filling the fireplace with a roar like +that of a conflagration. +</p> + +<p> +“They are burning, they are burning! They are burning at last! Here is +another, Martine, here is another. Ah, what a fire, what a glorious +fire!” +</p> + +<p> +But the servant was becoming uneasy. +</p> + +<p> +“Take care, madame, you are going to set the house on fire. Don’t +you hear that roar?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! what does that matter? Let it all burn. They are burning, they are +burning; what a fine sight! Three more, two more, and, see, now the last is +burning!” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed with delight, beside herself, terrible to see, when some fragment +of lighted soot fell down. The roar was becoming more and more fierce; the +chimney, which was never swept, had caught fire. This seemed to excite her +still more, while the servant, losing her head, began to scream and run about +the room. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde slept beside the dead Pascal, in the supreme calm of the bedroom, +unbroken save by the light vibration of the clock striking the hours. The +tapers burned with a tall, still flame, the air was motionless. And yet, in the +midst of her heavy, dreamless sleep, she heard, as in a nightmare, a tumult, an +ever-increasing rush and roar. And when she opened her eyes she could not at +first understand. Where was she? Why this enormous weight that crushed her +heart? She came back to reality with a start of terror—she saw Pascal, +she heard Martine’s cries in the adjoining room, and she rushed out, in +alarm, to learn their cause. +</p> + +<p> +But at the threshold Clotilde took in the whole scene with cruel +distinctness—the press wide open and completely empty; Martine maddened +by her fear of fire; Félicité radiant, pushing into the flames with her foot +the last fragments of the envelopes. Smoke and flying soot filled the study, +where the roaring of the fire sounded like the hoarse gasping of a murdered +man—the fierce roar which she had just heard in her sleep. +</p> + +<p> +And the cry which sprang from her lips was the same cry that Pascal himself had +uttered on the night of the storm, when he surprised her in the act of stealing +his papers. +</p> + +<p> +“Thieves! assassins!” +</p> + +<p> +She precipitated herself toward the fireplace, and, in spite of the dreadful +roaring of the flames, in spite of the falling pieces of soot, at the risk of +setting her hair on fire, and of burning her hands, she gathered up the leaves +which remained yet unconsumed and bravely extinguished them, pressing them +against her. But all this was very little, only some <i>debris</i>; not a +complete page remained, not even a few fragments of the colossal labor, of the +vast and patient work of a lifetime, which the fire had destroyed there in two +hours. And with growing anger, in a burst of furious indignation, she cried: +</p> + +<p> +“You are thieves, assassins! It is a wicked murder which you have just +committed. You have profaned death, you have slain the mind, you have slain +genius.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon did not quail. She advanced, on the contrary, feeling no +remorse, her head erect, defending the sentence of destruction pronounced and +executed by her. +</p> + +<p> +“It is to me you are speaking, to your grandmother. Is there nothing, +then, that you respect? I have done what I ought to have done, what you +yourself wished to do with us before.” +</p> + +<p> +“Before, you had made me mad; but since then I have lived, I have loved, +I have understood, and it is life that I defend. Even if it be terrible and +cruel, the truth ought to be respected. Besides, it was a sacred legacy +bequeathed to my protection, the last thoughts of a dead man, all that remained +of a great mind, and which I should have obliged every one to respect. Yes, you +are my grandmother; I am well aware of it, and it is as if you had just burned +your son!” +</p> + +<p> +“Burn Pascal because I have burned his papers!” cried Félicité. +“Do you not know that I would have burned the town to save the honor of +our family!” +</p> + +<p> +She continued to advance, belligerent and victorious; and Clotilde, who had +laid on the table the blackened fragments rescued by her from the burning +flames, protected them with her body, fearing that her grandmother would throw +them back again into the fire. She regarded the two women scornfully; she did +not even trouble herself about the fire in the fireplace, which fortunately +went out of itself, while Martine extinguished with the shovel the burning soot +and the last flames of the smoldering ashes. +</p> + +<p> +“You know very well, however,” continued the old woman, whose +little figure seemed to grow taller, “that I have had only one ambition, +one passion in life—to see our family rich and powerful. I have fought, I +have watched all my life, I have lived as long as I have done, only to put down +ugly stories and to leave our name a glorious one. Yes, I have never despaired; +I have never laid down my arms; I have been continually on the alert, ready to +profit by the slightest circumstance. And all I desired to do I have done, +because I have known how to wait.” +</p> + +<p> +And she waved her hand toward the empty press and the fireplace, where the last +sparks were dying out. +</p> + +<p> +“Now it is ended, our honor is safe; those abominable papers will no +longer accuse us, and I shall leave behind me nothing to be feared. The Rougons +have triumphed.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, in a frenzy of grief, raised her arm, as if to drive her out of the +room. But she left it of her own accord, and went down to the kitchen to wash +her blackened hands and to fasten up her hair. The servant was about to follow +her when, turning her head, she saw her young mistress’ gesture, and she +returned. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! as for me, mademoiselle, I will go away the day after to-morrow, +when monsieur shall be in the cemetery.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a moment’s silence. +</p> + +<p> +“But I am not sending you away, Martine. I know well that it is not you +who are most to blame. You have lived in this house for thirty years. Remain, +remain with me.” +</p> + +<p> +The old maid shook her gray head, looking very pale and tired. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I have served monsieur; I will serve no one after monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I!” +</p> + +<p> +“You, no!” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde looked embarrassed, hesitated a moment, and remained silent. But +Martine understood; she too seemed to reflect for an instant, and then she said +distinctly: +</p> + +<p> +“I know what you would say, but—no!” +</p> + +<p> +And she went on to settle her account, arranging the affair like a practical +woman who knew the value of money. +</p> + +<p> +“Since I have the means, I will go and live quietly on my income +somewhere. As for you, mademoiselle, I can leave you, for you are not poor. M. +Ramond will explain to you to-morrow how an income of four thousand francs was +saved for you out of the money at the notary’s. Meantime, here is the key +of the desk, where you will find the five thousand francs which monsieur left +there. Oh? I know that there will be no trouble between us. Monsieur did not +pay me for the last three months; I have papers from him which prove it. In +addition, I advanced lately almost two hundred francs out of my own pocket, +without his knowing where the money came from. It is all written down; I am not +at all uneasy; mademoiselle will not wrong me by a centime. The day after +to-morrow, when monsieur is no longer here, I will go away.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she went down to the kitchen, and Clotilde, in spite of the fanaticism of +this woman, which had made her take part in a crime, felt inexpressibly sad at +this desertion. When she was gathering up the fragments of the papers, however, +before returning to the bedroom, she had a thrill of joy, on suddenly seeing +the genealogical tree, which the two women had not perceived, lying unharmed on +the table. It was the only entire document saved from the wreck. She took it +and locked it, with the half-consumed fragments, in the bureau in the bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +But when she found herself again in this august chamber a great emotion took +possession of her. What supreme calm, what immortal peace, reigned here, beside +the savage destruction that had filled the adjoining room with smoke and ashes. +A sacred serenity pervaded the obscurity; the two tapers burned with a pure, +still, unwavering flame. Then she saw that Pascal’s face, framed in his +flowing white hair and beard, had become very white. He slept with the light +falling upon him, surrounded by a halo, supremely beautiful. She bent down, +kissed him again, felt on her lips the cold of the marble face, with its closed +eyelids, dreaming its dream of eternity. Her grief at not being able to save +the work which he had left to her care was so overpowering that she fell on her +knees and burst into a passion of sobs. Genius had been violated; it seemed to +her as if the world was about to be destroyed in this savage destruction of a +whole life of labor. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"></a> +XIV.</h2> + +<p> +In the study Clotilde was buttoning her dress, holding her child, whom she had +been nursing, still in her lap. It was after lunch, about three o’clock +on a hot sunny day at the end of August, and through the crevices of the +carefully closed shutters only a few scattered sunbeams entered, piercing the +drowsy and warm obscurity of the vast apartment. The rest and peace of the +Sunday seemed to enter and diffuse itself in the room with the last sounds of +the distant vesper bell. Profound silence reigned in the empty house in which +the mother and child were to remain alone until dinner time, the servant having +asked permission to go see a cousin in the faubourg. +</p> + +<p> +For an instant Clotilde looked at her child, now a big boy of three months. She +had been wearing mourning for Pascal for almost ten months—a long and +simple black gown, in which she looked divinely beautiful, with her tall, +slender figure and her sad, youthful face surrounded by its aureole of fair +hair. And although she could not smile, it filled her with sweet emotion to see +the beautiful child, so plump and rosy, with his mouth still wet with milk, +whose gaze had been arrested by the sunbeam full of dancing motes. His eyes +were fixed wonderingly on the golden brightness, the dazzling miracle of light. +Then sleep came over him, and he let his little, round, bare head, covered +thinly with fair hair, fall back on his mother’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde rose softly and laid him in the cradle, which stood beside the table. +She remained leaning over him for an instant to assure herself that he was +asleep; then she let down the curtain in the already darkened room. Then she +busied herself with supple and noiseless movements, walking with so light a +step that she scarcely touched the floor, in putting away some linen which was +on the table. Twice she crossed the room in search of a little missing sock. +She was very silent, very gentle, and very active. And now, in the solitude of +the house, she fell into a reverie and all the past year arose before her. +</p> + +<p> +First, after the dreadful shock of the funeral, came the departure of Martine, +who had obstinately kept to her determination of going away at once, not even +remaining for the customary week, bringing to replace her the young cousin of a +baker in the neighborhood—a stout brunette, who fortunately proved very +neat and faithful. Martine herself lived at Sainte-Marthe, in a retired corner, +so penuriously that she must be still saving even out of her small income. She +was not known to have any heir. Who, then, would profit by this miserliness? In +ten months she had not once set foot in La Souleiade—monsieur was not +there, and she had not even the desire to see monsieur’s son. +</p> + +<p> +Then in Clotilde’s reverie rose the figure of her grandmother Félicité. +The latter came to see her from time to time with the condescension of a +powerful relation who is liberal-minded enough to pardon all faults when they +have been cruelly expiated. She would come unexpectedly, kiss the child, +moralize, and give advice, and the young mother had adopted toward her the +respectful attitude which Pascal had always maintained. Félicité was now wholly +absorbed in her triumph. She was at last about to realize a plan that she had +long cherished and maturely deliberated, which would perpetuate by an +imperishable monument the untarnished glory of the family. The plan was to +devote her fortune, which had become considerable, to the construction and +endowment of an asylum for the aged, to be called Rougon Asylum. She had +already bought the ground, a part of the old mall outside the town, near the +railway station; and precisely on this Sunday, at five o’clock, when the +heat should have abated a little, the first stone was to be laid, a really +solemn ceremony, to be honored by the presence of all the authorities, and of +which she was to be the acknowledged queen, before a vast concourse of people. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde felt, besides, some gratitude toward her grandmother, who had shown +perfect disinterestedness on the occasion of the opening of Pascal’s +will. The latter had constituted the young woman his sole legatee; and the +mother, who had a right to a fourth part, after declaring her intention to +respect her son’s wishes, had simply renounced her right to the +succession. She wished, indeed, to disinherit all her family, bequeathing to +them glory only, by employing her large fortune in the erection of this asylum, +which was to carry down to future ages the revered and glorious name of the +Rougons; and after having, for more than half a century, so eagerly striven to +acquire money, she now disdained it, moved by a higher and purer ambition. And +Clotilde, thanks to this liberality, had no uneasiness regarding the +future—the four thousand francs income would be sufficient for her and +her child. She would bring him up to be a man. She had sunk the five thousand +francs that she had found in the desk in an annuity for him; and she owned, +besides, La Souleiade, which everybody advised her to sell. True, it cost but +little to keep it up, but what a sad and solitary life she would lead in that +great deserted house, much too large for her, where she would be lost. Thus +far, however, she had not been able to make up her mind to leave it. Perhaps +she would never be able to do so. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, this La Souleiade! all her love, all her life, all her memories were +centered in it. It seemed to her at times as if Pascal were living here still, +for she had changed nothing of their former manner of living. The furniture +remained in the same places, the hours were the same, the habits the same. The +only change she had made was to lock his room, into which only she went, as +into a sanctuary, to weep when she felt her heart too heavy. And although +indeed she felt very lonely, very lost, at each meal in the bright dining-room +downstairs, in fancy she heard there the echoes of their laughter, she recalled +the healthy appetite of her youth; when they two had eaten and drank so gaily, +rejoicing in their existence. And the garden, too, the whole place was bound up +with the most intimate fibers of her being, for she could not take a step in it +that their united images did not appear before her—on the terrace; in the +slender shadow of the great secular cypresses, where they had so often +contemplated the valley of the Viorne, closed in by the ridges of the Seille +and the parched hills of Sainte-Marthe; the stone steps among the puny olive +and almond trees, which they had so often challenged each other to run up in a +trial of speed, like boys just let loose from school; and there was the pine +grove, too, the warm, embalsamed shade, where the needles crackled under their +feet; the vast threshing yard, carpeted with soft grass, where they could see +the whole sky at night, when the stars were coming out; and above all there +were the giant plane trees, whose delightful shade they had enjoyed every day +in summer, listening to the soothing song of the fountain, the crystal clear +song which it had sung for centuries. Even to the old stones of the house, even +to the earth of the grounds, there was not an atom at La Souleiade in which she +did not feel a little of their blood warmly throbbing, with which she did not +feel a little of their life diffused and mingled. +</p> + +<p> +But she preferred to spend her days in the workroom, and here it was that she +lived over again her best hours. There was nothing new in it but the cradle. +The doctor’s table was in its place before the window to the +left—she could fancy him coming in and sitting down at it, for his chair +had not even been moved. On the long table in the center, among the old heap of +books and papers, there was nothing new but the cheerful note of the little +baby linen, which she was looking over. The bookcases displayed the same rows +of volumes; the large oaken press seemed to guard within its sides the same +treasure, securely shut in. Under the smoky ceiling the room was still redolent +of work, with its confusion of chairs, the pleasant disorder of this common +workroom, filled with the caprices of the girl and the researches of the +scientist. But what most moved her to-day was the sight of her old pastels +hanging against the wall, the copies which she had made of living flowers, +scrupulously exact copies, and of dream flowers of an imaginary world, whither +her wild fancy sometimes carried her. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde had just finished arranging the little garments on the table when, +lifting her eyes, she perceived before her the pastel of old King David, with +his hand resting on the shoulder of Abishag the young Shunammite. And she, who +now never smiled, felt her face flush with a thrill of tender and pleasing +emotion. How they had loved each other, how they had dreamed of an eternity of +love the day on which she had amused herself painting this proud and loving +allegory! The old king, sumptuously clad in a robe hanging in straight folds, +heavy with precious stones, wore the royal bandeau on his snowy locks; but she +was more sumptuous still, with only her tall slender figure, her delicate round +throat, and her supple arms, divinely graceful. Now he was gone, he was +sleeping under the ground, while she, her pure and triumphant beauty concealed +by her black robes, had only her child to express the love she had given him +before the assembled people, in the full light of day. +</p> + +<p> +Then Clotilde sat down beside the cradle. The slender sunbeams lengthened, +crossing the room from end to end, the heat of the warm afternoon grew +oppressive in the drowsy obscurity made by the closed shutters, and the silence +of the house seemed more profound than before. She set apart some little +waists, she sewed on some tapes with slow-moving needle, and gradually she fell +into a reverie in the warm deep peacefulness of the room, in the midst of the +glowing heat outside. Her thoughts first turned to her pastels, the exact +copies and the fantastic dream flowers; she said to herself now that all her +dual nature was to be found in that passion for truth, which had at times kept +her a whole day before a flower in order to copy it with exactness, and in her +need of the spiritual, which at other times took her outside the real, and +carried her in wild dreams to the paradise of flowers such as had never grown +on earth. She had always been thus. She felt that she was in reality the same +to-day as she had been yesterday, in the midst of the flow of new life which +ceaselessly transformed her. And then she thought of Pascal, full of gratitude +that he had made her what she was. In days past when, a little girl, he had +removed her from her execrable surroundings and taken her home with him, he had +undoubtedly followed the impulses of his good heart, but he had also +undoubtedly desired to try an experiment with her, to see how she would grow up +in the different environment, in an atmosphere of truthfulness and affection. +This had always been an idea of his. It was an old theory of his which he would +have liked to test on a large scale: culture through environment, complete +regeneration even, the improvement, the salvation of the individual, physically +as well as morally. She owed to him undoubtedly the best part of her nature; +she guessed how fanciful and violent she might have become, while he had made +her only enthusiastic and courageous. +</p> + +<p> +In this retrospection she was clearly conscious of the gradual change that had +taken place within her. Pascal had corrected her heredity, and she lived over +again the slow evolution, the struggle between the fantastic and the real in +her. It had begun with her outbursts of anger as a child, a ferment of +rebellion, a want of mental balance that had caused her to indulge in most +hurtful reveries. Then came her fits of extreme devotion, the need of illusion +and falsehood, of immediate happiness in the thought that the inequalities and +injustices of this wicked world would he compensated by the eternal joys of a +future paradise. This was the epoch of her struggles with Pascal, of the +torture which she had caused him, planning to destroy the work of his genius. +And at this point her nature had changed; she had acknowledged him for her +master. He had conquered her by the terrible lesson of life which he had given +her on the night of the storm. Then, environment had acted upon her, evolution +had proceeded rapidly, and she had ended by becoming a well-balanced and +rational woman, willing to live life as it ought to be lived, satisfied with +doing her work in the hope that the sum of the common labor would one day free +the world from evil and pain. She had loved, she was a mother now, and she +understood. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly she remembered the night which they had spent in the threshing yard. +She could still hear her lamentation under the stars—the cruelty of +nature, the inefficacy of science, the wickedness of humanity, and the need she +felt of losing herself in God, in the Unknown. Happiness consisted in +self-renunciation. Then she heard him repeat his creed—the progress of +reason through science, truths acquired slowly and forever the only possible +good, the belief that the sum of these truths, always augmenting, would finally +confer upon man incalculable power and peace, if not happiness. All was summed +up in his ardent faith in life. As he expressed it, it was necessary to march +with life, which marched always. No halt was to be expected, no peace in +immobility and renunciation, no consolation in turning back. One must keep a +steadfast soul, the only ambition to perform one’s work, modestly looking +for no other reward of life than to have lived it bravely, accomplishing the +task which it imposes. Evil was only an accident not yet explained, humanity +appearing from a great height like an immense wheel in action, working +ceaselessly for the future. Why should the workman who disappeared, having +finished his day’s work, abuse the work because he could neither see nor +know its end? Even if it were to have no end why should he not enjoy the +delight of action, the exhilarating air of the march, the sweetness of sleep +after the fatigue of a long and busy day? The children would carry on the task +of the parents; they were born and cherished only for this, for the task of +life which is transmitted to them, which they in their turn will transmit to +others. All that remained, then, was to be courageously resigned to the grand +common labor, without the rebellion of the ego, which demands personal +happiness, perfect and complete. +</p> + +<p> +She questioned herself, and she found that she did not experience that anguish +which had filled her formerly at the thought of what was to follow death. This +anxiety about the Beyond no longer haunted her until it became a torture. +Formerly she would have liked to wrest by force from heaven the secrets of +destiny. It had been a source of infinite grief to her not to know why she +existed. Why are we born? What do we come on earth to do? What is the meaning +of this execrable existence, without equality, without justice, which seemed to +her like a fevered dream? Now her terror was calmed; she could think of these +things courageously. Perhaps it was her child, the continuation of herself, +which now concealed from her the horror of her end. But her regular life +contributed also to this, the thought that it was necessary to live for the +effort of living, and that the only peace possible in this world was in the joy +of the accomplishment of this effort. She repeated to herself a remark of the +doctor, who would often say when he saw a peasant returning home with a +contented look after his day’s work: “There is a man whom anxiety +about the Beyond will not prevent from sleeping.” He meant to say that +this anxiety troubles and perverts only excitable and idle brains. If all +performed their healthful task, all would sleep peacefully at night. She +herself had felt the beneficent power of work in the midst of her sufferings +and her grief. Since he had taught her to employ every one of her hours; since +she had been a mother, especially, occupied constantly with her child, she no +longer felt a chill of horror when she thought of the Unknown. She put aside +without an effort disquieting reveries; and if she still felt an occasional +fear, if some of her daily griefs made her sick at heart, she found comfort and +unfailing strength in the thought that her child was this day a day older, that +he would be another day older on the morrow, that day by day, page by page, his +work of life was being accomplished. This consoled her delightfully for all her +miseries. She had a duty, an object, and she felt in her happy serenity that +she was doing surely what she had been sent here to do. +</p> + +<p> +Yet, even at this very moment she knew that the mystic was not entirely dead +within her. In the midst of the profound silence she heard a slight noise, and +she raised her head. Who was the divine mediator that had passed? Perhaps the +beloved dead for whom she mourned, and whose presence near her she fancied she +could divine. There must always be in her something of the childlike believer +she had always been, curious about the Unknown, having an instinctive longing +for the mysterious. She accounted to herself for this longing, she even +explained it scientifically. However far science may extend the limits of human +knowledge, there is undoubtedly a point which it cannot pass; and it was here +precisely that Pascal placed the only interest in life—in the effort +which we ceaselessly make to know more—there was only one reasonable +meaning in life, this continual conquest of the unknown. Therefore, she +admitted the existence of undiscovered forces surrounding the world, an immense +and obscure domain, ten times larger than the domain already won, an infinite +and unexplored realm through which future humanity would endlessly ascend. +Here, indeed, was a field vast enough for the imagination to lose itself in. In +her hours of reverie she satisfied in it the imperious need which man seems to +have for the spiritual, a need of escaping from the visible world, of +interrogating the Unknown, of satisfying in it the dream of absolute justice +and of future happiness. All that remained of her former torture, her last +mystic transports, were there appeased. She satisfied there that hunger for +consoling illusions which suffering humanity must satisfy in order to live. But +in her all was happily balanced. At this crisis, in an epoch overburdened with +science, disquieted at the ruins it has made, and seized with fright in the +face of the new century, wildly desiring to stop and to return to the past, +Clotilde kept the happy mean; in her the passion for truth was broadened by her +eagerness to penetrate the Unknown. If sectarian scientists shut out the +horizon to keep strictly to the phenomenon, it was permitted to her, a good, +simple creature, to reserve the part that she did not know, that she would +never know. And if Pascal’s creed was the logical deduction from the +whole work, the eternal question of the Beyond, which she still continued to +put to heaven, reopened the door of the infinite to humanity marching ever +onward. Since we must always learn, while resigning ourselves never to know +all, was it not to will action, life itself, to reserve the Unknown—an +eternal doubt and an eternal hope? +</p> + +<p> +Another sound, as of a wing passing, the light touch of a kiss upon her hair, +this time made her smile. He was surely here; and her whole being went out +toward him, in the great flood of tenderness with which her heart overflowed. +How kind and cheerful he was, and what a love for others underlay his +passionate love of life! Perhaps he, too, had been only a dreamer, for he had +dreamed the most beautiful of dreams, the final belief in a better world, when +science should have bestowed incalculable power upon man—to accept +everything, to turn everything to our happiness, to know everything and to +foresee everything, to make nature our servant, to live in the tranquillity of +intelligence satisfied. Meantime faith in life, voluntary and regular labor, +would suffice for health. Evil was only the unexplained side of things; +suffering would one day be assuredly utilized. And regarding from above the +enormous labor of the world, seeing the sum total of humanity, good and +bad—admirable, in spite of everything, for their courage and their +industry—she now regarded all mankind as united in a common brotherhood, +she now felt only boundless indulgence, an infinite pity, and an ardent +charity. Love, like the sun, bathes the earth, and goodness is the great river +at which all hearts drink. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde had been plying her needle for two hours, with the same regular +movement, while her thoughts wandered away in the profound silence. But the +tapes were sewed on the little waists, she had even marked some new wrappers, +which she had bought the day before. And, her sewing finished, she rose to put +the linen away. Outside the sun was declining, and only slender and oblique +sunbeams entered through the crevices of the shutters. She could not see +clearly, and she opened one of the shutters, then she forgot herself for a +moment, at the sight of the vast horizon suddenly unrolled before her. The +intense heat had abated, a delicious breeze was blowing, and the sky was of a +cloudless blue. To the left could be distinguished even the smallest clumps of +pines, among the blood-colored ravines of the rocks of the Seille, while to the +right, beyond the hills of Sainte-Marthe, the valley of the Viorne stretched +away in the golden dust of the setting sun. She looked for a moment at the +tower of St. Saturnin, all golden also, dominating the rose-colored town; and +she was about to leave the window when she saw a sight that drew her back and +kept her there, leaning on her elbow for a long time still. +</p> + +<p> +Beyond the railroad a multitude of people were crowded together on the old +mall. Clotilde at once remembered the ceremony. She knew that her Grandmother +Félicité was going to lay the first stone of the Rougon Asylum, the triumphant +monument destined to carry down to future ages the glory of the family. Vast +preparations had been going on for a week past. There was talk of a silver hod +and trowel, which the old lady was to use herself, determined to figure to +triumph, with her eighty-two years. What swelled her heart with regal pride was +that on this occasion she made the conquest of Plassans for the third time, for +she compelled the whole town, all the three quarters, to range themselves +around her, to form an escort for her, and to applaud her as a benefactress. +For, of course, there had to be present lady patronesses, chosen from among the +noblest ladies of the Quartier St. Marc; a delegation from the societies of +working-women of the old quarter, and, finally, the most distinguished +residents of the new town, advocates, notaries, physicians, without counting +the common people, a stream of people dressed in their Sunday clothes, crowding +there eagerly, as to a festival. And in the midst of this supreme triumph she +was perhaps most proud—she, one of the queens of the Second Empire, the +widow who mourned with so much dignity the fallen government—in having +conquered the young republic itself, obliging it, in the person of the +sub-prefect, to come and salute her and thank her. At first there had been +question only of a discourse of the mayor; but it was known with certainty, +since the previous day, that the sub-prefect also would speak. From so great a +distance Clotilde could distinguish only a moving crowd of black coats and +light dresses, under the scorching sun. Then there was a distant sound of +music, the music of the amateur band of the town, the sonorous strains of whose +brass instruments were borne to her at intervals on the breeze. +</p> + +<p> +She left the window and went and opened the large oaken press to put away in it +the linen that had remained on the table. It was in this press, formerly so +full of the doctor’s manuscripts, and now empty, that she kept the +baby’s wardrobe. It yawned open, vast, seemingly bottomless, and on the +large bare shelves there was nothing but the baby linen, the little waists, the +little caps, the little socks, all the fine clothing, the down of the bird +still in the nest. Where so many thoughts had been stored up, where a +man’s unremitting labor for thirty years had accumulated in an +overflowing heap of papers, there was now only a baby’s clothing, only +the first garments which would protect it for an hour, as it were, and which +very soon it could no longer use. The vastness of the antique press seemed +brightened and all refreshed by them. +</p> + +<p> +When Clotilde had arranged the wrappers and the waists upon a shelf, she +perceived a large envelope containing the fragments of the documents which she +had placed there after she had rescued them from the fire. And she remembered a +request which Dr. Ramond had come only the day before to make her—that +she would see if there remained among this <i>debris</i> any fragment of +importance having a scientific interest. He was inconsolable for the loss of +the precious manuscripts which the master had bequeathed to him. Immediately +after the doctor’s death he had made an attempt to write from memory his +last talk, that summary of vast theories expounded by the dying man with so +heroic a serenity; but he could recall only parts of it. He would have needed +complete notes, observations made from day to day, the results obtained, and +the laws formulated. The loss was irreparable, the task was to be begun over +again, and he lamented having only indications; he said that it would be at +least twenty years before science could make up the loss, and take up and +utilize the ideas of the solitary pioneer whose labors a wicked and imbecile +catastrophe had destroyed. +</p> + +<p> +The genealogical tree, the only document that had remained intact, was attached +to the envelope, and Clotilde carried the whole to the table beside the cradle. +After she had taken out the fragments, one by one, she found, what she had been +already almost certain of, that not a single entire page of manuscript +remained, not a single complete note having any meaning. There were only +fragments of documents, scraps of half-burned and blackened paper, without +sequence or connection. But as she examined them, these incomplete phrases, +these words half consumed by fire, assumed for her an interest which no one +else could have understood. She remembered the night of the storm, and the +phrases completed themselves, the beginning of a word evoked before her persons +and histories. Thus her eye fell on Maxime’s name, and she reviewed the +life of this brother who had remained a stranger to her, and whose death, two +months before, had left her almost indifferent. Then, a half-burned scrap +containing her father’s name gave her an uneasy feeling, for she believed +that her father had obtained possession of the fortune and the house on the +avenue of Bois de Boulogne through the good offices of his hairdresser’s +niece, the innocent Rose, repaid, no doubt, by a generous percentage. Then she +met with other names, that of her uncle Eugène, the former vice emperor, now +dead, the curé of Saint-Eutrope, who, she had been told yesterday, was dying of +consumption. And each fragment became animated in this way; the execrable +family lived again in these scraps, these black ashes, where were now only +disconnected words. +</p> + +<p> +Then Clotilde had the curiosity to unfold the genealogical tree and spread it +out upon the table. A strong emotion gained on her; she was deeply affected by +these relics; and when she read once more the notes added in pencil by Pascal, +a few moments before his death, tears rose to her eyes. With what courage he +had written down the date of his death! And what despairing regret for life one +divined in the trembling words announcing the birth of the child! The tree +ascended, spread out its branches, unfolded its leaves, and she remained for a +long time contemplating it, saying to herself that all the work of the master +was to be found here in the classified records of this family tree. She could +still hear certain of his words commenting on each hereditary case, she +recalled his lessons. But the children, above all, interested her; she read +again and again the notes on the leaves which bore their names. The +doctor’s colleague in Nouméa, to whom he had written for information +about the child born of the marriage of the convict Étienne, had at last made +up his mind to answer; but the only information he gave was in regard to the +sex—it was a girl, he said, and she seemed to be healthy. Octave Mouret +had come near losing his daughter, who had always been very frail, while his +little boy continued to enjoy superb health. But the chosen abode of vigorous +health and of extraordinary fecundity was still the house of Jean, at +Valqueyras, whose wife had had two children in three years and was about to +have a third. The nestlings throve in the sunshine, in the heart of a fertile +country, while the father sang as he guided his plow, and the mother at home +cleverly made the soup and kept the children in order. There was enough new +vitality and industry there to make another family, a whole race. Clotilde +fancied at this moment that she could hear Pascal’s cry: “Ah, our +family! what is it going to be, in what kind of being will it end?” And +she fell again into a reverie, looking at the tree sending its latest branches +into the future. Who could tell whence the healthy branch would spring? Perhaps +the great and good man so long awaited was germinating there. +</p> + +<p> +A slight cry drew Clotilde from her reflections. The muslin curtain of the +cradle seemed to become animate. It was the child who had wakened up and was +moving about and calling to her. She at once took him out of the cradle and +held him up gaily, that he might bathe in the golden light of the setting sun. +But he was insensible to the beauty of the closing day; his little vacant eyes, +still full of sleep, turned away from the vast sky, while he opened wide his +rosy and ever hungry mouth, like a bird opening its beak. And he cried so loud, +he had wakened up so ravenous, that she decided to nurse him again. Besides, it +was his hour; it would soon be three hours since she had last nursed him. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde sat down again beside the table. She took him on her lap, but he was +not very good, crying louder and louder, growing more and more impatient; and +she looked at him with a smile while she unfastened her dress, showing her +round, slender throat. Already the child knew, and raising himself he felt with +his lips for the breast. When she placed it in his mouth he gave a little grunt +of satisfaction; he threw himself upon her with the fine, voracious appetite of +a young gentleman who was determined to live. At first he had clutched the +breast with his little free hand, as if to show that it was his, to defend it +and to guard it. Then, in the joy of the warm stream that filled his throat he +raised his little arm straight up, like a flag. And Clotilde kept her +unconscious smile, seeing him so healthy, so rosy, and so plump, thriving so +well on the nourishment he drew from her. During the first few weeks she had +suffered from a fissure, and even now her breast was sensitive; but she smiled, +notwithstanding, with that peaceful look which mothers wear, happy in giving +their milk as they would give their blood. +</p> + +<p> +When she had unfastened her dress, showing her bare throat and breast, in the +solitude and silence of the study, another of her mysteries, one of her +sweetest and most hidden secrets, was revealed at the same time—the +slender necklace with the seven pearls, the seven fine, milky stars which the +master had put around her neck on a day of misery, in his mania for giving. +Since it had been there no one else had seen it. It seemed as if she guarded it +with as much modesty as if it were a part of her flesh, so simple, so pure, so +childlike. And all the time the child was nursing she alone looked at it in a +dreamy reverie, moved by the tender memory of the kisses whose warm perfume it +still seemed to keep. +</p> + +<p> +A burst of distant music seemed to surprise Clotilde. She turned her head and +looked across the fields gilded by the oblique rays of the sun. Ah, yes! the +ceremony, the laying of the corner stone yonder! Then she turned her eyes again +on the child, and she gave herself up to the delight of seeing him with so fine +an appetite. She had drawn forward a little bench, to raise one of her knees, +resting her foot upon it, and she leaned one shoulder against the table, beside +the tree and the blackened fragments of the envelopes. Her thoughts wandered +away in an infinitely sweet reverie, while she felt the best part of herself, +the pure milk, flowing softly, making more and more her own the dear being she +had borne. The child had come, the redeemer, perhaps. The bells rang, the three +wise men had set out, followed by the people, by rejoicing nature, smiling on +the infant in its swaddling clothes. She, the mother, while he drank life in +long draughts, was dreaming already of his future. What would he be when she +should have made him tall and strong, giving herself to him entirely? A +scientist, perhaps, who would reveal to the world something of the eternal +truth; or a great captain, who would confer glory on his country; or, still +better, one of those shepherds of the people who appease the passions and bring +about the reign of justice. She saw him, in fancy, beautiful, good and +powerful. Hers was the dream of every mother—the conviction that she had +brought the expected Messiah into the world; and there was in this hope, in +this obstinate belief, which every mother has in the certain triumph of her +child, the hope which itself makes life, the belief which gives humanity the +ever renewed strength to live still. +</p> + +<p> +What would the child be? She looked at him, trying to discover whom he +resembled. He had certainly his father’s brow and eyes, there was +something noble and strong in the breadth of the head. She saw a resemblance to +herself, too, in his fine mouth and his delicate chin. Then, with secret +uneasiness, she sought a resemblance to the others, the terrible ancestors, all +those whose names were there inscribed on the tree, unfolding its growth of +hereditary leaves. Was it this one, or this, or yet this other, whom he would +resemble? She grew calm, however, she could not but hope, her heart swelled +with eternal hope. The faith in life which the master had implanted in her kept +her brave and steadfast. What did misery, suffering and wickedness matter! +Health was in universal labor, in the effort made, in the power which +fecundates and which produces. The work was good when the child blessed love. +Then hope bloomed anew, in spite of the open wounds, the dark picture of human +shame. It was life perpetuated, tried anew, life which we can never weary of +believing good, since we live it so eagerly, with all its injustice and +suffering. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde had glanced involuntarily at the ancestral tree spread out beside her. +Yes, the menace was there—so many crimes, so much filth, side by side +with so many tears, and so much patient goodness; so extraordinary a mixture of +the best and the most vile, a humanity in little, with all its defects and all +its struggles. It was a question whether it would not be better that a +thunderbolt should come and destroy all this corrupt and miserable ant-hill. +And after so many terrible Rougons, so many vile Macquarts, still another had +been born. Life did not fear to create another of them, in the brave defiance +of its eternity. It continued its work, propagated itself according to its +laws, indifferent to theories, marching on in its endless labor. Even at the +risk of making monsters, it must of necessity create, since, in spite of all it +creates, it never wearies of creating in the hope, no doubt, that the healthy +and the good will one day come. Life, life, which flows like a torrent, which +continues its work, beginning it over and over again, without pause, to the +unknown end! life in which we bathe, life with its infinity of contrary +currents, always in motion, and vast as a boundless sea! +</p> + +<p> +A transport of maternal fervor thrilled Clotilde’s heart, and she smiled, +seeing the little voracious mouth drinking her life. It was a prayer, an +invocation, to the unknown child, as to the unknown God! To the child of the +future, to the genius, perhaps, that was to be, to the Messiah that the coming +century awaited, who would deliver the people from their doubt and their +suffering! Since the nation was to be regenerated, had he not come for this +work? He would make the experiment anew, he would raise up walls, give +certainty to those who were in doubt, he would build the city of justice, where +the sole law of labor would insure happiness. In troublous times prophets were +to be expected—at least let him not be the Antichrist, the destroyer, the +beast foretold in the Apocalypse—who would purge the earth of its +wickedness, when this should become too great. And life would go on in spite of +everything, only it would be necessary to wait for other myriads of years +before the other unknown child, the benefactor, should appear. +</p> + +<p> +But the child had drained her right breast, and, as he was growing angry, +Clotilde turned him round and gave him the left. Then she began to smile, +feeling the caress of his greedy little lips. At all events she herself was +hope. A mother nursing, was she not the image of the world continued and saved? +She bent over, she looked into his limpid eyes, which opened joyously, eager +for the light. What did the child say to her that she felt her heart beat more +quickly under the breast which he was draining? To what cause would he give his +blood when he should be a man, strong with all the milk which he would have +drunk? Perhaps he said nothing to her, perhaps he already deceived her, and yet +she was so happy, so full of perfect confidence in him. +</p> + +<p> +Again there was a distant burst of music. This must be the apotheosis, the +moment when Grandmother Félicité, with her silver trowel, laid the first stone +of the monument to the glory of the Rougons. The vast blue sky, gladdened by +the Sunday festivities, rejoiced. And in the warm silence, in the solitary +peace of the workroom, Clotilde smiled at the child, who was still nursing, his +little arm held straight up in the air, like a signal flag of life. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10720 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b3c45f9 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #10720 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10720) diff --git a/old/10720-0.txt b/old/10720-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..025e5f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/10720-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12793 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Doctor Pascal, by Émile Zola + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Doctor Pascal + +Author: Émile Zola + +Translator: Mary J. Serrano + +Release Date: January 14, 2004 [eBook #10720] +[Most recently updated: December 21, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Widger, Dagny and John Bickers + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOCTOR PASCAL *** + + + + +DOCTOR PASCAL + +By Émile Zola + +Translated By Mary J. Serrano + + +Contents + + I. + II. + III. + IV. + V. + VI. + VII. + VIII. + IX. + X. + XI. + XII. + XIII. + XIV. + + + + +I. + + +In the heat of the glowing July afternoon, the room, with blinds +carefully closed, was full of a great calm. From the three windows, +through the cracks of the old wooden shutters, came only a few +scattered sunbeams which, in the midst of the obscurity, made a soft +brightness that bathed surrounding objects in a diffused and tender +light. It was cool here in comparison with the overpowering heat that +was felt outside, under the fierce rays of the sun that blazed upon the +front of the house. + +Standing before the press which faced the windows, Dr. Pascal was +looking for a paper that he had come in search of. With doors wide +open, this immense press of carved oak, adorned with strong and +handsome mountings of metal, dating from the last century, displayed +within its capacious depths an extraordinary collection of papers and +manuscripts of all sorts, piled up in confusion and filling every shelf +to overflowing. For more than thirty years the doctor had thrown into +it every page he wrote, from brief notes to the complete texts of his +great works on heredity. Thus it was that his searches here were not +always easy. He rummaged patiently among the papers, and when he at +last found the one he was looking for, he smiled. + +For an instant longer he remained near the bookcase, reading the note +by a golden sunbeam that came to him from the middle window. He +himself, in this dawnlike light, appeared, with his snow-white hair and +beard, strong and vigorous; although he was near sixty, his color was +so fresh, his features were so finely cut, his eyes were still so +clear, and he had so youthful an air that one might have taken him, in +his close-fitting, maroon velvet jacket, for a young man with powdered +hair. + +“Here, Clotilde,” he said at last, “you will copy this note. Ramond +would never be able to decipher my diabolical writing.” + +And he crossed the room and laid the paper beside the young girl, who +stood working at a high desk in the embrasure of the window to the +right. + +“Very well, master,” she answered. + +She did not even turn round, so engrossed was her attention with the +pastel which she was at the moment rapidly sketching in with broad +strokes of the crayon. Near her in a vase bloomed a stalk of hollyhocks +of a singular shade of violet, striped with yellow. But the profile of +her small round head, with its short, fair hair, was clearly +distinguishable; an exquisite and serious profile, the straight +forehead contracted in a frown of attention, the eyes of an azure blue, +the nose delicately molded, the chin firm. Her bent neck, especially, +of a milky whiteness, looked adorably youthful under the gold of the +clustering curls. In her long black blouse she seemed very tall, with +her slight figure, slender throat, and flexible form, the flexible +slenderness of the divine figures of the Renaissance. In spite of her +twenty-five years, she still retained a childlike air and looked hardly +eighteen. + +“And,” resumed the doctor, “you will arrange the press a little. +Nothing can be found there any longer.” + +“Very well, master,” she repeated, without raising her head; +“presently.” + +Pascal had turned round to seat himself at his desk, at the other end +of the room, before the window to the left. It was a plain black wooden +table, and was littered also with papers and pamphlets of all sorts. +And silence again reigned in the peaceful semi-obscurity, contrasting +with the overpowering glare outside. The vast apartment, a dozen meters +long and six wide, had, in addition to the press, only two bookcases, +filled with books. Antique chairs of various kinds stood around in +disorder, while for sole adornment, along the walls, hung with an old +_salon_ Empire paper of a rose pattern, were nailed pastels of flowers +of strange coloring dimly visible. The woodwork of three folding-doors, +the door opening on the hall and two others at opposite ends of the +apartment, the one leading to the doctor’s room, the other to that of +the young girl, as well as the cornice of the smoke-darkened ceiling, +dated from the time of Louis XV. + +An hour passed without a sound, without a breath. Then Pascal, who, as +a diversion from his work, had opened a newspaper—_Le Temps_—which had +lain forgotten on the table, uttered a slight exclamation: + +“Why! your father has been appointed editor of the _Époque_, the +prosperous republican journal which has the publishing of the papers of +the Tuileries.” + +This news must have been unexpected by him, for he laughed frankly, at +once pleased and saddened, and in an undertone he continued: + +“My word! If things had been invented, they could not have been finer. +Life is a strange thing. This is a very interesting article.” + +Clotilde made no answer, as if her thoughts were a hundred leagues away +from what her uncle was saying. And he did not speak again, but taking +his scissors after he had read the article, he cut it out and pasted it +on a sheet of paper, on which he made some marginal notes in his large, +irregular handwriting. Then he went back to the press to classify this +new document in it. But he was obliged to take a chair, the shelf being +so high that he could not reach it notwithstanding his tall stature. + +On this high shelf a whole series of enormous bundles of papers were +arranged in order, methodically classified. Here were papers of all +sorts: sheets of manuscript, documents on stamped paper, articles cut +out of newspapers, arranged in envelopes of strong blue paper, each of +which bore on the outside a name written in large characters. One felt +that these documents were tenderly kept in view, taken out continually, +and carefully replaced; for of the whole press, this corner was the +only one kept in order. + +When Pascal, mounted on the chair, had found the package he was looking +for, one of the bulkiest of the envelopes, on which was written the +name “Saccard,” he added to it the new document, and then replaced the +whole under its corresponding alphabetical letter. A moment later he +had forgotten the subject, and was complacently straightening a pile of +papers that were falling down. And when he at last jumped down off the +chair, he said: + +“When you are arranging the press, Clotilde, don’t touch the packages +at the top; do you hear?” + +“Very well, master,” she responded, for the third time, docilely. + +He laughed again, with the gaiety that was natural to him. + +“That is forbidden.” + +“I know it, master.” + +And he closed the press with a vigorous turn of the key, which he then +threw into a drawer of his writing table. The young girl was +sufficiently acquainted with his researches to keep his manuscripts in +some degree of order; and he gladly employed her as his secretary; he +made her copy his notes when some _confrère_ and friend, like Dr. +Ramond asked him to send him some document. But she was not a +_savante_; he simply forbade her to read what he deemed it useless that +she should know. + +At last, perceiving her so completely absorbed in her work, his +attention was aroused. + +“What is the matter with you, that you don’t open your lips?” he said. +“Are you so taken up with the copying of those flowers that you can’t +speak?” + +This was another of the labors which he often intrusted to her—to make +drawings, aquarelles, and pastels, which he afterward used in his works +as plates. Thus, for the past five years he had been making some +curious experiments on a collection of hollyhocks; he had obtained a +whole series of new colorings by artificial fecundations. She made +these sorts of copies with extraordinary minuteness, an exactitude of +design and of coloring so extreme that he marveled unceasingly at the +conscientiousness of her work, and he often told her that she had a +“good, round, strong, clear little headpiece.” + +But, this time, when he approached her to look over her shoulder, he +uttered a cry of comic fury. + +“There you are at your nonsense! Now you are off in the clouds again! +Will you do me the favor to tear that up at once?” + +She straightened herself, her cheeks flushed, her eyes aglow with the +delight she took in her work, her slender fingers stained with the red +and blue crayon that she had crushed. + +“Oh, master!” + +And in this “master,” so tender, so caressingly submissive, this term +of complete abandonment by which she called him, in order to avoid +using the words godfather or uncle, which she thought silly, there was, +for the first time, a passionate accent of revolt, the revindication of +a being recovering possession of and asserting itself. + +For nearly two hours she had been zealously striving to produce an +exact and faithful copy of the hollyhocks, and she had just thrown on +another sheet a whole bunch of imaginary flowers, of dream-flowers, +extravagant and superb. She had, at times, these abrupt shiftings, a +need of breaking away in wild fancies in the midst of the most precise +of reproductions. She satisfied it at once, falling always into this +extraordinary efflorescence of such spirit and fancy that it never +repeated itself; creating roses, with bleeding hearts, weeping tears of +sulphur, lilies like crystal urns, flowers without any known form, +even, spreading out starry rays, with corollas floating like clouds. +To-day, on a groundwork dashed in with a few bold strokes of black +crayon, it was a rain of pale stars, a whole shower of infinitely soft +petals; while, in a corner, an unknown bloom, a bud, chastely veiled, +was opening. + +“Another to nail there!” resumed the doctor, pointing to the wall, on +which there was already a row of strangely curious pastels. “But what +may that represent, I ask you?” + +She remained very grave, drawing back a step, the better to contemplate +her work. + +“I know nothing about it; it is beautiful.” + +At this moment appeared Martine, the only servant, become the real +mistress of the house, after nearly thirty years of service with the +doctor. Although she had passed her sixtieth year, she, too, still +retained a youthful air as she went about, silent and active, in her +eternal black gown and white cap that gave her the look of a nun, with +her small, white, calm face, and lusterless eyes, the light in which +seemed to have been extinguished. + +Without speaking, she went and sat down on the floor before an +easy-chair, through a rent in the old covering of which the hair was +escaping, and drawing from her pocket a needle and a skein of worsted, +she set to work to mend it. For three days past she had been waiting +for an hour’s time to do this piece of mending, which haunted her. + +“While you are about it, Martine,” said Pascal jestingly, taking +between both his hands the mutinous head of Clotilde, “sew me fast, +too, this little noodle, which sometimes wanders off into the clouds.” + +Martine raised her pale eyes, and looked at her master with her +habitual air of adoration? + +“Why does monsieur say that?” + +“Because, my good girl, in very truth, I believe it is you who have +stuffed this good little round, clear, strong headpiece full of notions +of the other world, with all your devoutness.” + +The two women exchanged a glance of intelligence. + +“Oh, monsieur! religion has never done any harm to any one. And when +people have not the same ideas, it is certainly better not to talk +about them.” + +An embarrassed silence followed; this was the one difference of opinion +which, at times, brought about disagreements among these three united +beings who led so restricted a life. Martine was only twenty-nine, a +year older than the doctor, when she entered his house, at the time +when he made his _début_ as a physician at Plassans, in a bright little +house of the new town. And thirteen years later, when Saccard, a +brother of Pascal, sent him his daughter Clotilde, aged seven, after +his wife’s death and at the moment when he was about to marry again, it +was she who brought up the child, taking it to church, and +communicating to it a little of the devout flame with which she had +always burned; while the doctor, who had a broad mind, left them to +their joy of believing, for he did not feel that he had the right to +interdict to any one the happiness of faith; he contented himself later +on with watching over the young girl’s education and giving her clear +and sound ideas about everything. For thirteen years, during which the +three had lived this retired life at La Souleiade, a small property +situated in the outskirts of the town, a quarter of an hour’s walk from +St. Saturnin, the cathedral, his life had flowed happily along, +occupied in secret great works, a little troubled, however, by an ever +increasing uneasiness—the collision, more and more violent, every day, +between their beliefs. + +Pascal took a few turns gloomily up and down the room. Then, like a man +who did not mince his words, he said: + +“See, my dear, all this phantasmagoria of mystery has turned your +pretty head. Your good God had no need of you; I should have kept you +for myself alone; and you would have been all the better for it.” + +But Clotilde, trembling with excitement, her clear eyes fixed boldly +upon his, held her ground. + +“It is you, master, who would be all the better, if you did not shut +yourself up in your eyes of flesh. That is another thing, why do you +not wish to see?” + +And Martine came to her assistance, in her own style. + +“Indeed, it is true, monsieur, that you, who are a saint, as I say +everywhere, should accompany us to church. Assuredly, God will save +you. But at the bare idea that you should not go straight to paradise, +I tremble all over.” + +He paused, for he had before him, in open revolt, those two whom he had +been accustomed to see submissive at his feet, with the tenderness of +women won over by his gaiety and his goodness. Already he opened his +mouth, and was going to answer roughly, when the uselessness of the +discussion became apparent to him. + +“There! Let us have peace. I would do better to go and work. And above +all, let no one interrupt me!” + +With hasty steps he gained his chamber, where he had installed a sort +of laboratory, and shut himself up in it. The prohibition to enter it +was formal. It was here that he gave himself up to special +preparations, of which he spoke to no one. Almost immediately the slow +and regular sound of a pestle grinding in a mortar was heard. + +“Come,” said Clotilde, smiling, “there he is, at his devil’s cookery, +as grandmother says.” + +And she tranquilly resumed her copying of the hollyhocks. She completed +the drawing with mathematical precision, she found the exact tone of +the violet petals, striped with yellow, even to the most delicate +discoloration of the shades. + +“Ah!” murmured Martine, after a moment, again seated on the ground, and +occupied in mending the chair, “what a misfortune for a good man like +that to lose his soul wilfully. For there is no denying it; I have +known him now for thirty years, and in all that time he has never so +much as spoken an unkind word to any one. A real heart of gold, who +would take the bit from his own mouth. And handsome, too, and always +well, and always gay, a real blessing! It is a murder that he does not +wish to make his peace with the good God. We will force him to do it, +mademoiselle, will we not?” + +Clotilde, surprised at hearing her speak so long at one time on the +subject, gave her word with a grave air. + +“Certainly, Martine, it is a promise. We will force him.” + +Silence reigned again, broken a moment afterward by the ringing of the +bell attached to the street door below. It had been attached to the +door so that they might have notice when any one entered the house, too +vast for the three persons who inhabited it. The servant appeared +surprised, and grumbled a few words under her breath. Who could have +come in such heat as this? She rose, opened the door, and went and +leaned over the balustrade; then she returned, saying: + +“It is Mme. Félicité.” + +Old Mme. Rougon entered briskly. In spite of her eighty years, she had +mounted the stairs with the activity of a young girl; she was still the +brown, lean, shrill grasshopper of old. Dressed elegantly now in black +silk, she might still be taken, seen from behind, thanks to the +slenderness of her figure, for some coquette, or some ambitious woman +following her favorite pursuit. Seen in front, her eyes still lighted +up her withered visage with their fires, and she smiled with an +engaging smile when she so desired. + +“What! is it you, grandmother?” cried Clotilde, going to meet her. +“Why, this sun is enough to bake one.” + +Félicité, kissing her on the forehead, laughed, saying: + +“Oh, the sun is my friend!” + +Then, moving with short, quick steps, she crossed the room, and turned +the fastening of one of the shutters. + +“Open the shutters a little! It is too gloomy to live in the dark in +this way. At my house I let the sun come in.” + +Through the opening a jet of hot light, a flood of dancing sparks +entered. And under the sky, of the violet blue of a conflagration, the +parched plain could be seen, stretching away in the distance, as if +asleep or dead in the overpowering, furnace-like heat, while to the +right, above the pink roofs, rose the belfry of St. Saturnin, a gilded +tower with arises that, in the blinding light, looked like whitened +bones. + +“Yes,” continued Félicité, “I think of going shortly to the Tulettes, +and I wished to know if Charles were here, to take him with me. He is +not here—I see that—I will take him another day.” + +But while she gave this pretext for her visit, her ferret-like eyes +were making the tour of the apartment. Besides, she did not insist, +speaking immediately afterward of her son Pascal, on hearing the +rhythmical noise of the pestle, which had not ceased in the adjoining +chamber. + +“Ah! he is still at his devil’s cookery! Don’t disturb him, I have +nothing to say to him.” + +Martine, who had resumed her work on the chair, shook her head, as if +to say that she had no mind to disturb her master, and there was +silence again, while Clotilde wiped her fingers, stained with crayon, +on a cloth, and Félicité began to walk about the room with short steps, +looking around inquisitively. + +Old Mme. Rougon would soon be two years a widow. Her husband who had +grown so corpulent that he could no longer move, had succumbed to an +attack of indigestion on the 3d of September, 1870, on the night of the +day on which he had learned of the catastrophe of Sedan. The ruin of +the government of which he flattered himself with being one of the +founders, seemed to have crushed him. Thus, Félicité affected to occupy +herself no longer with politics, living, thenceforward, like a +dethroned queen, the only surviving power of a vanished world. No one +was unaware that the Rougons, in 1851, had saved Plassans from anarchy, +by causing the _coup d’état_ of the 2d of December to triumph there, +and that, a few years later, they had won it again from the legitimist +and republican candidates, to give it to a Bonapartist deputy. Up to +the time of the war, the Empire had continued all-powerful in the town, +so popular that it had obtained there at the plebiscite an overwhelming +majority. But since the disasters the town had become republican, the +quarter St. Marc had returned to its secret royalist intrigues, while +the old quarter and the new town had sent to the chamber a liberal +representative, slightly tinged with Orleanism, and ready to take sides +with the republic, if it should triumph. And, therefore, it was that +Félicité, like the intelligent woman she was, had withdrawn her +attention from politics, and consented to be nothing more than the +dethroned queen of a fallen government. + +But this was still an exalted position, surrounded by a melancholy +poetry. For eighteen years she had reigned. The tradition of her two +_salons_, the yellow _salon_, in which the _coup d’état_ had matured, +and the green _salon_, later the neutral ground on which the conquest +of Plassans was completed, embellished itself with the reflection of +the vanished past, and was for her a glorious history. And besides, she +was very rich. Then, too, she had shown herself dignified in her fall, +never uttering a regret or a complaint, parading, with her eighty +years, so long a succession of fierce appetites, of abominable +maneuvers, of inordinate gratifications, that she became august through +them. Her only happiness, now, was to enjoy in peace her large fortune +and her past royalty, and she had but one passion left—to defend her +past, to extend its fame, suppressing everything that might tarnish it +later. Her pride, which lived on the double exploit of which the +inhabitants still spoke, watched with jealous care, resolved to leave +in existence only creditable documents, those traditions which caused +her to be saluted like a fallen queen when she walked through the town. + +She went to the door of the chamber and listened to the persistent +noise of the pestle, which did not cease. Then, with an anxious brow, +she returned to Clotilde. + +“Good Heavens! What is he making? You know that he is doing himself the +greatest harm with his new drug. I was told, the other day, that he +came near killing one of his patients.” + +“Oh, grandmother!” cried the young girl. + +But she was now launched. + +“Yes, exactly. The good wives say many other things, besides! Why, go +question them, in the faubourg! They will tell you that he grinds dead +men’s bones in infants’ blood.” + +This time, while even Martine protested, Clotilde, wounded in her +affection, grew angry. + +“Oh, grandmother, do not repeat such abominations! Master has so great +a heart that he thinks only of making every one happy!” + +Then, when she saw that they were both angry, Félicité, comprehending +that she had gone too far, resumed her coaxing manner. + +“But, my kitten, it is not I who say those frightful things. I repeat +to you the stupid reports they spread, so that you may comprehend that +Pascal is wrong to pay no heed to public opinion. He thinks he has +found a new remedy—nothing could be better! and I will even admit that +he will be able to cure everybody, as he hopes. Only, why affect these +mysterious ways; why not speak of the matter openly; why, above all, +try it only on the rabble of the old quarter and of the country, +instead of, attempting among the well-to-do people of the town, +striking cures which would do him honor? No, my child, you see your +uncle has never been able to act like other people.” + +She had assumed a grieved tone, lowering her voice, to display the +secret wound of her heart. + +“God be thanked! it is not men of worth who are wanting in our family; +my other sons have given me satisfaction enough. Is it not so? Your +Uncle Eugène rose high enough, minister for twelve years, almost +emperor! And your father himself handled many a million, and had a part +in many a one of the great works which have made Paris a new city. Not +to speak at all of your brother, Maxime, so rich, so distinguished, nor +of your cousin, Octave Mouret, one of the kings of the new commerce, +nor of our dear Abbé Mouret, who is a saint! Well, then, why does +Pascal, who might have followed in the footsteps of them all, persist +in living in his hole, like an eccentric old fool?” + +And as the young girl was again going to protest, she closed her mouth, +with a caressing gesture of her hand. + +“No, no, let me finish. I know very well that Pascal is not a fool, +that he has written remarkable works, that his communications to the +Academy of Medicine have even won for him a reputation among _savants_. +But what does that count for, compared to what I have dreamed of for +him? Yes, all the best practice of the town, a large fortune, the +decoration—honors, in short, and a position worthy of the family. My +word! I used to say to him when he was a child: ‘But where do you come +from? You are not one of us!’ As for me, I have sacrificed everything +for the family; I would let myself be hacked to pieces, that the family +might always be great and glorious!” + +She straightened her small figure, she seemed to grow tall with the one +passion that had formed the joy and pride of her life. But as she +resumed her walk, she was startled by suddenly perceiving on the floor +the copy of the _Temps_, which the doctor had thrown there, after +cutting out the article, to add it to the Saccard papers, and the light +from the open window, falling full upon the sheet, enlightened her, no +doubt, for she suddenly stopped walking, and threw herself into a +chair, as if she at last knew what she had come to learn. + +“Your father has been appointed editor of the _Époque_,” she said +abruptly. + +“Yes,” answered Clotilde tranquilly, “master told me so; it was in the +paper.” + +With an anxious and attentive expression, Félicité looked at her, for +this appointment of Saccard, this rallying to the republic, was +something of vast significance. After the fall of the empire he had +dared return to France, notwithstanding his condemnation as director of +the Banque Universelle, the colossal fall of which had preceded that of +the government. New influences, some incredible intrigue must have +placed him on his feet again, for not only had he received his pardon, +but he was once more in a position to undertake affairs of considerable +importance, launched into journalism, having his share again of all the +good things going. And the recollection came to her of the quarrels of +other days between him and his brother Eugène Rougon, whom he had so +often compromised, and whom, by an ironical turn of events, he was +perhaps going to protect, now that the former minister of the Empire +was only a simple deputy, resigned to the single role of standing by +his fallen master with the obstinacy with which his mother stood by her +family. She still obeyed docilely the orders of her eldest son, the +genius, fallen though he was; but Saccard, whatever he might do, had +also a part in her heart, from his indomitable determination to +succeed, and she was also proud of Maxime, Clotilde’s brother, who had +taken up his quarters again, after the war, in his mansion in the +Avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, where he was consuming the fortune left +him by his wife, Louise de Mareuil, become prudent, with the wisdom of +a man struck in a vital part, and trying to cheat the paralysis which +threatened him. + +“Editor of the _Époque_,” she repeated; “it is really the position of a +minister which your father has won. And I forgot to tell you, I have +written again to your brother, to persuade him to come and see us. That +would divert him, it would do him good. Then, there is that child, that +poor Charles—” + +She did not continue. This was another of the wounds from which her +pride bled; a son whom Maxime had had when seventeen by a servant, and +who now, at the age of fifteen, weak of intellect, a half-idiot, lived +at Plassans, going from the house of one to that of another, a burden +to all. + +She remained silent a moment longer, waiting for some remark from +Clotilde, some transition by which she might come to the subject she +wished to touch upon. When she saw that the young girl, occupied in +arranging the papers on her desk, was no longer listening, she came to +a sudden decision, after casting a glance at Martine, who continued +mending the chair, as if she were deaf and dumb. + +“Your uncle cut the article out of the _Temps_, then?” + +Clotilde smiled calmly. + +“Yes, master put it away among his papers. Ah! how many notes he buries +in there! Births, deaths, the smallest event in life, everything goes +in there. And the genealogical tree is there also, our famous +genealogical tree, which he keeps up to date!” + +The eyes of old Mme. Rougon flamed. She looked fixedly at the young +girl. + +“You know them, those papers?” + +“Oh, no, grandmother; master has never spoken to me of them; and he has +forbidden me to touch them.” + +But she did not believe her. + +“Come! you have them under your hands, you must have read them.” + +Very simple, with her calm rectitude, Clotilde answered, smilingly +again. + +“No, when master forbids me to do anything, it is because he has his +reasons, and I do not do it.” + +“Well, my child,” cried Félicité vehemently, dominated by her passion, +“you, whom Pascal loves tenderly, and whom he would listen to, perhaps, +you ought to entreat him to burn all that, for if he should chance to +die, and those frightful things which he has in there were to be found, +we should all be dishonored!” + +Ah, those abominable papers! she saw them at night, in her nightmares, +revealing in letters of fire, the true histories, the physiological +blemishes of the family, all that wrong side of her glory which she +would have wished to bury forever with the ancestors already dead! She +knew how it was that the doctor had conceived the idea of collecting +these documents at the beginning of his great studies on heredity; how +he had found himself led to take his own family as an example, struck +by the typical cases which he saw in it, and which helped to support +laws discovered by him. Was it not a perfectly natural field of +observation, close at hand and with which he was thoroughly familiar? +And with the fine, careless justness of the scientist, he had been +accumulating for the last thirty years the most private data, +collecting and classifying everything, raising this genealogical tree +of the Rougon-Macquarts, of which the voluminous papers, crammed full +of proofs, were only the commentary. + +“Ah, yes,” continued Mme. Rougon hotly, “to the fire, to the fire with +all those papers that would tarnish our name!” + +And as the servant rose to leave the room, seeing the turn the +conversation was taking, she stopped her by a quick gesture. + +“No, no, Martine; stay! You are not in the way, since you are now one +of the family.” + +Then, in a hissing voice: + +“A collection of falsehoods, of gossip, all the lies that our enemies, +enraged by our triumph, hurled against us in former days! Think a +little of that, my child. Against all of us, against your father, +against your mother, against your brother, all those horrors!” + +“But how do you know they are horrors, grandmother?” + +She was disconcerted for a moment. + +“Oh, well; I suspect it! Where is the family that has not had +misfortunes which might be injuriously interpreted? Thus, the mother of +us all, that dear and venerable Aunt Dide, your great-grandmother, has +she not been for the past twenty-one years in the madhouse at the +Tulettes? If God has granted her the grace of allowing her to live to +the age of one hundred and four years, he has also cruelly afflicted +her in depriving her of her reason. Certainly, there is no shame in +that; only, what exasperates me—what must not be—is that they should +say afterward that we are all mad. And, then, regarding your +grand-uncle Macquart, too, deplorable rumors have been spread. Macquart +had his faults in past days, I do not seek to defend him. But to-day, +is he not living very reputably on his little property at the Tulettes, +two steps away from our unhappy mother, over whom he watches like a +good son? And listen! one last example. Your brother, Maxime, committed +a great fault when he had by a servant that poor little Charles, and it +is certain, besides, that the unhappy child is of unsound mind. No +matter. Will it please you if they tell you that your nephew is +degenerate; that he reproduces from four generations back, his +great-great-grandmother the dear woman to whom we sometimes take him, +and with whom he likes so much to be? No! there is no longer any family +possible, if people begin to lay bare everything—the nerves of this +one, the muscles of that. It is enough to disgust one with living!” + +Clotilde, standing in her long black blouse, had listened to her +grandmother attentively. She had grown very serious; her arms hung by +her sides, her eyes were fixed upon the ground. There was silence for a +moment; then she said slowly: + +“It is science, grandmother.” + +“Science!” cried Félicité, trotting about again. “A fine thing, their +science, that goes against all that is most sacred in the world! When +they shall have demolished everything they will have advanced greatly! +They kill respect, they kill the family, they kill the good God!” + +“Oh! don’t say that, madame!” interrupted Martine, in a grieved voice, +her narrow devoutness wounded. “Do not say that M. Pascal kills the +good God!” + +“Yes, my poor girl, he kills him. And look you, it is a crime, from the +religious point of view, to let one’s self be damned in that way. You +do not love him, on my word of honor! No, you do not love him, you two +who have the happiness of believing, since you do nothing to bring him +back to the right path. Ah! if I were in your place, I would split that +press open with a hatchet. I would make a famous bonfire with all the +insults to the good God which it contains!” + +She had planted herself before the immense press and was measuring it +with her fiery glance, as if to take it by assault, to sack it, to +destroy it, in spite of the withered and fragile thinness of her eighty +years. Then, with a gesture of ironical disdain: + +“If, even with his science, he could know everything!” + +Clotilde remained for a moment absorbed in thought, her gaze lost in +vacancy. Then she said in an undertone, as if speaking to herself: + +“It is true, he cannot know everything. There is always something else +below. That is what irritates me; that is what makes us quarrel: for I +cannot, like him, put the mystery aside. I am troubled by it, so much +so that I suffer cruelly. Below, what wills and acts in the shuddering +darkness, all the unknown forces—” + +Her voice had gradually become lower and now dropped to an indistinct +murmur. + +Then Martine, whose face for a moment past had worn a somber +expression, interrupted in her turn: + +“If it was true, however, mademoiselle, that monsieur would be damned +on account of those villainous papers, tell me, ought we to let it +happen? For my part, look you, if he were to tell me to throw myself +down from the terrace, I would shut my eyes and throw myself, because I +know that he is always right. But for his salvation! Oh! if I could, I +would work for that, in spite of him. In every way, yes! I would force +him; it is too cruel to me to think that he will not be in heaven with +us.” + +“You are quite right, my girl,” said Félicité approvingly. “You, at +least, love your master in an intelligent fashion.” + +Between the two, Clotilde still seemed irresolute. In her, belief did +not bend to the strict rule of dogma; the religious sentiment did not +materialize in the hope of a paradise, of a place of delights, where +she was to meet her own again. It was in her simply a need of a beyond, +a certainty that the vast world does not stop short at sensation, that +there is a whole unknown world, besides, which must be taken into +account. But her grandmother, who was so old, this servant, who was so +devoted, shook her in her uneasy affection for her uncle. Did they not +love him better, in a more enlightened and more upright fashion, they +who desired him to be without a stain, freed from his manias as a +scientist, pure enough to be among the elect? Phrases of devotional +books recurred to her; the continual battle waged against the spirit of +evil; the glory of conversions effected after a violent struggle. What +if she set herself to this holy task; what if, after all, in spite of +himself, she should be able to save him! And an exaltation gradually +gained her spirit, naturally inclined to adventurous enterprises. + +“Certainly,” she said at last, “I should be very happy if he would not +persist in his notion of heaping up all those scraps of paper, and if +he would come to church with us.” + +Seeing her about to yield, Mme. Rougon cried out that it was necessary +to act, and Martine herself added the weight of all her real authority. +They both approached the young girl, and began to instruct her, +lowering their voices as if they were engaged in a conspiracy, whence +was to result a miraculous benefit, a divine joy with which the whole +house would be perfumed. What a triumph if they reconciled the doctor +with God! and what sweetness, afterward, to live altogether in the +celestial communion of the same faith! + +“Well, then, what must I do?” asked Clotilde, vanquished, won over. + +But at this moment the doctor’s pestle was heard in the silence, with +its continued rhythm. And the victorious Félicité, who was about to +speak, turned her head uneasily, and looked for a moment at the door of +the adjoining chamber. Then, in an undertone, she said: + +“Do you know where the key of the press is?” + +Clotilde answered only with an artless gesture, that expressed all her +repugnance to betray her master in this way. + +“What a child you are! I swear to you that I will take nothing; I will +not even disturb anything. Only as we are alone and as Pascal never +reappears before dinner, we might assure ourselves of what there is in +there, might we not? Oh! nothing but a glance, on my word of honor.” + +The young girl stood motionless, unwilling, still, to give her consent. + +“And then, it may be that I am mistaken; no doubt there are none of +those bad things there that I have told you of.” + +This was decisive; she ran to take the key from the drawer, and she +herself opened wide the press. + +“There, grandmother, the papers are up there.” + +Martine had gone, without a word, to station herself at the door of the +doctor’s chamber, her ear on the alert, listening to the pestle, while +Félicité, as if riveted to the spot by emotion, regarded the papers. At +last, there they were, those terrible documents, the nightmare that had +poisoned her life! She saw them, she was going to touch them, to carry +them away! And she reached up, straining her little legs, in the +eagerness of her desire. + +“It is too high, my kitten,” she said. “Help me; give them to me!” + +“Oh! not that, grandmother! Take a chair!” + +Félicité took a chair, and mounted slowly upon it. But she was still +too short. By an extraordinary effort she raised herself, lengthening +her stature until she was able to touch the envelopes of strong blue +paper with the tips of her fingers; and her fingers traveled over them, +contracting nervously, scratching like claws. Suddenly there was a +crash—it was a geological specimen, a fragment of marble that had been +on a lower shelf, and that she had just thrown down. + +Instantly the pestle stopped, and Martine said in a stifled voice: + +“Take care; here he comes!” + +But Félicité, grown desperate, did not hear, did not let go her hold +when Pascal entered hastily. He had supposed that some accident had +happened, that some one had fallen, and he stood stupefied at what he +saw—his mother on the chair, her arm still in the air, while Martine +had withdrawn to one side, and Clotilde, very pale, stood waiting, +without turning her head. When he comprehended the scene, he himself +became as white as a sheet. A terrible anger arose within him. + +Old Mme. Rougon, however, troubled herself in no wise. When she saw +that the opportunity was lost, she descended from the chair, without +making any illusion whatever to the task at which he had surprised her. + +“Oh, it is you! I do not wish to disturb you. I came to embrace +Clotilde. But here I have been talking for nearly two hours, and I must +run away at once. They will be expecting me at home; they won’t know +what has become of me at this hour. Good-by until Sunday.” + +She went away quite at her ease, after smiling at her son, who stood +before her silent and respectful. It was an attitude that he had long +since adopted, to avoid an explanation which he felt must be cruel, and +which he had always feared. He knew her, he was willing to pardon her +everything, in his broad tolerance as a scientist, who made allowance +for heredity, environment, and circumstances. And, then, was she not +his mother? That ought to have sufficed, for, in spite of the frightful +blows which his researches inflicted upon the family, he preserved a +great affection for those belonging to him. + +When his mother was no longer there, his anger burst forth, and fell +upon Clotilde. He had turned his eyes away from Martine, and fixed them +on the young girl, who did not turn hers away, however, with a courage +which accepted the responsibility of her act. + +“You! you!” he said at last. + +He seized her arm, and pressed it until she cried. But she continued to +look him full in the face, without quailing before him, with the +indomitable will of her individuality, of her selfhood. She was +beautiful and provoking, with her tall, slender figure, robed in its +black blouse; and her exquisite, youthful fairness, her straight +forehead, her finely cut nose, her firm chin, took on something of a +warlike charm in her rebellion. + +“You, whom I have made, you who are my pupil, my friend, my other mind, +to whom I have given a part of my heart and of my brain! Ah, yes! I +should have kept you entirely for myself, and not have allowed your +stupid good God to take the best part of you!” + +“Oh, monsieur, you blaspheme!” cried Martine, who had approached him, +in order to draw upon herself a part of his anger. + +But he did not even see her. Only Clotilde existed for him. And he was +as if transfigured, stirred up by so great a passion that his handsome +face, crowned by his white hair, framed by his white beard, flamed with +youthful passion, with an immense tenderness that had been wounded and +exasperated. + +“You, you!” he repeated in a trembling voice. + +“Yes, I! Why then, master, should I not love you better than you love +me? And why, if I believe you to be in peril, should I not try to save +you? You are greatly concerned about what I think; you would like well +to make me think as you do!” + +She had never before defied him in this way. + +“But you are a little girl; you know nothing!” + +“No, I am a soul, and you know no more about souls than I do!” + +He released her arm, and waved his hand vaguely toward heaven, and then +a great silence fell—a silence full of grave meaning, of the +uselessness of the discussion which he did not wish to enter upon. +Thrusting her aside rudely, he crossed over to the middle window and +opened the blinds, for the sun was declining, and the room was growing +dark. Then he returned. + +But she, feeling a need of air and space, went to the open window. The +burning rain of sparks had ceased, and there fell now, from on high, +only the last shiver of the overheated and paling sky; and from the +still burning earth ascended warm odors, with the freer respiration of +evening. At the foot of the terrace was the railroad, with the outlying +dependencies of the station, of which the buildings were to be seen in +the distance; then, crossing the vast arid plain, a line of trees +marked the course of the Viorne, beyond which rose the hills of +Sainte-Marthe, red fields planted with olive trees, supported on +terraces by walls of uncemented stones and crowned by somber pine +woods—broad amphitheaters, bare and desolate, corroded by the heats of +summer, of the color of old baked brick, which this fringe of dark +verdure, standing out against the background of the sky, bordered +above. To the left opened the gorges of the Seille, great yellow stones +that had broken away from the soil, and lay in the midst of +blood-colored fields, dominated by an immense band of rocks like the +wall of a gigantic fortress; while to the right, at the very entrance +to the valley through which flowed the Viorne, rose, one above another, +the discolored pink-tiled roofs of the town of Plassans, the compact +and confused mass of an old town, pierced by the tops of ancient elms, +and dominated by the high tower of St. Saturnin, solitary and serene at +this hour in the limpid gold of sunset. + +“Ah, my God!” said Clotilde slowly, “one must be arrogant, indeed, to +imagine that one can take everything in one’s hand and know +everything!” + +Pascal had just mounted on the chair to assure himself that not one of +his packages was missing. Then he took up the fragment of marble, and +replaced it on the shelf, and when he had again locked the press with a +vigorous turn of the hand, he put the key into his pocket. + +“Yes,” he replied; “try not to know everything, and above all, try not +to bewilder your brain about what we do not know, what we shall +doubtless never know!” + +Martine again approached Clotilde, to lend her her support, to show her +that they both had a common cause. And now the doctor perceived her, +also, and felt that they were both united in the same desire for +conquest. After years of secret attempts, it was at last open war; the +_savant_ saw his household turn against his opinions, and menace them +with destruction. There is no worse torture than to have treason in +one’s own home, around one; to be trapped, dispossessed, crushed, by +those whom you love, and who love you! + +Suddenly this frightful idea presented itself to him. + +“And yet both of you love me!” he cried. + +He saw their eyes grow dim with tears; he was filled with an infinite +sadness, on this tranquil close of a beautiful day. All his gaiety, all +his kindness of heart, which came from his intense love of life, were +shaken by it. + +“Ah, my dear! and you, my poor girl,” he said, “you are doing this for +my happiness, are you not? But, alas, how unhappy we are going to be!” + + + + +II. + + +On the following morning Clotilde was awake at six o’clock. She had +gone to bed angry with Pascal; they were at variance with each other. +And her first feeling was one of uneasiness, of secret distress, an +instant need of making her peace, so that she might no longer have upon +her heart the heavy weight that lay there now. + +Springing quickly out of bed, she went and half opened the shutters of +both windows. The sun, already high, sent his light across the chamber +in two golden bars. Into this drowsy room that exhaled a sweet odor of +youth, the bright morning brought with it fresh, cheerful air; but the +young girl went back and sat down on the edge of the bed in a +thoughtful attitude, clad only in her scant nightdress, which made her +look still more slender, with her long tapering limbs, her strong, +slender body, with its round throat, round neck, round and supple arms; +and her adorable neck and throat, of a milky whiteness, had the +exquisite softness and smoothness of white satin. For a long time, at +the ungraceful age between twelve and eighteen, she had looked +awkwardly tall, climbing trees like a boy. Then, from the ungainly +hoyden had been evolved this charming, delicate and lovely creature. + +With absent gaze she sat looking at the walls of the chamber. Although +La Souleiade dated from the last century, it must have been refurnished +under the First Empire, for it was hung with an old-fashioned printed +calico, with a pattern representing busts of the Sphinx, and garlands +of oak leaves. Originally of a bright red, this calico had faded to a +pink—an undecided pink, inclining to orange. The curtains of the two +windows and of the bed were still in existence, but it had been +necessary to clean them, and this had made them still paler. And this +faded purple, this dawnlike tint, so delicately soft, was in truth +exquisite. As for the bed, covered with the same stuff, it had come +down from so remote an antiquity that it had been replaced by another +bed found in an adjoining room; another Empire bed, low and very broad, +of massive mahogany, ornamented with brasses, its four square pillars +adorned also with busts of the Sphinx, like those on the wall. The rest +of the furniture matched, however—a press, with whole doors and +pillars; a chest of drawers with a marble top, surrounded by a railing; +a tall and massive cheval-glass, a large lounge with straight feet, and +seats with straight, lyre-shaped backs. But a coverlet made of an old +Louis XV. silk skirt brightened the majestic bed, that occupied the +middle of the wall fronting the windows; a heap of cushions made the +lounge soft; and there were, besides, two _étagères_ and a table also +covered with old flowered silk, at the further end of the room. + +Clotilde at last put on her stockings and slipped on a morning gown of +white _piqué_, and thrusting the tips of her feet into her gray canvas +slippers, she ran into her dressing-room, a back room looking out on +the rear of the house. She had had it hung plainly with an _écru_ drill +with blue stripes, and it contained only furniture of varnished +pine—the toilette table, two presses, and two chairs. It revealed, +however, a natural and delicate coquetry which was very feminine. This +had grown with her at the same time with her beauty. Headstrong and +boyish though she still was at times, she had become a submissive and +affectionate woman, desiring to be loved, above everything. The truth +was that she had grown up in freedom, without having learned anything +more than to read and write, having acquired by herself, later, while +assisting her uncle, a vast fund of information. But there had been no +plan settled upon between them. He had not wished to make her a +prodigy; she had merely conceived a passion for natural history, which +revealed to her the mysteries of life. And she had kept her innocence +unsullied like a fruit which no hand has touched, thanks, no doubt, to +her unconscious and religious waiting for the coming of love—that +profound feminine feeling which made her reserve the gift of her whole +being for the man whom she should love. + +She pushed back her hair and bathed her face; then, yielding to her +impatience, she again softly opened the door of her chamber and +ventured to cross the vast workroom, noiselessly and on tiptoe. The +shutters were still closed, but she could see clearly enough not to +stumble against the furniture. When she was at the other end before the +door of the doctor’s room, she bent forward, holding her breath. Was he +already up? What could he be doing? She heard him plainly, walking +about with short steps, dressing himself, no doubt. She never entered +this chamber in which he chose to hide certain labors; and which thus +remained closed, like a tabernacle. One fear had taken possession of +her; that of being discovered here by him if he should open the door; +and the agitation produced by the struggle between her rebellious pride +and a desire to show her submission caused her to grow hot and cold by +turns, with sensations until now unknown to her. For an instant her +desire for reconciliation was so strong that she was on the point of +knocking. Then, as footsteps approached, she ran precipitately away. + +Until eight o’clock Clotilde was agitated by an ever-increasing +impatience. At every instant she looked at the clock on the mantelpiece +of her room; an Empire clock of gilded bronze, representing Love +leaning against a pillar, contemplating Time asleep. + +Eight was the hour at which she generally descended to the dining-room +to breakfast with the doctor. And while waiting she made a careful +toilette, arranged her hair, and put on another morning gown of white +muslin with red spots. Then, having still a quarter of an hour on her +hands, she satisfied an old desire and sat down to sew a piece of +narrow lace, an imitation of Chantilly, on her working blouse, that +black blouse which she had begun to find too boyish, not feminine +enough. But on the stroke of eight she laid down her work, and went +downstairs quickly. + +“You are going to breakfast entirely alone,” said Martine tranquilly to +her, when she entered the dining-room. + +“How is that?” + +“Yes, the doctor called me, and I passed him in his egg through the +half-open door. There he is again, at his mortar and his filter. We +won’t see him now before noon.” + +Clotilde turned pale with disappointment. She drank her milk standing, +took her roll in her hand, and followed the servant into the kitchen. +There were on the ground floor, besides this kitchen and the +dining-room, only an uninhabited room in which the potatoes were +stored, and which had formerly been used as an office by the doctor, +when he received his patients in his house—the desk and the armchair +had years ago been taken up to his chamber—and another small room, +which opened into the kitchen; the old servant’s room, scrupulously +clean, and furnished with a walnut chest of drawers and a bed like a +nun’s with white hangings. + +“Do you think he has begun to make his liquor again?” asked Clotilde. + +“Well, it can be only that. You know that he thinks of neither eating +nor drinking when that takes possession of him!” + +Then all the young girl’s vexation was exhaled in a low plaint: + +“Ah, my God! my God!” + +And while Martine went to make up her room, she took an umbrella from +the hall stand and went disconsolately to eat her roll in the garden, +not knowing now how she should occupy her time until midday. + +It was now almost seventeen years since Dr. Pascal, having resolved to +leave his little house in the new town, had bought La Souleiade for +twenty thousand francs, in order to live there in seclusion, and also +to give more space and more happiness to the little girl sent him by +his brother Saccard from Paris. This Souleiade, situated outside the +town gates on a plateau dominating the plain, was part of a large +estate whose once vast grounds were reduced to less than two hectares +in consequence of successive sales, without counting that the +construction of the railroad had taken away the last arable fields. The +house itself had been half destroyed by a conflagration and only one of +the two buildings remained—a quadrangular wing “of four walls,” as they +say in Provence, with five front windows and roofed with large pink +tiles. And the doctor, who had bought it completely furnished, had +contented himself with repairing it and finishing the boundary walls, +so as to be undisturbed in his house. + +Generally Clotilde loved this solitude passionately; this narrow +kingdom which she could go over in ten minutes, and which still +retained remnants of its past grandeur. But this morning she brought +there something like a nervous disquietude. She walked for a few +moments along the terrace, at the two extremities of which stood two +secular cypresses like two enormous funeral tapers, which could be seen +three leagues off. The slope then descended to the railroad, walls of +uncemented stones supporting the red earth, in which the last vines +were dead; and on these giant steps grew only rows of olive and almond +trees, with sickly foliage. The heat was already overpowering; she saw +the little lizards running about on the disjointed flags, among the +hairy tufts of caper bushes. + +Then, as if irritated by the vast horizon, she crossed the orchard and +the kitchen garden, which Martine still persisted in cultivating in +spite of her age, calling in a man only twice a week for the heavier +labors; and she ascended to a little pine wood on the right, all that +remained of the superb pines which had formerly covered the plateau; +but, here, too, she was ill at ease; the pine needles crackled under +her feet, a resinous, stifling odor descended from the branches. And +walking along the boundary wall past the entrance gate, which opened on +the road to Les Fenouilleres, three hundred meters from the first +houses of Plassans, she emerged at last on the threshing-yard; an +immense yard, fifteen meters in radius, which would of itself have +sufficed to prove the former importance of the domain. Ah! this antique +area, paved with small round stones, as in the days of the Romans; this +species of vast esplanade, covered with short dry grass of the color of +gold as with a thick woolen carpet; how joyously she had played there +in other days, running about, rolling on the grass, lying for hours on +her back, watching the stars coming out one by one in the depths of the +illimitable sky! + +She opened her umbrella again, and crossed the yard with slower steps. +Now she was on the left of the terrace. She had made the tour of the +estate, so that she had returned by the back of the house, through the +clump of enormous plane trees that on this side cast a thick shade. +This was the side on which opened the two windows of the doctor’s room. +And she raised her eyes to them, for she had approached only in the +sudden hope of at last seeing him. But the windows remained closed, and +she was wounded by this as by an unkindness to herself. Then only did +she perceive that she still held in her hand her roll, which she had +forgotten to eat; and she plunged among the trees, biting it +impatiently with her fine young teeth. + +It was a delicious retreat, this old quincunx of plane trees, another +remnant of the past splendor of La Souleiade. Under these giant trees, +with their monstrous trunks, there was only a dim light, a greenish +light, exquisitely cool, even on the hottest days of summer. Formerly a +French garden had been laid out here, of which only the box borders +remained; bushes which had habituated themselves to the shade, no +doubt, for they grew vigorously, as tall as trees. And the charm of +this shady nook was a fountain, a simple leaden pipe fixed in the shaft +of a column; whence flowed perpetually, even in the greatest drought, a +thread of water as thick as the little finger, which supplied a large +mossy basin, the greenish stones of which were cleaned only once in +three or four years. When all the wells of the neighborhood were dry, +La Souleiade still kept its spring, of which the great plane trees were +assuredly the secular children. Night and day for centuries past this +slender thread of water, unvarying and continuous, had sung the same +pure song with crystal sound. + +Clotilde, after wandering awhile among the bushes of box, which reached +to her shoulder, went back to the house for a piece of embroidery, and +returning with it, sat down at a stone table beside the fountain. Some +garden chairs had been placed around it, and they often took coffee +here. And after this she affected not to look up again from her work, +as if she was completely absorbed in it. Now and then, while seeming to +look between the trunks of trees toward the sultry distance, toward the +yard, on which the sun blazed fiercely and which glowed like a brazier, +she stole a glance from under her long lashes up to the doctor’s +windows. Nothing appeared, not a shadow. And a feeling of sadness, of +resentment, arose within her at this neglect, this contempt in which he +seemed to hold her after their quarrel of the day before. She who had +got up with so great a desire to make peace at once! He was in no +hurry, however; he did not love her then, since he could be satisfied +to live at variance with her. And gradually a feeling of gloom took +possession of her, her rebellious thoughts returned, and she resolved +anew to yield in nothing. + +At eleven o’clock, before setting her breakfast on the fire, Martine +came to her for a moment, the eternal stocking in her hand which she +was always knitting even while walking, when she was not occupied in +the affairs of the house. + +“Do you know that he is still shut up there like a wolf in his hole, at +his villainous cookery?” + +Clotilde shrugged her shoulders, without lifting her eyes from her +embroidery. + +“And then, mademoiselle, if you only knew what they say! Mme. Félicité +was right yesterday when she said that it was really enough to make one +blush. They threw it in my face that he had killed old Boutin, that +poor old man, you know, who had the falling sickness and who died on +the road. To believe those women of the faubourg, every one into whom +he injects his remedy gets the true cholera from it, without counting +that they accuse him of having taken the devil into partnership.” + +A short silence followed. Then, as the young girl became more gloomy +than before, the servant resumed, moving her fingers still more +rapidly: + +“As for me, I know nothing about the matter, but what he is making +there enrages me. And you, mademoiselle, do you approve of that +cookery?” + +At last Clotilde raised her head quickly, yielding to the flood of +passion that swept over her. + +“Listen; I wish to know no more about it than you do, but I think that +he is on a very dangerous path. He no longer loves us.” + +“Oh, yes, mademoiselle; he loves us.” + +“No, no; not as we love him. If he loved us, he would be here with us, +instead of endangering his soul and his happiness and ours, up there, +in his desire to save everybody.” + +And the two women looked at each other for a moment with eyes burning +with affection, in their jealous anger. Then they resumed their work in +silence, enveloped in shadow. + +Above, in his room, Dr. Pascal was working with the serenity of perfect +joy. He had practised his profession for only about a dozen years, from +his return to Paris up to the time when he had retired to La Souleiade. +Satisfied with the hundred and odd thousand francs which he had earned +and which he had invested prudently, he devoted himself almost +exclusively to his favorite studies, retaining only a practise among +friends, never refusing to go to the bedside of a patient but never +sending in his account. When he was paid he threw the money into a +drawer in his writing desk, regarding this as pocket-money for his +experiments and caprices, apart from his income which sufficed for his +wants. And he laughed at the bad reputation for eccentricity which his +way of life had gained him; he was happy only when in the midst of his +researches on the subjects for which he had a passion. It was matter +for surprise to many that this scientist, whose intellectual gifts had +been spoiled by a too lively imagination, should have remained at +Plassans, this out-of-the-way town where it seemed as if every +requirement for his studies must be wanting. But he explained very well +the advantages which he had discovered here; in the first place, an +utterly peaceful retreat in which he might live the secluded life he +desired; then, an unsuspected field for continuous research in the +light of the facts of heredity, which was his passion, in this little +town where he knew every family and where he could follow the phenomena +kept most secret, through two or three generations. And then he was +near the seashore; he went there almost every summer, to study the +swarming life that is born and propagates itself in the depths of the +vast waters. And there was finally, at the hospital in Plassans, a +dissecting room to which he was almost the only visitor; a large, +bright, quiet room, in which for more than twenty years every unclaimed +body had passed under his scalpel. A modest man besides, of a timidity +that had long since become shyness, it had been sufficient for him to +maintain a correspondence with his old professors and his new friends, +concerning the very remarkable papers which he from time to time sent +to the Academy of Medicine. He was altogether wanting in militant +ambition. + +Ah, this heredity! what a subject of endless meditation it was for him! +The strangest, the most wonderful part of it all, was it not that the +resemblance between parents and children should not be perfect, +mathematically exact? He had in the beginning made a genealogical tree +of his family, logically traced, in which the influences from +generation to generation were distributed equally—the father’s part and +the mother’s part. But the living reality contradicted the theory +almost at every point. Heredity, instead of being resemblance, was an +effort toward resemblance thwarted by circumstances and environment. +And he had arrived at what he called the hypothesis of the abortion of +cells. Life is only motion, and heredity being a communicated motion, +it happened that the cells in their multiplication from one another +jostled one another, pressed one another, made room for themselves, +putting forth, each one, the hereditary effort; so that if during this +struggle the weaker cells succumbed, considerable disturbances took +place, with the final result of organs totally different. Did not +variation, the constant invention of nature, which clashed with his +theories, come from this? Did not he himself differ from his parents +only in consequence of similar accidents, or even as the effect of +larvated heredity, in which he had for a time believed? For every +genealogical tree has roots which extend as far back into humanity as +the first man; one cannot proceed from a single ancestor; one may +always resemble a still older, unknown ancestor. He doubted atavism, +however; it seemed to him, in spite of a remarkable example taken from +his own family, that resemblance at the end of two or three generations +must disappear by reason of accidents, of interferences, of a thousand +possible combinations. There was then a perpetual becoming, a constant +transformation in this communicated effort, this transmitted power, +this shock which breathes into matter the breath of life, and which is +life itself. And a multiplicity of questions presented themselves to +him. Was there a physical and intellectual progress through the ages? +Did the brain grow with the growth of the sciences with which it +occupied itself? Might one hope, in time, for a larger sum of reason +and of happiness? Then there were special problems; one among others, +the mystery of which had for a long time irritated him, that of sex; +would science never be able to predict, or at least to explain the sex +of the embryo being? He had written a very curious paper crammed full +of facts on this subject, but which left it in the end in the complete +ignorance in which the most exhaustive researches had left it. +Doubtless the question of heredity fascinated him as it did only +because it remained obscure, vast, and unfathomable, like all the +infant sciences where imagination holds sway. Finally, a long study +which he had made on the heredity of phthisis revived in him the +wavering faith of the healer, arousing in him the noble and wild hope +of regenerating humanity. + +In short, Dr. Pascal had only one belief—the belief in life. Life was +the only divine manifestation. Life was God, the grand motor, the soul +of the universe. And life had no other instrument than heredity; +heredity made the world; so that if its laws could be known and +directed, the world could be made to one’s will. In him, to whom +sickness, suffering, and death had been a familiar sight, the militant +pity of the physician awoke. Ah! to have no more sickness, no more +suffering, as little death as possible! His dream ended in this +thought—that universal happiness, the future community of perfection +and of felicity, could be hastened by intervention, by giving health to +all. When all should be healthy, strong, and intelligent, there would +be only a superior race, infinitely wise and happy. In India, was not a +Brahmin developed from a Soudra in seven generations, thus raising, +experimentally, the lowest of beings to the highest type of humanity? +And as in his study of consumption he had arrived at the conclusion +that it was not hereditary, but that every child of a consumptive +carried within him a degenerate soil in which consumption developed +with extraordinary facility at the slightest contagion, he had come to +think only of invigorating this soil impoverished by heredity; to give +it the strength to resist the parasites, or rather the destructive +leaven, which he had suspected to exist in the organism, long before +the microbe theory. To give strength—the whole problem was there; and +to give strength was also to give will, to enlarge the brain by +fortifying the other organs. + +About this time the doctor, reading an old medical book of the +fifteenth century, was greatly struck by a method of treating disease +called signature. To cure a diseased organ, it was only necessary to +take from a sheep or an ox the corresponding organ in sound condition, +boil it, and give the soup to the patient to drink. The theory was to +cure like by like, and in diseases of the liver, especially, the old +work stated that the cures were numberless. This set the doctor’s vivid +imagination working. Why not make the trial? If he wished to regenerate +those enfeebled by hereditary influences, he had only to give them the +normal and healthy nerve substance. The method of the soup, however, +seemed to him childish, and he invented in its stead that of grinding +in a mortar the brain of a sheep, moistening it with distilled water, +and then decanting and filtering the liquor thus obtained. He tried +this liquor then mixed with Malaga wine, on his patients, without +obtaining any appreciable result. Suddenly, as he was beginning to grow +discouraged, he had an inspiration one day, when he was giving a lady +suffering from hepatic colics an injection of morphine with the little +syringe of Pravaz. What if he were to try hypodermic injections with +his liquor? And as soon as he returned home he tried the experiment on +himself, making an injection in his side, which he repeated night and +morning. The first doses, of a gram only, were without effect. But +having doubled, and then tripled the dose, he was enchanted, one +morning on getting up, to find that his limbs had all the vigor of +twenty. He went on increasing the dose up to five grams, and then his +respiration became deeper, and above all he worked with a clearness of +mind, an ease, which he had not known for years. A great flood of +happiness, of joy in living, inundated his being. From this time, after +he had had a syringe made at Paris capable of containing five grams, he +was surprised at the happy results which he obtained with his patients, +whom he had on their feet again in a few days, full of energy and +activity, as if endowed with new life. His method was still tentative +and rude, and he divined in it all sorts of dangers, and especially, +that of inducing embolism, if the liquor was not perfectly pure. Then +he suspected that the strength of his patients came in part from the +fever his treatment produced in them. But he was only a pioneer; the +method would improve later. Was it not already a miracle to make the +ataxic walk, to bring consumptives back to life, as it were; even to +give hours of lucidity to the insane? And at the thought of this +discovery of the alchemy of the twentieth century, an immense hope +opened up before him; he believed he had discovered the universal +panacea, the elixir of life, which was to combat human debility, the +one real cause of every ill; a veritable scientific Fountain of Youth, +which, in giving vigor, health, and will would create an altogether new +and superior humanity. + +This particular morning in his chamber, a room with a northern aspect +and somewhat dark owing to the vicinity of the plane trees, furnished +simply with an iron bedstead, a mahogany writing desk, and a large +writing table, on which were a mortar and a microscope, he was +completing with infinite care the preparation of a vial of his liquor. +Since the day before, after pounding the nerve substance of a sheep in +distilled water, he had been decanting and filtering it. And he had at +last obtained a small bottle of a turbid, opaline liquid, irised by +bluish gleams, which he regarded for a long time in the light as if he +held in his hand the regenerating blood and symbol of the world. + +But a few light knocks at the door and an urgent voice drew him from +his dream. + +“Why, what is the matter, monsieur? It is a quarter-past twelve; don’t +you intend to come to breakfast?” + +For downstairs breakfast had been waiting for some time past in the +large, cool dining-room. The blinds were closed, with the exception of +one which had just been half opened. It was a cheerful room, with pearl +gray panels relieved by blue mouldings. The table, the sideboard, and +the chairs must have formed part of the set of Empire furniture in the +bedrooms; and the old mahogany, of a deep red, stood out in strong +relief against the light background. A hanging lamp of polished brass, +always shining, gleamed like a sun; while on the four walls bloomed +four large bouquets in pastel, of gillyflowers, carnations, hyacinths, +and roses. + +Joyous, radiant, Dr. Pascal entered. + +“Ah, the deuce! I had forgotten! I wanted to finish. Look at this, +quite fresh, and perfectly pure this time; something to work miracles +with!” + +And he showed the vial, which he had brought down in his enthusiasm. +But his eye fell on Clotilde standing erect and silent, with a serious +air. The secret vexation caused by waiting had brought back all her +hostility, and she, who had burned to throw herself on his neck in the +morning, remained motionless as if chilled and repelled by him. + +“Good!” he resumed, without losing anything of his gaiety, “we are +still at odds, it seems. That is something very ugly. So you don’t +admire my sorcerer’s liquor, which resuscitates the dead?” + +He seated himself at the table, and the young girl, sitting down +opposite him, was obliged at last to answer: + +“You know well, master, that I admire everything belonging to you. +Only, my most ardent desire is that others also should admire you. And +there is the death of poor old Boutin—” + +“Oh!” he cried, without letting her finish, “an epileptic, who +succumbed to a congestive attack! See! since you are in a bad humor, +let us talk no more about that—you would grieve me, and that would +spoil my day.” + +There were soft boiled eggs, cutlets, and cream. Silence reigned for a +few moments, during which in spite of her ill-humor she ate heartily, +with a good appetite which she had not the coquetry to conceal. Then he +resumed, laughing: + +“What reassures me is to see that your stomach is in good order. +Martine, hand mademoiselle the bread.” + +The servant waited on them as she was accustomed to do, watching them +eat, with her quiet air of familiarity. + +Sometimes she even chatted with them. + +“Monsieur,” she said, when she had cut the bread, “the butcher has +brought his bill. Is he to be paid?” + +He looked up at her in surprise. + +“Why do you ask me that?” he said. “Do you not always pay him without +consulting me?” + +It was, in effect, Martine who kept the purse. The amount deposited +with M. Grandguillot, notary at Plassans, produced a round sum of six +thousand francs income. Every three months the fifteen hundred francs +were remitted to the servant, and she disposed of them to the best +interests of the house; bought and paid for everything with the +strictest economy, for she was of so saving a disposition that they +bantered her about it continually. Clotilde, who spent very little, had +never thought of asking a separate purse for herself. As for the +doctor, he took what he required for his experiments and his pocket +money from the three or four thousand francs which he still earned +every year, and which he kept lying in the drawer of his writing desk; +so that there was quite a little treasure there in gold and bank bills, +of which he never knew the exact amount. + +“Undoubtedly, monsieur, I pay, when it is I who have bought the things; +but this time the bill is so large on account of the brains which the +butcher has furnished you—” + +The doctor interrupted her brusquely: + +“Ah, come! so you, too, are going to set yourself against me, are you? +No, no; both of you—that would be too much! Yesterday you pained me +greatly, and I was angry. But this must cease. I will not have the +house turned into a hell. Two women against me, and they the only ones +who love me at all? Do you know, I would sooner quit the house at +once!” + +He did not speak angrily, he even smiled; but the disquietude of his +heart was perceptible in the trembling of his voice. And he added with +his indulgent, cheerful air: + +“If you are afraid for the end of the month, my girl, tell the butcher +to send my bill apart. And don’t fear; you are not going to be asked +for any of your money to settle it with; your sous may lie sleeping.” + +This was an allusion to Martine’s little personal fortune. In thirty +years, with four hundred francs wages she had earned twelve thousand +francs, from which she had taken only what was strictly necessary for +her wants; and increased, almost trebled, by the interest, her savings +amounted now to thirty thousand francs, which through a caprice, a +desire to have her money apart, she had not chosen to place with M. +Grandguillot. They were elsewhere, safely invested in the funds. + +“Sous that lie sleeping are honest sous,” she said gravely. “But +monsieur is right; I will tell the butcher to send a bill apart, as all +the brains are for monsieur’s cookery and not for mine.” + +This explanation brought a smile to the face of Clotilde, who was +always amused by the jests about Martine’s avarice; and the breakfast +ended more cheerfully. The doctor desired to take the coffee under the +plane trees, saying that he felt the need of air after being shut up +all the morning. The coffee was served then on the stone table beside +the fountain; and how pleasant it was there in the shade, listening to +the cool murmur of the water, while around, the pine wood, the court, +the whole place, were glowing in the early afternoon sun. + +The doctor had complacently brought with him the vial of nerve +substance, which he looked at as it stood on the table. + +“So, then, mademoiselle,” he resumed, with an air of brusque +pleasantry, “you do not believe in my elixir of resurrection, and you +believe in miracles!” + +“Master,” responded Clotilde, “I believe that we do not know +everything.” + +He made a gesture of impatience. + +“But we must know everything. Understand then, obstinate little girl, +that not a single deviation from the invariable laws which govern the +universe has ever been scientifically proved. Up to this day there has +been no proof of the existence of any intelligence other than the +human. I defy you to find any real will, any reasoning force, outside +of life. And everything is there; there is in the world no other will +than this force which impels everything to life, to a life ever broader +and higher.” + +He rose with a wave of the hand, animated by so firm a faith that she +regarded him in surprise, noticing how youthful he looked in spite of +his white hair. + +“Do you wish me to repeat my ‘Credo’ for you, since you accuse me of +not wanting yours? I believe that the future of humanity is in the +progress of reason through science. I believe that the pursuit of +truth, through science, is the divine ideal which man should propose to +himself. I believe that all is illusion and vanity outside the treasure +of truths slowly accumulated, and which will never again be lost. I +believe that the sum of these truths, always increasing, will at last +confer on man incalculable power and peace, if not happiness. Yes, I +believe in the final triumph of life.” + +And with a broader sweep of the hand that took in the vast horizon, as +if calling on these burning plains in which fermented the saps of all +existences to bear him witness, he added: + +“But the continual miracle, my child, is life. Only open your eyes, and +look.” + +She shook her head. + +“It is in vain that I open my eyes; I cannot see everything. It is you, +master, who are blind, since you do not wish to admit that there is +beyond an unknown realm which you will never enter. Oh, I know you are +too intelligent to be ignorant of that! Only you do not wish to take it +into account; you put the unknown aside, because it would embarrass you +in your researches. It is in vain that you tell me to put aside the +mysterious; to start from the known for the conquest of the unknown. I +cannot; the mysterious at once calls me back and disturbs me.” + +He listened to her, smiling, glad to see her become animated, while he +smoothed her fair curls with his hand. + +“Yes, yes, I know you are like the rest; you do not wish to live +without illusions and without lies. Well, there, there; we understand +each other still, even so. Keep well; that is the half of wisdom and of +happiness.” + +Then, changing the conversation: + +“Come, you will accompany me, notwithstanding, and help me in my round +of miracles. This is Thursday, my visiting day. When the heat shall +have abated a little, we will go out together.” + +She refused at first, in order not to seem to yield; but she at last +consented, seeing the pain she gave him. She was accustomed to +accompany him on his round of visits. They remained for some time +longer under the plane trees, until the doctor went upstairs to dress. +When he came down again, correctly attired in a close-fitting coat and +wearing a broad-brimmed silk hat, he spoke of harnessing Bonhomme, the +horse that for a quarter of a century had taken him on his visits +through the streets and the environs of Plassans. But the poor old +beast was growing blind, and through gratitude for his past services +and affection for himself they now rarely disturbed him. On this +afternoon he was very drowsy, his gaze wandered, his legs were stiff +with rheumatism. So that the doctor and the young girl, when they went +to the stable to see him, gave him a hearty kiss on either side of his +nose, telling him to rest on a bundle of fresh hay which the servant +had brought. And they decided to walk. + +Clotilde, keeping on her spotted white muslin, merely tied on over her +curls a large straw hat adorned with a bunch of lilacs; and she looked +charming, with her large eyes and her complexion of milk-and-roses +under the shadow of its broad brim. When she went out thus on Pascal’s +arm, she tall, slender, and youthful, he radiant, his face illuminated, +so to say, by the whiteness of his beard, with a vigor that made him +still lift her across the rivulets, people smiled as they passed, and +turned around to look at them again, they seemed so innocent and so +happy. On this day, as they left the road to Les Fenouilleres to enter +Plassans, a group of gossips stopped short in their talk. It reminded +one of one of those ancient kings one sees in pictures; one of those +powerful and gentle kings who never grew old, resting his hand on the +shoulder of a girl beautiful as the day, whose docile and dazzling +youth lends him its support. + +They were turning into the Cours Sauvair to gain the Rue de la Banne, +when a tall, dark young man of about thirty stopped them. + +“Ah, master, you have forgotten me. I am still waiting for your notes +on consumption.” + +It was Dr. Ramond, a young physician, who had settled two years before +at Plassans, where he was building up a fine practise. With a superb +head, in the brilliant prime of a gracious manhood, he was adored by +the women, but he had fortunately a great deal of good sense and a +great deal of prudence. + +“Why, Ramond, good day! Not at all, my dear friend; I have not +forgotten you. It is this little girl, to whom I gave the notes +yesterday to copy, and who has not touched them yet.” + +The two young people shook hands with an air of cordial intimacy. + +“Good day, Mlle. Clotilde.” + +“Good day, M. Ramond.” + +During a gastric fever, happily mild, which the young girl had had the +preceding year, Dr. Pascal had lost his head to the extent of +distrusting his own skill, and he had asked his young colleague to +assist him—to reassure him. Thus it was that an intimacy, a sort of +comradeship, had sprung up among the three. + +“You shall have your notes to-morrow, I promise you,” she said, +smiling. + +Ramond walked on with them, however, until they reached the end of the +Rue de la Banne, at the entrance of the old quarter whither they were +going. And there was in the manner in which he leaned, smiling, toward +Clotilde, the revelation of a secret love that had grown slowly, +awaiting patiently the hour fixed for the most reasonable of +_dénouements_. Besides, he listened with deference to Dr. Pascal, whose +works he admired greatly. + +“And it just happens, my dear friend, that I am going to Guiraude’s, +that woman, you know, whose husband, a tanner, died of consumption five +years ago. She has two children living—Sophie, a girl now going on +sixteen, whom I fortunately succeeded in having sent four years before +her father’s death to a neighboring village, to one of her aunts; and a +son, Valentin, who has just completed his twenty-first year, and whom +his mother insisted on keeping with her through a blind affection, +notwithstanding that I warned her of the dreadful results that might +ensue. Well, see if I am right in asserting that consumption is not +hereditary, but only that consumptive parents transmit to their +children a degenerate soil, in which the disease develops at the +slightest contagion. Now, Valentin, who lived in daily contact with his +father, is consumptive, while Sophie, who grew up in the open air, has +superb health.” + +He added with a triumphant smile: + +“But that will not prevent me, perhaps, from saving Valentin, for he is +visibly improved, and is growing fat since I have used my injections +with him. Ah, Ramond, you will come to them yet; you will come to my +injections!” + +The young physician shook hands with both of them, saying: + +“I don’t say no. You know that I am always with you.” + +When they were alone they quickened their steps and were soon in the +Rue Canquoin, one of the narrowest and darkest streets of the old +quarter. Hot as was the sun, there reigned here the semi-obscurity and +the coolness of a cave. Here it was, on a ground floor, that Guiraude +lived with her son Valentin. She opened the door herself. She was a +thin, wasted-looking woman, who was herself affected with a slow +decomposition of the blood. From morning till night she crushed almonds +with the end of an ox-bone on a large paving stone, which she held +between her knees. This work was their only means of living, the son +having been obliged to give up all labor. She smiled, however, to-day +on seeing the doctor, for Valentin had just eaten a cutlet with a good +appetite, a thing which he had not done for months. Valentin, a +sickly-looking young man, with scanty hair and beard and prominent +cheek bones, on each of which was a bright red spot, while the rest of +his face was of a waxen hue, rose quickly to show how much more +sprightly he felt! And Clotilde was touched by the reception given to +Pascal as a saviour, the awaited Messiah. These poor people pressed his +hands—they would like to have kissed his feet; looking at him with eyes +shining with gratitude. True, the disease was not yet cured: perhaps +this was only the effect of the stimulus, perhaps what he felt was only +the excitement of fever. But was it not something to gain time? He gave +him another injection while Clotilde, standing before the window, +turned her back to them; and when they were leaving she saw him lay +twenty francs upon the table. This often happened to him, to pay his +patients instead of being paid by them. + +He made three other visits in the old quarter, and then went to see a +lady in the new town. When they found themselves in the street again, +he said: + +“Do you know that, if you were a courageous girl, we should walk to +Séguiranne, to see Sophie at her aunt’s. That would give me pleasure.” + +The distance was scarcely three kilometers; that would be only a +pleasant walk in this delightful weather. And she agreed gaily, not +sulky now, but pressing close to him, happy to hang on his arm. It was +five o’clock. The setting sun spread over the fields a great sheet of +gold. But as soon as they left Plassans they were obliged to cross the +corner of the vast, arid plain, which extended to the right of the +Viorne. The new canal, whose irrigating waters were soon to transform +the face of the country parched with thirst, did not yet water this +quarter, and red fields and yellow fields stretched away into the +distance under the melancholy and blighting glare of the sun, planted +only with puny almond trees and dwarf olives, constantly cut down and +pruned, whose branches twisted and writhed in attitudes of suffering +and revolt. In the distance, on the bare hillsides, were to be seen +only like pale patches the country houses, flanked by the regulation +cypress. The vast, barren expanse, however, with broad belts of +desolate fields of hard and distinct coloring, had classic lines of a +severe grandeur. And on the road the dust lay twenty centimeters thick, +a dust like snow, that the slightest breath of wind raised in broad, +flying clouds, and that covered with white powder the fig trees and the +brambles on either side. + +Clotilde, who amused herself like a child, listening to this dust +crackling under her little feet, wished to hold her parasol over +Pascal. + +“You have the sun in your eyes. Lean a little this way.” + +But at last he took possession of the parasol, to hold it himself. + +“It is you who do not hold it right; and then it tires you. Besides, we +are almost there now.” + +In the parched plain they could already perceive an island of verdure, +an enormous clump of trees. This was La Séguiranne, the farm on which +Sophie had grown up in the house of her Aunt Dieudonné, the wife of the +cross old man. Wherever there was a spring, wherever there was a +rivulet, this ardent soil broke out in rich vegetation; and then there +were walks bordered by trees, whose luxuriant foliage afforded a +delightful coolness and shade. Plane trees, chestnut trees, and young +elms grew vigorously. They entered an avenue of magnificent green oaks. + +As they approached the farm, a girl who was making hay in the meadow +dropped her fork and ran toward them. It was Sophie, who had recognized +the doctor and the young lady, as she called Clotilde. She adored them, +but she stood looking at them in confusion, unable to express the glad +greeting with which her heart overflowed. She resembled her brother +Valentin; she had his small stature, his prominent cheek bones, his +pale hair; but in the country, far from the contagion of the paternal +environment, she had, it seemed, gained flesh; acquired with her robust +limbs a firm step; her cheeks had filled out, her hair had grown +luxuriant. And she had fine eyes, which shone with health and +gratitude. Her Aunt Dieudonné, who was making hay with her, had come +toward them also, crying from afar jestingly, with something of +Provençal rudeness: + +“Ah, M. Pascal, we have no need of you here! There is no one sick!” + +The doctor, who had simply come in search of this fine spectacle of +health, answered in the same tone: + +“I hope so, indeed. But that does not prevent this little girl here +from owing you and me a fine taper!” + +“Well, that is the pure truth! And she knows it, M. Pascal. There is +not a day that she does not say that but for you she would be at this +time like her brother Valentin.” + +“Bah! We will save him, too. He is getting better, Valentin is. I have +just been to see him.” + +Sophie seized the doctor’s hands; large tears stood in her eyes, and +she could only stammer: + +“Oh, M. Pascal!” + +How they loved him! And Clotilde felt her affection for him increase, +seeing the affection of all these people for him. They remained +chatting there for a few moments longer, in the salubrious shade of the +green oaks. Then they took the road back to Plassans, having still +another visit to make. + +This was to a tavern, that stood at the crossing of two roads and was +white with the flying dust. A steam mill had recently been established +opposite, utilizing the old buildings of Le Paradou, an estate dating +from the last century, and Lafouasse, the tavern keeper, still carried +on his little business, thanks to the workmen at the mill and to the +peasants who brought their corn to it. He had still for customers on +Sundays the few inhabitants of Les Artauds, a neighboring hamlet. But +misfortune had struck him; for the last three years he had been +dragging himself about groaning with rheumatism, in which the doctor +had finally recognized the beginning of ataxia. But he had obstinately +refused to take a servant, persisting in waiting on his customers +himself, holding on by the furniture. So that once more firm on his +feet, after a dozen punctures, he already proclaimed his cure +everywhere. + +He chanced to be just then at his door, and looked strong and vigorous, +with his tall figure, fiery face, and fiery red hair. + +“I was waiting for you, M. Pascal. Do you know that I have been able to +bottle two casks of wine without being tired!” + +Clotilde remained outside, sitting on a stone bench; while Pascal +entered the room to give Lafouasse the injection. She could hear them +speaking, and the latter, who in spite of his stoutness was very +cowardly in regard to pain, complained that the puncture hurt, adding, +however, that after all a little suffering was a small price to pay for +good health. Then he declared he would be offended if the doctor did +not take a glass of something. The young lady would not affront him by +refusing to take some syrup. He carried a table outside, and there was +nothing for it but they must touch glasses with him. + +“To your health, M. Pascal, and to the health of all the poor devils to +whom you give back a relish for their victuals!” + +Clotilde thought with a smile of the gossip of which Martine had spoken +to her, of Father Boutin, whom they accused the doctor of having +killed. He did not kill all his patients, then; his remedy worked real +miracles, since he brought back to life the consumptive and the ataxic. +And her faith in her master returned with the warm affection for him +which welled up in her heart. When they left Lafouasse, she was once +more completely his; he could do what he willed with her. + +But a few moments before, sitting on the stone bench looking at the +steam mill, a confused story had recurred to her mind; was it not here +in these smoke-blackened buildings, to-day white with flour, that a +drama of love had once been enacted? And the story came back to her; +details given by Martine; allusions made by the doctor himself; the +whole tragic love adventure of her cousin the Abbé Serge Mouret, then +rector of Les Artauds, with an adorable young girl of a wild and +passionate nature who lived at Le Paradou. + +Returning by the same road Clotilde stopped, and pointing to the vast, +melancholy expanse of stubble fields, cultivated plains, and fallow +land, said: + +“Master, was there not once there a large garden? Did you not tell me +some story about it?” + +“Yes, yes; Le Paradou, an immense garden—woods, meadows, orchards, +parterres, fountains, and brooks that flowed into the Viorne. A garden +abandoned for an age; the garden of the Sleeping Beauty, returned to +Nature’s rule. And as you see they have cut down the woods, and cleared +and leveled the ground, to divide it into lots, and sell it by auction. +The springs themselves have dried up. There is nothing there now but +that fever-breeding marsh. Ah, when I pass by here, it makes my heart +ache!” + +She ventured to question him further: + +“But was it not in Le Paradou that my cousin Serge and your great +friend Albine fell in love with each other?” + +He had forgotten her presence. He went on talking, his gaze fixed on +space, lost in recollections of the past. + +“Albine, my God! I can see her now, in the sunny garden, like a great, +fragrant bouquet, her head thrown back, her bosom swelling with joy, +happy in her flowers, with wild flowers braided among her blond +tresses, fastened at her throat, on her corsage, around her slender, +bare brown arms. And I can see her again, after she had asphyxiated +herself; dead in the midst of her flowers; very white, sleeping with +folded hands, and a smile on her lips, on her couch of hyacinths and +tuberoses. Dead for love; and how passionately Albine and Serge loved +each other, in the great garden their tempter, in the bosom of Nature +their accomplice! And what a flood of life swept away all false bonds, +and what a triumph of life!” + +Clotilde, she too troubled by this passionate flow of murmured words, +gazed at him intently. She had never ventured to speak to him of +another story that she had heard—the story of the one love of his +life—a love which he had cherished in secret for a lady now dead. It +was said that he had attended her for a long time without ever so much +as venturing to kiss the tips of her fingers. Up to the present, up to +near sixty, study and his natural timidity had made him shun women. +But, notwithstanding, one felt that he was reserved for some great +passion, with his feelings still fresh and ardent, in spite of his +white hair. + +“And the girl that died, the girl they mourned,” she resumed, her voice +trembling, her cheeks scarlet, without knowing why. “Serge did not love +her, then, since he let her die?” + +Pascal started as though awakening from a dream, seeing her beside him +in her youthful beauty, with her large, clear eyes shining under the +shadow of her broad-brimmed hat. Something had happened; the same +breath of life had passed through them both; they did not take each +other’s arms again. They walked side by side. + +“Ah, my dear, the world would be too beautiful, if men did not spoil it +all! Albine is dead, and Serge is now rector of St. Eutrope, where he +lives with his sister Désirée, a worthy creature who has the good +fortune to be half an idiot. He is a holy man; I have never said the +contrary. One may be an assassin and serve God.” + +And he went on speaking of the hard things of life, of the blackness +and execrableness of humanity, without losing his gentle smile. He +loved life; and the continuous work of life was a continual joy to him +in spite of all the evil, all the misery, that it might contain. It +mattered not how dreadful life might appear, it must be great and good, +since it was lived with so tenacious a will, for the purpose no doubt +of this will itself, and of the great work which it unconsciously +accomplished. True, he was a scientist, a clear-sighted man; he did not +believe in any idyllic humanity living in a world of perpetual peace; +he saw, on the contrary, its woes and its vices; he had laid them bare; +he had examined them; he had catalogued them for thirty years past, but +his passion for life, his admiration for the forces of life, sufficed +to produce in him a perpetual gaiety, whence seemed to flow naturally +his love for others, a fraternal compassion, a sympathy, which were +felt under the roughness of the anatomist and under the affected +impersonality of his studies. + +“Bah!” he ended, taking a last glance at the vast, melancholy plains. +“Le Paradou is no more. They have sacked it, defiled it, destroyed it; +but what does that matter! Vines will be planted, corn will spring up, +a whole growth of new crops; and people will still fall in love in +vintages and harvests yet to come. Life is eternal; it is a perpetual +renewal of birth and growth.” + +He took her arm again and they returned to the town thus, arm in arm +like good friends, while the glow of the sunset was slowly fading away +in a tranquil sea of violets and roses. And seeing them both pass +again, the ancient king, powerful and gentle, leaning against the +shoulder of a charming and docile girl, supported by her youth, the +women of the faubourg, sitting at their doors, looked after them with a +smile of tender emotion. + +At La Souleiade Martine was watching for them. She waved her hand to +them from afar. What! Were they not going to dine to-day? Then, when +they were near, she said: + +“Ah! you will have to wait a little while. I did not venture to put on +my leg of mutton yet.” + +They remained outside to enjoy the charm of the closing day. The pine +grove, wrapped in shadow, exhaled a balsamic resinous odor, and from +the yard, still heated, in which a last red gleam was dying away, a +chillness arose. It was like an assuagement, a sigh of relief, a +resting of surrounding Nature, of the puny almond trees, the twisted +olives, under the paling sky, cloudless and serene; while at the back +of the house the clump of plane trees was a mass of black and +impenetrable shadows, where the fountain was heard singing its eternal +crystal song. + +“Look!” said the doctor, “M. Bellombre has already dined, and he is +taking the air.” + +He pointed to a bench, on which a tall, thin old man of seventy was +sitting, with a long face, furrowed with wrinkles, and large, staring +eyes, and very correctly attired in a close-fitting coat and cravat. + +“He is a wise man,” murmured Clotilde. “He is happy.” + +“He!” cried Pascal. “I should hope not!” + +He hated no one, and M. Bellombre, the old college professor, now +retired, and living in his little house without any other company than +that of a gardener who was deaf and dumb and older than himself, was +the only person who had the power to exasperate him. + +“A fellow who has been afraid of life; think of that! afraid of life! +Yes, a hard and avaricious egotist! If he banished woman from his +existence, it was only through fear of having to pay for her shoes. And +he has known only the children of others, who have made him +suffer—hence his hatred of the child—that flesh made to be flogged. The +fear of life, the fear of burdens and of duties, of annoyances and of +catastrophes! The fear of life, which makes us through dread of its +sufferings refuse its joys. Ah! I tell you, this cowardliness enrages +me; I cannot forgive it. We must live—live a complete life—live all our +life. Better even suffering, suffering only, than such renunciation—the +death of all there is in us that is living and human!” + +M. Bellombre had risen, and was walking along one of the walks with +slow, tranquil steps. Then, Clotilde, who had been watching him in +silence, at last said: + +“There is, however, the joy of renunciation. To renounce, not to live; +to keep one’s self for the spiritual, has not this always been the +great happiness of the saints?” + +“If they had not lived,” cried Pascal, “they could not now be saints. +Let suffering come, and I will bless it, for it is perhaps the only +great happiness!” + +But he felt that she rebelled against this; that he was going to lose +her again. At the bottom of our anxiety about the beyond is the secret +fear and hatred of life. So that he hastily assumed again his pleasant +smile, so affectionate and conciliating. + +“No, no! Enough for to-day; let us dispute no more; let us love each +other dearly. And see! Martine is calling us, let us go in to dinner.” + + + + +III. + + +For a month this unpleasant state of affairs continued, every day +growing worse, and Clotilde suffered especially at seeing that Pascal +now locked up everything. He had no longer the same tranquil confidence +in her as before, and this wounded her so deeply that, if she had at +any time found the press open, she would have thrown the papers into +the fire as her grandmother Félicité had urged her to do. And the +disagreements began again, so that they often remained without speaking +to each other for two days together. + +One morning, after one of these misunderstandings which had lasted +since the day before, Martine said as she was serving the breakfast: + +“Just now as I was crossing the Place de la Sous-Préfecture, I saw a +stranger whom I thought I recognized going into Mme. Félicité’s house. +Yes, mademoiselle, I should not be surprised if it were your brother.” + +On the impulse of the moment, Pascal and Clotilde spoke. + +“Your brother! Did your grandmother expect him, then?” + +“No, I don’t think so, though she has been expecting him at any time +for the past six months, I know that she wrote to him again a week +ago.” + +They questioned Martine. + +“Indeed, monsieur, I cannot say; since I last saw M. Maxime four years +ago, when he stayed two hours with us on his way to Italy, he may +perhaps have changed greatly—I thought, however, that I recognized his +back.” + +The conversation continued, Clotilde seeming to be glad of this event, +which broke at last the oppressive silence between them, and Pascal +ended: + +“Well, if it is he, he will come to see us.” + +It was indeed Maxime. He had yielded, after months of refusal, to the +urgent solicitations of old Mme. Rougon, who had still in this quarter +an open family wound to heal. The trouble was an old one, and it grew +worse every day. + +Fifteen years before, when he was seventeen, Maxime had had a child by +a servant whom he had seduced. His father Saccard, and his stepmother +Renée—the latter vexed more especially at his unworthy choice—had acted +in the matter with indulgence. The servant, Justine Mégot, belonged to +one of the neighboring villages, and was a fair-haired girl, also +seventeen, gentle and docile; and they had sent her back to Plassans, +with an allowance of twelve hundred francs a year, to bring up little +Charles. Three years later she had married there a harness-maker of the +faubourg, Frederic Thomas by name, a good workman and a sensible +fellow, who was tempted by the allowance. For the rest her conduct was +now most exemplary, she had grown fat, and she appeared to be cured of +a cough that had threatened a hereditary malady due to the alcoholic +propensities of a long line of progenitors. And two other children born +of her marriage, a boy who was now ten and a girl who was seven, both +plump and rosy, enjoyed perfect health; so that she would have been the +most respected and the happiest of women, if it had not been for the +trouble which Charles caused in the household. Thomas, notwithstanding +the allowance, execrated this son of another man and gave him no peace, +which made the mother suffer in secret, being an uncomplaining and +submissive wife. So that, although she adored him, she would willingly +have given him up to his father’s family. + +Charles, at fifteen, seemed scarcely twelve, and he had the infantine +intelligence of a child of five, resembling in an extraordinary degree +his great-great-grandmother, Aunt Dide, the madwoman at the Tulettes. +He had the slender and delicate grace of one of those bloodless little +kings with whom a race ends, crowned with their long, fair locks, light +as spun silk. His large, clear eyes were expressionless, and on his +disquieting beauty lay the shadow of death. And he had neither brain +nor heart—he was nothing but a vicious little dog, who rubbed himself +against people to be fondled. His great-grandmother Félicité, won by +this beauty, in which she affected to recognize her blood, had at first +put him in a boarding school, taking charge of him, but he had been +expelled from it at the end of six months for misconduct. Three times +she had changed his boarding school, and each time he had been expelled +in disgrace. Then, as he neither would nor could learn anything, and as +his health was declining rapidly, they kept him at home, sending him +from one to another of the family. Dr. Pascal, moved to pity, had tried +to cure him, and had abandoned the hopeless task only after he had kept +him with him for nearly a year, fearing the companionship for Clotilde. +And now, when Charles was not at his mother’s, where he scarcely ever +lived at present, he was to be found at the house of Félicité, or that +of some other relative, prettily dressed, laden with toys, living like +the effeminate little dauphin of an ancient and fallen race. + +Old Mme. Rougon, however, suffered because of this bastard, and she had +planned to get him away from the gossiping tongues of Plassans, by +persuading Maxime to take him and keep him with him in Paris. It would +still be an ugly story of the fallen family. But Maxime had for a long +time turned a deaf ear to her solicitations, in the fear which +continually haunted him of spoiling his life. After the war, enriched +by the death of his wife, he had come back to live prudently on his +fortune in his mansion on the avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, tormented +by the hereditary malady of which he was to die young, having gained +from his precocious debauchery a salutary fear of pleasure, resolved +above all to shun emotions and responsibilities, so that he might last +as long as possible. Acute pains in the limbs, rheumatic he thought +them, had been alarming him for some time past; he saw himself in fancy +already an invalid tied down to an easy-chair; and his father’s sudden +return to France, the fresh activity which Saccard was putting forth, +completed his disquietude. He knew well this devourer of millions; he +trembled at finding him again bustling about him with his good-humored, +malicious laugh. He felt that he was being watched, and he had the +conviction that he would be cut up and devoured if he should be for a +single day at his mercy, rendered helpless by the pains which were +invading his limbs. And so great a fear of solitude had taken +possession of him that he had now yielded to the idea of seeing his son +again. If he found the boy gentle, intelligent, and healthy, why should +he not take him to live with him? He would thus have a companion, an +heir, who would protect him against the machinations of his father. +Gradually he came to see himself, in his selfish forethought, loved, +petted, and protected; yet for all that he might not have risked such a +journey, if his physician had not just at that time sent him to the +waters of St. Gervais. Thus, having to go only a few leagues out of his +way, he had dropped in unexpectedly that morning on old Mme. Rougon, +firmly resolved to take the train again in the evening, after having +questioned her and seen the boy. + +At two o’clock Pascal and Clotilde were still beside the fountain under +the plane trees where they had taken their coffee, when Félicité +arrived with Maxime. + +“My dear, here’s a surprise! I have brought you your brother.” + +Startled, the young girl had risen, seeing this thin and sallow +stranger, whom she scarcely recognized. Since their parting in 1854 she +had seen him only twice, once at Paris and again at Plassans. Yet his +image, refined, elegant, and vivacious, had remained engraven on her +mind; his face had grown hollow, his hair was streaked with silver +threads. But notwithstanding, she found in him still, with his +delicately handsome head, a languid grace, like that of a girl, even in +his premature decrepitude. + +“How well you look!” he said simply, as he embraced his sister. + +“But,” she responded, “to be well one must live in the sunshine. Ah, +how happy it makes me to see you again!” + +Pascal, with the eye of the physician, had examined his nephew +critically. He embraced him in his turn. + +“Goodday, my boy. And she is right, mind you; one can be well only out +in the sunshine—like the trees.” + +Félicité had gone hastily to the house. She returned, crying: + +“Charles is not here, then?” + +“No,” said Clotilde. “We went to see him yesterday. Uncle Macquart has +taken him, and he is to remain for a few days at the Tulettes.” + +Félicité was in despair. She had come only in the certainty of finding +the boy at Pascal’s. What was to be done now? The doctor, with his +tranquil air, proposed to write to Uncle Macquart, who would bring him +back in the morning. But when he learned that Maxime wished positively +to go away again by the nine o’clock train, without remaining over +night, another idea occurred to him. He would send to the livery stable +for a landau, and all four would go to see Charles at Uncle Macquart’s. +It would even be a delightful drive. It was not quite three leagues +from Plassans to the Tulettes—an hour to go, and an hour to return, and +they would still have almost two hours to remain there, if they wished +to be back by seven. Martine would get dinner, and Maxime would have +time enough to dine and catch his train. + +But Félicité objected, visibly disquieted by this visit to Macquart. + +“Oh, no, indeed! If you think I am going down there in this frightful +weather, you are mistaken. It is much simpler to send some one to bring +Charles to us.” + +Pascal shook his head. Charles was not always to be brought back when +one wished. He was a boy without reason, who sometimes, if the whim +seized him, would gallop off like an untamed animal. And old Mme. +Rougon, overruled and furious at having been unable to make any +preparation, was at last obliged to yield, in the necessity in which +she found herself of leaving the matter to chance. + +“Well, be it as you wish, then! Good Heavens, how unfortunately things +have turned out!” + +Martine hurried away to order the landau, and before three o’clock had +struck the horses were on the Nice road, descending the declivity which +slopes down to the bridge over the Viorne. Then they turned to the +left, and followed the wooded banks of the river for about two miles. +After this the road entered the gorges of the Seille, a narrow pass +between two giant walls of rock scorched by the ardent rays of the +summer sun. Pine trees pushed their way through the clefts; clumps of +trees, scarcely thicker at the roots than tufts of grass, fringed the +crests and hung over the abyss. It was a chaos; a blasted landscape, a +mouth of hell, with its wild turns, its droppings of blood-colored +earth sliding down from every cut, its desolate solitude invaded only +by the eagles’ flight. + +Félicité did not open her lips; her brain was at work, and she seemed +completely absorbed in her thoughts. The atmosphere was oppressive, the +sun sent his burning rays from behind a veil of great livid clouds. +Pascal was almost the only one who talked, in his passionate love for +this scorched land—a love which he endeavored to make his nephew share. +But it was in vain that he uttered enthusiastic exclamations, in vain +that he called his attention to the persistence of the olives, the fig +trees, and the thorn bushes in pushing through the rock; the life of +the rock itself, that colossal and puissant frame of the earth, from +which they could almost fancy they heard a sound of breathing arise. +Maxime remained cold, filled with a secret anguish in presence of those +blocks of savage majesty, whose mass seemed to crush him. And he +preferred to turn his eyes toward his sister, who was seated in front +of him. He was becoming more and more charmed with her. She looked so +healthy and so happy, with her pretty round head, with its straight, +well-molded forehead. Now and then their glances met, and she gave him +an affectionate smile which consoled him. + +But the wildness of the gorge was beginning to soften, the two walls of +rock to grow lower; they passed between two peaceful hills, with gentle +slopes covered with thyme and lavender. It was the desert still, there +were still bare spaces, green or violet hued, from which the faintest +breeze brought a pungent perfume. + +Then abruptly, after a last turn they descended to the valley of the +Tulettes, which was refreshed by springs. In the distance stretched +meadows dotted by large trees. The village was seated midway on the +slope, among olive trees, and the country house of Uncle Macquart stood +a little apart on the left, full in view. The landau turned into the +road which led to the insane asylum, whose white walls they could see +before them in the distance. + +Félicité’s silence had grown somber, for she was not fond of exhibiting +Uncle Macquart. Another whom the family would be well rid of the day +when he should take his departure. For the credit of every one he ought +to have been sleeping long ago under the sod. But he persisted in +living, he carried his eighty-three years well, like an old drunkard +saturated with liquor, whom the alcohol seemed to preserve. At Plassans +he had left a terrible reputation as a do-nothing and a scoundrel, and +the old men whispered the execrable story of the corpses that lay +between him and the Rougons, an act of treachery in the troublous days +of December, 1851, an ambuscade in which he had left comrades with +their bellies ripped open, lying on the bloody pavement. Later, when he +had returned to France, he had preferred to the good place of which he +had obtained the promise this little domain of the Tulettes, which +Félicité had bought for him. And he had lived comfortably here ever +since; he had no longer any other ambition than that of enlarging it, +looking out once more for the good chances, and he had even found the +means of obtaining a field which he had long coveted, by making himself +useful to his sister-in-law at the time when the latter again +reconquered Plassans from the legitimists—another frightful story that +was whispered also, of a madman secretly let loose from the asylum, +running in the night to avenge himself, setting fire to his house in +which four persons were burned. But these were old stories and +Macquart, settled down now, was no longer the redoubtable scoundrel who +had made all the family tremble. He led a perfectly correct life; he +was a wily diplomat, and he had retained nothing of his air of jeering +at the world but his bantering smile. + +“Uncle is at home,” said Pascal, as they approached the house. + +This was one of those Provençal structures of a single story, with +discolored tiles and four walls washed with a bright yellow. Before the +facade extended a narrow terrace shaded by ancient mulberry trees, +whose thick, gnarled branches drooped down, forming an arbor. It was +here that Uncle Macquart smoked his pipe in the cool shade, in summer. +And on hearing the sound of the carriage, he came and stood at the edge +of the terrace, straightening his tall form neatly clad in blue cloth, +his head covered with the eternal fur cap which he wore from one year’s +end to the other. + +As soon as he recognized his visitors, he called out with a sneer: + +“Oh, here come some fine company! How kind of you; you are out for an +airing.” + +But the presence of Maxime puzzled him. Who was he? Whom had he come to +see? They mentioned his name to him, and he immediately cut short the +explanations they were adding, to enable him to straighten out the +tangled skein of relationship. + +“The father of Charles—I know, I know! The son of my nephew Saccard, +_pardi_! the one who made a fine marriage, and whose wife died—” + +He stared at Maxime, seeming happy to find him already wrinkled at +thirty-two, with his hair and beard sprinkled with snow. + +“Ah, well!” he added, “we are all growing old. But I, at least, have no +great reason to complain. I am solid.” + +And he planted himself firmly on his legs with his air of ferocious +mockery, while his fiery red face seemed to flame and burn. For a long +time past ordinary brandy had seemed to him like pure water; only +spirits of 36 degrees tickled his blunted palate; and he took such +draughts of it that he was full of it—his flesh saturated with it—like +a sponge. He perspired alcohol. At the slightest breath whenever he +spoke, he exhaled from his mouth a vapor of alcohol. + +“Yes, truly; you are solid, uncle!” said Pascal, amazed. “And you have +done nothing to make you so; you have good reason to ridicule us. Only +there is one thing I am afraid of, look you, that some day in lighting +your pipe, you may set yourself on fire—like a bowl of punch.” + +Macquart, flattered, gave a sneering laugh. + +“Have your jest, have your jest, my boy! A glass of cognac is worth +more than all your filthy drugs. And you will all touch glasses with +me, hey? So that it may be said truly that your uncle is a credit to +you all. As for me, I laugh at evil tongues. I have corn and olive +trees, I have almond trees and vines and land, like any _bourgeois_. In +summer I smoke my pipe under the shade of my mulberry trees; in winter +I go to smoke it against my wall, there in the sunshine. One has no +need to blush for an uncle like that, hey? Clotilde, I have syrup, if +you would like some. And you, Félicité, my dear, I know that you prefer +anisette. There is everything here, I tell you, there is everything +here!” + +He waved his arm as if to take possession of the comforts he enjoyed, +now that from an old sinner he had become a hermit, while Félicité, +whom he had disturbed a moment before by the enumeration of his riches, +did not take her eyes from his face, waiting to interrupt him. + +“Thank you, Macquart, we will take nothing; we are in a hurry. Where is +Charles?” + +“Charles? Very good, presently! I understand, papa has come to see his +boy. But that is not going to prevent you taking a glass.” + +And as they positively refused he became offended, and said, with his +malicious laugh: + +“Charles is not here; he is at the asylum with the old woman.” + +Then, taking Maxime to the end of the terrace, he pointed out to him +the great white buildings, whose inner gardens resembled prison yards. + +“Look, nephew, you see those three trees in front of you? Well, beyond +the one to the left, there is a fountain in a court. Follow the ground +floor, and the fifth window to the right is Aunt Dide’s. And that is +where the boy is. Yes, I took him there a little while ago.” + +This was an indulgence of the directors. In the twenty years that she +had been in the asylum the old woman had not given a moment’s +uneasiness to her keeper. Very quiet, very gentle, she passed the days +motionless in her easy-chair, looking straight before her; and as the +boy liked to be with her, and as she herself seemed to take an interest +in him, they shut their eyes to this infraction of the rules and left +him there sometimes for two or three hours at a time, busily occupied +in cutting out pictures. + +But this new disappointment put the finishing stroke to Félicité’s +ill-humor; she grew angry when Macquart proposed that all five should +go in a body in search of the boy. + +“What an idea! Go you alone, and come back quickly. We have no time to +lose.” + +Her suppressed rage seemed to amuse Uncle Macquart, and perceiving how +disagreeable his proposition was to her, he insisted, with his sneering +laugh: + +“But, my children, we should at the same time have an opportunity of +seeing the old mother; the mother of us all. There is no use in +talking; you know that we are all descended from her, and it would +hardly be polite not to go wish her a good-day, when my grandnephew, +who has come from such a distance, has perhaps never before had a good +look at her. I’ll not disown her, may the devil take me if I do. To be +sure she is mad, but all the same, old mothers who have passed their +hundredth year are not often to be seen, and she well deserves that we +should show ourselves a little kind to her.” + +There was silence for a moment. A little shiver had run through every +one. And it was Clotilde, silent until now, who first declared in a +voice full of feeling: + +“You are right, uncle; we will all go.” + +Félicité herself was obliged to consent. They re-entered the landau, +Macquart taking the seat beside the coachman. A feeling of disquietude +had given a sallow look to Maxime’s worn face; and during the short +drive he questioned Pascal concerning Charles with an air of paternal +interest, which concealed a growing anxiety. The doctor constrained by +his mother’s imperious glances, softened the truth. Well, the boy’s +health was certainly not very robust; it was on that account, indeed, +that they were glad to leave him for weeks together in the country with +his uncle: but he had no definite disease. Pascal did not add that he +had for a moment cherished the dream of giving him a brain and muscles +by treating him with his hypodermic injections of nerve substance, but +that he had always been met by the same difficulty; the slightest +puncture brought on a hemorrhage which it was found necessary to stop +by compresses; there was a laxness of the tissues, due to degeneracy; a +bloody dew which exuded from the skin; he had especially, bleedings at +the nose so sudden and so violent that they did not dare to leave him +alone, fearing lest all the blood in his veins should flow out. And the +doctor ended by saying that although the boy’s intelligence had been +sluggish, he still hoped that it would develop in an environment of +quicker mental activity. + +They arrived at the asylum and Macquart, who had been listening to the +doctor, descended from his seat, saying: + +“He is a gentle little fellow, a very gentle little fellow! And then, +he is so beautiful—an angel!” + +Maxime, who was still pale, and who shivered in spite of the stifling +heat, put no more questions. He looked at the vast buildings of the +asylum, the wings of the various quarters separated by gardens, the +men’s quarters from those of the women, those of the harmless insane +from those of the violent insane. A scrupulous cleanliness reigned +everywhere, a gloomy silence—broken from time to time by footsteps and +the noise of keys. Old Macquart knew all the keepers. Besides, the +doors were always to open to Dr. Pascal, who had been authorized to +attend certain of the inmates. They followed a passage and entered a +court; it was here—one of the chambers on the ground floor, a room +covered with a light carpet, furnished with a bed, a press, a table, an +armchair, and two chairs. The nurse, who had orders never to quit her +charge, happened just now to be absent, and the only occupants of the +room were the madwoman, sitting rigid in her armchair at one side of +the table, and the boy, sitting on a chair on the opposite side, +absorbed in cutting out his pictures. + +“Go in, go in!” Macquart repeated. “Oh, there is no danger, she is very +gentle!” + +The grandmother, Adelaïde Fouqué, whom her grandchildren, a whole swarm +of descendants, called by the pet name of Aunt Dide, did not even turn +her head at the noise. In her youth hysterical troubles had unbalanced +her mind. Of an ardent and passionate nature and subject to nervous +attacks, she had yet reached the great age of eighty-three when a +dreadful grief, a terrible moral shock, destroyed her reason. At that +time, twenty-one years before, her mind had ceased to act; it had +become suddenly weakened without the possibility of recovery. And now, +at the age of 104 years, she lived here as if forgotten by the world, a +quiet madwoman with an ossified brain, with whom insanity might remain +stationary for an indefinite length of time without causing death. Old +age had come, however, and had gradually atrophied her muscles. Her +flesh was as if eaten away by age. The skin only remained on her bones, +so that she had to be carried from her chair to her bed, for it had +become impossible for her to walk or even to move. And yet she held +herself erect against the back of her chair, a yellow, dried-up +skeleton—like an ancient tree of which the bark only remains—with only +her eyes still living in her thin, long visage, in which the wrinkles +had been, so to say, worn away. She was looking fixedly at Charles. + +Clotilde approached her a little tremblingly. + +“Aunt Dide, it is we; we have come to see you. Don’t you know me, then? +Your little girl who comes sometimes to kiss you.” + +But the madwoman did not seem to hear. Her eyes remained fixed upon the +boy, who was finishing cutting out a picture—a purple king in a golden +mantle. + +“Come, mamma,” said Macquart, “don’t pretend to be stupid. You may very +well look at us. Here is a gentleman, a grandson of yours, who has come +from Paris expressly to see you.” + +At this voice Aunt Dide at last turned her head. Her clear, +expressionless eyes wandered slowly from one to another, then rested +again on Charles with the same fixed look as before. + +They all shivered, and no one spoke again. + +“Since the terrible shock she received,” explained Pascal in a low +voice, “she has been that way; all intelligence, all memory seem +extinguished in her. For the most part she is silent; at times she +pours forth a flood of stammering and indistinct words. She laughs and +cries without cause, she is a thing that nothing affects. And yet I +should not venture to say that the darkness of her mind is complete, +that no memories remain stored up in its depths. Ah! the poor old +mother, how I pity her, if the light has not yet been finally +extinguished. What can her thoughts have been for the last twenty-one +years, if she still remembers?” + +With a gesture he put this dreadful past which he knew from him. He saw +her again young, a tall, pale, slender girl with frightened eyes, a +widow, after fifteen months of married life with Rougon, the clumsy +gardener whom she had chosen for a husband, throwing herself +immediately afterwards into the arms of the smuggler Macquart, whom she +loved with a wolfish love, and whom she did not even marry. She had +lived thus for fifteen years, with her three children, one the child of +her marriage, the other two illegitimate, a capricious and tumultuous +existence, disappearing for weeks at a time, and returning all bruised, +her arms black and blue. Then Macquart had been killed, shot down like +a dog by a _gendarme_; and the first shock had paralyzed her, so that +even then she retained nothing living but her water-clear eyes in her +livid face; and she shut herself up from the world in the hut which her +lover had left her, leading there for forty years the dead existence of +a nun, broken by terrible nervous attacks. But the other shock was to +finish her, to overthrow her reason, and Pascal recalled the atrocious +scene, for he had witnessed it—a poor child whom the grandmother had +taken to live with her, her grandson Silvère, the victim of family +hatred and strife, whose head another _gendarme_ shattered with a +pistol shot, at the suppression of the insurrectionary movement of +1851. She was always to be bespattered with blood. + +Félicité, meanwhile, had approached Charles, who was so engrossed with +his pictures that all these people did not disturb him. + +“My darling, this gentleman is your father. Kiss him,” she said. + +And then they all occupied themselves with Charles. He was very +prettily dressed in a jacket and short trousers of black velvet, +braided with gold cord. Pale as a lily, he resembled in truth one of +those king’s sons whose pictures he was cutting out, with his large, +light eyes and his shower of fair curls. But what especially struck the +attention at this moment was his resemblance to Aunt Dide; this +resemblance which had overleaped three generations, which had passed +from this withered centenarian’s countenance, from these dead features +wasted by life, to this delicate child’s face that was also as if worn, +aged, and wasted, through the wear of the race. Fronting each other, +the imbecile child of a deathlike beauty seemed the last of the race of +which she, forgotten by the world, was the ancestress. + +Maxime bent over to press a kiss on the boy’s forehead; and a chill +struck to his heart—this very beauty disquieted him; his uneasiness +grew in this chamber of madness, whence, it seemed to him, breathed a +secret horror come from the far-off past. + +“How beautiful you are, my pet! Don’t you love me a little?” + +Charles looked at him without comprehending, and went back to his play. + +But all were chilled. Without the set expression of her countenance +changing Aunt Dide wept, a flood of tears rolled from her living eyes +over her dead cheeks. Her gaze fixed immovably upon the boy, she wept +slowly, endlessly. A great thing had happened. + +And now an extraordinary emotion took possession of Pascal. He caught +Clotilde by the arm and pressed it hard, trying to make her understand. +Before his eyes appeared the whole line, the legitimate branch and the +bastard branch, which had sprung from this trunk already vitiated by +neurosis. Five generations were there present—the Rougons and the +Macquarts, Adelaïde Fouqué at the root, then the scoundrelly old uncle, +then himself, then Clotilde and Maxime, and lastly, Charles. Félicité +occupied the place of her dead husband. There was no link wanting; the +chain of heredity, logical and implacable, was unbroken. And what a +world was evoked from the depths of the tragic cabin which breathed +this horror that came from the far-off past in such appalling shape +that every one, notwithstanding the oppressive heat, shivered. + +“What is it, master?” whispered Clotilde, trembling. + +“No, no, nothing!” murmured the doctor. “I will tell you later.” + +Macquart, who alone continued to sneer, scolded the old mother. What an +idea was hers, to receive people with tears when they put themselves +out to come and make her a visit. It was scarcely polite. And then he +turned to Maxime and Charles. + +“Well, nephew, you have seen your boy at last. Is it not true that he +is pretty, and that he is a credit to you, after all?” + +Félicité hastened to interfere. Greatly dissatisfied with the turn +which affairs were taking, she was now anxious only to get away. + +“He is certainly a handsome boy, and less backward than people think. +Just see how skilful he is with his hands. And you will see when you +have brightened him up in Paris, in a different way from what we have +been able to do at Plassans, eh?” + +“No doubt,” murmured Maxime. “I do not say no; I will think about it.” + +He seemed embarrassed for a moment, and then added: + +“You know I came only to see him. I cannot take him with me now as I am +to spend a month at St. Gervais. But as soon as I return to Paris I +will think of it, I will write to you.” + +Then, taking out his watch, he cried: + +“The devil! Half-past five. You know that I would not miss the nine +o’clock train for anything in the world.” + +“Yes, yes, let us go,” said Félicité brusquely. “We have nothing more +to do here.” + +Macquart, whom his sister-in-law’s anger seemed still to divert, +endeavored to delay them with all sorts of stories. He told of the days +when Aunt Dide talked, and he affirmed that he had found her one +morning singing a romance of her youth. And then he had no need of the +carriage, he would take the boy back on foot, since they left him to +him. + +“Kiss your papa, my boy, for you know now that you see him, but you +don’t know whether you shall ever see him again or not.” + +With the same surprised and indifferent movement Charles raised his +head, and Maxime, troubled, pressed another kiss on his forehead. + +“Be very good and very pretty, my pet. And love me a little.” + +“Come, come, we have no time to lose,” repeated Félicité. + +But the keeper here re-entered the room. She was a stout, vigorous +girl, attached especially to the service of the madwoman. She carried +her to and from her bed, night and morning; she fed her and took care +of her like a child. And she at once entered into conversation with Dr. +Pascal, who questioned her. One of the doctor’s most cherished dreams +was to cure the mad by his treatment of hypodermic injections. Since in +their case it was the brain that was in danger, why should not +hypodermic injections of nerve substance give them strength and will, +repairing the breaches made in the organ? So that for a moment he had +dreamed of trying the treatment with the old mother; then he began to +have scruples, he felt a sort of awe, without counting that madness at +that age was total, irreparable ruin. So that he had chosen another +subject—a hatter named Sarteur, who had been for a year past in the +asylum, to which he had come himself to beg them to shut him up to +prevent him from committing a crime. In his paroxysms, so strong an +impulse to kill seized him that he would have thrown himself upon the +first passer-by. He was of small stature, very dark, with a retreating +forehead, an aquiline face with a large nose and a very short chin, and +his left cheek was noticeably larger than his right. And the doctor had +obtained miraculous results with this victim of emotional insanity, who +for a month past had had no attack. The nurse, indeed being questioned, +answered that Sarteur had become quiet and was growing better every +day. + +“Do you hear, Clotilde?” cried Pascal, enchanted. “I have not the time +to see him this evening, but I will come again to-morrow. It is my +visiting day. Ah, if I only dared; if she were young still—” + +His eyes turned toward Aunt Dide. But Clotilde, whom his enthusiasm +made smile, said gently: + +“No, no, master, you cannot make life anew. There, come. We are the +last.” + +It was true; the others had already gone. Macquart, on the threshold, +followed Félicité and Maxime with his mocking glance as they went away. +Aunt Dide, the forgotten one, sat motionless, appalling in her +leanness, her eyes again fixed upon Charles with his white, worn face +framed in his royal locks. + +The drive back was full of constraint. In the heat which exhaled from +the earth, the landau rolled on heavily to the measured trot of the +horses. The stormy sky took on an ashen, copper-colored hue in the +deepening twilight. At first a few indifferent words were exchanged; +but from the moment in which they entered the gorges of the Seille all +conversation ceased, as if they felt oppressed by the menacing walls of +giant rock that seemed closing in upon them. Was not this the end of +the earth, and were they not going to roll into the unknown, over the +edge of some abyss? An eagle soared by, uttering a shrill cry. + +Willows appeared again, and the carriage was rolling lightly along the +bank of the Viorne, when Félicité began without transition, as if she +were resuming a conversation already commenced. + +“You have no refusal to fear from the mother. She loves Charles dearly, +but she is a very sensible woman, and she understands perfectly that it +is to the boy’s advantage that you should take him with you. And I must +tell you, too, that the poor boy is not very happy with her, since, +naturally, the husband prefers his own son and daughter. For you ought +to know everything.” + +And she went on in this strain, hoping, no doubt, to persuade Maxime +and draw a formal promise from him. She talked until they reached +Plassans. Then, suddenly, as the landau rolled over the pavement of the +faubourg, she said: + +“But look! there is his mother. That stout blond at the door there.” + +At the threshold of a harness-maker’s shop hung round with horse +trappings and halters, Justine sat, knitting a stocking, taking the +air, while the little girl and boy were playing on the ground at her +feet. And behind them in the shadow of the shop was to be seen Thomas, +a stout, dark man, occupied in repairing a saddle. + +Maxime leaned forward without emotion, simply curious. He was greatly +surprised at sight of this robust woman of thirty-two, with so sensible +and so commonplace an air, in whom there was not a trace of the wild +little girl with whom he had been in love when both of the same age +were entering their seventeenth year. Perhaps a pang shot through his +heart to see her plump and tranquil and blooming, while he was ill and +already aged. + +“I should never have recognized her,” he said. + +And the landau, still rolling on, turned into the Rue de Rome. Justine +had disappeared; this vision of the past—a past so different from the +present—had sunk into the shadowy twilight, with Thomas, the children, +and the shop. + +At La Souleiade the table was set; Martine had an eel from the Viorne, +a _sautéd_ rabbit, and a leg of mutton. Seven o’clock was striking, and +they had plenty of time to dine quietly. + +“Don’t be uneasy,” said Dr. Pascal to his nephew. “We will accompany +you to the station; it is not ten minutes’ walk from here. As you left +your trunk, you have nothing to do but to get your ticket and jump on +board the train.” + +Then, meeting Clotilde in the vestibule, where she was hanging up her +hat and her umbrella, he said to her in an undertone: + +“Do you know that I am uneasy about your brother?” + +“Why so?” + +“I have observed him attentively. I don’t like the way in which he +walks; and have you noticed what an anxious look he has at times? That +has never deceived me. In short, your brother is threatened with +ataxia.” + +“Ataxia!” she repeated turning very pale. + +A cruel image rose before her, that of a neighbor, a man still young, +whom for the past ten years she had seen driven about in a little +carriage by a servant. Was not this infirmity the worst of all ills, +the ax stroke that separates a living being from social and active +life? + +“But,” she murmured, “he complains only of rheumatism.” + +Pascal shrugged his shoulders; and putting a finger to his lip he went +into the dining-room, where Félicité and Maxime were seated. + +The dinner was very friendly. The sudden disquietude which had sprung +up in Clotilde’s heart made her still more affectionate to her brother, +who sat beside her. She attended to his wants gayly, forcing him to +take the most delicate morsels. Twice she called back Martine, who was +passing the dishes too quickly. And Maxime was more and more enchanted +by this sister, who was so good, so healthy, so sensible, whose charm +enveloped him like a caress. So greatly was he captivated by her that +gradually a project, vague at first, took definite shape within him. +Since little Charles, his son, terrified him so greatly with his +deathlike beauty, his royal air of sickly imbecility, why should he not +take his sister Clotilde to live with him? The idea of having a woman +in his house alarmed him, indeed, for he was afraid of all women, +having had too much experience of them in his youth; but this one +seemed to him truly maternal. And then, too, a good woman in his house +would make a change in it, which would be a desirable thing. He would +at least be left no longer at the mercy of his father, whom he +suspected of desiring his death so that he might get possession of his +money at once. His hatred and terror of his father decided him. + +“Don’t you think of marrying, then?” he asked, wishing to try the +ground. + +The young girl laughed. + +“Oh, there is no hurry,” she answered. + +Then, suddenly, looking at Pascal, who had raised his head, she added: + +“How can I tell? Oh, I shall never marry.” + +But Félicité protested. When she saw her so attached to the doctor, she +often wished for a marriage that would separate her from him, that +would leave her son alone in a deserted home, where she herself might +become all powerful, mistress of everything. Therefore she appealed to +him. Was it not true that a woman ought to marry, that it was against +nature to remain an old maid? + +And he gravely assented, without taking his eyes from Clotilde’s face. + +“Yes, yes, she must marry. She is too sensible not to marry.” + +“Bah!” interrupted Maxime, “would it be really sensible in her to +marry? In order to be unhappy, perhaps; there are so many ill-assorted +marriages!” + +And coming to a resolution, he added: + +“Don’t you know what you ought to do? Well, you ought to come and live +with me in Paris. I have thought the matter over. The idea of taking +charge of a child in my state of health terrifies me. Am I not a child +myself, an invalid who needs to be taken care of? You will take care of +me; you will be with me, if I should end by losing the use of my +limbs.” + +There was a sound of tears in his voice, so great a pity did he feel +for himself. He saw himself, in fancy, sick; he saw his sister at his +bedside, like a Sister of Charity; if she consented to remain unmarried +he would willingly leave her his fortune, so that his father might not +have it. The dread which he had of solitude, the need in which he +should perhaps stand of having a sick-nurse, made him very pathetic. + +“It would be very kind on your part, and you should have no cause to +repent it.” + +Martine, who was serving the mutton, stopped short in surprise; and the +proposition caused the same surprise at the table. Félicité was the +first to approve, feeling that the girl’s departure would further her +plans. She looked at Clotilde, who was still silent and stunned, as it +were; while Dr. Pascal waited with a pale face. + +“Oh, brother, brother,” stammered the young girl, unable at first to +think of anything else to say. + +Then her grandmother cried: + +“Is that all you have to say? Why, the proposition your brother has +just made you is a very advantageous one. If he is afraid of taking +Charles now, why, you can go with him, and later on you can send for +the child. Come, come, that can be very well arranged. Your brother +makes an appeal to your heart. Is it not true, Pascal, that she owes +him a favorable answer?” + +The doctor, by an effort, recovered his self-possession. The chill that +had seized him made itself felt, however, in the slowness with which he +spoke. + +“The offer, in effect, is very kind. Clotilde, as I said before, is +very sensible and she will accept it, if it is right that she should do +so.” + +The young girl, greatly agitated, rebelled at this. + +“Do you wish to send me away, then, master? Maxime is very good, and I +thank him from the bottom of my heart. But to leave everything, my God! +To leave all that love me, all that I have loved until now!” + +She made a despairing gesture, indicating the place and the people, +taking in all La Souleiade. + +“But,” responded Pascal, looking at her fixedly, “what if Maxime should +need you, what if you had a duty to fulfil toward him?” + +Her eyes grew moist, and she remained for a moment trembling and +desperate; for she alone understood. The cruel vision again arose +before her—Maxime, helpless, driven, about in a little carriage by a +servant, like the neighbor whom she used to pity. Had she indeed any +duty toward a brother who for fifteen years had been a stranger to her? +Did not her duty lie where her heart was? Nevertheless, her distress of +mind continued; she still suffered in the struggle. + +“Listen, Maxime,” she said at last, “give me also time to reflect. I +will see. Be assured that I am very grateful to you. And if you should +one day really have need of me, well, I should no doubt decide to go.” + +This was all they could make her promise. Félicité, with her usual +vehemence, exhausted all her efforts in vain, while the doctor now +affected to say that she had given her word. Martine brought a cream, +without thinking of hiding her joy. To take away mademoiselle! what an +idea, in order that monsieur might die of grief at finding himself all +alone. And the dinner was delayed, too, by this unexpected incident. +They were still at the dessert when half-past eight struck. + +Then Maxime grew restless, tapped the floor with his foot, and declared +that he must go. + +At the station, whither they all accompanied him he kissed his sister a +last time, saying: + +“Remember!” + +“Don’t be afraid,” declared Félicité, “we are here to remind her of her +promise.” + +The doctor smiled, and all three, as soon as the train was in motion, +waved their handkerchiefs. + +On this day, after accompanying the grandmother to her door, Dr. Pascal +and Clotilde returned peacefully to La Souleiade, and spent a +delightful evening there. The constraint of the past few weeks, the +secret antagonism which had separated them, seemed to have vanished. +Never had it seemed so sweet to them to feel so united, inseparable. +Doubtless it was only this first pang of uneasiness suffered by their +affection, this threatened separation, the postponement of which +delighted them. It was for them like a return to health after an +illness, a new hope of life. They remained for long time in the warm +night, under the plane trees, listening to the crystal murmur of the +fountain. And they did not even speak, so profoundly did they enjoy the +happiness of being together. + + + + +IV. + + +Ten days later the household had fallen back into its former state of +unhappiness. Pascal and Clotilde remained entire afternoons without +exchanging a word; and there were continual outbursts of ill-humor. +Even Martine was constantly out of temper. The home of these three had +again become a hell. + +Then suddenly the condition of affairs was still further aggravated. A +Capuchin monk of great sanctity, such as often pass through the towns +of the South, came to Plassans to conduct a mission. The pulpit of St. +Saturnin resounded with his bursts of eloquence. He was a sort of +apostle, a popular and fiery orator, a florid speaker, much given to +the use of metaphors. And he preached on the nothingness of modern +science with an extraordinary mystical exaltation, denying the reality +of this world, and disclosing the unknown, the mysteries of the Beyond. +All the devout women of the town were full of excitement about his +preaching. + +On the very first evening on which Clotilde, accompanied by Martine, +attended the sermon, Pascal noticed her feverish excitement when she +returned. On the following day her excitement increased, and she +returned home later, having remained to pray for an hour in a dark +corner of a chapel. From this time she was never absent from the +services, returning languid, and with the luminous eyes of a seer; and +the Capuchin’s burning words haunted her; certain of his images stirred +her to ecstasy. She grew irritable, and she seemed to have conceived a +feeling of anger and contempt for every one and everything around her. + +Pascal, filled with uneasiness, determined to have an explanation with +Martine. He came down early one morning as she was sweeping the +dining-room. + +“You know that I leave you and Clotilde free to go to church, if that +pleases you,” he said. “I do not believe in oppressing any one’s +conscience. But I do not wish that you should make her sick.” + +The servant, without stopping in her work, said in a low voice: + +“Perhaps the sick people are those who don’t think that they are sick.” + +She said this with such an air of conviction that he smiled. + +“Yes,” he returned; “I am the sick soul whose conversion you pray for; +while both of you are in possession of health and of perfect wisdom. +Martine, if you continue to torment me and to torment yourselves, as +you are doing, I shall grow angry.” + +He spoke in so furious and so harsh a voice that the servant stopped +suddenly in her sweeping, and looked him full in the face. An infinite +tenderness, an immense desolation passed over the face of the old maid +cloistered in his service. And tears filled her eyes and she hurried +out of the room stammering: + +“Ah, monsieur, you do not love us.” + +Then Pascal, filled with an overwhelming sadness, gave up the contest. +His remorse increased for having shown so much tolerance, for not +having exercised his authority as master, in directing Clotilde’s +education and bringing up. In his belief that trees grew straight if +they were not interfered with, he had allowed her to grow up in her own +way, after teaching her merely to read and write. It was without any +preconceived plan, while aiding him in making his researches and +correcting his manuscripts, and simply by the force of circumstances, +that she had read everything and acquired a fondness for the natural +sciences. How bitterly he now regretted his indifference! What a +powerful impulse he might have given to this clear mind, so eager for +knowledge, instead of allowing it to go astray, and waste itself in +that desire for the Beyond, which Grandmother Félicité and the good +Martine favored. While he had occupied himself with facts, endeavoring +to keep from going beyond the phenomenon, and succeeding in doing so, +through his scientific discipline, he had seen her give all her +thoughts to the unknown, the mysterious. It was with her an obsession, +an instinctive curiosity which amounted to torture when she could not +satisfy it. There was in her a longing which nothing could appease, an +irresistible call toward the unattainable, the unknowable. Even when +she was a child, and still more, later, when she grew up, she went +straight to the why and the how of things, she demanded ultimate +causes. If he showed her a flower, she asked why this flower produced a +seed, why this seed would germinate. Then, it would be the mystery of +birth and death, and the unknown forces, and God, and all things. In +half a dozen questions she would drive him into a corner, obliging him +each time to acknowledge his fatal ignorance; and when he no longer +knew what to answer her, when he would get rid of her with a gesture of +comic fury, she would give a gay laugh of triumph, and go to lose +herself again in her dreams, in the limitless vision of all that we do +not know, and all that we may believe. Often she astounded him by her +explanations. Her mind, nourished on science, started from proved +truths, but with such an impetus that she bounded at once straight into +the heaven of the legends. All sorts of mediators passed there, angels +and saints and supernatural inspirations, modifying matter, endowing it +with life; or, again, it was only one single force, the soul of the +world, working to fuse things and beings in a final kiss of love in +fifty centuries more. She had calculated the number of them, she said. + +For the rest, Pascal had never before seen her so excited. For the past +week, during which she had attended the Capuchin’s mission in the +cathedral, she had spent the days visibly in the expectation of the +sermon of the evening; and she went to hear it with the rapt exaltation +of a girl who is going to her first rendezvous of love. Then, on the +following day, everything about her declared her detachment from the +exterior life, from her accustomed existence, as if the visible world, +the necessary actions of every moment, were but a snare and a folly. +She retired within herself in the vision of what was not. Thus she had +almost completely given up her habitual occupations, abandoning herself +to a sort of unconquerable indolence, remaining for hours at a time +with her hands in her lap, her gaze lost in vacancy, rapt in the +contemplation of some far-off vision. Now she, who had been so active, +so early a riser, rose late, appearing barely in time for the second +breakfast, and it could not have been at her toilet that she spent +these long hours, for she forgot her feminine coquetry, and would come +down with her hair scarcely combed, negligently attired in a gown +buttoned awry, but even thus adorable, thanks to her triumphant youth. +The morning walks through La Souleiade that she had been so fond of, +the races from the top to the bottom of the terraces planted with olive +and almond trees, the visits to the pine grove balmy with the odor of +resin, the long sun baths in the hot threshing yard, she indulged in no +more; she preferred to remain shut up in her darkened room, from which +not a movement was to be heard. Then, in the afternoon, in the work +room, she would drag herself about languidly from chair to chair, doing +nothing, tired and disgusted with everything that had formerly +interested her. + +Pascal was obliged to renounce her assistance; a paper which he gave +her to copy remained three days untouched on her desk. She no longer +classified anything; she would not have stooped down to pick up a paper +from the floor. More than all, she abandoned the pastels, copies of +flowers from nature that she had been making, to serve as plates to a +work on artificial fecundations. Some large red mallows, of a new and +singular coloring, faded in their vase before she had finished copying +them. And yet for a whole afternoon she worked enthusiastically at a +fantastic design of dream flowers, an extraordinary efflorescence +blooming in the light of a miraculous sun, a burst of golden +spike-shaped rays in the center of large purple corollas, resembling +open hearts, whence shot, for pistils, a shower of stars, myriads of +worlds streaming into the sky, like a milky way. + +“Ah, my poor girl,” said the doctor to her on this day, “how can you +lose your time in such conceits! And I waiting for the copy of those +mallows that you have left to die there. And you will make yourself +ill. There is no health, nor beauty, even, possible outside reality.” + +Often now she did not answer, intrenching herself behind her fierce +convictions, not wishing to dispute. But doubtless he had this time +touched her beliefs to the quick. + +“There is no reality,” she answered sharply. + +The doctor, amused by this bold philosophy from this big child, +laughed. + +“Yes, I know,” he said; “our senses are fallible. We know this world +only through our senses, consequently it is possible that the world +does not exist. Let us open the door to madness, then; let us accept as +possible the most absurd chimeras, let us live in the realm of +nightmare, outside of laws and facts. For do you not see that there is +no longer any law if you suppress nature, and that the only thing that +gives life any interest is to believe in life, to love it, and to put +all the forces of our intelligence to the better understanding of it?” + +She made a gesture of mingled indifference and bravado, and the +conversation dropped. Now she was laying large strokes of blue crayon +on the pastel, bringing out its flaming splendor in strong relief on +the background of a clear summer night. + +But two days later, in consequence of a fresh discussion, matters went +still further amiss. In the evening, on leaving the table, Pascal went +up to the study to write, while she remained out of doors, sitting on +the terrace. Hours passed by, and he was surprised and uneasy, when +midnight struck, that he had not yet heard her return to her room. She +would have had to pass through the study, and he was very certain that +she had not passed unnoticed by him. Going downstairs, he found that +Martine was asleep; the vestibule door was not locked, and Clotilde +must have remained outside, oblivious of the flight of time. This often +happened to her on these warm nights, but she had never before remained +out so late. + +The doctor’s uneasiness increased when he perceived on the terrace the +chair, now vacant, in which the young girl had been sitting. He had +expected to find her asleep in it. Since she was not there, why had she +not come in. Where could she have gone at such an hour? The night was +beautiful: a September night, still warm, with a wide sky whose dark, +velvety expanse was studded with stars; and from the depths of this +moonless sky the stars shone so large and bright that they lighted the +earth with a pale, mysterious radiance. He leaned over the balustrade +of the terrace, and examined the slope and the stone steps which led +down to the railroad; but there was not a movement. He saw nothing but +the round motionless tops of the little olive trees. The idea then +occurred to him that she must certainly be under the plane trees beside +the fountain, whose murmuring waters made perpetual coolness around. He +hurried there, and found himself enveloped in such thick darkness that +he, who knew every tree, was obliged to walk with outstretched hands to +avoid stumbling. Then he groped his way through the dark pine grove, +still without meeting any one. And at last he called in a muffled +voice: + +“Clotilde! Clotilde!” + +The darkness remained silent and impenetrable. + +“Clotilde! Clotilde!” he cried again, in a louder voice. Not a sound, +not a breath. The very echoes seemed asleep. His cry was drowned in the +infinitely soft lake of blue shadows. And then he called her with all +the force of his lungs. He returned to the plane trees. He went back to +the pine grove, beside himself with fright, scouring the entire domain. +Then, suddenly, he found himself in the threshing yard. + +At this cool and tranquil hour, the immense yard, the vast circular +paved court, slept too. It was so many years since grain had been +threshed here that grass had sprung up among the stones, quickly +scorched a russet brown by the sun, resembling the long threads of a +woolen carpet. And, under the tufts of this feeble vegetation, the +ancient pavement did not cool during the whole summer, smoking from +sunset, exhaling in the night the heat stored up from so many sultry +noons. + +The yard stretched around, bare and deserted, in the cooling +atmosphere, under the infinite calm of the sky, and Pascal was crossing +it to hurry to the orchard, when he almost fell over a form that he had +not before observed, extended at full length upon the ground. He +uttered a frightened cry. + +“What! Are you here?” + +Clotilde did not deign even to answer. She was lying on her back, her +hands clasped under the back of her neck, her face turned toward the +sky; and in her pale countenance, only her large shining eyes were +visible. + +“And here I have been tormenting myself and calling you for an hour +past! Did you not hear me shouting?” + +She at last unclosed her lips. + +“Yes.” + +“Then that is very senseless! Why did you not answer me?” + +But she fell back into her former silence, refusing all explanation, +and with a stubborn brow kept her gaze fixed steadily on the sky. + +“There, come in and go to bed, naughty child. You will tell me +to-morrow.” + +She did not stir, however; he begged her ten times over to go into the +house, but she would not move. He ended by sitting down beside her on +the short grass, through which penetrated the warmth of the pavement +beneath. + +“But you cannot sleep out of doors. At least answer me. What are you +doing here?” + +“I am looking.” + +And from her large eyes, fixed and motionless, her gaze seemed to mount +up among the stars. She seemed wholly absorbed in the contemplation of +the pure starry depths of the summer sky. + +“Ah, master!” she continued, in a low monotone; “how narrow and limited +is all that you know compared to what there is surely up there. Yes, if +I did not answer you it was because I was thinking of you, and I was +filled with grief. You must not think me bad.” + +In her voice there was a thrill of such tenderness that it moved him +profoundly. He stretched himself on the grass beside her, so that their +elbows touched, and they went on talking. + +“I greatly fear, my dear, that your griefs are not rational. It gives +you pain to think of me. Why so?” + +“Oh, because of things that I should find it hard to explain to you; I +am not a _savante_. You have taught me much, however, and I have +learned more myself, being with you. Besides, they are things that I +feel. Perhaps I might try to tell them to you, as we are all alone +here, and the night is so beautiful.” + +Her full heart overflowed, after hours of meditation, in the peaceful +confidence of the beautiful night. He did not speak, fearing to disturb +her, but awaited her confidences in silence. + +“When I was a little girl and you used to talk to me about science, it +seemed to me that you were speaking to me of God, your words burned so +with faith and hope. Nothing seemed impossible to you. With science you +were going to penetrate the secret of the world, and make the perfect +happiness of humanity a reality. According to you, we were progressing +with giant strides. Each day brought its discovery, its certainty. Ten, +fifty, a hundred years more, perhaps, and the heavens would open and we +should see truth face to face. Well, the years pass, and nothing opens, +and truth recedes.” + +“You are an impatient girl,” he answered simply. “If ten centuries more +be necessary we must only wait for them to pass.” + +“It is true. I cannot wait. I need to know; I need to be happy at once, +and to know everything at once, and to be perfectly and forever happy. +Oh, that is what makes me suffer, not to be able to reach at a bound +complete knowledge, not to be able to rest in perfect felicity, freed +from scruples and doubts. Is it living to advance with tortoiselike +pace in the darkness, not to be able to enjoy an hour’s tranquillity, +without trembling at the thought of the coming anguish? No, no! All +knowledge and all happiness in a single day? Science has promised them +to us, and if she does not give them to us, then she fails in her +engagements.” + +Then he, too, began to grow heated. + +“But what you are saying is folly, little girl. Science is not +revelation. It marches at its human pace, its very effort is its glory. +And then it is not true that science has promised happiness.” + +She interrupted him hastily. + +“How, not true! Open your books up there, then. You know that I have +read them. Do they not overflow with promises? To read them one would +think we were marching on to the conquest of earth and heaven. They +demolish everything, and they swear to replace everything—and that by +pure reason, with stability and wisdom. Doubtless I am like the +children. When I am promised anything I wish that it shall be given me +at once. My imagination sets to work, and the object must be very +beautiful to satisfy me. But it would have been easy not to have +promised anything. And above all, at this hour, in view of my eager and +painful longing, it would be very ill done to tell me that nothing has +been promised me.” + +He made a gesture, a simple gesture of protestation and impatience, in +the serene and silent night. + +“In any case,” she continued, “science has swept away all our past +beliefs. The earth is bare, the heavens are empty, and what do you wish +that I should become, even if you acquit science of having inspired the +hopes I have conceived? For I cannot live without belief and without +happiness. On what solid ground shall I build my house when science +shall have demolished the old world, and while she is waiting to +construct the new? All the ancient city has fallen to pieces in this +catastrophe of examination and analysis; and all that remains of it is +a mad population vainly seeking a shelter among its ruins, while +anxiously looking for a solid and permanent refuge where they may begin +life anew. You must not be surprised, then, at our discouragement and +our impatience. We can wait no longer. Since tardy science has failed +in her promises, we prefer to fall back on the old beliefs, which for +centuries have sufficed for the happiness of the world.” + +“Ah! that is just it,” he responded in a low voice; “we are just at the +turning point, at the end of the century, fatigued and exhausted with +the appalling accumulation of knowledge which it has set moving. And it +is the eternal need for falsehood, the eternal need for illusion which +distracts humanity, and throws it back upon the delusive charm of the +unknown. Since we can never know all, what is the use of trying to know +more than we know already? Since the truth, when we have attained it, +does not confer immediate and certain happiness, why not be satisfied +with ignorance, the darkened cradle in which humanity slept the deep +sleep of infancy? Yes, this is the aggressive return of the mysterious, +it is the reaction against a century of experimental research. And this +had to be; desertions were to be expected, since every need could not +be satisfied at once. But this is only a halt; the onward march will +continue, up there, beyond our view, in the illimitable fields of +space.” + +For a moment they remained silent, still motionless on their backs, +their gaze lost among the myriads of worlds shining in the dark sky. A +falling star shot across the constellation of Cassiopeia, like a +flaming arrow. And the luminous universe above turned slowly on its +axis, in solemn splendor, while from the dark earth around them arose +only a faint breath, like the soft, warm breath of a sleeping woman. + +“Tell me,” he said, in his good-natured voice, “did your Capuchin turn +your head this evening, then?” + +“Yes,” she answered frankly; “he says from the pulpit things that +disturb me. He preaches against everything you have taught me, and it +is as if the knowledge which I owe to you, transformed into a poison, +were consuming me. My God! What is going to become of me?” + +“My poor child! It is terrible that you should torture yourself in this +way! And yet I had been quite tranquil about you, for you have a +well-balanced mind—you have a good, little, round, clear, solid +headpiece, as I have often told you. You will soon calm down. But what +confusion in the brains of others, at the end of the century, if you, +who are so sane, are troubled! Have you not faith, then?” + +She answered only by a heavy sigh. + +“Assuredly, viewed from the standpoint of happiness, faith is a strong +staff for the traveler to lean upon, and the march becomes easy and +tranquil when one is fortunate enough to possess it.” + +“Oh, I no longer know whether I believe or not!” she cried. “There are +days when I believe, and there are other days when I side with you and +with your books. It is you who have disturbed me; it is through you I +suffer. And perhaps all my suffering springs from this, from my revolt +against you whom I love. No, no! tell me nothing; do not tell me that I +shall soon calm down. At this moment that would only irritate me still +more. I know well that you deny the supernatural. The mysterious for +you is only the inexplicable. Even you concede that we shall never know +all; and therefore you consider that the only interest life can have is +the continual conquest over the unknown, the eternal effort to know +more. Ah, I know too much already to believe. You have already +succeeded but too well in shaking my faith, and there are times when it +seems to me that this will kill me.” + +He took her hand that lay on the still warm grass, and pressed it hard. + +“No, no; it is life that frightens you, little girl. And how right you +are in saying that happiness consists in continual effort. For from +this time forward tranquil ignorance is impossible. There is no halt to +be looked for, no tranquillity in renunciation and wilful blindness. We +must go on, go on in any case with life, which goes on always. +Everything that is proposed, a return to the past, to dead religions, +patched up religions arranged to suit new wants, is a snare. Learn to +know life, then; to love it, live it as it ought to be lived—that is +the only wisdom.” + +But she shook off his hand angrily. And her voice trembled with +vexation. + +“Life is horrible. How do you wish me to live it tranquil and happy? It +is a terrible light that your science throws upon the world. Your +analysis opens up all the wounds of humanity to display their horror. +You tell everything; you speak too plainly; you leave us nothing but +disgust for people and for things, without any possible consolation.” + +He interrupted her with a cry of ardent conviction. + +“We tell everything. Ah, yes; in order to know everything and to remedy +everything!” + +Her anger rose, and she sat erect. + +“If even equality and justice existed in your nature—but you +acknowledge it yourself, life is for the strongest, the weak infallibly +perishes because he is weak—there are no two beings equal, either in +health, in beauty, or intelligence; everything is left to haphazard +meeting, to the chance of selection. And everything falls into ruin, +when grand and sacred justice ceases to exist.” + +“It is true,” he said, in an undertone, as if speaking to himself, +“there is no such thing as equality. No society based upon it could +continue to exist. For centuries, men thought to remedy evil by +character. But that idea is being exploded, and now they propose +justice. Is nature just? I think her logical, rather. Logic is perhaps +a natural and higher justice, going straight to the sum of the common +labor, to the grand final labor.” + +“Then it is justice,” she cried, “that crushes the individual for the +happiness of the race, that destroys an enfeebled species to fatten the +victorious species. No, no; that is crime. There is in that only +foulness and murder. He was right this evening in the church. The earth +is corrupt, science only serves to show its rottenness. It is on high +that we must all seek a refuge. Oh, master, I entreat you, let me save +myself, let me save you!” + +She burst into tears, and the sound of her sobs rose despairingly on +the stillness of the night. He tried in vain to soothe her, her voice +dominated his. + +“Listen to me, master. You know that I love you, for you are everything +to me. And it is you who are the cause of all my suffering. I can +scarcely endure it when I think that we are not in accord, that we +should be separated forever if we were both to die to-morrow. Why will +you not believe?” + +He still tried to reason with her. + +“Come, don’t be foolish, my dear—” + +But she threw herself on her knees, she seized him by the hands, she +clung to him with a feverish force. And she sobbed louder and louder, +in such a clamor of despair that the dark fields afar off were startled +by it. + +“Listen to me, he said it in the church. You must change your life and +do penance; you must burn everything belonging to your past errors—your +books, your papers, your manuscripts. Make this sacrifice, master, I +entreat it of you on my knees. And you will see the delightful +existence we shall lead together.” + +At last he rebelled. + +“No, this is too much. Be silent!” + +“If you listen to me, master, you will do what I wish. I assure you +that I am horribly unhappy, even in loving you as I love you. There is +something wanting in our affection. So far it has been profound but +unavailing, and I have an irresistible longing to fill it, oh, with all +that is divine and eternal. What can be wanting to us but God? Kneel +down and pray with me!” + +With an abrupt movement he released himself, angry in his turn. + +“Be silent; you are talking nonsense. I have left you free, leave me +free.” + +“Master, master! it is our happiness that I desire! I will take you +far, far away. We will go to some solitude to live there in God!” + +“Be silent! No, never!” + +Then they remained for a moment confronting each other, mute and +menacing. Around them stretched La Souleiade in the deep silence of the +night, with the light shadows of its olive trees, the darkness of its +pine and plane trees, in which the saddened voice of the fountain was +singing, and above their heads it seemed as if the spacious sky, +studded with stars, shuddered and grew pale, although the dawn was +still far off. + +Clotilde raised her arm as if to point to this infinite, shuddering +sky; but with a quick gesture Pascal seized her hand and drew it down +toward the earth in his. And no word further was spoken; they were +beside themselves with rage and hate. The quarrel was fierce and +bitter. + +She drew her hand away abruptly, and sprang backward, like some proud, +untamable animal, rearing; then she rushed quickly through the darkness +toward the house. He heard the patter of her little boots on the stones +of the yard, deadened afterward by the sand of the walk. He, on his +side, already grieved and uneasy, called her back in urgent tones. But +she ran on without answering, without hearing. Alarmed, and with a +heavy heart, he hurried after her, and rounded the clump of plane trees +just in time to see her rush into the house like a whirlwind. He darted +in after her, ran up the stairs, and struck against the door of her +room, which she violently bolted. And here he stopped and grew calm, by +a strong effort resisting the desire to cry out, to call her again, to +break in the door so as to see her once more, to convince her, to have +her all to himself. For a moment he remained motionless, chilled by the +deathlike silence of the room, from which not the faintest sound +issued. Doubtless she had thrown herself on the bed, and was stifling +her cries and her sobs in the pillow. He determined at last to go +downstairs again and close the hall door, and then he returned softly +and listened, waiting for some sound of moaning. And day was breaking +when he went disconsolately to bed, choking back his tears. + +Thenceforward it was war without mercy. Pascal felt himself spied upon, +trapped, menaced. He was no longer master of his house; he had no +longer any home. The enemy was always there, forcing him to be +constantly on his guard, to lock up everything. One after the other, +two vials of nerve-substance which he had compounded were found in +fragments, and he was obliged to barricade himself in his room, where +he could be heard pounding for days together, without showing himself +even at mealtime. He no longer took Clotilde with him on his visiting +days, because she discouraged his patients by her attitude of +aggressive incredulity. But from the moment he left the house, the +doctor had only one desire—to return to it quickly, for he trembled +lest he should find his locks forced, and his drawers rifled on his +return. He no longer employed the young girl to classify and copy his +notes, for several of them had disappeared, as if they had been carried +away by the wind. He did not even venture to employ her to correct his +proofs, having ascertained that she had cut out of an article an entire +passage, the sentiment of which offended her Catholic belief. And thus +she remained idle, prowling about the rooms, and having an abundance of +time to watch for an occasion which would put in her possession the key +of the large press. This was her dream, the plan which she revolved in +her mind during her long silence, while her eyes shone and her hands +burned with fever—to have the key, to open the press, to take and burn +everything in an _auto da fé_ which would be pleasing to God. A few +pages of manuscript, forgotten by him on a corner of the table, while +he went to wash his hands and put on his coat, had disappeared, leaving +behind only a little heap of ashes in the fireplace. He could no longer +leave a scrap of paper about. He carried away everything; he hid +everything. One evening, when he had remained late with a patient, as +he was returning home in the dusk a wild terror seized him at the +faubourg, at sight of a thick black smoke rising up in clouds that +darkened the heavens. Was it not La Souleiade that was burning down, +set on fire by the bonfire made with his papers? He ran toward the +house, and was reassured only on seeing in a neighboring field a fire +of roots burning slowly. + +But how terrible are the tortures of the scientist who feels himself +menaced in this way in the labors of his intellect! The discoveries +which he has made, the writings which he has counted upon leaving +behind him, these are his pride, they are creatures of his blood—his +children—and whoever destroys, whoever burns them, burns a part of +himself. Especially, in this perpetual lying in wait for the creatures +of his brain, was Pascal tortured by the thought that the enemy was in +his house, installed in his very heart, and that he loved her in spite +of everything, this creature whom he had made what she was. He was left +disarmed, without possible defense; not wishing to act, and having no +other resources than to watch with vigilance. On all sides the +investment was closing around him. He fancied he felt the little +pilfering hands stealing into his pockets. He had no longer any +tranquillity, even with the doors closed, for he feared that he was +being robbed through the crevices. + +“But, unhappy child,” he cried one day, “I love but you in the world, +and you are killing me! And yet you love me, too; you act in this way +because you love me, and it is abominable. It would be better to have +done with it all at once, and throw ourselves into the river with a +stone tied around our necks.” + +She did not answer, but her dauntless eyes said ardently that she would +willingly die on the instant, if it were with him. + +“And if I should suddenly die to-night, what would happen to-morrow? +You would empty the press, you would empty the drawers, you would make +a great heap of all my works and burn them! You would, would you not? +Do you know that that would be a real murder, as much as if you +assassinated some one? And what abominable cowardice, to kill the +thoughts!” + +“No,” she said at last, in a low voice; “to kill evil, to prevent it +from spreading and springing up again!” + +All their explanations only served to kindle anew their anger. And they +had terrible ones. And one evening, when old Mme. Rougon had chanced in +on one of these quarrels, she remained alone with Pascal, after +Clotilde had fled to hide herself in her room. There was silence for a +moment. In spite of the heartbroken air which she had assumed, a wicked +joy shone in the depths of her sparkling eyes. + +“But your unhappy house is a hell!” she cried at last. + +The doctor avoided an answer by a gesture. He had always felt that his +mother backed the young girl, inflaming her religious faith, utilizing +this ferment of revolt to bring trouble into his house. He was not +deceived. He knew perfectly well that the two women had seen each other +during the day, and that he owed to this meeting, to a skilful +embittering of Clotilde’s mind, the frightful scene at which he still +trembled. Doubtless his mother had come to learn what mischief had been +wrought, and to see if the _denouement_ was not at last at hand. + +“Things cannot go on in this way,” she resumed. “Why do you not +separate since you can no longer agree. You ought to send her to her +brother Maxime. He wrote to me not long since asking her again.” + +He straightened himself, pale and determined. + +“To part angry with each other? Ah, no, no! that would be an eternal +remorse, an incurable wound. If she must one day go away, I wish that +we may be able to love each other at a distance. But why go away? +Neither of us complains of the other.” + +Félicité felt that she had been too hasty. Therefore she assumed her +hypocritical, conciliating air. + +“Of course, if it pleases you both to quarrel, no one has anything to +say in the matter. Only, my poor friend, permit me, in that case, to +say that I think Clotilde is not altogether in the wrong. You force me +to confess that I saw her a little while ago; yes, it is better that +you should know, notwithstanding my promise to be silent. Well, she is +not happy; she makes a great many complaints, and you may imagine that +I scolded her and preached complete submission to her. But that does +not prevent me from being unable to understand you myself, and from +thinking that you do everything you can to make yourself unhappy.” + +She sat down in a corner of the room, and obliged him to sit down with +her, seeming delighted to have him here alone, at her mercy. She had +already, more than once before, tried to force him to an explanation in +this way, but he had always avoided it. Although she had tortured him +for years past, and he knew her thoroughly, he yet remained a +deferential son, he had sworn never to abandon this stubbornly +respectful attitude. Thus, the moment she touched certain subjects, he +took refuge in absolute silence. + +“Come,” she continued; “I can understand that you should not wish to +yield to Clotilde; but to me? How if I were to entreat you to make me +the sacrifice of all those abominable papers which are there in the +press! Consider for an instant if you should die suddenly, and those +papers should fall into strange hands. We should all be disgraced. You +would not wish that, would you? What is your object, then? Why do you +persist in so dangerous a game? Promise me that you will burn them.” + +He remained silent for a time, but at last he answered: + +“Mother, I have already begged of you never to speak on that subject. I +cannot do what you ask.” + +“But at least,” she cried, “give me a reason. Any one would think our +family was as indifferent to you as that drove of oxen passing below +there. Yet you belong to it. Oh, I know you do all you can not to +belong to it! I myself am sometimes astonished at you. I ask myself +where you can have come from. But for all that, it is very wicked of +you to run this risk, without stopping to think of the grief you are +causing to me, your mother. It is simply wicked.” + +He grew still paler, and yielding for an instant to his desire to +defend himself, in spite of his determination to keep silent, he said: + +“You are hard; you are wrong. I have always believed in the necessity, +the absolute efficacy of truth. It is true that I tell the truth about +others and about myself, and it is because I believe firmly that in +telling the truth I do the only good possible. In the first place, +those papers are not intended for the public; they are only personal +notes which it would be painful to me to part with. And then, I know +well that you would not burn only them—all my other works would also be +thrown into the fire. Would they not? And that is what I do not wish; +do you understand? Never, while I live, shall a line of my writing be +destroyed here.” + +But he already regretted having said so much, for he saw that she was +urging him, leading him on to the cruel explanation she desired. + +“Then finish, and tell me what it is that you reproach us with. Yes, +me, for instance; what do you reproach me with? Not with having brought +you up with so much difficulty. Ah, fortune was slow to win! If we +enjoy a little happiness now, we have earned it hard. Since you have +seen everything, and since you put down everything in your papers, you +can testify with truth that the family has rendered greater services to +others than it has ever received. On two occasions, but for us, +Plassans would have been in a fine pickle. And it is perfectly natural +that we should have reaped only ingratitude and envy, to the extent +that even to-day the whole town would be enchanted with a scandal that +should bespatter us with mud. You cannot wish that, and I am sure that +you will do justice to the dignity of my attitude since the fall of the +Empire, and the misfortunes from which France will no doubt never +recover.” + +“Let France rest, mother,” he said, speaking again, for she had touched +the spot where she knew he was most sensitive. “France is tenacious of +life, and I think she is going to astonish the world by the rapidity of +her convalescence. True, she has many elements of corruption. I have +not sought to hide them, I have rather, perhaps, exposed them to view. +But you greatly misunderstand me if you imagine that I believe in her +final dissolution, because I point out her wounds and her lesions. I +believe in the life which ceaselessly eliminates hurtful substances, +which makes new flesh to fill the holes eaten away by gangrene, which +infallibly advances toward health, toward constant renovation, amid +impurities and death.” + +He was growing excited, and he was conscious of it, and making an angry +gesture, he spoke no more. His mother had recourse to tears, a few +little tears which came with difficulty, and which were quickly dried. +And the fears which saddened her old age returned to her, and she +entreated him to make his peace with God, if only out of regard for the +family. Had she not given an example of courage ever since the downfall +of the Empire? Did not all Plassans, the quarter of St. Marc, the old +quarter and the new town, render homage to the noble attitude she +maintained in her fall? All she asked was to be helped; she demanded +from all her children an effort like her own. Thus she cited the +example of Eugène, the great man who had fallen from so lofty a height, +and who resigned himself to being a simple deputy, defending until his +latest breath the fallen government from which he had derived his +glory. She was also full of eulogies of Aristide, who had never lost +hope, who had reconquered, under the new government, an exalted +position, in spite of the terrible and unjust catastrophe which had for +a moment buried him under the ruins of the Union Universelle. And would +he, Pascal, hold himself aloof, would he do nothing that she might die +in peace, in the joy of the final triumph of the Rougons, he who was so +intelligent, so affectionate, so good? He would go to mass, would he +not, next Sunday? and he would burn all those vile papers, only to +think of which made her ill. She entreated, commanded, threatened. But +he no longer answered her, calm and invincible in his attitude of +perfect deference. He wished to have no discussion. He knew her too +well either to hope to convince her or to venture to discuss the past +with her. + +“Why!” she cried, when she saw that he was not to be moved, “you do not +belong to us. I have always said so. You are a disgrace to us.” + +He bent his head and said: + +“Mother, when you reflect you will forgive me.” + +On this day Félicité was beside herself with rage when she went away; +and when she met Martine at the door of the house, in front of the +plane trees, she unburdened her mind to her, without knowing that +Pascal, who had just gone into his room, heard all. She gave vent to +her resentment, vowing, in spite of everything, that she would in the +end succeed in obtaining possession of the papers and destroying them, +since he did not wish to make the sacrifice. But what turned the doctor +cold was the manner in which Martine, in a subdued voice, soothed her. +She was evidently her accomplice. She repeated that it was necessary to +wait; not to do anything hastily; that mademoiselle and she had taken a +vow to get the better of monsieur, by not leaving him an hour’s peace. +They had sworn it. They would reconcile him with the good God, because +it was not possible that an upright man like monsieur should remain +without religion. And the voices of the two women became lower and +lower, until they finally sank to a whisper, an indistinct murmur of +gossiping and plotting, of which he caught only a word here and there; +orders given, measures to be taken, an invasion of his personal +liberty. When his mother at last departed, with her light step and +slender, youthful figure, he saw that she went away very well +satisfied. + +Then came a moment of weakness, of utter despair. Pascal dropped into a +chair, and asked himself what was the use of struggling, since the only +beings he loved allied themselves against him. Martine, who would have +thrown herself into the fire at a word from him, betraying him in this +way for his good! And Clotilde leagued with this servant, plotting with +her against him in holes and corners, seeking her aid to set traps for +him! Now he was indeed alone; he had around him only traitresses, who +poisoned the very air he breathed. But these two still loved him. He +might perhaps have succeeded in softening them, but when he knew that +his mother urged them on, he understood their fierce persistence, and +he gave up the hope of winning them back. With the timidity of a man +who had spent his life in study, aloof from women, notwithstanding his +secret passion, the thought that they were there to oppose him, to +attempt to bend him to their will, overwhelmed him. He felt that some +one of them was always behind him. Even when he shut himself up in his +room, he fancied that they were on the other side of the wall; and he +was constantly haunted by the idea that they would rob him of his +thought, if they could perceive it in his brain, before he should have +formulated it. + +This was assuredly the period in his life in which Dr. Pascal was most +unhappy. To live constantly on the defensive, as he was obliged to do, +crushed him, and it seemed to him as if the ground on which his house +stood was no longer his, as if it was receding from beneath his feet. +He now regretted keenly that he had not married, and that he had no +children. Had not he himself been afraid of life? And had he not been +well punished for his selfishness? This regret for not having children +now never left him. His eyes now filled with tears whenever he met on +the road bright-eyed little girls who smiled at him. True, Clotilde was +there, but his affection for her was of a different kind—crossed at +present by storms—not a calm, infinitely sweet affection, like that for +a child with which he might have soothed his lacerated heart. And then, +no doubt what he desired in his isolation, feeling that his days were +drawing to an end, was above all, continuance; in a child he would +survive, he would live forever. The more he suffered, the greater the +consolation he would have found in bequeathing this suffering, in the +faith which he still had in life. He considered himself indemnified for +the physiological defects of his family. But even the thought that +heredity sometimes passes over a generation, and that the disorders of +his ancestors might reappear in a child of his did not deter him; and +this unknown child, in spite of the old corrupt stock, in spite of the +long succession of execrable relations, he desired ardently at certain +times: as one desires unexpected gain, rare happiness, the stroke of +fortune which is to console and enrich forever. In the shock which his +other affections had received, his heart bled because it was too late. + +One sultry night toward the end of September, Pascal found himself +unable to sleep. He opened one of the windows of his room; the sky was +dark, some storm must be passing in the distance, for there was a +continuous rumbling of thunder. He could distinguish vaguely the dark +mass of the plane trees, which occasional flashes of lightning +detached, in a dull green, from the darkness. His soul was full of +anguish; he lived over again the last unhappy days, days of fresh +quarrels, of torture caused by acts of treachery, by suspicions, which +grew stronger every day, when a sudden recollection made him start. In +his fear of being robbed, he had finally adopted the plan of carrying +the key of the large press in his pocket. But this afternoon, oppressed +by the heat, he had taken off his jacket, and he remembered having seen +Clotilde hang it up on a nail in the study. A sudden pang of terror +shot through him, sharp and cold as a steel point; if she had felt the +key in the pocket she had stolen it. He hastened to search the jacket +which he had a little before thrown upon a chair; the key was not here. +At this very moment he was being robbed; he had the clear conviction of +it. Two o’clock struck. He did not again dress himself, but, remaining +in his trousers only, with his bare feet thrust into slippers, his +chest bare under his unfastened nightshirt, he hastily pushed open the +door, and rushed into the workroom, his candle in his hand. + +“Ah! I knew it,” he cried. “Thief! Assassin!” + +It was true; Clotilde was there, undressed like himself, her bare feet +covered by canvas slippers, her legs bare, her arms bare, her shoulders +bare, clad only in her chemise and a short skirt. Through caution, she +had not brought a candle. She had contented herself with opening one of +the window shutters, and the continual lightning flashes of the storm +which was passing southward in the dark sky, sufficed her, bathing +everything in a livid phosphorescence. The old press, with its broad +sides, was wide open. Already she had emptied the top shelf, taking +down the papers in armfuls, and throwing them on the long table in the +middle of the room, where they lay in a confused heap. And with +feverish haste, fearing lest she should not have the time to burn them, +she was making them up into bundles, intending to hide them, and send +them afterward to her grandmother, when the sudden flare of the candle, +lighting up the room, caused her to stop short in an attitude of +surprise and resistance. + +“You rob me; you assassinate me!” repeated Pascal furiously. + +She still held one of the bundles in her bare arms. He wished to take +it away from her, but she pressed it to her with all her strength, +obstinately resolved upon her work of destruction, without showing +confusion or repentance, like a combatant who has right upon his side. +Then, madly, blindly, he threw himself upon her, and they struggled +together. He clutched her bare flesh so that he hurt her. + +“Kill me!” she gasped. “Kill me, or I shall destroy everything!” + +He held her close to him, with so rough a grasp that she could scarcely +breathe, crying: + +“When a child steals, it is punished!” + +A few drops of blood appeared and trickled down her rounded shoulder, +where an abrasion had cut the delicate satin skin. And, on the instant, +seeing her so breathless, so divine, in her virginal slender height, +with her tapering limbs, her supple arms, her slim body with its +slender, firm throat, he released her. By a last effort he tore the +package from her. + +“And you shall help me to put them all up there again, by Heaven! Come +here: begin by arranging them on the table. Obey me, do you hear?” + +“Yes, master!” + +She approached, and helped him to arrange the papers, subjugated, +crushed by this masculine grasp, which had entered into her flesh, as +it were. The candle which flared up in the heavy night air, lighted +them; and the distant rolling of the thunder still continued, the +window facing the storm seeming on fire. + + + + +V. + + +For an instant Pascal looked at the papers, the heap of which seemed +enormous, lying thus in disorder on the long table that stood in the +middle of the room. In the confusion several of the blue paper +envelopes had burst open, and their contents had fallen out—letters, +newspaper clippings, documents on stamped paper, and manuscript notes. + +He was already mechanically beginning to seek out the names written on +the envelopes in large characters, to classify the packages again, +when, with an abrupt gesture, he emerged from the somber meditation +into which he had fallen. And turning to Clotilde who stood waiting, +pale, silent, and erect, he said: + +“Listen to me; I have always forbidden you to read these papers, and I +know that you have obeyed me. Yes, I had scruples of delicacy. It is +not that you are an ignorant girl, like so many others, for I have +allowed you to learn everything concerning man and woman, which is +assuredly bad only for bad natures. But to what end disclose to you too +early these terrible truths of human life? I have therefore spared you +the history of our family, which is the history of every family, of all +humanity; a great deal of evil and a great deal of good.” + +He paused as if to confirm himself in his resolution and then resumed +quite calmly and with supreme energy: + +“You are twenty-five years old; you ought to know. And then the life we +are leading is no longer possible. You live and you make me live in a +constant nightmare, with your ecstatic dreams. I prefer to show you the +reality, however execrable it may be. Perhaps the blow which it will +inflict upon you will make of you the woman you ought to be. We will +classify these papers again together, and read them, and learn from +them a terrible lesson of life!” + +Then, as she still continued motionless, he resumed: + +“Come, we must be able to see well. Light those other two candles +there.” + +He was seized by a desire for light, a flood of light; he would have +desired the blinding light of the sun; and thinking that the light of +the three candles was not sufficient, he went into his room for a pair +of three-branched candelabra which were there. The nine candles were +blazing, yet neither of them, in their disorder—he with his chest bare, +she with her left shoulder stained with blood, her throat and arms +bare—saw the other. It was past two o’clock, but neither of them had +any consciousness of the hour; they were going to spend the night in +this eager desire for knowledge, without feeling the need of sleep, +outside time and space. The mutterings of the storm, which, through the +open window, they could see gathering, grew louder and louder. + +Clotilde had never before seen in Pascal’s eyes the feverish light +which burned in them now. He had been overworking himself for some time +past, and his mental sufferings made him at times abrupt, in spite of +his good-natured complacency. But it seemed as if an infinite +tenderness, trembling with fraternal pity, awoke within him, now that +he was about to plunge into the painful truths of existence; and it was +something emanating from himself, something very great and very good +which was to render innocuous the terrible avalanche of facts which was +impending. He was determined that he would reveal everything, since it +was necessary that he should do so in order to remedy everything. Was +not this an unanswerable, a final argument for evolution, the story of +these beings who were so near to them? Such was life, and it must be +lived. Doubtless she would emerge from it like the steel tempered by +the fire, full of tolerance and courage. + +“They are setting you against me,” he resumed; “they are making you +commit abominable acts, and I wish to restore your conscience to you. +When you know, you will judge and you will act. Come here, and read +with me.” + +She obeyed. But these papers, about which her grandmother had spoken so +angrily, frightened her a little; while a curiosity that grew with +every moment awoke within her. And then, dominated though she was by +the virile authority which had just constrained and subjugated her, she +did not yet yield. But might she not listen to him, read with him? Did +she not retain the right to refuse or to give herself afterward? He +spoke at last. + +“Will you come?” + +“Yes, master, I will.” + +He showed her first the genealogical tree of the Rougon-Macquarts. He +did not usually lock it in the press, but kept it in the desk in his +room, from which he had taken it when he went there for the candelabra. +For more than twenty years past he had kept it up to date, inscribing +the births, deaths, marriages, and other important events that had +taken place in the family, making brief notes in each case, in +accordance with his theory of heredity. + +It was a large sheet of paper, yellow with age, with folds cut by wear, +on which was drawn boldly a symbolical tree, whose branches spread and +subdivided into five rows of broad leaves; and each leaf bore a name, +and contained, in minute handwriting, a biography, a hereditary case. + +A scientist’s joy took possession of the doctor at sight of this labor +of twenty years, in which the laws of heredity established by him were +so clearly and so completely applied. + +“Look, child! You know enough about the matter, you have copied enough +of my notes to understand. Is it not beautiful? A document so complete, +so conclusive, in which there is not a gap? It is like an experiment +made in the laboratory, a problem stated and solved on the blackboard. +You see below, the trunk, the common stock, Aunt Dide; then the three +branches issuing from it, the legitimate branch, Pierre Rougon, and the +two illegitimate branches, Ursule Macquart and Antoine Macquart; then, +new branches arise, and ramify, on one side, Maxime, Clotilde, and +Victor, the three children of Saccard, and Angelique, the daughter of +Sidonie Rougon; on the other, Pauline, the daughter of Lisa Macquart, +and Claude, Jacques, Étienne, and Anna, the four children of Gervaise, +her sister; there, at the extremity, is Jean, their brother, and here +in the middle, you see what I call the knot, the legitimate issue and +the illegitimate issue, uniting in Marthe Rougon and her cousin +François Mouret, to give rise to three new branches, Octave, Serge, and +Désirée Mouret; while there is also the issue of Ursule and the hatter +Mouret; Silvère, whose tragic death you know; Hélène and her daughter +Jean; finally, at the top are the latest offshoots, our poor Charles, +your brother Maxime’s son, and two other children, who are dead, +Jacques Louis, the son of Claude Lantier, and Louiset, the son of Anna +Coupeau. In all five generations, a human tree which, for five springs +already, five springtides of humanity, has sent forth shoots, at the +impulse of the sap of eternal life.” + +He became more and more animated, pointing out each case on the sheet +of old yellow paper, as if it were an anatomical chart. + +“And as I have already said, everything is here. You see in direct +heredity, the differentiations, that of the mother, Silvère, Lisa, +Désirée, Jacques, Louiset, yourself; that of the father, Sidonie, +François, Gervaise, Octave, Jacques, Louis. Then there are the three +cases of crossing: by conjugation, Ursule, Aristide, Anna, Victor; by +dissemination, Maxime, Serge, Étienne; by fusion, Antoine, Eugène, +Claude. I even noted a fourth case, a very remarkable one, an even +cross, Pierre and Pauline; and varieties are established, the +differentiation of the mother, for example, often accords with the +physical resemblance of the father; or, it is the contrary which takes +place, so that, in the crossing, the physical and mental predominance +remains with one parent or the other, according to circumstances. Then +here is indirect heredity, that of the collateral branches. I have but +one well established example of this, the striking personal resemblance +of Octave Mouret to his uncle Eugène Rougon. I have also but one +example of transmission by influence, Anna, the daughter of Gervaise +and Coupeau, who bore a striking resemblance, especially in her +childhood, to Lantier, her mother’s first lover. But what I am very +rich in is in examples of reversion to the original stock—the three +finest cases, Marthe, Jeanne, and Charles, resembling Aunt Dide; the +resemblance thus passing over one, two, and three generations. This is +certainly exceptional, for I scarcely believe in atavism; it seems to +me that the new elements brought by the partners, accidents, and the +infinite variety of crossings must rapidly efface particular +characteristics, so as to bring back the individual to the general +type. And there remains variation—Hélène, Jean, Angelique. This is the +combination, the chemical mixture in which the physical and mental +characteristics of the parents are blended, without any of their traits +seeming to reappear in the new being.” + +There was silence for a moment. Clotilde had listened to him with +profound attention, wishing to understand. And he remained absorbed in +thought, his eyes still fixed on the tree, in the desire to judge his +work impartially. He then continued in a low tone, as if speaking to +himself: + +“Yes, that is as scientific as possible. I have placed there only the +members of the family, and I had to give an equal part to the partners, +to the fathers and mothers come from outside, whose blood has mingled +with ours, and therefore modified it. I had indeed made a +mathematically exact tree, the father and the mother bequeathing +themselves, by halves, to the child, from generation to generation, so +that in Charles, for example, Aunt Dide’s part would have been only a +twelfth—which would be absurd, since the physical resemblance is there +complete. I have therefore thought it sufficient to indicate the +elements come from elsewhere, taking into account marriages and the new +factor which each introduced. Ah! these sciences that are yet in their +infancy, in which hypothesis speaks stammeringly, and imagination +rules, these are the domain of the poet as much as of the scientist. +Poets go as pioneers in the advance guard, and they often discover new +countries, suggesting solutions. There is there a borderland which +belongs to them, between the conquered, the definitive truth, and the +unknown, whence the truth of to-morrow will be torn. What an immense +fresco there is to be painted, what a stupendous human tragedy, what a +comedy there is to be written with heredity, which is the very genesis +of families, of societies, and of the world!” + +His eyes fixed on vacancy, he remained for a time lost in thought. +Then, with an abrupt movement, he came back to the envelopes and, +pushing the tree aside, said: + +“We will take it up again presently; for, in order that you may +understand now, it is necessary that events should pass in review +before you, and that you should see in action all these actors ticketed +here, each one summed up in a brief note. I will call for the +envelopes, you will hand them to me one by one, and I will show you the +papers in each, and tell you their contents, before putting it away +again up there on the shelf. I will not follow the alphabetical order, +but the order of events themselves. I have long wished to make this +classification. Come, look for the names on the envelopes; Aunt Dide +first.” + +At this moment the edge of the storm which lighted up the sky caught La +Souleiade slantingly, and burst over the house in a deluge of rain. But +they did not even close the window. They heard neither the peals of +thunder nor the ceaseless beating of the rain upon the roof. She handed +him the envelope bearing the name of Aunt Dide in large characters; and +he took from it papers of all sorts, notes taken by him long ago, which +he proceeded to read. + +“Hand me Pierre Rougon. Hand me Ursule Macquart. Hand me Antoine +Macquart.” + +Silently she obeyed him, her heart oppressed by a dreadful anguish at +all she was hearing. And the envelopes were passed on, displayed their +contents, and were piled up again in the press. + +First was the foundress of the family, Adelaïde Fouqué, the tall, crazy +girl, the first nervous lesion giving rise to the legitimate branch, +Pierre Rougon, and to the two illegitimate branches, Ursule and Antoine +Macquart, all that _bourgeois_ and sanguinary tragedy, with the _coup +d’etat_ of December, 1854, for a background, the Rougons, Pierre and +Félicité, preserving order at Plassans, bespattering with the blood of +Silvère their rising fortunes, while Adelaïde, grown old, the miserable +Aunt Dide, was shut up in the Tulettes, like a specter of expiation and +of waiting. + +Then like a pack of hounds, the appetites were let loose. The supreme +appetite of power in Eugène Rougon, the great man, the disdainful +genius of the family, free from base interests, loving power for its +own sake, conquering Paris in old boots with the adventurers of the +coming Empire, rising from the legislative body to the senate, passing +from the presidency of the council of state to the portfolio of +minister; made by his party, a hungry crowd of followers, who at the +same time supported and devoured him; conquered for an instant by a +woman, the beautiful Clorinde, with whom he had been imbecile enough to +fall in love, but having so strong a will, and burning with so vehement +a desire to rule, that he won back power by giving the lie to his whole +life, marching to his triumphal sovereignty of vice emperor. + +With Aristide Saccard, appetite ran to low pleasures, the whole hot +quarry of money, luxury, women—a devouring hunger which left him +homeless, at the time when millions were changing hands, when the +whirlwind of wild speculation was blowing through the city, tearing +down everywhere to construct anew, when princely fortunes were made, +squandered, and remade in six months; a greed of gold whose ever +increasing fury carried him away, causing him, almost before the body +of his wife Angèle was cold in death, to sell his name, in order to +have the first indispensable thousand francs, by marrying Renée. And it +was Saccard, too, who, a few years later, put in motion the immense +money-press of the Banque Universelle. Saccard, the never vanquished; +Saccard, grown more powerful, risen to be the clever and daring grand +financier, comprehending the fierce and civilizing role that money +plays, fighting, winning, and losing battles on the Bourse, like +Napoleon at Austerlitz and Waterloo; engulfing in disaster a world of +miserable people; sending forth into the unknown realms of crime his +natural son Victor, who disappeared, fleeing through the dark night, +while he himself, under the impassable protection of unjust nature, was +loved by the adorable Mme. Caroline, no doubt in recompense of all the +evil he had done. + +Here a tall, spotless lily had bloomed in this compost, Sidonie Rougon, +the sycophant of her brother, the go-between in a hundred suspicious +affairs, giving birth to the pure and divine Angelique, the little +embroiderer with fairylike fingers who worked into the gold of the +chasubles the dream of her Prince Charming, so happy among her +companions the saints, so little made for the hard realities of life, +that she obtained the grace of dying of love, on the day of her +marriage, at the first kiss of Félicien de Hautecœur, in the triumphant +peal of bells ringing for her splendid nuptials. + +The union of the two branches, the legitimate and the illegitimate, +took place then, Marthe Rougon espousing her cousin François Mouret, a +peaceful household slowly disunited, ending in the direst +catastrophes—a sad and gentle woman taken, made use of, and crushed in +the vast machine of war erected for the conquest of a city; her three +children torn from her, she herself leaving her heart in the rude grasp +of the Abbé Faujas. And the Rougons saved Plassans a second time, while +she was dying in the glare of the conflagration in which her husband +was being consumed, mad with long pent-up rage and the desire for +revenge. + +Of the three children, Octave Mouret was the audacious conqueror, the +clear intellect, resolved to demand from the women the sovereignty of +Paris, fallen at his _début_ into the midst of a corrupt _bourgeois_ +society, acquiring there a terrible sentimental education, passing from +the capricious refusal of one woman to the unresisting abandonment of +another, remaining, fortunately, active, laborious, and combative, +gradually emerging, and improved even, from the low plotting, the +ceaseless ferment of a rotten society that could be heard already +cracking to its foundations. And Octave Mouret, victorious, +revolutionized commerce; swallowed up the cautious little shops that +carried on business in the old-fashioned way; established in the midst +of feverish Paris the colossal palace of temptation, blazing with +lights, overflowing with velvets, silks, and laces; won fortunes +exploiting woman; lived in smiling scorn of woman until the day when a +little girl, the avenger of her sex, the innocent and wise Denise, +vanquished him and held him captive at her feet, groaning with anguish, +until she did him the favor, she who was so poor, to marry him in the +midst of the apotheosis of his Louvre, under the golden shower of his +receipts. + +There remained the two other children, Serge Mouret and Désirée Mouret, +the latter innocent and healthy, like some happy young animal; the +former refined and mystical, who was thrown into the priesthood by a +nervous malady hereditary in his family, and who lived again the story +of Adam, in the Eden of Le Paradou. He was born again to love Albine, +and to lose her, in the bosom of sublime nature, their accomplice; to +be recovered, afterward by the Church, to war eternally with life, +striving to kill his manhood, throwing on the body of the dead Albine +the handful of earth, as officiating priest, at the very time when +Désirée, the sister and friend of animals, was rejoicing in the midst +of the swarming life of her poultry yard. + +Further on there opened a calm glimpse of gentle and tragic life, +Hélène Mouret living peacefully with her little girl, Jeanne, on the +heights of Passy, overlooking Paris, the bottomless, boundless human +sea, in face of which was unrolled this page of love: the sudden +passion of Hélène for a stranger, a physician, brought one night by +chance to the bedside of her daughter; the morbid jealousy of +Jeanne—the instinctive jealousy of a loving girl—disputing her mother +with love, her mother already so wasted by her unhappy passion that the +daughter died because of her fault; terrible price of one hour of +desire in the entire cold and discreet life of a woman, poor dead +child, lying alone in the silent cemetery, in face of eternal Paris. + +With Lisa Macquart began the illegitimate branch; appearing fresh and +strong in her, as she displayed her portly, prosperous figure, sitting +at the door of her pork shop in a light colored apron, watching the +central market, where the hunger of a people muttered, the age-long +battle of the Fat and the Lean, the lean Florent, her brother-in-law, +execrated, and set upon by the fat fishwomen and the fat shopwomen, and +whom even the fat pork-seller herself, honest, but unforgiving, caused +to be arrested as a republican who had broken his ban, convinced that +she was laboring for the good digestion of all honest people. + +From this mother sprang the sanest, the most human of girls, Pauline +Quenu, the well-balanced, the reasonable, the virgin; who, knowing +everything, accepted the joy of living in so ardent a love for others +that, in spite of the revolt of her youthful heart, she resigned to her +friend her cousin and betrothed, Lazare, and afterward saved the child +of the disunited household, becoming its true mother; always +triumphant, always gay, notwithstanding her sacrificed and ruined life, +in her monotonous solitude, facing the great sea, in the midst of a +little world of sufferers groaning with pain, but who did not wish to +die. + +Then came Gervaise Macquart with her four children: bandy-legged, +pretty, and industrious Gervaise, whom her lover Lantier turned into +the street in the faubourg, where she met the zinc worker Coupeau, the +skilful, steady workman whom she married, and with whom she lived so +happily at first, having three women working in her laundry, but +afterward sinking with her husband, as was inevitable, to the +degradation of her surroundings. He, gradually conquered by alcohol, +brought by it to madness and death; she herself perverted, become a +slattern, her moral ruin completed by the return of Lantier, living in +the tranquil ignominy of a household of three, thenceforward the +wretched victim of want, her accomplice, to which she at last +succumbed, dying one night of starvation. + +Her eldest son, Claude, had the unhappy genius of a great painter +struck with madness, the impotent madness of feeling within him the +masterpiece to which his fingers refused to give shape; a giant +wrestler always defeated, a crucified martyr to his work, adoring +woman, sacrificing his wife Christine, so loving and for a time so +beloved, to the increate, divine woman of his visions, but whom his +pencil was unable to delineate in her nude perfection, possessed by a +devouring passion for producing, an insatiable longing to create, a +longing so torturing when it could not be satisfied, that he ended it +by hanging himself. + +Jacques brought crime, the hereditary taint being transmuted in him +into an instinctive appetite for blood, the young and fresh blood from +the gashed throat of a woman, the first comer, the passer-by in the +street: a horrible malady against which he struggled, but which took +possession of him again in the course of his _amour_ with the +submissive and sensual Severine, whom a tragic story of assassination +caused to live in constant terror, and whom he stabbed one evening in +an excess of frenzy, maddened by the sight of her white throat. Then +this savage human beast rushed among the trains filing past swiftly, +and mounted the snorting engine of which he was the engineer, the +beloved engine which was one day to crush him to atoms, and then, left +without a guide, to rush furiously off into space braving unknown +disasters. + +Étienne, in his turn driven out, arrived in the black country on a +freezing night in March, descended into the voracious pit, fell in love +with the melancholy Catherine, of whom a ruffian robbed him; lived with +the miners their gloomy life of misery and base promiscuousness, until +one day when hunger, prompting rebellion, sent across the barren plain +a howling mob of wretches who demanded bread, tearing down and burning +as they went, under the menace of the guns of the band that went off of +themselves, a terrible convulsion announcing the end of the world. The +avenging blood of the Maheus was to rise up later; of Alzire dead of +starvation, Maheu killed by a bullet, Zacharie killed by an explosion +of fire-damp, Catherine under the ground. La Maheude alone survived to +weep her dead, descending again into the mine to earn her thirty sons, +while Étienne, the beaten chief of the band, haunted by the dread of +future demands, went away on a warm April morning, listening to the +secret growth of the new world whose germination was soon to dazzle the +earth. + +Nana then became the avenger; the girl born among the social filth of +the faubourgs; the golden fly sprung from the rottenness below, that +was tolerated and concealed, carrying in the fluttering of its wings +the ferment of destruction, rising and contaminating the aristocracy, +poisoning men only by alighting upon them, in the palaces through whose +windows it entered; the unconscious instrument of ruin and death—fierce +flame of Vandeuvres, the melancholy fate of Foucarmont, lost in the +Chinese waters, the disaster of Steiner, reduced to live as an honest +man, the imbecility of La Faloise and the tragic ruin of the Muffats, +and the white corpse of Georges, watched by Philippe, come out of +prison the day before, when the air of the epoch was so contaminated +that she herself was infected, and died of malignant smallpox, caught +at the death-bed of her son Louiset, while Paris passed beneath her +windows, intoxicated, possessed by the frenzy of war, rushing to +general ruin. + +Lastly comes Jean Macquart, the workman and soldier become again a +peasant, fighting with the hard earth, which exacts that every grain of +corn shall be purchased with a drop of sweat, fighting, above all, with +the country people, whom covetousness and the long and difficult battle +with the soil cause to burn with the desire, incessantly stimulated, of +possession. Witness the Fouans, grown old, parting with their fields as +if they were parting with their flesh; the Buteaus in their eager greed +committing parricide, to hasten the inheritance of a field of lucern; +the stubborn Françoise dying from the stroke of a scythe, without +speaking, rather than that a sod should go out of the family—all this +drama of simple natures governed by instinct, scarcely emerged from +primitive barbarism—all this human filth on the great earth, which +alone remains immortal, the mother from whom they issue and to whom +they return again, she whom they love even to crime, who continually +remakes life, for its unknown end, even with the misery and the +abomination of the beings she nourishes. And it was Jean, too, who, +become a widower and having enlisted again at the first rumor of war, +brought the inexhaustible reserve, the stock of eternal rejuvenation +which the earth keeps; Jean, the humblest, the staunchest soldier at +the final downfall, swept along in the terrible and fatal storm which, +from the frontier to Sedan, in sweeping away the Empire, threatened to +sweep away the country; always wise, circumspect, firm in his hope, +loving with fraternal affection his comrade Maurice, the demented child +of the people, the holocaust doomed to expiation, weeping tears of +blood when inexorable destiny chose himself to hew off this rotten +limb, and after all had ended—the continual defeats, the frightful +civil war, the lost provinces, the thousands of millions of francs to +pay—taking up the march again, notwithstanding, returning to the land +which awaited him, to the great and difficult task of making a new +France. + +Pascal paused; Clotilde had handed him all the packages, one by one, +and he had gone over them all, laid bare the contents of all, +classified them anew, and placed them again on the top shelf of the +press. He was out of breath, exhausted by his swift course through all +this humanity, while, without voice, without movement, the young girl, +stunned by this overflowing torrent of life, waited still, incapable of +thought or judgment. The rain still beat furiously upon the dark +fields. The lightning had just struck a tree in the neighborhood, that +had split with a terrible crash. The candles flared up in the wind that +came in from the open window. + +“Ah!” he resumed, pointing to the papers again, “there is a world in +itself, a society, a civilization, the whole of life is there, with its +manifestations, good and bad, in the heat and labor of the forge which +shapes everything. Yes, our family of itself would suffice as an +example to science, which will perhaps one day establish with +mathematical exactness the laws governing the diseases of the blood and +nerves that show themselves in a race, after a first organic lesion, +and that determine, according to environment, the sentiments, desires, +and passions of each individual of that race, all the human, natural +and instinctive manifestations which take the names of virtues and +vices. And it is also a historical document, it relates the story of +the Second Empire, from the _coup d’etat_ to Sedan; for our family +spring from the people, they spread themselves through the whole of +contemporary society, invaded every place, impelled by their unbridled +appetites, by that impulse, essentially modern, that eager desire that +urges the lower classes to enjoyment, in their ascent through the +social strata. We started, as I have said, from Plassans, and here we +are now arrived once more at Plassans.” + +He paused again, and then resumed in a low, dreamy voice: + +“What an appalling mass stirred up! how many passions, how many joys, +how many sufferings crammed into this colossal heap of facts! There is +pure history: the Empire founded in blood, at first pleasure-loving and +despotic, conquering rebellious cities, then gliding to a slow +disintegration, dissolving in blood—in such a sea of blood that the +entire nation came near being swamped in it. There are social studies: +wholesale and retail trade, prostitution, crime, land, money, the +_bourgeoisie_, the people—that people who rot in the sewer of the +faubourgs, who rebel in the great industrial centers, all that +ever-increasing growth of mighty socialism, big with the new century. +There are simple human studies: domestic pages, love stories, the +struggle of minds and hearts against unjust nature, the destruction of +those who cry out under their too difficult task, the cry of virtue +immolating itself, victorious over pain, There are fancies, flights of +the imagination beyond the real: vast gardens always in bloom, +cathedrals with slender, exquisitely wrought spires, marvelous tales +come down from paradise, ideal affections remounting to heaven in a +kiss. There is everything: the good and the bad, the vulgar and the +sublime, flowers, mud, blood, laughter, the torrent of life itself, +bearing humanity endlessly on!” + +He took up again the genealogical tree which had remained neglected on +the table, spread it out and began to go over it once more with his +finger, enumerating now the members of the family who were still +living: Eugène Rougon, a fallen majesty, who remained in the Chamber, +the witness, the impassible defender of the old world swept away at the +downfall of the Empire. Aristide Saccard, who, after having changed his +principles, had fallen upon his feet a republican, the editor of a +great journal, on the way to make new millions, while his natural son +Victor, who had never reappeared, was living still in the shade, since +he was not in the galleys, cast forth by the world into the future, +into the unknown, like a human beast foaming with the hereditary virus, +who must communicate his malady with every bite he gives. Sidonie +Rougon, who had for a time disappeared, weary of disreputable affairs, +had lately retired to a sort of religious house, where she was living +in monastic austerity, the treasurer of the Marriage Fund, for aiding +in the marriage of girls who were mothers. Octave Mouret, proprietor of +the great establishment _Au Bonheur des Dames_, whose colossal fortune +still continued increasing, had had, toward the end of the winter, a +third child by his wife Denise Baudu, whom he adored, although his mind +was beginning to be deranged again. The Abbé Mouret, curé at St. +Eutrope, in the heart of a marshy gorge, lived there in great +retirement, and very modestly, with his sister Désirée, refusing all +advancement from his bishop, and waiting for death like a holy man, +rejecting all medicines, although he was already suffering from +consumption in its first stage. Hélène Mouret was living very happily +in seclusion with her second husband, M. Rambaud, on the little estate +which they owned near Marseilles, on the seashore; she had had no child +by her second husband. Pauline Quenu was still at Bonneville at the +other extremity of France, in face of the vast ocean, alone with little +Paul, since the death of Uncle Chanteau, having resolved never to +marry, in order to devote herself entirely to the son of her cousin +Lazare, who had become a widower and had gone to America to make a +fortune. Étienne Lantier, returning to Paris after the strike at +Montsou, had compromised himself later in the insurrection of the +Commune, whose principles he had defended with ardor; he had been +condemned to death, but his sentence being commuted was transported and +was now at Nouméa. It was even said that he had married immediately on +his arrival there, and that he had had a child, the sex of which, +however, was not known with certainty. Finally, Jean Macquart, who had +received his discharge after the Bloody Week, had settled at +Valqueyras, near Plassans, where he had had the good fortune to marry a +healthy girl, Mélanie Vial, the daughter of a well-to-do peasant, whose +lands he farmed, and his wife had borne him a son in May. + +“Yes, it is true,” he resumed, in a low voice; “races degenerate. There +is here a veritable exhaustion, rapid deterioration, as if our family, +in their fury of enjoyment, in the gluttonous satisfaction of their +appetites, had consumed themselves too quickly. Louiset, dead in +infancy; Jacques Louis, a half imbecile, carried off by a nervous +disease; Victor returned to the savage state, wandering about in who +knows what dark places; our poor Charles, so beautiful and so frail; +these are the latest branches of the tree, the last pale offshoots into +which the puissant sap of the larger branches seems to have been unable +to mount. The worm was in the trunk, it has ascended into the fruit, +and is devouring it. But one must never despair; families are a +continual growth. They go back beyond the common ancestor, into the +unfathomable strata of the races that have lived, to the first being; +and they will put forth new shoots without end, they will spread and +ramify to infinity, through future ages. Look at our tree; it counts +only five generations. It has not so much importance as a blade of +grass, even, in the human forest, vast and dark, of which the peoples +are the great secular oaks. Think only of the immense roots which +spread through the soil; think of the continual putting forth of new +leaves above, which mingle with other leaves of the ever-rolling sea of +treetops, at the fructifying, eternal breath of life. Well, hope lies +there, in the daily reconstruction of the race by the new blood which +comes from without. Each marriage brings other elements, good or bad, +of which the effect is, however, to prevent certain and progressive +regeneration. Breaches are repaired, faults effaced, an equilibrium is +inevitably re-established at the end of a few generations, and it is +the average man that always results; vague humanity, obstinately +pursuing its mysterious labor, marching toward its unknown end.” + +He paused, and heaved a deep sigh. + +“Ah! our family, what is it going to become; in what being will it +finally end?” + +He continued, not now taking into account the survivors whom he had +just named; having classified these, he knew what they were capable of, +but he was full of keen curiosity regarding the children who were still +infants. He had written to a _confrère_ in Nouméa for precise +information regarding the wife whom Étienne had lately married there, +and the child which she had had, but he had heard nothing, and he +feared greatly that on that side the tree would remain incomplete. He +was more fully furnished with documents regarding the two children of +Octave Mouret, with whom he continued to correspond; the little girl +was growing up puny and delicate, while the little boy, who strongly +resembled his mother, had developed superbly, and was perfectly +healthy. His strongest hope, besides these, was in Jean’s children, the +eldest of whom was a magnificent boy, full of the youthful vigor of the +races that go back to the soil to regenerate themselves. Pascal +occasionally went to Valqueyras, and he returned happy from that +fertile spot, where the father, quiet and rational, was always at his +plow, the mother cheerful and simple, with her vigorous frame, capable +of bearing a world. Who knew what sound branch was to spring from that +side? Perhaps the wise and puissant of the future were to germinate +there. The worst of it, for the beauty of his tree, was that all these +little boys and girls were still so young that he could not classify +them. And his voice grew tender as he spoke of this hope of the future, +these fair-haired children, in the unavowed regret for his celibacy. + +Still contemplating the tree spread out before him, he cried: + +“And yet it is complete, it is decisive. Look! I repeat to you that all +hereditary cases are to be found there. To establish my theory, I had +only to base it on the collection of these facts. And indeed, the +marvelous thing is that there you can put your finger on the cause why +creatures born of the same stock can appear radically different, +although they are only logical modifications of common ancestors. The +trunk explains the branches, and these explain the leaves. In your +father Saccard and your Uncle Eugène Rougon, so different in their +temperaments and their lives, it is the same impulse which made the +inordinate appetites of the one and the towering ambition of the other. +Angelique, that pure lily, is born from the disreputable Sidonie, in +the rapture which makes mystics or lovers, according to the +environment. The three children of the Mourets are born of the same +breath which makes of the clever Octave the dry goods merchant, a +millionaire; of the devout Serge, a poor country priest; of the +imbecile Désirée, a beautiful and happy girl. But the example is still +more striking in the children of Gervaise; the neurosis passes down, +and Nana sells herself; Étienne is a rebel; Jacques, a murderer; +Claude, a genius; while Pauline, their cousin german, near by, is +victorious virtue—virtue which struggles and immolates itself. It is +heredity, life itself which makes imbeciles, madmen, criminals and +great men. Cells abort, others take their place, and we have a +scoundrel or a madman instead of a man of genius, or simply an honest +man. And humanity rolls on, bearing everything on its tide.” + +Then in a new shifting of his thought, growing still more animated, he +continued: + +“And animals—the beast that suffers and that loves, which is the rough +sketch, as it were, of man—all the animals our brothers, that live our +life, yes, I would have put them in the ark, I would give them a place +among our family, show them continually mingling with us, completing +our existence. I have known cats whose presence was the mysterious +charm of the household; dogs that were adored, whose death was mourned, +and left in the heart an inconsolable grief. I have known goats, cows, +and asses of very great importance, and whose personality played such a +part that their history ought to be written. And there is our Bonhomme, +our poor old horse, that has served us for a quarter of a century. Do +you not think that he has mingled his life with ours, and that +henceforth he is one of the family? We have modified him, as he has +influenced us a little; we shall end by being made in the same image, +and this is so true that now, when I see him, half blind, with +wandering gaze, his legs stiff with rheumatism, I kiss him on both +cheeks as if he were a poor old relation who had fallen to my charge. +Ah, animals, all creeping and crawling things, all creatures that +lament, below man, how large a place in our sympathies it would be +necessary to give them in a history of life!” + +This was a last cry in which Pascal gave utterance to his passionate +tenderness for all created beings. He had gradually become more and +more excited, and had so come to make this confession of his faith in +the continuous and victorious work of animated nature. And Clotilde, +who thus far had not spoken, pale from the catastrophe in which her +plans had ended, at last opened her lips to ask: + +“Well, master, and what am I here?” + +She placed one of her slender fingers on the leaf of the tree on which +she saw her name written. He had always passed this leaf by. She +insisted. + +“Yes, I; what am I? Why have you not read me my envelope?” + +For a moment he remained silent, as if surprised at the question. + +“Why? For no reason. It is true, I have nothing to conceal from you. +You see what is written here? ‘Clotilde, born in 1847. Selection of the +mother. Reversional heredity, with moral and physical predominance of +the maternal grandfather.’ Nothing can be clearer. Your mother has +predominated in you; you have her fine intelligence, and you have also +something of her coquetry, at times of her indolence and of her +submissiveness. Yes, you are very feminine, like her. Without your +being aware of it, I would say that you love to be loved. Besides, your +mother was a great novel reader, an imaginative being who loved to +spend whole days dreaming over a book; she doted on nursery tales, had +her fortune told by cards, consulted clairvoyants; and I have always +thought that your concern about spiritual matters, your anxiety about +the unknown, came from that source. But what completed your character +by giving you a dual nature, was the influence of your grandfather, +Commandant Sicardot. I knew him; he was not a genius, but he had at +least a great deal of uprightness and energy. Frankly, if it were not +for him, I do not believe that you would be worth much, for the other +influences are hardly good. He has given you the best part of your +nature, combativeness, pride, and frankness.” + +She had listened to him with attention. She nodded slightly, to signify +that it was indeed so, that she was not offended, although her lips +trembled visibly at these new details regarding her people and her +mother. + +“Well,” she resumed, “and you, master?” + +This time he did not hesitate. + +“Oh, I!” he cried, “what is the use of speaking of me? I do not belong +to the family. You see what is written here. ‘Pascal, born in 1813. +Individual variation. Combination in which the physical and moral +characters of the parents are blended, without any of their traits +seeming to appear in the new being.’ My mother has told me often enough +that I did not belong to it, that in truth she did not know where I +could have come from.” + +Those words came from him like a cry of relief, of involuntary joy. + +“And the people make no mistake in the matter. Have you ever heard me +called Pascal Rougon in the town? No; people always say simply Dr. +Pascal. It is because I stand apart. And it may not be very +affectionate to feel so, but I am delighted at it, for there are in +truth inheritances too heavy to bear. It is of no use that I love them +all. My heart beats none the less joyously when I feel myself another +being, different from them, without any community with them. Not to be +of them, my God! not to be of them! It is a breath of pure air; it is +what gives me the courage to have them all here, to put them, in all +their nakedness, in their envelopes, and still to find the courage to +live!” + +He stopped, and there was silence for a time. The rain had ceased, the +storm was passing away, the thunderclaps sounded more and more distant, +while from the refreshed fields, still dark, there came in through the +open window a delicious odor of moist earth. In the calm air the +candles were burning out with a tall, tranquil flame. + +“Ah!” said Clotilde simply, with a gesture of discouragement, “what are +we to become finally?” + +She had declared it to herself one night, in the threshing yard; life +was horrible, how could one live peaceful and happy? It was a terrible +light that science threw on the world. Analysis searched every wound of +humanity, in order to expose its horror. And now he had spoken still +more bluntly; he had increased the disgust which she had for persons +and things, pitilessly dissecting her family. The muddy torrent had +rolled on before her for nearly three hours, and she had heard the most +dreadful revelations, the harsh and terrible truth about her people, +her people who were so dear to her, whom it was her duty to love; her +father grown powerful through pecuniary crimes; her brother dissolute; +her grandmother unscrupulous, covered with the blood of the just; the +others almost all tainted, drunkards, ruffians, murderers, the +monstrous blossoming of the human tree. + +The blow had been so rude that she could not yet recover from it, +stunned as she was by the revelation of her whole family history, made +to her in this way at a stroke. And yet the lesson was rendered +innocuous, so to say, by something great and good, a breath of profound +humanity which had borne her through it. Nothing bad had come to her +from it. She felt herself beaten by a sharp sea wind, the storm wind +which strengthens and expands the lungs. He had revealed everything, +speaking freely even of his mother, without judging her, continuing to +preserve toward her his deferential attitude, as a scientist who does +not judge events. To tell everything in order to know everything, in +order to remedy everything, was not this the cry which he had uttered +on that beautiful summer night? + +And by the very excess of what he had just revealed to her, she +remained shaken, blinded by this too strong light, but understanding +him at last, and confessing to herself that he was attempting in this +an immense work. In spite of everything, it was a cry of health, of +hope in the future. He spoke as a benefactor who, since heredity made +the world, wished to fix its laws, in order to control it, and to make +a new and happy world. Was there then only mud in this overflowing +stream, whose sluices he had opened? How much gold had passed, mingled +with the grass and the flowers on its borders? Hundreds of beings were +still flying swiftly before her, and she was haunted by good and +charming faces, delicate girlish profiles, by the serene beauty of +women. All passion bled there, hearts swelled with every tender +rapture. They were numerous, the Jeannes, the Angeliques, the Paulines, +the Marthes, the Gervaises, the Hélènes. They and others, even those +who were least good, even terrible men, the worst of the band, showed a +brotherhood with humanity. + +And it was precisely this breath which she had felt pass, this broad +current of sympathy, that he had introduced naturally into his exact +scientific lesson. He did not seem to be moved; he preserved the +impersonal and correct attitude of the demonstrator, but within him +what tender suffering, what a fever of devotion, what a giving up of +his whole being to the happiness of others? His entire work, +constructed with such mathematical precision, was steeped in this +fraternal suffering, even in its most cruel ironies. Had he not just +spoken of the animals, like an elder brother of the wretched living +beings that suffer? Suffering exasperated him; his wrath was because of +his too lofty dream, and he had become harsh only in his hatred of the +factitious and the transitory; dreaming of working, not for the polite +society of a time, but for all humanity in the gravest hours of its +history. Perhaps, even, it was this revolt against the vulgarity of the +time which had made him throw himself, in bold defiance, into theories +and their application. And the work remained human, overflowing as it +was with an infinite pity for beings and things. + +Besides, was it not life? There is no absolute evil. Most often a +virtue presents itself side by side with a defect. No man is bad to +every one, each man makes the happiness of some one; so that, when one +does not view things from a single standpoint only, one recognizes in +the end the utility of every human being. Those who believe in God +should say to themselves that if their God does not strike the wicked +dead, it is because he sees his work in its totality, and that he +cannot descend to the individual. Labor ends to begin anew; the living, +as a whole, continue, in spite of everything, admirable in their +courage and their industry; and love of life prevails over all. + +This giant labor of men, this obstinacy in living, is their excuse, is +redemption. And then, from a great height the eye saw only this +continual struggle, and a great deal of good, in spite of everything, +even though there might be a great deal of evil. One shared the general +indulgence, one pardoned, one had only an infinite pity and an ardent +charity. The haven was surely there, waiting those who have lost faith +in dogmas, who wish to understand the meaning of their lives, in the +midst of the apparent iniquity of the world. One must live for the +effort of living, for the stone to be carried to the distant and +unknown work, and the only possible peace in the world is in the joy of +making this effort. + +Another hour passed; the entire night had flown by in this terrible +lesson of life, without either Pascal or Clotilde being conscious of +where they were, or of the flight of time. And he, overworked for some +time past, and worn out by the life of suspicion and sadness which he +had been leading, started nervously, as if he had suddenly awakened. + +“Come, you know all; do you feel your heart strong, tempered by the +truth, full of pardon and of hope? Are you with me?” + +But, still stunned by the frightful moral shock which she had received, +she too, started, bewildered. Her old beliefs had been so completely +overthrown, so many new ideas were awakening within her, that she did +not dare to question herself, in order to find an answer. She felt +herself seized and carried away by the omnipotence of truth. She +endured it without being convinced. + +“Master,” she stammered, “master—” + +And they remained for a moment face to face, looking at each other. Day +was breaking, a dawn of exquisite purity, far off in the vast, clear +sky, washed by the storm. Not a cloud now stained the pale azure tinged +with rose color. All the cheerful sounds of awakening life in the +rain-drenched fields came in through the window, while the candles, +burned down to the socket, paled in the growing light. + +“Answer; are you with me, altogether with me?” + +For a moment he thought she was going to throw herself on his neck and +burst into tears. A sudden impulse seemed to impel her. But they saw +each other in their semi-nudity. She, who had not noticed it before, +was now conscious that she was only half dressed, that her arms were +bare, her shoulders bare, covered only by the scattered locks of her +unbound hair, and on her right shoulder, near the armpit, on lowering +her eyes, she perceived again the few drops of blood of the bruise +which he had given her, when he had grasped her roughly, in struggling +to master her. Then an extraordinary confusion took possession of her, +a certainty that she was going to be vanquished, as if by this grasp he +had become her master, and forever. This sensation was prolonged; she +was seized and drawn on, without the consent of her will, by an +irresistible impulse to submit. + +Abruptly Clotilde straightened herself, struggling with herself, +wishing to reflect and to recover herself. She pressed her bare arms +against her naked throat. All the blood in her body rushed to her skin +in a rosy blush of shame. Then, in her divine and slender grace, she +turned to flee. + +“Master, master, let me go—I will see—” + +With the swiftness of alarmed maidenhood, she took refuge in her +chamber, as she had done once before. He heard her lock the door +hastily, with a double turn of the key. He remained alone, and he asked +himself suddenly, seized by infinite discouragement and sadness, if he +had done right in speaking, if the truth would germinate in this dear +and adored creature, and bear one day a harvest of happiness. + + + + +VI. + + +The days wore on. October began with magnificent weather—a sultry +autumn in which the fervid heat of summer was prolonged, with a +cloudless sky. Then the weather changed, fierce winds began to blow, +and a last storm channeled gullies in the hillsides. And to the +melancholy household at La Souleiade the approach of winter seemed to +have brought an infinite sadness. + +It was a new hell. There were no more violent quarrels between Pascal +and Clotilde. The doors were no longer slammed. Voices raised in +dispute no longer obliged Martine to go continually upstairs to listen +outside the door. They scarcely spoke to each other now; and not a +single word had been exchanged between them regarding the midnight +scene, although weeks had passed since it had taken place. He, through +an inexplicable scruple, a strange delicacy of which he was not himself +conscious, did not wish to renew the conversation, and to demand the +answer which he expected—a promise of faith in him and of submission. +She, after the great moral shock which had completely transformed her, +still reflected, hesitated, struggled, fighting against herself, +putting off her decision in order not to surrender, in her instinctive +rebelliousness. And the misunderstanding continued, in the midst of the +mournful silence of the miserable house, where there was no longer any +happiness. + +During all this time Pascal suffered terribly, without making any +complaint. He had sunk into a dull distrust, imagining that he was +still being watched, and that if they seemed to leave him at peace it +was only in order to concoct in secret the darkest plots. His +uneasiness increased, even, and he expected every day some catastrophe +to happen—the earth suddenly to open and swallow up his papers, La +Souleiade itself to be razed to the ground, carried away bodily, +scattered to the winds. + +The persecution against his thought, against his moral and intellectual +life, in thus hiding itself, and so rendering him helpless to defend +himself, became so intolerable to him that he went to bed every night +in a fever. He would often start and turn round suddenly, thinking he +was going to surprise the enemy behind him engaged in some piece of +treachery, to find nothing there but the shadow of his own fears. At +other times, seized by some suspicion, he would remain on the watch for +hours together, hidden, behind his blinds, or lying in wait in a +passage; but not a soul stirred, he heard nothing but the violent +beating of his heart. His fears kept him in a state of constant +agitation; he never went to bed at night without visiting every room; +he no longer slept, or, if he did, he would waken with a start at the +slightest noise, ready to defend himself. + +And what still further aggravated Pascal’s sufferings was the constant, +the ever more bitter thought that the wound was inflicted upon him by +the only creature he loved in the world, the adored Clotilde, whom for +twenty years he had seen grow in beauty and in grace, whose life had +hitherto bloomed like a beautiful flower, perfuming his. She, great +God! for whom his heart was full of affection, whom he had never +analyzed, she, who had become his joy, his courage, his hope, in whose +young life he lived over again. When she passed by, with her delicate +neck, so round, so fresh, he was invigorated, bathed in health and joy, +as at the coming of spring. + +His whole life, besides, explained this invasion, this subjugation of +his being by the young girl who had entered into his heart while she +was still a little child, and who, as she grew up, had gradually taken +possession of the whole place. Since he had settled at Plassans, he had +led a blest existence, wrapped up in his books, far from women. The +only passion he was ever known to have had, was his love for the lady +who had died, whose finger tips he had never kissed. He had not lived; +he had within him a reserve of youthfulness, of vigor, whose surging +flood now clamored rebelliously at the menace of approaching age. He +would have become attached to an animal, a stray dog that he had +chanced to pick up in the street, and that had licked his hand. And it +was this child whom he loved, all at once become an adorable woman, who +now distracted him, who tortured him by her hostility. + +Pascal, so gay, so kind, now became insupportably gloomy and harsh. He +grew angry at the slightest word; he would push aside the astonished +Martine, who would look up at him with the submissive eyes of a beaten +animal. From morning till night he went about the gloomy house, +carrying his misery about with him, with so forbidding a countenance +that no one ventured to speak to him. + +He never took Clotilde with him now on his visits, but went alone. And +thus it was that he returned home one afternoon, his mind distracted +because of an accident which had happened; having on his conscience, as +a physician, the death of a man. + +He had gone to give a hypodermic injection to Lafouasse, the tavern +keeper, whose ataxia had within a short time made such rapid progress +that he regarded him as doomed. But, notwithstanding, Pascal still +fought obstinately against the disease, continuing the treatment, and +as ill luck would have it, on this day the little syringe had caught up +at the bottom of the vial an impure particle, which had escaped the +filter. Immediately a drop of blood appeared; to complete his +misfortune, he had punctured a vein. He was at once alarmed, seeing the +tavern keeper turn pale and gasp for breath, while large drops of cold +perspiration broke out upon his face. Then he understood; death came as +if by a stroke of lightning, the lips turning blue, the face black. It +was an embolism; he had nothing to blame but the insufficiency of his +preparations, his still rude method. No doubt Lafouasse had been +doomed. He could not, perhaps, have lived six months longer, and that +in the midst of atrocious sufferings, but the brutal fact of this +terrible death was none the less there, and what despairing regret, +what rage against impotent and murderous science, and what a shock to +his faith! He returned home, livid, and did not make his appearance +again until the following day, after having remained sixteen hours shut +up in his room, lying in a semi-stupor on the bed, across which he had +thrown himself, dressed as he was. + +On the afternoon of this day Clotilde, who was sitting beside him in +the study, sewing, ventured to break the oppressive silence. She looked +up, and saw him turning over the leaves of a book wearily, searching +for some information which he was unable to find. + +“Master, are you ill? Why do you not tell me, if you are. I would take +care of you.” + +He kept his eyes bent upon the book, and muttered: + +“What does it matter to you whether I am ill or not? I need no one to +take care of me.” + +She resumed, in a conciliating voice: + +“If you have troubles, and can tell them to me, it would perhaps be a +relief to you to do so. Yesterday you came in looking so sad. You must +not allow yourself to be cast down in that way. I have spent a very +anxious night. I came to your door three times to listen, tormented by +the idea that you were suffering.” + +Gently as she spoke, her words were like the cut of a whip. In his weak +and nervous condition a sudden access of rage made him push away the +book and rise up trembling. + +“So you spy upon me, then. I cannot even retire to my room without +people coming to glue their ears to the walls. Yes, you listen even to +the beatings of my heart. You watch for my death, to pillage and burn +everything here.” + +His voice rose and all his unjust suffering vented itself in complaints +and threats. + +“I forbid you to occupy yourself about me. Is there nothing else that +you have to say to me? Have you reflected? Can you put your hand in +mine loyally, and say to me that we are in accord?” + +She did not answer. She only continued to look at him with her large +clear eyes, frankly declaring that she would not surrender yet, while +he, exasperated more and more by this attitude, lost all self-control. + +“Go away, go away,” he stammered, pointing to the door. “I do not wish +you to remain near me. I do not wish to have enemies near me. I do not +wish you to remain near me to drive me mad!” + +She rose, very pale, and went at once out of the room, without looking +behind, carrying her work with her. + +During the month which followed, Pascal took refuge in furious and +incessant work. He now remained obstinately, for whole days at a time, +alone in the study, sometimes passing even the nights there, going over +old documents, to revise all his works on heredity. It seemed as if a +sort of frenzy had seized him to assure himself of the legitimacy of +his hopes, to force science to give him the certainty that humanity +could be remade—made a higher, a healthy humanity. He no longer left +the house, he abandoned his patients even, and lived among his papers, +without air or exercise. And after a month of this overwork, which +exhausted him without appeasing his domestic torments, he fell into +such a state of nervous exhaustion that illness, for some time latent, +declared itself at last with alarming violence. + +Pascal, when he rose in the morning, felt worn out with fatigue, +wearier and less refreshed than he had been on going to bed the night +before. He constantly had pains all over his body; his limbs failed +him, after five minutes’ walk; the slightest exertion tired him; the +least movement caused him intense pain. At times the floor seemed +suddenly to sway beneath his feet. He had a constant buzzing in his +ears, flashes of light dazzled his eyes. He took a loathing for wine, +he had no longer any appetite, and his digestion was seriously +impaired. Then, in the midst of the apathy of his constantly increasing +idleness he would have sudden fits of aimless activity. The equilibrium +was destroyed, he had at times outbreaks of nervous irritability, +without any cause. The slightest emotion brought tears to his eyes. +Finally, he would shut himself up in his room, and give way to +paroxysms of despair so violent that he would sob for hours at a time, +without any immediate cause of grief, overwhelmed simply by the immense +sadness of things. + +In the early part of December Pascal had a severe attack of neuralgia. +Violent pains in the bones of the skull made him feel at times as if +his head must split. Old Mme. Rougon, who had been informed of his +illness, came to inquire after her son. But she went straight to the +kitchen, wishing to have a talk with Martine first. The latter, with a +heart-broken and terrified air, said to her that monsieur must +certainly be going mad; and she told her of his singular behavior, the +continual tramping about in his room, the locking of all the drawers, +the rounds which he made from the top to the bottom of the house, until +two o’clock in the morning. Tears filled her eyes and she at last +hazarded the opinion that monsieur must be possessed with a devil, and +that it would be well to notify the curé of St. Saturnin. + +“So good a man,” she said, “a man for whom one would let one’s self be +cut in pieces! How unfortunate it is that one cannot get him to go to +church, for that would certainly cure him at once.” + +Clotilde, who had heard her grandmother’s voice, entered at this +moment. She, too, wandered through the empty rooms, spending most of +her time in the deserted apartment on the ground floor. She did not +speak, however, but only listened with her thoughtful and expectant +air. + +“Ah, goodday! It is you, my dear. Martine tells me that Pascal is +possessed with a devil. That is indeed my opinion also; only the devil +is called pride. He thinks that he knows everything. He is Pope and +Emperor in one, and naturally it exasperates him when people don’t +agree with him.” + +She shrugged her shoulders with supreme disdain. + +“As for me, all that would only make me laugh if it were not so sad. A +fellow who knows nothing about anything; who has always been wrapped up +in his books; who has not lived. Put him in a drawing-room, and he +would know as little how to act as a new-born babe. And as for women, +he does not even know what they are.” + +Forgetting to whom she was speaking, a young girl and a servant, she +lowered her voice, and said confidentially: + +“Well, one pays for being too sensible, too. Neither a wife nor a +sweetheart nor anything. That is what has finally turned his brain.” + +Clotilde did not move. She only lowered her eyelids slowly over her +large thoughtful eyes; then she raised them again, maintaining her +impenetrable countenance, unwilling, unable, perhaps, to give +expression to what was passing within her. This was no doubt all still +confused, a complete evolution, a great change which was taking place, +and which she herself did not clearly understand. + +“He is upstairs, is he not?” resumed Félicité. “I have come to see him, +for this must end; it is too stupid.” + +And she went upstairs, while Martine returned to her saucepans, and +Clotilde went to wander again through the empty house. + +Upstairs in the study Pascal sat seemingly in a stupor, his face bent +over a large open book. He could no longer read, the words danced +before his eyes, conveying no meaning to his mind. But he persisted, +for it was death to him to lose his faculty for work, hitherto so +powerful. His mother at once began to scold him, snatching the book +from him, and flinging it upon a distant table, crying that when one +was sick one should take care of one’s self. He rose with a quick, +angry movement, about to order her away as he had ordered Clotilde. +Then, by a last effort of the will, he became again deferential. + +“Mother, you know that I have never wished to dispute with you. Leave +me, I beg of you.” + +She did not heed him, but began instead to take him to task about his +continual distrust. It was he himself who had given himself a fever, +always fancying that he was surrounded by enemies who were setting +traps for him, and watching him to rob him. Was there any common sense +in imagining that people were persecuting him in that way? And then she +accused him of allowing his head to be turned by his discovery, his +famous remedy for curing every disease. That was as much as to think +himself equal to the good God; which only made it all the more cruel +when he found out how mistaken he was. And she mentioned Lafouasse, the +man whom he had killed—naturally, she could understand that that had +not been very pleasant for him; indeed there was cause enough in it to +make him take to his bed. + +Pascal, still controlling himself, very pale and with eyes cast on the +ground, contented himself with repeating: + +“Mother, leave me, I beg of you.” + +“No, I won’t leave you,” she cried with the impetuosity which was +natural to her, and which her great age had in no wise diminished. “I +have come precisely to stir you up a little, to rid you of this fever +which is consuming you. No, this cannot continue. I don’t wish that we +should again become the talk of the whole town on your account. I wish +you to take care of yourself.” + +He shrugged his shoulders, and said in a low voice, as if speaking to +himself, with an uneasy look, half of conviction, half of doubt: + +“I am not ill.” + +But Félicité, beside herself, burst out, gesticulating violently: + +“Not ill! not ill! Truly, there is no one like a physician for not +being able to see himself. Why, my poor boy, every one that comes near +you is shocked by your appearance. You are becoming insane through +pride and fear!” + +This time Pascal raised his head quickly, and looked her straight in +the eyes, while she continued: + +“This is what I had to tell you, since it seems that no one else would +undertake the task. You are old enough to know what you ought to do. +You should make an effort to shake off all this; you should think of +something else; you should not let a fixed idea take possession of you, +especially when you belong to a family like ours. You know it; have +sense, and take care of yourself.” + +He grew paler than before, looking fixedly at her still, as if he were +sounding her, to know what there was of her in him. And he contented +himself with answering: + +“You are right, mother. I thank you.” + +When he was again alone, he dropped into his seat before the table, and +tried once more to read his book. But he could not succeed, any more +than before, in fixing his attention sufficiently to understand the +words, whose letters mingled confusedly together before his eyes. And +his mother’s words buzzed in his ears; a vague terror, which had some +time before sprung up within him, grew and took shape, haunting him now +as an immediate and clearly defined danger. He who two months before +had boasted triumphantly of not belonging to the family, was he about +to receive the most terrible of contradictions? Ah, this egotistic joy, +this intense joy of not belonging to it, was it to give place to the +terrible anguish of being struck in his turn? Was he to have the +humiliation of seeing the taint revive in him? Was he to be dragged +down to the horror of feeling himself in the clutches of the monster of +heredity? The sublime idea, the lofty certitude which he had of +abolishing suffering, of strengthening man’s will, of making a new and +a higher humanity, a healthy humanity, was assuredly only the beginning +of the monomania of vanity. And in his bitter complaint of being +watched, in his desire to watch the enemies who, he thought, were +obstinately bent on his destruction, were easily to be recognized the +symptoms of the monomania of suspicion. So then all the diseases of the +race were to end in this terrible case—madness within a brief space, +then general paralysis, and a dreadful death. + +From this day forth Pascal was as if possessed. The state of nervous +exhaustion into which overwork and anxiety had thrown him left him an +unresisting prey to this haunting fear of madness and death. All the +morbid sensations which he felt, his excessive fatigue on rising, the +buzzing in his ears, the flashes of light before his eyes, even his +attacks of indigestion and his paroxysms of tears, were so many +infallible symptoms of the near insanity with which he believed himself +threatened. He had completely lost, in his own case, the keen power of +diagnosis of the observant physician, and if he still continued to +reason about it, it was only to confound and pervert symptoms, under +the influence of the moral and physical depression into which he had +fallen. He was no longer master of himself; he was mad, so to say, to +convince himself hour by hour that he must become so. + +All the days of this pale December were spent by him in going deeper +and deeper into his malady. Every morning he tried to escape from the +haunting subject, but he invariably ended by shutting himself in the +study to take up again, in spite of himself, the tangled skein of the +day before. + +The long study which he had made of heredity, his important researches, +his works, completed the poisoning of his peace, furnishing him with +ever renewed causes of disquietude. To the question which he put to +himself continually as to his own hereditary case, the documents were +there to answer it by all possible combinations. They were so numerous +that he lost himself among them now. If he had deceived himself, if he +could not set himself apart, as a remarkable case of variation, should +he place himself under the head of reversional heredity, passing over +one, two, or even three generations? Or was his case rather a +manifestation of larvated heredity, which would bring anew proof to the +support of his theory of the germ plasm, or was it simply a singular +case of hereditary resemblance, the sudden apparition of some unknown +ancestor at the very decline of life? + +From this moment he never rested, giving himself up completely to the +investigation of his case, searching his notes, rereading his books. +And he studied himself, watching the least of his sensations, to deduce +from them the facts on which he might judge himself. On the days when +his mind was most sluggish, or when he thought he experienced +particular phenomena of vision, he inclined to a predominance of the +original nervous lesion; while, if he felt that his limbs were +affected, his feet heavy and painful, he imagined he was suffering the +indirect influence of some ancestor come from outside. Everything +became confused, until at last he could recognize himself no longer, in +the midst of the imaginary troubles which agitated his disturbed +organism. And every evening the conclusion was the same, the same knell +sounded in his brain—heredity, appalling heredity, the fear of becoming +mad. + +In the early part of January Clotilde was an involuntary spectator of a +scene which wrung her heart. She was sitting before one of the windows +of the study, reading, concealed by the high back of her chair, when +she saw Pascal, who had been shut up in his room since the day before, +entering. He held open before his eyes with both hands a sheet of +yellow paper, in which she recognized the genealogical tree. He was so +completely absorbed, his gaze was so fixed, that she might have come +forward without his observing her. He spread the tree upon the table, +continuing to look at it for a long time, with the terrified expression +of interrogation which had become habitual to him, which gradually +changed to one of supplication, the tears coursing down his cheeks. + +Why, great God! would not the tree answer him, and tell him what +ancestor he resembled, in order that he might inscribe his case on his +own leaf, beside the others? If he was to become mad, why did not the +tree tell him so clearly, which would have calmed him, for he believed +that his suffering came only from his uncertainty? Tears clouded his +vision, yet still he looked, he exhausted himself in this longing to +know, in which his reason must finally give way. + +Clotilde hastily concealed herself as she saw him walk over to the +press, which he opened wide. He seized the envelopes, threw them on the +table, and searched among them feverishly. It was the scene of the +terrible night of the storm that was beginning over again, the gallop +of nightmares, the procession of phantoms, rising at his call from this +heap of old papers. As they passed by, he addressed to each of them a +question, an ardent prayer, demanding the origin of his malady, hoping +for a word, a whisper which should set his doubts at rest. First, it +was only an indistinct murmur, then came words and fragments of +phrases. + +“Is it you—is it you—is it you—oh, old mother, the mother of us all—who +are to give me your madness? Is it you, inebriate uncle, old scoundrel +of an uncle, whose drunkenness I am to pay for? Is it you, ataxic +nephew, or you, mystic nephew, or yet you, idiot niece, who are to +reveal to me the truth, showing me one of the forms of the lesion from +which I suffer? Or is it rather you, second cousin, who hanged +yourself; or you, second cousin, who committed murder; or you, second +cousin, who died of rottenness, whose tragic ends announce to me +mine—death in a cell, the horrible decomposition of being?” + +And the gallop continued, they rose and passed by with the speed of the +wind. The papers became animate, incarnate, they jostled one another, +they trampled on one another, in a wild rush of suffering humanity. + +“Ah, who will tell me, who will tell me, who will tell me?—Is it he who +died mad? he who was carried off by phthisis? he who was killed by +paralysis? she whose constitutional feebleness caused her to die in +early youth?—Whose is the poison of which I am to die? What is it, +hysteria, alcoholism, tuberculosis, scrofula? And what is it going to +make of me, an ataxic or a madman? A madman. Who was it said a madman? +They all say it—a madman, a madman, a madman!” + +Sobs choked Pascal. He let his dejected head fall among the papers, he +wept endlessly, shaken by shuddering sobs. And Clotilde, seized by a +sort of awe, feeling the presence of the fate which rules over races, +left the room softly, holding her breath; for she knew that it would +mortify him exceedingly if he knew that she had been present. + +Long periods of prostration followed. January was very cold. But the +sky remained wonderfully clear, a brilliant sun shone in the limpid +blue; and at La Souleiade, the windows of the study facing south formed +a sort of hothouse, preserving there a delightfully mild temperature. +They did not even light a fire, for the room was always filled with a +flood of sunshine, in which the flies that had survived the winter flew +about lazily. The only sound to be heard was the buzzing of their +wings. It was a close and drowsy warmth, like a breath of spring that +had lingered in the old house baked by the heat of summer. + +Pascal, still gloomy, dragged through the days there, and it was there, +too, that he overheard one day the closing words of a conversation +which aggravated his suffering. As he never left his room now before +breakfast, Clotilde had received Dr. Ramond this morning in the study, +and they were talking there together in an undertone, sitting beside +each other in the bright sunshine. + +It was the third visit which Ramond had made during the last week. +Personal reasons, the necessity, especially, of establishing definitely +his position as a physician at Plassans, made it expedient for him not +to defer his marriage much longer: and he wished to obtain from +Clotilde a decisive answer. On each of his former visits the presence +of a third person had prevented him from speaking. As he desired to +receive her answer from herself directly he had resolved to declare +himself to her in a frank conversation. Their intimate friendship, and +the discretion and good sense of both, justified him in taking this +step. And he ended, smiling, looking into her eyes: + +“I assure you, Clotilde, that it is the most reasonable of +_dénouements_. You know that I have loved you for a long time. I have a +profound affection and esteem for you. That alone might perhaps not be +sufficient, but, in addition, we understand each other perfectly, and +we should be very happy together, I am convinced of it.” + +She did not cast down her eyes; she, too, looked at him frankly, with a +friendly smile. He was, in truth, very handsome, in his vigorous young +manhood. + +“Why do you not marry Mlle. Leveque, the lawyer’s daughter?” she asked. +“She is prettier and richer than I am, and I know that she would gladly +accept you. My dear friend, I fear that you are committing a folly in +choosing me.” + +He did not grow impatient, seeming still convinced of the wisdom of his +determination. + +“But I do not love Mlle. Leveque, and I do love you. Besides, I have +considered everything, and I repeat that I know very well what I am +about. Say yes; you can take no better course.” + +Then she grew very serious, and a shadow passed over her face, the +shadow of those reflections, of those almost unconscious inward +struggles, which kept her silent for days at a time. She did not see +clearly yet, she still struggled against herself, and she wished to +wait. + +“Well, my friend, since you are really serious, do not ask me to give +you an answer to-day; grant me a few weeks longer. Master is indeed +very ill. I am greatly troubled about him; and you would not like to +owe my consent to a hasty impulse. I assure you, for my part, that I +have a great deal of affection for you, but it would be wrong to decide +at this moment; the house is too unhappy. It is agreed, is it not? I +will not make you wait long.” + +And to change the conversation she added: + +“Yes, I am uneasy about master. I wished to see you, in order to tell +you so. The other day I surprised him weeping violently, and I am +certain the fear of becoming mad haunts him. The day before yesterday, +when you were talking to him, I saw that you were examining him. Tell +me frankly, what do you think of his condition? Is he in any danger?” + +“Not the slightest!” exclaimed Dr. Ramond. “His system is a little out +of order, that is all. How can a man of his ability, who has made so +close a study of nervous diseases, deceive himself to such an extent? +It is discouraging, indeed, if the clearest and most vigorous minds can +go so far astray. In his case his own discovery of hypodermic +injections would be excellent. Why does he not use them with himself?” + +And as the young girl replied, with a despairing gesture, that he would +not listen to her, that he would not even allow her to speak to him +now, Ramond said: + +“Well, then, I will speak to him.” + +It was at this moment that Pascal came out of his room, attracted by +the sound of voices. But on seeing them both so close to each other, so +animated, so youthful, and so handsome in the sunshine—clothed with +sunshine, as it were—he stood still in the doorway. He looked fixedly +at them, and his pale face altered. + +Ramond had a moment before taken Clotilde’s hand, and he was holding it +in his. + +“It is a promise, is it not? I should like the marriage to take place +this summer. You know how much I love you, and I shall eagerly await +your answer.” + +“Very well,” she answered. “Before a month all will be settled.” + +A sudden giddiness made Pascal stagger. Here now was this boy, his +friend, his pupil, who had introduced himself into his house to rob him +of his treasure! He ought to have expected this _denouement_, yet the +sudden news of a possible marriage surprised him, overwhelmed him like +an unforeseen catastrophe that had forever ruined his life. This girl +whom he had fashioned, whom he had believed his own, she would leave +him, then, without regret, she would leave him to die alone in his +solitude. Only the day before she had made him suffer so intensely that +he had asked himself whether he should not part from her and send her +to her brother, who was always writing for her. For an instant he had +even decided on this separation, for the good of both. Yet to find her +here suddenly, with this man, to hear her promise to give him an +answer, to think that she would marry, that she would soon leave him, +this stabbed him to the heart. + +At the sound of his heavy step as he came forward, the two young people +turned round in some embarrassment. + +“Why, master, we were just talking about you,” said Ramond gaily. “Yes, +to be frank with you, we were conspiring. Come, why do you not take +care of yourself? There is nothing serious the matter with you; you +would be on your feet again in a fortnight if you did.” + +Pascal, who had dropped into a chair, continued to look at them. He had +still the power to control himself, and his countenance gave no +evidence of the wound which he had just received. He would assuredly +die of it, and no one would suspect the malady which had carried him +off. But it was a relief to him to be able to give vent to his +feelings, and he declared violently that he would not take even so much +as a glass of tisane. + +“Take care of myself!” he cried; “what for? Is it not all over with my +old carcass?” + +Ramond insisted, with a good-tempered smile. + +“You are sounder than any of us. This is a trifling disturbance, and +you know that you have the remedy in your own hands. Use your +hypodermic injection.” + +Pascal did not allow him to finish. This filled the measure of his +rage. He angrily asked if they wished him to kill himself, as he had +killed Lafouasse. His injections! A pretty invention, of which he had +good reason to be proud. He abjured medicine, and he swore that he +would never again go near a patient. When people were no longer good +for anything they ought to die; that would be the best thing for +everybody. And that was what he was going to try to do, so as to have +done with it all. + +“Bah! bah!” said Ramond at last, resolving to take his leave, through +fear of exciting him still further; “I will leave you with Clotilde; I +am not at all uneasy, Clotilde will take care of you.” + +But Pascal had on this morning received the final blow. He took to his +bed toward evening, and remained for two whole days without opening the +door of his room. It was in vain that Clotilde, at last becoming +alarmed, knocked loudly at the door. There was no answer. Martine went +in her turn and begged monsieur, through the keyhole, at least to tell +her if he needed anything. A deathlike silence reigned; the room seemed +to be empty. + +Then, on the morning of the third day, as the young girl by chance +turned the knob, the door yielded; perhaps it had been unlocked for +hours. And she might enter freely this room in which she had never set +foot: a large room, rendered cold by its northern exposure, in which +she saw a small iron bed without curtains, a shower bath in a corner, a +long black wooden table, a few chairs, and on the table, on the floor, +along the walls, an array of chemical apparatus, mortars, furnaces, +machines, instrument cases. Pascal, up and dressed, was sitting on the +edge of his bed, in trying to arrange which he had exhausted himself. + +“Don’t you want me to nurse you, then?” she asked with anxious +tenderness, without venturing to advance into the room. + +“Oh, you can come in,” he said with a dejected gesture. “I won’t beat +you. I have not the strength to do that now.” + +And from this day on he tolerated her about him, and allowed her to +wait on him. But he had caprices still. He would not let her enter the +room when he was in bed, possessed by a sort of morbid shame; then he +made her send him Martine. But he seldom remained in bed, dragging +himself about from chair to chair, in his utter inability to do any +kind of work. His malady continued to grow worse, until at last he was +reduced to utter despair, tortured by sick headaches, and without the +strength, as he said, to put one foot before the other, convinced every +morning that he would spend the night at the Tulettes, a raving maniac. +He grew thin; his face, under its crown of white hair—which he still +cared for through a last remnant of vanity—acquired a look of +suffering, of tragic beauty. And although he allowed himself to be +waited on, he refused roughly all remedies, in the distrust of medicine +into which he had fallen. + +Clotilde now devoted herself to him entirely. She gave up everything +else; at first she attended low mass, then she left off going to church +altogether. In her impatience for some certain happiness, she felt as +if she were taking a step toward that end by thus devoting all her +moments to the service of a beloved being whom she wished to see once +more well and happy. She made a complete sacrifice of herself, she +sought to find happiness in the happiness of another; and all this +unconsciously, solely at the impulse of her woman’s heart, in the midst +of the crisis through which she was still passing, and which was +modifying her character profoundly, without her knowledge. She remained +silent regarding the disagreement which separated them. The idea did +not again occur to her to throw herself on his neck, crying that she +was his, that he might return to life, since she gave herself to him. +In her thoughts she grieved to see him suffer; she was only an +affectionate girl, who took care of him, as any female relative would +have done. And her attentions were very pure, very delicate, occupying +her life so completely that her days now passed swiftly, exempt from +tormenting thoughts of the Beyond, filled with the one wish of curing +him. + +But where she had a hard battle to fight was in prevailing upon him to +use his hypodermic injections upon himself. He flew into a passion, +disowned his discovery, and called himself an imbecile. She too cried +out. It was she now who had faith in science, who grew indignant at +seeing him doubt his own genius. He resisted for a long time; then +yielding to the empire which she had acquired over him, he consented, +simply to avoid the affectionate dispute which she renewed with him +every morning. From the very first he experienced great relief from the +injections, although he refused to acknowledge it. His mind became +clearer, and he gradually gained strength. Then she was exultant, +filled with enthusiastic pride in him. She vaunted his treatment, and +became indignant because he did not admire himself, as an example of +the miracles which he was able to work. He smiled; he was now beginning +to see clearly into his own condition. Ramond had spoken truly, his +illness had been nothing but nervous exhaustion. Perhaps he would get +over it after all. + +“Ah, it is you who are curing me, little girl,” he would say, not +wishing to confess his hopes. “Medicines, you see, act according to the +hand that gives them.” + +The convalescence was slow, lasting through the whole of February. The +weather remained clear and cold; there was not a single day in which +the study was not flooded with warm, pale sunshine. There were hours of +relapse, however, hours of the blackest melancholy, in which all the +patient’s terrors returned; when his guardian, disconsolate, was +obliged to sit at the other end of the room, in order not to irritate +him still more. He despaired anew of his recovery. He became again +bitter and aggressively ironical. + +It was on one of those bad days that Pascal, approaching a window, saw +his neighbor, M. Bellombre, the retired professor, making the round of +his garden to see if his fruit trees were well covered with blossoms. +The sight of the old man, so neat and so erect, with the fine placidity +of the egoist, on whom illness had apparently never laid hold, suddenly +put Pascal beside himself. + +“Ah!” he growled, “there is one who will never overwork himself, who +will never endanger his health by worrying!” + +And he launched forth into an ironical eulogy on selfishness. To be +alone in the world, not to have a friend, to have neither wife nor +child, what happiness! That hard-hearted miser, who for forty years had +had only other people’s children to cuff, who lived aloof from the +world, without even a dog, with a deaf and dumb gardener older than +himself, was he not an example of the greatest happiness possible on +earth? Without a responsibility, without a duty, without an anxiety, +other than that of taking care of his dear health! He was a wise man, +he would live a hundred years. + +“Ah, the fear of life! that is cowardice which is truly the best +wisdom. To think that I should ever have regretted not having a child +of my own! Has any one a right to bring miserable creatures into the +world? Bad heredity should be ended, life should be ended. The only +honest man is that old coward there!” + +M. Bellombre continued peacefully making the round of his pear trees in +the March sunshine. He did not risk a too hasty movement; he economized +his fresh old age. If he met a stone in his path, he pushed it aside +with the end of his cane, and then walked tranquilly on. + +“Look at him! Is he not well preserved; is he not handsome? Have not +all the blessings of heaven been showered down upon him? He is the +happiest man I know.” + +Clotilde, who had listened in silence, suffered from the irony of +Pascal, the full bitterness of which she divined. She, who usually took +M. Bellombre’s part, felt a protest rise up within her. Tears came to +her eyes, and she answered simply in a low voice: + +“Yes; but he is not loved.” + +These words put a sudden end to the painful scene. Pascal, as if he had +received an electric shock, turned and looked at her. A sudden rush of +tenderness brought tears to his eyes also, and he left the room to keep +from weeping. + +The days wore on in the midst of these alternations of good and bad +hours. He recovered his strength but slowly, and what put him in +despair was that whenever he attempted to work he was seized by a +profuse perspiration. If he had persisted, he would assuredly have +fainted. So long as he did not work he felt that his convalescence was +making little progress. He began to take an interest again, however, in +his accustomed investigations. He read over again the last pages that +he had written, and, with this reawakening of the scientist in him, his +former anxieties returned. At one time he fell into a state of such +depression, that the house and all it contained ceased to exist for +him. He might have been robbed, everything he possessed might have been +taken and destroyed, without his even being conscious of the disaster. +Now he became again watchful, from time to time he would feel his +pocket, to assure himself that the key of the press was there. + +But one morning when he had overslept himself, and did not leave his +room until eleven o’clock, he saw Clotilde in the study, quietly +occupied in copying with great exactness in pastel a branch of +flowering almond. She looked up, smiling; and taking a key that was +lying beside her on the desk, she offered it to him, saying: + +“Here, master.” + +Surprised, not yet comprehending, he looked at the object which she +held toward him. + +“What is that?” he asked. + +“It is the key of the press, which you must have dropped from your +pocket yesterday, and which I picked up here this morning.” + +Pascal took it with extraordinary emotion. He looked at it, and then at +Clotilde. Was it ended, then? She would persecute him no more. She was +no longer eager to rob everything, to burn everything. And seeing her +still smiling, she also looking moved, an immense joy filled his heart. + +He caught her in his arms, crying: + +“Ah, little girl, if we might only not be too unhappy!” + +Then he opened a drawer of his table and threw the key into it, as he +used to do formerly. + +From this time on he gained strength, and his convalescence progressed +more rapidly. Relapses were still possible, for he was still very weak. +But he was able to write, and this made the days less heavy. The sun, +too, shone more brightly, the study being so warm at times that it +became necessary to half close the shutters. He refused to see +visitors, barely tolerated Martine, and had his mother told that he was +sleeping, when she came at long intervals to inquire for him. He was +happy only in this delightful solitude, nursed by the rebel, the enemy +of yesterday, the docile pupil of to-day. They would often sit together +in silence for a long time, without feeling any constraint. They +meditated, or lost themselves in infinitely sweet reveries. + +One day, however, Pascal seemed very grave. He was now convinced that +his illness had resulted from purely accidental causes, and that +heredity had had no part in it. But this filled him none the less with +humility. + +“My God!” he murmured, “how insignificant we are! I who thought myself +so strong, who was so proud of my sane reason! And here have I barely +escaped being made insane by a little trouble and overwork!” + +He was silent, and sank again into thought. After a time his eyes +brightened, he had conquered himself. And in a moment of reason and +courage, he came to a resolution. + +“If I am getting better,” he said, “it is especially for your sake that +I am glad.” + +Clotilde, not understanding, looked up and said: + +“How is that?” + +“Yes, on account of your marriage. Now you will be able to fix the +day.” + +She still seemed surprised. + +“Ah, true—my marriage!” + +“Shall we decide at once upon the second week in June?” + +“Yes, the second week in June; that will do very well.” + +They spoke no more; she fixed her eyes again on the piece of sewing on +which she was engaged, while he, motionless, and with a grave face, sat +looking into space. + + + + +VII. + + +On this day, on arriving at La Souleiade, old Mme. Rougon perceived +Martine in the kitchen garden, engaged in planting leeks; and, as she +sometimes did, she went over to the servant to have a chat with her, +and find out from her how things were going on, before entering the +house. + +For some time past she had been in despair about what she called +Clotilde’s desertion. She felt truly that she would now never obtain +the documents through her. The girl was behaving disgracefully, she was +siding with Pascal, after all she had done for her; and she was +becoming perverted to such a degree that for a month past she had not +been seen in Church. Thus she returned to her first idea, to get +Clotilde away and win her son over when, left alone, he should be +weakened by solitude. Since she had not been able to persuade the girl +to go live with her brother, she eagerly desired the marriage. She +would like to throw her into Dr. Ramond’s arms to-morrow, in her +impatience at so many delays. And she had come this afternoon with a +feverish desire to hurry on matters. + +“Good-day, Martine. How is every one here?” + +The servant, kneeling down, her hands full of clay, lifted up her pale +face, protected against the sun by a handkerchief tied over her cap. + +“As usual, madame, pretty well.” + +They went on talking, Félicité treating her as a confidante, as a +devoted daughter, one of the family, to whom she could tell everything. +She began by questioning her; she wished to know if Dr. Ramond had come +that morning. He had come, but they had talked only about indifferent +matters. This put her in despair, for she had seen the doctor on the +previous day, and he had unbosomed himself to her, chagrined at not +having yet received a decisive answer, and eager now to obtain at least +Clotilde’s promise. Things could not go on in this way, the young girl +must be compelled to engage herself to him. + +“He has too much delicacy,” she cried. “I have told him so. I knew very +well that this morning, even, he would not venture to demand a positive +answer. And I have come to interfere in the matter. We shall see if I +cannot oblige her to come to a decision.” + +Then, more calmly: + +“My son is on his feet now; he does not need her.” + +Martine, who was again stooping over the bed, planting her leeks, +straightened herself quickly. + +“Ah, that for sure!” + +And a flush passed over her face, worn by thirty years of service. For +a wound bled within her; for some time past the master scarcely +tolerated her about him. During the whole time of his illness he had +kept her at a distance, accepting her services less and less every day, +and finally closing altogether to her the door of his room and of the +workroom. She had a vague consciousness of what was taking place, an +instinctive jealousy tortured her, in her adoration of the master, +whose chattel she had been satisfied to be for so many years. + +“For sure, we have no need of mademoiselle. I am quite able to take +care of monsieur.” + +Then she, who was so discreet, spoke of her labors in the garden, +saying that she made time to cultivate the vegetables, so as to save a +few days’ wages of a man. True, the house was large, but when one was +not afraid of work, one could manage to do all there was to be done. +And then, when mademoiselle should have left them, that would be always +one less to wait upon. And her eyes brightened unconsciously at the +thought of the great solitude, of the happy peace in which they should +live after this departure. + +“It would give me pain,” she said, lowering her voice, “for it would +certainly give monsieur a great deal. I would never have believed that +I could be brought to wish for such a separation. Only, madame, I agree +with you that it is necessary, for I am greatly afraid that +mademoiselle will end by going to ruin here, and that there will be +another soul lost to the good God. Ah, it is very sad; my heart is so +heavy about it sometimes that it is ready to burst.” + +“They are both upstairs, are they not?” said Félicité. “I will go up +and see them, and I will undertake to oblige them to end the matter.” + +An hour later, when she came down again, she found Martine still on her +knees on the soft earth, finishing her planting. Upstairs, from her +first words, when she said that she had been talking with Dr. Ramond, +and that he had shown himself anxious to know his fate quickly, she saw +that Dr. Pascal approved—he looked grave, he nodded his head as if to +say that this wish seemed to him very natural. Clotilde, herself, +ceasing to smile, seemed to listen to him with deference. But she +manifested some surprise. Why did they press her? Master had fixed the +marriage for the second week in June; she had, then, two full months +before her. Very soon she would speak about it with Ramond. Marriage +was so serious a matter that they might very well give her time to +reflect, and let her wait until the last moment to engage herself. And +she said all this with her air of good sense, like a person resolved on +coming to a decision. And Félicité was obliged to content herself with +the evident desire that both had that matters should have the most +reasonable conclusion. + +“Indeed I believe that it is settled,” ended Félicité. “He seems to +place no obstacle in the way, and she seems only to wish not to act +hastily, like a girl who desires to examine her heart closely, before +engaging herself for life. I will give her a week more for reflection.” + +Martine, sitting on her heels, was looking fixedly on the ground with a +clouded face. + +“Yes, yes,” she murmured, in a low voice, “mademoiselle has been +reflecting a great deal of late. I am always meeting her in some +corner. You speak to her, and she does not answer you. That is the way +people are when they are breeding a disease, or when they have a secret +on their mind. There is something going on; she is no longer the same, +no longer the same.” + +And she took the dibble again and planted a leek, in her rage for work; +while old Mme. Rougon went away, somewhat tranquillized; certain, she +said, that the marriage would take place. + +Pascal, in effect, seemed to accept Clotilde’s marriage as a thing +settled, inevitable. He had not spoken with her about it again, the +rare allusions which they made to it between themselves, in their +hourly conversations, left them undisturbed; and it was simply as if +the two months which they still had to live together were to be without +end, an eternity stretching beyond their view. + +She, especially, would look at him smiling, putting off to a future day +troubles and decisions with a pretty vague gesture, as if to leave +everything to beneficent life. He, now well and gaining strength daily, +grew melancholy only when he returned to the solitude of his chamber at +night, after she had retired. He shuddered and turned cold at the +thought that a time would come when he would be always alone. Was it +the beginning of old age that made him shiver in this way? He seemed to +see it stretching before him, like a shadowy region in which he already +began to feel all his energy melting away. And then the regret of +having neither wife nor child filled him with rebelliousness, and wrung +his heart with intolerable anguish. + +Ah, why had he not lived! There were times when he cursed science, +accusing it of having taken from him the best part of his manhood. He +had let himself be devoured by work; work had consumed his brain, +consumed his heart, consumed his flesh. All this solitary, passionate +labor had produced only books, blackened paper, that would be scattered +to the winds, whose cold leaves chilled his hands as he turned them +over. And no living woman’s breast to lean upon, no child’s warm locks +to kiss! He had lived the cold, solitary life of a selfish scientist, +and he would die in cold solitude. Was he indeed going to die thus? +Would he never taste the happiness enjoyed by even the common porters, +by the carters who cracked their whips, passing by under his windows? +But he must hasten, if he would; soon, no doubt, it would be too late. +All his unemployed youth, all his pent-up desires, surged tumultuously +through his veins. He swore that he would yet love, that he would live +a new life, that he would drain the cup of every passion that he had +not yet tasted, before he should be an old man. He would knock at the +doors, he would stop the passers-by, he would scour the fields and +town. + +On the following day, when he had taken his shower bath and left his +room, all his fever was calmed, the burning pictures had faded away, +and he fell back into his natural timidity. Then, on the next night, +the fear of solitude drove sleep away as before, his blood kindled +again, and the same despair, the same rebelliousness, the same longing +not to die without having known family joys returned. He suffered a +great deal in this crisis. + +During these feverish nights, with eyes wide open in the darkness, he +dreamed always, over and over again the same dream. A girl would come +along the road, a girl of twenty, marvelously beautiful; and she would +enter and kneel down before him in an attitude of submissive adoration, +and he would marry her. She was one of those pilgrims of love such as +we find in ancient story, who have followed a star to come and restore +health and strength to some aged king, powerful and covered with glory. +He was the aged king, and she adored him, she wrought the miracle, with +her twenty years, of bestowing on him a part of her youth. In her love +he recovered his courage and his faith in life. + +Ah, youth! he hungered fiercely for it. In his declining days this +passionate longing for youth was like a revolt against approaching age, +a desperate desire to turn back, to be young again, to begin life over +again. And in this longing to begin life over again, there was not only +regret for the vanished joys of youth, the inestimable treasure of dead +hours, to which memory lent its charm; there was also the determined +will to enjoy, now, his health and strength, to lose nothing of the joy +of loving! Ah, youth! how eagerly he would taste of its every pleasure, +how eagerly he would drain every cup, before his teeth should fall out, +before his limbs should grow feeble, before the blood should be chilled +in his veins. A pang pierced his heart when he remembered himself, a +slender youth of twenty, running and leaping agilely, vigorous and +hardy as a young oak, his teeth glistening, his hair black and +luxuriant. How he would cherish them, these gifts scorned before, if a +miracle could restore them to him! + +And youthful womanhood, a young girl who might chance to pass by, +disturbed him, causing him profound emotion. This was often even +altogether apart from the individual: the image, merely, of youth, the +perfume and the dazzling freshness which emanated from it, bright eyes, +healthy lips, blooming cheeks, a delicate neck, above all, rounded and +satin-smooth, shaded on the back with down; and youthful womanhood +always presented itself to him tall and slight, divinely slender in its +chaste nudeness. His eyes, gazing into vacancy, followed the vision, +his heart was steeped in infinite longing. There was nothing good or +desirable but youth; it was the flower of the world, the only beauty, +the only joy, the only true good, with health, which nature could +bestow on man. Ah, to begin life over again, to be young again, to +clasp in his embrace youthful womanhood! + +Pascal and Clotilde, now that the fine April days had come, covering +the fruit trees with blossoms, resumed their morning walks in La +Souleiade. It was the first time that he had gone out since his +illness, and she led him to the threshing yard, along the paths in the +pine wood, and back again to the terrace crossed by the two bars of +shadows thrown by the secular cypresses. The sun had already warmed the +old flagstones there, and the wide horizon stretched out under a +dazzling sky. + +One morning when Clotilde had been running, she returned to the house +in such exuberant spirits and so full of pleasant excitement that she +went up to the workroom without taking off either her garden hat or the +lace scarf which she had tied around her neck. + +“Oh,” she said, “I am so warm! And how stupid I am, not to have taken +off my things downstairs. I will go down again at once.” + +She had thrown the scarf on a chair on entering. + +But her feverish fingers became impatient when she tried to untie the +strings of her large straw hat. + +“There, now! I have fastened the knot. I cannot undo it, and you must +come to my assistance.” + +Pascal, happy and excited too by the pleasure of the walk, rejoiced to +see her so beautiful and so merry. He went over and stood in front of +her. + +“Wait; hold up your chin. Oh, if you keep moving like that, how do you +suppose I can do it?” + +She laughed aloud. He could see the laughter swelling her throat, like +a wave of sound. His fingers became entangled under her chin, that +delicious part of the throat whose warm satin he involuntarily touched. +She had on a gown cut sloping in the neck, and through the opening he +inhaled all the living perfume of the woman, the pure fragrance of her +youth, warmed by the sunshine. All at once a vertigo seized him and he +thought he was going to faint. + +“No, no! I cannot do it,” he said, “unless you keep still!” + +The blood throbbed in his temples, and his fingers trembled, while she +leaned further back, unconsciously offering the temptation of her fresh +girlish beauty. It was the vision of royal youth, the bright eyes, the +healthy lips, the blooming cheeks, above all, the delicate neck, +satin-smooth and round, shaded on the back by down. And she seemed to +him so delicately graceful, with her slender throat, in her divine +bloom! + +“There, it is done!” she cried. + +Without knowing how, he had untied the strings. The room whirled round, +and then he saw her again, bareheaded now, with her starlike face, +shaking back her golden curls laughingly. Then he was seized with a +fear that he would catch her in his arms and press mad kisses on her +bare neck, and arms, and throat. And he fled from the room, taking with +him the hat, which he had kept in his hand, saying: + +“I will hang it in the hall. Wait for me; I want to speak to Martine.” + +Once downstairs, he hurried to the abandoned room and locked himself +into it, trembling lest she should become uneasy and come down here to +seek him. He looked wild and haggard, as if he had just committed a +crime. He spoke aloud, and he trembled as he gave utterance for the +first time to the cry that he had always loved her madly, passionately. +Yes, ever since she had grown into womanhood he had adored her. And he +saw her clearly before him, as if a curtain had been suddenly torn +aside, as she was when, from an awkward girl, she became a charming and +lovely creature, with her long tapering limbs, her strong slender body, +with its round throat, round neck, and round and supple arms. And it +was monstrous, but it was true—he hungered for all this with a +devouring hunger, for this youth, this fresh, blooming, fragrant flesh. + +Then Pascal, dropping into a rickety chair, hid his face in his hands, +as if to shut out the light of day, and burst into great sobs. Good +God! what was to become of him? A girl whom his brother had confided to +him, whom he had brought up like a good father, and who was now—this +temptress of twenty-five—a woman in her supreme omnipotence! He felt +himself more defenseless, weaker than a child. + +And above this physical desire, he loved her also with an immense +tenderness, enamored of her moral and intellectual being, of her +right-mindedness, of her fine intelligence, so fearless and so clear. +Even their discord, the disquietude about spiritual things by which she +was tortured, made her only all the more precious to him, as if she +were a being different from himself, in whom he found a little of the +infinity of things. She pleased him in her rebellions, when she held +her ground against him,—she was his companion and pupil; he saw her +such as he had made her, with her great heart, her passionate +frankness, her triumphant reason. And she was always present with him; +he did not believe that he could exist where she was not; he had need +of her breath; of the flutter of her skirts near him; of her +thoughtfulness and affection, by which he felt himself constantly +surrounded; of her looks; of her smile; of her whole daily woman’s +life, which she had given him, which she would not have the cruelty to +take back from him again. At the thought that she was going away, that +she would not be always here, it seemed to him as if the heavens were +about to fall and crush him; as if the end of all things had come; as +if he were about to be plunged in icy darkness. She alone existed in +the world, she alone was lofty and virtuous, intelligent and beautiful, +with a miraculous beauty. Why, then, since he adored her and since he +was her master, did he not go upstairs and take her in his arms and +kiss her like an idol? They were both free, she was ignorant of +nothing, she was a woman in age. This would be happiness. + +Pascal, who had ceased to weep, rose, and would have walked to the +door. But suddenly he dropped again into his chair, bursting into a +fresh passion of sobs. No, no, it was abominable, it could not be! He +felt on his head the frost of his white hair; and he had a horror of +his age, of his fifty-nine years, when he thought of her twenty-five +years. His former chill fear again took possession of him, the +certainty that she had subjugated him, that he would be powerless +against the daily temptation. And he saw her giving him the strings of +her hat to untie; compelling him to lean over her to make some +correction in her work; and he saw himself, too, blind, mad, devouring +her neck with ardent kisses. His indignation against himself at this +was so great that he arose, now courageously, and had the strength to +go upstairs to the workroom, determined to conquer himself. + +Upstairs Clotilde had tranquilly resumed her drawing. She did not even +look around at his entrance, but contented herself with saying: + +“How long you have been! I was beginning to think that Martine must +have made a mistake of at least ten sous in her accounts.” + +This customary jest about the servant’s miserliness made him laugh. And +he went and sat down quietly at his table. They did not speak again +until breakfast time. A great sweetness bathed him and calmed him, now +that he was near her. He ventured to look at her, and he was touched by +her delicate profile, by her serious, womanly air of application. Had +he been the prey of a nightmare, downstairs, then? Would he be able to +conquer himself so easily? + +“Ah!” he cried, when Martine called them, “how hungry I am! You shall +see how I am going to make new muscle!” + +She went over to him, and took him by the arm, saying: + +“That’s right, master; you must be gay and strong!” + +But that night, when he was in his own room, the agony began again. At +the thought of losing her he was obliged to bury his face in the pillow +to stifle his cries. He pictured her to himself in the arms of another, +and all the tortures of jealousy racked his soul. Never could he find +the courage to consent to such a sacrifice. All sorts of plans clasped +together in his seething brain; he would turn her from the marriage, +and keep her with him, without ever allowing her to suspect his +passion; he would take her away, and they would go from city to city, +occupying their minds with endless studies, in order to keep up their +companionship as master and pupil; or even, if it should be necessary, +he would send her to her brother to nurse him, he would lose her +forever rather than give her to a husband. And at each of these +resolutions he felt his heart, torn asunder, cry out with anguish in +the imperious need of possessing her entirely. He was no longer +satisfied with her presence, he wished to keep her for himself, with +himself, as she appeared to him in her radiant beauty, in the darkness +of his chamber, with her unbound hair falling around her. + +His arms clasped the empty air, and he sprang out of bed, staggering +like a drunken man; and it was only in the darkness and silence of the +workroom that he awoke from this sudden fit of madness. Where, then, +was he going, great God? To knock at the door of this sleeping child? +to break it in, perhaps, with a blow of his shoulder? The soft, pure +respiration, which he fancied he heard like a sacred wind in the midst +of the profound silence, struck him on the face and turned him back. +And he returned to his room and threw himself on his bed, in a passion +of shame and wild despair. + +On the following day when he arose, Pascal, worn out by want of sleep, +had come to a decision. He took his daily shower bath, and he felt +himself stronger and saner. The resolution to which he had come was to +compel Clotilde to give her word. When she should have formally +promised to marry Ramond, it seemed to him that this final solution +would calm him, would forbid his indulging in any false hopes. This +would be a barrier the more, an insurmountable barrier between her and +him. He would be from that moment armed against his desire, and if he +still suffered, it would be suffering only, without the horrible fear +of becoming a dishonorable man. + +On this morning, when he told the young girl that she ought to delay no +longer, that she owed a decisive answer to the worthy fellow who had +been awaiting it so long, she seemed at first astonished. She looked +straight into his eyes, but he had sufficient command over himself not +to show confusion; he insisted merely, with a slightly grieved air, as +if it distressed him to have to say these things to her. Finally, she +smiled faintly and turned her head aside, saying: + +“Then, master, you wish me to leave you?” + +“My dear,” he answered evasively, “I assure you that this is becoming +ridiculous. Ramond will have the right to be angry.” + +She went over to her desk, to arrange some papers which were on it. +Then, after a moment’s silence, she said: + +“It is odd; now you are siding with grandmother and Martine. They, too, +are persecuting me to end this matter. I thought I had a few days more. +But, in truth, if you all three urge me—” + +She did not finish, and he did not press her to explain herself more +clearly. + +“When do you wish me to tell Ramond to come, then?” + +“Why, he may come whenever he wishes; it does not displease me to see +him. But don’t trouble yourself. I will let him know that we will +expect him one of these afternoons.” + +On the following day the same scene began over again. Clotilde had +taken no step yet, and Pascal was now angry. He suffered martyrdom; he +had crises of anguish and rebelliousness when she was not present to +calm him by her smiling freshness. And he insisted, in emphatic +language, that she should behave seriously and not trifle any longer +with an honorable man who loved her. + +“The devil! Since the thing is decided, let us be done with it. I warn +you that I will send word to Ramond, and that he will be here to-morrow +at three o’clock.” + +She listened in silence, her eyes fixed on the ground. Neither seemed +to wish to touch upon the question as to whether the marriage had +really been decided on or not, and they took the standpoint that there +had been a previous decision, which was irrevocable. When she looked up +again he trembled, for he felt a breath pass by; he thought she was on +the point of saying that she had questioned herself, and that she +refused this marriage. What would he have done, what would have become +of him, good God! Already he was filled with an immense joy and a wild +terror. But she looked at him with the discreet and affectionate smile +which never now left her lips, and she answered with a submissive air: + +“As you please, master. Send him word to be here to-morrow at three +o’clock.” + +Pascal spent so dreadful a night that he rose late, saying, as an +excuse, that he had one of his old headaches. He found relief only +under the icy deluge of the shower bath. At ten o’clock he left the +house, saying he would go himself to see Ramond; but he had another +object in going out—he had seen at a show in Plassans a corsage of old +point d’Alençon; a marvel of beauty which lay there awaiting some +lover’s generous folly, and the thought had come to him in the midst of +the tortures of the night, to make a present of it to Clotilde, to +adorn her wedding gown. This bitter idea of himself adorning her, of +making her beautiful and fair for the gift of herself, touched his +heart, exhausted by sacrifice. She knew the corsage, she had admired it +with him one day wonderingly, wishing for it only to place it on the +shoulders of the Virgin at St. Saturnin, an antique Virgin adored by +the faithful. The shopkeeper gave it to him in a little box which he +could conceal, and which he hid, on his return to the house, in the +bottom of his writing-desk. + +At three o’clock Dr. Ramond presented himself, and he found Pascal and +Clotilde in the parlor, where they had been awaiting him with secret +excitement and a somewhat forced gaiety, avoiding any further allusion +to his visit. They received him smilingly with exaggerated cordiality. + +“Why, you are perfectly well again, master!” said the young man. “You +never looked so strong.” + +Pascal shook his head. + +“Oh, oh, strong, perhaps! only the heart is no longer here.” + +This involuntary avowal made Clotilde start, and she looked from one to +the other, as if, by the force of circumstances, she compared them with +each other—Ramond, with his smiling and superb face—the face of the +handsome physician adored by the women—his luxuriant black hair and +beard, in all the splendor of his young manhood; and Pascal, with his +white hair and his white beard. This fleece of snow, still so abundant, +retained the tragic beauty of the six months of torture that he had +just passed through. His sorrowful face had aged a little, only his +eyes remained still youthful; brown eyes, brilliant and limpid. But at +this moment all his features expressed so much gentleness, such exalted +goodness, that Clotilde ended by letting her gaze rest upon him with +profound tenderness. There was silence for a moment and each heart +thrilled. + +“Well, my children,” resumed Pascal heroically, “I think you have +something to say to each other. I have something to do, too, +downstairs. I will come up again presently.” + +And he left the room, smiling back at them. + +And soon as they were alone, Clotilde went frankly straight over to +Ramond, with both hands outstretched. Taking his hands in hers, she +held them as she spoke. + +“Listen, my dear friend; I am going to give you a great grief. You must +not be too angry with me, for I assure you that I have a very profound +friendship for you.” + +He understood at once, and he turned very pale. + +“Clotilde give me no answer now, I beg of you; take more time, if you +wish to reflect further.” + +“It is useless, my dear friend, my decision is made.” + +She looked at him with her fine, loyal look. She had not released his +hands, in order that he might know that she was not excited, and that +she was his friend. And it was he who resumed, in a low voice: + +“Then you say no?” + +“I say no, and I assure you that it pains me greatly to say it. Ask me +nothing; you will no doubt know later on.” + +He sat down, crushed by the emotion which he repressed like a strong +and self-contained man, whose mental balance the greatest sufferings +cannot disturb. Never before had any grief agitated him like this. He +remained mute, while she, standing, continued: + +“And above all, my friend, do not believe that I have played the +coquette with you. If I have allowed you to hope, if I have made you +wait so long for my answer, it was because I did not in very truth see +clearly myself. You cannot imagine through what a crisis I have just +passed—a veritable tempest of emotions, surrounded by darkness from out +of which I have but just found my way.” + +He spoke at last. + +“Since it is your wish, I will ask you nothing. Besides, it is +sufficient for you to answer one question. You do not love me, +Clotilde?” + +She did not hesitate, but said gravely, with an emotion which softened +the frankness of her answer: + +“It is true, I do not love you; I have only a very sincere affection +for you.” + +He rose, and stopped by a gesture the kind words which she would have +added. + +“It is ended; let us never speak of it again. I wished you to be happy. +Do not grieve for me. At this moment I feel as if the house had just +fallen about me in ruins. But I must only extricate myself as best I +can.” + +A wave of color passed over his pale face, he gasped for air, he +crossed over to the window, then he walked back with a heavy step, +seeking to recover his self-possession. He drew a long breath. In the +painful silence which had fallen they heard Pascal coming upstairs +noisily, to announce his return. + +“I entreat you,” murmured Clotilde hurriedly, “to say nothing to +master. He does not know my decision, and I wish to break it to him +myself, for he was bent upon this marriage.” + +Pascal stood still in the doorway. He was trembling and breathless, as +if he had come upstairs too quickly. He still found strength to smile +at them, saying: + +“Well, children, have you come to an understanding?” + +“Yes, undoubtedly,” responded Ramond, as agitated as himself. + +“Then it is all settled?” + +“Quite,” said Clotilde, who had been seized by a faintness. + +Pascal walked over to his work-table, supporting himself by the +furniture, and dropped into the chair beside it. + +“Ah, ah! you see the legs are not so strong after all. It is this old +carcass of a body. But the heart is strong. And I am very happy, my +children, your happiness will make me well again.” + +But when Ramond, after a few minutes’ further conversation, had gone +away, he seemed troubled at finding himself alone with the young girl, +and he again asked her: + +“It is settled, quite settled; you swear it to me?” + +“Entirely settled.” + +After this he did not speak again. He nodded his head, as if to repeat +that he was delighted; that nothing could be better; that at last they +were all going to live in peace. He closed his eyes, feigning to drop +asleep, as he sometimes did in the afternoon. But his heart beat +violently, and his closely shut eyelids held back the tears. + +That evening, at about ten o’clock, when Clotilde went downstairs for a +moment to give an order to Martine before she should have gone to bed, +Pascal profited by the opportunity of being left alone, to go and lay +the little box containing the lace corsage on the young girl’s bed. She +came upstairs again, wished him the accustomed good-night, and he had +been for at least twenty minutes in his own room, and was already in +his shirt sleeves, when a burst of gaiety sounded outside his door. A +little hand tapped, and a fresh voice cried, laughing: + +“Come, come and look!” + +He opened the door, unable to resist this appeal of youth, conquered by +his joy. + +“Oh, come, come and see what a beautiful little bird has put on my +bed!” + +And she drew him to her room, taking no refusal. She had lighted the +two candles in it, and the antique, pleasant chamber, with its hangings +of faded rose color, seemed transformed into a chapel; and on the bed, +like a sacred cloth offered to the adoration of the faithful, she had +spread the corsage of old point d’Alençon. + +“You would not believe it! Imagine, I did not see the box at first. I +set things in order a little, as I do every evening. I undressed, and +it was only when I was getting into bed that I noticed your present. +Ah, what a surprise! I was overwhelmed by it! I felt that I could never +wait for the morning, and I put on a skirt and ran to look for you.” + +It was not until then that he perceived that she was only half dressed, +as on the night of the storm, when he had surprised her stealing his +papers. And she seemed divine, with her tall, girlish form, her +tapering limbs, her supple arms, her slender body, with its small, firm +throat. + +She took his hands and pressed them caressingly in her little ones. + +“How good you are; how I thank you! Such a marvel of beauty, so lovely +a present for me, who am nobody! And you remember that I had admired +it, this antique relic of art. I said to you that only the Virgin of +St. Saturnin was worthy of wearing it on her shoulders. I am so happy! +oh, so happy! For it is true, I love beautiful things; I love them so +passionately that at times I wish for impossibilities, gowns woven of +sunbeams, impalpable veils made of the blue of heaven. How beautiful I +am going to look! how beautiful I am going to look!” + +Radiant in her ecstatic gratitude, she drew close to him, still looking +at the corsage, and compelling him to admire it with her. Then a sudden +curiosity seized her. + +“But why did you make me this royal present?” + +Ever since she had come to seek him in her joyful excitement, Pascal +had been walking in a dream. He was moved to tears by this affectionate +gratitude; he stood there, not feeling the terror which he had dreaded, +but seeming, on the contrary, to be filled with joy, as at the approach +of a great and miraculous happiness. This chamber, which he never +entered, had the religious sweetness of holy places that satisfy all +longings for the unattainable. + +His countenance, however, expressed surprise. And he answered: + +“Why, this present, my dear, is for your wedding gown.” + +She, in her turn, looked for a moment surprised as if she had not +understood him. Then, with the sweet and singular smile which she had +worn of late she said gayly: + +“Ah, true, my marriage!” + +Then she grew serious again, and said: + +“Then you want to get rid of me? It was in order to have me here no +longer that you were so bent upon marrying me. Do you still think me +your enemy, then?” + +He felt his tortures return, and he looked away from her, wishing to +retain his courage. + +“My enemy, yes. Are you not so? We have suffered so much through each +other these last days. It is better in truth that we should separate. +And then I do not know what your thoughts are; you have never given me +the answer I have been waiting for.” + +She tried in vain to catch his glance, which he still kept turned away. +She began to talk of the terrible night on which they had gone together +through the papers. It was true, in the shock which her whole being had +suffered, she had not yet told him whether she was with him or against +him. He had a right to demand an answer. + +She again took his hands in hers, and forced him to look at her. + +“And it is because I am your enemy that you are sending me away? I am +not your enemy. I am your servant, your chattel, your property. Do you +hear? I am with you and for you, for you alone!” + +His face grew radiant; an intense joy shone within his eyes. + +“Yes, I will wear this lace. It is for my wedding day, for I wish to be +beautiful, very beautiful for you. But do you not understand me, then? +You are my master; it is you I love.” + +“No, no! be silent; you will make me mad! You are betrothed to another. +You have given your word. All this madness is happily impossible.” + +“The other! I have compared him with you, and I have chosen you. I have +dismissed him. He has gone away, and he will never return. There are +only we two now, and it is you I love, and you love me. I know it, and +I give myself to you.” + +He trembled violently. He had ceased to struggle, vanquished by the +longing of eternal love. + +The spacious chamber, with its antique furniture, warmed by youth, was +as if filled with light. There was no longer either fear or suffering; +they were free. She gave herself to him knowingly, willingly, and he +accepted the supreme gift like a priceless treasure which the strength +of his love had won. Suddenly she murmured in his ear, in a caressing +voice, lingering tenderly on the words: + +“Master, oh, master, master!” + +And this word, which she used formerly as a matter of habit, at this +hour acquired a profound significance, lengthening out and prolonging +itself, as if it expressed the gift of her whole being. She uttered it +with grateful fervor, like a woman who accepts, and who surrenders +herself. Was not the mystic vanquished, the real acknowledged, life +glorified with love at last confessed and shared. + +“Master, master, this comes from far back. I must tell you; I must make +my confession. It is true that I went to church in order to be happy. +But I could not believe. I wished to understand too much; my reason +rebelled against their dogmas; their paradise appeared to me an +incredible puerility. But I believed that the world does not stop at +sensation; that there is a whole unknown world, which must be taken +into account; and this, master, I believe still. It is the idea of the +Beyond, which not even happiness, found at last upon your neck, will +efface. But this longing for happiness, this longing to be happy at +once, to have some certainty—how I have suffered from it. If I went to +church, it was because I missed something, and I went there to seek it. +My anguish consisted in this irresistible need to satisfy my longing. +You remember what you used to call my eternal thirst for illusion and +falsehood. One night, in the threshing yard, under the great starry +sky, do you remember? I burst out against your science, I was indignant +because of the ruins with which it strews the earth, I turned my eyes +away from the dreadful wounds which it exposes. And I wished, master, +to take you to a solitude where we might both live in God, far from the +world, forgotten by it. Ah, what torture, to long, to struggle, and not +to be satisfied!” + +Softly, without speaking, he kissed her on both eyes. + +“Then, master, do you remember again, there was the great moral shock +on the night of the storm, when you gave me that terrible lesson of +life, emptying out your envelopes before me. You had said to me +already: ‘Know life, love it, live it as it ought to be lived.’ But +what a vast, what a frightful flood, rolling ever onward toward a human +sea, swelling it unceasingly for the unknown future! And, master, the +silent work within me began then. There was born, in my heart and in my +flesh, the bitter strength of the real. At first I was as if crushed, +the blow was so rude. I could not recover myself. I kept silent, +because I did not know clearly what to say. Then, gradually, the +evolution was effected. I still had struggles, I still rebelled against +confessing my defeat. But every day after this the truth grew clearer +within me, I knew well that you were my master, and that there was no +happiness for me outside of you, of your science and your goodness. You +were life itself, broad and tolerant life; saying all, accepting all, +solely through the love of energy and effort, believing in the work of +the world, placing the meaning of destiny in the labor which we all +accomplish with love, in our desperate eagerness to live, to love, to +live anew, to live always, in spite of all the abominations and +miseries of life. Oh, to live, to live! This is the great task, the +work that always goes on, and that will doubtless one day be +completed!” + +Silent still, he smiled radiantly, and kissed her on the mouth. + +“And, master, though I have always loved you, even from my earliest +youth, it was, I believe, on that terrible night that you marked me +for, and made me your own. You remember how you crushed me in your +grasp. It left a bruise, and a few drops of blood on my shoulder. Then +your being entered, as it were into mine. We struggled; you were the +stronger, and from that time I have felt the need of a support. At +first I thought myself humiliated; then I saw that it was but an +infinitely sweet submission. I always felt your power within me. A +gesture of your hand in the distance thrilled me as though it had +touched me. I would have wished that you had seized me again in your +grasp, that you had crushed me in it, until my being had mingled with +yours forever. And I was not blind; I knew well that your wish was the +same as mine, that the violence which had made me yours had made you +mine; that you struggled with yourself not to seize me and hold me as I +passed by you. To nurse you when you were ill was some slight +satisfaction. From that time, light began to break upon me, and I at +last understood. I went no more to church, I began to be happy near +you, you had become certainty and happiness. Do you remember that I +cried to you, in the threshing yard, that something was wanting in our +affection. There was a void in it which I longed to fill. What could be +wanting to us unless it were God? And it was God—love, and life.” + + + + +VIII. + + +Then came a period of idyllic happiness. Clotilde was the spring, the +tardy rejuvenation that came to Pascal in his declining years. She +came, bringing to him, with her love, sunshine and flowers. Their +rapture lifted them above the earth; and all this youth she bestowed on +him after his thirty years of toil, when he was already weary and worn +probing the frightful wounds of humanity. He revived in the light of +her great shining eyes, in the fragrance of her pure breath. He had +faith again in life, in health, in strength, in the eternal renewal of +nature. + +On the morning after her avowal it was ten o’clock before Clotilde left +her room. In the middle of the workroom she suddenly came upon Martine +and, in her radiant happiness, with a burst of joy that carried +everything before it, she rushed toward her, crying: + +“Martine, I am not going away! Master and I—we love each other.” + +The old servant staggered under the blow. Her poor worn face, nunlike +under its white cap and with its look of renunciation, grew white in +the keenness of her anguish. Without a word, she turned and fled for +refuge to her kitchen, where, leaning her elbows on her chopping-table, +and burying her face in her clasped hands, she burst into a passion of +sobs. + +Clotilde, grieved and uneasy, followed her. And she tried to comprehend +and to console her. + +“Come, come, how foolish you are! What possesses you? Master and I will +love you all the same; we will always keep you with us. You are not +going to be unhappy because we love each other. On the contrary, the +house is going to be gay now from morning till night.” + +But Martine only sobbed all the more desperately. + +“Answer me, at least. Tell me why you are angry and why you cry. Does +it not please you then to know that master is so happy, so happy! See, +I will call master and he will make you answer.” + +At this threat the old servant suddenly rose and rushed into her own +room, which opened out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. In +vain the young girl called and knocked until she was tired; she could +obtain no answer. At last Pascal, attracted by the noise, came +downstairs, saying: + +“Why, what is the matter?” + +“Oh, it is that obstinate Martine! Only fancy, she began to cry when +she knew that we loved each other. And she has barricaded herself in +there, and she will not stir.” + +She did not stir, in fact. Pascal, in his turn, called and knocked. He +scolded; he entreated. Then, one after the other, they began all over +again. Still there was no answer. A deathlike silence reigned in the +little room. And he pictured it to himself, this little room, +religiously clean, with its walnut bureau, and its monastic bed +furnished with white hangings. No doubt the servant had thrown herself +across this bed, in which she had slept alone all her woman’s life, and +was burying her face in the bolster to stifle her sobs. + +“Ah, so much the worse for her?” said Clotilde at last, in the egotism +of her joy, “let her sulk!” + +Then throwing her arms around Pascal, and raising to his her charming +face, still glowing with the ardor of self-surrender, she said: + +“Master, I will be your servant to-day.” + +He kissed her on the eyes with grateful emotion; and she at once set +about preparing the breakfast, turning the kitchen upside down. She had +put on an enormous white apron, and she looked charming, with her +sleeves rolled up, showing her delicate arms, as if for some great +undertaking. There chanced to be some cutlets in the kitchen which she +cooked to a turn. She added some scrambled eggs, and she even succeeded +in frying some potatoes. And they had a delicious breakfast, twenty +times interrupted by her getting up in her eager zeal, to run for the +bread, the water, a forgotten fork. If he had allowed her, she would +have waited upon him on her knees. Ah! to be alone, to be only they two +in this large friendly house, and to be free to laugh and to love each +other in peace. + +They spent the whole afternoon in sweeping and putting things in order. +He insisted upon helping her. It was a play; they amused themselves +like two merry children. From time to time, however, they went back to +knock at Martine’s door to remonstrate with her. Come, this was +foolish, she was not going to let herself starve! Was there ever seen +such a mule, when no one had said or done anything to her! But only the +echo of their knocks came back mournfully from the silent room. Not the +slightest sound, not a breath responded. Night fell, and they were +obliged to make the dinner also, which they ate, sitting beside each +other, from the same plate. Before going to bed, they made a last +attempt, threatening to break open the door, but their ears, glued to +the wood, could not catch the slightest sound. And on the following +day, when they went downstairs and found the door still hermetically +closed, they began to be seriously uneasy. For twenty-four hours the +servant had given no sign of life. + +Then, on returning to the kitchen after a moment’s absence, Clotilde +and Pascal were stupefied to see Martine sitting at her table, picking +some sorrel for the breakfast. She had silently resumed her place as +servant. + +“But what was the matter with you?” cried Clotilde. “Will you speak +now?” + +She lifted up her sad face, stained by tears. It was very calm, +however, and it expressed now only the resigned melancholy of old age. +She looked at the young girl with an air of infinite reproach; then she +bent her head again without speaking. + +“Are you angry with us, then?” + +And as she still remained silent, Pascal interposed: + +“Are you angry with us, my good Martine?” + +Then the old servant looked up at him with her former look of +adoration, as if she loved him sufficiently to endure all and to remain +in spite of all. At last she spoke. + +“No, I am angry with no one. The master is free. It is all right, if he +is satisfied.” + +A new life began from this time. Clotilde, who in spite of her +twenty-five years had still remained childlike, now, under the +influence of love, suddenly bloomed into exquisite womanhood. Since her +heart had awakened, the serious and intelligent boy that she had looked +like, with her round head covered with its short curls, had given place +to an adorable woman, altogether womanly, submissive and tender, loving +to be loved. Her great charm, notwithstanding her learning picked up at +random from her reading and her work, was her virginal _naïveté_, as if +her unconscious awaiting of love had made her reserve the gift of her +whole being to be utterly absorbed in the man whom she should love. No +doubt she had given her love as much through gratitude and admiration +as through tenderness; happy to make him happy; experiencing a profound +joy in being no longer only a little girl to be petted, but something +of his very own which he adored, a precious possession, a thing of +grace and joy, which he worshiped on bended knees. She still had the +religious submissiveness of the former devotee, in the hands of a +master mature and strong, from whom she derived consolation and +support, retaining, above and beyond affection, the sacred awe of the +believer in the spiritual which she still was. But more than all, this +woman, so intoxicated with love, was a delightful personification of +health and gaiety; eating with a hearty appetite; having something of +the valor of her grandfather the soldier; filling the house with her +swift and graceful movements, with the bloom of her satin skin, the +slender grace of her neck, of all her young form, divinely fresh. + +And Pascal, too, had grown handsome again under the influence of love, +with the serene beauty of a man who had retained his vigor, +notwithstanding his white hairs. His countenance had no longer the +sorrowful expression which it had worn during the months of grief and +suffering through which he had lately passed; his eyes, youthful still, +had recovered their brightness, his features their smiling grace; while +his white hair and beard grew thicker, in a leonine abundance which +lent him a youthful air. He had kept himself, in his solitary life as a +passionate worker, so free from vice and dissipation that he found now +within him a reserve of life and vigor eager to expend itself at last. +There awoke within him new energy, a youthful impetuosity that broke +forth in gestures and exclamations, in a continual need of expansion, +of living. Everything wore a new and enchanting aspect to him; the +smallest glimpse of sky moved him to wonder; the perfume of a simple +flower threw him into an ecstasy; an everyday expression of affection, +worn by use, touched him to tears, as if it had sprung fresh from the +heart and had not been hackneyed by millions of lips. Clotilde’s “I +love you,” was an infinite caress, whose celestial sweetness no human +being had ever before known. And with health and beauty he recovered +also his gaiety, that tranquil gaiety which had formerly been inspired +by his love of life, and which now threw sunshine over his love, over +everything that made life worth living. + +They two, blooming youth and vigorous maturity, so healthy, so gay, so +happy, made a radiant couple. For a whole month they remained in +seclusion, not once leaving La Souleiade. The place where both now +liked to be was the spacious workroom, so intimately associated with +their habits and their past affection. They would spend whole days +there, scarcely working at all, however. The large carved oak press +remained with closed doors; so, too, did the bookcases. Books and +papers lay undisturbed upon the tables. Like a young married couple +they were absorbed in their one passion, oblivious of their former +occupations, oblivious of life. The hours seemed all too short to enjoy +the charm of being together, often seated in the same large antique +easy-chair, happy in the depths of this solitude in which they secluded +themselves, in the tranquillity of this lofty room, in this domain +which was altogether theirs, without luxury and without order, full of +familiar objects, brightened from morning till night by the returning +gaiety of the April sunshine. When, seized with remorse, he would talk +about working, she would link her supple arms through his and +laughingly hold him prisoner, so that he should not make himself ill +again with overwork. And downstairs, they loved, too, the dining-room, +so gay with its light panels relieved by blue bands, its antique +mahogany furniture, its large flower pastels, its brass hanging lamp, +always shining. They ate in it with a hearty appetite and they left it, +after each meal, only to go upstairs again to their dear solitude. + +Then when the house seemed too small, they had the garden, all La +Souleiade. Spring advanced with the advancing sun, and at the end of +April the roses were beginning to bloom. And what a joy was this +domain, walled around, where nothing from the outside world could +trouble them! Hours flew by unnoted, as they sat on the terrace facing +the vast horizon and the shady banks of the Viorne, and the slopes of +Sainte-Marthe, from the rocky bars of the Seille to the valley of +Plassans in the dusty distance. There was no shade on the terrace but +that of the two secular cypresses planted at its two extremities, like +two enormous green tapers, which could be seen three leagues away. At +times they descended the slope for the pleasure of ascending the giant +steps, and climbing the low walls of uncemented stones which supported +the plantations, to see if the stunted olive trees and the puny almonds +were budding. More often there were delightful walks under the delicate +needles of the pine wood, steeped in sunshine and exhaling a strong +odor of resin; endless walks along the wall of inclosure, from behind +which the only sound they could hear was, at rare intervals, the +grating noise of some cart jolting along the narrow road to Les +Fenouilleres; and they spent delightful hours in the old threshing +yard, where they could see the whole horizon, and where they loved to +stretch themselves, tenderly remembering their former tears, when, +loving each other unconsciously to themselves, they had quarreled under +the stars. But their favorite retreat, where they always ended by +losing themselves, was the quincunx of tall plane trees, whose +branches, now of a tender green, looked like lacework. Below, the +enormous box trees, the old borders of the French garden, of which now +scarcely a trace remained, formed a sort of labyrinth of which they +could never find the end. And the slender stream of the fountain, with +its eternal crystalline murmur, seemed to sing within their hearts. +They would sit hand in hand beside the mossy basin, while the twilight +fell around them, their forms gradually fading into the shadow of the +trees, while the water which they could no longer see, sang its +flutelike song. + +Up to the middle of May Pascal and Clotilde secluded themselves in this +way, without even crossing the threshold of their retreat. One morning +he disappeared and returned an hour later, bringing her a pair of +diamond earrings which he had hurried out to buy, remembering this was +her birthday. She adored jewels, and the gift astonished and delighted +her. From this time not a week passed in which he did not go out once +or twice in this way to bring her back some present. The slightest +excuse was sufficient for him—a _fête_, a wish, a simple pleasure. He +brought her rings, bracelets, a necklace, a slender diadem. He would +take out the other jewels and please himself by putting them all upon +her in the midst of their laughter. She was like an idol, seated on her +chair, covered with gold,—a band of gold on her hair, gold on her bare +arms and on her bare throat, all shining with gold and precious stones. +Her woman’s vanity was delightfully gratified by this. She allowed +herself to be adored thus, to be adored on bended knees, like a +divinity, knowing well that this was only an exalted form of love. She +began at last to scold a little, however; to make prudent +remonstrances; for, in truth, it was an absurdity to bring her all +these gifts which she must afterward shut up in a drawer, without ever +wearing them, as she went nowhere. + +They were forgotten after the hour of joy and gratitude which they gave +her in their novelty was over. But he would not listen to her, carried +away by a veritable mania for giving; unable, from the moment the idea +of giving her an article took possession of him, to resist the desire +of buying it. It was a munificence of the heart; an imperious desire to +prove to her that he thought of her always; a pride in seeing her the +most magnificent, the happiest, the most envied of women; a generosity +more profound even, which impelled him to despoil himself of +everything, of his money, of his life. And then, what a delight, when +he saw he had given her a real pleasure, and she threw herself on his +neck, blushing, thanking him with kisses. After the jewels, it was +gowns, articles of dress, toilet articles. Her room was littered, the +drawers were filled to overflowing. + +One morning she could not help getting angry. He had brought her +another ring. + +“Why, I never wear them! And if I did, my fingers would be covered to +the tips. Be reasonable, I beg of you.” + +“Then I have not given you pleasure?” he said with confusion. + +She threw her arms about his neck, and assured him with tears in her +eyes that she was very happy. He was so good to her! He was so +unwearied in his devotion to her! And when, later in the morning, he +ventured to speak of making some changes in her room, of covering the +walls with tapestry, of putting down a carpet, she again remonstrated. + +“Oh! no, no! I beg of you. Do not touch my old room, so full of +memories, where I have grown up, where I told you I loved you. I should +no longer feel myself at home in it.” + +Downstairs, Martine’s obstinate silence condemned still more strongly +these excessive and useless expenses. She had adopted a less familiar +attitude, as if, in the new situation, she had fallen from her role of +housekeeper and friend to her former station of servant. Toward +Clotilde, especially, she changed, treating her like a young lady, like +a mistress to whom she was less affectionate but more obedient than +formerly. Two or three times, however, she had appeared in the morning +with her face discolored and her eyes sunken with weeping, answering +evasively when questioned, saying that nothing was the matter, that she +had taken cold. And she never made any remark about the gifts with +which the drawers were filled. She did not even seem to see them, +arranging them without a word either of praise or dispraise. But her +whole nature rebelled against this extravagant generosity, of which she +could never have conceived the possibility. She protested in her own +fashion; exaggerating her economy and reducing still further the +expenses of the housekeeping, which she now conducted on so narrow a +scale that she retrenched even in the smallest expenses. For instance, +she took only two-thirds of the milk which she had been in the habit of +taking, and she served sweet dishes only on Sundays. Pascal and +Clotilde, without venturing to complain, laughed between themselves at +this parsimony, repeating the jests which had amused them for ten years +past, saying that after dressing the vegetables she strained them in +the colander, in order to save the butter for future use. + +But this quarter she insisted upon rendering an account. She was in the +habit of going every three months to Master Grandguillot, the notary, +to receive the fifteen hundred francs income, of which she disposed +afterward according to her judgment, entering the expenses in a book +which the doctor had years ago ceased to verify. She brought it to him +now and insisted upon his looking over it. He excused himself, saying +that it was all right. + +“The thing is, monsieur,” she said, “that this time I have been able to +put some money aside. Yes, three hundred francs. Here they are.” + +He looked at her in amazement. Generally she just made both ends meet. +By what miracle of stinginess had she been able to save such a sum? + +“Ah! my poor Martine,” he said at last, laughing, “that is the reason, +then, that we have been eating so many potatoes of late. You are a +pearl of economy, but indeed you must treat us a little better in the +future.” + +This discreet reproach wounded her so profoundly that she allowed +herself at last to say: + +“Well, monsieur, when there is so much extravagance on the one hand, it +is well to be prudent on the other.” + +He understood the allusion, but instead of being angry, he was amused +by the lesson. + +“Ah, ah! it is you who are examining my accounts! But you know very +well, Martine, that I, too, have my savings laid by.” + +He alluded to the money which he still received occasionally from his +patients, and which he threw into a drawer of his writing-desk. For +more than sixteen years past he had put into this drawer every year +about four thousand francs, which would have amounted to a little +fortune if he had not taken from it, from day to day, without counting +them, considerable sums for his experiments and his whims. All the +money for the presents came out of this drawer, which he now opened +continually. He thought that it would never be empty; he had been so +accustomed to take from it whatever he required that it had never +occurred to him to fear that he would ever come to the bottom of it. + +“One may very well have a little enjoyment out of one’s savings,” he +said gayly. “Since it is you who go to the notary’s, Martine, you are +not ignorant that I have my income apart.” + +Then she said, with the colorless voice of the miser who is haunted by +the dread of an impending disaster: + +“And what would you do if you hadn’t it?” + +Pascal looked at her in astonishment, and contented himself with +answering with a shrug, for the possibility of such a misfortune had +never even entered his mind. He fancied that avarice was turning her +brain, and he laughed over the incident that evening with Clotilde. + +In Plassans, too, the presents were the cause of endless gossip. The +rumor of what was going on at La Souleiade, this strange and sudden +passion, had spread, no one could tell how, by that force of expansion +which sustains curiosity, always on the alert in small towns. The +servant certainly had not spoken, but her air was perhaps sufficient; +words perhaps had dropped from her involuntarily; the lovers might have +been watched over the walls. And then came the buying of the presents, +confirming the reports and exaggerating them. When the doctor, in the +early morning, scoured the streets and visited the jeweler’s and the +dressmaker’s, eyes spied him from the windows, his smallest purchases +were watched, all the town knew in the evening that he had given her a +silk bonnet, a bracelet set with sapphires. And all this was turned +into a scandal. This uncle in love with his niece, committing a young +man’s follies for her, adorning her like a holy Virgin. The most +extraordinary stories began to circulate, and people pointed to La +Souleiade as they passed by. + +But old Mme. Rougon was, of all persons, the most bitterly indignant. +She had ceased going to her son’s house when she learned that +Clotilde’s marriage with Dr. Ramond had been broken off. They had made +sport of her. They did nothing to please her, and she wished to show +how deep her displeasure was. Then a full month after the rupture, +during which she had understood nothing of the pitying looks, the +discreet condolences, the vague smiles which met her everywhere, she +learned everything with a suddenness that stunned her. She, who, at the +time of Pascal’s illness, in her mortification at the idea of again +becoming the talk of the town through that ugly story, had raised such +a storm! It was far worse this time; the height of scandal, a love +affair for people to regale themselves with. The Rougon legend was +again in peril; her unhappy son was decidedly doing his best to find +some way to destroy the family glory won with so much difficulty. So +that in her anger she, who had made herself the guardian of this glory, +resolving to purify the legend by every means in her power, put on her +hat one morning and hurried to La Souleiade with the youthful vivacity +of her eighty years. + +Pascal, whom the rupture with his mother enchanted, was fortunately not +at home, having gone out an hour before to look for a silver buckle +which he had thought of for a belt. And Félicité fell upon Clotilde as +the latter was finishing her toilet, her arms bare, her hair loose, +looking as fresh and smiling as a rose. + +The first shock was rude. The old lady unburdened her mind, grew +indignant, spoke of the scandal they were giving. Suddenly her anger +vanished. She looked at the young girl, and she thought her adorable. +In her heart she was not surprised at what was going on. She laughed at +it, all she desired was that it should end in a correct fashion, so as +to silence evil tongues. And she cried with a conciliating air: + +“Get married then! Why do you not get married?” + +Clotilde remained silent for a moment, surprised. She had not thought +of marriage. Then she smiled again. + +“No doubt we will get married, grandmother. But later on, there is no +hurry.” + +Old Mme. Rougon went away, obliged to be satisfied with this vague +promise. + +It was at this time that Pascal and Clotilde ceased to seclude +themselves. Not through any spirit of bravado, not because they wished +to answer ugly rumors by making a display of their happiness, but as a +natural amplification of their joy; their love had slowly acquired the +need of expansion and of space, at first beyond the house, then beyond +the garden, into the town, as far as the whole vast horizon. It filled +everything; it took in the whole world. + +The doctor then tranquilly resumed his visits, and he took the young +girl with him. They walked together along the promenades, along the +streets, she on his arm, in a light gown, with flowers in her hat, he +buttoned up in his coat with his broad-brimmed hat. He was all white; +she all blond. They walked with their heads high, erect and smiling, +radiating such happiness that they seemed to walk in a halo. At first +the excitement was extraordinary. The shopkeepers came and stood at +their doors, the women leaned out of the windows, the passers-by +stopped to look after them. People whispered and laughed and pointed to +them. Then they were so handsome; he superb and triumphant, she so +youthful, so submissive, and so proud, that an involuntary indulgence +gradually gained on every one. People could not help defending them and +loving them, and they ended by smiling on them in a delightful +contagion of tenderness. A charm emanated from them which brought back +all hearts to them. The new town, with its _bourgeois_ population of +functionaries and townspeople who had grown wealthy, was the last +conquest. But the Quartier St. Marc, in spite of its austerity, showed +itself at once kind and discreetly tolerant when they walked along its +deserted grass-worn sidewalks, beside the antique houses, now closed +and silent, which exhaled the evaporated perfume of the loves of other +days. But it was the old quarter, more especially, that promptly +received them with cordiality, this quarter of which the common people, +instinctively touched, felt the grace of the legend, the profound myth +of the couple, the beautiful young girl supporting the royal and +rejuvenated master. The doctor was adored here for his goodness, and +his companion quickly became popular, and was greeted with tokens of +admiration and approval as soon as she appeared. They, meantime, if +they had seemed ignorant of the former hostility, now divined easily +the forgiveness and the indulgent tenderness which surrounded them, and +this made them more beautiful; their happiness charmed the entire town. + +One afternoon, as Pascal and Clotilde turned the corner of the Rue de +la Banne, they perceived Dr. Ramond on the opposite side of the street. +It had chanced that they had learned the day before that he had asked +and had obtained the hand of Mlle. Leveque, the advocate’s daughter. It +was certainly the most sensible course he could have taken, for his +business interests made it advisable that he should marry, and the +young girl, who was very pretty and very rich, loved him. He, too, +would certainly love her in time. Therefore Clotilde joyfully smiled +her congratulations to him as a sincere friend. Pascal saluted him with +an affectionate gesture. For a moment Ramond, a little moved by the +meeting, stood perplexed. His first impulse seemed to have been to +cross over to them. But a feeling of delicacy must have prevented him, +the thought that it would be brutal to interrupt their dream, to break +in upon this solitude _à deux_, in which they moved, even amid the +elbowings of the street. And he contented himself with a friendly +salutation, a smile in which he forgave them their happiness. This was +very pleasant for all three. + +At this time Clotilde amused herself for several days by painting a +large pastel representing the tender scene of old King David and +Abishag, the young Shunammite. It was a dream picture, one of those +fantastic compositions into which her other self, her romantic self, +put her love of the mysterious. Against a background of flowers thrown +on the canvas, flowers that looked like a shower of stars, of barbaric +richness, the old king stood facing the spectator, his hand resting on +the bare shoulder of Abishag. He was attired sumptuously in a robe +heavy with precious stones, that fell in straight folds, and he wore +the royal fillet on his snowy locks. But she was more sumptuous still, +with only the lilylike satin of her skin, her tall, slender figure, her +round, slender throat, her supple arms, divinely graceful. He reigned +over, he leaned, as a powerful and beloved master, on this subject, +chosen from among all others, so proud of having been chosen, so +rejoiced to give to her king the rejuvenating gift of her youth. All +her pure and triumphant beauty expressed the serenity of her +submission, the tranquillity with which she gave herself, before the +assembled people, in the full light of day. And he was very great and +she was very fair, and there radiated from both a starry radiance. + +Up to the last moment Clotilde had left the faces of the two figures +vaguely outlined in a sort of mist. Pascal, standing behind her, jested +with her to hide his emotion, for he fancied he divined her intention. +And it was as he thought; she finished the faces with a few strokes of +the crayon—old King David was he, and she was Abishag, the Shunammite. +But they were enveloped in a dreamlike brightness, it was themselves +deified; the one with hair all white, the other with hair all blond, +covering them like an imperial mantle, with features lengthened by +ecstasy, exalted to the bliss of angels, with the glance and the smile +of immortal youth. + +“Ah, dear!” he cried, “you have made us too beautiful; you have +wandered off again to dreamland—yes, as in the days, do you remember, +when I used to scold you for putting there all the fantastic flowers of +the Unknown?” + +And he pointed to the walls, on which bloomed the fantastic _parterre_ +of the old pastels, flowers not of the earth, grown in the soil of +paradise. + +But she protested gayly. + +“Too beautiful? We could not be too beautiful! I assure you it is thus +that I picture us to myself, thus that I see us; and thus it is that we +are. There! see if it is not the pure reality.” + +She took the old fifteenth century Bible which was beside her, and +showed him the simple wood engraving. + +“You see it is exactly the same.” + +He smiled gently at this tranquil and extraordinary affirmation. + +“Oh, you laugh, you look only at the details of the picture. It is the +spirit which it is necessary to penetrate. And look at the other +engravings, it is the same theme in all—Abraham and Hagar, Ruth and +Boaz. And you see they are all handsome and happy.” + +Then they ceased to laugh, leaning over the old Bible whose pages she +turned with her white fingers, he standing behind her, his white beard +mingling with her blond, youthful tresses. + +Suddenly he whispered to her softly: + +“But you, so young, do you never regret that you have chosen me—me, who +am so old, as old as the world?” + +She gave a start of surprise, and turning round looked at him. + +“You old! No, you are young, younger than I!” + +And she laughed so joyously that he, too, could not help smiling. But +he insisted a little tremulously: + +“You do not answer me. Do you not sometimes desire a younger lover, you +who are so youthful?” + +She put up her lips and kissed him, saying in a low voice: + +“I have but one desire, to be loved—loved as you love me, above and +beyond everything.” + +The day on which Martine saw the pastel nailed to the wall, she looked +at it a moment in silence, then she made the sign of the cross, but +whether it was because she had seen God or the devil, no one could say. +A few days before Easter she had asked Clotilde if she would not +accompany her to church, and the latter having made a sign in the +negative, she departed for an instant from the deferential silence +which she now habitually maintained. Of all the new things which +astonished her in the house, what most astonished her was the sudden +irreligiousness of her young mistress. So she allowed herself to resume +her former tone of remonstrance, and to scold her as she used to do +when she was a little girl and refused to say her prayers. “Had she no +longer the fear of the Lord before her, then? Did she no longer tremble +at the idea of going to hell, to burn there forever?” + +Clotilde could not suppress a smile. + +“Oh, hell! you know that it has never troubled me a great deal. But you +are mistaken if you think I am no longer religious. If I have left off +going to church it is because I perform my devotions elsewhere, that is +all.” + +Martine looked at her, open-mouthed, not comprehending her. It was all +over; mademoiselle was indeed lost. And she never again asked her to +accompany her to St. Saturnin. But her own devotion increased until it +at last became a mania. She was no longer to be met, as before, with +the eternal stocking in her hand which she knitted even when walking, +when not occupied in her household duties. Whenever she had a moment to +spare, she ran to church and remained there, repeating endless prayers. +One day when old Mme. Rougon, always on the alert, found her behind a +pillar, an hour after she had seen her there before, Martine excused +herself, blushing like a servant who had been caught idling, saying: + +“I was praying for monsieur.” + +Meanwhile Pascal and Clotilde enlarged still more their domain, taking +longer and longer walks every day, extending them now outside the town +into the open country. One afternoon, as they were going to La +Séguiranne, they were deeply moved, passing by the melancholy fields +where the enchanted gardens of Le Paradou had formerly extended. The +vision of Albine rose before them. Pascal saw her again blooming like +the spring, in the rejuvenation which this living flower had brought +him too, feeling the pressure of this pure arm against his heart. Never +could he have believed, he who had already thought himself very old +when he used to enter this garden to give a smile to the little fairy +within, that she would have been dead for years when life, the good +mother, should bestow upon him the gift of so fresh a spring, +sweetening his declining years. And Clotilde, having felt the vision +rise before them, lifted up her face to his in a renewed longing for +tenderness. She was Albine, the eternal lover. He kissed her on the +lips, and though no word had been uttered, the level fields sown with +corn and oats, where Le Paradou had once rolled its billows of +luxuriant verdure, thrilled in sympathy. + +Pascal and Clotilde were now walking along the dusty road, through the +bare and arid country. They loved this sun-scorched land, these fields +thinly planted with puny almond trees and dwarf olives, these stretches +of bare hills dotted with country houses, that showed on them like pale +patches accentuated by the dark bars of the secular cypresses. It was +like an antique landscape, one of those classic landscapes represented +in the paintings of the old schools, with harsh coloring and well +balanced and majestic lines. All the ardent sunshine of successive +summers that had parched this land flowed through their veins, and lent +them a new beauty and animation, as they walked under the sky forever +blue, glowing with the clear flame of eternal love. She, protected from +the sun by her straw hat, bloomed and luxuriated in this bath of light +like a tropical flower, while he, in his renewed youth, felt the +burning sap of the soil ascend into his veins in a flood of virile joy. + +This walk to La Séguiranne had been an idea of the doctor’s, who had +learned through Aunt Dieudonné of the approaching marriage of Sophie to +a young miller of the neighborhood; and he desired to see if every one +was well and happy in this retired corner. All at once they were +refreshed by a delightful coolness as they entered the avenue of tall +green oaks. On either side the springs, the mothers of these giant +shade trees, flowed on in their eternal course. And when they reached +the house of the shrew they came, as chance would have it, upon the two +lovers, Sophie and her miller, kissing each other beside the well; for +the girl’s aunt had just gone down to the lavatory behind the willows +of the Viorne. Confused, the couple stood in blushing silence. But the +doctor and his companion laughed indulgently, and the lovers, +reassured, told them that the marriage was set for St. John’s Day, +which was a long way off, to be sure, but which would come all the +same. Sophie, saved from the hereditary malady, had improved in health +and beauty, and was growing as strong as one of the trees that stood +with their feet in the moist grass beside the springs, and their heads +bare to the sunshine. Ah, the vast, glowing sky, what life it breathed +into all created things! She had but one grief, and tears came to her +eyes when she spoke of her brother Valentin, who perhaps would not live +through the week. She had had news of him the day before; he was past +hope. And the doctor was obliged to prevaricate a little to console +her, for he himself expected hourly the inevitable termination. When he +and his companion left La Séguiranne they returned slowly to Plassans, +touched by this happy, healthy love saddened by the chill of death. + +In the old quarter a woman whom Pascal was attending informed him that +Valentin had just died. Two of the neighbors were obliged to take away +La Guiraude, who, half-crazed, clung, shrieking, to her son’s body. The +doctor entered the house, leaving Clotilde outside. At last, they again +took their way to La Souleiade in silence. Since Pascal had resumed his +visits he seemed to make them only through professional duty; he no +longer became enthusiastic about the miracles wrought by his treatment. +But as far as Valentin’s death was concerned, he was surprised that it +had not occurred before; he was convinced that he had prolonged the +patient’s life for at least a year. In spite of the extraordinary +results which he had obtained at first, he knew well that death was the +inevitable end. That he had held it in check for months ought then to +have consoled him and soothed his remorse, still unassuaged, for having +involuntarily caused the death of Lafouasse, a few weeks sooner than it +would otherwise have occurred. But this did not seem to be the case, +and his brow was knitted in a frown as they returned to their beloved +solitude. But there a new emotion awaited him; sitting under the plane +trees, whither Martine had sent him, he saw Sarteur, the hatter, the +inmate of the Tulettes whom he had been so long treating by his +hypodermic injections, and the experiment so zealously continued seemed +to have succeeded. The injections of nerve substance had evidently +given strength to his will, since the madman was here, having left the +asylum that morning, declaring that he no longer had any attacks, that +he was entirely cured of the homicidal mania that impelled him to throw +himself upon any passer-by to strangle him. The doctor looked at him as +he spoke. He was a small dark man, with a retreating forehead and +aquiline features, with one cheek perceptibly larger than the other. He +was perfectly quiet and rational, and filled with so lively a gratitude +that he kissed his saviour’s hands. The doctor could not help being +greatly affected by all this, and he dismissed the man kindly, advising +him to return to his life of labor, which was the best hygiene, +physical and moral. Then he recovered his calmness and sat down to +table, talking gaily of other matters. + +Clotilde looked at him with astonishment and even with a little +indignation. + +“What is the matter, master?” she said. “You are no longer satisfied +with yourself.” + +“Oh, with myself I am never satisfied!” he answered jestingly. “And +with medicine, you know—it is according to the day.” + +It was on this night that they had their first quarrel. She was angry +with him because he no longer had any pride in his profession. She +returned to her complaint of the afternoon, reproaching him for not +taking more credit to himself for the cure of Sarteur, and even for the +prolongation of Valentin’s life. It was she who now had a passion for +his fame. She reminded him of his cures; had he not cured himself? +Could he deny the efficacy of his treatment? A thrill ran through him +as he recalled the great dream which he had once cherished—to combat +debility, the sole cause of disease; to cure suffering humanity; to +make a higher, and healthy humanity; to hasten the coming of happiness, +the future kingdom of perfection and felicity, by intervening and +giving health to all! And he possessed the liquor of life, the +universal panacea which opened up this immense hope! + +Pascal was silent for a moment. Then he murmured: + +“It is true. I cured myself, I have cured others, and I still think +that my injections are efficacious in many cases. I do not deny +medicine. Remorse for a deplorable accident, like that of Lafouasse, +does not render me unjust. Besides, work has been my passion, it is in +work that I have up to this time spent my energies; it was in wishing +to prove to myself the possibility of making decrepit humanity one day +strong and intelligent that I came near dying lately. Yes, a dream, a +beautiful dream!” + +“No, no! a reality, the reality of your genius, master.” + +Then, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, he breathed this +confession: + +“Listen, I am going to say to you what I would say to no one else in +the world, what I would not say to myself aloud. To correct nature, to +interfere, in order to modify it and thwart it in its purpose, is this +a laudable task? To cure the individual, to retard his death, for his +personal pleasure, to prolong his existence, doubtless to the injury of +the species, is not this to defeat the aims of nature? And have we the +right to desire a stronger, a healthier humanity, modeled after our +idea of health and strength? What have we to do in the matter? Why +should we interfere in this work of life, neither the means nor the end +of which are known to us? Perhaps everything is as it ought to be. +Perhaps we should risk killing love, genius, life itself. Remember, I +make the confession to you alone; but doubt has taken possession of me, +I tremble at the thought of my twentieth century alchemy. I have come +to believe that it is greater and wiser to allow evolution to take its +course.” + +He paused; then he added so softly that she could scarcely hear him: + +“Do you know that instead of nerve-substance I often use only water +with my patients. You no longer hear me grinding for days at a time. I +told you that I had some of the liquor in reserve. Water soothes them, +this is no doubt simply a mechanical effect. Ah! to soothe, to prevent +suffering—that indeed I still desire! It is perhaps my greatest +weakness, but I cannot bear to see any one suffer. Suffering puts me +beside myself, it seems a monstrous and useless cruelty of nature. I +practise now only to prevent suffering.” + +“Then, master,” she asked, in the same indistinct murmur, “if you no +longer desire to cure, do you still think everything must be told? For +the frightful necessity of displaying the wounds of humanity had no +other excuse than the hope of curing them.” + +“Yes, yes, it is necessary to know, in every case, and to conceal +nothing; to tell everything regarding things and individuals. Happiness +is no longer possible in ignorance; certainty alone makes life +tranquil. When people know more they will doubtless accept everything. +Do you not comprehend that to desire to cure everything, to regenerate +everything is a false ambition inspired by our egotism, a revolt +against life, which we declare to be bad, because we judge it from the +point of view of self-interest? I know that I am more tranquil, that my +intellect has broadened and deepened ever since I have held evolution +in respect. It is my love of life which triumphs, even to the extent of +not questioning its purpose, to the extent of confiding absolutely in +it, of losing myself in it, without wishing to remake it according to +my own conception of good and evil. Life alone is sovereign, life alone +knows its aim and its end. I can only try to know it in order to live +it as it should be lived. And this I have understood only since I have +possessed your love. Before I possessed it I sought the truth +elsewhere, I struggled with the fixed idea of saving the world. You +have come, and life is full; the world is saved every hour by love, by +the immense and incessant labor of all that live and love throughout +space. Impeccable life, omnipotent life, immortal life!” + +They continued to talk together in low tones for some time longer, +planning an idyllic life, a calm and healthful existence in the +country. It was in this simple prescription of an invigorating +environment that the experiments of the physician ended. He exclaimed +against cities. People could be well and happy only in the country, in +the sunshine, on the condition of renouncing money, ambition, even the +proud excesses of intellectual labor. They should do nothing but live +and love, cultivate the soil, and bring up their children. + + + + +IX. + + +Dr. Pascal then resumed his professional visits in the town and the +surrounding country. And he was generally accompanied by Clotilde, who +went with him into the houses of the poor, where she, too, brought +health and cheerfulness. + +But, as he had one night confessed to her in secret, his visits were +now only visits of relief and consolation. If he had before practised +with repugnance it was because he had felt how vain was medical +science. Empiricism disheartened him. From the moment that medicine +ceased to be an experimental science and became an art, he was filled +with disquiet at the thought of the infinite variety of diseases and of +their remedies, according to the constitution of the patient. Treatment +changed with every new hypothesis; how many people, then, must the +methods now abandoned have killed! The perspicacity of the physician +became everything, the healer was only a happily endowed diviner, +himself groping in the dark and effecting cures through his fortunate +endowment. And this explained why he had given up his patients almost +altogether, after a dozen years of practise, to devote himself entirely +to study. Then, when his great labors on heredity had restored to him +for a time the hope of intervening and curing disease by his hypodermic +injections, he had become again enthusiastic, until the day when his +faith in life, after having impelled him, to aid its action in this +way, by restoring the vital forces, became still broader and gave him +the higher conviction that life was self-sufficing, that it was the +only giver of health and strength, in spite of everything. And he +continued to visit, with his tranquil smile, only those of his patients +who clamored for him loudly, and who found themselves miraculously +relieved when he injected into them only pure water. + +Clotilde now sometimes allowed herself to jest about these hypodermic +injections. She was still at heart, however, a fervent worshiper of his +skill; and she said jestingly that if he performed miracles as he did +it was because he had in himself the godlike power to do so. Then he +would reply jestingly, attributing to her the efficacy of their common +visits, saying that he cured no one now when she was absent, that it +was she who brought the breath of life, the unknown and necessary force +from the Beyond. So that the rich people, the _bourgeois_, whose houses +she did not enter, continued to groan without his being able to relieve +them. And this affectionate dispute diverted them; they set out each +time as if for new discoveries, they exchanged glances of kindly +intelligence with the sick. Ah, this wretched suffering which revolted +them, and which was now all they went to combat; how happy they were +when they thought it vanquished! They were divinely recompensed when +they saw the cold sweats disappear, the moaning lips become stilled, +the deathlike faces recover animation. It was assuredly the love which +they brought to this humble, suffering humanity that produced the +alleviation. + +“To die is nothing; that is in the natural order of things,” Pascal +would often say. “But why suffer? It is cruel and unnecessary!” + +One afternoon the doctor was going with the young girl to the little +village of Sainte-Marthe to see a patient, and at the station, for they +were going by train, so as to spare Bonhomme, they had a reencounter. +The train which they were waiting for was from the Tulettes. +Sainte-Marthe was the first station in the opposite direction, going to +Marseilles. When the train arrived, they hurried on board and, opening +the door of a compartment which they thought empty, they saw old Mme. +Rougon about to leave it. She did not speak to them, but passing them +by, sprang down quickly in spite of her age, and walked away with a +stiff and haughty air. + +“It is the 1st of July,” said Clotilde when the train had started. +“Grandmother is returning from the Tulettes, after making her monthly +visit to Aunt Dide. Did you see the glance she cast at me?” + +Pascal was at heart glad of the quarrel with his mother, which freed +him from the continual annoyance of her visits. + +“Bah!” he said simply, “when people cannot agree it is better for them +not to see each other.” + +But the young girl remained troubled and thoughtful. After a few +moments she said in an undertone: + +“I thought her changed—looking paler. And did you notice? she who is +usually so carefully dressed had only one glove on—a yellow glove, on +the right hand. I don’t know why it was, but she made me feel sick at +heart.” + +Pascal, who was also disturbed, made a vague gesture. His mother would +no doubt grow old at last, like everybody else. But she was very +active, very full of fire still. She was thinking, he said, of +bequeathing her fortune to the town of Plassans, to build a house of +refuge, which should bear the name of Rougon. Both had recovered their +gaiety when he cried suddenly: + +“Why, it is to-morrow that you and I are to go to the Tulettes to see +our patients. And you know that I promised to take Charles to Uncle +Macquart’s.” + +Félicité was in fact returning from the Tulettes, where she went +regularly on the first of every month to inquire after Aunt Dide. For +many years past she had taken a keen interest in the madwoman’s health, +amazed to see her lasting so long, and furious with her for persisting +in living so far beyond the common term of life, until she had become a +very prodigy of longevity. What a relief, the fine morning on which +they should put under ground this troublesome witness of the past, this +specter of expiation and of waiting, who brought living before her the +abominations of the family! When so many others had been taken she, who +was demented and who had only a spark of life left in her eyes, seemed +forgotten. On this day she had found her as usual, skeleton-like, stiff +and erect in her armchair. As the keeper said, there was now no reason +why she should ever die. She was a hundred and five years old. + +When she left the asylum Félicité was furious. She thought of Uncle +Macquart. Another who troubled her, who persisted in living with +exasperating obstinacy! Although he was only eighty-four years old, +three years older than herself, she thought him ridiculously aged, past +the allotted term of life. And a man who led so dissipated a life, who +had gone to bed dead drunk every night for the last sixty years! The +good and the sober were taken away; he flourished in spite of +everything, blooming with health and gaiety. In days past, just after +he had settled at the Tulettes, she had made him presents of wines, +liqueurs and brandy, in the unavowed hope of ridding the family of a +fellow who was really disreputable, and from whom they had nothing to +expect but annoyance and shame. But she had soon perceived that all +this liquor served, on the contrary, to keep up his health and spirits +and his sarcastic humor, and she had left off making him presents, +seeing that he throve on what she had hoped would prove a poison to +him. She had cherished a deadly hatred toward him since then. She would +have killed him if she had dared, every time she saw him, standing +firmly on his drunken legs, and laughing at her to her face, knowing +well that she was watching for his death, and triumphant because he did +not give her the pleasure of burying with him all the old dirty linen +of the family, the blood and mud of the two conquests of Plassans. + +“You see, Félicité,” he would often say to her with his air of wicked +mockery, “I am here to take care of the old mother, and the day on +which we both make up our minds to die it would be through compliment +to you—yes, simply to spare you the trouble of running to see us so +good-naturedly, in this way, every month.” + +Generally she did not now give herself the disappointment of going to +Macquart’s, but inquired for him at the asylum. But on this occasion, +having learned there that he was passing through an extraordinary +attack of drunkenness, not having drawn a sober breath for a fortnight, +and so intoxicated that he was probably unable to leave the house, she +was seized with the curiosity to learn for herself what his condition +really was. And as she was going back to the station, she went out of +her way in order to stop at Macquart’s house. + +The day was superb—a warm and brilliant summer day. On either side of +the path which she had taken, she saw the fields that she had given him +in former days—all this fertile land, the price of his secrecy and his +good behavior. Before her appeared the house, with its pink tiles and +its bright yellow walls, looking gay in the sunshine. Under the ancient +mulberry trees on the terrace she enjoyed the delightful coolness and +the beautiful view. What a pleasant and safe retreat, what a happy +solitude was this for an old man to end in joy and peace a long and +well-spent life! + +But she did not see him, she did not hear him. The silence was +profound. The only sound to be heard was the humming of the bees +circling around the tall marshmallows. And on the terrace there was +nothing to be seen but a little yellow dog, stretched at full length on +the bare ground, seeking the coolness of the shade. He raised his head +growling, about to bark, but, recognizing the visitor, he lay down +again quietly. + +Then, in this peaceful and sunny solitude she was seized with a strange +chill, and she called: + +“Macquart! Macquart!” + +The door of the house under the mulberry trees stood wide open. But she +did not dare to go in; this empty house with its wide open door gave +her a vague uneasiness. And she called again: + +“Macquart! Macquart!” + +Not a sound, not a breath. Profound silence reigned again, but the +humming of the bees circling around the tall marshmallows sounded +louder than before. + +At last Félicité, ashamed of her fears, summoned courage to enter. The +door on the left of the hall, opening into the kitchen, where Uncle +Macquart generally sat, was closed. She pushed it open, but she could +distinguish nothing at first, as the blinds had been closed, probably +in order to shut out the heat. Her first sensation was one of choking, +caused by an overpowering odor of alcohol which filled the room; every +article of furniture seemed to exude this odor, the whole house was +impregnated with it. At last, when her eyes had become accustomed to +the semi-obscurity, she perceived Macquart. He was seated at the table, +on which were a glass and a bottle of spirits of thirty-six degrees, +completely empty. Settled in his chair, he was sleeping profoundly, +dead drunk. This spectacle revived her anger and contempt. + +“Come, Macquart,” she cried, “is it not vile and senseless to put one’s +self in such a state! Wake up, I say, this is shameful!” + +His sleep was so profound that she could not even hear him breathing. +In vain she raised her voice, and slapped him smartly on the hands. + +“Macquart! Macquart! Macquart! Ah, faugh! You are disgusting, my dear!” + +Then she left him, troubling herself no further about him, and walked +around the room, evidently seeking something. Coming down the dusky +road from the asylum she had been seized with a consuming thirst, and +she wished to get a glass of water. Her gloves embarrassed her, and she +took them off and put them on a corner of the table. Then she succeeded +in finding the jug, and she washed a glass and filled it to the brim, +and was about to empty it when she saw an extraordinary sight—a sight +which agitated her so greatly that she set the glass down again beside +her gloves, without drinking. + +By degrees she had begun to see objects more clearly in the room, which +was lighted dimly by a few stray sunbeams that filtered through the +cracks of the old shutters. She now saw Uncle Macquart distinctly, +neatly dressed in a blue cloth suit, as usual, and on his head the +eternal fur cap which he wore from one year’s end to the other. He had +grown stout during the last five or six years, and he looked like a +veritable mountain of flesh overlaid with rolls of fat. And she noticed +that he must have fallen asleep while smoking, for his pipe—a short +black pipe—had fallen into his lap. Then she stood still, stupefied +with amazement—the burning tobacco had been scattered in the fall, and +the cloth of the trousers had caught fire, and through a hole in the +stuff, as large already as a hundred-sous piece, she saw the bare +thigh, whence issued a little blue flame. + +At first Félicité had thought that it was linen—the drawers or the +shirt—that was burning. But soon doubt was no longer possible, she saw +distinctly the bare flesh and the little blue flame issuing from it, +lightly dancing, like a flame wandering over the surface of a vessel of +lighted alcohol. It was as yet scarcely higher than the flame of a +night light, pale and soft, and so unstable that the slightest breath +of air caused it to change its place. But it increased and spread +rapidly, and the skin cracked and the fat began to melt. + +An involuntary cry escaped from Félicité’s throat. + +“Macquart! Macquart!” + +But still he did not stir. His insensibility must have been complete; +intoxication must have produced a sort of coma, in which there was an +absolute paralysis of sensation, for he was living, his breast could be +seen rising and falling, in slow and even respiration. + +“Macquart! Macquart!” + +Now the fat was running through the cracks of the skin, feeding the +flame, which was invading the abdomen. And Félicité comprehended +vaguely that Uncle Macquart was burning before her like a sponge soaked +with brandy. He had, indeed, been saturated with it for years past, and +of the strongest and most inflammable kind. He would no doubt soon be +blazing from head to foot, like a bowl of punch. + +Then she ceased to try to awaken him, since he was sleeping so soundly. +For a full minute she had the courage to look at him, awe-stricken, but +gradually coming to a determination. Her hands, however, began to +tremble, with a little shiver which she could not control. She was +choking, and taking up the glass of water again with both hands, she +emptied it at a draught. And she was going away on tiptoe, when she +remembered her gloves. She went back, groped for them anxiously on the +table and, as she thought, picked them both up. Then she left the room, +closing the door behind her carefully, and as gently as if she were +afraid of disturbing some one. + +When she found herself once more on the terrace, in the cheerful +sunshine and the pure air, in face of the vast horizon bathed in light, +she heaved a sigh of relief. The country was deserted; no one could +have seen her entering or leaving the house. Only the yellow dog was +still stretched there, and he did not even deign to look up. And she +went away with her quick, short step, her youthful figure lightly +swaying. A hundred steps away, an irresistible impulse compelled her to +turn round to give a last look at the house, so tranquil and so +cheerful on the hillside, in the declining light of the beautiful day. + +Only when she was in the train and went to put on her gloves did she +perceive that one of them was missing. But she supposed that it had +fallen on the platform at the station as she was getting into the car. +She believed herself to be quite calm, but she remained with one hand +gloved and one hand bare, which, with her, could only be the result of +great agitation. + +On the following day Pascal and Clotilde took the three o’clock train +to go to the Tulettes. The mother of Charles, the harness-maker’s wife, +had brought the boy to them, as they had offered to take him to Uncle +Macquart’s, where he was to remain for the rest of the week. Fresh +quarrels had disturbed the peace of the household, the husband having +resolved to tolerate no longer in his house another man’s child, that +do-nothing, imbecile prince’s son. As it was Grandmother Rougon who had +dressed him, he was, indeed, dressed on this day, again, in black +velvet trimmed with gold braid, like a young lord, a page of former +times going to court. And during the quarter of an hour which the +journey lasted, Clotilde amused herself in the compartment, in which +they were alone, by taking off his cap and smoothing his beautiful +blond locks, his royal hair that fell in curls over his shoulders. She +had a ring on her finger, and as she passed her hand over his neck she +was startled to perceive that her caress had left behind it a trace of +blood. One could not touch the boy’s skin without the red dew exuding +from it; the tissues had become so lax through extreme degeneration +that the slightest scratch brought on a hemorrhage. The doctor became +at once uneasy, and asked him if he still bled at the nose as +frequently as formerly. Charles hardly knew what to answer; first +saying no, then, recollecting himself, he said that he had bled a great +deal the other day. He seemed, indeed, weaker; he grew more childish as +he grew older; his intelligence, which had never developed, had become +clouded. This tall boy of fifteen, so beautiful, so girlish-looking, +with the color of a flower that had grown in the shade, did not look +ten. + +At the Tulettes Pascal decided that they would first take the boy to +Uncle Macquart’s. They ascended the steep road. In the distance the +little house looked gay in the sunshine, as it had looked on the day +before, with its yellow walls and its green mulberry trees extending +their twisted branches and covering the terrace with a thick, leafy +roof. A delightful sense of peace pervaded this solitary spot, this +sage’s retreat, where the only sound to be heard was the humming of the +bees, circling round the tall marshmallows. + +“Ah, that rascal of an uncle!” said Pascal, smiling, “how I envy him!” + +But he was surprised not to have already seen him standing at the edge +of the terrace. And as Charles had run off dragging Clotilde with him +to see the rabbits, as he said, the doctor continued the ascent alone, +and was astonished when he reached the top to see no one. The blinds +were closed, the hill door yawned wide open. Only the yellow dog was at +the threshold, his legs stiff, his hair bristling, howling with a low +and continuous moan. When he saw the visitor, whom he no doubt +recognized, approaching, he stopped howling for an instant and went and +stood further off, then he began again to whine softly. + +Pascal, filled with apprehension, could not keep back the uneasy cry +that rose to his lips: + +“Macquart! Macquart!” + +No one answered; a deathlike silence reigned over the house, with its +door yawning wide open, like the mouth of a cavern. The dog continued +to howl. + +Then Pascal grew impatient, and cried more loudly. + +“Macquart! Macquart!” + +There was not a stir; the bees hummed, the sky looked down serenely on +the peaceful scene. Then he hesitated no longer. Perhaps Macquart was +asleep. But the instant he pushed open the door of the kitchen on the +left of the hall, a horrible odor escaped from it, an odor of burned +flesh and bones. When he entered the room he could hardly breathe, so +filled was it by a thick vapor, a stagnant and nauseous cloud, which +choked and blinded him. The sunbeams that filtered through the cracks +made only a dim light. He hurried to the fireplace, thinking that +perhaps there had been a fire, but the fireplace was empty, and the +articles of furniture around appeared to be uninjured. Bewildered, and +feeling himself growing faint in the poisoned atmosphere, he ran to the +window and threw the shutters wide open. A flood of light entered. + +Then the scene presented to the doctor’s view filled him with +amazement. Everything was in its place; the glass and the empty bottle +of spirits were on the table; only the chair in which Uncle Macquart +must have been sitting bore traces of fire, the front legs were +blackened and the straw was partially consumed. What had become of +Macquart? Where could he have disappeared? In front of the chair, on +the brick floor, which was saturated with grease, there was a little +heap of ashes, beside which lay the pipe—a black pipe, which had not +even broken in falling. All of Uncle Macquart was there, in this +handful of fine ashes; and he was in the red cloud, also, which floated +through the open window; in the layer of soot which carpeted the entire +kitchen; the horrible grease of burnt flesh, enveloping everything, +sticky and foul to the touch. + +It was the finest case of spontaneous combustion physician had ever +seen. The doctor had, indeed, read in medical papers of surprising +cases, among others that of a shoemaker’s wife, a drunken woman who had +fallen asleep over her foot warmer, and of whom they had found only a +hand and foot. He had, until now, put little faith in these cases, +unwilling to admit, like the ancients, that a body impregnated with +alcohol could disengage an unknown gas, capable of taking fire +spontaneously and consuming the flesh and the bones. But he denied the +truth of them no longer; besides, everything became clear to him as he +reconstructed the scene—the coma of drunkenness producing absolute +insensibility; the pipe falling on the clothes, which had taken fire; +the flesh, saturated with liquor, burning and cracking; the fat +melting, part of it running over the ground and part of it aiding the +combustion, and all, at last—muscles, organs, and bones—consumed in a +general blaze. Uncle Macquart was all there, with his blue cloth suit, +and his fur cap, which he wore from one year’s end to the other. +Doubtless, as soon as he had begun to burn like a bonfire he had fallen +forward, which would account for the chair being only blackened; and +nothing of him was left, not a bone, not a tooth, not a nail, nothing +but this little heap of gray dust which the draught of air from the +door threatened at every moment to sweep away. + +Clotilde had meanwhile entered, Charles remaining outside, his +attention attracted by the continued howling of the dog. + +“Good Heavens, what a smell!” she cried. “What is the matter?” + +When Pascal explained to her the extraordinary catastrophe that had +taken place, she shuddered. She took up the bottle to examine it, but +she put it down again with horror, feeling it moist and sticky with +Uncle Macquart’s flesh. Nothing could be touched, the smallest objects +were coated, as it were, with this yellowish grease which stuck to the +hands. + +A shudder of mingled awe and disgust passed through her, and she burst +into tears, faltering: + +“What a sad death! What a horrible death!” + +Pascal had recovered from his first shock, and he was almost smiling. + +“Why horrible? He was eighty-four years old; he did not suffer. As for +me, I think it a superb death for that old rascal of an uncle, who, it +may be now said, did not lead a very exemplary life. You remember his +envelope; he had some very terrible and vile things upon his +conscience, which did not prevent him, however, from settling down +later and growing old, surrounded by every comfort, like an old humbug, +receiving the recompense of virtues which he did not possess. And here +he lies like the prince of drunkards, burning up of himself, consumed +on the burning funeral pile of his own body!” + +And the doctor waved his hand in admiration. + +“Just think of it. To be drunk to the point of not feeling that one is +on fire; to set one’s self aflame, like a bonfire on St. John’s day; to +disappear in smoke to the last bone. Think of Uncle Macquart starting +on his journey through space; first diffused through the four corners +of the room, dissolved in air and floating about, bathing all that +belonged to him; then escaping in a cloud of dust through the window, +when I opened it for him, soaring up into the sky, filling the horizon. +Why, that is an admirable death! To disappear, to leave nothing of +himself behind but a little heap of ashes and a pipe beside it!” + +And he picked up the pipe to keep it, as he said, as a relic of Uncle +Macquart; while Clotilde, who thought she perceived a touch of bitter +mockery in his eulogistic rhapsody, shuddered anew with horror and +disgust. But suddenly she perceived something under the table—part of +the remains, perhaps. + +“Look at that fragment there.” + +He stooped down and picked up with surprise a woman’s glove, a yellow +glove. + +“Why!” she cried, “it is grandmother’s glove; the glove that was +missing last evening.” + +They looked at each other; by a common impulse the same explanation +rose to their lips, Félicité was certainly there yesterday; and a +sudden conviction forced itself on the doctor’s mind—the conviction +that his mother had seen Uncle Macquart burning and that she had not +quenched him. Various indications pointed to this—the state of complete +coolness in which he found the room, the number of hours which he +calculated to have been necessary for the combustion of the body. He +saw clearly the same thought dawning in the terrified eyes of his +companion. But as it seemed impossible that they should ever know the +truth, he fabricated aloud the simplest explanation: + +“No doubt your grandmother came in yesterday on her way back from the +asylum, to say good day to Uncle Macquart, before he had begun +drinking.” + +“Let us go away! let us go away!” cried Clotilde. “I am stifling here; +I cannot remain here!” + +Pascal, too, wished to go and give information of the death. He went +out after her, shut up the house, and put the key in his pocket. +Outside, they heard the little yellow dog still howling. He had taken +refuge between Charles’ legs, and the boy amused himself pushing him +with his foot and listening to him whining, without comprehending. + +The doctor went at once to the house of M. Maurin, the notary at the +Tulettes, who was also mayor of the commune. A widower for ten years +past, and living with his daughter, who was a childless widow, he had +maintained neighborly relations with old Macquart, and had occasionally +kept little Charles with him for several days at a time, his daughter +having become interested in the boy who was so handsome and so much to +be pitied. M. Maurin, horrified at the news, went at once with the +doctor to draw up a statement of the accident, and promised to make out +the death certificate in due form. As for religious ceremonies, funeral +obsequies, they seemed scarcely possible. When they entered the kitchen +the draught from the door scattered the ashes about, and when they +piously attempted to collect them again they succeeded only in +gathering together the scrapings of the flags, a collection of +accumulated dirt, in which there could be but little of Uncle Macquart. +What, then, could they bury? It was better to give up the idea. So they +gave it up. Besides, Uncle Macquart had been hardly a devout Catholic, +and the family contented themselves with causing masses to be said +later on for the repose of his soul. + +The notary, meantime, had immediately declared that there existed a +will, which had been deposited with him, and he asked Pascal to meet +him at his house on the next day but one for the reading; for he +thought he might tell the doctor at once that Uncle Macquart had chosen +him as his executor. And he ended by offering, like a kindhearted man, +to keep Charles with him until then, comprehending how greatly the boy, +who was so unwelcome at his mother’s, would be in the way in the midst +of all these occurrences. Charles seemed enchanted, and he remained at +the Tulettes. + +It was not until very late, until seven o’clock, that Clotilde and +Pascal were able to take the train to return to Plassans, after the +doctor had at last visited the two patients whom he had to see. But +when they returned together to the notary’s on the day appointed for +the meeting, they had the disagreeable surprise of finding old Mme. +Rougon installed there. She had naturally learned of Macquart’s death, +and had hurried there on the following day, full of excitement, and +making a great show of grief; and she had just made her appearance +again to-day, having heard the famous testament spoken of. The reading +of the will, however, was a simple matter, unmarked by any incident. +Macquart had left all the fortune that he could dispose of for the +purpose of erecting a superb marble monument to himself, with two +angels with folded wings, weeping. It was his own idea, a reminiscence +of a similar tomb which he had seen abroad—in Germany, perhaps—when he +was a soldier. And he had charged his nephew Pascal to superintend the +erection of the monument, as he was the only one of the family, he +said, who had any taste. + +During the reading of the will Clotilde had remained in the notary’s +garden, sitting on a bench under the shade of an ancient chestnut tree. +When Pascal and Félicité again appeared, there was a moment of great +embarrassment, for they had not spoken to one another for some months +past. The old lady, however, affected to be perfectly at her ease, +making no allusion whatever to the new situation, and giving it to be +understood that they might very well meet and appear united before the +world, without for that reason entering into an explanation or becoming +reconciled. But she committed the mistake of laying too much stress on +the great grief which Macquart’s death had caused her. Pascal, who +suspected the overflowing joy, the unbounded delight which it gave her +to think that this family ulcer was to be at last healed, that this +abominable uncle was at last out of the way, became gradually possessed +by an impatience, an indignation, which he could not control. His eyes +fastened themselves involuntarily on his mother’s gloves, which were +black. + +Just then she was expressing her grief in lowered tones: + +“But how imprudent it was, at his age, to persist in living alone—like +a wolf in his lair! If he had only had a servant in the house with +him!” + +Then the doctor, hardly conscious of what he was saying, terrified at +hearing himself say the words, but impelled by an irresistible force, +said: + +“But, mother, since you were there, why did you not quench him?” + +Old Mme. Rougon turned frightfully pale. How could her son have known? +She looked at him for an instant in open-mouthed amazement; while +Clotilde grew as pale as she, in the certainty of the crime, which was +now evident. It was an avowal, this terrified silence which had fallen +between the mother, the son, and the granddaughter—the shuddering +silence in which families bury their domestic tragedies. The doctor, in +despair at having spoken, he who avoided so carefully all disagreeable +and useless explanations, was trying desperately to retract his words, +when a new catastrophe extricated him from his terrible embarrassment. + +Félicité desired to take Charles away with her, in order not to +trespass on the notary’s kind hospitality; and as the latter had sent +the boy after breakfast to spend an hour or two with Aunt Dide, he had +sent the maid servant to the asylum with orders to bring him back +immediately. It was at this juncture that the servant, whom they were +waiting for in the garden, made her appearance, covered with +perspiration, out of breath, and greatly excited, crying from a +distance: + +“My God! My God! come quickly. Master Charles is bathed in blood.” + +Filled with consternation, all three set off for the asylum. This day +chanced to be one of Aunt Dide’s good days; very calm and gentle she +sat erect in the armchair in which she had spent the hours, the long +hours for twenty-two years past, looking straight before her into +vacancy. She seemed to have grown still thinner, all the flesh had +disappeared, her limbs were now only bones covered with parchment-like +skin; and her keeper, the stout fair-haired girl, carried her, fed her, +took her up and laid her down as if she had been a bundle. The +ancestress, the forgotten one, tall, bony, ghastly, remained +motionless, her eyes, only seeming to have life, her eyes shining clear +as spring water in her thin withered face. But on this morning, again a +sudden rush of tears had streamed down her cheeks, and she had begun to +stammer words without any connection; which seemed to prove that in the +midst of her senile exhaustion and the incurable torpor of madness, the +slow induration of the brain and the limbs was not yet complete; there +still were memories stored away, gleams of intelligence still were +possible. Then her face had resumed its vacant expression. She seemed +indifferent to every one and everything, laughing, sometimes, at an +accident, at a fall, but most often seeing nothing and hearing nothing, +gazing fixedly into vacancy. + +When Charles had been brought to her the keeper had immediately +installed him before the little table, in front of his +great-great-grandmother. The girl kept a package of pictures for +him—soldiers, captains, kings clad in purple and gold, and she gave +them to him with a pair of scissors, saying: + +“There, amuse yourself quietly, and behave well. You see that to-day +grandmother is very good. You must be good, too.” + +The boy raised his eyes to the madwoman’s face, and both looked at each +other. At this moment the resemblance between them was extraordinary. +Their eyes, especially, their vacant and limpid eyes, seemed to lose +themselves in one another, to be identical. Then it was the +physiognomy, the whole face, the worn features of the centenarian, that +passed over three generations to this delicate child’s face, it, too, +worn already, as it were, and aged by the wear of the race. Neither +smiled, they regarded each other intently, with an air of grave +imbecility. + +“Well!” continued the keeper, who had acquired the habit of talking to +herself to cheer herself when with her mad charge, “you cannot deny +each other. The same hand made you both. You are the very spit-down of +each other. Come, laugh a bit, amuse yourselves, since you like to be +together.” + +But to fix his attention for any length of time fatigued Charles, and +he was the first to lower his eyes; he seemed to be interested in his +pictures, while Aunt Dide, who had an astonishing power of fixing her +attention, as if she had been turned into stone, continued to look at +him fixedly, without even winking an eyelid. + +The keeper busied herself for a few moments in the little sunny room, +made gay by its light, blue-flowered paper. She made the bed which she +had been airing, she arranged the linen on the shelves of the press. +But she generally profited by the presence of the boy to take a little +relaxation. She had orders never to leave her charge alone, and now +that he was here she ventured to trust her with him. + +“Listen to me well,” she went on, “I have to go out for a little, and +if she stirs, if she should need me, ring for me, call me at once; do +you hear? You understand, you are a big enough boy to be able to call +one.” + +He had looked up again, and made a sign that he had understood and that +he would call her. And when he found himself alone with Aunt Dide he +returned to his pictures quietly. This lasted for a quarter of an hour +amid the profound silence of the asylum, broken only at intervals by +some prison sound—a stealthy step, the jingling of a bunch of keys, and +occasionally a loud cry, immediately silenced. But the boy must have +been tired by the excessive heat of the day, for sleep gradually stole +over him. Soon his head, fair as a lily, drooped, and as if weighed +down by the too heavy casque of his royal locks, he let it sink gently +on the pictures and fell asleep, with his cheek resting on the gold and +purple kings. The lashes of his closed eyelids cast a shadow on his +delicate skin, with its small blue veins, through which life pulsed +feebly. He was beautiful as an angel, but with the indefinable +corruption of a whole race spread over his countenance. And Aunt Dide +looked at him with her vacant stare in which there was neither pleasure +nor pain, the stare of eternity contemplating things earthly. + +At the end of a few moments, however, an expression of interest seemed +to dawn in the clear eyes. Something had just happened, a drop of blood +was forming on the edge of the left nostril of the boy. This drop fell +and another formed and followed it. It was the blood, the dew of blood, +exuding this time, without a scratch, without a bruise, which issued +and flowed of itself in the laxity of the degenerate tissues. The drops +became a slender thread which flowed over the gold of the pictures. A +little pool covered them, and made its way to a corner of the table; +then the drops began again, splashing dully one by one upon the floor. +And he still slept, with the divinely calm look of a cherub, not even +conscious of the life that was escaping from him; and the madwoman +continued to look at him, with an air of increasing interest, but +without terror, amused, rather, her attention engaged by this, as by +the flight of the big flies, which her gaze often followed for hours. + +Several minutes more passed, the slender thread had grown larger, the +drops followed one another more rapidly, falling on the floor with a +monotonous and persistent drip. And Charles, at one moment, stirred, +opened his eyes, and perceived that he was covered with blood. But he +was not frightened; he was accustomed to this bloody spring, which +issued from him at the slightest cause. He merely gave a sigh of +weariness. Instinct, however, must have warned him, for he moaned more +loudly than before, and called confusedly in stammering accents: + +“Mamma! mamma!” + +His weakness was no doubt already excessive, for an irresistible stupor +once more took possession of him, his head dropped, his eyes closed, +and he seemed to fall asleep again, continuing his plaint, as if in a +dream, moaning in fainter and fainter accents: + +“Mamma! mamma!” + +Now the pictures were inundated; the black velvet jacket and trousers, +braided with gold, were stained with long streaks of blood, and the +little red stream began again to flow persistently from his left +nostril, without stopping, crossed the red pool on the table and fell +upon the ground, where it at last formed a veritable lake. A loud cry +from the madwoman, a terrified call would have sufficed. But she did +not cry, she did not call; motionless, rigid, emaciated, sitting there +forgotten of the world, she gazed with the fixed look of the ancestress +who sees the destinies of her race being accomplished. She sat there as +if dried up, bound; her limbs and her tongue tied by her hundred years, +her brain ossified by madness, incapable of willing or of acting. And +yet the sight of the little red stream began to stir some feeling in +her. A tremor passed over her deathlike countenance, a flush mounted to +her cheeks. Finally, a last plaint roused her completely: + +“Mamma! mamma!” + +Then it was evident that a terrible struggle was taking place in Aunt +Dide. She carried her skeleton-like hand to her forehead as if she felt +her brain bursting. Her mouth was wide open, but no sound issued from +it; the dreadful tumult that had arisen within her had no doubt +paralyzed her tongue. She tried to rise, to run, but she had no longer +any muscles; she remained fastened to her seat. All her poor body +trembled in the superhuman effort which she was making to cry for help, +without being able to break the bonds of old age and madness which held +her prisoner. Her face was distorted with terror; memory gradually +awakening, she must have comprehended everything. + +And it was a slow and gentle agony, of which the spectacle lasted for +several minutes more. Charles, silent now, as if he had again fallen +asleep, was losing the last drops of blood that had remained in his +veins, which were emptying themselves softly. His lily-like whiteness +increased until it became a deathlike pallor. His lips lost their rosy +color, became a pale pink, then white. And, as he was about to expire, +he opened his large eyes and fixed them on his great-great-grandmother, +who watched the light dying in them. All the waxen face was already +dead, the eyes only were still living. They still kept their limpidity, +their brightness. All at once they became vacant, the light in them was +extinguished. This was the end—the death of the eyes, and Charles had +died, without a struggle, exhausted, like a fountain from which all the +water has run out. Life no longer pulsed through the veins of his +delicate skin, there was now only the shadow of its wings on his white +face. But he remained divinely beautiful, his face lying in blood, +surrounded by his royal blond locks, like one of those little bloodless +dauphins who, unable to bear the execrable heritage of their race, die +of decrepitude and imbecility at sixteen. + +The boy exhaled his latest breath as Dr. Pascal entered the room, +followed by Félicité and Clotilde. And when he saw the quantity of +blood that inundated the floor, he cried: + +“Ah, my God! it is as I feared, a hemorrhage from the nose! The poor +darling, no one was with him, and it is all over!” + +But all three were struck with terror at the extraordinary spectacle +that now met their gaze. Aunt Dide, who seemed to have grown taller, in +the superhuman effort she was making, had almost succeeded in raising +herself up, and her eyes, fixed on the dead boy, so fair and so gentle, +and on the red sea of blood, beginning to congeal, that was lying +around him, kindled with a thought, after a long sleep of twenty-two +years. This final lesion of madness, this irremediable darkness of the +mind, was evidently not so complete but that some memory of the past, +lying hidden there, might awaken suddenly under the terrible blow which +had struck her. And the ancestress, the forgotten one, lived again, +emerged from her oblivion, rigid and wasted, like a specter of terror +and grief. + +For an instant she remained panting. Then with a shudder, which made +her teeth chatter, she stammered a single phrase: + +“The _gendarme_! the _gendarme_!” + +Pascal and Félicité and Clotilde understood. They looked at one another +involuntarily, turning very pale. The whole dreadful history of the old +mother—of the mother of them all—rose before them, the ardent love of +her youth, the long suffering of her mature age. Already two moral +shocks had shaken her terribly—the first, when she was in her ardent +prime, when a _gendarme_ shot down her lover Macquart, the smuggler, +like a dog; the second, years ago, when another _gendarme_ shattered +with a pistol shot the skull of her grandson Silvère, the insurgent, +the victim of the hatred and the sanguinary strife of the family. Blood +had always bespattered her. And a third moral shock finished her; blood +bespattered her again, the impoverished blood of her race, which she +had just beheld flowing slowly, and which lay upon the ground, while +the fair royal child, his veins and his heart empty, slept. + +Three times—face to face with her past life, her life red with passion +and suffering, haunted by the image of expiation—she stammered: + +“The _gendarme_! the _gendarme_! the _gendarme_!” + +Then she sank back into her armchair. They thought she was dead, killed +by the shock. + +But the keeper at this moment at last appeared, endeavoring to excuse +herself, fearing that she would be dismissed. When, aided by her, Dr. +Pascal had placed Aunt Dide on the bed, he found that the old mother +was still alive. She was not to die until the following day, at the age +of one hundred and five years, three months, and seven days, of +congestion of the brain, caused by the last shock she had received. + +Pascal, turning to his mother, said: + +“She will not live twenty-four hours; to-morrow she will be dead. Ah! +Uncle Macquart, then she, and this poor boy, one after another. How +much misery and grief!” + +He paused and added in a lower tone: + +“The family is thinning out; the old trees fall and the young die +standing.” + +Félicité must have thought this another allusion. She was sincerely +shocked by the tragic death of little Charles. But, notwithstanding, +above the horror which she felt there arose a sense of immense relief. +Next week, when they should have ceased to weep, what a rest to be able +to say to herself that all this abomination of the Tulettes was at an +end, that the family might at last rise, and shine in history! + +Then she remembered that she had not answered the involuntary +accusation made against her by her son at the notary’s; and she spoke +again of Macquart, through bravado: + +“You see now that servants are of no use. There was one here, and yet +she prevented nothing; it would have been useless for Uncle Macquart to +have had one to take care of him; he would be in ashes now, all the +same.” + +She sighed, and then continued in a broken voice: + +“Well, well, neither our own fate nor that of others is in our hands; +things happen as they will. These are great blows that have fallen upon +us. We must only trust to God for the preservation and the prosperity +of our family.” + +Dr. Pascal bowed with his habitual air of deference and said: + +“You are right, mother.” + +Clotilde knelt down. Her former fervent Catholic faith had revived in +this chamber of blood, of madness, and of death. Tears streamed down +her cheeks, and with clasped hands she was praying fervently for the +dear ones who were no more. She prayed that God would grant that their +sufferings might indeed be ended, their faults pardoned, and that they +might live again in another life, a life of unending happiness. And she +prayed with the utmost fervor, in her terror of a hell, which after +this miserable life would make suffering eternal. + +From this day Pascal and Clotilde went to visit their sick side by +side, filled with greater pity than ever. Perhaps, with Pascal, the +feeling of his powerlessness against inevitable disease was even +stronger than before. The only wisdom was to let nature take its +course, to eliminate dangerous elements, and to labor only in the +supreme work of giving health and strength. But the suffering and the +death of those who are dear to us awaken in us a hatred of disease, an +irresistible desire to combat and to vanquish it. And the doctor never +tasted so great a joy as when he succeeded, with his hypodermic +injections, in soothing a paroxysm of pain, in seeing the groaning +patient grow tranquil and fall asleep. Clotilde, in return, adored him, +proud of their love, as if it were a consolation which they carried, +like the viaticum, to the poor. + + + + +X. + + +Martine one morning obtained from Dr. Pascal, as she did every three +months, his receipt for fifteen hundred francs, to take it to the +notary Grandguillot, to get from him what she called their “income.” +The doctor seemed surprised that the payment should have fallen due +again so soon; he had never been so indifferent as he was now about +money matters, leaving to Martine the care of settling everything. And +he and Clotilde were under the plane trees, absorbed in the joy that +filled their life, lulled by the ceaseless song of the fountain, when +the servant returned with a frightened face, and in a state of +extraordinary agitation. She was so breathless with excitement that for +a moment she could not speak. + +“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” she cried at last. “M. Grandguillot has gone +away!” + +Pascal did not at first comprehend. + +“Well, my girl, there is no hurry,” he said; “you can go back another +day.” + +“No, no! He has gone away; don’t you hear? He has gone away forever—” + +And as the waters rush forth in the bursting of a dam, her emotion +vented itself in a torrent of words. + +“I reached the street, and I saw from a distance a crowd gathered +before the door. A chill ran through me; I felt that some misfortune +had happened. The door closed, and not a blind open, as if there was +somebody dead in the house. They told me when I got there that he had +run away; that he had not left a sou behind him; that many families +would be ruined.” + +She laid the receipt on the stone table. + +“There! There is your paper! It is all over with us, we have not a sou +left, we are going to die of starvation!” And she sobbed aloud in the +anguish of her miserly heart, distracted by this loss of a fortune, and +trembling at the prospect of impending want. + +Clotilde sat stunned and speechless, her eyes fixed on Pascal, whose +predominating feeling at first seemed to be one of incredulity. He +endeavored to calm Martine. Why! why! it would not do to give up in +this way. If all she knew of the affair was what she had heard from the +people in the street, it might be only gossip, after all, which always +exaggerates everything. M. Grandguillot a fugitive; M. Grandguillot a +thief; that was monstrous, impossible! A man of such probity, a house +liked and respected by all Plassans for more than a century past. Why +people thought money safer there than in the Bank of France. + +“Consider, Martine, this would not have come all of a sudden, like a +thunderclap; there would have been some rumors of it beforehand. The +deuce! an old reputation does not fall to pieces in that way, in a +night.” + +At this she made a gesture of despair. + +“Ah, monsieur, that is what most afflicts me, because, you see, it +throws some of the responsibility on me. For weeks past I have been +hearing stories on all sides. As for you two, naturally you hear +nothing; you don’t even know whether you are alive or dead.” + +Neither Pascal nor Clotilde could refrain from smiling; for it was +indeed true that their love lifted them so far above the earth that +none of the common sounds of existence reached them. + +“But the stories I heard were so ugly that I didn’t like to worry you +with them. I thought they were lies.” + +She was silent for a moment, and then added that while some people +merely accused M. Grandguillot of having speculated on the Bourse, +there were others who accused him of still worse practises. And she +burst into fresh sobs. + +“My God! My God! what is going to become of us? We are all going to die +of starvation!” + +Shaken, then, moved by seeing Clotilde’s eyes, too, filled with tears, +Pascal made an effort to remember, to see clearly into the past. Years +ago, when he had been practising in Plassans, he had deposited at +different times, with M. Grandguillot, the twenty thousand francs on +the interest of which he had lived comfortably for the past sixteen +years, and on each occasion the notary had given him a receipt for the +sum deposited. This would no doubt enable him to establish his position +as a personal creditor. Then a vague recollection awoke in his memory; +he remembered, without being able to fix the date, that at the request +of the notary, and in consequence of certain representations made by +him, which Pascal had forgotten, he had given the lawyer a power of +attorney for the purpose of investing the whole or a part of his money, +in mortgages, and he was even certain that in this power the name of +the attorney had been left in blank. But he was ignorant as to whether +this document had ever been used or not; he had never taken the trouble +to inquire how his money had been invested. A fresh pang of miserly +anguish made Martine cry out: + +“Ah, monsieur, you are well punished for your sin. Was that a way to +abandon one’s money? For my part, I know almost to a sou how my account +stands every quarter; I have every figure and every document at my +fingers’ ends.” + +In the midst of her distress an unconscious smile broke over her face, +lighting it all up. Her long cherished passion had been gratified; her +four hundred francs wages, saved almost intact, put out at interest for +thirty years, at last amounted to the enormous sum of twenty thousand +francs. And this treasure was put away in a safe place which no one +knew. She beamed with delight at the recollection, and she said no +more. + +“But who says that our money is lost?” cried Pascal. + +“M. Grandguillot had a private fortune; he has not taken away with him +his house and his lands, I suppose. They will look into the affair; +they will make an investigation. I cannot make up my mind to believe +him a common thief. The only trouble is the delay: a liquidation drags +on so long.” + +He spoke in this way in order to reassure Clotilde, whose growing +anxiety he observed. She looked at him, and she looked around her at La +Souleiade; her only care his happiness; her most ardent desire to live +here always, as she had lived in the past, to love him always in this +beloved solitude. And he, wishing to tranquilize her, recovered his +fine indifference; never having lived for money, he did not imagine +that one could suffer from the want of it. + +“But I have some money!” he cried, at last. “What does Martine mean by +saying that we have not a sou left, and that we are going to die of +starvation!” + +And he rose gaily, and made them both follow him saying: + +“Come, come, I am going to show you some money. And I will give some of +it to Martine that she may make us a good dinner this evening.” + +Upstairs in his room he triumphantly opened his desk before them. It +was in a drawer of this desk that for years past he had thrown the +money which his later patients had brought him of their own accord, for +he had never sent them an account. Nor had he ever known the exact +amount of his little treasure, of the gold and bank bills mingled +together in confusion, from which he took the sums he required for his +pocket money, his experiments, his presents, and his alms. During the +last few months he had made frequent visits to his desk, making deep +inroads into its contents. But he had been so accustomed to find there +the sums he required, after years of economy during which he had spent +scarcely anything, that he had come to believe his savings +inexhaustible. + +He gave a satisfied laugh, then, as he opened the drawer, crying: + +“Now you shall see! Now you shall see!” + +And he was confounded, when, after searching among the heap of notes +and bills, he succeeded in collecting only a sum of 615 francs—two +notes of 100 francs each, 400 francs in gold, and 15 francs in change. +He shook out the papers, he felt in every corner of the drawer, crying: + +“But it cannot be! There was always money here before, there was a heap +of money here a few days ago. It must have been all those old bills +that misled me. I assure you that last week I saw a great deal of +money. I had it in my hand.” + +He spoke with such amusing good faith, his childlike surprise was so +sincere, that Clotilde could not keep from smiling. Ah, the poor +master, what a wretched business man he was! Then, as she observed +Martine’s look of anguish, her utter despair at sight of this +insignificant sum, which was now all there was for the maintenance of +all three, she was seized with a feeling of despair; her eyes filled +with tears, and she murmured: + +“My God, it is for me that you have spent everything; if we have +nothing now, if we are ruined, it is I who am the cause of it!” + +Pascal had already forgotten the money he had taken for the presents. +Evidently that was where it had gone. The explanation tranquilized him. +And as she began to speak in her grief of returning everything to the +dealers, he grew angry. + +“Give back what I have given you! You would give a piece of my heart +with it, then! No, I would rather die of hunger, I tell you!” + +Then his confidence already restored, seeing a future of unlimited +possibilities opening out before him, he said: + +“Besides, we are not going to die of hunger to-night, are we, Martine? +There is enough here to keep us for a long time.” + +Martine shook her head. She would undertake to manage with it for two +months, for two and a half, perhaps, if people had sense, but not +longer. Formerly the drawer was replenished; there was always some +money coming in; but now that monsieur had given up his patients, they +had absolutely no income. They must not count on any help from outside, +then. And she ended by saying: + +“Give me the two one-hundred-franc bills. I’ll try and make them last +for a month. Then we shall see. But be very prudent; don’t touch the +four hundred francs in gold; lock the drawer and don’t open it again.” + +“Oh, as to that,” cried the doctor, “you may make your mind easy. I +would rather cut off my right hand.” + +And thus it was settled. Martine was to have entire control of this +last purse; and they might trust to her economy, they were sure that +she would save the centimes. As for Clotilde, who had never had a +private purse, she would not even feel the want of money. Pascal only +would suffer from no longer having his inexhaustible treasure to draw +upon, but he had given his promise to allow the servant to buy +everything. + +“There! That is a good piece of work!” he said, relieved, as happy as +if he had just settled some important affair which would assure them a +living for a long time to come. + +A week passed during which nothing seemed to have changed at La +Souleiade. In the midst of their tender raptures neither Pascal nor +Clotilde thought any more of the want which was impending. And one +morning during the absence of the latter, who had gone with Martine to +market, the doctor received a visit which filled him at first with a +sort of terror. It was from the woman who had sold him the beautiful +corsage of old point d’Alençon, his first present to Clotilde. He felt +himself so weak against a possible temptation that he trembled. Even +before the woman had uttered a word he had already begun to defend +himself—no, no, he neither could nor would buy anything. And with +outstretched hands he prevented her from taking anything out of her +little bag, declaring to himself that he would look at nothing. The +dealer, however, a fat, amiable woman, smiled, certain of victory. In +an insinuating voice she began to tell him a long story of how a lady, +whom she was not at liberty to name, one of the most distinguished +ladies in Plassans, who had suddenly met with a reverse of fortune, had +been obliged to part with one of her jewels; and she then enlarged on +the splendid chance—a piece of jewelry that had cost twelve hundred +francs, and she was willing to let it go for five hundred. She opened +her bag slowly, in spite of the terrified and ever-louder protestations +of the doctor, and took from it a slender gold necklace set simply with +seven pearls in front; but the pearls were of wonderful +brilliancy—flawless, and perfect in shape. The ornament was simple, +chaste, and of exquisite delicacy. And instantly he saw in fancy the +necklace on Clotilde’s beautiful neck, as its natural adornment. Any +other jewel would have been a useless ornament, these pearls would be +the fitting symbol of her youth. And he took the necklace in his +trembling fingers, experiencing a mortal anguish at the idea of +returning it. He defended himself still, however; he declared that he +had not five hundred francs, while the dealer continued, in her smooth +voice, to push the advantage she had gained. After another quarter an +hour, when she thought she had him secure, she suddenly offered him the +necklace for three hundred francs, and he yielded; his mania for +giving, his desire to please his idol, to adorn her, conquered. When he +went to the desk to take the fifteen gold pieces to count them out to +the dealer, he felt convinced that the notary’s affairs would be +arranged, and that they would soon have plenty of money. + +When Pascal found himself once more alone, with the ornament in his +pocket, he was seized with a childish delight, and he planned his +little surprise, while waiting, excited and impatient, for Clotilde’s +return. The moment she made her appearance his heart began to beat +violently. She was very warm, for an August sun was blazing in the sky, +and she laid aside her things quickly, pleased with her walk, telling +him, laughing, of the good bargain Martine had made—two pigeons for +eighteen sous. While she was speaking he pretended to notice something +on her neck. + +“Why, what have you on your neck? Let me see.” + +He had the necklace in his hand, and he succeeded in putting it around +her neck, while feigning to pass his fingers over it, to assure himself +that there was nothing there. But she resisted, saying gaily: + +“Don’t! There is nothing on my neck. Here, what are you doing? What +have you in your hand that is tickling me?” + +He caught hold of her, and drew her before the long mirror, in which +she had a full view of herself. On her neck the slender chain showed +like a thread of gold, and the seven pearls, like seven milky stars, +shone with soft luster against her satin skin. She looked charmingly +childlike. Suddenly she gave a delighted laugh, like the cooing of a +dove swelling out its throat proudly. + +“Oh, master, master, how good you are! Do you think of nothing but me, +then? How happy you make me!” + +And the joy which shone in her eyes, the joy of the woman and the +lover, happy to be beautiful and to be adored, recompensed him divinely +for his folly. + +She drew back her head, radiant, and held up her mouth to him. He bent +over and kissed her. + +“Are you happy?” + +“Oh, yes, master, happy, happy! Pearls are so sweet, so pure! And these +are so becoming to me!” + +For an instant longer she admired herself in the glass, innocently vain +of her fair flower-like skin, under the nacre drops of the pearls. +Then, yielding to a desire to show herself, hearing the servant moving +about outside, she ran out, crying: + +“Martine, Martine! See what master has just given me! Say, am I not +beautiful!” + +But all at once, seeing the old maid’s severe face, that had suddenly +turned an ashen hue, she became confused, and all her pleasure was +spoiled. Perhaps she had a consciousness of the jealous pang which her +brilliant youth caused this poor creature, worn out in the dumb +resignation of her servitude, in adoration of her master. This, +however, was only a momentary feeling, unconscious in the one, hardly +suspected by the other, and what remained was the evident +disapprobation of the economical servant, condemning the present with +her sidelong glance. + +Clotilde was seized with a little chill. + +“Only,” she murmured, “master has rummaged his desk again. Pearls are +very dear, are they not?” + +Pascal, embarrassed, too, protested volubly, telling them of the +splendid opportunity presented by the dealer’s visit. An incredibly +good stroke of business—it was impossible to avoid buying the necklace. + +“How much?” asked the young girl with real anxiety. + +“Three hundred francs.” + +Martine, who had not yet opened her lips, but who looked terrible in +her silence, could not restrain a cry. + +“Good God! enough to live upon for six weeks, and we have not bread!” + +Large tears welled from Clotilde’s eyes. She would have torn the +necklace from her neck if Pascal had not prevented her. She wished to +give it to him on the instant, and she faltered in heart-broken tones: + +“It is true, Martine is right. Master is mad, and I am mad, too, to +keep this for an instant, in the situation in which we are. It would +burn my flesh. Let me take it back, I beg of you.” + +Never would he consent to this, he said. Now his eyes, too, were moist, +he joined in their grief, crying that he was incorrigible, that they +ought to have taken all the money away from him. And running to the +desk he took the hundred francs that were left, and forced Martine to +take them, saying: + +“I tell you that I will not keep another sou. I should spend this, too. +Take it, Martine; you are the only one of us who has any sense. You +will make the money last, I am very certain, until our affairs are +settled. And you, dear, keep that; do not grieve me.” + +Nothing more was said about this incident. But Clotilde kept the +necklace, wearing it under her gown; and there was a sort of delightful +mystery in feeling on her neck, unknown to every one, this simple, +pretty ornament. Sometimes, when they were alone, she would smile at +Pascal and draw the pearls from her dress quickly, and show them to him +without a word; and as quickly she would replace them again on her warm +neck, filled with delightful emotion. It was their fond folly which she +thus recalled to him, with a confused gratitude, a vivid and radiant +joy—a joy which nevermore left her. + +A straitened existence, sweet in spite of everything, now began for +them. Martine made an exact inventory of the resources of the house, +and it was not reassuring. The provision of potatoes only promised to +be of any importance. As ill luck would have it, the jar of oil was +almost out, and the last cask of wine was also nearly empty. La +Souleiade, having neither vines nor olive trees, produced only a few +vegetables and some fruits—pears, not yet ripe, and trellis grapes, +which were to be their only delicacies. And meat and bread had to be +bought every day. So that from the first day the servant put Pascal and +Clotilde on rations, suppressing the former sweets, creams, and pastry, +and reducing the food to the quantity barely necessary to sustain life. +She resumed all her former authority, treating them like children who +were not to be consulted, even with regard to their wishes or their +tastes. It was she who arranged the menus, who knew better than +themselves what they wanted; but all this like a mother, surrounding +them with unceasing care, performing the miracle of enabling them to +live still with comfort on their scanty resources; occasionally severe +with them, for their own good, as one is severe with a child when it +refuses to eat its food. And it seemed as if this maternal care, this +last immolation, the illusory peace with which she surrounded their +love, gave her, too, a little happiness, and drew her out of the dumb +despair into which she had fallen. Since she had thus watched over them +she had begun to look like her old self, with her little white face, +the face of a nun vowed to chastity; her calm ash-colored eyes, which +expressed the resignation of her thirty years of servitude. When, after +the eternal potatoes and the little cutlet at four sous, +undistinguishable among the vegetables, she was able, on certain days, +without compromising her budget, to give them pancakes, she was +triumphant, she laughed to see them laugh. + +Pascal and Clotilde thought everything she did was right, which did not +prevent them, however, from jesting about her when she was not present. +The old jests about her avarice were repeated over and over again. They +said that she counted the grains of pepper, so many grains for each +dish, in her passion for economy. When the potatoes had too little oil, +when the cutlets were reduced to a mouthful, they would exchange a +quick glance, stifling their laughter in their napkins, until she had +left the room. Everything was a source of amusement to them, and they +laughed innocently at their misery. + +At the end of the first month Pascal thought of Martine’s wages. +Usually she took her forty francs herself from the common purse which +she kept. + +“My poor girl,” he said to her one evening, “what are you going to do +for your wages, now that we have no more money?” + +She remained for a moment with her eyes fixed on the ground, with an +air of consternation, then she said: + +“Well, monsieur, I must only wait.” + +But he saw that she had not said all that was in her mind, that she had +thought of some arrangement which she did not know how to propose to +him, so he encouraged her. + +“Well, then, if monsieur would consent to it, I should like monsieur to +sign me a paper.” + +“How, a paper?” + +“Yes, a paper, in which monsieur should say, every month, that he owes +me forty francs.” + +Pascal at once made out the paper for her, and this made her quite +happy. She put it away as carefully as if it had been real money. This +evidently tranquilized her. But the paper became a new subject of +wondering amusement to the doctor and his companion. In what did the +extraordinary power consist which money has on certain natures? This +old maid, who would serve him on bended knees, who adored him above +everything, to the extent of having devoted to him her whole life, to +ask for this silly guarantee, this scrap of paper which was of no +value, if he should be unable to pay her. + +So far neither Pascal nor Clotilde had any great merit in preserving +their serenity in misfortune, for they did not feel it. They lived high +above it, in the rich and happy realm of their love. At table they did +not know what they were eating; they might fancy they were partaking of +a princely banquet, served on silver dishes. They were unconscious of +the increasing destitution around them, of the hunger of the servant +who lived upon the crumbs from their table; and they walked through the +empty house as through a palace hung with silk and filled with riches. +This was undoubtedly the happiest period of their love. The workroom +had pleasant memories of the past, and they spent whole days there, +wrapped luxuriously in the joy of having lived so long in it together. +Then, out of doors, in every corner of La Souleiade, royal summer had +set up his blue tent, dazzling with gold. In the morning, in the +embalsamed walks on the pine grove; at noon under the dark shadow of +the plane trees, lulled by the murmur of the fountain; in the evening +on the cool terrace, or in the still warm threshing yard bathed in the +faint blue radiance of the first stars, they lived with rapture their +straitened life, their only ambition to live always together, +indifferent to all else. The earth was theirs, with all its riches, its +pomps, and its dominions, since they loved each other. + +Toward the end of August however, matters grew bad again. At times they +had rude awakenings, in the midst of this life without ties, without +duties, without work; this life which was so sweet, but which it would +be impossible, hurtful, they knew, to lead always. One evening Martine +told them that she had only fifty francs left, and that they would have +difficulty in managing for two weeks longer, even giving up wine. In +addition to this the news was very serious; the notary Grandguillot was +beyond a doubt insolvent, so that not even the personal creditors would +receive anything. In the beginning they had relied on the house and the +two farms which the fugitive notary had left perforce behind him, but +it was now certain that this property was in his wife’s name and, while +he was enjoying in Switzerland, as it was said, the beauty of the +mountains, she lived on one of the farms, which she cultivated quietly, +away from the annoyances of the liquidation. In short, it was +infamous—a hundred families ruined; left without bread. An assignee had +indeed been appointed, but he had served only to confirm the disaster, +since not a centime of assets had been discovered. And Pascal, with his +usual indifference, neglected even to go and see him to speak to him +about his own case, thinking that he already knew all that there was to +be known about it, and that it was useless to stir up this ugly +business, since there was neither honor nor profit to be derived from +it. + +Then, indeed, the future looked threatening at La Souleiade. Black want +stared them in the face. And Clotilde, who, in reality, had a great +deal of good sense, was the first to take alarm. She maintained her +cheerfulness while Pascal was present, but, more prescient than he, in +her womanly tenderness, she fell into a state of absolute terror if he +left her for an instant, asking herself what was to become of him at +his age with so heavy a burden upon his shoulders. For several days she +cherished in secret a project—to work and earn money, a great deal of +money, with her pastels. People had so often praised her extraordinary +and original talent that, taking Martine into her confidence, she sent +her one fine morning to offer some of her fantastic bouquets to the +color dealer of the Cours Sauvaire, who was a relation, it was said, of +a Parisian artist. It was with the express condition that nothing was +to be exhibited in Plassans, that everything was to be sent to a +distance. But the result was disastrous; the merchant was frightened by +the strangeness of the design, and by the fantastic boldness of the +execution, and he declared that they would never sell. This threw her +into despair; great tears welled her eyes. Of what use was she? It was +a grief and a humiliation to be good for nothing. And the servant was +obliged to console her, saying that no doubt all women were not born +for work; that some grew like the flowers in the gardens, for the sake +of their fragrance; while others were the wheat of the fields that is +ground up and used for food. + +Martine, meantime, cherished another project; it was to urge the doctor +to resume his practise. At last she mentioned it to Clotilde, who at +once pointed out to her the difficulty, the impossibility almost, of +such an attempt. She and Pascal had been talking about his doing so +only the day before. He, too, was anxious, and had thought of work as +the only chance of salvation. The idea of opening an office again was +naturally the first that had presented itself to him. But he had been +for so long a time the physician of the poor! How could he venture now +to ask payment when it was so many years since he had left off doing +so? Besides, was it not too late, at his age, to recommence a career? +not to speak of the absurd rumors that had been circulating about him, +the name which they had given him of a crack-brained genius. He would +not find a single patient now, it would be a useless cruelty to force +him to make an attempt which would assuredly result only in a lacerated +heart and empty hands. Clotilde, on the contrary, had used all her +influence to turn him from the idea. Martine comprehended the +reasonableness of these objections, and she too declared that he must +be prevented from running the risk of so great a chagrin. But while she +was speaking a new idea occurred to her, as she suddenly remembered an +old register, which she had met with in a press, and in which she had +in former times entered the doctor’s visits. For a long time it was she +who had kept the accounts. There were so many patients who had never +paid that a list of them filled three of the large pages of the +register. Why, then, now that they had fallen into misfortune, should +they not ask from these people the money which they justly owed? It +might be done without saying anything to monsieur, who had never been +willing to appeal to the law. And this time Clotilde approved of her +idea. It was a perfect conspiracy. Clotilde consulted the register, and +made out the bills, and the servant presented them. But nowhere did she +receive a sou; they told her at every door that they would look over +the account; that they would stop in and see the doctor himself. Ten +days passed, no one came, and there were now only six francs in the +house, barely enough to live upon for two or three days longer. + +Martine, when she returned with empty hands on the following day from a +new application to an old patient, took Clotilde aside and told her +that she had just been talking with Mme. Félicité at the corner of the +Rue de la Banne. The latter had undoubtedly been watching for her. She +had not again set foot in La Souleiade. Not even the misfortune which +had befallen her son—the sudden loss of his money, of which the whole +town was talking—had brought her to him; she still continued stern and +indignant. But she waited in trembling excitement, she maintained her +attitude as an offended mother only in the certainty that she would at +last have Pascal at her feet, shrewdly calculating that he would sooner +or later be compelled to appeal to her for assistance. When he had not +a sou left, when he knocked at her door, then she would dictate her +terms; he should marry Clotilde, or, better still, she would demand the +departure of the latter. But the days passed, and he did not come. And +this was why she had stopped Martine, assuming a pitying air, asking +what news there was, and seeming to be surprised that they had not had +recourse to her purse, while giving it to be understood that her +dignity forbade her to take the first step. + +“You should speak to monsieur, and persuade him,” ended the servant. +And indeed, why should he not appeal to his mother? That would be +entirely natural. + +“Oh! never would I undertake such a commission,” cried Clotilde. +“Master would be angry, and with reason. I truly believe he would die +of starvation before he would eat grandmother’s bread.” + +But on the evening of the second day after this, at dinner, as Martine +was putting on the table a piece of boiled beef left over from the day +before, she gave them notice. + +“I have no more money, monsieur, and to-morrow there will be only +potatoes, without oil or butter. It is three weeks now that you have +had only water to drink; now you will have to do without meat.” + +They were still cheerful, they could still jest. + +“Have you salt, my good girl?” + +“Oh, that; yes, monsieur, there is still a little left.” + +“Well, potatoes and salt are very good when one is hungry.” + +That night, however, Pascal noticed that Clotilde was feverish; this +was the hour in which they exchanged confidences, and she ventured to +tell him of her anxiety on his account, on her own, on that of the +whole house. What was going to become of them when all their resources +should be exhausted? For a moment she thought of speaking to him of his +mother. But she was afraid, and she contented herself with confessing +to him what she and Martine had done—the old register examined, the +bills made out and sent, the money asked everywhere in vain. In other +circumstances he would have been greatly annoyed and very angry at this +confession; offended that they should have acted without his knowledge, +and contrary to the attitude he had maintained during his whole +professional life. He remained for a long tine silent, strongly +agitated, and this would have sufficed to prove how great must be his +secret anguish at times, under his apparent indifference to poverty. +Then he forgave Clotilde, clasping her wildly to his breast, and +finally he said that she had done right, that they could not continue +to live much longer as they were living, in a destitution which +increased every day. Then they fell into silence, each trying to think +of a means of procuring the money necessary for their daily wants, each +suffering keenly; she, desperate at the thought of the tortures that +awaited him; he unable to accustom himself to the idea of seeing her +wanting bread. Was their happiness forever ended, then? Was poverty +going to blight their spring with its chill breath? + +At breakfast, on the following day, they ate only fruit. The doctor was +very silent during the morning, a prey to a visible struggle. And it +was not until three o’clock that he took a resolution. + +“Come, we must stir ourselves,” he said to his companion. “I do not +wish you to fast this evening again; so put on your hat, we will go out +together.” + +She looked at him, waiting for an explanation. + +“Yes, since they owe us money, and have refused to give it to you, I +will see whether they will also refuse to give it to me.” + +His hands trembled; the thought of demanding payment in this way, after +so many years, evidently made him suffer terribly; but he forced a +smile, he affected to be very brave. And she, who knew from the +trembling of his voice the extent of his sacrifice, had tears in her +eyes. + +“No, no, master; don’t go if it makes you suffer so much. Martine can +go again.” + +But the servant, who was present, approved highly of monsieur’s +intention. + +“And why should not monsieur go? There’s no shame in asking what is +owed to one, is there? Every one should have his own; for my part, I +think it quite right that monsieur should show at last that he is a +man.” + +Then, as before, in their hours of happiness, old King David, as Pascal +jestingly called himself, left the house, leaning on Abishag’s arm. +Neither of them was yet in rags; he still wore his tightly buttoned +overcoat; she had on her pretty linen gown with red spots, but +doubtless the consciousness of their poverty lowered them in their own +estimation, making them feel that they were now only two poor people +who occupied a very insignificant place in the world, for they walked +along by the houses, shunning observation. The sunny streets were +almost deserted. A few curious glances embarrassed them. They did not +hasten their steps, however; only their hearts were oppressed at the +thought of the visits they were about to make. + +Pascal resolved to begin with an old magistrate whom he had treated for +an affection of the liver. He entered the house, leaving Clotilde +sitting on the bench in the Cours Sauvaire. But he was greatly relieved +when the magistrate, anticipating his demand, told him that he did not +receive his rents until October, and that he would pay him then. At the +house of an old lady of seventy, a paralytic, the rebuff was of a +different kind. She was offended because her account had been sent to +her through a servant who had been impolite; so that he hastened to +offer her his excuses, giving her all the time she desired. Then he +climbed up three flights of stairs to the apartment of a clerk in the +tax collector’s office, whom he found still ill, and so poor that he +did not even venture to make his demand. Then followed a mercer, a +lawyer’s wife, an oil merchant, a baker—all well-to-do people; and all +turned him away, some with excuses, others by denying him admittance; a +few even pretended not to know what he meant. There remained the +Marquise de Valqueyras, the sole representative of a very ancient +family, a widow with a girl of ten, who was very rich, and whose +avarice was notorious. He had left her for the last, for he was greatly +afraid of her. Finally he knocked at the door of her ancient mansion, +at the foot of the Cours Sauvaire, a massive structure of the time of +Mazarin. He remained so long in the house that Clotilde, who was +walking under the trees, at last became uneasy. + +When he finally made his appearance, at the end of a full half hour, +she said jestingly, greatly relieved: + +“Why, what was the matter? Had she no money?” + +But here, too, he had been unsuccessful; she complained that her +tenants did not pay her. + +“Imagine,” he continued, in explanation of his long absence, “the +little girl is ill. I am afraid that it is the beginning of a gastric +fever. So she wished me to see the child, and I examined her.” + +A smile which she could not suppress came to Clotilde’s lips. + +“And you prescribed for her?” + +“Of course; could I do otherwise?” + +She took his arm again, deeply affected, and he felt her press it +against her heart. For a time they walked on aimlessly. It was all +over; they had knocked at every debtor’s door, and nothing now remained +for them to do but to return home with empty hands. But this Pascal +refused to do, determined that Clotilde should have something more than +the potatoes and water which awaited them. When they ascended the Cours +Sauvaire, they turned to the left, to the new town; drifting now +whither cruel fate led them. + +“Listen,” said Pascal at last; “I have an idea. If I were to speak to +Ramond he would willingly lend us a thousand francs, which we could +return to him when our affairs are arranged.” + +She did not answer at once. Ramond, whom she had rejected, who was now +married and settled in a house in the new town, in a fair way to become +the fashionable physician of the place, and to make a fortune! She +knew, indeed, that he had a magnanimous soul and a kind heart. If he +had not visited them again it had been undoubtedly through delicacy. +Whenever they chanced to meet, he saluted them with so admiring an air, +he seemed so pleased to see their happiness. + +“Would that be disagreeable to you?” asked Pascal ingenuously. For his +part, he would have thrown open to the young physician his house, his +purse, and his heart. + +“No, no,” she answered quickly. “There has never been anything between +us but affection and frankness. I think I gave him a great deal of +pain, but he has forgiven me. You are right; we have no other friend. +It is to Ramond that we must apply.” + +Ill luck pursued them, however. Ramond was absent from home, attending +a consultation at Marseilles, and he would not be back until the +following evening. And it young Mme. Ramond, an old friend of +Clotilde’s, some three years her junior, who received them. She seemed +a little embarrassed, but she was very amiable, notwithstanding. But +the doctor, naturally, did not prefer his request, and contented +himself with saying, in explanation of his visit, that he had missed +Ramond. When they were in the street again, Pascal and Clotilde felt +themselves once more abandoned and alone. Where now should they turn? +What new effort should they make? And they walked on again aimlessly. + +“I did not tell you, master,” Clotilde at last ventured to murmur, “but +it seems that Martine met grandmother the other day. Yes, grandmother +has been uneasy about us. She asked Martine why we did not go to her, +if we were in want. And see, here is her house.” + +They were in fact, in the Rue de la Banne. They could see the corner of +the Place de la Sous-Préfecture. But he at once silenced her. + +“Never, do you hear! Nor shall you go either. You say that because it +grieves you to see me in this poverty. My heart, too, is heavy, to +think that you also are in want, that you also suffer. But it is better +to suffer than to do a thing that would leave one an eternal remorse. I +will not. I cannot.” + +They emerged from the Rue de la Banne, and entered the old quarter. + +“I would a thousand times rather apply to a stranger. Perhaps we still +have friends, even if they are only among the poor.” + +And resolved to beg, David continued his walk, leaning on the arm of +Abishag; the old mendicant king went from door to door, leaning on the +shoulder of the loving subject whose youth was now his only support. It +was almost six o’clock; the heat had abated; the narrow streets were +filling with people; and in this populous quarter where they were +loved, they were everywhere greeted with smiles. Something of pity was +mingled with the admiration they awakened, for every one knew of their +ruin. But they seemed of a nobler beauty than before, he all white, she +all blond, pressing close to each other in their misfortune. They +seemed more united, more one with each other than ever; holding their +heads erect, proud of their glorious love, though touched by +misfortune; he shaken, while she, with a courageous heart, sustained +him. And in spite of the poverty that had so suddenly overtaken them +they walked without shame, very poor and very great, with the sorrowful +smile under which they concealed the desolation of their souls. Workmen +in dirty blouses passed them by, who had more money in their pockets +than they. No one ventured to offer them the sou which is not refused +to those who are hungry. At the Rue Canoquin they stopped at the house +of Gulraude. She had died the week before. Two other attempts which +they made failed. They were reduced now to consider where they could +borrow ten francs. They had been walking about the town for three +hours, but they could not resolve to go home empty-handed. + +Ah, this Plassans, with its Cours Sauvaire, its Rue de Rome, and its +Rue de la Banne, dividing it into three quarters; this Plassans; with +its windows always closed, this sun-baked town, dead in appearance, but +which concealed under this sleeping surface a whole nocturnal life of +the clubhouse and the gaming table. They walked through it three times +more with slackened pace, on this clear, calm close of a glowing August +day. In the yard of the coach office a few old stage-coaches, which +still plied between the town and the mountain villages, were standing +unharnessed; and under the thick shade of the plane trees at the doors +of the cafes, the customers, who were to be seen from seven o’clock in +the morning, looked after them smiling. In the new town, too, the +servants came and stood at the doors of the wealthy houses; they met +with less sympathy here than in the deserted streets of the Quartier +St. Marc, whose antique houses maintained a friendly silence. They +returned to the heart of the old quarter where they were most liked; +they went as far as St. Saturnin, the cathedral, whose apse was shaded +by the garden of the chapter, a sweet and peaceful solitude, from which +a beggar drove them by himself asking an alms from them. They were +building rapidly in the neighborhood of the railway station; a new +quarter was growing up there, and they bent their steps in that +direction. Then they returned a last time to the Place de la +Sous-Préfecture, with a sudden reawakening of hope, thinking that they +might meet some one who would offer them money. But they were followed +only by the indulgent smile of the town, at seeing them so united and +so beautiful. Only one woman had tears in her eyes, foreseeing, +perhaps, the sufferings that awaited them. The stones of the Viorne, +the little sharp paving stones, wounded their feet. And they had at +last to return to La Souleiade, without having succeeded in obtaining +anything, the old mendicant king and his submissive subject; Abishag, +in the flower of her youth, leading back David, old and despoiled of +his wealth, and weary from having walked the streets in vain. + +It was eight o’clock, and Martine, who was waiting for them, +comprehended that she would have no cooking to do this evening. She +pretended that she had dined, and as she looked ill Pascal sent her at +once to bed. + +“We do not need you,” said Clotilde. “As the potatoes are on the fire +we can take them up very well ourselves.” + +The servant, who was feverish and out of humor, yielded. She muttered +some indistinct words—when people had eaten up everything what was the +use of sitting down to table? Then, before shutting herself into her +room, she added: + +“Monsieur, there is no more hay for Bonhomme. I thought he was looking +badly a little while ago; monsieur ought to go and see him.” + +Pascal and Clotilde, filled with uneasiness, went to the stable. The +old horse was, in fact, lying on the straw in the somnolence of +expiring old age. They had not taken him out for six months past, for +his legs, stiff with rheumatism, refused to support him, and he had +become completely blind. No one could understand why the doctor kept +the old beast. Even Martine had at last said that he ought to be +slaughtered, if only through pity. But Pascal and Clotilde cried out at +this, as much excited as if it had been proposed to them to put an end +to some aged relative who was not dying fast enough. No, no, he had +served them for more than a quarter of a century; he should die +comfortably with them, like the worthy fellow he had always been. And +to-night the doctor did not scorn to examine him, as if he had never +attended any other patients than animals. He lifted up his hoofs, +looked at his gums, and listened to the beating of his heart. + +“No, there is nothing the matter with him,” he said at last. “It is +simply old age. Ah, my poor old fellow, I think, indeed, we shall never +again travel the roads together.” + +The idea that there was no more hay distressed Clotilde. But Pascal +reassured her—an animal of that age, that no longer moved about, needed +so little. She stooped down and took a few handfuls of grass from a +heap which the servant had left there, and both were rejoiced when +Bonhomme deigned, solely and simply through friendship, as it seemed, +to eat the grass out of her hand. + +“Oh,” she said, laughing, “so you still have an appetite! You cannot be +very sick, then; you must not try to work upon our feelings. Good +night, and sleep well.” + +And they left him to his slumbers after having each given him, as +usual, a hearty kiss on either side of his nose. + +Night fell, and an idea occurred to them, in order not to remain +downstairs in the empty house—to close up everything and eat their +dinner upstairs. Clotilde quickly took up the dish of potatoes, the +salt-cellar, and a fine decanter of water; while Pascal took charge of +a basket of grapes, the first which they had yet gathered from an early +vine at the foot of the terrace. They closed the door, and laid the +cloth on a little table, putting the potatoes in the middle between the +salt-cellar and the decanter, and the basket of grapes on a chair +beside them. And it was a wonderful feast, which reminded them of the +delicious breakfast they had made on the morning on which Martine had +obstinately shut herself up in her room, and refused to answer them. +They experienced the same delight as then at being alone, at waiting +upon themselves, at eating from the same plate, sitting close beside +each other. This evening, which they had anticipated with so much +dread, had in store for them the most delightful hours of their +existence. As soon as they found themselves at home in the large +friendly room, as far removed from the town which they had just been +scouring as if they had been a hundred leagues away from it, all +uneasiness and all sadness vanished—even to the recollection of the +wretched afternoon wasted in useless wanderings. They were once more +indifferent to all that was not their affection; they no longer +remembered that they had lost their fortune; that they might have to +hunt up a friend on the morrow in order to be able to dine in the +evening. Why torture themselves with fears of coming want, when all +they required to enjoy the greatest possible happiness was to be +together? + +But Pascal felt a sudden terror. + +“My God! and we dreaded this evening so greatly! Is it wise to be happy +in this way? Who knows what to-morrow may have in store for us?” + +But she put her little hand over his mouth; she desired that he should +have one more evening of perfect happiness. + +“No, no; to-morrow we shall love each other as we love each other +to-day. Love me with all your strength, as I love you.” + +And never had they eaten with more relish. She displayed the appetite +of a healthy young girl with a good digestion; she ate the potatoes +with a hearty appetite, laughing, thinking them delicious, better than +the most vaunted delicacies. He, too, recovered the appetite of his +youthful days. They drank with delight deep draughts of pure water. +Then the grapes for dessert filled them with admiration; these grapes +so fresh, this blood of the earth which the sun had touched with gold. +They ate to excess; they became drunk on water and fruit, and more than +all on gaiety. They did not remember ever before to have enjoyed such a +feast together; even the famous breakfast they had made, with its +luxuries of cutlets and bread and wine, had not given them this +intoxication, this joy in living, when to be together was happiness +enough, changing the china to dishes of gold, and the miserable food to +celestial fare such as not even the gods enjoyed. + +It was now quite dark, but they did not light the lamp. Through the +wide open windows they could see the vast summer sky. The night breeze +entered, still warm and laden with a faint odor of lavender. The moon +had just risen above the horizon, large and round, flooding the room +with a silvery light, in which they saw each other as in a dream light +infinitely bright and sweet. + + + + +XI. + + +But on the following day their disquietude all returned. They were now +obliged to go in debt. Martine obtained on credit bread, wine, and a +little meat, much to her shame, be it said, forced as she was to +maneuver and tell lies, for no one was ignorant of the ruin that had +overtaken the house. The doctor had indeed thought of mortgaging La +Souleiade, but only as a last resource. All he now possessed was this +property, which was worth twenty thousand francs, but for which he +would perhaps not get fifteen thousand, if he should sell it; and when +these should be spent black want would be before them, the street, +without even a stone of their own on which to lay their heads. Clotilde +therefore begged Pascal to wait and not to take any irrevocable step so +long as things were not utterly desperate. + +Three or four days passed. It was the beginning of September, and the +weather unfortunately changed; terrible storms ravaged the entire +country; a part of the garden wall was blown down, and as Pascal was +unable to rebuild it, the yawning breach remained. Already they were +beginning to be rude at the baker’s. And one morning the old servant +came home with the meat from the butcher’s in tears, saying that he had +given her the refuse. A few days more and they would be unable to +obtain anything on credit. It had become absolutely necessary to +consider how they should find the money for their small daily expenses. + +One Monday morning, the beginning of another week of torture, Clotilde +was very restless. A struggle seemed to be going on within her, and it +was only when she saw Pascal refuse at breakfast his share of a piece +of beef which had been left over from the day before that she at last +came to a decision. Then with a calm and resolute air, she went out +after breakfast with Martine, after quietly putting into the basket of +the latter a little package—some articles of dress which she was giving +her, she said. + +When she returned two hours later she was very pale. But her large +eyes, so clear and frank, were shining. She went up to the doctor at +once and made her confession. + +“I must ask your forgiveness, master, for I have just been disobeying +you, and I know that I am going to pain you greatly.” + +“Why, what have you been doing?” he asked uneasily, not understanding +what she meant. + +Slowly, without removing her eyes from him, she drew from her pocket an +envelope, from which she took some bank-notes. A sudden intuition +enlightened him, and he cried: + +“Ah, my God! the jewels, the presents I gave you!” + +And he, who was usually so good-tempered and gentle, was convulsed with +grief and anger. He seized her hands in his, crushing with almost +brutal force the fingers which held the notes. + +“My God! what have you done, unhappy girl? It is my heart that you have +sold, both our hearts, that had entered into those jewels, which you +have given with them for money! The jewels which I gave you, the +souvenirs of our divinest hours, your property, yours only, how can you +wish me to take them back, to turn them to my profit? Can it be +possible—have you thought of the anguish that this would give me?” + +“And you, master,” she answered gently, “do you think that I could +consent to our remaining in the unhappy situation in which we are, in +want of everything, while I had these rings and necklaces and earrings +laid away in the bottom of a drawer? Why, my whole being would rise in +protest. I should think myself a miser, a selfish wretch, if I had kept +them any longer. And, although it was a grief for me to part with +them—ah, yes, I confess it, so great a grief that I could hardly find +the courage to do it—I am certain that I have only done what I ought to +have done as an obedient and loving woman.” + +And as he still grasped her hands, tears came to her eyes, and she +added in the same gentle voice and with a faint smile: + +“Don’t press so hard; you hurt me.” + +Then repentant and deeply moved, Pascal, too, wept. + +“I am a brute to get angry in this way. You acted rightly; you could +not do otherwise. But forgive me; it was hard for me to see you despoil +yourself. Give me your hands, your poor hands, and let me kiss away the +marks of my stupid violence.” + +He took her hands again in his tenderly; he covered them with kisses; +he thought them inestimably precious, so delicate and bare, thus +stripped of their rings. Consoled now, and joyous, she told him of her +escapade—how she had taken Martine into her confidence, and how both +had gone to the dealer who had sold him the corsage of point d’Alençon, +and how after interminable examining and bargaining the woman had given +six thousand francs for all the jewels. Again he repressed a gesture of +despair—six thousand francs! when the jewels had cost him more than +three times that amount—twenty thousand francs at the very least. + +“Listen,” he said to her at last; “I will take this money, since, in +the goodness of your heart, you have brought it to me. But it is +clearly understood that it is yours. I swear to you that I will, for +the future, be more miserly than Martine herself. I will give her only +the few sous that are absolutely necessary for our maintenance, and you +will find in the desk all that may be left of this sum, if I should +never be able to complete it and give it back to you entire.” + +He clasped her in an embrace that still trembled with emotion. +Presently, lowering his voice to a whisper, he said: + +“And did you sell everything, absolutely everything?” + +Without speaking, she disengaged herself a little from his embrace, and +put her fingers to her throat, with her pretty gesture, smiling and +blushing. Finally, she drew out the slender chain on which shone the +seven pearls, like milky stars. Then she put it back again out of +sight. + +He, too, blushed, and a great joy filled his heart. He embraced her +passionately. + +“Ah!” he cried, “how good you are, and how I love you!” + +But from this time forth the recollection of the jewels which had been +sold rested like a weight upon his heart; and he could not look at the +money in his desk without pain. He was haunted by the thought of +approaching want, inevitable want, and by a still more bitter +thought—the thought of his age, of his sixty years which rendered him +useless, incapable of earning a comfortable living for a wife; he had +been suddenly and rudely awakened from his illusory dream of eternal +love to the disquieting reality. He had fallen unexpectedly into +poverty, and he felt himself very old—this terrified him and filled him +with a sort of remorse, of desperate rage against himself, as if he had +been guilty of a crime. And this embittered his every hour; if through +momentary forgetfulness he permitted himself to indulge in a little +gaiety his distress soon returned with greater poignancy than ever, +bringing with it a sudden and inexplicable sadness. He did not dare to +question himself, and his dissatisfaction with himself and his +suffering increased every day. + +Then a frightful revelation came to him. One morning, when he was +alone, he received a letter bearing the Plassans postmark, the +superscription on which he examined with surprise, not recognizing the +writing. This letter was not signed; and after reading a few lines he +made an angry movement as if to tear it up and throw it away; but he +sat down trembling instead, and read it to the end. The style was +perfectly courteous; the long phrases rolled on, measured and carefully +worded, like diplomatic phrases, whose only aim is to convince. It was +demonstrated to him with a superabundance of arguments that the scandal +of La Souleiade had lasted too long already. If passion, up to a +certain point, explained the fault, yet a man of his age and in his +situation was rendering himself contemptible by persisting in wrecking +the happiness of the young relative whose trustfulness he abused. No +one was ignorant of the ascendency which he had acquired over her; it +was admitted that she gloried in sacrificing herself for him; but ought +he not, on his side, to comprehend that it was impossible that she +should love an old man, that what she felt was merely pity and +gratitude, and that it was high time to deliver her from this senile +love, which would finally leave her with a dishonored name! Since he +could not even assure her a small fortune, the writer hoped he would +act like an honorable man, and have the strength to separate from her, +through consideration for her happiness, if it were not yet too late. +And the letter concluded with the reflection that evil conduct was +always punished in the end. + +From the first sentence Pascal felt that this anonymous letter came +from his mother. Old Mme. Rougon must have dictated it; he could hear +in it the very inflections of her voice. But after having begun the +letter angry and indignant, he finished it pale and trembling, seized +by the shiver which now passed through him continually and without +apparent cause. The letter was right, it enlightened him cruelly +regarding the source of his mental distress, showing him that it was +remorse for keeping Clotilde with him, old and poor as he was. He got +up and walked over to a mirror, before which he stood for a long time, +his eyes gradually filling with tears of despair at sight of his +wrinkles and his white beard. The feeling of terror which arose within +him, the mortal chill which invaded his heart, was caused by the +thought that separation had become necessary, inevitable. He repelled +the thought, he felt that he would never have the strength for a +separation, but it still returned; he would never now pass a single day +without being assailed by it, without being torn by the struggle +between his love and his reason until the terrible day when he should +become resigned, his strength and his tears exhausted. In his present +weakness, he trembled merely at the thought of one day having this +courage. And all was indeed over, the irrevocable had begun; he was +filled with fear for Clotilde, so young and so beautiful, and all there +was left him now was the duty of saving her from himself. + +Then, haunted by every word, by every phrase of the letter, he tortured +himself at first by trying to persuade himself that she did not love +him, that all she felt for him was pity and gratitude. It would make +the rupture more easy to him, he thought, if he were once convinced +that she sacrificed herself, and that in keeping her with him longer he +was only gratifying his monstrous selfishness. But it was in vain that +he studied her, that he subjected her to proofs, she remained as tender +and devoted as ever, making the dreaded decision still more difficult. +Then he pondered over all the causes that vaguely, but ceaselessly +urged their separation. The life which they had been leading for months +past, this life without ties or duties, without work of any sort, was +not good. He thought no longer of himself, he considered himself good +for nothing now but to go away and bury himself out of sight in some +remote corner; but for her was it not an injurious life, a life which +would deteriorate her character and weaken her will? And suddenly he +saw himself in fancy dying, leaving her alone to perish of hunger in +the streets. No, no! this would be a crime; he could not, for the sake +of the happiness of his few remaining days, bequeath to her this +heritage of shame and misery. + +One morning Clotilde went for a walk in the neighborhood, from which +she returned greatly agitated, pale and trembling, and as soon as she +was upstairs in the workroom, she almost fainted in Pascal’s arms, +faltering: + +“Oh, my God! oh, my God! those women!” + +Terrified, he pressed her with questions. + +“Come, tell me! What has happened?” + +A flush mounted to her face. She flung her arms around his neck and hid +her head on his shoulder. + +“It was those women! Reaching a shady spot, I was closing my parasol, +and I had the misfortune to throw down a child. And they all rose +against me, crying out such things, oh, such things—things that I +cannot repeat, that I could not understand!” + +She burst into sobs. He was livid; he could find nothing to say to her; +he kissed her wildly, weeping like herself. He pictured to himself the +whole scene; he saw her pursued, hooted at, reviled. Presently he +faltered: + +“It is my fault, it is through me you suffer. Listen, we will go away +from here, far, far away, where we shall not be known, where you will +be honored, where you will be happy.” + +But seeing him weep, she recovered her calmness by a violent effort. +And drying her tears, she said: + +“Ah! I have behaved like a coward in telling you all this. After +promising myself that I would say nothing of it to you. But when I +found myself at home again, my anguish was so great that it all came +out. But you see now it is all over, don’t grieve about it. I love +you.” + +She smiled, and putting her arms about him she kissed him in her turn, +trying to soothe his despair. + +“I love you. I love you so dearly that it will console me for +everything. There is only you in the world, what matters anything that +is not you? You are so good; you make me so happy!” + +But he continued to weep, and she, too, began to weep again, and there +was a moment of infinite sadness, of anguish, in which they mingled +their kisses and their tears. + +Pascal, when she left him alone for an instant, thought himself a +wretch. He could no longer be the cause of misfortune to this child, +whom he adored. And on the evening of the same day an event took place +which brought about the solution hitherto sought in vain, with the fear +of finding it. After dinner Martine beckoned him aside, and gave him a +letter, with all sorts of precautions, saying: + +“I met Mme. Félicité, and she charged me to give you this letter, +monsieur, and she told me to tell you that she would have brought it to +you herself, only that regard for her reputation prevented her from +returning here. She begs you to send her back M. Maxime’s letter, +letting her know mademoiselle’s answer.” + +It was, in fact, a letter from Maxime, and Mme. Félicité, glad to have +received it, used it as a new means of conquering her son, after having +waited in vain for misery to deliver him up to her, repentant and +imploring. As neither Pascal nor Clotilde had come to demand aid or +succor from her, she had once more changed her plan, returning to her +old idea of separating them; and, this time, the opportunity seemed to +her decisive. Maxime’s letter was a pressing one; he urged his +grandmother to plead his cause with his sister. Ataxia had declared +itself; he was able to walk now only leaning on his servant’s arm. His +solitude terrified him, and he urgently entreated his sister to come to +him. He wished to have her with him as a rampart against his father’s +abominable designs; as a sweet and upright woman after all, who would +take care of him. The letter gave it to be understood that if she +conducted herself well toward him she would have no reason to repent +it; and ended by reminding the young girl of the promise she had made +him, at the time of his visit to Plassans, to come to him, if the day +ever arrived when he really needed her. + +Pascal turned cold. He read the four pages over again. Here an +opportunity to separate presented itself, acceptable to him and +advantageous for Clotilde, so easy and so natural that they ought to +accept it at once; yet, in spite of all his reasoning he felt so weak, +so irresolute still that his limbs trembled under him, and he was +obliged to sit down for a moment. But he wished to be heroic, and +controlling himself, he called to his companion. + +“Here!” he said, “read this letter which your grandmother has sent me.” + +Clotilde read the letter attentively to the end without a word, without +a sign. Then she said simply: + +“Well, you are going to answer it, are you not? I refuse.” + +He was obliged to exercise a strong effort of self-control to avoid +uttering a great cry of joy, as he pressed her to his heart. As if it +were another person who spoke, he heard himself saying quietly: + +“You refuse—impossible! You must reflect. Let us wait till to-morrow to +give an answer; and let us talk it over, shall we?” + +Surprised, she cried excitedly: + +“Part from each other! and why? And would you really consent to it? +What folly! we love each other, and you would have me leave you and go +away where no one cares for me! How could you think of such a thing? It +would be stupid.” + +He avoided touching on this side of the question, and hastened to speak +of promises made—of duty. + +“Remember, my dear, how greatly affected you were when I told you that +Maxime was in danger. And think of him now, struck down by disease, +helpless and alone, calling you to his side. Can you abandon him in +that situation? You have a duty to fulfil toward him.” + +“A duty?” she cried. “Have I any duties toward a brother who has never +occupied himself with me? My only duty is where my heart is.” + +“But you have promised. I have promised for you. I have said that you +were rational, and you are not going to belie my words.” + +“Rational? It is you who are not rational. It is not rational to +separate when to do so would make us both die of grief.” + +And with an angry gesture she closed the discussion, saying: + +“Besides, what is the use of talking about it? There is nothing +simpler; it is only necessary to say a single word. Answer me. Are you +tired of me? Do you wish to send me away?” + +He uttered a cry. + +“Send you away! I! Great God!” + +“Then it is all settled. If you do not send me away I shall remain.” + +She laughed now, and, running to her desk, wrote in red pencil across +her brother’s letter two words—“I refuse;” then she called Martine and +insisted upon her taking the letter back at once. Pascal was radiant; a +wave of happiness so intense inundated his being that he let her have +her way. The joy of keeping her with him deprived him even of his power +of reasoning. + +But that very night, what remorse did he not feel for having been so +cowardly! He had again yielded to his longing for happiness. A +deathlike sweat broke out upon him when he saw her in imagination far +away; himself alone, without her, without that caressing and subtle +essence that pervaded the atmosphere when she was near; her breath, her +brightness, her courageous rectitude, and the dear presence, physical +and mental, which had now become as necessary to his life as the light +of day itself. She must leave him, and he must find the strength to die +of it. He despised himself for his want of courage, he judged the +situation with terrible clear-sightedness. All was ended. An honorable +existence and a fortune awaited her with her brother; he could not +carry his senile selfishness so far as to keep her any longer in the +misery in which he was, to be scorned and despised. And fainting at the +thought of all he was losing, he swore to himself that he would be +strong, that he would not accept the sacrifice of this child, that he +would restore her to happiness and to life, in her own despite. + +And now the struggle of self-abnegation began. Some days passed; he had +demonstrated to her so clearly the rudeness of her “I refuse,” on +Maxime’s letter, that she had written a long letter to her grandmother, +explaining to her the reasons for her refusal. But still she would not +leave La Souleiade. As Pascal had grown extremely parsimonious, in his +desire to trench as little as possible on the money obtained by the +sale of the jewels, she surpassed herself, eating her dry bread with +merry laughter. One morning he surprised her giving lessons of economy +to Martine. Twenty times a day she would look at him intently and then +throw herself on his neck and cover his face with kisses, to combat the +dreadful idea of a separation, which she saw always in his eyes. Then +she had another argument. One evening after dinner he was seized with a +palpitation of the heart, and almost fainted. This surprised him; he +had never suffered from the heart, and he believed it to be simply a +return of his old nervous trouble. Since his great happiness he had +felt less strong, with an odd sensation, as if some delicate hidden +spring had snapped within him. Greatly alarmed, she hurried to his +assistance. Well! now he would no doubt never speak again of her going +away. When one loved people, and they were ill, one stayed with them to +take care of them. + +The struggle thus became a daily, an hourly one. It was a continual +assault made by affection, by devotion, by self-abnegation, in the one +desire for another’s happiness. But while her kindness and tenderness +made the thought of her departure only the more cruel for Pascal, he +felt every day more and more strongly the necessity for it. His +resolution was now taken. But he remained at bay, trembling and +hesitating as to the means of persuading her. He pictured to himself +her despair, her tears; what should he do? how should he tell her? how +could they bring themselves to give each other a last embrace, never to +see each other again? And the days passed, and he could think of +nothing, and he began once more to accuse himself of cowardice. + +Sometimes she would say jestingly, with a touch of affectionate malice: + +“Master, you are too kind-hearted not to keep me.” + +But this vexed him; he grew excited, and with gloomy despair answered: + +“No, no! don’t talk of my kindness. If I were really kind you would +have been long ago with your brother, leading an easy and honorable +life, with a bright and tranquil future before you, instead of +obstinately remaining here, despised, poor, and without any prospect, +to be the sad companion of an old fool like me! No, I am nothing but a +coward and a dishonorable man!” + +She hastily stopped him. And it was in truth his kindness of heart, +above all, that bled, that immense kindness of heart which sprang from +his love of life, which he diffused over persons and things, in his +continual care for the happiness of every one and everything. To be +kind, was not this to love her, to make her happy, at the price of his +own happiness? This was the kindness which it was necessary for him to +exercise, and which he felt that he would one day exercise, heroic and +decisive. But like the wretch who has resolved upon suicide, he waited +for the opportunity, the hour, and the means, to carry out his design. +Early one morning, on going into the workroom, Clotilde was surprised +to see Dr. Pascal seated at his table. It was many weeks since he had +either opened a book or touched a pen. + +“Why! you are working?” she said. + +Without raising his head he answered absently: + +“Yes; this is the genealogical tree that I had not even brought up to +date.” + +She stood behind him for a few moments, looking at him writing. He was +completing the notices of Aunt Dide, of Uncle Macquart, and of little +Charles, writing the dates of their death. Then, as he did not stir, +seeming not to know that she was there, waiting for the kisses and the +smiles of other mornings, she walked idly over to the window and back +again. + +“So you are in earnest,” she said, “you are really working?” + +“Certainly; you see I ought to have noted down these deaths last month. +And I have a heap of work waiting there for me.” + +She looked at him fixedly, with that steady inquiring gaze with which +she sought to read his thoughts. + +“Very well, let us work. If you have papers to examine, or notes to +copy, give them to me.” + +And from this day forth he affected to give himself up entirely to +work. Besides, it was one of his theories that absolute rest was +unprofitable, that it should never be prescribed, even to the +overworked. As the fish lives in the water, so a man lives only in the +external medium which surrounds him, the sensations which he receives +from it transforming themselves in him into impulses, thoughts, and +acts; so that if there were absolute rest, if he continued to receive +sensations without giving them out again, digested and transformed, an +engorgement would result, a _malaise_, an inevitable loss of +equilibrium. For himself he had always found work to be the best +regulator of his existence. Even on the mornings when he felt ill, if +he set to work he recovered his equipoise. He never felt better than +when he was engaged on some long work, methodically planned out +beforehand, so many pages to so many hours every morning, and he +compared this work to a balancing-pole, which enabled him to maintain +his equilibrium in the midst of daily miseries, weaknesses, and +mistakes. So that he attributed entirely to the idleness in which he +had been living for some weeks past, the palpitation which at times +made him feel as if he were going to suffocate. If he wished to recover +his health he had only to take up again his great work. + +And Pascal spent hours developing and explaining these theories to +Clotilde, with a feverish and exaggerated enthusiasm. He seemed to be +once more possessed by the love of knowledge and study in which, up to +the time of his sudden passion for her, he had spent his life +exclusively. He repeated to her that he could not leave his work +unfinished, that he had still a great deal to do, if he desired to +leave a lasting monument behind him. His anxiety about the envelopes +seemed to have taken possession of him again; he opened the large press +twenty times a day, taking them down from the upper shelf and enriching +them by new notes. His ideas on heredity were already undergoing a +transformation; he would have liked to review the whole, to recast the +whole, to deduce from the family history, natural and social, a vast +synthesis, a resume, in broad strokes, of all humanity. Then, besides, +he reviewed his method of treatment by hypodermic injections, with the +purpose of amplifying it—a confused vision of a new therapeutics; a +vague and remote theory based on his convictions and his personal +experience of the beneficent dynamic influence of work. + +Now every morning, when he seated himself at his table, he would +lament: + +“I shall not live long enough; life is too short.” + +He seemed to feel that he must not lose another hour. And one morning +he looked up abruptly and said to his companion, who was copying a +manuscript at his side: + +“Listen well, Clotilde. If I should die—” + +“What an idea!” she protested, terrified. + +“If I should die,” he resumed, “listen to me well—close all the doors +immediately. You are to keep the envelopes, you, you only. And when you +have collected all my other manuscripts, send them to Ramond. These are +my last wishes, do you hear?” + +But she refused to listen to him. + +“No, no!” she cried hastily, “you talk nonsense!” + +“Clotilde, swear to me that you will keep the envelopes, and that you +will send all my other papers to Ramond.” + +At last, now very serious, and her eyes filled with tears, she gave him +the promise he desired. He caught her in his arms, he, too, deeply +moved, and lavished caresses upon her, as if his heart had all at once +reopened to her. Presently he recovered his calmness, and spoke of his +fears. Since he had been trying to work they seemed to have returned. +He kept constant watch upon the press, pretending to have observed +Martine prowling about it. Might they not work upon the fanaticism of +this girl, and urge her to a bad action, persuading her that she was +securing her master’s eternal welfare? He had suffered so much from +suspicion! In the dread of approaching solitude his former tortures +returned—the tortures of the scientist, who is menaced and persecuted +by his own, at his own fireside, in his very flesh, in the work of his +brain. + +One evening, when he was again discussing this subject with Clotilde, +he said unthinkingly: + +“You know that when you are no longer here—” + +She turned very pale and, as he stopped with a start, she cried: + +“Oh, master, master, you have not given up that dreadful idea, then? I +can see in your eyes that you are hiding something from me, that you +have a thought which you no longer share with me. But if I go away and +you should die, who will be here then to protect your work?” + +Thinking that she had become reconciled, to the idea of her departure, +he had the strength to answer gaily: + +“Do you suppose that I would allow myself to die without seeing you +once more. I will write to you, of course. You must come back to close +my eyes.” + +Now she burst out sobbing, and sank into a chair. + +“My God! Can it be! You wish that to-morrow we should be together no +longer, we who have never been separated!” + +From this day forth Pascal seemed more engrossed than ever in his work. +He would sit for four or five hours at a time, whole mornings and +afternoons, without once raising his head. He overacted his zeal. He +would allow no one to disturb him, by so much as a word. And when +Clotilde would leave the room on tiptoe to give an order downstairs or +to go on some errand, he would assure himself by a furtive glance that +she was gone, and then let his head drop on the table, with an air of +profound dejection. It was a painful relief from the extraordinary +effort which he compelled himself to make when she was present; to +remain at his table, instead of going over and taking her in his arms +and covering her face with sweet kisses. Ah, work! how ardently he +called on it as his only refuge from torturing thoughts. But for the +most part he was unable to work; he was obliged to feign attention, +keeping his eyes fixed upon the page, his sorrowful eyes that grew dim +with tears, while his mind, confused, distracted, filled always with +one image, suffered the pangs of death. Was he then doomed to see work +fail now its effect, he who had always considered it of sovereign +power, the creator and ruler of the world? Must he then throw away his +pen, renounce action, and do nothing in future but exist? And tears +would flow down his white beard; and if he heard Clotilde coming +upstairs again he would seize his pen quickly, in order that she might +find him as she had left him, buried seemingly in profound meditation, +when his mind was now only an aching void. + +It was now the middle of September; two weeks that had seemed +interminable had passed in this distressing condition of things, +without bringing any solution, when one morning Clotilde was greatly +surprised by seeing her grandmother, Félicité, enter. Pascal had met +his mother the day before in the Rue de la Banne, and, impatient to +consummate the sacrifice, and not finding in himself the strength to +make the rupture, he had confided in her, in spite of his repugnance, +and begged her to come on the following day. As it happened, she had +just received another letter from Maxime, a despairing and imploring +letter. + +She began by explaining her presence. + +“Yes, it is I, my dear, and you can understand that only very weighty +reasons could have induced me to set my foot here again. But, indeed, +you are getting crazy; I cannot allow you to ruin your life in this +way, without making a last effort to open your eyes.” + +She then read Maxime’s letter in a tearful voice. He was nailed to an +armchair. It seemed he was suffering from a form of ataxia, rapid in +its progress and very painful. Therefore he requested a decided answer +from his sister, hoping still that she would come, and trembling at the +thought of being compelled to seek another nurse. This was what he +would be obliged to do, however, if they abandoned him in his sad +condition. And when she had finished reading the letter she hinted that +it would be a great pity to let Maxime’s fortune pass into the hands of +strangers; but, above all, she spoke of duty; of the assistance one +owed to a relation, she, too, affecting to believe that a formal +promise had been given. + +“Come, my dear, call upon your memory. You told him that if he should +ever need you, you would go to him; I can hear you saying it now. Was +it not so, my son?” + +Pascal, his face pale, his head slightly bent, had kept silence since +his mother’s entrance, leaving her to act. He answered only by an +affirmative nod. + +Then Félicité went over all the arguments that he himself had employed +to persuade Clotilde—the dreadful scandal, to which insult was now +added; impending want, so hard for them both; the impossibility of +continuing the life they were leading. What future could they hope for, +now that they had been overtaken by poverty? It was stupid and cruel to +persist longer in her obstinate refusal. + +Clotilde, standing erect and with an impenetrable countenance, remained +silent, refusing even to discuss the question. But as her grandmother +tormented her to give an answer, she said at last: + +“Once more, I have no duty whatever toward my brother; my duty is here. +He can dispose of his fortune as he chooses; I want none of it. When we +are too poor, master shall send away Martine and keep me as his +servant.” + +Old Mme. Rougon wagged her chin. + +“Before being his servant it would be better if you had begun by being +his wife. Why have you not got married? It would have been simpler and +more proper.” + +And Félicité reminded her how she had come one day to urge this +marriage, in order to put an end to gossip, and how the young girl had +seemed greatly surprised, saying that neither she nor the doctor had +thought of it, but that, notwithstanding, they would get married later +on, if necessary, for there was no hurry. + +“Get married; I am quite willing!” cried Clotilde. “You are right, +grandmother.” + +And turning to Pascal: + +“You have told me a hundred times that you would do whatever I wished. +Marry me; do you hear? I will be your wife, and I will stay here. A +wife does not leave her husband.” + +But he answered only by a gesture, as if he feared that his voice would +betray him, and that he should accept, in a cry of gratitude, the +eternal bond which she had proposed to him. His gesture might signify a +hesitation, a refusal. What was the good of this marriage _in +extremis_, when everything was falling to pieces? + +“Those are very fine sentiments, no doubt,” returned Félicité. “You +have settled it all in your own little head. But marriage will not give +you an income; and, meantime, you are a great expense to him; you are +the heaviest of his burdens.” + +The effect which these words had upon Clotilde was extraordinary. She +turned violently to Pascal, her cheeks crimson, her eyes filled with +tears. + +“Master, master! is what grandmother has just said true? Has it come to +this, that you regret the money I cost you here?” + +Pascal grew still paler; he remained motionless, in an attitude of +utter dejection. But in a far-away voice, as if he were talking to +himself, he murmured: + +“I have so much work to do! I should like to go over my envelopes, my +manuscripts, my notes, and complete the work of my life. If I were +alone perhaps I might be able to arrange everything. I would sell La +Souleiade, oh! for a crust of bread, for it is not worth much. I should +shut myself and my papers in a little room. I should work from morning +till night, and I should try not to be too unhappy.” + +But he avoided her glance; and, agitated as she was, these painful and +stammering utterances were not calculated to satisfy her. She grew +every moment more and more terrified, for she felt that the irrevocable +word was about to be spoken. + +“Look at me, master, look me in the face. And I conjure you, be brave, +choose between your work and me, since you say, it seems, that you send +me away that you may work the better.” + +The moment for the heroic falsehood had come. He lifted his head and +looked her bravely in the face, and with the smile of a dying man who +desires death, recovering his voice of divine goodness, he said: + +“How excited you get! Can you not do your duty quietly, like everybody +else? I have a great deal of work to do, and I need to be alone; and +you, dear, you ought to go to your brother. Go then, everything is +ended.” + +There was a terrible silence for the space of a few seconds. She looked +at him earnestly, hoping that he would change his mind. Was he really +speaking the truth? was he not sacrificing himself in order that she +might be happy? For a moment she had an intuition that this was the +case, as if some subtle breath, emanating from him, had warned her of +it. + +“And you are sending me away forever? You will not permit me to come +back to-morrow?” + +But he held out bravely; with another smile he seemed to answer that +when one went away like this it was not to come back again on the +following day. She was now completely bewildered; she knew not what to +think. It might be possible that he had chosen work sincerely; that the +man of science had gained the victory over the lover. She grew still +paler, and she waited a little longer, in the terrible silence; then, +slowly, with her air of tender and absolute submission, she said: + +“Very well, master, I will go away whenever you wish, and I will not +return until you send for me.” + +The die was cast. The irrevocable was accomplished. Each felt that +neither would attempt to recall the decision that had been made; and, +from this instant, every minute that passed would bring nearer the +separation. + +Félicité, surprised at not being obliged to say more, at once desired +to fix the time for Clotilde’s departure. She applauded herself for her +tenacity; she thought she had gained the victory by main force. It was +now Friday, and it was settled that Clotilde should leave on the +following Sunday. A despatch was even sent to Maxime. + +For the past three days the mistral had been blowing. But on this +evening its fury was redoubled, and Martine declared, in accordance +with the popular belief, that it would last for three days longer. The +winds at the end of September, in the valley of the Viorne, are +terrible. So that the servant took care to go into every room in the +house to assure herself that the shutters were securely fastened. When +the mistral blew it caught La Souleiade slantingly, above the roofs of +the houses of Plassans, on the little plateau on which the house was +built. And now it raged and beat against the house, shaking it from +garret to cellar, day and night, without a moment’s cessation. The +tiles were blown off, the fastenings of the windows were torn away, +while the wind, entering the crevices, moaned and sobbed wildly through +the house; and the doors, if they were left open for a moment, through +forgetfulness, slammed to with a noise like the report of a cannon. +They might have fancied they were sustaining a siege, so great were the +noise and the discomfort. + +It was in this melancholy house shaken by the storm that Pascal, on the +following day, helped Clotilde to make her preparations for her +departure. Old Mme. Rougon was not to return until Sunday, to say +good-by. When Martine was informed of the approaching separation, she +stood still in dumb amazement, and a flash, quickly extinguished, +lighted her eyes; and as they sent her out of the room, saying that +they would not require her assistance in packing the trunks, she +returned to the kitchen and busied herself in her usual occupations, +seeming to ignore the catastrophe which was about to revolutionize +their household of three. But at Pascal’s slightest call she would run +so promptly and with such alacrity, her face so bright and so cheerful, +in her zeal to serve him, that she seemed like a young girl. Pascal did +not leave Clotilde for a moment, helping her, desiring to assure +himself that she was taking with her everything she could need. Two +large trunks stood open in the middle of the disordered room; bundles +and articles of clothing lay about everywhere; twenty times the drawers +and the presses had been visited. And in this work, this anxiety to +forget nothing, the painful sinking of the heart which they both felt +was in some measure lessened. They forgot for an instant—he watching +carefully to see that no space was lost, utilizing the hat-case for the +smaller articles of clothing, slipping boxes in between the folds of +the linen; while she, taking down the gowns, folded them on the bed, +waiting to put them last in the top tray. Then, when a little tired +they stood up and found themselves again face to face, they would smile +at each other at first; then choke back the sudden tears that started +at the recollection of the impending and inevitable misfortune. But +though their hearts bled they remained firm. Good God! was it then true +that they were to be no longer together? And then they heard the wind, +the terrible wind, which threatened to blow down the house. + +How many times during this last day did they not go over to the window, +attracted by the storm, wishing that it would sweep away the world. +During these squalls the sun did not cease to shine, the sky remained +constantly blue, but a livid blue, windswept and dusty, and the sun was +a yellow sun, pale and cold. They saw in the distance the vast white +clouds rising from the roads, the trees bending before the blast, +looking as if they were flying all in the same direction, at the same +rate of speed; the whole country parched and exhausted by the unvarying +violence of the wind that blew ceaselessly, with a roar like thunder. +Branches were snapped and whirled out of sight; roofs were lifted up +and carried so far away that they were never afterward found. Why could +not the mistral take them all up together and carry them off to some +unknown land, where they might be happy? The trunks were almost packed +when Pascal went to open one of the shutters that the wind had blown +to, but so fierce a gust swept in through the half open window that +Clotilde had to go to his assistance. Leaning with all their weight, +they were able at last to turn the catch. The articles of clothing in +the room were blown about, and they gathered up in fragments a little +hand mirror which had fallen from a chair. Was this a sign of +approaching death, as the women of the faubourg said? + +In the evening, after a mournful dinner in the bright dining-room, with +its great bouquets of flowers, Pascal said he would retire early. +Clotilde was to leave on the following morning by the ten o’clock +train, and he feared for her the long journey—twenty hours of railway +traveling. But when he had retired he was unable to sleep. At first he +thought it was the wind that kept him awake. The sleeping house was +full of cries, voices of entreaty and voices of anger, mingled +together, accompanied by endless sobbing. Twice he got up and went to +listen at Clotilde’s door, but he heard nothing. He went downstairs to +close a door that banged persistently, like misfortune knocking at the +walls. Gusts blew through the dark rooms, and he went to bed again, +shivering and haunted by lugubrious visions. + +At six o’clock Martine, fancying she heard her master knocking for her +on the floor of his room, went upstairs. She entered the room with the +alert and excited expression which she had worn for the past two days; +but she stood still, astonished and uneasy, when she saw him lying, +half-dressed, across his bed, haggard, biting the pillow to stifle his +sobs. He got out of bed and tried to finish dressing himself, but a +fresh attack seized him, and, his head giddy and his heart palpitating +to suffocation, recovering from a momentary faintness, he faltered in +agonized tones: + +“No, no, I cannot; I suffer too much. I would rather die, die now—” + +He recognized Martine, and abandoning himself to his grief, his +strength totally gone, he made his confession to her: + +“My poor girl, I suffer too much, my heart is breaking. She is taking +away my heart with her, she is taking away my whole being. I cannot +live without her. I almost died last night. I would be glad to die +before her departure, not to have the anguish of seeing her go away. +Oh, my God! she is going away, and I shall have her no longer, and I +shall be left alone, alone, alone!” + +The servant, who had gone upstairs so gaily, turned as pale as wax, and +a hard and bitter look came into her face. For a moment she watched him +clutching the bedclothes convulsively, uttering hoarse cries of +despair, his face pressed against the coverlet. Then, by a violent +effort, she seemed to make up her mind. + +“But, monsieur, there is no sense in making trouble for yourself in +this way. It is ridiculous. Since that is how it is, and you cannot do +without mademoiselle, I shall go and tell her what a state you have let +yourself get into.” + +At these words he got up hastily, staggering still, and, leaning for +support on the back of a chair, he cried: + +“I positively forbid you to do so, Martine!” + +“A likely thing that I should listen to you, seeing you like that! To +find you some other time half dead, crying your eyes out! No, no! I +shall go to mademoiselle and tell her the truth, and compel her to +remain with us.” + +But he caught her angrily by the arm and held her fast. + +“I command you to keep quiet, do you hear? Or you shall go with her! +Why did you come in? It was this wind that made me ill. That concerns +no one.” + +Then, yielding to a good-natured impulse, with his usual kindness of +heart, he smiled. + +“My poor girl, see how you vex me? Let me act as I ought, for the +happiness of others. And not another word; you would pain me greatly.” + +Martine’s eyes, too, filled with tears. It was just in time that they +made peace, for Clotilde entered almost immediately. She had risen +early, eager to see Pascal, hoping doubtless, up to the last moment, +that he would keep her. Her own eyelids were heavy from want of sleep, +and she looked at him steadily as she entered, with her inquiring air. +But he was still so discomposed that she began to grow uneasy. + +“No, indeed, I assure you, I would even have slept well but for the +mistral. I was just telling you so, Martine, was I not?” + +The servant confirmed his words by an affirmative nod. And Clotilde, +too, submitted, saying nothing of the night of anguish and mental +conflict she had spent while he, on his side, had been suffering the +pangs of death. Both of the women now docilely obeyed and aided him, in +his heroic self-abnegation. + +“What,” he continued, opening his desk, “I have something here for you. +There! there are seven hundred francs in that envelope.” + +And in spite of her exclamations and protestations he persisted in +rendering her an account. Of the six thousand francs obtained by the +sale of the jewels two hundred only had been spent, and he had kept one +hundred to last till the end of the month, with the strict economy, the +penuriousness, which he now displayed. Afterward he would no doubt sell +La Souleiade, he would work, he would be able to extricate himself from +his difficulties. But he would not touch the five thousand francs which +remained, for they were her property, her own, and she would find them +again in the drawer. + +“Master, master, you are giving me a great deal of pain—” + +“I wish it,” he interrupted, “and it is you who are trying to break my +heart. Come, it is half-past seven, I will go and cord your trunks +since they are locked.” + +When Martine and Clotilde were alone and face to face they looked at +each other for a moment in silence. Ever since the commencement of the +new situation, they had been fully conscious of their secret +antagonism, the open triumph of the young mistress, the half concealed +jealousy of the old servant about her adored master. Now it seemed that +the victory remained with the servant. But in this final moment their +common emotion drew them together. + +“Martine, you must not let him eat like a poor man. You promise me that +he shall have wine and meat every day?” + +“Have no fear, mademoiselle.” + +“And the five thousand francs lying there, you know belong to him. You +are not going to let yourselves starve to death, I suppose, with those +there. I want you to treat him very well.” + +“I tell you that I will make it my business to do so, mademoiselle, and +that monsieur shall want for nothing.” + +There was a moment’s silence. They were still regarding each other. + +“And watch him, to see that he does not overwork himself. I am going +away very uneasy; he has not been well for some time past. Take good +care of him.” + +“Make your mind easy, mademoiselle, I will take care of him.” + +“Well, I give him into your charge. He will have only you now; and it +is some consolation to me to know that you love him dearly. Love him +with all your strength. Love him for us both.” + +“Yes, mademoiselle, as much as I can.” + +Tears came into their eyes; Clotilde spoke again. + +“Will you embrace me, Martine?” + +“Oh, mademoiselle, very gladly.” + +They were in each other’s arms when Pascal reentered the room. He +pretended not to see them, doubtless afraid of giving way to his +emotion. In an unnaturally loud voice he spoke of the final +preparations for Clotilde’s departure, like a man who had a great deal +on his hands and was afraid that the train might be missed. He had +corded the trunks, a man had taken them away in a little wagon, and +they would find them at the station. But it was only eight o’clock, and +they had still two long hours before them. Two hours of mortal anguish, +spent in unoccupied and weary waiting, during which they tasted a +hundred times over the bitterness of parting. The breakfast took hardly +a quarter of an hour. Then they got up, to sit down again. Their eyes +never left the clock. The minutes seemed long as those of a death +watch, throughout the mournful house. + +“How the wind blows!” said Clotilde, as a sudden gust made all the +doors creak. + +Pascal went over to the window and watched the wild flight of the +storm-blown trees. + +“It has increased since morning,” he said. “Presently I must see to the +roof, for some of the tiles have been blown away.” + +Already they had ceased to be one household. They listened in silence +to the furious wind, sweeping everything before it, carrying with it +their life. + +Finally Pascal looked for a last time at the clock, and said simply: + +“It is time, Clotilde.” + +She rose from the chair on which she had been sitting. She had for an +instant forgotten that she was going away, and all at once the dreadful +reality came back to her. Once more she looked at him, but he did not +open his arms to keep her. It was over; her hope was dead. And from +this moment her face was like that of one struck with death. + +At first they exchanged the usual commonplaces. + +“You will write to me, will you not?” + +“Certainly, and you must let me hear from you as often as possible.” + +“Above all, if you should fall ill, send for me at once.” + +“I promise you that I will do so. But there is no danger. I am very +strong.” + +Then, when the moment came in which she was to leave this dear house, +Clotilde looked around with unsteady gaze; then she threw herself on +Pascal’s breast, she held him for an instant in her arms, faltering: + +“I wish to embrace you here, I wish to thank you. Master, it is you who +have made me what I am. As you have often told me, you have corrected +my heredity. What should I have become amid the surroundings in which +Maxime has grown up? Yes, if I am worth anything, it is to you alone I +owe it, you, who transplanted me into this abode of kindness and +affection, where you have brought me up worthy of you. Now, after +having taken me and overwhelmed me with benefits, you send me away. Be +it as you will, you are my master, and I will obey you. I love you, in +spite of all, and I shall always love you.” + +He pressed her to his heart, answering: + +“I desire only your good, I am completing my work.” + +When they reached the station, Clotilde vowed to herself that she would +one day come back. Old Mme. Rougon was there, very gay and very brisk, +in spite of her eighty-and-odd years. She was triumphant now; she +thought she would have her son Pascal at her mercy. When she saw them +both stupefied with grief she took charge of everything; got the +ticket, registered the baggage, and installed the traveler in a +compartment in which there were only ladies. Then she spoke for a long +time about Maxime, giving instructions and asking to be kept informed +of everything. But the train did not start; there were still five cruel +minutes during which they remained face to face, without speaking to +each other. Then came the end, there were embraces, a great noise of +wheels, and waving of handkerchiefs. + +Suddenly Pascal became aware that he was standing alone upon the +platform, while the train was disappearing around a bend in the road. +Then, without listening to his mother, he ran furiously up the slope, +sprang up the stone steps like a young man, and found himself in three +minutes on the terrace of La Souleiade. The mistral was raging there—a +fierce squall which bent the secular cypresses like straws. In the +colorless sky the sun seemed weary of the violence of the wind, which +for six days had been sweeping over its face. And like the wind-blown +trees Pascal stood firm, his garments flapping like banners, his beard +and hair blown about and lashed by the storm. His breath caught by the +wind, his hands pressed upon his heart to quiet its throbbing, he saw +the train flying in the distance across the bare plain, a little train +which the mistral seemed to sweep before it like a dry branch. + + + + +XII. + + +From the day following Clotilde’s departure, Pascal shut himself up in +the great empty house. He did not leave it again, ceasing entirely the +rare professional visits which he had still continued to make, living +there with doors and windows closed, in absolute silence and solitude. +Martine had received formal orders to admit no one under any pretext +whatever. + +“But your mother, monsieur, Mme. Félicité?” + +“My mother, less than any one else; I have my reasons. Tell her that I +am working, that I require to concentrate my thoughts, and that I +request her to excuse me.” + +Three times in succession old Mme. Rougon had presented herself. She +would storm at the hall door. He would hear her voice rising in anger +as she tried in vain to force her way in. Then the noise would be +stilled, and there would be only a whisper of complaint and plotting +between her and the servant. But not once did he yield, not once did he +lean over the banisters and call to her to come up. + +One day Martine ventured to say to him: + +“It is very hard, all the same, monsieur, to refuse admittance to one’s +mother. The more so, as Mme. Félicité comes with good intentions, for +she knows the straits that monsieur is in, and she insists only in +order to offer her services.” + +“Money!” he cried, exasperated. “I want no money, do you hear? And from +her less than anybody. I will work, I will earn my own living; why +should I not?” + +The question of money, however, began to grow pressing. He obstinately +refused to take another sou from the five thousand francs locked up in +the desk. Now that he was alone, he was completely indifferent to +material things; he would have been satisfied to live on bread and +water; and every time the servant asked him for money to buy wine, +meat, or sweets, he shrugged his shoulders—what was the use? there +remained a crust from the day before, was not that sufficient? But in +her affection for her master, whom she felt to be suffering, the old +servant was heart-broken at this miserliness which exceeded her own; +this utter destitution to which he abandoned himself and the whole +house. The workmen of the faubourgs lived better. Thus it was that for +a whole day a terrible conflict went on within her. Her doglike love +struggled with her love for her money, amassed sou by sou, hidden away, +“making more,” as she said. She would rather have parted with a piece +of her flesh. So long as her master had not suffered alone the idea of +touching her treasure had not even occurred to her. And she displayed +extraordinary heroism the morning when, driven to extremity, seeing her +stove cold and the larder empty, she disappeared for an hour and then +returned with provisions and the change of a hundred-franc note. + +Pascal, who just then chanced to come downstairs, asked her in +astonishment where the money had come from, furious already, and +prepared to throw it all into the street, imagining she had applied to +his mother. + +“Why, no; why, no, monsieur!” she stammered, “it is not that at all.” + +And she told him the story that she had prepared. + +“Imagine, M. Grandguillot’s affairs are going to be settled—or at least +I think so. It occurred to me this morning to go to the assignee’s to +inquire, and he told me that you would undoubtedly recover something, +and that I might have a hundred francs now. Yes, he was even satisfied +with a receipt from me. He knows me, and you can make it all right +afterward.” + +Pascal seemed scarcely surprised. She had calculated correctly that he +would not go out to verify her account. She was relieved, however, to +see with what easy indifference he accepted her story. + +“Ah, so much the better!” he said. “You see now that one must never +despair. That will give me time to settle my affairs.” + +His “affairs” was the sale of La Souleiade, about which he had been +thinking vaguely. But what a grief to leave this house in which +Clotilde had grown up, where they had lived together for nearly +eighteen years! He had taken two or three weeks already to reflect over +the matter. Now that he had the hope of getting back a little of the +money he had lost through the notary’s failure, he ceased to think any +more about it. He relapsed into his former indifference, eating +whatever Martine served him, not even noticing the comforts with which +she once more surrounded him, in humble adoration, heart-broken at +giving her money, but very happy to support him now, without his +suspecting that his sustenance came from her. + +But Pascal rewarded her very ill. Afterward he would be sorry, and +regret his outbursts. But in the state of feverish desperation in which +he lived this did not prevent him from again flying into a passion with +her, at the slightest cause of dissatisfaction. One evening, after he +had been listening to his mother talking for an interminable time with +her in the kitchen, he cried in sudden fury: + +“Martine, I do not wish her to enter La Souleiade again, do you hear? +If you ever let her into the house again I will turn you out!” + +She listened to him in surprise. Never, during the thirty-two years in +which she had been in his service, had he threatened to dismiss her in +this way. Big tears came to her eyes. + +“Oh, monsieur! you would not have the courage to do it! And I would not +go. I would lie down across the threshold first.” + +He already regretted his anger, and he said more gently: + +“The thing is that I know perfectly well what is going on. She comes to +indoctrinate you, to put you against me, is it not so? Yes, she is +watching my papers; she wishes to steal and destroy everything up there +in the press. I know her; when she wants anything, she never gives up +until she gets it. Well, you can tell her that I am on my guard; that +while I am alive she shall never even come near the press. And the key +is here in my pocket.” + +In effect, all his former terror—the terror of the scientist who feels +himself surrounded by secret enemies, had returned. Ever since he had +been living alone in the deserted house he had had a feeling of +returning danger, of being constantly watched in secret. The circle had +narrowed, and if he showed such anger at these attempts at invasion, if +he repulsed his mother’s assaults, it was because he did not deceive +himself as to her real plans, and he was afraid that he might yield. If +she were there she would gradually take possession of him, until she +had subjugated him completely. Therefore his former tortures returned, +and he passed the days watching; he shut up the house himself in the +evening, and he would often rise during the night, to assure himself +that the locks were not being forced. What he feared was that the +servant, won over by his mother, and believing she was securing his +eternal welfare, would open the door to Mme. Félicité. In fancy he saw +the papers blazing in the fireplace; he kept constant guard over them, +seized again by a morbid love, a torturing affection for this icy heap +of papers, these cold pages of manuscript, to which he had sacrificed +the love of woman, and which he tried to love sufficiently to be able +to forget everything else for them. + +Pascal, now that Clotilde was no longer there, threw himself eagerly +into work, trying to submerge himself in it, to lose himself in it. If +he secluded himself, if he did not set foot even in the garden, if he +had had the strength, one day when Martine came up to announce Dr. +Ramond, to answer that he would not receive him, he had, in this bitter +desire for solitude, no other aim than to kill thought by incessant +labor. That poor Ramond, how gladly he would have embraced him! for he +divined clearly the delicacy of feeling that had made him hasten to +console his old master. But why lose an hour? Why risk emotions and +tears which would leave him so weak? From daylight he was at his table, +he spent at it his mornings and his afternoons, extended often into the +evening after the lamp was lighted, and far into the night. He wished +to put his old project into execution—to revise his whole theory of +heredity, employing the documents furnished by his own family to +establish the laws according to which, in a certain group of human +beings, life is distributed and conducted with mathematical precision +from one to another, taking into account the environment—a vast bible, +the genesis of families, of societies, of all humanity. He hoped that +the vastness of such a plan, the effort necessary to develop so +colossal an idea, would take complete possession of him, restoring to +him his health, his faith, his pride in the supreme joy of the +accomplished work. But it was in vain that he threw himself +passionately, persistently, without reserve, into his work; he +succeeded only in fatiguing his body and his mind, without even being +able to fix his thoughts or to put his heart into his work, every day +sicker and more despairing. Had work, then, finally lost its power? He +whose life had been spent in work, who had regarded it as the sole +motor, the benefactor, and the consoler, must he then conclude that to +love and to be loved is beyond all else in the world? Occasionally he +would have great thoughts, he continued to sketch out his new theory of +the equilibrium of forces, demonstrating that what man receives in +sensation he should return in action. How natural, full, and happy +would life be if it could be lived entire, performing its functions +like a well-ordered machine, giving back in power what was consumed in +fuel, maintaining itself in vigor and in beauty by the simultaneous and +logical play of all its organs. He believed physical and intellectual +labor, feeling and reasoning should be in equal proportions, and never +excessive, for excess meant disturbance of the equilibrium and, +consequently, disease. Yes, yes, to begin life over again and to know +how to live it, to dig the earth, to study man, to love woman, to +attain to human perfection, the future city of universal happiness, +through the harmonious working of the entire being, what a beautiful +legacy for a philosophical physician to leave behind him would this be! +And this dream of the future, this theory, confusedly perceived, filled +him with bitterness at the thought that now his life was a force wasted +and lost. + +At the very bottom of his grief Pascal had the dominating feeling that +for him life was ended. Regret for Clotilde, sorrow at having her no +longer beside him, the certainty that he would never see her again, +filled him with overwhelming grief. Work had lost its power, and he +would sometimes let his head drop on the page he was writing, and weep +for hours together, unable to summon courage to take up the pen again. +His passion for work, his days of voluntary fatigue, led to terrible +nights, nights of feverish sleeplessness, in which he would stuff the +bedclothes into his mouth to keep from crying out Clotilde’s name. She +was everywhere in this mournful house in which he secluded himself. He +saw her again, walking through the rooms, sitting on the chairs, +standing behind the doors. Downstairs, in the dining-room, he could not +sit at table, without seeing her opposite him. In the workroom upstairs +she was still his constant companion, for she, too, had lived so long +secluded in it that her image seemed reflected from everything; he felt +her constantly beside him, he could fancy he saw her standing before +her desk, straight and slender—her delicate face bent over a pastel. +And if he did not leave the house to escape from the dear and torturing +memory it was because he had the certainty that he should find her +everywhere in the garden, too: dreaming on the terrace; walking with +slow steps through the alleys in the pine grove; sitting under the +shade of the plane trees; lulled by the eternal song of the fountain; +lying in the threshing yard at twilight, her gaze fixed on space, +waiting for the stars to come out. But above all, there existed for him +a sacred sanctuary which he could not enter without trembling—the +chamber where she had confessed her love. He kept the key of it; he had +not moved a single object from its place since the sorrowful morning of +her departure; and a skirt which she had forgotten lay still upon her +armchair. He opened his arms wildly to clasp her shade floating in the +soft half light of the room, with its closed shutters and its walls +hung with the old faded pink calico, of a dawnlike tint. + +In the midst of his unremitting toil Pascal had another melancholy +pleasure—Clotilde’s letters. She wrote to him regularly twice a week, +long letters of eight or ten pages, in which she described to him all +her daily life. She did not seem to lead a very happy life in Paris. +Maxime, who did not now leave his sick chair, evidently tortured her +with the exactions of a spoiled child and an invalid. She spoke as if +she lived in complete retirement, always waiting on him, so that she +could not even go over to the window to look out on the avenue, along +which rolled the fashionable stream of the promenaders of the Bois; and +from certain of her expressions it could be divined that her brother, +after having entreated her so urgently to go to him, suspected her +already, and had begun to regard her with hatred and distrust, as he +did every one who approached him, in his continual fear of being made +use of and robbed. He did not give her the keys, treating her like a +servant to whom he found it difficult to accustom himself. Twice she +had seen her father, who was, as always, very gay, and overwhelmed with +business; he had been converted to the Republic, and was at the height +of political and financial success. Saccard had even taken her aside, +to sympathize with her, saying that poor Maxime was really +insupportable, and that she would be truly courageous if she consented +to be made his victim. As she could not do everything, he had even had +the kindness to send her, on the following day, the niece of his +hairdresser, a fair-haired, innocent-looking girl of eighteen, named +Rose, who was assisting her now to take care of the invalid. But +Clotilde made no complaint; she affected, on the contrary, to be +perfectly tranquil, contented, and resigned to everything. Her letters +were full of courage, showing neither anger nor sorrow at the cruel +separation, making no desperate appeal to Pascal’s affection to recall +her. But between the lines, he could perceive that she trembled with +rebellious anger, that her whole being yearned for him, that she was +ready to commit the folly of returning to him immediately, at his +lightest word. + +And this was the one word that Pascal would not write. Everything would +be arranged in time. Maxime would become accustomed to his sister; the +sacrifice must be completed now that it had been begun. A single line +written by him in a moment of weakness, and all the advantage of the +effort he had made would be lost, and their misery would begin again. +Never had Pascal had greater need of courage than when he was answering +Clotilde’s letters. At night, burning with fever, he would toss about, +calling on her wildly; then he would get up and write to her to come +back at once. But when day came, and he had exhausted himself with +weeping, his fever abated, and his answer was always very short, almost +cold. He studied every sentence, beginning the letter over again when +he thought he had forgotten himself. But what a torture, these dreadful +letters, so short, so icy, in which he went against his heart, solely +in order to wean her from him gradually, to take upon himself all the +blame, and to make her believe that she could forget him, since he +forgot her. They left him covered with perspiration, and as exhausted +as if he had just performed some great act of heroism. + +One morning toward the end of October, a month after Clotilde’s +departure, Pascal had a sudden attack of suffocation. He had had, +several times already, slight attacks, which he attributed to overwork. +But this time the symptoms were so plain that he could not mistake +them—a sharp pain in the region of the heart, extending over the whole +chest and along the left arm, and a dreadful sensation of oppression +and distress, while cold perspiration broke out upon him. It was an +attack of angina pectoris. It lasted hardly more than a minute, and he +was at first more surprised than frightened. With that blindness which +physicians often show where their own health is concerned, he never +suspected that his heart might be affected. + +As he was recovering his breath Martine came up to say that Dr. Ramond +was downstairs, and again begged the doctor to see him. And Pascal, +yielding perhaps to an unconscious desire to know the truth, cried: + +“Well, let him come up, since he insists upon it. I will be glad to see +him.” + +The two men embraced each other, and no other allusion was made to the +absent one, to her whose departure had left the house empty, than an +energetic and sad hand clasp. + +“You don’t know why I have come?” cried Ramond immediately. “It is +about a question of money. Yes, my father-in-law, M. Leveque, the +advocate, whom you know, spoke to me yesterday again about the funds +which you had with the notary Grandguillot. And he advises you strongly +to take some action in the matter, for some persons have succeeded, he +says, in recovering something.” + +“Yes, I know that that business is being settled,” said Pascal. +“Martine has already got two hundred francs out of it, I believe.” + +“Martine?” said Ramond, looking greatly surprised, “how could she do +that without your intervention? However, will you authorize my +father-in-law to undertake your case? He will see the assignee, and +sift the whole affair, since you have neither the time nor the +inclination to attend to it.” + +“Certainly, I authorize M. Leveque to do so, and tell him that I thank +him a thousand times.” + +Then this matter being settled, the young man, remarking the doctor’s +pallor, and questioning him as to its cause, Pascal answered with a +smile: + +“Imagine, my friend, I have just had an attack of angina pectoris. Oh, +it is not imagination, all the symptoms were there. And stay! since you +are here you shall sound me.” + +At first Ramond refused, affecting to turn the consultation into a +jest. Could a raw recruit like him venture to pronounce judgment on his +general? But he examined him, notwithstanding, seeing that his face +looked drawn and pained, with a singular look of fright in the eyes. He +ended by auscultating him carefully, keeping his ear pressed closely to +his chest for a considerable time. Several minutes passed in profound +silence. + +“Well?” asked Pascal, when the young physician stood up. + +The latter did not answer at once. He felt the doctor’s eyes looking +straight into his; and as the question had been put to him with quiet +courage, he answered in the same way: + +“Well, it is true, I think there is some sclerosis.” + +“Ah! it was kind of you not to attempt to deceive me,” returned the +doctor, smiling. “I feared for an instant that you would tell me an +untruth, and that would have hurt me.” + +Ramond, listening again, said in an undertone: + +“Yes, the beat is strong, the first sound is dull, while the second, on +the contrary, is sharp. It is evident that the apex has descended and +is turned toward the armpit. There is some sclerosis, at least it is +very probable. One may live twenty years with that,” he ended, +straightening himself. + +“No doubt, sometimes,” said Pascal. “At least, unless one chances to +die of a sudden attack.” + +They talked for some time longer, discussed a remarkable case of +sclerosis of the heart, which they had seen at the hospital at +Plassans. And when the young physician went away, he said that he would +return as soon as he should have news of the Grandguillot liquidation. + +But when he was alone Pascal felt that he was lost. Everything was now +explained: his palpitations for some weeks past, his attacks of vertigo +and suffocation; above all that weakness of the organ, of his poor +heart, overtasked by feeling and by work, that sense of intense fatigue +and impending death, regarding which he could no longer deceive +himself. It was not as yet fear that he experienced, however. His first +thought was that he, too, would have to pay for his heredity, that +sclerosis was the species of degeneration which was to be his share of +the physiological misery, the inevitable inheritance bequeathed him by +his terrible ancestry. In others the neurosis, the original lesion, had +turned to vice or virtue, genius, crime, drunkenness, sanctity; others +again had died of consumption, of epilepsy, of ataxia; he had lived in +his feelings and he would die of an affection of the heart. And he +trembled no longer, he rebelled no longer against this manifest +heredity, fated and inevitable, no doubt. On the contrary, a feeling of +humility took possession of him; the idea that all revolt against +natural laws is bad, that wisdom does not consist in holding one’s self +apart, but in resigning one’s self to be only a member of the whole +great body. Why, then, was he so unwilling to belong to his family that +it filled him with triumph, that his heart beat with joy, when he +believed himself different from them, without any community with them? +Nothing could be less philosophical. Only monsters grew apart. And to +belong to his family seemed to him in the end as good and as fine as to +belong to any other family, for did not all families, in the main, +resemble one another, was not humanity everywhere identical with the +same amount of good and evil? He came at last, humbly and gently, even +in the face of impending suffering and death, to accept everything life +had to give him. + +From this time Pascal lived with the thought that he might die at any +moment. And this helped to perfect his character, to elevate him to a +complete forgetfulness of self. He did not cease to work, but he had +never understood so well how much effort must seek its reward in +itself, the work being always transitory, and remaining of necessity +incomplete. One evening at dinner Martine informed him that Sarteur, +the journeyman hatter, the former inmate of the asylum at the Tulettes, +had just hanged himself. All the evening he thought of this strange +case, of this man whom he had believed he had cured of homicidal mania +by his treatment of hypodermic injections, and who, seized by a fresh +attack, had evidently had sufficient lucidity to hang himself, instead +of springing at the throat of some passer-by. He again saw him, so +gentle, so reasonable, kissing his hands, while he was advising him to +return to his life of healthful labor. What then was this destructive +and transforming force, the desire to murder, changing to suicide, +death performing its task in spite of everything? With the death of +this man his last vestige of pride as a healer disappeared; and each +day when he returned to his work he felt as if he were only a learner, +spelling out his task, constantly seeking the truth, which as +constantly receded from him, assuming ever more formidable proportions. + +But in the midst of his resignation one thought still troubled him—what +would become of Bonhomme, his old horse, if he himself should die +before him? The poor brute, completely blind and his limbs paralyzed, +did not now leave his litter. When his master went to see him, however, +he turned his head, he could feel the two hearty kisses which were +pressed on his nose. All the neighbors shrugged their shoulders and +joked about this old relation whom the doctor would not allow to be +slaughtered. Was he then to be the first to go, with the thought that +the knacker would be called in on the following day. But one morning, +when he entered the stable, Bonhomme did not hear him, did not raise +his head. He was dead; he lay there, with a peaceful expression, as if +relieved that death had come to him so gently. His master knelt beside +him and kissed him again and bade him farewell, while two big tears +rolled down his cheeks. + +It was on this day that Pascal saw his neighbor, M. Bellombre, for the +last time. Going over to the window he perceived him in his garden, in +the pale sunshine of early November, taking his accustomed walk; and +the sight of the old professor, living so completely happy in his +solitude, filled him at first with astonishment. He could never have +imagined such a thing possible, as that a man of sixty-nine should live +thus, without wife or child, or even a dog, deriving his selfish +happiness from the joy of living outside of life. Then he recalled his +fits of anger against this man, his sarcasms about his fear of life, +the catastrophes which he had wished might happen to him, the hope that +punishment would come to him, in the shape of some housekeeper, or some +female relation dropping down on him unexpectedly. But no, he was still +as fresh as ever, and Pascal was sure that for a long time to come he +would continue to grow old like this, hard, avaricious, useless, and +happy. And yet he no longer execrated him; he could even have found it +in his heart to pity him, so ridiculous and miserable did he think him +for not being loved. Pascal, who suffered the pangs of death because he +was alone! He whose heart was breaking because he was too full of +others. Rather suffering, suffering only, than this selfishness, this +death of all there is in us of living and human! + +In the night which followed Pascal had another attack of angina +pectoris. It lasted for five minutes, and he thought that he would +suffocate without having the strength to call Martine. Then when he +recovered his breath, he did not disturb himself, preferring to speak +to no one of this aggravation of his malady; but he had the certainty +that it was all over with him, that he might not perhaps live a month +longer. His first thought was Clotilde. Should he then never see her +again? and so sharp a pang seized him that he believed another attack +was coming on. Why should he not write to her to come to him? He had +received a letter from her the day before; he would answer it this +morning. Then the thought of the envelopes occurred to him. If he +should die suddenly, his mother would be the mistress and she would +destroy them; and not only the envelopes, but his manuscripts, all his +papers, thirty years of his intelligence and his labor. Thus the crime +which he had so greatly dreaded would be consummated, the crime of +which the fear alone, during his nights of fever, had made him get up +out of bed trembling, his ear on the stretch, listening to hear if they +were forcing open the press. The perspiration broke out upon him, he +saw himself dispossessed, outraged, the ashes of his work thrown to the +four winds. And when his thoughts reverted to Clotilde, he told himself +that everything would be satisfactorily arranged, that he had only to +call her back—she would be here, she would close his eyes, she would +defend his memory. And he sat down to write at once to her, so that the +letter might go by the morning mail. + +But when Pascal was seated before the white paper, with the pen between +his fingers, a growing doubt, a feeling of dissatisfaction with +himself, took possession of him. Was not this idea of his papers, this +fine project of providing a guardian for them and saving them, a +suggestion of his weakness, an excuse which he gave himself to bring +back Clotilde, and see her again? Selfishness was at the bottom of it. +He was thinking of himself, not of her. He saw her returning to this +poor house, condemned to nurse a sick old man; and he saw her, above +all, in her grief, in her awful agony, when he should terrify her some +day by dropping down dead at her side. No, no! this was the dreadful +moment which he must spare her, those days of cruel adieus and want +afterward, a sad legacy which he could not leave her without thinking +himself a criminal. Her tranquillity, her happiness only, were of any +consequence, the rest did not matter. He would die in his hole, then, +abandoned, happy to think her happy, to spare her the cruel blow of his +death. As for saving his manuscripts he would perhaps find a means of +doing so, he would try to have the strength to part from them and give +them to Ramond. But even if all his papers were to perish, this was +less of a sacrifice than to resign himself not to see her again, and he +accepted it, and he was willing that nothing of him should survive, not +even his thoughts, provided only that nothing of him should henceforth +trouble her dear existence. + +Pascal accordingly proceeded to write one of his usual answers, which, +by a great effort, he purposely made colorless and almost cold. +Clotilde, in her last letter, without complaining of Maxime, had given +it to be understood that her brother had lost his interest in her, +preferring the society of Rose, the niece of Saccard’s hairdresser, the +fair-haired young girl with the innocent look. And he suspected +strongly some maneuver of the father: a cunning plan to obtain +possession of the inheritance of the sick man, whose vices, so +precocious formerly, gained new force as his last hour approached. But +in spite of his uneasiness he gave Clotilde very good advice, telling +her that she must make allowance for Maxime’s sufferings, that he had +undoubtedly a great deal of affection and gratitude for her, in short +that it was her duty to devote herself to him to the end. When he +signed the letter tears dimmed his sight. It was his death warrant—a +death like that of an old and solitary brute, a death without a kiss, +without the touch of a friendly hand—that he was signing. Never again +would he embrace her. Then doubts assailed him; was he doing right in +leaving her amid such evil surroundings, where he felt that she was in +continual contact with every species of wickedness? + +The postman brought the letters and newspapers to La Souleiade every +morning at about nine o’clock; and Pascal, when he wrote to Clotilde, +was accustomed to watch for him, to give him his letter, so as to be +certain that his correspondence was not intercepted. But on this +morning, when he went downstairs to give him the letter he had just +written, he was surprised to receive one from him from Clotilde, +although it was not the usual day for her letters. He allowed his own +to go, however. Then he went upstairs, resumed his seat at his table, +and tore open the envelope. + +The letter was short, but its contents filled Pascal with a great joy. + + +But the sound of footsteps made him control himself. He turned round +and saw Martine, who was saying: + +“Dr. Ramond is downstairs.” + +“Ah! let him come up, let him come up,” he said. + +It was another piece of good fortune that had come to him. Ramond cried +gaily from the door: + +“Victory, master! I have brought you your money—not all, but a good +sum.” + +And he told the story—an unexpected piece of good luck which his +father-in-law, M. Leveque, had brought to light. The receipts for the +hundred and twenty thousand francs, which constituted Pascal the +personal creditor of Grandguillot, were valueless, since the latter was +insolvent. Salvation was to come from the power of attorney which the +doctor had sent him years before, at his request, that he might invest +all or part of his money in mortgages. As the name of the proxy was in +blank in the document, the notary, as is sometimes done, had made use +of the name of one of his clerks, and eighty thousand francs, which had +been invested in good mortgages, had thus been recovered through the +agency of a worthy man who was not in the secrets of his employer. If +Pascal had taken action in the matter, if he had gone to the public +prosecutor’s office and the chamber of notaries, he would have +disentangled the matter long before. However, he had recovered a sure +income of four thousand francs. + +He seized the young man’s hands and pressed them, smiling, his eyes +still moist with tears. + +“Ah! my friend, if you knew how happy I am! This letter of Clotilde’s +has brought me a great happiness. Yes, I was going to send for her; but +the thought of my poverty, of the privations she would have to endure +here, spoiled for me the joy of her return. And now fortune has come +back, at least enough to set up my little establishment again!” + +In the expansion of his feelings he held out the letter to Ramond, and +forced him to read it. Then when the young man gave it back to him, +smiling, comprehending the doctor’s emotion, and profoundly touched by +it, yielding to an overpowering need of affection, he caught him in his +arms, like a comrade, a brother. The two men kissed each other +vigorously on either cheek. + +“Come, since good fortune has sent you, I am going to ask another +service from you. You know I distrust every one around me, even my old +housekeeper. Will you take my despatch to the telegraph office!” + +He sat down again at the table, and wrote simply, “I await you; start +to-night.” + +“Let me see,” he said, “to-day is the 6th of November, is it not? It is +now near ten o’clock; she will have my despatch at noon. That will give +her time enough to pack her trunks and to take the eight o’clock +express this evening, which will bring her to Marseilles in time for +breakfast. But as there is no train which connects with it, she cannot +be here until to-morrow, the 7th, at five o’clock.” + +After folding the despatch he rose: + +“My God, at five o’clock to-morrow! How long to wait still! What shall +I do with myself until then?” + +Then a sudden recollection filled him with anxiety, and he became +grave. + +“Ramond, my comrade, will you give me a great proof of your friendship +by being perfectly frank with me?” + +“How so, master?” + +“Ah, you understand me very well. The other day you examined me. Do you +think I can live another year?” + +He fixed his eyes on the young man as he spoke, compelling him to look +at him. Ramond evaded a direct answer, however, with a jest—was it +really a physician who put such a question? + +“Let us be serious, Ramond, I beg of you.” + +Then Ramond answered in all sincerity that, in his opinion, the doctor +might very justly entertain the hope of living another year. He gave +his reasons—the comparatively slight progress which the sclerosis had +made, and the absolute soundness of the other organs. Of course they +must make allowance for what they did not and could not know, for a +sudden accident was always possible. And the two men discussed the case +as if they been in consultation at the bedside of a patient, weighing +the pros and cons, each stating his views and prognosticating a fatal +termination, in accordance with the symptoms as defined by the best +authorities. + +Pascal, as if it were some one else who was in question, had recovered +all his composure and his heroic self-forgetfulness. + +“Yes,” he murmured at last, “you are right; a year of life is still +possible. Ah, my friend, how I wish I might live two years; a mad wish, +no doubt, an eternity of joy. And yet, two years, that would not be +impossible. I had a very curious case once, a wheelwright of the +faubourg, who lived for four years, giving the lie to all my +prognostications. Two years, two years, I will live two years! I must +live two years!” + +Ramond sat with bent head, without answering. He was beginning to be +uneasy, fearing that he had shown himself too optimistic; and the +doctor’s joy disquieted and grieved him, as if this very exaltation, +this disturbance of a once strong brain, warned him of a secret and +imminent danger. + +“Did you not wish to send that despatch at once?” he said. + +“Yes, yes, go quickly, my good Ramond, and come back again to see us +the day after to-morrow. She will be here then, and I want you to come +and embrace us.” + +The day was long, and the following morning, at about four o’clock, +shortly after Pascal had fallen asleep, after a happy vigil filled with +hopes and dreams, he was wakened by a dreadful attack. He felt as if an +enormous weight, as if the whole house, had fallen down upon his chest, +so that the thorax, flattened down, touched the back. He could not +breathe; the pain reached the shoulders, then the neck, and paralyzed +the left arm. But he was perfectly conscious; he had the feeling that +his heart was about to stop, that life was about to leave him, in the +dreadful oppression, like that of a vise, which was suffocating him. +Before the attack reached its height he had the strength to rise and to +knock on the floor with a stick for Martine. Then he fell back on his +bed, unable to speak or to move, and covered with a cold sweat. + +Martine, fortunately, in the profound silence of the empty house, heard +the knock. She dressed herself, wrapped a shawl about her, and went +upstairs, carrying her candle. The darkness was still profound; dawn +was about to break. And when she perceived her master, whose eyes alone +seemed living, looking at her with locked jaws, speechless, his face +distorted by pain, she was awed and terrified, and she could only rush +toward the bed crying: + +“My God! My God! what is the matter, monsieur? Answer me, monsieur, you +frighten me!” + +For a full minute Pascal struggled in vain to recover his breath. Then, +the viselike pressure on his chest relaxing slowly, he murmured in a +faint voice: + +“The five thousand francs in the desk are Clotilde’s. Tell her that the +affair of the notary is settled, that she will recover from it enough +to live upon.” + +Then Martine, who had listened to him in open-mouthed wonder, confessed +the falsehood she had told him, ignorant of the good news that had been +brought by Ramond. + +“Monsieur, you must forgive me; I told you an untruth. But it would be +wrong to deceive you longer. When I saw you alone and so unhappy, I +took some of my own money.” + +“My poor girl, you did that!” + +“Oh, I had some hope that monsieur would return it to me one day.” + +By this time the attack had passed off, and he was able to turn his +head and look at her. He was amazed and moved. What was passing in the +heart of this avaricious old maid, who for thirty years had been saving +up her treasure painfully, who had never taken a sou from it, either +for herself or for any one else? He did not yet comprehend, but he +wished to show himself kind and grateful. + +“You are a good woman, Martine. All that will be returned to you. I +truly think I am going to die—” + +She did not allow him to finish, her whole being rose up in rebellious +protest. + +“Die; you, monsieur! Die before me! I do not wish it. I will not let +you die!” + +She threw herself on her knees beside the bed; she caught him wildly in +her arms, feeling him, to see if he suffered, holding him as if she +thought that death would not dare to take him from her. + +“You must tell me what is the matter with you. I will take care of you. +I will save you. If it were necessary to give my life for you, I would +give it, monsieur. I will sit up day and night with you. I am strong +still; I will be stronger than the disease, you shall see. To die! to +die! oh, no, it cannot be! The good God cannot wish so great an +injustice. I have prayed so much in my life that he ought to listen to +me a little now, and he will grant my prayer, monsieur; he will save +you.” + +Pascal looked at her, listened to her, and a sudden light broke in upon +his mind. She loved him, this miserable woman; she had always loved +him. He thought of her thirty years of blind devotion, her mute +adoration, when she had waited upon him, on her knees, as it were, when +she was young; her secret jealousy of Clotilde later; what she must +have secretly suffered all that time! And she was here on her knees now +again, beside his deathbed; her hair gray; her eyes the color of ashes +in her pale nun-like face, dulled by her solitary life. And he felt +that she was unconscious of it all; that she did not even know with +what sort of love she loved him, loving him only for the happiness of +loving him: of being with him, and of waiting on him. + +Tears rose to Pascal’s eyes; a dolorous pity and an infinite human +tenderness flowed from his poor, half-broken heart. + +“My poor girl,” he said, “you are the best of girls. Come, embrace me, +as you love me, with all your strength.” + +She, too, sobbed. She let her gray head, her face worn by her long +servitude, fall on her master’s breast. Wildly she kissed him, putting +all her life into the kiss. + +“There, let us not give way to emotion, for you see we can do nothing; +this will be the end, just the same. If you wish me to love you, obey +me. Now that I am better, that I can breathe easier, do me the favor to +run to Dr. Ramond’s. Waken him and bring him back with you.” + +She was leaving the room when he called to her, seized by a sudden +fear. + +“And remember, I forbid you to go to inform my mother.” + +She turned back, embarrassed, and in a voice of entreaty, said: + +“Oh, monsieur, Mme. Félicité has made me promise so often—” + +But he was inflexible. All his life he had treated his mother with +deference, and he thought he had acquired the right to defend himself +against her in the hour of his death. He would not let the servant go +until she had promised him that she would be silent. Then he smiled +once more. + +“Go quickly. Oh, you will see me again; it will not be yet.” + +Day broke at last, the melancholy dawn of the pale November day. Pascal +had had the shutters opened, and when he was left alone he watched the +brightening dawn, doubtless that of his last day of life. It had rained +the night before, and the mild sun was still veiled by clouds. From the +plane trees came the morning carols of the birds, while far away in the +sleeping country a locomotive whistled with a prolonged moan. And he +was alone; alone in the great melancholy house, whose emptiness he felt +around him, whose silence he heard. The light slowly increased, and he +watched the patches it made on the window-panes broadening and +brightening. Then the candle paled in the growing light, and the whole +room became visible. And with the dawn, as he had anticipated, came +relief. The sight of the familiar objects around him brought him +consolation. + +But Pascal, although the attack had passed away, still suffered +horribly. A sharp pain remained in the hollow of his chest, and his +left arm, benumbed, hung from his shoulder like lead. In his long +waiting for the help that Martine had gone to bring, he had reflected +on the suffering which made the flesh cry out. And he found that he was +resigned; he no longer felt the rebelliousness which the mere sight of +physical pain had formerly awakened in him. It had exasperated him, as +if it had been a monstrous and useless cruelty of nature. In his doubts +as a physician, he had attended his patients only to combat it, and to +relieve it. If he ended by accepting it, now that he himself suffered +its horrible torture, was it that he had risen one degree higher in his +faith of life, to that serene height whence life appeared altogether +good, even with the fatal condition of suffering attached to it; +suffering which is perhaps its spring? Yes, to live all of life, to +live it and to suffer it all without rebellion, without believing that +it is made better by being made painless, this presented itself clearly +to his dying eyes, as the greatest courage and the greatest wisdom. And +to cheat pain while he waited, he reviewed his latest theories; he +dreamed of a means of utilizing suffering by transforming it into +action, into work. If it be true that man feels pain more acutely +according as he rises in the scale of civilization, it is also certain +that he becomes stronger through it, better armed against it, more +capable of resisting it. The organ, the brain which works, develops and +grows stronger, provided the equilibrium between the sensations which +it receives and the work which it gives back be not broken. Might not +one hope, then, for a humanity in which the amount of work accomplished +would so exactly equal the sum of sensations received, that suffering +would be utilized and, as it were, abolished? + +The sun had risen, and Pascal was confusedly revolving these distant +hopes in his mind, in the drowsiness produced by his disease, when he +felt a new attack coming on. He had a moment of cruel anxiety—was this +the end? Was he going to die alone? But at this instant hurried +footsteps mounted the stairs, and a moment later Ramond entered, +followed by Martine. And the patient had time to say before the attack +began: + +“Quick! quick! a hypodermic injection of pure water.” + +Unfortunately the doctor had to look for the little syringe and then to +prepare everything. This occupied some minutes, and the attack was +terrible. He followed its progress with anxiety—the face becoming +distorted, the lips growing livid. Then when he had given the +injection, he observed that the phenomena, for a moment stationary, +slowly diminished in intensity. Once more the catastrophe was averted. + +As soon as he recovered his breath Pascal, glancing at the clock, said +in his calm, faint voice: + +“My friend, it is seven o’clock—in twelve hours, at seven o’clock +to-night, I shall be dead.” + +And as the young man was about to protest, to argue the question, “No,” +he resumed, “do not try to deceive me. You have witnessed the attack. +You know what it means as well as I do. Everything will now proceed +with mathematical exactness; and, hour by hour, I could describe to you +the phases of the disease.” + +He stopped, gasped for breath, and then added: + +“And then, all is well; I am content. Clotilde will be here at five; +all I ask is to see her and to die in her arms.” + +A few moments later, however, he experienced a sensible improvement. +The effect of the injection seemed truly miraculous; and he was able to +sit up in bed, his back resting against the pillows. He spoke clearly, +and with more ease, and never had the lucidity of his mind appeared +greater. + +“You know, master,” said, Ramond, “that I will not leave you. I have +told my wife, and we will spend the day together; and, whatever you may +say to the contrary, I am very confident that it will not be the last. +You will let me make myself at home, here, will you not?” + +Pascal smiled, and gave orders to Martine to go and prepare breakfast +for Ramond, saying that if they needed her they would call her. And the +two men remained alone, conversing with friendly intimacy; the one with +his white hair and long white beard, lying down, discoursing like a +sage, the other sitting at his bedside, listening with the respect of a +disciple. + +“In truth,” murmured the master, as if he were speaking to himself, +“the effect of those injections is extraordinary.” + +Then in a stronger voice, he said almost gaily: + +“My friend Ramond, it may not be a very great present that I am giving +you, but I am going to leave you my manuscripts. Yes, Clotilde has +orders to send them to you when I shall be no more. Look through them, +and you will perhaps find among them things that are not so very bad. +If you get a good idea from them some day—well, that will be so much +the better for the world.” + +And then he made his scientific testament. He was clearly conscious +that he had been himself only a solitary pioneer, a precursor, planning +theories which he tried to put in practise, but which failed because of +the imperfection of his method. He recalled his enthusiasm when he +believed he had discovered, in his injections of nerve substance, the +universal panacea, then his disappointments, his fits of despair, the +shocking death of Lafouasse, consumption carrying off Valentin in spite +of all his efforts, madness again conquering Sarteur and causing him to +hang himself. So that he would depart full of doubt, having no longer +the confidence necessary to the physician, and so enamored of life that +he had ended by putting all his faith in it, certain that it must draw +from itself alone its health and strength. But he did not wish to close +up the future; he was glad, on the contrary, to bequeath his hypotheses +to the younger generation. Every twenty years theories changed; +established truths only, on which science continued to build, remained +unshaken. Even if he had only the merit of giving to science a +momentary hypothesis, his work would not be lost, for progress +consisted assuredly in the effort, in the onward march of the +intellect. + +And then who could say that he had died in vain, troubled and weary, +his hopes concerning the injections unrealized—other workers would +come, young, ardent, confident, who would take up the idea, elucidate +it, expand it. And perhaps a new epoch, a new world would date from +this. + +“Ah, my dear Ramond,” he continued, “if one could only live life over +again. Yes, I would take up my idea again, for I have been struck +lately by the singular efficacy of injections even of pure water. It is +not the liquid, then, that matters, but simply the mechanical action. +During the last month I have written a great deal on that subject. You +will find some curious notes and observations there. In short, I should +be inclined to put all my faith in work, to place health in the +harmonious working of all the organs, a sort of dynamic therapeutics, +if I may venture to use the expression.” + +He had gradually grown excited, forgetting his approaching death in his +ardent curiosity about life. And he sketched, with broad strokes, his +last theory. Man was surrounded by a medium—nature—which irritated by +perpetual contact the sensitive extremities of the nerves. Hence the +action, not only of the senses, but of the entire surface of the body, +external and internal. For it was these sensations which, reverberating +in the brain, in the marrow, and in the nervous centers, were there +converted into tonicity, movements, and thoughts; and he was convinced +that health consisted in the natural progress of this work, in +receiving sensations, and in giving them back in thoughts and in +actions, the human machine being thus fed by the regular play of the +organs. Work thus became the great law, the regulator of the living +universe. Hence it became necessary if the equilibrium were broken, if +the external excitations ceased to be sufficient, for therapeutics to +create artificial excitations, in order to reestablish the tonicity +which is the state of perfect health. And he dreamed of a whole new +system of treatment—suggestion, the all-powerful authority of the +physician, for the senses; electricity, friction, massage for the skin +and for the tendons; diet for the stomach; air cures on high plateaus +for the lungs, and, finally, transfusion, injections of distilled +water, for the circulatory system. It was the undeniable and purely +mechanical action of these latter that had put him on the track; all he +did now was to extend the hypothesis, impelled by his generalizing +spirit; he saw the world saved anew in this perfect equilibrium, as +much work given as sensation received, the balance of the world +restored by unceasing labor. + +Here he burst into a frank laugh. + +“There! I have started off again. I, who was firmly convinced that the +only wisdom was not to interfere, to let nature take its course. Ah, +what an incorrigible old fool I am!” + +Ramond caught his hands in an outburst of admiration and affection. + +“Master, master! it is of enthusiasm, of folly like yours that genius +is made. Have no fear, I have listened to you, I will endeavor to be +worthy of the heritage you leave; and I think, with you, that perhaps +the great future lies entirely there.” + +In the sad and quiet room Pascal began to speak again, with the +courageous tranquillity of a dying philosopher giving his last lesson. +He now reviewed his personal observations; he said that he had often +cured himself by work, regular and methodical work, not carried to +excess. Eleven o’clock struck; he urged Ramond to take his breakfast, +and he continued the conversation, soaring to lofty and distant +heights, while Martine served the meal. The sun had at last burst +through the morning mists, a sun still half-veiled in clouds, and mild, +whose golden light warmed the room. Presently, after taking a few sips +of milk, Pascal remained silent. + +At this moment the young physician was eating a pear. + +“Are you in pain again?” he asked. + +“No, no; finish.” + +But he could not deceive Ramond. It was an attack, and a terrible one. +The suffocation came with the swiftness of a thunderbolt, and he fell +back on the pillow, his face already blue. He clutched at the +bedclothes to support himself, to raise the dreadful weight which +oppressed his chest. Terrified, livid, he kept his wide open eyes fixed +upon the clock, with a dreadful expression of despair and grief; and +for ten minutes it seemed as if every moment must be his last. + +Ramond had immediately given him a hypodermic injection. The relief was +slow to come, the efficacy less than before. + +When Pascal revived, large tears stood in his eyes. He did not speak +now, he wept. Presently, looking at the clock with his darkening +vision, he said: + +“My friend, I shall die at four o’clock; I shall not see her.” + +And as his young colleague, in order to divert his thoughts, declared, +in spite of appearances, that the end was not so near, Pascal, again +becoming enthusiastic, wished to give him a last lesson, based on +direct observation. He had, as it happened, attended several cases +similar to his own, and he remembered especially to have dissected at +the hospital the heart of a poor old man affected with sclerosis. + +“I can see it—my heart. It is the color of a dead leaf; its fibers are +brittle, wasted, one would say, although it has augmented slightly in +volume. The inflammatory process has hardened it; it would be difficult +to cut—” + +He continued in a lower voice. A little before, he had felt his heart +growing weaker, its contractions becoming feebler and slower. Instead +of the normal jet of blood there now issued from the aorta only a red +froth. Back of it all the veins were engorged with black blood; the +suffocation increased, according as the lift and force pump, the +regulator of the whole machine, moved more slowly. And after the +injection he had been able to follow in spite of his suffering the +gradual reviving of the organ as the stimulus set it beating again, +removing the black venous blood, and sending life into it anew, with +the red arterial blood. But the attack would return as soon as the +mechanical effect of the injection should cease. He could predict it +almost within a few minutes. Thanks to the injections he would have +three attacks more. The third would carry him off; he would die at four +o’clock. + +Then, while his voice grew gradually weaker, in a last outburst of +enthusiasm, he apostrophized the courage of the heart, that persistent +life maker, working ceaselessly, even during sleep, when the other +organs rested. + +“Ah, brave heart! how heroically you struggle! What faithful, what +generous muscles, never wearied! You have loved too much, you have beat +too fast in the past months, and that is why you are breaking now, +brave heart, who do not wish to die, and who strive rebelliously to +beat still!” + +But now the first of the attacks which had been announced came on. +Pascal came out of this panting, haggard, his speech sibilant and +painful. Low moans escaped him, in spite of his courage. Good God! +would this torture never end? And yet his most ardent desire was to +prolong his agony, to live long enough to embrace Clotilde a last time. +If he might only be deceiving himself, as Ramond persisted in +declaring. If he might only live until five o’clock. His eyes again +turned to the clock, they never now left the hands, every minute +seeming an eternity. They marked three o’clock. Then half-past three. +Ah, God! only two hours of life, two hours more of life. The sun was +already sinking toward the horizon; a great calm descended from the +pale winter sky, and he heard at intervals the whistles of the distant +locomotives crossing the bare plain. The train that was passing now was +the one going to the Tulettes; the other, the one coming from +Marseilles, would it never arrive, then! + +At twenty minutes to four Pascal signed to Ramond to approach. He could +no longer speak loud enough to be heard. + +“You see, in order that I might live until six o’clock, the pulse +should be stronger. I have still some hope, however, but the second +movement is almost imperceptible, the heart will soon cease to beat.” + +And in faint, despairing accents he called on Clotilde again and again. +The immeasurable grief which he felt at not being able to see her again +broke forth in this faltering and agonized appeal. Then his anxiety +about his manuscripts returned, an ardent entreaty shone in his eyes, +until at last he found the strength to falter again: + +“Do not leave me; the key is under my pillow; tell Clotilde to take it; +she has my directions.” + +At ten minutes to four another hypodermic injection was given, but +without effect. And just as four o’clock was striking, the second +attack declared itself. Suddenly, after a fit of suffocation, he threw +himself out of bed; he desired to rise, to walk, in a last revival of +his strength. A need of space, of light, of air, urged him toward the +skies. Then there came to him an irresistible appeal from life, his +whole life, from the adjoining workroom, where he had spent his days. +And he went there, staggering, suffocating, bending to the left side, +supporting himself by the furniture. + +Dr. Ramond precipitated himself quickly toward him to stop him, crying: + +“Master, master! lie down again, I entreat you!” + +But Pascal paid no heed to him, obstinately determined to die on his +feet. The desire to live, the heroic idea of work, alone survived in +him, carrying him onward bodily. He faltered hoarsely: + +“No, no—out there, out there—” + +His friend was obliged to support him, and he walked thus, stumbling +and haggard, to the end of the workroom, and dropped into his chair +beside his table, on which an unfinished page still lay among a +confusion of papers and books. + +Here he gasped for breath and his eyes closed. After a moment he opened +them again, while his hands groped about, seeking his work, no doubt. +They encountered the genealogical tree in the midst of other papers +scattered about. Only two days before he had corrected some dates in +it. He recognized it, and drawing it toward him, spread it out. + +“Master, master! you will kill yourself!” cried Ramond, overcome with +pity and admiration at this extraordinary spectacle. + +Pascal did not listen, did not hear. He felt a pencil under his +fingers. He took it and bent over the tree, as if his dying eyes no +longer saw. The name of Maxime arrested his attention, and he wrote: +“Died of ataxia in 1873,” in the certainty that his nephew would not +live through the year. Then Clotilde’s name, beside it, struck him and +he completed the note thus: “Has a son, by her Uncle Pascal, in 1874.” +But it was his own name that he sought wearily and confusedly. When he +at last found it his hand grew firmer, and he finished his note, in +upright and bold characters: “Died of heart disease, November 7, 1873.” +This was the supreme effort, the rattle in his throat increased, +everything was fading into nothingness, when he perceived the blank +leaf above Clotilde’s name. His vision grew dark, his fingers could no +longer hold the pencil, but he was still able to add, in unsteady +letters, into which passed the tortured tenderness, the wild disorder +of his poor heart: “The unknown child, to be born in 1874. What will it +be?” Then he swooned, and Martine and Ramond with difficulty carried +him back to bed. + +The third attack came on about four o’clock. In this last access of +suffocation Pascal’s countenance expressed excruciating suffering. +Death was to be very painful; he must endure to the end his martyrdom, +as a man and a scientist. His wandering gaze still seemed to seek the +clock, to ascertain the hour. And Ramond, seeing his lips move, bent +down and placed his ear to the mouth of the dying man. The latter, in +effect, was stammering some vague words, so faint that they scarcely +rose above a breath: + +“Four o’clock—the heart is stopping; no more red blood in the aorta—the +valve relaxes and bursts.” + +A dreadful spasm shook him; his breathing grew fainter. + +“Its progress is too rapid. Do not leave me; the key is under the +pillow—Clotilde, Clotilde—” + +At the foot of the bed Martine was kneeling, choked with sobs. She saw +well that monsieur was dying. She had not dared to go for a priest +notwithstanding her great desire to do so; and she was herself reciting +the prayers for the dying; she prayed ardently that God would pardon +monsieur, and that monsieur might go straight to Paradise. + +Pascal was dying. His face was quite blue. After a few seconds of +immobility, he tried to breathe: he put out his lips, opened his poor +mouth, like a little bird opening its beak to get a last mouthful of +air. And he was dead. + + + + +XIII. + + +It was not until after breakfast, at about one o’clock, that Clotilde +received the despatch. On this day it had chanced that she had +quarreled with her brother Maxime, who, taking advantage of his +privileges as an invalid, had tormented her more and more every day by +his unreasonable caprices and his outbursts of ill temper. In short, +her visit to him had not proved a success. He found that she was too +simple and too serious to cheer him; and he had preferred, of late, the +society of Rose, the fair-haired young girl, with the innocent look, +who amused him. So that when his sister told him that their uncle had +sent for her, and that she was going away, he gave his approval at +once, and although he asked her to return as soon as she should have +settled her affairs at home, he did so only with the desire of showing +himself amiable, and he did not press the invitation. + +Clotilde spent the afternoon in packing her trunks. In the feverish +excitement of so sudden a decision she had thought of nothing but the +joy of her return. But after the hurry of dinner was over, after she +had said good-by to her brother, after the interminable drive in a +hackney coach along the avenue of the Bois de Boulogne to the Lyons +railway station, when she found herself in the ladies’ compartment, +starting on the long journey on a cold and rainy November night, +already rolling away from Paris, her excitement began to abate, and +reflections forced their way into her mind and began to trouble her. +Why this brief and urgent despatch: “I await you; start this evening.” +Doubtless it was the answer to her letter; but she knew how greatly +Pascal had desired that she should remain in Paris, where he thought +she was happy, and she was astonished at his hasty summons. She had not +expected a despatch, but a letter, arranging for her return a few weeks +later. There must be something else, then; perhaps he was ill and felt +a desire, a longing to see her again at once. And from this time +forward this fear seized her with the force of a presentiment, and grew +stronger and stronger, until it soon took complete possession of her. + +All night long the rain beat furiously against the windows of the train +while they were crossing the plains of Burgundy, and did not cease +until they reached Macon. When they had passed Lyons the day broke. +Clotilde had Pascal’s letters with her, and she had waited impatiently +for the daylight that she might read again carefully these letters, the +writing of which had seemed changed to her. And noticing the unsteady +characters, the breaks in the words, she felt a chill at her heart. He +was ill, very ill—she had become certain of this now, by a divination +in which there was less of reasoning than of subtle prescience. And the +rest of the journey seemed terribly long, for her anguish increased in +proportion as she approached its termination. And worse than all, +arriving at Marseilles at half-past twelve, there was no train for +Plassans until twenty minutes past three. Three long hours of waiting! +She breakfasted at the buffet in the railway station, eating hurriedly, +as if she was afraid of missing this train; then she dragged herself +into the dusty garden, going from bench to bench in the pale, mild +sunshine, among omnibuses and hackney coaches. At last she was once +more in the train, which stopped at every little way station. When they +were approaching Plassans she put her head out of the window eagerly, +longing to see the town again after her short absence of two months. It +seemed to her as if she had been away for twenty years, and that +everything must be changed. When the train was leaving the little +station of Sainte-Marthe her emotion reached its height when, leaning +out, she saw in the distance La Souleiade with the two secular +cypresses on the terrace, which could be seen three leagues off. + +It was five o’clock, and twilight was already falling. The train +stopped, and Clotilde descended. But it was a surprise and a keen grief +to her not to see Pascal waiting for her on the platform. She had been +saying to herself since they had left Lyons: “If I do not see him at +once, on the arrival of the train, it will be because he is ill.” He +might be in the waiting-room, however, or with a carriage outside. She +hurried forward, but she saw no one but Father Durieu, a driver whom +the doctor was in the habit of employing. She questioned him eagerly. +The old man, a taciturn Provençal, was in no haste to answer. His wagon +was there, and he asked her for the checks for her luggage, wishing to +see about the trunks before anything else. In a trembling voice she +repeated her question: + +“Is everybody well, Father Durieu?” + +“Yes, mademoiselle.” + +And she was obliged to put question after question to him before she +succeeded in eliciting the information that it was Martine who had told +him, at about six o’clock the day before, to be at the station with his +wagon, in time to meet the train. He had not seen the doctor, no one +had seen him, for two months past. It might very well be since he was +not here that he had been obliged to take to his bed, for there was a +report in the town that he was not very well. + +“Wait until I get the luggage, mademoiselle,” he ended, “there is room +for you on the seat.” + +“No, Father Durieu, it would be too long to wait. I will walk.” + +She ascended the slope rapidly. Her heart was so tightened that she +could scarcely breathe. The sun had sunk behind the hills of +Sainte-Marthe, and a fine mist was falling from the chill gray November +sky, and as she took the road to Les Fenouilleres she caught another +glimpse of La Souleiade, which struck a chill to her heart—the front of +the house, with all its shutters closed, and wearing a look of +abandonment and desolation in the melancholy twilight. + +But Clotilde received the final and terrible blow when she saw Ramond +standing at the hall door, apparently waiting for her. He had indeed +been watching for her, and had come downstairs to break the dreadful +news gently to her. She arrived out of breath; she had crossed the +quincunx of plane trees near the fountain to shorten the way, and on +seeing the young man there instead of Pascal, whom she had in spite of +everything expected to see, she had a presentiment of overwhelming +ruin, of irreparable misfortune. Ramond was pale and agitated, +notwithstanding the effort he made to control his feelings. At the +first moment he could not find a word to say, but waited to be +questioned. Clotilde, who was herself suffocating, said nothing. And +they entered the house thus; he led her to the dining-room, where they +remained for a few seconds, face to face, in mute anguish. + +“He is ill, is he not?” she at last faltered. + +“Yes,” he said, “he is ill.” + +“I knew it at once when I saw you,” she replied. “I knew when he was +not here that he must be ill. He is very ill, is he not?” she +persisted. + +As he did not answer but grew still paler, she looked at him fixedly. +And on the instant she saw the shadow of death upon him; on his hands +that still trembled, that had assisted the dying man; on his sad face; +in his troubled eyes, which still retained the reflection of the death +agony; in the neglected and disordered appearance of the physician who, +for twelve hours, had maintained an unavailing struggle against death. + +She gave a loud cry: + +“He is dead!” + +She tottered, and fell fainting into the arms of Ramond, who with a +great sob pressed her in a brotherly embrace. And thus they wept on +each other’s neck. + +When he had seated her in a chair, and she was able to speak, he said: + +“It was I who took the despatch you received to the telegraph office +yesterday, at half-past ten o’clock. He was so happy, so full of hope! +He was forming plans for the future—a year, two years of life. And this +morning, at four o’clock, he had the first attack, and he sent for me. +He saw at once that he was doomed, but he expected to last until six +o’clock, to live long enough to see you again. But the disease +progressed too rapidly. He described its progress to me, minute by +minute, like a professor in the dissecting room. He died with your name +upon his lips, calm, but full of anguish, like a hero.” + +Clotilde listened, her eyes drowned in tears which flowed endlessly. +Every word of the relation of this piteous and stoical death penetrated +her heart and stamped itself there. She reconstructed every hour of the +dreadful day. She followed to its close its grand and mournful drama. +She would live it over in her thoughts forever. + +But her despairing grief overflowed when Martine, who had entered the +room a moment before, said in a harsh voice: + +“Ah, mademoiselle has good reason to cry! for if monsieur is dead, +mademoiselle is to blame for it.” + +The old servant stood apart, near the door of her kitchen, in such a +passion of angry grief, because they had taken her master from her, +because they had killed him, that she did not even try to find a word +of welcome or consolation for this child whom she had brought up. And +without calculating the consequences of her indiscretion, the grief or +the joy which she might cause, she relieved herself by telling all she +knew. + +“Yes, if monsieur has died, it is because mademoiselle went away.” + +From the depths of her overpowering grief Clotilde protested. She had +expected to see Martine weeping with her, like Ramond, and she was +surprised to feel that she was an enemy. + +“Why, it was he who would not let me stay, who insisted upon my going +away,” she said. + +“Oh, well! mademoiselle must have been willing to go or she would have +been more clear-sighted. The night before your departure I found +monsieur half-suffocated with grief; and when I wished to inform +mademoiselle, he himself prevented me; he had such courage. Then I +could see it all, after mademoiselle had gone. Every night it was the +same thing over again, and he could hardly keep from writing to you to +come back. In short, he died of it, that is the pure truth.” + +A great light broke in on Clotilde’s mind, making her at the same time +very happy and very wretched. Good God! what she had suspected for a +moment, was then true. Afterward she had been convinced, seeing +Pascal’s angry persistence, that he was speaking the truth; that +between her and work he had chosen work sincerely, like a man of +science with whom love of work has gained the victory over the love of +woman. And yet he had not spoken the truth; he had carried his +devotion, his self-forgetfulness to the point of immolating himself to +what he believed to be her happiness. And the misery of things willed +that he should have been mistaken, that he should have thus consummated +the unhappiness of both. + +Clotilde again protested wildly: + +“But how could I have known? I obeyed; I put all my love in my +obedience.” + +“Ah,” cried Martine again, “it seems to me that I should have guessed.” + +Ramond interposed gently. He took Clotilde’s hands once more in his, +and explained to her that grief might indeed have hastened the fatal +issue, but that the master had unhappily been doomed for some time +past. The affection of the heart from which he had suffered must have +been of long standing—a great deal of overwork, a certain part of +heredity, and, finally, his late absorbing love, and the poor heart had +broken. + +“Let us go upstairs,” said Clotilde simply. “I wish to see him.” + +Upstairs in the death-chamber the blinds were closed, shutting out even +the melancholy twilight. On a little table at the foot of the bed +burned two tapers in two candlesticks. And they cast a pale yellow +light on Pascal’s form extended on the bed, the feet close together, +the hands folded on the breast. The eyes had been piously closed. The +face, of a bluish hue still, but already looking calm and peaceful, +framed by the flowing white hair and beard, seemed asleep. He had been +dead scarcely an hour and a half, yet already infinite serenity, +eternal silence, eternal repose, had begun. + +Seeing him thus, at the thought that he no longer heard her, that he no +longer saw her, that she was alone now, that she was to kiss him for +the last time, and then lose him forever, Clotilde, in an outburst of +grief, threw herself upon the bed, and in broken accents of passionate +tenderness cried: + +“Oh, master, master, master—” + +She pressed her lips to the dead man’s forehead, and, feeling it still +warm with life, she had a momentary illusion: she fancied that he felt +this last caress, so cruelly awaited. Did he not smile in his +immobility, happy at last, and able to die, now that he felt her here +beside him? Then, overcome by the dreadful reality, she burst again +into wild sobs. + +Martine entered, bringing a lamp, which she placed on a corner of the +chimney-piece, and she heard Ramond, who was watching Clotilde, +disquieted at seeing her passionate grief, say: + +“I shall take you away from the room if you give way like this. +Consider that you have some one else to think of now.” + +The servant had been surprised at certain words which she had overheard +by chance during the day. Suddenly she understood, and she turned paler +even than before, and on her way out of the room, she stopped at the +door to hear more. + +“The key of the press is under his pillow,” said Ramond, lowering his +voice; “he told me repeatedly to tell you so. You know what you have to +do?” + +Clotilde made an effort to remember and to answer. + +“What I have to do? About the papers, is it not? Yes, yes, I remember; +I am to keep the envelopes and to give you the other manuscripts. Have +no fear, I am quite calm, I will be very reasonable. But I will not +leave him; I will spend the night here very quietly, I promise you.” + +She was so unhappy, she seemed so resolved to watch by him, to remain +with him, until he should be taken away, that the young physician +allowed her to have her way. + +“Well, I will leave you now. They will be expecting me at home. Then +there are all sorts of formalities to be gone through—to give notice at +the mayor’s office, the funeral, of which I wish to spare you the +details. Trouble yourself about nothing. Everything will be arranged +to-morrow when I return.” + +He embraced her once more and then went away. And it was only then that +Martine left the room, behind him, and locking the hall door she ran +out into the darkness. + +Clotilde was now alone in the chamber; and all around and about her, in +the unbroken silence, she felt the emptiness of the house. Clotilde was +alone with the dead Pascal. She placed a chair at the head of the bed +and sat there motionless, alone. On arriving, she had merely removed +her hat: now, perceiving that she still had on her gloves, she took +them off also. But she kept on her traveling dress, crumpled and dusty, +after twenty hours of railway travel. No doubt Father Durieu had +brought the trunks long ago, and left them downstairs. But it did not +occur to her, nor had she the strength to wash herself and change her +clothes, but remained sitting, overwhelmed with grief, on the chair +into which she had dropped. One regret, a great remorse, filled her to +the exclusion of all else. Why had she obeyed him? Why had she +consented to leave him? If she had remained she had the ardent +conviction that he would not have died. She would have lavished so much +love, so many caresses upon him, that she would have cured him. If one +was anxious to keep a beloved being from dying one should remain with +him and, if necessary, give one’s heart’s blood to keep him alive. It +was her own fault if she had lost him, if she could not now with a +caress awaken him from his eternal sleep. And she thought herself +imbecile not to have understood; cowardly, not to have devoted herself +to him; culpable, and to be forever punished for having gone away when +plain common sense, in default of feeling, ought to have kept her here, +bound, as a submissive and affectionate subject, to the task of +watching over her king. + +The silence had become so complete, so profound, that Clotilde lifted +her eyes for a moment from Pascal’s face to look around the room. She +saw only vague shadows—the two tapers threw two yellow patches on the +high ceiling. At this moment she remembered the letters he had written +to her, so short, so cold; and she comprehended his heroic sacrifice, +the torture it had been to him to silence his heart, desiring to +immolate himself to the end. What strength must he not have required +for the accomplishment of the plan of happiness, sublime and +disastrous, which he had formed for her. He had resolved to pass out of +her life in order to save her from his old age and his poverty; he +wished her to be rich and free, to enjoy her youth, far away from him; +this indeed was utter self-effacement, complete absorption in the love +of another. And she felt a profound gratitude, a sweet solace in the +thought, mingled with a sort of angry bitterness against evil fortune. +Then, suddenly, the happy years of her childhood and her long youth +spent beside him who had always been so kind and so good-humored, rose +before her—how he had gradually won her affection, how she had felt +that she was his, after the quarrels which had separated them for a +time, and with what a transport of joy she had at last given herself to +him. + +Seven o’clock struck. Clotilde started as the clear tones broke the +profound silence. Who was it that had spoken? Then she remembered, and +she looked at the clock. And when the last sound of the seven strokes, +each of which had fallen like a knell upon her heart, had died away, +she turned her eyes again on the motionless face of Pascal, and once +more she abandoned herself to her grief. + +It was in the midst of this ever-increasing prostration that Clotilde, +a few minutes later, heard a sudden sound of sobbing. Some one had +rushed into the room; she looked round and saw her Grandmother +Félicité. But she did not stir, she did not speak, so benumbed was she +with grief. Martine, anticipating the orders which Clotilde would +undoubtedly have given her, had hurried to old Mme. Rougon’s, to give +her the dreadful news; and the latter, dazed at first by the suddenness +of the catastrophe, and afterward greatly agitated, had hurried to the +house, overflowing with noisy grief. She burst into tears at sight of +her son, and then embraced Clotilde, who returned her kiss, as in a +dream. And from this instant the latter, without emerging from the +overwhelming grief in which she isolated herself, felt that she was no +longer alone, hearing a continual stir and bustle going on around her. +It was Félicité crying, coming in and going out on tiptoe, setting +things in order, spying about, whispering, dropping into a chair, to +get up again a moment afterward, after saying that she was going to die +in it. At nine o’clock she made a last effort to persuade her +granddaughter to eat something. Twice already she had lectured her in a +low voice; she came now again to whisper to her: + +“Clotilde, my dear, I assure you you are wrong. You must keep up your +strength or you will never be able to hold out.” + +But the young woman, with a shake of her head, again refused. + +“Come, you breakfasted at the buffet at Marseilles, I suppose, but you +have eaten nothing since. Is that reasonable? I do not wish you to fall +ill also. Martine has some broth. I have told her to make a light soup +and to roast a chicken. Go down and eat a mouthful, only a mouthful, +and I will remain here.” + +With the same patient gesture Clotilde again refused. At last she +faltered: + +“Do not ask me, grandmother, I entreat you. I could not; it would choke +me.” + +She did not speak again, falling back into her former state of apathy. +She did not sleep, however, her wide open eyes were fixed persistently +on Pascal’s face. For hours she sat there, motionless, erect, rigid, as +if her spirit were far away with the dead. At ten o’clock she heard a +noise; it was Martine bringing up the lamp. Toward eleven Félicité, who +was sitting watching in an armchair, seemed to grow restless, got up +and went out of the room, and came back again. From this forth there +was a continual coming and going as of impatient footsteps prowling +around the young woman, who was still awake, her large eyes fixed +motionless on Pascal. Twelve o’clock struck, and one persistent thought +alone pierced her weary brain, like a nail, and prevented sleep—why had +she obeyed him? If she had remained she would have revived him with her +youth, and he would not have died. And it was not until a little before +one that she felt this thought, too, grow confused and lose itself in a +nightmare. And she fell into a heavy sleep, worn out with grief and +fatigue. + +When Martine had announced to Mme. Rougon the unexpected death of her +son Pascal, in the shock which she received there was as much of anger +as of grief. What! her dying son had not wished to see her; he had made +this servant swear not to inform her of his illness! This thought sent +the blood coursing swiftly through her veins, as if the struggle +between them, which had lasted during his whole life, was to be +continued beyond the grave. Then, when after hastily dressing herself +she had hurried to La Souleiade, the thought of the terrible envelopes, +of all the manuscripts piled up in the press, had filled her with +trembling rage. Now that Uncle Macquart and Aunt Dide were dead, she no +longer feared what she called the abomination of the Tulettes; and even +poor little Charles, in dying, had carried with him one of the most +humiliating of the blots on the family. There remained only the +envelopes, the abominable envelopes, to menace the glorious Rougon +legend which she had spent her whole life in creating, which was the +sole thought of her old age, the work to the triumph of which she had +persistently devoted the last efforts of her wily and active brain. For +long years she had watched these envelopes, never wearying, beginning +the struggle over again, when he had thought her beaten, always alert +and persistent. Ah! if she could only succeed in obtaining possession +of them and destroying them! It would be the execrable past destroyed, +effaced; it would be the glory of her family, so hardly won, at last +freed from all fear, at last shining untarnished, imposing its lie upon +history. And she saw herself traversing the three quarters of Plassans, +saluted by every one, bearing herself as proudly as a queen, mourning +nobly for the fallen Empire. So that when Martine informed her that +Clotilde had come, she quickened her steps as she approached La +Souleiade, spurred by the fear of arriving too late. + +But as soon as she was installed in the house, Félicité at once +regained her composure. There was no hurry, they had the whole night +before them. She wished, however, to win over Martine without delay, +and she knew well how to influence this simple creature, bound up in +the doctrines of a narrow religion. Going down to the kitchen, then, to +see the chicken roasting, she began by affecting to be heartbroken at +the thought of her son dying without having made his peace with the +Church. She questioned the servant, pressing her for particulars. But +the latter shook her head disconsolately—no, no priest had come, +monsieur had not even made the sign of the cross. She, only, had knelt +down to say the prayers for the dying, which certainly could not be +enough for the salvation of a soul. And yet with what fervor she had +prayed to the good God that monsieur might go straight to Paradise! + +With her eyes fixed on the chicken turning on the spit, before a bright +fire, Félicité resumed in a lower voice, with an absorbed air: + +“Ah, my poor girl, what will most prevent him from going to Paradise +are the abominable papers which the unhappy man has left behind him up +there in the press. I cannot understand why it is that lightning from +heaven has not struck those papers before this and reduced them to +ashes. If they are allowed to leave this house it will be ruin and +disgrace and eternal perdition!” + +Martine listened, very pale. + +“Then madame thinks it would be a good work to destroy them, a work +that would assure the repose of monsieur’s soul?” + +“Great God! Do I believe it! Why, if I had those dreadful papers in my +hands, I would throw every one of them into the fire. Oh, you would not +need then to put on any more sticks; with the manuscripts upstairs +alone you would have fuel enough to roast three chickens like that.” + +The servant took a long spoon and began to baste the fowl. She, too, +seemed now to reflect. + +“Only we haven’t got them. I even overheard some words on the subject, +which I may repeat to madame. It was when mademoiselle went upstairs. +Dr. Raymond spoke to her about the papers, asking her if she remembered +some orders which she had received, before she went away, no doubt; and +she answered that she remembered, that she was to keep the envelopes +and to give him all the other manuscripts.” + +Félicité trembled; she could not restrain a terrified movement. Already +she saw the papers slipping out of her reach; and it was not the +envelopes only which she desired, but all the manuscripts, all that +unknown, suspicious, and secret work, from which nothing but scandal +could come, according to the obtuse and excitable mind of the proud old +_bourgeoise_. + +“But we must act!” she cried, “act immediately, this very night! +To-morrow it may be too late.” + +“I know where the key of the press is,” answered Martine in a low +voice. “The doctor told mademoiselle.” + +Félicité immediately pricked up her ears. + +“The key; where is it?” + +“Under the pillow, under monsieur’s head.” + +In spite of the bright blaze of the fire of vine branches the air +seemed to grow suddenly chill, and the two old women were silent. The +only sound to be heard was the drip of the chicken juice falling into +the pan. + +But after Mme. Rougon had eaten a hasty and solitary dinner she went +upstairs again with Martine. Without another word being spoken they +understood each other, it was decided that they would use all possible +means to obtain possession of the papers before daybreak. The simplest +was to take the key from under the pillow. Clotilde would no doubt at +last fall asleep—she seemed too exhausted not to succumb to fatigue. +All they had to do was to wait. They set themselves to watch, then, +going back and forth on tiptoe between the study and the bedroom, +waiting for the moment when the young woman’s large motionless eyes +should close in sleep. One of them would go to see, while the other +waited impatiently in the study, where a lamp burned dully on the +table. This was repeated every fifteen minutes until midnight. The +fathomless eyes, full of gloom and of an immense despair, did not +close. A little before midnight Félicité installed herself in an +armchair at the foot of the bed, resolved not to leave the spot until +her granddaughter should have fallen asleep. From this forth she did +not take her eyes off Clotilde, and it filled her with a sort of fear +to remark that the girl scarcely moved her eyelids, looking with that +inconsolable fixity which defies sleep. Then she herself began to feel +sleep stealing over her. Exasperated, trembling with nervous +impatience, she could remain where she was no longer. And she went to +rejoin the servant, who was watching in the study. + +“It is useless; she will not sleep,” she said in a stifled and +trembling voice. “We must find some other way.” + +It had indeed occurred to her to break open the press. + +But the old oaken boards were strong, the old iron held firmly. How +could they break the lock—not to speak of the noise they would make and +which would certainly be heard in the adjoining room? + +She stood before the thick doors, however, and felt them with her +fingers, seeking some weak spot. + +“If I only had an instrument,” she said. + +Martine, less eager, interrupted her, objecting: “Oh, no, no, madame! +We might be surprised! Wait, I will go again and see if mademoiselle is +asleep now.” + +She went to the bedroom on tiptoe and returned immediately, saying: + +“Yes, she is asleep. Her eyes are closed, and she does not stir.” + +Then both went to look at her, holding their breath and walking with +the utmost caution, so that the boards might not creak. Clotilde had +indeed just fallen asleep: and her stupor seemed so profound that the +two old women grew bold. They feared, however, that they might touch +and waken her, for her chair stood close beside the bed. And then, to +put one’s hand under a dead man’s pillow to rob him was a terrible and +sacrilegious act, the thought of which filled them with terror. Might +it not disturb his repose? Might he not move at the shock? The thought +made them turn pale. + +Félicité had advanced with outstretched hand, but she drew back, +stammering: + +“I am too short. You try, Martine.” + +The servant in her turn approached the bed. But she was seized with +such a fit of trembling that she was obliged to retreat lest she should +fall. + +“No, no, I cannot!” she said. “It seems to me that monsieur is going to +open his eyes.” + +And trembling and awe-struck they remained an instant longer in the +lugubrious chamber full of the silence and the majesty of death, facing +Pascal, motionless forever, and Clotilde, overwhelmed by the grief of +her widowhood. Perhaps they saw, glorifying that mute head, guarding +its work with all its weight, the nobility of a life spent in honorable +labor. The flame of the tapers burned palely. A sacred awe filled the +air, driving them from the chamber. + +Félicité, who was so brave, who had never in her life flinched from +anything, not even from bloodshed, fled as if she was pursued, saying: + +“Come, come, Martine, we will find some other way; we will go look for +an instrument.” + +In the study they drew a breath of relief. Félicité looked in vain +among the papers on Pascal’s work-table for the genealogical tree, +which she knew was usually there. She would so gladly have begun her +work of destruction with this. It was there, but in her feverish +excitement she did not perceive it. + +Her desire drew her back again to the press, and she stood before it, +measuring it and examining it with eager and covetous look. In spite of +her short stature, in spite of her eighty-odd years, she displayed an +activity and an energy that were truly extraordinary. + +“Ah!” she repeated, “if I only had an instrument!” + +And she again sought the crevice in the colossus, the crack into which +she might introduce her fingers, to break it open. She imagined plans +of assault, she thought of using force, and then she fell back on +stratagem, on some piece of treachery which would open to her the +doors, merely by breathing upon them. + +Suddenly her glance kindled; she had discovered the means. + +“Tell me, Martine; there is a hook fastening one of the doors, is there +not?” + +“Yes, madame; it catches in a ring above the middle shelf. See, it is +about the height of this molding.” + +Félicité made a triumphant gesture. + +“Have you a gimlet—a large gimlet? Give me a gimlet!” + +Martine went down into her kitchen and brought back the tool that had +been asked. + +“In that way, you see, we shall make no noise,” resumed the old woman, +setting herself to her task. + +With a strength which one would not have suspected in her little hands, +withered by age, she inserted the gimlet, and made a hole at the height +indicated by the servant. But it was too low; she felt the point, after +a time, entering the shelf. A second attempt brought the instrument in +direct contact with the iron hook. This time the hole was too near. And +she multiplied the holes to right and left, until finally she succeeded +in pushing the hook out of the ring. The bolt of the lock slipped, and +both doors opened. + +“At last!” cried Félicité, beside herself. + +Then she remained motionless for a moment, her ear turned uneasily +toward the bedroom, fearing that she had wakened Clotilde. But silence +reigned throughout the dark and sleeping house. There came from the +bedroom only the august peace of death; she heard nothing but the clear +vibration of the clock; Clotilde fell asleep near one. And the press +yawned wide open, displaying the papers with which it overflowed, +heaped up on its three shelves. Then she threw herself upon it, and the +work of destruction began, in the midst of the sacred obscurity of the +infinite repose of this funereal vigil. + +“At last!” she repeated, in a low voice, “after thirty years of +waiting. Let us hurry—let us hurry. Martine, help me!” + +She had already drawn forward the high chair of the desk, and mounted +on it at a bound, to take down, first of all, the papers on the top +shelf, for she remembered that the envelopes were there. But she was +surprised not to see the thick blue paper wrappers; there was nothing +there but bulky manuscripts, the doctor’s completed but unpublished +works, works of inestimable value, all his researches, all his +discoveries, the monument of his future fame, which he had left in +Ramond’s charge. Doubtless, some days before his death, thinking that +only the envelopes were in danger, and that no one in the world would +be so daring as to destroy his other works, he had begun to classify +and arrange the papers anew, and removed the envelopes out of sight. + +“Ah, so much the worse!” murmured Félicité; “let us begin anywhere; +there are so many of them that if we wish to get through we must hurry. +While I am up here, let us clear these away forever. Here, catch +Martine!” + +And she emptied the shelf, throwing the manuscripts, one by one, into +the arms of the servant, who laid them on the table with as little +noise as possible. Soon the whole heap was on it, and Félicité sprang +down from the chair. + +“To the fire! to the fire! We shall lay our hands on the others, and +too, by and by, on those I am looking for. These can go into it, +meantime. It will be a good riddance, at any rate, a fine clearance, +yes, indeed! To the fire, to the fire with them all, even to the +smallest scrap of paper, even to the most illegible scrawl, if we wish +to be certain of destroying the contamination of evil.” + +She herself, fanatical and fierce, in her hatred of the truth, in her +eagerness to destroy the testimony of science, tore off the first page +of one of the manuscripts, lighted it at the lamp, and then threw this +burning brand into the great fireplace, in which there had not been a +fire for perhaps twenty years, and she fed the fire, continuing to +throw on it the rest of the manuscript, piece by piece. The servant, as +determined as herself, came to her assistance, taking another enormous +notebook, which she tore up leaf by leaf. From this forth the fire did +not cease to burn, filling the wide fireplace with a bright blaze, with +tongues of flame that seemed to die away from time to time, only to +burn up more brightly than ever when fresh fuel fed them. The fire grew +larger, the heap of ashes rose higher and higher—a thick bed of +blackened leaves among which ran millions of sparks. But it was a long, +a never-ending task; for when several pages were thrown on at a time, +they would not burn; it was necessary to move them and turn them over +with the tongs; the best way was to stir them up and then wait until +they were in a blaze, before adding more. The women soon grew skilful +at their task, and the work progressed at a rapid rate. + +In her haste to get a fresh armful of papers Félicité stumbled against +a chair. + +“Oh, madame, take care,” said Martine. “Some one might come!” + +“Come? who should come? Clotilde? She is too sound asleep, poor girl. +And even if any one should come, once it is finished, I don’t care; I +won’t hide myself, you may be sure; I shall leave the empty press +standing wide open; I shall say aloud that it is I who have purified +the house. When there is not a line of writing left, ah, good heavens! +I shall laugh at everything else!” + +For almost two hours the fireplace blazed. They went back to the press +and emptied the two other shelves, and now there remained only the +bottom, which was heaped with a confusion of papers. Little by little, +intoxicated by the heat of the bonfire, out of breath and perspiring, +they gave themselves up to the savage joy of destruction. They stooped +down, they blackened their hands, pushing in the partially consumed +fragments, with gestures so violent, so feverishly excited, that their +gray locks fell in disorder over their shoulders. It was like a dance +of witches, feeding a hellish fire for some abominable act—the +martyrdom of a saint, the burning of written thought in the public +square; a whole world of truth and hope destroyed. And the blaze of +this fire, which at moments made the flame of the lamp grow pale, +lighted up the vast apartment, and made the gigantic shadows of the two +women dance upon the ceiling. + +But as she was emptying the bottom of the press, after having burned, +handful by handful, the papers with which it had been filled, Félicité +uttered a stifled cry of triumph. + +“Ah, here they are! To the fire! to the fire!” + +She had at last come upon the envelopes. Far back, behind the rampart +formed by the notes, the doctor had hidden the blue paper wrappers. And +then began a mad work of havoc, a fury of destruction; the envelopes +were gathered up in handfuls and thrown into the flames, filling the +fireplace with a roar like that of a conflagration. + +“They are burning, they are burning! They are burning at last! Here is +another, Martine, here is another. Ah, what a fire, what a glorious +fire!” + +But the servant was becoming uneasy. + +“Take care, madame, you are going to set the house on fire. Don’t you +hear that roar?” + +“Ah! what does that matter? Let it all burn. They are burning, they are +burning; what a fine sight! Three more, two more, and, see, now the +last is burning!” + +She laughed with delight, beside herself, terrible to see, when some +fragment of lighted soot fell down. The roar was becoming more and more +fierce; the chimney, which was never swept, had caught fire. This +seemed to excite her still more, while the servant, losing her head, +began to scream and run about the room. + +Clotilde slept beside the dead Pascal, in the supreme calm of the +bedroom, unbroken save by the light vibration of the clock striking the +hours. The tapers burned with a tall, still flame, the air was +motionless. And yet, in the midst of her heavy, dreamless sleep, she +heard, as in a nightmare, a tumult, an ever-increasing rush and roar. +And when she opened her eyes she could not at first understand. Where +was she? Why this enormous weight that crushed her heart? She came back +to reality with a start of terror—she saw Pascal, she heard Martine’s +cries in the adjoining room, and she rushed out, in alarm, to learn +their cause. + +But at the threshold Clotilde took in the whole scene with cruel +distinctness—the press wide open and completely empty; Martine maddened +by her fear of fire; Félicité radiant, pushing into the flames with her +foot the last fragments of the envelopes. Smoke and flying soot filled +the study, where the roaring of the fire sounded like the hoarse +gasping of a murdered man—the fierce roar which she had just heard in +her sleep. + +And the cry which sprang from her lips was the same cry that Pascal +himself had uttered on the night of the storm, when he surprised her in +the act of stealing his papers. + +“Thieves! assassins!” + +She precipitated herself toward the fireplace, and, in spite of the +dreadful roaring of the flames, in spite of the falling pieces of soot, +at the risk of setting her hair on fire, and of burning her hands, she +gathered up the leaves which remained yet unconsumed and bravely +extinguished them, pressing them against her. But all this was very +little, only some _debris_; not a complete page remained, not even a +few fragments of the colossal labor, of the vast and patient work of a +lifetime, which the fire had destroyed there in two hours. And with +growing anger, in a burst of furious indignation, she cried: + +“You are thieves, assassins! It is a wicked murder which you have just +committed. You have profaned death, you have slain the mind, you have +slain genius.” + +Old Mme. Rougon did not quail. She advanced, on the contrary, feeling +no remorse, her head erect, defending the sentence of destruction +pronounced and executed by her. + +“It is to me you are speaking, to your grandmother. Is there nothing, +then, that you respect? I have done what I ought to have done, what you +yourself wished to do with us before.” + +“Before, you had made me mad; but since then I have lived, I have +loved, I have understood, and it is life that I defend. Even if it be +terrible and cruel, the truth ought to be respected. Besides, it was a +sacred legacy bequeathed to my protection, the last thoughts of a dead +man, all that remained of a great mind, and which I should have obliged +every one to respect. Yes, you are my grandmother; I am well aware of +it, and it is as if you had just burned your son!” + +“Burn Pascal because I have burned his papers!” cried Félicité. “Do you +not know that I would have burned the town to save the honor of our +family!” + +She continued to advance, belligerent and victorious; and Clotilde, who +had laid on the table the blackened fragments rescued by her from the +burning flames, protected them with her body, fearing that her +grandmother would throw them back again into the fire. She regarded the +two women scornfully; she did not even trouble herself about the fire +in the fireplace, which fortunately went out of itself, while Martine +extinguished with the shovel the burning soot and the last flames of +the smoldering ashes. + +“You know very well, however,” continued the old woman, whose little +figure seemed to grow taller, “that I have had only one ambition, one +passion in life—to see our family rich and powerful. I have fought, I +have watched all my life, I have lived as long as I have done, only to +put down ugly stories and to leave our name a glorious one. Yes, I have +never despaired; I have never laid down my arms; I have been +continually on the alert, ready to profit by the slightest +circumstance. And all I desired to do I have done, because I have known +how to wait.” + +And she waved her hand toward the empty press and the fireplace, where +the last sparks were dying out. + +“Now it is ended, our honor is safe; those abominable papers will no +longer accuse us, and I shall leave behind me nothing to be feared. The +Rougons have triumphed.” + +Clotilde, in a frenzy of grief, raised her arm, as if to drive her out +of the room. But she left it of her own accord, and went down to the +kitchen to wash her blackened hands and to fasten up her hair. The +servant was about to follow her when, turning her head, she saw her +young mistress’ gesture, and she returned. + +“Oh! as for me, mademoiselle, I will go away the day after to-morrow, +when monsieur shall be in the cemetery.” + +There was a moment’s silence. + +“But I am not sending you away, Martine. I know well that it is not you +who are most to blame. You have lived in this house for thirty years. +Remain, remain with me.” + +The old maid shook her gray head, looking very pale and tired. + +“No, I have served monsieur; I will serve no one after monsieur.” + +“But I!” + +“You, no!” + +Clotilde looked embarrassed, hesitated a moment, and remained silent. +But Martine understood; she too seemed to reflect for an instant, and +then she said distinctly: + +“I know what you would say, but—no!” + +And she went on to settle her account, arranging the affair like a +practical woman who knew the value of money. + +“Since I have the means, I will go and live quietly on my income +somewhere. As for you, mademoiselle, I can leave you, for you are not +poor. M. Ramond will explain to you to-morrow how an income of four +thousand francs was saved for you out of the money at the notary’s. +Meantime, here is the key of the desk, where you will find the five +thousand francs which monsieur left there. Oh? I know that there will +be no trouble between us. Monsieur did not pay me for the last three +months; I have papers from him which prove it. In addition, I advanced +lately almost two hundred francs out of my own pocket, without his +knowing where the money came from. It is all written down; I am not at +all uneasy; mademoiselle will not wrong me by a centime. The day after +to-morrow, when monsieur is no longer here, I will go away.” + +Then she went down to the kitchen, and Clotilde, in spite of the +fanaticism of this woman, which had made her take part in a crime, felt +inexpressibly sad at this desertion. When she was gathering up the +fragments of the papers, however, before returning to the bedroom, she +had a thrill of joy, on suddenly seeing the genealogical tree, which +the two women had not perceived, lying unharmed on the table. It was +the only entire document saved from the wreck. She took it and locked +it, with the half-consumed fragments, in the bureau in the bedroom. + +But when she found herself again in this august chamber a great emotion +took possession of her. What supreme calm, what immortal peace, reigned +here, beside the savage destruction that had filled the adjoining room +with smoke and ashes. A sacred serenity pervaded the obscurity; the two +tapers burned with a pure, still, unwavering flame. Then she saw that +Pascal’s face, framed in his flowing white hair and beard, had become +very white. He slept with the light falling upon him, surrounded by a +halo, supremely beautiful. She bent down, kissed him again, felt on her +lips the cold of the marble face, with its closed eyelids, dreaming its +dream of eternity. Her grief at not being able to save the work which +he had left to her care was so overpowering that she fell on her knees +and burst into a passion of sobs. Genius had been violated; it seemed +to her as if the world was about to be destroyed in this savage +destruction of a whole life of labor. + + + + +XIV. + + +In the study Clotilde was buttoning her dress, holding her child, whom +she had been nursing, still in her lap. It was after lunch, about three +o’clock on a hot sunny day at the end of August, and through the +crevices of the carefully closed shutters only a few scattered sunbeams +entered, piercing the drowsy and warm obscurity of the vast apartment. +The rest and peace of the Sunday seemed to enter and diffuse itself in +the room with the last sounds of the distant vesper bell. Profound +silence reigned in the empty house in which the mother and child were +to remain alone until dinner time, the servant having asked permission +to go see a cousin in the faubourg. + +For an instant Clotilde looked at her child, now a big boy of three +months. She had been wearing mourning for Pascal for almost ten +months—a long and simple black gown, in which she looked divinely +beautiful, with her tall, slender figure and her sad, youthful face +surrounded by its aureole of fair hair. And although she could not +smile, it filled her with sweet emotion to see the beautiful child, so +plump and rosy, with his mouth still wet with milk, whose gaze had been +arrested by the sunbeam full of dancing motes. His eyes were fixed +wonderingly on the golden brightness, the dazzling miracle of light. +Then sleep came over him, and he let his little, round, bare head, +covered thinly with fair hair, fall back on his mother’s arm. + +Clotilde rose softly and laid him in the cradle, which stood beside the +table. She remained leaning over him for an instant to assure herself +that he was asleep; then she let down the curtain in the already +darkened room. Then she busied herself with supple and noiseless +movements, walking with so light a step that she scarcely touched the +floor, in putting away some linen which was on the table. Twice she +crossed the room in search of a little missing sock. She was very +silent, very gentle, and very active. And now, in the solitude of the +house, she fell into a reverie and all the past year arose before her. + +First, after the dreadful shock of the funeral, came the departure of +Martine, who had obstinately kept to her determination of going away at +once, not even remaining for the customary week, bringing to replace +her the young cousin of a baker in the neighborhood—a stout brunette, +who fortunately proved very neat and faithful. Martine herself lived at +Sainte-Marthe, in a retired corner, so penuriously that she must be +still saving even out of her small income. She was not known to have +any heir. Who, then, would profit by this miserliness? In ten months +she had not once set foot in La Souleiade—monsieur was not there, and +she had not even the desire to see monsieur’s son. + +Then in Clotilde’s reverie rose the figure of her grandmother Félicité. +The latter came to see her from time to time with the condescension of +a powerful relation who is liberal-minded enough to pardon all faults +when they have been cruelly expiated. She would come unexpectedly, kiss +the child, moralize, and give advice, and the young mother had adopted +toward her the respectful attitude which Pascal had always maintained. +Félicité was now wholly absorbed in her triumph. She was at last about +to realize a plan that she had long cherished and maturely deliberated, +which would perpetuate by an imperishable monument the untarnished +glory of the family. The plan was to devote her fortune, which had +become considerable, to the construction and endowment of an asylum for +the aged, to be called Rougon Asylum. She had already bought the +ground, a part of the old mall outside the town, near the railway +station; and precisely on this Sunday, at five o’clock, when the heat +should have abated a little, the first stone was to be laid, a really +solemn ceremony, to be honored by the presence of all the authorities, +and of which she was to be the acknowledged queen, before a vast +concourse of people. + +Clotilde felt, besides, some gratitude toward her grandmother, who had +shown perfect disinterestedness on the occasion of the opening of +Pascal’s will. The latter had constituted the young woman his sole +legatee; and the mother, who had a right to a fourth part, after +declaring her intention to respect her son’s wishes, had simply +renounced her right to the succession. She wished, indeed, to +disinherit all her family, bequeathing to them glory only, by employing +her large fortune in the erection of this asylum, which was to carry +down to future ages the revered and glorious name of the Rougons; and +after having, for more than half a century, so eagerly striven to +acquire money, she now disdained it, moved by a higher and purer +ambition. And Clotilde, thanks to this liberality, had no uneasiness +regarding the future—the four thousand francs income would be +sufficient for her and her child. She would bring him up to be a man. +She had sunk the five thousand francs that she had found in the desk in +an annuity for him; and she owned, besides, La Souleiade, which +everybody advised her to sell. True, it cost but little to keep it up, +but what a sad and solitary life she would lead in that great deserted +house, much too large for her, where she would be lost. Thus far, +however, she had not been able to make up her mind to leave it. Perhaps +she would never be able to do so. + +Ah, this La Souleiade! all her love, all her life, all her memories +were centered in it. It seemed to her at times as if Pascal were living +here still, for she had changed nothing of their former manner of +living. The furniture remained in the same places, the hours were the +same, the habits the same. The only change she had made was to lock his +room, into which only she went, as into a sanctuary, to weep when she +felt her heart too heavy. And although indeed she felt very lonely, +very lost, at each meal in the bright dining-room downstairs, in fancy +she heard there the echoes of their laughter, she recalled the healthy +appetite of her youth; when they two had eaten and drank so gaily, +rejoicing in their existence. And the garden, too, the whole place was +bound up with the most intimate fibers of her being, for she could not +take a step in it that their united images did not appear before her—on +the terrace; in the slender shadow of the great secular cypresses, +where they had so often contemplated the valley of the Viorne, closed +in by the ridges of the Seille and the parched hills of Sainte-Marthe; +the stone steps among the puny olive and almond trees, which they had +so often challenged each other to run up in a trial of speed, like boys +just let loose from school; and there was the pine grove, too, the +warm, embalsamed shade, where the needles crackled under their feet; +the vast threshing yard, carpeted with soft grass, where they could see +the whole sky at night, when the stars were coming out; and above all +there were the giant plane trees, whose delightful shade they had +enjoyed every day in summer, listening to the soothing song of the +fountain, the crystal clear song which it had sung for centuries. Even +to the old stones of the house, even to the earth of the grounds, there +was not an atom at La Souleiade in which she did not feel a little of +their blood warmly throbbing, with which she did not feel a little of +their life diffused and mingled. + +But she preferred to spend her days in the workroom, and here it was +that she lived over again her best hours. There was nothing new in it +but the cradle. The doctor’s table was in its place before the window +to the left—she could fancy him coming in and sitting down at it, for +his chair had not even been moved. On the long table in the center, +among the old heap of books and papers, there was nothing new but the +cheerful note of the little baby linen, which she was looking over. The +bookcases displayed the same rows of volumes; the large oaken press +seemed to guard within its sides the same treasure, securely shut in. +Under the smoky ceiling the room was still redolent of work, with its +confusion of chairs, the pleasant disorder of this common workroom, +filled with the caprices of the girl and the researches of the +scientist. But what most moved her to-day was the sight of her old +pastels hanging against the wall, the copies which she had made of +living flowers, scrupulously exact copies, and of dream flowers of an +imaginary world, whither her wild fancy sometimes carried her. + +Clotilde had just finished arranging the little garments on the table +when, lifting her eyes, she perceived before her the pastel of old King +David, with his hand resting on the shoulder of Abishag the young +Shunammite. And she, who now never smiled, felt her face flush with a +thrill of tender and pleasing emotion. How they had loved each other, +how they had dreamed of an eternity of love the day on which she had +amused herself painting this proud and loving allegory! The old king, +sumptuously clad in a robe hanging in straight folds, heavy with +precious stones, wore the royal bandeau on his snowy locks; but she was +more sumptuous still, with only her tall slender figure, her delicate +round throat, and her supple arms, divinely graceful. Now he was gone, +he was sleeping under the ground, while she, her pure and triumphant +beauty concealed by her black robes, had only her child to express the +love she had given him before the assembled people, in the full light +of day. + +Then Clotilde sat down beside the cradle. The slender sunbeams +lengthened, crossing the room from end to end, the heat of the warm +afternoon grew oppressive in the drowsy obscurity made by the closed +shutters, and the silence of the house seemed more profound than +before. She set apart some little waists, she sewed on some tapes with +slow-moving needle, and gradually she fell into a reverie in the warm +deep peacefulness of the room, in the midst of the glowing heat +outside. Her thoughts first turned to her pastels, the exact copies and +the fantastic dream flowers; she said to herself now that all her dual +nature was to be found in that passion for truth, which had at times +kept her a whole day before a flower in order to copy it with +exactness, and in her need of the spiritual, which at other times took +her outside the real, and carried her in wild dreams to the paradise of +flowers such as had never grown on earth. She had always been thus. She +felt that she was in reality the same to-day as she had been yesterday, +in the midst of the flow of new life which ceaselessly transformed her. +And then she thought of Pascal, full of gratitude that he had made her +what she was. In days past when, a little girl, he had removed her from +her execrable surroundings and taken her home with him, he had +undoubtedly followed the impulses of his good heart, but he had also +undoubtedly desired to try an experiment with her, to see how she would +grow up in the different environment, in an atmosphere of truthfulness +and affection. This had always been an idea of his. It was an old +theory of his which he would have liked to test on a large scale: +culture through environment, complete regeneration even, the +improvement, the salvation of the individual, physically as well as +morally. She owed to him undoubtedly the best part of her nature; she +guessed how fanciful and violent she might have become, while he had +made her only enthusiastic and courageous. + +In this retrospection she was clearly conscious of the gradual change +that had taken place within her. Pascal had corrected her heredity, and +she lived over again the slow evolution, the struggle between the +fantastic and the real in her. It had begun with her outbursts of anger +as a child, a ferment of rebellion, a want of mental balance that had +caused her to indulge in most hurtful reveries. Then came her fits of +extreme devotion, the need of illusion and falsehood, of immediate +happiness in the thought that the inequalities and injustices of this +wicked world would he compensated by the eternal joys of a future +paradise. This was the epoch of her struggles with Pascal, of the +torture which she had caused him, planning to destroy the work of his +genius. And at this point her nature had changed; she had acknowledged +him for her master. He had conquered her by the terrible lesson of life +which he had given her on the night of the storm. Then, environment had +acted upon her, evolution had proceeded rapidly, and she had ended by +becoming a well-balanced and rational woman, willing to live life as it +ought to be lived, satisfied with doing her work in the hope that the +sum of the common labor would one day free the world from evil and +pain. She had loved, she was a mother now, and she understood. + +Suddenly she remembered the night which they had spent in the threshing +yard. She could still hear her lamentation under the stars—the cruelty +of nature, the inefficacy of science, the wickedness of humanity, and +the need she felt of losing herself in God, in the Unknown. Happiness +consisted in self-renunciation. Then she heard him repeat his creed—the +progress of reason through science, truths acquired slowly and forever +the only possible good, the belief that the sum of these truths, always +augmenting, would finally confer upon man incalculable power and peace, +if not happiness. All was summed up in his ardent faith in life. As he +expressed it, it was necessary to march with life, which marched +always. No halt was to be expected, no peace in immobility and +renunciation, no consolation in turning back. One must keep a steadfast +soul, the only ambition to perform one’s work, modestly looking for no +other reward of life than to have lived it bravely, accomplishing the +task which it imposes. Evil was only an accident not yet explained, +humanity appearing from a great height like an immense wheel in action, +working ceaselessly for the future. Why should the workman who +disappeared, having finished his day’s work, abuse the work because he +could neither see nor know its end? Even if it were to have no end why +should he not enjoy the delight of action, the exhilarating air of the +march, the sweetness of sleep after the fatigue of a long and busy day? +The children would carry on the task of the parents; they were born and +cherished only for this, for the task of life which is transmitted to +them, which they in their turn will transmit to others. All that +remained, then, was to be courageously resigned to the grand common +labor, without the rebellion of the ego, which demands personal +happiness, perfect and complete. + +She questioned herself, and she found that she did not experience that +anguish which had filled her formerly at the thought of what was to +follow death. This anxiety about the Beyond no longer haunted her until +it became a torture. Formerly she would have liked to wrest by force +from heaven the secrets of destiny. It had been a source of infinite +grief to her not to know why she existed. Why are we born? What do we +come on earth to do? What is the meaning of this execrable existence, +without equality, without justice, which seemed to her like a fevered +dream? Now her terror was calmed; she could think of these things +courageously. Perhaps it was her child, the continuation of herself, +which now concealed from her the horror of her end. But her regular +life contributed also to this, the thought that it was necessary to +live for the effort of living, and that the only peace possible in this +world was in the joy of the accomplishment of this effort. She repeated +to herself a remark of the doctor, who would often say when he saw a +peasant returning home with a contented look after his day’s work: +“There is a man whom anxiety about the Beyond will not prevent from +sleeping.” He meant to say that this anxiety troubles and perverts only +excitable and idle brains. If all performed their healthful task, all +would sleep peacefully at night. She herself had felt the beneficent +power of work in the midst of her sufferings and her grief. Since he +had taught her to employ every one of her hours; since she had been a +mother, especially, occupied constantly with her child, she no longer +felt a chill of horror when she thought of the Unknown. She put aside +without an effort disquieting reveries; and if she still felt an +occasional fear, if some of her daily griefs made her sick at heart, +she found comfort and unfailing strength in the thought that her child +was this day a day older, that he would be another day older on the +morrow, that day by day, page by page, his work of life was being +accomplished. This consoled her delightfully for all her miseries. She +had a duty, an object, and she felt in her happy serenity that she was +doing surely what she had been sent here to do. + +Yet, even at this very moment she knew that the mystic was not entirely +dead within her. In the midst of the profound silence she heard a +slight noise, and she raised her head. Who was the divine mediator that +had passed? Perhaps the beloved dead for whom she mourned, and whose +presence near her she fancied she could divine. There must always be in +her something of the childlike believer she had always been, curious +about the Unknown, having an instinctive longing for the mysterious. +She accounted to herself for this longing, she even explained it +scientifically. However far science may extend the limits of human +knowledge, there is undoubtedly a point which it cannot pass; and it +was here precisely that Pascal placed the only interest in life—in the +effort which we ceaselessly make to know more—there was only one +reasonable meaning in life, this continual conquest of the unknown. +Therefore, she admitted the existence of undiscovered forces +surrounding the world, an immense and obscure domain, ten times larger +than the domain already won, an infinite and unexplored realm through +which future humanity would endlessly ascend. Here, indeed, was a field +vast enough for the imagination to lose itself in. In her hours of +reverie she satisfied in it the imperious need which man seems to have +for the spiritual, a need of escaping from the visible world, of +interrogating the Unknown, of satisfying in it the dream of absolute +justice and of future happiness. All that remained of her former +torture, her last mystic transports, were there appeased. She satisfied +there that hunger for consoling illusions which suffering humanity must +satisfy in order to live. But in her all was happily balanced. At this +crisis, in an epoch overburdened with science, disquieted at the ruins +it has made, and seized with fright in the face of the new century, +wildly desiring to stop and to return to the past, Clotilde kept the +happy mean; in her the passion for truth was broadened by her eagerness +to penetrate the Unknown. If sectarian scientists shut out the horizon +to keep strictly to the phenomenon, it was permitted to her, a good, +simple creature, to reserve the part that she did not know, that she +would never know. And if Pascal’s creed was the logical deduction from +the whole work, the eternal question of the Beyond, which she still +continued to put to heaven, reopened the door of the infinite to +humanity marching ever onward. Since we must always learn, while +resigning ourselves never to know all, was it not to will action, life +itself, to reserve the Unknown—an eternal doubt and an eternal hope? + +Another sound, as of a wing passing, the light touch of a kiss upon her +hair, this time made her smile. He was surely here; and her whole being +went out toward him, in the great flood of tenderness with which her +heart overflowed. How kind and cheerful he was, and what a love for +others underlay his passionate love of life! Perhaps he, too, had been +only a dreamer, for he had dreamed the most beautiful of dreams, the +final belief in a better world, when science should have bestowed +incalculable power upon man—to accept everything, to turn everything to +our happiness, to know everything and to foresee everything, to make +nature our servant, to live in the tranquillity of intelligence +satisfied. Meantime faith in life, voluntary and regular labor, would +suffice for health. Evil was only the unexplained side of things; +suffering would one day be assuredly utilized. And regarding from above +the enormous labor of the world, seeing the sum total of humanity, good +and bad—admirable, in spite of everything, for their courage and their +industry—she now regarded all mankind as united in a common +brotherhood, she now felt only boundless indulgence, an infinite pity, +and an ardent charity. Love, like the sun, bathes the earth, and +goodness is the great river at which all hearts drink. + +Clotilde had been plying her needle for two hours, with the same +regular movement, while her thoughts wandered away in the profound +silence. But the tapes were sewed on the little waists, she had even +marked some new wrappers, which she had bought the day before. And, her +sewing finished, she rose to put the linen away. Outside the sun was +declining, and only slender and oblique sunbeams entered through the +crevices of the shutters. She could not see clearly, and she opened one +of the shutters, then she forgot herself for a moment, at the sight of +the vast horizon suddenly unrolled before her. The intense heat had +abated, a delicious breeze was blowing, and the sky was of a cloudless +blue. To the left could be distinguished even the smallest clumps of +pines, among the blood-colored ravines of the rocks of the Seille, +while to the right, beyond the hills of Sainte-Marthe, the valley of +the Viorne stretched away in the golden dust of the setting sun. She +looked for a moment at the tower of St. Saturnin, all golden also, +dominating the rose-colored town; and she was about to leave the window +when she saw a sight that drew her back and kept her there, leaning on +her elbow for a long time still. + +Beyond the railroad a multitude of people were crowded together on the +old mall. Clotilde at once remembered the ceremony. She knew that her +Grandmother Félicité was going to lay the first stone of the Rougon +Asylum, the triumphant monument destined to carry down to future ages +the glory of the family. Vast preparations had been going on for a week +past. There was talk of a silver hod and trowel, which the old lady was +to use herself, determined to figure to triumph, with her eighty-two +years. What swelled her heart with regal pride was that on this +occasion she made the conquest of Plassans for the third time, for she +compelled the whole town, all the three quarters, to range themselves +around her, to form an escort for her, and to applaud her as a +benefactress. For, of course, there had to be present lady patronesses, +chosen from among the noblest ladies of the Quartier St. Marc; a +delegation from the societies of working-women of the old quarter, and, +finally, the most distinguished residents of the new town, advocates, +notaries, physicians, without counting the common people, a stream of +people dressed in their Sunday clothes, crowding there eagerly, as to a +festival. And in the midst of this supreme triumph she was perhaps most +proud—she, one of the queens of the Second Empire, the widow who +mourned with so much dignity the fallen government—in having conquered +the young republic itself, obliging it, in the person of the +sub-prefect, to come and salute her and thank her. At first there had +been question only of a discourse of the mayor; but it was known with +certainty, since the previous day, that the sub-prefect also would +speak. From so great a distance Clotilde could distinguish only a +moving crowd of black coats and light dresses, under the scorching sun. +Then there was a distant sound of music, the music of the amateur band +of the town, the sonorous strains of whose brass instruments were borne +to her at intervals on the breeze. + +She left the window and went and opened the large oaken press to put +away in it the linen that had remained on the table. It was in this +press, formerly so full of the doctor’s manuscripts, and now empty, +that she kept the baby’s wardrobe. It yawned open, vast, seemingly +bottomless, and on the large bare shelves there was nothing but the +baby linen, the little waists, the little caps, the little socks, all +the fine clothing, the down of the bird still in the nest. Where so +many thoughts had been stored up, where a man’s unremitting labor for +thirty years had accumulated in an overflowing heap of papers, there +was now only a baby’s clothing, only the first garments which would +protect it for an hour, as it were, and which very soon it could no +longer use. The vastness of the antique press seemed brightened and all +refreshed by them. + +When Clotilde had arranged the wrappers and the waists upon a shelf, +she perceived a large envelope containing the fragments of the +documents which she had placed there after she had rescued them from +the fire. And she remembered a request which Dr. Ramond had come only +the day before to make her—that she would see if there remained among +this _debris_ any fragment of importance having a scientific interest. +He was inconsolable for the loss of the precious manuscripts which the +master had bequeathed to him. Immediately after the doctor’s death he +had made an attempt to write from memory his last talk, that summary of +vast theories expounded by the dying man with so heroic a serenity; but +he could recall only parts of it. He would have needed complete notes, +observations made from day to day, the results obtained, and the laws +formulated. The loss was irreparable, the task was to be begun over +again, and he lamented having only indications; he said that it would +be at least twenty years before science could make up the loss, and +take up and utilize the ideas of the solitary pioneer whose labors a +wicked and imbecile catastrophe had destroyed. + +The genealogical tree, the only document that had remained intact, was +attached to the envelope, and Clotilde carried the whole to the table +beside the cradle. After she had taken out the fragments, one by one, +she found, what she had been already almost certain of, that not a +single entire page of manuscript remained, not a single complete note +having any meaning. There were only fragments of documents, scraps of +half-burned and blackened paper, without sequence or connection. But as +she examined them, these incomplete phrases, these words half consumed +by fire, assumed for her an interest which no one else could have +understood. She remembered the night of the storm, and the phrases +completed themselves, the beginning of a word evoked before her persons +and histories. Thus her eye fell on Maxime’s name, and she reviewed the +life of this brother who had remained a stranger to her, and whose +death, two months before, had left her almost indifferent. Then, a +half-burned scrap containing her father’s name gave her an uneasy +feeling, for she believed that her father had obtained possession of +the fortune and the house on the avenue of Bois de Boulogne through the +good offices of his hairdresser’s niece, the innocent Rose, repaid, no +doubt, by a generous percentage. Then she met with other names, that of +her uncle Eugène, the former vice emperor, now dead, the curé of +Saint-Eutrope, who, she had been told yesterday, was dying of +consumption. And each fragment became animated in this way; the +execrable family lived again in these scraps, these black ashes, where +were now only disconnected words. + +Then Clotilde had the curiosity to unfold the genealogical tree and +spread it out upon the table. A strong emotion gained on her; she was +deeply affected by these relics; and when she read once more the notes +added in pencil by Pascal, a few moments before his death, tears rose +to her eyes. With what courage he had written down the date of his +death! And what despairing regret for life one divined in the trembling +words announcing the birth of the child! The tree ascended, spread out +its branches, unfolded its leaves, and she remained for a long time +contemplating it, saying to herself that all the work of the master was +to be found here in the classified records of this family tree. She +could still hear certain of his words commenting on each hereditary +case, she recalled his lessons. But the children, above all, interested +her; she read again and again the notes on the leaves which bore their +names. The doctor’s colleague in Nouméa, to whom he had written for +information about the child born of the marriage of the convict +Étienne, had at last made up his mind to answer; but the only +information he gave was in regard to the sex—it was a girl, he said, +and she seemed to be healthy. Octave Mouret had come near losing his +daughter, who had always been very frail, while his little boy +continued to enjoy superb health. But the chosen abode of vigorous +health and of extraordinary fecundity was still the house of Jean, at +Valqueyras, whose wife had had two children in three years and was +about to have a third. The nestlings throve in the sunshine, in the +heart of a fertile country, while the father sang as he guided his +plow, and the mother at home cleverly made the soup and kept the +children in order. There was enough new vitality and industry there to +make another family, a whole race. Clotilde fancied at this moment that +she could hear Pascal’s cry: “Ah, our family! what is it going to be, +in what kind of being will it end?” And she fell again into a reverie, +looking at the tree sending its latest branches into the future. Who +could tell whence the healthy branch would spring? Perhaps the great +and good man so long awaited was germinating there. + +A slight cry drew Clotilde from her reflections. The muslin curtain of +the cradle seemed to become animate. It was the child who had wakened +up and was moving about and calling to her. She at once took him out of +the cradle and held him up gaily, that he might bathe in the golden +light of the setting sun. But he was insensible to the beauty of the +closing day; his little vacant eyes, still full of sleep, turned away +from the vast sky, while he opened wide his rosy and ever hungry mouth, +like a bird opening its beak. And he cried so loud, he had wakened up +so ravenous, that she decided to nurse him again. Besides, it was his +hour; it would soon be three hours since she had last nursed him. + +Clotilde sat down again beside the table. She took him on her lap, but +he was not very good, crying louder and louder, growing more and more +impatient; and she looked at him with a smile while she unfastened her +dress, showing her round, slender throat. Already the child knew, and +raising himself he felt with his lips for the breast. When she placed +it in his mouth he gave a little grunt of satisfaction; he threw +himself upon her with the fine, voracious appetite of a young gentleman +who was determined to live. At first he had clutched the breast with +his little free hand, as if to show that it was his, to defend it and +to guard it. Then, in the joy of the warm stream that filled his throat +he raised his little arm straight up, like a flag. And Clotilde kept +her unconscious smile, seeing him so healthy, so rosy, and so plump, +thriving so well on the nourishment he drew from her. During the first +few weeks she had suffered from a fissure, and even now her breast was +sensitive; but she smiled, notwithstanding, with that peaceful look +which mothers wear, happy in giving their milk as they would give their +blood. + +When she had unfastened her dress, showing her bare throat and breast, +in the solitude and silence of the study, another of her mysteries, one +of her sweetest and most hidden secrets, was revealed at the same +time—the slender necklace with the seven pearls, the seven fine, milky +stars which the master had put around her neck on a day of misery, in +his mania for giving. Since it had been there no one else had seen it. +It seemed as if she guarded it with as much modesty as if it were a +part of her flesh, so simple, so pure, so childlike. And all the time +the child was nursing she alone looked at it in a dreamy reverie, moved +by the tender memory of the kisses whose warm perfume it still seemed +to keep. + +A burst of distant music seemed to surprise Clotilde. She turned her +head and looked across the fields gilded by the oblique rays of the +sun. Ah, yes! the ceremony, the laying of the corner stone yonder! Then +she turned her eyes again on the child, and she gave herself up to the +delight of seeing him with so fine an appetite. She had drawn forward a +little bench, to raise one of her knees, resting her foot upon it, and +she leaned one shoulder against the table, beside the tree and the +blackened fragments of the envelopes. Her thoughts wandered away in an +infinitely sweet reverie, while she felt the best part of herself, the +pure milk, flowing softly, making more and more her own the dear being +she had borne. The child had come, the redeemer, perhaps. The bells +rang, the three wise men had set out, followed by the people, by +rejoicing nature, smiling on the infant in its swaddling clothes. She, +the mother, while he drank life in long draughts, was dreaming already +of his future. What would he be when she should have made him tall and +strong, giving herself to him entirely? A scientist, perhaps, who would +reveal to the world something of the eternal truth; or a great captain, +who would confer glory on his country; or, still better, one of those +shepherds of the people who appease the passions and bring about the +reign of justice. She saw him, in fancy, beautiful, good and powerful. +Hers was the dream of every mother—the conviction that she had brought +the expected Messiah into the world; and there was in this hope, in +this obstinate belief, which every mother has in the certain triumph of +her child, the hope which itself makes life, the belief which gives +humanity the ever renewed strength to live still. + +What would the child be? She looked at him, trying to discover whom he +resembled. He had certainly his father’s brow and eyes, there was +something noble and strong in the breadth of the head. She saw a +resemblance to herself, too, in his fine mouth and his delicate chin. +Then, with secret uneasiness, she sought a resemblance to the others, +the terrible ancestors, all those whose names were there inscribed on +the tree, unfolding its growth of hereditary leaves. Was it this one, +or this, or yet this other, whom he would resemble? She grew calm, +however, she could not but hope, her heart swelled with eternal hope. +The faith in life which the master had implanted in her kept her brave +and steadfast. What did misery, suffering and wickedness matter! Health +was in universal labor, in the effort made, in the power which +fecundates and which produces. The work was good when the child blessed +love. Then hope bloomed anew, in spite of the open wounds, the dark +picture of human shame. It was life perpetuated, tried anew, life which +we can never weary of believing good, since we live it so eagerly, with +all its injustice and suffering. + +Clotilde had glanced involuntarily at the ancestral tree spread out +beside her. Yes, the menace was there—so many crimes, so much filth, +side by side with so many tears, and so much patient goodness; so +extraordinary a mixture of the best and the most vile, a humanity in +little, with all its defects and all its struggles. It was a question +whether it would not be better that a thunderbolt should come and +destroy all this corrupt and miserable ant-hill. And after so many +terrible Rougons, so many vile Macquarts, still another had been born. +Life did not fear to create another of them, in the brave defiance of +its eternity. It continued its work, propagated itself according to its +laws, indifferent to theories, marching on in its endless labor. Even +at the risk of making monsters, it must of necessity create, since, in +spite of all it creates, it never wearies of creating in the hope, no +doubt, that the healthy and the good will one day come. Life, life, +which flows like a torrent, which continues its work, beginning it over +and over again, without pause, to the unknown end! life in which we +bathe, life with its infinity of contrary currents, always in motion, +and vast as a boundless sea! + +A transport of maternal fervor thrilled Clotilde’s heart, and she +smiled, seeing the little voracious mouth drinking her life. It was a +prayer, an invocation, to the unknown child, as to the unknown God! To +the child of the future, to the genius, perhaps, that was to be, to the +Messiah that the coming century awaited, who would deliver the people +from their doubt and their suffering! Since the nation was to be +regenerated, had he not come for this work? He would make the +experiment anew, he would raise up walls, give certainty to those who +were in doubt, he would build the city of justice, where the sole law +of labor would insure happiness. In troublous times prophets were to be +expected—at least let him not be the Antichrist, the destroyer, the +beast foretold in the Apocalypse—who would purge the earth of its +wickedness, when this should become too great. And life would go on in +spite of everything, only it would be necessary to wait for other +myriads of years before the other unknown child, the benefactor, should +appear. + +But the child had drained her right breast, and, as he was growing +angry, Clotilde turned him round and gave him the left. Then she began +to smile, feeling the caress of his greedy little lips. At all events +she herself was hope. A mother nursing, was she not the image of the +world continued and saved? She bent over, she looked into his limpid +eyes, which opened joyously, eager for the light. What did the child +say to her that she felt her heart beat more quickly under the breast +which he was draining? To what cause would he give his blood when he +should be a man, strong with all the milk which he would have drunk? +Perhaps he said nothing to her, perhaps he already deceived her, and +yet she was so happy, so full of perfect confidence in him. + +Again there was a distant burst of music. This must be the apotheosis, +the moment when Grandmother Félicité, with her silver trowel, laid the +first stone of the monument to the glory of the Rougons. The vast blue +sky, gladdened by the Sunday festivities, rejoiced. And in the warm +silence, in the solitary peace of the workroom, Clotilde smiled at the +child, who was still nursing, his little arm held straight up in the +air, like a signal flag of life. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOCTOR PASCAL *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Doctor Pascal</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Émile Zola</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Translator: Mary J. Serrano</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 14, 2004 [eBook #10720]<br /> +[Most recently updated: December 21, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Widger, Dagny and John Bickers</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOCTOR PASCAL ***</div> + +<h1>DOCTOR PASCAL</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">By Émile Zola</h2> + +<h3>Translated By Mary J. Serrano</h3> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0001">I.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0002">II.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003">III.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0004">IV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0005">V.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0006">VI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0007">VII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0008">VIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0009">IX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0010">X.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0011">XI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0012">XII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0013">XIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0014">XIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a> +I.</h2> + +<p> +In the heat of the glowing July afternoon, the room, with blinds carefully +closed, was full of a great calm. From the three windows, through the cracks of +the old wooden shutters, came only a few scattered sunbeams which, in the midst +of the obscurity, made a soft brightness that bathed surrounding objects in a +diffused and tender light. It was cool here in comparison with the overpowering +heat that was felt outside, under the fierce rays of the sun that blazed upon +the front of the house. +</p> + +<p> +Standing before the press which faced the windows, Dr. Pascal was looking for a +paper that he had come in search of. With doors wide open, this immense press +of carved oak, adorned with strong and handsome mountings of metal, dating from +the last century, displayed within its capacious depths an extraordinary +collection of papers and manuscripts of all sorts, piled up in confusion and +filling every shelf to overflowing. For more than thirty years the doctor had +thrown into it every page he wrote, from brief notes to the complete texts of +his great works on heredity. Thus it was that his searches here were not always +easy. He rummaged patiently among the papers, and when he at last found the one +he was looking for, he smiled. +</p> + +<p> +For an instant longer he remained near the bookcase, reading the note by a +golden sunbeam that came to him from the middle window. He himself, in this +dawnlike light, appeared, with his snow-white hair and beard, strong and +vigorous; although he was near sixty, his color was so fresh, his features were +so finely cut, his eyes were still so clear, and he had so youthful an air that +one might have taken him, in his close-fitting, maroon velvet jacket, for a +young man with powdered hair. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Clotilde,” he said at last, “you will copy this note. +Ramond would never be able to decipher my diabolical writing.” +</p> + +<p> +And he crossed the room and laid the paper beside the young girl, who stood +working at a high desk in the embrasure of the window to the right. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, master,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +She did not even turn round, so engrossed was her attention with the pastel +which she was at the moment rapidly sketching in with broad strokes of the +crayon. Near her in a vase bloomed a stalk of hollyhocks of a singular shade of +violet, striped with yellow. But the profile of her small round head, with its +short, fair hair, was clearly distinguishable; an exquisite and serious +profile, the straight forehead contracted in a frown of attention, the eyes of +an azure blue, the nose delicately molded, the chin firm. Her bent neck, +especially, of a milky whiteness, looked adorably youthful under the gold of +the clustering curls. In her long black blouse she seemed very tall, with her +slight figure, slender throat, and flexible form, the flexible slenderness of +the divine figures of the Renaissance. In spite of her twenty-five years, she +still retained a childlike air and looked hardly eighteen. +</p> + +<p> +“And,” resumed the doctor, “you will arrange the press a +little. Nothing can be found there any longer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, master,” she repeated, without raising her head; +“presently.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal had turned round to seat himself at his desk, at the other end of the +room, before the window to the left. It was a plain black wooden table, and was +littered also with papers and pamphlets of all sorts. And silence again reigned +in the peaceful semi-obscurity, contrasting with the overpowering glare +outside. The vast apartment, a dozen meters long and six wide, had, in addition +to the press, only two bookcases, filled with books. Antique chairs of various +kinds stood around in disorder, while for sole adornment, along the walls, hung +with an old <i>salon</i> Empire paper of a rose pattern, were nailed pastels of +flowers of strange coloring dimly visible. The woodwork of three folding-doors, +the door opening on the hall and two others at opposite ends of the apartment, +the one leading to the doctor’s room, the other to that of the young +girl, as well as the cornice of the smoke-darkened ceiling, dated from the time +of Louis XV. +</p> + +<p> +An hour passed without a sound, without a breath. Then Pascal, who, as a +diversion from his work, had opened a newspaper—<i>Le +Temps</i>—which had lain forgotten on the table, uttered a slight +exclamation: +</p> + +<p> +“Why! your father has been appointed editor of the <i>Époque</i>, the +prosperous republican journal which has the publishing of the papers of the +Tuileries.” +</p> + +<p> +This news must have been unexpected by him, for he laughed frankly, at once +pleased and saddened, and in an undertone he continued: +</p> + +<p> +“My word! If things had been invented, they could not have been finer. +Life is a strange thing. This is a very interesting article.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde made no answer, as if her thoughts were a hundred leagues away from +what her uncle was saying. And he did not speak again, but taking his scissors +after he had read the article, he cut it out and pasted it on a sheet of paper, +on which he made some marginal notes in his large, irregular handwriting. Then +he went back to the press to classify this new document in it. But he was +obliged to take a chair, the shelf being so high that he could not reach it +notwithstanding his tall stature. +</p> + +<p> +On this high shelf a whole series of enormous bundles of papers were arranged +in order, methodically classified. Here were papers of all sorts: sheets of +manuscript, documents on stamped paper, articles cut out of newspapers, +arranged in envelopes of strong blue paper, each of which bore on the outside a +name written in large characters. One felt that these documents were tenderly +kept in view, taken out continually, and carefully replaced; for of the whole +press, this corner was the only one kept in order. +</p> + +<p> +When Pascal, mounted on the chair, had found the package he was looking for, +one of the bulkiest of the envelopes, on which was written the name +“Saccard,” he added to it the new document, and then replaced the +whole under its corresponding alphabetical letter. A moment later he had +forgotten the subject, and was complacently straightening a pile of papers that +were falling down. And when he at last jumped down off the chair, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“When you are arranging the press, Clotilde, don’t touch the +packages at the top; do you hear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, master,” she responded, for the third time, docilely. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed again, with the gaiety that was natural to him. +</p> + +<p> +“That is forbidden.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it, master.” +</p> + +<p> +And he closed the press with a vigorous turn of the key, which he then threw +into a drawer of his writing table. The young girl was sufficiently acquainted +with his researches to keep his manuscripts in some degree of order; and he +gladly employed her as his secretary; he made her copy his notes when some +<i>confrère</i> and friend, like Dr. Ramond asked him to send him some +document. But she was not a <i>savante</i>; he simply forbade her to read what +he deemed it useless that she should know. +</p> + +<p> +At last, perceiving her so completely absorbed in her work, his attention was +aroused. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter with you, that you don’t open your lips?” +he said. “Are you so taken up with the copying of those flowers that you +can’t speak?” +</p> + +<p> +This was another of the labors which he often intrusted to her—to make +drawings, aquarelles, and pastels, which he afterward used in his works as +plates. Thus, for the past five years he had been making some curious +experiments on a collection of hollyhocks; he had obtained a whole series of +new colorings by artificial fecundations. She made these sorts of copies with +extraordinary minuteness, an exactitude of design and of coloring so extreme +that he marveled unceasingly at the conscientiousness of her work, and he often +told her that she had a “good, round, strong, clear little +headpiece.” +</p> + +<p> +But, this time, when he approached her to look over her shoulder, he uttered a +cry of comic fury. +</p> + +<p> +“There you are at your nonsense! Now you are off in the clouds again! +Will you do me the favor to tear that up at once?” +</p> + +<p> +She straightened herself, her cheeks flushed, her eyes aglow with the delight +she took in her work, her slender fingers stained with the red and blue crayon +that she had crushed. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, master!” +</p> + +<p> +And in this “master,” so tender, so caressingly submissive, this +term of complete abandonment by which she called him, in order to avoid using +the words godfather or uncle, which she thought silly, there was, for the first +time, a passionate accent of revolt, the revindication of a being recovering +possession of and asserting itself. +</p> + +<p> +For nearly two hours she had been zealously striving to produce an exact and +faithful copy of the hollyhocks, and she had just thrown on another sheet a +whole bunch of imaginary flowers, of dream-flowers, extravagant and superb. She +had, at times, these abrupt shiftings, a need of breaking away in wild fancies +in the midst of the most precise of reproductions. She satisfied it at once, +falling always into this extraordinary efflorescence of such spirit and fancy +that it never repeated itself; creating roses, with bleeding hearts, weeping +tears of sulphur, lilies like crystal urns, flowers without any known form, +even, spreading out starry rays, with corollas floating like clouds. To-day, on +a groundwork dashed in with a few bold strokes of black crayon, it was a rain +of pale stars, a whole shower of infinitely soft petals; while, in a corner, an +unknown bloom, a bud, chastely veiled, was opening. +</p> + +<p> +“Another to nail there!” resumed the doctor, pointing to the wall, +on which there was already a row of strangely curious pastels. “But what +may that represent, I ask you?” +</p> + +<p> +She remained very grave, drawing back a step, the better to contemplate her +work. +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing about it; it is beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment appeared Martine, the only servant, become the real mistress of +the house, after nearly thirty years of service with the doctor. Although she +had passed her sixtieth year, she, too, still retained a youthful air as she +went about, silent and active, in her eternal black gown and white cap that +gave her the look of a nun, with her small, white, calm face, and lusterless +eyes, the light in which seemed to have been extinguished. +</p> + +<p> +Without speaking, she went and sat down on the floor before an easy-chair, +through a rent in the old covering of which the hair was escaping, and drawing +from her pocket a needle and a skein of worsted, she set to work to mend it. +For three days past she had been waiting for an hour’s time to do this +piece of mending, which haunted her. +</p> + +<p> +“While you are about it, Martine,” said Pascal jestingly, taking +between both his hands the mutinous head of Clotilde, “sew me fast, too, +this little noodle, which sometimes wanders off into the clouds.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine raised her pale eyes, and looked at her master with her habitual air of +adoration? +</p> + +<p> +“Why does monsieur say that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because, my good girl, in very truth, I believe it is you who have +stuffed this good little round, clear, strong headpiece full of notions of the +other world, with all your devoutness.” +</p> + +<p> +The two women exchanged a glance of intelligence. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, monsieur! religion has never done any harm to any one. And when +people have not the same ideas, it is certainly better not to talk about +them.” +</p> + +<p> +An embarrassed silence followed; this was the one difference of opinion which, +at times, brought about disagreements among these three united beings who led +so restricted a life. Martine was only twenty-nine, a year older than the +doctor, when she entered his house, at the time when he made his <i>début</i> +as a physician at Plassans, in a bright little house of the new town. And +thirteen years later, when Saccard, a brother of Pascal, sent him his daughter +Clotilde, aged seven, after his wife’s death and at the moment when he +was about to marry again, it was she who brought up the child, taking it to +church, and communicating to it a little of the devout flame with which she had +always burned; while the doctor, who had a broad mind, left them to their joy +of believing, for he did not feel that he had the right to interdict to any one +the happiness of faith; he contented himself later on with watching over the +young girl’s education and giving her clear and sound ideas about +everything. For thirteen years, during which the three had lived this retired +life at La Souleiade, a small property situated in the outskirts of the town, a +quarter of an hour’s walk from St. Saturnin, the cathedral, his life had +flowed happily along, occupied in secret great works, a little troubled, +however, by an ever increasing uneasiness—the collision, more and more +violent, every day, between their beliefs. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal took a few turns gloomily up and down the room. Then, like a man who did +not mince his words, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“See, my dear, all this phantasmagoria of mystery has turned your pretty +head. Your good God had no need of you; I should have kept you for myself +alone; and you would have been all the better for it.” +</p> + +<p> +But Clotilde, trembling with excitement, her clear eyes fixed boldly upon his, +held her ground. +</p> + +<p> +“It is you, master, who would be all the better, if you did not shut +yourself up in your eyes of flesh. That is another thing, why do you not wish +to see?” +</p> + +<p> +And Martine came to her assistance, in her own style. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, it is true, monsieur, that you, who are a saint, as I say +everywhere, should accompany us to church. Assuredly, God will save you. But at +the bare idea that you should not go straight to paradise, I tremble all +over.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused, for he had before him, in open revolt, those two whom he had been +accustomed to see submissive at his feet, with the tenderness of women won over +by his gaiety and his goodness. Already he opened his mouth, and was going to +answer roughly, when the uselessness of the discussion became apparent to him. +</p> + +<p> +“There! Let us have peace. I would do better to go and work. And above +all, let no one interrupt me!” +</p> + +<p> +With hasty steps he gained his chamber, where he had installed a sort of +laboratory, and shut himself up in it. The prohibition to enter it was formal. +It was here that he gave himself up to special preparations, of which he spoke +to no one. Almost immediately the slow and regular sound of a pestle grinding +in a mortar was heard. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said Clotilde, smiling, “there he is, at his +devil’s cookery, as grandmother says.” +</p> + +<p> +And she tranquilly resumed her copying of the hollyhocks. She completed the +drawing with mathematical precision, she found the exact tone of the violet +petals, striped with yellow, even to the most delicate discoloration of the +shades. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” murmured Martine, after a moment, again seated on the ground, +and occupied in mending the chair, “what a misfortune for a good man like +that to lose his soul wilfully. For there is no denying it; I have known him +now for thirty years, and in all that time he has never so much as spoken an +unkind word to any one. A real heart of gold, who would take the bit from his +own mouth. And handsome, too, and always well, and always gay, a real blessing! +It is a murder that he does not wish to make his peace with the good God. We +will force him to do it, mademoiselle, will we not?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, surprised at hearing her speak so long at one time on the subject, +gave her word with a grave air. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, Martine, it is a promise. We will force him.” +</p> + +<p> +Silence reigned again, broken a moment afterward by the ringing of the bell +attached to the street door below. It had been attached to the door so that +they might have notice when any one entered the house, too vast for the three +persons who inhabited it. The servant appeared surprised, and grumbled a few +words under her breath. Who could have come in such heat as this? She rose, +opened the door, and went and leaned over the balustrade; then she returned, +saying: +</p> + +<p> +“It is Mme. Félicité.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon entered briskly. In spite of her eighty years, she had mounted +the stairs with the activity of a young girl; she was still the brown, lean, +shrill grasshopper of old. Dressed elegantly now in black silk, she might still +be taken, seen from behind, thanks to the slenderness of her figure, for some +coquette, or some ambitious woman following her favorite pursuit. Seen in +front, her eyes still lighted up her withered visage with their fires, and she +smiled with an engaging smile when she so desired. +</p> + +<p> +“What! is it you, grandmother?” cried Clotilde, going to meet her. +“Why, this sun is enough to bake one.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité, kissing her on the forehead, laughed, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, the sun is my friend!” +</p> + +<p> +Then, moving with short, quick steps, she crossed the room, and turned the +fastening of one of the shutters. +</p> + +<p> +“Open the shutters a little! It is too gloomy to live in the dark in this +way. At my house I let the sun come in.” +</p> + +<p> +Through the opening a jet of hot light, a flood of dancing sparks entered. And +under the sky, of the violet blue of a conflagration, the parched plain could +be seen, stretching away in the distance, as if asleep or dead in the +overpowering, furnace-like heat, while to the right, above the pink roofs, rose +the belfry of St. Saturnin, a gilded tower with arises that, in the blinding +light, looked like whitened bones. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” continued Félicité, “I think of going shortly to the +Tulettes, and I wished to know if Charles were here, to take him with me. He is +not here—I see that—I will take him another day.” +</p> + +<p> +But while she gave this pretext for her visit, her ferret-like eyes were making +the tour of the apartment. Besides, she did not insist, speaking immediately +afterward of her son Pascal, on hearing the rhythmical noise of the pestle, +which had not ceased in the adjoining chamber. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! he is still at his devil’s cookery! Don’t disturb him, I +have nothing to say to him.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine, who had resumed her work on the chair, shook her head, as if to say +that she had no mind to disturb her master, and there was silence again, while +Clotilde wiped her fingers, stained with crayon, on a cloth, and Félicité began +to walk about the room with short steps, looking around inquisitively. +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon would soon be two years a widow. Her husband who had grown so +corpulent that he could no longer move, had succumbed to an attack of +indigestion on the 3d of September, 1870, on the night of the day on which he +had learned of the catastrophe of Sedan. The ruin of the government of which he +flattered himself with being one of the founders, seemed to have crushed him. +Thus, Félicité affected to occupy herself no longer with politics, living, +thenceforward, like a dethroned queen, the only surviving power of a vanished +world. No one was unaware that the Rougons, in 1851, had saved Plassans from +anarchy, by causing the <i>coup d’état</i> of the 2d of December to +triumph there, and that, a few years later, they had won it again from the +legitimist and republican candidates, to give it to a Bonapartist deputy. Up to +the time of the war, the Empire had continued all-powerful in the town, so +popular that it had obtained there at the plebiscite an overwhelming majority. +But since the disasters the town had become republican, the quarter St. Marc +had returned to its secret royalist intrigues, while the old quarter and the +new town had sent to the chamber a liberal representative, slightly tinged with +Orleanism, and ready to take sides with the republic, if it should triumph. +And, therefore, it was that Félicité, like the intelligent woman she was, had +withdrawn her attention from politics, and consented to be nothing more than +the dethroned queen of a fallen government. +</p> + +<p> +But this was still an exalted position, surrounded by a melancholy poetry. For +eighteen years she had reigned. The tradition of her two <i>salons</i>, the +yellow <i>salon</i>, in which the <i>coup d’état</i> had matured, and the +green <i>salon</i>, later the neutral ground on which the conquest of Plassans +was completed, embellished itself with the reflection of the vanished past, and +was for her a glorious history. And besides, she was very rich. Then, too, she +had shown herself dignified in her fall, never uttering a regret or a +complaint, parading, with her eighty years, so long a succession of fierce +appetites, of abominable maneuvers, of inordinate gratifications, that she +became august through them. Her only happiness, now, was to enjoy in peace her +large fortune and her past royalty, and she had but one passion left—to +defend her past, to extend its fame, suppressing everything that might tarnish +it later. Her pride, which lived on the double exploit of which the inhabitants +still spoke, watched with jealous care, resolved to leave in existence only +creditable documents, those traditions which caused her to be saluted like a +fallen queen when she walked through the town. +</p> + +<p> +She went to the door of the chamber and listened to the persistent noise of the +pestle, which did not cease. Then, with an anxious brow, she returned to +Clotilde. +</p> + +<p> +“Good Heavens! What is he making? You know that he is doing himself the +greatest harm with his new drug. I was told, the other day, that he came near +killing one of his patients.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, grandmother!” cried the young girl. +</p> + +<p> +But she was now launched. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, exactly. The good wives say many other things, besides! Why, go +question them, in the faubourg! They will tell you that he grinds dead +men’s bones in infants’ blood.” +</p> + +<p> +This time, while even Martine protested, Clotilde, wounded in her affection, +grew angry. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, grandmother, do not repeat such abominations! Master has so great a +heart that he thinks only of making every one happy!” +</p> + +<p> +Then, when she saw that they were both angry, Félicité, comprehending that she +had gone too far, resumed her coaxing manner. +</p> + +<p> +“But, my kitten, it is not I who say those frightful things. I repeat to +you the stupid reports they spread, so that you may comprehend that Pascal is +wrong to pay no heed to public opinion. He thinks he has found a new +remedy—nothing could be better! and I will even admit that he will be +able to cure everybody, as he hopes. Only, why affect these mysterious ways; +why not speak of the matter openly; why, above all, try it only on the rabble +of the old quarter and of the country, instead of, attempting among the +well-to-do people of the town, striking cures which would do him honor? No, my +child, you see your uncle has never been able to act like other people.” +</p> + +<p> +She had assumed a grieved tone, lowering her voice, to display the secret wound +of her heart. +</p> + +<p> +“God be thanked! it is not men of worth who are wanting in our family; my +other sons have given me satisfaction enough. Is it not so? Your Uncle Eugène +rose high enough, minister for twelve years, almost emperor! And your father +himself handled many a million, and had a part in many a one of the great works +which have made Paris a new city. Not to speak at all of your brother, Maxime, +so rich, so distinguished, nor of your cousin, Octave Mouret, one of the kings +of the new commerce, nor of our dear Abbé Mouret, who is a saint! Well, then, +why does Pascal, who might have followed in the footsteps of them all, persist +in living in his hole, like an eccentric old fool?” +</p> + +<p> +And as the young girl was again going to protest, she closed her mouth, with a +caressing gesture of her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, let me finish. I know very well that Pascal is not a fool, that +he has written remarkable works, that his communications to the Academy of +Medicine have even won for him a reputation among <i>savants</i>. But what does +that count for, compared to what I have dreamed of for him? Yes, all the best +practice of the town, a large fortune, the decoration—honors, in short, +and a position worthy of the family. My word! I used to say to him when he was +a child: ‘But where do you come from? You are not one of us!’ As +for me, I have sacrificed everything for the family; I would let myself be +hacked to pieces, that the family might always be great and glorious!” +</p> + +<p> +She straightened her small figure, she seemed to grow tall with the one passion +that had formed the joy and pride of her life. But as she resumed her walk, she +was startled by suddenly perceiving on the floor the copy of the <i>Temps</i>, +which the doctor had thrown there, after cutting out the article, to add it to +the Saccard papers, and the light from the open window, falling full upon the +sheet, enlightened her, no doubt, for she suddenly stopped walking, and threw +herself into a chair, as if she at last knew what she had come to learn. +</p> + +<p> +“Your father has been appointed editor of the <i>Époque</i>,” she +said abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Clotilde tranquilly, “master told me so; it +was in the paper.” +</p> + +<p> +With an anxious and attentive expression, Félicité looked at her, for this +appointment of Saccard, this rallying to the republic, was something of vast +significance. After the fall of the empire he had dared return to France, +notwithstanding his condemnation as director of the Banque Universelle, the +colossal fall of which had preceded that of the government. New influences, +some incredible intrigue must have placed him on his feet again, for not only +had he received his pardon, but he was once more in a position to undertake +affairs of considerable importance, launched into journalism, having his share +again of all the good things going. And the recollection came to her of the +quarrels of other days between him and his brother Eugène Rougon, whom he had +so often compromised, and whom, by an ironical turn of events, he was perhaps +going to protect, now that the former minister of the Empire was only a simple +deputy, resigned to the single role of standing by his fallen master with the +obstinacy with which his mother stood by her family. She still obeyed docilely +the orders of her eldest son, the genius, fallen though he was; but Saccard, +whatever he might do, had also a part in her heart, from his indomitable +determination to succeed, and she was also proud of Maxime, Clotilde’s +brother, who had taken up his quarters again, after the war, in his mansion in +the Avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, where he was consuming the fortune left him +by his wife, Louise de Mareuil, become prudent, with the wisdom of a man struck +in a vital part, and trying to cheat the paralysis which threatened him. +</p> + +<p> +“Editor of the <i>Époque</i>,” she repeated; “it is really +the position of a minister which your father has won. And I forgot to tell you, +I have written again to your brother, to persuade him to come and see us. That +would divert him, it would do him good. Then, there is that child, that poor +Charles—” +</p> + +<p> +She did not continue. This was another of the wounds from which her pride bled; +a son whom Maxime had had when seventeen by a servant, and who now, at the age +of fifteen, weak of intellect, a half-idiot, lived at Plassans, going from the +house of one to that of another, a burden to all. +</p> + +<p> +She remained silent a moment longer, waiting for some remark from Clotilde, +some transition by which she might come to the subject she wished to touch +upon. When she saw that the young girl, occupied in arranging the papers on her +desk, was no longer listening, she came to a sudden decision, after casting a +glance at Martine, who continued mending the chair, as if she were deaf and +dumb. +</p> + +<p> +“Your uncle cut the article out of the <i>Temps</i>, then?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde smiled calmly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, master put it away among his papers. Ah! how many notes he buries +in there! Births, deaths, the smallest event in life, everything goes in there. +And the genealogical tree is there also, our famous genealogical tree, which he +keeps up to date!” +</p> + +<p> +The eyes of old Mme. Rougon flamed. She looked fixedly at the young girl. +</p> + +<p> +“You know them, those papers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, grandmother; master has never spoken to me of them; and he has +forbidden me to touch them.” +</p> + +<p> +But she did not believe her. +</p> + +<p> +“Come! you have them under your hands, you must have read them.” +</p> + +<p> +Very simple, with her calm rectitude, Clotilde answered, smilingly again. +</p> + +<p> +“No, when master forbids me to do anything, it is because he has his +reasons, and I do not do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my child,” cried Félicité vehemently, dominated by her +passion, “you, whom Pascal loves tenderly, and whom he would listen to, +perhaps, you ought to entreat him to burn all that, for if he should chance to +die, and those frightful things which he has in there were to be found, we +should all be dishonored!” +</p> + +<p> +Ah, those abominable papers! she saw them at night, in her nightmares, +revealing in letters of fire, the true histories, the physiological blemishes +of the family, all that wrong side of her glory which she would have wished to +bury forever with the ancestors already dead! She knew how it was that the +doctor had conceived the idea of collecting these documents at the beginning of +his great studies on heredity; how he had found himself led to take his own +family as an example, struck by the typical cases which he saw in it, and which +helped to support laws discovered by him. Was it not a perfectly natural field +of observation, close at hand and with which he was thoroughly familiar? And +with the fine, careless justness of the scientist, he had been accumulating for +the last thirty years the most private data, collecting and classifying +everything, raising this genealogical tree of the Rougon-Macquarts, of which +the voluminous papers, crammed full of proofs, were only the commentary. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes,” continued Mme. Rougon hotly, “to the fire, to the +fire with all those papers that would tarnish our name!” +</p> + +<p> +And as the servant rose to leave the room, seeing the turn the conversation was +taking, she stopped her by a quick gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Martine; stay! You are not in the way, since you are now one of +the family.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, in a hissing voice: +</p> + +<p> +“A collection of falsehoods, of gossip, all the lies that our enemies, +enraged by our triumph, hurled against us in former days! Think a little of +that, my child. Against all of us, against your father, against your mother, +against your brother, all those horrors!” +</p> + +<p> +“But how do you know they are horrors, grandmother?” +</p> + +<p> +She was disconcerted for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well; I suspect it! Where is the family that has not had misfortunes +which might be injuriously interpreted? Thus, the mother of us all, that dear +and venerable Aunt Dide, your great-grandmother, has she not been for the past +twenty-one years in the madhouse at the Tulettes? If God has granted her the +grace of allowing her to live to the age of one hundred and four years, he has +also cruelly afflicted her in depriving her of her reason. Certainly, there is +no shame in that; only, what exasperates me—what must not be—is +that they should say afterward that we are all mad. And, then, regarding your +grand-uncle Macquart, too, deplorable rumors have been spread. Macquart had his +faults in past days, I do not seek to defend him. But to-day, is he not living +very reputably on his little property at the Tulettes, two steps away from our +unhappy mother, over whom he watches like a good son? And listen! one last +example. Your brother, Maxime, committed a great fault when he had by a servant +that poor little Charles, and it is certain, besides, that the unhappy child is +of unsound mind. No matter. Will it please you if they tell you that your +nephew is degenerate; that he reproduces from four generations back, his +great-great-grandmother the dear woman to whom we sometimes take him, and with +whom he likes so much to be? No! there is no longer any family possible, if +people begin to lay bare everything—the nerves of this one, the muscles +of that. It is enough to disgust one with living!” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, standing in her long black blouse, had listened to her grandmother +attentively. She had grown very serious; her arms hung by her sides, her eyes +were fixed upon the ground. There was silence for a moment; then she said +slowly: +</p> + +<p> +“It is science, grandmother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Science!” cried Félicité, trotting about again. “A fine +thing, their science, that goes against all that is most sacred in the world! +When they shall have demolished everything they will have advanced greatly! +They kill respect, they kill the family, they kill the good God!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! don’t say that, madame!” interrupted Martine, in a +grieved voice, her narrow devoutness wounded. “Do not say that M. Pascal +kills the good God!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my poor girl, he kills him. And look you, it is a crime, from the +religious point of view, to let one’s self be damned in that way. You do +not love him, on my word of honor! No, you do not love him, you two who have +the happiness of believing, since you do nothing to bring him back to the right +path. Ah! if I were in your place, I would split that press open with a +hatchet. I would make a famous bonfire with all the insults to the good God +which it contains!” +</p> + +<p> +She had planted herself before the immense press and was measuring it with her +fiery glance, as if to take it by assault, to sack it, to destroy it, in spite +of the withered and fragile thinness of her eighty years. Then, with a gesture +of ironical disdain: +</p> + +<p> +“If, even with his science, he could know everything!” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde remained for a moment absorbed in thought, her gaze lost in vacancy. +Then she said in an undertone, as if speaking to herself: +</p> + +<p> +“It is true, he cannot know everything. There is always something else +below. That is what irritates me; that is what makes us quarrel: for I cannot, +like him, put the mystery aside. I am troubled by it, so much so that I suffer +cruelly. Below, what wills and acts in the shuddering darkness, all the unknown +forces—” +</p> + +<p> +Her voice had gradually become lower and now dropped to an indistinct murmur. +</p> + +<p> +Then Martine, whose face for a moment past had worn a somber expression, +interrupted in her turn: +</p> + +<p> +“If it was true, however, mademoiselle, that monsieur would be damned on +account of those villainous papers, tell me, ought we to let it happen? For my +part, look you, if he were to tell me to throw myself down from the terrace, I +would shut my eyes and throw myself, because I know that he is always right. +But for his salvation! Oh! if I could, I would work for that, in spite of him. +In every way, yes! I would force him; it is too cruel to me to think that he +will not be in heaven with us.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite right, my girl,” said Félicité approvingly. +“You, at least, love your master in an intelligent fashion.” +</p> + +<p> +Between the two, Clotilde still seemed irresolute. In her, belief did not bend +to the strict rule of dogma; the religious sentiment did not materialize in the +hope of a paradise, of a place of delights, where she was to meet her own +again. It was in her simply a need of a beyond, a certainty that the vast world +does not stop short at sensation, that there is a whole unknown world, besides, +which must be taken into account. But her grandmother, who was so old, this +servant, who was so devoted, shook her in her uneasy affection for her uncle. +Did they not love him better, in a more enlightened and more upright fashion, +they who desired him to be without a stain, freed from his manias as a +scientist, pure enough to be among the elect? Phrases of devotional books +recurred to her; the continual battle waged against the spirit of evil; the +glory of conversions effected after a violent struggle. What if she set herself +to this holy task; what if, after all, in spite of himself, she should be able +to save him! And an exaltation gradually gained her spirit, naturally inclined +to adventurous enterprises. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” she said at last, “I should be very happy if he +would not persist in his notion of heaping up all those scraps of paper, and if +he would come to church with us.” +</p> + +<p> +Seeing her about to yield, Mme. Rougon cried out that it was necessary to act, +and Martine herself added the weight of all her real authority. They both +approached the young girl, and began to instruct her, lowering their voices as +if they were engaged in a conspiracy, whence was to result a miraculous +benefit, a divine joy with which the whole house would be perfumed. What a +triumph if they reconciled the doctor with God! and what sweetness, afterward, +to live altogether in the celestial communion of the same faith! +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, what must I do?” asked Clotilde, vanquished, won over. +</p> + +<p> +But at this moment the doctor’s pestle was heard in the silence, with its +continued rhythm. And the victorious Félicité, who was about to speak, turned +her head uneasily, and looked for a moment at the door of the adjoining +chamber. Then, in an undertone, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know where the key of the press is?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde answered only with an artless gesture, that expressed all her +repugnance to betray her master in this way. +</p> + +<p> +“What a child you are! I swear to you that I will take nothing; I will +not even disturb anything. Only as we are alone and as Pascal never reappears +before dinner, we might assure ourselves of what there is in there, might we +not? Oh! nothing but a glance, on my word of honor.” +</p> + +<p> +The young girl stood motionless, unwilling, still, to give her consent. +</p> + +<p> +“And then, it may be that I am mistaken; no doubt there are none of those +bad things there that I have told you of.” +</p> + +<p> +This was decisive; she ran to take the key from the drawer, and she herself +opened wide the press. +</p> + +<p> +“There, grandmother, the papers are up there.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine had gone, without a word, to station herself at the door of the +doctor’s chamber, her ear on the alert, listening to the pestle, while +Félicité, as if riveted to the spot by emotion, regarded the papers. At last, +there they were, those terrible documents, the nightmare that had poisoned her +life! She saw them, she was going to touch them, to carry them away! And she +reached up, straining her little legs, in the eagerness of her desire. +</p> + +<p> +“It is too high, my kitten,” she said. “Help me; give them to +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! not that, grandmother! Take a chair!” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité took a chair, and mounted slowly upon it. But she was still too short. +By an extraordinary effort she raised herself, lengthening her stature until +she was able to touch the envelopes of strong blue paper with the tips of her +fingers; and her fingers traveled over them, contracting nervously, scratching +like claws. Suddenly there was a crash—it was a geological specimen, a +fragment of marble that had been on a lower shelf, and that she had just thrown +down. +</p> + +<p> +Instantly the pestle stopped, and Martine said in a stifled voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Take care; here he comes!” +</p> + +<p> +But Félicité, grown desperate, did not hear, did not let go her hold when +Pascal entered hastily. He had supposed that some accident had happened, that +some one had fallen, and he stood stupefied at what he saw—his mother on +the chair, her arm still in the air, while Martine had withdrawn to one side, +and Clotilde, very pale, stood waiting, without turning her head. When he +comprehended the scene, he himself became as white as a sheet. A terrible anger +arose within him. +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon, however, troubled herself in no wise. When she saw that the +opportunity was lost, she descended from the chair, without making any illusion +whatever to the task at which he had surprised her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it is you! I do not wish to disturb you. I came to embrace Clotilde. +But here I have been talking for nearly two hours, and I must run away at once. +They will be expecting me at home; they won’t know what has become of me +at this hour. Good-by until Sunday.” +</p> + +<p> +She went away quite at her ease, after smiling at her son, who stood before her +silent and respectful. It was an attitude that he had long since adopted, to +avoid an explanation which he felt must be cruel, and which he had always +feared. He knew her, he was willing to pardon her everything, in his broad +tolerance as a scientist, who made allowance for heredity, environment, and +circumstances. And, then, was she not his mother? That ought to have sufficed, +for, in spite of the frightful blows which his researches inflicted upon the +family, he preserved a great affection for those belonging to him. +</p> + +<p> +When his mother was no longer there, his anger burst forth, and fell upon +Clotilde. He had turned his eyes away from Martine, and fixed them on the young +girl, who did not turn hers away, however, with a courage which accepted the +responsibility of her act. +</p> + +<p> +“You! you!” he said at last. +</p> + +<p> +He seized her arm, and pressed it until she cried. But she continued to look +him full in the face, without quailing before him, with the indomitable will of +her individuality, of her selfhood. She was beautiful and provoking, with her +tall, slender figure, robed in its black blouse; and her exquisite, youthful +fairness, her straight forehead, her finely cut nose, her firm chin, took on +something of a warlike charm in her rebellion. +</p> + +<p> +“You, whom I have made, you who are my pupil, my friend, my other mind, +to whom I have given a part of my heart and of my brain! Ah, yes! I should have +kept you entirely for myself, and not have allowed your stupid good God to take +the best part of you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, monsieur, you blaspheme!” cried Martine, who had approached +him, in order to draw upon herself a part of his anger. +</p> + +<p> +But he did not even see her. Only Clotilde existed for him. And he was as if +transfigured, stirred up by so great a passion that his handsome face, crowned +by his white hair, framed by his white beard, flamed with youthful passion, +with an immense tenderness that had been wounded and exasperated. +</p> + +<p> +“You, you!” he repeated in a trembling voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I! Why then, master, should I not love you better than you love me? +And why, if I believe you to be in peril, should I not try to save you? You are +greatly concerned about what I think; you would like well to make me think as +you do!” +</p> + +<p> +She had never before defied him in this way. +</p> + +<p> +“But you are a little girl; you know nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am a soul, and you know no more about souls than I do!” +</p> + +<p> +He released her arm, and waved his hand vaguely toward heaven, and then a great +silence fell—a silence full of grave meaning, of the uselessness of the +discussion which he did not wish to enter upon. Thrusting her aside rudely, he +crossed over to the middle window and opened the blinds, for the sun was +declining, and the room was growing dark. Then he returned. +</p> + +<p> +But she, feeling a need of air and space, went to the open window. The burning +rain of sparks had ceased, and there fell now, from on high, only the last +shiver of the overheated and paling sky; and from the still burning earth +ascended warm odors, with the freer respiration of evening. At the foot of the +terrace was the railroad, with the outlying dependencies of the station, of +which the buildings were to be seen in the distance; then, crossing the vast +arid plain, a line of trees marked the course of the Viorne, beyond which rose +the hills of Sainte-Marthe, red fields planted with olive trees, supported on +terraces by walls of uncemented stones and crowned by somber pine +woods—broad amphitheaters, bare and desolate, corroded by the heats of +summer, of the color of old baked brick, which this fringe of dark verdure, +standing out against the background of the sky, bordered above. To the left +opened the gorges of the Seille, great yellow stones that had broken away from +the soil, and lay in the midst of blood-colored fields, dominated by an immense +band of rocks like the wall of a gigantic fortress; while to the right, at the +very entrance to the valley through which flowed the Viorne, rose, one above +another, the discolored pink-tiled roofs of the town of Plassans, the compact +and confused mass of an old town, pierced by the tops of ancient elms, and +dominated by the high tower of St. Saturnin, solitary and serene at this hour +in the limpid gold of sunset. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my God!” said Clotilde slowly, “one must be arrogant, +indeed, to imagine that one can take everything in one’s hand and know +everything!” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal had just mounted on the chair to assure himself that not one of his +packages was missing. Then he took up the fragment of marble, and replaced it +on the shelf, and when he had again locked the press with a vigorous turn of +the hand, he put the key into his pocket. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he replied; “try not to know everything, and above +all, try not to bewilder your brain about what we do not know, what we shall +doubtless never know!” +</p> + +<p> +Martine again approached Clotilde, to lend her her support, to show her that +they both had a common cause. And now the doctor perceived her, also, and felt +that they were both united in the same desire for conquest. After years of +secret attempts, it was at last open war; the <i>savant</i> saw his household +turn against his opinions, and menace them with destruction. There is no worse +torture than to have treason in one’s own home, around one; to be +trapped, dispossessed, crushed, by those whom you love, and who love you! +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly this frightful idea presented itself to him. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet both of you love me!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +He saw their eyes grow dim with tears; he was filled with an infinite sadness, +on this tranquil close of a beautiful day. All his gaiety, all his kindness of +heart, which came from his intense love of life, were shaken by it. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my dear! and you, my poor girl,” he said, “you are doing +this for my happiness, are you not? But, alas, how unhappy we are going to +be!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a> +II.</h2> + +<p> +On the following morning Clotilde was awake at six o’clock. She had gone +to bed angry with Pascal; they were at variance with each other. And her first +feeling was one of uneasiness, of secret distress, an instant need of making +her peace, so that she might no longer have upon her heart the heavy weight +that lay there now. +</p> + +<p> +Springing quickly out of bed, she went and half opened the shutters of both +windows. The sun, already high, sent his light across the chamber in two golden +bars. Into this drowsy room that exhaled a sweet odor of youth, the bright +morning brought with it fresh, cheerful air; but the young girl went back and +sat down on the edge of the bed in a thoughtful attitude, clad only in her +scant nightdress, which made her look still more slender, with her long +tapering limbs, her strong, slender body, with its round throat, round neck, +round and supple arms; and her adorable neck and throat, of a milky whiteness, +had the exquisite softness and smoothness of white satin. For a long time, at +the ungraceful age between twelve and eighteen, she had looked awkwardly tall, +climbing trees like a boy. Then, from the ungainly hoyden had been evolved this +charming, delicate and lovely creature. +</p> + +<p> +With absent gaze she sat looking at the walls of the chamber. Although La +Souleiade dated from the last century, it must have been refurnished under the +First Empire, for it was hung with an old-fashioned printed calico, with a +pattern representing busts of the Sphinx, and garlands of oak leaves. +Originally of a bright red, this calico had faded to a pink—an undecided +pink, inclining to orange. The curtains of the two windows and of the bed were +still in existence, but it had been necessary to clean them, and this had made +them still paler. And this faded purple, this dawnlike tint, so delicately +soft, was in truth exquisite. As for the bed, covered with the same stuff, it +had come down from so remote an antiquity that it had been replaced by another +bed found in an adjoining room; another Empire bed, low and very broad, of +massive mahogany, ornamented with brasses, its four square pillars adorned also +with busts of the Sphinx, like those on the wall. The rest of the furniture +matched, however—a press, with whole doors and pillars; a chest of +drawers with a marble top, surrounded by a railing; a tall and massive +cheval-glass, a large lounge with straight feet, and seats with straight, +lyre-shaped backs. But a coverlet made of an old Louis XV. silk skirt +brightened the majestic bed, that occupied the middle of the wall fronting the +windows; a heap of cushions made the lounge soft; and there were, besides, two +<i>étagères</i> and a table also covered with old flowered silk, at the further +end of the room. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde at last put on her stockings and slipped on a morning gown of white +<i>piqué</i>, and thrusting the tips of her feet into her gray canvas slippers, +she ran into her dressing-room, a back room looking out on the rear of the +house. She had had it hung plainly with an <i>écru</i> drill with blue stripes, +and it contained only furniture of varnished pine—the toilette table, two +presses, and two chairs. It revealed, however, a natural and delicate coquetry +which was very feminine. This had grown with her at the same time with her +beauty. Headstrong and boyish though she still was at times, she had become a +submissive and affectionate woman, desiring to be loved, above everything. The +truth was that she had grown up in freedom, without having learned anything +more than to read and write, having acquired by herself, later, while assisting +her uncle, a vast fund of information. But there had been no plan settled upon +between them. He had not wished to make her a prodigy; she had merely conceived +a passion for natural history, which revealed to her the mysteries of life. And +she had kept her innocence unsullied like a fruit which no hand has touched, +thanks, no doubt, to her unconscious and religious waiting for the coming of +love—that profound feminine feeling which made her reserve the gift of +her whole being for the man whom she should love. +</p> + +<p> +She pushed back her hair and bathed her face; then, yielding to her impatience, +she again softly opened the door of her chamber and ventured to cross the vast +workroom, noiselessly and on tiptoe. The shutters were still closed, but she +could see clearly enough not to stumble against the furniture. When she was at +the other end before the door of the doctor’s room, she bent forward, +holding her breath. Was he already up? What could he be doing? She heard him +plainly, walking about with short steps, dressing himself, no doubt. She never +entered this chamber in which he chose to hide certain labors; and which thus +remained closed, like a tabernacle. One fear had taken possession of her; that +of being discovered here by him if he should open the door; and the agitation +produced by the struggle between her rebellious pride and a desire to show her +submission caused her to grow hot and cold by turns, with sensations until now +unknown to her. For an instant her desire for reconciliation was so strong that +she was on the point of knocking. Then, as footsteps approached, she ran +precipitately away. +</p> + +<p> +Until eight o’clock Clotilde was agitated by an ever-increasing +impatience. At every instant she looked at the clock on the mantelpiece of her +room; an Empire clock of gilded bronze, representing Love leaning against a +pillar, contemplating Time asleep. +</p> + +<p> +Eight was the hour at which she generally descended to the dining-room to +breakfast with the doctor. And while waiting she made a careful toilette, +arranged her hair, and put on another morning gown of white muslin with red +spots. Then, having still a quarter of an hour on her hands, she satisfied an +old desire and sat down to sew a piece of narrow lace, an imitation of +Chantilly, on her working blouse, that black blouse which she had begun to find +too boyish, not feminine enough. But on the stroke of eight she laid down her +work, and went downstairs quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“You are going to breakfast entirely alone,” said Martine +tranquilly to her, when she entered the dining-room. +</p> + +<p> +“How is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the doctor called me, and I passed him in his egg through the +half-open door. There he is again, at his mortar and his filter. We won’t +see him now before noon.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde turned pale with disappointment. She drank her milk standing, took her +roll in her hand, and followed the servant into the kitchen. There were on the +ground floor, besides this kitchen and the dining-room, only an uninhabited +room in which the potatoes were stored, and which had formerly been used as an +office by the doctor, when he received his patients in his house—the desk +and the armchair had years ago been taken up to his chamber—and another +small room, which opened into the kitchen; the old servant’s room, +scrupulously clean, and furnished with a walnut chest of drawers and a bed like +a nun’s with white hangings. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think he has begun to make his liquor again?” asked +Clotilde. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it can be only that. You know that he thinks of neither eating nor +drinking when that takes possession of him!” +</p> + +<p> +Then all the young girl’s vexation was exhaled in a low plaint: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my God! my God!” +</p> + +<p> +And while Martine went to make up her room, she took an umbrella from the hall +stand and went disconsolately to eat her roll in the garden, not knowing now +how she should occupy her time until midday. +</p> + +<p> +It was now almost seventeen years since Dr. Pascal, having resolved to leave +his little house in the new town, had bought La Souleiade for twenty thousand +francs, in order to live there in seclusion, and also to give more space and +more happiness to the little girl sent him by his brother Saccard from Paris. +This Souleiade, situated outside the town gates on a plateau dominating the +plain, was part of a large estate whose once vast grounds were reduced to less +than two hectares in consequence of successive sales, without counting that the +construction of the railroad had taken away the last arable fields. The house +itself had been half destroyed by a conflagration and only one of the two +buildings remained—a quadrangular wing “of four walls,” as +they say in Provence, with five front windows and roofed with large pink tiles. +And the doctor, who had bought it completely furnished, had contented himself +with repairing it and finishing the boundary walls, so as to be undisturbed in +his house. +</p> + +<p> +Generally Clotilde loved this solitude passionately; this narrow kingdom which +she could go over in ten minutes, and which still retained remnants of its past +grandeur. But this morning she brought there something like a nervous +disquietude. She walked for a few moments along the terrace, at the two +extremities of which stood two secular cypresses like two enormous funeral +tapers, which could be seen three leagues off. The slope then descended to the +railroad, walls of uncemented stones supporting the red earth, in which the +last vines were dead; and on these giant steps grew only rows of olive and +almond trees, with sickly foliage. The heat was already overpowering; she saw +the little lizards running about on the disjointed flags, among the hairy tufts +of caper bushes. +</p> + +<p> +Then, as if irritated by the vast horizon, she crossed the orchard and the +kitchen garden, which Martine still persisted in cultivating in spite of her +age, calling in a man only twice a week for the heavier labors; and she +ascended to a little pine wood on the right, all that remained of the superb +pines which had formerly covered the plateau; but, here, too, she was ill at +ease; the pine needles crackled under her feet, a resinous, stifling odor +descended from the branches. And walking along the boundary wall past the +entrance gate, which opened on the road to Les Fenouilleres, three hundred +meters from the first houses of Plassans, she emerged at last on the +threshing-yard; an immense yard, fifteen meters in radius, which would of +itself have sufficed to prove the former importance of the domain. Ah! this +antique area, paved with small round stones, as in the days of the Romans; this +species of vast esplanade, covered with short dry grass of the color of gold as +with a thick woolen carpet; how joyously she had played there in other days, +running about, rolling on the grass, lying for hours on her back, watching the +stars coming out one by one in the depths of the illimitable sky! +</p> + +<p> +She opened her umbrella again, and crossed the yard with slower steps. Now she +was on the left of the terrace. She had made the tour of the estate, so that +she had returned by the back of the house, through the clump of enormous plane +trees that on this side cast a thick shade. This was the side on which opened +the two windows of the doctor’s room. And she raised her eyes to them, +for she had approached only in the sudden hope of at last seeing him. But the +windows remained closed, and she was wounded by this as by an unkindness to +herself. Then only did she perceive that she still held in her hand her roll, +which she had forgotten to eat; and she plunged among the trees, biting it +impatiently with her fine young teeth. +</p> + +<p> +It was a delicious retreat, this old quincunx of plane trees, another remnant +of the past splendor of La Souleiade. Under these giant trees, with their +monstrous trunks, there was only a dim light, a greenish light, exquisitely +cool, even on the hottest days of summer. Formerly a French garden had been +laid out here, of which only the box borders remained; bushes which had +habituated themselves to the shade, no doubt, for they grew vigorously, as tall +as trees. And the charm of this shady nook was a fountain, a simple leaden pipe +fixed in the shaft of a column; whence flowed perpetually, even in the greatest +drought, a thread of water as thick as the little finger, which supplied a +large mossy basin, the greenish stones of which were cleaned only once in three +or four years. When all the wells of the neighborhood were dry, La Souleiade +still kept its spring, of which the great plane trees were assuredly the +secular children. Night and day for centuries past this slender thread of +water, unvarying and continuous, had sung the same pure song with crystal +sound. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, after wandering awhile among the bushes of box, which reached to her +shoulder, went back to the house for a piece of embroidery, and returning with +it, sat down at a stone table beside the fountain. Some garden chairs had been +placed around it, and they often took coffee here. And after this she affected +not to look up again from her work, as if she was completely absorbed in it. +Now and then, while seeming to look between the trunks of trees toward the +sultry distance, toward the yard, on which the sun blazed fiercely and which +glowed like a brazier, she stole a glance from under her long lashes up to the +doctor’s windows. Nothing appeared, not a shadow. And a feeling of +sadness, of resentment, arose within her at this neglect, this contempt in +which he seemed to hold her after their quarrel of the day before. She who had +got up with so great a desire to make peace at once! He was in no hurry, +however; he did not love her then, since he could be satisfied to live at +variance with her. And gradually a feeling of gloom took possession of her, her +rebellious thoughts returned, and she resolved anew to yield in nothing. +</p> + +<p> +At eleven o’clock, before setting her breakfast on the fire, Martine came +to her for a moment, the eternal stocking in her hand which she was always +knitting even while walking, when she was not occupied in the affairs of the +house. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that he is still shut up there like a wolf in his hole, at +his villainous cookery?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde shrugged her shoulders, without lifting her eyes from her embroidery. +</p> + +<p> +“And then, mademoiselle, if you only knew what they say! Mme. Félicité +was right yesterday when she said that it was really enough to make one blush. +They threw it in my face that he had killed old Boutin, that poor old man, you +know, who had the falling sickness and who died on the road. To believe those +women of the faubourg, every one into whom he injects his remedy gets the true +cholera from it, without counting that they accuse him of having taken the +devil into partnership.” +</p> + +<p> +A short silence followed. Then, as the young girl became more gloomy than +before, the servant resumed, moving her fingers still more rapidly: +</p> + +<p> +“As for me, I know nothing about the matter, but what he is making there +enrages me. And you, mademoiselle, do you approve of that cookery?” +</p> + +<p> +At last Clotilde raised her head quickly, yielding to the flood of passion that +swept over her. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen; I wish to know no more about it than you do, but I think that he +is on a very dangerous path. He no longer loves us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, mademoiselle; he loves us.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; not as we love him. If he loved us, he would be here with us, +instead of endangering his soul and his happiness and ours, up there, in his +desire to save everybody.” +</p> + +<p> +And the two women looked at each other for a moment with eyes burning with +affection, in their jealous anger. Then they resumed their work in silence, +enveloped in shadow. +</p> + +<p> +Above, in his room, Dr. Pascal was working with the serenity of perfect joy. He +had practised his profession for only about a dozen years, from his return to +Paris up to the time when he had retired to La Souleiade. Satisfied with the +hundred and odd thousand francs which he had earned and which he had invested +prudently, he devoted himself almost exclusively to his favorite studies, +retaining only a practise among friends, never refusing to go to the bedside of +a patient but never sending in his account. When he was paid he threw the money +into a drawer in his writing desk, regarding this as pocket-money for his +experiments and caprices, apart from his income which sufficed for his wants. +And he laughed at the bad reputation for eccentricity which his way of life had +gained him; he was happy only when in the midst of his researches on the +subjects for which he had a passion. It was matter for surprise to many that +this scientist, whose intellectual gifts had been spoiled by a too lively +imagination, should have remained at Plassans, this out-of-the-way town where +it seemed as if every requirement for his studies must be wanting. But he +explained very well the advantages which he had discovered here; in the first +place, an utterly peaceful retreat in which he might live the secluded life he +desired; then, an unsuspected field for continuous research in the light of the +facts of heredity, which was his passion, in this little town where he knew +every family and where he could follow the phenomena kept most secret, through +two or three generations. And then he was near the seashore; he went there +almost every summer, to study the swarming life that is born and propagates +itself in the depths of the vast waters. And there was finally, at the hospital +in Plassans, a dissecting room to which he was almost the only visitor; a +large, bright, quiet room, in which for more than twenty years every unclaimed +body had passed under his scalpel. A modest man besides, of a timidity that had +long since become shyness, it had been sufficient for him to maintain a +correspondence with his old professors and his new friends, concerning the very +remarkable papers which he from time to time sent to the Academy of Medicine. +He was altogether wanting in militant ambition. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, this heredity! what a subject of endless meditation it was for him! The +strangest, the most wonderful part of it all, was it not that the resemblance +between parents and children should not be perfect, mathematically exact? He +had in the beginning made a genealogical tree of his family, logically traced, +in which the influences from generation to generation were distributed +equally—the father’s part and the mother’s part. But the +living reality contradicted the theory almost at every point. Heredity, instead +of being resemblance, was an effort toward resemblance thwarted by +circumstances and environment. And he had arrived at what he called the +hypothesis of the abortion of cells. Life is only motion, and heredity being a +communicated motion, it happened that the cells in their multiplication from +one another jostled one another, pressed one another, made room for themselves, +putting forth, each one, the hereditary effort; so that if during this struggle +the weaker cells succumbed, considerable disturbances took place, with the +final result of organs totally different. Did not variation, the constant +invention of nature, which clashed with his theories, come from this? Did not +he himself differ from his parents only in consequence of similar accidents, or +even as the effect of larvated heredity, in which he had for a time believed? +For every genealogical tree has roots which extend as far back into humanity as +the first man; one cannot proceed from a single ancestor; one may always +resemble a still older, unknown ancestor. He doubted atavism, however; it +seemed to him, in spite of a remarkable example taken from his own family, that +resemblance at the end of two or three generations must disappear by reason of +accidents, of interferences, of a thousand possible combinations. There was +then a perpetual becoming, a constant transformation in this communicated +effort, this transmitted power, this shock which breathes into matter the +breath of life, and which is life itself. And a multiplicity of questions +presented themselves to him. Was there a physical and intellectual progress +through the ages? Did the brain grow with the growth of the sciences with which +it occupied itself? Might one hope, in time, for a larger sum of reason and of +happiness? Then there were special problems; one among others, the mystery of +which had for a long time irritated him, that of sex; would science never be +able to predict, or at least to explain the sex of the embryo being? He had +written a very curious paper crammed full of facts on this subject, but which +left it in the end in the complete ignorance in which the most exhaustive +researches had left it. Doubtless the question of heredity fascinated him as it +did only because it remained obscure, vast, and unfathomable, like all the +infant sciences where imagination holds sway. Finally, a long study which he +had made on the heredity of phthisis revived in him the wavering faith of the +healer, arousing in him the noble and wild hope of regenerating humanity. +</p> + +<p> +In short, Dr. Pascal had only one belief—the belief in life. Life was the +only divine manifestation. Life was God, the grand motor, the soul of the +universe. And life had no other instrument than heredity; heredity made the +world; so that if its laws could be known and directed, the world could be made +to one’s will. In him, to whom sickness, suffering, and death had been a +familiar sight, the militant pity of the physician awoke. Ah! to have no more +sickness, no more suffering, as little death as possible! His dream ended in +this thought—that universal happiness, the future community of perfection +and of felicity, could be hastened by intervention, by giving health to all. +When all should be healthy, strong, and intelligent, there would be only a +superior race, infinitely wise and happy. In India, was not a Brahmin developed +from a Soudra in seven generations, thus raising, experimentally, the lowest of +beings to the highest type of humanity? And as in his study of consumption he +had arrived at the conclusion that it was not hereditary, but that every child +of a consumptive carried within him a degenerate soil in which consumption +developed with extraordinary facility at the slightest contagion, he had come +to think only of invigorating this soil impoverished by heredity; to give it +the strength to resist the parasites, or rather the destructive leaven, which +he had suspected to exist in the organism, long before the microbe theory. To +give strength—the whole problem was there; and to give strength was also +to give will, to enlarge the brain by fortifying the other organs. +</p> + +<p> +About this time the doctor, reading an old medical book of the fifteenth +century, was greatly struck by a method of treating disease called signature. +To cure a diseased organ, it was only necessary to take from a sheep or an ox +the corresponding organ in sound condition, boil it, and give the soup to the +patient to drink. The theory was to cure like by like, and in diseases of the +liver, especially, the old work stated that the cures were numberless. This set +the doctor’s vivid imagination working. Why not make the trial? If he +wished to regenerate those enfeebled by hereditary influences, he had only to +give them the normal and healthy nerve substance. The method of the soup, +however, seemed to him childish, and he invented in its stead that of grinding +in a mortar the brain of a sheep, moistening it with distilled water, and then +decanting and filtering the liquor thus obtained. He tried this liquor then +mixed with Malaga wine, on his patients, without obtaining any appreciable +result. Suddenly, as he was beginning to grow discouraged, he had an +inspiration one day, when he was giving a lady suffering from hepatic colics an +injection of morphine with the little syringe of Pravaz. What if he were to try +hypodermic injections with his liquor? And as soon as he returned home he tried +the experiment on himself, making an injection in his side, which he repeated +night and morning. The first doses, of a gram only, were without effect. But +having doubled, and then tripled the dose, he was enchanted, one morning on +getting up, to find that his limbs had all the vigor of twenty. He went on +increasing the dose up to five grams, and then his respiration became deeper, +and above all he worked with a clearness of mind, an ease, which he had not +known for years. A great flood of happiness, of joy in living, inundated his +being. From this time, after he had had a syringe made at Paris capable of +containing five grams, he was surprised at the happy results which he obtained +with his patients, whom he had on their feet again in a few days, full of +energy and activity, as if endowed with new life. His method was still +tentative and rude, and he divined in it all sorts of dangers, and especially, +that of inducing embolism, if the liquor was not perfectly pure. Then he +suspected that the strength of his patients came in part from the fever his +treatment produced in them. But he was only a pioneer; the method would improve +later. Was it not already a miracle to make the ataxic walk, to bring +consumptives back to life, as it were; even to give hours of lucidity to the +insane? And at the thought of this discovery of the alchemy of the twentieth +century, an immense hope opened up before him; he believed he had discovered +the universal panacea, the elixir of life, which was to combat human debility, +the one real cause of every ill; a veritable scientific Fountain of Youth, +which, in giving vigor, health, and will would create an altogether new and +superior humanity. +</p> + +<p> +This particular morning in his chamber, a room with a northern aspect and +somewhat dark owing to the vicinity of the plane trees, furnished simply with +an iron bedstead, a mahogany writing desk, and a large writing table, on which +were a mortar and a microscope, he was completing with infinite care the +preparation of a vial of his liquor. Since the day before, after pounding the +nerve substance of a sheep in distilled water, he had been decanting and +filtering it. And he had at last obtained a small bottle of a turbid, opaline +liquid, irised by bluish gleams, which he regarded for a long time in the light +as if he held in his hand the regenerating blood and symbol of the world. +</p> + +<p> +But a few light knocks at the door and an urgent voice drew him from his dream. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what is the matter, monsieur? It is a quarter-past twelve; +don’t you intend to come to breakfast?” +</p> + +<p> +For downstairs breakfast had been waiting for some time past in the large, cool +dining-room. The blinds were closed, with the exception of one which had just +been half opened. It was a cheerful room, with pearl gray panels relieved by +blue mouldings. The table, the sideboard, and the chairs must have formed part +of the set of Empire furniture in the bedrooms; and the old mahogany, of a deep +red, stood out in strong relief against the light background. A hanging lamp of +polished brass, always shining, gleamed like a sun; while on the four walls +bloomed four large bouquets in pastel, of gillyflowers, carnations, hyacinths, +and roses. +</p> + +<p> +Joyous, radiant, Dr. Pascal entered. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, the deuce! I had forgotten! I wanted to finish. Look at this, quite +fresh, and perfectly pure this time; something to work miracles with!” +</p> + +<p> +And he showed the vial, which he had brought down in his enthusiasm. But his +eye fell on Clotilde standing erect and silent, with a serious air. The secret +vexation caused by waiting had brought back all her hostility, and she, who had +burned to throw herself on his neck in the morning, remained motionless as if +chilled and repelled by him. +</p> + +<p> +“Good!” he resumed, without losing anything of his gaiety, +“we are still at odds, it seems. That is something very ugly. So you +don’t admire my sorcerer’s liquor, which resuscitates the +dead?” +</p> + +<p> +He seated himself at the table, and the young girl, sitting down opposite him, +was obliged at last to answer: +</p> + +<p> +“You know well, master, that I admire everything belonging to you. Only, +my most ardent desire is that others also should admire you. And there is the +death of poor old Boutin—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he cried, without letting her finish, “an epileptic, +who succumbed to a congestive attack! See! since you are in a bad humor, let us +talk no more about that—you would grieve me, and that would spoil my +day.” +</p> + +<p> +There were soft boiled eggs, cutlets, and cream. Silence reigned for a few +moments, during which in spite of her ill-humor she ate heartily, with a good +appetite which she had not the coquetry to conceal. Then he resumed, laughing: +</p> + +<p> +“What reassures me is to see that your stomach is in good order. Martine, +hand mademoiselle the bread.” +</p> + +<p> +The servant waited on them as she was accustomed to do, watching them eat, with +her quiet air of familiarity. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes she even chatted with them. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur,” she said, when she had cut the bread, “the +butcher has brought his bill. Is he to be paid?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked up at her in surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you ask me that?” he said. “Do you not always pay him +without consulting me?” +</p> + +<p> +It was, in effect, Martine who kept the purse. The amount deposited with M. +Grandguillot, notary at Plassans, produced a round sum of six thousand francs +income. Every three months the fifteen hundred francs were remitted to the +servant, and she disposed of them to the best interests of the house; bought +and paid for everything with the strictest economy, for she was of so saving a +disposition that they bantered her about it continually. Clotilde, who spent +very little, had never thought of asking a separate purse for herself. As for +the doctor, he took what he required for his experiments and his pocket money +from the three or four thousand francs which he still earned every year, and +which he kept lying in the drawer of his writing desk; so that there was quite +a little treasure there in gold and bank bills, of which he never knew the +exact amount. +</p> + +<p> +“Undoubtedly, monsieur, I pay, when it is I who have bought the things; +but this time the bill is so large on account of the brains which the butcher +has furnished you—” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor interrupted her brusquely: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, come! so you, too, are going to set yourself against me, are you? +No, no; both of you—that would be too much! Yesterday you pained me +greatly, and I was angry. But this must cease. I will not have the house turned +into a hell. Two women against me, and they the only ones who love me at all? +Do you know, I would sooner quit the house at once!” +</p> + +<p> +He did not speak angrily, he even smiled; but the disquietude of his heart was +perceptible in the trembling of his voice. And he added with his indulgent, +cheerful air: +</p> + +<p> +“If you are afraid for the end of the month, my girl, tell the butcher to +send my bill apart. And don’t fear; you are not going to be asked for any +of your money to settle it with; your sous may lie sleeping.” +</p> + +<p> +This was an allusion to Martine’s little personal fortune. In thirty +years, with four hundred francs wages she had earned twelve thousand francs, +from which she had taken only what was strictly necessary for her wants; and +increased, almost trebled, by the interest, her savings amounted now to thirty +thousand francs, which through a caprice, a desire to have her money apart, she +had not chosen to place with M. Grandguillot. They were elsewhere, safely +invested in the funds. +</p> + +<p> +“Sous that lie sleeping are honest sous,” she said gravely. +“But monsieur is right; I will tell the butcher to send a bill apart, as +all the brains are for monsieur’s cookery and not for mine.” +</p> + +<p> +This explanation brought a smile to the face of Clotilde, who was always amused +by the jests about Martine’s avarice; and the breakfast ended more +cheerfully. The doctor desired to take the coffee under the plane trees, saying +that he felt the need of air after being shut up all the morning. The coffee +was served then on the stone table beside the fountain; and how pleasant it was +there in the shade, listening to the cool murmur of the water, while around, +the pine wood, the court, the whole place, were glowing in the early afternoon +sun. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor had complacently brought with him the vial of nerve substance, which +he looked at as it stood on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“So, then, mademoiselle,” he resumed, with an air of brusque +pleasantry, “you do not believe in my elixir of resurrection, and you +believe in miracles!” +</p> + +<p> +“Master,” responded Clotilde, “I believe that we do not know +everything.” +</p> + +<p> +He made a gesture of impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“But we must know everything. Understand then, obstinate little girl, +that not a single deviation from the invariable laws which govern the universe +has ever been scientifically proved. Up to this day there has been no proof of +the existence of any intelligence other than the human. I defy you to find any +real will, any reasoning force, outside of life. And everything is there; there +is in the world no other will than this force which impels everything to life, +to a life ever broader and higher.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose with a wave of the hand, animated by so firm a faith that she regarded +him in surprise, noticing how youthful he looked in spite of his white hair. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you wish me to repeat my ‘Credo’ for you, since you +accuse me of not wanting yours? I believe that the future of humanity is in the +progress of reason through science. I believe that the pursuit of truth, +through science, is the divine ideal which man should propose to himself. I +believe that all is illusion and vanity outside the treasure of truths slowly +accumulated, and which will never again be lost. I believe that the sum of +these truths, always increasing, will at last confer on man incalculable power +and peace, if not happiness. Yes, I believe in the final triumph of +life.” +</p> + +<p> +And with a broader sweep of the hand that took in the vast horizon, as if +calling on these burning plains in which fermented the saps of all existences +to bear him witness, he added: +</p> + +<p> +“But the continual miracle, my child, is life. Only open your eyes, and +look.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“It is in vain that I open my eyes; I cannot see everything. It is you, +master, who are blind, since you do not wish to admit that there is beyond an +unknown realm which you will never enter. Oh, I know you are too intelligent to +be ignorant of that! Only you do not wish to take it into account; you put the +unknown aside, because it would embarrass you in your researches. It is in vain +that you tell me to put aside the mysterious; to start from the known for the +conquest of the unknown. I cannot; the mysterious at once calls me back and +disturbs me.” +</p> + +<p> +He listened to her, smiling, glad to see her become animated, while he smoothed +her fair curls with his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, I know you are like the rest; you do not wish to live without +illusions and without lies. Well, there, there; we understand each other still, +even so. Keep well; that is the half of wisdom and of happiness.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, changing the conversation: +</p> + +<p> +“Come, you will accompany me, notwithstanding, and help me in my round of +miracles. This is Thursday, my visiting day. When the heat shall have abated a +little, we will go out together.” +</p> + +<p> +She refused at first, in order not to seem to yield; but she at last consented, +seeing the pain she gave him. She was accustomed to accompany him on his round +of visits. They remained for some time longer under the plane trees, until the +doctor went upstairs to dress. When he came down again, correctly attired in a +close-fitting coat and wearing a broad-brimmed silk hat, he spoke of harnessing +Bonhomme, the horse that for a quarter of a century had taken him on his visits +through the streets and the environs of Plassans. But the poor old beast was +growing blind, and through gratitude for his past services and affection for +himself they now rarely disturbed him. On this afternoon he was very drowsy, +his gaze wandered, his legs were stiff with rheumatism. So that the doctor and +the young girl, when they went to the stable to see him, gave him a hearty kiss +on either side of his nose, telling him to rest on a bundle of fresh hay which +the servant had brought. And they decided to walk. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, keeping on her spotted white muslin, merely tied on over her curls a +large straw hat adorned with a bunch of lilacs; and she looked charming, with +her large eyes and her complexion of milk-and-roses under the shadow of its +broad brim. When she went out thus on Pascal’s arm, she tall, slender, +and youthful, he radiant, his face illuminated, so to say, by the whiteness of +his beard, with a vigor that made him still lift her across the rivulets, +people smiled as they passed, and turned around to look at them again, they +seemed so innocent and so happy. On this day, as they left the road to Les +Fenouilleres to enter Plassans, a group of gossips stopped short in their talk. +It reminded one of one of those ancient kings one sees in pictures; one of +those powerful and gentle kings who never grew old, resting his hand on the +shoulder of a girl beautiful as the day, whose docile and dazzling youth lends +him its support. +</p> + +<p> +They were turning into the Cours Sauvair to gain the Rue de la Banne, when a +tall, dark young man of about thirty stopped them. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, master, you have forgotten me. I am still waiting for your notes on +consumption.” +</p> + +<p> +It was Dr. Ramond, a young physician, who had settled two years before at +Plassans, where he was building up a fine practise. With a superb head, in the +brilliant prime of a gracious manhood, he was adored by the women, but he had +fortunately a great deal of good sense and a great deal of prudence. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Ramond, good day! Not at all, my dear friend; I have not forgotten +you. It is this little girl, to whom I gave the notes yesterday to copy, and +who has not touched them yet.” +</p> + +<p> +The two young people shook hands with an air of cordial intimacy. +</p> + +<p> +“Good day, Mlle. Clotilde.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good day, M. Ramond.” +</p> + +<p> +During a gastric fever, happily mild, which the young girl had had the +preceding year, Dr. Pascal had lost his head to the extent of distrusting his +own skill, and he had asked his young colleague to assist him—to reassure +him. Thus it was that an intimacy, a sort of comradeship, had sprung up among +the three. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall have your notes to-morrow, I promise you,” she said, +smiling. +</p> + +<p> +Ramond walked on with them, however, until they reached the end of the Rue de +la Banne, at the entrance of the old quarter whither they were going. And there +was in the manner in which he leaned, smiling, toward Clotilde, the revelation +of a secret love that had grown slowly, awaiting patiently the hour fixed for +the most reasonable of <i>dénouements</i>. Besides, he listened with deference +to Dr. Pascal, whose works he admired greatly. +</p> + +<p> +“And it just happens, my dear friend, that I am going to +Guiraude’s, that woman, you know, whose husband, a tanner, died of +consumption five years ago. She has two children living—Sophie, a girl +now going on sixteen, whom I fortunately succeeded in having sent four years +before her father’s death to a neighboring village, to one of her aunts; +and a son, Valentin, who has just completed his twenty-first year, and whom his +mother insisted on keeping with her through a blind affection, notwithstanding +that I warned her of the dreadful results that might ensue. Well, see if I am +right in asserting that consumption is not hereditary, but only that +consumptive parents transmit to their children a degenerate soil, in which the +disease develops at the slightest contagion. Now, Valentin, who lived in daily +contact with his father, is consumptive, while Sophie, who grew up in the open +air, has superb health.” +</p> + +<p> +He added with a triumphant smile: +</p> + +<p> +“But that will not prevent me, perhaps, from saving Valentin, for he is +visibly improved, and is growing fat since I have used my injections with him. +Ah, Ramond, you will come to them yet; you will come to my injections!” +</p> + +<p> +The young physician shook hands with both of them, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t say no. You know that I am always with you.” +</p> + +<p> +When they were alone they quickened their steps and were soon in the Rue +Canquoin, one of the narrowest and darkest streets of the old quarter. Hot as +was the sun, there reigned here the semi-obscurity and the coolness of a cave. +Here it was, on a ground floor, that Guiraude lived with her son Valentin. She +opened the door herself. She was a thin, wasted-looking woman, who was herself +affected with a slow decomposition of the blood. From morning till night she +crushed almonds with the end of an ox-bone on a large paving stone, which she +held between her knees. This work was their only means of living, the son +having been obliged to give up all labor. She smiled, however, to-day on seeing +the doctor, for Valentin had just eaten a cutlet with a good appetite, a thing +which he had not done for months. Valentin, a sickly-looking young man, with +scanty hair and beard and prominent cheek bones, on each of which was a bright +red spot, while the rest of his face was of a waxen hue, rose quickly to show +how much more sprightly he felt! And Clotilde was touched by the reception +given to Pascal as a saviour, the awaited Messiah. These poor people pressed +his hands—they would like to have kissed his feet; looking at him with +eyes shining with gratitude. True, the disease was not yet cured: perhaps this +was only the effect of the stimulus, perhaps what he felt was only the +excitement of fever. But was it not something to gain time? He gave him another +injection while Clotilde, standing before the window, turned her back to them; +and when they were leaving she saw him lay twenty francs upon the table. This +often happened to him, to pay his patients instead of being paid by them. +</p> + +<p> +He made three other visits in the old quarter, and then went to see a lady in +the new town. When they found themselves in the street again, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that, if you were a courageous girl, we should walk to +Séguiranne, to see Sophie at her aunt’s. That would give me +pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +The distance was scarcely three kilometers; that would be only a pleasant walk +in this delightful weather. And she agreed gaily, not sulky now, but pressing +close to him, happy to hang on his arm. It was five o’clock. The setting +sun spread over the fields a great sheet of gold. But as soon as they left +Plassans they were obliged to cross the corner of the vast, arid plain, which +extended to the right of the Viorne. The new canal, whose irrigating waters +were soon to transform the face of the country parched with thirst, did not yet +water this quarter, and red fields and yellow fields stretched away into the +distance under the melancholy and blighting glare of the sun, planted only with +puny almond trees and dwarf olives, constantly cut down and pruned, whose +branches twisted and writhed in attitudes of suffering and revolt. In the +distance, on the bare hillsides, were to be seen only like pale patches the +country houses, flanked by the regulation cypress. The vast, barren expanse, +however, with broad belts of desolate fields of hard and distinct coloring, had +classic lines of a severe grandeur. And on the road the dust lay twenty +centimeters thick, a dust like snow, that the slightest breath of wind raised +in broad, flying clouds, and that covered with white powder the fig trees and +the brambles on either side. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, who amused herself like a child, listening to this dust crackling +under her little feet, wished to hold her parasol over Pascal. +</p> + +<p> +“You have the sun in your eyes. Lean a little this way.” +</p> + +<p> +But at last he took possession of the parasol, to hold it himself. +</p> + +<p> +“It is you who do not hold it right; and then it tires you. Besides, we +are almost there now.” +</p> + +<p> +In the parched plain they could already perceive an island of verdure, an +enormous clump of trees. This was La Séguiranne, the farm on which Sophie had +grown up in the house of her Aunt Dieudonné, the wife of the cross old man. +Wherever there was a spring, wherever there was a rivulet, this ardent soil +broke out in rich vegetation; and then there were walks bordered by trees, +whose luxuriant foliage afforded a delightful coolness and shade. Plane trees, +chestnut trees, and young elms grew vigorously. They entered an avenue of +magnificent green oaks. +</p> + +<p> +As they approached the farm, a girl who was making hay in the meadow dropped +her fork and ran toward them. It was Sophie, who had recognized the doctor and +the young lady, as she called Clotilde. She adored them, but she stood looking +at them in confusion, unable to express the glad greeting with which her heart +overflowed. She resembled her brother Valentin; she had his small stature, his +prominent cheek bones, his pale hair; but in the country, far from the +contagion of the paternal environment, she had, it seemed, gained flesh; +acquired with her robust limbs a firm step; her cheeks had filled out, her hair +had grown luxuriant. And she had fine eyes, which shone with health and +gratitude. Her Aunt Dieudonné, who was making hay with her, had come toward +them also, crying from afar jestingly, with something of Provençal rudeness: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, M. Pascal, we have no need of you here! There is no one sick!” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor, who had simply come in search of this fine spectacle of health, +answered in the same tone: +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so, indeed. But that does not prevent this little girl here from +owing you and me a fine taper!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that is the pure truth! And she knows it, M. Pascal. There is not +a day that she does not say that but for you she would be at this time like her +brother Valentin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah! We will save him, too. He is getting better, Valentin is. I have +just been to see him.” +</p> + +<p> +Sophie seized the doctor’s hands; large tears stood in her eyes, and she +could only stammer: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, M. Pascal!” +</p> + +<p> +How they loved him! And Clotilde felt her affection for him increase, seeing +the affection of all these people for him. They remained chatting there for a +few moments longer, in the salubrious shade of the green oaks. Then they took +the road back to Plassans, having still another visit to make. +</p> + +<p> +This was to a tavern, that stood at the crossing of two roads and was white +with the flying dust. A steam mill had recently been established opposite, +utilizing the old buildings of Le Paradou, an estate dating from the last +century, and Lafouasse, the tavern keeper, still carried on his little +business, thanks to the workmen at the mill and to the peasants who brought +their corn to it. He had still for customers on Sundays the few inhabitants of +Les Artauds, a neighboring hamlet. But misfortune had struck him; for the last +three years he had been dragging himself about groaning with rheumatism, in +which the doctor had finally recognized the beginning of ataxia. But he had +obstinately refused to take a servant, persisting in waiting on his customers +himself, holding on by the furniture. So that once more firm on his feet, after +a dozen punctures, he already proclaimed his cure everywhere. +</p> + +<p> +He chanced to be just then at his door, and looked strong and vigorous, with +his tall figure, fiery face, and fiery red hair. +</p> + +<p> +“I was waiting for you, M. Pascal. Do you know that I have been able to +bottle two casks of wine without being tired!” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde remained outside, sitting on a stone bench; while Pascal entered the +room to give Lafouasse the injection. She could hear them speaking, and the +latter, who in spite of his stoutness was very cowardly in regard to pain, +complained that the puncture hurt, adding, however, that after all a little +suffering was a small price to pay for good health. Then he declared he would +be offended if the doctor did not take a glass of something. The young lady +would not affront him by refusing to take some syrup. He carried a table +outside, and there was nothing for it but they must touch glasses with him. +</p> + +<p> +“To your health, M. Pascal, and to the health of all the poor devils to +whom you give back a relish for their victuals!” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde thought with a smile of the gossip of which Martine had spoken to her, +of Father Boutin, whom they accused the doctor of having killed. He did not +kill all his patients, then; his remedy worked real miracles, since he brought +back to life the consumptive and the ataxic. And her faith in her master +returned with the warm affection for him which welled up in her heart. When +they left Lafouasse, she was once more completely his; he could do what he +willed with her. +</p> + +<p> +But a few moments before, sitting on the stone bench looking at the steam mill, +a confused story had recurred to her mind; was it not here in these +smoke-blackened buildings, to-day white with flour, that a drama of love had +once been enacted? And the story came back to her; details given by Martine; +allusions made by the doctor himself; the whole tragic love adventure of her +cousin the Abbé Serge Mouret, then rector of Les Artauds, with an adorable +young girl of a wild and passionate nature who lived at Le Paradou. +</p> + +<p> +Returning by the same road Clotilde stopped, and pointing to the vast, +melancholy expanse of stubble fields, cultivated plains, and fallow land, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Master, was there not once there a large garden? Did you not tell me +some story about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes; Le Paradou, an immense garden—woods, meadows, orchards, +parterres, fountains, and brooks that flowed into the Viorne. A garden +abandoned for an age; the garden of the Sleeping Beauty, returned to +Nature’s rule. And as you see they have cut down the woods, and cleared +and leveled the ground, to divide it into lots, and sell it by auction. The +springs themselves have dried up. There is nothing there now but that +fever-breeding marsh. Ah, when I pass by here, it makes my heart ache!” +</p> + +<p> +She ventured to question him further: +</p> + +<p> +“But was it not in Le Paradou that my cousin Serge and your great friend +Albine fell in love with each other?” +</p> + +<p> +He had forgotten her presence. He went on talking, his gaze fixed on space, +lost in recollections of the past. +</p> + +<p> +“Albine, my God! I can see her now, in the sunny garden, like a great, +fragrant bouquet, her head thrown back, her bosom swelling with joy, happy in +her flowers, with wild flowers braided among her blond tresses, fastened at her +throat, on her corsage, around her slender, bare brown arms. And I can see her +again, after she had asphyxiated herself; dead in the midst of her flowers; +very white, sleeping with folded hands, and a smile on her lips, on her couch +of hyacinths and tuberoses. Dead for love; and how passionately Albine and +Serge loved each other, in the great garden their tempter, in the bosom of +Nature their accomplice! And what a flood of life swept away all false bonds, +and what a triumph of life!” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, she too troubled by this passionate flow of murmured words, gazed at +him intently. She had never ventured to speak to him of another story that she +had heard—the story of the one love of his life—a love which he had +cherished in secret for a lady now dead. It was said that he had attended her +for a long time without ever so much as venturing to kiss the tips of her +fingers. Up to the present, up to near sixty, study and his natural timidity +had made him shun women. But, notwithstanding, one felt that he was reserved +for some great passion, with his feelings still fresh and ardent, in spite of +his white hair. +</p> + +<p> +“And the girl that died, the girl they mourned,” she resumed, her +voice trembling, her cheeks scarlet, without knowing why. “Serge did not +love her, then, since he let her die?” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal started as though awakening from a dream, seeing her beside him in her +youthful beauty, with her large, clear eyes shining under the shadow of her +broad-brimmed hat. Something had happened; the same breath of life had passed +through them both; they did not take each other’s arms again. They walked +side by side. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my dear, the world would be too beautiful, if men did not spoil it +all! Albine is dead, and Serge is now rector of St. Eutrope, where he lives +with his sister Désirée, a worthy creature who has the good fortune to be half +an idiot. He is a holy man; I have never said the contrary. One may be an +assassin and serve God.” +</p> + +<p> +And he went on speaking of the hard things of life, of the blackness and +execrableness of humanity, without losing his gentle smile. He loved life; and +the continuous work of life was a continual joy to him in spite of all the +evil, all the misery, that it might contain. It mattered not how dreadful life +might appear, it must be great and good, since it was lived with so tenacious a +will, for the purpose no doubt of this will itself, and of the great work which +it unconsciously accomplished. True, he was a scientist, a clear-sighted man; +he did not believe in any idyllic humanity living in a world of perpetual +peace; he saw, on the contrary, its woes and its vices; he had laid them bare; +he had examined them; he had catalogued them for thirty years past, but his +passion for life, his admiration for the forces of life, sufficed to produce in +him a perpetual gaiety, whence seemed to flow naturally his love for others, a +fraternal compassion, a sympathy, which were felt under the roughness of the +anatomist and under the affected impersonality of his studies. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” he ended, taking a last glance at the vast, melancholy +plains. “Le Paradou is no more. They have sacked it, defiled it, +destroyed it; but what does that matter! Vines will be planted, corn will +spring up, a whole growth of new crops; and people will still fall in love in +vintages and harvests yet to come. Life is eternal; it is a perpetual renewal +of birth and growth.” +</p> + +<p> +He took her arm again and they returned to the town thus, arm in arm like good +friends, while the glow of the sunset was slowly fading away in a tranquil sea +of violets and roses. And seeing them both pass again, the ancient king, +powerful and gentle, leaning against the shoulder of a charming and docile +girl, supported by her youth, the women of the faubourg, sitting at their +doors, looked after them with a smile of tender emotion. +</p> + +<p> +At La Souleiade Martine was watching for them. She waved her hand to them from +afar. What! Were they not going to dine to-day? Then, when they were near, she +said: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! you will have to wait a little while. I did not venture to put on my +leg of mutton yet.” +</p> + +<p> +They remained outside to enjoy the charm of the closing day. The pine grove, +wrapped in shadow, exhaled a balsamic resinous odor, and from the yard, still +heated, in which a last red gleam was dying away, a chillness arose. It was +like an assuagement, a sigh of relief, a resting of surrounding Nature, of the +puny almond trees, the twisted olives, under the paling sky, cloudless and +serene; while at the back of the house the clump of plane trees was a mass of +black and impenetrable shadows, where the fountain was heard singing its +eternal crystal song. +</p> + +<p> +“Look!” said the doctor, “M. Bellombre has already dined, and +he is taking the air.” +</p> + +<p> +He pointed to a bench, on which a tall, thin old man of seventy was sitting, +with a long face, furrowed with wrinkles, and large, staring eyes, and very +correctly attired in a close-fitting coat and cravat. +</p> + +<p> +“He is a wise man,” murmured Clotilde. “He is happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“He!” cried Pascal. “I should hope not!” +</p> + +<p> +He hated no one, and M. Bellombre, the old college professor, now retired, and +living in his little house without any other company than that of a gardener +who was deaf and dumb and older than himself, was the only person who had the +power to exasperate him. +</p> + +<p> +“A fellow who has been afraid of life; think of that! afraid of life! +Yes, a hard and avaricious egotist! If he banished woman from his existence, it +was only through fear of having to pay for her shoes. And he has known only the +children of others, who have made him suffer—hence his hatred of the +child—that flesh made to be flogged. The fear of life, the fear of +burdens and of duties, of annoyances and of catastrophes! The fear of life, +which makes us through dread of its sufferings refuse its joys. Ah! I tell you, +this cowardliness enrages me; I cannot forgive it. We must live—live a +complete life—live all our life. Better even suffering, suffering only, +than such renunciation—the death of all there is in us that is living and +human!” +</p> + +<p> +M. Bellombre had risen, and was walking along one of the walks with slow, +tranquil steps. Then, Clotilde, who had been watching him in silence, at last +said: +</p> + +<p> +“There is, however, the joy of renunciation. To renounce, not to live; to +keep one’s self for the spiritual, has not this always been the great +happiness of the saints?” +</p> + +<p> +“If they had not lived,” cried Pascal, “they could not now be +saints. Let suffering come, and I will bless it, for it is perhaps the only +great happiness!” +</p> + +<p> +But he felt that she rebelled against this; that he was going to lose her +again. At the bottom of our anxiety about the beyond is the secret fear and +hatred of life. So that he hastily assumed again his pleasant smile, so +affectionate and conciliating. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! Enough for to-day; let us dispute no more; let us love each +other dearly. And see! Martine is calling us, let us go in to dinner.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"></a> +III.</h2> + +<p> +For a month this unpleasant state of affairs continued, every day growing +worse, and Clotilde suffered especially at seeing that Pascal now locked up +everything. He had no longer the same tranquil confidence in her as before, and +this wounded her so deeply that, if she had at any time found the press open, +she would have thrown the papers into the fire as her grandmother Félicité had +urged her to do. And the disagreements began again, so that they often remained +without speaking to each other for two days together. +</p> + +<p> +One morning, after one of these misunderstandings which had lasted since the +day before, Martine said as she was serving the breakfast: +</p> + +<p> +“Just now as I was crossing the Place de la Sous-Préfecture, I saw a +stranger whom I thought I recognized going into Mme. Félicité’s house. +Yes, mademoiselle, I should not be surprised if it were your brother.” +</p> + +<p> +On the impulse of the moment, Pascal and Clotilde spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Your brother! Did your grandmother expect him, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t think so, though she has been expecting him at any +time for the past six months, I know that she wrote to him again a week +ago.” +</p> + +<p> +They questioned Martine. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, monsieur, I cannot say; since I last saw M. Maxime four years +ago, when he stayed two hours with us on his way to Italy, he may perhaps have +changed greatly—I thought, however, that I recognized his back.” +</p> + +<p> +The conversation continued, Clotilde seeming to be glad of this event, which +broke at last the oppressive silence between them, and Pascal ended: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if it is he, he will come to see us.” +</p> + +<p> +It was indeed Maxime. He had yielded, after months of refusal, to the urgent +solicitations of old Mme. Rougon, who had still in this quarter an open family +wound to heal. The trouble was an old one, and it grew worse every day. +</p> + +<p> +Fifteen years before, when he was seventeen, Maxime had had a child by a +servant whom he had seduced. His father Saccard, and his stepmother +Renée—the latter vexed more especially at his unworthy choice—had +acted in the matter with indulgence. The servant, Justine Mégot, belonged to +one of the neighboring villages, and was a fair-haired girl, also seventeen, +gentle and docile; and they had sent her back to Plassans, with an allowance of +twelve hundred francs a year, to bring up little Charles. Three years later she +had married there a harness-maker of the faubourg, Frederic Thomas by name, a +good workman and a sensible fellow, who was tempted by the allowance. For the +rest her conduct was now most exemplary, she had grown fat, and she appeared to +be cured of a cough that had threatened a hereditary malady due to the +alcoholic propensities of a long line of progenitors. And two other children +born of her marriage, a boy who was now ten and a girl who was seven, both +plump and rosy, enjoyed perfect health; so that she would have been the most +respected and the happiest of women, if it had not been for the trouble which +Charles caused in the household. Thomas, notwithstanding the allowance, +execrated this son of another man and gave him no peace, which made the mother +suffer in secret, being an uncomplaining and submissive wife. So that, although +she adored him, she would willingly have given him up to his father’s +family. +</p> + +<p> +Charles, at fifteen, seemed scarcely twelve, and he had the infantine +intelligence of a child of five, resembling in an extraordinary degree his +great-great-grandmother, Aunt Dide, the madwoman at the Tulettes. He had the +slender and delicate grace of one of those bloodless little kings with whom a +race ends, crowned with their long, fair locks, light as spun silk. His large, +clear eyes were expressionless, and on his disquieting beauty lay the shadow of +death. And he had neither brain nor heart—he was nothing but a vicious +little dog, who rubbed himself against people to be fondled. His +great-grandmother Félicité, won by this beauty, in which she affected to +recognize her blood, had at first put him in a boarding school, taking charge +of him, but he had been expelled from it at the end of six months for +misconduct. Three times she had changed his boarding school, and each time he +had been expelled in disgrace. Then, as he neither would nor could learn +anything, and as his health was declining rapidly, they kept him at home, +sending him from one to another of the family. Dr. Pascal, moved to pity, had +tried to cure him, and had abandoned the hopeless task only after he had kept +him with him for nearly a year, fearing the companionship for Clotilde. And +now, when Charles was not at his mother’s, where he scarcely ever lived +at present, he was to be found at the house of Félicité, or that of some other +relative, prettily dressed, laden with toys, living like the effeminate little +dauphin of an ancient and fallen race. +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon, however, suffered because of this bastard, and she had planned +to get him away from the gossiping tongues of Plassans, by persuading Maxime to +take him and keep him with him in Paris. It would still be an ugly story of the +fallen family. But Maxime had for a long time turned a deaf ear to her +solicitations, in the fear which continually haunted him of spoiling his life. +After the war, enriched by the death of his wife, he had come back to live +prudently on his fortune in his mansion on the avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, +tormented by the hereditary malady of which he was to die young, having gained +from his precocious debauchery a salutary fear of pleasure, resolved above all +to shun emotions and responsibilities, so that he might last as long as +possible. Acute pains in the limbs, rheumatic he thought them, had been +alarming him for some time past; he saw himself in fancy already an invalid +tied down to an easy-chair; and his father’s sudden return to France, the +fresh activity which Saccard was putting forth, completed his disquietude. He +knew well this devourer of millions; he trembled at finding him again bustling +about him with his good-humored, malicious laugh. He felt that he was being +watched, and he had the conviction that he would be cut up and devoured if he +should be for a single day at his mercy, rendered helpless by the pains which +were invading his limbs. And so great a fear of solitude had taken possession +of him that he had now yielded to the idea of seeing his son again. If he found +the boy gentle, intelligent, and healthy, why should he not take him to live +with him? He would thus have a companion, an heir, who would protect him +against the machinations of his father. Gradually he came to see himself, in +his selfish forethought, loved, petted, and protected; yet for all that he +might not have risked such a journey, if his physician had not just at that +time sent him to the waters of St. Gervais. Thus, having to go only a few +leagues out of his way, he had dropped in unexpectedly that morning on old Mme. +Rougon, firmly resolved to take the train again in the evening, after having +questioned her and seen the boy. +</p> + +<p> +At two o’clock Pascal and Clotilde were still beside the fountain under +the plane trees where they had taken their coffee, when Félicité arrived with +Maxime. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, here’s a surprise! I have brought you your +brother.” +</p> + +<p> +Startled, the young girl had risen, seeing this thin and sallow stranger, whom +she scarcely recognized. Since their parting in 1854 she had seen him only +twice, once at Paris and again at Plassans. Yet his image, refined, elegant, +and vivacious, had remained engraven on her mind; his face had grown hollow, +his hair was streaked with silver threads. But notwithstanding, she found in +him still, with his delicately handsome head, a languid grace, like that of a +girl, even in his premature decrepitude. +</p> + +<p> +“How well you look!” he said simply, as he embraced his sister. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” she responded, “to be well one must live in the +sunshine. Ah, how happy it makes me to see you again!” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, with the eye of the physician, had examined his nephew critically. He +embraced him in his turn. +</p> + +<p> +“Goodday, my boy. And she is right, mind you; one can be well only out in +the sunshine—like the trees.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité had gone hastily to the house. She returned, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Charles is not here, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Clotilde. “We went to see him yesterday. Uncle +Macquart has taken him, and he is to remain for a few days at the +Tulettes.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité was in despair. She had come only in the certainty of finding the boy +at Pascal’s. What was to be done now? The doctor, with his tranquil air, +proposed to write to Uncle Macquart, who would bring him back in the morning. +But when he learned that Maxime wished positively to go away again by the nine +o’clock train, without remaining over night, another idea occurred to +him. He would send to the livery stable for a landau, and all four would go to +see Charles at Uncle Macquart’s. It would even be a delightful drive. It +was not quite three leagues from Plassans to the Tulettes—an hour to go, +and an hour to return, and they would still have almost two hours to remain +there, if they wished to be back by seven. Martine would get dinner, and Maxime +would have time enough to dine and catch his train. +</p> + +<p> +But Félicité objected, visibly disquieted by this visit to Macquart. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, indeed! If you think I am going down there in this frightful +weather, you are mistaken. It is much simpler to send some one to bring Charles +to us.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal shook his head. Charles was not always to be brought back when one +wished. He was a boy without reason, who sometimes, if the whim seized him, +would gallop off like an untamed animal. And old Mme. Rougon, overruled and +furious at having been unable to make any preparation, was at last obliged to +yield, in the necessity in which she found herself of leaving the matter to +chance. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, be it as you wish, then! Good Heavens, how unfortunately things +have turned out!” +</p> + +<p> +Martine hurried away to order the landau, and before three o’clock had +struck the horses were on the Nice road, descending the declivity which slopes +down to the bridge over the Viorne. Then they turned to the left, and followed +the wooded banks of the river for about two miles. After this the road entered +the gorges of the Seille, a narrow pass between two giant walls of rock +scorched by the ardent rays of the summer sun. Pine trees pushed their way +through the clefts; clumps of trees, scarcely thicker at the roots than tufts +of grass, fringed the crests and hung over the abyss. It was a chaos; a blasted +landscape, a mouth of hell, with its wild turns, its droppings of blood-colored +earth sliding down from every cut, its desolate solitude invaded only by the +eagles’ flight. +</p> + +<p> +Félicité did not open her lips; her brain was at work, and she seemed +completely absorbed in her thoughts. The atmosphere was oppressive, the sun +sent his burning rays from behind a veil of great livid clouds. Pascal was +almost the only one who talked, in his passionate love for this scorched +land—a love which he endeavored to make his nephew share. But it was in +vain that he uttered enthusiastic exclamations, in vain that he called his +attention to the persistence of the olives, the fig trees, and the thorn bushes +in pushing through the rock; the life of the rock itself, that colossal and +puissant frame of the earth, from which they could almost fancy they heard a +sound of breathing arise. Maxime remained cold, filled with a secret anguish in +presence of those blocks of savage majesty, whose mass seemed to crush him. And +he preferred to turn his eyes toward his sister, who was seated in front of +him. He was becoming more and more charmed with her. She looked so healthy and +so happy, with her pretty round head, with its straight, well-molded forehead. +Now and then their glances met, and she gave him an affectionate smile which +consoled him. +</p> + +<p> +But the wildness of the gorge was beginning to soften, the two walls of rock to +grow lower; they passed between two peaceful hills, with gentle slopes covered +with thyme and lavender. It was the desert still, there were still bare spaces, +green or violet hued, from which the faintest breeze brought a pungent perfume. +</p> + +<p> +Then abruptly, after a last turn they descended to the valley of the Tulettes, +which was refreshed by springs. In the distance stretched meadows dotted by +large trees. The village was seated midway on the slope, among olive trees, and +the country house of Uncle Macquart stood a little apart on the left, full in +view. The landau turned into the road which led to the insane asylum, whose +white walls they could see before them in the distance. +</p> + +<p> +Félicité’s silence had grown somber, for she was not fond of exhibiting +Uncle Macquart. Another whom the family would be well rid of the day when he +should take his departure. For the credit of every one he ought to have been +sleeping long ago under the sod. But he persisted in living, he carried his +eighty-three years well, like an old drunkard saturated with liquor, whom the +alcohol seemed to preserve. At Plassans he had left a terrible reputation as a +do-nothing and a scoundrel, and the old men whispered the execrable story of +the corpses that lay between him and the Rougons, an act of treachery in the +troublous days of December, 1851, an ambuscade in which he had left comrades +with their bellies ripped open, lying on the bloody pavement. Later, when he +had returned to France, he had preferred to the good place of which he had +obtained the promise this little domain of the Tulettes, which Félicité had +bought for him. And he had lived comfortably here ever since; he had no longer +any other ambition than that of enlarging it, looking out once more for the +good chances, and he had even found the means of obtaining a field which he had +long coveted, by making himself useful to his sister-in-law at the time when +the latter again reconquered Plassans from the legitimists—another +frightful story that was whispered also, of a madman secretly let loose from +the asylum, running in the night to avenge himself, setting fire to his house +in which four persons were burned. But these were old stories and Macquart, +settled down now, was no longer the redoubtable scoundrel who had made all the +family tremble. He led a perfectly correct life; he was a wily diplomat, and he +had retained nothing of his air of jeering at the world but his bantering +smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle is at home,” said Pascal, as they approached the house. +</p> + +<p> +This was one of those Provençal structures of a single story, with discolored +tiles and four walls washed with a bright yellow. Before the facade extended a +narrow terrace shaded by ancient mulberry trees, whose thick, gnarled branches +drooped down, forming an arbor. It was here that Uncle Macquart smoked his pipe +in the cool shade, in summer. And on hearing the sound of the carriage, he came +and stood at the edge of the terrace, straightening his tall form neatly clad +in blue cloth, his head covered with the eternal fur cap which he wore from one +year’s end to the other. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as he recognized his visitors, he called out with a sneer: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, here come some fine company! How kind of you; you are out for an +airing.” +</p> + +<p> +But the presence of Maxime puzzled him. Who was he? Whom had he come to see? +They mentioned his name to him, and he immediately cut short the explanations +they were adding, to enable him to straighten out the tangled skein of +relationship. +</p> + +<p> +“The father of Charles—I know, I know! The son of my nephew +Saccard, <i>pardi</i>! the one who made a fine marriage, and whose wife +died—” +</p> + +<p> +He stared at Maxime, seeming happy to find him already wrinkled at thirty-two, +with his hair and beard sprinkled with snow. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well!” he added, “we are all growing old. But I, at +least, have no great reason to complain. I am solid.” +</p> + +<p> +And he planted himself firmly on his legs with his air of ferocious mockery, +while his fiery red face seemed to flame and burn. For a long time past +ordinary brandy had seemed to him like pure water; only spirits of 36 degrees +tickled his blunted palate; and he took such draughts of it that he was full of +it—his flesh saturated with it—like a sponge. He perspired alcohol. +At the slightest breath whenever he spoke, he exhaled from his mouth a vapor of +alcohol. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, truly; you are solid, uncle!” said Pascal, amazed. “And +you have done nothing to make you so; you have good reason to ridicule us. Only +there is one thing I am afraid of, look you, that some day in lighting your +pipe, you may set yourself on fire—like a bowl of punch.” +</p> + +<p> +Macquart, flattered, gave a sneering laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Have your jest, have your jest, my boy! A glass of cognac is worth more +than all your filthy drugs. And you will all touch glasses with me, hey? So +that it may be said truly that your uncle is a credit to you all. As for me, I +laugh at evil tongues. I have corn and olive trees, I have almond trees and +vines and land, like any <i>bourgeois</i>. In summer I smoke my pipe under the +shade of my mulberry trees; in winter I go to smoke it against my wall, there +in the sunshine. One has no need to blush for an uncle like that, hey? +Clotilde, I have syrup, if you would like some. And you, Félicité, my dear, I +know that you prefer anisette. There is everything here, I tell you, there is +everything here!” +</p> + +<p> +He waved his arm as if to take possession of the comforts he enjoyed, now that +from an old sinner he had become a hermit, while Félicité, whom he had +disturbed a moment before by the enumeration of his riches, did not take her +eyes from his face, waiting to interrupt him. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Macquart, we will take nothing; we are in a hurry. Where is +Charles?” +</p> + +<p> +“Charles? Very good, presently! I understand, papa has come to see his +boy. But that is not going to prevent you taking a glass.” +</p> + +<p> +And as they positively refused he became offended, and said, with his malicious +laugh: +</p> + +<p> +“Charles is not here; he is at the asylum with the old woman.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, taking Maxime to the end of the terrace, he pointed out to him the great +white buildings, whose inner gardens resembled prison yards. +</p> + +<p> +“Look, nephew, you see those three trees in front of you? Well, beyond +the one to the left, there is a fountain in a court. Follow the ground floor, +and the fifth window to the right is Aunt Dide’s. And that is where the +boy is. Yes, I took him there a little while ago.” +</p> + +<p> +This was an indulgence of the directors. In the twenty years that she had been +in the asylum the old woman had not given a moment’s uneasiness to her +keeper. Very quiet, very gentle, she passed the days motionless in her +easy-chair, looking straight before her; and as the boy liked to be with her, +and as she herself seemed to take an interest in him, they shut their eyes to +this infraction of the rules and left him there sometimes for two or three +hours at a time, busily occupied in cutting out pictures. +</p> + +<p> +But this new disappointment put the finishing stroke to Félicité’s +ill-humor; she grew angry when Macquart proposed that all five should go in a +body in search of the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“What an idea! Go you alone, and come back quickly. We have no time to +lose.” +</p> + +<p> +Her suppressed rage seemed to amuse Uncle Macquart, and perceiving how +disagreeable his proposition was to her, he insisted, with his sneering laugh: +</p> + +<p> +“But, my children, we should at the same time have an opportunity of +seeing the old mother; the mother of us all. There is no use in talking; you +know that we are all descended from her, and it would hardly be polite not to +go wish her a good-day, when my grandnephew, who has come from such a distance, +has perhaps never before had a good look at her. I’ll not disown her, may +the devil take me if I do. To be sure she is mad, but all the same, old mothers +who have passed their hundredth year are not often to be seen, and she well +deserves that we should show ourselves a little kind to her.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a moment. A little shiver had run through every one. And +it was Clotilde, silent until now, who first declared in a voice full of +feeling: +</p> + +<p> +“You are right, uncle; we will all go.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité herself was obliged to consent. They re-entered the landau, Macquart +taking the seat beside the coachman. A feeling of disquietude had given a +sallow look to Maxime’s worn face; and during the short drive he +questioned Pascal concerning Charles with an air of paternal interest, which +concealed a growing anxiety. The doctor constrained by his mother’s +imperious glances, softened the truth. Well, the boy’s health was +certainly not very robust; it was on that account, indeed, that they were glad +to leave him for weeks together in the country with his uncle: but he had no +definite disease. Pascal did not add that he had for a moment cherished the +dream of giving him a brain and muscles by treating him with his hypodermic +injections of nerve substance, but that he had always been met by the same +difficulty; the slightest puncture brought on a hemorrhage which it was found +necessary to stop by compresses; there was a laxness of the tissues, due to +degeneracy; a bloody dew which exuded from the skin; he had especially, +bleedings at the nose so sudden and so violent that they did not dare to leave +him alone, fearing lest all the blood in his veins should flow out. And the +doctor ended by saying that although the boy’s intelligence had been +sluggish, he still hoped that it would develop in an environment of quicker +mental activity. +</p> + +<p> +They arrived at the asylum and Macquart, who had been listening to the doctor, +descended from his seat, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“He is a gentle little fellow, a very gentle little fellow! And then, he +is so beautiful—an angel!” +</p> + +<p> +Maxime, who was still pale, and who shivered in spite of the stifling heat, put +no more questions. He looked at the vast buildings of the asylum, the wings of +the various quarters separated by gardens, the men’s quarters from those +of the women, those of the harmless insane from those of the violent insane. A +scrupulous cleanliness reigned everywhere, a gloomy silence—broken from +time to time by footsteps and the noise of keys. Old Macquart knew all the +keepers. Besides, the doors were always to open to Dr. Pascal, who had been +authorized to attend certain of the inmates. They followed a passage and +entered a court; it was here—one of the chambers on the ground floor, a +room covered with a light carpet, furnished with a bed, a press, a table, an +armchair, and two chairs. The nurse, who had orders never to quit her charge, +happened just now to be absent, and the only occupants of the room were the +madwoman, sitting rigid in her armchair at one side of the table, and the boy, +sitting on a chair on the opposite side, absorbed in cutting out his pictures. +</p> + +<p> +“Go in, go in!” Macquart repeated. “Oh, there is no danger, +she is very gentle!” +</p> + +<p> +The grandmother, Adelaïde Fouqué, whom her grandchildren, a whole swarm of +descendants, called by the pet name of Aunt Dide, did not even turn her head at +the noise. In her youth hysterical troubles had unbalanced her mind. Of an +ardent and passionate nature and subject to nervous attacks, she had yet +reached the great age of eighty-three when a dreadful grief, a terrible moral +shock, destroyed her reason. At that time, twenty-one years before, her mind +had ceased to act; it had become suddenly weakened without the possibility of +recovery. And now, at the age of 104 years, she lived here as if forgotten by +the world, a quiet madwoman with an ossified brain, with whom insanity might +remain stationary for an indefinite length of time without causing death. Old +age had come, however, and had gradually atrophied her muscles. Her flesh was +as if eaten away by age. The skin only remained on her bones, so that she had +to be carried from her chair to her bed, for it had become impossible for her +to walk or even to move. And yet she held herself erect against the back of her +chair, a yellow, dried-up skeleton—like an ancient tree of which the bark +only remains—with only her eyes still living in her thin, long visage, in +which the wrinkles had been, so to say, worn away. She was looking fixedly at +Charles. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde approached her a little tremblingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Aunt Dide, it is we; we have come to see you. Don’t you know me, +then? Your little girl who comes sometimes to kiss you.” +</p> + +<p> +But the madwoman did not seem to hear. Her eyes remained fixed upon the boy, +who was finishing cutting out a picture—a purple king in a golden mantle. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, mamma,” said Macquart, “don’t pretend to be +stupid. You may very well look at us. Here is a gentleman, a grandson of yours, +who has come from Paris expressly to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +At this voice Aunt Dide at last turned her head. Her clear, expressionless eyes +wandered slowly from one to another, then rested again on Charles with the same +fixed look as before. +</p> + +<p> +They all shivered, and no one spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“Since the terrible shock she received,” explained Pascal in a low +voice, “she has been that way; all intelligence, all memory seem +extinguished in her. For the most part she is silent; at times she pours forth +a flood of stammering and indistinct words. She laughs and cries without cause, +she is a thing that nothing affects. And yet I should not venture to say that +the darkness of her mind is complete, that no memories remain stored up in its +depths. Ah! the poor old mother, how I pity her, if the light has not yet been +finally extinguished. What can her thoughts have been for the last twenty-one +years, if she still remembers?” +</p> + +<p> +With a gesture he put this dreadful past which he knew from him. He saw her +again young, a tall, pale, slender girl with frightened eyes, a widow, after +fifteen months of married life with Rougon, the clumsy gardener whom she had +chosen for a husband, throwing herself immediately afterwards into the arms of +the smuggler Macquart, whom she loved with a wolfish love, and whom she did not +even marry. She had lived thus for fifteen years, with her three children, one +the child of her marriage, the other two illegitimate, a capricious and +tumultuous existence, disappearing for weeks at a time, and returning all +bruised, her arms black and blue. Then Macquart had been killed, shot down like +a dog by a <i>gendarme</i>; and the first shock had paralyzed her, so that even +then she retained nothing living but her water-clear eyes in her livid face; +and she shut herself up from the world in the hut which her lover had left her, +leading there for forty years the dead existence of a nun, broken by terrible +nervous attacks. But the other shock was to finish her, to overthrow her +reason, and Pascal recalled the atrocious scene, for he had witnessed +it—a poor child whom the grandmother had taken to live with her, her +grandson Silvère, the victim of family hatred and strife, whose head another +<i>gendarme</i> shattered with a pistol shot, at the suppression of the +insurrectionary movement of 1851. She was always to be bespattered with blood. +</p> + +<p> +Félicité, meanwhile, had approached Charles, who was so engrossed with his +pictures that all these people did not disturb him. +</p> + +<p> +“My darling, this gentleman is your father. Kiss him,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +And then they all occupied themselves with Charles. He was very prettily +dressed in a jacket and short trousers of black velvet, braided with gold cord. +Pale as a lily, he resembled in truth one of those king’s sons whose +pictures he was cutting out, with his large, light eyes and his shower of fair +curls. But what especially struck the attention at this moment was his +resemblance to Aunt Dide; this resemblance which had overleaped three +generations, which had passed from this withered centenarian’s +countenance, from these dead features wasted by life, to this delicate +child’s face that was also as if worn, aged, and wasted, through the wear +of the race. Fronting each other, the imbecile child of a deathlike beauty +seemed the last of the race of which she, forgotten by the world, was the +ancestress. +</p> + +<p> +Maxime bent over to press a kiss on the boy’s forehead; and a chill +struck to his heart—this very beauty disquieted him; his uneasiness grew +in this chamber of madness, whence, it seemed to him, breathed a secret horror +come from the far-off past. +</p> + +<p> +“How beautiful you are, my pet! Don’t you love me a little?” +</p> + +<p> +Charles looked at him without comprehending, and went back to his play. +</p> + +<p> +But all were chilled. Without the set expression of her countenance changing +Aunt Dide wept, a flood of tears rolled from her living eyes over her dead +cheeks. Her gaze fixed immovably upon the boy, she wept slowly, endlessly. A +great thing had happened. +</p> + +<p> +And now an extraordinary emotion took possession of Pascal. He caught Clotilde +by the arm and pressed it hard, trying to make her understand. Before his eyes +appeared the whole line, the legitimate branch and the bastard branch, which +had sprung from this trunk already vitiated by neurosis. Five generations were +there present—the Rougons and the Macquarts, Adelaïde Fouqué at the root, +then the scoundrelly old uncle, then himself, then Clotilde and Maxime, and +lastly, Charles. Félicité occupied the place of her dead husband. There was no +link wanting; the chain of heredity, logical and implacable, was unbroken. And +what a world was evoked from the depths of the tragic cabin which breathed this +horror that came from the far-off past in such appalling shape that every one, +notwithstanding the oppressive heat, shivered. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, master?” whispered Clotilde, trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, nothing!” murmured the doctor. “I will tell you +later.” +</p> + +<p> +Macquart, who alone continued to sneer, scolded the old mother. What an idea +was hers, to receive people with tears when they put themselves out to come and +make her a visit. It was scarcely polite. And then he turned to Maxime and +Charles. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, nephew, you have seen your boy at last. Is it not true that he is +pretty, and that he is a credit to you, after all?” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité hastened to interfere. Greatly dissatisfied with the turn which +affairs were taking, she was now anxious only to get away. +</p> + +<p> +“He is certainly a handsome boy, and less backward than people think. +Just see how skilful he is with his hands. And you will see when you have +brightened him up in Paris, in a different way from what we have been able to +do at Plassans, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt,” murmured Maxime. “I do not say no; I will think +about it.” +</p> + +<p> +He seemed embarrassed for a moment, and then added: +</p> + +<p> +“You know I came only to see him. I cannot take him with me now as I am +to spend a month at St. Gervais. But as soon as I return to Paris I will think +of it, I will write to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, taking out his watch, he cried: +</p> + +<p> +“The devil! Half-past five. You know that I would not miss the nine +o’clock train for anything in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, let us go,” said Félicité brusquely. “We have +nothing more to do here.” +</p> + +<p> +Macquart, whom his sister-in-law’s anger seemed still to divert, +endeavored to delay them with all sorts of stories. He told of the days when +Aunt Dide talked, and he affirmed that he had found her one morning singing a +romance of her youth. And then he had no need of the carriage, he would take +the boy back on foot, since they left him to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Kiss your papa, my boy, for you know now that you see him, but you +don’t know whether you shall ever see him again or not.” +</p> + +<p> +With the same surprised and indifferent movement Charles raised his head, and +Maxime, troubled, pressed another kiss on his forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“Be very good and very pretty, my pet. And love me a little.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, we have no time to lose,” repeated Félicité. +</p> + +<p> +But the keeper here re-entered the room. She was a stout, vigorous girl, +attached especially to the service of the madwoman. She carried her to and from +her bed, night and morning; she fed her and took care of her like a child. And +she at once entered into conversation with Dr. Pascal, who questioned her. One +of the doctor’s most cherished dreams was to cure the mad by his +treatment of hypodermic injections. Since in their case it was the brain that +was in danger, why should not hypodermic injections of nerve substance give +them strength and will, repairing the breaches made in the organ? So that for a +moment he had dreamed of trying the treatment with the old mother; then he +began to have scruples, he felt a sort of awe, without counting that madness at +that age was total, irreparable ruin. So that he had chosen another +subject—a hatter named Sarteur, who had been for a year past in the +asylum, to which he had come himself to beg them to shut him up to prevent him +from committing a crime. In his paroxysms, so strong an impulse to kill seized +him that he would have thrown himself upon the first passer-by. He was of small +stature, very dark, with a retreating forehead, an aquiline face with a large +nose and a very short chin, and his left cheek was noticeably larger than his +right. And the doctor had obtained miraculous results with this victim of +emotional insanity, who for a month past had had no attack. The nurse, indeed +being questioned, answered that Sarteur had become quiet and was growing better +every day. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you hear, Clotilde?” cried Pascal, enchanted. “I have not +the time to see him this evening, but I will come again to-morrow. It is my +visiting day. Ah, if I only dared; if she were young still—” +</p> + +<p> +His eyes turned toward Aunt Dide. But Clotilde, whom his enthusiasm made smile, +said gently: +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, master, you cannot make life anew. There, come. We are the +last.” +</p> + +<p> +It was true; the others had already gone. Macquart, on the threshold, followed +Félicité and Maxime with his mocking glance as they went away. Aunt Dide, the +forgotten one, sat motionless, appalling in her leanness, her eyes again fixed +upon Charles with his white, worn face framed in his royal locks. +</p> + +<p> +The drive back was full of constraint. In the heat which exhaled from the +earth, the landau rolled on heavily to the measured trot of the horses. The +stormy sky took on an ashen, copper-colored hue in the deepening twilight. At +first a few indifferent words were exchanged; but from the moment in which they +entered the gorges of the Seille all conversation ceased, as if they felt +oppressed by the menacing walls of giant rock that seemed closing in upon them. +Was not this the end of the earth, and were they not going to roll into the +unknown, over the edge of some abyss? An eagle soared by, uttering a shrill +cry. +</p> + +<p> +Willows appeared again, and the carriage was rolling lightly along the bank of +the Viorne, when Félicité began without transition, as if she were resuming a +conversation already commenced. +</p> + +<p> +“You have no refusal to fear from the mother. She loves Charles dearly, +but she is a very sensible woman, and she understands perfectly that it is to +the boy’s advantage that you should take him with you. And I must tell +you, too, that the poor boy is not very happy with her, since, naturally, the +husband prefers his own son and daughter. For you ought to know +everything.” +</p> + +<p> +And she went on in this strain, hoping, no doubt, to persuade Maxime and draw a +formal promise from him. She talked until they reached Plassans. Then, +suddenly, as the landau rolled over the pavement of the faubourg, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“But look! there is his mother. That stout blond at the door +there.” +</p> + +<p> +At the threshold of a harness-maker’s shop hung round with horse +trappings and halters, Justine sat, knitting a stocking, taking the air, while +the little girl and boy were playing on the ground at her feet. And behind them +in the shadow of the shop was to be seen Thomas, a stout, dark man, occupied in +repairing a saddle. +</p> + +<p> +Maxime leaned forward without emotion, simply curious. He was greatly surprised +at sight of this robust woman of thirty-two, with so sensible and so +commonplace an air, in whom there was not a trace of the wild little girl with +whom he had been in love when both of the same age were entering their +seventeenth year. Perhaps a pang shot through his heart to see her plump and +tranquil and blooming, while he was ill and already aged. +</p> + +<p> +“I should never have recognized her,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +And the landau, still rolling on, turned into the Rue de Rome. Justine had +disappeared; this vision of the past—a past so different from the +present—had sunk into the shadowy twilight, with Thomas, the children, +and the shop. +</p> + +<p> +At La Souleiade the table was set; Martine had an eel from the Viorne, a +<i>sautéd</i> rabbit, and a leg of mutton. Seven o’clock was striking, +and they had plenty of time to dine quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be uneasy,” said Dr. Pascal to his nephew. “We +will accompany you to the station; it is not ten minutes’ walk from here. +As you left your trunk, you have nothing to do but to get your ticket and jump +on board the train.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, meeting Clotilde in the vestibule, where she was hanging up her hat and +her umbrella, he said to her in an undertone: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that I am uneasy about your brother?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why so?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have observed him attentively. I don’t like the way in which he +walks; and have you noticed what an anxious look he has at times? That has +never deceived me. In short, your brother is threatened with ataxia.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ataxia!” she repeated turning very pale. +</p> + +<p> +A cruel image rose before her, that of a neighbor, a man still young, whom for +the past ten years she had seen driven about in a little carriage by a servant. +Was not this infirmity the worst of all ills, the ax stroke that separates a +living being from social and active life? +</p> + +<p> +“But,” she murmured, “he complains only of rheumatism.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal shrugged his shoulders; and putting a finger to his lip he went into the +dining-room, where Félicité and Maxime were seated. +</p> + +<p> +The dinner was very friendly. The sudden disquietude which had sprung up in +Clotilde’s heart made her still more affectionate to her brother, who sat +beside her. She attended to his wants gayly, forcing him to take the most +delicate morsels. Twice she called back Martine, who was passing the dishes too +quickly. And Maxime was more and more enchanted by this sister, who was so +good, so healthy, so sensible, whose charm enveloped him like a caress. So +greatly was he captivated by her that gradually a project, vague at first, took +definite shape within him. Since little Charles, his son, terrified him so +greatly with his deathlike beauty, his royal air of sickly imbecility, why +should he not take his sister Clotilde to live with him? The idea of having a +woman in his house alarmed him, indeed, for he was afraid of all women, having +had too much experience of them in his youth; but this one seemed to him truly +maternal. And then, too, a good woman in his house would make a change in it, +which would be a desirable thing. He would at least be left no longer at the +mercy of his father, whom he suspected of desiring his death so that he might +get possession of his money at once. His hatred and terror of his father +decided him. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think of marrying, then?” he asked, wishing to try +the ground. +</p> + +<p> +The young girl laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, there is no hurry,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +Then, suddenly, looking at Pascal, who had raised his head, she added: +</p> + +<p> +“How can I tell? Oh, I shall never marry.” +</p> + +<p> +But Félicité protested. When she saw her so attached to the doctor, she often +wished for a marriage that would separate her from him, that would leave her +son alone in a deserted home, where she herself might become all powerful, +mistress of everything. Therefore she appealed to him. Was it not true that a +woman ought to marry, that it was against nature to remain an old maid? +</p> + +<p> +And he gravely assented, without taking his eyes from Clotilde’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, she must marry. She is too sensible not to marry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” interrupted Maxime, “would it be really sensible in +her to marry? In order to be unhappy, perhaps; there are so many ill-assorted +marriages!” +</p> + +<p> +And coming to a resolution, he added: +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know what you ought to do? Well, you ought to come and +live with me in Paris. I have thought the matter over. The idea of taking +charge of a child in my state of health terrifies me. Am I not a child myself, +an invalid who needs to be taken care of? You will take care of me; you will be +with me, if I should end by losing the use of my limbs.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a sound of tears in his voice, so great a pity did he feel for +himself. He saw himself, in fancy, sick; he saw his sister at his bedside, like +a Sister of Charity; if she consented to remain unmarried he would willingly +leave her his fortune, so that his father might not have it. The dread which he +had of solitude, the need in which he should perhaps stand of having a +sick-nurse, made him very pathetic. +</p> + +<p> +“It would be very kind on your part, and you should have no cause to +repent it.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine, who was serving the mutton, stopped short in surprise; and the +proposition caused the same surprise at the table. Félicité was the first to +approve, feeling that the girl’s departure would further her plans. She +looked at Clotilde, who was still silent and stunned, as it were; while Dr. +Pascal waited with a pale face. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, brother, brother,” stammered the young girl, unable at first +to think of anything else to say. +</p> + +<p> +Then her grandmother cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all you have to say? Why, the proposition your brother has just +made you is a very advantageous one. If he is afraid of taking Charles now, +why, you can go with him, and later on you can send for the child. Come, come, +that can be very well arranged. Your brother makes an appeal to your heart. Is +it not true, Pascal, that she owes him a favorable answer?” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor, by an effort, recovered his self-possession. The chill that had +seized him made itself felt, however, in the slowness with which he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“The offer, in effect, is very kind. Clotilde, as I said before, is very +sensible and she will accept it, if it is right that she should do so.” +</p> + +<p> +The young girl, greatly agitated, rebelled at this. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you wish to send me away, then, master? Maxime is very good, and I +thank him from the bottom of my heart. But to leave everything, my God! To +leave all that love me, all that I have loved until now!” +</p> + +<p> +She made a despairing gesture, indicating the place and the people, taking in +all La Souleiade. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” responded Pascal, looking at her fixedly, “what if +Maxime should need you, what if you had a duty to fulfil toward him?” +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes grew moist, and she remained for a moment trembling and desperate; for +she alone understood. The cruel vision again arose before her—Maxime, +helpless, driven, about in a little carriage by a servant, like the neighbor +whom she used to pity. Had she indeed any duty toward a brother who for fifteen +years had been a stranger to her? Did not her duty lie where her heart was? +Nevertheless, her distress of mind continued; she still suffered in the +struggle. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, Maxime,” she said at last, “give me also time to +reflect. I will see. Be assured that I am very grateful to you. And if you +should one day really have need of me, well, I should no doubt decide to +go.” +</p> + +<p> +This was all they could make her promise. Félicité, with her usual vehemence, +exhausted all her efforts in vain, while the doctor now affected to say that +she had given her word. Martine brought a cream, without thinking of hiding her +joy. To take away mademoiselle! what an idea, in order that monsieur might die +of grief at finding himself all alone. And the dinner was delayed, too, by this +unexpected incident. They were still at the dessert when half-past eight +struck. +</p> + +<p> +Then Maxime grew restless, tapped the floor with his foot, and declared that he +must go. +</p> + +<p> +At the station, whither they all accompanied him he kissed his sister a last +time, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Remember!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be afraid,” declared Félicité, “we are here to +remind her of her promise.” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor smiled, and all three, as soon as the train was in motion, waved +their handkerchiefs. +</p> + +<p> +On this day, after accompanying the grandmother to her door, Dr. Pascal and +Clotilde returned peacefully to La Souleiade, and spent a delightful evening +there. The constraint of the past few weeks, the secret antagonism which had +separated them, seemed to have vanished. Never had it seemed so sweet to them +to feel so united, inseparable. Doubtless it was only this first pang of +uneasiness suffered by their affection, this threatened separation, the +postponement of which delighted them. It was for them like a return to health +after an illness, a new hope of life. They remained for long time in the warm +night, under the plane trees, listening to the crystal murmur of the fountain. +And they did not even speak, so profoundly did they enjoy the happiness of +being together. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"></a> +IV.</h2> + +<p> +Ten days later the household had fallen back into its former state of +unhappiness. Pascal and Clotilde remained entire afternoons without exchanging +a word; and there were continual outbursts of ill-humor. Even Martine was +constantly out of temper. The home of these three had again become a hell. +</p> + +<p> +Then suddenly the condition of affairs was still further aggravated. A Capuchin +monk of great sanctity, such as often pass through the towns of the South, came +to Plassans to conduct a mission. The pulpit of St. Saturnin resounded with his +bursts of eloquence. He was a sort of apostle, a popular and fiery orator, a +florid speaker, much given to the use of metaphors. And he preached on the +nothingness of modern science with an extraordinary mystical exaltation, +denying the reality of this world, and disclosing the unknown, the mysteries of +the Beyond. All the devout women of the town were full of excitement about his +preaching. +</p> + +<p> +On the very first evening on which Clotilde, accompanied by Martine, attended +the sermon, Pascal noticed her feverish excitement when she returned. On the +following day her excitement increased, and she returned home later, having +remained to pray for an hour in a dark corner of a chapel. From this time she +was never absent from the services, returning languid, and with the luminous +eyes of a seer; and the Capuchin’s burning words haunted her; certain of +his images stirred her to ecstasy. She grew irritable, and she seemed to have +conceived a feeling of anger and contempt for every one and everything around +her. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, filled with uneasiness, determined to have an explanation with Martine. +He came down early one morning as she was sweeping the dining-room. +</p> + +<p> +“You know that I leave you and Clotilde free to go to church, if that +pleases you,” he said. “I do not believe in oppressing any +one’s conscience. But I do not wish that you should make her sick.” +</p> + +<p> +The servant, without stopping in her work, said in a low voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps the sick people are those who don’t think that they are +sick.” +</p> + +<p> +She said this with such an air of conviction that he smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he returned; “I am the sick soul whose conversion you +pray for; while both of you are in possession of health and of perfect wisdom. +Martine, if you continue to torment me and to torment yourselves, as you are +doing, I shall grow angry.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke in so furious and so harsh a voice that the servant stopped suddenly +in her sweeping, and looked him full in the face. An infinite tenderness, an +immense desolation passed over the face of the old maid cloistered in his +service. And tears filled her eyes and she hurried out of the room stammering: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, monsieur, you do not love us.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Pascal, filled with an overwhelming sadness, gave up the contest. His +remorse increased for having shown so much tolerance, for not having exercised +his authority as master, in directing Clotilde’s education and bringing +up. In his belief that trees grew straight if they were not interfered with, he +had allowed her to grow up in her own way, after teaching her merely to read +and write. It was without any preconceived plan, while aiding him in making his +researches and correcting his manuscripts, and simply by the force of +circumstances, that she had read everything and acquired a fondness for the +natural sciences. How bitterly he now regretted his indifference! What a +powerful impulse he might have given to this clear mind, so eager for +knowledge, instead of allowing it to go astray, and waste itself in that desire +for the Beyond, which Grandmother Félicité and the good Martine favored. While +he had occupied himself with facts, endeavoring to keep from going beyond the +phenomenon, and succeeding in doing so, through his scientific discipline, he +had seen her give all her thoughts to the unknown, the mysterious. It was with +her an obsession, an instinctive curiosity which amounted to torture when she +could not satisfy it. There was in her a longing which nothing could appease, +an irresistible call toward the unattainable, the unknowable. Even when she was +a child, and still more, later, when she grew up, she went straight to the why +and the how of things, she demanded ultimate causes. If he showed her a flower, +she asked why this flower produced a seed, why this seed would germinate. Then, +it would be the mystery of birth and death, and the unknown forces, and God, +and all things. In half a dozen questions she would drive him into a corner, +obliging him each time to acknowledge his fatal ignorance; and when he no +longer knew what to answer her, when he would get rid of her with a gesture of +comic fury, she would give a gay laugh of triumph, and go to lose herself again +in her dreams, in the limitless vision of all that we do not know, and all that +we may believe. Often she astounded him by her explanations. Her mind, +nourished on science, started from proved truths, but with such an impetus that +she bounded at once straight into the heaven of the legends. All sorts of +mediators passed there, angels and saints and supernatural inspirations, +modifying matter, endowing it with life; or, again, it was only one single +force, the soul of the world, working to fuse things and beings in a final kiss +of love in fifty centuries more. She had calculated the number of them, she +said. +</p> + +<p> +For the rest, Pascal had never before seen her so excited. For the past week, +during which she had attended the Capuchin’s mission in the cathedral, +she had spent the days visibly in the expectation of the sermon of the evening; +and she went to hear it with the rapt exaltation of a girl who is going to her +first rendezvous of love. Then, on the following day, everything about her +declared her detachment from the exterior life, from her accustomed existence, +as if the visible world, the necessary actions of every moment, were but a +snare and a folly. She retired within herself in the vision of what was not. +Thus she had almost completely given up her habitual occupations, abandoning +herself to a sort of unconquerable indolence, remaining for hours at a time +with her hands in her lap, her gaze lost in vacancy, rapt in the contemplation +of some far-off vision. Now she, who had been so active, so early a riser, rose +late, appearing barely in time for the second breakfast, and it could not have +been at her toilet that she spent these long hours, for she forgot her feminine +coquetry, and would come down with her hair scarcely combed, negligently +attired in a gown buttoned awry, but even thus adorable, thanks to her +triumphant youth. The morning walks through La Souleiade that she had been so +fond of, the races from the top to the bottom of the terraces planted with +olive and almond trees, the visits to the pine grove balmy with the odor of +resin, the long sun baths in the hot threshing yard, she indulged in no more; +she preferred to remain shut up in her darkened room, from which not a movement +was to be heard. Then, in the afternoon, in the work room, she would drag +herself about languidly from chair to chair, doing nothing, tired and disgusted +with everything that had formerly interested her. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal was obliged to renounce her assistance; a paper which he gave her to +copy remained three days untouched on her desk. She no longer classified +anything; she would not have stooped down to pick up a paper from the floor. +More than all, she abandoned the pastels, copies of flowers from nature that +she had been making, to serve as plates to a work on artificial fecundations. +Some large red mallows, of a new and singular coloring, faded in their vase +before she had finished copying them. And yet for a whole afternoon she worked +enthusiastically at a fantastic design of dream flowers, an extraordinary +efflorescence blooming in the light of a miraculous sun, a burst of golden +spike-shaped rays in the center of large purple corollas, resembling open +hearts, whence shot, for pistils, a shower of stars, myriads of worlds +streaming into the sky, like a milky way. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my poor girl,” said the doctor to her on this day, “how +can you lose your time in such conceits! And I waiting for the copy of those +mallows that you have left to die there. And you will make yourself ill. There +is no health, nor beauty, even, possible outside reality.” +</p> + +<p> +Often now she did not answer, intrenching herself behind her fierce +convictions, not wishing to dispute. But doubtless he had this time touched her +beliefs to the quick. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no reality,” she answered sharply. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor, amused by this bold philosophy from this big child, laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know,” he said; “our senses are fallible. We know +this world only through our senses, consequently it is possible that the world +does not exist. Let us open the door to madness, then; let us accept as +possible the most absurd chimeras, let us live in the realm of nightmare, +outside of laws and facts. For do you not see that there is no longer any law +if you suppress nature, and that the only thing that gives life any interest is +to believe in life, to love it, and to put all the forces of our intelligence +to the better understanding of it?” +</p> + +<p> +She made a gesture of mingled indifference and bravado, and the conversation +dropped. Now she was laying large strokes of blue crayon on the pastel, +bringing out its flaming splendor in strong relief on the background of a clear +summer night. +</p> + +<p> +But two days later, in consequence of a fresh discussion, matters went still +further amiss. In the evening, on leaving the table, Pascal went up to the +study to write, while she remained out of doors, sitting on the terrace. Hours +passed by, and he was surprised and uneasy, when midnight struck, that he had +not yet heard her return to her room. She would have had to pass through the +study, and he was very certain that she had not passed unnoticed by him. Going +downstairs, he found that Martine was asleep; the vestibule door was not +locked, and Clotilde must have remained outside, oblivious of the flight of +time. This often happened to her on these warm nights, but she had never before +remained out so late. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor’s uneasiness increased when he perceived on the terrace the +chair, now vacant, in which the young girl had been sitting. He had expected to +find her asleep in it. Since she was not there, why had she not come in. Where +could she have gone at such an hour? The night was beautiful: a September +night, still warm, with a wide sky whose dark, velvety expanse was studded with +stars; and from the depths of this moonless sky the stars shone so large and +bright that they lighted the earth with a pale, mysterious radiance. He leaned +over the balustrade of the terrace, and examined the slope and the stone steps +which led down to the railroad; but there was not a movement. He saw nothing +but the round motionless tops of the little olive trees. The idea then occurred +to him that she must certainly be under the plane trees beside the fountain, +whose murmuring waters made perpetual coolness around. He hurried there, and +found himself enveloped in such thick darkness that he, who knew every tree, +was obliged to walk with outstretched hands to avoid stumbling. Then he groped +his way through the dark pine grove, still without meeting any one. And at last +he called in a muffled voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Clotilde! Clotilde!” +</p> + +<p> +The darkness remained silent and impenetrable. +</p> + +<p> +“Clotilde! Clotilde!” he cried again, in a louder voice. Not a +sound, not a breath. The very echoes seemed asleep. His cry was drowned in the +infinitely soft lake of blue shadows. And then he called her with all the force +of his lungs. He returned to the plane trees. He went back to the pine grove, +beside himself with fright, scouring the entire domain. Then, suddenly, he +found himself in the threshing yard. +</p> + +<p> +At this cool and tranquil hour, the immense yard, the vast circular paved +court, slept too. It was so many years since grain had been threshed here that +grass had sprung up among the stones, quickly scorched a russet brown by the +sun, resembling the long threads of a woolen carpet. And, under the tufts of +this feeble vegetation, the ancient pavement did not cool during the whole +summer, smoking from sunset, exhaling in the night the heat stored up from so +many sultry noons. +</p> + +<p> +The yard stretched around, bare and deserted, in the cooling atmosphere, under +the infinite calm of the sky, and Pascal was crossing it to hurry to the +orchard, when he almost fell over a form that he had not before observed, +extended at full length upon the ground. He uttered a frightened cry. +</p> + +<p> +“What! Are you here?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde did not deign even to answer. She was lying on her back, her hands +clasped under the back of her neck, her face turned toward the sky; and in her +pale countenance, only her large shining eyes were visible. +</p> + +<p> +“And here I have been tormenting myself and calling you for an hour past! +Did you not hear me shouting?” +</p> + +<p> +She at last unclosed her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then that is very senseless! Why did you not answer me?” +</p> + +<p> +But she fell back into her former silence, refusing all explanation, and with a +stubborn brow kept her gaze fixed steadily on the sky. +</p> + +<p> +“There, come in and go to bed, naughty child. You will tell me +to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not stir, however; he begged her ten times over to go into the house, +but she would not move. He ended by sitting down beside her on the short grass, +through which penetrated the warmth of the pavement beneath. +</p> + +<p> +“But you cannot sleep out of doors. At least answer me. What are you +doing here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am looking.” +</p> + +<p> +And from her large eyes, fixed and motionless, her gaze seemed to mount up +among the stars. She seemed wholly absorbed in the contemplation of the pure +starry depths of the summer sky. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, master!” she continued, in a low monotone; “how narrow +and limited is all that you know compared to what there is surely up there. +Yes, if I did not answer you it was because I was thinking of you, and I was +filled with grief. You must not think me bad.” +</p> + +<p> +In her voice there was a thrill of such tenderness that it moved him +profoundly. He stretched himself on the grass beside her, so that their elbows +touched, and they went on talking. +</p> + +<p> +“I greatly fear, my dear, that your griefs are not rational. It gives you +pain to think of me. Why so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, because of things that I should find it hard to explain to you; I am +not a <i>savante</i>. You have taught me much, however, and I have learned more +myself, being with you. Besides, they are things that I feel. Perhaps I might +try to tell them to you, as we are all alone here, and the night is so +beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +Her full heart overflowed, after hours of meditation, in the peaceful +confidence of the beautiful night. He did not speak, fearing to disturb her, +but awaited her confidences in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“When I was a little girl and you used to talk to me about science, it +seemed to me that you were speaking to me of God, your words burned so with +faith and hope. Nothing seemed impossible to you. With science you were going +to penetrate the secret of the world, and make the perfect happiness of +humanity a reality. According to you, we were progressing with giant strides. +Each day brought its discovery, its certainty. Ten, fifty, a hundred years +more, perhaps, and the heavens would open and we should see truth face to face. +Well, the years pass, and nothing opens, and truth recedes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are an impatient girl,” he answered simply. “If ten +centuries more be necessary we must only wait for them to pass.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true. I cannot wait. I need to know; I need to be happy at once, +and to know everything at once, and to be perfectly and forever happy. Oh, that +is what makes me suffer, not to be able to reach at a bound complete knowledge, +not to be able to rest in perfect felicity, freed from scruples and doubts. Is +it living to advance with tortoiselike pace in the darkness, not to be able to +enjoy an hour’s tranquillity, without trembling at the thought of the +coming anguish? No, no! All knowledge and all happiness in a single day? +Science has promised them to us, and if she does not give them to us, then she +fails in her engagements.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he, too, began to grow heated. +</p> + +<p> +“But what you are saying is folly, little girl. Science is not +revelation. It marches at its human pace, its very effort is its glory. And +then it is not true that science has promised happiness.” +</p> + +<p> +She interrupted him hastily. +</p> + +<p> +“How, not true! Open your books up there, then. You know that I have read +them. Do they not overflow with promises? To read them one would think we were +marching on to the conquest of earth and heaven. They demolish everything, and +they swear to replace everything—and that by pure reason, with stability +and wisdom. Doubtless I am like the children. When I am promised anything I +wish that it shall be given me at once. My imagination sets to work, and the +object must be very beautiful to satisfy me. But it would have been easy not to +have promised anything. And above all, at this hour, in view of my eager and +painful longing, it would be very ill done to tell me that nothing has been +promised me.” +</p> + +<p> +He made a gesture, a simple gesture of protestation and impatience, in the +serene and silent night. +</p> + +<p> +“In any case,” she continued, “science has swept away all our +past beliefs. The earth is bare, the heavens are empty, and what do you wish +that I should become, even if you acquit science of having inspired the hopes I +have conceived? For I cannot live without belief and without happiness. On what +solid ground shall I build my house when science shall have demolished the old +world, and while she is waiting to construct the new? All the ancient city has +fallen to pieces in this catastrophe of examination and analysis; and all that +remains of it is a mad population vainly seeking a shelter among its ruins, +while anxiously looking for a solid and permanent refuge where they may begin +life anew. You must not be surprised, then, at our discouragement and our +impatience. We can wait no longer. Since tardy science has failed in her +promises, we prefer to fall back on the old beliefs, which for centuries have +sufficed for the happiness of the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! that is just it,” he responded in a low voice; “we are +just at the turning point, at the end of the century, fatigued and exhausted +with the appalling accumulation of knowledge which it has set moving. And it is +the eternal need for falsehood, the eternal need for illusion which distracts +humanity, and throws it back upon the delusive charm of the unknown. Since we +can never know all, what is the use of trying to know more than we know +already? Since the truth, when we have attained it, does not confer immediate +and certain happiness, why not be satisfied with ignorance, the darkened cradle +in which humanity slept the deep sleep of infancy? Yes, this is the aggressive +return of the mysterious, it is the reaction against a century of experimental +research. And this had to be; desertions were to be expected, since every need +could not be satisfied at once. But this is only a halt; the onward march will +continue, up there, beyond our view, in the illimitable fields of space.” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment they remained silent, still motionless on their backs, their gaze +lost among the myriads of worlds shining in the dark sky. A falling star shot +across the constellation of Cassiopeia, like a flaming arrow. And the luminous +universe above turned slowly on its axis, in solemn splendor, while from the +dark earth around them arose only a faint breath, like the soft, warm breath of +a sleeping woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” he said, in his good-natured voice, “did your +Capuchin turn your head this evening, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered frankly; “he says from the pulpit things +that disturb me. He preaches against everything you have taught me, and it is +as if the knowledge which I owe to you, transformed into a poison, were +consuming me. My God! What is going to become of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“My poor child! It is terrible that you should torture yourself in this +way! And yet I had been quite tranquil about you, for you have a well-balanced +mind—you have a good, little, round, clear, solid headpiece, as I have +often told you. You will soon calm down. But what confusion in the brains of +others, at the end of the century, if you, who are so sane, are troubled! Have +you not faith, then?” +</p> + +<p> +She answered only by a heavy sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“Assuredly, viewed from the standpoint of happiness, faith is a strong +staff for the traveler to lean upon, and the march becomes easy and tranquil +when one is fortunate enough to possess it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I no longer know whether I believe or not!” she cried. +“There are days when I believe, and there are other days when I side with +you and with your books. It is you who have disturbed me; it is through you I +suffer. And perhaps all my suffering springs from this, from my revolt against +you whom I love. No, no! tell me nothing; do not tell me that I shall soon calm +down. At this moment that would only irritate me still more. I know well that +you deny the supernatural. The mysterious for you is only the inexplicable. +Even you concede that we shall never know all; and therefore you consider that +the only interest life can have is the continual conquest over the unknown, the +eternal effort to know more. Ah, I know too much already to believe. You have +already succeeded but too well in shaking my faith, and there are times when it +seems to me that this will kill me.” +</p> + +<p> +He took her hand that lay on the still warm grass, and pressed it hard. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; it is life that frightens you, little girl. And how right you +are in saying that happiness consists in continual effort. For from this time +forward tranquil ignorance is impossible. There is no halt to be looked for, no +tranquillity in renunciation and wilful blindness. We must go on, go on in any +case with life, which goes on always. Everything that is proposed, a return to +the past, to dead religions, patched up religions arranged to suit new wants, +is a snare. Learn to know life, then; to love it, live it as it ought to be +lived—that is the only wisdom.” +</p> + +<p> +But she shook off his hand angrily. And her voice trembled with vexation. +</p> + +<p> +“Life is horrible. How do you wish me to live it tranquil and happy? It +is a terrible light that your science throws upon the world. Your analysis +opens up all the wounds of humanity to display their horror. You tell +everything; you speak too plainly; you leave us nothing but disgust for people +and for things, without any possible consolation.” +</p> + +<p> +He interrupted her with a cry of ardent conviction. +</p> + +<p> +“We tell everything. Ah, yes; in order to know everything and to remedy +everything!” +</p> + +<p> +Her anger rose, and she sat erect. +</p> + +<p> +“If even equality and justice existed in your nature—but you +acknowledge it yourself, life is for the strongest, the weak infallibly +perishes because he is weak—there are no two beings equal, either in +health, in beauty, or intelligence; everything is left to haphazard meeting, to +the chance of selection. And everything falls into ruin, when grand and sacred +justice ceases to exist.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true,” he said, in an undertone, as if speaking to himself, +“there is no such thing as equality. No society based upon it could +continue to exist. For centuries, men thought to remedy evil by character. But +that idea is being exploded, and now they propose justice. Is nature just? I +think her logical, rather. Logic is perhaps a natural and higher justice, going +straight to the sum of the common labor, to the grand final labor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it is justice,” she cried, “that crushes the individual +for the happiness of the race, that destroys an enfeebled species to fatten the +victorious species. No, no; that is crime. There is in that only foulness and +murder. He was right this evening in the church. The earth is corrupt, science +only serves to show its rottenness. It is on high that we must all seek a +refuge. Oh, master, I entreat you, let me save myself, let me save you!” +</p> + +<p> +She burst into tears, and the sound of her sobs rose despairingly on the +stillness of the night. He tried in vain to soothe her, her voice dominated +his. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to me, master. You know that I love you, for you are everything +to me. And it is you who are the cause of all my suffering. I can scarcely +endure it when I think that we are not in accord, that we should be separated +forever if we were both to die to-morrow. Why will you not believe?” +</p> + +<p> +He still tried to reason with her. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, don’t be foolish, my dear—” +</p> + +<p> +But she threw herself on her knees, she seized him by the hands, she clung to +him with a feverish force. And she sobbed louder and louder, in such a clamor +of despair that the dark fields afar off were startled by it. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to me, he said it in the church. You must change your life and do +penance; you must burn everything belonging to your past errors—your +books, your papers, your manuscripts. Make this sacrifice, master, I entreat it +of you on my knees. And you will see the delightful existence we shall lead +together.” +</p> + +<p> +At last he rebelled. +</p> + +<p> +“No, this is too much. Be silent!” +</p> + +<p> +“If you listen to me, master, you will do what I wish. I assure you that +I am horribly unhappy, even in loving you as I love you. There is something +wanting in our affection. So far it has been profound but unavailing, and I +have an irresistible longing to fill it, oh, with all that is divine and +eternal. What can be wanting to us but God? Kneel down and pray with me!” +</p> + +<p> +With an abrupt movement he released himself, angry in his turn. +</p> + +<p> +“Be silent; you are talking nonsense. I have left you free, leave me +free.” +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master! it is our happiness that I desire! I will take you far, +far away. We will go to some solitude to live there in God!” +</p> + +<p> +“Be silent! No, never!” +</p> + +<p> +Then they remained for a moment confronting each other, mute and menacing. +Around them stretched La Souleiade in the deep silence of the night, with the +light shadows of its olive trees, the darkness of its pine and plane trees, in +which the saddened voice of the fountain was singing, and above their heads it +seemed as if the spacious sky, studded with stars, shuddered and grew pale, +although the dawn was still far off. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde raised her arm as if to point to this infinite, shuddering sky; but +with a quick gesture Pascal seized her hand and drew it down toward the earth +in his. And no word further was spoken; they were beside themselves with rage +and hate. The quarrel was fierce and bitter. +</p> + +<p> +She drew her hand away abruptly, and sprang backward, like some proud, +untamable animal, rearing; then she rushed quickly through the darkness toward +the house. He heard the patter of her little boots on the stones of the yard, +deadened afterward by the sand of the walk. He, on his side, already grieved +and uneasy, called her back in urgent tones. But she ran on without answering, +without hearing. Alarmed, and with a heavy heart, he hurried after her, and +rounded the clump of plane trees just in time to see her rush into the house +like a whirlwind. He darted in after her, ran up the stairs, and struck against +the door of her room, which she violently bolted. And here he stopped and grew +calm, by a strong effort resisting the desire to cry out, to call her again, to +break in the door so as to see her once more, to convince her, to have her all +to himself. For a moment he remained motionless, chilled by the deathlike +silence of the room, from which not the faintest sound issued. Doubtless she +had thrown herself on the bed, and was stifling her cries and her sobs in the +pillow. He determined at last to go downstairs again and close the hall door, +and then he returned softly and listened, waiting for some sound of moaning. +And day was breaking when he went disconsolately to bed, choking back his +tears. +</p> + +<p> +Thenceforward it was war without mercy. Pascal felt himself spied upon, +trapped, menaced. He was no longer master of his house; he had no longer any +home. The enemy was always there, forcing him to be constantly on his guard, to +lock up everything. One after the other, two vials of nerve-substance which he +had compounded were found in fragments, and he was obliged to barricade himself +in his room, where he could be heard pounding for days together, without +showing himself even at mealtime. He no longer took Clotilde with him on his +visiting days, because she discouraged his patients by her attitude of +aggressive incredulity. But from the moment he left the house, the doctor had +only one desire—to return to it quickly, for he trembled lest he should +find his locks forced, and his drawers rifled on his return. He no longer +employed the young girl to classify and copy his notes, for several of them had +disappeared, as if they had been carried away by the wind. He did not even +venture to employ her to correct his proofs, having ascertained that she had +cut out of an article an entire passage, the sentiment of which offended her +Catholic belief. And thus she remained idle, prowling about the rooms, and +having an abundance of time to watch for an occasion which would put in her +possession the key of the large press. This was her dream, the plan which she +revolved in her mind during her long silence, while her eyes shone and her +hands burned with fever—to have the key, to open the press, to take and +burn everything in an <i>auto da fé</i> which would be pleasing to God. A few +pages of manuscript, forgotten by him on a corner of the table, while he went +to wash his hands and put on his coat, had disappeared, leaving behind only a +little heap of ashes in the fireplace. He could no longer leave a scrap of +paper about. He carried away everything; he hid everything. One evening, when +he had remained late with a patient, as he was returning home in the dusk a +wild terror seized him at the faubourg, at sight of a thick black smoke rising +up in clouds that darkened the heavens. Was it not La Souleiade that was +burning down, set on fire by the bonfire made with his papers? He ran toward +the house, and was reassured only on seeing in a neighboring field a fire of +roots burning slowly. +</p> + +<p> +But how terrible are the tortures of the scientist who feels himself menaced in +this way in the labors of his intellect! The discoveries which he has made, the +writings which he has counted upon leaving behind him, these are his pride, +they are creatures of his blood—his children—and whoever destroys, +whoever burns them, burns a part of himself. Especially, in this perpetual +lying in wait for the creatures of his brain, was Pascal tortured by the +thought that the enemy was in his house, installed in his very heart, and that +he loved her in spite of everything, this creature whom he had made what she +was. He was left disarmed, without possible defense; not wishing to act, and +having no other resources than to watch with vigilance. On all sides the +investment was closing around him. He fancied he felt the little pilfering +hands stealing into his pockets. He had no longer any tranquillity, even with +the doors closed, for he feared that he was being robbed through the crevices. +</p> + +<p> +“But, unhappy child,” he cried one day, “I love but you in +the world, and you are killing me! And yet you love me, too; you act in this +way because you love me, and it is abominable. It would be better to have done +with it all at once, and throw ourselves into the river with a stone tied +around our necks.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer, but her dauntless eyes said ardently that she would +willingly die on the instant, if it were with him. +</p> + +<p> +“And if I should suddenly die to-night, what would happen to-morrow? You +would empty the press, you would empty the drawers, you would make a great heap +of all my works and burn them! You would, would you not? Do you know that that +would be a real murder, as much as if you assassinated some one? And what +abominable cowardice, to kill the thoughts!” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said at last, in a low voice; “to kill evil, to +prevent it from spreading and springing up again!” +</p> + +<p> +All their explanations only served to kindle anew their anger. And they had +terrible ones. And one evening, when old Mme. Rougon had chanced in on one of +these quarrels, she remained alone with Pascal, after Clotilde had fled to hide +herself in her room. There was silence for a moment. In spite of the +heartbroken air which she had assumed, a wicked joy shone in the depths of her +sparkling eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“But your unhappy house is a hell!” she cried at last. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor avoided an answer by a gesture. He had always felt that his mother +backed the young girl, inflaming her religious faith, utilizing this ferment of +revolt to bring trouble into his house. He was not deceived. He knew perfectly +well that the two women had seen each other during the day, and that he owed to +this meeting, to a skilful embittering of Clotilde’s mind, the frightful +scene at which he still trembled. Doubtless his mother had come to learn what +mischief had been wrought, and to see if the <i>denouement</i> was not at last +at hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Things cannot go on in this way,” she resumed. “Why do you +not separate since you can no longer agree. You ought to send her to her +brother Maxime. He wrote to me not long since asking her again.” +</p> + +<p> +He straightened himself, pale and determined. +</p> + +<p> +“To part angry with each other? Ah, no, no! that would be an eternal +remorse, an incurable wound. If she must one day go away, I wish that we may be +able to love each other at a distance. But why go away? Neither of us complains +of the other.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité felt that she had been too hasty. Therefore she assumed her +hypocritical, conciliating air. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, if it pleases you both to quarrel, no one has anything to say +in the matter. Only, my poor friend, permit me, in that case, to say that I +think Clotilde is not altogether in the wrong. You force me to confess that I +saw her a little while ago; yes, it is better that you should know, +notwithstanding my promise to be silent. Well, she is not happy; she makes a +great many complaints, and you may imagine that I scolded her and preached +complete submission to her. But that does not prevent me from being unable to +understand you myself, and from thinking that you do everything you can to make +yourself unhappy.” +</p> + +<p> +She sat down in a corner of the room, and obliged him to sit down with her, +seeming delighted to have him here alone, at her mercy. She had already, more +than once before, tried to force him to an explanation in this way, but he had +always avoided it. Although she had tortured him for years past, and he knew +her thoroughly, he yet remained a deferential son, he had sworn never to +abandon this stubbornly respectful attitude. Thus, the moment she touched +certain subjects, he took refuge in absolute silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” she continued; “I can understand that you should not +wish to yield to Clotilde; but to me? How if I were to entreat you to make me +the sacrifice of all those abominable papers which are there in the press! +Consider for an instant if you should die suddenly, and those papers should +fall into strange hands. We should all be disgraced. You would not wish that, +would you? What is your object, then? Why do you persist in so dangerous a +game? Promise me that you will burn them.” +</p> + +<p> +He remained silent for a time, but at last he answered: +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, I have already begged of you never to speak on that subject. I +cannot do what you ask.” +</p> + +<p> +“But at least,” she cried, “give me a reason. Any one would +think our family was as indifferent to you as that drove of oxen passing below +there. Yet you belong to it. Oh, I know you do all you can not to belong to it! +I myself am sometimes astonished at you. I ask myself where you can have come +from. But for all that, it is very wicked of you to run this risk, without +stopping to think of the grief you are causing to me, your mother. It is simply +wicked.” +</p> + +<p> +He grew still paler, and yielding for an instant to his desire to defend +himself, in spite of his determination to keep silent, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“You are hard; you are wrong. I have always believed in the necessity, +the absolute efficacy of truth. It is true that I tell the truth about others +and about myself, and it is because I believe firmly that in telling the truth +I do the only good possible. In the first place, those papers are not intended +for the public; they are only personal notes which it would be painful to me to +part with. And then, I know well that you would not burn only them—all my +other works would also be thrown into the fire. Would they not? And that is +what I do not wish; do you understand? Never, while I live, shall a line of my +writing be destroyed here.” +</p> + +<p> +But he already regretted having said so much, for he saw that she was urging +him, leading him on to the cruel explanation she desired. +</p> + +<p> +“Then finish, and tell me what it is that you reproach us with. Yes, me, +for instance; what do you reproach me with? Not with having brought you up with +so much difficulty. Ah, fortune was slow to win! If we enjoy a little happiness +now, we have earned it hard. Since you have seen everything, and since you put +down everything in your papers, you can testify with truth that the family has +rendered greater services to others than it has ever received. On two +occasions, but for us, Plassans would have been in a fine pickle. And it is +perfectly natural that we should have reaped only ingratitude and envy, to the +extent that even to-day the whole town would be enchanted with a scandal that +should bespatter us with mud. You cannot wish that, and I am sure that you will +do justice to the dignity of my attitude since the fall of the Empire, and the +misfortunes from which France will no doubt never recover.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let France rest, mother,” he said, speaking again, for she had +touched the spot where she knew he was most sensitive. “France is +tenacious of life, and I think she is going to astonish the world by the +rapidity of her convalescence. True, she has many elements of corruption. I +have not sought to hide them, I have rather, perhaps, exposed them to view. But +you greatly misunderstand me if you imagine that I believe in her final +dissolution, because I point out her wounds and her lesions. I believe in the +life which ceaselessly eliminates hurtful substances, which makes new flesh to +fill the holes eaten away by gangrene, which infallibly advances toward health, +toward constant renovation, amid impurities and death.” +</p> + +<p> +He was growing excited, and he was conscious of it, and making an angry +gesture, he spoke no more. His mother had recourse to tears, a few little tears +which came with difficulty, and which were quickly dried. And the fears which +saddened her old age returned to her, and she entreated him to make his peace +with God, if only out of regard for the family. Had she not given an example of +courage ever since the downfall of the Empire? Did not all Plassans, the +quarter of St. Marc, the old quarter and the new town, render homage to the +noble attitude she maintained in her fall? All she asked was to be helped; she +demanded from all her children an effort like her own. Thus she cited the +example of Eugène, the great man who had fallen from so lofty a height, and who +resigned himself to being a simple deputy, defending until his latest breath +the fallen government from which he had derived his glory. She was also full of +eulogies of Aristide, who had never lost hope, who had reconquered, under the +new government, an exalted position, in spite of the terrible and unjust +catastrophe which had for a moment buried him under the ruins of the Union +Universelle. And would he, Pascal, hold himself aloof, would he do nothing that +she might die in peace, in the joy of the final triumph of the Rougons, he who +was so intelligent, so affectionate, so good? He would go to mass, would he +not, next Sunday? and he would burn all those vile papers, only to think of +which made her ill. She entreated, commanded, threatened. But he no longer +answered her, calm and invincible in his attitude of perfect deference. He +wished to have no discussion. He knew her too well either to hope to convince +her or to venture to discuss the past with her. +</p> + +<p> +“Why!” she cried, when she saw that he was not to be moved, +“you do not belong to us. I have always said so. You are a disgrace to +us.” +</p> + +<p> +He bent his head and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, when you reflect you will forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +On this day Félicité was beside herself with rage when she went away; and when +she met Martine at the door of the house, in front of the plane trees, she +unburdened her mind to her, without knowing that Pascal, who had just gone into +his room, heard all. She gave vent to her resentment, vowing, in spite of +everything, that she would in the end succeed in obtaining possession of the +papers and destroying them, since he did not wish to make the sacrifice. But +what turned the doctor cold was the manner in which Martine, in a subdued +voice, soothed her. She was evidently her accomplice. She repeated that it was +necessary to wait; not to do anything hastily; that mademoiselle and she had +taken a vow to get the better of monsieur, by not leaving him an hour’s +peace. They had sworn it. They would reconcile him with the good God, because +it was not possible that an upright man like monsieur should remain without +religion. And the voices of the two women became lower and lower, until they +finally sank to a whisper, an indistinct murmur of gossiping and plotting, of +which he caught only a word here and there; orders given, measures to be taken, +an invasion of his personal liberty. When his mother at last departed, with her +light step and slender, youthful figure, he saw that she went away very well +satisfied. +</p> + +<p> +Then came a moment of weakness, of utter despair. Pascal dropped into a chair, +and asked himself what was the use of struggling, since the only beings he +loved allied themselves against him. Martine, who would have thrown herself +into the fire at a word from him, betraying him in this way for his good! And +Clotilde leagued with this servant, plotting with her against him in holes and +corners, seeking her aid to set traps for him! Now he was indeed alone; he had +around him only traitresses, who poisoned the very air he breathed. But these +two still loved him. He might perhaps have succeeded in softening them, but +when he knew that his mother urged them on, he understood their fierce +persistence, and he gave up the hope of winning them back. With the timidity of +a man who had spent his life in study, aloof from women, notwithstanding his +secret passion, the thought that they were there to oppose him, to attempt to +bend him to their will, overwhelmed him. He felt that some one of them was +always behind him. Even when he shut himself up in his room, he fancied that +they were on the other side of the wall; and he was constantly haunted by the +idea that they would rob him of his thought, if they could perceive it in his +brain, before he should have formulated it. +</p> + +<p> +This was assuredly the period in his life in which Dr. Pascal was most unhappy. +To live constantly on the defensive, as he was obliged to do, crushed him, and +it seemed to him as if the ground on which his house stood was no longer his, +as if it was receding from beneath his feet. He now regretted keenly that he +had not married, and that he had no children. Had not he himself been afraid of +life? And had he not been well punished for his selfishness? This regret for +not having children now never left him. His eyes now filled with tears whenever +he met on the road bright-eyed little girls who smiled at him. True, Clotilde +was there, but his affection for her was of a different kind—crossed at +present by storms—not a calm, infinitely sweet affection, like that for a +child with which he might have soothed his lacerated heart. And then, no doubt +what he desired in his isolation, feeling that his days were drawing to an end, +was above all, continuance; in a child he would survive, he would live forever. +The more he suffered, the greater the consolation he would have found in +bequeathing this suffering, in the faith which he still had in life. He +considered himself indemnified for the physiological defects of his family. But +even the thought that heredity sometimes passes over a generation, and that the +disorders of his ancestors might reappear in a child of his did not deter him; +and this unknown child, in spite of the old corrupt stock, in spite of the long +succession of execrable relations, he desired ardently at certain times: as one +desires unexpected gain, rare happiness, the stroke of fortune which is to +console and enrich forever. In the shock which his other affections had +received, his heart bled because it was too late. +</p> + +<p> +One sultry night toward the end of September, Pascal found himself unable to +sleep. He opened one of the windows of his room; the sky was dark, some storm +must be passing in the distance, for there was a continuous rumbling of +thunder. He could distinguish vaguely the dark mass of the plane trees, which +occasional flashes of lightning detached, in a dull green, from the darkness. +His soul was full of anguish; he lived over again the last unhappy days, days +of fresh quarrels, of torture caused by acts of treachery, by suspicions, which +grew stronger every day, when a sudden recollection made him start. In his fear +of being robbed, he had finally adopted the plan of carrying the key of the +large press in his pocket. But this afternoon, oppressed by the heat, he had +taken off his jacket, and he remembered having seen Clotilde hang it up on a +nail in the study. A sudden pang of terror shot through him, sharp and cold as +a steel point; if she had felt the key in the pocket she had stolen it. He +hastened to search the jacket which he had a little before thrown upon a chair; +the key was not here. At this very moment he was being robbed; he had the clear +conviction of it. Two o’clock struck. He did not again dress himself, +but, remaining in his trousers only, with his bare feet thrust into slippers, +his chest bare under his unfastened nightshirt, he hastily pushed open the +door, and rushed into the workroom, his candle in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I knew it,” he cried. “Thief! Assassin!” +</p> + +<p> +It was true; Clotilde was there, undressed like himself, her bare feet covered +by canvas slippers, her legs bare, her arms bare, her shoulders bare, clad only +in her chemise and a short skirt. Through caution, she had not brought a +candle. She had contented herself with opening one of the window shutters, and +the continual lightning flashes of the storm which was passing southward in the +dark sky, sufficed her, bathing everything in a livid phosphorescence. The old +press, with its broad sides, was wide open. Already she had emptied the top +shelf, taking down the papers in armfuls, and throwing them on the long table +in the middle of the room, where they lay in a confused heap. And with feverish +haste, fearing lest she should not have the time to burn them, she was making +them up into bundles, intending to hide them, and send them afterward to her +grandmother, when the sudden flare of the candle, lighting up the room, caused +her to stop short in an attitude of surprise and resistance. +</p> + +<p> +“You rob me; you assassinate me!” repeated Pascal furiously. +</p> + +<p> +She still held one of the bundles in her bare arms. He wished to take it away +from her, but she pressed it to her with all her strength, obstinately resolved +upon her work of destruction, without showing confusion or repentance, like a +combatant who has right upon his side. Then, madly, blindly, he threw himself +upon her, and they struggled together. He clutched her bare flesh so that he +hurt her. +</p> + +<p> +“Kill me!” she gasped. “Kill me, or I shall destroy +everything!” +</p> + +<p> +He held her close to him, with so rough a grasp that she could scarcely +breathe, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“When a child steals, it is punished!” +</p> + +<p> +A few drops of blood appeared and trickled down her rounded shoulder, where an +abrasion had cut the delicate satin skin. And, on the instant, seeing her so +breathless, so divine, in her virginal slender height, with her tapering limbs, +her supple arms, her slim body with its slender, firm throat, he released her. +By a last effort he tore the package from her. +</p> + +<p> +“And you shall help me to put them all up there again, by Heaven! Come +here: begin by arranging them on the table. Obey me, do you hear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, master!” +</p> + +<p> +She approached, and helped him to arrange the papers, subjugated, crushed by +this masculine grasp, which had entered into her flesh, as it were. The candle +which flared up in the heavy night air, lighted them; and the distant rolling +of the thunder still continued, the window facing the storm seeming on fire. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"></a> +V.</h2> + +<p> +For an instant Pascal looked at the papers, the heap of which seemed enormous, +lying thus in disorder on the long table that stood in the middle of the room. +In the confusion several of the blue paper envelopes had burst open, and their +contents had fallen out—letters, newspaper clippings, documents on +stamped paper, and manuscript notes. +</p> + +<p> +He was already mechanically beginning to seek out the names written on the +envelopes in large characters, to classify the packages again, when, with an +abrupt gesture, he emerged from the somber meditation into which he had fallen. +And turning to Clotilde who stood waiting, pale, silent, and erect, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to me; I have always forbidden you to read these papers, and I +know that you have obeyed me. Yes, I had scruples of delicacy. It is not that +you are an ignorant girl, like so many others, for I have allowed you to learn +everything concerning man and woman, which is assuredly bad only for bad +natures. But to what end disclose to you too early these terrible truths of +human life? I have therefore spared you the history of our family, which is the +history of every family, of all humanity; a great deal of evil and a great deal +of good.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused as if to confirm himself in his resolution and then resumed quite +calmly and with supreme energy: +</p> + +<p> +“You are twenty-five years old; you ought to know. And then the life we +are leading is no longer possible. You live and you make me live in a constant +nightmare, with your ecstatic dreams. I prefer to show you the reality, however +execrable it may be. Perhaps the blow which it will inflict upon you will make +of you the woman you ought to be. We will classify these papers again together, +and read them, and learn from them a terrible lesson of life!” +</p> + +<p> +Then, as she still continued motionless, he resumed: +</p> + +<p> +“Come, we must be able to see well. Light those other two candles +there.” +</p> + +<p> +He was seized by a desire for light, a flood of light; he would have desired +the blinding light of the sun; and thinking that the light of the three candles +was not sufficient, he went into his room for a pair of three-branched +candelabra which were there. The nine candles were blazing, yet neither of +them, in their disorder—he with his chest bare, she with her left +shoulder stained with blood, her throat and arms bare—saw the other. It +was past two o’clock, but neither of them had any consciousness of the +hour; they were going to spend the night in this eager desire for knowledge, +without feeling the need of sleep, outside time and space. The mutterings of +the storm, which, through the open window, they could see gathering, grew +louder and louder. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde had never before seen in Pascal’s eyes the feverish light which +burned in them now. He had been overworking himself for some time past, and his +mental sufferings made him at times abrupt, in spite of his good-natured +complacency. But it seemed as if an infinite tenderness, trembling with +fraternal pity, awoke within him, now that he was about to plunge into the +painful truths of existence; and it was something emanating from himself, +something very great and very good which was to render innocuous the terrible +avalanche of facts which was impending. He was determined that he would reveal +everything, since it was necessary that he should do so in order to remedy +everything. Was not this an unanswerable, a final argument for evolution, the +story of these beings who were so near to them? Such was life, and it must be +lived. Doubtless she would emerge from it like the steel tempered by the fire, +full of tolerance and courage. +</p> + +<p> +“They are setting you against me,” he resumed; “they are +making you commit abominable acts, and I wish to restore your conscience to +you. When you know, you will judge and you will act. Come here, and read with +me.” +</p> + +<p> +She obeyed. But these papers, about which her grandmother had spoken so +angrily, frightened her a little; while a curiosity that grew with every moment +awoke within her. And then, dominated though she was by the virile authority +which had just constrained and subjugated her, she did not yet yield. But might +she not listen to him, read with him? Did she not retain the right to refuse or +to give herself afterward? He spoke at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you come?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, master, I will.” +</p> + +<p> +He showed her first the genealogical tree of the Rougon-Macquarts. He did not +usually lock it in the press, but kept it in the desk in his room, from which +he had taken it when he went there for the candelabra. For more than twenty +years past he had kept it up to date, inscribing the births, deaths, marriages, +and other important events that had taken place in the family, making brief +notes in each case, in accordance with his theory of heredity. +</p> + +<p> +It was a large sheet of paper, yellow with age, with folds cut by wear, on +which was drawn boldly a symbolical tree, whose branches spread and subdivided +into five rows of broad leaves; and each leaf bore a name, and contained, in +minute handwriting, a biography, a hereditary case. +</p> + +<p> +A scientist’s joy took possession of the doctor at sight of this labor of +twenty years, in which the laws of heredity established by him were so clearly +and so completely applied. +</p> + +<p> +“Look, child! You know enough about the matter, you have copied enough of +my notes to understand. Is it not beautiful? A document so complete, so +conclusive, in which there is not a gap? It is like an experiment made in the +laboratory, a problem stated and solved on the blackboard. You see below, the +trunk, the common stock, Aunt Dide; then the three branches issuing from it, +the legitimate branch, Pierre Rougon, and the two illegitimate branches, Ursule +Macquart and Antoine Macquart; then, new branches arise, and ramify, on one +side, Maxime, Clotilde, and Victor, the three children of Saccard, and +Angelique, the daughter of Sidonie Rougon; on the other, Pauline, the daughter +of Lisa Macquart, and Claude, Jacques, Étienne, and Anna, the four children of +Gervaise, her sister; there, at the extremity, is Jean, their brother, and here +in the middle, you see what I call the knot, the legitimate issue and the +illegitimate issue, uniting in Marthe Rougon and her cousin François Mouret, to +give rise to three new branches, Octave, Serge, and Désirée Mouret; while there +is also the issue of Ursule and the hatter Mouret; Silvère, whose tragic death +you know; Hélène and her daughter Jean; finally, at the top are the latest +offshoots, our poor Charles, your brother Maxime’s son, and two other +children, who are dead, Jacques Louis, the son of Claude Lantier, and Louiset, +the son of Anna Coupeau. In all five generations, a human tree which, for five +springs already, five springtides of humanity, has sent forth shoots, at the +impulse of the sap of eternal life.” +</p> + +<p> +He became more and more animated, pointing out each case on the sheet of old +yellow paper, as if it were an anatomical chart. +</p> + +<p> +“And as I have already said, everything is here. You see in direct +heredity, the differentiations, that of the mother, Silvère, Lisa, Désirée, +Jacques, Louiset, yourself; that of the father, Sidonie, François, Gervaise, +Octave, Jacques, Louis. Then there are the three cases of crossing: by +conjugation, Ursule, Aristide, Anna, Victor; by dissemination, Maxime, Serge, +Étienne; by fusion, Antoine, Eugène, Claude. I even noted a fourth case, a very +remarkable one, an even cross, Pierre and Pauline; and varieties are +established, the differentiation of the mother, for example, often accords with +the physical resemblance of the father; or, it is the contrary which takes +place, so that, in the crossing, the physical and mental predominance remains +with one parent or the other, according to circumstances. Then here is indirect +heredity, that of the collateral branches. I have but one well established +example of this, the striking personal resemblance of Octave Mouret to his +uncle Eugène Rougon. I have also but one example of transmission by influence, +Anna, the daughter of Gervaise and Coupeau, who bore a striking resemblance, +especially in her childhood, to Lantier, her mother’s first lover. But +what I am very rich in is in examples of reversion to the original +stock—the three finest cases, Marthe, Jeanne, and Charles, resembling +Aunt Dide; the resemblance thus passing over one, two, and three generations. +This is certainly exceptional, for I scarcely believe in atavism; it seems to +me that the new elements brought by the partners, accidents, and the infinite +variety of crossings must rapidly efface particular characteristics, so as to +bring back the individual to the general type. And there remains +variation—Hélène, Jean, Angelique. This is the combination, the chemical +mixture in which the physical and mental characteristics of the parents are +blended, without any of their traits seeming to reappear in the new +being.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a moment. Clotilde had listened to him with profound +attention, wishing to understand. And he remained absorbed in thought, his eyes +still fixed on the tree, in the desire to judge his work impartially. He then +continued in a low tone, as if speaking to himself: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that is as scientific as possible. I have placed there only the +members of the family, and I had to give an equal part to the partners, to the +fathers and mothers come from outside, whose blood has mingled with ours, and +therefore modified it. I had indeed made a mathematically exact tree, the +father and the mother bequeathing themselves, by halves, to the child, from +generation to generation, so that in Charles, for example, Aunt Dide’s +part would have been only a twelfth—which would be absurd, since the +physical resemblance is there complete. I have therefore thought it sufficient +to indicate the elements come from elsewhere, taking into account marriages and +the new factor which each introduced. Ah! these sciences that are yet in their +infancy, in which hypothesis speaks stammeringly, and imagination rules, these +are the domain of the poet as much as of the scientist. Poets go as pioneers in +the advance guard, and they often discover new countries, suggesting solutions. +There is there a borderland which belongs to them, between the conquered, the +definitive truth, and the unknown, whence the truth of to-morrow will be torn. +What an immense fresco there is to be painted, what a stupendous human tragedy, +what a comedy there is to be written with heredity, which is the very genesis +of families, of societies, and of the world!” +</p> + +<p> +His eyes fixed on vacancy, he remained for a time lost in thought. Then, with +an abrupt movement, he came back to the envelopes and, pushing the tree aside, +said: +</p> + +<p> +“We will take it up again presently; for, in order that you may +understand now, it is necessary that events should pass in review before you, +and that you should see in action all these actors ticketed here, each one +summed up in a brief note. I will call for the envelopes, you will hand them to +me one by one, and I will show you the papers in each, and tell you their +contents, before putting it away again up there on the shelf. I will not follow +the alphabetical order, but the order of events themselves. I have long wished +to make this classification. Come, look for the names on the envelopes; Aunt +Dide first.” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment the edge of the storm which lighted up the sky caught La +Souleiade slantingly, and burst over the house in a deluge of rain. But they +did not even close the window. They heard neither the peals of thunder nor the +ceaseless beating of the rain upon the roof. She handed him the envelope +bearing the name of Aunt Dide in large characters; and he took from it papers +of all sorts, notes taken by him long ago, which he proceeded to read. +</p> + +<p> +“Hand me Pierre Rougon. Hand me Ursule Macquart. Hand me Antoine +Macquart.” +</p> + +<p> +Silently she obeyed him, her heart oppressed by a dreadful anguish at all she +was hearing. And the envelopes were passed on, displayed their contents, and +were piled up again in the press. +</p> + +<p> +First was the foundress of the family, Adelaïde Fouqué, the tall, crazy girl, +the first nervous lesion giving rise to the legitimate branch, Pierre Rougon, +and to the two illegitimate branches, Ursule and Antoine Macquart, all that +<i>bourgeois</i> and sanguinary tragedy, with the <i>coup d’etat</i> of +December, 1854, for a background, the Rougons, Pierre and Félicité, preserving +order at Plassans, bespattering with the blood of Silvère their rising +fortunes, while Adelaïde, grown old, the miserable Aunt Dide, was shut up in +the Tulettes, like a specter of expiation and of waiting. +</p> + +<p> +Then like a pack of hounds, the appetites were let loose. The supreme appetite +of power in Eugène Rougon, the great man, the disdainful genius of the family, +free from base interests, loving power for its own sake, conquering Paris in +old boots with the adventurers of the coming Empire, rising from the +legislative body to the senate, passing from the presidency of the council of +state to the portfolio of minister; made by his party, a hungry crowd of +followers, who at the same time supported and devoured him; conquered for an +instant by a woman, the beautiful Clorinde, with whom he had been imbecile +enough to fall in love, but having so strong a will, and burning with so +vehement a desire to rule, that he won back power by giving the lie to his +whole life, marching to his triumphal sovereignty of vice emperor. +</p> + +<p> +With Aristide Saccard, appetite ran to low pleasures, the whole hot quarry of +money, luxury, women—a devouring hunger which left him homeless, at the +time when millions were changing hands, when the whirlwind of wild speculation +was blowing through the city, tearing down everywhere to construct anew, when +princely fortunes were made, squandered, and remade in six months; a greed of +gold whose ever increasing fury carried him away, causing him, almost before +the body of his wife Angèle was cold in death, to sell his name, in order to +have the first indispensable thousand francs, by marrying Renée. And it was +Saccard, too, who, a few years later, put in motion the immense money-press of +the Banque Universelle. Saccard, the never vanquished; Saccard, grown more +powerful, risen to be the clever and daring grand financier, comprehending the +fierce and civilizing role that money plays, fighting, winning, and losing +battles on the Bourse, like Napoleon at Austerlitz and Waterloo; engulfing in +disaster a world of miserable people; sending forth into the unknown realms of +crime his natural son Victor, who disappeared, fleeing through the dark night, +while he himself, under the impassable protection of unjust nature, was loved +by the adorable Mme. Caroline, no doubt in recompense of all the evil he had +done. +</p> + +<p> +Here a tall, spotless lily had bloomed in this compost, Sidonie Rougon, the +sycophant of her brother, the go-between in a hundred suspicious affairs, +giving birth to the pure and divine Angelique, the little embroiderer with +fairylike fingers who worked into the gold of the chasubles the dream of her +Prince Charming, so happy among her companions the saints, so little made for +the hard realities of life, that she obtained the grace of dying of love, on +the day of her marriage, at the first kiss of Félicien de Hautecœur, in the +triumphant peal of bells ringing for her splendid nuptials. +</p> + +<p> +The union of the two branches, the legitimate and the illegitimate, took place +then, Marthe Rougon espousing her cousin François Mouret, a peaceful household +slowly disunited, ending in the direst catastrophes—a sad and gentle +woman taken, made use of, and crushed in the vast machine of war erected for +the conquest of a city; her three children torn from her, she herself leaving +her heart in the rude grasp of the Abbé Faujas. And the Rougons saved Plassans +a second time, while she was dying in the glare of the conflagration in which +her husband was being consumed, mad with long pent-up rage and the desire for +revenge. +</p> + +<p> +Of the three children, Octave Mouret was the audacious conqueror, the clear +intellect, resolved to demand from the women the sovereignty of Paris, fallen +at his <i>début</i> into the midst of a corrupt <i>bourgeois</i> society, +acquiring there a terrible sentimental education, passing from the capricious +refusal of one woman to the unresisting abandonment of another, remaining, +fortunately, active, laborious, and combative, gradually emerging, and improved +even, from the low plotting, the ceaseless ferment of a rotten society that +could be heard already cracking to its foundations. And Octave Mouret, +victorious, revolutionized commerce; swallowed up the cautious little shops +that carried on business in the old-fashioned way; established in the midst of +feverish Paris the colossal palace of temptation, blazing with lights, +overflowing with velvets, silks, and laces; won fortunes exploiting woman; +lived in smiling scorn of woman until the day when a little girl, the avenger +of her sex, the innocent and wise Denise, vanquished him and held him captive +at her feet, groaning with anguish, until she did him the favor, she who was so +poor, to marry him in the midst of the apotheosis of his Louvre, under the +golden shower of his receipts. +</p> + +<p> +There remained the two other children, Serge Mouret and Désirée Mouret, the +latter innocent and healthy, like some happy young animal; the former refined +and mystical, who was thrown into the priesthood by a nervous malady hereditary +in his family, and who lived again the story of Adam, in the Eden of Le +Paradou. He was born again to love Albine, and to lose her, in the bosom of +sublime nature, their accomplice; to be recovered, afterward by the Church, to +war eternally with life, striving to kill his manhood, throwing on the body of +the dead Albine the handful of earth, as officiating priest, at the very time +when Désirée, the sister and friend of animals, was rejoicing in the midst of +the swarming life of her poultry yard. +</p> + +<p> +Further on there opened a calm glimpse of gentle and tragic life, Hélène Mouret +living peacefully with her little girl, Jeanne, on the heights of Passy, +overlooking Paris, the bottomless, boundless human sea, in face of which was +unrolled this page of love: the sudden passion of Hélène for a stranger, a +physician, brought one night by chance to the bedside of her daughter; the +morbid jealousy of Jeanne—the instinctive jealousy of a loving +girl—disputing her mother with love, her mother already so wasted by her +unhappy passion that the daughter died because of her fault; terrible price of +one hour of desire in the entire cold and discreet life of a woman, poor dead +child, lying alone in the silent cemetery, in face of eternal Paris. +</p> + +<p> +With Lisa Macquart began the illegitimate branch; appearing fresh and strong in +her, as she displayed her portly, prosperous figure, sitting at the door of her +pork shop in a light colored apron, watching the central market, where the +hunger of a people muttered, the age-long battle of the Fat and the Lean, the +lean Florent, her brother-in-law, execrated, and set upon by the fat fishwomen +and the fat shopwomen, and whom even the fat pork-seller herself, honest, but +unforgiving, caused to be arrested as a republican who had broken his ban, +convinced that she was laboring for the good digestion of all honest people. +</p> + +<p> +From this mother sprang the sanest, the most human of girls, Pauline Quenu, the +well-balanced, the reasonable, the virgin; who, knowing everything, accepted +the joy of living in so ardent a love for others that, in spite of the revolt +of her youthful heart, she resigned to her friend her cousin and betrothed, +Lazare, and afterward saved the child of the disunited household, becoming its +true mother; always triumphant, always gay, notwithstanding her sacrificed and +ruined life, in her monotonous solitude, facing the great sea, in the midst of +a little world of sufferers groaning with pain, but who did not wish to die. +</p> + +<p> +Then came Gervaise Macquart with her four children: bandy-legged, pretty, and +industrious Gervaise, whom her lover Lantier turned into the street in the +faubourg, where she met the zinc worker Coupeau, the skilful, steady workman +whom she married, and with whom she lived so happily at first, having three +women working in her laundry, but afterward sinking with her husband, as was +inevitable, to the degradation of her surroundings. He, gradually conquered by +alcohol, brought by it to madness and death; she herself perverted, become a +slattern, her moral ruin completed by the return of Lantier, living in the +tranquil ignominy of a household of three, thenceforward the wretched victim of +want, her accomplice, to which she at last succumbed, dying one night of +starvation. +</p> + +<p> +Her eldest son, Claude, had the unhappy genius of a great painter struck with +madness, the impotent madness of feeling within him the masterpiece to which +his fingers refused to give shape; a giant wrestler always defeated, a +crucified martyr to his work, adoring woman, sacrificing his wife Christine, so +loving and for a time so beloved, to the increate, divine woman of his visions, +but whom his pencil was unable to delineate in her nude perfection, possessed +by a devouring passion for producing, an insatiable longing to create, a +longing so torturing when it could not be satisfied, that he ended it by +hanging himself. +</p> + +<p> +Jacques brought crime, the hereditary taint being transmuted in him into an +instinctive appetite for blood, the young and fresh blood from the gashed +throat of a woman, the first comer, the passer-by in the street: a horrible +malady against which he struggled, but which took possession of him again in +the course of his <i>amour</i> with the submissive and sensual Severine, whom a +tragic story of assassination caused to live in constant terror, and whom he +stabbed one evening in an excess of frenzy, maddened by the sight of her white +throat. Then this savage human beast rushed among the trains filing past +swiftly, and mounted the snorting engine of which he was the engineer, the +beloved engine which was one day to crush him to atoms, and then, left without +a guide, to rush furiously off into space braving unknown disasters. +</p> + +<p> +Étienne, in his turn driven out, arrived in the black country on a freezing +night in March, descended into the voracious pit, fell in love with the +melancholy Catherine, of whom a ruffian robbed him; lived with the miners their +gloomy life of misery and base promiscuousness, until one day when hunger, +prompting rebellion, sent across the barren plain a howling mob of wretches who +demanded bread, tearing down and burning as they went, under the menace of the +guns of the band that went off of themselves, a terrible convulsion announcing +the end of the world. The avenging blood of the Maheus was to rise up later; of +Alzire dead of starvation, Maheu killed by a bullet, Zacharie killed by an +explosion of fire-damp, Catherine under the ground. La Maheude alone survived +to weep her dead, descending again into the mine to earn her thirty sons, while +Étienne, the beaten chief of the band, haunted by the dread of future demands, +went away on a warm April morning, listening to the secret growth of the new +world whose germination was soon to dazzle the earth. +</p> + +<p> +Nana then became the avenger; the girl born among the social filth of the +faubourgs; the golden fly sprung from the rottenness below, that was tolerated +and concealed, carrying in the fluttering of its wings the ferment of +destruction, rising and contaminating the aristocracy, poisoning men only by +alighting upon them, in the palaces through whose windows it entered; the +unconscious instrument of ruin and death—fierce flame of Vandeuvres, the +melancholy fate of Foucarmont, lost in the Chinese waters, the disaster of +Steiner, reduced to live as an honest man, the imbecility of La Faloise and the +tragic ruin of the Muffats, and the white corpse of Georges, watched by +Philippe, come out of prison the day before, when the air of the epoch was so +contaminated that she herself was infected, and died of malignant smallpox, +caught at the death-bed of her son Louiset, while Paris passed beneath her +windows, intoxicated, possessed by the frenzy of war, rushing to general ruin. +</p> + +<p> +Lastly comes Jean Macquart, the workman and soldier become again a peasant, +fighting with the hard earth, which exacts that every grain of corn shall be +purchased with a drop of sweat, fighting, above all, with the country people, +whom covetousness and the long and difficult battle with the soil cause to burn +with the desire, incessantly stimulated, of possession. Witness the Fouans, +grown old, parting with their fields as if they were parting with their flesh; +the Buteaus in their eager greed committing parricide, to hasten the +inheritance of a field of lucern; the stubborn Françoise dying from the stroke +of a scythe, without speaking, rather than that a sod should go out of the +family—all this drama of simple natures governed by instinct, scarcely +emerged from primitive barbarism—all this human filth on the great earth, +which alone remains immortal, the mother from whom they issue and to whom they +return again, she whom they love even to crime, who continually remakes life, +for its unknown end, even with the misery and the abomination of the beings she +nourishes. And it was Jean, too, who, become a widower and having enlisted +again at the first rumor of war, brought the inexhaustible reserve, the stock +of eternal rejuvenation which the earth keeps; Jean, the humblest, the +staunchest soldier at the final downfall, swept along in the terrible and fatal +storm which, from the frontier to Sedan, in sweeping away the Empire, +threatened to sweep away the country; always wise, circumspect, firm in his +hope, loving with fraternal affection his comrade Maurice, the demented child +of the people, the holocaust doomed to expiation, weeping tears of blood when +inexorable destiny chose himself to hew off this rotten limb, and after all had +ended—the continual defeats, the frightful civil war, the lost provinces, +the thousands of millions of francs to pay—taking up the march again, +notwithstanding, returning to the land which awaited him, to the great and +difficult task of making a new France. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal paused; Clotilde had handed him all the packages, one by one, and he had +gone over them all, laid bare the contents of all, classified them anew, and +placed them again on the top shelf of the press. He was out of breath, +exhausted by his swift course through all this humanity, while, without voice, +without movement, the young girl, stunned by this overflowing torrent of life, +waited still, incapable of thought or judgment. The rain still beat furiously +upon the dark fields. The lightning had just struck a tree in the neighborhood, +that had split with a terrible crash. The candles flared up in the wind that +came in from the open window. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he resumed, pointing to the papers again, “there is a +world in itself, a society, a civilization, the whole of life is there, with +its manifestations, good and bad, in the heat and labor of the forge which +shapes everything. Yes, our family of itself would suffice as an example to +science, which will perhaps one day establish with mathematical exactness the +laws governing the diseases of the blood and nerves that show themselves in a +race, after a first organic lesion, and that determine, according to +environment, the sentiments, desires, and passions of each individual of that +race, all the human, natural and instinctive manifestations which take the +names of virtues and vices. And it is also a historical document, it relates +the story of the Second Empire, from the <i>coup d’etat</i> to Sedan; for +our family spring from the people, they spread themselves through the whole of +contemporary society, invaded every place, impelled by their unbridled +appetites, by that impulse, essentially modern, that eager desire that urges +the lower classes to enjoyment, in their ascent through the social strata. We +started, as I have said, from Plassans, and here we are now arrived once more +at Plassans.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused again, and then resumed in a low, dreamy voice: +</p> + +<p> +“What an appalling mass stirred up! how many passions, how many joys, how +many sufferings crammed into this colossal heap of facts! There is pure +history: the Empire founded in blood, at first pleasure-loving and despotic, +conquering rebellious cities, then gliding to a slow disintegration, dissolving +in blood—in such a sea of blood that the entire nation came near being +swamped in it. There are social studies: wholesale and retail trade, +prostitution, crime, land, money, the <i>bourgeoisie</i>, the people—that +people who rot in the sewer of the faubourgs, who rebel in the great industrial +centers, all that ever-increasing growth of mighty socialism, big with the new +century. There are simple human studies: domestic pages, love stories, the +struggle of minds and hearts against unjust nature, the destruction of those +who cry out under their too difficult task, the cry of virtue immolating +itself, victorious over pain, There are fancies, flights of the imagination +beyond the real: vast gardens always in bloom, cathedrals with slender, +exquisitely wrought spires, marvelous tales come down from paradise, ideal +affections remounting to heaven in a kiss. There is everything: the good and +the bad, the vulgar and the sublime, flowers, mud, blood, laughter, the torrent +of life itself, bearing humanity endlessly on!” +</p> + +<p> +He took up again the genealogical tree which had remained neglected on the +table, spread it out and began to go over it once more with his finger, +enumerating now the members of the family who were still living: Eugène Rougon, +a fallen majesty, who remained in the Chamber, the witness, the impassible +defender of the old world swept away at the downfall of the Empire. Aristide +Saccard, who, after having changed his principles, had fallen upon his feet a +republican, the editor of a great journal, on the way to make new millions, +while his natural son Victor, who had never reappeared, was living still in the +shade, since he was not in the galleys, cast forth by the world into the +future, into the unknown, like a human beast foaming with the hereditary virus, +who must communicate his malady with every bite he gives. Sidonie Rougon, who +had for a time disappeared, weary of disreputable affairs, had lately retired +to a sort of religious house, where she was living in monastic austerity, the +treasurer of the Marriage Fund, for aiding in the marriage of girls who were +mothers. Octave Mouret, proprietor of the great establishment <i>Au Bonheur des +Dames</i>, whose colossal fortune still continued increasing, had had, toward +the end of the winter, a third child by his wife Denise Baudu, whom he adored, +although his mind was beginning to be deranged again. The Abbé Mouret, curé at +St. Eutrope, in the heart of a marshy gorge, lived there in great retirement, +and very modestly, with his sister Désirée, refusing all advancement from his +bishop, and waiting for death like a holy man, rejecting all medicines, +although he was already suffering from consumption in its first stage. Hélène +Mouret was living very happily in seclusion with her second husband, M. +Rambaud, on the little estate which they owned near Marseilles, on the +seashore; she had had no child by her second husband. Pauline Quenu was still +at Bonneville at the other extremity of France, in face of the vast ocean, +alone with little Paul, since the death of Uncle Chanteau, having resolved +never to marry, in order to devote herself entirely to the son of her cousin +Lazare, who had become a widower and had gone to America to make a fortune. +Étienne Lantier, returning to Paris after the strike at Montsou, had +compromised himself later in the insurrection of the Commune, whose principles +he had defended with ardor; he had been condemned to death, but his sentence +being commuted was transported and was now at Nouméa. It was even said that he +had married immediately on his arrival there, and that he had had a child, the +sex of which, however, was not known with certainty. Finally, Jean Macquart, +who had received his discharge after the Bloody Week, had settled at +Valqueyras, near Plassans, where he had had the good fortune to marry a healthy +girl, Mélanie Vial, the daughter of a well-to-do peasant, whose lands he +farmed, and his wife had borne him a son in May. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is true,” he resumed, in a low voice; “races +degenerate. There is here a veritable exhaustion, rapid deterioration, as if +our family, in their fury of enjoyment, in the gluttonous satisfaction of their +appetites, had consumed themselves too quickly. Louiset, dead in infancy; +Jacques Louis, a half imbecile, carried off by a nervous disease; Victor +returned to the savage state, wandering about in who knows what dark places; +our poor Charles, so beautiful and so frail; these are the latest branches of +the tree, the last pale offshoots into which the puissant sap of the larger +branches seems to have been unable to mount. The worm was in the trunk, it has +ascended into the fruit, and is devouring it. But one must never despair; +families are a continual growth. They go back beyond the common ancestor, into +the unfathomable strata of the races that have lived, to the first being; and +they will put forth new shoots without end, they will spread and ramify to +infinity, through future ages. Look at our tree; it counts only five +generations. It has not so much importance as a blade of grass, even, in the +human forest, vast and dark, of which the peoples are the great secular oaks. +Think only of the immense roots which spread through the soil; think of the +continual putting forth of new leaves above, which mingle with other leaves of +the ever-rolling sea of treetops, at the fructifying, eternal breath of life. +Well, hope lies there, in the daily reconstruction of the race by the new blood +which comes from without. Each marriage brings other elements, good or bad, of +which the effect is, however, to prevent certain and progressive regeneration. +Breaches are repaired, faults effaced, an equilibrium is inevitably +re-established at the end of a few generations, and it is the average man that +always results; vague humanity, obstinately pursuing its mysterious labor, +marching toward its unknown end.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused, and heaved a deep sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! our family, what is it going to become; in what being will it +finally end?” +</p> + +<p> +He continued, not now taking into account the survivors whom he had just named; +having classified these, he knew what they were capable of, but he was full of +keen curiosity regarding the children who were still infants. He had written to +a <i>confrère</i> in Nouméa for precise information regarding the wife whom +Étienne had lately married there, and the child which she had had, but he had +heard nothing, and he feared greatly that on that side the tree would remain +incomplete. He was more fully furnished with documents regarding the two +children of Octave Mouret, with whom he continued to correspond; the little +girl was growing up puny and delicate, while the little boy, who strongly +resembled his mother, had developed superbly, and was perfectly healthy. His +strongest hope, besides these, was in Jean’s children, the eldest of whom +was a magnificent boy, full of the youthful vigor of the races that go back to +the soil to regenerate themselves. Pascal occasionally went to Valqueyras, and +he returned happy from that fertile spot, where the father, quiet and rational, +was always at his plow, the mother cheerful and simple, with her vigorous +frame, capable of bearing a world. Who knew what sound branch was to spring +from that side? Perhaps the wise and puissant of the future were to germinate +there. The worst of it, for the beauty of his tree, was that all these little +boys and girls were still so young that he could not classify them. And his +voice grew tender as he spoke of this hope of the future, these fair-haired +children, in the unavowed regret for his celibacy. +</p> + +<p> +Still contemplating the tree spread out before him, he cried: +</p> + +<p> +“And yet it is complete, it is decisive. Look! I repeat to you that all +hereditary cases are to be found there. To establish my theory, I had only to +base it on the collection of these facts. And indeed, the marvelous thing is +that there you can put your finger on the cause why creatures born of the same +stock can appear radically different, although they are only logical +modifications of common ancestors. The trunk explains the branches, and these +explain the leaves. In your father Saccard and your Uncle Eugène Rougon, so +different in their temperaments and their lives, it is the same impulse which +made the inordinate appetites of the one and the towering ambition of the +other. Angelique, that pure lily, is born from the disreputable Sidonie, in the +rapture which makes mystics or lovers, according to the environment. The three +children of the Mourets are born of the same breath which makes of the clever +Octave the dry goods merchant, a millionaire; of the devout Serge, a poor +country priest; of the imbecile Désirée, a beautiful and happy girl. But the +example is still more striking in the children of Gervaise; the neurosis passes +down, and Nana sells herself; Étienne is a rebel; Jacques, a murderer; Claude, +a genius; while Pauline, their cousin german, near by, is victorious +virtue—virtue which struggles and immolates itself. It is heredity, life +itself which makes imbeciles, madmen, criminals and great men. Cells abort, +others take their place, and we have a scoundrel or a madman instead of a man +of genius, or simply an honest man. And humanity rolls on, bearing everything +on its tide.” +</p> + +<p> +Then in a new shifting of his thought, growing still more animated, he +continued: +</p> + +<p> +“And animals—the beast that suffers and that loves, which is the +rough sketch, as it were, of man—all the animals our brothers, that live +our life, yes, I would have put them in the ark, I would give them a place +among our family, show them continually mingling with us, completing our +existence. I have known cats whose presence was the mysterious charm of the +household; dogs that were adored, whose death was mourned, and left in the +heart an inconsolable grief. I have known goats, cows, and asses of very great +importance, and whose personality played such a part that their history ought +to be written. And there is our Bonhomme, our poor old horse, that has served +us for a quarter of a century. Do you not think that he has mingled his life +with ours, and that henceforth he is one of the family? We have modified him, +as he has influenced us a little; we shall end by being made in the same image, +and this is so true that now, when I see him, half blind, with wandering gaze, +his legs stiff with rheumatism, I kiss him on both cheeks as if he were a poor +old relation who had fallen to my charge. Ah, animals, all creeping and +crawling things, all creatures that lament, below man, how large a place in our +sympathies it would be necessary to give them in a history of life!” +</p> + +<p> +This was a last cry in which Pascal gave utterance to his passionate tenderness +for all created beings. He had gradually become more and more excited, and had +so come to make this confession of his faith in the continuous and victorious +work of animated nature. And Clotilde, who thus far had not spoken, pale from +the catastrophe in which her plans had ended, at last opened her lips to ask: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, master, and what am I here?” +</p> + +<p> +She placed one of her slender fingers on the leaf of the tree on which she saw +her name written. He had always passed this leaf by. She insisted. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I; what am I? Why have you not read me my envelope?” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment he remained silent, as if surprised at the question. +</p> + +<p> +“Why? For no reason. It is true, I have nothing to conceal from you. You +see what is written here? ‘Clotilde, born in 1847. Selection of the +mother. Reversional heredity, with moral and physical predominance of the +maternal grandfather.’ Nothing can be clearer. Your mother has +predominated in you; you have her fine intelligence, and you have also +something of her coquetry, at times of her indolence and of her submissiveness. +Yes, you are very feminine, like her. Without your being aware of it, I would +say that you love to be loved. Besides, your mother was a great novel reader, +an imaginative being who loved to spend whole days dreaming over a book; she +doted on nursery tales, had her fortune told by cards, consulted clairvoyants; +and I have always thought that your concern about spiritual matters, your +anxiety about the unknown, came from that source. But what completed your +character by giving you a dual nature, was the influence of your grandfather, +Commandant Sicardot. I knew him; he was not a genius, but he had at least a +great deal of uprightness and energy. Frankly, if it were not for him, I do not +believe that you would be worth much, for the other influences are hardly good. +He has given you the best part of your nature, combativeness, pride, and +frankness.” +</p> + +<p> +She had listened to him with attention. She nodded slightly, to signify that it +was indeed so, that she was not offended, although her lips trembled visibly at +these new details regarding her people and her mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she resumed, “and you, master?” +</p> + +<p> +This time he did not hesitate. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I!” he cried, “what is the use of speaking of me? I do +not belong to the family. You see what is written here. ‘Pascal, born in +1813. Individual variation. Combination in which the physical and moral +characters of the parents are blended, without any of their traits seeming to +appear in the new being.’ My mother has told me often enough that I did +not belong to it, that in truth she did not know where I could have come +from.” +</p> + +<p> +Those words came from him like a cry of relief, of involuntary joy. +</p> + +<p> +“And the people make no mistake in the matter. Have you ever heard me +called Pascal Rougon in the town? No; people always say simply Dr. Pascal. It +is because I stand apart. And it may not be very affectionate to feel so, but I +am delighted at it, for there are in truth inheritances too heavy to bear. It +is of no use that I love them all. My heart beats none the less joyously when I +feel myself another being, different from them, without any community with +them. Not to be of them, my God! not to be of them! It is a breath of pure air; +it is what gives me the courage to have them all here, to put them, in all +their nakedness, in their envelopes, and still to find the courage to +live!” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped, and there was silence for a time. The rain had ceased, the storm +was passing away, the thunderclaps sounded more and more distant, while from +the refreshed fields, still dark, there came in through the open window a +delicious odor of moist earth. In the calm air the candles were burning out +with a tall, tranquil flame. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Clotilde simply, with a gesture of discouragement, +“what are we to become finally?” +</p> + +<p> +She had declared it to herself one night, in the threshing yard; life was +horrible, how could one live peaceful and happy? It was a terrible light that +science threw on the world. Analysis searched every wound of humanity, in order +to expose its horror. And now he had spoken still more bluntly; he had +increased the disgust which she had for persons and things, pitilessly +dissecting her family. The muddy torrent had rolled on before her for nearly +three hours, and she had heard the most dreadful revelations, the harsh and +terrible truth about her people, her people who were so dear to her, whom it +was her duty to love; her father grown powerful through pecuniary crimes; her +brother dissolute; her grandmother unscrupulous, covered with the blood of the +just; the others almost all tainted, drunkards, ruffians, murderers, the +monstrous blossoming of the human tree. +</p> + +<p> +The blow had been so rude that she could not yet recover from it, stunned as +she was by the revelation of her whole family history, made to her in this way +at a stroke. And yet the lesson was rendered innocuous, so to say, by something +great and good, a breath of profound humanity which had borne her through it. +Nothing bad had come to her from it. She felt herself beaten by a sharp sea +wind, the storm wind which strengthens and expands the lungs. He had revealed +everything, speaking freely even of his mother, without judging her, continuing +to preserve toward her his deferential attitude, as a scientist who does not +judge events. To tell everything in order to know everything, in order to +remedy everything, was not this the cry which he had uttered on that beautiful +summer night? +</p> + +<p> +And by the very excess of what he had just revealed to her, she remained +shaken, blinded by this too strong light, but understanding him at last, and +confessing to herself that he was attempting in this an immense work. In spite +of everything, it was a cry of health, of hope in the future. He spoke as a +benefactor who, since heredity made the world, wished to fix its laws, in order +to control it, and to make a new and happy world. Was there then only mud in +this overflowing stream, whose sluices he had opened? How much gold had passed, +mingled with the grass and the flowers on its borders? Hundreds of beings were +still flying swiftly before her, and she was haunted by good and charming +faces, delicate girlish profiles, by the serene beauty of women. All passion +bled there, hearts swelled with every tender rapture. They were numerous, the +Jeannes, the Angeliques, the Paulines, the Marthes, the Gervaises, the Hélènes. +They and others, even those who were least good, even terrible men, the worst +of the band, showed a brotherhood with humanity. +</p> + +<p> +And it was precisely this breath which she had felt pass, this broad current of +sympathy, that he had introduced naturally into his exact scientific lesson. He +did not seem to be moved; he preserved the impersonal and correct attitude of +the demonstrator, but within him what tender suffering, what a fever of +devotion, what a giving up of his whole being to the happiness of others? His +entire work, constructed with such mathematical precision, was steeped in this +fraternal suffering, even in its most cruel ironies. Had he not just spoken of +the animals, like an elder brother of the wretched living beings that suffer? +Suffering exasperated him; his wrath was because of his too lofty dream, and he +had become harsh only in his hatred of the factitious and the transitory; +dreaming of working, not for the polite society of a time, but for all humanity +in the gravest hours of its history. Perhaps, even, it was this revolt against +the vulgarity of the time which had made him throw himself, in bold defiance, +into theories and their application. And the work remained human, overflowing +as it was with an infinite pity for beings and things. +</p> + +<p> +Besides, was it not life? There is no absolute evil. Most often a virtue +presents itself side by side with a defect. No man is bad to every one, each +man makes the happiness of some one; so that, when one does not view things +from a single standpoint only, one recognizes in the end the utility of every +human being. Those who believe in God should say to themselves that if their +God does not strike the wicked dead, it is because he sees his work in its +totality, and that he cannot descend to the individual. Labor ends to begin +anew; the living, as a whole, continue, in spite of everything, admirable in +their courage and their industry; and love of life prevails over all. +</p> + +<p> +This giant labor of men, this obstinacy in living, is their excuse, is +redemption. And then, from a great height the eye saw only this continual +struggle, and a great deal of good, in spite of everything, even though there +might be a great deal of evil. One shared the general indulgence, one pardoned, +one had only an infinite pity and an ardent charity. The haven was surely +there, waiting those who have lost faith in dogmas, who wish to understand the +meaning of their lives, in the midst of the apparent iniquity of the world. One +must live for the effort of living, for the stone to be carried to the distant +and unknown work, and the only possible peace in the world is in the joy of +making this effort. +</p> + +<p> +Another hour passed; the entire night had flown by in this terrible lesson of +life, without either Pascal or Clotilde being conscious of where they were, or +of the flight of time. And he, overworked for some time past, and worn out by +the life of suspicion and sadness which he had been leading, started nervously, +as if he had suddenly awakened. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, you know all; do you feel your heart strong, tempered by the +truth, full of pardon and of hope? Are you with me?” +</p> + +<p> +But, still stunned by the frightful moral shock which she had received, she +too, started, bewildered. Her old beliefs had been so completely overthrown, so +many new ideas were awakening within her, that she did not dare to question +herself, in order to find an answer. She felt herself seized and carried away +by the omnipotence of truth. She endured it without being convinced. +</p> + +<p> +“Master,” she stammered, “master—” +</p> + +<p> +And they remained for a moment face to face, looking at each other. Day was +breaking, a dawn of exquisite purity, far off in the vast, clear sky, washed by +the storm. Not a cloud now stained the pale azure tinged with rose color. All +the cheerful sounds of awakening life in the rain-drenched fields came in +through the window, while the candles, burned down to the socket, paled in the +growing light. +</p> + +<p> +“Answer; are you with me, altogether with me?” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment he thought she was going to throw herself on his neck and burst +into tears. A sudden impulse seemed to impel her. But they saw each other in +their semi-nudity. She, who had not noticed it before, was now conscious that +she was only half dressed, that her arms were bare, her shoulders bare, covered +only by the scattered locks of her unbound hair, and on her right shoulder, +near the armpit, on lowering her eyes, she perceived again the few drops of +blood of the bruise which he had given her, when he had grasped her roughly, in +struggling to master her. Then an extraordinary confusion took possession of +her, a certainty that she was going to be vanquished, as if by this grasp he +had become her master, and forever. This sensation was prolonged; she was +seized and drawn on, without the consent of her will, by an irresistible +impulse to submit. +</p> + +<p> +Abruptly Clotilde straightened herself, struggling with herself, wishing to +reflect and to recover herself. She pressed her bare arms against her naked +throat. All the blood in her body rushed to her skin in a rosy blush of shame. +Then, in her divine and slender grace, she turned to flee. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master, let me go—I will see—” +</p> + +<p> +With the swiftness of alarmed maidenhood, she took refuge in her chamber, as +she had done once before. He heard her lock the door hastily, with a double +turn of the key. He remained alone, and he asked himself suddenly, seized by +infinite discouragement and sadness, if he had done right in speaking, if the +truth would germinate in this dear and adored creature, and bear one day a +harvest of happiness. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"></a> +VI.</h2> + +<p> +The days wore on. October began with magnificent weather—a sultry autumn +in which the fervid heat of summer was prolonged, with a cloudless sky. Then +the weather changed, fierce winds began to blow, and a last storm channeled +gullies in the hillsides. And to the melancholy household at La Souleiade the +approach of winter seemed to have brought an infinite sadness. +</p> + +<p> +It was a new hell. There were no more violent quarrels between Pascal and +Clotilde. The doors were no longer slammed. Voices raised in dispute no longer +obliged Martine to go continually upstairs to listen outside the door. They +scarcely spoke to each other now; and not a single word had been exchanged +between them regarding the midnight scene, although weeks had passed since it +had taken place. He, through an inexplicable scruple, a strange delicacy of +which he was not himself conscious, did not wish to renew the conversation, and +to demand the answer which he expected—a promise of faith in him and of +submission. She, after the great moral shock which had completely transformed +her, still reflected, hesitated, struggled, fighting against herself, putting +off her decision in order not to surrender, in her instinctive rebelliousness. +And the misunderstanding continued, in the midst of the mournful silence of the +miserable house, where there was no longer any happiness. +</p> + +<p> +During all this time Pascal suffered terribly, without making any complaint. He +had sunk into a dull distrust, imagining that he was still being watched, and +that if they seemed to leave him at peace it was only in order to concoct in +secret the darkest plots. His uneasiness increased, even, and he expected every +day some catastrophe to happen—the earth suddenly to open and swallow up +his papers, La Souleiade itself to be razed to the ground, carried away bodily, +scattered to the winds. +</p> + +<p> +The persecution against his thought, against his moral and intellectual life, +in thus hiding itself, and so rendering him helpless to defend himself, became +so intolerable to him that he went to bed every night in a fever. He would +often start and turn round suddenly, thinking he was going to surprise the +enemy behind him engaged in some piece of treachery, to find nothing there but +the shadow of his own fears. At other times, seized by some suspicion, he would +remain on the watch for hours together, hidden, behind his blinds, or lying in +wait in a passage; but not a soul stirred, he heard nothing but the violent +beating of his heart. His fears kept him in a state of constant agitation; he +never went to bed at night without visiting every room; he no longer slept, or, +if he did, he would waken with a start at the slightest noise, ready to defend +himself. +</p> + +<p> +And what still further aggravated Pascal’s sufferings was the constant, +the ever more bitter thought that the wound was inflicted upon him by the only +creature he loved in the world, the adored Clotilde, whom for twenty years he +had seen grow in beauty and in grace, whose life had hitherto bloomed like a +beautiful flower, perfuming his. She, great God! for whom his heart was full of +affection, whom he had never analyzed, she, who had become his joy, his +courage, his hope, in whose young life he lived over again. When she passed by, +with her delicate neck, so round, so fresh, he was invigorated, bathed in +health and joy, as at the coming of spring. +</p> + +<p> +His whole life, besides, explained this invasion, this subjugation of his being +by the young girl who had entered into his heart while she was still a little +child, and who, as she grew up, had gradually taken possession of the whole +place. Since he had settled at Plassans, he had led a blest existence, wrapped +up in his books, far from women. The only passion he was ever known to have +had, was his love for the lady who had died, whose finger tips he had never +kissed. He had not lived; he had within him a reserve of youthfulness, of +vigor, whose surging flood now clamored rebelliously at the menace of +approaching age. He would have become attached to an animal, a stray dog that +he had chanced to pick up in the street, and that had licked his hand. And it +was this child whom he loved, all at once become an adorable woman, who now +distracted him, who tortured him by her hostility. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, so gay, so kind, now became insupportably gloomy and harsh. He grew +angry at the slightest word; he would push aside the astonished Martine, who +would look up at him with the submissive eyes of a beaten animal. From morning +till night he went about the gloomy house, carrying his misery about with him, +with so forbidding a countenance that no one ventured to speak to him. +</p> + +<p> +He never took Clotilde with him now on his visits, but went alone. And thus it +was that he returned home one afternoon, his mind distracted because of an +accident which had happened; having on his conscience, as a physician, the +death of a man. +</p> + +<p> +He had gone to give a hypodermic injection to Lafouasse, the tavern keeper, +whose ataxia had within a short time made such rapid progress that he regarded +him as doomed. But, notwithstanding, Pascal still fought obstinately against +the disease, continuing the treatment, and as ill luck would have it, on this +day the little syringe had caught up at the bottom of the vial an impure +particle, which had escaped the filter. Immediately a drop of blood appeared; +to complete his misfortune, he had punctured a vein. He was at once alarmed, +seeing the tavern keeper turn pale and gasp for breath, while large drops of +cold perspiration broke out upon his face. Then he understood; death came as if +by a stroke of lightning, the lips turning blue, the face black. It was an +embolism; he had nothing to blame but the insufficiency of his preparations, +his still rude method. No doubt Lafouasse had been doomed. He could not, +perhaps, have lived six months longer, and that in the midst of atrocious +sufferings, but the brutal fact of this terrible death was none the less there, +and what despairing regret, what rage against impotent and murderous science, +and what a shock to his faith! He returned home, livid, and did not make his +appearance again until the following day, after having remained sixteen hours +shut up in his room, lying in a semi-stupor on the bed, across which he had +thrown himself, dressed as he was. +</p> + +<p> +On the afternoon of this day Clotilde, who was sitting beside him in the study, +sewing, ventured to break the oppressive silence. She looked up, and saw him +turning over the leaves of a book wearily, searching for some information which +he was unable to find. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, are you ill? Why do you not tell me, if you are. I would take +care of you.” +</p> + +<p> +He kept his eyes bent upon the book, and muttered: +</p> + +<p> +“What does it matter to you whether I am ill or not? I need no one to +take care of me.” +</p> + +<p> +She resumed, in a conciliating voice: +</p> + +<p> +“If you have troubles, and can tell them to me, it would perhaps be a +relief to you to do so. Yesterday you came in looking so sad. You must not +allow yourself to be cast down in that way. I have spent a very anxious night. +I came to your door three times to listen, tormented by the idea that you were +suffering.” +</p> + +<p> +Gently as she spoke, her words were like the cut of a whip. In his weak and +nervous condition a sudden access of rage made him push away the book and rise +up trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“So you spy upon me, then. I cannot even retire to my room without people +coming to glue their ears to the walls. Yes, you listen even to the beatings of +my heart. You watch for my death, to pillage and burn everything here.” +</p> + +<p> +His voice rose and all his unjust suffering vented itself in complaints and +threats. +</p> + +<p> +“I forbid you to occupy yourself about me. Is there nothing else that you +have to say to me? Have you reflected? Can you put your hand in mine loyally, +and say to me that we are in accord?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer. She only continued to look at him with her large clear +eyes, frankly declaring that she would not surrender yet, while he, exasperated +more and more by this attitude, lost all self-control. +</p> + +<p> +“Go away, go away,” he stammered, pointing to the door. “I do +not wish you to remain near me. I do not wish to have enemies near me. I do not +wish you to remain near me to drive me mad!” +</p> + +<p> +She rose, very pale, and went at once out of the room, without looking behind, +carrying her work with her. +</p> + +<p> +During the month which followed, Pascal took refuge in furious and incessant +work. He now remained obstinately, for whole days at a time, alone in the +study, sometimes passing even the nights there, going over old documents, to +revise all his works on heredity. It seemed as if a sort of frenzy had seized +him to assure himself of the legitimacy of his hopes, to force science to give +him the certainty that humanity could be remade—made a higher, a healthy +humanity. He no longer left the house, he abandoned his patients even, and +lived among his papers, without air or exercise. And after a month of this +overwork, which exhausted him without appeasing his domestic torments, he fell +into such a state of nervous exhaustion that illness, for some time latent, +declared itself at last with alarming violence. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, when he rose in the morning, felt worn out with fatigue, wearier and +less refreshed than he had been on going to bed the night before. He constantly +had pains all over his body; his limbs failed him, after five minutes’ +walk; the slightest exertion tired him; the least movement caused him intense +pain. At times the floor seemed suddenly to sway beneath his feet. He had a +constant buzzing in his ears, flashes of light dazzled his eyes. He took a +loathing for wine, he had no longer any appetite, and his digestion was +seriously impaired. Then, in the midst of the apathy of his constantly +increasing idleness he would have sudden fits of aimless activity. The +equilibrium was destroyed, he had at times outbreaks of nervous irritability, +without any cause. The slightest emotion brought tears to his eyes. Finally, he +would shut himself up in his room, and give way to paroxysms of despair so +violent that he would sob for hours at a time, without any immediate cause of +grief, overwhelmed simply by the immense sadness of things. +</p> + +<p> +In the early part of December Pascal had a severe attack of neuralgia. Violent +pains in the bones of the skull made him feel at times as if his head must +split. Old Mme. Rougon, who had been informed of his illness, came to inquire +after her son. But she went straight to the kitchen, wishing to have a talk +with Martine first. The latter, with a heart-broken and terrified air, said to +her that monsieur must certainly be going mad; and she told her of his singular +behavior, the continual tramping about in his room, the locking of all the +drawers, the rounds which he made from the top to the bottom of the house, +until two o’clock in the morning. Tears filled her eyes and she at last +hazarded the opinion that monsieur must be possessed with a devil, and that it +would be well to notify the curé of St. Saturnin. +</p> + +<p> +“So good a man,” she said, “a man for whom one would let +one’s self be cut in pieces! How unfortunate it is that one cannot get +him to go to church, for that would certainly cure him at once.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, who had heard her grandmother’s voice, entered at this moment. +She, too, wandered through the empty rooms, spending most of her time in the +deserted apartment on the ground floor. She did not speak, however, but only +listened with her thoughtful and expectant air. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, goodday! It is you, my dear. Martine tells me that Pascal is +possessed with a devil. That is indeed my opinion also; only the devil is +called pride. He thinks that he knows everything. He is Pope and Emperor in +one, and naturally it exasperates him when people don’t agree with +him.” +</p> + +<p> +She shrugged her shoulders with supreme disdain. +</p> + +<p> +“As for me, all that would only make me laugh if it were not so sad. A +fellow who knows nothing about anything; who has always been wrapped up in his +books; who has not lived. Put him in a drawing-room, and he would know as +little how to act as a new-born babe. And as for women, he does not even know +what they are.” +</p> + +<p> +Forgetting to whom she was speaking, a young girl and a servant, she lowered +her voice, and said confidentially: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, one pays for being too sensible, too. Neither a wife nor a +sweetheart nor anything. That is what has finally turned his brain.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde did not move. She only lowered her eyelids slowly over her large +thoughtful eyes; then she raised them again, maintaining her impenetrable +countenance, unwilling, unable, perhaps, to give expression to what was passing +within her. This was no doubt all still confused, a complete evolution, a great +change which was taking place, and which she herself did not clearly +understand. +</p> + +<p> +“He is upstairs, is he not?” resumed Félicité. “I have come +to see him, for this must end; it is too stupid.” +</p> + +<p> +And she went upstairs, while Martine returned to her saucepans, and Clotilde +went to wander again through the empty house. +</p> + +<p> +Upstairs in the study Pascal sat seemingly in a stupor, his face bent over a +large open book. He could no longer read, the words danced before his eyes, +conveying no meaning to his mind. But he persisted, for it was death to him to +lose his faculty for work, hitherto so powerful. His mother at once began to +scold him, snatching the book from him, and flinging it upon a distant table, +crying that when one was sick one should take care of one’s self. He rose +with a quick, angry movement, about to order her away as he had ordered +Clotilde. Then, by a last effort of the will, he became again deferential. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, you know that I have never wished to dispute with you. Leave me, +I beg of you.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not heed him, but began instead to take him to task about his continual +distrust. It was he himself who had given himself a fever, always fancying that +he was surrounded by enemies who were setting traps for him, and watching him +to rob him. Was there any common sense in imagining that people were +persecuting him in that way? And then she accused him of allowing his head to +be turned by his discovery, his famous remedy for curing every disease. That +was as much as to think himself equal to the good God; which only made it all +the more cruel when he found out how mistaken he was. And she mentioned +Lafouasse, the man whom he had killed—naturally, she could understand +that that had not been very pleasant for him; indeed there was cause enough in +it to make him take to his bed. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, still controlling himself, very pale and with eyes cast on the ground, +contented himself with repeating: +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, leave me, I beg of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I won’t leave you,” she cried with the impetuosity which +was natural to her, and which her great age had in no wise diminished. “I +have come precisely to stir you up a little, to rid you of this fever which is +consuming you. No, this cannot continue. I don’t wish that we should +again become the talk of the whole town on your account. I wish you to take +care of yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +He shrugged his shoulders, and said in a low voice, as if speaking to himself, +with an uneasy look, half of conviction, half of doubt: +</p> + +<p> +“I am not ill.” +</p> + +<p> +But Félicité, beside herself, burst out, gesticulating violently: +</p> + +<p> +“Not ill! not ill! Truly, there is no one like a physician for not being +able to see himself. Why, my poor boy, every one that comes near you is shocked +by your appearance. You are becoming insane through pride and fear!” +</p> + +<p> +This time Pascal raised his head quickly, and looked her straight in the eyes, +while she continued: +</p> + +<p> +“This is what I had to tell you, since it seems that no one else would +undertake the task. You are old enough to know what you ought to do. You should +make an effort to shake off all this; you should think of something else; you +should not let a fixed idea take possession of you, especially when you belong +to a family like ours. You know it; have sense, and take care of +yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +He grew paler than before, looking fixedly at her still, as if he were sounding +her, to know what there was of her in him. And he contented himself with +answering: +</p> + +<p> +“You are right, mother. I thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +When he was again alone, he dropped into his seat before the table, and tried +once more to read his book. But he could not succeed, any more than before, in +fixing his attention sufficiently to understand the words, whose letters +mingled confusedly together before his eyes. And his mother’s words +buzzed in his ears; a vague terror, which had some time before sprung up within +him, grew and took shape, haunting him now as an immediate and clearly defined +danger. He who two months before had boasted triumphantly of not belonging to +the family, was he about to receive the most terrible of contradictions? Ah, +this egotistic joy, this intense joy of not belonging to it, was it to give +place to the terrible anguish of being struck in his turn? Was he to have the +humiliation of seeing the taint revive in him? Was he to be dragged down to the +horror of feeling himself in the clutches of the monster of heredity? The +sublime idea, the lofty certitude which he had of abolishing suffering, of +strengthening man’s will, of making a new and a higher humanity, a +healthy humanity, was assuredly only the beginning of the monomania of vanity. +And in his bitter complaint of being watched, in his desire to watch the +enemies who, he thought, were obstinately bent on his destruction, were easily +to be recognized the symptoms of the monomania of suspicion. So then all the +diseases of the race were to end in this terrible case—madness within a +brief space, then general paralysis, and a dreadful death. +</p> + +<p> +From this day forth Pascal was as if possessed. The state of nervous exhaustion +into which overwork and anxiety had thrown him left him an unresisting prey to +this haunting fear of madness and death. All the morbid sensations which he +felt, his excessive fatigue on rising, the buzzing in his ears, the flashes of +light before his eyes, even his attacks of indigestion and his paroxysms of +tears, were so many infallible symptoms of the near insanity with which he +believed himself threatened. He had completely lost, in his own case, the keen +power of diagnosis of the observant physician, and if he still continued to +reason about it, it was only to confound and pervert symptoms, under the +influence of the moral and physical depression into which he had fallen. He was +no longer master of himself; he was mad, so to say, to convince himself hour by +hour that he must become so. +</p> + +<p> +All the days of this pale December were spent by him in going deeper and deeper +into his malady. Every morning he tried to escape from the haunting subject, +but he invariably ended by shutting himself in the study to take up again, in +spite of himself, the tangled skein of the day before. +</p> + +<p> +The long study which he had made of heredity, his important researches, his +works, completed the poisoning of his peace, furnishing him with ever renewed +causes of disquietude. To the question which he put to himself continually as +to his own hereditary case, the documents were there to answer it by all +possible combinations. They were so numerous that he lost himself among them +now. If he had deceived himself, if he could not set himself apart, as a +remarkable case of variation, should he place himself under the head of +reversional heredity, passing over one, two, or even three generations? Or was +his case rather a manifestation of larvated heredity, which would bring anew +proof to the support of his theory of the germ plasm, or was it simply a +singular case of hereditary resemblance, the sudden apparition of some unknown +ancestor at the very decline of life? +</p> + +<p> +From this moment he never rested, giving himself up completely to the +investigation of his case, searching his notes, rereading his books. And he +studied himself, watching the least of his sensations, to deduce from them the +facts on which he might judge himself. On the days when his mind was most +sluggish, or when he thought he experienced particular phenomena of vision, he +inclined to a predominance of the original nervous lesion; while, if he felt +that his limbs were affected, his feet heavy and painful, he imagined he was +suffering the indirect influence of some ancestor come from outside. Everything +became confused, until at last he could recognize himself no longer, in the +midst of the imaginary troubles which agitated his disturbed organism. And +every evening the conclusion was the same, the same knell sounded in his +brain—heredity, appalling heredity, the fear of becoming mad. +</p> + +<p> +In the early part of January Clotilde was an involuntary spectator of a scene +which wrung her heart. She was sitting before one of the windows of the study, +reading, concealed by the high back of her chair, when she saw Pascal, who had +been shut up in his room since the day before, entering. He held open before +his eyes with both hands a sheet of yellow paper, in which she recognized the +genealogical tree. He was so completely absorbed, his gaze was so fixed, that +she might have come forward without his observing her. He spread the tree upon +the table, continuing to look at it for a long time, with the terrified +expression of interrogation which had become habitual to him, which gradually +changed to one of supplication, the tears coursing down his cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +Why, great God! would not the tree answer him, and tell him what ancestor he +resembled, in order that he might inscribe his case on his own leaf, beside the +others? If he was to become mad, why did not the tree tell him so clearly, +which would have calmed him, for he believed that his suffering came only from +his uncertainty? Tears clouded his vision, yet still he looked, he exhausted +himself in this longing to know, in which his reason must finally give way. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde hastily concealed herself as she saw him walk over to the press, which +he opened wide. He seized the envelopes, threw them on the table, and searched +among them feverishly. It was the scene of the terrible night of the storm that +was beginning over again, the gallop of nightmares, the procession of phantoms, +rising at his call from this heap of old papers. As they passed by, he +addressed to each of them a question, an ardent prayer, demanding the origin of +his malady, hoping for a word, a whisper which should set his doubts at rest. +First, it was only an indistinct murmur, then came words and fragments of +phrases. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it you—is it you—is it you—oh, old mother, the +mother of us all—who are to give me your madness? Is it you, inebriate +uncle, old scoundrel of an uncle, whose drunkenness I am to pay for? Is it you, +ataxic nephew, or you, mystic nephew, or yet you, idiot niece, who are to +reveal to me the truth, showing me one of the forms of the lesion from which I +suffer? Or is it rather you, second cousin, who hanged yourself; or you, second +cousin, who committed murder; or you, second cousin, who died of rottenness, +whose tragic ends announce to me mine—death in a cell, the horrible +decomposition of being?” +</p> + +<p> +And the gallop continued, they rose and passed by with the speed of the wind. +The papers became animate, incarnate, they jostled one another, they trampled +on one another, in a wild rush of suffering humanity. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, who will tell me, who will tell me, who will tell me?—Is it he +who died mad? he who was carried off by phthisis? he who was killed by +paralysis? she whose constitutional feebleness caused her to die in early +youth?—Whose is the poison of which I am to die? What is it, hysteria, +alcoholism, tuberculosis, scrofula? And what is it going to make of me, an +ataxic or a madman? A madman. Who was it said a madman? They all say it—a +madman, a madman, a madman!” +</p> + +<p> +Sobs choked Pascal. He let his dejected head fall among the papers, he wept +endlessly, shaken by shuddering sobs. And Clotilde, seized by a sort of awe, +feeling the presence of the fate which rules over races, left the room softly, +holding her breath; for she knew that it would mortify him exceedingly if he +knew that she had been present. +</p> + +<p> +Long periods of prostration followed. January was very cold. But the sky +remained wonderfully clear, a brilliant sun shone in the limpid blue; and at La +Souleiade, the windows of the study facing south formed a sort of hothouse, +preserving there a delightfully mild temperature. They did not even light a +fire, for the room was always filled with a flood of sunshine, in which the +flies that had survived the winter flew about lazily. The only sound to be +heard was the buzzing of their wings. It was a close and drowsy warmth, like a +breath of spring that had lingered in the old house baked by the heat of +summer. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, still gloomy, dragged through the days there, and it was there, too, +that he overheard one day the closing words of a conversation which aggravated +his suffering. As he never left his room now before breakfast, Clotilde had +received Dr. Ramond this morning in the study, and they were talking there +together in an undertone, sitting beside each other in the bright sunshine. +</p> + +<p> +It was the third visit which Ramond had made during the last week. Personal +reasons, the necessity, especially, of establishing definitely his position as +a physician at Plassans, made it expedient for him not to defer his marriage +much longer: and he wished to obtain from Clotilde a decisive answer. On each +of his former visits the presence of a third person had prevented him from +speaking. As he desired to receive her answer from herself directly he had +resolved to declare himself to her in a frank conversation. Their intimate +friendship, and the discretion and good sense of both, justified him in taking +this step. And he ended, smiling, looking into her eyes: +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you, Clotilde, that it is the most reasonable of +<i>dénouements</i>. You know that I have loved you for a long time. I have a +profound affection and esteem for you. That alone might perhaps not be +sufficient, but, in addition, we understand each other perfectly, and we should +be very happy together, I am convinced of it.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not cast down her eyes; she, too, looked at him frankly, with a +friendly smile. He was, in truth, very handsome, in his vigorous young manhood. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you not marry Mlle. Leveque, the lawyer’s daughter?” +she asked. “She is prettier and richer than I am, and I know that she +would gladly accept you. My dear friend, I fear that you are committing a folly +in choosing me.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not grow impatient, seeming still convinced of the wisdom of his +determination. +</p> + +<p> +“But I do not love Mlle. Leveque, and I do love you. Besides, I have +considered everything, and I repeat that I know very well what I am about. Say +yes; you can take no better course.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she grew very serious, and a shadow passed over her face, the shadow of +those reflections, of those almost unconscious inward struggles, which kept her +silent for days at a time. She did not see clearly yet, she still struggled +against herself, and she wished to wait. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my friend, since you are really serious, do not ask me to give you +an answer to-day; grant me a few weeks longer. Master is indeed very ill. I am +greatly troubled about him; and you would not like to owe my consent to a hasty +impulse. I assure you, for my part, that I have a great deal of affection for +you, but it would be wrong to decide at this moment; the house is too unhappy. +It is agreed, is it not? I will not make you wait long.” +</p> + +<p> +And to change the conversation she added: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am uneasy about master. I wished to see you, in order to tell you +so. The other day I surprised him weeping violently, and I am certain the fear +of becoming mad haunts him. The day before yesterday, when you were talking to +him, I saw that you were examining him. Tell me frankly, what do you think of +his condition? Is he in any danger?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not the slightest!” exclaimed Dr. Ramond. “His system is a +little out of order, that is all. How can a man of his ability, who has made so +close a study of nervous diseases, deceive himself to such an extent? It is +discouraging, indeed, if the clearest and most vigorous minds can go so far +astray. In his case his own discovery of hypodermic injections would be +excellent. Why does he not use them with himself?” +</p> + +<p> +And as the young girl replied, with a despairing gesture, that he would not +listen to her, that he would not even allow her to speak to him now, Ramond +said: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, I will speak to him.” +</p> + +<p> +It was at this moment that Pascal came out of his room, attracted by the sound +of voices. But on seeing them both so close to each other, so animated, so +youthful, and so handsome in the sunshine—clothed with sunshine, as it +were—he stood still in the doorway. He looked fixedly at them, and his +pale face altered. +</p> + +<p> +Ramond had a moment before taken Clotilde’s hand, and he was holding it +in his. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a promise, is it not? I should like the marriage to take place +this summer. You know how much I love you, and I shall eagerly await your +answer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” she answered. “Before a month all will be +settled.” +</p> + +<p> +A sudden giddiness made Pascal stagger. Here now was this boy, his friend, his +pupil, who had introduced himself into his house to rob him of his treasure! He +ought to have expected this <i>denouement</i>, yet the sudden news of a +possible marriage surprised him, overwhelmed him like an unforeseen catastrophe +that had forever ruined his life. This girl whom he had fashioned, whom he had +believed his own, she would leave him, then, without regret, she would leave +him to die alone in his solitude. Only the day before she had made him suffer +so intensely that he had asked himself whether he should not part from her and +send her to her brother, who was always writing for her. For an instant he had +even decided on this separation, for the good of both. Yet to find her here +suddenly, with this man, to hear her promise to give him an answer, to think +that she would marry, that she would soon leave him, this stabbed him to the +heart. +</p> + +<p> +At the sound of his heavy step as he came forward, the two young people turned +round in some embarrassment. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, master, we were just talking about you,” said Ramond gaily. +“Yes, to be frank with you, we were conspiring. Come, why do you not take +care of yourself? There is nothing serious the matter with you; you would be on +your feet again in a fortnight if you did.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, who had dropped into a chair, continued to look at them. He had still +the power to control himself, and his countenance gave no evidence of the wound +which he had just received. He would assuredly die of it, and no one would +suspect the malady which had carried him off. But it was a relief to him to be +able to give vent to his feelings, and he declared violently that he would not +take even so much as a glass of tisane. +</p> + +<p> +“Take care of myself!” he cried; “what for? Is it not all +over with my old carcass?” +</p> + +<p> +Ramond insisted, with a good-tempered smile. +</p> + +<p> +“You are sounder than any of us. This is a trifling disturbance, and you +know that you have the remedy in your own hands. Use your hypodermic +injection.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal did not allow him to finish. This filled the measure of his rage. He +angrily asked if they wished him to kill himself, as he had killed Lafouasse. +His injections! A pretty invention, of which he had good reason to be proud. He +abjured medicine, and he swore that he would never again go near a patient. +When people were no longer good for anything they ought to die; that would be +the best thing for everybody. And that was what he was going to try to do, so +as to have done with it all. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah! bah!” said Ramond at last, resolving to take his leave, +through fear of exciting him still further; “I will leave you with +Clotilde; I am not at all uneasy, Clotilde will take care of you.” +</p> + +<p> +But Pascal had on this morning received the final blow. He took to his bed +toward evening, and remained for two whole days without opening the door of his +room. It was in vain that Clotilde, at last becoming alarmed, knocked loudly at +the door. There was no answer. Martine went in her turn and begged monsieur, +through the keyhole, at least to tell her if he needed anything. A deathlike +silence reigned; the room seemed to be empty. +</p> + +<p> +Then, on the morning of the third day, as the young girl by chance turned the +knob, the door yielded; perhaps it had been unlocked for hours. And she might +enter freely this room in which she had never set foot: a large room, rendered +cold by its northern exposure, in which she saw a small iron bed without +curtains, a shower bath in a corner, a long black wooden table, a few chairs, +and on the table, on the floor, along the walls, an array of chemical +apparatus, mortars, furnaces, machines, instrument cases. Pascal, up and +dressed, was sitting on the edge of his bed, in trying to arrange which he had +exhausted himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you want me to nurse you, then?” she asked with +anxious tenderness, without venturing to advance into the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you can come in,” he said with a dejected gesture. “I +won’t beat you. I have not the strength to do that now.” +</p> + +<p> +And from this day on he tolerated her about him, and allowed her to wait on +him. But he had caprices still. He would not let her enter the room when he was +in bed, possessed by a sort of morbid shame; then he made her send him Martine. +But he seldom remained in bed, dragging himself about from chair to chair, in +his utter inability to do any kind of work. His malady continued to grow worse, +until at last he was reduced to utter despair, tortured by sick headaches, and +without the strength, as he said, to put one foot before the other, convinced +every morning that he would spend the night at the Tulettes, a raving maniac. +He grew thin; his face, under its crown of white hair—which he still +cared for through a last remnant of vanity—acquired a look of suffering, +of tragic beauty. And although he allowed himself to be waited on, he refused +roughly all remedies, in the distrust of medicine into which he had fallen. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde now devoted herself to him entirely. She gave up everything else; at +first she attended low mass, then she left off going to church altogether. In +her impatience for some certain happiness, she felt as if she were taking a +step toward that end by thus devoting all her moments to the service of a +beloved being whom she wished to see once more well and happy. She made a +complete sacrifice of herself, she sought to find happiness in the happiness of +another; and all this unconsciously, solely at the impulse of her woman’s +heart, in the midst of the crisis through which she was still passing, and +which was modifying her character profoundly, without her knowledge. She +remained silent regarding the disagreement which separated them. The idea did +not again occur to her to throw herself on his neck, crying that she was his, +that he might return to life, since she gave herself to him. In her thoughts +she grieved to see him suffer; she was only an affectionate girl, who took care +of him, as any female relative would have done. And her attentions were very +pure, very delicate, occupying her life so completely that her days now passed +swiftly, exempt from tormenting thoughts of the Beyond, filled with the one +wish of curing him. +</p> + +<p> +But where she had a hard battle to fight was in prevailing upon him to use his +hypodermic injections upon himself. He flew into a passion, disowned his +discovery, and called himself an imbecile. She too cried out. It was she now +who had faith in science, who grew indignant at seeing him doubt his own +genius. He resisted for a long time; then yielding to the empire which she had +acquired over him, he consented, simply to avoid the affectionate dispute which +she renewed with him every morning. From the very first he experienced great +relief from the injections, although he refused to acknowledge it. His mind +became clearer, and he gradually gained strength. Then she was exultant, filled +with enthusiastic pride in him. She vaunted his treatment, and became indignant +because he did not admire himself, as an example of the miracles which he was +able to work. He smiled; he was now beginning to see clearly into his own +condition. Ramond had spoken truly, his illness had been nothing but nervous +exhaustion. Perhaps he would get over it after all. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, it is you who are curing me, little girl,” he would say, not +wishing to confess his hopes. “Medicines, you see, act according to the +hand that gives them.” +</p> + +<p> +The convalescence was slow, lasting through the whole of February. The weather +remained clear and cold; there was not a single day in which the study was not +flooded with warm, pale sunshine. There were hours of relapse, however, hours +of the blackest melancholy, in which all the patient’s terrors returned; +when his guardian, disconsolate, was obliged to sit at the other end of the +room, in order not to irritate him still more. He despaired anew of his +recovery. He became again bitter and aggressively ironical. +</p> + +<p> +It was on one of those bad days that Pascal, approaching a window, saw his +neighbor, M. Bellombre, the retired professor, making the round of his garden +to see if his fruit trees were well covered with blossoms. The sight of the old +man, so neat and so erect, with the fine placidity of the egoist, on whom +illness had apparently never laid hold, suddenly put Pascal beside himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he growled, “there is one who will never overwork +himself, who will never endanger his health by worrying!” +</p> + +<p> +And he launched forth into an ironical eulogy on selfishness. To be alone in +the world, not to have a friend, to have neither wife nor child, what +happiness! That hard-hearted miser, who for forty years had had only other +people’s children to cuff, who lived aloof from the world, without even a +dog, with a deaf and dumb gardener older than himself, was he not an example of +the greatest happiness possible on earth? Without a responsibility, without a +duty, without an anxiety, other than that of taking care of his dear health! He +was a wise man, he would live a hundred years. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, the fear of life! that is cowardice which is truly the best wisdom. +To think that I should ever have regretted not having a child of my own! Has +any one a right to bring miserable creatures into the world? Bad heredity +should be ended, life should be ended. The only honest man is that old coward +there!” +</p> + +<p> +M. Bellombre continued peacefully making the round of his pear trees in the +March sunshine. He did not risk a too hasty movement; he economized his fresh +old age. If he met a stone in his path, he pushed it aside with the end of his +cane, and then walked tranquilly on. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at him! Is he not well preserved; is he not handsome? Have not all +the blessings of heaven been showered down upon him? He is the happiest man I +know.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, who had listened in silence, suffered from the irony of Pascal, the +full bitterness of which she divined. She, who usually took M. +Bellombre’s part, felt a protest rise up within her. Tears came to her +eyes, and she answered simply in a low voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but he is not loved.” +</p> + +<p> +These words put a sudden end to the painful scene. Pascal, as if he had +received an electric shock, turned and looked at her. A sudden rush of +tenderness brought tears to his eyes also, and he left the room to keep from +weeping. +</p> + +<p> +The days wore on in the midst of these alternations of good and bad hours. He +recovered his strength but slowly, and what put him in despair was that +whenever he attempted to work he was seized by a profuse perspiration. If he +had persisted, he would assuredly have fainted. So long as he did not work he +felt that his convalescence was making little progress. He began to take an +interest again, however, in his accustomed investigations. He read over again +the last pages that he had written, and, with this reawakening of the scientist +in him, his former anxieties returned. At one time he fell into a state of such +depression, that the house and all it contained ceased to exist for him. He +might have been robbed, everything he possessed might have been taken and +destroyed, without his even being conscious of the disaster. Now he became +again watchful, from time to time he would feel his pocket, to assure himself +that the key of the press was there. +</p> + +<p> +But one morning when he had overslept himself, and did not leave his room until +eleven o’clock, he saw Clotilde in the study, quietly occupied in copying +with great exactness in pastel a branch of flowering almond. She looked up, +smiling; and taking a key that was lying beside her on the desk, she offered it +to him, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Here, master.” +</p> + +<p> +Surprised, not yet comprehending, he looked at the object which she held toward +him. +</p> + +<p> +“What is that?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the key of the press, which you must have dropped from your pocket +yesterday, and which I picked up here this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal took it with extraordinary emotion. He looked at it, and then at +Clotilde. Was it ended, then? She would persecute him no more. She was no +longer eager to rob everything, to burn everything. And seeing her still +smiling, she also looking moved, an immense joy filled his heart. +</p> + +<p> +He caught her in his arms, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, little girl, if we might only not be too unhappy!” +</p> + +<p> +Then he opened a drawer of his table and threw the key into it, as he used to +do formerly. +</p> + +<p> +From this time on he gained strength, and his convalescence progressed more +rapidly. Relapses were still possible, for he was still very weak. But he was +able to write, and this made the days less heavy. The sun, too, shone more +brightly, the study being so warm at times that it became necessary to half +close the shutters. He refused to see visitors, barely tolerated Martine, and +had his mother told that he was sleeping, when she came at long intervals to +inquire for him. He was happy only in this delightful solitude, nursed by the +rebel, the enemy of yesterday, the docile pupil of to-day. They would often sit +together in silence for a long time, without feeling any constraint. They +meditated, or lost themselves in infinitely sweet reveries. +</p> + +<p> +One day, however, Pascal seemed very grave. He was now convinced that his +illness had resulted from purely accidental causes, and that heredity had had +no part in it. But this filled him none the less with humility. +</p> + +<p> +“My God!” he murmured, “how insignificant we are! I who +thought myself so strong, who was so proud of my sane reason! And here have I +barely escaped being made insane by a little trouble and overwork!” +</p> + +<p> +He was silent, and sank again into thought. After a time his eyes brightened, +he had conquered himself. And in a moment of reason and courage, he came to a +resolution. +</p> + +<p> +“If I am getting better,” he said, “it is especially for your +sake that I am glad.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, not understanding, looked up and said: +</p> + +<p> +“How is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, on account of your marriage. Now you will be able to fix the +day.” +</p> + +<p> +She still seemed surprised. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, true—my marriage!” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we decide at once upon the second week in June?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the second week in June; that will do very well.” +</p> + +<p> +They spoke no more; she fixed her eyes again on the piece of sewing on which +she was engaged, while he, motionless, and with a grave face, sat looking into +space. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"></a> +VII.</h2> + +<p> +On this day, on arriving at La Souleiade, old Mme. Rougon perceived Martine in +the kitchen garden, engaged in planting leeks; and, as she sometimes did, she +went over to the servant to have a chat with her, and find out from her how +things were going on, before entering the house. +</p> + +<p> +For some time past she had been in despair about what she called +Clotilde’s desertion. She felt truly that she would now never obtain the +documents through her. The girl was behaving disgracefully, she was siding with +Pascal, after all she had done for her; and she was becoming perverted to such +a degree that for a month past she had not been seen in Church. Thus she +returned to her first idea, to get Clotilde away and win her son over when, +left alone, he should be weakened by solitude. Since she had not been able to +persuade the girl to go live with her brother, she eagerly desired the +marriage. She would like to throw her into Dr. Ramond’s arms to-morrow, +in her impatience at so many delays. And she had come this afternoon with a +feverish desire to hurry on matters. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-day, Martine. How is every one here?” +</p> + +<p> +The servant, kneeling down, her hands full of clay, lifted up her pale face, +protected against the sun by a handkerchief tied over her cap. +</p> + +<p> +“As usual, madame, pretty well.” +</p> + +<p> +They went on talking, Félicité treating her as a confidante, as a devoted +daughter, one of the family, to whom she could tell everything. She began by +questioning her; she wished to know if Dr. Ramond had come that morning. He had +come, but they had talked only about indifferent matters. This put her in +despair, for she had seen the doctor on the previous day, and he had unbosomed +himself to her, chagrined at not having yet received a decisive answer, and +eager now to obtain at least Clotilde’s promise. Things could not go on +in this way, the young girl must be compelled to engage herself to him. +</p> + +<p> +“He has too much delicacy,” she cried. “I have told him so. I +knew very well that this morning, even, he would not venture to demand a +positive answer. And I have come to interfere in the matter. We shall see if I +cannot oblige her to come to a decision.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, more calmly: +</p> + +<p> +“My son is on his feet now; he does not need her.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine, who was again stooping over the bed, planting her leeks, straightened +herself quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, that for sure!” +</p> + +<p> +And a flush passed over her face, worn by thirty years of service. For a wound +bled within her; for some time past the master scarcely tolerated her about +him. During the whole time of his illness he had kept her at a distance, +accepting her services less and less every day, and finally closing altogether +to her the door of his room and of the workroom. She had a vague consciousness +of what was taking place, an instinctive jealousy tortured her, in her +adoration of the master, whose chattel she had been satisfied to be for so many +years. +</p> + +<p> +“For sure, we have no need of mademoiselle. I am quite able to take care +of monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she, who was so discreet, spoke of her labors in the garden, saying that +she made time to cultivate the vegetables, so as to save a few days’ +wages of a man. True, the house was large, but when one was not afraid of work, +one could manage to do all there was to be done. And then, when mademoiselle +should have left them, that would be always one less to wait upon. And her eyes +brightened unconsciously at the thought of the great solitude, of the happy +peace in which they should live after this departure. +</p> + +<p> +“It would give me pain,” she said, lowering her voice, “for +it would certainly give monsieur a great deal. I would never have believed that +I could be brought to wish for such a separation. Only, madame, I agree with +you that it is necessary, for I am greatly afraid that mademoiselle will end by +going to ruin here, and that there will be another soul lost to the good God. +Ah, it is very sad; my heart is so heavy about it sometimes that it is ready to +burst.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are both upstairs, are they not?” said Félicité. “I +will go up and see them, and I will undertake to oblige them to end the +matter.” +</p> + +<p> +An hour later, when she came down again, she found Martine still on her knees +on the soft earth, finishing her planting. Upstairs, from her first words, when +she said that she had been talking with Dr. Ramond, and that he had shown +himself anxious to know his fate quickly, she saw that Dr. Pascal +approved—he looked grave, he nodded his head as if to say that this wish +seemed to him very natural. Clotilde, herself, ceasing to smile, seemed to +listen to him with deference. But she manifested some surprise. Why did they +press her? Master had fixed the marriage for the second week in June; she had, +then, two full months before her. Very soon she would speak about it with +Ramond. Marriage was so serious a matter that they might very well give her +time to reflect, and let her wait until the last moment to engage herself. And +she said all this with her air of good sense, like a person resolved on coming +to a decision. And Félicité was obliged to content herself with the evident +desire that both had that matters should have the most reasonable conclusion. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed I believe that it is settled,” ended Félicité. “He +seems to place no obstacle in the way, and she seems only to wish not to act +hastily, like a girl who desires to examine her heart closely, before engaging +herself for life. I will give her a week more for reflection.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine, sitting on her heels, was looking fixedly on the ground with a clouded +face. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” she murmured, in a low voice, “mademoiselle has +been reflecting a great deal of late. I am always meeting her in some corner. +You speak to her, and she does not answer you. That is the way people are when +they are breeding a disease, or when they have a secret on their mind. There is +something going on; she is no longer the same, no longer the same.” +</p> + +<p> +And she took the dibble again and planted a leek, in her rage for work; while +old Mme. Rougon went away, somewhat tranquillized; certain, she said, that the +marriage would take place. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, in effect, seemed to accept Clotilde’s marriage as a thing +settled, inevitable. He had not spoken with her about it again, the rare +allusions which they made to it between themselves, in their hourly +conversations, left them undisturbed; and it was simply as if the two months +which they still had to live together were to be without end, an eternity +stretching beyond their view. +</p> + +<p> +She, especially, would look at him smiling, putting off to a future day +troubles and decisions with a pretty vague gesture, as if to leave everything +to beneficent life. He, now well and gaining strength daily, grew melancholy +only when he returned to the solitude of his chamber at night, after she had +retired. He shuddered and turned cold at the thought that a time would come +when he would be always alone. Was it the beginning of old age that made him +shiver in this way? He seemed to see it stretching before him, like a shadowy +region in which he already began to feel all his energy melting away. And then +the regret of having neither wife nor child filled him with rebelliousness, and +wrung his heart with intolerable anguish. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, why had he not lived! There were times when he cursed science, accusing it +of having taken from him the best part of his manhood. He had let himself be +devoured by work; work had consumed his brain, consumed his heart, consumed his +flesh. All this solitary, passionate labor had produced only books, blackened +paper, that would be scattered to the winds, whose cold leaves chilled his +hands as he turned them over. And no living woman’s breast to lean upon, +no child’s warm locks to kiss! He had lived the cold, solitary life of a +selfish scientist, and he would die in cold solitude. Was he indeed going to +die thus? Would he never taste the happiness enjoyed by even the common +porters, by the carters who cracked their whips, passing by under his windows? +But he must hasten, if he would; soon, no doubt, it would be too late. All his +unemployed youth, all his pent-up desires, surged tumultuously through his +veins. He swore that he would yet love, that he would live a new life, that he +would drain the cup of every passion that he had not yet tasted, before he +should be an old man. He would knock at the doors, he would stop the +passers-by, he would scour the fields and town. +</p> + +<p> +On the following day, when he had taken his shower bath and left his room, all +his fever was calmed, the burning pictures had faded away, and he fell back +into his natural timidity. Then, on the next night, the fear of solitude drove +sleep away as before, his blood kindled again, and the same despair, the same +rebelliousness, the same longing not to die without having known family joys +returned. He suffered a great deal in this crisis. +</p> + +<p> +During these feverish nights, with eyes wide open in the darkness, he dreamed +always, over and over again the same dream. A girl would come along the road, a +girl of twenty, marvelously beautiful; and she would enter and kneel down +before him in an attitude of submissive adoration, and he would marry her. She +was one of those pilgrims of love such as we find in ancient story, who have +followed a star to come and restore health and strength to some aged king, +powerful and covered with glory. He was the aged king, and she adored him, she +wrought the miracle, with her twenty years, of bestowing on him a part of her +youth. In her love he recovered his courage and his faith in life. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, youth! he hungered fiercely for it. In his declining days this passionate +longing for youth was like a revolt against approaching age, a desperate desire +to turn back, to be young again, to begin life over again. And in this longing +to begin life over again, there was not only regret for the vanished joys of +youth, the inestimable treasure of dead hours, to which memory lent its charm; +there was also the determined will to enjoy, now, his health and strength, to +lose nothing of the joy of loving! Ah, youth! how eagerly he would taste of its +every pleasure, how eagerly he would drain every cup, before his teeth should +fall out, before his limbs should grow feeble, before the blood should be +chilled in his veins. A pang pierced his heart when he remembered himself, a +slender youth of twenty, running and leaping agilely, vigorous and hardy as a +young oak, his teeth glistening, his hair black and luxuriant. How he would +cherish them, these gifts scorned before, if a miracle could restore them to +him! +</p> + +<p> +And youthful womanhood, a young girl who might chance to pass by, disturbed +him, causing him profound emotion. This was often even altogether apart from +the individual: the image, merely, of youth, the perfume and the dazzling +freshness which emanated from it, bright eyes, healthy lips, blooming cheeks, a +delicate neck, above all, rounded and satin-smooth, shaded on the back with +down; and youthful womanhood always presented itself to him tall and slight, +divinely slender in its chaste nudeness. His eyes, gazing into vacancy, +followed the vision, his heart was steeped in infinite longing. There was +nothing good or desirable but youth; it was the flower of the world, the only +beauty, the only joy, the only true good, with health, which nature could +bestow on man. Ah, to begin life over again, to be young again, to clasp in his +embrace youthful womanhood! +</p> + +<p> +Pascal and Clotilde, now that the fine April days had come, covering the fruit +trees with blossoms, resumed their morning walks in La Souleiade. It was the +first time that he had gone out since his illness, and she led him to the +threshing yard, along the paths in the pine wood, and back again to the terrace +crossed by the two bars of shadows thrown by the secular cypresses. The sun had +already warmed the old flagstones there, and the wide horizon stretched out +under a dazzling sky. +</p> + +<p> +One morning when Clotilde had been running, she returned to the house in such +exuberant spirits and so full of pleasant excitement that she went up to the +workroom without taking off either her garden hat or the lace scarf which she +had tied around her neck. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, “I am so warm! And how stupid I am, not to +have taken off my things downstairs. I will go down again at once.” +</p> + +<p> +She had thrown the scarf on a chair on entering. +</p> + +<p> +But her feverish fingers became impatient when she tried to untie the strings +of her large straw hat. +</p> + +<p> +“There, now! I have fastened the knot. I cannot undo it, and you must +come to my assistance.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, happy and excited too by the pleasure of the walk, rejoiced to see her +so beautiful and so merry. He went over and stood in front of her. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait; hold up your chin. Oh, if you keep moving like that, how do you +suppose I can do it?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed aloud. He could see the laughter swelling her throat, like a wave +of sound. His fingers became entangled under her chin, that delicious part of +the throat whose warm satin he involuntarily touched. She had on a gown cut +sloping in the neck, and through the opening he inhaled all the living perfume +of the woman, the pure fragrance of her youth, warmed by the sunshine. All at +once a vertigo seized him and he thought he was going to faint. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! I cannot do it,” he said, “unless you keep +still!” +</p> + +<p> +The blood throbbed in his temples, and his fingers trembled, while she leaned +further back, unconsciously offering the temptation of her fresh girlish +beauty. It was the vision of royal youth, the bright eyes, the healthy lips, +the blooming cheeks, above all, the delicate neck, satin-smooth and round, +shaded on the back by down. And she seemed to him so delicately graceful, with +her slender throat, in her divine bloom! +</p> + +<p> +“There, it is done!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +Without knowing how, he had untied the strings. The room whirled round, and +then he saw her again, bareheaded now, with her starlike face, shaking back her +golden curls laughingly. Then he was seized with a fear that he would catch her +in his arms and press mad kisses on her bare neck, and arms, and throat. And he +fled from the room, taking with him the hat, which he had kept in his hand, +saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I will hang it in the hall. Wait for me; I want to speak to +Martine.” +</p> + +<p> +Once downstairs, he hurried to the abandoned room and locked himself into it, +trembling lest she should become uneasy and come down here to seek him. He +looked wild and haggard, as if he had just committed a crime. He spoke aloud, +and he trembled as he gave utterance for the first time to the cry that he had +always loved her madly, passionately. Yes, ever since she had grown into +womanhood he had adored her. And he saw her clearly before him, as if a curtain +had been suddenly torn aside, as she was when, from an awkward girl, she became +a charming and lovely creature, with her long tapering limbs, her strong +slender body, with its round throat, round neck, and round and supple arms. And +it was monstrous, but it was true—he hungered for all this with a +devouring hunger, for this youth, this fresh, blooming, fragrant flesh. +</p> + +<p> +Then Pascal, dropping into a rickety chair, hid his face in his hands, as if to +shut out the light of day, and burst into great sobs. Good God! what was to +become of him? A girl whom his brother had confided to him, whom he had brought +up like a good father, and who was now—this temptress of +twenty-five—a woman in her supreme omnipotence! He felt himself more +defenseless, weaker than a child. +</p> + +<p> +And above this physical desire, he loved her also with an immense tenderness, +enamored of her moral and intellectual being, of her right-mindedness, of her +fine intelligence, so fearless and so clear. Even their discord, the +disquietude about spiritual things by which she was tortured, made her only all +the more precious to him, as if she were a being different from himself, in +whom he found a little of the infinity of things. She pleased him in her +rebellions, when she held her ground against him,—she was his companion +and pupil; he saw her such as he had made her, with her great heart, her +passionate frankness, her triumphant reason. And she was always present with +him; he did not believe that he could exist where she was not; he had need of +her breath; of the flutter of her skirts near him; of her thoughtfulness and +affection, by which he felt himself constantly surrounded; of her looks; of her +smile; of her whole daily woman’s life, which she had given him, which +she would not have the cruelty to take back from him again. At the thought that +she was going away, that she would not be always here, it seemed to him as if +the heavens were about to fall and crush him; as if the end of all things had +come; as if he were about to be plunged in icy darkness. She alone existed in +the world, she alone was lofty and virtuous, intelligent and beautiful, with a +miraculous beauty. Why, then, since he adored her and since he was her master, +did he not go upstairs and take her in his arms and kiss her like an idol? They +were both free, she was ignorant of nothing, she was a woman in age. This would +be happiness. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, who had ceased to weep, rose, and would have walked to the door. But +suddenly he dropped again into his chair, bursting into a fresh passion of +sobs. No, no, it was abominable, it could not be! He felt on his head the frost +of his white hair; and he had a horror of his age, of his fifty-nine years, +when he thought of her twenty-five years. His former chill fear again took +possession of him, the certainty that she had subjugated him, that he would be +powerless against the daily temptation. And he saw her giving him the strings +of her hat to untie; compelling him to lean over her to make some correction in +her work; and he saw himself, too, blind, mad, devouring her neck with ardent +kisses. His indignation against himself at this was so great that he arose, now +courageously, and had the strength to go upstairs to the workroom, determined +to conquer himself. +</p> + +<p> +Upstairs Clotilde had tranquilly resumed her drawing. She did not even look +around at his entrance, but contented herself with saying: +</p> + +<p> +“How long you have been! I was beginning to think that Martine must have +made a mistake of at least ten sous in her accounts.” +</p> + +<p> +This customary jest about the servant’s miserliness made him laugh. And +he went and sat down quietly at his table. They did not speak again until +breakfast time. A great sweetness bathed him and calmed him, now that he was +near her. He ventured to look at her, and he was touched by her delicate +profile, by her serious, womanly air of application. Had he been the prey of a +nightmare, downstairs, then? Would he be able to conquer himself so easily? +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he cried, when Martine called them, “how hungry I am! +You shall see how I am going to make new muscle!” +</p> + +<p> +She went over to him, and took him by the arm, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right, master; you must be gay and strong!” +</p> + +<p> +But that night, when he was in his own room, the agony began again. At the +thought of losing her he was obliged to bury his face in the pillow to stifle +his cries. He pictured her to himself in the arms of another, and all the +tortures of jealousy racked his soul. Never could he find the courage to +consent to such a sacrifice. All sorts of plans clasped together in his +seething brain; he would turn her from the marriage, and keep her with him, +without ever allowing her to suspect his passion; he would take her away, and +they would go from city to city, occupying their minds with endless studies, in +order to keep up their companionship as master and pupil; or even, if it should +be necessary, he would send her to her brother to nurse him, he would lose her +forever rather than give her to a husband. And at each of these resolutions he +felt his heart, torn asunder, cry out with anguish in the imperious need of +possessing her entirely. He was no longer satisfied with her presence, he +wished to keep her for himself, with himself, as she appeared to him in her +radiant beauty, in the darkness of his chamber, with her unbound hair falling +around her. +</p> + +<p> +His arms clasped the empty air, and he sprang out of bed, staggering like a +drunken man; and it was only in the darkness and silence of the workroom that +he awoke from this sudden fit of madness. Where, then, was he going, great God? +To knock at the door of this sleeping child? to break it in, perhaps, with a +blow of his shoulder? The soft, pure respiration, which he fancied he heard +like a sacred wind in the midst of the profound silence, struck him on the face +and turned him back. And he returned to his room and threw himself on his bed, +in a passion of shame and wild despair. +</p> + +<p> +On the following day when he arose, Pascal, worn out by want of sleep, had come +to a decision. He took his daily shower bath, and he felt himself stronger and +saner. The resolution to which he had come was to compel Clotilde to give her +word. When she should have formally promised to marry Ramond, it seemed to him +that this final solution would calm him, would forbid his indulging in any +false hopes. This would be a barrier the more, an insurmountable barrier +between her and him. He would be from that moment armed against his desire, and +if he still suffered, it would be suffering only, without the horrible fear of +becoming a dishonorable man. +</p> + +<p> +On this morning, when he told the young girl that she ought to delay no longer, +that she owed a decisive answer to the worthy fellow who had been awaiting it +so long, she seemed at first astonished. She looked straight into his eyes, but +he had sufficient command over himself not to show confusion; he insisted +merely, with a slightly grieved air, as if it distressed him to have to say +these things to her. Finally, she smiled faintly and turned her head aside, +saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Then, master, you wish me to leave you?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” he answered evasively, “I assure you that this is +becoming ridiculous. Ramond will have the right to be angry.” +</p> + +<p> +She went over to her desk, to arrange some papers which were on it. Then, after +a moment’s silence, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“It is odd; now you are siding with grandmother and Martine. They, too, +are persecuting me to end this matter. I thought I had a few days more. But, in +truth, if you all three urge me—” +</p> + +<p> +She did not finish, and he did not press her to explain herself more clearly. +</p> + +<p> +“When do you wish me to tell Ramond to come, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, he may come whenever he wishes; it does not displease me to see +him. But don’t trouble yourself. I will let him know that we will expect +him one of these afternoons.” +</p> + +<p> +On the following day the same scene began over again. Clotilde had taken no +step yet, and Pascal was now angry. He suffered martyrdom; he had crises of +anguish and rebelliousness when she was not present to calm him by her smiling +freshness. And he insisted, in emphatic language, that she should behave +seriously and not trifle any longer with an honorable man who loved her. +</p> + +<p> +“The devil! Since the thing is decided, let us be done with it. I warn +you that I will send word to Ramond, and that he will be here to-morrow at +three o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +She listened in silence, her eyes fixed on the ground. Neither seemed to wish +to touch upon the question as to whether the marriage had really been decided +on or not, and they took the standpoint that there had been a previous +decision, which was irrevocable. When she looked up again he trembled, for he +felt a breath pass by; he thought she was on the point of saying that she had +questioned herself, and that she refused this marriage. What would he have +done, what would have become of him, good God! Already he was filled with an +immense joy and a wild terror. But she looked at him with the discreet and +affectionate smile which never now left her lips, and she answered with a +submissive air: +</p> + +<p> +“As you please, master. Send him word to be here to-morrow at three +o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal spent so dreadful a night that he rose late, saying, as an excuse, that +he had one of his old headaches. He found relief only under the icy deluge of +the shower bath. At ten o’clock he left the house, saying he would go +himself to see Ramond; but he had another object in going out—he had seen +at a show in Plassans a corsage of old point d’Alençon; a marvel of +beauty which lay there awaiting some lover’s generous folly, and the +thought had come to him in the midst of the tortures of the night, to make a +present of it to Clotilde, to adorn her wedding gown. This bitter idea of +himself adorning her, of making her beautiful and fair for the gift of herself, +touched his heart, exhausted by sacrifice. She knew the corsage, she had +admired it with him one day wonderingly, wishing for it only to place it on the +shoulders of the Virgin at St. Saturnin, an antique Virgin adored by the +faithful. The shopkeeper gave it to him in a little box which he could conceal, +and which he hid, on his return to the house, in the bottom of his +writing-desk. +</p> + +<p> +At three o’clock Dr. Ramond presented himself, and he found Pascal and +Clotilde in the parlor, where they had been awaiting him with secret excitement +and a somewhat forced gaiety, avoiding any further allusion to his visit. They +received him smilingly with exaggerated cordiality. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you are perfectly well again, master!” said the young man. +“You never looked so strong.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, oh, strong, perhaps! only the heart is no longer here.” +</p> + +<p> +This involuntary avowal made Clotilde start, and she looked from one to the +other, as if, by the force of circumstances, she compared them with each +other—Ramond, with his smiling and superb face—the face of the +handsome physician adored by the women—his luxuriant black hair and +beard, in all the splendor of his young manhood; and Pascal, with his white +hair and his white beard. This fleece of snow, still so abundant, retained the +tragic beauty of the six months of torture that he had just passed through. His +sorrowful face had aged a little, only his eyes remained still youthful; brown +eyes, brilliant and limpid. But at this moment all his features expressed so +much gentleness, such exalted goodness, that Clotilde ended by letting her gaze +rest upon him with profound tenderness. There was silence for a moment and each +heart thrilled. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my children,” resumed Pascal heroically, “I think you +have something to say to each other. I have something to do, too, downstairs. I +will come up again presently.” +</p> + +<p> +And he left the room, smiling back at them. +</p> + +<p> +And soon as they were alone, Clotilde went frankly straight over to Ramond, +with both hands outstretched. Taking his hands in hers, she held them as she +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, my dear friend; I am going to give you a great grief. You must +not be too angry with me, for I assure you that I have a very profound +friendship for you.” +</p> + +<p> +He understood at once, and he turned very pale. +</p> + +<p> +“Clotilde give me no answer now, I beg of you; take more time, if you +wish to reflect further.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is useless, my dear friend, my decision is made.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with her fine, loyal look. She had not released his hands, in +order that he might know that she was not excited, and that she was his friend. +And it was he who resumed, in a low voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Then you say no?” +</p> + +<p> +“I say no, and I assure you that it pains me greatly to say it. Ask me +nothing; you will no doubt know later on.” +</p> + +<p> +He sat down, crushed by the emotion which he repressed like a strong and +self-contained man, whose mental balance the greatest sufferings cannot +disturb. Never before had any grief agitated him like this. He remained mute, +while she, standing, continued: +</p> + +<p> +“And above all, my friend, do not believe that I have played the coquette +with you. If I have allowed you to hope, if I have made you wait so long for my +answer, it was because I did not in very truth see clearly myself. You cannot +imagine through what a crisis I have just passed—a veritable tempest of +emotions, surrounded by darkness from out of which I have but just found my +way.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Since it is your wish, I will ask you nothing. Besides, it is sufficient +for you to answer one question. You do not love me, Clotilde?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not hesitate, but said gravely, with an emotion which softened the +frankness of her answer: +</p> + +<p> +“It is true, I do not love you; I have only a very sincere affection for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose, and stopped by a gesture the kind words which she would have added. +</p> + +<p> +“It is ended; let us never speak of it again. I wished you to be happy. +Do not grieve for me. At this moment I feel as if the house had just fallen +about me in ruins. But I must only extricate myself as best I can.” +</p> + +<p> +A wave of color passed over his pale face, he gasped for air, he crossed over +to the window, then he walked back with a heavy step, seeking to recover his +self-possession. He drew a long breath. In the painful silence which had fallen +they heard Pascal coming upstairs noisily, to announce his return. +</p> + +<p> +“I entreat you,” murmured Clotilde hurriedly, “to say nothing +to master. He does not know my decision, and I wish to break it to him myself, +for he was bent upon this marriage.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal stood still in the doorway. He was trembling and breathless, as if he +had come upstairs too quickly. He still found strength to smile at them, +saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, children, have you come to an understanding?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, undoubtedly,” responded Ramond, as agitated as himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Then it is all settled?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite,” said Clotilde, who had been seized by a faintness. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal walked over to his work-table, supporting himself by the furniture, and +dropped into the chair beside it. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, ah! you see the legs are not so strong after all. It is this old +carcass of a body. But the heart is strong. And I am very happy, my children, +your happiness will make me well again.” +</p> + +<p> +But when Ramond, after a few minutes’ further conversation, had gone +away, he seemed troubled at finding himself alone with the young girl, and he +again asked her: +</p> + +<p> +“It is settled, quite settled; you swear it to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Entirely settled.” +</p> + +<p> +After this he did not speak again. He nodded his head, as if to repeat that he +was delighted; that nothing could be better; that at last they were all going +to live in peace. He closed his eyes, feigning to drop asleep, as he sometimes +did in the afternoon. But his heart beat violently, and his closely shut +eyelids held back the tears. +</p> + +<p> +That evening, at about ten o’clock, when Clotilde went downstairs for a +moment to give an order to Martine before she should have gone to bed, Pascal +profited by the opportunity of being left alone, to go and lay the little box +containing the lace corsage on the young girl’s bed. She came upstairs +again, wished him the accustomed good-night, and he had been for at least +twenty minutes in his own room, and was already in his shirt sleeves, when a +burst of gaiety sounded outside his door. A little hand tapped, and a fresh +voice cried, laughing: +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come and look!” +</p> + +<p> +He opened the door, unable to resist this appeal of youth, conquered by his +joy. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, come, come and see what a beautiful little bird has put on my +bed!” +</p> + +<p> +And she drew him to her room, taking no refusal. She had lighted the two +candles in it, and the antique, pleasant chamber, with its hangings of faded +rose color, seemed transformed into a chapel; and on the bed, like a sacred +cloth offered to the adoration of the faithful, she had spread the corsage of +old point d’Alençon. +</p> + +<p> +“You would not believe it! Imagine, I did not see the box at first. I set +things in order a little, as I do every evening. I undressed, and it was only +when I was getting into bed that I noticed your present. Ah, what a surprise! I +was overwhelmed by it! I felt that I could never wait for the morning, and I +put on a skirt and ran to look for you.” +</p> + +<p> +It was not until then that he perceived that she was only half dressed, as on +the night of the storm, when he had surprised her stealing his papers. And she +seemed divine, with her tall, girlish form, her tapering limbs, her supple +arms, her slender body, with its small, firm throat. +</p> + +<p> +She took his hands and pressed them caressingly in her little ones. +</p> + +<p> +“How good you are; how I thank you! Such a marvel of beauty, so lovely a +present for me, who am nobody! And you remember that I had admired it, this +antique relic of art. I said to you that only the Virgin of St. Saturnin was +worthy of wearing it on her shoulders. I am so happy! oh, so happy! For it is +true, I love beautiful things; I love them so passionately that at times I wish +for impossibilities, gowns woven of sunbeams, impalpable veils made of the blue +of heaven. How beautiful I am going to look! how beautiful I am going to +look!” +</p> + +<p> +Radiant in her ecstatic gratitude, she drew close to him, still looking at the +corsage, and compelling him to admire it with her. Then a sudden curiosity +seized her. +</p> + +<p> +“But why did you make me this royal present?” +</p> + +<p> +Ever since she had come to seek him in her joyful excitement, Pascal had been +walking in a dream. He was moved to tears by this affectionate gratitude; he +stood there, not feeling the terror which he had dreaded, but seeming, on the +contrary, to be filled with joy, as at the approach of a great and miraculous +happiness. This chamber, which he never entered, had the religious sweetness of +holy places that satisfy all longings for the unattainable. +</p> + +<p> +His countenance, however, expressed surprise. And he answered: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, this present, my dear, is for your wedding gown.” +</p> + +<p> +She, in her turn, looked for a moment surprised as if she had not understood +him. Then, with the sweet and singular smile which she had worn of late she +said gayly: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, true, my marriage!” +</p> + +<p> +Then she grew serious again, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Then you want to get rid of me? It was in order to have me here no +longer that you were so bent upon marrying me. Do you still think me your +enemy, then?” +</p> + +<p> +He felt his tortures return, and he looked away from her, wishing to retain his +courage. +</p> + +<p> +“My enemy, yes. Are you not so? We have suffered so much through each +other these last days. It is better in truth that we should separate. And then +I do not know what your thoughts are; you have never given me the answer I have +been waiting for.” +</p> + +<p> +She tried in vain to catch his glance, which he still kept turned away. She +began to talk of the terrible night on which they had gone together through the +papers. It was true, in the shock which her whole being had suffered, she had +not yet told him whether she was with him or against him. He had a right to +demand an answer. +</p> + +<p> +She again took his hands in hers, and forced him to look at her. +</p> + +<p> +“And it is because I am your enemy that you are sending me away? I am not +your enemy. I am your servant, your chattel, your property. Do you hear? I am +with you and for you, for you alone!” +</p> + +<p> +His face grew radiant; an intense joy shone within his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I will wear this lace. It is for my wedding day, for I wish to be +beautiful, very beautiful for you. But do you not understand me, then? You are +my master; it is you I love.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! be silent; you will make me mad! You are betrothed to another. +You have given your word. All this madness is happily impossible.” +</p> + +<p> +“The other! I have compared him with you, and I have chosen you. I have +dismissed him. He has gone away, and he will never return. There are only we +two now, and it is you I love, and you love me. I know it, and I give myself to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +He trembled violently. He had ceased to struggle, vanquished by the longing of +eternal love. +</p> + +<p> +The spacious chamber, with its antique furniture, warmed by youth, was as if +filled with light. There was no longer either fear or suffering; they were +free. She gave herself to him knowingly, willingly, and he accepted the supreme +gift like a priceless treasure which the strength of his love had won. Suddenly +she murmured in his ear, in a caressing voice, lingering tenderly on the words: +</p> + +<p> +“Master, oh, master, master!” +</p> + +<p> +And this word, which she used formerly as a matter of habit, at this hour +acquired a profound significance, lengthening out and prolonging itself, as if +it expressed the gift of her whole being. She uttered it with grateful fervor, +like a woman who accepts, and who surrenders herself. Was not the mystic +vanquished, the real acknowledged, life glorified with love at last confessed +and shared. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master, this comes from far back. I must tell you; I must make +my confession. It is true that I went to church in order to be happy. But I +could not believe. I wished to understand too much; my reason rebelled against +their dogmas; their paradise appeared to me an incredible puerility. But I +believed that the world does not stop at sensation; that there is a whole +unknown world, which must be taken into account; and this, master, I believe +still. It is the idea of the Beyond, which not even happiness, found at last +upon your neck, will efface. But this longing for happiness, this longing to be +happy at once, to have some certainty—how I have suffered from it. If I +went to church, it was because I missed something, and I went there to seek it. +My anguish consisted in this irresistible need to satisfy my longing. You +remember what you used to call my eternal thirst for illusion and falsehood. +One night, in the threshing yard, under the great starry sky, do you remember? +I burst out against your science, I was indignant because of the ruins with +which it strews the earth, I turned my eyes away from the dreadful wounds which +it exposes. And I wished, master, to take you to a solitude where we might both +live in God, far from the world, forgotten by it. Ah, what torture, to long, to +struggle, and not to be satisfied!” +</p> + +<p> +Softly, without speaking, he kissed her on both eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, master, do you remember again, there was the great moral shock on +the night of the storm, when you gave me that terrible lesson of life, emptying +out your envelopes before me. You had said to me already: ‘Know life, +love it, live it as it ought to be lived.’ But what a vast, what a +frightful flood, rolling ever onward toward a human sea, swelling it +unceasingly for the unknown future! And, master, the silent work within me +began then. There was born, in my heart and in my flesh, the bitter strength of +the real. At first I was as if crushed, the blow was so rude. I could not +recover myself. I kept silent, because I did not know clearly what to say. +Then, gradually, the evolution was effected. I still had struggles, I still +rebelled against confessing my defeat. But every day after this the truth grew +clearer within me, I knew well that you were my master, and that there was no +happiness for me outside of you, of your science and your goodness. You were +life itself, broad and tolerant life; saying all, accepting all, solely through +the love of energy and effort, believing in the work of the world, placing the +meaning of destiny in the labor which we all accomplish with love, in our +desperate eagerness to live, to love, to live anew, to live always, in spite of +all the abominations and miseries of life. Oh, to live, to live! This is the +great task, the work that always goes on, and that will doubtless one day be +completed!” +</p> + +<p> +Silent still, he smiled radiantly, and kissed her on the mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“And, master, though I have always loved you, even from my earliest +youth, it was, I believe, on that terrible night that you marked me for, and +made me your own. You remember how you crushed me in your grasp. It left a +bruise, and a few drops of blood on my shoulder. Then your being entered, as it +were into mine. We struggled; you were the stronger, and from that time I have +felt the need of a support. At first I thought myself humiliated; then I saw +that it was but an infinitely sweet submission. I always felt your power within +me. A gesture of your hand in the distance thrilled me as though it had touched +me. I would have wished that you had seized me again in your grasp, that you +had crushed me in it, until my being had mingled with yours forever. And I was +not blind; I knew well that your wish was the same as mine, that the violence +which had made me yours had made you mine; that you struggled with yourself not +to seize me and hold me as I passed by you. To nurse you when you were ill was +some slight satisfaction. From that time, light began to break upon me, and I +at last understood. I went no more to church, I began to be happy near you, you +had become certainty and happiness. Do you remember that I cried to you, in the +threshing yard, that something was wanting in our affection. There was a void +in it which I longed to fill. What could be wanting to us unless it were God? +And it was God—love, and life.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"></a> +VIII.</h2> + +<p> +Then came a period of idyllic happiness. Clotilde was the spring, the tardy +rejuvenation that came to Pascal in his declining years. She came, bringing to +him, with her love, sunshine and flowers. Their rapture lifted them above the +earth; and all this youth she bestowed on him after his thirty years of toil, +when he was already weary and worn probing the frightful wounds of humanity. He +revived in the light of her great shining eyes, in the fragrance of her pure +breath. He had faith again in life, in health, in strength, in the eternal +renewal of nature. +</p> + +<p> +On the morning after her avowal it was ten o’clock before Clotilde left +her room. In the middle of the workroom she suddenly came upon Martine and, in +her radiant happiness, with a burst of joy that carried everything before it, +she rushed toward her, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Martine, I am not going away! Master and I—we love each +other.” +</p> + +<p> +The old servant staggered under the blow. Her poor worn face, nunlike under its +white cap and with its look of renunciation, grew white in the keenness of her +anguish. Without a word, she turned and fled for refuge to her kitchen, where, +leaning her elbows on her chopping-table, and burying her face in her clasped +hands, she burst into a passion of sobs. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, grieved and uneasy, followed her. And she tried to comprehend and to +console her. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, how foolish you are! What possesses you? Master and I will +love you all the same; we will always keep you with us. You are not going to be +unhappy because we love each other. On the contrary, the house is going to be +gay now from morning till night.” +</p> + +<p> +But Martine only sobbed all the more desperately. +</p> + +<p> +“Answer me, at least. Tell me why you are angry and why you cry. Does it +not please you then to know that master is so happy, so happy! See, I will call +master and he will make you answer.” +</p> + +<p> +At this threat the old servant suddenly rose and rushed into her own room, +which opened out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. In vain the +young girl called and knocked until she was tired; she could obtain no answer. +At last Pascal, attracted by the noise, came downstairs, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it is that obstinate Martine! Only fancy, she began to cry when she +knew that we loved each other. And she has barricaded herself in there, and she +will not stir.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not stir, in fact. Pascal, in his turn, called and knocked. He scolded; +he entreated. Then, one after the other, they began all over again. Still there +was no answer. A deathlike silence reigned in the little room. And he pictured +it to himself, this little room, religiously clean, with its walnut bureau, and +its monastic bed furnished with white hangings. No doubt the servant had thrown +herself across this bed, in which she had slept alone all her woman’s +life, and was burying her face in the bolster to stifle her sobs. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, so much the worse for her?” said Clotilde at last, in the +egotism of her joy, “let her sulk!” +</p> + +<p> +Then throwing her arms around Pascal, and raising to his her charming face, +still glowing with the ardor of self-surrender, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Master, I will be your servant to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +He kissed her on the eyes with grateful emotion; and she at once set about +preparing the breakfast, turning the kitchen upside down. She had put on an +enormous white apron, and she looked charming, with her sleeves rolled up, +showing her delicate arms, as if for some great undertaking. There chanced to +be some cutlets in the kitchen which she cooked to a turn. She added some +scrambled eggs, and she even succeeded in frying some potatoes. And they had a +delicious breakfast, twenty times interrupted by her getting up in her eager +zeal, to run for the bread, the water, a forgotten fork. If he had allowed her, +she would have waited upon him on her knees. Ah! to be alone, to be only they +two in this large friendly house, and to be free to laugh and to love each +other in peace. +</p> + +<p> +They spent the whole afternoon in sweeping and putting things in order. He +insisted upon helping her. It was a play; they amused themselves like two merry +children. From time to time, however, they went back to knock at +Martine’s door to remonstrate with her. Come, this was foolish, she was +not going to let herself starve! Was there ever seen such a mule, when no one +had said or done anything to her! But only the echo of their knocks came back +mournfully from the silent room. Not the slightest sound, not a breath +responded. Night fell, and they were obliged to make the dinner also, which +they ate, sitting beside each other, from the same plate. Before going to bed, +they made a last attempt, threatening to break open the door, but their ears, +glued to the wood, could not catch the slightest sound. And on the following +day, when they went downstairs and found the door still hermetically closed, +they began to be seriously uneasy. For twenty-four hours the servant had given +no sign of life. +</p> + +<p> +Then, on returning to the kitchen after a moment’s absence, Clotilde and +Pascal were stupefied to see Martine sitting at her table, picking some sorrel +for the breakfast. She had silently resumed her place as servant. +</p> + +<p> +“But what was the matter with you?” cried Clotilde. “Will you +speak now?” +</p> + +<p> +She lifted up her sad face, stained by tears. It was very calm, however, and it +expressed now only the resigned melancholy of old age. She looked at the young +girl with an air of infinite reproach; then she bent her head again without +speaking. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you angry with us, then?” +</p> + +<p> +And as she still remained silent, Pascal interposed: +</p> + +<p> +“Are you angry with us, my good Martine?” +</p> + +<p> +Then the old servant looked up at him with her former look of adoration, as if +she loved him sufficiently to endure all and to remain in spite of all. At last +she spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am angry with no one. The master is free. It is all right, if he +is satisfied.” +</p> + +<p> +A new life began from this time. Clotilde, who in spite of her twenty-five +years had still remained childlike, now, under the influence of love, suddenly +bloomed into exquisite womanhood. Since her heart had awakened, the serious and +intelligent boy that she had looked like, with her round head covered with its +short curls, had given place to an adorable woman, altogether womanly, +submissive and tender, loving to be loved. Her great charm, notwithstanding her +learning picked up at random from her reading and her work, was her virginal +<i>naïveté</i>, as if her unconscious awaiting of love had made her reserve the +gift of her whole being to be utterly absorbed in the man whom she should love. +No doubt she had given her love as much through gratitude and admiration as +through tenderness; happy to make him happy; experiencing a profound joy in +being no longer only a little girl to be petted, but something of his very own +which he adored, a precious possession, a thing of grace and joy, which he +worshiped on bended knees. She still had the religious submissiveness of the +former devotee, in the hands of a master mature and strong, from whom she +derived consolation and support, retaining, above and beyond affection, the +sacred awe of the believer in the spiritual which she still was. But more than +all, this woman, so intoxicated with love, was a delightful personification of +health and gaiety; eating with a hearty appetite; having something of the valor +of her grandfather the soldier; filling the house with her swift and graceful +movements, with the bloom of her satin skin, the slender grace of her neck, of +all her young form, divinely fresh. +</p> + +<p> +And Pascal, too, had grown handsome again under the influence of love, with the +serene beauty of a man who had retained his vigor, notwithstanding his white +hairs. His countenance had no longer the sorrowful expression which it had worn +during the months of grief and suffering through which he had lately passed; +his eyes, youthful still, had recovered their brightness, his features their +smiling grace; while his white hair and beard grew thicker, in a leonine +abundance which lent him a youthful air. He had kept himself, in his solitary +life as a passionate worker, so free from vice and dissipation that he found +now within him a reserve of life and vigor eager to expend itself at last. +There awoke within him new energy, a youthful impetuosity that broke forth in +gestures and exclamations, in a continual need of expansion, of living. +Everything wore a new and enchanting aspect to him; the smallest glimpse of sky +moved him to wonder; the perfume of a simple flower threw him into an ecstasy; +an everyday expression of affection, worn by use, touched him to tears, as if +it had sprung fresh from the heart and had not been hackneyed by millions of +lips. Clotilde’s “I love you,” was an infinite caress, whose +celestial sweetness no human being had ever before known. And with health and +beauty he recovered also his gaiety, that tranquil gaiety which had formerly +been inspired by his love of life, and which now threw sunshine over his love, +over everything that made life worth living. +</p> + +<p> +They two, blooming youth and vigorous maturity, so healthy, so gay, so happy, +made a radiant couple. For a whole month they remained in seclusion, not once +leaving La Souleiade. The place where both now liked to be was the spacious +workroom, so intimately associated with their habits and their past affection. +They would spend whole days there, scarcely working at all, however. The large +carved oak press remained with closed doors; so, too, did the bookcases. Books +and papers lay undisturbed upon the tables. Like a young married couple they +were absorbed in their one passion, oblivious of their former occupations, +oblivious of life. The hours seemed all too short to enjoy the charm of being +together, often seated in the same large antique easy-chair, happy in the +depths of this solitude in which they secluded themselves, in the tranquillity +of this lofty room, in this domain which was altogether theirs, without luxury +and without order, full of familiar objects, brightened from morning till night +by the returning gaiety of the April sunshine. When, seized with remorse, he +would talk about working, she would link her supple arms through his and +laughingly hold him prisoner, so that he should not make himself ill again with +overwork. And downstairs, they loved, too, the dining-room, so gay with its +light panels relieved by blue bands, its antique mahogany furniture, its large +flower pastels, its brass hanging lamp, always shining. They ate in it with a +hearty appetite and they left it, after each meal, only to go upstairs again to +their dear solitude. +</p> + +<p> +Then when the house seemed too small, they had the garden, all La Souleiade. +Spring advanced with the advancing sun, and at the end of April the roses were +beginning to bloom. And what a joy was this domain, walled around, where +nothing from the outside world could trouble them! Hours flew by unnoted, as +they sat on the terrace facing the vast horizon and the shady banks of the +Viorne, and the slopes of Sainte-Marthe, from the rocky bars of the Seille to +the valley of Plassans in the dusty distance. There was no shade on the terrace +but that of the two secular cypresses planted at its two extremities, like two +enormous green tapers, which could be seen three leagues away. At times they +descended the slope for the pleasure of ascending the giant steps, and climbing +the low walls of uncemented stones which supported the plantations, to see if +the stunted olive trees and the puny almonds were budding. More often there +were delightful walks under the delicate needles of the pine wood, steeped in +sunshine and exhaling a strong odor of resin; endless walks along the wall of +inclosure, from behind which the only sound they could hear was, at rare +intervals, the grating noise of some cart jolting along the narrow road to Les +Fenouilleres; and they spent delightful hours in the old threshing yard, where +they could see the whole horizon, and where they loved to stretch themselves, +tenderly remembering their former tears, when, loving each other unconsciously +to themselves, they had quarreled under the stars. But their favorite retreat, +where they always ended by losing themselves, was the quincunx of tall plane +trees, whose branches, now of a tender green, looked like lacework. Below, the +enormous box trees, the old borders of the French garden, of which now scarcely +a trace remained, formed a sort of labyrinth of which they could never find the +end. And the slender stream of the fountain, with its eternal crystalline +murmur, seemed to sing within their hearts. They would sit hand in hand beside +the mossy basin, while the twilight fell around them, their forms gradually +fading into the shadow of the trees, while the water which they could no longer +see, sang its flutelike song. +</p> + +<p> +Up to the middle of May Pascal and Clotilde secluded themselves in this way, +without even crossing the threshold of their retreat. One morning he +disappeared and returned an hour later, bringing her a pair of diamond earrings +which he had hurried out to buy, remembering this was her birthday. She adored +jewels, and the gift astonished and delighted her. From this time not a week +passed in which he did not go out once or twice in this way to bring her back +some present. The slightest excuse was sufficient for him—a <i>fête</i>, +a wish, a simple pleasure. He brought her rings, bracelets, a necklace, a +slender diadem. He would take out the other jewels and please himself by +putting them all upon her in the midst of their laughter. She was like an idol, +seated on her chair, covered with gold,—a band of gold on her hair, gold +on her bare arms and on her bare throat, all shining with gold and precious +stones. Her woman’s vanity was delightfully gratified by this. She +allowed herself to be adored thus, to be adored on bended knees, like a +divinity, knowing well that this was only an exalted form of love. She began at +last to scold a little, however; to make prudent remonstrances; for, in truth, +it was an absurdity to bring her all these gifts which she must afterward shut +up in a drawer, without ever wearing them, as she went nowhere. +</p> + +<p> +They were forgotten after the hour of joy and gratitude which they gave her in +their novelty was over. But he would not listen to her, carried away by a +veritable mania for giving; unable, from the moment the idea of giving her an +article took possession of him, to resist the desire of buying it. It was a +munificence of the heart; an imperious desire to prove to her that he thought +of her always; a pride in seeing her the most magnificent, the happiest, the +most envied of women; a generosity more profound even, which impelled him to +despoil himself of everything, of his money, of his life. And then, what a +delight, when he saw he had given her a real pleasure, and she threw herself on +his neck, blushing, thanking him with kisses. After the jewels, it was gowns, +articles of dress, toilet articles. Her room was littered, the drawers were +filled to overflowing. +</p> + +<p> +One morning she could not help getting angry. He had brought her another ring. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I never wear them! And if I did, my fingers would be covered to the +tips. Be reasonable, I beg of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I have not given you pleasure?” he said with confusion. +</p> + +<p> +She threw her arms about his neck, and assured him with tears in her eyes that +she was very happy. He was so good to her! He was so unwearied in his devotion +to her! And when, later in the morning, he ventured to speak of making some +changes in her room, of covering the walls with tapestry, of putting down a +carpet, she again remonstrated. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! no, no! I beg of you. Do not touch my old room, so full of memories, +where I have grown up, where I told you I loved you. I should no longer feel +myself at home in it.” +</p> + +<p> +Downstairs, Martine’s obstinate silence condemned still more strongly +these excessive and useless expenses. She had adopted a less familiar attitude, +as if, in the new situation, she had fallen from her role of housekeeper and +friend to her former station of servant. Toward Clotilde, especially, she +changed, treating her like a young lady, like a mistress to whom she was less +affectionate but more obedient than formerly. Two or three times, however, she +had appeared in the morning with her face discolored and her eyes sunken with +weeping, answering evasively when questioned, saying that nothing was the +matter, that she had taken cold. And she never made any remark about the gifts +with which the drawers were filled. She did not even seem to see them, +arranging them without a word either of praise or dispraise. But her whole +nature rebelled against this extravagant generosity, of which she could never +have conceived the possibility. She protested in her own fashion; exaggerating +her economy and reducing still further the expenses of the housekeeping, which +she now conducted on so narrow a scale that she retrenched even in the smallest +expenses. For instance, she took only two-thirds of the milk which she had been +in the habit of taking, and she served sweet dishes only on Sundays. Pascal and +Clotilde, without venturing to complain, laughed between themselves at this +parsimony, repeating the jests which had amused them for ten years past, saying +that after dressing the vegetables she strained them in the colander, in order +to save the butter for future use. +</p> + +<p> +But this quarter she insisted upon rendering an account. She was in the habit +of going every three months to Master Grandguillot, the notary, to receive the +fifteen hundred francs income, of which she disposed afterward according to her +judgment, entering the expenses in a book which the doctor had years ago ceased +to verify. She brought it to him now and insisted upon his looking over it. He +excused himself, saying that it was all right. +</p> + +<p> +“The thing is, monsieur,” she said, “that this time I have +been able to put some money aside. Yes, three hundred francs. Here they +are.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her in amazement. Generally she just made both ends meet. By what +miracle of stinginess had she been able to save such a sum? +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! my poor Martine,” he said at last, laughing, “that is +the reason, then, that we have been eating so many potatoes of late. You are a +pearl of economy, but indeed you must treat us a little better in the +future.” +</p> + +<p> +This discreet reproach wounded her so profoundly that she allowed herself at +last to say: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, monsieur, when there is so much extravagance on the one hand, it +is well to be prudent on the other.” +</p> + +<p> +He understood the allusion, but instead of being angry, he was amused by the +lesson. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, ah! it is you who are examining my accounts! But you know very well, +Martine, that I, too, have my savings laid by.” +</p> + +<p> +He alluded to the money which he still received occasionally from his patients, +and which he threw into a drawer of his writing-desk. For more than sixteen +years past he had put into this drawer every year about four thousand francs, +which would have amounted to a little fortune if he had not taken from it, from +day to day, without counting them, considerable sums for his experiments and +his whims. All the money for the presents came out of this drawer, which he now +opened continually. He thought that it would never be empty; he had been so +accustomed to take from it whatever he required that it had never occurred to +him to fear that he would ever come to the bottom of it. +</p> + +<p> +“One may very well have a little enjoyment out of one’s +savings,” he said gayly. “Since it is you who go to the +notary’s, Martine, you are not ignorant that I have my income +apart.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she said, with the colorless voice of the miser who is haunted by the +dread of an impending disaster: +</p> + +<p> +“And what would you do if you hadn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal looked at her in astonishment, and contented himself with answering with +a shrug, for the possibility of such a misfortune had never even entered his +mind. He fancied that avarice was turning her brain, and he laughed over the +incident that evening with Clotilde. +</p> + +<p> +In Plassans, too, the presents were the cause of endless gossip. The rumor of +what was going on at La Souleiade, this strange and sudden passion, had spread, +no one could tell how, by that force of expansion which sustains curiosity, +always on the alert in small towns. The servant certainly had not spoken, but +her air was perhaps sufficient; words perhaps had dropped from her +involuntarily; the lovers might have been watched over the walls. And then came +the buying of the presents, confirming the reports and exaggerating them. When +the doctor, in the early morning, scoured the streets and visited the +jeweler’s and the dressmaker’s, eyes spied him from the windows, +his smallest purchases were watched, all the town knew in the evening that he +had given her a silk bonnet, a bracelet set with sapphires. And all this was +turned into a scandal. This uncle in love with his niece, committing a young +man’s follies for her, adorning her like a holy Virgin. The most +extraordinary stories began to circulate, and people pointed to La Souleiade as +they passed by. +</p> + +<p> +But old Mme. Rougon was, of all persons, the most bitterly indignant. She had +ceased going to her son’s house when she learned that Clotilde’s +marriage with Dr. Ramond had been broken off. They had made sport of her. They +did nothing to please her, and she wished to show how deep her displeasure was. +Then a full month after the rupture, during which she had understood nothing of +the pitying looks, the discreet condolences, the vague smiles which met her +everywhere, she learned everything with a suddenness that stunned her. She, +who, at the time of Pascal’s illness, in her mortification at the idea of +again becoming the talk of the town through that ugly story, had raised such a +storm! It was far worse this time; the height of scandal, a love affair for +people to regale themselves with. The Rougon legend was again in peril; her +unhappy son was decidedly doing his best to find some way to destroy the family +glory won with so much difficulty. So that in her anger she, who had made +herself the guardian of this glory, resolving to purify the legend by every +means in her power, put on her hat one morning and hurried to La Souleiade with +the youthful vivacity of her eighty years. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, whom the rupture with his mother enchanted, was fortunately not at +home, having gone out an hour before to look for a silver buckle which he had +thought of for a belt. And Félicité fell upon Clotilde as the latter was +finishing her toilet, her arms bare, her hair loose, looking as fresh and +smiling as a rose. +</p> + +<p> +The first shock was rude. The old lady unburdened her mind, grew indignant, +spoke of the scandal they were giving. Suddenly her anger vanished. She looked +at the young girl, and she thought her adorable. In her heart she was not +surprised at what was going on. She laughed at it, all she desired was that it +should end in a correct fashion, so as to silence evil tongues. And she cried +with a conciliating air: +</p> + +<p> +“Get married then! Why do you not get married?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde remained silent for a moment, surprised. She had not thought of +marriage. Then she smiled again. +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt we will get married, grandmother. But later on, there is no +hurry.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon went away, obliged to be satisfied with this vague promise. +</p> + +<p> +It was at this time that Pascal and Clotilde ceased to seclude themselves. Not +through any spirit of bravado, not because they wished to answer ugly rumors by +making a display of their happiness, but as a natural amplification of their +joy; their love had slowly acquired the need of expansion and of space, at +first beyond the house, then beyond the garden, into the town, as far as the +whole vast horizon. It filled everything; it took in the whole world. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor then tranquilly resumed his visits, and he took the young girl with +him. They walked together along the promenades, along the streets, she on his +arm, in a light gown, with flowers in her hat, he buttoned up in his coat with +his broad-brimmed hat. He was all white; she all blond. They walked with their +heads high, erect and smiling, radiating such happiness that they seemed to +walk in a halo. At first the excitement was extraordinary. The shopkeepers came +and stood at their doors, the women leaned out of the windows, the passers-by +stopped to look after them. People whispered and laughed and pointed to them. +Then they were so handsome; he superb and triumphant, she so youthful, so +submissive, and so proud, that an involuntary indulgence gradually gained on +every one. People could not help defending them and loving them, and they ended +by smiling on them in a delightful contagion of tenderness. A charm emanated +from them which brought back all hearts to them. The new town, with its +<i>bourgeois</i> population of functionaries and townspeople who had grown +wealthy, was the last conquest. But the Quartier St. Marc, in spite of its +austerity, showed itself at once kind and discreetly tolerant when they walked +along its deserted grass-worn sidewalks, beside the antique houses, now closed +and silent, which exhaled the evaporated perfume of the loves of other days. +But it was the old quarter, more especially, that promptly received them with +cordiality, this quarter of which the common people, instinctively touched, +felt the grace of the legend, the profound myth of the couple, the beautiful +young girl supporting the royal and rejuvenated master. The doctor was adored +here for his goodness, and his companion quickly became popular, and was +greeted with tokens of admiration and approval as soon as she appeared. They, +meantime, if they had seemed ignorant of the former hostility, now divined +easily the forgiveness and the indulgent tenderness which surrounded them, and +this made them more beautiful; their happiness charmed the entire town. +</p> + +<p> +One afternoon, as Pascal and Clotilde turned the corner of the Rue de la Banne, +they perceived Dr. Ramond on the opposite side of the street. It had chanced +that they had learned the day before that he had asked and had obtained the +hand of Mlle. Leveque, the advocate’s daughter. It was certainly the most +sensible course he could have taken, for his business interests made it +advisable that he should marry, and the young girl, who was very pretty and +very rich, loved him. He, too, would certainly love her in time. Therefore +Clotilde joyfully smiled her congratulations to him as a sincere friend. Pascal +saluted him with an affectionate gesture. For a moment Ramond, a little moved +by the meeting, stood perplexed. His first impulse seemed to have been to cross +over to them. But a feeling of delicacy must have prevented him, the thought +that it would be brutal to interrupt their dream, to break in upon this +solitude <i>à deux</i>, in which they moved, even amid the elbowings of the +street. And he contented himself with a friendly salutation, a smile in which +he forgave them their happiness. This was very pleasant for all three. +</p> + +<p> +At this time Clotilde amused herself for several days by painting a large +pastel representing the tender scene of old King David and Abishag, the young +Shunammite. It was a dream picture, one of those fantastic compositions into +which her other self, her romantic self, put her love of the mysterious. +Against a background of flowers thrown on the canvas, flowers that looked like +a shower of stars, of barbaric richness, the old king stood facing the +spectator, his hand resting on the bare shoulder of Abishag. He was attired +sumptuously in a robe heavy with precious stones, that fell in straight folds, +and he wore the royal fillet on his snowy locks. But she was more sumptuous +still, with only the lilylike satin of her skin, her tall, slender figure, her +round, slender throat, her supple arms, divinely graceful. He reigned over, he +leaned, as a powerful and beloved master, on this subject, chosen from among +all others, so proud of having been chosen, so rejoiced to give to her king the +rejuvenating gift of her youth. All her pure and triumphant beauty expressed +the serenity of her submission, the tranquillity with which she gave herself, +before the assembled people, in the full light of day. And he was very great +and she was very fair, and there radiated from both a starry radiance. +</p> + +<p> +Up to the last moment Clotilde had left the faces of the two figures vaguely +outlined in a sort of mist. Pascal, standing behind her, jested with her to +hide his emotion, for he fancied he divined her intention. And it was as he +thought; she finished the faces with a few strokes of the crayon—old King +David was he, and she was Abishag, the Shunammite. But they were enveloped in a +dreamlike brightness, it was themselves deified; the one with hair all white, +the other with hair all blond, covering them like an imperial mantle, with +features lengthened by ecstasy, exalted to the bliss of angels, with the glance +and the smile of immortal youth. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, dear!” he cried, “you have made us too beautiful; you +have wandered off again to dreamland—yes, as in the days, do you +remember, when I used to scold you for putting there all the fantastic flowers +of the Unknown?” +</p> + +<p> +And he pointed to the walls, on which bloomed the fantastic <i>parterre</i> of +the old pastels, flowers not of the earth, grown in the soil of paradise. +</p> + +<p> +But she protested gayly. +</p> + +<p> +“Too beautiful? We could not be too beautiful! I assure you it is thus +that I picture us to myself, thus that I see us; and thus it is that we are. +There! see if it is not the pure reality.” +</p> + +<p> +She took the old fifteenth century Bible which was beside her, and showed him +the simple wood engraving. +</p> + +<p> +“You see it is exactly the same.” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled gently at this tranquil and extraordinary affirmation. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you laugh, you look only at the details of the picture. It is the +spirit which it is necessary to penetrate. And look at the other engravings, it +is the same theme in all—Abraham and Hagar, Ruth and Boaz. And you see +they are all handsome and happy.” +</p> + +<p> +Then they ceased to laugh, leaning over the old Bible whose pages she turned +with her white fingers, he standing behind her, his white beard mingling with +her blond, youthful tresses. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he whispered to her softly: +</p> + +<p> +“But you, so young, do you never regret that you have chosen me—me, +who am so old, as old as the world?” +</p> + +<p> +She gave a start of surprise, and turning round looked at him. +</p> + +<p> +“You old! No, you are young, younger than I!” +</p> + +<p> +And she laughed so joyously that he, too, could not help smiling. But he +insisted a little tremulously: +</p> + +<p> +“You do not answer me. Do you not sometimes desire a younger lover, you +who are so youthful?” +</p> + +<p> +She put up her lips and kissed him, saying in a low voice: +</p> + +<p> +“I have but one desire, to be loved—loved as you love me, above and +beyond everything.” +</p> + +<p> +The day on which Martine saw the pastel nailed to the wall, she looked at it a +moment in silence, then she made the sign of the cross, but whether it was +because she had seen God or the devil, no one could say. A few days before +Easter she had asked Clotilde if she would not accompany her to church, and the +latter having made a sign in the negative, she departed for an instant from the +deferential silence which she now habitually maintained. Of all the new things +which astonished her in the house, what most astonished her was the sudden +irreligiousness of her young mistress. So she allowed herself to resume her +former tone of remonstrance, and to scold her as she used to do when she was a +little girl and refused to say her prayers. “Had she no longer the fear +of the Lord before her, then? Did she no longer tremble at the idea of going to +hell, to burn there forever?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde could not suppress a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, hell! you know that it has never troubled me a great deal. But you +are mistaken if you think I am no longer religious. If I have left off going to +church it is because I perform my devotions elsewhere, that is all.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine looked at her, open-mouthed, not comprehending her. It was all over; +mademoiselle was indeed lost. And she never again asked her to accompany her to +St. Saturnin. But her own devotion increased until it at last became a mania. +She was no longer to be met, as before, with the eternal stocking in her hand +which she knitted even when walking, when not occupied in her household duties. +Whenever she had a moment to spare, she ran to church and remained there, +repeating endless prayers. One day when old Mme. Rougon, always on the alert, +found her behind a pillar, an hour after she had seen her there before, Martine +excused herself, blushing like a servant who had been caught idling, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I was praying for monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Pascal and Clotilde enlarged still more their domain, taking longer +and longer walks every day, extending them now outside the town into the open +country. One afternoon, as they were going to La Séguiranne, they were deeply +moved, passing by the melancholy fields where the enchanted gardens of Le +Paradou had formerly extended. The vision of Albine rose before them. Pascal +saw her again blooming like the spring, in the rejuvenation which this living +flower had brought him too, feeling the pressure of this pure arm against his +heart. Never could he have believed, he who had already thought himself very +old when he used to enter this garden to give a smile to the little fairy +within, that she would have been dead for years when life, the good mother, +should bestow upon him the gift of so fresh a spring, sweetening his declining +years. And Clotilde, having felt the vision rise before them, lifted up her +face to his in a renewed longing for tenderness. She was Albine, the eternal +lover. He kissed her on the lips, and though no word had been uttered, the +level fields sown with corn and oats, where Le Paradou had once rolled its +billows of luxuriant verdure, thrilled in sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal and Clotilde were now walking along the dusty road, through the bare and +arid country. They loved this sun-scorched land, these fields thinly planted +with puny almond trees and dwarf olives, these stretches of bare hills dotted +with country houses, that showed on them like pale patches accentuated by the +dark bars of the secular cypresses. It was like an antique landscape, one of +those classic landscapes represented in the paintings of the old schools, with +harsh coloring and well balanced and majestic lines. All the ardent sunshine of +successive summers that had parched this land flowed through their veins, and +lent them a new beauty and animation, as they walked under the sky forever +blue, glowing with the clear flame of eternal love. She, protected from the sun +by her straw hat, bloomed and luxuriated in this bath of light like a tropical +flower, while he, in his renewed youth, felt the burning sap of the soil ascend +into his veins in a flood of virile joy. +</p> + +<p> +This walk to La Séguiranne had been an idea of the doctor’s, who had +learned through Aunt Dieudonné of the approaching marriage of Sophie to a young +miller of the neighborhood; and he desired to see if every one was well and +happy in this retired corner. All at once they were refreshed by a delightful +coolness as they entered the avenue of tall green oaks. On either side the +springs, the mothers of these giant shade trees, flowed on in their eternal +course. And when they reached the house of the shrew they came, as chance would +have it, upon the two lovers, Sophie and her miller, kissing each other beside +the well; for the girl’s aunt had just gone down to the lavatory behind +the willows of the Viorne. Confused, the couple stood in blushing silence. But +the doctor and his companion laughed indulgently, and the lovers, reassured, +told them that the marriage was set for St. John’s Day, which was a long +way off, to be sure, but which would come all the same. Sophie, saved from the +hereditary malady, had improved in health and beauty, and was growing as strong +as one of the trees that stood with their feet in the moist grass beside the +springs, and their heads bare to the sunshine. Ah, the vast, glowing sky, what +life it breathed into all created things! She had but one grief, and tears came +to her eyes when she spoke of her brother Valentin, who perhaps would not live +through the week. She had had news of him the day before; he was past hope. And +the doctor was obliged to prevaricate a little to console her, for he himself +expected hourly the inevitable termination. When he and his companion left La +Séguiranne they returned slowly to Plassans, touched by this happy, healthy +love saddened by the chill of death. +</p> + +<p> +In the old quarter a woman whom Pascal was attending informed him that Valentin +had just died. Two of the neighbors were obliged to take away La Guiraude, who, +half-crazed, clung, shrieking, to her son’s body. The doctor entered the +house, leaving Clotilde outside. At last, they again took their way to La +Souleiade in silence. Since Pascal had resumed his visits he seemed to make +them only through professional duty; he no longer became enthusiastic about the +miracles wrought by his treatment. But as far as Valentin’s death was +concerned, he was surprised that it had not occurred before; he was convinced +that he had prolonged the patient’s life for at least a year. In spite of +the extraordinary results which he had obtained at first, he knew well that +death was the inevitable end. That he had held it in check for months ought +then to have consoled him and soothed his remorse, still unassuaged, for having +involuntarily caused the death of Lafouasse, a few weeks sooner than it would +otherwise have occurred. But this did not seem to be the case, and his brow was +knitted in a frown as they returned to their beloved solitude. But there a new +emotion awaited him; sitting under the plane trees, whither Martine had sent +him, he saw Sarteur, the hatter, the inmate of the Tulettes whom he had been so +long treating by his hypodermic injections, and the experiment so zealously +continued seemed to have succeeded. The injections of nerve substance had +evidently given strength to his will, since the madman was here, having left +the asylum that morning, declaring that he no longer had any attacks, that he +was entirely cured of the homicidal mania that impelled him to throw himself +upon any passer-by to strangle him. The doctor looked at him as he spoke. He +was a small dark man, with a retreating forehead and aquiline features, with +one cheek perceptibly larger than the other. He was perfectly quiet and +rational, and filled with so lively a gratitude that he kissed his +saviour’s hands. The doctor could not help being greatly affected by all +this, and he dismissed the man kindly, advising him to return to his life of +labor, which was the best hygiene, physical and moral. Then he recovered his +calmness and sat down to table, talking gaily of other matters. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde looked at him with astonishment and even with a little indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, master?” she said. “You are no longer +satisfied with yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, with myself I am never satisfied!” he answered jestingly. +“And with medicine, you know—it is according to the day.” +</p> + +<p> +It was on this night that they had their first quarrel. She was angry with him +because he no longer had any pride in his profession. She returned to her +complaint of the afternoon, reproaching him for not taking more credit to +himself for the cure of Sarteur, and even for the prolongation of +Valentin’s life. It was she who now had a passion for his fame. She +reminded him of his cures; had he not cured himself? Could he deny the efficacy +of his treatment? A thrill ran through him as he recalled the great dream which +he had once cherished—to combat debility, the sole cause of disease; to +cure suffering humanity; to make a higher, and healthy humanity; to hasten the +coming of happiness, the future kingdom of perfection and felicity, by +intervening and giving health to all! And he possessed the liquor of life, the +universal panacea which opened up this immense hope! +</p> + +<p> +Pascal was silent for a moment. Then he murmured: +</p> + +<p> +“It is true. I cured myself, I have cured others, and I still think that +my injections are efficacious in many cases. I do not deny medicine. Remorse +for a deplorable accident, like that of Lafouasse, does not render me unjust. +Besides, work has been my passion, it is in work that I have up to this time +spent my energies; it was in wishing to prove to myself the possibility of +making decrepit humanity one day strong and intelligent that I came near dying +lately. Yes, a dream, a beautiful dream!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! a reality, the reality of your genius, master.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, he breathed this confession: +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, I am going to say to you what I would say to no one else in the +world, what I would not say to myself aloud. To correct nature, to interfere, +in order to modify it and thwart it in its purpose, is this a laudable task? To +cure the individual, to retard his death, for his personal pleasure, to prolong +his existence, doubtless to the injury of the species, is not this to defeat +the aims of nature? And have we the right to desire a stronger, a healthier +humanity, modeled after our idea of health and strength? What have we to do in +the matter? Why should we interfere in this work of life, neither the means nor +the end of which are known to us? Perhaps everything is as it ought to be. +Perhaps we should risk killing love, genius, life itself. Remember, I make the +confession to you alone; but doubt has taken possession of me, I tremble at the +thought of my twentieth century alchemy. I have come to believe that it is +greater and wiser to allow evolution to take its course.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused; then he added so softly that she could scarcely hear him: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that instead of nerve-substance I often use only water with +my patients. You no longer hear me grinding for days at a time. I told you that +I had some of the liquor in reserve. Water soothes them, this is no doubt +simply a mechanical effect. Ah! to soothe, to prevent suffering—that +indeed I still desire! It is perhaps my greatest weakness, but I cannot bear to +see any one suffer. Suffering puts me beside myself, it seems a monstrous and +useless cruelty of nature. I practise now only to prevent suffering.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, master,” she asked, in the same indistinct murmur, “if +you no longer desire to cure, do you still think everything must be told? For +the frightful necessity of displaying the wounds of humanity had no other +excuse than the hope of curing them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, it is necessary to know, in every case, and to conceal +nothing; to tell everything regarding things and individuals. Happiness is no +longer possible in ignorance; certainty alone makes life tranquil. When people +know more they will doubtless accept everything. Do you not comprehend that to +desire to cure everything, to regenerate everything is a false ambition +inspired by our egotism, a revolt against life, which we declare to be bad, +because we judge it from the point of view of self-interest? I know that I am +more tranquil, that my intellect has broadened and deepened ever since I have +held evolution in respect. It is my love of life which triumphs, even to the +extent of not questioning its purpose, to the extent of confiding absolutely in +it, of losing myself in it, without wishing to remake it according to my own +conception of good and evil. Life alone is sovereign, life alone knows its aim +and its end. I can only try to know it in order to live it as it should be +lived. And this I have understood only since I have possessed your love. Before +I possessed it I sought the truth elsewhere, I struggled with the fixed idea of +saving the world. You have come, and life is full; the world is saved every +hour by love, by the immense and incessant labor of all that live and love +throughout space. Impeccable life, omnipotent life, immortal life!” +</p> + +<p> +They continued to talk together in low tones for some time longer, planning an +idyllic life, a calm and healthful existence in the country. It was in this +simple prescription of an invigorating environment that the experiments of the +physician ended. He exclaimed against cities. People could be well and happy +only in the country, in the sunshine, on the condition of renouncing money, +ambition, even the proud excesses of intellectual labor. They should do nothing +but live and love, cultivate the soil, and bring up their children. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"></a> +IX.</h2> + +<p> +Dr. Pascal then resumed his professional visits in the town and the surrounding +country. And he was generally accompanied by Clotilde, who went with him into +the houses of the poor, where she, too, brought health and cheerfulness. +</p> + +<p> +But, as he had one night confessed to her in secret, his visits were now only +visits of relief and consolation. If he had before practised with repugnance it +was because he had felt how vain was medical science. Empiricism disheartened +him. From the moment that medicine ceased to be an experimental science and +became an art, he was filled with disquiet at the thought of the infinite +variety of diseases and of their remedies, according to the constitution of the +patient. Treatment changed with every new hypothesis; how many people, then, +must the methods now abandoned have killed! The perspicacity of the physician +became everything, the healer was only a happily endowed diviner, himself +groping in the dark and effecting cures through his fortunate endowment. And +this explained why he had given up his patients almost altogether, after a +dozen years of practise, to devote himself entirely to study. Then, when his +great labors on heredity had restored to him for a time the hope of intervening +and curing disease by his hypodermic injections, he had become again +enthusiastic, until the day when his faith in life, after having impelled him, +to aid its action in this way, by restoring the vital forces, became still +broader and gave him the higher conviction that life was self-sufficing, that +it was the only giver of health and strength, in spite of everything. And he +continued to visit, with his tranquil smile, only those of his patients who +clamored for him loudly, and who found themselves miraculously relieved when he +injected into them only pure water. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde now sometimes allowed herself to jest about these hypodermic +injections. She was still at heart, however, a fervent worshiper of his skill; +and she said jestingly that if he performed miracles as he did it was because +he had in himself the godlike power to do so. Then he would reply jestingly, +attributing to her the efficacy of their common visits, saying that he cured no +one now when she was absent, that it was she who brought the breath of life, +the unknown and necessary force from the Beyond. So that the rich people, the +<i>bourgeois</i>, whose houses she did not enter, continued to groan without +his being able to relieve them. And this affectionate dispute diverted them; +they set out each time as if for new discoveries, they exchanged glances of +kindly intelligence with the sick. Ah, this wretched suffering which revolted +them, and which was now all they went to combat; how happy they were when they +thought it vanquished! They were divinely recompensed when they saw the cold +sweats disappear, the moaning lips become stilled, the deathlike faces recover +animation. It was assuredly the love which they brought to this humble, +suffering humanity that produced the alleviation. +</p> + +<p> +“To die is nothing; that is in the natural order of things,” Pascal +would often say. “But why suffer? It is cruel and unnecessary!” +</p> + +<p> +One afternoon the doctor was going with the young girl to the little village of +Sainte-Marthe to see a patient, and at the station, for they were going by +train, so as to spare Bonhomme, they had a reencounter. The train which they +were waiting for was from the Tulettes. Sainte-Marthe was the first station in +the opposite direction, going to Marseilles. When the train arrived, they +hurried on board and, opening the door of a compartment which they thought +empty, they saw old Mme. Rougon about to leave it. She did not speak to them, +but passing them by, sprang down quickly in spite of her age, and walked away +with a stiff and haughty air. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the 1st of July,” said Clotilde when the train had started. +“Grandmother is returning from the Tulettes, after making her monthly +visit to Aunt Dide. Did you see the glance she cast at me?” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal was at heart glad of the quarrel with his mother, which freed him from +the continual annoyance of her visits. +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” he said simply, “when people cannot agree it is better +for them not to see each other.” +</p> + +<p> +But the young girl remained troubled and thoughtful. After a few moments she +said in an undertone: +</p> + +<p> +“I thought her changed—looking paler. And did you notice? she who +is usually so carefully dressed had only one glove on—a yellow glove, on +the right hand. I don’t know why it was, but she made me feel sick at +heart.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, who was also disturbed, made a vague gesture. His mother would no doubt +grow old at last, like everybody else. But she was very active, very full of +fire still. She was thinking, he said, of bequeathing her fortune to the town +of Plassans, to build a house of refuge, which should bear the name of Rougon. +Both had recovered their gaiety when he cried suddenly: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, it is to-morrow that you and I are to go to the Tulettes to see our +patients. And you know that I promised to take Charles to Uncle +Macquart’s.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité was in fact returning from the Tulettes, where she went regularly on +the first of every month to inquire after Aunt Dide. For many years past she +had taken a keen interest in the madwoman’s health, amazed to see her +lasting so long, and furious with her for persisting in living so far beyond +the common term of life, until she had become a very prodigy of longevity. What +a relief, the fine morning on which they should put under ground this +troublesome witness of the past, this specter of expiation and of waiting, who +brought living before her the abominations of the family! When so many others +had been taken she, who was demented and who had only a spark of life left in +her eyes, seemed forgotten. On this day she had found her as usual, +skeleton-like, stiff and erect in her armchair. As the keeper said, there was +now no reason why she should ever die. She was a hundred and five years old. +</p> + +<p> +When she left the asylum Félicité was furious. She thought of Uncle Macquart. +Another who troubled her, who persisted in living with exasperating obstinacy! +Although he was only eighty-four years old, three years older than herself, she +thought him ridiculously aged, past the allotted term of life. And a man who +led so dissipated a life, who had gone to bed dead drunk every night for the +last sixty years! The good and the sober were taken away; he flourished in +spite of everything, blooming with health and gaiety. In days past, just after +he had settled at the Tulettes, she had made him presents of wines, liqueurs +and brandy, in the unavowed hope of ridding the family of a fellow who was +really disreputable, and from whom they had nothing to expect but annoyance and +shame. But she had soon perceived that all this liquor served, on the contrary, +to keep up his health and spirits and his sarcastic humor, and she had left off +making him presents, seeing that he throve on what she had hoped would prove a +poison to him. She had cherished a deadly hatred toward him since then. She +would have killed him if she had dared, every time she saw him, standing firmly +on his drunken legs, and laughing at her to her face, knowing well that she was +watching for his death, and triumphant because he did not give her the pleasure +of burying with him all the old dirty linen of the family, the blood and mud of +the two conquests of Plassans. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, Félicité,” he would often say to her with his air of +wicked mockery, “I am here to take care of the old mother, and the day on +which we both make up our minds to die it would be through compliment to +you—yes, simply to spare you the trouble of running to see us so +good-naturedly, in this way, every month.” +</p> + +<p> +Generally she did not now give herself the disappointment of going to +Macquart’s, but inquired for him at the asylum. But on this occasion, +having learned there that he was passing through an extraordinary attack of +drunkenness, not having drawn a sober breath for a fortnight, and so +intoxicated that he was probably unable to leave the house, she was seized with +the curiosity to learn for herself what his condition really was. And as she +was going back to the station, she went out of her way in order to stop at +Macquart’s house. +</p> + +<p> +The day was superb—a warm and brilliant summer day. On either side of the +path which she had taken, she saw the fields that she had given him in former +days—all this fertile land, the price of his secrecy and his good +behavior. Before her appeared the house, with its pink tiles and its bright +yellow walls, looking gay in the sunshine. Under the ancient mulberry trees on +the terrace she enjoyed the delightful coolness and the beautiful view. What a +pleasant and safe retreat, what a happy solitude was this for an old man to end +in joy and peace a long and well-spent life! +</p> + +<p> +But she did not see him, she did not hear him. The silence was profound. The +only sound to be heard was the humming of the bees circling around the tall +marshmallows. And on the terrace there was nothing to be seen but a little +yellow dog, stretched at full length on the bare ground, seeking the coolness +of the shade. He raised his head growling, about to bark, but, recognizing the +visitor, he lay down again quietly. +</p> + +<p> +Then, in this peaceful and sunny solitude she was seized with a strange chill, +and she called: +</p> + +<p> +“Macquart! Macquart!” +</p> + +<p> +The door of the house under the mulberry trees stood wide open. But she did not +dare to go in; this empty house with its wide open door gave her a vague +uneasiness. And she called again: +</p> + +<p> +“Macquart! Macquart!” +</p> + +<p> +Not a sound, not a breath. Profound silence reigned again, but the humming of +the bees circling around the tall marshmallows sounded louder than before. +</p> + +<p> +At last Félicité, ashamed of her fears, summoned courage to enter. The door on +the left of the hall, opening into the kitchen, where Uncle Macquart generally +sat, was closed. She pushed it open, but she could distinguish nothing at +first, as the blinds had been closed, probably in order to shut out the heat. +Her first sensation was one of choking, caused by an overpowering odor of +alcohol which filled the room; every article of furniture seemed to exude this +odor, the whole house was impregnated with it. At last, when her eyes had +become accustomed to the semi-obscurity, she perceived Macquart. He was seated +at the table, on which were a glass and a bottle of spirits of thirty-six +degrees, completely empty. Settled in his chair, he was sleeping profoundly, +dead drunk. This spectacle revived her anger and contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Macquart,” she cried, “is it not vile and senseless to +put one’s self in such a state! Wake up, I say, this is shameful!” +</p> + +<p> +His sleep was so profound that she could not even hear him breathing. In vain +she raised her voice, and slapped him smartly on the hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Macquart! Macquart! Macquart! Ah, faugh! You are disgusting, my +dear!” +</p> + +<p> +Then she left him, troubling herself no further about him, and walked around +the room, evidently seeking something. Coming down the dusky road from the +asylum she had been seized with a consuming thirst, and she wished to get a +glass of water. Her gloves embarrassed her, and she took them off and put them +on a corner of the table. Then she succeeded in finding the jug, and she washed +a glass and filled it to the brim, and was about to empty it when she saw an +extraordinary sight—a sight which agitated her so greatly that she set +the glass down again beside her gloves, without drinking. +</p> + +<p> +By degrees she had begun to see objects more clearly in the room, which was +lighted dimly by a few stray sunbeams that filtered through the cracks of the +old shutters. She now saw Uncle Macquart distinctly, neatly dressed in a blue +cloth suit, as usual, and on his head the eternal fur cap which he wore from +one year’s end to the other. He had grown stout during the last five or +six years, and he looked like a veritable mountain of flesh overlaid with rolls +of fat. And she noticed that he must have fallen asleep while smoking, for his +pipe—a short black pipe—had fallen into his lap. Then she stood +still, stupefied with amazement—the burning tobacco had been scattered in +the fall, and the cloth of the trousers had caught fire, and through a hole in +the stuff, as large already as a hundred-sous piece, she saw the bare thigh, +whence issued a little blue flame. +</p> + +<p> +At first Félicité had thought that it was linen—the drawers or the +shirt—that was burning. But soon doubt was no longer possible, she saw +distinctly the bare flesh and the little blue flame issuing from it, lightly +dancing, like a flame wandering over the surface of a vessel of lighted +alcohol. It was as yet scarcely higher than the flame of a night light, pale +and soft, and so unstable that the slightest breath of air caused it to change +its place. But it increased and spread rapidly, and the skin cracked and the +fat began to melt. +</p> + +<p> +An involuntary cry escaped from Félicité’s throat. +</p> + +<p> +“Macquart! Macquart!” +</p> + +<p> +But still he did not stir. His insensibility must have been complete; +intoxication must have produced a sort of coma, in which there was an absolute +paralysis of sensation, for he was living, his breast could be seen rising and +falling, in slow and even respiration. +</p> + +<p> +“Macquart! Macquart!” +</p> + +<p> +Now the fat was running through the cracks of the skin, feeding the flame, +which was invading the abdomen. And Félicité comprehended vaguely that Uncle +Macquart was burning before her like a sponge soaked with brandy. He had, +indeed, been saturated with it for years past, and of the strongest and most +inflammable kind. He would no doubt soon be blazing from head to foot, like a +bowl of punch. +</p> + +<p> +Then she ceased to try to awaken him, since he was sleeping so soundly. For a +full minute she had the courage to look at him, awe-stricken, but gradually +coming to a determination. Her hands, however, began to tremble, with a little +shiver which she could not control. She was choking, and taking up the glass of +water again with both hands, she emptied it at a draught. And she was going +away on tiptoe, when she remembered her gloves. She went back, groped for them +anxiously on the table and, as she thought, picked them both up. Then she left +the room, closing the door behind her carefully, and as gently as if she were +afraid of disturbing some one. +</p> + +<p> +When she found herself once more on the terrace, in the cheerful sunshine and +the pure air, in face of the vast horizon bathed in light, she heaved a sigh of +relief. The country was deserted; no one could have seen her entering or +leaving the house. Only the yellow dog was still stretched there, and he did +not even deign to look up. And she went away with her quick, short step, her +youthful figure lightly swaying. A hundred steps away, an irresistible impulse +compelled her to turn round to give a last look at the house, so tranquil and +so cheerful on the hillside, in the declining light of the beautiful day. +</p> + +<p> +Only when she was in the train and went to put on her gloves did she perceive +that one of them was missing. But she supposed that it had fallen on the +platform at the station as she was getting into the car. She believed herself +to be quite calm, but she remained with one hand gloved and one hand bare, +which, with her, could only be the result of great agitation. +</p> + +<p> +On the following day Pascal and Clotilde took the three o’clock train to +go to the Tulettes. The mother of Charles, the harness-maker’s wife, had +brought the boy to them, as they had offered to take him to Uncle +Macquart’s, where he was to remain for the rest of the week. Fresh +quarrels had disturbed the peace of the household, the husband having resolved +to tolerate no longer in his house another man’s child, that do-nothing, +imbecile prince’s son. As it was Grandmother Rougon who had dressed him, +he was, indeed, dressed on this day, again, in black velvet trimmed with gold +braid, like a young lord, a page of former times going to court. And during the +quarter of an hour which the journey lasted, Clotilde amused herself in the +compartment, in which they were alone, by taking off his cap and smoothing his +beautiful blond locks, his royal hair that fell in curls over his shoulders. +She had a ring on her finger, and as she passed her hand over his neck she was +startled to perceive that her caress had left behind it a trace of blood. One +could not touch the boy’s skin without the red dew exuding from it; the +tissues had become so lax through extreme degeneration that the slightest +scratch brought on a hemorrhage. The doctor became at once uneasy, and asked +him if he still bled at the nose as frequently as formerly. Charles hardly knew +what to answer; first saying no, then, recollecting himself, he said that he +had bled a great deal the other day. He seemed, indeed, weaker; he grew more +childish as he grew older; his intelligence, which had never developed, had +become clouded. This tall boy of fifteen, so beautiful, so girlish-looking, +with the color of a flower that had grown in the shade, did not look ten. +</p> + +<p> +At the Tulettes Pascal decided that they would first take the boy to Uncle +Macquart’s. They ascended the steep road. In the distance the little +house looked gay in the sunshine, as it had looked on the day before, with its +yellow walls and its green mulberry trees extending their twisted branches and +covering the terrace with a thick, leafy roof. A delightful sense of peace +pervaded this solitary spot, this sage’s retreat, where the only sound to +be heard was the humming of the bees, circling round the tall marshmallows. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, that rascal of an uncle!” said Pascal, smiling, “how I +envy him!” +</p> + +<p> +But he was surprised not to have already seen him standing at the edge of the +terrace. And as Charles had run off dragging Clotilde with him to see the +rabbits, as he said, the doctor continued the ascent alone, and was astonished +when he reached the top to see no one. The blinds were closed, the hill door +yawned wide open. Only the yellow dog was at the threshold, his legs stiff, his +hair bristling, howling with a low and continuous moan. When he saw the +visitor, whom he no doubt recognized, approaching, he stopped howling for an +instant and went and stood further off, then he began again to whine softly. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, filled with apprehension, could not keep back the uneasy cry that rose +to his lips: +</p> + +<p> +“Macquart! Macquart!” +</p> + +<p> +No one answered; a deathlike silence reigned over the house, with its door +yawning wide open, like the mouth of a cavern. The dog continued to howl. +</p> + +<p> +Then Pascal grew impatient, and cried more loudly. +</p> + +<p> +“Macquart! Macquart!” +</p> + +<p> +There was not a stir; the bees hummed, the sky looked down serenely on the +peaceful scene. Then he hesitated no longer. Perhaps Macquart was asleep. But +the instant he pushed open the door of the kitchen on the left of the hall, a +horrible odor escaped from it, an odor of burned flesh and bones. When he +entered the room he could hardly breathe, so filled was it by a thick vapor, a +stagnant and nauseous cloud, which choked and blinded him. The sunbeams that +filtered through the cracks made only a dim light. He hurried to the fireplace, +thinking that perhaps there had been a fire, but the fireplace was empty, and +the articles of furniture around appeared to be uninjured. Bewildered, and +feeling himself growing faint in the poisoned atmosphere, he ran to the window +and threw the shutters wide open. A flood of light entered. +</p> + +<p> +Then the scene presented to the doctor’s view filled him with amazement. +Everything was in its place; the glass and the empty bottle of spirits were on +the table; only the chair in which Uncle Macquart must have been sitting bore +traces of fire, the front legs were blackened and the straw was partially +consumed. What had become of Macquart? Where could he have disappeared? In +front of the chair, on the brick floor, which was saturated with grease, there +was a little heap of ashes, beside which lay the pipe—a black pipe, which +had not even broken in falling. All of Uncle Macquart was there, in this +handful of fine ashes; and he was in the red cloud, also, which floated through +the open window; in the layer of soot which carpeted the entire kitchen; the +horrible grease of burnt flesh, enveloping everything, sticky and foul to the +touch. +</p> + +<p> +It was the finest case of spontaneous combustion physician had ever seen. The +doctor had, indeed, read in medical papers of surprising cases, among others +that of a shoemaker’s wife, a drunken woman who had fallen asleep over +her foot warmer, and of whom they had found only a hand and foot. He had, until +now, put little faith in these cases, unwilling to admit, like the ancients, +that a body impregnated with alcohol could disengage an unknown gas, capable of +taking fire spontaneously and consuming the flesh and the bones. But he denied +the truth of them no longer; besides, everything became clear to him as he +reconstructed the scene—the coma of drunkenness producing absolute +insensibility; the pipe falling on the clothes, which had taken fire; the +flesh, saturated with liquor, burning and cracking; the fat melting, part of it +running over the ground and part of it aiding the combustion, and all, at +last—muscles, organs, and bones—consumed in a general blaze. Uncle +Macquart was all there, with his blue cloth suit, and his fur cap, which he +wore from one year’s end to the other. Doubtless, as soon as he had begun +to burn like a bonfire he had fallen forward, which would account for the chair +being only blackened; and nothing of him was left, not a bone, not a tooth, not +a nail, nothing but this little heap of gray dust which the draught of air from +the door threatened at every moment to sweep away. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde had meanwhile entered, Charles remaining outside, his attention +attracted by the continued howling of the dog. +</p> + +<p> +“Good Heavens, what a smell!” she cried. “What is the +matter?” +</p> + +<p> +When Pascal explained to her the extraordinary catastrophe that had taken +place, she shuddered. She took up the bottle to examine it, but she put it down +again with horror, feeling it moist and sticky with Uncle Macquart’s +flesh. Nothing could be touched, the smallest objects were coated, as it were, +with this yellowish grease which stuck to the hands. +</p> + +<p> +A shudder of mingled awe and disgust passed through her, and she burst into +tears, faltering: +</p> + +<p> +“What a sad death! What a horrible death!” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal had recovered from his first shock, and he was almost smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Why horrible? He was eighty-four years old; he did not suffer. As for +me, I think it a superb death for that old rascal of an uncle, who, it may be +now said, did not lead a very exemplary life. You remember his envelope; he had +some very terrible and vile things upon his conscience, which did not prevent +him, however, from settling down later and growing old, surrounded by every +comfort, like an old humbug, receiving the recompense of virtues which he did +not possess. And here he lies like the prince of drunkards, burning up of +himself, consumed on the burning funeral pile of his own body!” +</p> + +<p> +And the doctor waved his hand in admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“Just think of it. To be drunk to the point of not feeling that one is on +fire; to set one’s self aflame, like a bonfire on St. John’s day; +to disappear in smoke to the last bone. Think of Uncle Macquart starting on his +journey through space; first diffused through the four corners of the room, +dissolved in air and floating about, bathing all that belonged to him; then +escaping in a cloud of dust through the window, when I opened it for him, +soaring up into the sky, filling the horizon. Why, that is an admirable death! +To disappear, to leave nothing of himself behind but a little heap of ashes and +a pipe beside it!” +</p> + +<p> +And he picked up the pipe to keep it, as he said, as a relic of Uncle Macquart; +while Clotilde, who thought she perceived a touch of bitter mockery in his +eulogistic rhapsody, shuddered anew with horror and disgust. But suddenly she +perceived something under the table—part of the remains, perhaps. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at that fragment there.” +</p> + +<p> +He stooped down and picked up with surprise a woman’s glove, a yellow +glove. +</p> + +<p> +“Why!” she cried, “it is grandmother’s glove; the glove +that was missing last evening.” +</p> + +<p> +They looked at each other; by a common impulse the same explanation rose to +their lips, Félicité was certainly there yesterday; and a sudden conviction +forced itself on the doctor’s mind—the conviction that his mother +had seen Uncle Macquart burning and that she had not quenched him. Various +indications pointed to this—the state of complete coolness in which he +found the room, the number of hours which he calculated to have been necessary +for the combustion of the body. He saw clearly the same thought dawning in the +terrified eyes of his companion. But as it seemed impossible that they should +ever know the truth, he fabricated aloud the simplest explanation: +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt your grandmother came in yesterday on her way back from the +asylum, to say good day to Uncle Macquart, before he had begun drinking.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go away! let us go away!” cried Clotilde. “I am +stifling here; I cannot remain here!” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, too, wished to go and give information of the death. He went out after +her, shut up the house, and put the key in his pocket. Outside, they heard the +little yellow dog still howling. He had taken refuge between Charles’ +legs, and the boy amused himself pushing him with his foot and listening to him +whining, without comprehending. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor went at once to the house of M. Maurin, the notary at the Tulettes, +who was also mayor of the commune. A widower for ten years past, and living +with his daughter, who was a childless widow, he had maintained neighborly +relations with old Macquart, and had occasionally kept little Charles with him +for several days at a time, his daughter having become interested in the boy +who was so handsome and so much to be pitied. M. Maurin, horrified at the news, +went at once with the doctor to draw up a statement of the accident, and +promised to make out the death certificate in due form. As for religious +ceremonies, funeral obsequies, they seemed scarcely possible. When they entered +the kitchen the draught from the door scattered the ashes about, and when they +piously attempted to collect them again they succeeded only in gathering +together the scrapings of the flags, a collection of accumulated dirt, in which +there could be but little of Uncle Macquart. What, then, could they bury? It +was better to give up the idea. So they gave it up. Besides, Uncle Macquart had +been hardly a devout Catholic, and the family contented themselves with causing +masses to be said later on for the repose of his soul. +</p> + +<p> +The notary, meantime, had immediately declared that there existed a will, which +had been deposited with him, and he asked Pascal to meet him at his house on +the next day but one for the reading; for he thought he might tell the doctor +at once that Uncle Macquart had chosen him as his executor. And he ended by +offering, like a kindhearted man, to keep Charles with him until then, +comprehending how greatly the boy, who was so unwelcome at his mother’s, +would be in the way in the midst of all these occurrences. Charles seemed +enchanted, and he remained at the Tulettes. +</p> + +<p> +It was not until very late, until seven o’clock, that Clotilde and Pascal +were able to take the train to return to Plassans, after the doctor had at last +visited the two patients whom he had to see. But when they returned together to +the notary’s on the day appointed for the meeting, they had the +disagreeable surprise of finding old Mme. Rougon installed there. She had +naturally learned of Macquart’s death, and had hurried there on the +following day, full of excitement, and making a great show of grief; and she +had just made her appearance again to-day, having heard the famous testament +spoken of. The reading of the will, however, was a simple matter, unmarked by +any incident. Macquart had left all the fortune that he could dispose of for +the purpose of erecting a superb marble monument to himself, with two angels +with folded wings, weeping. It was his own idea, a reminiscence of a similar +tomb which he had seen abroad—in Germany, perhaps—when he was a +soldier. And he had charged his nephew Pascal to superintend the erection of +the monument, as he was the only one of the family, he said, who had any taste. +</p> + +<p> +During the reading of the will Clotilde had remained in the notary’s +garden, sitting on a bench under the shade of an ancient chestnut tree. When +Pascal and Félicité again appeared, there was a moment of great embarrassment, +for they had not spoken to one another for some months past. The old lady, +however, affected to be perfectly at her ease, making no allusion whatever to +the new situation, and giving it to be understood that they might very well +meet and appear united before the world, without for that reason entering into +an explanation or becoming reconciled. But she committed the mistake of laying +too much stress on the great grief which Macquart’s death had caused her. +Pascal, who suspected the overflowing joy, the unbounded delight which it gave +her to think that this family ulcer was to be at last healed, that this +abominable uncle was at last out of the way, became gradually possessed by an +impatience, an indignation, which he could not control. His eyes fastened +themselves involuntarily on his mother’s gloves, which were black. +</p> + +<p> +Just then she was expressing her grief in lowered tones: +</p> + +<p> +“But how imprudent it was, at his age, to persist in living +alone—like a wolf in his lair! If he had only had a servant in the house +with him!” +</p> + +<p> +Then the doctor, hardly conscious of what he was saying, terrified at hearing +himself say the words, but impelled by an irresistible force, said: +</p> + +<p> +“But, mother, since you were there, why did you not quench him?” +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon turned frightfully pale. How could her son have known? She +looked at him for an instant in open-mouthed amazement; while Clotilde grew as +pale as she, in the certainty of the crime, which was now evident. It was an +avowal, this terrified silence which had fallen between the mother, the son, +and the granddaughter—the shuddering silence in which families bury their +domestic tragedies. The doctor, in despair at having spoken, he who avoided so +carefully all disagreeable and useless explanations, was trying desperately to +retract his words, when a new catastrophe extricated him from his terrible +embarrassment. +</p> + +<p> +Félicité desired to take Charles away with her, in order not to trespass on the +notary’s kind hospitality; and as the latter had sent the boy after +breakfast to spend an hour or two with Aunt Dide, he had sent the maid servant +to the asylum with orders to bring him back immediately. It was at this +juncture that the servant, whom they were waiting for in the garden, made her +appearance, covered with perspiration, out of breath, and greatly excited, +crying from a distance: +</p> + +<p> +“My God! My God! come quickly. Master Charles is bathed in blood.” +</p> + +<p> +Filled with consternation, all three set off for the asylum. This day chanced +to be one of Aunt Dide’s good days; very calm and gentle she sat erect in +the armchair in which she had spent the hours, the long hours for twenty-two +years past, looking straight before her into vacancy. She seemed to have grown +still thinner, all the flesh had disappeared, her limbs were now only bones +covered with parchment-like skin; and her keeper, the stout fair-haired girl, +carried her, fed her, took her up and laid her down as if she had been a +bundle. The ancestress, the forgotten one, tall, bony, ghastly, remained +motionless, her eyes, only seeming to have life, her eyes shining clear as +spring water in her thin withered face. But on this morning, again a sudden +rush of tears had streamed down her cheeks, and she had begun to stammer words +without any connection; which seemed to prove that in the midst of her senile +exhaustion and the incurable torpor of madness, the slow induration of the +brain and the limbs was not yet complete; there still were memories stored +away, gleams of intelligence still were possible. Then her face had resumed its +vacant expression. She seemed indifferent to every one and everything, +laughing, sometimes, at an accident, at a fall, but most often seeing nothing +and hearing nothing, gazing fixedly into vacancy. +</p> + +<p> +When Charles had been brought to her the keeper had immediately installed him +before the little table, in front of his great-great-grandmother. The girl kept +a package of pictures for him—soldiers, captains, kings clad in purple +and gold, and she gave them to him with a pair of scissors, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“There, amuse yourself quietly, and behave well. You see that to-day +grandmother is very good. You must be good, too.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy raised his eyes to the madwoman’s face, and both looked at each +other. At this moment the resemblance between them was extraordinary. Their +eyes, especially, their vacant and limpid eyes, seemed to lose themselves in +one another, to be identical. Then it was the physiognomy, the whole face, the +worn features of the centenarian, that passed over three generations to this +delicate child’s face, it, too, worn already, as it were, and aged by the +wear of the race. Neither smiled, they regarded each other intently, with an +air of grave imbecility. +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” continued the keeper, who had acquired the habit of talking +to herself to cheer herself when with her mad charge, “you cannot deny +each other. The same hand made you both. You are the very spit-down of each +other. Come, laugh a bit, amuse yourselves, since you like to be +together.” +</p> + +<p> +But to fix his attention for any length of time fatigued Charles, and he was +the first to lower his eyes; he seemed to be interested in his pictures, while +Aunt Dide, who had an astonishing power of fixing her attention, as if she had +been turned into stone, continued to look at him fixedly, without even winking +an eyelid. +</p> + +<p> +The keeper busied herself for a few moments in the little sunny room, made gay +by its light, blue-flowered paper. She made the bed which she had been airing, +she arranged the linen on the shelves of the press. But she generally profited +by the presence of the boy to take a little relaxation. She had orders never to +leave her charge alone, and now that he was here she ventured to trust her with +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to me well,” she went on, “I have to go out for a +little, and if she stirs, if she should need me, ring for me, call me at once; +do you hear? You understand, you are a big enough boy to be able to call +one.” +</p> + +<p> +He had looked up again, and made a sign that he had understood and that he +would call her. And when he found himself alone with Aunt Dide he returned to +his pictures quietly. This lasted for a quarter of an hour amid the profound +silence of the asylum, broken only at intervals by some prison sound—a +stealthy step, the jingling of a bunch of keys, and occasionally a loud cry, +immediately silenced. But the boy must have been tired by the excessive heat of +the day, for sleep gradually stole over him. Soon his head, fair as a lily, +drooped, and as if weighed down by the too heavy casque of his royal locks, he +let it sink gently on the pictures and fell asleep, with his cheek resting on +the gold and purple kings. The lashes of his closed eyelids cast a shadow on +his delicate skin, with its small blue veins, through which life pulsed feebly. +He was beautiful as an angel, but with the indefinable corruption of a whole +race spread over his countenance. And Aunt Dide looked at him with her vacant +stare in which there was neither pleasure nor pain, the stare of eternity +contemplating things earthly. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of a few moments, however, an expression of interest seemed to dawn +in the clear eyes. Something had just happened, a drop of blood was forming on +the edge of the left nostril of the boy. This drop fell and another formed and +followed it. It was the blood, the dew of blood, exuding this time, without a +scratch, without a bruise, which issued and flowed of itself in the laxity of +the degenerate tissues. The drops became a slender thread which flowed over the +gold of the pictures. A little pool covered them, and made its way to a corner +of the table; then the drops began again, splashing dully one by one upon the +floor. And he still slept, with the divinely calm look of a cherub, not even +conscious of the life that was escaping from him; and the madwoman continued to +look at him, with an air of increasing interest, but without terror, amused, +rather, her attention engaged by this, as by the flight of the big flies, which +her gaze often followed for hours. +</p> + +<p> +Several minutes more passed, the slender thread had grown larger, the drops +followed one another more rapidly, falling on the floor with a monotonous and +persistent drip. And Charles, at one moment, stirred, opened his eyes, and +perceived that he was covered with blood. But he was not frightened; he was +accustomed to this bloody spring, which issued from him at the slightest cause. +He merely gave a sigh of weariness. Instinct, however, must have warned him, +for he moaned more loudly than before, and called confusedly in stammering +accents: +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma! mamma!” +</p> + +<p> +His weakness was no doubt already excessive, for an irresistible stupor once +more took possession of him, his head dropped, his eyes closed, and he seemed +to fall asleep again, continuing his plaint, as if in a dream, moaning in +fainter and fainter accents: +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma! mamma!” +</p> + +<p> +Now the pictures were inundated; the black velvet jacket and trousers, braided +with gold, were stained with long streaks of blood, and the little red stream +began again to flow persistently from his left nostril, without stopping, +crossed the red pool on the table and fell upon the ground, where it at last +formed a veritable lake. A loud cry from the madwoman, a terrified call would +have sufficed. But she did not cry, she did not call; motionless, rigid, +emaciated, sitting there forgotten of the world, she gazed with the fixed look +of the ancestress who sees the destinies of her race being accomplished. She +sat there as if dried up, bound; her limbs and her tongue tied by her hundred +years, her brain ossified by madness, incapable of willing or of acting. And +yet the sight of the little red stream began to stir some feeling in her. A +tremor passed over her deathlike countenance, a flush mounted to her cheeks. +Finally, a last plaint roused her completely: +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma! mamma!” +</p> + +<p> +Then it was evident that a terrible struggle was taking place in Aunt Dide. She +carried her skeleton-like hand to her forehead as if she felt her brain +bursting. Her mouth was wide open, but no sound issued from it; the dreadful +tumult that had arisen within her had no doubt paralyzed her tongue. She tried +to rise, to run, but she had no longer any muscles; she remained fastened to +her seat. All her poor body trembled in the superhuman effort which she was +making to cry for help, without being able to break the bonds of old age and +madness which held her prisoner. Her face was distorted with terror; memory +gradually awakening, she must have comprehended everything. +</p> + +<p> +And it was a slow and gentle agony, of which the spectacle lasted for several +minutes more. Charles, silent now, as if he had again fallen asleep, was losing +the last drops of blood that had remained in his veins, which were emptying +themselves softly. His lily-like whiteness increased until it became a +deathlike pallor. His lips lost their rosy color, became a pale pink, then +white. And, as he was about to expire, he opened his large eyes and fixed them +on his great-great-grandmother, who watched the light dying in them. All the +waxen face was already dead, the eyes only were still living. They still kept +their limpidity, their brightness. All at once they became vacant, the light in +them was extinguished. This was the end—the death of the eyes, and +Charles had died, without a struggle, exhausted, like a fountain from which all +the water has run out. Life no longer pulsed through the veins of his delicate +skin, there was now only the shadow of its wings on his white face. But he +remained divinely beautiful, his face lying in blood, surrounded by his royal +blond locks, like one of those little bloodless dauphins who, unable to bear +the execrable heritage of their race, die of decrepitude and imbecility at +sixteen. +</p> + +<p> +The boy exhaled his latest breath as Dr. Pascal entered the room, followed by +Félicité and Clotilde. And when he saw the quantity of blood that inundated the +floor, he cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my God! it is as I feared, a hemorrhage from the nose! The poor +darling, no one was with him, and it is all over!” +</p> + +<p> +But all three were struck with terror at the extraordinary spectacle that now +met their gaze. Aunt Dide, who seemed to have grown taller, in the superhuman +effort she was making, had almost succeeded in raising herself up, and her +eyes, fixed on the dead boy, so fair and so gentle, and on the red sea of +blood, beginning to congeal, that was lying around him, kindled with a thought, +after a long sleep of twenty-two years. This final lesion of madness, this +irremediable darkness of the mind, was evidently not so complete but that some +memory of the past, lying hidden there, might awaken suddenly under the +terrible blow which had struck her. And the ancestress, the forgotten one, +lived again, emerged from her oblivion, rigid and wasted, like a specter of +terror and grief. +</p> + +<p> +For an instant she remained panting. Then with a shudder, which made her teeth +chatter, she stammered a single phrase: +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>gendarme</i>! the <i>gendarme</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal and Félicité and Clotilde understood. They looked at one another +involuntarily, turning very pale. The whole dreadful history of the old +mother—of the mother of them all—rose before them, the ardent love +of her youth, the long suffering of her mature age. Already two moral shocks +had shaken her terribly—the first, when she was in her ardent prime, when +a <i>gendarme</i> shot down her lover Macquart, the smuggler, like a dog; the +second, years ago, when another <i>gendarme</i> shattered with a pistol shot +the skull of her grandson Silvère, the insurgent, the victim of the hatred and +the sanguinary strife of the family. Blood had always bespattered her. And a +third moral shock finished her; blood bespattered her again, the impoverished +blood of her race, which she had just beheld flowing slowly, and which lay upon +the ground, while the fair royal child, his veins and his heart empty, slept. +</p> + +<p> +Three times—face to face with her past life, her life red with passion +and suffering, haunted by the image of expiation—she stammered: +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>gendarme</i>! the <i>gendarme</i>! the <i>gendarme</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +Then she sank back into her armchair. They thought she was dead, killed by the +shock. +</p> + +<p> +But the keeper at this moment at last appeared, endeavoring to excuse herself, +fearing that she would be dismissed. When, aided by her, Dr. Pascal had placed +Aunt Dide on the bed, he found that the old mother was still alive. She was not +to die until the following day, at the age of one hundred and five years, three +months, and seven days, of congestion of the brain, caused by the last shock +she had received. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, turning to his mother, said: +</p> + +<p> +“She will not live twenty-four hours; to-morrow she will be dead. Ah! +Uncle Macquart, then she, and this poor boy, one after another. How much misery +and grief!” +</p> + +<p> +He paused and added in a lower tone: +</p> + +<p> +“The family is thinning out; the old trees fall and the young die +standing.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité must have thought this another allusion. She was sincerely shocked by +the tragic death of little Charles. But, notwithstanding, above the horror +which she felt there arose a sense of immense relief. Next week, when they +should have ceased to weep, what a rest to be able to say to herself that all +this abomination of the Tulettes was at an end, that the family might at last +rise, and shine in history! +</p> + +<p> +Then she remembered that she had not answered the involuntary accusation made +against her by her son at the notary’s; and she spoke again of Macquart, +through bravado: +</p> + +<p> +“You see now that servants are of no use. There was one here, and yet she +prevented nothing; it would have been useless for Uncle Macquart to have had +one to take care of him; he would be in ashes now, all the same.” +</p> + +<p> +She sighed, and then continued in a broken voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, neither our own fate nor that of others is in our hands; +things happen as they will. These are great blows that have fallen upon us. We +must only trust to God for the preservation and the prosperity of our +family.” +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Pascal bowed with his habitual air of deference and said: +</p> + +<p> +“You are right, mother.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde knelt down. Her former fervent Catholic faith had revived in this +chamber of blood, of madness, and of death. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and +with clasped hands she was praying fervently for the dear ones who were no +more. She prayed that God would grant that their sufferings might indeed be +ended, their faults pardoned, and that they might live again in another life, a +life of unending happiness. And she prayed with the utmost fervor, in her +terror of a hell, which after this miserable life would make suffering eternal. +</p> + +<p> +From this day Pascal and Clotilde went to visit their sick side by side, filled +with greater pity than ever. Perhaps, with Pascal, the feeling of his +powerlessness against inevitable disease was even stronger than before. The +only wisdom was to let nature take its course, to eliminate dangerous elements, +and to labor only in the supreme work of giving health and strength. But the +suffering and the death of those who are dear to us awaken in us a hatred of +disease, an irresistible desire to combat and to vanquish it. And the doctor +never tasted so great a joy as when he succeeded, with his hypodermic +injections, in soothing a paroxysm of pain, in seeing the groaning patient grow +tranquil and fall asleep. Clotilde, in return, adored him, proud of their love, +as if it were a consolation which they carried, like the viaticum, to the poor. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"></a> +X.</h2> + +<p> +Martine one morning obtained from Dr. Pascal, as she did every three months, +his receipt for fifteen hundred francs, to take it to the notary Grandguillot, +to get from him what she called their “income.” The doctor seemed +surprised that the payment should have fallen due again so soon; he had never +been so indifferent as he was now about money matters, leaving to Martine the +care of settling everything. And he and Clotilde were under the plane trees, +absorbed in the joy that filled their life, lulled by the ceaseless song of the +fountain, when the servant returned with a frightened face, and in a state of +extraordinary agitation. She was so breathless with excitement that for a +moment she could not speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” she cried at last. “M. Grandguillot +has gone away!” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal did not at first comprehend. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my girl, there is no hurry,” he said; “you can go back +another day.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! He has gone away; don’t you hear? He has gone away +forever—” +</p> + +<p> +And as the waters rush forth in the bursting of a dam, her emotion vented +itself in a torrent of words. +</p> + +<p> +“I reached the street, and I saw from a distance a crowd gathered before +the door. A chill ran through me; I felt that some misfortune had happened. The +door closed, and not a blind open, as if there was somebody dead in the house. +They told me when I got there that he had run away; that he had not left a sou +behind him; that many families would be ruined.” +</p> + +<p> +She laid the receipt on the stone table. +</p> + +<p> +“There! There is your paper! It is all over with us, we have not a sou +left, we are going to die of starvation!” And she sobbed aloud in the +anguish of her miserly heart, distracted by this loss of a fortune, and +trembling at the prospect of impending want. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde sat stunned and speechless, her eyes fixed on Pascal, whose +predominating feeling at first seemed to be one of incredulity. He endeavored +to calm Martine. Why! why! it would not do to give up in this way. If all she +knew of the affair was what she had heard from the people in the street, it +might be only gossip, after all, which always exaggerates everything. M. +Grandguillot a fugitive; M. Grandguillot a thief; that was monstrous, +impossible! A man of such probity, a house liked and respected by all Plassans +for more than a century past. Why people thought money safer there than in the +Bank of France. +</p> + +<p> +“Consider, Martine, this would not have come all of a sudden, like a +thunderclap; there would have been some rumors of it beforehand. The deuce! an +old reputation does not fall to pieces in that way, in a night.” +</p> + +<p> +At this she made a gesture of despair. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, monsieur, that is what most afflicts me, because, you see, it throws +some of the responsibility on me. For weeks past I have been hearing stories on +all sides. As for you two, naturally you hear nothing; you don’t even +know whether you are alive or dead.” +</p> + +<p> +Neither Pascal nor Clotilde could refrain from smiling; for it was indeed true +that their love lifted them so far above the earth that none of the common +sounds of existence reached them. +</p> + +<p> +“But the stories I heard were so ugly that I didn’t like to worry +you with them. I thought they were lies.” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent for a moment, and then added that while some people merely +accused M. Grandguillot of having speculated on the Bourse, there were others +who accused him of still worse practises. And she burst into fresh sobs. +</p> + +<p> +“My God! My God! what is going to become of us? We are all going to die +of starvation!” +</p> + +<p> +Shaken, then, moved by seeing Clotilde’s eyes, too, filled with tears, +Pascal made an effort to remember, to see clearly into the past. Years ago, +when he had been practising in Plassans, he had deposited at different times, +with M. Grandguillot, the twenty thousand francs on the interest of which he +had lived comfortably for the past sixteen years, and on each occasion the +notary had given him a receipt for the sum deposited. This would no doubt +enable him to establish his position as a personal creditor. Then a vague +recollection awoke in his memory; he remembered, without being able to fix the +date, that at the request of the notary, and in consequence of certain +representations made by him, which Pascal had forgotten, he had given the +lawyer a power of attorney for the purpose of investing the whole or a part of +his money, in mortgages, and he was even certain that in this power the name of +the attorney had been left in blank. But he was ignorant as to whether this +document had ever been used or not; he had never taken the trouble to inquire +how his money had been invested. A fresh pang of miserly anguish made Martine +cry out: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, monsieur, you are well punished for your sin. Was that a way to +abandon one’s money? For my part, I know almost to a sou how my account +stands every quarter; I have every figure and every document at my +fingers’ ends.” +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of her distress an unconscious smile broke over her face, lighting +it all up. Her long cherished passion had been gratified; her four hundred +francs wages, saved almost intact, put out at interest for thirty years, at +last amounted to the enormous sum of twenty thousand francs. And this treasure +was put away in a safe place which no one knew. She beamed with delight at the +recollection, and she said no more. +</p> + +<p> +“But who says that our money is lost?” cried Pascal. +</p> + +<p> +“M. Grandguillot had a private fortune; he has not taken away with him +his house and his lands, I suppose. They will look into the affair; they will +make an investigation. I cannot make up my mind to believe him a common thief. +The only trouble is the delay: a liquidation drags on so long.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke in this way in order to reassure Clotilde, whose growing anxiety he +observed. She looked at him, and she looked around her at La Souleiade; her +only care his happiness; her most ardent desire to live here always, as she had +lived in the past, to love him always in this beloved solitude. And he, wishing +to tranquilize her, recovered his fine indifference; never having lived for +money, he did not imagine that one could suffer from the want of it. +</p> + +<p> +“But I have some money!” he cried, at last. “What does +Martine mean by saying that we have not a sou left, and that we are going to +die of starvation!” +</p> + +<p> +And he rose gaily, and made them both follow him saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, I am going to show you some money. And I will give some of +it to Martine that she may make us a good dinner this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +Upstairs in his room he triumphantly opened his desk before them. It was in a +drawer of this desk that for years past he had thrown the money which his later +patients had brought him of their own accord, for he had never sent them an +account. Nor had he ever known the exact amount of his little treasure, of the +gold and bank bills mingled together in confusion, from which he took the sums +he required for his pocket money, his experiments, his presents, and his alms. +During the last few months he had made frequent visits to his desk, making deep +inroads into its contents. But he had been so accustomed to find there the sums +he required, after years of economy during which he had spent scarcely +anything, that he had come to believe his savings inexhaustible. +</p> + +<p> +He gave a satisfied laugh, then, as he opened the drawer, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Now you shall see! Now you shall see!” +</p> + +<p> +And he was confounded, when, after searching among the heap of notes and bills, +he succeeded in collecting only a sum of 615 francs—two notes of 100 +francs each, 400 francs in gold, and 15 francs in change. He shook out the +papers, he felt in every corner of the drawer, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“But it cannot be! There was always money here before, there was a heap +of money here a few days ago. It must have been all those old bills that misled +me. I assure you that last week I saw a great deal of money. I had it in my +hand.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke with such amusing good faith, his childlike surprise was so sincere, +that Clotilde could not keep from smiling. Ah, the poor master, what a wretched +business man he was! Then, as she observed Martine’s look of anguish, her +utter despair at sight of this insignificant sum, which was now all there was +for the maintenance of all three, she was seized with a feeling of despair; her +eyes filled with tears, and she murmured: +</p> + +<p> +“My God, it is for me that you have spent everything; if we have nothing +now, if we are ruined, it is I who am the cause of it!” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal had already forgotten the money he had taken for the presents. Evidently +that was where it had gone. The explanation tranquilized him. And as she began +to speak in her grief of returning everything to the dealers, he grew angry. +</p> + +<p> +“Give back what I have given you! You would give a piece of my heart with +it, then! No, I would rather die of hunger, I tell you!” +</p> + +<p> +Then his confidence already restored, seeing a future of unlimited +possibilities opening out before him, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“Besides, we are not going to die of hunger to-night, are we, Martine? +There is enough here to keep us for a long time.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine shook her head. She would undertake to manage with it for two months, +for two and a half, perhaps, if people had sense, but not longer. Formerly the +drawer was replenished; there was always some money coming in; but now that +monsieur had given up his patients, they had absolutely no income. They must +not count on any help from outside, then. And she ended by saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Give me the two one-hundred-franc bills. I’ll try and make them +last for a month. Then we shall see. But be very prudent; don’t touch the +four hundred francs in gold; lock the drawer and don’t open it +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, as to that,” cried the doctor, “you may make your mind +easy. I would rather cut off my right hand.” +</p> + +<p> +And thus it was settled. Martine was to have entire control of this last purse; +and they might trust to her economy, they were sure that she would save the +centimes. As for Clotilde, who had never had a private purse, she would not +even feel the want of money. Pascal only would suffer from no longer having his +inexhaustible treasure to draw upon, but he had given his promise to allow the +servant to buy everything. +</p> + +<p> +“There! That is a good piece of work!” he said, relieved, as happy +as if he had just settled some important affair which would assure them a +living for a long time to come. +</p> + +<p> +A week passed during which nothing seemed to have changed at La Souleiade. In +the midst of their tender raptures neither Pascal nor Clotilde thought any more +of the want which was impending. And one morning during the absence of the +latter, who had gone with Martine to market, the doctor received a visit which +filled him at first with a sort of terror. It was from the woman who had sold +him the beautiful corsage of old point d’Alençon, his first present to +Clotilde. He felt himself so weak against a possible temptation that he +trembled. Even before the woman had uttered a word he had already begun to +defend himself—no, no, he neither could nor would buy anything. And with +outstretched hands he prevented her from taking anything out of her little bag, +declaring to himself that he would look at nothing. The dealer, however, a fat, +amiable woman, smiled, certain of victory. In an insinuating voice she began to +tell him a long story of how a lady, whom she was not at liberty to name, one +of the most distinguished ladies in Plassans, who had suddenly met with a +reverse of fortune, had been obliged to part with one of her jewels; and she +then enlarged on the splendid chance—a piece of jewelry that had cost +twelve hundred francs, and she was willing to let it go for five hundred. She +opened her bag slowly, in spite of the terrified and ever-louder protestations +of the doctor, and took from it a slender gold necklace set simply with seven +pearls in front; but the pearls were of wonderful brilliancy—flawless, +and perfect in shape. The ornament was simple, chaste, and of exquisite +delicacy. And instantly he saw in fancy the necklace on Clotilde’s +beautiful neck, as its natural adornment. Any other jewel would have been a +useless ornament, these pearls would be the fitting symbol of her youth. And he +took the necklace in his trembling fingers, experiencing a mortal anguish at +the idea of returning it. He defended himself still, however; he declared that +he had not five hundred francs, while the dealer continued, in her smooth +voice, to push the advantage she had gained. After another quarter an hour, +when she thought she had him secure, she suddenly offered him the necklace for +three hundred francs, and he yielded; his mania for giving, his desire to +please his idol, to adorn her, conquered. When he went to the desk to take the +fifteen gold pieces to count them out to the dealer, he felt convinced that the +notary’s affairs would be arranged, and that they would soon have plenty +of money. +</p> + +<p> +When Pascal found himself once more alone, with the ornament in his pocket, he +was seized with a childish delight, and he planned his little surprise, while +waiting, excited and impatient, for Clotilde’s return. The moment she +made her appearance his heart began to beat violently. She was very warm, for +an August sun was blazing in the sky, and she laid aside her things quickly, +pleased with her walk, telling him, laughing, of the good bargain Martine had +made—two pigeons for eighteen sous. While she was speaking he pretended +to notice something on her neck. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what have you on your neck? Let me see.” +</p> + +<p> +He had the necklace in his hand, and he succeeded in putting it around her +neck, while feigning to pass his fingers over it, to assure himself that there +was nothing there. But she resisted, saying gaily: +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t! There is nothing on my neck. Here, what are you doing? What +have you in your hand that is tickling me?” +</p> + +<p> +He caught hold of her, and drew her before the long mirror, in which she had a +full view of herself. On her neck the slender chain showed like a thread of +gold, and the seven pearls, like seven milky stars, shone with soft luster +against her satin skin. She looked charmingly childlike. Suddenly she gave a +delighted laugh, like the cooing of a dove swelling out its throat proudly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, master, master, how good you are! Do you think of nothing but me, +then? How happy you make me!” +</p> + +<p> +And the joy which shone in her eyes, the joy of the woman and the lover, happy +to be beautiful and to be adored, recompensed him divinely for his folly. +</p> + +<p> +She drew back her head, radiant, and held up her mouth to him. He bent over and +kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you happy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, master, happy, happy! Pearls are so sweet, so pure! And these +are so becoming to me!” +</p> + +<p> +For an instant longer she admired herself in the glass, innocently vain of her +fair flower-like skin, under the nacre drops of the pearls. Then, yielding to a +desire to show herself, hearing the servant moving about outside, she ran out, +crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Martine, Martine! See what master has just given me! Say, am I not +beautiful!” +</p> + +<p> +But all at once, seeing the old maid’s severe face, that had suddenly +turned an ashen hue, she became confused, and all her pleasure was spoiled. +Perhaps she had a consciousness of the jealous pang which her brilliant youth +caused this poor creature, worn out in the dumb resignation of her servitude, +in adoration of her master. This, however, was only a momentary feeling, +unconscious in the one, hardly suspected by the other, and what remained was +the evident disapprobation of the economical servant, condemning the present +with her sidelong glance. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde was seized with a little chill. +</p> + +<p> +“Only,” she murmured, “master has rummaged his desk again. +Pearls are very dear, are they not?” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, embarrassed, too, protested volubly, telling them of the splendid +opportunity presented by the dealer’s visit. An incredibly good stroke of +business—it was impossible to avoid buying the necklace. +</p> + +<p> +“How much?” asked the young girl with real anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +“Three hundred francs.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine, who had not yet opened her lips, but who looked terrible in her +silence, could not restrain a cry. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God! enough to live upon for six weeks, and we have not +bread!” +</p> + +<p> +Large tears welled from Clotilde’s eyes. She would have torn the necklace +from her neck if Pascal had not prevented her. She wished to give it to him on +the instant, and she faltered in heart-broken tones: +</p> + +<p> +“It is true, Martine is right. Master is mad, and I am mad, too, to keep +this for an instant, in the situation in which we are. It would burn my flesh. +Let me take it back, I beg of you.” +</p> + +<p> +Never would he consent to this, he said. Now his eyes, too, were moist, he +joined in their grief, crying that he was incorrigible, that they ought to have +taken all the money away from him. And running to the desk he took the hundred +francs that were left, and forced Martine to take them, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you that I will not keep another sou. I should spend this, too. +Take it, Martine; you are the only one of us who has any sense. You will make +the money last, I am very certain, until our affairs are settled. And you, +dear, keep that; do not grieve me.” +</p> + +<p> +Nothing more was said about this incident. But Clotilde kept the necklace, +wearing it under her gown; and there was a sort of delightful mystery in +feeling on her neck, unknown to every one, this simple, pretty ornament. +Sometimes, when they were alone, she would smile at Pascal and draw the pearls +from her dress quickly, and show them to him without a word; and as quickly she +would replace them again on her warm neck, filled with delightful emotion. It +was their fond folly which she thus recalled to him, with a confused gratitude, +a vivid and radiant joy—a joy which nevermore left her. +</p> + +<p> +A straitened existence, sweet in spite of everything, now began for them. +Martine made an exact inventory of the resources of the house, and it was not +reassuring. The provision of potatoes only promised to be of any importance. As +ill luck would have it, the jar of oil was almost out, and the last cask of +wine was also nearly empty. La Souleiade, having neither vines nor olive trees, +produced only a few vegetables and some fruits—pears, not yet ripe, and +trellis grapes, which were to be their only delicacies. And meat and bread had +to be bought every day. So that from the first day the servant put Pascal and +Clotilde on rations, suppressing the former sweets, creams, and pastry, and +reducing the food to the quantity barely necessary to sustain life. She resumed +all her former authority, treating them like children who were not to be +consulted, even with regard to their wishes or their tastes. It was she who +arranged the menus, who knew better than themselves what they wanted; but all +this like a mother, surrounding them with unceasing care, performing the +miracle of enabling them to live still with comfort on their scanty resources; +occasionally severe with them, for their own good, as one is severe with a +child when it refuses to eat its food. And it seemed as if this maternal care, +this last immolation, the illusory peace with which she surrounded their love, +gave her, too, a little happiness, and drew her out of the dumb despair into +which she had fallen. Since she had thus watched over them she had begun to +look like her old self, with her little white face, the face of a nun vowed to +chastity; her calm ash-colored eyes, which expressed the resignation of her +thirty years of servitude. When, after the eternal potatoes and the little +cutlet at four sous, undistinguishable among the vegetables, she was able, on +certain days, without compromising her budget, to give them pancakes, she was +triumphant, she laughed to see them laugh. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal and Clotilde thought everything she did was right, which did not prevent +them, however, from jesting about her when she was not present. The old jests +about her avarice were repeated over and over again. They said that she counted +the grains of pepper, so many grains for each dish, in her passion for economy. +When the potatoes had too little oil, when the cutlets were reduced to a +mouthful, they would exchange a quick glance, stifling their laughter in their +napkins, until she had left the room. Everything was a source of amusement to +them, and they laughed innocently at their misery. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of the first month Pascal thought of Martine’s wages. Usually +she took her forty francs herself from the common purse which she kept. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor girl,” he said to her one evening, “what are you +going to do for your wages, now that we have no more money?” +</p> + +<p> +She remained for a moment with her eyes fixed on the ground, with an air of +consternation, then she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, monsieur, I must only wait.” +</p> + +<p> +But he saw that she had not said all that was in her mind, that she had thought +of some arrangement which she did not know how to propose to him, so he +encouraged her. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, if monsieur would consent to it, I should like monsieur to +sign me a paper.” +</p> + +<p> +“How, a paper?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, a paper, in which monsieur should say, every month, that he owes me +forty francs.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal at once made out the paper for her, and this made her quite happy. She +put it away as carefully as if it had been real money. This evidently +tranquilized her. But the paper became a new subject of wondering amusement to +the doctor and his companion. In what did the extraordinary power consist which +money has on certain natures? This old maid, who would serve him on bended +knees, who adored him above everything, to the extent of having devoted to him +her whole life, to ask for this silly guarantee, this scrap of paper which was +of no value, if he should be unable to pay her. +</p> + +<p> +So far neither Pascal nor Clotilde had any great merit in preserving their +serenity in misfortune, for they did not feel it. They lived high above it, in +the rich and happy realm of their love. At table they did not know what they +were eating; they might fancy they were partaking of a princely banquet, served +on silver dishes. They were unconscious of the increasing destitution around +them, of the hunger of the servant who lived upon the crumbs from their table; +and they walked through the empty house as through a palace hung with silk and +filled with riches. This was undoubtedly the happiest period of their love. The +workroom had pleasant memories of the past, and they spent whole days there, +wrapped luxuriously in the joy of having lived so long in it together. Then, +out of doors, in every corner of La Souleiade, royal summer had set up his blue +tent, dazzling with gold. In the morning, in the embalsamed walks on the pine +grove; at noon under the dark shadow of the plane trees, lulled by the murmur +of the fountain; in the evening on the cool terrace, or in the still warm +threshing yard bathed in the faint blue radiance of the first stars, they lived +with rapture their straitened life, their only ambition to live always +together, indifferent to all else. The earth was theirs, with all its riches, +its pomps, and its dominions, since they loved each other. +</p> + +<p> +Toward the end of August however, matters grew bad again. At times they had +rude awakenings, in the midst of this life without ties, without duties, +without work; this life which was so sweet, but which it would be impossible, +hurtful, they knew, to lead always. One evening Martine told them that she had +only fifty francs left, and that they would have difficulty in managing for two +weeks longer, even giving up wine. In addition to this the news was very +serious; the notary Grandguillot was beyond a doubt insolvent, so that not even +the personal creditors would receive anything. In the beginning they had relied +on the house and the two farms which the fugitive notary had left perforce +behind him, but it was now certain that this property was in his wife’s +name and, while he was enjoying in Switzerland, as it was said, the beauty of +the mountains, she lived on one of the farms, which she cultivated quietly, +away from the annoyances of the liquidation. In short, it was infamous—a +hundred families ruined; left without bread. An assignee had indeed been +appointed, but he had served only to confirm the disaster, since not a centime +of assets had been discovered. And Pascal, with his usual indifference, +neglected even to go and see him to speak to him about his own case, thinking +that he already knew all that there was to be known about it, and that it was +useless to stir up this ugly business, since there was neither honor nor profit +to be derived from it. +</p> + +<p> +Then, indeed, the future looked threatening at La Souleiade. Black want stared +them in the face. And Clotilde, who, in reality, had a great deal of good +sense, was the first to take alarm. She maintained her cheerfulness while +Pascal was present, but, more prescient than he, in her womanly tenderness, she +fell into a state of absolute terror if he left her for an instant, asking +herself what was to become of him at his age with so heavy a burden upon his +shoulders. For several days she cherished in secret a project—to work and +earn money, a great deal of money, with her pastels. People had so often +praised her extraordinary and original talent that, taking Martine into her +confidence, she sent her one fine morning to offer some of her fantastic +bouquets to the color dealer of the Cours Sauvaire, who was a relation, it was +said, of a Parisian artist. It was with the express condition that nothing was +to be exhibited in Plassans, that everything was to be sent to a distance. But +the result was disastrous; the merchant was frightened by the strangeness of +the design, and by the fantastic boldness of the execution, and he declared +that they would never sell. This threw her into despair; great tears welled her +eyes. Of what use was she? It was a grief and a humiliation to be good for +nothing. And the servant was obliged to console her, saying that no doubt all +women were not born for work; that some grew like the flowers in the gardens, +for the sake of their fragrance; while others were the wheat of the fields that +is ground up and used for food. +</p> + +<p> +Martine, meantime, cherished another project; it was to urge the doctor to +resume his practise. At last she mentioned it to Clotilde, who at once pointed +out to her the difficulty, the impossibility almost, of such an attempt. She +and Pascal had been talking about his doing so only the day before. He, too, +was anxious, and had thought of work as the only chance of salvation. The idea +of opening an office again was naturally the first that had presented itself to +him. But he had been for so long a time the physician of the poor! How could he +venture now to ask payment when it was so many years since he had left off +doing so? Besides, was it not too late, at his age, to recommence a career? not +to speak of the absurd rumors that had been circulating about him, the name +which they had given him of a crack-brained genius. He would not find a single +patient now, it would be a useless cruelty to force him to make an attempt +which would assuredly result only in a lacerated heart and empty hands. +Clotilde, on the contrary, had used all her influence to turn him from the +idea. Martine comprehended the reasonableness of these objections, and she too +declared that he must be prevented from running the risk of so great a chagrin. +But while she was speaking a new idea occurred to her, as she suddenly +remembered an old register, which she had met with in a press, and in which she +had in former times entered the doctor’s visits. For a long time it was +she who had kept the accounts. There were so many patients who had never paid +that a list of them filled three of the large pages of the register. Why, then, +now that they had fallen into misfortune, should they not ask from these people +the money which they justly owed? It might be done without saying anything to +monsieur, who had never been willing to appeal to the law. And this time +Clotilde approved of her idea. It was a perfect conspiracy. Clotilde consulted +the register, and made out the bills, and the servant presented them. But +nowhere did she receive a sou; they told her at every door that they would look +over the account; that they would stop in and see the doctor himself. Ten days +passed, no one came, and there were now only six francs in the house, barely +enough to live upon for two or three days longer. +</p> + +<p> +Martine, when she returned with empty hands on the following day from a new +application to an old patient, took Clotilde aside and told her that she had +just been talking with Mme. Félicité at the corner of the Rue de la Banne. The +latter had undoubtedly been watching for her. She had not again set foot in La +Souleiade. Not even the misfortune which had befallen her son—the sudden +loss of his money, of which the whole town was talking—had brought her to +him; she still continued stern and indignant. But she waited in trembling +excitement, she maintained her attitude as an offended mother only in the +certainty that she would at last have Pascal at her feet, shrewdly calculating +that he would sooner or later be compelled to appeal to her for assistance. +When he had not a sou left, when he knocked at her door, then she would dictate +her terms; he should marry Clotilde, or, better still, she would demand the +departure of the latter. But the days passed, and he did not come. And this was +why she had stopped Martine, assuming a pitying air, asking what news there +was, and seeming to be surprised that they had not had recourse to her purse, +while giving it to be understood that her dignity forbade her to take the first +step. +</p> + +<p> +“You should speak to monsieur, and persuade him,” ended the +servant. And indeed, why should he not appeal to his mother? That would be +entirely natural. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! never would I undertake such a commission,” cried Clotilde. +“Master would be angry, and with reason. I truly believe he would die of +starvation before he would eat grandmother’s bread.” +</p> + +<p> +But on the evening of the second day after this, at dinner, as Martine was +putting on the table a piece of boiled beef left over from the day before, she +gave them notice. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no more money, monsieur, and to-morrow there will be only +potatoes, without oil or butter. It is three weeks now that you have had only +water to drink; now you will have to do without meat.” +</p> + +<p> +They were still cheerful, they could still jest. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you salt, my good girl?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that; yes, monsieur, there is still a little left.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, potatoes and salt are very good when one is hungry.” +</p> + +<p> +That night, however, Pascal noticed that Clotilde was feverish; this was the +hour in which they exchanged confidences, and she ventured to tell him of her +anxiety on his account, on her own, on that of the whole house. What was going +to become of them when all their resources should be exhausted? For a moment +she thought of speaking to him of his mother. But she was afraid, and she +contented herself with confessing to him what she and Martine had +done—the old register examined, the bills made out and sent, the money +asked everywhere in vain. In other circumstances he would have been greatly +annoyed and very angry at this confession; offended that they should have acted +without his knowledge, and contrary to the attitude he had maintained during +his whole professional life. He remained for a long tine silent, strongly +agitated, and this would have sufficed to prove how great must be his secret +anguish at times, under his apparent indifference to poverty. Then he forgave +Clotilde, clasping her wildly to his breast, and finally he said that she had +done right, that they could not continue to live much longer as they were +living, in a destitution which increased every day. Then they fell into +silence, each trying to think of a means of procuring the money necessary for +their daily wants, each suffering keenly; she, desperate at the thought of the +tortures that awaited him; he unable to accustom himself to the idea of seeing +her wanting bread. Was their happiness forever ended, then? Was poverty going +to blight their spring with its chill breath? +</p> + +<p> +At breakfast, on the following day, they ate only fruit. The doctor was very +silent during the morning, a prey to a visible struggle. And it was not until +three o’clock that he took a resolution. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, we must stir ourselves,” he said to his companion. “I +do not wish you to fast this evening again; so put on your hat, we will go out +together.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him, waiting for an explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, since they owe us money, and have refused to give it to you, I will +see whether they will also refuse to give it to me.” +</p> + +<p> +His hands trembled; the thought of demanding payment in this way, after so many +years, evidently made him suffer terribly; but he forced a smile, he affected +to be very brave. And she, who knew from the trembling of his voice the extent +of his sacrifice, had tears in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, master; don’t go if it makes you suffer so much. Martine +can go again.” +</p> + +<p> +But the servant, who was present, approved highly of monsieur’s +intention. +</p> + +<p> +“And why should not monsieur go? There’s no shame in asking what is +owed to one, is there? Every one should have his own; for my part, I think it +quite right that monsieur should show at last that he is a man.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, as before, in their hours of happiness, old King David, as Pascal +jestingly called himself, left the house, leaning on Abishag’s arm. +Neither of them was yet in rags; he still wore his tightly buttoned overcoat; +she had on her pretty linen gown with red spots, but doubtless the +consciousness of their poverty lowered them in their own estimation, making +them feel that they were now only two poor people who occupied a very +insignificant place in the world, for they walked along by the houses, shunning +observation. The sunny streets were almost deserted. A few curious glances +embarrassed them. They did not hasten their steps, however; only their hearts +were oppressed at the thought of the visits they were about to make. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal resolved to begin with an old magistrate whom he had treated for an +affection of the liver. He entered the house, leaving Clotilde sitting on the +bench in the Cours Sauvaire. But he was greatly relieved when the magistrate, +anticipating his demand, told him that he did not receive his rents until +October, and that he would pay him then. At the house of an old lady of +seventy, a paralytic, the rebuff was of a different kind. She was offended +because her account had been sent to her through a servant who had been +impolite; so that he hastened to offer her his excuses, giving her all the time +she desired. Then he climbed up three flights of stairs to the apartment of a +clerk in the tax collector’s office, whom he found still ill, and so poor +that he did not even venture to make his demand. Then followed a mercer, a +lawyer’s wife, an oil merchant, a baker—all well-to-do people; and +all turned him away, some with excuses, others by denying him admittance; a few +even pretended not to know what he meant. There remained the Marquise de +Valqueyras, the sole representative of a very ancient family, a widow with a +girl of ten, who was very rich, and whose avarice was notorious. He had left +her for the last, for he was greatly afraid of her. Finally he knocked at the +door of her ancient mansion, at the foot of the Cours Sauvaire, a massive +structure of the time of Mazarin. He remained so long in the house that +Clotilde, who was walking under the trees, at last became uneasy. +</p> + +<p> +When he finally made his appearance, at the end of a full half hour, she said +jestingly, greatly relieved: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what was the matter? Had she no money?” +</p> + +<p> +But here, too, he had been unsuccessful; she complained that her tenants did +not pay her. +</p> + +<p> +“Imagine,” he continued, in explanation of his long absence, +“the little girl is ill. I am afraid that it is the beginning of a +gastric fever. So she wished me to see the child, and I examined her.” +</p> + +<p> +A smile which she could not suppress came to Clotilde’s lips. +</p> + +<p> +“And you prescribed for her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course; could I do otherwise?” +</p> + +<p> +She took his arm again, deeply affected, and he felt her press it against her +heart. For a time they walked on aimlessly. It was all over; they had knocked +at every debtor’s door, and nothing now remained for them to do but to +return home with empty hands. But this Pascal refused to do, determined that +Clotilde should have something more than the potatoes and water which awaited +them. When they ascended the Cours Sauvaire, they turned to the left, to the +new town; drifting now whither cruel fate led them. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” said Pascal at last; “I have an idea. If I were to +speak to Ramond he would willingly lend us a thousand francs, which we could +return to him when our affairs are arranged.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer at once. Ramond, whom she had rejected, who was now married +and settled in a house in the new town, in a fair way to become the fashionable +physician of the place, and to make a fortune! She knew, indeed, that he had a +magnanimous soul and a kind heart. If he had not visited them again it had been +undoubtedly through delicacy. Whenever they chanced to meet, he saluted them +with so admiring an air, he seemed so pleased to see their happiness. +</p> + +<p> +“Would that be disagreeable to you?” asked Pascal ingenuously. For +his part, he would have thrown open to the young physician his house, his +purse, and his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she answered quickly. “There has never been +anything between us but affection and frankness. I think I gave him a great +deal of pain, but he has forgiven me. You are right; we have no other friend. +It is to Ramond that we must apply.” +</p> + +<p> +Ill luck pursued them, however. Ramond was absent from home, attending a +consultation at Marseilles, and he would not be back until the following +evening. And it young Mme. Ramond, an old friend of Clotilde’s, some +three years her junior, who received them. She seemed a little embarrassed, but +she was very amiable, notwithstanding. But the doctor, naturally, did not +prefer his request, and contented himself with saying, in explanation of his +visit, that he had missed Ramond. When they were in the street again, Pascal +and Clotilde felt themselves once more abandoned and alone. Where now should +they turn? What new effort should they make? And they walked on again +aimlessly. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not tell you, master,” Clotilde at last ventured to murmur, +“but it seems that Martine met grandmother the other day. Yes, +grandmother has been uneasy about us. She asked Martine why we did not go to +her, if we were in want. And see, here is her house.” +</p> + +<p> +They were in fact, in the Rue de la Banne. They could see the corner of the +Place de la Sous-Préfecture. But he at once silenced her. +</p> + +<p> +“Never, do you hear! Nor shall you go either. You say that because it +grieves you to see me in this poverty. My heart, too, is heavy, to think that +you also are in want, that you also suffer. But it is better to suffer than to +do a thing that would leave one an eternal remorse. I will not. I +cannot.” +</p> + +<p> +They emerged from the Rue de la Banne, and entered the old quarter. +</p> + +<p> +“I would a thousand times rather apply to a stranger. Perhaps we still +have friends, even if they are only among the poor.” +</p> + +<p> +And resolved to beg, David continued his walk, leaning on the arm of Abishag; +the old mendicant king went from door to door, leaning on the shoulder of the +loving subject whose youth was now his only support. It was almost six +o’clock; the heat had abated; the narrow streets were filling with +people; and in this populous quarter where they were loved, they were +everywhere greeted with smiles. Something of pity was mingled with the +admiration they awakened, for every one knew of their ruin. But they seemed of +a nobler beauty than before, he all white, she all blond, pressing close to +each other in their misfortune. They seemed more united, more one with each +other than ever; holding their heads erect, proud of their glorious love, +though touched by misfortune; he shaken, while she, with a courageous heart, +sustained him. And in spite of the poverty that had so suddenly overtaken them +they walked without shame, very poor and very great, with the sorrowful smile +under which they concealed the desolation of their souls. Workmen in dirty +blouses passed them by, who had more money in their pockets than they. No one +ventured to offer them the sou which is not refused to those who are hungry. At +the Rue Canoquin they stopped at the house of Gulraude. She had died the week +before. Two other attempts which they made failed. They were reduced now to +consider where they could borrow ten francs. They had been walking about the +town for three hours, but they could not resolve to go home empty-handed. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, this Plassans, with its Cours Sauvaire, its Rue de Rome, and its Rue de la +Banne, dividing it into three quarters; this Plassans; with its windows always +closed, this sun-baked town, dead in appearance, but which concealed under this +sleeping surface a whole nocturnal life of the clubhouse and the gaming table. +They walked through it three times more with slackened pace, on this clear, +calm close of a glowing August day. In the yard of the coach office a few old +stage-coaches, which still plied between the town and the mountain villages, +were standing unharnessed; and under the thick shade of the plane trees at the +doors of the cafes, the customers, who were to be seen from seven o’clock +in the morning, looked after them smiling. In the new town, too, the servants +came and stood at the doors of the wealthy houses; they met with less sympathy +here than in the deserted streets of the Quartier St. Marc, whose antique +houses maintained a friendly silence. They returned to the heart of the old +quarter where they were most liked; they went as far as St. Saturnin, the +cathedral, whose apse was shaded by the garden of the chapter, a sweet and +peaceful solitude, from which a beggar drove them by himself asking an alms +from them. They were building rapidly in the neighborhood of the railway +station; a new quarter was growing up there, and they bent their steps in that +direction. Then they returned a last time to the Place de la Sous-Préfecture, +with a sudden reawakening of hope, thinking that they might meet some one who +would offer them money. But they were followed only by the indulgent smile of +the town, at seeing them so united and so beautiful. Only one woman had tears +in her eyes, foreseeing, perhaps, the sufferings that awaited them. The stones +of the Viorne, the little sharp paving stones, wounded their feet. And they had +at last to return to La Souleiade, without having succeeded in obtaining +anything, the old mendicant king and his submissive subject; Abishag, in the +flower of her youth, leading back David, old and despoiled of his wealth, and +weary from having walked the streets in vain. +</p> + +<p> +It was eight o’clock, and Martine, who was waiting for them, comprehended +that she would have no cooking to do this evening. She pretended that she had +dined, and as she looked ill Pascal sent her at once to bed. +</p> + +<p> +“We do not need you,” said Clotilde. “As the potatoes are on +the fire we can take them up very well ourselves.” +</p> + +<p> +The servant, who was feverish and out of humor, yielded. She muttered some +indistinct words—when people had eaten up everything what was the use of +sitting down to table? Then, before shutting herself into her room, she added: +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur, there is no more hay for Bonhomme. I thought he was looking +badly a little while ago; monsieur ought to go and see him.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal and Clotilde, filled with uneasiness, went to the stable. The old horse +was, in fact, lying on the straw in the somnolence of expiring old age. They +had not taken him out for six months past, for his legs, stiff with rheumatism, +refused to support him, and he had become completely blind. No one could +understand why the doctor kept the old beast. Even Martine had at last said +that he ought to be slaughtered, if only through pity. But Pascal and Clotilde +cried out at this, as much excited as if it had been proposed to them to put an +end to some aged relative who was not dying fast enough. No, no, he had served +them for more than a quarter of a century; he should die comfortably with them, +like the worthy fellow he had always been. And to-night the doctor did not +scorn to examine him, as if he had never attended any other patients than +animals. He lifted up his hoofs, looked at his gums, and listened to the +beating of his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“No, there is nothing the matter with him,” he said at last. +“It is simply old age. Ah, my poor old fellow, I think, indeed, we shall +never again travel the roads together.” +</p> + +<p> +The idea that there was no more hay distressed Clotilde. But Pascal reassured +her—an animal of that age, that no longer moved about, needed so little. +She stooped down and took a few handfuls of grass from a heap which the servant +had left there, and both were rejoiced when Bonhomme deigned, solely and simply +through friendship, as it seemed, to eat the grass out of her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, laughing, “so you still have an appetite! You +cannot be very sick, then; you must not try to work upon our feelings. Good +night, and sleep well.” +</p> + +<p> +And they left him to his slumbers after having each given him, as usual, a +hearty kiss on either side of his nose. +</p> + +<p> +Night fell, and an idea occurred to them, in order not to remain downstairs in +the empty house—to close up everything and eat their dinner upstairs. +Clotilde quickly took up the dish of potatoes, the salt-cellar, and a fine +decanter of water; while Pascal took charge of a basket of grapes, the first +which they had yet gathered from an early vine at the foot of the terrace. They +closed the door, and laid the cloth on a little table, putting the potatoes in +the middle between the salt-cellar and the decanter, and the basket of grapes +on a chair beside them. And it was a wonderful feast, which reminded them of +the delicious breakfast they had made on the morning on which Martine had +obstinately shut herself up in her room, and refused to answer them. They +experienced the same delight as then at being alone, at waiting upon +themselves, at eating from the same plate, sitting close beside each other. +This evening, which they had anticipated with so much dread, had in store for +them the most delightful hours of their existence. As soon as they found +themselves at home in the large friendly room, as far removed from the town +which they had just been scouring as if they had been a hundred leagues away +from it, all uneasiness and all sadness vanished—even to the recollection +of the wretched afternoon wasted in useless wanderings. They were once more +indifferent to all that was not their affection; they no longer remembered that +they had lost their fortune; that they might have to hunt up a friend on the +morrow in order to be able to dine in the evening. Why torture themselves with +fears of coming want, when all they required to enjoy the greatest possible +happiness was to be together? +</p> + +<p> +But Pascal felt a sudden terror. +</p> + +<p> +“My God! and we dreaded this evening so greatly! Is it wise to be happy +in this way? Who knows what to-morrow may have in store for us?” +</p> + +<p> +But she put her little hand over his mouth; she desired that he should have one +more evening of perfect happiness. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; to-morrow we shall love each other as we love each other to-day. +Love me with all your strength, as I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +And never had they eaten with more relish. She displayed the appetite of a +healthy young girl with a good digestion; she ate the potatoes with a hearty +appetite, laughing, thinking them delicious, better than the most vaunted +delicacies. He, too, recovered the appetite of his youthful days. They drank +with delight deep draughts of pure water. Then the grapes for dessert filled +them with admiration; these grapes so fresh, this blood of the earth which the +sun had touched with gold. They ate to excess; they became drunk on water and +fruit, and more than all on gaiety. They did not remember ever before to have +enjoyed such a feast together; even the famous breakfast they had made, with +its luxuries of cutlets and bread and wine, had not given them this +intoxication, this joy in living, when to be together was happiness enough, +changing the china to dishes of gold, and the miserable food to celestial fare +such as not even the gods enjoyed. +</p> + +<p> +It was now quite dark, but they did not light the lamp. Through the wide open +windows they could see the vast summer sky. The night breeze entered, still +warm and laden with a faint odor of lavender. The moon had just risen above the +horizon, large and round, flooding the room with a silvery light, in which they +saw each other as in a dream light infinitely bright and sweet. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"></a> +XI.</h2> + +<p> +But on the following day their disquietude all returned. They were now obliged +to go in debt. Martine obtained on credit bread, wine, and a little meat, much +to her shame, be it said, forced as she was to maneuver and tell lies, for no +one was ignorant of the ruin that had overtaken the house. The doctor had +indeed thought of mortgaging La Souleiade, but only as a last resource. All he +now possessed was this property, which was worth twenty thousand francs, but +for which he would perhaps not get fifteen thousand, if he should sell it; and +when these should be spent black want would be before them, the street, without +even a stone of their own on which to lay their heads. Clotilde therefore +begged Pascal to wait and not to take any irrevocable step so long as things +were not utterly desperate. +</p> + +<p> +Three or four days passed. It was the beginning of September, and the weather +unfortunately changed; terrible storms ravaged the entire country; a part of +the garden wall was blown down, and as Pascal was unable to rebuild it, the +yawning breach remained. Already they were beginning to be rude at the +baker’s. And one morning the old servant came home with the meat from the +butcher’s in tears, saying that he had given her the refuse. A few days +more and they would be unable to obtain anything on credit. It had become +absolutely necessary to consider how they should find the money for their small +daily expenses. +</p> + +<p> +One Monday morning, the beginning of another week of torture, Clotilde was very +restless. A struggle seemed to be going on within her, and it was only when she +saw Pascal refuse at breakfast his share of a piece of beef which had been left +over from the day before that she at last came to a decision. Then with a calm +and resolute air, she went out after breakfast with Martine, after quietly +putting into the basket of the latter a little package—some articles of +dress which she was giving her, she said. +</p> + +<p> +When she returned two hours later she was very pale. But her large eyes, so +clear and frank, were shining. She went up to the doctor at once and made her +confession. +</p> + +<p> +“I must ask your forgiveness, master, for I have just been disobeying +you, and I know that I am going to pain you greatly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what have you been doing?” he asked uneasily, not +understanding what she meant. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly, without removing her eyes from him, she drew from her pocket an +envelope, from which she took some bank-notes. A sudden intuition enlightened +him, and he cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my God! the jewels, the presents I gave you!” +</p> + +<p> +And he, who was usually so good-tempered and gentle, was convulsed with grief +and anger. He seized her hands in his, crushing with almost brutal force the +fingers which held the notes. +</p> + +<p> +“My God! what have you done, unhappy girl? It is my heart that you have +sold, both our hearts, that had entered into those jewels, which you have given +with them for money! The jewels which I gave you, the souvenirs of our divinest +hours, your property, yours only, how can you wish me to take them back, to +turn them to my profit? Can it be possible—have you thought of the +anguish that this would give me?” +</p> + +<p> +“And you, master,” she answered gently, “do you think that I +could consent to our remaining in the unhappy situation in which we are, in +want of everything, while I had these rings and necklaces and earrings laid +away in the bottom of a drawer? Why, my whole being would rise in protest. I +should think myself a miser, a selfish wretch, if I had kept them any longer. +And, although it was a grief for me to part with them—ah, yes, I confess +it, so great a grief that I could hardly find the courage to do it—I am +certain that I have only done what I ought to have done as an obedient and +loving woman.” +</p> + +<p> +And as he still grasped her hands, tears came to her eyes, and she added in the +same gentle voice and with a faint smile: +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t press so hard; you hurt me.” +</p> + +<p> +Then repentant and deeply moved, Pascal, too, wept. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a brute to get angry in this way. You acted rightly; you could not +do otherwise. But forgive me; it was hard for me to see you despoil yourself. +Give me your hands, your poor hands, and let me kiss away the marks of my +stupid violence.” +</p> + +<p> +He took her hands again in his tenderly; he covered them with kisses; he +thought them inestimably precious, so delicate and bare, thus stripped of their +rings. Consoled now, and joyous, she told him of her escapade—how she had +taken Martine into her confidence, and how both had gone to the dealer who had +sold him the corsage of point d’Alençon, and how after interminable +examining and bargaining the woman had given six thousand francs for all the +jewels. Again he repressed a gesture of despair—six thousand francs! when +the jewels had cost him more than three times that amount—twenty thousand +francs at the very least. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” he said to her at last; “I will take this money, +since, in the goodness of your heart, you have brought it to me. But it is +clearly understood that it is yours. I swear to you that I will, for the +future, be more miserly than Martine herself. I will give her only the few sous +that are absolutely necessary for our maintenance, and you will find in the +desk all that may be left of this sum, if I should never be able to complete it +and give it back to you entire.” +</p> + +<p> +He clasped her in an embrace that still trembled with emotion. Presently, +lowering his voice to a whisper, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“And did you sell everything, absolutely everything?” +</p> + +<p> +Without speaking, she disengaged herself a little from his embrace, and put her +fingers to her throat, with her pretty gesture, smiling and blushing. Finally, +she drew out the slender chain on which shone the seven pearls, like milky +stars. Then she put it back again out of sight. +</p> + +<p> +He, too, blushed, and a great joy filled his heart. He embraced her +passionately. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he cried, “how good you are, and how I love you!” +</p> + +<p> +But from this time forth the recollection of the jewels which had been sold +rested like a weight upon his heart; and he could not look at the money in his +desk without pain. He was haunted by the thought of approaching want, +inevitable want, and by a still more bitter thought—the thought of his +age, of his sixty years which rendered him useless, incapable of earning a +comfortable living for a wife; he had been suddenly and rudely awakened from +his illusory dream of eternal love to the disquieting reality. He had fallen +unexpectedly into poverty, and he felt himself very old—this terrified +him and filled him with a sort of remorse, of desperate rage against himself, +as if he had been guilty of a crime. And this embittered his every hour; if +through momentary forgetfulness he permitted himself to indulge in a little +gaiety his distress soon returned with greater poignancy than ever, bringing +with it a sudden and inexplicable sadness. He did not dare to question himself, +and his dissatisfaction with himself and his suffering increased every day. +</p> + +<p> +Then a frightful revelation came to him. One morning, when he was alone, he +received a letter bearing the Plassans postmark, the superscription on which he +examined with surprise, not recognizing the writing. This letter was not +signed; and after reading a few lines he made an angry movement as if to tear +it up and throw it away; but he sat down trembling instead, and read it to the +end. The style was perfectly courteous; the long phrases rolled on, measured +and carefully worded, like diplomatic phrases, whose only aim is to convince. +It was demonstrated to him with a superabundance of arguments that the scandal +of La Souleiade had lasted too long already. If passion, up to a certain point, +explained the fault, yet a man of his age and in his situation was rendering +himself contemptible by persisting in wrecking the happiness of the young +relative whose trustfulness he abused. No one was ignorant of the ascendency +which he had acquired over her; it was admitted that she gloried in sacrificing +herself for him; but ought he not, on his side, to comprehend that it was +impossible that she should love an old man, that what she felt was merely pity +and gratitude, and that it was high time to deliver her from this senile love, +which would finally leave her with a dishonored name! Since he could not even +assure her a small fortune, the writer hoped he would act like an honorable +man, and have the strength to separate from her, through consideration for her +happiness, if it were not yet too late. And the letter concluded with the +reflection that evil conduct was always punished in the end. +</p> + +<p> +From the first sentence Pascal felt that this anonymous letter came from his +mother. Old Mme. Rougon must have dictated it; he could hear in it the very +inflections of her voice. But after having begun the letter angry and +indignant, he finished it pale and trembling, seized by the shiver which now +passed through him continually and without apparent cause. The letter was +right, it enlightened him cruelly regarding the source of his mental distress, +showing him that it was remorse for keeping Clotilde with him, old and poor as +he was. He got up and walked over to a mirror, before which he stood for a long +time, his eyes gradually filling with tears of despair at sight of his wrinkles +and his white beard. The feeling of terror which arose within him, the mortal +chill which invaded his heart, was caused by the thought that separation had +become necessary, inevitable. He repelled the thought, he felt that he would +never have the strength for a separation, but it still returned; he would never +now pass a single day without being assailed by it, without being torn by the +struggle between his love and his reason until the terrible day when he should +become resigned, his strength and his tears exhausted. In his present weakness, +he trembled merely at the thought of one day having this courage. And all was +indeed over, the irrevocable had begun; he was filled with fear for Clotilde, +so young and so beautiful, and all there was left him now was the duty of +saving her from himself. +</p> + +<p> +Then, haunted by every word, by every phrase of the letter, he tortured himself +at first by trying to persuade himself that she did not love him, that all she +felt for him was pity and gratitude. It would make the rupture more easy to +him, he thought, if he were once convinced that she sacrificed herself, and +that in keeping her with him longer he was only gratifying his monstrous +selfishness. But it was in vain that he studied her, that he subjected her to +proofs, she remained as tender and devoted as ever, making the dreaded decision +still more difficult. Then he pondered over all the causes that vaguely, but +ceaselessly urged their separation. The life which they had been leading for +months past, this life without ties or duties, without work of any sort, was +not good. He thought no longer of himself, he considered himself good for +nothing now but to go away and bury himself out of sight in some remote corner; +but for her was it not an injurious life, a life which would deteriorate her +character and weaken her will? And suddenly he saw himself in fancy dying, +leaving her alone to perish of hunger in the streets. No, no! this would be a +crime; he could not, for the sake of the happiness of his few remaining days, +bequeath to her this heritage of shame and misery. +</p> + +<p> +One morning Clotilde went for a walk in the neighborhood, from which she +returned greatly agitated, pale and trembling, and as soon as she was upstairs +in the workroom, she almost fainted in Pascal’s arms, faltering: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my God! oh, my God! those women!” +</p> + +<p> +Terrified, he pressed her with questions. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, tell me! What has happened?” +</p> + +<p> +A flush mounted to her face. She flung her arms around his neck and hid her +head on his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“It was those women! Reaching a shady spot, I was closing my parasol, and +I had the misfortune to throw down a child. And they all rose against me, +crying out such things, oh, such things—things that I cannot repeat, that +I could not understand!” +</p> + +<p> +She burst into sobs. He was livid; he could find nothing to say to her; he +kissed her wildly, weeping like herself. He pictured to himself the whole +scene; he saw her pursued, hooted at, reviled. Presently he faltered: +</p> + +<p> +“It is my fault, it is through me you suffer. Listen, we will go away +from here, far, far away, where we shall not be known, where you will be +honored, where you will be happy.” +</p> + +<p> +But seeing him weep, she recovered her calmness by a violent effort. And drying +her tears, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I have behaved like a coward in telling you all this. After +promising myself that I would say nothing of it to you. But when I found myself +at home again, my anguish was so great that it all came out. But you see now it +is all over, don’t grieve about it. I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled, and putting her arms about him she kissed him in her turn, trying +to soothe his despair. +</p> + +<p> +“I love you. I love you so dearly that it will console me for everything. +There is only you in the world, what matters anything that is not you? You are +so good; you make me so happy!” +</p> + +<p> +But he continued to weep, and she, too, began to weep again, and there was a +moment of infinite sadness, of anguish, in which they mingled their kisses and +their tears. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, when she left him alone for an instant, thought himself a wretch. He +could no longer be the cause of misfortune to this child, whom he adored. And +on the evening of the same day an event took place which brought about the +solution hitherto sought in vain, with the fear of finding it. After dinner +Martine beckoned him aside, and gave him a letter, with all sorts of +precautions, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I met Mme. Félicité, and she charged me to give you this letter, +monsieur, and she told me to tell you that she would have brought it to you +herself, only that regard for her reputation prevented her from returning here. +She begs you to send her back M. Maxime’s letter, letting her know +mademoiselle’s answer.” +</p> + +<p> +It was, in fact, a letter from Maxime, and Mme. Félicité, glad to have received +it, used it as a new means of conquering her son, after having waited in vain +for misery to deliver him up to her, repentant and imploring. As neither Pascal +nor Clotilde had come to demand aid or succor from her, she had once more +changed her plan, returning to her old idea of separating them; and, this time, +the opportunity seemed to her decisive. Maxime’s letter was a pressing +one; he urged his grandmother to plead his cause with his sister. Ataxia had +declared itself; he was able to walk now only leaning on his servant’s +arm. His solitude terrified him, and he urgently entreated his sister to come +to him. He wished to have her with him as a rampart against his father’s +abominable designs; as a sweet and upright woman after all, who would take care +of him. The letter gave it to be understood that if she conducted herself well +toward him she would have no reason to repent it; and ended by reminding the +young girl of the promise she had made him, at the time of his visit to +Plassans, to come to him, if the day ever arrived when he really needed her. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal turned cold. He read the four pages over again. Here an opportunity to +separate presented itself, acceptable to him and advantageous for Clotilde, so +easy and so natural that they ought to accept it at once; yet, in spite of all +his reasoning he felt so weak, so irresolute still that his limbs trembled +under him, and he was obliged to sit down for a moment. But he wished to be +heroic, and controlling himself, he called to his companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Here!” he said, “read this letter which your grandmother has +sent me.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde read the letter attentively to the end without a word, without a sign. +Then she said simply: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you are going to answer it, are you not? I refuse.” +</p> + +<p> +He was obliged to exercise a strong effort of self-control to avoid uttering a +great cry of joy, as he pressed her to his heart. As if it were another person +who spoke, he heard himself saying quietly: +</p> + +<p> +“You refuse—impossible! You must reflect. Let us wait till +to-morrow to give an answer; and let us talk it over, shall we?” +</p> + +<p> +Surprised, she cried excitedly: +</p> + +<p> +“Part from each other! and why? And would you really consent to it? What +folly! we love each other, and you would have me leave you and go away where no +one cares for me! How could you think of such a thing? It would be +stupid.” +</p> + +<p> +He avoided touching on this side of the question, and hastened to speak of +promises made—of duty. +</p> + +<p> +“Remember, my dear, how greatly affected you were when I told you that +Maxime was in danger. And think of him now, struck down by disease, helpless +and alone, calling you to his side. Can you abandon him in that situation? You +have a duty to fulfil toward him.” +</p> + +<p> +“A duty?” she cried. “Have I any duties toward a brother who +has never occupied himself with me? My only duty is where my heart is.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you have promised. I have promised for you. I have said that you +were rational, and you are not going to belie my words.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rational? It is you who are not rational. It is not rational to separate +when to do so would make us both die of grief.” +</p> + +<p> +And with an angry gesture she closed the discussion, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Besides, what is the use of talking about it? There is nothing simpler; +it is only necessary to say a single word. Answer me. Are you tired of me? Do +you wish to send me away?” +</p> + +<p> +He uttered a cry. +</p> + +<p> +“Send you away! I! Great God!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it is all settled. If you do not send me away I shall +remain.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed now, and, running to her desk, wrote in red pencil across her +brother’s letter two words—“I refuse;” then she called +Martine and insisted upon her taking the letter back at once. Pascal was +radiant; a wave of happiness so intense inundated his being that he let her +have her way. The joy of keeping her with him deprived him even of his power of +reasoning. +</p> + +<p> +But that very night, what remorse did he not feel for having been so cowardly! +He had again yielded to his longing for happiness. A deathlike sweat broke out +upon him when he saw her in imagination far away; himself alone, without her, +without that caressing and subtle essence that pervaded the atmosphere when she +was near; her breath, her brightness, her courageous rectitude, and the dear +presence, physical and mental, which had now become as necessary to his life as +the light of day itself. She must leave him, and he must find the strength to +die of it. He despised himself for his want of courage, he judged the situation +with terrible clear-sightedness. All was ended. An honorable existence and a +fortune awaited her with her brother; he could not carry his senile selfishness +so far as to keep her any longer in the misery in which he was, to be scorned +and despised. And fainting at the thought of all he was losing, he swore to +himself that he would be strong, that he would not accept the sacrifice of this +child, that he would restore her to happiness and to life, in her own despite. +</p> + +<p> +And now the struggle of self-abnegation began. Some days passed; he had +demonstrated to her so clearly the rudeness of her “I refuse,” on +Maxime’s letter, that she had written a long letter to her grandmother, +explaining to her the reasons for her refusal. But still she would not leave La +Souleiade. As Pascal had grown extremely parsimonious, in his desire to trench +as little as possible on the money obtained by the sale of the jewels, she +surpassed herself, eating her dry bread with merry laughter. One morning he +surprised her giving lessons of economy to Martine. Twenty times a day she +would look at him intently and then throw herself on his neck and cover his +face with kisses, to combat the dreadful idea of a separation, which she saw +always in his eyes. Then she had another argument. One evening after dinner he +was seized with a palpitation of the heart, and almost fainted. This surprised +him; he had never suffered from the heart, and he believed it to be simply a +return of his old nervous trouble. Since his great happiness he had felt less +strong, with an odd sensation, as if some delicate hidden spring had snapped +within him. Greatly alarmed, she hurried to his assistance. Well! now he would +no doubt never speak again of her going away. When one loved people, and they +were ill, one stayed with them to take care of them. +</p> + +<p> +The struggle thus became a daily, an hourly one. It was a continual assault +made by affection, by devotion, by self-abnegation, in the one desire for +another’s happiness. But while her kindness and tenderness made the +thought of her departure only the more cruel for Pascal, he felt every day more +and more strongly the necessity for it. His resolution was now taken. But he +remained at bay, trembling and hesitating as to the means of persuading her. He +pictured to himself her despair, her tears; what should he do? how should he +tell her? how could they bring themselves to give each other a last embrace, +never to see each other again? And the days passed, and he could think of +nothing, and he began once more to accuse himself of cowardice. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes she would say jestingly, with a touch of affectionate malice: +</p> + +<p> +“Master, you are too kind-hearted not to keep me.” +</p> + +<p> +But this vexed him; he grew excited, and with gloomy despair answered: +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! don’t talk of my kindness. If I were really kind you would +have been long ago with your brother, leading an easy and honorable life, with +a bright and tranquil future before you, instead of obstinately remaining here, +despised, poor, and without any prospect, to be the sad companion of an old +fool like me! No, I am nothing but a coward and a dishonorable man!” +</p> + +<p> +She hastily stopped him. And it was in truth his kindness of heart, above all, +that bled, that immense kindness of heart which sprang from his love of life, +which he diffused over persons and things, in his continual care for the +happiness of every one and everything. To be kind, was not this to love her, to +make her happy, at the price of his own happiness? This was the kindness which +it was necessary for him to exercise, and which he felt that he would one day +exercise, heroic and decisive. But like the wretch who has resolved upon +suicide, he waited for the opportunity, the hour, and the means, to carry out +his design. Early one morning, on going into the workroom, Clotilde was +surprised to see Dr. Pascal seated at his table. It was many weeks since he had +either opened a book or touched a pen. +</p> + +<p> +“Why! you are working?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Without raising his head he answered absently: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; this is the genealogical tree that I had not even brought up to +date.” +</p> + +<p> +She stood behind him for a few moments, looking at him writing. He was +completing the notices of Aunt Dide, of Uncle Macquart, and of little Charles, +writing the dates of their death. Then, as he did not stir, seeming not to know +that she was there, waiting for the kisses and the smiles of other mornings, +she walked idly over to the window and back again. +</p> + +<p> +“So you are in earnest,” she said, “you are really +working?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly; you see I ought to have noted down these deaths last month. +And I have a heap of work waiting there for me.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him fixedly, with that steady inquiring gaze with which she +sought to read his thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, let us work. If you have papers to examine, or notes to copy, +give them to me.” +</p> + +<p> +And from this day forth he affected to give himself up entirely to work. +Besides, it was one of his theories that absolute rest was unprofitable, that +it should never be prescribed, even to the overworked. As the fish lives in the +water, so a man lives only in the external medium which surrounds him, the +sensations which he receives from it transforming themselves in him into +impulses, thoughts, and acts; so that if there were absolute rest, if he +continued to receive sensations without giving them out again, digested and +transformed, an engorgement would result, a <i>malaise</i>, an inevitable loss +of equilibrium. For himself he had always found work to be the best regulator +of his existence. Even on the mornings when he felt ill, if he set to work he +recovered his equipoise. He never felt better than when he was engaged on some +long work, methodically planned out beforehand, so many pages to so many hours +every morning, and he compared this work to a balancing-pole, which enabled him +to maintain his equilibrium in the midst of daily miseries, weaknesses, and +mistakes. So that he attributed entirely to the idleness in which he had been +living for some weeks past, the palpitation which at times made him feel as if +he were going to suffocate. If he wished to recover his health he had only to +take up again his great work. +</p> + +<p> +And Pascal spent hours developing and explaining these theories to Clotilde, +with a feverish and exaggerated enthusiasm. He seemed to be once more possessed +by the love of knowledge and study in which, up to the time of his sudden +passion for her, he had spent his life exclusively. He repeated to her that he +could not leave his work unfinished, that he had still a great deal to do, if +he desired to leave a lasting monument behind him. His anxiety about the +envelopes seemed to have taken possession of him again; he opened the large +press twenty times a day, taking them down from the upper shelf and enriching +them by new notes. His ideas on heredity were already undergoing a +transformation; he would have liked to review the whole, to recast the whole, +to deduce from the family history, natural and social, a vast synthesis, a +resume, in broad strokes, of all humanity. Then, besides, he reviewed his +method of treatment by hypodermic injections, with the purpose of amplifying +it—a confused vision of a new therapeutics; a vague and remote theory +based on his convictions and his personal experience of the beneficent dynamic +influence of work. +</p> + +<p> +Now every morning, when he seated himself at his table, he would lament: +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not live long enough; life is too short.” +</p> + +<p> +He seemed to feel that he must not lose another hour. And one morning he looked +up abruptly and said to his companion, who was copying a manuscript at his +side: +</p> + +<p> +“Listen well, Clotilde. If I should die—” +</p> + +<p> +“What an idea!” she protested, terrified. +</p> + +<p> +“If I should die,” he resumed, “listen to me well—close +all the doors immediately. You are to keep the envelopes, you, you only. And +when you have collected all my other manuscripts, send them to Ramond. These +are my last wishes, do you hear?” +</p> + +<p> +But she refused to listen to him. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” she cried hastily, “you talk nonsense!” +</p> + +<p> +“Clotilde, swear to me that you will keep the envelopes, and that you +will send all my other papers to Ramond.” +</p> + +<p> +At last, now very serious, and her eyes filled with tears, she gave him the +promise he desired. He caught her in his arms, he, too, deeply moved, and +lavished caresses upon her, as if his heart had all at once reopened to her. +Presently he recovered his calmness, and spoke of his fears. Since he had been +trying to work they seemed to have returned. He kept constant watch upon the +press, pretending to have observed Martine prowling about it. Might they not +work upon the fanaticism of this girl, and urge her to a bad action, persuading +her that she was securing her master’s eternal welfare? He had suffered +so much from suspicion! In the dread of approaching solitude his former +tortures returned—the tortures of the scientist, who is menaced and +persecuted by his own, at his own fireside, in his very flesh, in the work of +his brain. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, when he was again discussing this subject with Clotilde, he said +unthinkingly: +</p> + +<p> +“You know that when you are no longer here—” +</p> + +<p> +She turned very pale and, as he stopped with a start, she cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, master, master, you have not given up that dreadful idea, then? I +can see in your eyes that you are hiding something from me, that you have a +thought which you no longer share with me. But if I go away and you should die, +who will be here then to protect your work?” +</p> + +<p> +Thinking that she had become reconciled, to the idea of her departure, he had +the strength to answer gaily: +</p> + +<p> +“Do you suppose that I would allow myself to die without seeing you once +more. I will write to you, of course. You must come back to close my +eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +Now she burst out sobbing, and sank into a chair. +</p> + +<p> +“My God! Can it be! You wish that to-morrow we should be together no +longer, we who have never been separated!” +</p> + +<p> +From this day forth Pascal seemed more engrossed than ever in his work. He +would sit for four or five hours at a time, whole mornings and afternoons, +without once raising his head. He overacted his zeal. He would allow no one to +disturb him, by so much as a word. And when Clotilde would leave the room on +tiptoe to give an order downstairs or to go on some errand, he would assure +himself by a furtive glance that she was gone, and then let his head drop on +the table, with an air of profound dejection. It was a painful relief from the +extraordinary effort which he compelled himself to make when she was present; +to remain at his table, instead of going over and taking her in his arms and +covering her face with sweet kisses. Ah, work! how ardently he called on it as +his only refuge from torturing thoughts. But for the most part he was unable to +work; he was obliged to feign attention, keeping his eyes fixed upon the page, +his sorrowful eyes that grew dim with tears, while his mind, confused, +distracted, filled always with one image, suffered the pangs of death. Was he +then doomed to see work fail now its effect, he who had always considered it of +sovereign power, the creator and ruler of the world? Must he then throw away +his pen, renounce action, and do nothing in future but exist? And tears would +flow down his white beard; and if he heard Clotilde coming upstairs again he +would seize his pen quickly, in order that she might find him as she had left +him, buried seemingly in profound meditation, when his mind was now only an +aching void. +</p> + +<p> +It was now the middle of September; two weeks that had seemed interminable had +passed in this distressing condition of things, without bringing any solution, +when one morning Clotilde was greatly surprised by seeing her grandmother, +Félicité, enter. Pascal had met his mother the day before in the Rue de la +Banne, and, impatient to consummate the sacrifice, and not finding in himself +the strength to make the rupture, he had confided in her, in spite of his +repugnance, and begged her to come on the following day. As it happened, she +had just received another letter from Maxime, a despairing and imploring +letter. +</p> + +<p> +She began by explaining her presence. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is I, my dear, and you can understand that only very weighty +reasons could have induced me to set my foot here again. But, indeed, you are +getting crazy; I cannot allow you to ruin your life in this way, without making +a last effort to open your eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +She then read Maxime’s letter in a tearful voice. He was nailed to an +armchair. It seemed he was suffering from a form of ataxia, rapid in its +progress and very painful. Therefore he requested a decided answer from his +sister, hoping still that she would come, and trembling at the thought of being +compelled to seek another nurse. This was what he would be obliged to do, +however, if they abandoned him in his sad condition. And when she had finished +reading the letter she hinted that it would be a great pity to let +Maxime’s fortune pass into the hands of strangers; but, above all, she +spoke of duty; of the assistance one owed to a relation, she, too, affecting to +believe that a formal promise had been given. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, my dear, call upon your memory. You told him that if he should +ever need you, you would go to him; I can hear you saying it now. Was it not +so, my son?” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, his face pale, his head slightly bent, had kept silence since his +mother’s entrance, leaving her to act. He answered only by an affirmative +nod. +</p> + +<p> +Then Félicité went over all the arguments that he himself had employed to +persuade Clotilde—the dreadful scandal, to which insult was now added; +impending want, so hard for them both; the impossibility of continuing the life +they were leading. What future could they hope for, now that they had been +overtaken by poverty? It was stupid and cruel to persist longer in her +obstinate refusal. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, standing erect and with an impenetrable countenance, remained silent, +refusing even to discuss the question. But as her grandmother tormented her to +give an answer, she said at last: +</p> + +<p> +“Once more, I have no duty whatever toward my brother; my duty is here. +He can dispose of his fortune as he chooses; I want none of it. When we are too +poor, master shall send away Martine and keep me as his servant.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon wagged her chin. +</p> + +<p> +“Before being his servant it would be better if you had begun by being +his wife. Why have you not got married? It would have been simpler and more +proper.” +</p> + +<p> +And Félicité reminded her how she had come one day to urge this marriage, in +order to put an end to gossip, and how the young girl had seemed greatly +surprised, saying that neither she nor the doctor had thought of it, but that, +notwithstanding, they would get married later on, if necessary, for there was +no hurry. +</p> + +<p> +“Get married; I am quite willing!” cried Clotilde. “You are +right, grandmother.” +</p> + +<p> +And turning to Pascal: +</p> + +<p> +“You have told me a hundred times that you would do whatever I wished. +Marry me; do you hear? I will be your wife, and I will stay here. A wife does +not leave her husband.” +</p> + +<p> +But he answered only by a gesture, as if he feared that his voice would betray +him, and that he should accept, in a cry of gratitude, the eternal bond which +she had proposed to him. His gesture might signify a hesitation, a refusal. +What was the good of this marriage <i>in extremis</i>, when everything was +falling to pieces? +</p> + +<p> +“Those are very fine sentiments, no doubt,” returned Félicité. +“You have settled it all in your own little head. But marriage will not +give you an income; and, meantime, you are a great expense to him; you are the +heaviest of his burdens.” +</p> + +<p> +The effect which these words had upon Clotilde was extraordinary. She turned +violently to Pascal, her cheeks crimson, her eyes filled with tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master! is what grandmother has just said true? Has it come to +this, that you regret the money I cost you here?” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal grew still paler; he remained motionless, in an attitude of utter +dejection. But in a far-away voice, as if he were talking to himself, he +murmured: +</p> + +<p> +“I have so much work to do! I should like to go over my envelopes, my +manuscripts, my notes, and complete the work of my life. If I were alone +perhaps I might be able to arrange everything. I would sell La Souleiade, oh! +for a crust of bread, for it is not worth much. I should shut myself and my +papers in a little room. I should work from morning till night, and I should +try not to be too unhappy.” +</p> + +<p> +But he avoided her glance; and, agitated as she was, these painful and +stammering utterances were not calculated to satisfy her. She grew every moment +more and more terrified, for she felt that the irrevocable word was about to be +spoken. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at me, master, look me in the face. And I conjure you, be brave, +choose between your work and me, since you say, it seems, that you send me away +that you may work the better.” +</p> + +<p> +The moment for the heroic falsehood had come. He lifted his head and looked her +bravely in the face, and with the smile of a dying man who desires death, +recovering his voice of divine goodness, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“How excited you get! Can you not do your duty quietly, like everybody +else? I have a great deal of work to do, and I need to be alone; and you, dear, +you ought to go to your brother. Go then, everything is ended.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a terrible silence for the space of a few seconds. She looked at him +earnestly, hoping that he would change his mind. Was he really speaking the +truth? was he not sacrificing himself in order that she might be happy? For a +moment she had an intuition that this was the case, as if some subtle breath, +emanating from him, had warned her of it. +</p> + +<p> +“And you are sending me away forever? You will not permit me to come back +to-morrow?” +</p> + +<p> +But he held out bravely; with another smile he seemed to answer that when one +went away like this it was not to come back again on the following day. She was +now completely bewildered; she knew not what to think. It might be possible +that he had chosen work sincerely; that the man of science had gained the +victory over the lover. She grew still paler, and she waited a little longer, +in the terrible silence; then, slowly, with her air of tender and absolute +submission, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, master, I will go away whenever you wish, and I will not +return until you send for me.” +</p> + +<p> +The die was cast. The irrevocable was accomplished. Each felt that neither +would attempt to recall the decision that had been made; and, from this +instant, every minute that passed would bring nearer the separation. +</p> + +<p> +Félicité, surprised at not being obliged to say more, at once desired to fix +the time for Clotilde’s departure. She applauded herself for her +tenacity; she thought she had gained the victory by main force. It was now +Friday, and it was settled that Clotilde should leave on the following Sunday. +A despatch was even sent to Maxime. +</p> + +<p> +For the past three days the mistral had been blowing. But on this evening its +fury was redoubled, and Martine declared, in accordance with the popular +belief, that it would last for three days longer. The winds at the end of +September, in the valley of the Viorne, are terrible. So that the servant took +care to go into every room in the house to assure herself that the shutters +were securely fastened. When the mistral blew it caught La Souleiade +slantingly, above the roofs of the houses of Plassans, on the little plateau on +which the house was built. And now it raged and beat against the house, shaking +it from garret to cellar, day and night, without a moment’s cessation. +The tiles were blown off, the fastenings of the windows were torn away, while +the wind, entering the crevices, moaned and sobbed wildly through the house; +and the doors, if they were left open for a moment, through forgetfulness, +slammed to with a noise like the report of a cannon. They might have fancied +they were sustaining a siege, so great were the noise and the discomfort. +</p> + +<p> +It was in this melancholy house shaken by the storm that Pascal, on the +following day, helped Clotilde to make her preparations for her departure. Old +Mme. Rougon was not to return until Sunday, to say good-by. When Martine was +informed of the approaching separation, she stood still in dumb amazement, and +a flash, quickly extinguished, lighted her eyes; and as they sent her out of +the room, saying that they would not require her assistance in packing the +trunks, she returned to the kitchen and busied herself in her usual +occupations, seeming to ignore the catastrophe which was about to revolutionize +their household of three. But at Pascal’s slightest call she would run so +promptly and with such alacrity, her face so bright and so cheerful, in her +zeal to serve him, that she seemed like a young girl. Pascal did not leave +Clotilde for a moment, helping her, desiring to assure himself that she was +taking with her everything she could need. Two large trunks stood open in the +middle of the disordered room; bundles and articles of clothing lay about +everywhere; twenty times the drawers and the presses had been visited. And in +this work, this anxiety to forget nothing, the painful sinking of the heart +which they both felt was in some measure lessened. They forgot for an +instant—he watching carefully to see that no space was lost, utilizing +the hat-case for the smaller articles of clothing, slipping boxes in between +the folds of the linen; while she, taking down the gowns, folded them on the +bed, waiting to put them last in the top tray. Then, when a little tired they +stood up and found themselves again face to face, they would smile at each +other at first; then choke back the sudden tears that started at the +recollection of the impending and inevitable misfortune. But though their +hearts bled they remained firm. Good God! was it then true that they were to be +no longer together? And then they heard the wind, the terrible wind, which +threatened to blow down the house. +</p> + +<p> +How many times during this last day did they not go over to the window, +attracted by the storm, wishing that it would sweep away the world. During +these squalls the sun did not cease to shine, the sky remained constantly blue, +but a livid blue, windswept and dusty, and the sun was a yellow sun, pale and +cold. They saw in the distance the vast white clouds rising from the roads, the +trees bending before the blast, looking as if they were flying all in the same +direction, at the same rate of speed; the whole country parched and exhausted +by the unvarying violence of the wind that blew ceaselessly, with a roar like +thunder. Branches were snapped and whirled out of sight; roofs were lifted up +and carried so far away that they were never afterward found. Why could not the +mistral take them all up together and carry them off to some unknown land, +where they might be happy? The trunks were almost packed when Pascal went to +open one of the shutters that the wind had blown to, but so fierce a gust swept +in through the half open window that Clotilde had to go to his assistance. +Leaning with all their weight, they were able at last to turn the catch. The +articles of clothing in the room were blown about, and they gathered up in +fragments a little hand mirror which had fallen from a chair. Was this a sign +of approaching death, as the women of the faubourg said? +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, after a mournful dinner in the bright dining-room, with its +great bouquets of flowers, Pascal said he would retire early. Clotilde was to +leave on the following morning by the ten o’clock train, and he feared +for her the long journey—twenty hours of railway traveling. But when he +had retired he was unable to sleep. At first he thought it was the wind that +kept him awake. The sleeping house was full of cries, voices of entreaty and +voices of anger, mingled together, accompanied by endless sobbing. Twice he got +up and went to listen at Clotilde’s door, but he heard nothing. He went +downstairs to close a door that banged persistently, like misfortune knocking +at the walls. Gusts blew through the dark rooms, and he went to bed again, +shivering and haunted by lugubrious visions. +</p> + +<p> +At six o’clock Martine, fancying she heard her master knocking for her on +the floor of his room, went upstairs. She entered the room with the alert and +excited expression which she had worn for the past two days; but she stood +still, astonished and uneasy, when she saw him lying, half-dressed, across his +bed, haggard, biting the pillow to stifle his sobs. He got out of bed and tried +to finish dressing himself, but a fresh attack seized him, and, his head giddy +and his heart palpitating to suffocation, recovering from a momentary +faintness, he faltered in agonized tones: +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, I cannot; I suffer too much. I would rather die, die +now—” +</p> + +<p> +He recognized Martine, and abandoning himself to his grief, his strength +totally gone, he made his confession to her: +</p> + +<p> +“My poor girl, I suffer too much, my heart is breaking. She is taking +away my heart with her, she is taking away my whole being. I cannot live +without her. I almost died last night. I would be glad to die before her +departure, not to have the anguish of seeing her go away. Oh, my God! she is +going away, and I shall have her no longer, and I shall be left alone, alone, +alone!” +</p> + +<p> +The servant, who had gone upstairs so gaily, turned as pale as wax, and a hard +and bitter look came into her face. For a moment she watched him clutching the +bedclothes convulsively, uttering hoarse cries of despair, his face pressed +against the coverlet. Then, by a violent effort, she seemed to make up her +mind. +</p> + +<p> +“But, monsieur, there is no sense in making trouble for yourself in this +way. It is ridiculous. Since that is how it is, and you cannot do without +mademoiselle, I shall go and tell her what a state you have let yourself get +into.” +</p> + +<p> +At these words he got up hastily, staggering still, and, leaning for support on +the back of a chair, he cried: +</p> + +<p> +“I positively forbid you to do so, Martine!” +</p> + +<p> +“A likely thing that I should listen to you, seeing you like that! To +find you some other time half dead, crying your eyes out! No, no! I shall go to +mademoiselle and tell her the truth, and compel her to remain with us.” +</p> + +<p> +But he caught her angrily by the arm and held her fast. +</p> + +<p> +“I command you to keep quiet, do you hear? Or you shall go with her! Why +did you come in? It was this wind that made me ill. That concerns no +one.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, yielding to a good-natured impulse, with his usual kindness of heart, he +smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor girl, see how you vex me? Let me act as I ought, for the +happiness of others. And not another word; you would pain me greatly.” +</p> + +<p> +Martine’s eyes, too, filled with tears. It was just in time that they +made peace, for Clotilde entered almost immediately. She had risen early, eager +to see Pascal, hoping doubtless, up to the last moment, that he would keep her. +Her own eyelids were heavy from want of sleep, and she looked at him steadily +as she entered, with her inquiring air. But he was still so discomposed that +she began to grow uneasy. +</p> + +<p> +“No, indeed, I assure you, I would even have slept well but for the +mistral. I was just telling you so, Martine, was I not?” +</p> + +<p> +The servant confirmed his words by an affirmative nod. And Clotilde, too, +submitted, saying nothing of the night of anguish and mental conflict she had +spent while he, on his side, had been suffering the pangs of death. Both of the +women now docilely obeyed and aided him, in his heroic self-abnegation. +</p> + +<p> +“What,” he continued, opening his desk, “I have something +here for you. There! there are seven hundred francs in that envelope.” +</p> + +<p> +And in spite of her exclamations and protestations he persisted in rendering +her an account. Of the six thousand francs obtained by the sale of the jewels +two hundred only had been spent, and he had kept one hundred to last till the +end of the month, with the strict economy, the penuriousness, which he now +displayed. Afterward he would no doubt sell La Souleiade, he would work, he +would be able to extricate himself from his difficulties. But he would not +touch the five thousand francs which remained, for they were her property, her +own, and she would find them again in the drawer. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master, you are giving me a great deal of pain—” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish it,” he interrupted, “and it is you who are trying to +break my heart. Come, it is half-past seven, I will go and cord your trunks +since they are locked.” +</p> + +<p> +When Martine and Clotilde were alone and face to face they looked at each other +for a moment in silence. Ever since the commencement of the new situation, they +had been fully conscious of their secret antagonism, the open triumph of the +young mistress, the half concealed jealousy of the old servant about her adored +master. Now it seemed that the victory remained with the servant. But in this +final moment their common emotion drew them together. +</p> + +<p> +“Martine, you must not let him eat like a poor man. You promise me that +he shall have wine and meat every day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Have no fear, mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the five thousand francs lying there, you know belong to him. You +are not going to let yourselves starve to death, I suppose, with those there. I +want you to treat him very well.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you that I will make it my business to do so, mademoiselle, and +that monsieur shall want for nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a moment’s silence. They were still regarding each other. +</p> + +<p> +“And watch him, to see that he does not overwork himself. I am going away +very uneasy; he has not been well for some time past. Take good care of +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Make your mind easy, mademoiselle, I will take care of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I give him into your charge. He will have only you now; and it is +some consolation to me to know that you love him dearly. Love him with all your +strength. Love him for us both.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, mademoiselle, as much as I can.” +</p> + +<p> +Tears came into their eyes; Clotilde spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you embrace me, Martine?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, mademoiselle, very gladly.” +</p> + +<p> +They were in each other’s arms when Pascal reentered the room. He +pretended not to see them, doubtless afraid of giving way to his emotion. In an +unnaturally loud voice he spoke of the final preparations for Clotilde’s +departure, like a man who had a great deal on his hands and was afraid that the +train might be missed. He had corded the trunks, a man had taken them away in a +little wagon, and they would find them at the station. But it was only eight +o’clock, and they had still two long hours before them. Two hours of +mortal anguish, spent in unoccupied and weary waiting, during which they tasted +a hundred times over the bitterness of parting. The breakfast took hardly a +quarter of an hour. Then they got up, to sit down again. Their eyes never left +the clock. The minutes seemed long as those of a death watch, throughout the +mournful house. +</p> + +<p> +“How the wind blows!” said Clotilde, as a sudden gust made all the +doors creak. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal went over to the window and watched the wild flight of the storm-blown +trees. +</p> + +<p> +“It has increased since morning,” he said. “Presently I must +see to the roof, for some of the tiles have been blown away.” +</p> + +<p> +Already they had ceased to be one household. They listened in silence to the +furious wind, sweeping everything before it, carrying with it their life. +</p> + +<p> +Finally Pascal looked for a last time at the clock, and said simply: +</p> + +<p> +“It is time, Clotilde.” +</p> + +<p> +She rose from the chair on which she had been sitting. She had for an instant +forgotten that she was going away, and all at once the dreadful reality came +back to her. Once more she looked at him, but he did not open his arms to keep +her. It was over; her hope was dead. And from this moment her face was like +that of one struck with death. +</p> + +<p> +At first they exchanged the usual commonplaces. +</p> + +<p> +“You will write to me, will you not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, and you must let me hear from you as often as +possible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Above all, if you should fall ill, send for me at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“I promise you that I will do so. But there is no danger. I am very +strong.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, when the moment came in which she was to leave this dear house, Clotilde +looked around with unsteady gaze; then she threw herself on Pascal’s +breast, she held him for an instant in her arms, faltering: +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to embrace you here, I wish to thank you. Master, it is you who +have made me what I am. As you have often told me, you have corrected my +heredity. What should I have become amid the surroundings in which Maxime has +grown up? Yes, if I am worth anything, it is to you alone I owe it, you, who +transplanted me into this abode of kindness and affection, where you have +brought me up worthy of you. Now, after having taken me and overwhelmed me with +benefits, you send me away. Be it as you will, you are my master, and I will +obey you. I love you, in spite of all, and I shall always love you.” +</p> + +<p> +He pressed her to his heart, answering: +</p> + +<p> +“I desire only your good, I am completing my work.” +</p> + +<p> +When they reached the station, Clotilde vowed to herself that she would one day +come back. Old Mme. Rougon was there, very gay and very brisk, in spite of her +eighty-and-odd years. She was triumphant now; she thought she would have her +son Pascal at her mercy. When she saw them both stupefied with grief she took +charge of everything; got the ticket, registered the baggage, and installed the +traveler in a compartment in which there were only ladies. Then she spoke for a +long time about Maxime, giving instructions and asking to be kept informed of +everything. But the train did not start; there were still five cruel minutes +during which they remained face to face, without speaking to each other. Then +came the end, there were embraces, a great noise of wheels, and waving of +handkerchiefs. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Pascal became aware that he was standing alone upon the platform, +while the train was disappearing around a bend in the road. Then, without +listening to his mother, he ran furiously up the slope, sprang up the stone +steps like a young man, and found himself in three minutes on the terrace of La +Souleiade. The mistral was raging there—a fierce squall which bent the +secular cypresses like straws. In the colorless sky the sun seemed weary of the +violence of the wind, which for six days had been sweeping over its face. And +like the wind-blown trees Pascal stood firm, his garments flapping like +banners, his beard and hair blown about and lashed by the storm. His breath +caught by the wind, his hands pressed upon his heart to quiet its throbbing, he +saw the train flying in the distance across the bare plain, a little train +which the mistral seemed to sweep before it like a dry branch. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"></a> +XII.</h2> + +<p> +From the day following Clotilde’s departure, Pascal shut himself up in +the great empty house. He did not leave it again, ceasing entirely the rare +professional visits which he had still continued to make, living there with +doors and windows closed, in absolute silence and solitude. Martine had +received formal orders to admit no one under any pretext whatever. +</p> + +<p> +“But your mother, monsieur, Mme. Félicité?” +</p> + +<p> +“My mother, less than any one else; I have my reasons. Tell her that I am +working, that I require to concentrate my thoughts, and that I request her to +excuse me.” +</p> + +<p> +Three times in succession old Mme. Rougon had presented herself. She would +storm at the hall door. He would hear her voice rising in anger as she tried in +vain to force her way in. Then the noise would be stilled, and there would be +only a whisper of complaint and plotting between her and the servant. But not +once did he yield, not once did he lean over the banisters and call to her to +come up. +</p> + +<p> +One day Martine ventured to say to him: +</p> + +<p> +“It is very hard, all the same, monsieur, to refuse admittance to +one’s mother. The more so, as Mme. Félicité comes with good intentions, +for she knows the straits that monsieur is in, and she insists only in order to +offer her services.” +</p> + +<p> +“Money!” he cried, exasperated. “I want no money, do you +hear? And from her less than anybody. I will work, I will earn my own living; +why should I not?” +</p> + +<p> +The question of money, however, began to grow pressing. He obstinately refused +to take another sou from the five thousand francs locked up in the desk. Now +that he was alone, he was completely indifferent to material things; he would +have been satisfied to live on bread and water; and every time the servant +asked him for money to buy wine, meat, or sweets, he shrugged his +shoulders—what was the use? there remained a crust from the day before, +was not that sufficient? But in her affection for her master, whom she felt to +be suffering, the old servant was heart-broken at this miserliness which +exceeded her own; this utter destitution to which he abandoned himself and the +whole house. The workmen of the faubourgs lived better. Thus it was that for a +whole day a terrible conflict went on within her. Her doglike love struggled +with her love for her money, amassed sou by sou, hidden away, “making +more,” as she said. She would rather have parted with a piece of her +flesh. So long as her master had not suffered alone the idea of touching her +treasure had not even occurred to her. And she displayed extraordinary heroism +the morning when, driven to extremity, seeing her stove cold and the larder +empty, she disappeared for an hour and then returned with provisions and the +change of a hundred-franc note. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, who just then chanced to come downstairs, asked her in astonishment +where the money had come from, furious already, and prepared to throw it all +into the street, imagining she had applied to his mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, no; why, no, monsieur!” she stammered, “it is not that +at all.” +</p> + +<p> +And she told him the story that she had prepared. +</p> + +<p> +“Imagine, M. Grandguillot’s affairs are going to be +settled—or at least I think so. It occurred to me this morning to go to +the assignee’s to inquire, and he told me that you would undoubtedly +recover something, and that I might have a hundred francs now. Yes, he was even +satisfied with a receipt from me. He knows me, and you can make it all right +afterward.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal seemed scarcely surprised. She had calculated correctly that he would +not go out to verify her account. She was relieved, however, to see with what +easy indifference he accepted her story. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, so much the better!” he said. “You see now that one must +never despair. That will give me time to settle my affairs.” +</p> + +<p> +His “affairs” was the sale of La Souleiade, about which he had been +thinking vaguely. But what a grief to leave this house in which Clotilde had +grown up, where they had lived together for nearly eighteen years! He had taken +two or three weeks already to reflect over the matter. Now that he had the hope +of getting back a little of the money he had lost through the notary’s +failure, he ceased to think any more about it. He relapsed into his former +indifference, eating whatever Martine served him, not even noticing the +comforts with which she once more surrounded him, in humble adoration, +heart-broken at giving her money, but very happy to support him now, without +his suspecting that his sustenance came from her. +</p> + +<p> +But Pascal rewarded her very ill. Afterward he would be sorry, and regret his +outbursts. But in the state of feverish desperation in which he lived this did +not prevent him from again flying into a passion with her, at the slightest +cause of dissatisfaction. One evening, after he had been listening to his +mother talking for an interminable time with her in the kitchen, he cried in +sudden fury: +</p> + +<p> +“Martine, I do not wish her to enter La Souleiade again, do you hear? If +you ever let her into the house again I will turn you out!” +</p> + +<p> +She listened to him in surprise. Never, during the thirty-two years in which +she had been in his service, had he threatened to dismiss her in this way. Big +tears came to her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, monsieur! you would not have the courage to do it! And I would not +go. I would lie down across the threshold first.” +</p> + +<p> +He already regretted his anger, and he said more gently: +</p> + +<p> +“The thing is that I know perfectly well what is going on. She comes to +indoctrinate you, to put you against me, is it not so? Yes, she is watching my +papers; she wishes to steal and destroy everything up there in the press. I +know her; when she wants anything, she never gives up until she gets it. Well, +you can tell her that I am on my guard; that while I am alive she shall never +even come near the press. And the key is here in my pocket.” +</p> + +<p> +In effect, all his former terror—the terror of the scientist who feels +himself surrounded by secret enemies, had returned. Ever since he had been +living alone in the deserted house he had had a feeling of returning danger, of +being constantly watched in secret. The circle had narrowed, and if he showed +such anger at these attempts at invasion, if he repulsed his mother’s +assaults, it was because he did not deceive himself as to her real plans, and +he was afraid that he might yield. If she were there she would gradually take +possession of him, until she had subjugated him completely. Therefore his +former tortures returned, and he passed the days watching; he shut up the house +himself in the evening, and he would often rise during the night, to assure +himself that the locks were not being forced. What he feared was that the +servant, won over by his mother, and believing she was securing his eternal +welfare, would open the door to Mme. Félicité. In fancy he saw the papers +blazing in the fireplace; he kept constant guard over them, seized again by a +morbid love, a torturing affection for this icy heap of papers, these cold +pages of manuscript, to which he had sacrificed the love of woman, and which he +tried to love sufficiently to be able to forget everything else for them. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, now that Clotilde was no longer there, threw himself eagerly into work, +trying to submerge himself in it, to lose himself in it. If he secluded +himself, if he did not set foot even in the garden, if he had had the strength, +one day when Martine came up to announce Dr. Ramond, to answer that he would +not receive him, he had, in this bitter desire for solitude, no other aim than +to kill thought by incessant labor. That poor Ramond, how gladly he would have +embraced him! for he divined clearly the delicacy of feeling that had made him +hasten to console his old master. But why lose an hour? Why risk emotions and +tears which would leave him so weak? From daylight he was at his table, he +spent at it his mornings and his afternoons, extended often into the evening +after the lamp was lighted, and far into the night. He wished to put his old +project into execution—to revise his whole theory of heredity, employing +the documents furnished by his own family to establish the laws according to +which, in a certain group of human beings, life is distributed and conducted +with mathematical precision from one to another, taking into account the +environment—a vast bible, the genesis of families, of societies, of all +humanity. He hoped that the vastness of such a plan, the effort necessary to +develop so colossal an idea, would take complete possession of him, restoring +to him his health, his faith, his pride in the supreme joy of the accomplished +work. But it was in vain that he threw himself passionately, persistently, +without reserve, into his work; he succeeded only in fatiguing his body and his +mind, without even being able to fix his thoughts or to put his heart into his +work, every day sicker and more despairing. Had work, then, finally lost its +power? He whose life had been spent in work, who had regarded it as the sole +motor, the benefactor, and the consoler, must he then conclude that to love and +to be loved is beyond all else in the world? Occasionally he would have great +thoughts, he continued to sketch out his new theory of the equilibrium of +forces, demonstrating that what man receives in sensation he should return in +action. How natural, full, and happy would life be if it could be lived entire, +performing its functions like a well-ordered machine, giving back in power what +was consumed in fuel, maintaining itself in vigor and in beauty by the +simultaneous and logical play of all its organs. He believed physical and +intellectual labor, feeling and reasoning should be in equal proportions, and +never excessive, for excess meant disturbance of the equilibrium and, +consequently, disease. Yes, yes, to begin life over again and to know how to +live it, to dig the earth, to study man, to love woman, to attain to human +perfection, the future city of universal happiness, through the harmonious +working of the entire being, what a beautiful legacy for a philosophical +physician to leave behind him would this be! And this dream of the future, this +theory, confusedly perceived, filled him with bitterness at the thought that +now his life was a force wasted and lost. +</p> + +<p> +At the very bottom of his grief Pascal had the dominating feeling that for him +life was ended. Regret for Clotilde, sorrow at having her no longer beside him, +the certainty that he would never see her again, filled him with overwhelming +grief. Work had lost its power, and he would sometimes let his head drop on the +page he was writing, and weep for hours together, unable to summon courage to +take up the pen again. His passion for work, his days of voluntary fatigue, led +to terrible nights, nights of feverish sleeplessness, in which he would stuff +the bedclothes into his mouth to keep from crying out Clotilde’s name. +She was everywhere in this mournful house in which he secluded himself. He saw +her again, walking through the rooms, sitting on the chairs, standing behind +the doors. Downstairs, in the dining-room, he could not sit at table, without +seeing her opposite him. In the workroom upstairs she was still his constant +companion, for she, too, had lived so long secluded in it that her image seemed +reflected from everything; he felt her constantly beside him, he could fancy he +saw her standing before her desk, straight and slender—her delicate face +bent over a pastel. And if he did not leave the house to escape from the dear +and torturing memory it was because he had the certainty that he should find +her everywhere in the garden, too: dreaming on the terrace; walking with slow +steps through the alleys in the pine grove; sitting under the shade of the +plane trees; lulled by the eternal song of the fountain; lying in the threshing +yard at twilight, her gaze fixed on space, waiting for the stars to come out. +But above all, there existed for him a sacred sanctuary which he could not +enter without trembling—the chamber where she had confessed her love. He +kept the key of it; he had not moved a single object from its place since the +sorrowful morning of her departure; and a skirt which she had forgotten lay +still upon her armchair. He opened his arms wildly to clasp her shade floating +in the soft half light of the room, with its closed shutters and its walls hung +with the old faded pink calico, of a dawnlike tint. +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of his unremitting toil Pascal had another melancholy +pleasure—Clotilde’s letters. She wrote to him regularly twice a +week, long letters of eight or ten pages, in which she described to him all her +daily life. She did not seem to lead a very happy life in Paris. Maxime, who +did not now leave his sick chair, evidently tortured her with the exactions of +a spoiled child and an invalid. She spoke as if she lived in complete +retirement, always waiting on him, so that she could not even go over to the +window to look out on the avenue, along which rolled the fashionable stream of +the promenaders of the Bois; and from certain of her expressions it could be +divined that her brother, after having entreated her so urgently to go to him, +suspected her already, and had begun to regard her with hatred and distrust, as +he did every one who approached him, in his continual fear of being made use of +and robbed. He did not give her the keys, treating her like a servant to whom +he found it difficult to accustom himself. Twice she had seen her father, who +was, as always, very gay, and overwhelmed with business; he had been converted +to the Republic, and was at the height of political and financial success. +Saccard had even taken her aside, to sympathize with her, saying that poor +Maxime was really insupportable, and that she would be truly courageous if she +consented to be made his victim. As she could not do everything, he had even +had the kindness to send her, on the following day, the niece of his +hairdresser, a fair-haired, innocent-looking girl of eighteen, named Rose, who +was assisting her now to take care of the invalid. But Clotilde made no +complaint; she affected, on the contrary, to be perfectly tranquil, contented, +and resigned to everything. Her letters were full of courage, showing neither +anger nor sorrow at the cruel separation, making no desperate appeal to +Pascal’s affection to recall her. But between the lines, he could +perceive that she trembled with rebellious anger, that her whole being yearned +for him, that she was ready to commit the folly of returning to him +immediately, at his lightest word. +</p> + +<p> +And this was the one word that Pascal would not write. Everything would be +arranged in time. Maxime would become accustomed to his sister; the sacrifice +must be completed now that it had been begun. A single line written by him in a +moment of weakness, and all the advantage of the effort he had made would be +lost, and their misery would begin again. Never had Pascal had greater need of +courage than when he was answering Clotilde’s letters. At night, burning +with fever, he would toss about, calling on her wildly; then he would get up +and write to her to come back at once. But when day came, and he had exhausted +himself with weeping, his fever abated, and his answer was always very short, +almost cold. He studied every sentence, beginning the letter over again when he +thought he had forgotten himself. But what a torture, these dreadful letters, +so short, so icy, in which he went against his heart, solely in order to wean +her from him gradually, to take upon himself all the blame, and to make her +believe that she could forget him, since he forgot her. They left him covered +with perspiration, and as exhausted as if he had just performed some great act +of heroism. +</p> + +<p> +One morning toward the end of October, a month after Clotilde’s +departure, Pascal had a sudden attack of suffocation. He had had, several times +already, slight attacks, which he attributed to overwork. But this time the +symptoms were so plain that he could not mistake them—a sharp pain in the +region of the heart, extending over the whole chest and along the left arm, and +a dreadful sensation of oppression and distress, while cold perspiration broke +out upon him. It was an attack of angina pectoris. It lasted hardly more than a +minute, and he was at first more surprised than frightened. With that blindness +which physicians often show where their own health is concerned, he never +suspected that his heart might be affected. +</p> + +<p> +As he was recovering his breath Martine came up to say that Dr. Ramond was +downstairs, and again begged the doctor to see him. And Pascal, yielding +perhaps to an unconscious desire to know the truth, cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, let him come up, since he insists upon it. I will be glad to see +him.” +</p> + +<p> +The two men embraced each other, and no other allusion was made to the absent +one, to her whose departure had left the house empty, than an energetic and sad +hand clasp. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know why I have come?” cried Ramond immediately. +“It is about a question of money. Yes, my father-in-law, M. Leveque, the +advocate, whom you know, spoke to me yesterday again about the funds which you +had with the notary Grandguillot. And he advises you strongly to take some +action in the matter, for some persons have succeeded, he says, in recovering +something.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know that that business is being settled,” said Pascal. +“Martine has already got two hundred francs out of it, I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Martine?” said Ramond, looking greatly surprised, “how could +she do that without your intervention? However, will you authorize my +father-in-law to undertake your case? He will see the assignee, and sift the +whole affair, since you have neither the time nor the inclination to attend to +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, I authorize M. Leveque to do so, and tell him that I thank +him a thousand times.” +</p> + +<p> +Then this matter being settled, the young man, remarking the doctor’s +pallor, and questioning him as to its cause, Pascal answered with a smile: +</p> + +<p> +“Imagine, my friend, I have just had an attack of angina pectoris. Oh, it +is not imagination, all the symptoms were there. And stay! since you are here +you shall sound me.” +</p> + +<p> +At first Ramond refused, affecting to turn the consultation into a jest. Could +a raw recruit like him venture to pronounce judgment on his general? But he +examined him, notwithstanding, seeing that his face looked drawn and pained, +with a singular look of fright in the eyes. He ended by auscultating him +carefully, keeping his ear pressed closely to his chest for a considerable +time. Several minutes passed in profound silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” asked Pascal, when the young physician stood up. +</p> + +<p> +The latter did not answer at once. He felt the doctor’s eyes looking +straight into his; and as the question had been put to him with quiet courage, +he answered in the same way: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is true, I think there is some sclerosis.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! it was kind of you not to attempt to deceive me,” returned the +doctor, smiling. “I feared for an instant that you would tell me an +untruth, and that would have hurt me.” +</p> + +<p> +Ramond, listening again, said in an undertone: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the beat is strong, the first sound is dull, while the second, on +the contrary, is sharp. It is evident that the apex has descended and is turned +toward the armpit. There is some sclerosis, at least it is very probable. One +may live twenty years with that,” he ended, straightening himself. +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt, sometimes,” said Pascal. “At least, unless one +chances to die of a sudden attack.” +</p> + +<p> +They talked for some time longer, discussed a remarkable case of sclerosis of +the heart, which they had seen at the hospital at Plassans. And when the young +physician went away, he said that he would return as soon as he should have +news of the Grandguillot liquidation. +</p> + +<p> +But when he was alone Pascal felt that he was lost. Everything was now +explained: his palpitations for some weeks past, his attacks of vertigo and +suffocation; above all that weakness of the organ, of his poor heart, +overtasked by feeling and by work, that sense of intense fatigue and impending +death, regarding which he could no longer deceive himself. It was not as yet +fear that he experienced, however. His first thought was that he, too, would +have to pay for his heredity, that sclerosis was the species of degeneration +which was to be his share of the physiological misery, the inevitable +inheritance bequeathed him by his terrible ancestry. In others the neurosis, +the original lesion, had turned to vice or virtue, genius, crime, drunkenness, +sanctity; others again had died of consumption, of epilepsy, of ataxia; he had +lived in his feelings and he would die of an affection of the heart. And he +trembled no longer, he rebelled no longer against this manifest heredity, fated +and inevitable, no doubt. On the contrary, a feeling of humility took +possession of him; the idea that all revolt against natural laws is bad, that +wisdom does not consist in holding one’s self apart, but in resigning +one’s self to be only a member of the whole great body. Why, then, was he +so unwilling to belong to his family that it filled him with triumph, that his +heart beat with joy, when he believed himself different from them, without any +community with them? Nothing could be less philosophical. Only monsters grew +apart. And to belong to his family seemed to him in the end as good and as fine +as to belong to any other family, for did not all families, in the main, +resemble one another, was not humanity everywhere identical with the same +amount of good and evil? He came at last, humbly and gently, even in the face +of impending suffering and death, to accept everything life had to give him. +</p> + +<p> +From this time Pascal lived with the thought that he might die at any moment. +And this helped to perfect his character, to elevate him to a complete +forgetfulness of self. He did not cease to work, but he had never understood so +well how much effort must seek its reward in itself, the work being always +transitory, and remaining of necessity incomplete. One evening at dinner +Martine informed him that Sarteur, the journeyman hatter, the former inmate of +the asylum at the Tulettes, had just hanged himself. All the evening he thought +of this strange case, of this man whom he had believed he had cured of +homicidal mania by his treatment of hypodermic injections, and who, seized by a +fresh attack, had evidently had sufficient lucidity to hang himself, instead of +springing at the throat of some passer-by. He again saw him, so gentle, so +reasonable, kissing his hands, while he was advising him to return to his life +of healthful labor. What then was this destructive and transforming force, the +desire to murder, changing to suicide, death performing its task in spite of +everything? With the death of this man his last vestige of pride as a healer +disappeared; and each day when he returned to his work he felt as if he were +only a learner, spelling out his task, constantly seeking the truth, which as +constantly receded from him, assuming ever more formidable proportions. +</p> + +<p> +But in the midst of his resignation one thought still troubled him—what +would become of Bonhomme, his old horse, if he himself should die before him? +The poor brute, completely blind and his limbs paralyzed, did not now leave his +litter. When his master went to see him, however, he turned his head, he could +feel the two hearty kisses which were pressed on his nose. All the neighbors +shrugged their shoulders and joked about this old relation whom the doctor +would not allow to be slaughtered. Was he then to be the first to go, with the +thought that the knacker would be called in on the following day. But one +morning, when he entered the stable, Bonhomme did not hear him, did not raise +his head. He was dead; he lay there, with a peaceful expression, as if relieved +that death had come to him so gently. His master knelt beside him and kissed +him again and bade him farewell, while two big tears rolled down his cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +It was on this day that Pascal saw his neighbor, M. Bellombre, for the last +time. Going over to the window he perceived him in his garden, in the pale +sunshine of early November, taking his accustomed walk; and the sight of the +old professor, living so completely happy in his solitude, filled him at first +with astonishment. He could never have imagined such a thing possible, as that +a man of sixty-nine should live thus, without wife or child, or even a dog, +deriving his selfish happiness from the joy of living outside of life. Then he +recalled his fits of anger against this man, his sarcasms about his fear of +life, the catastrophes which he had wished might happen to him, the hope that +punishment would come to him, in the shape of some housekeeper, or some female +relation dropping down on him unexpectedly. But no, he was still as fresh as +ever, and Pascal was sure that for a long time to come he would continue to +grow old like this, hard, avaricious, useless, and happy. And yet he no longer +execrated him; he could even have found it in his heart to pity him, so +ridiculous and miserable did he think him for not being loved. Pascal, who +suffered the pangs of death because he was alone! He whose heart was breaking +because he was too full of others. Rather suffering, suffering only, than this +selfishness, this death of all there is in us of living and human! +</p> + +<p> +In the night which followed Pascal had another attack of angina pectoris. It +lasted for five minutes, and he thought that he would suffocate without having +the strength to call Martine. Then when he recovered his breath, he did not +disturb himself, preferring to speak to no one of this aggravation of his +malady; but he had the certainty that it was all over with him, that he might +not perhaps live a month longer. His first thought was Clotilde. Should he then +never see her again? and so sharp a pang seized him that he believed another +attack was coming on. Why should he not write to her to come to him? He had +received a letter from her the day before; he would answer it this morning. +Then the thought of the envelopes occurred to him. If he should die suddenly, +his mother would be the mistress and she would destroy them; and not only the +envelopes, but his manuscripts, all his papers, thirty years of his +intelligence and his labor. Thus the crime which he had so greatly dreaded +would be consummated, the crime of which the fear alone, during his nights of +fever, had made him get up out of bed trembling, his ear on the stretch, +listening to hear if they were forcing open the press. The perspiration broke +out upon him, he saw himself dispossessed, outraged, the ashes of his work +thrown to the four winds. And when his thoughts reverted to Clotilde, he told +himself that everything would be satisfactorily arranged, that he had only to +call her back—she would be here, she would close his eyes, she would +defend his memory. And he sat down to write at once to her, so that the letter +might go by the morning mail. +</p> + +<p> +But when Pascal was seated before the white paper, with the pen between his +fingers, a growing doubt, a feeling of dissatisfaction with himself, took +possession of him. Was not this idea of his papers, this fine project of +providing a guardian for them and saving them, a suggestion of his weakness, an +excuse which he gave himself to bring back Clotilde, and see her again? +Selfishness was at the bottom of it. He was thinking of himself, not of her. He +saw her returning to this poor house, condemned to nurse a sick old man; and he +saw her, above all, in her grief, in her awful agony, when he should terrify +her some day by dropping down dead at her side. No, no! this was the dreadful +moment which he must spare her, those days of cruel adieus and want afterward, +a sad legacy which he could not leave her without thinking himself a criminal. +Her tranquillity, her happiness only, were of any consequence, the rest did not +matter. He would die in his hole, then, abandoned, happy to think her happy, to +spare her the cruel blow of his death. As for saving his manuscripts he would +perhaps find a means of doing so, he would try to have the strength to part +from them and give them to Ramond. But even if all his papers were to perish, +this was less of a sacrifice than to resign himself not to see her again, and +he accepted it, and he was willing that nothing of him should survive, not even +his thoughts, provided only that nothing of him should henceforth trouble her +dear existence. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal accordingly proceeded to write one of his usual answers, which, by a +great effort, he purposely made colorless and almost cold. Clotilde, in her +last letter, without complaining of Maxime, had given it to be understood that +her brother had lost his interest in her, preferring the society of Rose, the +niece of Saccard’s hairdresser, the fair-haired young girl with the +innocent look. And he suspected strongly some maneuver of the father: a cunning +plan to obtain possession of the inheritance of the sick man, whose vices, so +precocious formerly, gained new force as his last hour approached. But in spite +of his uneasiness he gave Clotilde very good advice, telling her that she must +make allowance for Maxime’s sufferings, that he had undoubtedly a great +deal of affection and gratitude for her, in short that it was her duty to +devote herself to him to the end. When he signed the letter tears dimmed his +sight. It was his death warrant—a death like that of an old and solitary +brute, a death without a kiss, without the touch of a friendly hand—that +he was signing. Never again would he embrace her. Then doubts assailed him; was +he doing right in leaving her amid such evil surroundings, where he felt that +she was in continual contact with every species of wickedness? +</p> + +<p> +The postman brought the letters and newspapers to La Souleiade every morning at +about nine o’clock; and Pascal, when he wrote to Clotilde, was accustomed +to watch for him, to give him his letter, so as to be certain that his +correspondence was not intercepted. But on this morning, when he went +downstairs to give him the letter he had just written, he was surprised to +receive one from him from Clotilde, although it was not the usual day for her +letters. He allowed his own to go, however. Then he went upstairs, resumed his +seat at his table, and tore open the envelope. +</p> + +<p> +The letter was short, but its contents filled Pascal with a great joy. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +But the sound of footsteps made him control himself. He turned round and saw +Martine, who was saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Dr. Ramond is downstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! let him come up, let him come up,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +It was another piece of good fortune that had come to him. Ramond cried gaily +from the door: +</p> + +<p> +“Victory, master! I have brought you your money—not all, but a good +sum.” +</p> + +<p> +And he told the story—an unexpected piece of good luck which his +father-in-law, M. Leveque, had brought to light. The receipts for the hundred +and twenty thousand francs, which constituted Pascal the personal creditor of +Grandguillot, were valueless, since the latter was insolvent. Salvation was to +come from the power of attorney which the doctor had sent him years before, at +his request, that he might invest all or part of his money in mortgages. As the +name of the proxy was in blank in the document, the notary, as is sometimes +done, had made use of the name of one of his clerks, and eighty thousand +francs, which had been invested in good mortgages, had thus been recovered +through the agency of a worthy man who was not in the secrets of his employer. +If Pascal had taken action in the matter, if he had gone to the public +prosecutor’s office and the chamber of notaries, he would have +disentangled the matter long before. However, he had recovered a sure income of +four thousand francs. +</p> + +<p> +He seized the young man’s hands and pressed them, smiling, his eyes still +moist with tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! my friend, if you knew how happy I am! This letter of +Clotilde’s has brought me a great happiness. Yes, I was going to send for +her; but the thought of my poverty, of the privations she would have to endure +here, spoiled for me the joy of her return. And now fortune has come back, at +least enough to set up my little establishment again!” +</p> + +<p> +In the expansion of his feelings he held out the letter to Ramond, and forced +him to read it. Then when the young man gave it back to him, smiling, +comprehending the doctor’s emotion, and profoundly touched by it, +yielding to an overpowering need of affection, he caught him in his arms, like +a comrade, a brother. The two men kissed each other vigorously on either cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, since good fortune has sent you, I am going to ask another service +from you. You know I distrust every one around me, even my old housekeeper. +Will you take my despatch to the telegraph office!” +</p> + +<p> +He sat down again at the table, and wrote simply, “I await you; start +to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see,” he said, “to-day is the 6th of November, is it +not? It is now near ten o’clock; she will have my despatch at noon. That +will give her time enough to pack her trunks and to take the eight +o’clock express this evening, which will bring her to Marseilles in time +for breakfast. But as there is no train which connects with it, she cannot be +here until to-morrow, the 7th, at five o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +After folding the despatch he rose: +</p> + +<p> +“My God, at five o’clock to-morrow! How long to wait still! What +shall I do with myself until then?” +</p> + +<p> +Then a sudden recollection filled him with anxiety, and he became grave. +</p> + +<p> +“Ramond, my comrade, will you give me a great proof of your friendship by +being perfectly frank with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“How so, master?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you understand me very well. The other day you examined me. Do you +think I can live another year?” +</p> + +<p> +He fixed his eyes on the young man as he spoke, compelling him to look at him. +Ramond evaded a direct answer, however, with a jest—was it really a +physician who put such a question? +</p> + +<p> +“Let us be serious, Ramond, I beg of you.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Ramond answered in all sincerity that, in his opinion, the doctor might +very justly entertain the hope of living another year. He gave his +reasons—the comparatively slight progress which the sclerosis had made, +and the absolute soundness of the other organs. Of course they must make +allowance for what they did not and could not know, for a sudden accident was +always possible. And the two men discussed the case as if they been in +consultation at the bedside of a patient, weighing the pros and cons, each +stating his views and prognosticating a fatal termination, in accordance with +the symptoms as defined by the best authorities. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal, as if it were some one else who was in question, had recovered all his +composure and his heroic self-forgetfulness. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he murmured at last, “you are right; a year of life is +still possible. Ah, my friend, how I wish I might live two years; a mad wish, +no doubt, an eternity of joy. And yet, two years, that would not be impossible. +I had a very curious case once, a wheelwright of the faubourg, who lived for +four years, giving the lie to all my prognostications. Two years, two years, I +will live two years! I must live two years!” +</p> + +<p> +Ramond sat with bent head, without answering. He was beginning to be uneasy, +fearing that he had shown himself too optimistic; and the doctor’s joy +disquieted and grieved him, as if this very exaltation, this disturbance of a +once strong brain, warned him of a secret and imminent danger. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you not wish to send that despatch at once?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, go quickly, my good Ramond, and come back again to see us the +day after to-morrow. She will be here then, and I want you to come and embrace +us.” +</p> + +<p> +The day was long, and the following morning, at about four o’clock, +shortly after Pascal had fallen asleep, after a happy vigil filled with hopes +and dreams, he was wakened by a dreadful attack. He felt as if an enormous +weight, as if the whole house, had fallen down upon his chest, so that the +thorax, flattened down, touched the back. He could not breathe; the pain +reached the shoulders, then the neck, and paralyzed the left arm. But he was +perfectly conscious; he had the feeling that his heart was about to stop, that +life was about to leave him, in the dreadful oppression, like that of a vise, +which was suffocating him. Before the attack reached its height he had the +strength to rise and to knock on the floor with a stick for Martine. Then he +fell back on his bed, unable to speak or to move, and covered with a cold +sweat. +</p> + +<p> +Martine, fortunately, in the profound silence of the empty house, heard the +knock. She dressed herself, wrapped a shawl about her, and went upstairs, +carrying her candle. The darkness was still profound; dawn was about to break. +And when she perceived her master, whose eyes alone seemed living, looking at +her with locked jaws, speechless, his face distorted by pain, she was awed and +terrified, and she could only rush toward the bed crying: +</p> + +<p> +“My God! My God! what is the matter, monsieur? Answer me, monsieur, you +frighten me!” +</p> + +<p> +For a full minute Pascal struggled in vain to recover his breath. Then, the +viselike pressure on his chest relaxing slowly, he murmured in a faint voice: +</p> + +<p> +“The five thousand francs in the desk are Clotilde’s. Tell her that +the affair of the notary is settled, that she will recover from it enough to +live upon.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Martine, who had listened to him in open-mouthed wonder, confessed the +falsehood she had told him, ignorant of the good news that had been brought by +Ramond. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur, you must forgive me; I told you an untruth. But it would be +wrong to deceive you longer. When I saw you alone and so unhappy, I took some +of my own money.” +</p> + +<p> +“My poor girl, you did that!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I had some hope that monsieur would return it to me one day.” +</p> + +<p> +By this time the attack had passed off, and he was able to turn his head and +look at her. He was amazed and moved. What was passing in the heart of this +avaricious old maid, who for thirty years had been saving up her treasure +painfully, who had never taken a sou from it, either for herself or for any one +else? He did not yet comprehend, but he wished to show himself kind and +grateful. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a good woman, Martine. All that will be returned to you. I truly +think I am going to die—” +</p> + +<p> +She did not allow him to finish, her whole being rose up in rebellious protest. +</p> + +<p> +“Die; you, monsieur! Die before me! I do not wish it. I will not let you +die!” +</p> + +<p> +She threw herself on her knees beside the bed; she caught him wildly in her +arms, feeling him, to see if he suffered, holding him as if she thought that +death would not dare to take him from her. +</p> + +<p> +“You must tell me what is the matter with you. I will take care of you. I +will save you. If it were necessary to give my life for you, I would give it, +monsieur. I will sit up day and night with you. I am strong still; I will be +stronger than the disease, you shall see. To die! to die! oh, no, it cannot be! +The good God cannot wish so great an injustice. I have prayed so much in my +life that he ought to listen to me a little now, and he will grant my prayer, +monsieur; he will save you.” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal looked at her, listened to her, and a sudden light broke in upon his +mind. She loved him, this miserable woman; she had always loved him. He thought +of her thirty years of blind devotion, her mute adoration, when she had waited +upon him, on her knees, as it were, when she was young; her secret jealousy of +Clotilde later; what she must have secretly suffered all that time! And she was +here on her knees now again, beside his deathbed; her hair gray; her eyes the +color of ashes in her pale nun-like face, dulled by her solitary life. And he +felt that she was unconscious of it all; that she did not even know with what +sort of love she loved him, loving him only for the happiness of loving him: of +being with him, and of waiting on him. +</p> + +<p> +Tears rose to Pascal’s eyes; a dolorous pity and an infinite human +tenderness flowed from his poor, half-broken heart. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor girl,” he said, “you are the best of girls. Come, +embrace me, as you love me, with all your strength.” +</p> + +<p> +She, too, sobbed. She let her gray head, her face worn by her long servitude, +fall on her master’s breast. Wildly she kissed him, putting all her life +into the kiss. +</p> + +<p> +“There, let us not give way to emotion, for you see we can do nothing; +this will be the end, just the same. If you wish me to love you, obey me. Now +that I am better, that I can breathe easier, do me the favor to run to Dr. +Ramond’s. Waken him and bring him back with you.” +</p> + +<p> +She was leaving the room when he called to her, seized by a sudden fear. +</p> + +<p> +“And remember, I forbid you to go to inform my mother.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned back, embarrassed, and in a voice of entreaty, said: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, monsieur, Mme. Félicité has made me promise so often—” +</p> + +<p> +But he was inflexible. All his life he had treated his mother with deference, +and he thought he had acquired the right to defend himself against her in the +hour of his death. He would not let the servant go until she had promised him +that she would be silent. Then he smiled once more. +</p> + +<p> +“Go quickly. Oh, you will see me again; it will not be yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Day broke at last, the melancholy dawn of the pale November day. Pascal had had +the shutters opened, and when he was left alone he watched the brightening +dawn, doubtless that of his last day of life. It had rained the night before, +and the mild sun was still veiled by clouds. From the plane trees came the +morning carols of the birds, while far away in the sleeping country a +locomotive whistled with a prolonged moan. And he was alone; alone in the great +melancholy house, whose emptiness he felt around him, whose silence he heard. +The light slowly increased, and he watched the patches it made on the +window-panes broadening and brightening. Then the candle paled in the growing +light, and the whole room became visible. And with the dawn, as he had +anticipated, came relief. The sight of the familiar objects around him brought +him consolation. +</p> + +<p> +But Pascal, although the attack had passed away, still suffered horribly. A +sharp pain remained in the hollow of his chest, and his left arm, benumbed, +hung from his shoulder like lead. In his long waiting for the help that Martine +had gone to bring, he had reflected on the suffering which made the flesh cry +out. And he found that he was resigned; he no longer felt the rebelliousness +which the mere sight of physical pain had formerly awakened in him. It had +exasperated him, as if it had been a monstrous and useless cruelty of nature. +In his doubts as a physician, he had attended his patients only to combat it, +and to relieve it. If he ended by accepting it, now that he himself suffered +its horrible torture, was it that he had risen one degree higher in his faith +of life, to that serene height whence life appeared altogether good, even with +the fatal condition of suffering attached to it; suffering which is perhaps its +spring? Yes, to live all of life, to live it and to suffer it all without +rebellion, without believing that it is made better by being made painless, +this presented itself clearly to his dying eyes, as the greatest courage and +the greatest wisdom. And to cheat pain while he waited, he reviewed his latest +theories; he dreamed of a means of utilizing suffering by transforming it into +action, into work. If it be true that man feels pain more acutely according as +he rises in the scale of civilization, it is also certain that he becomes +stronger through it, better armed against it, more capable of resisting it. The +organ, the brain which works, develops and grows stronger, provided the +equilibrium between the sensations which it receives and the work which it +gives back be not broken. Might not one hope, then, for a humanity in which the +amount of work accomplished would so exactly equal the sum of sensations +received, that suffering would be utilized and, as it were, abolished? +</p> + +<p> +The sun had risen, and Pascal was confusedly revolving these distant hopes in +his mind, in the drowsiness produced by his disease, when he felt a new attack +coming on. He had a moment of cruel anxiety—was this the end? Was he +going to die alone? But at this instant hurried footsteps mounted the stairs, +and a moment later Ramond entered, followed by Martine. And the patient had +time to say before the attack began: +</p> + +<p> +“Quick! quick! a hypodermic injection of pure water.” +</p> + +<p> +Unfortunately the doctor had to look for the little syringe and then to prepare +everything. This occupied some minutes, and the attack was terrible. He +followed its progress with anxiety—the face becoming distorted, the lips +growing livid. Then when he had given the injection, he observed that the +phenomena, for a moment stationary, slowly diminished in intensity. Once more +the catastrophe was averted. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as he recovered his breath Pascal, glancing at the clock, said in his +calm, faint voice: +</p> + +<p> +“My friend, it is seven o’clock—in twelve hours, at seven +o’clock to-night, I shall be dead.” +</p> + +<p> +And as the young man was about to protest, to argue the question, +“No,” he resumed, “do not try to deceive me. You have +witnessed the attack. You know what it means as well as I do. Everything will +now proceed with mathematical exactness; and, hour by hour, I could describe to +you the phases of the disease.” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped, gasped for breath, and then added: +</p> + +<p> +“And then, all is well; I am content. Clotilde will be here at five; all +I ask is to see her and to die in her arms.” +</p> + +<p> +A few moments later, however, he experienced a sensible improvement. The effect +of the injection seemed truly miraculous; and he was able to sit up in bed, his +back resting against the pillows. He spoke clearly, and with more ease, and +never had the lucidity of his mind appeared greater. +</p> + +<p> +“You know, master,” said, Ramond, “that I will not leave you. +I have told my wife, and we will spend the day together; and, whatever you may +say to the contrary, I am very confident that it will not be the last. You will +let me make myself at home, here, will you not?” +</p> + +<p> +Pascal smiled, and gave orders to Martine to go and prepare breakfast for +Ramond, saying that if they needed her they would call her. And the two men +remained alone, conversing with friendly intimacy; the one with his white hair +and long white beard, lying down, discoursing like a sage, the other sitting at +his bedside, listening with the respect of a disciple. +</p> + +<p> +“In truth,” murmured the master, as if he were speaking to himself, +“the effect of those injections is extraordinary.” +</p> + +<p> +Then in a stronger voice, he said almost gaily: +</p> + +<p> +“My friend Ramond, it may not be a very great present that I am giving +you, but I am going to leave you my manuscripts. Yes, Clotilde has orders to +send them to you when I shall be no more. Look through them, and you will +perhaps find among them things that are not so very bad. If you get a good idea +from them some day—well, that will be so much the better for the +world.” +</p> + +<p> +And then he made his scientific testament. He was clearly conscious that he had +been himself only a solitary pioneer, a precursor, planning theories which he +tried to put in practise, but which failed because of the imperfection of his +method. He recalled his enthusiasm when he believed he had discovered, in his +injections of nerve substance, the universal panacea, then his disappointments, +his fits of despair, the shocking death of Lafouasse, consumption carrying off +Valentin in spite of all his efforts, madness again conquering Sarteur and +causing him to hang himself. So that he would depart full of doubt, having no +longer the confidence necessary to the physician, and so enamored of life that +he had ended by putting all his faith in it, certain that it must draw from +itself alone its health and strength. But he did not wish to close up the +future; he was glad, on the contrary, to bequeath his hypotheses to the younger +generation. Every twenty years theories changed; established truths only, on +which science continued to build, remained unshaken. Even if he had only the +merit of giving to science a momentary hypothesis, his work would not be lost, +for progress consisted assuredly in the effort, in the onward march of the +intellect. +</p> + +<p> +And then who could say that he had died in vain, troubled and weary, his hopes +concerning the injections unrealized—other workers would come, young, +ardent, confident, who would take up the idea, elucidate it, expand it. And +perhaps a new epoch, a new world would date from this. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my dear Ramond,” he continued, “if one could only live +life over again. Yes, I would take up my idea again, for I have been struck +lately by the singular efficacy of injections even of pure water. It is not the +liquid, then, that matters, but simply the mechanical action. During the last +month I have written a great deal on that subject. You will find some curious +notes and observations there. In short, I should be inclined to put all my +faith in work, to place health in the harmonious working of all the organs, a +sort of dynamic therapeutics, if I may venture to use the expression.” +</p> + +<p> +He had gradually grown excited, forgetting his approaching death in his ardent +curiosity about life. And he sketched, with broad strokes, his last theory. Man +was surrounded by a medium—nature—which irritated by perpetual +contact the sensitive extremities of the nerves. Hence the action, not only of +the senses, but of the entire surface of the body, external and internal. For +it was these sensations which, reverberating in the brain, in the marrow, and +in the nervous centers, were there converted into tonicity, movements, and +thoughts; and he was convinced that health consisted in the natural progress of +this work, in receiving sensations, and in giving them back in thoughts and in +actions, the human machine being thus fed by the regular play of the organs. +Work thus became the great law, the regulator of the living universe. Hence it +became necessary if the equilibrium were broken, if the external excitations +ceased to be sufficient, for therapeutics to create artificial excitations, in +order to reestablish the tonicity which is the state of perfect health. And he +dreamed of a whole new system of treatment—suggestion, the all-powerful +authority of the physician, for the senses; electricity, friction, massage for +the skin and for the tendons; diet for the stomach; air cures on high plateaus +for the lungs, and, finally, transfusion, injections of distilled water, for +the circulatory system. It was the undeniable and purely mechanical action of +these latter that had put him on the track; all he did now was to extend the +hypothesis, impelled by his generalizing spirit; he saw the world saved anew in +this perfect equilibrium, as much work given as sensation received, the balance +of the world restored by unceasing labor. +</p> + +<p> +Here he burst into a frank laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“There! I have started off again. I, who was firmly convinced that the +only wisdom was not to interfere, to let nature take its course. Ah, what an +incorrigible old fool I am!” +</p> + +<p> +Ramond caught his hands in an outburst of admiration and affection. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master! it is of enthusiasm, of folly like yours that genius is +made. Have no fear, I have listened to you, I will endeavor to be worthy of the +heritage you leave; and I think, with you, that perhaps the great future lies +entirely there.” +</p> + +<p> +In the sad and quiet room Pascal began to speak again, with the courageous +tranquillity of a dying philosopher giving his last lesson. He now reviewed his +personal observations; he said that he had often cured himself by work, regular +and methodical work, not carried to excess. Eleven o’clock struck; he +urged Ramond to take his breakfast, and he continued the conversation, soaring +to lofty and distant heights, while Martine served the meal. The sun had at +last burst through the morning mists, a sun still half-veiled in clouds, and +mild, whose golden light warmed the room. Presently, after taking a few sips of +milk, Pascal remained silent. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment the young physician was eating a pear. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you in pain again?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; finish.” +</p> + +<p> +But he could not deceive Ramond. It was an attack, and a terrible one. The +suffocation came with the swiftness of a thunderbolt, and he fell back on the +pillow, his face already blue. He clutched at the bedclothes to support +himself, to raise the dreadful weight which oppressed his chest. Terrified, +livid, he kept his wide open eyes fixed upon the clock, with a dreadful +expression of despair and grief; and for ten minutes it seemed as if every +moment must be his last. +</p> + +<p> +Ramond had immediately given him a hypodermic injection. The relief was slow to +come, the efficacy less than before. +</p> + +<p> +When Pascal revived, large tears stood in his eyes. He did not speak now, he +wept. Presently, looking at the clock with his darkening vision, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“My friend, I shall die at four o’clock; I shall not see +her.” +</p> + +<p> +And as his young colleague, in order to divert his thoughts, declared, in spite +of appearances, that the end was not so near, Pascal, again becoming +enthusiastic, wished to give him a last lesson, based on direct observation. He +had, as it happened, attended several cases similar to his own, and he +remembered especially to have dissected at the hospital the heart of a poor old +man affected with sclerosis. +</p> + +<p> +“I can see it—my heart. It is the color of a dead leaf; its fibers +are brittle, wasted, one would say, although it has augmented slightly in +volume. The inflammatory process has hardened it; it would be difficult to +cut—” +</p> + +<p> +He continued in a lower voice. A little before, he had felt his heart growing +weaker, its contractions becoming feebler and slower. Instead of the normal jet +of blood there now issued from the aorta only a red froth. Back of it all the +veins were engorged with black blood; the suffocation increased, according as +the lift and force pump, the regulator of the whole machine, moved more slowly. +And after the injection he had been able to follow in spite of his suffering +the gradual reviving of the organ as the stimulus set it beating again, +removing the black venous blood, and sending life into it anew, with the red +arterial blood. But the attack would return as soon as the mechanical effect of +the injection should cease. He could predict it almost within a few minutes. +Thanks to the injections he would have three attacks more. The third would +carry him off; he would die at four o’clock. +</p> + +<p> +Then, while his voice grew gradually weaker, in a last outburst of enthusiasm, +he apostrophized the courage of the heart, that persistent life maker, working +ceaselessly, even during sleep, when the other organs rested. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, brave heart! how heroically you struggle! What faithful, what +generous muscles, never wearied! You have loved too much, you have beat too +fast in the past months, and that is why you are breaking now, brave heart, who +do not wish to die, and who strive rebelliously to beat still!” +</p> + +<p> +But now the first of the attacks which had been announced came on. Pascal came +out of this panting, haggard, his speech sibilant and painful. Low moans +escaped him, in spite of his courage. Good God! would this torture never end? +And yet his most ardent desire was to prolong his agony, to live long enough to +embrace Clotilde a last time. If he might only be deceiving himself, as Ramond +persisted in declaring. If he might only live until five o’clock. His +eyes again turned to the clock, they never now left the hands, every minute +seeming an eternity. They marked three o’clock. Then half-past three. Ah, +God! only two hours of life, two hours more of life. The sun was already +sinking toward the horizon; a great calm descended from the pale winter sky, +and he heard at intervals the whistles of the distant locomotives crossing the +bare plain. The train that was passing now was the one going to the Tulettes; +the other, the one coming from Marseilles, would it never arrive, then! +</p> + +<p> +At twenty minutes to four Pascal signed to Ramond to approach. He could no +longer speak loud enough to be heard. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, in order that I might live until six o’clock, the pulse +should be stronger. I have still some hope, however, but the second movement is +almost imperceptible, the heart will soon cease to beat.” +</p> + +<p> +And in faint, despairing accents he called on Clotilde again and again. The +immeasurable grief which he felt at not being able to see her again broke forth +in this faltering and agonized appeal. Then his anxiety about his manuscripts +returned, an ardent entreaty shone in his eyes, until at last he found the +strength to falter again: +</p> + +<p> +“Do not leave me; the key is under my pillow; tell Clotilde to take it; +she has my directions.” +</p> + +<p> +At ten minutes to four another hypodermic injection was given, but without +effect. And just as four o’clock was striking, the second attack declared +itself. Suddenly, after a fit of suffocation, he threw himself out of bed; he +desired to rise, to walk, in a last revival of his strength. A need of space, +of light, of air, urged him toward the skies. Then there came to him an +irresistible appeal from life, his whole life, from the adjoining workroom, +where he had spent his days. And he went there, staggering, suffocating, +bending to the left side, supporting himself by the furniture. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Ramond precipitated himself quickly toward him to stop him, crying: +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master! lie down again, I entreat you!” +</p> + +<p> +But Pascal paid no heed to him, obstinately determined to die on his feet. The +desire to live, the heroic idea of work, alone survived in him, carrying him +onward bodily. He faltered hoarsely: +</p> + +<p> +“No, no—out there, out there—” +</p> + +<p> +His friend was obliged to support him, and he walked thus, stumbling and +haggard, to the end of the workroom, and dropped into his chair beside his +table, on which an unfinished page still lay among a confusion of papers and +books. +</p> + +<p> +Here he gasped for breath and his eyes closed. After a moment he opened them +again, while his hands groped about, seeking his work, no doubt. They +encountered the genealogical tree in the midst of other papers scattered about. +Only two days before he had corrected some dates in it. He recognized it, and +drawing it toward him, spread it out. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, master! you will kill yourself!” cried Ramond, overcome +with pity and admiration at this extraordinary spectacle. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal did not listen, did not hear. He felt a pencil under his fingers. He +took it and bent over the tree, as if his dying eyes no longer saw. The name of +Maxime arrested his attention, and he wrote: “Died of ataxia in +1873,” in the certainty that his nephew would not live through the year. +Then Clotilde’s name, beside it, struck him and he completed the note +thus: “Has a son, by her Uncle Pascal, in 1874.” But it was his own +name that he sought wearily and confusedly. When he at last found it his hand +grew firmer, and he finished his note, in upright and bold characters: +“Died of heart disease, November 7, 1873.” This was the supreme +effort, the rattle in his throat increased, everything was fading into +nothingness, when he perceived the blank leaf above Clotilde’s name. His +vision grew dark, his fingers could no longer hold the pencil, but he was still +able to add, in unsteady letters, into which passed the tortured tenderness, +the wild disorder of his poor heart: “The unknown child, to be born in +1874. What will it be?” Then he swooned, and Martine and Ramond with +difficulty carried him back to bed. +</p> + +<p> +The third attack came on about four o’clock. In this last access of +suffocation Pascal’s countenance expressed excruciating suffering. Death +was to be very painful; he must endure to the end his martyrdom, as a man and a +scientist. His wandering gaze still seemed to seek the clock, to ascertain the +hour. And Ramond, seeing his lips move, bent down and placed his ear to the +mouth of the dying man. The latter, in effect, was stammering some vague words, +so faint that they scarcely rose above a breath: +</p> + +<p> +“Four o’clock—the heart is stopping; no more red blood in the +aorta—the valve relaxes and bursts.” +</p> + +<p> +A dreadful spasm shook him; his breathing grew fainter. +</p> + +<p> +“Its progress is too rapid. Do not leave me; the key is under the +pillow—Clotilde, Clotilde—” +</p> + +<p> +At the foot of the bed Martine was kneeling, choked with sobs. She saw well +that monsieur was dying. She had not dared to go for a priest notwithstanding +her great desire to do so; and she was herself reciting the prayers for the +dying; she prayed ardently that God would pardon monsieur, and that monsieur +might go straight to Paradise. +</p> + +<p> +Pascal was dying. His face was quite blue. After a few seconds of immobility, +he tried to breathe: he put out his lips, opened his poor mouth, like a little +bird opening its beak to get a last mouthful of air. And he was dead. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"></a> +XIII.</h2> + +<p> +It was not until after breakfast, at about one o’clock, that Clotilde +received the despatch. On this day it had chanced that she had quarreled with +her brother Maxime, who, taking advantage of his privileges as an invalid, had +tormented her more and more every day by his unreasonable caprices and his +outbursts of ill temper. In short, her visit to him had not proved a success. +He found that she was too simple and too serious to cheer him; and he had +preferred, of late, the society of Rose, the fair-haired young girl, with the +innocent look, who amused him. So that when his sister told him that their +uncle had sent for her, and that she was going away, he gave his approval at +once, and although he asked her to return as soon as she should have settled +her affairs at home, he did so only with the desire of showing himself amiable, +and he did not press the invitation. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde spent the afternoon in packing her trunks. In the feverish excitement +of so sudden a decision she had thought of nothing but the joy of her return. +But after the hurry of dinner was over, after she had said good-by to her +brother, after the interminable drive in a hackney coach along the avenue of +the Bois de Boulogne to the Lyons railway station, when she found herself in +the ladies’ compartment, starting on the long journey on a cold and rainy +November night, already rolling away from Paris, her excitement began to abate, +and reflections forced their way into her mind and began to trouble her. Why +this brief and urgent despatch: “I await you; start this evening.” +Doubtless it was the answer to her letter; but she knew how greatly Pascal had +desired that she should remain in Paris, where he thought she was happy, and +she was astonished at his hasty summons. She had not expected a despatch, but a +letter, arranging for her return a few weeks later. There must be something +else, then; perhaps he was ill and felt a desire, a longing to see her again at +once. And from this time forward this fear seized her with the force of a +presentiment, and grew stronger and stronger, until it soon took complete +possession of her. +</p> + +<p> +All night long the rain beat furiously against the windows of the train while +they were crossing the plains of Burgundy, and did not cease until they reached +Macon. When they had passed Lyons the day broke. Clotilde had Pascal’s +letters with her, and she had waited impatiently for the daylight that she +might read again carefully these letters, the writing of which had seemed +changed to her. And noticing the unsteady characters, the breaks in the words, +she felt a chill at her heart. He was ill, very ill—she had become +certain of this now, by a divination in which there was less of reasoning than +of subtle prescience. And the rest of the journey seemed terribly long, for her +anguish increased in proportion as she approached its termination. And worse +than all, arriving at Marseilles at half-past twelve, there was no train for +Plassans until twenty minutes past three. Three long hours of waiting! She +breakfasted at the buffet in the railway station, eating hurriedly, as if she +was afraid of missing this train; then she dragged herself into the dusty +garden, going from bench to bench in the pale, mild sunshine, among omnibuses +and hackney coaches. At last she was once more in the train, which stopped at +every little way station. When they were approaching Plassans she put her head +out of the window eagerly, longing to see the town again after her short +absence of two months. It seemed to her as if she had been away for twenty +years, and that everything must be changed. When the train was leaving the +little station of Sainte-Marthe her emotion reached its height when, leaning +out, she saw in the distance La Souleiade with the two secular cypresses on the +terrace, which could be seen three leagues off. +</p> + +<p> +It was five o’clock, and twilight was already falling. The train stopped, +and Clotilde descended. But it was a surprise and a keen grief to her not to +see Pascal waiting for her on the platform. She had been saying to herself +since they had left Lyons: “If I do not see him at once, on the arrival +of the train, it will be because he is ill.” He might be in the +waiting-room, however, or with a carriage outside. She hurried forward, but she +saw no one but Father Durieu, a driver whom the doctor was in the habit of +employing. She questioned him eagerly. The old man, a taciturn Provençal, was +in no haste to answer. His wagon was there, and he asked her for the checks for +her luggage, wishing to see about the trunks before anything else. In a +trembling voice she repeated her question: +</p> + +<p> +“Is everybody well, Father Durieu?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +And she was obliged to put question after question to him before she succeeded +in eliciting the information that it was Martine who had told him, at about six +o’clock the day before, to be at the station with his wagon, in time to +meet the train. He had not seen the doctor, no one had seen him, for two months +past. It might very well be since he was not here that he had been obliged to +take to his bed, for there was a report in the town that he was not very well. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait until I get the luggage, mademoiselle,” he ended, +“there is room for you on the seat.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Father Durieu, it would be too long to wait. I will walk.” +</p> + +<p> +She ascended the slope rapidly. Her heart was so tightened that she could +scarcely breathe. The sun had sunk behind the hills of Sainte-Marthe, and a +fine mist was falling from the chill gray November sky, and as she took the +road to Les Fenouilleres she caught another glimpse of La Souleiade, which +struck a chill to her heart—the front of the house, with all its shutters +closed, and wearing a look of abandonment and desolation in the melancholy +twilight. +</p> + +<p> +But Clotilde received the final and terrible blow when she saw Ramond standing +at the hall door, apparently waiting for her. He had indeed been watching for +her, and had come downstairs to break the dreadful news gently to her. She +arrived out of breath; she had crossed the quincunx of plane trees near the +fountain to shorten the way, and on seeing the young man there instead of +Pascal, whom she had in spite of everything expected to see, she had a +presentiment of overwhelming ruin, of irreparable misfortune. Ramond was pale +and agitated, notwithstanding the effort he made to control his feelings. At +the first moment he could not find a word to say, but waited to be questioned. +Clotilde, who was herself suffocating, said nothing. And they entered the house +thus; he led her to the dining-room, where they remained for a few seconds, +face to face, in mute anguish. +</p> + +<p> +“He is ill, is he not?” she at last faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, “he is ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew it at once when I saw you,” she replied. “I knew when +he was not here that he must be ill. He is very ill, is he not?” she +persisted. +</p> + +<p> +As he did not answer but grew still paler, she looked at him fixedly. And on +the instant she saw the shadow of death upon him; on his hands that still +trembled, that had assisted the dying man; on his sad face; in his troubled +eyes, which still retained the reflection of the death agony; in the neglected +and disordered appearance of the physician who, for twelve hours, had +maintained an unavailing struggle against death. +</p> + +<p> +She gave a loud cry: +</p> + +<p> +“He is dead!” +</p> + +<p> +She tottered, and fell fainting into the arms of Ramond, who with a great sob +pressed her in a brotherly embrace. And thus they wept on each other’s +neck. +</p> + +<p> +When he had seated her in a chair, and she was able to speak, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“It was I who took the despatch you received to the telegraph office +yesterday, at half-past ten o’clock. He was so happy, so full of hope! He +was forming plans for the future—a year, two years of life. And this +morning, at four o’clock, he had the first attack, and he sent for me. He +saw at once that he was doomed, but he expected to last until six +o’clock, to live long enough to see you again. But the disease progressed +too rapidly. He described its progress to me, minute by minute, like a +professor in the dissecting room. He died with your name upon his lips, calm, +but full of anguish, like a hero.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde listened, her eyes drowned in tears which flowed endlessly. Every word +of the relation of this piteous and stoical death penetrated her heart and +stamped itself there. She reconstructed every hour of the dreadful day. She +followed to its close its grand and mournful drama. She would live it over in +her thoughts forever. +</p> + +<p> +But her despairing grief overflowed when Martine, who had entered the room a +moment before, said in a harsh voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, mademoiselle has good reason to cry! for if monsieur is dead, +mademoiselle is to blame for it.” +</p> + +<p> +The old servant stood apart, near the door of her kitchen, in such a passion of +angry grief, because they had taken her master from her, because they had +killed him, that she did not even try to find a word of welcome or consolation +for this child whom she had brought up. And without calculating the +consequences of her indiscretion, the grief or the joy which she might cause, +she relieved herself by telling all she knew. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if monsieur has died, it is because mademoiselle went away.” +</p> + +<p> +From the depths of her overpowering grief Clotilde protested. She had expected +to see Martine weeping with her, like Ramond, and she was surprised to feel +that she was an enemy. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, it was he who would not let me stay, who insisted upon my going +away,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well! mademoiselle must have been willing to go or she would have +been more clear-sighted. The night before your departure I found monsieur +half-suffocated with grief; and when I wished to inform mademoiselle, he +himself prevented me; he had such courage. Then I could see it all, after +mademoiselle had gone. Every night it was the same thing over again, and he +could hardly keep from writing to you to come back. In short, he died of it, +that is the pure truth.” +</p> + +<p> +A great light broke in on Clotilde’s mind, making her at the same time +very happy and very wretched. Good God! what she had suspected for a moment, +was then true. Afterward she had been convinced, seeing Pascal’s angry +persistence, that he was speaking the truth; that between her and work he had +chosen work sincerely, like a man of science with whom love of work has gained +the victory over the love of woman. And yet he had not spoken the truth; he had +carried his devotion, his self-forgetfulness to the point of immolating himself +to what he believed to be her happiness. And the misery of things willed that +he should have been mistaken, that he should have thus consummated the +unhappiness of both. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde again protested wildly: +</p> + +<p> +“But how could I have known? I obeyed; I put all my love in my +obedience.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” cried Martine again, “it seems to me that I should have +guessed.” +</p> + +<p> +Ramond interposed gently. He took Clotilde’s hands once more in his, and +explained to her that grief might indeed have hastened the fatal issue, but +that the master had unhappily been doomed for some time past. The affection of +the heart from which he had suffered must have been of long standing—a +great deal of overwork, a certain part of heredity, and, finally, his late +absorbing love, and the poor heart had broken. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go upstairs,” said Clotilde simply. “I wish to see +him.” +</p> + +<p> +Upstairs in the death-chamber the blinds were closed, shutting out even the +melancholy twilight. On a little table at the foot of the bed burned two tapers +in two candlesticks. And they cast a pale yellow light on Pascal’s form +extended on the bed, the feet close together, the hands folded on the breast. +The eyes had been piously closed. The face, of a bluish hue still, but already +looking calm and peaceful, framed by the flowing white hair and beard, seemed +asleep. He had been dead scarcely an hour and a half, yet already infinite +serenity, eternal silence, eternal repose, had begun. +</p> + +<p> +Seeing him thus, at the thought that he no longer heard her, that he no longer +saw her, that she was alone now, that she was to kiss him for the last time, +and then lose him forever, Clotilde, in an outburst of grief, threw herself +upon the bed, and in broken accents of passionate tenderness cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, master, master, master—” +</p> + +<p> +She pressed her lips to the dead man’s forehead, and, feeling it still +warm with life, she had a momentary illusion: she fancied that he felt this +last caress, so cruelly awaited. Did he not smile in his immobility, happy at +last, and able to die, now that he felt her here beside him? Then, overcome by +the dreadful reality, she burst again into wild sobs. +</p> + +<p> +Martine entered, bringing a lamp, which she placed on a corner of the +chimney-piece, and she heard Ramond, who was watching Clotilde, disquieted at +seeing her passionate grief, say: +</p> + +<p> +“I shall take you away from the room if you give way like this. Consider +that you have some one else to think of now.” +</p> + +<p> +The servant had been surprised at certain words which she had overheard by +chance during the day. Suddenly she understood, and she turned paler even than +before, and on her way out of the room, she stopped at the door to hear more. +</p> + +<p> +“The key of the press is under his pillow,” said Ramond, lowering +his voice; “he told me repeatedly to tell you so. You know what you have +to do?” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde made an effort to remember and to answer. +</p> + +<p> +“What I have to do? About the papers, is it not? Yes, yes, I remember; I +am to keep the envelopes and to give you the other manuscripts. Have no fear, I +am quite calm, I will be very reasonable. But I will not leave him; I will +spend the night here very quietly, I promise you.” +</p> + +<p> +She was so unhappy, she seemed so resolved to watch by him, to remain with him, +until he should be taken away, that the young physician allowed her to have her +way. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I will leave you now. They will be expecting me at home. Then +there are all sorts of formalities to be gone through—to give notice at +the mayor’s office, the funeral, of which I wish to spare you the +details. Trouble yourself about nothing. Everything will be arranged to-morrow +when I return.” +</p> + +<p> +He embraced her once more and then went away. And it was only then that Martine +left the room, behind him, and locking the hall door she ran out into the +darkness. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde was now alone in the chamber; and all around and about her, in the +unbroken silence, she felt the emptiness of the house. Clotilde was alone with +the dead Pascal. She placed a chair at the head of the bed and sat there +motionless, alone. On arriving, she had merely removed her hat: now, perceiving +that she still had on her gloves, she took them off also. But she kept on her +traveling dress, crumpled and dusty, after twenty hours of railway travel. No +doubt Father Durieu had brought the trunks long ago, and left them downstairs. +But it did not occur to her, nor had she the strength to wash herself and +change her clothes, but remained sitting, overwhelmed with grief, on the chair +into which she had dropped. One regret, a great remorse, filled her to the +exclusion of all else. Why had she obeyed him? Why had she consented to leave +him? If she had remained she had the ardent conviction that he would not have +died. She would have lavished so much love, so many caresses upon him, that she +would have cured him. If one was anxious to keep a beloved being from dying one +should remain with him and, if necessary, give one’s heart’s blood +to keep him alive. It was her own fault if she had lost him, if she could not +now with a caress awaken him from his eternal sleep. And she thought herself +imbecile not to have understood; cowardly, not to have devoted herself to him; +culpable, and to be forever punished for having gone away when plain common +sense, in default of feeling, ought to have kept her here, bound, as a +submissive and affectionate subject, to the task of watching over her king. +</p> + +<p> +The silence had become so complete, so profound, that Clotilde lifted her eyes +for a moment from Pascal’s face to look around the room. She saw only +vague shadows—the two tapers threw two yellow patches on the high +ceiling. At this moment she remembered the letters he had written to her, so +short, so cold; and she comprehended his heroic sacrifice, the torture it had +been to him to silence his heart, desiring to immolate himself to the end. What +strength must he not have required for the accomplishment of the plan of +happiness, sublime and disastrous, which he had formed for her. He had resolved +to pass out of her life in order to save her from his old age and his poverty; +he wished her to be rich and free, to enjoy her youth, far away from him; this +indeed was utter self-effacement, complete absorption in the love of another. +And she felt a profound gratitude, a sweet solace in the thought, mingled with +a sort of angry bitterness against evil fortune. Then, suddenly, the happy +years of her childhood and her long youth spent beside him who had always been +so kind and so good-humored, rose before her—how he had gradually won her +affection, how she had felt that she was his, after the quarrels which had +separated them for a time, and with what a transport of joy she had at last +given herself to him. +</p> + +<p> +Seven o’clock struck. Clotilde started as the clear tones broke the +profound silence. Who was it that had spoken? Then she remembered, and she +looked at the clock. And when the last sound of the seven strokes, each of +which had fallen like a knell upon her heart, had died away, she turned her +eyes again on the motionless face of Pascal, and once more she abandoned +herself to her grief. +</p> + +<p> +It was in the midst of this ever-increasing prostration that Clotilde, a few +minutes later, heard a sudden sound of sobbing. Some one had rushed into the +room; she looked round and saw her Grandmother Félicité. But she did not stir, +she did not speak, so benumbed was she with grief. Martine, anticipating the +orders which Clotilde would undoubtedly have given her, had hurried to old Mme. +Rougon’s, to give her the dreadful news; and the latter, dazed at first +by the suddenness of the catastrophe, and afterward greatly agitated, had +hurried to the house, overflowing with noisy grief. She burst into tears at +sight of her son, and then embraced Clotilde, who returned her kiss, as in a +dream. And from this instant the latter, without emerging from the overwhelming +grief in which she isolated herself, felt that she was no longer alone, hearing +a continual stir and bustle going on around her. It was Félicité crying, coming +in and going out on tiptoe, setting things in order, spying about, whispering, +dropping into a chair, to get up again a moment afterward, after saying that +she was going to die in it. At nine o’clock she made a last effort to +persuade her granddaughter to eat something. Twice already she had lectured her +in a low voice; she came now again to whisper to her: +</p> + +<p> +“Clotilde, my dear, I assure you you are wrong. You must keep up your +strength or you will never be able to hold out.” +</p> + +<p> +But the young woman, with a shake of her head, again refused. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, you breakfasted at the buffet at Marseilles, I suppose, but you +have eaten nothing since. Is that reasonable? I do not wish you to fall ill +also. Martine has some broth. I have told her to make a light soup and to roast +a chicken. Go down and eat a mouthful, only a mouthful, and I will remain +here.” +</p> + +<p> +With the same patient gesture Clotilde again refused. At last she faltered: +</p> + +<p> +“Do not ask me, grandmother, I entreat you. I could not; it would choke +me.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not speak again, falling back into her former state of apathy. She did +not sleep, however, her wide open eyes were fixed persistently on +Pascal’s face. For hours she sat there, motionless, erect, rigid, as if +her spirit were far away with the dead. At ten o’clock she heard a noise; +it was Martine bringing up the lamp. Toward eleven Félicité, who was sitting +watching in an armchair, seemed to grow restless, got up and went out of the +room, and came back again. From this forth there was a continual coming and +going as of impatient footsteps prowling around the young woman, who was still +awake, her large eyes fixed motionless on Pascal. Twelve o’clock struck, +and one persistent thought alone pierced her weary brain, like a nail, and +prevented sleep—why had she obeyed him? If she had remained she would +have revived him with her youth, and he would not have died. And it was not +until a little before one that she felt this thought, too, grow confused and +lose itself in a nightmare. And she fell into a heavy sleep, worn out with +grief and fatigue. +</p> + +<p> +When Martine had announced to Mme. Rougon the unexpected death of her son +Pascal, in the shock which she received there was as much of anger as of grief. +What! her dying son had not wished to see her; he had made this servant swear +not to inform her of his illness! This thought sent the blood coursing swiftly +through her veins, as if the struggle between them, which had lasted during his +whole life, was to be continued beyond the grave. Then, when after hastily +dressing herself she had hurried to La Souleiade, the thought of the terrible +envelopes, of all the manuscripts piled up in the press, had filled her with +trembling rage. Now that Uncle Macquart and Aunt Dide were dead, she no longer +feared what she called the abomination of the Tulettes; and even poor little +Charles, in dying, had carried with him one of the most humiliating of the +blots on the family. There remained only the envelopes, the abominable +envelopes, to menace the glorious Rougon legend which she had spent her whole +life in creating, which was the sole thought of her old age, the work to the +triumph of which she had persistently devoted the last efforts of her wily and +active brain. For long years she had watched these envelopes, never wearying, +beginning the struggle over again, when he had thought her beaten, always alert +and persistent. Ah! if she could only succeed in obtaining possession of them +and destroying them! It would be the execrable past destroyed, effaced; it +would be the glory of her family, so hardly won, at last freed from all fear, +at last shining untarnished, imposing its lie upon history. And she saw herself +traversing the three quarters of Plassans, saluted by every one, bearing +herself as proudly as a queen, mourning nobly for the fallen Empire. So that +when Martine informed her that Clotilde had come, she quickened her steps as +she approached La Souleiade, spurred by the fear of arriving too late. +</p> + +<p> +But as soon as she was installed in the house, Félicité at once regained her +composure. There was no hurry, they had the whole night before them. She +wished, however, to win over Martine without delay, and she knew well how to +influence this simple creature, bound up in the doctrines of a narrow religion. +Going down to the kitchen, then, to see the chicken roasting, she began by +affecting to be heartbroken at the thought of her son dying without having made +his peace with the Church. She questioned the servant, pressing her for +particulars. But the latter shook her head disconsolately—no, no priest +had come, monsieur had not even made the sign of the cross. She, only, had +knelt down to say the prayers for the dying, which certainly could not be +enough for the salvation of a soul. And yet with what fervor she had prayed to +the good God that monsieur might go straight to Paradise! +</p> + +<p> +With her eyes fixed on the chicken turning on the spit, before a bright fire, +Félicité resumed in a lower voice, with an absorbed air: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my poor girl, what will most prevent him from going to Paradise are +the abominable papers which the unhappy man has left behind him up there in the +press. I cannot understand why it is that lightning from heaven has not struck +those papers before this and reduced them to ashes. If they are allowed to +leave this house it will be ruin and disgrace and eternal perdition!” +</p> + +<p> +Martine listened, very pale. +</p> + +<p> +“Then madame thinks it would be a good work to destroy them, a work that +would assure the repose of monsieur’s soul?” +</p> + +<p> +“Great God! Do I believe it! Why, if I had those dreadful papers in my +hands, I would throw every one of them into the fire. Oh, you would not need +then to put on any more sticks; with the manuscripts upstairs alone you would +have fuel enough to roast three chickens like that.” +</p> + +<p> +The servant took a long spoon and began to baste the fowl. She, too, seemed now +to reflect. +</p> + +<p> +“Only we haven’t got them. I even overheard some words on the +subject, which I may repeat to madame. It was when mademoiselle went upstairs. +Dr. Raymond spoke to her about the papers, asking her if she remembered some +orders which she had received, before she went away, no doubt; and she answered +that she remembered, that she was to keep the envelopes and to give him all the +other manuscripts.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité trembled; she could not restrain a terrified movement. Already she saw +the papers slipping out of her reach; and it was not the envelopes only which +she desired, but all the manuscripts, all that unknown, suspicious, and secret +work, from which nothing but scandal could come, according to the obtuse and +excitable mind of the proud old <i>bourgeoise</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“But we must act!” she cried, “act immediately, this very +night! To-morrow it may be too late.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know where the key of the press is,” answered Martine in a low +voice. “The doctor told mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité immediately pricked up her ears. +</p> + +<p> +“The key; where is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Under the pillow, under monsieur’s head.” +</p> + +<p> +In spite of the bright blaze of the fire of vine branches the air seemed to +grow suddenly chill, and the two old women were silent. The only sound to be +heard was the drip of the chicken juice falling into the pan. +</p> + +<p> +But after Mme. Rougon had eaten a hasty and solitary dinner she went upstairs +again with Martine. Without another word being spoken they understood each +other, it was decided that they would use all possible means to obtain +possession of the papers before daybreak. The simplest was to take the key from +under the pillow. Clotilde would no doubt at last fall asleep—she seemed +too exhausted not to succumb to fatigue. All they had to do was to wait. They +set themselves to watch, then, going back and forth on tiptoe between the study +and the bedroom, waiting for the moment when the young woman’s large +motionless eyes should close in sleep. One of them would go to see, while the +other waited impatiently in the study, where a lamp burned dully on the table. +This was repeated every fifteen minutes until midnight. The fathomless eyes, +full of gloom and of an immense despair, did not close. A little before +midnight Félicité installed herself in an armchair at the foot of the bed, +resolved not to leave the spot until her granddaughter should have fallen +asleep. From this forth she did not take her eyes off Clotilde, and it filled +her with a sort of fear to remark that the girl scarcely moved her eyelids, +looking with that inconsolable fixity which defies sleep. Then she herself +began to feel sleep stealing over her. Exasperated, trembling with nervous +impatience, she could remain where she was no longer. And she went to rejoin +the servant, who was watching in the study. +</p> + +<p> +“It is useless; she will not sleep,” she said in a stifled and +trembling voice. “We must find some other way.” +</p> + +<p> +It had indeed occurred to her to break open the press. +</p> + +<p> +But the old oaken boards were strong, the old iron held firmly. How could they +break the lock—not to speak of the noise they would make and which would +certainly be heard in the adjoining room? +</p> + +<p> +She stood before the thick doors, however, and felt them with her fingers, +seeking some weak spot. +</p> + +<p> +“If I only had an instrument,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Martine, less eager, interrupted her, objecting: “Oh, no, no, madame! We +might be surprised! Wait, I will go again and see if mademoiselle is asleep +now.” +</p> + +<p> +She went to the bedroom on tiptoe and returned immediately, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, she is asleep. Her eyes are closed, and she does not stir.” +</p> + +<p> +Then both went to look at her, holding their breath and walking with the utmost +caution, so that the boards might not creak. Clotilde had indeed just fallen +asleep: and her stupor seemed so profound that the two old women grew bold. +They feared, however, that they might touch and waken her, for her chair stood +close beside the bed. And then, to put one’s hand under a dead +man’s pillow to rob him was a terrible and sacrilegious act, the thought +of which filled them with terror. Might it not disturb his repose? Might he not +move at the shock? The thought made them turn pale. +</p> + +<p> +Félicité had advanced with outstretched hand, but she drew back, stammering: +</p> + +<p> +“I am too short. You try, Martine.” +</p> + +<p> +The servant in her turn approached the bed. But she was seized with such a fit +of trembling that she was obliged to retreat lest she should fall. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, I cannot!” she said. “It seems to me that monsieur +is going to open his eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +And trembling and awe-struck they remained an instant longer in the lugubrious +chamber full of the silence and the majesty of death, facing Pascal, motionless +forever, and Clotilde, overwhelmed by the grief of her widowhood. Perhaps they +saw, glorifying that mute head, guarding its work with all its weight, the +nobility of a life spent in honorable labor. The flame of the tapers burned +palely. A sacred awe filled the air, driving them from the chamber. +</p> + +<p> +Félicité, who was so brave, who had never in her life flinched from anything, +not even from bloodshed, fled as if she was pursued, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, Martine, we will find some other way; we will go look for an +instrument.” +</p> + +<p> +In the study they drew a breath of relief. Félicité looked in vain among the +papers on Pascal’s work-table for the genealogical tree, which she knew +was usually there. She would so gladly have begun her work of destruction with +this. It was there, but in her feverish excitement she did not perceive it. +</p> + +<p> +Her desire drew her back again to the press, and she stood before it, measuring +it and examining it with eager and covetous look. In spite of her short +stature, in spite of her eighty-odd years, she displayed an activity and an +energy that were truly extraordinary. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she repeated, “if I only had an instrument!” +</p> + +<p> +And she again sought the crevice in the colossus, the crack into which she +might introduce her fingers, to break it open. She imagined plans of assault, +she thought of using force, and then she fell back on stratagem, on some piece +of treachery which would open to her the doors, merely by breathing upon them. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly her glance kindled; she had discovered the means. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, Martine; there is a hook fastening one of the doors, is there +not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, madame; it catches in a ring above the middle shelf. See, it is +about the height of this molding.” +</p> + +<p> +Félicité made a triumphant gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you a gimlet—a large gimlet? Give me a gimlet!” +</p> + +<p> +Martine went down into her kitchen and brought back the tool that had been +asked. +</p> + +<p> +“In that way, you see, we shall make no noise,” resumed the old +woman, setting herself to her task. +</p> + +<p> +With a strength which one would not have suspected in her little hands, +withered by age, she inserted the gimlet, and made a hole at the height +indicated by the servant. But it was too low; she felt the point, after a time, +entering the shelf. A second attempt brought the instrument in direct contact +with the iron hook. This time the hole was too near. And she multiplied the +holes to right and left, until finally she succeeded in pushing the hook out of +the ring. The bolt of the lock slipped, and both doors opened. +</p> + +<p> +“At last!” cried Félicité, beside herself. +</p> + +<p> +Then she remained motionless for a moment, her ear turned uneasily toward the +bedroom, fearing that she had wakened Clotilde. But silence reigned throughout +the dark and sleeping house. There came from the bedroom only the august peace +of death; she heard nothing but the clear vibration of the clock; Clotilde fell +asleep near one. And the press yawned wide open, displaying the papers with +which it overflowed, heaped up on its three shelves. Then she threw herself +upon it, and the work of destruction began, in the midst of the sacred +obscurity of the infinite repose of this funereal vigil. +</p> + +<p> +“At last!” she repeated, in a low voice, “after thirty years +of waiting. Let us hurry—let us hurry. Martine, help me!” +</p> + +<p> +She had already drawn forward the high chair of the desk, and mounted on it at +a bound, to take down, first of all, the papers on the top shelf, for she +remembered that the envelopes were there. But she was surprised not to see the +thick blue paper wrappers; there was nothing there but bulky manuscripts, the +doctor’s completed but unpublished works, works of inestimable value, all +his researches, all his discoveries, the monument of his future fame, which he +had left in Ramond’s charge. Doubtless, some days before his death, +thinking that only the envelopes were in danger, and that no one in the world +would be so daring as to destroy his other works, he had begun to classify and +arrange the papers anew, and removed the envelopes out of sight. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, so much the worse!” murmured Félicité; “let us begin +anywhere; there are so many of them that if we wish to get through we must +hurry. While I am up here, let us clear these away forever. Here, catch +Martine!” +</p> + +<p> +And she emptied the shelf, throwing the manuscripts, one by one, into the arms +of the servant, who laid them on the table with as little noise as possible. +Soon the whole heap was on it, and Félicité sprang down from the chair. +</p> + +<p> +“To the fire! to the fire! We shall lay our hands on the others, and too, +by and by, on those I am looking for. These can go into it, meantime. It will +be a good riddance, at any rate, a fine clearance, yes, indeed! To the fire, to +the fire with them all, even to the smallest scrap of paper, even to the most +illegible scrawl, if we wish to be certain of destroying the contamination of +evil.” +</p> + +<p> +She herself, fanatical and fierce, in her hatred of the truth, in her eagerness +to destroy the testimony of science, tore off the first page of one of the +manuscripts, lighted it at the lamp, and then threw this burning brand into the +great fireplace, in which there had not been a fire for perhaps twenty years, +and she fed the fire, continuing to throw on it the rest of the manuscript, +piece by piece. The servant, as determined as herself, came to her assistance, +taking another enormous notebook, which she tore up leaf by leaf. From this +forth the fire did not cease to burn, filling the wide fireplace with a bright +blaze, with tongues of flame that seemed to die away from time to time, only to +burn up more brightly than ever when fresh fuel fed them. The fire grew larger, +the heap of ashes rose higher and higher—a thick bed of blackened leaves +among which ran millions of sparks. But it was a long, a never-ending task; for +when several pages were thrown on at a time, they would not burn; it was +necessary to move them and turn them over with the tongs; the best way was to +stir them up and then wait until they were in a blaze, before adding more. The +women soon grew skilful at their task, and the work progressed at a rapid rate. +</p> + +<p> +In her haste to get a fresh armful of papers Félicité stumbled against a chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, madame, take care,” said Martine. “Some one might +come!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come? who should come? Clotilde? She is too sound asleep, poor girl. And +even if any one should come, once it is finished, I don’t care; I +won’t hide myself, you may be sure; I shall leave the empty press +standing wide open; I shall say aloud that it is I who have purified the house. +When there is not a line of writing left, ah, good heavens! I shall laugh at +everything else!” +</p> + +<p> +For almost two hours the fireplace blazed. They went back to the press and +emptied the two other shelves, and now there remained only the bottom, which +was heaped with a confusion of papers. Little by little, intoxicated by the +heat of the bonfire, out of breath and perspiring, they gave themselves up to +the savage joy of destruction. They stooped down, they blackened their hands, +pushing in the partially consumed fragments, with gestures so violent, so +feverishly excited, that their gray locks fell in disorder over their +shoulders. It was like a dance of witches, feeding a hellish fire for some +abominable act—the martyrdom of a saint, the burning of written thought +in the public square; a whole world of truth and hope destroyed. And the blaze +of this fire, which at moments made the flame of the lamp grow pale, lighted up +the vast apartment, and made the gigantic shadows of the two women dance upon +the ceiling. +</p> + +<p> +But as she was emptying the bottom of the press, after having burned, handful +by handful, the papers with which it had been filled, Félicité uttered a +stifled cry of triumph. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, here they are! To the fire! to the fire!” +</p> + +<p> +She had at last come upon the envelopes. Far back, behind the rampart formed by +the notes, the doctor had hidden the blue paper wrappers. And then began a mad +work of havoc, a fury of destruction; the envelopes were gathered up in +handfuls and thrown into the flames, filling the fireplace with a roar like +that of a conflagration. +</p> + +<p> +“They are burning, they are burning! They are burning at last! Here is +another, Martine, here is another. Ah, what a fire, what a glorious +fire!” +</p> + +<p> +But the servant was becoming uneasy. +</p> + +<p> +“Take care, madame, you are going to set the house on fire. Don’t +you hear that roar?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! what does that matter? Let it all burn. They are burning, they are +burning; what a fine sight! Three more, two more, and, see, now the last is +burning!” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed with delight, beside herself, terrible to see, when some fragment +of lighted soot fell down. The roar was becoming more and more fierce; the +chimney, which was never swept, had caught fire. This seemed to excite her +still more, while the servant, losing her head, began to scream and run about +the room. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde slept beside the dead Pascal, in the supreme calm of the bedroom, +unbroken save by the light vibration of the clock striking the hours. The +tapers burned with a tall, still flame, the air was motionless. And yet, in the +midst of her heavy, dreamless sleep, she heard, as in a nightmare, a tumult, an +ever-increasing rush and roar. And when she opened her eyes she could not at +first understand. Where was she? Why this enormous weight that crushed her +heart? She came back to reality with a start of terror—she saw Pascal, +she heard Martine’s cries in the adjoining room, and she rushed out, in +alarm, to learn their cause. +</p> + +<p> +But at the threshold Clotilde took in the whole scene with cruel +distinctness—the press wide open and completely empty; Martine maddened +by her fear of fire; Félicité radiant, pushing into the flames with her foot +the last fragments of the envelopes. Smoke and flying soot filled the study, +where the roaring of the fire sounded like the hoarse gasping of a murdered +man—the fierce roar which she had just heard in her sleep. +</p> + +<p> +And the cry which sprang from her lips was the same cry that Pascal himself had +uttered on the night of the storm, when he surprised her in the act of stealing +his papers. +</p> + +<p> +“Thieves! assassins!” +</p> + +<p> +She precipitated herself toward the fireplace, and, in spite of the dreadful +roaring of the flames, in spite of the falling pieces of soot, at the risk of +setting her hair on fire, and of burning her hands, she gathered up the leaves +which remained yet unconsumed and bravely extinguished them, pressing them +against her. But all this was very little, only some <i>debris</i>; not a +complete page remained, not even a few fragments of the colossal labor, of the +vast and patient work of a lifetime, which the fire had destroyed there in two +hours. And with growing anger, in a burst of furious indignation, she cried: +</p> + +<p> +“You are thieves, assassins! It is a wicked murder which you have just +committed. You have profaned death, you have slain the mind, you have slain +genius.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Mme. Rougon did not quail. She advanced, on the contrary, feeling no +remorse, her head erect, defending the sentence of destruction pronounced and +executed by her. +</p> + +<p> +“It is to me you are speaking, to your grandmother. Is there nothing, +then, that you respect? I have done what I ought to have done, what you +yourself wished to do with us before.” +</p> + +<p> +“Before, you had made me mad; but since then I have lived, I have loved, +I have understood, and it is life that I defend. Even if it be terrible and +cruel, the truth ought to be respected. Besides, it was a sacred legacy +bequeathed to my protection, the last thoughts of a dead man, all that remained +of a great mind, and which I should have obliged every one to respect. Yes, you +are my grandmother; I am well aware of it, and it is as if you had just burned +your son!” +</p> + +<p> +“Burn Pascal because I have burned his papers!” cried Félicité. +“Do you not know that I would have burned the town to save the honor of +our family!” +</p> + +<p> +She continued to advance, belligerent and victorious; and Clotilde, who had +laid on the table the blackened fragments rescued by her from the burning +flames, protected them with her body, fearing that her grandmother would throw +them back again into the fire. She regarded the two women scornfully; she did +not even trouble herself about the fire in the fireplace, which fortunately +went out of itself, while Martine extinguished with the shovel the burning soot +and the last flames of the smoldering ashes. +</p> + +<p> +“You know very well, however,” continued the old woman, whose +little figure seemed to grow taller, “that I have had only one ambition, +one passion in life—to see our family rich and powerful. I have fought, I +have watched all my life, I have lived as long as I have done, only to put down +ugly stories and to leave our name a glorious one. Yes, I have never despaired; +I have never laid down my arms; I have been continually on the alert, ready to +profit by the slightest circumstance. And all I desired to do I have done, +because I have known how to wait.” +</p> + +<p> +And she waved her hand toward the empty press and the fireplace, where the last +sparks were dying out. +</p> + +<p> +“Now it is ended, our honor is safe; those abominable papers will no +longer accuse us, and I shall leave behind me nothing to be feared. The Rougons +have triumphed.” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde, in a frenzy of grief, raised her arm, as if to drive her out of the +room. But she left it of her own accord, and went down to the kitchen to wash +her blackened hands and to fasten up her hair. The servant was about to follow +her when, turning her head, she saw her young mistress’ gesture, and she +returned. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! as for me, mademoiselle, I will go away the day after to-morrow, +when monsieur shall be in the cemetery.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a moment’s silence. +</p> + +<p> +“But I am not sending you away, Martine. I know well that it is not you +who are most to blame. You have lived in this house for thirty years. Remain, +remain with me.” +</p> + +<p> +The old maid shook her gray head, looking very pale and tired. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I have served monsieur; I will serve no one after monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I!” +</p> + +<p> +“You, no!” +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde looked embarrassed, hesitated a moment, and remained silent. But +Martine understood; she too seemed to reflect for an instant, and then she said +distinctly: +</p> + +<p> +“I know what you would say, but—no!” +</p> + +<p> +And she went on to settle her account, arranging the affair like a practical +woman who knew the value of money. +</p> + +<p> +“Since I have the means, I will go and live quietly on my income +somewhere. As for you, mademoiselle, I can leave you, for you are not poor. M. +Ramond will explain to you to-morrow how an income of four thousand francs was +saved for you out of the money at the notary’s. Meantime, here is the key +of the desk, where you will find the five thousand francs which monsieur left +there. Oh? I know that there will be no trouble between us. Monsieur did not +pay me for the last three months; I have papers from him which prove it. In +addition, I advanced lately almost two hundred francs out of my own pocket, +without his knowing where the money came from. It is all written down; I am not +at all uneasy; mademoiselle will not wrong me by a centime. The day after +to-morrow, when monsieur is no longer here, I will go away.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she went down to the kitchen, and Clotilde, in spite of the fanaticism of +this woman, which had made her take part in a crime, felt inexpressibly sad at +this desertion. When she was gathering up the fragments of the papers, however, +before returning to the bedroom, she had a thrill of joy, on suddenly seeing +the genealogical tree, which the two women had not perceived, lying unharmed on +the table. It was the only entire document saved from the wreck. She took it +and locked it, with the half-consumed fragments, in the bureau in the bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +But when she found herself again in this august chamber a great emotion took +possession of her. What supreme calm, what immortal peace, reigned here, beside +the savage destruction that had filled the adjoining room with smoke and ashes. +A sacred serenity pervaded the obscurity; the two tapers burned with a pure, +still, unwavering flame. Then she saw that Pascal’s face, framed in his +flowing white hair and beard, had become very white. He slept with the light +falling upon him, surrounded by a halo, supremely beautiful. She bent down, +kissed him again, felt on her lips the cold of the marble face, with its closed +eyelids, dreaming its dream of eternity. Her grief at not being able to save +the work which he had left to her care was so overpowering that she fell on her +knees and burst into a passion of sobs. Genius had been violated; it seemed to +her as if the world was about to be destroyed in this savage destruction of a +whole life of labor. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"></a> +XIV.</h2> + +<p> +In the study Clotilde was buttoning her dress, holding her child, whom she had +been nursing, still in her lap. It was after lunch, about three o’clock +on a hot sunny day at the end of August, and through the crevices of the +carefully closed shutters only a few scattered sunbeams entered, piercing the +drowsy and warm obscurity of the vast apartment. The rest and peace of the +Sunday seemed to enter and diffuse itself in the room with the last sounds of +the distant vesper bell. Profound silence reigned in the empty house in which +the mother and child were to remain alone until dinner time, the servant having +asked permission to go see a cousin in the faubourg. +</p> + +<p> +For an instant Clotilde looked at her child, now a big boy of three months. She +had been wearing mourning for Pascal for almost ten months—a long and +simple black gown, in which she looked divinely beautiful, with her tall, +slender figure and her sad, youthful face surrounded by its aureole of fair +hair. And although she could not smile, it filled her with sweet emotion to see +the beautiful child, so plump and rosy, with his mouth still wet with milk, +whose gaze had been arrested by the sunbeam full of dancing motes. His eyes +were fixed wonderingly on the golden brightness, the dazzling miracle of light. +Then sleep came over him, and he let his little, round, bare head, covered +thinly with fair hair, fall back on his mother’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde rose softly and laid him in the cradle, which stood beside the table. +She remained leaning over him for an instant to assure herself that he was +asleep; then she let down the curtain in the already darkened room. Then she +busied herself with supple and noiseless movements, walking with so light a +step that she scarcely touched the floor, in putting away some linen which was +on the table. Twice she crossed the room in search of a little missing sock. +She was very silent, very gentle, and very active. And now, in the solitude of +the house, she fell into a reverie and all the past year arose before her. +</p> + +<p> +First, after the dreadful shock of the funeral, came the departure of Martine, +who had obstinately kept to her determination of going away at once, not even +remaining for the customary week, bringing to replace her the young cousin of a +baker in the neighborhood—a stout brunette, who fortunately proved very +neat and faithful. Martine herself lived at Sainte-Marthe, in a retired corner, +so penuriously that she must be still saving even out of her small income. She +was not known to have any heir. Who, then, would profit by this miserliness? In +ten months she had not once set foot in La Souleiade—monsieur was not +there, and she had not even the desire to see monsieur’s son. +</p> + +<p> +Then in Clotilde’s reverie rose the figure of her grandmother Félicité. +The latter came to see her from time to time with the condescension of a +powerful relation who is liberal-minded enough to pardon all faults when they +have been cruelly expiated. She would come unexpectedly, kiss the child, +moralize, and give advice, and the young mother had adopted toward her the +respectful attitude which Pascal had always maintained. Félicité was now wholly +absorbed in her triumph. She was at last about to realize a plan that she had +long cherished and maturely deliberated, which would perpetuate by an +imperishable monument the untarnished glory of the family. The plan was to +devote her fortune, which had become considerable, to the construction and +endowment of an asylum for the aged, to be called Rougon Asylum. She had +already bought the ground, a part of the old mall outside the town, near the +railway station; and precisely on this Sunday, at five o’clock, when the +heat should have abated a little, the first stone was to be laid, a really +solemn ceremony, to be honored by the presence of all the authorities, and of +which she was to be the acknowledged queen, before a vast concourse of people. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde felt, besides, some gratitude toward her grandmother, who had shown +perfect disinterestedness on the occasion of the opening of Pascal’s +will. The latter had constituted the young woman his sole legatee; and the +mother, who had a right to a fourth part, after declaring her intention to +respect her son’s wishes, had simply renounced her right to the +succession. She wished, indeed, to disinherit all her family, bequeathing to +them glory only, by employing her large fortune in the erection of this asylum, +which was to carry down to future ages the revered and glorious name of the +Rougons; and after having, for more than half a century, so eagerly striven to +acquire money, she now disdained it, moved by a higher and purer ambition. And +Clotilde, thanks to this liberality, had no uneasiness regarding the +future—the four thousand francs income would be sufficient for her and +her child. She would bring him up to be a man. She had sunk the five thousand +francs that she had found in the desk in an annuity for him; and she owned, +besides, La Souleiade, which everybody advised her to sell. True, it cost but +little to keep it up, but what a sad and solitary life she would lead in that +great deserted house, much too large for her, where she would be lost. Thus +far, however, she had not been able to make up her mind to leave it. Perhaps +she would never be able to do so. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, this La Souleiade! all her love, all her life, all her memories were +centered in it. It seemed to her at times as if Pascal were living here still, +for she had changed nothing of their former manner of living. The furniture +remained in the same places, the hours were the same, the habits the same. The +only change she had made was to lock his room, into which only she went, as +into a sanctuary, to weep when she felt her heart too heavy. And although +indeed she felt very lonely, very lost, at each meal in the bright dining-room +downstairs, in fancy she heard there the echoes of their laughter, she recalled +the healthy appetite of her youth; when they two had eaten and drank so gaily, +rejoicing in their existence. And the garden, too, the whole place was bound up +with the most intimate fibers of her being, for she could not take a step in it +that their united images did not appear before her—on the terrace; in the +slender shadow of the great secular cypresses, where they had so often +contemplated the valley of the Viorne, closed in by the ridges of the Seille +and the parched hills of Sainte-Marthe; the stone steps among the puny olive +and almond trees, which they had so often challenged each other to run up in a +trial of speed, like boys just let loose from school; and there was the pine +grove, too, the warm, embalsamed shade, where the needles crackled under their +feet; the vast threshing yard, carpeted with soft grass, where they could see +the whole sky at night, when the stars were coming out; and above all there +were the giant plane trees, whose delightful shade they had enjoyed every day +in summer, listening to the soothing song of the fountain, the crystal clear +song which it had sung for centuries. Even to the old stones of the house, even +to the earth of the grounds, there was not an atom at La Souleiade in which she +did not feel a little of their blood warmly throbbing, with which she did not +feel a little of their life diffused and mingled. +</p> + +<p> +But she preferred to spend her days in the workroom, and here it was that she +lived over again her best hours. There was nothing new in it but the cradle. +The doctor’s table was in its place before the window to the +left—she could fancy him coming in and sitting down at it, for his chair +had not even been moved. On the long table in the center, among the old heap of +books and papers, there was nothing new but the cheerful note of the little +baby linen, which she was looking over. The bookcases displayed the same rows +of volumes; the large oaken press seemed to guard within its sides the same +treasure, securely shut in. Under the smoky ceiling the room was still redolent +of work, with its confusion of chairs, the pleasant disorder of this common +workroom, filled with the caprices of the girl and the researches of the +scientist. But what most moved her to-day was the sight of her old pastels +hanging against the wall, the copies which she had made of living flowers, +scrupulously exact copies, and of dream flowers of an imaginary world, whither +her wild fancy sometimes carried her. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde had just finished arranging the little garments on the table when, +lifting her eyes, she perceived before her the pastel of old King David, with +his hand resting on the shoulder of Abishag the young Shunammite. And she, who +now never smiled, felt her face flush with a thrill of tender and pleasing +emotion. How they had loved each other, how they had dreamed of an eternity of +love the day on which she had amused herself painting this proud and loving +allegory! The old king, sumptuously clad in a robe hanging in straight folds, +heavy with precious stones, wore the royal bandeau on his snowy locks; but she +was more sumptuous still, with only her tall slender figure, her delicate round +throat, and her supple arms, divinely graceful. Now he was gone, he was +sleeping under the ground, while she, her pure and triumphant beauty concealed +by her black robes, had only her child to express the love she had given him +before the assembled people, in the full light of day. +</p> + +<p> +Then Clotilde sat down beside the cradle. The slender sunbeams lengthened, +crossing the room from end to end, the heat of the warm afternoon grew +oppressive in the drowsy obscurity made by the closed shutters, and the silence +of the house seemed more profound than before. She set apart some little +waists, she sewed on some tapes with slow-moving needle, and gradually she fell +into a reverie in the warm deep peacefulness of the room, in the midst of the +glowing heat outside. Her thoughts first turned to her pastels, the exact +copies and the fantastic dream flowers; she said to herself now that all her +dual nature was to be found in that passion for truth, which had at times kept +her a whole day before a flower in order to copy it with exactness, and in her +need of the spiritual, which at other times took her outside the real, and +carried her in wild dreams to the paradise of flowers such as had never grown +on earth. She had always been thus. She felt that she was in reality the same +to-day as she had been yesterday, in the midst of the flow of new life which +ceaselessly transformed her. And then she thought of Pascal, full of gratitude +that he had made her what she was. In days past when, a little girl, he had +removed her from her execrable surroundings and taken her home with him, he had +undoubtedly followed the impulses of his good heart, but he had also +undoubtedly desired to try an experiment with her, to see how she would grow up +in the different environment, in an atmosphere of truthfulness and affection. +This had always been an idea of his. It was an old theory of his which he would +have liked to test on a large scale: culture through environment, complete +regeneration even, the improvement, the salvation of the individual, physically +as well as morally. She owed to him undoubtedly the best part of her nature; +she guessed how fanciful and violent she might have become, while he had made +her only enthusiastic and courageous. +</p> + +<p> +In this retrospection she was clearly conscious of the gradual change that had +taken place within her. Pascal had corrected her heredity, and she lived over +again the slow evolution, the struggle between the fantastic and the real in +her. It had begun with her outbursts of anger as a child, a ferment of +rebellion, a want of mental balance that had caused her to indulge in most +hurtful reveries. Then came her fits of extreme devotion, the need of illusion +and falsehood, of immediate happiness in the thought that the inequalities and +injustices of this wicked world would he compensated by the eternal joys of a +future paradise. This was the epoch of her struggles with Pascal, of the +torture which she had caused him, planning to destroy the work of his genius. +And at this point her nature had changed; she had acknowledged him for her +master. He had conquered her by the terrible lesson of life which he had given +her on the night of the storm. Then, environment had acted upon her, evolution +had proceeded rapidly, and she had ended by becoming a well-balanced and +rational woman, willing to live life as it ought to be lived, satisfied with +doing her work in the hope that the sum of the common labor would one day free +the world from evil and pain. She had loved, she was a mother now, and she +understood. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly she remembered the night which they had spent in the threshing yard. +She could still hear her lamentation under the stars—the cruelty of +nature, the inefficacy of science, the wickedness of humanity, and the need she +felt of losing herself in God, in the Unknown. Happiness consisted in +self-renunciation. Then she heard him repeat his creed—the progress of +reason through science, truths acquired slowly and forever the only possible +good, the belief that the sum of these truths, always augmenting, would finally +confer upon man incalculable power and peace, if not happiness. All was summed +up in his ardent faith in life. As he expressed it, it was necessary to march +with life, which marched always. No halt was to be expected, no peace in +immobility and renunciation, no consolation in turning back. One must keep a +steadfast soul, the only ambition to perform one’s work, modestly looking +for no other reward of life than to have lived it bravely, accomplishing the +task which it imposes. Evil was only an accident not yet explained, humanity +appearing from a great height like an immense wheel in action, working +ceaselessly for the future. Why should the workman who disappeared, having +finished his day’s work, abuse the work because he could neither see nor +know its end? Even if it were to have no end why should he not enjoy the +delight of action, the exhilarating air of the march, the sweetness of sleep +after the fatigue of a long and busy day? The children would carry on the task +of the parents; they were born and cherished only for this, for the task of +life which is transmitted to them, which they in their turn will transmit to +others. All that remained, then, was to be courageously resigned to the grand +common labor, without the rebellion of the ego, which demands personal +happiness, perfect and complete. +</p> + +<p> +She questioned herself, and she found that she did not experience that anguish +which had filled her formerly at the thought of what was to follow death. This +anxiety about the Beyond no longer haunted her until it became a torture. +Formerly she would have liked to wrest by force from heaven the secrets of +destiny. It had been a source of infinite grief to her not to know why she +existed. Why are we born? What do we come on earth to do? What is the meaning +of this execrable existence, without equality, without justice, which seemed to +her like a fevered dream? Now her terror was calmed; she could think of these +things courageously. Perhaps it was her child, the continuation of herself, +which now concealed from her the horror of her end. But her regular life +contributed also to this, the thought that it was necessary to live for the +effort of living, and that the only peace possible in this world was in the joy +of the accomplishment of this effort. She repeated to herself a remark of the +doctor, who would often say when he saw a peasant returning home with a +contented look after his day’s work: “There is a man whom anxiety +about the Beyond will not prevent from sleeping.” He meant to say that +this anxiety troubles and perverts only excitable and idle brains. If all +performed their healthful task, all would sleep peacefully at night. She +herself had felt the beneficent power of work in the midst of her sufferings +and her grief. Since he had taught her to employ every one of her hours; since +she had been a mother, especially, occupied constantly with her child, she no +longer felt a chill of horror when she thought of the Unknown. She put aside +without an effort disquieting reveries; and if she still felt an occasional +fear, if some of her daily griefs made her sick at heart, she found comfort and +unfailing strength in the thought that her child was this day a day older, that +he would be another day older on the morrow, that day by day, page by page, his +work of life was being accomplished. This consoled her delightfully for all her +miseries. She had a duty, an object, and she felt in her happy serenity that +she was doing surely what she had been sent here to do. +</p> + +<p> +Yet, even at this very moment she knew that the mystic was not entirely dead +within her. In the midst of the profound silence she heard a slight noise, and +she raised her head. Who was the divine mediator that had passed? Perhaps the +beloved dead for whom she mourned, and whose presence near her she fancied she +could divine. There must always be in her something of the childlike believer +she had always been, curious about the Unknown, having an instinctive longing +for the mysterious. She accounted to herself for this longing, she even +explained it scientifically. However far science may extend the limits of human +knowledge, there is undoubtedly a point which it cannot pass; and it was here +precisely that Pascal placed the only interest in life—in the effort +which we ceaselessly make to know more—there was only one reasonable +meaning in life, this continual conquest of the unknown. Therefore, she +admitted the existence of undiscovered forces surrounding the world, an immense +and obscure domain, ten times larger than the domain already won, an infinite +and unexplored realm through which future humanity would endlessly ascend. +Here, indeed, was a field vast enough for the imagination to lose itself in. In +her hours of reverie she satisfied in it the imperious need which man seems to +have for the spiritual, a need of escaping from the visible world, of +interrogating the Unknown, of satisfying in it the dream of absolute justice +and of future happiness. All that remained of her former torture, her last +mystic transports, were there appeased. She satisfied there that hunger for +consoling illusions which suffering humanity must satisfy in order to live. But +in her all was happily balanced. At this crisis, in an epoch overburdened with +science, disquieted at the ruins it has made, and seized with fright in the +face of the new century, wildly desiring to stop and to return to the past, +Clotilde kept the happy mean; in her the passion for truth was broadened by her +eagerness to penetrate the Unknown. If sectarian scientists shut out the +horizon to keep strictly to the phenomenon, it was permitted to her, a good, +simple creature, to reserve the part that she did not know, that she would +never know. And if Pascal’s creed was the logical deduction from the +whole work, the eternal question of the Beyond, which she still continued to +put to heaven, reopened the door of the infinite to humanity marching ever +onward. Since we must always learn, while resigning ourselves never to know +all, was it not to will action, life itself, to reserve the Unknown—an +eternal doubt and an eternal hope? +</p> + +<p> +Another sound, as of a wing passing, the light touch of a kiss upon her hair, +this time made her smile. He was surely here; and her whole being went out +toward him, in the great flood of tenderness with which her heart overflowed. +How kind and cheerful he was, and what a love for others underlay his +passionate love of life! Perhaps he, too, had been only a dreamer, for he had +dreamed the most beautiful of dreams, the final belief in a better world, when +science should have bestowed incalculable power upon man—to accept +everything, to turn everything to our happiness, to know everything and to +foresee everything, to make nature our servant, to live in the tranquillity of +intelligence satisfied. Meantime faith in life, voluntary and regular labor, +would suffice for health. Evil was only the unexplained side of things; +suffering would one day be assuredly utilized. And regarding from above the +enormous labor of the world, seeing the sum total of humanity, good and +bad—admirable, in spite of everything, for their courage and their +industry—she now regarded all mankind as united in a common brotherhood, +she now felt only boundless indulgence, an infinite pity, and an ardent +charity. Love, like the sun, bathes the earth, and goodness is the great river +at which all hearts drink. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde had been plying her needle for two hours, with the same regular +movement, while her thoughts wandered away in the profound silence. But the +tapes were sewed on the little waists, she had even marked some new wrappers, +which she had bought the day before. And, her sewing finished, she rose to put +the linen away. Outside the sun was declining, and only slender and oblique +sunbeams entered through the crevices of the shutters. She could not see +clearly, and she opened one of the shutters, then she forgot herself for a +moment, at the sight of the vast horizon suddenly unrolled before her. The +intense heat had abated, a delicious breeze was blowing, and the sky was of a +cloudless blue. To the left could be distinguished even the smallest clumps of +pines, among the blood-colored ravines of the rocks of the Seille, while to the +right, beyond the hills of Sainte-Marthe, the valley of the Viorne stretched +away in the golden dust of the setting sun. She looked for a moment at the +tower of St. Saturnin, all golden also, dominating the rose-colored town; and +she was about to leave the window when she saw a sight that drew her back and +kept her there, leaning on her elbow for a long time still. +</p> + +<p> +Beyond the railroad a multitude of people were crowded together on the old +mall. Clotilde at once remembered the ceremony. She knew that her Grandmother +Félicité was going to lay the first stone of the Rougon Asylum, the triumphant +monument destined to carry down to future ages the glory of the family. Vast +preparations had been going on for a week past. There was talk of a silver hod +and trowel, which the old lady was to use herself, determined to figure to +triumph, with her eighty-two years. What swelled her heart with regal pride was +that on this occasion she made the conquest of Plassans for the third time, for +she compelled the whole town, all the three quarters, to range themselves +around her, to form an escort for her, and to applaud her as a benefactress. +For, of course, there had to be present lady patronesses, chosen from among the +noblest ladies of the Quartier St. Marc; a delegation from the societies of +working-women of the old quarter, and, finally, the most distinguished +residents of the new town, advocates, notaries, physicians, without counting +the common people, a stream of people dressed in their Sunday clothes, crowding +there eagerly, as to a festival. And in the midst of this supreme triumph she +was perhaps most proud—she, one of the queens of the Second Empire, the +widow who mourned with so much dignity the fallen government—in having +conquered the young republic itself, obliging it, in the person of the +sub-prefect, to come and salute her and thank her. At first there had been +question only of a discourse of the mayor; but it was known with certainty, +since the previous day, that the sub-prefect also would speak. From so great a +distance Clotilde could distinguish only a moving crowd of black coats and +light dresses, under the scorching sun. Then there was a distant sound of +music, the music of the amateur band of the town, the sonorous strains of whose +brass instruments were borne to her at intervals on the breeze. +</p> + +<p> +She left the window and went and opened the large oaken press to put away in it +the linen that had remained on the table. It was in this press, formerly so +full of the doctor’s manuscripts, and now empty, that she kept the +baby’s wardrobe. It yawned open, vast, seemingly bottomless, and on the +large bare shelves there was nothing but the baby linen, the little waists, the +little caps, the little socks, all the fine clothing, the down of the bird +still in the nest. Where so many thoughts had been stored up, where a +man’s unremitting labor for thirty years had accumulated in an +overflowing heap of papers, there was now only a baby’s clothing, only +the first garments which would protect it for an hour, as it were, and which +very soon it could no longer use. The vastness of the antique press seemed +brightened and all refreshed by them. +</p> + +<p> +When Clotilde had arranged the wrappers and the waists upon a shelf, she +perceived a large envelope containing the fragments of the documents which she +had placed there after she had rescued them from the fire. And she remembered a +request which Dr. Ramond had come only the day before to make her—that +she would see if there remained among this <i>debris</i> any fragment of +importance having a scientific interest. He was inconsolable for the loss of +the precious manuscripts which the master had bequeathed to him. Immediately +after the doctor’s death he had made an attempt to write from memory his +last talk, that summary of vast theories expounded by the dying man with so +heroic a serenity; but he could recall only parts of it. He would have needed +complete notes, observations made from day to day, the results obtained, and +the laws formulated. The loss was irreparable, the task was to be begun over +again, and he lamented having only indications; he said that it would be at +least twenty years before science could make up the loss, and take up and +utilize the ideas of the solitary pioneer whose labors a wicked and imbecile +catastrophe had destroyed. +</p> + +<p> +The genealogical tree, the only document that had remained intact, was attached +to the envelope, and Clotilde carried the whole to the table beside the cradle. +After she had taken out the fragments, one by one, she found, what she had been +already almost certain of, that not a single entire page of manuscript +remained, not a single complete note having any meaning. There were only +fragments of documents, scraps of half-burned and blackened paper, without +sequence or connection. But as she examined them, these incomplete phrases, +these words half consumed by fire, assumed for her an interest which no one +else could have understood. She remembered the night of the storm, and the +phrases completed themselves, the beginning of a word evoked before her persons +and histories. Thus her eye fell on Maxime’s name, and she reviewed the +life of this brother who had remained a stranger to her, and whose death, two +months before, had left her almost indifferent. Then, a half-burned scrap +containing her father’s name gave her an uneasy feeling, for she believed +that her father had obtained possession of the fortune and the house on the +avenue of Bois de Boulogne through the good offices of his hairdresser’s +niece, the innocent Rose, repaid, no doubt, by a generous percentage. Then she +met with other names, that of her uncle Eugène, the former vice emperor, now +dead, the curé of Saint-Eutrope, who, she had been told yesterday, was dying of +consumption. And each fragment became animated in this way; the execrable +family lived again in these scraps, these black ashes, where were now only +disconnected words. +</p> + +<p> +Then Clotilde had the curiosity to unfold the genealogical tree and spread it +out upon the table. A strong emotion gained on her; she was deeply affected by +these relics; and when she read once more the notes added in pencil by Pascal, +a few moments before his death, tears rose to her eyes. With what courage he +had written down the date of his death! And what despairing regret for life one +divined in the trembling words announcing the birth of the child! The tree +ascended, spread out its branches, unfolded its leaves, and she remained for a +long time contemplating it, saying to herself that all the work of the master +was to be found here in the classified records of this family tree. She could +still hear certain of his words commenting on each hereditary case, she +recalled his lessons. But the children, above all, interested her; she read +again and again the notes on the leaves which bore their names. The +doctor’s colleague in Nouméa, to whom he had written for information +about the child born of the marriage of the convict Étienne, had at last made +up his mind to answer; but the only information he gave was in regard to the +sex—it was a girl, he said, and she seemed to be healthy. Octave Mouret +had come near losing his daughter, who had always been very frail, while his +little boy continued to enjoy superb health. But the chosen abode of vigorous +health and of extraordinary fecundity was still the house of Jean, at +Valqueyras, whose wife had had two children in three years and was about to +have a third. The nestlings throve in the sunshine, in the heart of a fertile +country, while the father sang as he guided his plow, and the mother at home +cleverly made the soup and kept the children in order. There was enough new +vitality and industry there to make another family, a whole race. Clotilde +fancied at this moment that she could hear Pascal’s cry: “Ah, our +family! what is it going to be, in what kind of being will it end?” And +she fell again into a reverie, looking at the tree sending its latest branches +into the future. Who could tell whence the healthy branch would spring? Perhaps +the great and good man so long awaited was germinating there. +</p> + +<p> +A slight cry drew Clotilde from her reflections. The muslin curtain of the +cradle seemed to become animate. It was the child who had wakened up and was +moving about and calling to her. She at once took him out of the cradle and +held him up gaily, that he might bathe in the golden light of the setting sun. +But he was insensible to the beauty of the closing day; his little vacant eyes, +still full of sleep, turned away from the vast sky, while he opened wide his +rosy and ever hungry mouth, like a bird opening its beak. And he cried so loud, +he had wakened up so ravenous, that she decided to nurse him again. Besides, it +was his hour; it would soon be three hours since she had last nursed him. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde sat down again beside the table. She took him on her lap, but he was +not very good, crying louder and louder, growing more and more impatient; and +she looked at him with a smile while she unfastened her dress, showing her +round, slender throat. Already the child knew, and raising himself he felt with +his lips for the breast. When she placed it in his mouth he gave a little grunt +of satisfaction; he threw himself upon her with the fine, voracious appetite of +a young gentleman who was determined to live. At first he had clutched the +breast with his little free hand, as if to show that it was his, to defend it +and to guard it. Then, in the joy of the warm stream that filled his throat he +raised his little arm straight up, like a flag. And Clotilde kept her +unconscious smile, seeing him so healthy, so rosy, and so plump, thriving so +well on the nourishment he drew from her. During the first few weeks she had +suffered from a fissure, and even now her breast was sensitive; but she smiled, +notwithstanding, with that peaceful look which mothers wear, happy in giving +their milk as they would give their blood. +</p> + +<p> +When she had unfastened her dress, showing her bare throat and breast, in the +solitude and silence of the study, another of her mysteries, one of her +sweetest and most hidden secrets, was revealed at the same time—the +slender necklace with the seven pearls, the seven fine, milky stars which the +master had put around her neck on a day of misery, in his mania for giving. +Since it had been there no one else had seen it. It seemed as if she guarded it +with as much modesty as if it were a part of her flesh, so simple, so pure, so +childlike. And all the time the child was nursing she alone looked at it in a +dreamy reverie, moved by the tender memory of the kisses whose warm perfume it +still seemed to keep. +</p> + +<p> +A burst of distant music seemed to surprise Clotilde. She turned her head and +looked across the fields gilded by the oblique rays of the sun. Ah, yes! the +ceremony, the laying of the corner stone yonder! Then she turned her eyes again +on the child, and she gave herself up to the delight of seeing him with so fine +an appetite. She had drawn forward a little bench, to raise one of her knees, +resting her foot upon it, and she leaned one shoulder against the table, beside +the tree and the blackened fragments of the envelopes. Her thoughts wandered +away in an infinitely sweet reverie, while she felt the best part of herself, +the pure milk, flowing softly, making more and more her own the dear being she +had borne. The child had come, the redeemer, perhaps. The bells rang, the three +wise men had set out, followed by the people, by rejoicing nature, smiling on +the infant in its swaddling clothes. She, the mother, while he drank life in +long draughts, was dreaming already of his future. What would he be when she +should have made him tall and strong, giving herself to him entirely? A +scientist, perhaps, who would reveal to the world something of the eternal +truth; or a great captain, who would confer glory on his country; or, still +better, one of those shepherds of the people who appease the passions and bring +about the reign of justice. She saw him, in fancy, beautiful, good and +powerful. Hers was the dream of every mother—the conviction that she had +brought the expected Messiah into the world; and there was in this hope, in +this obstinate belief, which every mother has in the certain triumph of her +child, the hope which itself makes life, the belief which gives humanity the +ever renewed strength to live still. +</p> + +<p> +What would the child be? She looked at him, trying to discover whom he +resembled. He had certainly his father’s brow and eyes, there was +something noble and strong in the breadth of the head. She saw a resemblance to +herself, too, in his fine mouth and his delicate chin. Then, with secret +uneasiness, she sought a resemblance to the others, the terrible ancestors, all +those whose names were there inscribed on the tree, unfolding its growth of +hereditary leaves. Was it this one, or this, or yet this other, whom he would +resemble? She grew calm, however, she could not but hope, her heart swelled +with eternal hope. The faith in life which the master had implanted in her kept +her brave and steadfast. What did misery, suffering and wickedness matter! +Health was in universal labor, in the effort made, in the power which +fecundates and which produces. The work was good when the child blessed love. +Then hope bloomed anew, in spite of the open wounds, the dark picture of human +shame. It was life perpetuated, tried anew, life which we can never weary of +believing good, since we live it so eagerly, with all its injustice and +suffering. +</p> + +<p> +Clotilde had glanced involuntarily at the ancestral tree spread out beside her. +Yes, the menace was there—so many crimes, so much filth, side by side +with so many tears, and so much patient goodness; so extraordinary a mixture of +the best and the most vile, a humanity in little, with all its defects and all +its struggles. It was a question whether it would not be better that a +thunderbolt should come and destroy all this corrupt and miserable ant-hill. +And after so many terrible Rougons, so many vile Macquarts, still another had +been born. Life did not fear to create another of them, in the brave defiance +of its eternity. It continued its work, propagated itself according to its +laws, indifferent to theories, marching on in its endless labor. Even at the +risk of making monsters, it must of necessity create, since, in spite of all it +creates, it never wearies of creating in the hope, no doubt, that the healthy +and the good will one day come. Life, life, which flows like a torrent, which +continues its work, beginning it over and over again, without pause, to the +unknown end! life in which we bathe, life with its infinity of contrary +currents, always in motion, and vast as a boundless sea! +</p> + +<p> +A transport of maternal fervor thrilled Clotilde’s heart, and she smiled, +seeing the little voracious mouth drinking her life. It was a prayer, an +invocation, to the unknown child, as to the unknown God! To the child of the +future, to the genius, perhaps, that was to be, to the Messiah that the coming +century awaited, who would deliver the people from their doubt and their +suffering! Since the nation was to be regenerated, had he not come for this +work? He would make the experiment anew, he would raise up walls, give +certainty to those who were in doubt, he would build the city of justice, where +the sole law of labor would insure happiness. In troublous times prophets were +to be expected—at least let him not be the Antichrist, the destroyer, the +beast foretold in the Apocalypse—who would purge the earth of its +wickedness, when this should become too great. And life would go on in spite of +everything, only it would be necessary to wait for other myriads of years +before the other unknown child, the benefactor, should appear. +</p> + +<p> +But the child had drained her right breast, and, as he was growing angry, +Clotilde turned him round and gave him the left. Then she began to smile, +feeling the caress of his greedy little lips. At all events she herself was +hope. A mother nursing, was she not the image of the world continued and saved? +She bent over, she looked into his limpid eyes, which opened joyously, eager +for the light. What did the child say to her that she felt her heart beat more +quickly under the breast which he was draining? To what cause would he give his +blood when he should be a man, strong with all the milk which he would have +drunk? Perhaps he said nothing to her, perhaps he already deceived her, and yet +she was so happy, so full of perfect confidence in him. +</p> + +<p> +Again there was a distant burst of music. This must be the apotheosis, the +moment when Grandmother Félicité, with her silver trowel, laid the first stone +of the monument to the glory of the Rougons. The vast blue sky, gladdened by +the Sunday festivities, rejoiced. And in the warm silence, in the solitary +peace of the workroom, Clotilde smiled at the child, who was still nursing, his +little arm held straight up in the air, like a signal flag of life. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOCTOR PASCAL ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Doctor Pascal + +Author: Emile Zola + +Translator: Mary J. Serrano + +Release Date: January 14, 2004 [EBook #10720] +Posting Date: May 29, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOCTOR PASCAL *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger, Dagny, and John Bickers + + + + + + + + +DOCTOR PASCAL + +By Emile Zola + + +Translated By Mary J. Serrano + + + + +I. + +In the heat of the glowing July afternoon, the room, with blinds +carefully closed, was full of a great calm. From the three windows, +through the cracks of the old wooden shutters, came only a few scattered +sunbeams which, in the midst of the obscurity, made a soft brightness +that bathed surrounding objects in a diffused and tender light. It +was cool here in comparison with the overpowering heat that was felt +outside, under the fierce rays of the sun that blazed upon the front of +the house. + +Standing before the press which faced the windows, Dr. Pascal was +looking for a paper that he had come in search of. With doors wide +open, this immense press of carved oak, adorned with strong and handsome +mountings of metal, dating from the last century, displayed within its +capacious depths an extraordinary collection of papers and manuscripts +of all sorts, piled up in confusion and filling every shelf to +overflowing. For more than thirty years the doctor had thrown into it +every page he wrote, from brief notes to the complete texts of his great +works on heredity. Thus it was that his searches here were not always +easy. He rummaged patiently among the papers, and when he at last found +the one he was looking for, he smiled. + +For an instant longer he remained near the bookcase, reading the note by +a golden sunbeam that came to him from the middle window. He himself, +in this dawnlike light, appeared, with his snow-white hair and beard, +strong and vigorous; although he was near sixty, his color was so fresh, +his features were so finely cut, his eyes were still so clear, and +he had so youthful an air that one might have taken him, in his +close-fitting, maroon velvet jacket, for a young man with powdered hair. + +"Here, Clotilde," he said at last, "you will copy this note. Ramond +would never be able to decipher my diabolical writing." + +And he crossed the room and laid the paper beside the young girl, who +stood working at a high desk in the embrasure of the window to the +right. + +"Very well, master," she answered. + +She did not even turn round, so engrossed was her attention with the +pastel which she was at the moment rapidly sketching in with broad +strokes of the crayon. Near her in a vase bloomed a stalk of hollyhocks +of a singular shade of violet, striped with yellow. But the profile +of her small round head, with its short, fair hair, was clearly +distinguishable; an exquisite and serious profile, the straight forehead +contracted in a frown of attention, the eyes of an azure blue, the nose +delicately molded, the chin firm. Her bent neck, especially, of a milky +whiteness, looked adorably youthful under the gold of the clustering +curls. In her long black blouse she seemed very tall, with her slight +figure, slender throat, and flexible form, the flexible slenderness +of the divine figures of the Renaissance. In spite of her twenty-five +years, she still retained a childlike air and looked hardly eighteen. + +"And," resumed the doctor, "you will arrange the press a little. Nothing +can be found there any longer." + +"Very well, master," she repeated, without raising her head; +"presently." + +Pascal had turned round to seat himself at his desk, at the other end +of the room, before the window to the left. It was a plain black wooden +table, and was littered also with papers and pamphlets of all sorts. And +silence again reigned in the peaceful semi-obscurity, contrasting with +the overpowering glare outside. The vast apartment, a dozen meters long +and six wide, had, in addition to the press, only two bookcases, filled +with books. Antique chairs of various kinds stood around in disorder, +while for sole adornment, along the walls, hung with an old _salon_ +Empire paper of a rose pattern, were nailed pastels of flowers of +strange coloring dimly visible. The woodwork of three folding-doors, +the door opening on the hall and two others at opposite ends of the +apartment, the one leading to the doctor's room, the other to that of +the young girl, as well as the cornice of the smoke-darkened ceiling, +dated from the time of Louis XV. + +An hour passed without a sound, without a breath. Then Pascal, who, as +a diversion from his work, had opened a newspaper--_Le Temps_--which had +lain forgotten on the table, uttered a slight exclamation: + +"Why! your father has been appointed editor of the _Epoque_, the +prosperous republican journal which has the publishing of the papers of +the Tuileries." + +This news must have been unexpected by him, for he laughed frankly, at +once pleased and saddened, and in an undertone he continued: + +"My word! If things had been invented, they could not have been finer. +Life is a strange thing. This is a very interesting article." + +Clotilde made no answer, as if her thoughts were a hundred leagues away +from what her uncle was saying. And he did not speak again, but taking +his scissors after he had read the article, he cut it out and pasted it +on a sheet of paper, on which he made some marginal notes in his large, +irregular handwriting. Then he went back to the press to classify this +new document in it. But he was obliged to take a chair, the shelf being +so high that he could not reach it notwithstanding his tall stature. + +On this high shelf a whole series of enormous bundles of papers were +arranged in order, methodically classified. Here were papers of all +sorts: sheets of manuscript, documents on stamped paper, articles cut +out of newspapers, arranged in envelopes of strong blue paper, each of +which bore on the outside a name written in large characters. One felt +that these documents were tenderly kept in view, taken out continually, +and carefully replaced; for of the whole press, this corner was the only +one kept in order. + +When Pascal, mounted on the chair, had found the package he was looking +for, one of the bulkiest of the envelopes, on which was written the name +"Saccard," he added to it the new document, and then replaced the whole +under its corresponding alphabetical letter. A moment later he had +forgotten the subject, and was complacently straightening a pile of +papers that were falling down. And when he at last jumped down off the +chair, he said: + +"When you are arranging the press, Clotilde, don't touch the packages at +the top; do you hear?" + +"Very well, master," she responded, for the third time, docilely. + +He laughed again, with the gaiety that was natural to him. + +"That is forbidden." + +"I know it, master." + +And he closed the press with a vigorous turn of the key, which he +then threw into a drawer of his writing table. The young girl was +sufficiently acquainted with his researches to keep his manuscripts in +some degree of order; and he gladly employed her as his secretary; he +made her copy his notes when some _confrere_ and friend, like Dr. Ramond +asked him to send him some document. But she was not a _savante_; he +simply forbade her to read what he deemed it useless that she should +know. + +At last, perceiving her so completely absorbed in her work, his +attention was aroused. + +"What is the matter with you, that you don't open your lips?" he said. +"Are you so taken up with the copying of those flowers that you can't +speak?" + +This was another of the labors which he often intrusted to her--to make +drawings, aquarelles, and pastels, which he afterward used in his works +as plates. Thus, for the past five years he had been making some curious +experiments on a collection of hollyhocks; he had obtained a whole +series of new colorings by artificial fecundations. She made these sorts +of copies with extraordinary minuteness, an exactitude of design and +of coloring so extreme that he marveled unceasingly at the +conscientiousness of her work, and he often told her that she had a +"good, round, strong, clear little headpiece." + +But, this time, when he approached her to look over her shoulder, he +uttered a cry of comic fury. + +"There you are at your nonsense! Now you are off in the clouds again! +Will you do me the favor to tear that up at once?" + +She straightened herself, her cheeks flushed, her eyes aglow with the +delight she took in her work, her slender fingers stained with the red +and blue crayon that she had crushed. + +"Oh, master!" + +And in this "master," so tender, so caressingly submissive, this term +of complete abandonment by which she called him, in order to avoid using +the words godfather or uncle, which she thought silly, there was, for +the first time, a passionate accent of revolt, the revindication of a +being recovering possession of and asserting itself. + +For nearly two hours she had been zealously striving to produce an exact +and faithful copy of the hollyhocks, and she had just thrown on another +sheet a whole bunch of imaginary flowers, of dream-flowers, extravagant +and superb. She had, at times, these abrupt shiftings, a need of +breaking away in wild fancies in the midst of the most precise of +reproductions. She satisfied it at once, falling always into this +extraordinary efflorescence of such spirit and fancy that it never +repeated itself; creating roses, with bleeding hearts, weeping tears of +sulphur, lilies like crystal urns, flowers without any known form, even, +spreading out starry rays, with corollas floating like clouds. To-day, +on a groundwork dashed in with a few bold strokes of black crayon, it +was a rain of pale stars, a whole shower of infinitely soft petals; +while, in a corner, an unknown bloom, a bud, chastely veiled, was +opening. + +"Another to nail there!" resumed the doctor, pointing to the wall, on +which there was already a row of strangely curious pastels. "But what +may that represent, I ask you?" + +She remained very grave, drawing back a step, the better to contemplate +her work. + +"I know nothing about it; it is beautiful." + +At this moment appeared Martine, the only servant, become the real +mistress of the house, after nearly thirty years of service with the +doctor. Although she had passed her sixtieth year, she, too, still +retained a youthful air as she went about, silent and active, in her +eternal black gown and white cap that gave her the look of a nun, with +her small, white, calm face, and lusterless eyes, the light in which +seemed to have been extinguished. + +Without speaking, she went and sat down on the floor before an +easy-chair, through a rent in the old covering of which the hair was +escaping, and drawing from her pocket a needle and a skein of worsted, +she set to work to mend it. For three days past she had been waiting for +an hour's time to do this piece of mending, which haunted her. + +"While you are about it, Martine," said Pascal jestingly, taking between +both his hands the mutinous head of Clotilde, "sew me fast, too, this +little noodle, which sometimes wanders off into the clouds." + +Martine raised her pale eyes, and looked at her master with her habitual +air of adoration? + +"Why does monsieur say that?" + +"Because, my good girl, in very truth, I believe it is you who have +stuffed this good little round, clear, strong headpiece full of notions +of the other world, with all your devoutness." + +The two women exchanged a glance of intelligence. + +"Oh, monsieur! religion has never done any harm to any one. And when +people have not the same ideas, it is certainly better not to talk about +them." + +An embarrassed silence followed; this was the one difference of opinion +which, at times, brought about disagreements among these three united +beings who led so restricted a life. Martine was only twenty-nine, a +year older than the doctor, when she entered his house, at the time when +he made his _debut_ as a physician at Plassans, in a bright little house +of the new town. And thirteen years later, when Saccard, a brother of +Pascal, sent him his daughter Clotilde, aged seven, after his wife's +death and at the moment when he was about to marry again, it was she +who brought up the child, taking it to church, and communicating to it +a little of the devout flame with which she had always burned; while the +doctor, who had a broad mind, left them to their joy of believing, +for he did not feel that he had the right to interdict to any one the +happiness of faith; he contented himself later on with watching over +the young girl's education and giving her clear and sound ideas about +everything. For thirteen years, during which the three had lived this +retired life at La Souleiade, a small property situated in the outskirts +of the town, a quarter of an hour's walk from St. Saturnin, the +cathedral, his life had flowed happily along, occupied in secret great +works, a little troubled, however, by an ever increasing uneasiness--the +collision, more and more violent, every day, between their beliefs. + +Pascal took a few turns gloomily up and down the room. Then, like a man +who did not mince his words, he said: + +"See, my dear, all this phantasmagoria of mystery has turned your pretty +head. Your good God had no need of you; I should have kept you for +myself alone; and you would have been all the better for it." + +But Clotilde, trembling with excitement, her clear eyes fixed boldly +upon his, held her ground. + +"It is you, master, who would be all the better, if you did not shut +yourself up in your eyes of flesh. That is another thing, why do you not +wish to see?" + +And Martine came to her assistance, in her own style. + +"Indeed, it is true, monsieur, that you, who are a saint, as I say +everywhere, should accompany us to church. Assuredly, God will save +you. But at the bare idea that you should not go straight to paradise, I +tremble all over." + +He paused, for he had before him, in open revolt, those two whom he had +been accustomed to see submissive at his feet, with the tenderness of +women won over by his gaiety and his goodness. Already he opened his +mouth, and was going to answer roughly, when the uselessness of the +discussion became apparent to him. + +"There! Let us have peace. I would do better to go and work. And above +all, let no one interrupt me!" + +With hasty steps he gained his chamber, where he had installed a sort of +laboratory, and shut himself up in it. The prohibition to enter it was +formal. It was here that he gave himself up to special preparations, of +which he spoke to no one. Almost immediately the slow and regular sound +of a pestle grinding in a mortar was heard. + +"Come," said Clotilde, smiling, "there he is, at his devil's cookery, as +grandmother says." + +And she tranquilly resumed her copying of the hollyhocks. She completed +the drawing with mathematical precision, she found the exact tone of +the violet petals, striped with yellow, even to the most delicate +discoloration of the shades. + +"Ah!" murmured Martine, after a moment, again seated on the ground, and +occupied in mending the chair, "what a misfortune for a good man like +that to lose his soul wilfully. For there is no denying it; I have known +him now for thirty years, and in all that time he has never so much as +spoken an unkind word to any one. A real heart of gold, who would take +the bit from his own mouth. And handsome, too, and always well, and +always gay, a real blessing! It is a murder that he does not wish +to make his peace with the good God. We will force him to do it, +mademoiselle, will we not?" + +Clotilde, surprised at hearing her speak so long at one time on the +subject, gave her word with a grave air. + +"Certainly, Martine, it is a promise. We will force him." + +Silence reigned again, broken a moment afterward by the ringing of the +bell attached to the street door below. It had been attached to the door +so that they might have notice when any one entered the house, too vast +for the three persons who inhabited it. The servant appeared surprised, +and grumbled a few words under her breath. Who could have come in such +heat as this? She rose, opened the door, and went and leaned over the +balustrade; then she returned, saying: + +"It is Mme. Felicite." + +Old Mme. Rougon entered briskly. In spite of her eighty years, she had +mounted the stairs with the activity of a young girl; she was still the +brown, lean, shrill grasshopper of old. Dressed elegantly now in +black silk, she might still be taken, seen from behind, thanks to the +slenderness of her figure, for some coquette, or some ambitious woman +following her favorite pursuit. Seen in front, her eyes still lighted +up her withered visage with their fires, and she smiled with an engaging +smile when she so desired. + +"What! is it you, grandmother?" cried Clotilde, going to meet her. "Why, +this sun is enough to bake one." + +Felicite, kissing her on the forehead, laughed, saying: + +"Oh, the sun is my friend!" + +Then, moving with short, quick steps, she crossed the room, and turned +the fastening of one of the shutters. + +"Open the shutters a little! It is too gloomy to live in the dark in +this way. At my house I let the sun come in." + +Through the opening a jet of hot light, a flood of dancing sparks +entered. And under the sky, of the violet blue of a conflagration, the +parched plain could be seen, stretching away in the distance, as if +asleep or dead in the overpowering, furnace-like heat, while to the +right, above the pink roofs, rose the belfry of St. Saturnin, a gilded +tower with arises that, in the blinding light, looked like whitened +bones. + +"Yes," continued Felicite, "I think of going shortly to the Tulettes, +and I wished to know if Charles were here, to take him with me. He is +not here--I see that--I will take him another day." + +But while she gave this pretext for her visit, her ferret-like eyes were +making the tour of the apartment. Besides, she did not insist, speaking +immediately afterward of her son Pascal, on hearing the rhythmical noise +of the pestle, which had not ceased in the adjoining chamber. + +"Ah! he is still at his devil's cookery! Don't disturb him, I have +nothing to say to him." + +Martine, who had resumed her work on the chair, shook her head, as if +to say that she had no mind to disturb her master, and there was silence +again, while Clotilde wiped her fingers, stained with crayon, on a +cloth, and Felicite began to walk about the room with short steps, +looking around inquisitively. + +Old Mme. Rougon would soon be two years a widow. Her husband who had +grown so corpulent that he could no longer move, had succumbed to an +attack of indigestion on the 3d of September, 1870, on the night of the +day on which he had learned of the catastrophe of Sedan. The ruin of the +government of which he flattered himself with being one of the founders, +seemed to have crushed him. Thus, Felicite affected to occupy herself no +longer with politics, living, thenceforward, like a dethroned queen, the +only surviving power of a vanished world. No one was unaware that the +Rougons, in 1851, had saved Plassans from anarchy, by causing the _coup +d'etat_ of the 2d of December to triumph there, and that, a few +years later, they had won it again from the legitimist and republican +candidates, to give it to a Bonapartist deputy. Up to the time of the +war, the Empire had continued all-powerful in the town, so popular that +it had obtained there at the plebiscite an overwhelming majority. But +since the disasters the town had become republican, the quarter St. Marc +had returned to its secret royalist intrigues, while the old quarter and +the new town had sent to the chamber a liberal representative, slightly +tinged with Orleanism, and ready to take sides with the republic, if +it should triumph. And, therefore, it was that Felicite, like the +intelligent woman she was, had withdrawn her attention from politics, +and consented to be nothing more than the dethroned queen of a fallen +government. + +But this was still an exalted position, surrounded by a melancholy +poetry. For eighteen years she had reigned. The tradition of her two +_salons_, the yellow _salon_, in which the _coup d'etat_ had matured, +and the green _salon_, later the neutral ground on which the conquest +of Plassans was completed, embellished itself with the reflection of the +vanished past, and was for her a glorious history. And besides, she was +very rich. Then, too, she had shown herself dignified in her fall, never +uttering a regret or a complaint, parading, with her eighty years, +so long a succession of fierce appetites, of abominable maneuvers, of +inordinate gratifications, that she became august through them. Her only +happiness, now, was to enjoy in peace her large fortune and her past +royalty, and she had but one passion left--to defend her past, to extend +its fame, suppressing everything that might tarnish it later. Her pride, +which lived on the double exploit of which the inhabitants still +spoke, watched with jealous care, resolved to leave in existence only +creditable documents, those traditions which caused her to be saluted +like a fallen queen when she walked through the town. + +She went to the door of the chamber and listened to the persistent noise +of the pestle, which did not cease. Then, with an anxious brow, she +returned to Clotilde. + +"Good Heavens! What is he making? You know that he is doing himself the +greatest harm with his new drug. I was told, the other day, that he came +near killing one of his patients." + +"Oh, grandmother!" cried the young girl. + +But she was now launched. + +"Yes, exactly. The good wives say many other things, besides! Why, go +question them, in the faubourg! They will tell you that he grinds dead +men's bones in infants' blood." + +This time, while even Martine protested, Clotilde, wounded in her +affection, grew angry. + +"Oh, grandmother, do not repeat such abominations! Master has so great a +heart that he thinks only of making every one happy!" + +Then, when she saw that they were both angry, Felicite, comprehending +that she had gone too far, resumed her coaxing manner. + +"But, my kitten, it is not I who say those frightful things. I repeat +to you the stupid reports they spread, so that you may comprehend that +Pascal is wrong to pay no heed to public opinion. He thinks he has found +a new remedy--nothing could be better! and I will even admit that he +will be able to cure everybody, as he hopes. Only, why affect these +mysterious ways; why not speak of the matter openly; why, above all, try +it only on the rabble of the old quarter and of the country, instead of, +attempting among the well-to-do people of the town, striking cures which +would do him honor? No, my child, you see your uncle has never been able +to act like other people." + +She had assumed a grieved tone, lowering her voice, to display the +secret wound of her heart. + +"God be thanked! it is not men of worth who are wanting in our family; +my other sons have given me satisfaction enough. Is it not so? Your +Uncle Eugene rose high enough, minister for twelve years, almost +emperor! And your father himself handled many a million, and had a part +in many a one of the great works which have made Paris a new city. Not +to speak at all of your brother, Maxime, so rich, so distinguished, nor +of your cousin, Octave Mouret, one of the kings of the new commerce, nor +of our dear Abbe Mouret, who is a saint! Well, then, why does Pascal, +who might have followed in the footsteps of them all, persist in living +in his hole, like an eccentric old fool?" + +And as the young girl was again going to protest, she closed her mouth, +with a caressing gesture of her hand. + +"No, no, let me finish. I know very well that Pascal is not a fool, that +he has written remarkable works, that his communications to the Academy +of Medicine have even won for him a reputation among _savants_. But what +does that count for, compared to what I have dreamed of for him? +Yes, all the best practice of the town, a large fortune, the +decoration--honors, in short, and a position worthy of the family. My +word! I used to say to him when he was a child: 'But where do you come +from? You are not one of us!' As for me, I have sacrificed everything +for the family; I would let myself be hacked to pieces, that the family +might always be great and glorious!" + +She straightened her small figure, she seemed to grow tall with the +one passion that had formed the joy and pride of her life. But as she +resumed her walk, she was startled by suddenly perceiving on the floor +the copy of the _Temps_, which the doctor had thrown there, after +cutting out the article, to add it to the Saccard papers, and the light +from the open window, falling full upon the sheet, enlightened her, no +doubt, for she suddenly stopped walking, and threw herself into a chair, +as if she at last knew what she had come to learn. + +"Your father has been appointed editor of the _Epoque_," she said +abruptly. + +"Yes," answered Clotilde tranquilly, "master told me so; it was in the +paper." + +With an anxious and attentive expression, Felicite looked at her, +for this appointment of Saccard, this rallying to the republic, was +something of vast significance. After the fall of the empire he had +dared return to France, notwithstanding his condemnation as director of +the Banque Universelle, the colossal fall of which had preceded that +of the government. New influences, some incredible intrigue must have +placed him on his feet again, for not only had he received his pardon, +but he was once more in a position to undertake affairs of considerable +importance, launched into journalism, having his share again of all the +good things going. And the recollection came to her of the quarrels of +other days between him and his brother Eugene Rougon, whom he had so +often compromised, and whom, by an ironical turn of events, he was +perhaps going to protect, now that the former minister of the Empire +was only a simple deputy, resigned to the single role of standing by +his fallen master with the obstinacy with which his mother stood by +her family. She still obeyed docilely the orders of her eldest son, the +genius, fallen though he was; but Saccard, whatever he might do, had +also a part in her heart, from his indomitable determination to succeed, +and she was also proud of Maxime, Clotilde's brother, who had taken up +his quarters again, after the war, in his mansion in the Avenue of the +Bois de Boulogne, where he was consuming the fortune left him by his +wife, Louise de Mareuil, become prudent, with the wisdom of a man struck +in a vital part, and trying to cheat the paralysis which threatened him. + +"Editor of the _Epoque_," she repeated; "it is really the position of +a minister which your father has won. And I forgot to tell you, I have +written again to your brother, to persuade him to come and see us. That +would divert him, it would do him good. Then, there is that child, that +poor Charles--" + +She did not continue. This was another of the wounds from which her +pride bled; a son whom Maxime had had when seventeen by a servant, and +who now, at the age of fifteen, weak of intellect, a half-idiot, lived +at Plassans, going from the house of one to that of another, a burden to +all. + +She remained silent a moment longer, waiting for some remark from +Clotilde, some transition by which she might come to the subject she +wished to touch upon. When she saw that the young girl, occupied in +arranging the papers on her desk, was no longer listening, she came to +a sudden decision, after casting a glance at Martine, who continued +mending the chair, as if she were deaf and dumb. + +"Your uncle cut the article out of the _Temps_, then?" + +Clotilde smiled calmly. + +"Yes, master put it away among his papers. Ah! how many notes he buries +in there! Births, deaths, the smallest event in life, everything goes in +there. And the genealogical tree is there also, our famous genealogical +tree, which he keeps up to date!" + +The eyes of old Mme. Rougon flamed. She looked fixedly at the young +girl. + +"You know them, those papers?" + +"Oh, no, grandmother; master has never spoken to me of them; and he has +forbidden me to touch them." + +But she did not believe her. + +"Come! you have them under your hands, you must have read them." + +Very simple, with her calm rectitude, Clotilde answered, smilingly +again. + +"No, when master forbids me to do anything, it is because he has his +reasons, and I do not do it." + +"Well, my child," cried Felicite vehemently, dominated by her passion, +"you, whom Pascal loves tenderly, and whom he would listen to, perhaps, +you ought to entreat him to burn all that, for if he should chance to +die, and those frightful things which he has in there were to be found, +we should all be dishonored!" + +Ah, those abominable papers! she saw them at night, in her nightmares, +revealing in letters of fire, the true histories, the physiological +blemishes of the family, all that wrong side of her glory which she +would have wished to bury forever with the ancestors already dead! She +knew how it was that the doctor had conceived the idea of collecting +these documents at the beginning of his great studies on heredity; how +he had found himself led to take his own family as an example, struck by +the typical cases which he saw in it, and which helped to support laws +discovered by him. Was it not a perfectly natural field of observation, +close at hand and with which he was thoroughly familiar? And with the +fine, careless justness of the scientist, he had been accumulating for +the last thirty years the most private data, collecting and classifying +everything, raising this genealogical tree of the Rougon-Macquarts, +of which the voluminous papers, crammed full of proofs, were only the +commentary. + +"Ah, yes," continued Mme. Rougon hotly, "to the fire, to the fire with +all those papers that would tarnish our name!" + +And as the servant rose to leave the room, seeing the turn the +conversation was taking, she stopped her by a quick gesture. + +"No, no, Martine; stay! You are not in the way, since you are now one of +the family." + +Then, in a hissing voice: + +"A collection of falsehoods, of gossip, all the lies that our enemies, +enraged by our triumph, hurled against us in former days! Think a little +of that, my child. Against all of us, against your father, against your +mother, against your brother, all those horrors!" + +"But how do you know they are horrors, grandmother?" + +She was disconcerted for a moment. + +"Oh, well; I suspect it! Where is the family that has not had +misfortunes which might be injuriously interpreted? Thus, the mother of +us all, that dear and venerable Aunt Dide, your great-grandmother, +has she not been for the past twenty-one years in the madhouse at the +Tulettes? If God has granted her the grace of allowing her to live to +the age of one hundred and four years, he has also cruelly afflicted her +in depriving her of her reason. Certainly, there is no shame in that; +only, what exasperates me--what must not be--is that they should say +afterward that we are all mad. And, then, regarding your grand-uncle +Macquart, too, deplorable rumors have been spread. Macquart had his +faults in past days, I do not seek to defend him. But to-day, is he not +living very reputably on his little property at the Tulettes, two steps +away from our unhappy mother, over whom he watches like a good son? And +listen! one last example. Your brother, Maxime, committed a great fault +when he had by a servant that poor little Charles, and it is certain, +besides, that the unhappy child is of unsound mind. No matter. Will +it please you if they tell you that your nephew is degenerate; that he +reproduces from four generations back, his great-great-grandmother the +dear woman to whom we sometimes take him, and with whom he likes so much +to be? No! there is no longer any family possible, if people begin to +lay bare everything--the nerves of this one, the muscles of that. It is +enough to disgust one with living!" + +Clotilde, standing in her long black blouse, had listened to her +grandmother attentively. She had grown very serious; her arms hung by +her sides, her eyes were fixed upon the ground. There was silence for a +moment; then she said slowly: + +"It is science, grandmother." + +"Science!" cried Felicite, trotting about again. "A fine thing, their +science, that goes against all that is most sacred in the world! When +they shall have demolished everything they will have advanced greatly! +They kill respect, they kill the family, they kill the good God!" + +"Oh! don't say that, madame!" interrupted Martine, in a grieved voice, +her narrow devoutness wounded. "Do not say that M. Pascal kills the good +God!" + +"Yes, my poor girl, he kills him. And look you, it is a crime, from the +religious point of view, to let one's self be damned in that way. You do +not love him, on my word of honor! No, you do not love him, you two who +have the happiness of believing, since you do nothing to bring him back +to the right path. Ah! if I were in your place, I would split that press +open with a hatchet. I would make a famous bonfire with all the insults +to the good God which it contains!" + +She had planted herself before the immense press and was measuring +it with her fiery glance, as if to take it by assault, to sack it, to +destroy it, in spite of the withered and fragile thinness of her eighty +years. Then, with a gesture of ironical disdain: + +"If, even with his science, he could know everything!" + +Clotilde remained for a moment absorbed in thought, her gaze lost in +vacancy. Then she said in an undertone, as if speaking to herself: + +"It is true, he cannot know everything. There is always something else +below. That is what irritates me; that is what makes us quarrel: for I +cannot, like him, put the mystery aside. I am troubled by it, so much +so that I suffer cruelly. Below, what wills and acts in the shuddering +darkness, all the unknown forces--" + +Her voice had gradually become lower and now dropped to an indistinct +murmur. + +Then Martine, whose face for a moment past had worn a somber expression, +interrupted in her turn: + +"If it was true, however, mademoiselle, that monsieur would be damned on +account of those villainous papers, tell me, ought we to let it happen? +For my part, look you, if he were to tell me to throw myself down from +the terrace, I would shut my eyes and throw myself, because I know that +he is always right. But for his salvation! Oh! if I could, I would work +for that, in spite of him. In every way, yes! I would force him; it is +too cruel to me to think that he will not be in heaven with us." + +"You are quite right, my girl," said Felicite approvingly. "You, at +least, love your master in an intelligent fashion." + +Between the two, Clotilde still seemed irresolute. In her, belief did +not bend to the strict rule of dogma; the religious sentiment did not +materialize in the hope of a paradise, of a place of delights, where she +was to meet her own again. It was in her simply a need of a beyond, a +certainty that the vast world does not stop short at sensation, that +there is a whole unknown world, besides, which must be taken into +account. But her grandmother, who was so old, this servant, who was so +devoted, shook her in her uneasy affection for her uncle. Did they not +love him better, in a more enlightened and more upright fashion, they +who desired him to be without a stain, freed from his manias as a +scientist, pure enough to be among the elect? Phrases of devotional +books recurred to her; the continual battle waged against the spirit of +evil; the glory of conversions effected after a violent struggle. What +if she set herself to this holy task; what if, after all, in spite of +himself, she should be able to save him! And an exaltation gradually +gained her spirit, naturally inclined to adventurous enterprises. + +"Certainly," she said at last, "I should be very happy if he would not +persist in his notion of heaping up all those scraps of paper, and if he +would come to church with us." + +Seeing her about to yield, Mme. Rougon cried out that it was necessary +to act, and Martine herself added the weight of all her real authority. +They both approached the young girl, and began to instruct her, lowering +their voices as if they were engaged in a conspiracy, whence was to +result a miraculous benefit, a divine joy with which the whole house +would be perfumed. What a triumph if they reconciled the doctor with +God! and what sweetness, afterward, to live altogether in the celestial +communion of the same faith! + +"Well, then, what must I do?" asked Clotilde, vanquished, won over. + +But at this moment the doctor's pestle was heard in the silence, with +its continued rhythm. And the victorious Felicite, who was about to +speak, turned her head uneasily, and looked for a moment at the door of +the adjoining chamber. Then, in an undertone, she said: + +"Do you know where the key of the press is?" + +Clotilde answered only with an artless gesture, that expressed all her +repugnance to betray her master in this way. + +"What a child you are! I swear to you that I will take nothing; I will +not even disturb anything. Only as we are alone and as Pascal never +reappears before dinner, we might assure ourselves of what there is in +there, might we not? Oh! nothing but a glance, on my word of honor." + +The young girl stood motionless, unwilling, still, to give her consent. + +"And then, it may be that I am mistaken; no doubt there are none of +those bad things there that I have told you of." + +This was decisive; she ran to take the key from the drawer, and she +herself opened wide the press. + +"There, grandmother, the papers are up there." + +Martine had gone, without a word, to station herself at the door of the +doctor's chamber, her ear on the alert, listening to the pestle, while +Felicite, as if riveted to the spot by emotion, regarded the papers. At +last, there they were, those terrible documents, the nightmare that had +poisoned her life! She saw them, she was going to touch them, to +carry them away! And she reached up, straining her little legs, in the +eagerness of her desire. + +"It is too high, my kitten," she said. "Help me; give them to me!" + +"Oh! not that, grandmother! Take a chair!" + +Felicite took a chair, and mounted slowly upon it. But she was still too +short. By an extraordinary effort she raised herself, lengthening her +stature until she was able to touch the envelopes of strong blue paper +with the tips of her fingers; and her fingers traveled over them, +contracting nervously, scratching like claws. Suddenly there was a +crash--it was a geological specimen, a fragment of marble that had been +on a lower shelf, and that she had just thrown down. + +Instantly the pestle stopped, and Martine said in a stifled voice: + +"Take care; here he comes!" + +But Felicite, grown desperate, did not hear, did not let go her hold +when Pascal entered hastily. He had supposed that some accident had +happened, that some one had fallen, and he stood stupefied at what he +saw--his mother on the chair, her arm still in the air, while Martine +had withdrawn to one side, and Clotilde, very pale, stood waiting, +without turning her head. When he comprehended the scene, he himself +became as white as a sheet. A terrible anger arose within him. + +Old Mme. Rougon, however, troubled herself in no wise. When she saw that +the opportunity was lost, she descended from the chair, without making +any illusion whatever to the task at which he had surprised her. + +"Oh, it is you! I do not wish to disturb you. I came to embrace +Clotilde. But here I have been talking for nearly two hours, and I must +run away at once. They will be expecting me at home; they won't know +what has become of me at this hour. Good-by until Sunday." + +She went away quite at her ease, after smiling at her son, who stood +before her silent and respectful. It was an attitude that he had long +since adopted, to avoid an explanation which he felt must be cruel, and +which he had always feared. He knew her, he was willing to pardon her +everything, in his broad tolerance as a scientist, who made allowance +for heredity, environment, and circumstances. And, then, was she not +his mother? That ought to have sufficed, for, in spite of the frightful +blows which his researches inflicted upon the family, he preserved a +great affection for those belonging to him. + +When his mother was no longer there, his anger burst forth, and fell +upon Clotilde. He had turned his eyes away from Martine, and fixed them +on the young girl, who did not turn hers away, however, with a courage +which accepted the responsibility of her act. + +"You! you!" he said at last. + +He seized her arm, and pressed it until she cried. But she continued +to look him full in the face, without quailing before him, with +the indomitable will of her individuality, of her selfhood. She was +beautiful and provoking, with her tall, slender figure, robed in +its black blouse; and her exquisite, youthful fairness, her straight +forehead, her finely cut nose, her firm chin, took on something of a +warlike charm in her rebellion. + +"You, whom I have made, you who are my pupil, my friend, my other mind, +to whom I have given a part of my heart and of my brain! Ah, yes! I +should have kept you entirely for myself, and not have allowed your +stupid good God to take the best part of you!" + +"Oh, monsieur, you blaspheme!" cried Martine, who had approached him, in +order to draw upon herself a part of his anger. + +But he did not even see her. Only Clotilde existed for him. And he was +as if transfigured, stirred up by so great a passion that his handsome +face, crowned by his white hair, framed by his white beard, flamed with +youthful passion, with an immense tenderness that had been wounded and +exasperated. + +"You, you!" he repeated in a trembling voice. + +"Yes, I! Why then, master, should I not love you better than you love +me? And why, if I believe you to be in peril, should I not try to save +you? You are greatly concerned about what I think; you would like well +to make me think as you do!" + +She had never before defied him in this way. + +"But you are a little girl; you know nothing!" + +"No, I am a soul, and you know no more about souls than I do!" + +He released her arm, and waved his hand vaguely toward heaven, and +then a great silence fell--a silence full of grave meaning, of the +uselessness of the discussion which he did not wish to enter upon. +Thrusting her aside rudely, he crossed over to the middle window and +opened the blinds, for the sun was declining, and the room was growing +dark. Then he returned. + +But she, feeling a need of air and space, went to the open window. The +burning rain of sparks had ceased, and there fell now, from on high, +only the last shiver of the overheated and paling sky; and from the +still burning earth ascended warm odors, with the freer respiration of +evening. At the foot of the terrace was the railroad, with the outlying +dependencies of the station, of which the buildings were to be seen in +the distance; then, crossing the vast arid plain, a line of trees marked +the course of the Viorne, beyond which rose the hills of Sainte-Marthe, +red fields planted with olive trees, supported on terraces by walls of +uncemented stones and crowned by somber pine woods--broad amphitheaters, +bare and desolate, corroded by the heats of summer, of the color of old +baked brick, which this fringe of dark verdure, standing out against the +background of the sky, bordered above. To the left opened the gorges of +the Seille, great yellow stones that had broken away from the soil, and +lay in the midst of blood-colored fields, dominated by an immense band +of rocks like the wall of a gigantic fortress; while to the right, at +the very entrance to the valley through which flowed the Viorne, rose, +one above another, the discolored pink-tiled roofs of the town of +Plassans, the compact and confused mass of an old town, pierced by the +tops of ancient elms, and dominated by the high tower of St. Saturnin, +solitary and serene at this hour in the limpid gold of sunset. + +"Ah, my God!" said Clotilde slowly, "one must be arrogant, indeed, to +imagine that one can take everything in one's hand and know everything!" + +Pascal had just mounted on the chair to assure himself that not one of +his packages was missing. Then he took up the fragment of marble, and +replaced it on the shelf, and when he had again locked the press with a +vigorous turn of the hand, he put the key into his pocket. + +"Yes," he replied; "try not to know everything, and above all, try +not to bewilder your brain about what we do not know, what we shall +doubtless never know!" + +Martine again approached Clotilde, to lend her her support, to show her +that they both had a common cause. And now the doctor perceived her, +also, and felt that they were both united in the same desire for +conquest. After years of secret attempts, it was at last open war; the +_savant_ saw his household turn against his opinions, and menace them +with destruction. There is no worse torture than to have treason in +one's own home, around one; to be trapped, dispossessed, crushed, by +those whom you love, and who love you! + +Suddenly this frightful idea presented itself to him. + +"And yet both of you love me!" he cried. + +He saw their eyes grow dim with tears; he was filled with an infinite +sadness, on this tranquil close of a beautiful day. All his gaiety, all +his kindness of heart, which came from his intense love of life, were +shaken by it. + +"Ah, my dear! and you, my poor girl," he said, "you are doing this for +my happiness, are you not? But, alas, how unhappy we are going to be!" + + + + +II. + +On the following morning Clotilde was awake at six o'clock. She had gone +to bed angry with Pascal; they were at variance with each other. And her +first feeling was one of uneasiness, of secret distress, an instant need +of making her peace, so that she might no longer have upon her heart the +heavy weight that lay there now. + +Springing quickly out of bed, she went and half opened the shutters of +both windows. The sun, already high, sent his light across the chamber +in two golden bars. Into this drowsy room that exhaled a sweet odor of +youth, the bright morning brought with it fresh, cheerful air; but the +young girl went back and sat down on the edge of the bed in a thoughtful +attitude, clad only in her scant nightdress, which made her look still +more slender, with her long tapering limbs, her strong, slender body, +with its round throat, round neck, round and supple arms; and her +adorable neck and throat, of a milky whiteness, had the exquisite +softness and smoothness of white satin. For a long time, at the +ungraceful age between twelve and eighteen, she had looked awkwardly +tall, climbing trees like a boy. Then, from the ungainly hoyden had been +evolved this charming, delicate and lovely creature. + +With absent gaze she sat looking at the walls of the chamber. Although +La Souleiade dated from the last century, it must have been refurnished +under the First Empire, for it was hung with an old-fashioned printed +calico, with a pattern representing busts of the Sphinx, and garlands +of oak leaves. Originally of a bright red, this calico had faded to a +pink--an undecided pink, inclining to orange. The curtains of the +two windows and of the bed were still in existence, but it had been +necessary to clean them, and this had made them still paler. And this +faded purple, this dawnlike tint, so delicately soft, was in truth +exquisite. As for the bed, covered with the same stuff, it had come down +from so remote an antiquity that it had been replaced by another bed +found in an adjoining room; another Empire bed, low and very broad, +of massive mahogany, ornamented with brasses, its four square pillars +adorned also with busts of the Sphinx, like those on the wall. The +rest of the furniture matched, however--a press, with whole doors and +pillars; a chest of drawers with a marble top, surrounded by a railing; +a tall and massive cheval-glass, a large lounge with straight feet, and +seats with straight, lyre-shaped backs. But a coverlet made of an old +Louis XV. silk skirt brightened the majestic bed, that occupied the +middle of the wall fronting the windows; a heap of cushions made the +lounge soft; and there were, besides, two _etageres_ and a table also +covered with old flowered silk, at the further end of the room. + +Clotilde at last put on her stockings and slipped on a morning gown of +white _pique_, and thrusting the tips of her feet into her gray canvas +slippers, she ran into her dressing-room, a back room looking out on the +rear of the house. She had had it hung plainly with an _ecru_ drill with +blue stripes, and it contained only furniture of varnished pine--the +toilette table, two presses, and two chairs. It revealed, however, a +natural and delicate coquetry which was very feminine. This had grown +with her at the same time with her beauty. Headstrong and boyish though +she still was at times, she had become a submissive and affectionate +woman, desiring to be loved, above everything. The truth was that she +had grown up in freedom, without having learned anything more than to +read and write, having acquired by herself, later, while assisting her +uncle, a vast fund of information. But there had been no plan settled +upon between them. He had not wished to make her a prodigy; she had +merely conceived a passion for natural history, which revealed to her +the mysteries of life. And she had kept her innocence unsullied like a +fruit which no hand has touched, thanks, no doubt, to her unconscious +and religious waiting for the coming of love--that profound feminine +feeling which made her reserve the gift of her whole being for the man +whom she should love. + +She pushed back her hair and bathed her face; then, yielding to her +impatience, she again softly opened the door of her chamber and ventured +to cross the vast workroom, noiselessly and on tiptoe. The shutters were +still closed, but she could see clearly enough not to stumble against +the furniture. When she was at the other end before the door of the +doctor's room, she bent forward, holding her breath. Was he already up? +What could he be doing? She heard him plainly, walking about with short +steps, dressing himself, no doubt. She never entered this chamber in +which he chose to hide certain labors; and which thus remained closed, +like a tabernacle. One fear had taken possession of her; that of being +discovered here by him if he should open the door; and the agitation +produced by the struggle between her rebellious pride and a desire +to show her submission caused her to grow hot and cold by turns, with +sensations until now unknown to her. For an instant her desire for +reconciliation was so strong that she was on the point of knocking. +Then, as footsteps approached, she ran precipitately away. + +Until eight o'clock Clotilde was agitated by an ever-increasing +impatience. At every instant she looked at the clock on the mantelpiece +of her room; an Empire clock of gilded bronze, representing Love leaning +against a pillar, contemplating Time asleep. + +Eight was the hour at which she generally descended to the dining-room +to breakfast with the doctor. And while waiting she made a careful +toilette, arranged her hair, and put on another morning gown of white +muslin with red spots. Then, having still a quarter of an hour on her +hands, she satisfied an old desire and sat down to sew a piece of narrow +lace, an imitation of Chantilly, on her working blouse, that black +blouse which she had begun to find too boyish, not feminine enough. +But on the stroke of eight she laid down her work, and went downstairs +quickly. + +"You are going to breakfast entirely alone," said Martine tranquilly to +her, when she entered the dining-room. + +"How is that?" + +"Yes, the doctor called me, and I passed him in his egg through the +half-open door. There he is again, at his mortar and his filter. We +won't see him now before noon." + +Clotilde turned pale with disappointment. She drank her milk standing, +took her roll in her hand, and followed the servant into the +kitchen. There were on the ground floor, besides this kitchen and the +dining-room, only an uninhabited room in which the potatoes were stored, +and which had formerly been used as an office by the doctor, when he +received his patients in his house--the desk and the armchair had years +ago been taken up to his chamber--and another small room, which opened +into the kitchen; the old servant's room, scrupulously clean, and +furnished with a walnut chest of drawers and a bed like a nun's with +white hangings. + +"Do you think he has begun to make his liquor again?" asked Clotilde. + +"Well, it can be only that. You know that he thinks of neither eating +nor drinking when that takes possession of him!" + +Then all the young girl's vexation was exhaled in a low plaint: + +"Ah, my God! my God!" + +And while Martine went to make up her room, she took an umbrella from +the hall stand and went disconsolately to eat her roll in the garden, +not knowing now how she should occupy her time until midday. + +It was now almost seventeen years since Dr. Pascal, having resolved +to leave his little house in the new town, had bought La Souleiade for +twenty thousand francs, in order to live there in seclusion, and also +to give more space and more happiness to the little girl sent him by his +brother Saccard from Paris. This Souleiade, situated outside the town +gates on a plateau dominating the plain, was part of a large estate +whose once vast grounds were reduced to less than two hectares in +consequence of successive sales, without counting that the construction +of the railroad had taken away the last arable fields. The house itself +had been half destroyed by a conflagration and only one of the two +buildings remained--a quadrangular wing "of four walls," as they say in +Provence, with five front windows and roofed with large pink tiles. +And the doctor, who had bought it completely furnished, had contented +himself with repairing it and finishing the boundary walls, so as to be +undisturbed in his house. + +Generally Clotilde loved this solitude passionately; this narrow +kingdom which she could go over in ten minutes, and which still retained +remnants of its past grandeur. But this morning she brought there +something like a nervous disquietude. She walked for a few moments along +the terrace, at the two extremities of which stood two secular cypresses +like two enormous funeral tapers, which could be seen three leagues off. +The slope then descended to the railroad, walls of uncemented stones +supporting the red earth, in which the last vines were dead; and on +these giant steps grew only rows of olive and almond trees, with sickly +foliage. The heat was already overpowering; she saw the little lizards +running about on the disjointed flags, among the hairy tufts of caper +bushes. + +Then, as if irritated by the vast horizon, she crossed the orchard and +the kitchen garden, which Martine still persisted in cultivating in +spite of her age, calling in a man only twice a week for the heavier +labors; and she ascended to a little pine wood on the right, all that +remained of the superb pines which had formerly covered the plateau; +but, here, too, she was ill at ease; the pine needles crackled under her +feet, a resinous, stifling odor descended from the branches. And walking +along the boundary wall past the entrance gate, which opened on the +road to Les Fenouilleres, three hundred meters from the first houses of +Plassans, she emerged at last on the threshing-yard; an immense yard, +fifteen meters in radius, which would of itself have sufficed to prove +the former importance of the domain. Ah! this antique area, paved with +small round stones, as in the days of the Romans; this species of vast +esplanade, covered with short dry grass of the color of gold as with a +thick woolen carpet; how joyously she had played there in other days, +running about, rolling on the grass, lying for hours on her back, +watching the stars coming out one by one in the depths of the +illimitable sky! + +She opened her umbrella again, and crossed the yard with slower steps. +Now she was on the left of the terrace. She had made the tour of the +estate, so that she had returned by the back of the house, through the +clump of enormous plane trees that on this side cast a thick shade. This +was the side on which opened the two windows of the doctor's room. And +she raised her eyes to them, for she had approached only in the sudden +hope of at last seeing him. But the windows remained closed, and she +was wounded by this as by an unkindness to herself. Then only did +she perceive that she still held in her hand her roll, which she had +forgotten to eat; and she plunged among the trees, biting it impatiently +with her fine young teeth. + +It was a delicious retreat, this old quincunx of plane trees, another +remnant of the past splendor of La Souleiade. Under these giant trees, +with their monstrous trunks, there was only a dim light, a greenish +light, exquisitely cool, even on the hottest days of summer. Formerly +a French garden had been laid out here, of which only the box borders +remained; bushes which had habituated themselves to the shade, no doubt, +for they grew vigorously, as tall as trees. And the charm of this +shady nook was a fountain, a simple leaden pipe fixed in the shaft of +a column; whence flowed perpetually, even in the greatest drought, a +thread of water as thick as the little finger, which supplied a large +mossy basin, the greenish stones of which were cleaned only once in +three or four years. When all the wells of the neighborhood were dry, +La Souleiade still kept its spring, of which the great plane trees were +assuredly the secular children. Night and day for centuries past this +slender thread of water, unvarying and continuous, had sung the same +pure song with crystal sound. + +Clotilde, after wandering awhile among the bushes of box, which reached +to her shoulder, went back to the house for a piece of embroidery, and +returning with it, sat down at a stone table beside the fountain. Some +garden chairs had been placed around it, and they often took coffee +here. And after this she affected not to look up again from her work, +as if she was completely absorbed in it. Now and then, while seeming to +look between the trunks of trees toward the sultry distance, toward the +yard, on which the sun blazed fiercely and which glowed like a brazier, +she stole a glance from under her long lashes up to the doctor's +windows. Nothing appeared, not a shadow. And a feeling of sadness, of +resentment, arose within her at this neglect, this contempt in which he +seemed to hold her after their quarrel of the day before. She who had +got up with so great a desire to make peace at once! He was in no hurry, +however; he did not love her then, since he could be satisfied to live +at variance with her. And gradually a feeling of gloom took possession +of her, her rebellious thoughts returned, and she resolved anew to yield +in nothing. + +At eleven o'clock, before setting her breakfast on the fire, Martine +came to her for a moment, the eternal stocking in her hand which she +was always knitting even while walking, when she was not occupied in the +affairs of the house. + +"Do you know that he is still shut up there like a wolf in his hole, at +his villainous cookery?" + +Clotilde shrugged her shoulders, without lifting her eyes from her +embroidery. + +"And then, mademoiselle, if you only knew what they say! Mme. Felicite +was right yesterday when she said that it was really enough to make one +blush. They threw it in my face that he had killed old Boutin, that +poor old man, you know, who had the falling sickness and who died on +the road. To believe those women of the faubourg, every one into whom he +injects his remedy gets the true cholera from it, without counting that +they accuse him of having taken the devil into partnership." + +A short silence followed. Then, as the young girl became more gloomy +than before, the servant resumed, moving her fingers still more rapidly: + +"As for me, I know nothing about the matter, but what he is making there +enrages me. And you, mademoiselle, do you approve of that cookery?" + +At last Clotilde raised her head quickly, yielding to the flood of +passion that swept over her. + +"Listen; I wish to know no more about it than you do, but I think that +he is on a very dangerous path. He no longer loves us." + +"Oh, yes, mademoiselle; he loves us." + +"No, no; not as we love him. If he loved us, he would be here with us, +instead of endangering his soul and his happiness and ours, up there, in +his desire to save everybody." + +And the two women looked at each other for a moment with eyes burning +with affection, in their jealous anger. Then they resumed their work in +silence, enveloped in shadow. + +Above, in his room, Dr. Pascal was working with the serenity of perfect +joy. He had practised his profession for only about a dozen years, from +his return to Paris up to the time when he had retired to La Souleiade. +Satisfied with the hundred and odd thousand francs which he had +earned and which he had invested prudently, he devoted himself almost +exclusively to his favorite studies, retaining only a practise among +friends, never refusing to go to the bedside of a patient but never +sending in his account. When he was paid he threw the money into a +drawer in his writing desk, regarding this as pocket-money for his +experiments and caprices, apart from his income which sufficed for his +wants. And he laughed at the bad reputation for eccentricity which his +way of life had gained him; he was happy only when in the midst of his +researches on the subjects for which he had a passion. It was matter for +surprise to many that this scientist, whose intellectual gifts had been +spoiled by a too lively imagination, should have remained at Plassans, +this out-of-the-way town where it seemed as if every requirement for his +studies must be wanting. But he explained very well the advantages which +he had discovered here; in the first place, an utterly peaceful +retreat in which he might live the secluded life he desired; then, an +unsuspected field for continuous research in the light of the facts of +heredity, which was his passion, in this little town where he knew every +family and where he could follow the phenomena kept most secret, through +two or three generations. And then he was near the seashore; he went +there almost every summer, to study the swarming life that is born +and propagates itself in the depths of the vast waters. And there was +finally, at the hospital in Plassans, a dissecting room to which he was +almost the only visitor; a large, bright, quiet room, in which for more +than twenty years every unclaimed body had passed under his scalpel. A +modest man besides, of a timidity that had long since become shyness, +it had been sufficient for him to maintain a correspondence with his old +professors and his new friends, concerning the very remarkable papers +which he from time to time sent to the Academy of Medicine. He was +altogether wanting in militant ambition. + +Ah, this heredity! what a subject of endless meditation it was for him! +The strangest, the most wonderful part of it all, was it not that +the resemblance between parents and children should not be perfect, +mathematically exact? He had in the beginning made a genealogical tree +of his family, logically traced, in which the influences from generation +to generation were distributed equally--the father's part and the +mother's part. But the living reality contradicted the theory almost +at every point. Heredity, instead of being resemblance, was an effort +toward resemblance thwarted by circumstances and environment. And he had +arrived at what he called the hypothesis of the abortion of cells. Life +is only motion, and heredity being a communicated motion, it happened +that the cells in their multiplication from one another jostled one +another, pressed one another, made room for themselves, putting forth, +each one, the hereditary effort; so that if during this struggle the +weaker cells succumbed, considerable disturbances took place, with +the final result of organs totally different. Did not variation, the +constant invention of nature, which clashed with his theories, come from +this? Did not he himself differ from his parents only in consequence of +similar accidents, or even as the effect of larvated heredity, in which +he had for a time believed? For every genealogical tree has roots which +extend as far back into humanity as the first man; one cannot proceed +from a single ancestor; one may always resemble a still older, unknown +ancestor. He doubted atavism, however; it seemed to him, in spite of a +remarkable example taken from his own family, that resemblance at the +end of two or three generations must disappear by reason of accidents, +of interferences, of a thousand possible combinations. There was then +a perpetual becoming, a constant transformation in this communicated +effort, this transmitted power, this shock which breathes into matter +the breath of life, and which is life itself. And a multiplicity +of questions presented themselves to him. Was there a physical and +intellectual progress through the ages? Did the brain grow with the +growth of the sciences with which it occupied itself? Might one hope, +in time, for a larger sum of reason and of happiness? Then there were +special problems; one among others, the mystery of which had for a long +time irritated him, that of sex; would science never be able to predict, +or at least to explain the sex of the embryo being? He had written a +very curious paper crammed full of facts on this subject, but which left +it in the end in the complete ignorance in which the most exhaustive +researches had left it. Doubtless the question of heredity fascinated +him as it did only because it remained obscure, vast, and unfathomable, +like all the infant sciences where imagination holds sway. Finally, a +long study which he had made on the heredity of phthisis revived in him +the wavering faith of the healer, arousing in him the noble and wild +hope of regenerating humanity. + +In short, Dr. Pascal had only one belief--the belief in life. Life was +the only divine manifestation. Life was God, the grand motor, the +soul of the universe. And life had no other instrument than heredity; +heredity made the world; so that if its laws could be known and +directed, the world could be made to one's will. In him, to whom +sickness, suffering, and death had been a familiar sight, the militant +pity of the physician awoke. Ah! to have no more sickness, no more +suffering, as little death as possible! His dream ended in this +thought--that universal happiness, the future community of perfection +and of felicity, could be hastened by intervention, by giving health to +all. When all should be healthy, strong, and intelligent, there would +be only a superior race, infinitely wise and happy. In India, was not +a Brahmin developed from a Soudra in seven generations, thus raising, +experimentally, the lowest of beings to the highest type of humanity? +And as in his study of consumption he had arrived at the conclusion that +it was not hereditary, but that every child of a consumptive carried +within him a degenerate soil in which consumption developed with +extraordinary facility at the slightest contagion, he had come to think +only of invigorating this soil impoverished by heredity; to give it +the strength to resist the parasites, or rather the destructive leaven, +which he had suspected to exist in the organism, long before the microbe +theory. To give strength--the whole problem was there; and to give +strength was also to give will, to enlarge the brain by fortifying the +other organs. + +About this time the doctor, reading an old medical book of the fifteenth +century, was greatly struck by a method of treating disease called +signature. To cure a diseased organ, it was only necessary to take from +a sheep or an ox the corresponding organ in sound condition, boil it, +and give the soup to the patient to drink. The theory was to cure like +by like, and in diseases of the liver, especially, the old work stated +that the cures were numberless. This set the doctor's vivid imagination +working. Why not make the trial? If he wished to regenerate those +enfeebled by hereditary influences, he had only to give them the normal +and healthy nerve substance. The method of the soup, however, seemed to +him childish, and he invented in its stead that of grinding in a mortar +the brain of a sheep, moistening it with distilled water, and then +decanting and filtering the liquor thus obtained. He tried this liquor +then mixed with Malaga wine, on his patients, without obtaining any +appreciable result. Suddenly, as he was beginning to grow discouraged, +he had an inspiration one day, when he was giving a lady suffering +from hepatic colics an injection of morphine with the little syringe of +Pravaz. What if he were to try hypodermic injections with his liquor? +And as soon as he returned home he tried the experiment on himself, +making an injection in his side, which he repeated night and morning. +The first doses, of a gram only, were without effect. But having +doubled, and then tripled the dose, he was enchanted, one morning on +getting up, to find that his limbs had all the vigor of twenty. He went +on increasing the dose up to five grams, and then his respiration became +deeper, and above all he worked with a clearness of mind, an ease, +which he had not known for years. A great flood of happiness, of joy in +living, inundated his being. From this time, after he had had a syringe +made at Paris capable of containing five grams, he was surprised at the +happy results which he obtained with his patients, whom he had on their +feet again in a few days, full of energy and activity, as if endowed +with new life. His method was still tentative and rude, and he divined +in it all sorts of dangers, and especially, that of inducing embolism, +if the liquor was not perfectly pure. Then he suspected that the +strength of his patients came in part from the fever his treatment +produced in them. But he was only a pioneer; the method would improve +later. Was it not already a miracle to make the ataxic walk, to bring +consumptives back to life, as it were; even to give hours of lucidity to +the insane? And at the thought of this discovery of the alchemy of the +twentieth century, an immense hope opened up before him; he believed he +had discovered the universal panacea, the elixir of life, which was +to combat human debility, the one real cause of every ill; a veritable +scientific Fountain of Youth, which, in giving vigor, health, and will +would create an altogether new and superior humanity. + +This particular morning in his chamber, a room with a northern aspect +and somewhat dark owing to the vicinity of the plane trees, furnished +simply with an iron bedstead, a mahogany writing desk, and a large +writing table, on which were a mortar and a microscope, he was +completing with infinite care the preparation of a vial of his liquor. +Since the day before, after pounding the nerve substance of a sheep in +distilled water, he had been decanting and filtering it. And he had +at last obtained a small bottle of a turbid, opaline liquid, irised by +bluish gleams, which he regarded for a long time in the light as if he +held in his hand the regenerating blood and symbol of the world. + +But a few light knocks at the door and an urgent voice drew him from his +dream. + +"Why, what is the matter, monsieur? It is a quarter-past twelve; don't +you intend to come to breakfast?" + +For downstairs breakfast had been waiting for some time past in the +large, cool dining-room. The blinds were closed, with the exception of +one which had just been half opened. It was a cheerful room, with pearl +gray panels relieved by blue mouldings. The table, the sideboard, and +the chairs must have formed part of the set of Empire furniture in +the bedrooms; and the old mahogany, of a deep red, stood out in strong +relief against the light background. A hanging lamp of polished brass, +always shining, gleamed like a sun; while on the four walls bloomed four +large bouquets in pastel, of gillyflowers, carnations, hyacinths, and +roses. + +Joyous, radiant, Dr. Pascal entered. + +"Ah, the deuce! I had forgotten! I wanted to finish. Look at this, quite +fresh, and perfectly pure this time; something to work miracles with!" + +And he showed the vial, which he had brought down in his enthusiasm. But +his eye fell on Clotilde standing erect and silent, with a serious +air. The secret vexation caused by waiting had brought back all her +hostility, and she, who had burned to throw herself on his neck in the +morning, remained motionless as if chilled and repelled by him. + +"Good!" he resumed, without losing anything of his gaiety, "we are still +at odds, it seems. That is something very ugly. So you don't admire my +sorcerer's liquor, which resuscitates the dead?" + +He seated himself at the table, and the young girl, sitting down +opposite him, was obliged at last to answer: + +"You know well, master, that I admire everything belonging to you. Only, +my most ardent desire is that others also should admire you. And there +is the death of poor old Boutin--" + +"Oh!" he cried, without letting her finish, "an epileptic, who succumbed +to a congestive attack! See! since you are in a bad humor, let us talk +no more about that--you would grieve me, and that would spoil my day." + +There were soft boiled eggs, cutlets, and cream. Silence reigned for a +few moments, during which in spite of her ill-humor she ate heartily, +with a good appetite which she had not the coquetry to conceal. Then he +resumed, laughing: + +"What reassures me is to see that your stomach is in good order. +Martine, hand mademoiselle the bread." + +The servant waited on them as she was accustomed to do, watching them +eat, with her quiet air of familiarity. + +Sometimes she even chatted with them. + +"Monsieur," she said, when she had cut the bread, "the butcher has +brought his bill. Is he to be paid?" + +He looked up at her in surprise. + +"Why do you ask me that?" he said. "Do you not always pay him without +consulting me?" + +It was, in effect, Martine who kept the purse. The amount deposited +with M. Grandguillot, notary at Plassans, produced a round sum of six +thousand francs income. Every three months the fifteen hundred francs +were remitted to the servant, and she disposed of them to the best +interests of the house; bought and paid for everything with the +strictest economy, for she was of so saving a disposition that they +bantered her about it continually. Clotilde, who spent very little, had +never thought of asking a separate purse for herself. As for the doctor, +he took what he required for his experiments and his pocket money from +the three or four thousand francs which he still earned every year, and +which he kept lying in the drawer of his writing desk; so that there was +quite a little treasure there in gold and bank bills, of which he never +knew the exact amount. + +"Undoubtedly, monsieur, I pay, when it is I who have bought the things; +but this time the bill is so large on account of the brains which the +butcher has furnished you--" + +The doctor interrupted her brusquely: + +"Ah, come! so you, too, are going to set yourself against me, are you? +No, no; both of you--that would be too much! Yesterday you pained me +greatly, and I was angry. But this must cease. I will not have the house +turned into a hell. Two women against me, and they the only ones who +love me at all? Do you know, I would sooner quit the house at once!" + +He did not speak angrily, he even smiled; but the disquietude of his +heart was perceptible in the trembling of his voice. And he added with +his indulgent, cheerful air: + +"If you are afraid for the end of the month, my girl, tell the butcher +to send my bill apart. And don't fear; you are not going to be asked for +any of your money to settle it with; your sous may lie sleeping." + +This was an allusion to Martine's little personal fortune. In thirty +years, with four hundred francs wages she had earned twelve thousand +francs, from which she had taken only what was strictly necessary for +her wants; and increased, almost trebled, by the interest, her savings +amounted now to thirty thousand francs, which through a caprice, a +desire to have her money apart, she had not chosen to place with M. +Grandguillot. They were elsewhere, safely invested in the funds. + +"Sous that lie sleeping are honest sous," she said gravely. "But +monsieur is right; I will tell the butcher to send a bill apart, as all +the brains are for monsieur's cookery and not for mine." + +This explanation brought a smile to the face of Clotilde, who was always +amused by the jests about Martine's avarice; and the breakfast ended +more cheerfully. The doctor desired to take the coffee under the plane +trees, saying that he felt the need of air after being shut up all +the morning. The coffee was served then on the stone table beside the +fountain; and how pleasant it was there in the shade, listening to the +cool murmur of the water, while around, the pine wood, the court, the +whole place, were glowing in the early afternoon sun. + +The doctor had complacently brought with him the vial of nerve +substance, which he looked at as it stood on the table. + +"So, then, mademoiselle," he resumed, with an air of brusque pleasantry, +"you do not believe in my elixir of resurrection, and you believe in +miracles!" + +"Master," responded Clotilde, "I believe that we do not know +everything." + +He made a gesture of impatience. + +"But we must know everything. Understand then, obstinate little girl, +that not a single deviation from the invariable laws which govern the +universe has ever been scientifically proved. Up to this day there has +been no proof of the existence of any intelligence other than the human. +I defy you to find any real will, any reasoning force, outside of life. +And everything is there; there is in the world no other will than +this force which impels everything to life, to a life ever broader and +higher." + +He rose with a wave of the hand, animated by so firm a faith that she +regarded him in surprise, noticing how youthful he looked in spite of +his white hair. + +"Do you wish me to repeat my 'Credo' for you, since you accuse me of not +wanting yours? I believe that the future of humanity is in the progress +of reason through science. I believe that the pursuit of truth, through +science, is the divine ideal which man should propose to himself. I +believe that all is illusion and vanity outside the treasure of truths +slowly accumulated, and which will never again be lost. I believe that +the sum of these truths, always increasing, will at last confer on man +incalculable power and peace, if not happiness. Yes, I believe in the +final triumph of life." + +And with a broader sweep of the hand that took in the vast horizon, as +if calling on these burning plains in which fermented the saps of all +existences to bear him witness, he added: + +"But the continual miracle, my child, is life. Only open your eyes, and +look." + +She shook her head. + +"It is in vain that I open my eyes; I cannot see everything. It is you, +master, who are blind, since you do not wish to admit that there is +beyond an unknown realm which you will never enter. Oh, I know you are +too intelligent to be ignorant of that! Only you do not wish to take it +into account; you put the unknown aside, because it would embarrass +you in your researches. It is in vain that you tell me to put aside the +mysterious; to start from the known for the conquest of the unknown. I +cannot; the mysterious at once calls me back and disturbs me." + +He listened to her, smiling, glad to see her become animated, while he +smoothed her fair curls with his hand. + +"Yes, yes, I know you are like the rest; you do not wish to live without +illusions and without lies. Well, there, there; we understand each other +still, even so. Keep well; that is the half of wisdom and of happiness." + +Then, changing the conversation: + +"Come, you will accompany me, notwithstanding, and help me in my round +of miracles. This is Thursday, my visiting day. When the heat shall have +abated a little, we will go out together." + +She refused at first, in order not to seem to yield; but she at last +consented, seeing the pain she gave him. She was accustomed to accompany +him on his round of visits. They remained for some time longer under the +plane trees, until the doctor went upstairs to dress. When he came +down again, correctly attired in a close-fitting coat and wearing a +broad-brimmed silk hat, he spoke of harnessing Bonhomme, the horse +that for a quarter of a century had taken him on his visits through the +streets and the environs of Plassans. But the poor old beast was growing +blind, and through gratitude for his past services and affection for +himself they now rarely disturbed him. On this afternoon he was very +drowsy, his gaze wandered, his legs were stiff with rheumatism. So that +the doctor and the young girl, when they went to the stable to see him, +gave him a hearty kiss on either side of his nose, telling him to rest +on a bundle of fresh hay which the servant had brought. And they decided +to walk. + +Clotilde, keeping on her spotted white muslin, merely tied on over her +curls a large straw hat adorned with a bunch of lilacs; and she looked +charming, with her large eyes and her complexion of milk-and-roses under +the shadow of its broad brim. When she went out thus on Pascal's arm, +she tall, slender, and youthful, he radiant, his face illuminated, so +to say, by the whiteness of his beard, with a vigor that made him still +lift her across the rivulets, people smiled as they passed, and turned +around to look at them again, they seemed so innocent and so happy. On +this day, as they left the road to Les Fenouilleres to enter Plassans, a +group of gossips stopped short in their talk. It reminded one of one +of those ancient kings one sees in pictures; one of those powerful and +gentle kings who never grew old, resting his hand on the shoulder of a +girl beautiful as the day, whose docile and dazzling youth lends him its +support. + +They were turning into the Cours Sauvair to gain the Rue de la Banne, +when a tall, dark young man of about thirty stopped them. + +"Ah, master, you have forgotten me. I am still waiting for your notes on +consumption." + +It was Dr. Ramond, a young physician, who had settled two years before +at Plassans, where he was building up a fine practise. With a superb +head, in the brilliant prime of a gracious manhood, he was adored by +the women, but he had fortunately a great deal of good sense and a great +deal of prudence. + +"Why, Ramond, good day! Not at all, my dear friend; I have not forgotten +you. It is this little girl, to whom I gave the notes yesterday to copy, +and who has not touched them yet." + +The two young people shook hands with an air of cordial intimacy. + +"Good day, Mlle. Clotilde." + +"Good day, M. Ramond." + +During a gastric fever, happily mild, which the young girl had had +the preceding year, Dr. Pascal had lost his head to the extent of +distrusting his own skill, and he had asked his young colleague to +assist him--to reassure him. Thus it was that an intimacy, a sort of +comradeship, had sprung up among the three. + +"You shall have your notes to-morrow, I promise you," she said, smiling. + +Ramond walked on with them, however, until they reached the end of the +Rue de la Banne, at the entrance of the old quarter whither they were +going. And there was in the manner in which he leaned, smiling, toward +Clotilde, the revelation of a secret love that had grown slowly, +awaiting patiently the hour fixed for the most reasonable of +_denouements_. Besides, he listened with deference to Dr. Pascal, whose +works he admired greatly. + +"And it just happens, my dear friend, that I am going to Guiraude's, +that woman, you know, whose husband, a tanner, died of consumption five +years ago. She has two children living--Sophie, a girl now going on +sixteen, whom I fortunately succeeded in having sent four years before +her father's death to a neighboring village, to one of her aunts; and +a son, Valentin, who has just completed his twenty-first year, and +whom his mother insisted on keeping with her through a blind affection, +notwithstanding that I warned her of the dreadful results that might +ensue. Well, see if I am right in asserting that consumption is not +hereditary, but only that consumptive parents transmit to their children +a degenerate soil, in which the disease develops at the slightest +contagion. Now, Valentin, who lived in daily contact with his father, +is consumptive, while Sophie, who grew up in the open air, has superb +health." + +He added with a triumphant smile: + +"But that will not prevent me, perhaps, from saving Valentin, for he +is visibly improved, and is growing fat since I have used my injections +with him. Ah, Ramond, you will come to them yet; you will come to my +injections!" + +The young physician shook hands with both of them, saying: + +"I don't say no. You know that I am always with you." + +When they were alone they quickened their steps and were soon in the Rue +Canquoin, one of the narrowest and darkest streets of the old quarter. +Hot as was the sun, there reigned here the semi-obscurity and the +coolness of a cave. Here it was, on a ground floor, that Guiraude lived +with her son Valentin. She opened the door herself. She was a thin, +wasted-looking woman, who was herself affected with a slow decomposition +of the blood. From morning till night she crushed almonds with the end +of an ox-bone on a large paving stone, which she held between her knees. +This work was their only means of living, the son having been obliged to +give up all labor. She smiled, however, to-day on seeing the doctor, for +Valentin had just eaten a cutlet with a good appetite, a thing which +he had not done for months. Valentin, a sickly-looking young man, with +scanty hair and beard and prominent cheek bones, on each of which was +a bright red spot, while the rest of his face was of a waxen hue, +rose quickly to show how much more sprightly he felt! And Clotilde +was touched by the reception given to Pascal as a saviour, the awaited +Messiah. These poor people pressed his hands--they would like to have +kissed his feet; looking at him with eyes shining with gratitude. True, +the disease was not yet cured: perhaps this was only the effect of the +stimulus, perhaps what he felt was only the excitement of fever. But +was it not something to gain time? He gave him another injection while +Clotilde, standing before the window, turned her back to them; and when +they were leaving she saw him lay twenty francs upon the table. This +often happened to him, to pay his patients instead of being paid by +them. + +He made three other visits in the old quarter, and then went to see a +lady in the new town. When they found themselves in the street again, he +said: + +"Do you know that, if you were a courageous girl, we should walk to +Seguiranne, to see Sophie at her aunt's. That would give me pleasure." + +The distance was scarcely three kilometers; that would be only a +pleasant walk in this delightful weather. And she agreed gaily, not +sulky now, but pressing close to him, happy to hang on his arm. It was +five o'clock. The setting sun spread over the fields a great sheet of +gold. But as soon as they left Plassans they were obliged to cross +the corner of the vast, arid plain, which extended to the right of the +Viorne. The new canal, whose irrigating waters were soon to transform +the face of the country parched with thirst, did not yet water this +quarter, and red fields and yellow fields stretched away into the +distance under the melancholy and blighting glare of the sun, planted +only with puny almond trees and dwarf olives, constantly cut down and +pruned, whose branches twisted and writhed in attitudes of suffering +and revolt. In the distance, on the bare hillsides, were to be seen only +like pale patches the country houses, flanked by the regulation cypress. +The vast, barren expanse, however, with broad belts of desolate fields +of hard and distinct coloring, had classic lines of a severe grandeur. +And on the road the dust lay twenty centimeters thick, a dust like snow, +that the slightest breath of wind raised in broad, flying clouds, and +that covered with white powder the fig trees and the brambles on either +side. + +Clotilde, who amused herself like a child, listening to this dust +crackling under her little feet, wished to hold her parasol over Pascal. + +"You have the sun in your eyes. Lean a little this way." + +But at last he took possession of the parasol, to hold it himself. + +"It is you who do not hold it right; and then it tires you. Besides, we +are almost there now." + +In the parched plain they could already perceive an island of verdure, +an enormous clump of trees. This was La Seguiranne, the farm on which +Sophie had grown up in the house of her Aunt Dieudonne, the wife of +the cross old man. Wherever there was a spring, wherever there was a +rivulet, this ardent soil broke out in rich vegetation; and then +there were walks bordered by trees, whose luxuriant foliage afforded a +delightful coolness and shade. Plane trees, chestnut trees, and young +elms grew vigorously. They entered an avenue of magnificent green oaks. + +As they approached the farm, a girl who was making hay in the meadow +dropped her fork and ran toward them. It was Sophie, who had recognized +the doctor and the young lady, as she called Clotilde. She adored them, +but she stood looking at them in confusion, unable to express the glad +greeting with which her heart overflowed. She resembled her brother +Valentin; she had his small stature, his prominent cheek bones, his +pale hair; but in the country, far from the contagion of the paternal +environment, she had, it seemed, gained flesh; acquired with her +robust limbs a firm step; her cheeks had filled out, her hair had grown +luxuriant. And she had fine eyes, which shone with health and gratitude. +Her Aunt Dieudonne, who was making hay with her, had come toward them +also, crying from afar jestingly, with something of Provencal rudeness: + +"Ah, M. Pascal, we have no need of you here! There is no one sick!" + +The doctor, who had simply come in search of this fine spectacle of +health, answered in the same tone: + +"I hope so, indeed. But that does not prevent this little girl here from +owing you and me a fine taper!" + +"Well, that is the pure truth! And she knows it, M. Pascal. There is not +a day that she does not say that but for you she would be at this time +like her brother Valentin." + +"Bah! We will save him, too. He is getting better, Valentin is. I have +just been to see him." + +Sophie seized the doctor's hands; large tears stood in her eyes, and she +could only stammer: + +"Oh, M. Pascal!" + +How they loved him! And Clotilde felt her affection for him increase, +seeing the affection of all these people for him. They remained chatting +there for a few moments longer, in the salubrious shade of the green +oaks. Then they took the road back to Plassans, having still another +visit to make. + +This was to a tavern, that stood at the crossing of two roads and was +white with the flying dust. A steam mill had recently been established +opposite, utilizing the old buildings of Le Paradou, an estate dating +from the last century, and Lafouasse, the tavern keeper, still carried +on his little business, thanks to the workmen at the mill and to the +peasants who brought their corn to it. He had still for customers on +Sundays the few inhabitants of Les Artauds, a neighboring hamlet. But +misfortune had struck him; for the last three years he had been dragging +himself about groaning with rheumatism, in which the doctor had finally +recognized the beginning of ataxia. But he had obstinately refused to +take a servant, persisting in waiting on his customers himself, holding +on by the furniture. So that once more firm on his feet, after a dozen +punctures, he already proclaimed his cure everywhere. + +He chanced to be just then at his door, and looked strong and vigorous, +with his tall figure, fiery face, and fiery red hair. + +"I was waiting for you, M. Pascal. Do you know that I have been able to +bottle two casks of wine without being tired!" + +Clotilde remained outside, sitting on a stone bench; while Pascal +entered the room to give Lafouasse the injection. She could hear +them speaking, and the latter, who in spite of his stoutness was very +cowardly in regard to pain, complained that the puncture hurt, adding, +however, that after all a little suffering was a small price to pay for +good health. Then he declared he would be offended if the doctor did +not take a glass of something. The young lady would not affront him by +refusing to take some syrup. He carried a table outside, and there was +nothing for it but they must touch glasses with him. + +"To your health, M. Pascal, and to the health of all the poor devils to +whom you give back a relish for their victuals!" + +Clotilde thought with a smile of the gossip of which Martine had spoken +to her, of Father Boutin, whom they accused the doctor of having killed. +He did not kill all his patients, then; his remedy worked real miracles, +since he brought back to life the consumptive and the ataxic. And her +faith in her master returned with the warm affection for him which +welled up in her heart. When they left Lafouasse, she was once more +completely his; he could do what he willed with her. + +But a few moments before, sitting on the stone bench looking at the +steam mill, a confused story had recurred to her mind; was it not here +in these smoke-blackened buildings, to-day white with flour, that a +drama of love had once been enacted? And the story came back to her; +details given by Martine; allusions made by the doctor himself; the +whole tragic love adventure of her cousin the Abbe Serge Mouret, +then rector of Les Artauds, with an adorable young girl of a wild and +passionate nature who lived at Le Paradou. + +Returning by the same road Clotilde stopped, and pointing to the vast, +melancholy expanse of stubble fields, cultivated plains, and fallow +land, said: + +"Master, was there not once there a large garden? Did you not tell me +some story about it?" + +"Yes, yes; Le Paradou, an immense garden--woods, meadows, orchards, +parterres, fountains, and brooks that flowed into the Viorne. A garden +abandoned for an age; the garden of the Sleeping Beauty, returned to +Nature's rule. And as you see they have cut down the woods, and cleared +and leveled the ground, to divide it into lots, and sell it by auction. +The springs themselves have dried up. There is nothing there now but +that fever-breeding marsh. Ah, when I pass by here, it makes my heart +ache!" + +She ventured to question him further: + +"But was it not in Le Paradou that my cousin Serge and your great friend +Albine fell in love with each other?" + +He had forgotten her presence. He went on talking, his gaze fixed on +space, lost in recollections of the past. + +"Albine, my God! I can see her now, in the sunny garden, like a great, +fragrant bouquet, her head thrown back, her bosom swelling with joy, +happy in her flowers, with wild flowers braided among her blond tresses, +fastened at her throat, on her corsage, around her slender, bare brown +arms. And I can see her again, after she had asphyxiated herself; dead +in the midst of her flowers; very white, sleeping with folded hands, and +a smile on her lips, on her couch of hyacinths and tuberoses. Dead for +love; and how passionately Albine and Serge loved each other, in the +great garden their tempter, in the bosom of Nature their accomplice! And +what a flood of life swept away all false bonds, and what a triumph of +life!" + +Clotilde, she too troubled by this passionate flow of murmured words, +gazed at him intently. She had never ventured to speak to him of another +story that she had heard--the story of the one love of his life--a love +which he had cherished in secret for a lady now dead. It was said that +he had attended her for a long time without ever so much as venturing to +kiss the tips of her fingers. Up to the present, up to near sixty, study +and his natural timidity had made him shun women. But, notwithstanding, +one felt that he was reserved for some great passion, with his feelings +still fresh and ardent, in spite of his white hair. + +"And the girl that died, the girl they mourned," she resumed, her voice +trembling, her cheeks scarlet, without knowing why. "Serge did not love +her, then, since he let her die?" + +Pascal started as though awakening from a dream, seeing her beside him +in her youthful beauty, with her large, clear eyes shining under the +shadow of her broad-brimmed hat. Something had happened; the same breath +of life had passed through them both; they did not take each other's +arms again. They walked side by side. + +"Ah, my dear, the world would be too beautiful, if men did not spoil it +all! Albine is dead, and Serge is now rector of St. Eutrope, where +he lives with his sister Desiree, a worthy creature who has the good +fortune to be half an idiot. He is a holy man; I have never said the +contrary. One may be an assassin and serve God." + +And he went on speaking of the hard things of life, of the blackness +and execrableness of humanity, without losing his gentle smile. He loved +life; and the continuous work of life was a continual joy to him +in spite of all the evil, all the misery, that it might contain. It +mattered not how dreadful life might appear, it must be great and good, +since it was lived with so tenacious a will, for the purpose no doubt +of this will itself, and of the great work which it unconsciously +accomplished. True, he was a scientist, a clear-sighted man; he did not +believe in any idyllic humanity living in a world of perpetual peace; he +saw, on the contrary, its woes and its vices; he had laid them bare; he +had examined them; he had catalogued them for thirty years past, but +his passion for life, his admiration for the forces of life, sufficed to +produce in him a perpetual gaiety, whence seemed to flow naturally his +love for others, a fraternal compassion, a sympathy, which were +felt under the roughness of the anatomist and under the affected +impersonality of his studies. + +"Bah!" he ended, taking a last glance at the vast, melancholy plains. +"Le Paradou is no more. They have sacked it, defiled it, destroyed it; +but what does that matter! Vines will be planted, corn will spring up, +a whole growth of new crops; and people will still fall in love in +vintages and harvests yet to come. Life is eternal; it is a perpetual +renewal of birth and growth." + +He took her arm again and they returned to the town thus, arm in arm +like good friends, while the glow of the sunset was slowly fading away +in a tranquil sea of violets and roses. And seeing them both pass again, +the ancient king, powerful and gentle, leaning against the shoulder of +a charming and docile girl, supported by her youth, the women of the +faubourg, sitting at their doors, looked after them with a smile of +tender emotion. + +At La Souleiade Martine was watching for them. She waved her hand to +them from afar. What! Were they not going to dine to-day? Then, when +they were near, she said: + +"Ah! you will have to wait a little while. I did not venture to put on +my leg of mutton yet." + +They remained outside to enjoy the charm of the closing day. The pine +grove, wrapped in shadow, exhaled a balsamic resinous odor, and from +the yard, still heated, in which a last red gleam was dying away, a +chillness arose. It was like an assuagement, a sigh of relief, a resting +of surrounding Nature, of the puny almond trees, the twisted olives, +under the paling sky, cloudless and serene; while at the back of the +house the clump of plane trees was a mass of black and impenetrable +shadows, where the fountain was heard singing its eternal crystal song. + +"Look!" said the doctor, "M. Bellombre has already dined, and he is +taking the air." + +He pointed to a bench, on which a tall, thin old man of seventy was +sitting, with a long face, furrowed with wrinkles, and large, staring +eyes, and very correctly attired in a close-fitting coat and cravat. + +"He is a wise man," murmured Clotilde. "He is happy." + +"He!" cried Pascal. "I should hope not!" + +He hated no one, and M. Bellombre, the old college professor, now +retired, and living in his little house without any other company than +that of a gardener who was deaf and dumb and older than himself, was the +only person who had the power to exasperate him. + +"A fellow who has been afraid of life; think of that! afraid of life! +Yes, a hard and avaricious egotist! If he banished woman from his +existence, it was only through fear of having to pay for her shoes. +And he has known only the children of others, who have made him +suffer--hence his hatred of the child--that flesh made to be flogged. +The fear of life, the fear of burdens and of duties, of annoyances and +of catastrophes! The fear of life, which makes us through dread of its +sufferings refuse its joys. Ah! I tell you, this cowardliness enrages +me; I cannot forgive it. We must live--live a complete life--live +all our life. Better even suffering, suffering only, than such +renunciation--the death of all there is in us that is living and human!" + +M. Bellombre had risen, and was walking along one of the walks with +slow, tranquil steps. Then, Clotilde, who had been watching him in +silence, at last said: + +"There is, however, the joy of renunciation. To renounce, not to live; +to keep one's self for the spiritual, has not this always been the great +happiness of the saints?" + +"If they had not lived," cried Pascal, "they could not now be saints. +Let suffering come, and I will bless it, for it is perhaps the only +great happiness!" + +But he felt that she rebelled against this; that he was going to lose +her again. At the bottom of our anxiety about the beyond is the secret +fear and hatred of life. So that he hastily assumed again his pleasant +smile, so affectionate and conciliating. + +"No, no! Enough for to-day; let us dispute no more; let us love each +other dearly. And see! Martine is calling us, let us go in to dinner." + + + + +III. + +For a month this unpleasant state of affairs continued, every day +growing worse, and Clotilde suffered especially at seeing that Pascal +now locked up everything. He had no longer the same tranquil confidence +in her as before, and this wounded her so deeply that, if she had at +any time found the press open, she would have thrown the papers into +the fire as her grandmother Felicite had urged her to do. And the +disagreements began again, so that they often remained without speaking +to each other for two days together. + +One morning, after one of these misunderstandings which had lasted since +the day before, Martine said as she was serving the breakfast: + +"Just now as I was crossing the Place de la Sous-Prefecture, I saw a +stranger whom I thought I recognized going into Mme. Felicite's house. +Yes, mademoiselle, I should not be surprised if it were your brother." + +On the impulse of the moment, Pascal and Clotilde spoke. + +"Your brother! Did your grandmother expect him, then?" + +"No, I don't think so, though she has been expecting him at any time for +the past six months, I know that she wrote to him again a week ago." + +They questioned Martine. + +"Indeed, monsieur, I cannot say; since I last saw M. Maxime four years +ago, when he stayed two hours with us on his way to Italy, he may +perhaps have changed greatly--I thought, however, that I recognized his +back." + +The conversation continued, Clotilde seeming to be glad of this event, +which broke at last the oppressive silence between them, and Pascal +ended: + +"Well, if it is he, he will come to see us." + +It was indeed Maxime. He had yielded, after months of refusal, to the +urgent solicitations of old Mme. Rougon, who had still in this quarter +an open family wound to heal. The trouble was an old one, and it grew +worse every day. + +Fifteen years before, when he was seventeen, Maxime had had a child by +a servant whom he had seduced. His father Saccard, and his stepmother +Renee--the latter vexed more especially at his unworthy choice--had +acted in the matter with indulgence. The servant, Justine Megot, +belonged to one of the neighboring villages, and was a fair-haired +girl, also seventeen, gentle and docile; and they had sent her back to +Plassans, with an allowance of twelve hundred francs a year, to bring up +little Charles. Three years later she had married there a harness-maker +of the faubourg, Frederic Thomas by name, a good workman and a sensible +fellow, who was tempted by the allowance. For the rest her conduct was +now most exemplary, she had grown fat, and she appeared to be cured of +a cough that had threatened a hereditary malady due to the alcoholic +propensities of a long line of progenitors. And two other children born +of her marriage, a boy who was now ten and a girl who was seven, both +plump and rosy, enjoyed perfect health; so that she would have been the +most respected and the happiest of women, if it had not been for the +trouble which Charles caused in the household. Thomas, notwithstanding +the allowance, execrated this son of another man and gave him no peace, +which made the mother suffer in secret, being an uncomplaining and +submissive wife. So that, although she adored him, she would willingly +have given him up to his father's family. + +Charles, at fifteen, seemed scarcely twelve, and he had the infantine +intelligence of a child of five, resembling in an extraordinary degree +his great-great-grandmother, Aunt Dide, the madwoman at the Tulettes. +He had the slender and delicate grace of one of those bloodless little +kings with whom a race ends, crowned with their long, fair locks, light +as spun silk. His large, clear eyes were expressionless, and on his +disquieting beauty lay the shadow of death. And he had neither brain +nor heart--he was nothing but a vicious little dog, who rubbed himself +against people to be fondled. His great-grandmother Felicite, won by +this beauty, in which she affected to recognize her blood, had at first +put him in a boarding school, taking charge of him, but he had been +expelled from it at the end of six months for misconduct. Three times +she had changed his boarding school, and each time he had been expelled +in disgrace. Then, as he neither would nor could learn anything, and +as his health was declining rapidly, they kept him at home, sending him +from one to another of the family. Dr. Pascal, moved to pity, had tried +to cure him, and had abandoned the hopeless task only after he had kept +him with him for nearly a year, fearing the companionship for Clotilde. +And now, when Charles was not at his mother's, where he scarcely ever +lived at present, he was to be found at the house of Felicite, or that +of some other relative, prettily dressed, laden with toys, living like +the effeminate little dauphin of an ancient and fallen race. + +Old Mme. Rougon, however, suffered because of this bastard, and she +had planned to get him away from the gossiping tongues of Plassans, by +persuading Maxime to take him and keep him with him in Paris. It would +still be an ugly story of the fallen family. But Maxime had for a +long time turned a deaf ear to her solicitations, in the fear which +continually haunted him of spoiling his life. After the war, enriched by +the death of his wife, he had come back to live prudently on his fortune +in his mansion on the avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, tormented by the +hereditary malady of which he was to die young, having gained from his +precocious debauchery a salutary fear of pleasure, resolved above all +to shun emotions and responsibilities, so that he might last as long as +possible. Acute pains in the limbs, rheumatic he thought them, had been +alarming him for some time past; he saw himself in fancy already an +invalid tied down to an easy-chair; and his father's sudden return to +France, the fresh activity which Saccard was putting forth, completed +his disquietude. He knew well this devourer of millions; he trembled at +finding him again bustling about him with his good-humored, malicious +laugh. He felt that he was being watched, and he had the conviction that +he would be cut up and devoured if he should be for a single day at his +mercy, rendered helpless by the pains which were invading his limbs. And +so great a fear of solitude had taken possession of him that he had now +yielded to the idea of seeing his son again. If he found the boy gentle, +intelligent, and healthy, why should he not take him to live with him? +He would thus have a companion, an heir, who would protect him against +the machinations of his father. Gradually he came to see himself, in his +selfish forethought, loved, petted, and protected; yet for all that he +might not have risked such a journey, if his physician had not just at +that time sent him to the waters of St. Gervais. Thus, having to go +only a few leagues out of his way, he had dropped in unexpectedly that +morning on old Mme. Rougon, firmly resolved to take the train again in +the evening, after having questioned her and seen the boy. + +At two o'clock Pascal and Clotilde were still beside the fountain under +the plane trees where they had taken their coffee, when Felicite arrived +with Maxime. + +"My dear, here's a surprise! I have brought you your brother." + +Startled, the young girl had risen, seeing this thin and sallow +stranger, whom she scarcely recognized. Since their parting in 1854 she +had seen him only twice, once at Paris and again at Plassans. Yet his +image, refined, elegant, and vivacious, had remained engraven on her +mind; his face had grown hollow, his hair was streaked with silver +threads. But notwithstanding, she found in him still, with his +delicately handsome head, a languid grace, like that of a girl, even in +his premature decrepitude. + +"How well you look!" he said simply, as he embraced his sister. + +"But," she responded, "to be well one must live in the sunshine. Ah, how +happy it makes me to see you again!" + +Pascal, with the eye of the physician, had examined his nephew +critically. He embraced him in his turn. + +"Goodday, my boy. And she is right, mind you; one can be well only out +in the sunshine--like the trees." + +Felicite had gone hastily to the house. She returned, crying: + +"Charles is not here, then?" + +"No," said Clotilde. "We went to see him yesterday. Uncle Macquart has +taken him, and he is to remain for a few days at the Tulettes." + +Felicite was in despair. She had come only in the certainty of finding +the boy at Pascal's. What was to be done now? The doctor, with his +tranquil air, proposed to write to Uncle Macquart, who would bring him +back in the morning. But when he learned that Maxime wished positively +to go away again by the nine o'clock train, without remaining over +night, another idea occurred to him. He would send to the livery stable +for a landau, and all four would go to see Charles at Uncle Macquart's. +It would even be a delightful drive. It was not quite three leagues from +Plassans to the Tulettes--an hour to go, and an hour to return, and they +would still have almost two hours to remain there, if they wished to +be back by seven. Martine would get dinner, and Maxime would have time +enough to dine and catch his train. + +But Felicite objected, visibly disquieted by this visit to Macquart. + +"Oh, no, indeed! If you think I am going down there in this frightful +weather, you are mistaken. It is much simpler to send some one to bring +Charles to us." + +Pascal shook his head. Charles was not always to be brought back when +one wished. He was a boy without reason, who sometimes, if the whim +seized him, would gallop off like an untamed animal. And old Mme. +Rougon, overruled and furious at having been unable to make any +preparation, was at last obliged to yield, in the necessity in which she +found herself of leaving the matter to chance. + +"Well, be it as you wish, then! Good Heavens, how unfortunately things +have turned out!" + +Martine hurried away to order the landau, and before three o'clock had +struck the horses were on the Nice road, descending the declivity which +slopes down to the bridge over the Viorne. Then they turned to the left, +and followed the wooded banks of the river for about two miles. After +this the road entered the gorges of the Seille, a narrow pass between +two giant walls of rock scorched by the ardent rays of the summer +sun. Pine trees pushed their way through the clefts; clumps of trees, +scarcely thicker at the roots than tufts of grass, fringed the crests +and hung over the abyss. It was a chaos; a blasted landscape, a mouth of +hell, with its wild turns, its droppings of blood-colored earth sliding +down from every cut, its desolate solitude invaded only by the eagles' +flight. + +Felicite did not open her lips; her brain was at work, and she seemed +completely absorbed in her thoughts. The atmosphere was oppressive, +the sun sent his burning rays from behind a veil of great livid clouds. +Pascal was almost the only one who talked, in his passionate love for +this scorched land--a love which he endeavored to make his nephew share. +But it was in vain that he uttered enthusiastic exclamations, in vain +that he called his attention to the persistence of the olives, the fig +trees, and the thorn bushes in pushing through the rock; the life of the +rock itself, that colossal and puissant frame of the earth, from which +they could almost fancy they heard a sound of breathing arise. Maxime +remained cold, filled with a secret anguish in presence of those blocks +of savage majesty, whose mass seemed to crush him. And he preferred to +turn his eyes toward his sister, who was seated in front of him. He was +becoming more and more charmed with her. She looked so healthy and +so happy, with her pretty round head, with its straight, well-molded +forehead. Now and then their glances met, and she gave him an +affectionate smile which consoled him. + +But the wildness of the gorge was beginning to soften, the two walls of +rock to grow lower; they passed between two peaceful hills, with gentle +slopes covered with thyme and lavender. It was the desert still, there +were still bare spaces, green or violet hued, from which the faintest +breeze brought a pungent perfume. + +Then abruptly, after a last turn they descended to the valley of the +Tulettes, which was refreshed by springs. In the distance stretched +meadows dotted by large trees. The village was seated midway on the +slope, among olive trees, and the country house of Uncle Macquart stood +a little apart on the left, full in view. The landau turned into the +road which led to the insane asylum, whose white walls they could see +before them in the distance. + +Felicite's silence had grown somber, for she was not fond of exhibiting +Uncle Macquart. Another whom the family would be well rid of the day +when he should take his departure. For the credit of every one he +ought to have been sleeping long ago under the sod. But he persisted +in living, he carried his eighty-three years well, like an old drunkard +saturated with liquor, whom the alcohol seemed to preserve. At Plassans +he had left a terrible reputation as a do-nothing and a scoundrel, +and the old men whispered the execrable story of the corpses that lay +between him and the Rougons, an act of treachery in the troublous days +of December, 1851, an ambuscade in which he had left comrades with their +bellies ripped open, lying on the bloody pavement. Later, when he had +returned to France, he had preferred to the good place of which he had +obtained the promise this little domain of the Tulettes, which Felicite +had bought for him. And he had lived comfortably here ever since; he had +no longer any other ambition than that of enlarging it, looking out once +more for the good chances, and he had even found the means of obtaining +a field which he had long coveted, by making himself useful to his +sister-in-law at the time when the latter again reconquered Plassans +from the legitimists--another frightful story that was whispered also, +of a madman secretly let loose from the asylum, running in the night +to avenge himself, setting fire to his house in which four persons were +burned. But these were old stories and Macquart, settled down now, was +no longer the redoubtable scoundrel who had made all the family tremble. +He led a perfectly correct life; he was a wily diplomat, and he had +retained nothing of his air of jeering at the world but his bantering +smile. + +"Uncle is at home," said Pascal, as they approached the house. + +This was one of those Provencal structures of a single story, with +discolored tiles and four walls washed with a bright yellow. Before the +facade extended a narrow terrace shaded by ancient mulberry trees, whose +thick, gnarled branches drooped down, forming an arbor. It was here +that Uncle Macquart smoked his pipe in the cool shade, in summer. And on +hearing the sound of the carriage, he came and stood at the edge of the +terrace, straightening his tall form neatly clad in blue cloth, his head +covered with the eternal fur cap which he wore from one year's end to +the other. + +As soon as he recognized his visitors, he called out with a sneer: + +"Oh, here come some fine company! How kind of you; you are out for an +airing." + +But the presence of Maxime puzzled him. Who was he? Whom had he come to +see? They mentioned his name to him, and he immediately cut short the +explanations they were adding, to enable him to straighten out the +tangled skein of relationship. + +"The father of Charles--I know, I know! The son of my nephew Saccard, +_pardi_! the one who made a fine marriage, and whose wife died--" + +He stared at Maxime, seeming happy to find him already wrinkled at +thirty-two, with his hair and beard sprinkled with snow. + +"Ah, well!" he added, "we are all growing old. But I, at least, have no +great reason to complain. I am solid." + +And he planted himself firmly on his legs with his air of ferocious +mockery, while his fiery red face seemed to flame and burn. For a +long time past ordinary brandy had seemed to him like pure water; only +spirits of 36 degrees tickled his blunted palate; and he took such +draughts of it that he was full of it--his flesh saturated with it--like +a sponge. He perspired alcohol. At the slightest breath whenever he +spoke, he exhaled from his mouth a vapor of alcohol. + +"Yes, truly; you are solid, uncle!" said Pascal, amazed. "And you have +done nothing to make you so; you have good reason to ridicule us. Only +there is one thing I am afraid of, look you, that some day in lighting +your pipe, you may set yourself on fire--like a bowl of punch." + +Macquart, flattered, gave a sneering laugh. + +"Have your jest, have your jest, my boy! A glass of cognac is worth more +than all your filthy drugs. And you will all touch glasses with me, hey? +So that it may be said truly that your uncle is a credit to you all. +As for me, I laugh at evil tongues. I have corn and olive trees, I have +almond trees and vines and land, like any _bourgeois_. In summer I smoke +my pipe under the shade of my mulberry trees; in winter I go to smoke it +against my wall, there in the sunshine. One has no need to blush for an +uncle like that, hey? Clotilde, I have syrup, if you would like some. +And you, Felicite, my dear, I know that you prefer anisette. There is +everything here, I tell you, there is everything here!" + +He waved his arm as if to take possession of the comforts he enjoyed, +now that from an old sinner he had become a hermit, while Felicite, whom +he had disturbed a moment before by the enumeration of his riches, did +not take her eyes from his face, waiting to interrupt him. + +"Thank you, Macquart, we will take nothing; we are in a hurry. Where is +Charles?" + +"Charles? Very good, presently! I understand, papa has come to see his +boy. But that is not going to prevent you taking a glass." + +And as they positively refused he became offended, and said, with his +malicious laugh: + +"Charles is not here; he is at the asylum with the old woman." + +Then, taking Maxime to the end of the terrace, he pointed out to him the +great white buildings, whose inner gardens resembled prison yards. + +"Look, nephew, you see those three trees in front of you? Well, beyond +the one to the left, there is a fountain in a court. Follow the ground +floor, and the fifth window to the right is Aunt Dide's. And that is +where the boy is. Yes, I took him there a little while ago." + +This was an indulgence of the directors. In the twenty years that she +had been in the asylum the old woman had not given a moment's uneasiness +to her keeper. Very quiet, very gentle, she passed the days motionless +in her easy-chair, looking straight before her; and as the boy liked to +be with her, and as she herself seemed to take an interest in him, +they shut their eyes to this infraction of the rules and left him there +sometimes for two or three hours at a time, busily occupied in cutting +out pictures. + +But this new disappointment put the finishing stroke to Felicite's +ill-humor; she grew angry when Macquart proposed that all five should go +in a body in search of the boy. + +"What an idea! Go you alone, and come back quickly. We have no time to +lose." + +Her suppressed rage seemed to amuse Uncle Macquart, and perceiving how +disagreeable his proposition was to her, he insisted, with his sneering +laugh: + +"But, my children, we should at the same time have an opportunity of +seeing the old mother; the mother of us all. There is no use in talking; +you know that we are all descended from her, and it would hardly be +polite not to go wish her a good-day, when my grandnephew, who has come +from such a distance, has perhaps never before had a good look at her. +I'll not disown her, may the devil take me if I do. To be sure she is +mad, but all the same, old mothers who have passed their hundredth year +are not often to be seen, and she well deserves that we should show +ourselves a little kind to her." + +There was silence for a moment. A little shiver had run through every +one. And it was Clotilde, silent until now, who first declared in a +voice full of feeling: + +"You are right, uncle; we will all go." + +Felicite herself was obliged to consent. They re-entered the landau, +Macquart taking the seat beside the coachman. A feeling of disquietude +had given a sallow look to Maxime's worn face; and during the short +drive he questioned Pascal concerning Charles with an air of paternal +interest, which concealed a growing anxiety. The doctor constrained +by his mother's imperious glances, softened the truth. Well, the boy's +health was certainly not very robust; it was on that account, indeed, +that they were glad to leave him for weeks together in the country with +his uncle: but he had no definite disease. Pascal did not add that he +had for a moment cherished the dream of giving him a brain and muscles +by treating him with his hypodermic injections of nerve substance, +but that he had always been met by the same difficulty; the slightest +puncture brought on a hemorrhage which it was found necessary to stop +by compresses; there was a laxness of the tissues, due to degeneracy; a +bloody dew which exuded from the skin; he had especially, bleedings at +the nose so sudden and so violent that they did not dare to leave him +alone, fearing lest all the blood in his veins should flow out. And the +doctor ended by saying that although the boy's intelligence had been +sluggish, he still hoped that it would develop in an environment of +quicker mental activity. + +They arrived at the asylum and Macquart, who had been listening to the +doctor, descended from his seat, saying: + +"He is a gentle little fellow, a very gentle little fellow! And then, he +is so beautiful--an angel!" + +Maxime, who was still pale, and who shivered in spite of the stifling +heat, put no more questions. He looked at the vast buildings of the +asylum, the wings of the various quarters separated by gardens, the +men's quarters from those of the women, those of the harmless insane +from those of the violent insane. A scrupulous cleanliness reigned +everywhere, a gloomy silence--broken from time to time by footsteps and +the noise of keys. Old Macquart knew all the keepers. Besides, the doors +were always to open to Dr. Pascal, who had been authorized to attend +certain of the inmates. They followed a passage and entered a court; it +was here--one of the chambers on the ground floor, a room covered with +a light carpet, furnished with a bed, a press, a table, an armchair, and +two chairs. The nurse, who had orders never to quit her charge, happened +just now to be absent, and the only occupants of the room were the +madwoman, sitting rigid in her armchair at one side of the table, and +the boy, sitting on a chair on the opposite side, absorbed in cutting +out his pictures. + +"Go in, go in!" Macquart repeated. "Oh, there is no danger, she is very +gentle!" + +The grandmother, Adelaide Fouque, whom her grandchildren, a whole swarm +of descendants, called by the pet name of Aunt Dide, did not even turn +her head at the noise. In her youth hysterical troubles had unbalanced +her mind. Of an ardent and passionate nature and subject to nervous +attacks, she had yet reached the great age of eighty-three when a +dreadful grief, a terrible moral shock, destroyed her reason. At that +time, twenty-one years before, her mind had ceased to act; it had become +suddenly weakened without the possibility of recovery. And now, at the +age of 104 years, she lived here as if forgotten by the world, a +quiet madwoman with an ossified brain, with whom insanity might remain +stationary for an indefinite length of time without causing death. Old +age had come, however, and had gradually atrophied her muscles. Her +flesh was as if eaten away by age. The skin only remained on her bones, +so that she had to be carried from her chair to her bed, for it had +become impossible for her to walk or even to move. And yet she held +herself erect against the back of her chair, a yellow, dried-up +skeleton--like an ancient tree of which the bark only remains--with only +her eyes still living in her thin, long visage, in which the wrinkles +had been, so to say, worn away. She was looking fixedly at Charles. + +Clotilde approached her a little tremblingly. + +"Aunt Dide, it is we; we have come to see you. Don't you know me, then? +Your little girl who comes sometimes to kiss you." + +But the madwoman did not seem to hear. Her eyes remained fixed upon the +boy, who was finishing cutting out a picture--a purple king in a golden +mantle. + +"Come, mamma," said Macquart, "don't pretend to be stupid. You may very +well look at us. Here is a gentleman, a grandson of yours, who has come +from Paris expressly to see you." + +At this voice Aunt Dide at last turned her head. Her clear, +expressionless eyes wandered slowly from one to another, then rested +again on Charles with the same fixed look as before. + +They all shivered, and no one spoke again. + +"Since the terrible shock she received," explained Pascal in a low +voice, "she has been that way; all intelligence, all memory seem +extinguished in her. For the most part she is silent; at times she pours +forth a flood of stammering and indistinct words. She laughs and cries +without cause, she is a thing that nothing affects. And yet I should +not venture to say that the darkness of her mind is complete, that no +memories remain stored up in its depths. Ah! the poor old mother, how I +pity her, if the light has not yet been finally extinguished. What +can her thoughts have been for the last twenty-one years, if she still +remembers?" + +With a gesture he put this dreadful past which he knew from him. He +saw her again young, a tall, pale, slender girl with frightened eyes, +a widow, after fifteen months of married life with Rougon, the clumsy +gardener whom she had chosen for a husband, throwing herself immediately +afterwards into the arms of the smuggler Macquart, whom she loved with +a wolfish love, and whom she did not even marry. She had lived thus for +fifteen years, with her three children, one the child of her marriage, +the other two illegitimate, a capricious and tumultuous existence, +disappearing for weeks at a time, and returning all bruised, her arms +black and blue. Then Macquart had been killed, shot down like a dog by a +_gendarme_; and the first shock had paralyzed her, so that even then she +retained nothing living but her water-clear eyes in her livid face; and +she shut herself up from the world in the hut which her lover had left +her, leading there for forty years the dead existence of a nun, broken +by terrible nervous attacks. But the other shock was to finish her, to +overthrow her reason, and Pascal recalled the atrocious scene, for he +had witnessed it--a poor child whom the grandmother had taken to live +with her, her grandson Silvere, the victim of family hatred and strife, +whose head another _gendarme_ shattered with a pistol shot, at the +suppression of the insurrectionary movement of 1851. She was always to +be bespattered with blood. + +Felicite, meanwhile, had approached Charles, who was so engrossed with +his pictures that all these people did not disturb him. + +"My darling, this gentleman is your father. Kiss him," she said. + +And then they all occupied themselves with Charles. He was very prettily +dressed in a jacket and short trousers of black velvet, braided with +gold cord. Pale as a lily, he resembled in truth one of those king's +sons whose pictures he was cutting out, with his large, light eyes and +his shower of fair curls. But what especially struck the attention at +this moment was his resemblance to Aunt Dide; this resemblance which +had overleaped three generations, which had passed from this withered +centenarian's countenance, from these dead features wasted by life, to +this delicate child's face that was also as if worn, aged, and wasted, +through the wear of the race. Fronting each other, the imbecile child of +a deathlike beauty seemed the last of the race of which she, forgotten +by the world, was the ancestress. + +Maxime bent over to press a kiss on the boy's forehead; and a chill +struck to his heart--this very beauty disquieted him; his uneasiness +grew in this chamber of madness, whence, it seemed to him, breathed a +secret horror come from the far-off past. + +"How beautiful you are, my pet! Don't you love me a little?" + +Charles looked at him without comprehending, and went back to his play. + +But all were chilled. Without the set expression of her countenance +changing Aunt Dide wept, a flood of tears rolled from her living eyes +over her dead cheeks. Her gaze fixed immovably upon the boy, she wept +slowly, endlessly. A great thing had happened. + +And now an extraordinary emotion took possession of Pascal. He caught +Clotilde by the arm and pressed it hard, trying to make her understand. +Before his eyes appeared the whole line, the legitimate branch and the +bastard branch, which had sprung from this trunk already vitiated by +neurosis. Five generations were there present--the Rougons and the +Macquarts, Adelaide Fouque at the root, then the scoundrelly old uncle, +then himself, then Clotilde and Maxime, and lastly, Charles. Felicite +occupied the place of her dead husband. There was no link wanting; the +chain of heredity, logical and implacable, was unbroken. And what a +world was evoked from the depths of the tragic cabin which breathed +this horror that came from the far-off past in such appalling shape that +every one, notwithstanding the oppressive heat, shivered. + +"What is it, master?" whispered Clotilde, trembling. + +"No, no, nothing!" murmured the doctor. "I will tell you later." + +Macquart, who alone continued to sneer, scolded the old mother. What an +idea was hers, to receive people with tears when they put themselves out +to come and make her a visit. It was scarcely polite. And then he turned +to Maxime and Charles. + +"Well, nephew, you have seen your boy at last. Is it not true that he is +pretty, and that he is a credit to you, after all?" + +Felicite hastened to interfere. Greatly dissatisfied with the turn which +affairs were taking, she was now anxious only to get away. + +"He is certainly a handsome boy, and less backward than people think. +Just see how skilful he is with his hands. And you will see when you +have brightened him up in Paris, in a different way from what we have +been able to do at Plassans, eh?" + +"No doubt," murmured Maxime. "I do not say no; I will think about it." + +He seemed embarrassed for a moment, and then added: + +"You know I came only to see him. I cannot take him with me now as I am +to spend a month at St. Gervais. But as soon as I return to Paris I will +think of it, I will write to you." + +Then, taking out his watch, he cried: + +"The devil! Half-past five. You know that I would not miss the nine +o'clock train for anything in the world." + +"Yes, yes, let us go," said Felicite brusquely. "We have nothing more to +do here." + +Macquart, whom his sister-in-law's anger seemed still to divert, +endeavored to delay them with all sorts of stories. He told of the days +when Aunt Dide talked, and he affirmed that he had found her one morning +singing a romance of her youth. And then he had no need of the carriage, +he would take the boy back on foot, since they left him to him. + +"Kiss your papa, my boy, for you know now that you see him, but you +don't know whether you shall ever see him again or not." + +With the same surprised and indifferent movement Charles raised his +head, and Maxime, troubled, pressed another kiss on his forehead. + +"Be very good and very pretty, my pet. And love me a little." + +"Come, come, we have no time to lose," repeated Felicite. + +But the keeper here re-entered the room. She was a stout, vigorous girl, +attached especially to the service of the madwoman. She carried her to +and from her bed, night and morning; she fed her and took care of her +like a child. And she at once entered into conversation with Dr. Pascal, +who questioned her. One of the doctor's most cherished dreams was to +cure the mad by his treatment of hypodermic injections. Since in their +case it was the brain that was in danger, why should not hypodermic +injections of nerve substance give them strength and will, repairing +the breaches made in the organ? So that for a moment he had dreamed +of trying the treatment with the old mother; then he began to have +scruples, he felt a sort of awe, without counting that madness at +that age was total, irreparable ruin. So that he had chosen another +subject--a hatter named Sarteur, who had been for a year past in the +asylum, to which he had come himself to beg them to shut him up to +prevent him from committing a crime. In his paroxysms, so strong an +impulse to kill seized him that he would have thrown himself upon the +first passer-by. He was of small stature, very dark, with a retreating +forehead, an aquiline face with a large nose and a very short chin, and +his left cheek was noticeably larger than his right. And the doctor had +obtained miraculous results with this victim of emotional insanity, who +for a month past had had no attack. The nurse, indeed being questioned, +answered that Sarteur had become quiet and was growing better every day. + +"Do you hear, Clotilde?" cried Pascal, enchanted. "I have not the time +to see him this evening, but I will come again to-morrow. It is my +visiting day. Ah, if I only dared; if she were young still--" + +His eyes turned toward Aunt Dide. But Clotilde, whom his enthusiasm made +smile, said gently: + +"No, no, master, you cannot make life anew. There, come. We are the +last." + +It was true; the others had already gone. Macquart, on the threshold, +followed Felicite and Maxime with his mocking glance as they went away. +Aunt Dide, the forgotten one, sat motionless, appalling in her leanness, +her eyes again fixed upon Charles with his white, worn face framed in +his royal locks. + +The drive back was full of constraint. In the heat which exhaled from +the earth, the landau rolled on heavily to the measured trot of the +horses. The stormy sky took on an ashen, copper-colored hue in the +deepening twilight. At first a few indifferent words were exchanged; +but from the moment in which they entered the gorges of the Seille all +conversation ceased, as if they felt oppressed by the menacing walls of +giant rock that seemed closing in upon them. Was not this the end of the +earth, and were they not going to roll into the unknown, over the edge +of some abyss? An eagle soared by, uttering a shrill cry. + +Willows appeared again, and the carriage was rolling lightly along the +bank of the Viorne, when Felicite began without transition, as if she +were resuming a conversation already commenced. + +"You have no refusal to fear from the mother. She loves Charles dearly, +but she is a very sensible woman, and she understands perfectly that it +is to the boy's advantage that you should take him with you. And I must +tell you, too, that the poor boy is not very happy with her, since, +naturally, the husband prefers his own son and daughter. For you ought +to know everything." + +And she went on in this strain, hoping, no doubt, to persuade Maxime and +draw a formal promise from him. She talked until they reached Plassans. +Then, suddenly, as the landau rolled over the pavement of the faubourg, +she said: + +"But look! there is his mother. That stout blond at the door there." + +At the threshold of a harness-maker's shop hung round with horse +trappings and halters, Justine sat, knitting a stocking, taking the air, +while the little girl and boy were playing on the ground at her feet. +And behind them in the shadow of the shop was to be seen Thomas, a +stout, dark man, occupied in repairing a saddle. + +Maxime leaned forward without emotion, simply curious. He was greatly +surprised at sight of this robust woman of thirty-two, with so sensible +and so commonplace an air, in whom there was not a trace of the wild +little girl with whom he had been in love when both of the same age were +entering their seventeenth year. Perhaps a pang shot through his heart +to see her plump and tranquil and blooming, while he was ill and already +aged. + +"I should never have recognized her," he said. + +And the landau, still rolling on, turned into the Rue de Rome. Justine +had disappeared; this vision of the past--a past so different from the +present--had sunk into the shadowy twilight, with Thomas, the children, +and the shop. + +At La Souleiade the table was set; Martine had an eel from the Viorne, +a _sauted_ rabbit, and a leg of mutton. Seven o'clock was striking, and +they had plenty of time to dine quietly. + +"Don't be uneasy," said Dr. Pascal to his nephew. "We will accompany you +to the station; it is not ten minutes' walk from here. As you left your +trunk, you have nothing to do but to get your ticket and jump on board +the train." + +Then, meeting Clotilde in the vestibule, where she was hanging up her +hat and her umbrella, he said to her in an undertone: + +"Do you know that I am uneasy about your brother?" + +"Why so?" + +"I have observed him attentively. I don't like the way in which he +walks; and have you noticed what an anxious look he has at times? +That has never deceived me. In short, your brother is threatened with +ataxia." + +"Ataxia!" she repeated turning very pale. + +A cruel image rose before her, that of a neighbor, a man still young, +whom for the past ten years she had seen driven about in a little +carriage by a servant. Was not this infirmity the worst of all ills, the +ax stroke that separates a living being from social and active life? + +"But," she murmured, "he complains only of rheumatism." + +Pascal shrugged his shoulders; and putting a finger to his lip he went +into the dining-room, where Felicite and Maxime were seated. + +The dinner was very friendly. The sudden disquietude which had sprung up +in Clotilde's heart made her still more affectionate to her brother, who +sat beside her. She attended to his wants gayly, forcing him to take the +most delicate morsels. Twice she called back Martine, who was passing +the dishes too quickly. And Maxime was more and more enchanted by this +sister, who was so good, so healthy, so sensible, whose charm enveloped +him like a caress. So greatly was he captivated by her that gradually +a project, vague at first, took definite shape within him. Since little +Charles, his son, terrified him so greatly with his deathlike beauty, +his royal air of sickly imbecility, why should he not take his sister +Clotilde to live with him? The idea of having a woman in his house +alarmed him, indeed, for he was afraid of all women, having had too +much experience of them in his youth; but this one seemed to him truly +maternal. And then, too, a good woman in his house would make a change +in it, which would be a desirable thing. He would at least be left no +longer at the mercy of his father, whom he suspected of desiring his +death so that he might get possession of his money at once. His hatred +and terror of his father decided him. + +"Don't you think of marrying, then?" he asked, wishing to try the +ground. + +The young girl laughed. + +"Oh, there is no hurry," she answered. + +Then, suddenly, looking at Pascal, who had raised his head, she added: + +"How can I tell? Oh, I shall never marry." + +But Felicite protested. When she saw her so attached to the doctor, she +often wished for a marriage that would separate her from him, that would +leave her son alone in a deserted home, where she herself might become +all powerful, mistress of everything. Therefore she appealed to him. Was +it not true that a woman ought to marry, that it was against nature to +remain an old maid? + +And he gravely assented, without taking his eyes from Clotilde's face. + +"Yes, yes, she must marry. She is too sensible not to marry." + +"Bah!" interrupted Maxime, "would it be really sensible in her to +marry? In order to be unhappy, perhaps; there are so many ill-assorted +marriages!" + +And coming to a resolution, he added: + +"Don't you know what you ought to do? Well, you ought to come and live +with me in Paris. I have thought the matter over. The idea of taking +charge of a child in my state of health terrifies me. Am I not a child +myself, an invalid who needs to be taken care of? You will take care of +me; you will be with me, if I should end by losing the use of my limbs." + +There was a sound of tears in his voice, so great a pity did he feel +for himself. He saw himself, in fancy, sick; he saw his sister at his +bedside, like a Sister of Charity; if she consented to remain unmarried +he would willingly leave her his fortune, so that his father might not +have it. The dread which he had of solitude, the need in which he should +perhaps stand of having a sick-nurse, made him very pathetic. + +"It would be very kind on your part, and you should have no cause to +repent it." + +Martine, who was serving the mutton, stopped short in surprise; and +the proposition caused the same surprise at the table. Felicite was the +first to approve, feeling that the girl's departure would further her +plans. She looked at Clotilde, who was still silent and stunned, as it +were; while Dr. Pascal waited with a pale face. + +"Oh, brother, brother," stammered the young girl, unable at first to +think of anything else to say. + +Then her grandmother cried: + +"Is that all you have to say? Why, the proposition your brother has just +made you is a very advantageous one. If he is afraid of taking Charles +now, why, you can go with him, and later on you can send for the child. +Come, come, that can be very well arranged. Your brother makes an appeal +to your heart. Is it not true, Pascal, that she owes him a favorable +answer?" + +The doctor, by an effort, recovered his self-possession. The chill that +had seized him made itself felt, however, in the slowness with which he +spoke. + +"The offer, in effect, is very kind. Clotilde, as I said before, is very +sensible and she will accept it, if it is right that she should do so." + +The young girl, greatly agitated, rebelled at this. + +"Do you wish to send me away, then, master? Maxime is very good, and I +thank him from the bottom of my heart. But to leave everything, my God! +To leave all that love me, all that I have loved until now!" + +She made a despairing gesture, indicating the place and the people, +taking in all La Souleiade. + +"But," responded Pascal, looking at her fixedly, "what if Maxime should +need you, what if you had a duty to fulfil toward him?" + +Her eyes grew moist, and she remained for a moment trembling and +desperate; for she alone understood. The cruel vision again arose before +her--Maxime, helpless, driven, about in a little carriage by a servant, +like the neighbor whom she used to pity. Had she indeed any duty toward +a brother who for fifteen years had been a stranger to her? Did not +her duty lie where her heart was? Nevertheless, her distress of mind +continued; she still suffered in the struggle. + +"Listen, Maxime," she said at last, "give me also time to reflect. I +will see. Be assured that I am very grateful to you. And if you should +one day really have need of me, well, I should no doubt decide to go." + +This was all they could make her promise. Felicite, with her usual +vehemence, exhausted all her efforts in vain, while the doctor now +affected to say that she had given her word. Martine brought a cream, +without thinking of hiding her joy. To take away mademoiselle! what an +idea, in order that monsieur might die of grief at finding himself all +alone. And the dinner was delayed, too, by this unexpected incident. +They were still at the dessert when half-past eight struck. + +Then Maxime grew restless, tapped the floor with his foot, and declared +that he must go. + +At the station, whither they all accompanied him he kissed his sister a +last time, saying: + +"Remember!" + +"Don't be afraid," declared Felicite, "we are here to remind her of her +promise." + +The doctor smiled, and all three, as soon as the train was in motion, +waved their handkerchiefs. + +On this day, after accompanying the grandmother to her door, Dr. Pascal +and Clotilde returned peacefully to La Souleiade, and spent a delightful +evening there. The constraint of the past few weeks, the secret +antagonism which had separated them, seemed to have vanished. Never had +it seemed so sweet to them to feel so united, inseparable. Doubtless it +was only this first pang of uneasiness suffered by their affection, this +threatened separation, the postponement of which delighted them. It was +for them like a return to health after an illness, a new hope of life. +They remained for long time in the warm night, under the plane trees, +listening to the crystal murmur of the fountain. And they did not even +speak, so profoundly did they enjoy the happiness of being together. + + + + +IV. + +Ten days later the household had fallen back into its former state of +unhappiness. Pascal and Clotilde remained entire afternoons without +exchanging a word; and there were continual outbursts of ill-humor. Even +Martine was constantly out of temper. The home of these three had again +become a hell. + +Then suddenly the condition of affairs was still further aggravated. A +Capuchin monk of great sanctity, such as often pass through the towns +of the South, came to Plassans to conduct a mission. The pulpit of +St. Saturnin resounded with his bursts of eloquence. He was a sort of +apostle, a popular and fiery orator, a florid speaker, much given to the +use of metaphors. And he preached on the nothingness of modern science +with an extraordinary mystical exaltation, denying the reality of this +world, and disclosing the unknown, the mysteries of the Beyond. All the +devout women of the town were full of excitement about his preaching. + +On the very first evening on which Clotilde, accompanied by Martine, +attended the sermon, Pascal noticed her feverish excitement when +she returned. On the following day her excitement increased, and she +returned home later, having remained to pray for an hour in a dark +corner of a chapel. From this time she was never absent from the +services, returning languid, and with the luminous eyes of a seer; and +the Capuchin's burning words haunted her; certain of his images stirred +her to ecstasy. She grew irritable, and she seemed to have conceived a +feeling of anger and contempt for every one and everything around her. + +Pascal, filled with uneasiness, determined to have an explanation +with Martine. He came down early one morning as she was sweeping the +dining-room. + +"You know that I leave you and Clotilde free to go to church, if +that pleases you," he said. "I do not believe in oppressing any one's +conscience. But I do not wish that you should make her sick." + +The servant, without stopping in her work, said in a low voice: + +"Perhaps the sick people are those who don't think that they are sick." + +She said this with such an air of conviction that he smiled. + +"Yes," he returned; "I am the sick soul whose conversion you pray for; +while both of you are in possession of health and of perfect wisdom. +Martine, if you continue to torment me and to torment yourselves, as you +are doing, I shall grow angry." + +He spoke in so furious and so harsh a voice that the servant stopped +suddenly in her sweeping, and looked him full in the face. An infinite +tenderness, an immense desolation passed over the face of the old maid +cloistered in his service. And tears filled her eyes and she hurried out +of the room stammering: + +"Ah, monsieur, you do not love us." + +Then Pascal, filled with an overwhelming sadness, gave up the contest. +His remorse increased for having shown so much tolerance, for not having +exercised his authority as master, in directing Clotilde's education +and bringing up. In his belief that trees grew straight if they were +not interfered with, he had allowed her to grow up in her own way, after +teaching her merely to read and write. It was without any preconceived +plan, while aiding him in making his researches and correcting his +manuscripts, and simply by the force of circumstances, that she had +read everything and acquired a fondness for the natural sciences. How +bitterly he now regretted his indifference! What a powerful impulse he +might have given to this clear mind, so eager for knowledge, instead +of allowing it to go astray, and waste itself in that desire for the +Beyond, which Grandmother Felicite and the good Martine favored. While +he had occupied himself with facts, endeavoring to keep from going +beyond the phenomenon, and succeeding in doing so, through his +scientific discipline, he had seen her give all her thoughts to the +unknown, the mysterious. It was with her an obsession, an instinctive +curiosity which amounted to torture when she could not satisfy it. There +was in her a longing which nothing could appease, an irresistible call +toward the unattainable, the unknowable. Even when she was a child, and +still more, later, when she grew up, she went straight to the why and +the how of things, she demanded ultimate causes. If he showed her a +flower, she asked why this flower produced a seed, why this seed would +germinate. Then, it would be the mystery of birth and death, and the +unknown forces, and God, and all things. In half a dozen questions she +would drive him into a corner, obliging him each time to acknowledge his +fatal ignorance; and when he no longer knew what to answer her, when he +would get rid of her with a gesture of comic fury, she would give a gay +laugh of triumph, and go to lose herself again in her dreams, in +the limitless vision of all that we do not know, and all that we +may believe. Often she astounded him by her explanations. Her mind, +nourished on science, started from proved truths, but with such an +impetus that she bounded at once straight into the heaven of the +legends. All sorts of mediators passed there, angels and saints and +supernatural inspirations, modifying matter, endowing it with life; or, +again, it was only one single force, the soul of the world, working to +fuse things and beings in a final kiss of love in fifty centuries more. +She had calculated the number of them, she said. + +For the rest, Pascal had never before seen her so excited. For the +past week, during which she had attended the Capuchin's mission in the +cathedral, she had spent the days visibly in the expectation of the +sermon of the evening; and she went to hear it with the rapt exaltation +of a girl who is going to her first rendezvous of love. Then, on the +following day, everything about her declared her detachment from the +exterior life, from her accustomed existence, as if the visible world, +the necessary actions of every moment, were but a snare and a folly. +She retired within herself in the vision of what was not. Thus she had +almost completely given up her habitual occupations, abandoning herself +to a sort of unconquerable indolence, remaining for hours at a time +with her hands in her lap, her gaze lost in vacancy, rapt in the +contemplation of some far-off vision. Now she, who had been so active, +so early a riser, rose late, appearing barely in time for the second +breakfast, and it could not have been at her toilet that she spent these +long hours, for she forgot her feminine coquetry, and would come down +with her hair scarcely combed, negligently attired in a gown buttoned +awry, but even thus adorable, thanks to her triumphant youth. The +morning walks through La Souleiade that she had been so fond of, the +races from the top to the bottom of the terraces planted with olive and +almond trees, the visits to the pine grove balmy with the odor of resin, +the long sun baths in the hot threshing yard, she indulged in no more; +she preferred to remain shut up in her darkened room, from which not a +movement was to be heard. Then, in the afternoon, in the work room, she +would drag herself about languidly from chair to chair, doing nothing, +tired and disgusted with everything that had formerly interested her. + +Pascal was obliged to renounce her assistance; a paper which he gave +her to copy remained three days untouched on her desk. She no longer +classified anything; she would not have stooped down to pick up a paper +from the floor. More than all, she abandoned the pastels, copies of +flowers from nature that she had been making, to serve as plates to a +work on artificial fecundations. Some large red mallows, of a new and +singular coloring, faded in their vase before she had finished copying +them. And yet for a whole afternoon she worked enthusiastically at +a fantastic design of dream flowers, an extraordinary efflorescence +blooming in the light of a miraculous sun, a burst of golden +spike-shaped rays in the center of large purple corollas, resembling +open hearts, whence shot, for pistils, a shower of stars, myriads of +worlds streaming into the sky, like a milky way. + +"Ah, my poor girl," said the doctor to her on this day, "how can you +lose your time in such conceits! And I waiting for the copy of those +mallows that you have left to die there. And you will make yourself ill. +There is no health, nor beauty, even, possible outside reality." + +Often now she did not answer, intrenching herself behind her fierce +convictions, not wishing to dispute. But doubtless he had this time +touched her beliefs to the quick. + +"There is no reality," she answered sharply. + +The doctor, amused by this bold philosophy from this big child, laughed. + +"Yes, I know," he said; "our senses are fallible. We know this world +only through our senses, consequently it is possible that the world +does not exist. Let us open the door to madness, then; let us accept +as possible the most absurd chimeras, let us live in the realm of +nightmare, outside of laws and facts. For do you not see that there is +no longer any law if you suppress nature, and that the only thing that +gives life any interest is to believe in life, to love it, and to put +all the forces of our intelligence to the better understanding of it?" + +She made a gesture of mingled indifference and bravado, and the +conversation dropped. Now she was laying large strokes of blue crayon +on the pastel, bringing out its flaming splendor in strong relief on the +background of a clear summer night. + +But two days later, in consequence of a fresh discussion, matters went +still further amiss. In the evening, on leaving the table, Pascal went +up to the study to write, while she remained out of doors, sitting on +the terrace. Hours passed by, and he was surprised and uneasy, when +midnight struck, that he had not yet heard her return to her room. She +would have had to pass through the study, and he was very certain that +she had not passed unnoticed by him. Going downstairs, he found that +Martine was asleep; the vestibule door was not locked, and Clotilde +must have remained outside, oblivious of the flight of time. This often +happened to her on these warm nights, but she had never before remained +out so late. + +The doctor's uneasiness increased when he perceived on the terrace the +chair, now vacant, in which the young girl had been sitting. He had +expected to find her asleep in it. Since she was not there, why had she +not come in. Where could she have gone at such an hour? The night was +beautiful: a September night, still warm, with a wide sky whose dark, +velvety expanse was studded with stars; and from the depths of this +moonless sky the stars shone so large and bright that they lighted the +earth with a pale, mysterious radiance. He leaned over the balustrade of +the terrace, and examined the slope and the stone steps which led down +to the railroad; but there was not a movement. He saw nothing but the +round motionless tops of the little olive trees. The idea then occurred +to him that she must certainly be under the plane trees beside the +fountain, whose murmuring waters made perpetual coolness around. He +hurried there, and found himself enveloped in such thick darkness that +he, who knew every tree, was obliged to walk with outstretched hands +to avoid stumbling. Then he groped his way through the dark pine grove, +still without meeting any one. And at last he called in a muffled voice: + +"Clotilde! Clotilde!" + +The darkness remained silent and impenetrable. + +"Clotilde! Clotilde!" he cried again, in a louder voice. Not a sound, +not a breath. The very echoes seemed asleep. His cry was drowned in the +infinitely soft lake of blue shadows. And then he called her with all +the force of his lungs. He returned to the plane trees. He went back to +the pine grove, beside himself with fright, scouring the entire domain. +Then, suddenly, he found himself in the threshing yard. + +At this cool and tranquil hour, the immense yard, the vast circular +paved court, slept too. It was so many years since grain had been +threshed here that grass had sprung up among the stones, quickly +scorched a russet brown by the sun, resembling the long threads of +a woolen carpet. And, under the tufts of this feeble vegetation, the +ancient pavement did not cool during the whole summer, smoking from +sunset, exhaling in the night the heat stored up from so many sultry +noons. + +The yard stretched around, bare and deserted, in the cooling atmosphere, +under the infinite calm of the sky, and Pascal was crossing it to hurry +to the orchard, when he almost fell over a form that he had not +before observed, extended at full length upon the ground. He uttered a +frightened cry. + +"What! Are you here?" + +Clotilde did not deign even to answer. She was lying on her back, her +hands clasped under the back of her neck, her face turned toward the +sky; and in her pale countenance, only her large shining eyes were +visible. + +"And here I have been tormenting myself and calling you for an hour +past! Did you not hear me shouting?" + +She at last unclosed her lips. + +"Yes." + +"Then that is very senseless! Why did you not answer me?" + +But she fell back into her former silence, refusing all explanation, and +with a stubborn brow kept her gaze fixed steadily on the sky. + +"There, come in and go to bed, naughty child. You will tell me +to-morrow." + +She did not stir, however; he begged her ten times over to go into the +house, but she would not move. He ended by sitting down beside her on +the short grass, through which penetrated the warmth of the pavement +beneath. + +"But you cannot sleep out of doors. At least answer me. What are you +doing here?" + +"I am looking." + +And from her large eyes, fixed and motionless, her gaze seemed to mount +up among the stars. She seemed wholly absorbed in the contemplation of +the pure starry depths of the summer sky. + +"Ah, master!" she continued, in a low monotone; "how narrow and limited +is all that you know compared to what there is surely up there. Yes, +if I did not answer you it was because I was thinking of you, and I was +filled with grief. You must not think me bad." + +In her voice there was a thrill of such tenderness that it moved him +profoundly. He stretched himself on the grass beside her, so that their +elbows touched, and they went on talking. + +"I greatly fear, my dear, that your griefs are not rational. It gives +you pain to think of me. Why so?" + +"Oh, because of things that I should find it hard to explain to you; I +am not a _savante_. You have taught me much, however, and I have learned +more myself, being with you. Besides, they are things that I feel. +Perhaps I might try to tell them to you, as we are all alone here, and +the night is so beautiful." + +Her full heart overflowed, after hours of meditation, in the peaceful +confidence of the beautiful night. He did not speak, fearing to disturb +her, but awaited her confidences in silence. + +"When I was a little girl and you used to talk to me about science, it +seemed to me that you were speaking to me of God, your words burned so +with faith and hope. Nothing seemed impossible to you. With science you +were going to penetrate the secret of the world, and make the perfect +happiness of humanity a reality. According to you, we were progressing +with giant strides. Each day brought its discovery, its certainty. Ten, +fifty, a hundred years more, perhaps, and the heavens would open and we +should see truth face to face. Well, the years pass, and nothing opens, +and truth recedes." + +"You are an impatient girl," he answered simply. "If ten centuries more +be necessary we must only wait for them to pass." + +"It is true. I cannot wait. I need to know; I need to be happy at once, +and to know everything at once, and to be perfectly and forever happy. +Oh, that is what makes me suffer, not to be able to reach at a bound +complete knowledge, not to be able to rest in perfect felicity, freed +from scruples and doubts. Is it living to advance with tortoiselike pace +in the darkness, not to be able to enjoy an hour's tranquillity, without +trembling at the thought of the coming anguish? No, no! All knowledge +and all happiness in a single day? Science has promised them to us, and +if she does not give them to us, then she fails in her engagements." + +Then he, too, began to grow heated. + +"But what you are saying is folly, little girl. Science is not +revelation. It marches at its human pace, its very effort is its glory. +And then it is not true that science has promised happiness." + +She interrupted him hastily. + +"How, not true! Open your books up there, then. You know that I have +read them. Do they not overflow with promises? To read them one would +think we were marching on to the conquest of earth and heaven. They +demolish everything, and they swear to replace everything--and that +by pure reason, with stability and wisdom. Doubtless I am like the +children. When I am promised anything I wish that it shall be given +me at once. My imagination sets to work, and the object must be very +beautiful to satisfy me. But it would have been easy not to have +promised anything. And above all, at this hour, in view of my eager and +painful longing, it would be very ill done to tell me that nothing has +been promised me." + +He made a gesture, a simple gesture of protestation and impatience, in +the serene and silent night. + +"In any case," she continued, "science has swept away all our past +beliefs. The earth is bare, the heavens are empty, and what do you wish +that I should become, even if you acquit science of having inspired the +hopes I have conceived? For I cannot live without belief and without +happiness. On what solid ground shall I build my house when science +shall have demolished the old world, and while she is waiting to +construct the new? All the ancient city has fallen to pieces in this +catastrophe of examination and analysis; and all that remains of it is a +mad population vainly seeking a shelter among its ruins, while anxiously +looking for a solid and permanent refuge where they may begin life +anew. You must not be surprised, then, at our discouragement and our +impatience. We can wait no longer. Since tardy science has failed in her +promises, we prefer to fall back on the old beliefs, which for centuries +have sufficed for the happiness of the world." + +"Ah! that is just it," he responded in a low voice; "we are just at the +turning point, at the end of the century, fatigued and exhausted with +the appalling accumulation of knowledge which it has set moving. And it +is the eternal need for falsehood, the eternal need for illusion which +distracts humanity, and throws it back upon the delusive charm of the +unknown. Since we can never know all, what is the use of trying to know +more than we know already? Since the truth, when we have attained it, +does not confer immediate and certain happiness, why not be satisfied +with ignorance, the darkened cradle in which humanity slept the deep +sleep of infancy? Yes, this is the aggressive return of the mysterious, +it is the reaction against a century of experimental research. And this +had to be; desertions were to be expected, since every need could not +be satisfied at once. But this is only a halt; the onward march will +continue, up there, beyond our view, in the illimitable fields of +space." + +For a moment they remained silent, still motionless on their backs, +their gaze lost among the myriads of worlds shining in the dark sky. A +falling star shot across the constellation of Cassiopeia, like a flaming +arrow. And the luminous universe above turned slowly on its axis, in +solemn splendor, while from the dark earth around them arose only a +faint breath, like the soft, warm breath of a sleeping woman. + +"Tell me," he said, in his good-natured voice, "did your Capuchin turn +your head this evening, then?" + +"Yes," she answered frankly; "he says from the pulpit things that +disturb me. He preaches against everything you have taught me, and it is +as if the knowledge which I owe to you, transformed into a poison, were +consuming me. My God! What is going to become of me?" + +"My poor child! It is terrible that you should torture yourself in +this way! And yet I had been quite tranquil about you, for you have +a well-balanced mind--you have a good, little, round, clear, solid +headpiece, as I have often told you. You will soon calm down. But what +confusion in the brains of others, at the end of the century, if you, +who are so sane, are troubled! Have you not faith, then?" + +She answered only by a heavy sigh. + +"Assuredly, viewed from the standpoint of happiness, faith is a strong +staff for the traveler to lean upon, and the march becomes easy and +tranquil when one is fortunate enough to possess it." + +"Oh, I no longer know whether I believe or not!" she cried. "There are +days when I believe, and there are other days when I side with you and +with your books. It is you who have disturbed me; it is through you I +suffer. And perhaps all my suffering springs from this, from my revolt +against you whom I love. No, no! tell me nothing; do not tell me that I +shall soon calm down. At this moment that would only irritate me still +more. I know well that you deny the supernatural. The mysterious for you +is only the inexplicable. Even you concede that we shall never know all; +and therefore you consider that the only interest life can have is the +continual conquest over the unknown, the eternal effort to know more. +Ah, I know too much already to believe. You have already succeeded but +too well in shaking my faith, and there are times when it seems to me +that this will kill me." + +He took her hand that lay on the still warm grass, and pressed it hard. + +"No, no; it is life that frightens you, little girl. And how right you +are in saying that happiness consists in continual effort. For from this +time forward tranquil ignorance is impossible. There is no halt to be +looked for, no tranquillity in renunciation and wilful blindness. +We must go on, go on in any case with life, which goes on always. +Everything that is proposed, a return to the past, to dead religions, +patched up religions arranged to suit new wants, is a snare. Learn to +know life, then; to love it, live it as it ought to be lived--that is +the only wisdom." + +But she shook off his hand angrily. And her voice trembled with +vexation. + +"Life is horrible. How do you wish me to live it tranquil and happy? +It is a terrible light that your science throws upon the world. Your +analysis opens up all the wounds of humanity to display their horror. +You tell everything; you speak too plainly; you leave us nothing but +disgust for people and for things, without any possible consolation." + +He interrupted her with a cry of ardent conviction. + +"We tell everything. Ah, yes; in order to know everything and to remedy +everything!" + +Her anger rose, and she sat erect. + +"If even equality and justice existed in your nature--but you +acknowledge it yourself, life is for the strongest, the weak infallibly +perishes because he is weak--there are no two beings equal, either in +health, in beauty, or intelligence; everything is left to haphazard +meeting, to the chance of selection. And everything falls into ruin, +when grand and sacred justice ceases to exist." + +"It is true," he said, in an undertone, as if speaking to himself, +"there is no such thing as equality. No society based upon it could +continue to exist. For centuries, men thought to remedy evil by +character. But that idea is being exploded, and now they propose +justice. Is nature just? I think her logical, rather. Logic is perhaps +a natural and higher justice, going straight to the sum of the common +labor, to the grand final labor." + +"Then it is justice," she cried, "that crushes the individual for the +happiness of the race, that destroys an enfeebled species to fatten +the victorious species. No, no; that is crime. There is in that only +foulness and murder. He was right this evening in the church. The earth +is corrupt, science only serves to show its rottenness. It is on high +that we must all seek a refuge. Oh, master, I entreat you, let me save +myself, let me save you!" + +She burst into tears, and the sound of her sobs rose despairingly on +the stillness of the night. He tried in vain to soothe her, her voice +dominated his. + +"Listen to me, master. You know that I love you, for you are everything +to me. And it is you who are the cause of all my suffering. I can +scarcely endure it when I think that we are not in accord, that we +should be separated forever if we were both to die to-morrow. Why will +you not believe?" + +He still tried to reason with her. + +"Come, don't be foolish, my dear--" + +But she threw herself on her knees, she seized him by the hands, she +clung to him with a feverish force. And she sobbed louder and louder, in +such a clamor of despair that the dark fields afar off were startled by +it. + +"Listen to me, he said it in the church. You must change your life and +do penance; you must burn everything belonging to your past errors--your +books, your papers, your manuscripts. Make this sacrifice, master, I +entreat it of you on my knees. And you will see the delightful existence +we shall lead together." + +At last he rebelled. + +"No, this is too much. Be silent!" + +"If you listen to me, master, you will do what I wish. I assure you +that I am horribly unhappy, even in loving you as I love you. There +is something wanting in our affection. So far it has been profound but +unavailing, and I have an irresistible longing to fill it, oh, with all +that is divine and eternal. What can be wanting to us but God? Kneel +down and pray with me!" + +With an abrupt movement he released himself, angry in his turn. + +"Be silent; you are talking nonsense. I have left you free, leave me +free." + +"Master, master! it is our happiness that I desire! I will take you far, +far away. We will go to some solitude to live there in God!" + +"Be silent! No, never!" + +Then they remained for a moment confronting each other, mute and +menacing. Around them stretched La Souleiade in the deep silence of the +night, with the light shadows of its olive trees, the darkness of its +pine and plane trees, in which the saddened voice of the fountain was +singing, and above their heads it seemed as if the spacious sky, studded +with stars, shuddered and grew pale, although the dawn was still far +off. + +Clotilde raised her arm as if to point to this infinite, shuddering sky; +but with a quick gesture Pascal seized her hand and drew it down toward +the earth in his. And no word further was spoken; they were beside +themselves with rage and hate. The quarrel was fierce and bitter. + +She drew her hand away abruptly, and sprang backward, like some proud, +untamable animal, rearing; then she rushed quickly through the darkness +toward the house. He heard the patter of her little boots on the stones +of the yard, deadened afterward by the sand of the walk. He, on his +side, already grieved and uneasy, called her back in urgent tones. But +she ran on without answering, without hearing. Alarmed, and with a heavy +heart, he hurried after her, and rounded the clump of plane trees just +in time to see her rush into the house like a whirlwind. He darted in +after her, ran up the stairs, and struck against the door of her room, +which she violently bolted. And here he stopped and grew calm, by a +strong effort resisting the desire to cry out, to call her again, to +break in the door so as to see her once more, to convince her, to have +her all to himself. For a moment he remained motionless, chilled by the +deathlike silence of the room, from which not the faintest sound issued. +Doubtless she had thrown herself on the bed, and was stifling her cries +and her sobs in the pillow. He determined at last to go downstairs +again and close the hall door, and then he returned softly and listened, +waiting for some sound of moaning. And day was breaking when he went +disconsolately to bed, choking back his tears. + +Thenceforward it was war without mercy. Pascal felt himself spied upon, +trapped, menaced. He was no longer master of his house; he had no longer +any home. The enemy was always there, forcing him to be constantly on +his guard, to lock up everything. One after the other, two vials of +nerve-substance which he had compounded were found in fragments, and he +was obliged to barricade himself in his room, where he could be heard +pounding for days together, without showing himself even at mealtime. +He no longer took Clotilde with him on his visiting days, because she +discouraged his patients by her attitude of aggressive incredulity. But +from the moment he left the house, the doctor had only one desire--to +return to it quickly, for he trembled lest he should find his locks +forced, and his drawers rifled on his return. He no longer employed +the young girl to classify and copy his notes, for several of them had +disappeared, as if they had been carried away by the wind. He did not +even venture to employ her to correct his proofs, having ascertained +that she had cut out of an article an entire passage, the sentiment of +which offended her Catholic belief. And thus she remained idle, prowling +about the rooms, and having an abundance of time to watch for an +occasion which would put in her possession the key of the large press. +This was her dream, the plan which she revolved in her mind during her +long silence, while her eyes shone and her hands burned with fever--to +have the key, to open the press, to take and burn everything in an +_auto da fe_ which would be pleasing to God. A few pages of manuscript, +forgotten by him on a corner of the table, while he went to wash his +hands and put on his coat, had disappeared, leaving behind only a little +heap of ashes in the fireplace. He could no longer leave a scrap of +paper about. He carried away everything; he hid everything. One evening, +when he had remained late with a patient, as he was returning home in +the dusk a wild terror seized him at the faubourg, at sight of a thick +black smoke rising up in clouds that darkened the heavens. Was it not +La Souleiade that was burning down, set on fire by the bonfire made with +his papers? He ran toward the house, and was reassured only on seeing in +a neighboring field a fire of roots burning slowly. + +But how terrible are the tortures of the scientist who feels himself +menaced in this way in the labors of his intellect! The discoveries +which he has made, the writings which he has counted upon leaving +behind him, these are his pride, they are creatures of his blood--his +children--and whoever destroys, whoever burns them, burns a part of +himself. Especially, in this perpetual lying in wait for the creatures +of his brain, was Pascal tortured by the thought that the enemy was in +his house, installed in his very heart, and that he loved her in spite +of everything, this creature whom he had made what she was. He was left +disarmed, without possible defense; not wishing to act, and having +no other resources than to watch with vigilance. On all sides the +investment was closing around him. He fancied he felt the little +pilfering hands stealing into his pockets. He had no longer any +tranquillity, even with the doors closed, for he feared that he was +being robbed through the crevices. + +"But, unhappy child," he cried one day, "I love but you in the world, +and you are killing me! And yet you love me, too; you act in this way +because you love me, and it is abominable. It would be better to have +done with it all at once, and throw ourselves into the river with a +stone tied around our necks." + +She did not answer, but her dauntless eyes said ardently that she would +willingly die on the instant, if it were with him. + +"And if I should suddenly die to-night, what would happen to-morrow? +You would empty the press, you would empty the drawers, you would make +a great heap of all my works and burn them! You would, would you not? +Do you know that that would be a real murder, as much as if you +assassinated some one? And what abominable cowardice, to kill the +thoughts!" + +"No," she said at last, in a low voice; "to kill evil, to prevent it +from spreading and springing up again!" + +All their explanations only served to kindle anew their anger. And they +had terrible ones. And one evening, when old Mme. Rougon had chanced in +on one of these quarrels, she remained alone with Pascal, after Clotilde +had fled to hide herself in her room. There was silence for a moment. In +spite of the heartbroken air which she had assumed, a wicked joy shone +in the depths of her sparkling eyes. + +"But your unhappy house is a hell!" she cried at last. + +The doctor avoided an answer by a gesture. He had always felt that his +mother backed the young girl, inflaming her religious faith, utilizing +this ferment of revolt to bring trouble into his house. He was not +deceived. He knew perfectly well that the two women had seen each +other during the day, and that he owed to this meeting, to a skilful +embittering of Clotilde's mind, the frightful scene at which he still +trembled. Doubtless his mother had come to learn what mischief had been +wrought, and to see if the _denouement_ was not at last at hand. + +"Things cannot go on in this way," she resumed. "Why do you not separate +since you can no longer agree. You ought to send her to her brother +Maxime. He wrote to me not long since asking her again." + +He straightened himself, pale and determined. + +"To part angry with each other? Ah, no, no! that would be an eternal +remorse, an incurable wound. If she must one day go away, I wish that we +may be able to love each other at a distance. But why go away? Neither +of us complains of the other." + +Felicite felt that she had been too hasty. Therefore she assumed her +hypocritical, conciliating air. + +"Of course, if it pleases you both to quarrel, no one has anything to +say in the matter. Only, my poor friend, permit me, in that case, to say +that I think Clotilde is not altogether in the wrong. You force me to +confess that I saw her a little while ago; yes, it is better that you +should know, notwithstanding my promise to be silent. Well, she is not +happy; she makes a great many complaints, and you may imagine that I +scolded her and preached complete submission to her. But that does not +prevent me from being unable to understand you myself, and from thinking +that you do everything you can to make yourself unhappy." + +She sat down in a corner of the room, and obliged him to sit down with +her, seeming delighted to have him here alone, at her mercy. She had +already, more than once before, tried to force him to an explanation in +this way, but he had always avoided it. Although she had tortured +him for years past, and he knew her thoroughly, he yet remained +a deferential son, he had sworn never to abandon this stubbornly +respectful attitude. Thus, the moment she touched certain subjects, he +took refuge in absolute silence. + +"Come," she continued; "I can understand that you should not wish to +yield to Clotilde; but to me? How if I were to entreat you to make me +the sacrifice of all those abominable papers which are there in the +press! Consider for an instant if you should die suddenly, and those +papers should fall into strange hands. We should all be disgraced. You +would not wish that, would you? What is your object, then? Why do you +persist in so dangerous a game? Promise me that you will burn them." + +He remained silent for a time, but at last he answered: + +"Mother, I have already begged of you never to speak on that subject. I +cannot do what you ask." + +"But at least," she cried, "give me a reason. Any one would think our +family was as indifferent to you as that drove of oxen passing below +there. Yet you belong to it. Oh, I know you do all you can not to belong +to it! I myself am sometimes astonished at you. I ask myself where you +can have come from. But for all that, it is very wicked of you to run +this risk, without stopping to think of the grief you are causing to me, +your mother. It is simply wicked." + +He grew still paler, and yielding for an instant to his desire to defend +himself, in spite of his determination to keep silent, he said: + +"You are hard; you are wrong. I have always believed in the necessity, +the absolute efficacy of truth. It is true that I tell the truth about +others and about myself, and it is because I believe firmly that in +telling the truth I do the only good possible. In the first place, those +papers are not intended for the public; they are only personal notes +which it would be painful to me to part with. And then, I know well that +you would not burn only them--all my other works would also be thrown +into the fire. Would they not? And that is what I do not wish; do you +understand? Never, while I live, shall a line of my writing be destroyed +here." + +But he already regretted having said so much, for he saw that she was +urging him, leading him on to the cruel explanation she desired. + +"Then finish, and tell me what it is that you reproach us with. Yes, me, +for instance; what do you reproach me with? Not with having brought you +up with so much difficulty. Ah, fortune was slow to win! If we enjoy +a little happiness now, we have earned it hard. Since you have seen +everything, and since you put down everything in your papers, you can +testify with truth that the family has rendered greater services to +others than it has ever received. On two occasions, but for us, Plassans +would have been in a fine pickle. And it is perfectly natural that we +should have reaped only ingratitude and envy, to the extent that even +to-day the whole town would be enchanted with a scandal that should +bespatter us with mud. You cannot wish that, and I am sure that you will +do justice to the dignity of my attitude since the fall of the Empire, +and the misfortunes from which France will no doubt never recover." + +"Let France rest, mother," he said, speaking again, for she had touched +the spot where she knew he was most sensitive. "France is tenacious of +life, and I think she is going to astonish the world by the rapidity of +her convalescence. True, she has many elements of corruption. I have not +sought to hide them, I have rather, perhaps, exposed them to view. But +you greatly misunderstand me if you imagine that I believe in her final +dissolution, because I point out her wounds and her lesions. I believe +in the life which ceaselessly eliminates hurtful substances, which makes +new flesh to fill the holes eaten away by gangrene, which infallibly +advances toward health, toward constant renovation, amid impurities and +death." + +He was growing excited, and he was conscious of it, and making an angry +gesture, he spoke no more. His mother had recourse to tears, a few +little tears which came with difficulty, and which were quickly dried. +And the fears which saddened her old age returned to her, and she +entreated him to make his peace with God, if only out of regard for the +family. Had she not given an example of courage ever since the downfall +of the Empire? Did not all Plassans, the quarter of St. Marc, the +old quarter and the new town, render homage to the noble attitude she +maintained in her fall? All she asked was to be helped; she demanded +from all her children an effort like her own. Thus she cited the example +of Eugene, the great man who had fallen from so lofty a height, and who +resigned himself to being a simple deputy, defending until his latest +breath the fallen government from which he had derived his glory. She +was also full of eulogies of Aristide, who had never lost hope, who had +reconquered, under the new government, an exalted position, in spite of +the terrible and unjust catastrophe which had for a moment buried him +under the ruins of the Union Universelle. And would he, Pascal, hold +himself aloof, would he do nothing that she might die in peace, in the +joy of the final triumph of the Rougons, he who was so intelligent, so +affectionate, so good? He would go to mass, would he not, next Sunday? +and he would burn all those vile papers, only to think of which made +her ill. She entreated, commanded, threatened. But he no longer answered +her, calm and invincible in his attitude of perfect deference. He wished +to have no discussion. He knew her too well either to hope to convince +her or to venture to discuss the past with her. + +"Why!" she cried, when she saw that he was not to be moved, "you do not +belong to us. I have always said so. You are a disgrace to us." + +He bent his head and said: + +"Mother, when you reflect you will forgive me." + +On this day Felicite was beside herself with rage when she went away; +and when she met Martine at the door of the house, in front of the plane +trees, she unburdened her mind to her, without knowing that Pascal, who +had just gone into his room, heard all. She gave vent to her resentment, +vowing, in spite of everything, that she would in the end succeed in +obtaining possession of the papers and destroying them, since he did +not wish to make the sacrifice. But what turned the doctor cold was +the manner in which Martine, in a subdued voice, soothed her. She was +evidently her accomplice. She repeated that it was necessary to wait; +not to do anything hastily; that mademoiselle and she had taken a vow to +get the better of monsieur, by not leaving him an hour's peace. They had +sworn it. They would reconcile him with the good God, because it was +not possible that an upright man like monsieur should remain without +religion. And the voices of the two women became lower and lower, until +they finally sank to a whisper, an indistinct murmur of gossiping and +plotting, of which he caught only a word here and there; orders given, +measures to be taken, an invasion of his personal liberty. When his +mother at last departed, with her light step and slender, youthful +figure, he saw that she went away very well satisfied. + +Then came a moment of weakness, of utter despair. Pascal dropped into a +chair, and asked himself what was the use of struggling, since the only +beings he loved allied themselves against him. Martine, who would have +thrown herself into the fire at a word from him, betraying him in this +way for his good! And Clotilde leagued with this servant, plotting with +her against him in holes and corners, seeking her aid to set traps for +him! Now he was indeed alone; he had around him only traitresses, who +poisoned the very air he breathed. But these two still loved him. He +might perhaps have succeeded in softening them, but when he knew that +his mother urged them on, he understood their fierce persistence, and +he gave up the hope of winning them back. With the timidity of a man +who had spent his life in study, aloof from women, notwithstanding +his secret passion, the thought that they were there to oppose him, to +attempt to bend him to their will, overwhelmed him. He felt that some +one of them was always behind him. Even when he shut himself up in his +room, he fancied that they were on the other side of the wall; and +he was constantly haunted by the idea that they would rob him of his +thought, if they could perceive it in his brain, before he should have +formulated it. + +This was assuredly the period in his life in which Dr. Pascal was most +unhappy. To live constantly on the defensive, as he was obliged to do, +crushed him, and it seemed to him as if the ground on which his house +stood was no longer his, as if it was receding from beneath his feet. +He now regretted keenly that he had not married, and that he had no +children. Had not he himself been afraid of life? And had he not been +well punished for his selfishness? This regret for not having children +now never left him. His eyes now filled with tears whenever he met on +the road bright-eyed little girls who smiled at him. True, Clotilde was +there, but his affection for her was of a different kind--crossed at +present by storms--not a calm, infinitely sweet affection, like that for +a child with which he might have soothed his lacerated heart. And then, +no doubt what he desired in his isolation, feeling that his days were +drawing to an end, was above all, continuance; in a child he would +survive, he would live forever. The more he suffered, the greater the +consolation he would have found in bequeathing this suffering, in the +faith which he still had in life. He considered himself indemnified +for the physiological defects of his family. But even the thought that +heredity sometimes passes over a generation, and that the disorders of +his ancestors might reappear in a child of his did not deter him; and +this unknown child, in spite of the old corrupt stock, in spite of the +long succession of execrable relations, he desired ardently at certain +times: as one desires unexpected gain, rare happiness, the stroke of +fortune which is to console and enrich forever. In the shock which his +other affections had received, his heart bled because it was too late. + +One sultry night toward the end of September, Pascal found himself +unable to sleep. He opened one of the windows of his room; the sky +was dark, some storm must be passing in the distance, for there was a +continuous rumbling of thunder. He could distinguish vaguely the dark +mass of the plane trees, which occasional flashes of lightning detached, +in a dull green, from the darkness. His soul was full of anguish; he +lived over again the last unhappy days, days of fresh quarrels, of +torture caused by acts of treachery, by suspicions, which grew stronger +every day, when a sudden recollection made him start. In his fear of +being robbed, he had finally adopted the plan of carrying the key of the +large press in his pocket. But this afternoon, oppressed by the heat, he +had taken off his jacket, and he remembered having seen Clotilde hang +it up on a nail in the study. A sudden pang of terror shot through him, +sharp and cold as a steel point; if she had felt the key in the pocket +she had stolen it. He hastened to search the jacket which he had a +little before thrown upon a chair; the key was not here. At this very +moment he was being robbed; he had the clear conviction of it. Two +o'clock struck. He did not again dress himself, but, remaining in his +trousers only, with his bare feet thrust into slippers, his chest bare +under his unfastened nightshirt, he hastily pushed open the door, and +rushed into the workroom, his candle in his hand. + +"Ah! I knew it," he cried. "Thief! Assassin!" + +It was true; Clotilde was there, undressed like himself, her bare feet +covered by canvas slippers, her legs bare, her arms bare, her shoulders +bare, clad only in her chemise and a short skirt. Through caution, she +had not brought a candle. She had contented herself with opening one of +the window shutters, and the continual lightning flashes of the storm +which was passing southward in the dark sky, sufficed her, bathing +everything in a livid phosphorescence. The old press, with its broad +sides, was wide open. Already she had emptied the top shelf, taking down +the papers in armfuls, and throwing them on the long table in the middle +of the room, where they lay in a confused heap. And with feverish haste, +fearing lest she should not have the time to burn them, she was making +them up into bundles, intending to hide them, and send them afterward +to her grandmother, when the sudden flare of the candle, lighting up +the room, caused her to stop short in an attitude of surprise and +resistance. + +"You rob me; you assassinate me!" repeated Pascal furiously. + +She still held one of the bundles in her bare arms. He wished to take +it away from her, but she pressed it to her with all her strength, +obstinately resolved upon her work of destruction, without showing +confusion or repentance, like a combatant who has right upon his side. +Then, madly, blindly, he threw himself upon her, and they struggled +together. He clutched her bare flesh so that he hurt her. + +"Kill me!" she gasped. "Kill me, or I shall destroy everything!" + +He held her close to him, with so rough a grasp that she could scarcely +breathe, crying: + +"When a child steals, it is punished!" + +A few drops of blood appeared and trickled down her rounded shoulder, +where an abrasion had cut the delicate satin skin. And, on the instant, +seeing her so breathless, so divine, in her virginal slender height, +with her tapering limbs, her supple arms, her slim body with its +slender, firm throat, he released her. By a last effort he tore the +package from her. + +"And you shall help me to put them all up there again, by Heaven! Come +here: begin by arranging them on the table. Obey me, do you hear?" + +"Yes, master!" + +She approached, and helped him to arrange the papers, subjugated, +crushed by this masculine grasp, which had entered into her flesh, as it +were. The candle which flared up in the heavy night air, lighted them; +and the distant rolling of the thunder still continued, the window +facing the storm seeming on fire. + + + + +V. + +For an instant Pascal looked at the papers, the heap of which seemed +enormous, lying thus in disorder on the long table that stood in the +middle of the room. In the confusion several of the blue paper envelopes +had burst open, and their contents had fallen out--letters, newspaper +clippings, documents on stamped paper, and manuscript notes. + +He was already mechanically beginning to seek out the names written on +the envelopes in large characters, to classify the packages again, when, +with an abrupt gesture, he emerged from the somber meditation into which +he had fallen. And turning to Clotilde who stood waiting, pale, silent, +and erect, he said: + +"Listen to me; I have always forbidden you to read these papers, and I +know that you have obeyed me. Yes, I had scruples of delicacy. It is not +that you are an ignorant girl, like so many others, for I have allowed +you to learn everything concerning man and woman, which is assuredly bad +only for bad natures. But to what end disclose to you too early these +terrible truths of human life? I have therefore spared you the history +of our family, which is the history of every family, of all humanity; a +great deal of evil and a great deal of good." + +He paused as if to confirm himself in his resolution and then resumed +quite calmly and with supreme energy: + +"You are twenty-five years old; you ought to know. And then the life we +are leading is no longer possible. You live and you make me live in a +constant nightmare, with your ecstatic dreams. I prefer to show you the +reality, however execrable it may be. Perhaps the blow which it will +inflict upon you will make of you the woman you ought to be. We will +classify these papers again together, and read them, and learn from them +a terrible lesson of life!" + +Then, as she still continued motionless, he resumed: + +"Come, we must be able to see well. Light those other two candles +there." + +He was seized by a desire for light, a flood of light; he would have +desired the blinding light of the sun; and thinking that the light of +the three candles was not sufficient, he went into his room for a pair +of three-branched candelabra which were there. The nine candles were +blazing, yet neither of them, in their disorder--he with his chest +bare, she with her left shoulder stained with blood, her throat and arms +bare--saw the other. It was past two o'clock, but neither of them had +any consciousness of the hour; they were going to spend the night in +this eager desire for knowledge, without feeling the need of sleep, +outside time and space. The mutterings of the storm, which, through the +open window, they could see gathering, grew louder and louder. + +Clotilde had never before seen in Pascal's eyes the feverish light which +burned in them now. He had been overworking himself for some time past, +and his mental sufferings made him at times abrupt, in spite of his +good-natured complacency. But it seemed as if an infinite tenderness, +trembling with fraternal pity, awoke within him, now that he was about +to plunge into the painful truths of existence; and it was something +emanating from himself, something very great and very good which was to +render innocuous the terrible avalanche of facts which was impending. He +was determined that he would reveal everything, since it was necessary +that he should do so in order to remedy everything. Was not this an +unanswerable, a final argument for evolution, the story of these beings +who were so near to them? Such was life, and it must be lived. Doubtless +she would emerge from it like the steel tempered by the fire, full of +tolerance and courage. + +"They are setting you against me," he resumed; "they are making you +commit abominable acts, and I wish to restore your conscience to you. +When you know, you will judge and you will act. Come here, and read with +me." + +She obeyed. But these papers, about which her grandmother had spoken so +angrily, frightened her a little; while a curiosity that grew with +every moment awoke within her. And then, dominated though she was by the +virile authority which had just constrained and subjugated her, she did +not yet yield. But might she not listen to him, read with him? Did she +not retain the right to refuse or to give herself afterward? He spoke at +last. + +"Will you come?" + +"Yes, master, I will." + +He showed her first the genealogical tree of the Rougon-Macquarts. He +did not usually lock it in the press, but kept it in the desk in his +room, from which he had taken it when he went there for the candelabra. +For more than twenty years past he had kept it up to date, inscribing +the births, deaths, marriages, and other important events that had taken +place in the family, making brief notes in each case, in accordance with +his theory of heredity. + +It was a large sheet of paper, yellow with age, with folds cut by wear, +on which was drawn boldly a symbolical tree, whose branches spread and +subdivided into five rows of broad leaves; and each leaf bore a name, +and contained, in minute handwriting, a biography, a hereditary case. + +A scientist's joy took possession of the doctor at sight of this labor +of twenty years, in which the laws of heredity established by him were +so clearly and so completely applied. + +"Look, child! You know enough about the matter, you have copied enough +of my notes to understand. Is it not beautiful? A document so complete, +so conclusive, in which there is not a gap? It is like an experiment +made in the laboratory, a problem stated and solved on the blackboard. +You see below, the trunk, the common stock, Aunt Dide; then the three +branches issuing from it, the legitimate branch, Pierre Rougon, and the +two illegitimate branches, Ursule Macquart and Antoine Macquart; then, +new branches arise, and ramify, on one side, Maxime, Clotilde, and +Victor, the three children of Saccard, and Angelique, the daughter of +Sidonie Rougon; on the other, Pauline, the daughter of Lisa Macquart, +and Claude, Jacques, Etienne, and Anna, the four children of Gervaise, +her sister; there, at the extremity, is Jean, their brother, and here in +the middle, you see what I call the knot, the legitimate issue and the +illegitimate issue, uniting in Marthe Rougon and her cousin Francois +Mouret, to give rise to three new branches, Octave, Serge, and Desiree +Mouret; while there is also the issue of Ursule and the hatter Mouret; +Silvere, whose tragic death you know; Helene and her daughter Jean; +finally, at the top are the latest offshoots, our poor Charles, your +brother Maxime's son, and two other children, who are dead, Jacques +Louis, the son of Claude Lantier, and Louiset, the son of Anna Coupeau. +In all five generations, a human tree which, for five springs already, +five springtides of humanity, has sent forth shoots, at the impulse of +the sap of eternal life." + +He became more and more animated, pointing out each case on the sheet of +old yellow paper, as if it were an anatomical chart. + +"And as I have already said, everything is here. You see in direct +heredity, the differentiations, that of the mother, Silvere, Lisa, +Desiree, Jacques, Louiset, yourself; that of the father, Sidonie, +Francois, Gervaise, Octave, Jacques, Louis. Then there are the three +cases of crossing: by conjugation, Ursule, Aristide, Anna, Victor; +by dissemination, Maxime, Serge, Etienne; by fusion, Antoine, Eugene, +Claude. I even noted a fourth case, a very remarkable one, an +even cross, Pierre and Pauline; and varieties are established, the +differentiation of the mother, for example, often accords with the +physical resemblance of the father; or, it is the contrary which takes +place, so that, in the crossing, the physical and mental predominance +remains with one parent or the other, according to circumstances. Then +here is indirect heredity, that of the collateral branches. I have but +one well established example of this, the striking personal resemblance +of Octave Mouret to his uncle Eugene Rougon. I have also but one +example of transmission by influence, Anna, the daughter of Gervaise and +Coupeau, who bore a striking resemblance, especially in her childhood, +to Lantier, her mother's first lover. But what I am very rich in is in +examples of reversion to the original stock--the three finest cases, +Marthe, Jeanne, and Charles, resembling Aunt Dide; the resemblance +thus passing over one, two, and three generations. This is certainly +exceptional, for I scarcely believe in atavism; it seems to me that +the new elements brought by the partners, accidents, and the infinite +variety of crossings must rapidly efface particular characteristics, so +as to bring back the individual to the general type. And there remains +variation--Helene, Jean, Angelique. This is the combination, the +chemical mixture in which the physical and mental characteristics of the +parents are blended, without any of their traits seeming to reappear in +the new being." + +There was silence for a moment. Clotilde had listened to him with +profound attention, wishing to understand. And he remained absorbed in +thought, his eyes still fixed on the tree, in the desire to judge his +work impartially. He then continued in a low tone, as if speaking to +himself: + +"Yes, that is as scientific as possible. I have placed there only the +members of the family, and I had to give an equal part to the partners, +to the fathers and mothers come from outside, whose blood has mingled +with ours, and therefore modified it. I had indeed made a mathematically +exact tree, the father and the mother bequeathing themselves, by halves, +to the child, from generation to generation, so that in Charles, for +example, Aunt Dide's part would have been only a twelfth--which would +be absurd, since the physical resemblance is there complete. I have +therefore thought it sufficient to indicate the elements come from +elsewhere, taking into account marriages and the new factor which each +introduced. Ah! these sciences that are yet in their infancy, in which +hypothesis speaks stammeringly, and imagination rules, these are the +domain of the poet as much as of the scientist. Poets go as pioneers +in the advance guard, and they often discover new countries, suggesting +solutions. There is there a borderland which belongs to them, between +the conquered, the definitive truth, and the unknown, whence the +truth of to-morrow will be torn. What an immense fresco there is to be +painted, what a stupendous human tragedy, what a comedy there is to +be written with heredity, which is the very genesis of families, of +societies, and of the world!" + +His eyes fixed on vacancy, he remained for a time lost in thought. Then, +with an abrupt movement, he came back to the envelopes and, pushing the +tree aside, said: + +"We will take it up again presently; for, in order that you may +understand now, it is necessary that events should pass in review before +you, and that you should see in action all these actors ticketed here, +each one summed up in a brief note. I will call for the envelopes, you +will hand them to me one by one, and I will show you the papers in each, +and tell you their contents, before putting it away again up there on +the shelf. I will not follow the alphabetical order, but the order of +events themselves. I have long wished to make this classification. Come, +look for the names on the envelopes; Aunt Dide first." + +At this moment the edge of the storm which lighted up the sky caught La +Souleiade slantingly, and burst over the house in a deluge of rain. +But they did not even close the window. They heard neither the peals of +thunder nor the ceaseless beating of the rain upon the roof. She handed +him the envelope bearing the name of Aunt Dide in large characters; and +he took from it papers of all sorts, notes taken by him long ago, which +he proceeded to read. + +"Hand me Pierre Rougon. Hand me Ursule Macquart. Hand me Antoine +Macquart." + +Silently she obeyed him, her heart oppressed by a dreadful anguish at +all she was hearing. And the envelopes were passed on, displayed their +contents, and were piled up again in the press. + +First was the foundress of the family, Adelaide Fouque, the tall, crazy +girl, the first nervous lesion giving rise to the legitimate branch, +Pierre Rougon, and to the two illegitimate branches, Ursule and Antoine +Macquart, all that _bourgeois_ and sanguinary tragedy, with the _coup +d'etat_ of December, 1854, for a background, the Rougons, Pierre and +Felicite, preserving order at Plassans, bespattering with the blood of +Silvere their rising fortunes, while Adelaide, grown old, the miserable +Aunt Dide, was shut up in the Tulettes, like a specter of expiation and +of waiting. + +Then like a pack of hounds, the appetites were let loose. The supreme +appetite of power in Eugene Rougon, the great man, the disdainful genius +of the family, free from base interests, loving power for its own sake, +conquering Paris in old boots with the adventurers of the coming +Empire, rising from the legislative body to the senate, passing from the +presidency of the council of state to the portfolio of minister; made by +his party, a hungry crowd of followers, who at the same time supported +and devoured him; conquered for an instant by a woman, the beautiful +Clorinde, with whom he had been imbecile enough to fall in love, but +having so strong a will, and burning with so vehement a desire to rule, +that he won back power by giving the lie to his whole life, marching to +his triumphal sovereignty of vice emperor. + +With Aristide Saccard, appetite ran to low pleasures, the whole hot +quarry of money, luxury, women--a devouring hunger which left him +homeless, at the time when millions were changing hands, when the +whirlwind of wild speculation was blowing through the city, tearing +down everywhere to construct anew, when princely fortunes were made, +squandered, and remade in six months; a greed of gold whose ever +increasing fury carried him away, causing him, almost before the body +of his wife Angele was cold in death, to sell his name, in order to have +the first indispensable thousand francs, by marrying Renee. And it +was Saccard, too, who, a few years later, put in motion the immense +money-press of the Banque Universelle. Saccard, the never vanquished; +Saccard, grown more powerful, risen to be the clever and daring grand +financier, comprehending the fierce and civilizing role that money +plays, fighting, winning, and losing battles on the Bourse, like +Napoleon at Austerlitz and Waterloo; engulfing in disaster a world of +miserable people; sending forth into the unknown realms of crime his +natural son Victor, who disappeared, fleeing through the dark night, +while he himself, under the impassable protection of unjust nature, was +loved by the adorable Mme. Caroline, no doubt in recompense of all the +evil he had done. + +Here a tall, spotless lily had bloomed in this compost, Sidonie Rougon, +the sycophant of her brother, the go-between in a hundred suspicious +affairs, giving birth to the pure and divine Angelique, the little +embroiderer with fairylike fingers who worked into the gold of +the chasubles the dream of her Prince Charming, so happy among her +companions the saints, so little made for the hard realities of +life, that she obtained the grace of dying of love, on the day of her +marriage, at the first kiss of Felicien de Hautecoeur, in the triumphant +peal of bells ringing for her splendid nuptials. + +The union of the two branches, the legitimate and the illegitimate, +took place then, Marthe Rougon espousing her cousin Francois Mouret, +a peaceful household slowly disunited, ending in the direst +catastrophes--a sad and gentle woman taken, made use of, and crushed in +the vast machine of war erected for the conquest of a city; her three +children torn from her, she herself leaving her heart in the rude grasp +of the Abbe Faujas. And the Rougons saved Plassans a second time, while +she was dying in the glare of the conflagration in which her husband was +being consumed, mad with long pent-up rage and the desire for revenge. + +Of the three children, Octave Mouret was the audacious conqueror, the +clear intellect, resolved to demand from the women the sovereignty of +Paris, fallen at his _debut_ into the midst of a corrupt _bourgeois_ +society, acquiring there a terrible sentimental education, passing from +the capricious refusal of one woman to the unresisting abandonment +of another, remaining, fortunately, active, laborious, and combative, +gradually emerging, and improved even, from the low plotting, the +ceaseless ferment of a rotten society that could be heard already +cracking to its foundations. And Octave Mouret, victorious, +revolutionized commerce; swallowed up the cautious little shops that +carried on business in the old-fashioned way; established in the midst +of feverish Paris the colossal palace of temptation, blazing with +lights, overflowing with velvets, silks, and laces; won fortunes +exploiting woman; lived in smiling scorn of woman until the day when +a little girl, the avenger of her sex, the innocent and wise Denise, +vanquished him and held him captive at her feet, groaning with anguish, +until she did him the favor, she who was so poor, to marry him in the +midst of the apotheosis of his Louvre, under the golden shower of his +receipts. + +There remained the two other children, Serge Mouret and Desiree Mouret, +the latter innocent and healthy, like some happy young animal; the +former refined and mystical, who was thrown into the priesthood by a +nervous malady hereditary in his family, and who lived again the story +of Adam, in the Eden of Le Paradou. He was born again to love Albine, +and to lose her, in the bosom of sublime nature, their accomplice; to be +recovered, afterward by the Church, to war eternally with life, striving +to kill his manhood, throwing on the body of the dead Albine the handful +of earth, as officiating priest, at the very time when Desiree, the +sister and friend of animals, was rejoicing in the midst of the swarming +life of her poultry yard. + +Further on there opened a calm glimpse of gentle and tragic life, Helene +Mouret living peacefully with her little girl, Jeanne, on the heights of +Passy, overlooking Paris, the bottomless, boundless human sea, in face +of which was unrolled this page of love: the sudden passion of Helene +for a stranger, a physician, brought one night by chance to the bedside +of her daughter; the morbid jealousy of Jeanne--the instinctive jealousy +of a loving girl--disputing her mother with love, her mother already +so wasted by her unhappy passion that the daughter died because of +her fault; terrible price of one hour of desire in the entire cold and +discreet life of a woman, poor dead child, lying alone in the silent +cemetery, in face of eternal Paris. + +With Lisa Macquart began the illegitimate branch; appearing fresh and +strong in her, as she displayed her portly, prosperous figure, sitting +at the door of her pork shop in a light colored apron, watching the +central market, where the hunger of a people muttered, the age-long +battle of the Fat and the Lean, the lean Florent, her brother-in-law, +execrated, and set upon by the fat fishwomen and the fat shopwomen, and +whom even the fat pork-seller herself, honest, but unforgiving, caused +to be arrested as a republican who had broken his ban, convinced that +she was laboring for the good digestion of all honest people. + +From this mother sprang the sanest, the most human of girls, Pauline +Quenu, the well-balanced, the reasonable, the virgin; who, knowing +everything, accepted the joy of living in so ardent a love for others +that, in spite of the revolt of her youthful heart, she resigned to her +friend her cousin and betrothed, Lazare, and afterward saved the child +of the disunited household, becoming its true mother; always triumphant, +always gay, notwithstanding her sacrificed and ruined life, in her +monotonous solitude, facing the great sea, in the midst of a little +world of sufferers groaning with pain, but who did not wish to die. + +Then came Gervaise Macquart with her four children: bandy-legged, +pretty, and industrious Gervaise, whom her lover Lantier turned into +the street in the faubourg, where she met the zinc worker Coupeau, the +skilful, steady workman whom she married, and with whom she lived +so happily at first, having three women working in her laundry, +but afterward sinking with her husband, as was inevitable, to the +degradation of her surroundings. He, gradually conquered by alcohol, +brought by it to madness and death; she herself perverted, become a +slattern, her moral ruin completed by the return of Lantier, living +in the tranquil ignominy of a household of three, thenceforward the +wretched victim of want, her accomplice, to which she at last succumbed, +dying one night of starvation. + +Her eldest son, Claude, had the unhappy genius of a great painter struck +with madness, the impotent madness of feeling within him the masterpiece +to which his fingers refused to give shape; a giant wrestler always +defeated, a crucified martyr to his work, adoring woman, sacrificing his +wife Christine, so loving and for a time so beloved, to the increate, +divine woman of his visions, but whom his pencil was unable to delineate +in her nude perfection, possessed by a devouring passion for producing, +an insatiable longing to create, a longing so torturing when it could +not be satisfied, that he ended it by hanging himself. + +Jacques brought crime, the hereditary taint being transmuted in him into +an instinctive appetite for blood, the young and fresh blood from the +gashed throat of a woman, the first comer, the passer-by in the street: +a horrible malady against which he struggled, but which took possession +of him again in the course of his _amour_ with the submissive and +sensual Severine, whom a tragic story of assassination caused to live in +constant terror, and whom he stabbed one evening in an excess of frenzy, +maddened by the sight of her white throat. Then this savage human beast +rushed among the trains filing past swiftly, and mounted the snorting +engine of which he was the engineer, the beloved engine which was one +day to crush him to atoms, and then, left without a guide, to rush +furiously off into space braving unknown disasters. + +Etienne, in his turn driven out, arrived in the black country on a +freezing night in March, descended into the voracious pit, fell in love +with the melancholy Catherine, of whom a ruffian robbed him; lived with +the miners their gloomy life of misery and base promiscuousness, until +one day when hunger, prompting rebellion, sent across the barren plain a +howling mob of wretches who demanded bread, tearing down and burning +as they went, under the menace of the guns of the band that went off of +themselves, a terrible convulsion announcing the end of the world. The +avenging blood of the Maheus was to rise up later; of Alzire dead of +starvation, Maheu killed by a bullet, Zacharie killed by an explosion of +fire-damp, Catherine under the ground. La Maheude alone survived to weep +her dead, descending again into the mine to earn her thirty sons, while +Etienne, the beaten chief of the band, haunted by the dread of future +demands, went away on a warm April morning, listening to the secret +growth of the new world whose germination was soon to dazzle the earth. + +Nana then became the avenger; the girl born among the social filth of +the faubourgs; the golden fly sprung from the rottenness below, that +was tolerated and concealed, carrying in the fluttering of its wings +the ferment of destruction, rising and contaminating the aristocracy, +poisoning men only by alighting upon them, in the palaces through whose +windows it entered; the unconscious instrument of ruin and death--fierce +flame of Vandeuvres, the melancholy fate of Foucarmont, lost in the +Chinese waters, the disaster of Steiner, reduced to live as an honest +man, the imbecility of La Faloise and the tragic ruin of the Muffats, +and the white corpse of Georges, watched by Philippe, come out of prison +the day before, when the air of the epoch was so contaminated that she +herself was infected, and died of malignant smallpox, caught at the +death-bed of her son Louiset, while Paris passed beneath her windows, +intoxicated, possessed by the frenzy of war, rushing to general ruin. + +Lastly comes Jean Macquart, the workman and soldier become again a +peasant, fighting with the hard earth, which exacts that every grain of +corn shall be purchased with a drop of sweat, fighting, above all, with +the country people, whom covetousness and the long and difficult battle +with the soil cause to burn with the desire, incessantly stimulated, of +possession. Witness the Fouans, grown old, parting with their fields as +if they were parting with their flesh; the Buteaus in their eager greed +committing parricide, to hasten the inheritance of a field of lucern; +the stubborn Francoise dying from the stroke of a scythe, without +speaking, rather than that a sod should go out of the family--all this +drama of simple natures governed by instinct, scarcely emerged from +primitive barbarism--all this human filth on the great earth, which +alone remains immortal, the mother from whom they issue and to whom they +return again, she whom they love even to crime, who continually remakes +life, for its unknown end, even with the misery and the abomination of +the beings she nourishes. And it was Jean, too, who, become a widower +and having enlisted again at the first rumor of war, brought the +inexhaustible reserve, the stock of eternal rejuvenation which the earth +keeps; Jean, the humblest, the staunchest soldier at the final downfall, +swept along in the terrible and fatal storm which, from the frontier +to Sedan, in sweeping away the Empire, threatened to sweep away the +country; always wise, circumspect, firm in his hope, loving with +fraternal affection his comrade Maurice, the demented child of the +people, the holocaust doomed to expiation, weeping tears of blood when +inexorable destiny chose himself to hew off this rotten limb, and after +all had ended--the continual defeats, the frightful civil war, the lost +provinces, the thousands of millions of francs to pay--taking up the +march again, notwithstanding, returning to the land which awaited him, +to the great and difficult task of making a new France. + +Pascal paused; Clotilde had handed him all the packages, one by one, +and he had gone over them all, laid bare the contents of all, classified +them anew, and placed them again on the top shelf of the press. He was +out of breath, exhausted by his swift course through all this humanity, +while, without voice, without movement, the young girl, stunned by +this overflowing torrent of life, waited still, incapable of thought +or judgment. The rain still beat furiously upon the dark fields. The +lightning had just struck a tree in the neighborhood, that had split +with a terrible crash. The candles flared up in the wind that came in +from the open window. + +"Ah!" he resumed, pointing to the papers again, "there is a world in +itself, a society, a civilization, the whole of life is there, with its +manifestations, good and bad, in the heat and labor of the forge which +shapes everything. Yes, our family of itself would suffice as an example +to science, which will perhaps one day establish with mathematical +exactness the laws governing the diseases of the blood and nerves +that show themselves in a race, after a first organic lesion, and +that determine, according to environment, the sentiments, desires, and +passions of each individual of that race, all the human, natural and +instinctive manifestations which take the names of virtues and vices. +And it is also a historical document, it relates the story of the Second +Empire, from the _coup d'etat_ to Sedan; for our family spring from +the people, they spread themselves through the whole of contemporary +society, invaded every place, impelled by their unbridled appetites, by +that impulse, essentially modern, that eager desire that urges the lower +classes to enjoyment, in their ascent through the social strata. We +started, as I have said, from Plassans, and here we are now arrived once +more at Plassans." + +He paused again, and then resumed in a low, dreamy voice: + +"What an appalling mass stirred up! how many passions, how many joys, +how many sufferings crammed into this colossal heap of facts! There is +pure history: the Empire founded in blood, at first pleasure-loving +and despotic, conquering rebellious cities, then gliding to a slow +disintegration, dissolving in blood--in such a sea of blood that the +entire nation came near being swamped in it. There are social studies: +wholesale and retail trade, prostitution, crime, land, money, the +_bourgeoisie_, the people--that people who rot in the sewer of +the faubourgs, who rebel in the great industrial centers, all that +ever-increasing growth of mighty socialism, big with the new century. +There are simple human studies: domestic pages, love stories, the +struggle of minds and hearts against unjust nature, the destruction +of those who cry out under their too difficult task, the cry of virtue +immolating itself, victorious over pain, There are fancies, flights +of the imagination beyond the real: vast gardens always in bloom, +cathedrals with slender, exquisitely wrought spires, marvelous tales +come down from paradise, ideal affections remounting to heaven in a +kiss. There is everything: the good and the bad, the vulgar and the +sublime, flowers, mud, blood, laughter, the torrent of life itself, +bearing humanity endlessly on!" + +He took up again the genealogical tree which had remained neglected +on the table, spread it out and began to go over it once more with his +finger, enumerating now the members of the family who were still living: +Eugene Rougon, a fallen majesty, who remained in the Chamber, the +witness, the impassible defender of the old world swept away at the +downfall of the Empire. Aristide Saccard, who, after having changed his +principles, had fallen upon his feet a republican, the editor of a great +journal, on the way to make new millions, while his natural son Victor, +who had never reappeared, was living still in the shade, since he was +not in the galleys, cast forth by the world into the future, into the +unknown, like a human beast foaming with the hereditary virus, who must +communicate his malady with every bite he gives. Sidonie Rougon, who +had for a time disappeared, weary of disreputable affairs, had lately +retired to a sort of religious house, where she was living in monastic +austerity, the treasurer of the Marriage Fund, for aiding in the +marriage of girls who were mothers. Octave Mouret, proprietor of the +great establishment _Au Bonheur des Dames_, whose colossal fortune still +continued increasing, had had, toward the end of the winter, a third +child by his wife Denise Baudu, whom he adored, although his mind was +beginning to be deranged again. The Abbe Mouret, cure at St. Eutrope, in +the heart of a marshy gorge, lived there in great retirement, and very +modestly, with his sister Desiree, refusing all advancement from his +bishop, and waiting for death like a holy man, rejecting all medicines, +although he was already suffering from consumption in its first stage. +Helene Mouret was living very happily in seclusion with her second +husband, M. Rambaud, on the little estate which they owned near +Marseilles, on the seashore; she had had no child by her second husband. +Pauline Quenu was still at Bonneville at the other extremity of France, +in face of the vast ocean, alone with little Paul, since the death +of Uncle Chanteau, having resolved never to marry, in order to devote +herself entirely to the son of her cousin Lazare, who had become a +widower and had gone to America to make a fortune. Etienne Lantier, +returning to Paris after the strike at Montsou, had compromised himself +later in the insurrection of the Commune, whose principles he had +defended with ardor; he had been condemned to death, but his sentence +being commuted was transported and was now at Noumea. It was even said +that he had married immediately on his arrival there, and that he had +had a child, the sex of which, however, was not known with certainty. +Finally, Jean Macquart, who had received his discharge after the Bloody +Week, had settled at Valqueyras, near Plassans, where he had had the +good fortune to marry a healthy girl, Melanie Vial, the daughter of a +well-to-do peasant, whose lands he farmed, and his wife had borne him a +son in May. + +"Yes, it is true," he resumed, in a low voice; "races degenerate. There +is here a veritable exhaustion, rapid deterioration, as if our family, +in their fury of enjoyment, in the gluttonous satisfaction of their +appetites, had consumed themselves too quickly. Louiset, dead in +infancy; Jacques Louis, a half imbecile, carried off by a nervous +disease; Victor returned to the savage state, wandering about in who +knows what dark places; our poor Charles, so beautiful and so frail; +these are the latest branches of the tree, the last pale offshoots into +which the puissant sap of the larger branches seems to have been unable +to mount. The worm was in the trunk, it has ascended into the fruit, and +is devouring it. But one must never despair; families are a continual +growth. They go back beyond the common ancestor, into the unfathomable +strata of the races that have lived, to the first being; and they +will put forth new shoots without end, they will spread and ramify to +infinity, through future ages. Look at our tree; it counts only five +generations. It has not so much importance as a blade of grass, even, +in the human forest, vast and dark, of which the peoples are the great +secular oaks. Think only of the immense roots which spread through the +soil; think of the continual putting forth of new leaves above, which +mingle with other leaves of the ever-rolling sea of treetops, at the +fructifying, eternal breath of life. Well, hope lies there, in the daily +reconstruction of the race by the new blood which comes from without. +Each marriage brings other elements, good or bad, of which the effect +is, however, to prevent certain and progressive regeneration. +Breaches are repaired, faults effaced, an equilibrium is inevitably +re-established at the end of a few generations, and it is the average +man that always results; vague humanity, obstinately pursuing its +mysterious labor, marching toward its unknown end." + +He paused, and heaved a deep sigh. + +"Ah! our family, what is it going to become; in what being will it +finally end?" + +He continued, not now taking into account the survivors whom he had just +named; having classified these, he knew what they were capable of, but +he was full of keen curiosity regarding the children who were +still infants. He had written to a _confrere_ in Noumea for precise +information regarding the wife whom Etienne had lately married there, +and the child which she had had, but he had heard nothing, and he feared +greatly that on that side the tree would remain incomplete. He was more +fully furnished with documents regarding the two children of Octave +Mouret, with whom he continued to correspond; the little girl was +growing up puny and delicate, while the little boy, who strongly +resembled his mother, had developed superbly, and was perfectly healthy. +His strongest hope, besides these, was in Jean's children, the eldest of +whom was a magnificent boy, full of the youthful vigor of the races that +go back to the soil to regenerate themselves. Pascal occasionally went +to Valqueyras, and he returned happy from that fertile spot, where the +father, quiet and rational, was always at his plow, the mother cheerful +and simple, with her vigorous frame, capable of bearing a world. Who +knew what sound branch was to spring from that side? Perhaps the wise +and puissant of the future were to germinate there. The worst of it, for +the beauty of his tree, was that all these little boys and girls were +still so young that he could not classify them. And his voice grew +tender as he spoke of this hope of the future, these fair-haired +children, in the unavowed regret for his celibacy. + +Still contemplating the tree spread out before him, he cried: + +"And yet it is complete, it is decisive. Look! I repeat to you that all +hereditary cases are to be found there. To establish my theory, I +had only to base it on the collection of these facts. And indeed, the +marvelous thing is that there you can put your finger on the cause +why creatures born of the same stock can appear radically different, +although they are only logical modifications of common ancestors. The +trunk explains the branches, and these explain the leaves. In your +father Saccard and your Uncle Eugene Rougon, so different in their +temperaments and their lives, it is the same impulse which made the +inordinate appetites of the one and the towering ambition of the other. +Angelique, that pure lily, is born from the disreputable Sidonie, in the +rapture which makes mystics or lovers, according to the environment. The +three children of the Mourets are born of the same breath which makes of +the clever Octave the dry goods merchant, a millionaire; of the devout +Serge, a poor country priest; of the imbecile Desiree, a beautiful and +happy girl. But the example is still more striking in the children of +Gervaise; the neurosis passes down, and Nana sells herself; Etienne is +a rebel; Jacques, a murderer; Claude, a genius; while Pauline, their +cousin german, near by, is victorious virtue--virtue which struggles +and immolates itself. It is heredity, life itself which makes imbeciles, +madmen, criminals and great men. Cells abort, others take their place, +and we have a scoundrel or a madman instead of a man of genius, or +simply an honest man. And humanity rolls on, bearing everything on its +tide." + +Then in a new shifting of his thought, growing still more animated, he +continued: + +"And animals--the beast that suffers and that loves, which is the rough +sketch, as it were, of man--all the animals our brothers, that live our +life, yes, I would have put them in the ark, I would give them a place +among our family, show them continually mingling with us, completing our +existence. I have known cats whose presence was the mysterious charm of +the household; dogs that were adored, whose death was mourned, and left +in the heart an inconsolable grief. I have known goats, cows, and asses +of very great importance, and whose personality played such a part that +their history ought to be written. And there is our Bonhomme, our poor +old horse, that has served us for a quarter of a century. Do you not +think that he has mingled his life with ours, and that henceforth he +is one of the family? We have modified him, as he has influenced us a +little; we shall end by being made in the same image, and this is so +true that now, when I see him, half blind, with wandering gaze, his legs +stiff with rheumatism, I kiss him on both cheeks as if he were a poor +old relation who had fallen to my charge. Ah, animals, all creeping and +crawling things, all creatures that lament, below man, how large a place +in our sympathies it would be necessary to give them in a history of +life!" + +This was a last cry in which Pascal gave utterance to his passionate +tenderness for all created beings. He had gradually become more and more +excited, and had so come to make this confession of his faith in the +continuous and victorious work of animated nature. And Clotilde, who +thus far had not spoken, pale from the catastrophe in which her plans +had ended, at last opened her lips to ask: + +"Well, master, and what am I here?" + +She placed one of her slender fingers on the leaf of the tree on +which she saw her name written. He had always passed this leaf by. She +insisted. + +"Yes, I; what am I? Why have you not read me my envelope?" + +For a moment he remained silent, as if surprised at the question. + +"Why? For no reason. It is true, I have nothing to conceal from you. +You see what is written here? 'Clotilde, born in 1847. Selection of the +mother. Reversional heredity, with moral and physical predominance +of the maternal grandfather.' Nothing can be clearer. Your mother has +predominated in you; you have her fine intelligence, and you have +also something of her coquetry, at times of her indolence and of her +submissiveness. Yes, you are very feminine, like her. Without your being +aware of it, I would say that you love to be loved. Besides, your mother +was a great novel reader, an imaginative being who loved to spend whole +days dreaming over a book; she doted on nursery tales, had her fortune +told by cards, consulted clairvoyants; and I have always thought that +your concern about spiritual matters, your anxiety about the unknown, +came from that source. But what completed your character by giving you a +dual nature, was the influence of your grandfather, Commandant Sicardot. +I knew him; he was not a genius, but he had at least a great deal +of uprightness and energy. Frankly, if it were not for him, I do not +believe that you would be worth much, for the other influences +are hardly good. He has given you the best part of your nature, +combativeness, pride, and frankness." + +She had listened to him with attention. She nodded slightly, to signify +that it was indeed so, that she was not offended, although her lips +trembled visibly at these new details regarding her people and her +mother. + +"Well," she resumed, "and you, master?" + +This time he did not hesitate. + +"Oh, I!" he cried, "what is the use of speaking of me? I do not belong +to the family. You see what is written here. 'Pascal, born in 1813. +Individual variation. Combination in which the physical and moral +characters of the parents are blended, without any of their traits +seeming to appear in the new being.' My mother has told me often enough +that I did not belong to it, that in truth she did not know where I +could have come from." + +Those words came from him like a cry of relief, of involuntary joy. + +"And the people make no mistake in the matter. Have you ever heard +me called Pascal Rougon in the town? No; people always say simply Dr. +Pascal. It is because I stand apart. And it may not be very affectionate +to feel so, but I am delighted at it, for there are in truth +inheritances too heavy to bear. It is of no use that I love them all. +My heart beats none the less joyously when I feel myself another being, +different from them, without any community with them. Not to be of them, +my God! not to be of them! It is a breath of pure air; it is what +gives me the courage to have them all here, to put them, in all their +nakedness, in their envelopes, and still to find the courage to live!" + +He stopped, and there was silence for a time. The rain had ceased, the +storm was passing away, the thunderclaps sounded more and more distant, +while from the refreshed fields, still dark, there came in through the +open window a delicious odor of moist earth. In the calm air the candles +were burning out with a tall, tranquil flame. + +"Ah!" said Clotilde simply, with a gesture of discouragement, "what are +we to become finally?" + +She had declared it to herself one night, in the threshing yard; life +was horrible, how could one live peaceful and happy? It was a terrible +light that science threw on the world. Analysis searched every wound +of humanity, in order to expose its horror. And now he had spoken still +more bluntly; he had increased the disgust which she had for persons and +things, pitilessly dissecting her family. The muddy torrent had rolled +on before her for nearly three hours, and she had heard the most +dreadful revelations, the harsh and terrible truth about her people, her +people who were so dear to her, whom it was her duty to love; her father +grown powerful through pecuniary crimes; her brother dissolute; her +grandmother unscrupulous, covered with the blood of the just; the +others almost all tainted, drunkards, ruffians, murderers, the monstrous +blossoming of the human tree. + +The blow had been so rude that she could not yet recover from it, +stunned as she was by the revelation of her whole family history, +made to her in this way at a stroke. And yet the lesson was rendered +innocuous, so to say, by something great and good, a breath of profound +humanity which had borne her through it. Nothing bad had come to her +from it. She felt herself beaten by a sharp sea wind, the storm wind +which strengthens and expands the lungs. He had revealed everything, +speaking freely even of his mother, without judging her, continuing to +preserve toward her his deferential attitude, as a scientist who does +not judge events. To tell everything in order to know everything, in +order to remedy everything, was not this the cry which he had uttered on +that beautiful summer night? + +And by the very excess of what he had just revealed to her, she remained +shaken, blinded by this too strong light, but understanding him at last, +and confessing to herself that he was attempting in this an immense +work. In spite of everything, it was a cry of health, of hope in the +future. He spoke as a benefactor who, since heredity made the world, +wished to fix its laws, in order to control it, and to make a new and +happy world. Was there then only mud in this overflowing stream, whose +sluices he had opened? How much gold had passed, mingled with the grass +and the flowers on its borders? Hundreds of beings were still flying +swiftly before her, and she was haunted by good and charming faces, +delicate girlish profiles, by the serene beauty of women. All passion +bled there, hearts swelled with every tender rapture. They were +numerous, the Jeannes, the Angeliques, the Paulines, the Marthes, the +Gervaises, the Helenes. They and others, even those who were least good, +even terrible men, the worst of the band, showed a brotherhood with +humanity. + +And it was precisely this breath which she had felt pass, this broad +current of sympathy, that he had introduced naturally into his exact +scientific lesson. He did not seem to be moved; he preserved the +impersonal and correct attitude of the demonstrator, but within him +what tender suffering, what a fever of devotion, what a giving up of +his whole being to the happiness of others? His entire work, constructed +with such mathematical precision, was steeped in this fraternal +suffering, even in its most cruel ironies. Had he not just spoken of +the animals, like an elder brother of the wretched living beings that +suffer? Suffering exasperated him; his wrath was because of his +too lofty dream, and he had become harsh only in his hatred of the +factitious and the transitory; dreaming of working, not for the polite +society of a time, but for all humanity in the gravest hours of its +history. Perhaps, even, it was this revolt against the vulgarity of the +time which had made him throw himself, in bold defiance, into theories +and their application. And the work remained human, overflowing as it +was with an infinite pity for beings and things. + +Besides, was it not life? There is no absolute evil. Most often a virtue +presents itself side by side with a defect. No man is bad to every one, +each man makes the happiness of some one; so that, when one does not +view things from a single standpoint only, one recognizes in the end +the utility of every human being. Those who believe in God should say +to themselves that if their God does not strike the wicked dead, it is +because he sees his work in its totality, and that he cannot descend +to the individual. Labor ends to begin anew; the living, as a whole, +continue, in spite of everything, admirable in their courage and their +industry; and love of life prevails over all. + +This giant labor of men, this obstinacy in living, is their excuse, +is redemption. And then, from a great height the eye saw only this +continual struggle, and a great deal of good, in spite of everything, +even though there might be a great deal of evil. One shared the general +indulgence, one pardoned, one had only an infinite pity and an ardent +charity. The haven was surely there, waiting those who have lost faith +in dogmas, who wish to understand the meaning of their lives, in the +midst of the apparent iniquity of the world. One must live for the +effort of living, for the stone to be carried to the distant and unknown +work, and the only possible peace in the world is in the joy of making +this effort. + +Another hour passed; the entire night had flown by in this terrible +lesson of life, without either Pascal or Clotilde being conscious of +where they were, or of the flight of time. And he, overworked for some +time past, and worn out by the life of suspicion and sadness which he +had been leading, started nervously, as if he had suddenly awakened. + +"Come, you know all; do you feel your heart strong, tempered by the +truth, full of pardon and of hope? Are you with me?" + +But, still stunned by the frightful moral shock which she had received, +she too, started, bewildered. Her old beliefs had been so completely +overthrown, so many new ideas were awakening within her, that she did +not dare to question herself, in order to find an answer. She felt +herself seized and carried away by the omnipotence of truth. She endured +it without being convinced. + +"Master," she stammered, "master--" + +And they remained for a moment face to face, looking at each other. Day +was breaking, a dawn of exquisite purity, far off in the vast, clear +sky, washed by the storm. Not a cloud now stained the pale azure tinged +with rose color. All the cheerful sounds of awakening life in the +rain-drenched fields came in through the window, while the candles, +burned down to the socket, paled in the growing light. + +"Answer; are you with me, altogether with me?" + +For a moment he thought she was going to throw herself on his neck and +burst into tears. A sudden impulse seemed to impel her. But they saw +each other in their semi-nudity. She, who had not noticed it before, was +now conscious that she was only half dressed, that her arms were bare, +her shoulders bare, covered only by the scattered locks of her unbound +hair, and on her right shoulder, near the armpit, on lowering her eyes, +she perceived again the few drops of blood of the bruise which he had +given her, when he had grasped her roughly, in struggling to master her. +Then an extraordinary confusion took possession of her, a certainty that +she was going to be vanquished, as if by this grasp he had become her +master, and forever. This sensation was prolonged; she was seized and +drawn on, without the consent of her will, by an irresistible impulse to +submit. + +Abruptly Clotilde straightened herself, struggling with herself, wishing +to reflect and to recover herself. She pressed her bare arms against +her naked throat. All the blood in her body rushed to her skin in a rosy +blush of shame. Then, in her divine and slender grace, she turned to +flee. + +"Master, master, let me go--I will see--" + +With the swiftness of alarmed maidenhood, she took refuge in her +chamber, as she had done once before. He heard her lock the door +hastily, with a double turn of the key. He remained alone, and he asked +himself suddenly, seized by infinite discouragement and sadness, if he +had done right in speaking, if the truth would germinate in this dear +and adored creature, and bear one day a harvest of happiness. + + + + +VI. + +The days wore on. October began with magnificent weather--a sultry +autumn in which the fervid heat of summer was prolonged, with a +cloudless sky. Then the weather changed, fierce winds began to blow, and +a last storm channeled gullies in the hillsides. And to the melancholy +household at La Souleiade the approach of winter seemed to have brought +an infinite sadness. + +It was a new hell. There were no more violent quarrels between Pascal +and Clotilde. The doors were no longer slammed. Voices raised in dispute +no longer obliged Martine to go continually upstairs to listen outside +the door. They scarcely spoke to each other now; and not a single word +had been exchanged between them regarding the midnight scene, although +weeks had passed since it had taken place. He, through an inexplicable +scruple, a strange delicacy of which he was not himself conscious, did +not wish to renew the conversation, and to demand the answer which he +expected--a promise of faith in him and of submission. She, after the +great moral shock which had completely transformed her, still reflected, +hesitated, struggled, fighting against herself, putting off her decision +in order not to surrender, in her instinctive rebelliousness. And the +misunderstanding continued, in the midst of the mournful silence of the +miserable house, where there was no longer any happiness. + +During all this time Pascal suffered terribly, without making any +complaint. He had sunk into a dull distrust, imagining that he was still +being watched, and that if they seemed to leave him at peace it was +only in order to concoct in secret the darkest plots. His uneasiness +increased, even, and he expected every day some catastrophe to +happen--the earth suddenly to open and swallow up his papers, La +Souleiade itself to be razed to the ground, carried away bodily, +scattered to the winds. + +The persecution against his thought, against his moral and intellectual +life, in thus hiding itself, and so rendering him helpless to defend +himself, became so intolerable to him that he went to bed every night in +a fever. He would often start and turn round suddenly, thinking he +was going to surprise the enemy behind him engaged in some piece of +treachery, to find nothing there but the shadow of his own fears. At +other times, seized by some suspicion, he would remain on the watch +for hours together, hidden, behind his blinds, or lying in wait in +a passage; but not a soul stirred, he heard nothing but the violent +beating of his heart. His fears kept him in a state of constant +agitation; he never went to bed at night without visiting every room; +he no longer slept, or, if he did, he would waken with a start at the +slightest noise, ready to defend himself. + +And what still further aggravated Pascal's sufferings was the constant, +the ever more bitter thought that the wound was inflicted upon him by +the only creature he loved in the world, the adored Clotilde, whom for +twenty years he had seen grow in beauty and in grace, whose life had +hitherto bloomed like a beautiful flower, perfuming his. She, great God! +for whom his heart was full of affection, whom he had never analyzed, +she, who had become his joy, his courage, his hope, in whose young life +he lived over again. When she passed by, with her delicate neck, so +round, so fresh, he was invigorated, bathed in health and joy, as at the +coming of spring. + +His whole life, besides, explained this invasion, this subjugation of +his being by the young girl who had entered into his heart while she +was still a little child, and who, as she grew up, had gradually taken +possession of the whole place. Since he had settled at Plassans, he had +led a blest existence, wrapped up in his books, far from women. The only +passion he was ever known to have had, was his love for the lady who had +died, whose finger tips he had never kissed. He had not lived; he had +within him a reserve of youthfulness, of vigor, whose surging flood now +clamored rebelliously at the menace of approaching age. He would have +become attached to an animal, a stray dog that he had chanced to pick up +in the street, and that had licked his hand. And it was this child whom +he loved, all at once become an adorable woman, who now distracted him, +who tortured him by her hostility. + +Pascal, so gay, so kind, now became insupportably gloomy and harsh. He +grew angry at the slightest word; he would push aside the astonished +Martine, who would look up at him with the submissive eyes of a beaten +animal. From morning till night he went about the gloomy house, carrying +his misery about with him, with so forbidding a countenance that no one +ventured to speak to him. + +He never took Clotilde with him now on his visits, but went alone. And +thus it was that he returned home one afternoon, his mind distracted +because of an accident which had happened; having on his conscience, as +a physician, the death of a man. + +He had gone to give a hypodermic injection to Lafouasse, the tavern +keeper, whose ataxia had within a short time made such rapid progress +that he regarded him as doomed. But, notwithstanding, Pascal still +fought obstinately against the disease, continuing the treatment, and as +ill luck would have it, on this day the little syringe had caught up at +the bottom of the vial an impure particle, which had escaped the filter. +Immediately a drop of blood appeared; to complete his misfortune, he had +punctured a vein. He was at once alarmed, seeing the tavern keeper turn +pale and gasp for breath, while large drops of cold perspiration broke +out upon his face. Then he understood; death came as if by a stroke of +lightning, the lips turning blue, the face black. It was an embolism; +he had nothing to blame but the insufficiency of his preparations, his +still rude method. No doubt Lafouasse had been doomed. He could +not, perhaps, have lived six months longer, and that in the midst of +atrocious sufferings, but the brutal fact of this terrible death was +none the less there, and what despairing regret, what rage against +impotent and murderous science, and what a shock to his faith! He +returned home, livid, and did not make his appearance again until the +following day, after having remained sixteen hours shut up in his room, +lying in a semi-stupor on the bed, across which he had thrown himself, +dressed as he was. + +On the afternoon of this day Clotilde, who was sitting beside him in the +study, sewing, ventured to break the oppressive silence. She looked up, +and saw him turning over the leaves of a book wearily, searching for +some information which he was unable to find. + +"Master, are you ill? Why do you not tell me, if you are. I would take +care of you." + +He kept his eyes bent upon the book, and muttered: + +"What does it matter to you whether I am ill or not? I need no one to +take care of me." + +She resumed, in a conciliating voice: + +"If you have troubles, and can tell them to me, it would perhaps be a +relief to you to do so. Yesterday you came in looking so sad. You must +not allow yourself to be cast down in that way. I have spent a very +anxious night. I came to your door three times to listen, tormented by +the idea that you were suffering." + +Gently as she spoke, her words were like the cut of a whip. In his weak +and nervous condition a sudden access of rage made him push away the +book and rise up trembling. + +"So you spy upon me, then. I cannot even retire to my room without +people coming to glue their ears to the walls. Yes, you listen even to +the beatings of my heart. You watch for my death, to pillage and burn +everything here." + +His voice rose and all his unjust suffering vented itself in complaints +and threats. + +"I forbid you to occupy yourself about me. Is there nothing else that +you have to say to me? Have you reflected? Can you put your hand in mine +loyally, and say to me that we are in accord?" + +She did not answer. She only continued to look at him with her large +clear eyes, frankly declaring that she would not surrender yet, while +he, exasperated more and more by this attitude, lost all self-control. + +"Go away, go away," he stammered, pointing to the door. "I do not wish +you to remain near me. I do not wish to have enemies near me. I do not +wish you to remain near me to drive me mad!" + +She rose, very pale, and went at once out of the room, without looking +behind, carrying her work with her. + +During the month which followed, Pascal took refuge in furious and +incessant work. He now remained obstinately, for whole days at a time, +alone in the study, sometimes passing even the nights there, going over +old documents, to revise all his works on heredity. It seemed as if a +sort of frenzy had seized him to assure himself of the legitimacy of his +hopes, to force science to give him the certainty that humanity could be +remade--made a higher, a healthy humanity. He no longer left the house, +he abandoned his patients even, and lived among his papers, without air +or exercise. And after a month of this overwork, which exhausted him +without appeasing his domestic torments, he fell into such a state of +nervous exhaustion that illness, for some time latent, declared itself +at last with alarming violence. + +Pascal, when he rose in the morning, felt worn out with fatigue, wearier +and less refreshed than he had been on going to bed the night before. He +constantly had pains all over his body; his limbs failed him, after +five minutes' walk; the slightest exertion tired him; the least movement +caused him intense pain. At times the floor seemed suddenly to sway +beneath his feet. He had a constant buzzing in his ears, flashes of +light dazzled his eyes. He took a loathing for wine, he had no longer +any appetite, and his digestion was seriously impaired. Then, in the +midst of the apathy of his constantly increasing idleness he would have +sudden fits of aimless activity. The equilibrium was destroyed, he +had at times outbreaks of nervous irritability, without any cause. The +slightest emotion brought tears to his eyes. Finally, he would shut +himself up in his room, and give way to paroxysms of despair so violent +that he would sob for hours at a time, without any immediate cause of +grief, overwhelmed simply by the immense sadness of things. + +In the early part of December Pascal had a severe attack of neuralgia. +Violent pains in the bones of the skull made him feel at times as if his +head must split. Old Mme. Rougon, who had been informed of his illness, +came to inquire after her son. But she went straight to the kitchen, +wishing to have a talk with Martine first. The latter, with a +heart-broken and terrified air, said to her that monsieur must certainly +be going mad; and she told her of his singular behavior, the continual +tramping about in his room, the locking of all the drawers, the rounds +which he made from the top to the bottom of the house, until two o'clock +in the morning. Tears filled her eyes and she at last hazarded the +opinion that monsieur must be possessed with a devil, and that it would +be well to notify the cure of St. Saturnin. + +"So good a man," she said, "a man for whom one would let one's self be +cut in pieces! How unfortunate it is that one cannot get him to go to +church, for that would certainly cure him at once." + +Clotilde, who had heard her grandmother's voice, entered at this moment. +She, too, wandered through the empty rooms, spending most of her time in +the deserted apartment on the ground floor. She did not speak, however, +but only listened with her thoughtful and expectant air. + +"Ah, goodday! It is you, my dear. Martine tells me that Pascal is +possessed with a devil. That is indeed my opinion also; only the devil +is called pride. He thinks that he knows everything. He is Pope and +Emperor in one, and naturally it exasperates him when people don't agree +with him." + +She shrugged her shoulders with supreme disdain. + +"As for me, all that would only make me laugh if it were not so sad. A +fellow who knows nothing about anything; who has always been wrapped up +in his books; who has not lived. Put him in a drawing-room, and he would +know as little how to act as a new-born babe. And as for women, he does +not even know what they are." + +Forgetting to whom she was speaking, a young girl and a servant, she +lowered her voice, and said confidentially: + +"Well, one pays for being too sensible, too. Neither a wife nor a +sweetheart nor anything. That is what has finally turned his brain." + +Clotilde did not move. She only lowered her eyelids slowly over her +large thoughtful eyes; then she raised them again, maintaining her +impenetrable countenance, unwilling, unable, perhaps, to give expression +to what was passing within her. This was no doubt all still confused, a +complete evolution, a great change which was taking place, and which she +herself did not clearly understand. + +"He is upstairs, is he not?" resumed Felicite. "I have come to see him, +for this must end; it is too stupid." + +And she went upstairs, while Martine returned to her saucepans, and +Clotilde went to wander again through the empty house. + +Upstairs in the study Pascal sat seemingly in a stupor, his face bent +over a large open book. He could no longer read, the words danced before +his eyes, conveying no meaning to his mind. But he persisted, for it +was death to him to lose his faculty for work, hitherto so powerful. +His mother at once began to scold him, snatching the book from him, +and flinging it upon a distant table, crying that when one was sick one +should take care of one's self. He rose with a quick, angry movement, +about to order her away as he had ordered Clotilde. Then, by a last +effort of the will, he became again deferential. + +"Mother, you know that I have never wished to dispute with you. Leave +me, I beg of you." + +She did not heed him, but began instead to take him to task about his +continual distrust. It was he himself who had given himself a fever, +always fancying that he was surrounded by enemies who were setting traps +for him, and watching him to rob him. Was there any common sense in +imagining that people were persecuting him in that way? And then she +accused him of allowing his head to be turned by his discovery, his +famous remedy for curing every disease. That was as much as to think +himself equal to the good God; which only made it all the more cruel +when he found out how mistaken he was. And she mentioned Lafouasse, the +man whom he had killed--naturally, she could understand that that had +not been very pleasant for him; indeed there was cause enough in it to +make him take to his bed. + +Pascal, still controlling himself, very pale and with eyes cast on the +ground, contented himself with repeating: + +"Mother, leave me, I beg of you." + +"No, I won't leave you," she cried with the impetuosity which was +natural to her, and which her great age had in no wise diminished. "I +have come precisely to stir you up a little, to rid you of this fever +which is consuming you. No, this cannot continue. I don't wish that we +should again become the talk of the whole town on your account. I wish +you to take care of yourself." + +He shrugged his shoulders, and said in a low voice, as if speaking to +himself, with an uneasy look, half of conviction, half of doubt: + +"I am not ill." + +But Felicite, beside herself, burst out, gesticulating violently: + +"Not ill! not ill! Truly, there is no one like a physician for not being +able to see himself. Why, my poor boy, every one that comes near you is +shocked by your appearance. You are becoming insane through pride and +fear!" + +This time Pascal raised his head quickly, and looked her straight in the +eyes, while she continued: + +"This is what I had to tell you, since it seems that no one else would +undertake the task. You are old enough to know what you ought to do. +You should make an effort to shake off all this; you should think of +something else; you should not let a fixed idea take possession of you, +especially when you belong to a family like ours. You know it; have +sense, and take care of yourself." + +He grew paler than before, looking fixedly at her still, as if he were +sounding her, to know what there was of her in him. And he contented +himself with answering: + +"You are right, mother. I thank you." + +When he was again alone, he dropped into his seat before the table, and +tried once more to read his book. But he could not succeed, any more +than before, in fixing his attention sufficiently to understand the +words, whose letters mingled confusedly together before his eyes. And +his mother's words buzzed in his ears; a vague terror, which had some +time before sprung up within him, grew and took shape, haunting him now +as an immediate and clearly defined danger. He who two months before +had boasted triumphantly of not belonging to the family, was he about +to receive the most terrible of contradictions? Ah, this egotistic joy, +this intense joy of not belonging to it, was it to give place to +the terrible anguish of being struck in his turn? Was he to have the +humiliation of seeing the taint revive in him? Was he to be dragged +down to the horror of feeling himself in the clutches of the monster +of heredity? The sublime idea, the lofty certitude which he had of +abolishing suffering, of strengthening man's will, of making a new and a +higher humanity, a healthy humanity, was assuredly only the beginning of +the monomania of vanity. And in his bitter complaint of being watched, +in his desire to watch the enemies who, he thought, were obstinately +bent on his destruction, were easily to be recognized the symptoms of +the monomania of suspicion. So then all the diseases of the race were +to end in this terrible case--madness within a brief space, then general +paralysis, and a dreadful death. + +From this day forth Pascal was as if possessed. The state of nervous +exhaustion into which overwork and anxiety had thrown him left him an +unresisting prey to this haunting fear of madness and death. All the +morbid sensations which he felt, his excessive fatigue on rising, the +buzzing in his ears, the flashes of light before his eyes, even +his attacks of indigestion and his paroxysms of tears, were so many +infallible symptoms of the near insanity with which he believed himself +threatened. He had completely lost, in his own case, the keen power +of diagnosis of the observant physician, and if he still continued to +reason about it, it was only to confound and pervert symptoms, under the +influence of the moral and physical depression into which he had fallen. +He was no longer master of himself; he was mad, so to say, to convince +himself hour by hour that he must become so. + +All the days of this pale December were spent by him in going deeper +and deeper into his malady. Every morning he tried to escape from the +haunting subject, but he invariably ended by shutting himself in the +study to take up again, in spite of himself, the tangled skein of the +day before. + +The long study which he had made of heredity, his important researches, +his works, completed the poisoning of his peace, furnishing him with +ever renewed causes of disquietude. To the question which he put to +himself continually as to his own hereditary case, the documents were +there to answer it by all possible combinations. They were so numerous +that he lost himself among them now. If he had deceived himself, if he +could not set himself apart, as a remarkable case of variation, should +he place himself under the head of reversional heredity, passing +over one, two, or even three generations? Or was his case rather a +manifestation of larvated heredity, which would bring anew proof to the +support of his theory of the germ plasm, or was it simply a singular +case of hereditary resemblance, the sudden apparition of some unknown +ancestor at the very decline of life? + +From this moment he never rested, giving himself up completely to the +investigation of his case, searching his notes, rereading his books. And +he studied himself, watching the least of his sensations, to deduce from +them the facts on which he might judge himself. On the days when his +mind was most sluggish, or when he thought he experienced particular +phenomena of vision, he inclined to a predominance of the original +nervous lesion; while, if he felt that his limbs were affected, his feet +heavy and painful, he imagined he was suffering the indirect influence +of some ancestor come from outside. Everything became confused, until at +last he could recognize himself no longer, in the midst of the imaginary +troubles which agitated his disturbed organism. And every evening the +conclusion was the same, the same knell sounded in his brain--heredity, +appalling heredity, the fear of becoming mad. + +In the early part of January Clotilde was an involuntary spectator of a +scene which wrung her heart. She was sitting before one of the windows +of the study, reading, concealed by the high back of her chair, when +she saw Pascal, who had been shut up in his room since the day before, +entering. He held open before his eyes with both hands a sheet of +yellow paper, in which she recognized the genealogical tree. He was so +completely absorbed, his gaze was so fixed, that she might have come +forward without his observing her. He spread the tree upon the table, +continuing to look at it for a long time, with the terrified expression +of interrogation which had become habitual to him, which gradually +changed to one of supplication, the tears coursing down his cheeks. + +Why, great God! would not the tree answer him, and tell him what +ancestor he resembled, in order that he might inscribe his case on his +own leaf, beside the others? If he was to become mad, why did not the +tree tell him so clearly, which would have calmed him, for he believed +that his suffering came only from his uncertainty? Tears clouded his +vision, yet still he looked, he exhausted himself in this longing to +know, in which his reason must finally give way. + +Clotilde hastily concealed herself as she saw him walk over to the +press, which he opened wide. He seized the envelopes, threw them on +the table, and searched among them feverishly. It was the scene of the +terrible night of the storm that was beginning over again, the gallop +of nightmares, the procession of phantoms, rising at his call from this +heap of old papers. As they passed by, he addressed to each of them a +question, an ardent prayer, demanding the origin of his malady, hoping +for a word, a whisper which should set his doubts at rest. First, it was +only an indistinct murmur, then came words and fragments of phrases. + +"Is it you--is it you--is it you--oh, old mother, the mother of us +all--who are to give me your madness? Is it you, inebriate uncle, old +scoundrel of an uncle, whose drunkenness I am to pay for? Is it you, +ataxic nephew, or you, mystic nephew, or yet you, idiot niece, who are +to reveal to me the truth, showing me one of the forms of the lesion +from which I suffer? Or is it rather you, second cousin, who hanged +yourself; or you, second cousin, who committed murder; or you, second +cousin, who died of rottenness, whose tragic ends announce to me +mine--death in a cell, the horrible decomposition of being?" + +And the gallop continued, they rose and passed by with the speed of the +wind. The papers became animate, incarnate, they jostled one another, +they trampled on one another, in a wild rush of suffering humanity. + +"Ah, who will tell me, who will tell me, who will tell me?--Is it he +who died mad? he who was carried off by phthisis? he who was killed +by paralysis? she whose constitutional feebleness caused her to die +in early youth?--Whose is the poison of which I am to die? What is it, +hysteria, alcoholism, tuberculosis, scrofula? And what is it going to +make of me, an ataxic or a madman? A madman. Who was it said a madman? +They all say it--a madman, a madman, a madman!" + +Sobs choked Pascal. He let his dejected head fall among the papers, he +wept endlessly, shaken by shuddering sobs. And Clotilde, seized by a +sort of awe, feeling the presence of the fate which rules over races, +left the room softly, holding her breath; for she knew that it would +mortify him exceedingly if he knew that she had been present. + +Long periods of prostration followed. January was very cold. But the sky +remained wonderfully clear, a brilliant sun shone in the limpid blue; +and at La Souleiade, the windows of the study facing south formed a sort +of hothouse, preserving there a delightfully mild temperature. They did +not even light a fire, for the room was always filled with a flood of +sunshine, in which the flies that had survived the winter flew about +lazily. The only sound to be heard was the buzzing of their wings. It +was a close and drowsy warmth, like a breath of spring that had lingered +in the old house baked by the heat of summer. + +Pascal, still gloomy, dragged through the days there, and it was there, +too, that he overheard one day the closing words of a conversation +which aggravated his suffering. As he never left his room now before +breakfast, Clotilde had received Dr. Ramond this morning in the study, +and they were talking there together in an undertone, sitting beside +each other in the bright sunshine. + +It was the third visit which Ramond had made during the last week. +Personal reasons, the necessity, especially, of establishing definitely +his position as a physician at Plassans, made it expedient for him not +to defer his marriage much longer: and he wished to obtain from Clotilde +a decisive answer. On each of his former visits the presence of a third +person had prevented him from speaking. As he desired to receive her +answer from herself directly he had resolved to declare himself to her +in a frank conversation. Their intimate friendship, and the discretion +and good sense of both, justified him in taking this step. And he ended, +smiling, looking into her eyes: + +"I assure you, Clotilde, that it is the most reasonable of +_denouements_. You know that I have loved you for a long time. I have a +profound affection and esteem for you. That alone might perhaps not be +sufficient, but, in addition, we understand each other perfectly, and we +should be very happy together, I am convinced of it." + +She did not cast down her eyes; she, too, looked at him frankly, with a +friendly smile. He was, in truth, very handsome, in his vigorous young +manhood. + +"Why do you not marry Mlle. Leveque, the lawyer's daughter?" she asked. +"She is prettier and richer than I am, and I know that she would gladly +accept you. My dear friend, I fear that you are committing a folly in +choosing me." + +He did not grow impatient, seeming still convinced of the wisdom of his +determination. + +"But I do not love Mlle. Leveque, and I do love you. Besides, I have +considered everything, and I repeat that I know very well what I am +about. Say yes; you can take no better course." + +Then she grew very serious, and a shadow passed over her face, the +shadow of those reflections, of those almost unconscious inward +struggles, which kept her silent for days at a time. She did not see +clearly yet, she still struggled against herself, and she wished to +wait. + +"Well, my friend, since you are really serious, do not ask me to give +you an answer to-day; grant me a few weeks longer. Master is indeed very +ill. I am greatly troubled about him; and you would not like to owe my +consent to a hasty impulse. I assure you, for my part, that I have a +great deal of affection for you, but it would be wrong to decide at this +moment; the house is too unhappy. It is agreed, is it not? I will not +make you wait long." + +And to change the conversation she added: + +"Yes, I am uneasy about master. I wished to see you, in order to tell +you so. The other day I surprised him weeping violently, and I am +certain the fear of becoming mad haunts him. The day before yesterday, +when you were talking to him, I saw that you were examining him. Tell me +frankly, what do you think of his condition? Is he in any danger?" + +"Not the slightest!" exclaimed Dr. Ramond. "His system is a little out +of order, that is all. How can a man of his ability, who has made so +close a study of nervous diseases, deceive himself to such an extent? It +is discouraging, indeed, if the clearest and most vigorous minds can go +so far astray. In his case his own discovery of hypodermic injections +would be excellent. Why does he not use them with himself?" + +And as the young girl replied, with a despairing gesture, that he would +not listen to her, that he would not even allow her to speak to him now, +Ramond said: + +"Well, then, I will speak to him." + +It was at this moment that Pascal came out of his room, attracted by +the sound of voices. But on seeing them both so close to each other, +so animated, so youthful, and so handsome in the sunshine--clothed with +sunshine, as it were--he stood still in the doorway. He looked fixedly +at them, and his pale face altered. + +Ramond had a moment before taken Clotilde's hand, and he was holding it +in his. + +"It is a promise, is it not? I should like the marriage to take place +this summer. You know how much I love you, and I shall eagerly await +your answer." + +"Very well," she answered. "Before a month all will be settled." + +A sudden giddiness made Pascal stagger. Here now was this boy, his +friend, his pupil, who had introduced himself into his house to rob him +of his treasure! He ought to have expected this _denouement_, yet the +sudden news of a possible marriage surprised him, overwhelmed him like +an unforeseen catastrophe that had forever ruined his life. This girl +whom he had fashioned, whom he had believed his own, she would leave +him, then, without regret, she would leave him to die alone in his +solitude. Only the day before she had made him suffer so intensely that +he had asked himself whether he should not part from her and send her to +her brother, who was always writing for her. For an instant he had even +decided on this separation, for the good of both. Yet to find her here +suddenly, with this man, to hear her promise to give him an answer, to +think that she would marry, that she would soon leave him, this stabbed +him to the heart. + +At the sound of his heavy step as he came forward, the two young people +turned round in some embarrassment. + +"Why, master, we were just talking about you," said Ramond gaily. "Yes, +to be frank with you, we were conspiring. Come, why do you not take care +of yourself? There is nothing serious the matter with you; you would be +on your feet again in a fortnight if you did." + +Pascal, who had dropped into a chair, continued to look at them. He had +still the power to control himself, and his countenance gave no evidence +of the wound which he had just received. He would assuredly die of it, +and no one would suspect the malady which had carried him off. But it +was a relief to him to be able to give vent to his feelings, and he +declared violently that he would not take even so much as a glass of +tisane. + +"Take care of myself!" he cried; "what for? Is it not all over with my +old carcass?" + +Ramond insisted, with a good-tempered smile. + +"You are sounder than any of us. This is a trifling disturbance, and +you know that you have the remedy in your own hands. Use your hypodermic +injection." + +Pascal did not allow him to finish. This filled the measure of his rage. +He angrily asked if they wished him to kill himself, as he had killed +Lafouasse. His injections! A pretty invention, of which he had good +reason to be proud. He abjured medicine, and he swore that he would +never again go near a patient. When people were no longer good for +anything they ought to die; that would be the best thing for everybody. +And that was what he was going to try to do, so as to have done with it +all. + +"Bah! bah!" said Ramond at last, resolving to take his leave, through +fear of exciting him still further; "I will leave you with Clotilde; I +am not at all uneasy, Clotilde will take care of you." + +But Pascal had on this morning received the final blow. He took to his +bed toward evening, and remained for two whole days without opening +the door of his room. It was in vain that Clotilde, at last becoming +alarmed, knocked loudly at the door. There was no answer. Martine went +in her turn and begged monsieur, through the keyhole, at least to tell +her if he needed anything. A deathlike silence reigned; the room seemed +to be empty. + +Then, on the morning of the third day, as the young girl by chance +turned the knob, the door yielded; perhaps it had been unlocked for +hours. And she might enter freely this room in which she had never set +foot: a large room, rendered cold by its northern exposure, in which she +saw a small iron bed without curtains, a shower bath in a corner, a long +black wooden table, a few chairs, and on the table, on the floor, along +the walls, an array of chemical apparatus, mortars, furnaces, machines, +instrument cases. Pascal, up and dressed, was sitting on the edge of his +bed, in trying to arrange which he had exhausted himself. + +"Don't you want me to nurse you, then?" she asked with anxious +tenderness, without venturing to advance into the room. + +"Oh, you can come in," he said with a dejected gesture. "I won't beat +you. I have not the strength to do that now." + +And from this day on he tolerated her about him, and allowed her to wait +on him. But he had caprices still. He would not let her enter the room +when he was in bed, possessed by a sort of morbid shame; then he made +her send him Martine. But he seldom remained in bed, dragging himself +about from chair to chair, in his utter inability to do any kind of +work. His malady continued to grow worse, until at last he was reduced +to utter despair, tortured by sick headaches, and without the strength, +as he said, to put one foot before the other, convinced every morning +that he would spend the night at the Tulettes, a raving maniac. He grew +thin; his face, under its crown of white hair--which he still cared +for through a last remnant of vanity--acquired a look of suffering, +of tragic beauty. And although he allowed himself to be waited on, he +refused roughly all remedies, in the distrust of medicine into which he +had fallen. + +Clotilde now devoted herself to him entirely. She gave up everything +else; at first she attended low mass, then she left off going to church +altogether. In her impatience for some certain happiness, she felt as if +she were taking a step toward that end by thus devoting all her moments +to the service of a beloved being whom she wished to see once more well +and happy. She made a complete sacrifice of herself, she sought to +find happiness in the happiness of another; and all this unconsciously, +solely at the impulse of her woman's heart, in the midst of the crisis +through which she was still passing, and which was modifying her +character profoundly, without her knowledge. She remained silent +regarding the disagreement which separated them. The idea did not again +occur to her to throw herself on his neck, crying that she was his, that +he might return to life, since she gave herself to him. In her thoughts +she grieved to see him suffer; she was only an affectionate girl, +who took care of him, as any female relative would have done. And +her attentions were very pure, very delicate, occupying her life so +completely that her days now passed swiftly, exempt from tormenting +thoughts of the Beyond, filled with the one wish of curing him. + +But where she had a hard battle to fight was in prevailing upon him +to use his hypodermic injections upon himself. He flew into a passion, +disowned his discovery, and called himself an imbecile. She too cried +out. It was she now who had faith in science, who grew indignant at +seeing him doubt his own genius. He resisted for a long time; then +yielding to the empire which she had acquired over him, he consented, +simply to avoid the affectionate dispute which she renewed with him +every morning. From the very first he experienced great relief from +the injections, although he refused to acknowledge it. His mind became +clearer, and he gradually gained strength. Then she was exultant, filled +with enthusiastic pride in him. She vaunted his treatment, and became +indignant because he did not admire himself, as an example of the +miracles which he was able to work. He smiled; he was now beginning to +see clearly into his own condition. Ramond had spoken truly, his illness +had been nothing but nervous exhaustion. Perhaps he would get over it +after all. + +"Ah, it is you who are curing me, little girl," he would say, not +wishing to confess his hopes. "Medicines, you see, act according to the +hand that gives them." + +The convalescence was slow, lasting through the whole of February. The +weather remained clear and cold; there was not a single day in which +the study was not flooded with warm, pale sunshine. There were hours +of relapse, however, hours of the blackest melancholy, in which all the +patient's terrors returned; when his guardian, disconsolate, was obliged +to sit at the other end of the room, in order not to irritate him still +more. He despaired anew of his recovery. He became again bitter and +aggressively ironical. + +It was on one of those bad days that Pascal, approaching a window, saw +his neighbor, M. Bellombre, the retired professor, making the round of +his garden to see if his fruit trees were well covered with blossoms. +The sight of the old man, so neat and so erect, with the fine placidity +of the egoist, on whom illness had apparently never laid hold, suddenly +put Pascal beside himself. + +"Ah!" he growled, "there is one who will never overwork himself, who +will never endanger his health by worrying!" + +And he launched forth into an ironical eulogy on selfishness. To be +alone in the world, not to have a friend, to have neither wife nor +child, what happiness! That hard-hearted miser, who for forty years +had had only other people's children to cuff, who lived aloof from the +world, without even a dog, with a deaf and dumb gardener older than +himself, was he not an example of the greatest happiness possible on +earth? Without a responsibility, without a duty, without an anxiety, +other than that of taking care of his dear health! He was a wise man, he +would live a hundred years. + +"Ah, the fear of life! that is cowardice which is truly the best wisdom. +To think that I should ever have regretted not having a child of my own! +Has any one a right to bring miserable creatures into the world? Bad +heredity should be ended, life should be ended. The only honest man is +that old coward there!" + +M. Bellombre continued peacefully making the round of his pear trees in +the March sunshine. He did not risk a too hasty movement; he economized +his fresh old age. If he met a stone in his path, he pushed it aside +with the end of his cane, and then walked tranquilly on. + +"Look at him! Is he not well preserved; is he not handsome? Have not all +the blessings of heaven been showered down upon him? He is the happiest +man I know." + +Clotilde, who had listened in silence, suffered from the irony of +Pascal, the full bitterness of which she divined. She, who usually took +M. Bellombre's part, felt a protest rise up within her. Tears came to +her eyes, and she answered simply in a low voice: + +"Yes; but he is not loved." + +These words put a sudden end to the painful scene. Pascal, as if he had +received an electric shock, turned and looked at her. A sudden rush of +tenderness brought tears to his eyes also, and he left the room to keep +from weeping. + +The days wore on in the midst of these alternations of good and bad +hours. He recovered his strength but slowly, and what put him in despair +was that whenever he attempted to work he was seized by a profuse +perspiration. If he had persisted, he would assuredly have fainted. So +long as he did not work he felt that his convalescence was making little +progress. He began to take an interest again, however, in his accustomed +investigations. He read over again the last pages that he had written, +and, with this reawakening of the scientist in him, his former anxieties +returned. At one time he fell into a state of such depression, that the +house and all it contained ceased to exist for him. He might have been +robbed, everything he possessed might have been taken and destroyed, +without his even being conscious of the disaster. Now he became again +watchful, from time to time he would feel his pocket, to assure himself +that the key of the press was there. + +But one morning when he had overslept himself, and did not leave +his room until eleven o'clock, he saw Clotilde in the study, quietly +occupied in copying with great exactness in pastel a branch of flowering +almond. She looked up, smiling; and taking a key that was lying beside +her on the desk, she offered it to him, saying: + +"Here, master." + +Surprised, not yet comprehending, he looked at the object which she held +toward him. + +"What is that?" he asked. + +"It is the key of the press, which you must have dropped from your +pocket yesterday, and which I picked up here this morning." + +Pascal took it with extraordinary emotion. He looked at it, and then at +Clotilde. Was it ended, then? She would persecute him no more. She was +no longer eager to rob everything, to burn everything. And seeing her +still smiling, she also looking moved, an immense joy filled his heart. + +He caught her in his arms, crying: + +"Ah, little girl, if we might only not be too unhappy!" + +Then he opened a drawer of his table and threw the key into it, as he +used to do formerly. + +From this time on he gained strength, and his convalescence progressed +more rapidly. Relapses were still possible, for he was still very weak. +But he was able to write, and this made the days less heavy. The sun, +too, shone more brightly, the study being so warm at times that it +became necessary to half close the shutters. He refused to see visitors, +barely tolerated Martine, and had his mother told that he was sleeping, +when she came at long intervals to inquire for him. He was happy only in +this delightful solitude, nursed by the rebel, the enemy of yesterday, +the docile pupil of to-day. They would often sit together in silence +for a long time, without feeling any constraint. They meditated, or lost +themselves in infinitely sweet reveries. + +One day, however, Pascal seemed very grave. He was now convinced +that his illness had resulted from purely accidental causes, and that +heredity had had no part in it. But this filled him none the less with +humility. + +"My God!" he murmured, "how insignificant we are! I who thought myself +so strong, who was so proud of my sane reason! And here have I barely +escaped being made insane by a little trouble and overwork!" + +He was silent, and sank again into thought. After a time his eyes +brightened, he had conquered himself. And in a moment of reason and +courage, he came to a resolution. + +"If I am getting better," he said, "it is especially for your sake that +I am glad." + +Clotilde, not understanding, looked up and said: + +"How is that?" + +"Yes, on account of your marriage. Now you will be able to fix the day." + +She still seemed surprised. + +"Ah, true--my marriage!" + +"Shall we decide at once upon the second week in June?" + +"Yes, the second week in June; that will do very well." + +They spoke no more; she fixed her eyes again on the piece of sewing on +which she was engaged, while he, motionless, and with a grave face, sat +looking into space. + + + + +VII. + +On this day, on arriving at La Souleiade, old Mme. Rougon perceived +Martine in the kitchen garden, engaged in planting leeks; and, as she +sometimes did, she went over to the servant to have a chat with her, and +find out from her how things were going on, before entering the house. + +For some time past she had been in despair about what she called +Clotilde's desertion. She felt truly that she would now never obtain +the documents through her. The girl was behaving disgracefully, she was +siding with Pascal, after all she had done for her; and she was becoming +perverted to such a degree that for a month past she had not been seen +in Church. Thus she returned to her first idea, to get Clotilde away and +win her son over when, left alone, he should be weakened by solitude. +Since she had not been able to persuade the girl to go live with her +brother, she eagerly desired the marriage. She would like to throw her +into Dr. Ramond's arms to-morrow, in her impatience at so many delays. +And she had come this afternoon with a feverish desire to hurry on +matters. + +"Good-day, Martine. How is every one here?" + +The servant, kneeling down, her hands full of clay, lifted up her pale +face, protected against the sun by a handkerchief tied over her cap. + +"As usual, madame, pretty well." + +They went on talking, Felicite treating her as a confidante, as a +devoted daughter, one of the family, to whom she could tell everything. +She began by questioning her; she wished to know if Dr. Ramond had come +that morning. He had come, but they had talked only about indifferent +matters. This put her in despair, for she had seen the doctor on the +previous day, and he had unbosomed himself to her, chagrined at not +having yet received a decisive answer, and eager now to obtain at least +Clotilde's promise. Things could not go on in this way, the young girl +must be compelled to engage herself to him. + +"He has too much delicacy," she cried. "I have told him so. I knew very +well that this morning, even, he would not venture to demand a positive +answer. And I have come to interfere in the matter. We shall see if I +cannot oblige her to come to a decision." + +Then, more calmly: + +"My son is on his feet now; he does not need her." + +Martine, who was again stooping over the bed, planting her leeks, +straightened herself quickly. + +"Ah, that for sure!" + +And a flush passed over her face, worn by thirty years of service. For a +wound bled within her; for some time past the master scarcely tolerated +her about him. During the whole time of his illness he had kept her at +a distance, accepting her services less and less every day, and finally +closing altogether to her the door of his room and of the workroom. +She had a vague consciousness of what was taking place, an instinctive +jealousy tortured her, in her adoration of the master, whose chattel she +had been satisfied to be for so many years. + +"For sure, we have no need of mademoiselle. I am quite able to take care +of monsieur." + +Then she, who was so discreet, spoke of her labors in the garden, saying +that she made time to cultivate the vegetables, so as to save a few +days' wages of a man. True, the house was large, but when one was not +afraid of work, one could manage to do all there was to be done. And +then, when mademoiselle should have left them, that would be always one +less to wait upon. And her eyes brightened unconsciously at the thought +of the great solitude, of the happy peace in which they should live +after this departure. + +"It would give me pain," she said, lowering her voice, "for it would +certainly give monsieur a great deal. I would never have believed that +I could be brought to wish for such a separation. Only, madame, I agree +with you that it is necessary, for I am greatly afraid that mademoiselle +will end by going to ruin here, and that there will be another soul +lost to the good God. Ah, it is very sad; my heart is so heavy about it +sometimes that it is ready to burst." + +"They are both upstairs, are they not?" said Felicite. "I will go up and +see them, and I will undertake to oblige them to end the matter." + +An hour later, when she came down again, she found Martine still on +her knees on the soft earth, finishing her planting. Upstairs, from her +first words, when she said that she had been talking with Dr. Ramond, +and that he had shown himself anxious to know his fate quickly, she saw +that Dr. Pascal approved--he looked grave, he nodded his head as if +to say that this wish seemed to him very natural. Clotilde, herself, +ceasing to smile, seemed to listen to him with deference. But she +manifested some surprise. Why did they press her? Master had fixed the +marriage for the second week in June; she had, then, two full months +before her. Very soon she would speak about it with Ramond. Marriage was +so serious a matter that they might very well give her time to reflect, +and let her wait until the last moment to engage herself. And she said +all this with her air of good sense, like a person resolved on coming to +a decision. And Felicite was obliged to content herself with the evident +desire that both had that matters should have the most reasonable +conclusion. + +"Indeed I believe that it is settled," ended Felicite. "He seems to +place no obstacle in the way, and she seems only to wish not to act +hastily, like a girl who desires to examine her heart closely, before +engaging herself for life. I will give her a week more for reflection." + +Martine, sitting on her heels, was looking fixedly on the ground with a +clouded face. + +"Yes, yes," she murmured, in a low voice, "mademoiselle has been +reflecting a great deal of late. I am always meeting her in some corner. +You speak to her, and she does not answer you. That is the way people +are when they are breeding a disease, or when they have a secret on +their mind. There is something going on; she is no longer the same, no +longer the same." + +And she took the dibble again and planted a leek, in her rage for work; +while old Mme. Rougon went away, somewhat tranquillized; certain, she +said, that the marriage would take place. + +Pascal, in effect, seemed to accept Clotilde's marriage as a thing +settled, inevitable. He had not spoken with her about it again, the +rare allusions which they made to it between themselves, in their hourly +conversations, left them undisturbed; and it was simply as if the two +months which they still had to live together were to be without end, an +eternity stretching beyond their view. + +She, especially, would look at him smiling, putting off to a future +day troubles and decisions with a pretty vague gesture, as if to leave +everything to beneficent life. He, now well and gaining strength daily, +grew melancholy only when he returned to the solitude of his chamber +at night, after she had retired. He shuddered and turned cold at the +thought that a time would come when he would be always alone. Was it the +beginning of old age that made him shiver in this way? He seemed to +see it stretching before him, like a shadowy region in which he already +began to feel all his energy melting away. And then the regret of having +neither wife nor child filled him with rebelliousness, and wrung his +heart with intolerable anguish. + +Ah, why had he not lived! There were times when he cursed science, +accusing it of having taken from him the best part of his manhood. +He had let himself be devoured by work; work had consumed his brain, +consumed his heart, consumed his flesh. All this solitary, passionate +labor had produced only books, blackened paper, that would be scattered +to the winds, whose cold leaves chilled his hands as he turned them +over. And no living woman's breast to lean upon, no child's warm locks +to kiss! He had lived the cold, solitary life of a selfish scientist, +and he would die in cold solitude. Was he indeed going to die thus? +Would he never taste the happiness enjoyed by even the common porters, +by the carters who cracked their whips, passing by under his windows? +But he must hasten, if he would; soon, no doubt, it would be too late. +All his unemployed youth, all his pent-up desires, surged tumultuously +through his veins. He swore that he would yet love, that he would live +a new life, that he would drain the cup of every passion that he had not +yet tasted, before he should be an old man. He would knock at the doors, +he would stop the passers-by, he would scour the fields and town. + +On the following day, when he had taken his shower bath and left his +room, all his fever was calmed, the burning pictures had faded away, +and he fell back into his natural timidity. Then, on the next night, the +fear of solitude drove sleep away as before, his blood kindled again, +and the same despair, the same rebelliousness, the same longing not to +die without having known family joys returned. He suffered a great deal +in this crisis. + +During these feverish nights, with eyes wide open in the darkness, he +dreamed always, over and over again the same dream. A girl would come +along the road, a girl of twenty, marvelously beautiful; and she would +enter and kneel down before him in an attitude of submissive adoration, +and he would marry her. She was one of those pilgrims of love such as +we find in ancient story, who have followed a star to come and restore +health and strength to some aged king, powerful and covered with glory. +He was the aged king, and she adored him, she wrought the miracle, with +her twenty years, of bestowing on him a part of her youth. In her love +he recovered his courage and his faith in life. + +Ah, youth! he hungered fiercely for it. In his declining days this +passionate longing for youth was like a revolt against approaching age, +a desperate desire to turn back, to be young again, to begin life over +again. And in this longing to begin life over again, there was not only +regret for the vanished joys of youth, the inestimable treasure of dead +hours, to which memory lent its charm; there was also the determined +will to enjoy, now, his health and strength, to lose nothing of the joy +of loving! Ah, youth! how eagerly he would taste of its every pleasure, +how eagerly he would drain every cup, before his teeth should fall out, +before his limbs should grow feeble, before the blood should be chilled +in his veins. A pang pierced his heart when he remembered himself, a +slender youth of twenty, running and leaping agilely, vigorous and hardy +as a young oak, his teeth glistening, his hair black and luxuriant. How +he would cherish them, these gifts scorned before, if a miracle could +restore them to him! + +And youthful womanhood, a young girl who might chance to pass by, +disturbed him, causing him profound emotion. This was often even +altogether apart from the individual: the image, merely, of youth, the +perfume and the dazzling freshness which emanated from it, bright eyes, +healthy lips, blooming cheeks, a delicate neck, above all, rounded +and satin-smooth, shaded on the back with down; and youthful womanhood +always presented itself to him tall and slight, divinely slender in its +chaste nudeness. His eyes, gazing into vacancy, followed the vision, +his heart was steeped in infinite longing. There was nothing good or +desirable but youth; it was the flower of the world, the only beauty, +the only joy, the only true good, with health, which nature could bestow +on man. Ah, to begin life over again, to be young again, to clasp in his +embrace youthful womanhood! + +Pascal and Clotilde, now that the fine April days had come, covering the +fruit trees with blossoms, resumed their morning walks in La Souleiade. +It was the first time that he had gone out since his illness, and she +led him to the threshing yard, along the paths in the pine wood, and +back again to the terrace crossed by the two bars of shadows thrown by +the secular cypresses. The sun had already warmed the old flagstones +there, and the wide horizon stretched out under a dazzling sky. + +One morning when Clotilde had been running, she returned to the house in +such exuberant spirits and so full of pleasant excitement that she went +up to the workroom without taking off either her garden hat or the lace +scarf which she had tied around her neck. + +"Oh," she said, "I am so warm! And how stupid I am, not to have taken +off my things downstairs. I will go down again at once." + +She had thrown the scarf on a chair on entering. + +But her feverish fingers became impatient when she tried to untie the +strings of her large straw hat. + +"There, now! I have fastened the knot. I cannot undo it, and you must +come to my assistance." + +Pascal, happy and excited too by the pleasure of the walk, rejoiced to +see her so beautiful and so merry. He went over and stood in front of +her. + +"Wait; hold up your chin. Oh, if you keep moving like that, how do you +suppose I can do it?" + +She laughed aloud. He could see the laughter swelling her throat, like +a wave of sound. His fingers became entangled under her chin, that +delicious part of the throat whose warm satin he involuntarily touched. +She had on a gown cut sloping in the neck, and through the opening he +inhaled all the living perfume of the woman, the pure fragrance of her +youth, warmed by the sunshine. All at once a vertigo seized him and he +thought he was going to faint. + +"No, no! I cannot do it," he said, "unless you keep still!" + +The blood throbbed in his temples, and his fingers trembled, while she +leaned further back, unconsciously offering the temptation of her fresh +girlish beauty. It was the vision of royal youth, the bright eyes, +the healthy lips, the blooming cheeks, above all, the delicate neck, +satin-smooth and round, shaded on the back by down. And she seemed +to him so delicately graceful, with her slender throat, in her divine +bloom! + +"There, it is done!" she cried. + +Without knowing how, he had untied the strings. The room whirled round, +and then he saw her again, bareheaded now, with her starlike face, +shaking back her golden curls laughingly. Then he was seized with a fear +that he would catch her in his arms and press mad kisses on her bare +neck, and arms, and throat. And he fled from the room, taking with him +the hat, which he had kept in his hand, saying: + +"I will hang it in the hall. Wait for me; I want to speak to Martine." + +Once downstairs, he hurried to the abandoned room and locked himself +into it, trembling lest she should become uneasy and come down here +to seek him. He looked wild and haggard, as if he had just committed +a crime. He spoke aloud, and he trembled as he gave utterance for the +first time to the cry that he had always loved her madly, passionately. +Yes, ever since she had grown into womanhood he had adored her. And +he saw her clearly before him, as if a curtain had been suddenly torn +aside, as she was when, from an awkward girl, she became a charming and +lovely creature, with her long tapering limbs, her strong slender body, +with its round throat, round neck, and round and supple arms. And it was +monstrous, but it was true--he hungered for all this with a devouring +hunger, for this youth, this fresh, blooming, fragrant flesh. + +Then Pascal, dropping into a rickety chair, hid his face in his hands, +as if to shut out the light of day, and burst into great sobs. Good God! +what was to become of him? A girl whom his brother had confided to +him, whom he had brought up like a good father, and who was now--this +temptress of twenty-five--a woman in her supreme omnipotence! He felt +himself more defenseless, weaker than a child. + +And above this physical desire, he loved her also with an immense +tenderness, enamored of her moral and intellectual being, of her +right-mindedness, of her fine intelligence, so fearless and so clear. +Even their discord, the disquietude about spiritual things by which she +was tortured, made her only all the more precious to him, as if she +were a being different from himself, in whom he found a little of the +infinity of things. She pleased him in her rebellions, when she held her +ground against him,--she was his companion and pupil; he saw her such +as he had made her, with her great heart, her passionate frankness, +her triumphant reason. And she was always present with him; he did +not believe that he could exist where she was not; he had need of her +breath; of the flutter of her skirts near him; of her thoughtfulness and +affection, by which he felt himself constantly surrounded; of her looks; +of her smile; of her whole daily woman's life, which she had given him, +which she would not have the cruelty to take back from him again. At the +thought that she was going away, that she would not be always here, it +seemed to him as if the heavens were about to fall and crush him; as if +the end of all things had come; as if he were about to be plunged in +icy darkness. She alone existed in the world, she alone was lofty and +virtuous, intelligent and beautiful, with a miraculous beauty. Why, +then, since he adored her and since he was her master, did he not go +upstairs and take her in his arms and kiss her like an idol? They were +both free, she was ignorant of nothing, she was a woman in age. This +would be happiness. + +Pascal, who had ceased to weep, rose, and would have walked to the door. +But suddenly he dropped again into his chair, bursting into a fresh +passion of sobs. No, no, it was abominable, it could not be! He felt on +his head the frost of his white hair; and he had a horror of his age, +of his fifty-nine years, when he thought of her twenty-five years. His +former chill fear again took possession of him, the certainty that +she had subjugated him, that he would be powerless against the daily +temptation. And he saw her giving him the strings of her hat to untie; +compelling him to lean over her to make some correction in her work; and +he saw himself, too, blind, mad, devouring her neck with ardent kisses. +His indignation against himself at this was so great that he arose, +now courageously, and had the strength to go upstairs to the workroom, +determined to conquer himself. + +Upstairs Clotilde had tranquilly resumed her drawing. She did not even +look around at his entrance, but contented herself with saying: + +"How long you have been! I was beginning to think that Martine must have +made a mistake of at least ten sous in her accounts." + +This customary jest about the servant's miserliness made him laugh. +And he went and sat down quietly at his table. They did not speak again +until breakfast time. A great sweetness bathed him and calmed him, now +that he was near her. He ventured to look at her, and he was touched by +her delicate profile, by her serious, womanly air of application. Had +he been the prey of a nightmare, downstairs, then? Would he be able to +conquer himself so easily? + +"Ah!" he cried, when Martine called them, "how hungry I am! You shall +see how I am going to make new muscle!" + +She went over to him, and took him by the arm, saying: + +"That's right, master; you must be gay and strong!" + +But that night, when he was in his own room, the agony began again. At +the thought of losing her he was obliged to bury his face in the pillow +to stifle his cries. He pictured her to himself in the arms of another, +and all the tortures of jealousy racked his soul. Never could he find +the courage to consent to such a sacrifice. All sorts of plans clasped +together in his seething brain; he would turn her from the marriage, and +keep her with him, without ever allowing her to suspect his passion; +he would take her away, and they would go from city to city, +occupying their minds with endless studies, in order to keep up their +companionship as master and pupil; or even, if it should be necessary, +he would send her to her brother to nurse him, he would lose her forever +rather than give her to a husband. And at each of these resolutions he +felt his heart, torn asunder, cry out with anguish in the imperious +need of possessing her entirely. He was no longer satisfied with her +presence, he wished to keep her for himself, with himself, as she +appeared to him in her radiant beauty, in the darkness of his chamber, +with her unbound hair falling around her. + +His arms clasped the empty air, and he sprang out of bed, staggering +like a drunken man; and it was only in the darkness and silence of the +workroom that he awoke from this sudden fit of madness. Where, then, +was he going, great God? To knock at the door of this sleeping child? +to break it in, perhaps, with a blow of his shoulder? The soft, pure +respiration, which he fancied he heard like a sacred wind in the midst +of the profound silence, struck him on the face and turned him back. And +he returned to his room and threw himself on his bed, in a passion of +shame and wild despair. + +On the following day when he arose, Pascal, worn out by want of sleep, +had come to a decision. He took his daily shower bath, and he felt +himself stronger and saner. The resolution to which he had come was to +compel Clotilde to give her word. When she should have formally promised +to marry Ramond, it seemed to him that this final solution would calm +him, would forbid his indulging in any false hopes. This would be a +barrier the more, an insurmountable barrier between her and him. He +would be from that moment armed against his desire, and if he still +suffered, it would be suffering only, without the horrible fear of +becoming a dishonorable man. + +On this morning, when he told the young girl that she ought to delay +no longer, that she owed a decisive answer to the worthy fellow who had +been awaiting it so long, she seemed at first astonished. She looked +straight into his eyes, but he had sufficient command over himself not +to show confusion; he insisted merely, with a slightly grieved air, as +if it distressed him to have to say these things to her. Finally, she +smiled faintly and turned her head aside, saying: + +"Then, master, you wish me to leave you?" + +"My dear," he answered evasively, "I assure you that this is becoming +ridiculous. Ramond will have the right to be angry." + +She went over to her desk, to arrange some papers which were on it. +Then, after a moment's silence, she said: + +"It is odd; now you are siding with grandmother and Martine. They, too, +are persecuting me to end this matter. I thought I had a few days more. +But, in truth, if you all three urge me--" + +She did not finish, and he did not press her to explain herself more +clearly. + +"When do you wish me to tell Ramond to come, then?" + +"Why, he may come whenever he wishes; it does not displease me to see +him. But don't trouble yourself. I will let him know that we will expect +him one of these afternoons." + +On the following day the same scene began over again. Clotilde had taken +no step yet, and Pascal was now angry. He suffered martyrdom; he had +crises of anguish and rebelliousness when she was not present to calm +him by her smiling freshness. And he insisted, in emphatic language, +that she should behave seriously and not trifle any longer with an +honorable man who loved her. + +"The devil! Since the thing is decided, let us be done with it. I warn +you that I will send word to Ramond, and that he will be here to-morrow +at three o'clock." + +She listened in silence, her eyes fixed on the ground. Neither seemed +to wish to touch upon the question as to whether the marriage had really +been decided on or not, and they took the standpoint that there had been +a previous decision, which was irrevocable. When she looked up again he +trembled, for he felt a breath pass by; he thought she was on the point +of saying that she had questioned herself, and that she refused this +marriage. What would he have done, what would have become of him, good +God! Already he was filled with an immense joy and a wild terror. But +she looked at him with the discreet and affectionate smile which never +now left her lips, and she answered with a submissive air: + +"As you please, master. Send him word to be here to-morrow at three +o'clock." + +Pascal spent so dreadful a night that he rose late, saying, as an +excuse, that he had one of his old headaches. He found relief only under +the icy deluge of the shower bath. At ten o'clock he left the house, +saying he would go himself to see Ramond; but he had another object +in going out--he had seen at a show in Plassans a corsage of old point +d'Alencon; a marvel of beauty which lay there awaiting some lover's +generous folly, and the thought had come to him in the midst of the +tortures of the night, to make a present of it to Clotilde, to adorn her +wedding gown. This bitter idea of himself adorning her, of making her +beautiful and fair for the gift of herself, touched his heart, exhausted +by sacrifice. She knew the corsage, she had admired it with him one day +wonderingly, wishing for it only to place it on the shoulders of the +Virgin at St. Saturnin, an antique Virgin adored by the faithful. The +shopkeeper gave it to him in a little box which he could conceal, +and which he hid, on his return to the house, in the bottom of his +writing-desk. + +At three o'clock Dr. Ramond presented himself, and he found Pascal and +Clotilde in the parlor, where they had been awaiting him with secret +excitement and a somewhat forced gaiety, avoiding any further allusion +to his visit. They received him smilingly with exaggerated cordiality. + +"Why, you are perfectly well again, master!" said the young man. "You +never looked so strong." + +Pascal shook his head. + +"Oh, oh, strong, perhaps! only the heart is no longer here." + +This involuntary avowal made Clotilde start, and she looked from one to +the other, as if, by the force of circumstances, she compared them with +each other--Ramond, with his smiling and superb face--the face of the +handsome physician adored by the women--his luxuriant black hair and +beard, in all the splendor of his young manhood; and Pascal, with his +white hair and his white beard. This fleece of snow, still so abundant, +retained the tragic beauty of the six months of torture that he had +just passed through. His sorrowful face had aged a little, only his eyes +remained still youthful; brown eyes, brilliant and limpid. But at this +moment all his features expressed so much gentleness, such exalted +goodness, that Clotilde ended by letting her gaze rest upon him with +profound tenderness. There was silence for a moment and each heart +thrilled. + +"Well, my children," resumed Pascal heroically, "I think you have +something to say to each other. I have something to do, too, downstairs. +I will come up again presently." + +And he left the room, smiling back at them. + +And soon as they were alone, Clotilde went frankly straight over to +Ramond, with both hands outstretched. Taking his hands in hers, she held +them as she spoke. + +"Listen, my dear friend; I am going to give you a great grief. You must +not be too angry with me, for I assure you that I have a very profound +friendship for you." + +He understood at once, and he turned very pale. + +"Clotilde give me no answer now, I beg of you; take more time, if you +wish to reflect further." + +"It is useless, my dear friend, my decision is made." + +She looked at him with her fine, loyal look. She had not released his +hands, in order that he might know that she was not excited, and that +she was his friend. And it was he who resumed, in a low voice: + +"Then you say no?" + +"I say no, and I assure you that it pains me greatly to say it. Ask me +nothing; you will no doubt know later on." + +He sat down, crushed by the emotion which he repressed like a strong and +self-contained man, whose mental balance the greatest sufferings cannot +disturb. Never before had any grief agitated him like this. He remained +mute, while she, standing, continued: + +"And above all, my friend, do not believe that I have played the +coquette with you. If I have allowed you to hope, if I have made you +wait so long for my answer, it was because I did not in very truth see +clearly myself. You cannot imagine through what a crisis I have just +passed--a veritable tempest of emotions, surrounded by darkness from out +of which I have but just found my way." + +He spoke at last. + +"Since it is your wish, I will ask you nothing. Besides, it is +sufficient for you to answer one question. You do not love me, +Clotilde?" + +She did not hesitate, but said gravely, with an emotion which softened +the frankness of her answer: + +"It is true, I do not love you; I have only a very sincere affection for +you." + +He rose, and stopped by a gesture the kind words which she would have +added. + +"It is ended; let us never speak of it again. I wished you to be happy. +Do not grieve for me. At this moment I feel as if the house had just +fallen about me in ruins. But I must only extricate myself as best I +can." + +A wave of color passed over his pale face, he gasped for air, he crossed +over to the window, then he walked back with a heavy step, seeking +to recover his self-possession. He drew a long breath. In the painful +silence which had fallen they heard Pascal coming upstairs noisily, to +announce his return. + +"I entreat you," murmured Clotilde hurriedly, "to say nothing to master. +He does not know my decision, and I wish to break it to him myself, for +he was bent upon this marriage." + +Pascal stood still in the doorway. He was trembling and breathless, as +if he had come upstairs too quickly. He still found strength to smile at +them, saying: + +"Well, children, have you come to an understanding?" + +"Yes, undoubtedly," responded Ramond, as agitated as himself. + +"Then it is all settled?" + +"Quite," said Clotilde, who had been seized by a faintness. + +Pascal walked over to his work-table, supporting himself by the +furniture, and dropped into the chair beside it. + +"Ah, ah! you see the legs are not so strong after all. It is this old +carcass of a body. But the heart is strong. And I am very happy, my +children, your happiness will make me well again." + +But when Ramond, after a few minutes' further conversation, had gone +away, he seemed troubled at finding himself alone with the young girl, +and he again asked her: + +"It is settled, quite settled; you swear it to me?" + +"Entirely settled." + +After this he did not speak again. He nodded his head, as if to repeat +that he was delighted; that nothing could be better; that at last they +were all going to live in peace. He closed his eyes, feigning to +drop asleep, as he sometimes did in the afternoon. But his heart beat +violently, and his closely shut eyelids held back the tears. + +That evening, at about ten o'clock, when Clotilde went downstairs for a +moment to give an order to Martine before she should have gone to bed, +Pascal profited by the opportunity of being left alone, to go and lay +the little box containing the lace corsage on the young girl's bed. She +came upstairs again, wished him the accustomed good-night, and he had +been for at least twenty minutes in his own room, and was already in his +shirt sleeves, when a burst of gaiety sounded outside his door. A little +hand tapped, and a fresh voice cried, laughing: + +"Come, come and look!" + +He opened the door, unable to resist this appeal of youth, conquered by +his joy. + +"Oh, come, come and see what a beautiful little bird has put on my bed!" + +And she drew him to her room, taking no refusal. She had lighted the two +candles in it, and the antique, pleasant chamber, with its hangings of +faded rose color, seemed transformed into a chapel; and on the bed, like +a sacred cloth offered to the adoration of the faithful, she had spread +the corsage of old point d'Alencon. + +"You would not believe it! Imagine, I did not see the box at first. I +set things in order a little, as I do every evening. I undressed, and +it was only when I was getting into bed that I noticed your present. Ah, +what a surprise! I was overwhelmed by it! I felt that I could never wait +for the morning, and I put on a skirt and ran to look for you." + +It was not until then that he perceived that she was only half dressed, +as on the night of the storm, when he had surprised her stealing his +papers. And she seemed divine, with her tall, girlish form, her tapering +limbs, her supple arms, her slender body, with its small, firm throat. + +She took his hands and pressed them caressingly in her little ones. + +"How good you are; how I thank you! Such a marvel of beauty, so lovely +a present for me, who am nobody! And you remember that I had admired +it, this antique relic of art. I said to you that only the Virgin of St. +Saturnin was worthy of wearing it on her shoulders. I am so happy! +oh, so happy! For it is true, I love beautiful things; I love them so +passionately that at times I wish for impossibilities, gowns woven of +sunbeams, impalpable veils made of the blue of heaven. How beautiful I +am going to look! how beautiful I am going to look!" + +Radiant in her ecstatic gratitude, she drew close to him, still looking +at the corsage, and compelling him to admire it with her. Then a sudden +curiosity seized her. + +"But why did you make me this royal present?" + +Ever since she had come to seek him in her joyful excitement, Pascal +had been walking in a dream. He was moved to tears by this affectionate +gratitude; he stood there, not feeling the terror which he had dreaded, +but seeming, on the contrary, to be filled with joy, as at the approach +of a great and miraculous happiness. This chamber, which he never +entered, had the religious sweetness of holy places that satisfy all +longings for the unattainable. + +His countenance, however, expressed surprise. And he answered: + +"Why, this present, my dear, is for your wedding gown." + +She, in her turn, looked for a moment surprised as if she had not +understood him. Then, with the sweet and singular smile which she had +worn of late she said gayly: + +"Ah, true, my marriage!" + +Then she grew serious again, and said: + +"Then you want to get rid of me? It was in order to have me here no +longer that you were so bent upon marrying me. Do you still think me +your enemy, then?" + +He felt his tortures return, and he looked away from her, wishing to +retain his courage. + +"My enemy, yes. Are you not so? We have suffered so much through each +other these last days. It is better in truth that we should separate. +And then I do not know what your thoughts are; you have never given me +the answer I have been waiting for." + +She tried in vain to catch his glance, which he still kept turned away. +She began to talk of the terrible night on which they had gone together +through the papers. It was true, in the shock which her whole being had +suffered, she had not yet told him whether she was with him or against +him. He had a right to demand an answer. + +She again took his hands in hers, and forced him to look at her. + +"And it is because I am your enemy that you are sending me away? I am +not your enemy. I am your servant, your chattel, your property. Do you +hear? I am with you and for you, for you alone!" + +His face grew radiant; an intense joy shone within his eyes. + +"Yes, I will wear this lace. It is for my wedding day, for I wish to be +beautiful, very beautiful for you. But do you not understand me, then? +You are my master; it is you I love." + +"No, no! be silent; you will make me mad! You are betrothed to another. +You have given your word. All this madness is happily impossible." + +"The other! I have compared him with you, and I have chosen you. I have +dismissed him. He has gone away, and he will never return. There are +only we two now, and it is you I love, and you love me. I know it, and I +give myself to you." + +He trembled violently. He had ceased to struggle, vanquished by the +longing of eternal love. + +The spacious chamber, with its antique furniture, warmed by youth, was +as if filled with light. There was no longer either fear or suffering; +they were free. She gave herself to him knowingly, willingly, and he +accepted the supreme gift like a priceless treasure which the strength +of his love had won. Suddenly she murmured in his ear, in a caressing +voice, lingering tenderly on the words: + +"Master, oh, master, master!" + +And this word, which she used formerly as a matter of habit, at this +hour acquired a profound significance, lengthening out and prolonging +itself, as if it expressed the gift of her whole being. She uttered +it with grateful fervor, like a woman who accepts, and who surrenders +herself. Was not the mystic vanquished, the real acknowledged, life +glorified with love at last confessed and shared. + +"Master, master, this comes from far back. I must tell you; I must make +my confession. It is true that I went to church in order to be happy. +But I could not believe. I wished to understand too much; my reason +rebelled against their dogmas; their paradise appeared to me an +incredible puerility. But I believed that the world does not stop at +sensation; that there is a whole unknown world, which must be taken +into account; and this, master, I believe still. It is the idea of the +Beyond, which not even happiness, found at last upon your neck, will +efface. But this longing for happiness, this longing to be happy at +once, to have some certainty--how I have suffered from it. If I went to +church, it was because I missed something, and I went there to seek it. +My anguish consisted in this irresistible need to satisfy my longing. +You remember what you used to call my eternal thirst for illusion and +falsehood. One night, in the threshing yard, under the great starry +sky, do you remember? I burst out against your science, I was indignant +because of the ruins with which it strews the earth, I turned my eyes +away from the dreadful wounds which it exposes. And I wished, master, +to take you to a solitude where we might both live in God, far from the +world, forgotten by it. Ah, what torture, to long, to struggle, and not +to be satisfied!" + +Softly, without speaking, he kissed her on both eyes. + +"Then, master, do you remember again, there was the great moral shock on +the night of the storm, when you gave me that terrible lesson of life, +emptying out your envelopes before me. You had said to me already: 'Know +life, love it, live it as it ought to be lived.' But what a vast, what +a frightful flood, rolling ever onward toward a human sea, swelling it +unceasingly for the unknown future! And, master, the silent work within +me began then. There was born, in my heart and in my flesh, the bitter +strength of the real. At first I was as if crushed, the blow was so +rude. I could not recover myself. I kept silent, because I did not know +clearly what to say. Then, gradually, the evolution was effected. I +still had struggles, I still rebelled against confessing my defeat. But +every day after this the truth grew clearer within me, I knew well that +you were my master, and that there was no happiness for me outside of +you, of your science and your goodness. You were life itself, broad and +tolerant life; saying all, accepting all, solely through the love of +energy and effort, believing in the work of the world, placing the +meaning of destiny in the labor which we all accomplish with love, in +our desperate eagerness to live, to love, to live anew, to live always, +in spite of all the abominations and miseries of life. Oh, to live, to +live! This is the great task, the work that always goes on, and that +will doubtless one day be completed!" + +Silent still, he smiled radiantly, and kissed her on the mouth. + +"And, master, though I have always loved you, even from my earliest +youth, it was, I believe, on that terrible night that you marked me for, +and made me your own. You remember how you crushed me in your grasp. It +left a bruise, and a few drops of blood on my shoulder. Then your being +entered, as it were into mine. We struggled; you were the stronger, and +from that time I have felt the need of a support. At first I thought +myself humiliated; then I saw that it was but an infinitely sweet +submission. I always felt your power within me. A gesture of your hand +in the distance thrilled me as though it had touched me. I would have +wished that you had seized me again in your grasp, that you had crushed +me in it, until my being had mingled with yours forever. And I was +not blind; I knew well that your wish was the same as mine, that the +violence which had made me yours had made you mine; that you struggled +with yourself not to seize me and hold me as I passed by you. To nurse +you when you were ill was some slight satisfaction. From that time, +light began to break upon me, and I at last understood. I went no more +to church, I began to be happy near you, you had become certainty and +happiness. Do you remember that I cried to you, in the threshing yard, +that something was wanting in our affection. There was a void in it +which I longed to fill. What could be wanting to us unless it were God? +And it was God--love, and life." + + + + +VIII. + +Then came a period of idyllic happiness. Clotilde was the spring, the +tardy rejuvenation that came to Pascal in his declining years. She came, +bringing to him, with her love, sunshine and flowers. Their rapture +lifted them above the earth; and all this youth she bestowed on him +after his thirty years of toil, when he was already weary and worn +probing the frightful wounds of humanity. He revived in the light of her +great shining eyes, in the fragrance of her pure breath. He had faith +again in life, in health, in strength, in the eternal renewal of nature. + +On the morning after her avowal it was ten o'clock before Clotilde left +her room. In the middle of the workroom she suddenly came upon Martine +and, in her radiant happiness, with a burst of joy that carried +everything before it, she rushed toward her, crying: + +"Martine, I am not going away! Master and I--we love each other." + +The old servant staggered under the blow. Her poor worn face, nunlike +under its white cap and with its look of renunciation, grew white in the +keenness of her anguish. Without a word, she turned and fled for refuge +to her kitchen, where, leaning her elbows on her chopping-table, and +burying her face in her clasped hands, she burst into a passion of sobs. + +Clotilde, grieved and uneasy, followed her. And she tried to comprehend +and to console her. + +"Come, come, how foolish you are! What possesses you? Master and I will +love you all the same; we will always keep you with us. You are not +going to be unhappy because we love each other. On the contrary, the +house is going to be gay now from morning till night." + +But Martine only sobbed all the more desperately. + +"Answer me, at least. Tell me why you are angry and why you cry. Does +it not please you then to know that master is so happy, so happy! See, I +will call master and he will make you answer." + +At this threat the old servant suddenly rose and rushed into her own +room, which opened out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. In +vain the young girl called and knocked until she was tired; she +could obtain no answer. At last Pascal, attracted by the noise, came +downstairs, saying: + +"Why, what is the matter?" + +"Oh, it is that obstinate Martine! Only fancy, she began to cry when she +knew that we loved each other. And she has barricaded herself in there, +and she will not stir." + +She did not stir, in fact. Pascal, in his turn, called and knocked. He +scolded; he entreated. Then, one after the other, they began all over +again. Still there was no answer. A deathlike silence reigned in +the little room. And he pictured it to himself, this little room, +religiously clean, with its walnut bureau, and its monastic bed +furnished with white hangings. No doubt the servant had thrown herself +across this bed, in which she had slept alone all her woman's life, and +was burying her face in the bolster to stifle her sobs. + +"Ah, so much the worse for her?" said Clotilde at last, in the egotism +of her joy, "let her sulk!" + +Then throwing her arms around Pascal, and raising to his her charming +face, still glowing with the ardor of self-surrender, she said: + +"Master, I will be your servant to-day." + +He kissed her on the eyes with grateful emotion; and she at once set +about preparing the breakfast, turning the kitchen upside down. She +had put on an enormous white apron, and she looked charming, with her +sleeves rolled up, showing her delicate arms, as if for some great +undertaking. There chanced to be some cutlets in the kitchen which she +cooked to a turn. She added some scrambled eggs, and she even succeeded +in frying some potatoes. And they had a delicious breakfast, twenty +times interrupted by her getting up in her eager zeal, to run for the +bread, the water, a forgotten fork. If he had allowed her, she would +have waited upon him on her knees. Ah! to be alone, to be only they two +in this large friendly house, and to be free to laugh and to love each +other in peace. + +They spent the whole afternoon in sweeping and putting things in order. +He insisted upon helping her. It was a play; they amused themselves like +two merry children. From time to time, however, they went back to knock +at Martine's door to remonstrate with her. Come, this was foolish, she +was not going to let herself starve! Was there ever seen such a mule, +when no one had said or done anything to her! But only the echo of their +knocks came back mournfully from the silent room. Not the slightest +sound, not a breath responded. Night fell, and they were obliged to make +the dinner also, which they ate, sitting beside each other, from the +same plate. Before going to bed, they made a last attempt, threatening +to break open the door, but their ears, glued to the wood, could not +catch the slightest sound. And on the following day, when they went +downstairs and found the door still hermetically closed, they began to +be seriously uneasy. For twenty-four hours the servant had given no sign +of life. + +Then, on returning to the kitchen after a moment's absence, Clotilde and +Pascal were stupefied to see Martine sitting at her table, picking some +sorrel for the breakfast. She had silently resumed her place as servant. + +"But what was the matter with you?" cried Clotilde. "Will you speak +now?" + +She lifted up her sad face, stained by tears. It was very calm, however, +and it expressed now only the resigned melancholy of old age. She looked +at the young girl with an air of infinite reproach; then she bent her +head again without speaking. + +"Are you angry with us, then?" + +And as she still remained silent, Pascal interposed: + +"Are you angry with us, my good Martine?" + +Then the old servant looked up at him with her former look of adoration, +as if she loved him sufficiently to endure all and to remain in spite of +all. At last she spoke. + +"No, I am angry with no one. The master is free. It is all right, if he +is satisfied." + +A new life began from this time. Clotilde, who in spite of her +twenty-five years had still remained childlike, now, under the influence +of love, suddenly bloomed into exquisite womanhood. Since her heart had +awakened, the serious and intelligent boy that she had looked like, +with her round head covered with its short curls, had given place to an +adorable woman, altogether womanly, submissive and tender, loving to be +loved. Her great charm, notwithstanding her learning picked up at random +from her reading and her work, was her virginal _naivete_, as if her +unconscious awaiting of love had made her reserve the gift of her whole +being to be utterly absorbed in the man whom she should love. No doubt +she had given her love as much through gratitude and admiration as +through tenderness; happy to make him happy; experiencing a profound joy +in being no longer only a little girl to be petted, but something of his +very own which he adored, a precious possession, a thing of grace and +joy, which he worshiped on bended knees. She still had the religious +submissiveness of the former devotee, in the hands of a master mature +and strong, from whom she derived consolation and support, retaining, +above and beyond affection, the sacred awe of the believer in the +spiritual which she still was. But more than all, this woman, so +intoxicated with love, was a delightful personification of health and +gaiety; eating with a hearty appetite; having something of the valor +of her grandfather the soldier; filling the house with her swift and +graceful movements, with the bloom of her satin skin, the slender grace +of her neck, of all her young form, divinely fresh. + +And Pascal, too, had grown handsome again under the influence of +love, with the serene beauty of a man who had retained his vigor, +notwithstanding his white hairs. His countenance had no longer the +sorrowful expression which it had worn during the months of grief and +suffering through which he had lately passed; his eyes, youthful still, +had recovered their brightness, his features their smiling grace; while +his white hair and beard grew thicker, in a leonine abundance which +lent him a youthful air. He had kept himself, in his solitary life as a +passionate worker, so free from vice and dissipation that he found now +within him a reserve of life and vigor eager to expend itself at last. +There awoke within him new energy, a youthful impetuosity that broke +forth in gestures and exclamations, in a continual need of expansion, of +living. Everything wore a new and enchanting aspect to him; the smallest +glimpse of sky moved him to wonder; the perfume of a simple flower threw +him into an ecstasy; an everyday expression of affection, worn by use, +touched him to tears, as if it had sprung fresh from the heart and had +not been hackneyed by millions of lips. Clotilde's "I love you," was +an infinite caress, whose celestial sweetness no human being had ever +before known. And with health and beauty he recovered also his gaiety, +that tranquil gaiety which had formerly been inspired by his love of +life, and which now threw sunshine over his love, over everything that +made life worth living. + +They two, blooming youth and vigorous maturity, so healthy, so gay, +so happy, made a radiant couple. For a whole month they remained in +seclusion, not once leaving La Souleiade. The place where both now liked +to be was the spacious workroom, so intimately associated with their +habits and their past affection. They would spend whole days there, +scarcely working at all, however. The large carved oak press remained +with closed doors; so, too, did the bookcases. Books and papers lay +undisturbed upon the tables. Like a young married couple they were +absorbed in their one passion, oblivious of their former occupations, +oblivious of life. The hours seemed all too short to enjoy the charm of +being together, often seated in the same large antique easy-chair, happy +in the depths of this solitude in which they secluded themselves, in +the tranquillity of this lofty room, in this domain which was altogether +theirs, without luxury and without order, full of familiar objects, +brightened from morning till night by the returning gaiety of the April +sunshine. When, seized with remorse, he would talk about working, she +would link her supple arms through his and laughingly hold him prisoner, +so that he should not make himself ill again with overwork. And +downstairs, they loved, too, the dining-room, so gay with its light +panels relieved by blue bands, its antique mahogany furniture, its large +flower pastels, its brass hanging lamp, always shining. They ate in it +with a hearty appetite and they left it, after each meal, only to go +upstairs again to their dear solitude. + +Then when the house seemed too small, they had the garden, all La +Souleiade. Spring advanced with the advancing sun, and at the end of +April the roses were beginning to bloom. And what a joy was this domain, +walled around, where nothing from the outside world could trouble +them! Hours flew by unnoted, as they sat on the terrace facing the +vast horizon and the shady banks of the Viorne, and the slopes of +Sainte-Marthe, from the rocky bars of the Seille to the valley of +Plassans in the dusty distance. There was no shade on the terrace but +that of the two secular cypresses planted at its two extremities, like +two enormous green tapers, which could be seen three leagues away. At +times they descended the slope for the pleasure of ascending the giant +steps, and climbing the low walls of uncemented stones which supported +the plantations, to see if the stunted olive trees and the puny almonds +were budding. More often there were delightful walks under the delicate +needles of the pine wood, steeped in sunshine and exhaling a strong odor +of resin; endless walks along the wall of inclosure, from behind which +the only sound they could hear was, at rare intervals, the grating noise +of some cart jolting along the narrow road to Les Fenouilleres; and they +spent delightful hours in the old threshing yard, where they could see +the whole horizon, and where they loved to stretch themselves, tenderly +remembering their former tears, when, loving each other unconsciously +to themselves, they had quarreled under the stars. But their favorite +retreat, where they always ended by losing themselves, was the quincunx +of tall plane trees, whose branches, now of a tender green, looked like +lacework. Below, the enormous box trees, the old borders of the French +garden, of which now scarcely a trace remained, formed a sort of +labyrinth of which they could never find the end. And the slender stream +of the fountain, with its eternal crystalline murmur, seemed to sing +within their hearts. They would sit hand in hand beside the mossy basin, +while the twilight fell around them, their forms gradually fading into +the shadow of the trees, while the water which they could no longer see, +sang its flutelike song. + +Up to the middle of May Pascal and Clotilde secluded themselves in this +way, without even crossing the threshold of their retreat. One morning +he disappeared and returned an hour later, bringing her a pair of +diamond earrings which he had hurried out to buy, remembering this was +her birthday. She adored jewels, and the gift astonished and delighted +her. From this time not a week passed in which he did not go out once or +twice in this way to bring her back some present. The slightest excuse +was sufficient for him--a _fete_, a wish, a simple pleasure. He brought +her rings, bracelets, a necklace, a slender diadem. He would take out +the other jewels and please himself by putting them all upon her in +the midst of their laughter. She was like an idol, seated on her chair, +covered with gold,--a band of gold on her hair, gold on her bare arms +and on her bare throat, all shining with gold and precious stones. Her +woman's vanity was delightfully gratified by this. She allowed herself +to be adored thus, to be adored on bended knees, like a divinity, +knowing well that this was only an exalted form of love. She began at +last to scold a little, however; to make prudent remonstrances; for, in +truth, it was an absurdity to bring her all these gifts which she must +afterward shut up in a drawer, without ever wearing them, as she went +nowhere. + +They were forgotten after the hour of joy and gratitude which they gave +her in their novelty was over. But he would not listen to her, carried +away by a veritable mania for giving; unable, from the moment the idea +of giving her an article took possession of him, to resist the desire +of buying it. It was a munificence of the heart; an imperious desire to +prove to her that he thought of her always; a pride in seeing her the +most magnificent, the happiest, the most envied of women; a generosity +more profound even, which impelled him to despoil himself of everything, +of his money, of his life. And then, what a delight, when he saw he had +given her a real pleasure, and she threw herself on his neck, blushing, +thanking him with kisses. After the jewels, it was gowns, articles of +dress, toilet articles. Her room was littered, the drawers were filled +to overflowing. + +One morning she could not help getting angry. He had brought her another +ring. + +"Why, I never wear them! And if I did, my fingers would be covered to +the tips. Be reasonable, I beg of you." + +"Then I have not given you pleasure?" he said with confusion. + +She threw her arms about his neck, and assured him with tears in her +eyes that she was very happy. He was so good to her! He was so unwearied +in his devotion to her! And when, later in the morning, he ventured to +speak of making some changes in her room, of covering the walls with +tapestry, of putting down a carpet, she again remonstrated. + +"Oh! no, no! I beg of you. Do not touch my old room, so full of +memories, where I have grown up, where I told you I loved you. I should +no longer feel myself at home in it." + +Downstairs, Martine's obstinate silence condemned still more strongly +these excessive and useless expenses. She had adopted a less familiar +attitude, as if, in the new situation, she had fallen from her role +of housekeeper and friend to her former station of servant. Toward +Clotilde, especially, she changed, treating her like a young lady, like +a mistress to whom she was less affectionate but more obedient than +formerly. Two or three times, however, she had appeared in the morning +with her face discolored and her eyes sunken with weeping, answering +evasively when questioned, saying that nothing was the matter, that she +had taken cold. And she never made any remark about the gifts with which +the drawers were filled. She did not even seem to see them, arranging +them without a word either of praise or dispraise. But her whole nature +rebelled against this extravagant generosity, of which she could never +have conceived the possibility. She protested in her own fashion; +exaggerating her economy and reducing still further the expenses of +the housekeeping, which she now conducted on so narrow a scale that she +retrenched even in the smallest expenses. For instance, she took only +two-thirds of the milk which she had been in the habit of taking, and +she served sweet dishes only on Sundays. Pascal and Clotilde, without +venturing to complain, laughed between themselves at this parsimony, +repeating the jests which had amused them for ten years past, saying +that after dressing the vegetables she strained them in the colander, in +order to save the butter for future use. + +But this quarter she insisted upon rendering an account. She was in the +habit of going every three months to Master Grandguillot, the notary, +to receive the fifteen hundred francs income, of which she disposed +afterward according to her judgment, entering the expenses in a book +which the doctor had years ago ceased to verify. She brought it to him +now and insisted upon his looking over it. He excused himself, saying +that it was all right. + +"The thing is, monsieur," she said, "that this time I have been able to +put some money aside. Yes, three hundred francs. Here they are." + +He looked at her in amazement. Generally she just made both ends meet. +By what miracle of stinginess had she been able to save such a sum? + +"Ah! my poor Martine," he said at last, laughing, "that is the reason, +then, that we have been eating so many potatoes of late. You are a pearl +of economy, but indeed you must treat us a little better in the future." + +This discreet reproach wounded her so profoundly that she allowed +herself at last to say: + +"Well, monsieur, when there is so much extravagance on the one hand, it +is well to be prudent on the other." + +He understood the allusion, but instead of being angry, he was amused by +the lesson. + +"Ah, ah! it is you who are examining my accounts! But you know very +well, Martine, that I, too, have my savings laid by." + +He alluded to the money which he still received occasionally from his +patients, and which he threw into a drawer of his writing-desk. For more +than sixteen years past he had put into this drawer every year about +four thousand francs, which would have amounted to a little fortune +if he had not taken from it, from day to day, without counting them, +considerable sums for his experiments and his whims. All the money for +the presents came out of this drawer, which he now opened continually. +He thought that it would never be empty; he had been so accustomed to +take from it whatever he required that it had never occurred to him to +fear that he would ever come to the bottom of it. + +"One may very well have a little enjoyment out of one's savings," he +said gayly. "Since it is you who go to the notary's, Martine, you are +not ignorant that I have my income apart." + +Then she said, with the colorless voice of the miser who is haunted by +the dread of an impending disaster: + +"And what would you do if you hadn't it?" + +Pascal looked at her in astonishment, and contented himself with +answering with a shrug, for the possibility of such a misfortune had +never even entered his mind. He fancied that avarice was turning her +brain, and he laughed over the incident that evening with Clotilde. + +In Plassans, too, the presents were the cause of endless gossip. The +rumor of what was going on at La Souleiade, this strange and sudden +passion, had spread, no one could tell how, by that force of expansion +which sustains curiosity, always on the alert in small towns. The +servant certainly had not spoken, but her air was perhaps sufficient; +words perhaps had dropped from her involuntarily; the lovers might have +been watched over the walls. And then came the buying of the presents, +confirming the reports and exaggerating them. When the doctor, in the +early morning, scoured the streets and visited the jeweler's and the +dressmaker's, eyes spied him from the windows, his smallest purchases +were watched, all the town knew in the evening that he had given her a +silk bonnet, a bracelet set with sapphires. And all this was turned into +a scandal. This uncle in love with his niece, committing a young man's +follies for her, adorning her like a holy Virgin. The most extraordinary +stories began to circulate, and people pointed to La Souleiade as they +passed by. + +But old Mme. Rougon was, of all persons, the most bitterly indignant. +She had ceased going to her son's house when she learned that Clotilde's +marriage with Dr. Ramond had been broken off. They had made sport of +her. They did nothing to please her, and she wished to show how deep her +displeasure was. Then a full month after the rupture, during which she +had understood nothing of the pitying looks, the discreet condolences, +the vague smiles which met her everywhere, she learned everything with a +suddenness that stunned her. She, who, at the time of Pascal's illness, +in her mortification at the idea of again becoming the talk of the town +through that ugly story, had raised such a storm! It was far worse +this time; the height of scandal, a love affair for people to regale +themselves with. The Rougon legend was again in peril; her unhappy son +was decidedly doing his best to find some way to destroy the family +glory won with so much difficulty. So that in her anger she, who had +made herself the guardian of this glory, resolving to purify the legend +by every means in her power, put on her hat one morning and hurried to +La Souleiade with the youthful vivacity of her eighty years. + +Pascal, whom the rupture with his mother enchanted, was fortunately +not at home, having gone out an hour before to look for a silver buckle +which he had thought of for a belt. And Felicite fell upon Clotilde +as the latter was finishing her toilet, her arms bare, her hair loose, +looking as fresh and smiling as a rose. + +The first shock was rude. The old lady unburdened her mind, grew +indignant, spoke of the scandal they were giving. Suddenly her anger +vanished. She looked at the young girl, and she thought her adorable. In +her heart she was not surprised at what was going on. She laughed at it, +all she desired was that it should end in a correct fashion, so as to +silence evil tongues. And she cried with a conciliating air: + +"Get married then! Why do you not get married?" + +Clotilde remained silent for a moment, surprised. She had not thought of +marriage. Then she smiled again. + +"No doubt we will get married, grandmother. But later on, there is no +hurry." + +Old Mme. Rougon went away, obliged to be satisfied with this vague +promise. + +It was at this time that Pascal and Clotilde ceased to seclude +themselves. Not through any spirit of bravado, not because they wished +to answer ugly rumors by making a display of their happiness, but as a +natural amplification of their joy; their love had slowly acquired the +need of expansion and of space, at first beyond the house, then beyond +the garden, into the town, as far as the whole vast horizon. It filled +everything; it took in the whole world. + +The doctor then tranquilly resumed his visits, and he took the young +girl with him. They walked together along the promenades, along the +streets, she on his arm, in a light gown, with flowers in her hat, he +buttoned up in his coat with his broad-brimmed hat. He was all white; +she all blond. They walked with their heads high, erect and smiling, +radiating such happiness that they seemed to walk in a halo. At first +the excitement was extraordinary. The shopkeepers came and stood at +their doors, the women leaned out of the windows, the passers-by stopped +to look after them. People whispered and laughed and pointed to them. +Then they were so handsome; he superb and triumphant, she so youthful, +so submissive, and so proud, that an involuntary indulgence gradually +gained on every one. People could not help defending them and loving +them, and they ended by smiling on them in a delightful contagion of +tenderness. A charm emanated from them which brought back all hearts to +them. The new town, with its _bourgeois_ population of functionaries +and townspeople who had grown wealthy, was the last conquest. But the +Quartier St. Marc, in spite of its austerity, showed itself at once kind +and discreetly tolerant when they walked along its deserted grass-worn +sidewalks, beside the antique houses, now closed and silent, which +exhaled the evaporated perfume of the loves of other days. But it was +the old quarter, more especially, that promptly received them with +cordiality, this quarter of which the common people, instinctively +touched, felt the grace of the legend, the profound myth of the couple, +the beautiful young girl supporting the royal and rejuvenated master. +The doctor was adored here for his goodness, and his companion quickly +became popular, and was greeted with tokens of admiration and approval +as soon as she appeared. They, meantime, if they had seemed ignorant +of the former hostility, now divined easily the forgiveness and the +indulgent tenderness which surrounded them, and this made them more +beautiful; their happiness charmed the entire town. + +One afternoon, as Pascal and Clotilde turned the corner of the Rue de la +Banne, they perceived Dr. Ramond on the opposite side of the street. It +had chanced that they had learned the day before that he had asked and +had obtained the hand of Mlle. Leveque, the advocate's daughter. It was +certainly the most sensible course he could have taken, for his business +interests made it advisable that he should marry, and the young girl, +who was very pretty and very rich, loved him. He, too, would certainly +love her in time. Therefore Clotilde joyfully smiled her congratulations +to him as a sincere friend. Pascal saluted him with an affectionate +gesture. For a moment Ramond, a little moved by the meeting, stood +perplexed. His first impulse seemed to have been to cross over to them. +But a feeling of delicacy must have prevented him, the thought that it +would be brutal to interrupt their dream, to break in upon this solitude +_a deux_, in which they moved, even amid the elbowings of the street. +And he contented himself with a friendly salutation, a smile in which he +forgave them their happiness. This was very pleasant for all three. + +At this time Clotilde amused herself for several days by painting +a large pastel representing the tender scene of old King David and +Abishag, the young Shunammite. It was a dream picture, one of those +fantastic compositions into which her other self, her romantic self, put +her love of the mysterious. Against a background of flowers thrown on +the canvas, flowers that looked like a shower of stars, of barbaric +richness, the old king stood facing the spectator, his hand resting on +the bare shoulder of Abishag. He was attired sumptuously in a robe heavy +with precious stones, that fell in straight folds, and he wore the royal +fillet on his snowy locks. But she was more sumptuous still, with only +the lilylike satin of her skin, her tall, slender figure, her round, +slender throat, her supple arms, divinely graceful. He reigned over, he +leaned, as a powerful and beloved master, on this subject, chosen from +among all others, so proud of having been chosen, so rejoiced to give to +her king the rejuvenating gift of her youth. All her pure and triumphant +beauty expressed the serenity of her submission, the tranquillity with +which she gave herself, before the assembled people, in the full light +of day. And he was very great and she was very fair, and there radiated +from both a starry radiance. + +Up to the last moment Clotilde had left the faces of the two figures +vaguely outlined in a sort of mist. Pascal, standing behind her, jested +with her to hide his emotion, for he fancied he divined her intention. +And it was as he thought; she finished the faces with a few strokes of +the crayon--old King David was he, and she was Abishag, the Shunammite. +But they were enveloped in a dreamlike brightness, it was themselves +deified; the one with hair all white, the other with hair all blond, +covering them like an imperial mantle, with features lengthened by +ecstasy, exalted to the bliss of angels, with the glance and the smile +of immortal youth. + +"Ah, dear!" he cried, "you have made us too beautiful; you have wandered +off again to dreamland--yes, as in the days, do you remember, when I +used to scold you for putting there all the fantastic flowers of the +Unknown?" + +And he pointed to the walls, on which bloomed the fantastic _parterre_ +of the old pastels, flowers not of the earth, grown in the soil of +paradise. + +But she protested gayly. + +"Too beautiful? We could not be too beautiful! I assure you it is thus +that I picture us to myself, thus that I see us; and thus it is that we +are. There! see if it is not the pure reality." + +She took the old fifteenth century Bible which was beside her, and +showed him the simple wood engraving. + +"You see it is exactly the same." + +He smiled gently at this tranquil and extraordinary affirmation. + +"Oh, you laugh, you look only at the details of the picture. It is +the spirit which it is necessary to penetrate. And look at the other +engravings, it is the same theme in all--Abraham and Hagar, Ruth and +Boaz. And you see they are all handsome and happy." + +Then they ceased to laugh, leaning over the old Bible whose pages she +turned with her white fingers, he standing behind her, his white beard +mingling with her blond, youthful tresses. + +Suddenly he whispered to her softly: + +"But you, so young, do you never regret that you have chosen me--me, who +am so old, as old as the world?" + +She gave a start of surprise, and turning round looked at him. + +"You old! No, you are young, younger than I!" + +And she laughed so joyously that he, too, could not help smiling. But he +insisted a little tremulously: + +"You do not answer me. Do you not sometimes desire a younger lover, you +who are so youthful?" + +She put up her lips and kissed him, saying in a low voice: + +"I have but one desire, to be loved--loved as you love me, above and +beyond everything." + +The day on which Martine saw the pastel nailed to the wall, she looked +at it a moment in silence, then she made the sign of the cross, but +whether it was because she had seen God or the devil, no one could +say. A few days before Easter she had asked Clotilde if she would +not accompany her to church, and the latter having made a sign in the +negative, she departed for an instant from the deferential silence which +she now habitually maintained. Of all the new things which +astonished her in the house, what most astonished her was the sudden +irreligiousness of her young mistress. So she allowed herself to resume +her former tone of remonstrance, and to scold her as she used to do when +she was a little girl and refused to say her prayers. "Had she no longer +the fear of the Lord before her, then? Did she no longer tremble at the +idea of going to hell, to burn there forever?" + +Clotilde could not suppress a smile. + +"Oh, hell! you know that it has never troubled me a great deal. But you +are mistaken if you think I am no longer religious. If I have left off +going to church it is because I perform my devotions elsewhere, that is +all." + +Martine looked at her, open-mouthed, not comprehending her. It was all +over; mademoiselle was indeed lost. And she never again asked her to +accompany her to St. Saturnin. But her own devotion increased until it +at last became a mania. She was no longer to be met, as before, with the +eternal stocking in her hand which she knitted even when walking, when +not occupied in her household duties. Whenever she had a moment to +spare, she ran to church and remained there, repeating endless prayers. +One day when old Mme. Rougon, always on the alert, found her behind a +pillar, an hour after she had seen her there before, Martine excused +herself, blushing like a servant who had been caught idling, saying: + +"I was praying for monsieur." + +Meanwhile Pascal and Clotilde enlarged still more their domain, taking +longer and longer walks every day, extending them now outside the +town into the open country. One afternoon, as they were going to La +Seguiranne, they were deeply moved, passing by the melancholy fields +where the enchanted gardens of Le Paradou had formerly extended. The +vision of Albine rose before them. Pascal saw her again blooming like +the spring, in the rejuvenation which this living flower had brought +him too, feeling the pressure of this pure arm against his heart. Never +could he have believed, he who had already thought himself very old when +he used to enter this garden to give a smile to the little fairy within, +that she would have been dead for years when life, the good mother, +should bestow upon him the gift of so fresh a spring, sweetening his +declining years. And Clotilde, having felt the vision rise before them, +lifted up her face to his in a renewed longing for tenderness. She was +Albine, the eternal lover. He kissed her on the lips, and though no word +had been uttered, the level fields sown with corn and oats, where Le +Paradou had once rolled its billows of luxuriant verdure, thrilled in +sympathy. + +Pascal and Clotilde were now walking along the dusty road, through the +bare and arid country. They loved this sun-scorched land, these fields +thinly planted with puny almond trees and dwarf olives, these stretches +of bare hills dotted with country houses, that showed on them like pale +patches accentuated by the dark bars of the secular cypresses. It was +like an antique landscape, one of those classic landscapes represented +in the paintings of the old schools, with harsh coloring and well +balanced and majestic lines. All the ardent sunshine of successive +summers that had parched this land flowed through their veins, and lent +them a new beauty and animation, as they walked under the sky forever +blue, glowing with the clear flame of eternal love. She, protected from +the sun by her straw hat, bloomed and luxuriated in this bath of light +like a tropical flower, while he, in his renewed youth, felt the burning +sap of the soil ascend into his veins in a flood of virile joy. + +This walk to La Seguiranne had been an idea of the doctor's, who had +learned through Aunt Dieudonne of the approaching marriage of Sophie to +a young miller of the neighborhood; and he desired to see if every +one was well and happy in this retired corner. All at once they were +refreshed by a delightful coolness as they entered the avenue of tall +green oaks. On either side the springs, the mothers of these giant shade +trees, flowed on in their eternal course. And when they reached the +house of the shrew they came, as chance would have it, upon the two +lovers, Sophie and her miller, kissing each other beside the well; for +the girl's aunt had just gone down to the lavatory behind the willows +of the Viorne. Confused, the couple stood in blushing silence. But the +doctor and his companion laughed indulgently, and the lovers, reassured, +told them that the marriage was set for St. John's Day, which was a long +way off, to be sure, but which would come all the same. Sophie, saved +from the hereditary malady, had improved in health and beauty, and was +growing as strong as one of the trees that stood with their feet in the +moist grass beside the springs, and their heads bare to the sunshine. +Ah, the vast, glowing sky, what life it breathed into all created +things! She had but one grief, and tears came to her eyes when she spoke +of her brother Valentin, who perhaps would not live through the week. +She had had news of him the day before; he was past hope. And the doctor +was obliged to prevaricate a little to console her, for he himself +expected hourly the inevitable termination. When he and his companion +left La Seguiranne they returned slowly to Plassans, touched by this +happy, healthy love saddened by the chill of death. + +In the old quarter a woman whom Pascal was attending informed him that +Valentin had just died. Two of the neighbors were obliged to take away +La Guiraude, who, half-crazed, clung, shrieking, to her son's body. The +doctor entered the house, leaving Clotilde outside. At last, they again +took their way to La Souleiade in silence. Since Pascal had resumed +his visits he seemed to make them only through professional duty; he no +longer became enthusiastic about the miracles wrought by his treatment. +But as far as Valentin's death was concerned, he was surprised that +it had not occurred before; he was convinced that he had prolonged +the patient's life for at least a year. In spite of the extraordinary +results which he had obtained at first, he knew well that death was the +inevitable end. That he had held it in check for months ought then to +have consoled him and soothed his remorse, still unassuaged, for having +involuntarily caused the death of Lafouasse, a few weeks sooner than it +would otherwise have occurred. But this did not seem to be the case, +and his brow was knitted in a frown as they returned to their beloved +solitude. But there a new emotion awaited him; sitting under the plane +trees, whither Martine had sent him, he saw Sarteur, the hatter, +the inmate of the Tulettes whom he had been so long treating by his +hypodermic injections, and the experiment so zealously continued seemed +to have succeeded. The injections of nerve substance had evidently given +strength to his will, since the madman was here, having left the asylum +that morning, declaring that he no longer had any attacks, that he was +entirely cured of the homicidal mania that impelled him to throw himself +upon any passer-by to strangle him. The doctor looked at him as he +spoke. He was a small dark man, with a retreating forehead and aquiline +features, with one cheek perceptibly larger than the other. He was +perfectly quiet and rational, and filled with so lively a gratitude that +he kissed his saviour's hands. The doctor could not help being greatly +affected by all this, and he dismissed the man kindly, advising him to +return to his life of labor, which was the best hygiene, physical and +moral. Then he recovered his calmness and sat down to table, talking +gaily of other matters. + +Clotilde looked at him with astonishment and even with a little +indignation. + +"What is the matter, master?" she said. "You are no longer satisfied +with yourself." + +"Oh, with myself I am never satisfied!" he answered jestingly. "And with +medicine, you know--it is according to the day." + +It was on this night that they had their first quarrel. She was angry +with him because he no longer had any pride in his profession. She +returned to her complaint of the afternoon, reproaching him for not +taking more credit to himself for the cure of Sarteur, and even for the +prolongation of Valentin's life. It was she who now had a passion for +his fame. She reminded him of his cures; had he not cured himself? Could +he deny the efficacy of his treatment? A thrill ran through him as +he recalled the great dream which he had once cherished--to combat +debility, the sole cause of disease; to cure suffering humanity; to make +a higher, and healthy humanity; to hasten the coming of happiness, the +future kingdom of perfection and felicity, by intervening and giving +health to all! And he possessed the liquor of life, the universal +panacea which opened up this immense hope! + +Pascal was silent for a moment. Then he murmured: + +"It is true. I cured myself, I have cured others, and I still think that +my injections are efficacious in many cases. I do not deny medicine. +Remorse for a deplorable accident, like that of Lafouasse, does not +render me unjust. Besides, work has been my passion, it is in work that +I have up to this time spent my energies; it was in wishing to prove to +myself the possibility of making decrepit humanity one day strong and +intelligent that I came near dying lately. Yes, a dream, a beautiful +dream!" + +"No, no! a reality, the reality of your genius, master." + +Then, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, he breathed this +confession: + +"Listen, I am going to say to you what I would say to no one else in +the world, what I would not say to myself aloud. To correct nature, to +interfere, in order to modify it and thwart it in its purpose, is this +a laudable task? To cure the individual, to retard his death, for his +personal pleasure, to prolong his existence, doubtless to the injury of +the species, is not this to defeat the aims of nature? And have we the +right to desire a stronger, a healthier humanity, modeled after our idea +of health and strength? What have we to do in the matter? Why should we +interfere in this work of life, neither the means nor the end of which +are known to us? Perhaps everything is as it ought to be. Perhaps we +should risk killing love, genius, life itself. Remember, I make the +confession to you alone; but doubt has taken possession of me, I tremble +at the thought of my twentieth century alchemy. I have come to believe +that it is greater and wiser to allow evolution to take its course." + +He paused; then he added so softly that she could scarcely hear him: + +"Do you know that instead of nerve-substance I often use only water with +my patients. You no longer hear me grinding for days at a time. I told +you that I had some of the liquor in reserve. Water soothes them, +this is no doubt simply a mechanical effect. Ah! to soothe, to prevent +suffering--that indeed I still desire! It is perhaps my greatest +weakness, but I cannot bear to see any one suffer. Suffering puts me +beside myself, it seems a monstrous and useless cruelty of nature. I +practise now only to prevent suffering." + +"Then, master," she asked, in the same indistinct murmur, "if you no +longer desire to cure, do you still think everything must be told? For +the frightful necessity of displaying the wounds of humanity had no +other excuse than the hope of curing them." + +"Yes, yes, it is necessary to know, in every case, and to conceal +nothing; to tell everything regarding things and individuals. Happiness +is no longer possible in ignorance; certainty alone makes life tranquil. +When people know more they will doubtless accept everything. Do you not +comprehend that to desire to cure everything, to regenerate everything +is a false ambition inspired by our egotism, a revolt against life, +which we declare to be bad, because we judge it from the point of view +of self-interest? I know that I am more tranquil, that my intellect has +broadened and deepened ever since I have held evolution in respect. It +is my love of life which triumphs, even to the extent of not questioning +its purpose, to the extent of confiding absolutely in it, of losing +myself in it, without wishing to remake it according to my own +conception of good and evil. Life alone is sovereign, life alone knows +its aim and its end. I can only try to know it in order to live it as it +should be lived. And this I have understood only since I have possessed +your love. Before I possessed it I sought the truth elsewhere, I +struggled with the fixed idea of saving the world. You have come, and +life is full; the world is saved every hour by love, by the immense and +incessant labor of all that live and love throughout space. Impeccable +life, omnipotent life, immortal life!" + +They continued to talk together in low tones for some time longer, +planning an idyllic life, a calm and healthful existence in the country. +It was in this simple prescription of an invigorating environment that +the experiments of the physician ended. He exclaimed against cities. +People could be well and happy only in the country, in the sunshine, on +the condition of renouncing money, ambition, even the proud excesses of +intellectual labor. They should do nothing but live and love, cultivate +the soil, and bring up their children. + + + + +IX. + +Dr. Pascal then resumed his professional visits in the town and the +surrounding country. And he was generally accompanied by Clotilde, +who went with him into the houses of the poor, where she, too, brought +health and cheerfulness. + +But, as he had one night confessed to her in secret, his visits were now +only visits of relief and consolation. If he had before practised with +repugnance it was because he had felt how vain was medical science. +Empiricism disheartened him. From the moment that medicine ceased to be +an experimental science and became an art, he was filled with disquiet +at the thought of the infinite variety of diseases and of their +remedies, according to the constitution of the patient. Treatment +changed with every new hypothesis; how many people, then, must the +methods now abandoned have killed! The perspicacity of the physician +became everything, the healer was only a happily endowed diviner, +himself groping in the dark and effecting cures through his fortunate +endowment. And this explained why he had given up his patients almost +altogether, after a dozen years of practise, to devote himself entirely +to study. Then, when his great labors on heredity had restored to him +for a time the hope of intervening and curing disease by his hypodermic +injections, he had become again enthusiastic, until the day when his +faith in life, after having impelled him, to aid its action in this way, +by restoring the vital forces, became still broader and gave him the +higher conviction that life was self-sufficing, that it was the only +giver of health and strength, in spite of everything. And he continued +to visit, with his tranquil smile, only those of his patients who +clamored for him loudly, and who found themselves miraculously relieved +when he injected into them only pure water. + +Clotilde now sometimes allowed herself to jest about these hypodermic +injections. She was still at heart, however, a fervent worshiper of his +skill; and she said jestingly that if he performed miracles as he did it +was because he had in himself the godlike power to do so. Then he would +reply jestingly, attributing to her the efficacy of their common visits, +saying that he cured no one now when she was absent, that it was she +who brought the breath of life, the unknown and necessary force from the +Beyond. So that the rich people, the _bourgeois_, whose houses she did +not enter, continued to groan without his being able to relieve them. +And this affectionate dispute diverted them; they set out each time as +if for new discoveries, they exchanged glances of kindly intelligence +with the sick. Ah, this wretched suffering which revolted them, and +which was now all they went to combat; how happy they were when they +thought it vanquished! They were divinely recompensed when they saw the +cold sweats disappear, the moaning lips become stilled, the deathlike +faces recover animation. It was assuredly the love which they brought to +this humble, suffering humanity that produced the alleviation. + +"To die is nothing; that is in the natural order of things," Pascal +would often say. "But why suffer? It is cruel and unnecessary!" + +One afternoon the doctor was going with the young girl to the little +village of Sainte-Marthe to see a patient, and at the station, for they +were going by train, so as to spare Bonhomme, they had a reencounter. +The train which they were waiting for was from the Tulettes. +Sainte-Marthe was the first station in the opposite direction, going to +Marseilles. When the train arrived, they hurried on board and, opening +the door of a compartment which they thought empty, they saw old Mme. +Rougon about to leave it. She did not speak to them, but passing them +by, sprang down quickly in spite of her age, and walked away with a +stiff and haughty air. + +"It is the 1st of July," said Clotilde when the train had started. +"Grandmother is returning from the Tulettes, after making her monthly +visit to Aunt Dide. Did you see the glance she cast at me?" + +Pascal was at heart glad of the quarrel with his mother, which freed him +from the continual annoyance of her visits. + +"Bah!" he said simply, "when people cannot agree it is better for them +not to see each other." + +But the young girl remained troubled and thoughtful. After a few moments +she said in an undertone: + +"I thought her changed--looking paler. And did you notice? she who is +usually so carefully dressed had only one glove on--a yellow glove, on +the right hand. I don't know why it was, but she made me feel sick at +heart." + +Pascal, who was also disturbed, made a vague gesture. His mother would +no doubt grow old at last, like everybody else. But she was very active, +very full of fire still. She was thinking, he said, of bequeathing +her fortune to the town of Plassans, to build a house of refuge, which +should bear the name of Rougon. Both had recovered their gaiety when he +cried suddenly: + +"Why, it is to-morrow that you and I are to go to the Tulettes to see +our patients. And you know that I promised to take Charles to Uncle +Macquart's." + +Felicite was in fact returning from the Tulettes, where she went +regularly on the first of every month to inquire after Aunt Dide. For +many years past she had taken a keen interest in the madwoman's health, +amazed to see her lasting so long, and furious with her for persisting +in living so far beyond the common term of life, until she had become a +very prodigy of longevity. What a relief, the fine morning on which +they should put under ground this troublesome witness of the past, this +specter of expiation and of waiting, who brought living before her the +abominations of the family! When so many others had been taken she, who +was demented and who had only a spark of life left in her eyes, seemed +forgotten. On this day she had found her as usual, skeleton-like, stiff +and erect in her armchair. As the keeper said, there was now no reason +why she should ever die. She was a hundred and five years old. + +When she left the asylum Felicite was furious. She thought of Uncle +Macquart. Another who troubled her, who persisted in living with +exasperating obstinacy! Although he was only eighty-four years old, +three years older than herself, she thought him ridiculously aged, past +the allotted term of life. And a man who led so dissipated a life, who +had gone to bed dead drunk every night for the last sixty years! +The good and the sober were taken away; he flourished in spite of +everything, blooming with health and gaiety. In days past, just after +he had settled at the Tulettes, she had made him presents of wines, +liqueurs and brandy, in the unavowed hope of ridding the family of a +fellow who was really disreputable, and from whom they had nothing to +expect but annoyance and shame. But she had soon perceived that all this +liquor served, on the contrary, to keep up his health and spirits and +his sarcastic humor, and she had left off making him presents, seeing +that he throve on what she had hoped would prove a poison to him. She +had cherished a deadly hatred toward him since then. She would have +killed him if she had dared, every time she saw him, standing firmly on +his drunken legs, and laughing at her to her face, knowing well that she +was watching for his death, and triumphant because he did not give her +the pleasure of burying with him all the old dirty linen of the family, +the blood and mud of the two conquests of Plassans. + +"You see, Felicite," he would often say to her with his air of wicked +mockery, "I am here to take care of the old mother, and the day on +which we both make up our minds to die it would be through compliment +to you--yes, simply to spare you the trouble of running to see us so +good-naturedly, in this way, every month." + +Generally she did not now give herself the disappointment of going to +Macquart's, but inquired for him at the asylum. But on this occasion, +having learned there that he was passing through an extraordinary attack +of drunkenness, not having drawn a sober breath for a fortnight, and +so intoxicated that he was probably unable to leave the house, she was +seized with the curiosity to learn for herself what his condition really +was. And as she was going back to the station, she went out of her way +in order to stop at Macquart's house. + +The day was superb--a warm and brilliant summer day. On either side of +the path which she had taken, she saw the fields that she had given him +in former days--all this fertile land, the price of his secrecy and his +good behavior. Before her appeared the house, with its pink tiles and +its bright yellow walls, looking gay in the sunshine. Under the ancient +mulberry trees on the terrace she enjoyed the delightful coolness and +the beautiful view. What a pleasant and safe retreat, what a happy +solitude was this for an old man to end in joy and peace a long and +well-spent life! + +But she did not see him, she did not hear him. The silence was profound. +The only sound to be heard was the humming of the bees circling around +the tall marshmallows. And on the terrace there was nothing to be seen +but a little yellow dog, stretched at full length on the bare ground, +seeking the coolness of the shade. He raised his head growling, about to +bark, but, recognizing the visitor, he lay down again quietly. + +Then, in this peaceful and sunny solitude she was seized with a strange +chill, and she called: + +"Macquart! Macquart!" + +The door of the house under the mulberry trees stood wide open. But she +did not dare to go in; this empty house with its wide open door gave her +a vague uneasiness. And she called again: + +"Macquart! Macquart!" + +Not a sound, not a breath. Profound silence reigned again, but the +humming of the bees circling around the tall marshmallows sounded louder +than before. + +At last Felicite, ashamed of her fears, summoned courage to enter. The +door on the left of the hall, opening into the kitchen, where Uncle +Macquart generally sat, was closed. She pushed it open, but she could +distinguish nothing at first, as the blinds had been closed, probably +in order to shut out the heat. Her first sensation was one of choking, +caused by an overpowering odor of alcohol which filled the room; every +article of furniture seemed to exude this odor, the whole house was +impregnated with it. At last, when her eyes had become accustomed to the +semi-obscurity, she perceived Macquart. He was seated at the table, +on which were a glass and a bottle of spirits of thirty-six degrees, +completely empty. Settled in his chair, he was sleeping profoundly, dead +drunk. This spectacle revived her anger and contempt. + +"Come, Macquart," she cried, "is it not vile and senseless to put one's +self in such a state! Wake up, I say, this is shameful!" + +His sleep was so profound that she could not even hear him breathing. In +vain she raised her voice, and slapped him smartly on the hands. + +"Macquart! Macquart! Macquart! Ah, faugh! You are disgusting, my dear!" + +Then she left him, troubling herself no further about him, and walked +around the room, evidently seeking something. Coming down the dusky road +from the asylum she had been seized with a consuming thirst, and she +wished to get a glass of water. Her gloves embarrassed her, and she took +them off and put them on a corner of the table. Then she succeeded in +finding the jug, and she washed a glass and filled it to the brim, and +was about to empty it when she saw an extraordinary sight--a sight which +agitated her so greatly that she set the glass down again beside her +gloves, without drinking. + +By degrees she had begun to see objects more clearly in the room, which +was lighted dimly by a few stray sunbeams that filtered through the +cracks of the old shutters. She now saw Uncle Macquart distinctly, +neatly dressed in a blue cloth suit, as usual, and on his head the +eternal fur cap which he wore from one year's end to the other. He had +grown stout during the last five or six years, and he looked like a +veritable mountain of flesh overlaid with rolls of fat. And she noticed +that he must have fallen asleep while smoking, for his pipe--a short +black pipe--had fallen into his lap. Then she stood still, stupefied +with amazement--the burning tobacco had been scattered in the fall, and +the cloth of the trousers had caught fire, and through a hole in the +stuff, as large already as a hundred-sous piece, she saw the bare thigh, +whence issued a little blue flame. + +At first Felicite had thought that it was linen--the drawers or the +shirt--that was burning. But soon doubt was no longer possible, she saw +distinctly the bare flesh and the little blue flame issuing from it, +lightly dancing, like a flame wandering over the surface of a vessel of +lighted alcohol. It was as yet scarcely higher than the flame of a night +light, pale and soft, and so unstable that the slightest breath of air +caused it to change its place. But it increased and spread rapidly, and +the skin cracked and the fat began to melt. + +An involuntary cry escaped from Felicite's throat. + +"Macquart! Macquart!" + +But still he did not stir. His insensibility must have been complete; +intoxication must have produced a sort of coma, in which there was an +absolute paralysis of sensation, for he was living, his breast could be +seen rising and falling, in slow and even respiration. + +"Macquart! Macquart!" + +Now the fat was running through the cracks of the skin, feeding the +flame, which was invading the abdomen. And Felicite comprehended vaguely +that Uncle Macquart was burning before her like a sponge soaked with +brandy. He had, indeed, been saturated with it for years past, and +of the strongest and most inflammable kind. He would no doubt soon be +blazing from head to foot, like a bowl of punch. + +Then she ceased to try to awaken him, since he was sleeping so soundly. +For a full minute she had the courage to look at him, awe-stricken, +but gradually coming to a determination. Her hands, however, began +to tremble, with a little shiver which she could not control. She was +choking, and taking up the glass of water again with both hands, she +emptied it at a draught. And she was going away on tiptoe, when she +remembered her gloves. She went back, groped for them anxiously on the +table and, as she thought, picked them both up. Then she left the room, +closing the door behind her carefully, and as gently as if she were +afraid of disturbing some one. + +When she found herself once more on the terrace, in the cheerful +sunshine and the pure air, in face of the vast horizon bathed in light, +she heaved a sigh of relief. The country was deserted; no one could have +seen her entering or leaving the house. Only the yellow dog was still +stretched there, and he did not even deign to look up. And she went +away with her quick, short step, her youthful figure lightly swaying. A +hundred steps away, an irresistible impulse compelled her to turn round +to give a last look at the house, so tranquil and so cheerful on the +hillside, in the declining light of the beautiful day. + +Only when she was in the train and went to put on her gloves did she +perceive that one of them was missing. But she supposed that it had +fallen on the platform at the station as she was getting into the car. +She believed herself to be quite calm, but she remained with one hand +gloved and one hand bare, which, with her, could only be the result of +great agitation. + +On the following day Pascal and Clotilde took the three o'clock train to +go to the Tulettes. The mother of Charles, the harness-maker's wife, +had brought the boy to them, as they had offered to take him to Uncle +Macquart's, where he was to remain for the rest of the week. Fresh +quarrels had disturbed the peace of the household, the husband having +resolved to tolerate no longer in his house another man's child, that +do-nothing, imbecile prince's son. As it was Grandmother Rougon who had +dressed him, he was, indeed, dressed on this day, again, in black velvet +trimmed with gold braid, like a young lord, a page of former times going +to court. And during the quarter of an hour which the journey lasted, +Clotilde amused herself in the compartment, in which they were alone, +by taking off his cap and smoothing his beautiful blond locks, his +royal hair that fell in curls over his shoulders. She had a ring on her +finger, and as she passed her hand over his neck she was startled to +perceive that her caress had left behind it a trace of blood. One +could not touch the boy's skin without the red dew exuding from it; +the tissues had become so lax through extreme degeneration that the +slightest scratch brought on a hemorrhage. The doctor became at once +uneasy, and asked him if he still bled at the nose as frequently as +formerly. Charles hardly knew what to answer; first saying no, then, +recollecting himself, he said that he had bled a great deal the other +day. He seemed, indeed, weaker; he grew more childish as he grew older; +his intelligence, which had never developed, had become clouded. This +tall boy of fifteen, so beautiful, so girlish-looking, with the color of +a flower that had grown in the shade, did not look ten. + +At the Tulettes Pascal decided that they would first take the boy to +Uncle Macquart's. They ascended the steep road. In the distance the +little house looked gay in the sunshine, as it had looked on the day +before, with its yellow walls and its green mulberry trees extending +their twisted branches and covering the terrace with a thick, leafy +roof. A delightful sense of peace pervaded this solitary spot, this +sage's retreat, where the only sound to be heard was the humming of the +bees, circling round the tall marshmallows. + +"Ah, that rascal of an uncle!" said Pascal, smiling, "how I envy him!" + +But he was surprised not to have already seen him standing at the edge +of the terrace. And as Charles had run off dragging Clotilde with him to +see the rabbits, as he said, the doctor continued the ascent alone, and +was astonished when he reached the top to see no one. The blinds were +closed, the hill door yawned wide open. Only the yellow dog was at the +threshold, his legs stiff, his hair bristling, howling with a low and +continuous moan. When he saw the visitor, whom he no doubt recognized, +approaching, he stopped howling for an instant and went and stood +further off, then he began again to whine softly. + +Pascal, filled with apprehension, could not keep back the uneasy cry +that rose to his lips: + +"Macquart! Macquart!" + +No one answered; a deathlike silence reigned over the house, with its +door yawning wide open, like the mouth of a cavern. The dog continued to +howl. + +Then Pascal grew impatient, and cried more loudly. + +"Macquart! Macquart!" + +There was not a stir; the bees hummed, the sky looked down serenely on +the peaceful scene. Then he hesitated no longer. Perhaps Macquart was +asleep. But the instant he pushed open the door of the kitchen on the +left of the hall, a horrible odor escaped from it, an odor of burned +flesh and bones. When he entered the room he could hardly breathe, so +filled was it by a thick vapor, a stagnant and nauseous cloud, which +choked and blinded him. The sunbeams that filtered through the cracks +made only a dim light. He hurried to the fireplace, thinking that +perhaps there had been a fire, but the fireplace was empty, and the +articles of furniture around appeared to be uninjured. Bewildered, and +feeling himself growing faint in the poisoned atmosphere, he ran to the +window and threw the shutters wide open. A flood of light entered. + +Then the scene presented to the doctor's view filled him with amazement. +Everything was in its place; the glass and the empty bottle of spirits +were on the table; only the chair in which Uncle Macquart must have been +sitting bore traces of fire, the front legs were blackened and the straw +was partially consumed. What had become of Macquart? Where could he +have disappeared? In front of the chair, on the brick floor, which was +saturated with grease, there was a little heap of ashes, beside which +lay the pipe--a black pipe, which had not even broken in falling. All of +Uncle Macquart was there, in this handful of fine ashes; and he was in +the red cloud, also, which floated through the open window; in the layer +of soot which carpeted the entire kitchen; the horrible grease of burnt +flesh, enveloping everything, sticky and foul to the touch. + +It was the finest case of spontaneous combustion physician had ever +seen. The doctor had, indeed, read in medical papers of surprising +cases, among others that of a shoemaker's wife, a drunken woman who had +fallen asleep over her foot warmer, and of whom they had found only +a hand and foot. He had, until now, put little faith in these cases, +unwilling to admit, like the ancients, that a body impregnated +with alcohol could disengage an unknown gas, capable of taking fire +spontaneously and consuming the flesh and the bones. But he denied the +truth of them no longer; besides, everything became clear to him as +he reconstructed the scene--the coma of drunkenness producing absolute +insensibility; the pipe falling on the clothes, which had taken fire; +the flesh, saturated with liquor, burning and cracking; the fat melting, +part of it running over the ground and part of it aiding the combustion, +and all, at last--muscles, organs, and bones--consumed in a general +blaze. Uncle Macquart was all there, with his blue cloth suit, and his +fur cap, which he wore from one year's end to the other. Doubtless, as +soon as he had begun to burn like a bonfire he had fallen forward, which +would account for the chair being only blackened; and nothing of him was +left, not a bone, not a tooth, not a nail, nothing but this little heap +of gray dust which the draught of air from the door threatened at every +moment to sweep away. + +Clotilde had meanwhile entered, Charles remaining outside, his attention +attracted by the continued howling of the dog. + +"Good Heavens, what a smell!" she cried. "What is the matter?" + +When Pascal explained to her the extraordinary catastrophe that had +taken place, she shuddered. She took up the bottle to examine it, but +she put it down again with horror, feeling it moist and sticky with +Uncle Macquart's flesh. Nothing could be touched, the smallest objects +were coated, as it were, with this yellowish grease which stuck to the +hands. + +A shudder of mingled awe and disgust passed through her, and she burst +into tears, faltering: + +"What a sad death! What a horrible death!" + +Pascal had recovered from his first shock, and he was almost smiling. + +"Why horrible? He was eighty-four years old; he did not suffer. As for +me, I think it a superb death for that old rascal of an uncle, who, it +may be now said, did not lead a very exemplary life. You remember his +envelope; he had some very terrible and vile things upon his conscience, +which did not prevent him, however, from settling down later and growing +old, surrounded by every comfort, like an old humbug, receiving the +recompense of virtues which he did not possess. And here he lies like +the prince of drunkards, burning up of himself, consumed on the burning +funeral pile of his own body!" + +And the doctor waved his hand in admiration. + +"Just think of it. To be drunk to the point of not feeling that one is +on fire; to set one's self aflame, like a bonfire on St. John's day; to +disappear in smoke to the last bone. Think of Uncle Macquart starting +on his journey through space; first diffused through the four corners of +the room, dissolved in air and floating about, bathing all that belonged +to him; then escaping in a cloud of dust through the window, when I +opened it for him, soaring up into the sky, filling the horizon. Why, +that is an admirable death! To disappear, to leave nothing of himself +behind but a little heap of ashes and a pipe beside it!" + +And he picked up the pipe to keep it, as he said, as a relic of Uncle +Macquart; while Clotilde, who thought she perceived a touch of bitter +mockery in his eulogistic rhapsody, shuddered anew with horror and +disgust. But suddenly she perceived something under the table--part of +the remains, perhaps. + +"Look at that fragment there." + +He stooped down and picked up with surprise a woman's glove, a yellow +glove. + +"Why!" she cried, "it is grandmother's glove; the glove that was missing +last evening." + +They looked at each other; by a common impulse the same explanation +rose to their lips, Felicite was certainly there yesterday; and a sudden +conviction forced itself on the doctor's mind--the conviction that his +mother had seen Uncle Macquart burning and that she had not quenched +him. Various indications pointed to this--the state of complete coolness +in which he found the room, the number of hours which he calculated to +have been necessary for the combustion of the body. He saw clearly the +same thought dawning in the terrified eyes of his companion. But as it +seemed impossible that they should ever know the truth, he fabricated +aloud the simplest explanation: + +"No doubt your grandmother came in yesterday on her way back from +the asylum, to say good day to Uncle Macquart, before he had begun +drinking." + +"Let us go away! let us go away!" cried Clotilde. "I am stifling here; I +cannot remain here!" + +Pascal, too, wished to go and give information of the death. He went out +after her, shut up the house, and put the key in his pocket. Outside, +they heard the little yellow dog still howling. He had taken refuge +between Charles' legs, and the boy amused himself pushing him with his +foot and listening to him whining, without comprehending. + +The doctor went at once to the house of M. Maurin, the notary at the +Tulettes, who was also mayor of the commune. A widower for ten years +past, and living with his daughter, who was a childless widow, he had +maintained neighborly relations with old Macquart, and had occasionally +kept little Charles with him for several days at a time, his daughter +having become interested in the boy who was so handsome and so much +to be pitied. M. Maurin, horrified at the news, went at once with the +doctor to draw up a statement of the accident, and promised to make out +the death certificate in due form. As for religious ceremonies, funeral +obsequies, they seemed scarcely possible. When they entered the kitchen +the draught from the door scattered the ashes about, and when they +piously attempted to collect them again they succeeded only in gathering +together the scrapings of the flags, a collection of accumulated dirt, +in which there could be but little of Uncle Macquart. What, then, +could they bury? It was better to give up the idea. So they gave it +up. Besides, Uncle Macquart had been hardly a devout Catholic, and the +family contented themselves with causing masses to be said later on for +the repose of his soul. + +The notary, meantime, had immediately declared that there existed a +will, which had been deposited with him, and he asked Pascal to meet him +at his house on the next day but one for the reading; for he thought he +might tell the doctor at once that Uncle Macquart had chosen him as +his executor. And he ended by offering, like a kindhearted man, to keep +Charles with him until then, comprehending how greatly the boy, who was +so unwelcome at his mother's, would be in the way in the midst of all +these occurrences. Charles seemed enchanted, and he remained at the +Tulettes. + +It was not until very late, until seven o'clock, that Clotilde and +Pascal were able to take the train to return to Plassans, after the +doctor had at last visited the two patients whom he had to see. But +when they returned together to the notary's on the day appointed for the +meeting, they had the disagreeable surprise of finding old Mme. Rougon +installed there. She had naturally learned of Macquart's death, and had +hurried there on the following day, full of excitement, and making a +great show of grief; and she had just made her appearance again to-day, +having heard the famous testament spoken of. The reading of the will, +however, was a simple matter, unmarked by any incident. Macquart +had left all the fortune that he could dispose of for the purpose of +erecting a superb marble monument to himself, with two angels with +folded wings, weeping. It was his own idea, a reminiscence of a similar +tomb which he had seen abroad--in Germany, perhaps--when he was a +soldier. And he had charged his nephew Pascal to superintend the +erection of the monument, as he was the only one of the family, he said, +who had any taste. + +During the reading of the will Clotilde had remained in the notary's +garden, sitting on a bench under the shade of an ancient chestnut tree. +When Pascal and Felicite again appeared, there was a moment of great +embarrassment, for they had not spoken to one another for some months +past. The old lady, however, affected to be perfectly at her ease, +making no allusion whatever to the new situation, and giving it to be +understood that they might very well meet and appear united before the +world, without for that reason entering into an explanation or becoming +reconciled. But she committed the mistake of laying too much stress +on the great grief which Macquart's death had caused her. Pascal, who +suspected the overflowing joy, the unbounded delight which it gave her +to think that this family ulcer was to be at last healed, that this +abominable uncle was at last out of the way, became gradually possessed +by an impatience, an indignation, which he could not control. His eyes +fastened themselves involuntarily on his mother's gloves, which were +black. + +Just then she was expressing her grief in lowered tones: + +"But how imprudent it was, at his age, to persist in living alone--like +a wolf in his lair! If he had only had a servant in the house with him!" + +Then the doctor, hardly conscious of what he was saying, terrified at +hearing himself say the words, but impelled by an irresistible force, +said: + +"But, mother, since you were there, why did you not quench him?" + +Old Mme. Rougon turned frightfully pale. How could her son have known? +She looked at him for an instant in open-mouthed amazement; while +Clotilde grew as pale as she, in the certainty of the crime, which was +now evident. It was an avowal, this terrified silence which had fallen +between the mother, the son, and the granddaughter--the shuddering +silence in which families bury their domestic tragedies. The doctor, in +despair at having spoken, he who avoided so carefully all disagreeable +and useless explanations, was trying desperately to retract his words, +when a new catastrophe extricated him from his terrible embarrassment. + +Felicite desired to take Charles away with her, in order not to trespass +on the notary's kind hospitality; and as the latter had sent the boy +after breakfast to spend an hour or two with Aunt Dide, he had sent the +maid servant to the asylum with orders to bring him back immediately. It +was at this juncture that the servant, whom they were waiting for in the +garden, made her appearance, covered with perspiration, out of breath, +and greatly excited, crying from a distance: + +"My God! My God! come quickly. Master Charles is bathed in blood." + +Filled with consternation, all three set off for the asylum. This day +chanced to be one of Aunt Dide's good days; very calm and gentle she sat +erect in the armchair in which she had spent the hours, the long hours +for twenty-two years past, looking straight before her into vacancy. She +seemed to have grown still thinner, all the flesh had disappeared, her +limbs were now only bones covered with parchment-like skin; and her +keeper, the stout fair-haired girl, carried her, fed her, took her +up and laid her down as if she had been a bundle. The ancestress, the +forgotten one, tall, bony, ghastly, remained motionless, her eyes, only +seeming to have life, her eyes shining clear as spring water in her thin +withered face. But on this morning, again a sudden rush of tears had +streamed down her cheeks, and she had begun to stammer words without +any connection; which seemed to prove that in the midst of her senile +exhaustion and the incurable torpor of madness, the slow induration of +the brain and the limbs was not yet complete; there still were memories +stored away, gleams of intelligence still were possible. Then her face +had resumed its vacant expression. She seemed indifferent to every one +and everything, laughing, sometimes, at an accident, at a fall, but most +often seeing nothing and hearing nothing, gazing fixedly into vacancy. + +When Charles had been brought to her the keeper had immediately +installed him before the little table, in front of his +great-great-grandmother. The girl kept a package of pictures for +him--soldiers, captains, kings clad in purple and gold, and she gave +them to him with a pair of scissors, saying: + +"There, amuse yourself quietly, and behave well. You see that to-day +grandmother is very good. You must be good, too." + +The boy raised his eyes to the madwoman's face, and both looked at each +other. At this moment the resemblance between them was extraordinary. +Their eyes, especially, their vacant and limpid eyes, seemed to lose +themselves in one another, to be identical. Then it was the physiognomy, +the whole face, the worn features of the centenarian, that passed over +three generations to this delicate child's face, it, too, worn already, +as it were, and aged by the wear of the race. Neither smiled, they +regarded each other intently, with an air of grave imbecility. + +"Well!" continued the keeper, who had acquired the habit of talking to +herself to cheer herself when with her mad charge, "you cannot deny each +other. The same hand made you both. You are the very spit-down of +each other. Come, laugh a bit, amuse yourselves, since you like to be +together." + +But to fix his attention for any length of time fatigued Charles, and +he was the first to lower his eyes; he seemed to be interested in his +pictures, while Aunt Dide, who had an astonishing power of fixing her +attention, as if she had been turned into stone, continued to look at +him fixedly, without even winking an eyelid. + +The keeper busied herself for a few moments in the little sunny room, +made gay by its light, blue-flowered paper. She made the bed which she +had been airing, she arranged the linen on the shelves of the press. +But she generally profited by the presence of the boy to take a little +relaxation. She had orders never to leave her charge alone, and now that +he was here she ventured to trust her with him. + +"Listen to me well," she went on, "I have to go out for a little, and if +she stirs, if she should need me, ring for me, call me at once; do you +hear? You understand, you are a big enough boy to be able to call one." + +He had looked up again, and made a sign that he had understood and that +he would call her. And when he found himself alone with Aunt Dide he +returned to his pictures quietly. This lasted for a quarter of an hour +amid the profound silence of the asylum, broken only at intervals by +some prison sound--a stealthy step, the jingling of a bunch of keys, +and occasionally a loud cry, immediately silenced. But the boy must have +been tired by the excessive heat of the day, for sleep gradually stole +over him. Soon his head, fair as a lily, drooped, and as if weighed down +by the too heavy casque of his royal locks, he let it sink gently on the +pictures and fell asleep, with his cheek resting on the gold and purple +kings. The lashes of his closed eyelids cast a shadow on his delicate +skin, with its small blue veins, through which life pulsed feebly. He +was beautiful as an angel, but with the indefinable corruption of a +whole race spread over his countenance. And Aunt Dide looked at him with +her vacant stare in which there was neither pleasure nor pain, the stare +of eternity contemplating things earthly. + +At the end of a few moments, however, an expression of interest seemed +to dawn in the clear eyes. Something had just happened, a drop of blood +was forming on the edge of the left nostril of the boy. This drop fell +and another formed and followed it. It was the blood, the dew of blood, +exuding this time, without a scratch, without a bruise, which issued +and flowed of itself in the laxity of the degenerate tissues. The drops +became a slender thread which flowed over the gold of the pictures. A +little pool covered them, and made its way to a corner of the table; +then the drops began again, splashing dully one by one upon the floor. +And he still slept, with the divinely calm look of a cherub, not even +conscious of the life that was escaping from him; and the madwoman +continued to look at him, with an air of increasing interest, but +without terror, amused, rather, her attention engaged by this, as by the +flight of the big flies, which her gaze often followed for hours. + +Several minutes more passed, the slender thread had grown larger, the +drops followed one another more rapidly, falling on the floor with a +monotonous and persistent drip. And Charles, at one moment, stirred, +opened his eyes, and perceived that he was covered with blood. But +he was not frightened; he was accustomed to this bloody spring, which +issued from him at the slightest cause. He merely gave a sigh of +weariness. Instinct, however, must have warned him, for he moaned more +loudly than before, and called confusedly in stammering accents: + +"Mamma! mamma!" + +His weakness was no doubt already excessive, for an irresistible stupor +once more took possession of him, his head dropped, his eyes closed, and +he seemed to fall asleep again, continuing his plaint, as if in a dream, +moaning in fainter and fainter accents: + +"Mamma! mamma!" + +Now the pictures were inundated; the black velvet jacket and trousers, +braided with gold, were stained with long streaks of blood, and the +little red stream began again to flow persistently from his left +nostril, without stopping, crossed the red pool on the table and fell +upon the ground, where it at last formed a veritable lake. A loud cry +from the madwoman, a terrified call would have sufficed. But she did +not cry, she did not call; motionless, rigid, emaciated, sitting there +forgotten of the world, she gazed with the fixed look of the ancestress +who sees the destinies of her race being accomplished. She sat there as +if dried up, bound; her limbs and her tongue tied by her hundred years, +her brain ossified by madness, incapable of willing or of acting. And +yet the sight of the little red stream began to stir some feeling in +her. A tremor passed over her deathlike countenance, a flush mounted to +her cheeks. Finally, a last plaint roused her completely: + +"Mamma! mamma!" + +Then it was evident that a terrible struggle was taking place in Aunt +Dide. She carried her skeleton-like hand to her forehead as if she felt +her brain bursting. Her mouth was wide open, but no sound issued +from it; the dreadful tumult that had arisen within her had no doubt +paralyzed her tongue. She tried to rise, to run, but she had no longer +any muscles; she remained fastened to her seat. All her poor body +trembled in the superhuman effort which she was making to cry for help, +without being able to break the bonds of old age and madness which +held her prisoner. Her face was distorted with terror; memory gradually +awakening, she must have comprehended everything. + +And it was a slow and gentle agony, of which the spectacle lasted for +several minutes more. Charles, silent now, as if he had again fallen +asleep, was losing the last drops of blood that had remained in his +veins, which were emptying themselves softly. His lily-like whiteness +increased until it became a deathlike pallor. His lips lost their rosy +color, became a pale pink, then white. And, as he was about to expire, +he opened his large eyes and fixed them on his great-great-grandmother, +who watched the light dying in them. All the waxen face was already +dead, the eyes only were still living. They still kept their limpidity, +their brightness. All at once they became vacant, the light in them was +extinguished. This was the end--the death of the eyes, and Charles had +died, without a struggle, exhausted, like a fountain from which all +the water has run out. Life no longer pulsed through the veins of his +delicate skin, there was now only the shadow of its wings on his white +face. But he remained divinely beautiful, his face lying in blood, +surrounded by his royal blond locks, like one of those little bloodless +dauphins who, unable to bear the execrable heritage of their race, die +of decrepitude and imbecility at sixteen. + +The boy exhaled his latest breath as Dr. Pascal entered the room, +followed by Felicite and Clotilde. And when he saw the quantity of blood +that inundated the floor, he cried: + +"Ah, my God! it is as I feared, a hemorrhage from the nose! The poor +darling, no one was with him, and it is all over!" + +But all three were struck with terror at the extraordinary spectacle +that now met their gaze. Aunt Dide, who seemed to have grown taller, in +the superhuman effort she was making, had almost succeeded in raising +herself up, and her eyes, fixed on the dead boy, so fair and so gentle, +and on the red sea of blood, beginning to congeal, that was lying around +him, kindled with a thought, after a long sleep of twenty-two years. +This final lesion of madness, this irremediable darkness of the mind, +was evidently not so complete but that some memory of the past, lying +hidden there, might awaken suddenly under the terrible blow which had +struck her. And the ancestress, the forgotten one, lived again, emerged +from her oblivion, rigid and wasted, like a specter of terror and grief. + +For an instant she remained panting. Then with a shudder, which made her +teeth chatter, she stammered a single phrase: + +"The _gendarme_! the _gendarme_!" + +Pascal and Felicite and Clotilde understood. They looked at one another +involuntarily, turning very pale. The whole dreadful history of the old +mother--of the mother of them all--rose before them, the ardent love +of her youth, the long suffering of her mature age. Already two moral +shocks had shaken her terribly--the first, when she was in her ardent +prime, when a _gendarme_ shot down her lover Macquart, the smuggler, +like a dog; the second, years ago, when another _gendarme_ shattered +with a pistol shot the skull of her grandson Silvere, the insurgent, the +victim of the hatred and the sanguinary strife of the family. Blood +had always bespattered her. And a third moral shock finished her; blood +bespattered her again, the impoverished blood of her race, which she +had just beheld flowing slowly, and which lay upon the ground, while the +fair royal child, his veins and his heart empty, slept. + +Three times--face to face with her past life, her life red with passion +and suffering, haunted by the image of expiation--she stammered: + +"The _gendarme_! the _gendarme_! the _gendarme_!" + +Then she sank back into her armchair. They thought she was dead, killed +by the shock. + +But the keeper at this moment at last appeared, endeavoring to excuse +herself, fearing that she would be dismissed. When, aided by her, Dr. +Pascal had placed Aunt Dide on the bed, he found that the old mother was +still alive. She was not to die until the following day, at the age of +one hundred and five years, three months, and seven days, of congestion +of the brain, caused by the last shock she had received. + +Pascal, turning to his mother, said: + +"She will not live twenty-four hours; to-morrow she will be dead. Ah! +Uncle Macquart, then she, and this poor boy, one after another. How much +misery and grief!" + +He paused and added in a lower tone: + +"The family is thinning out; the old trees fall and the young die +standing." + +Felicite must have thought this another allusion. She was sincerely +shocked by the tragic death of little Charles. But, notwithstanding, +above the horror which she felt there arose a sense of immense relief. +Next week, when they should have ceased to weep, what a rest to be able +to say to herself that all this abomination of the Tulettes was at an +end, that the family might at last rise, and shine in history! + +Then she remembered that she had not answered the involuntary accusation +made against her by her son at the notary's; and she spoke again of +Macquart, through bravado: + +"You see now that servants are of no use. There was one here, and yet +she prevented nothing; it would have been useless for Uncle Macquart +to have had one to take care of him; he would be in ashes now, all the +same." + +She sighed, and then continued in a broken voice: + +"Well, well, neither our own fate nor that of others is in our hands; +things happen as they will. These are great blows that have fallen upon +us. We must only trust to God for the preservation and the prosperity of +our family." + +Dr. Pascal bowed with his habitual air of deference and said: + +"You are right, mother." + +Clotilde knelt down. Her former fervent Catholic faith had revived in +this chamber of blood, of madness, and of death. Tears streamed down her +cheeks, and with clasped hands she was praying fervently for the dear +ones who were no more. She prayed that God would grant that their +sufferings might indeed be ended, their faults pardoned, and that they +might live again in another life, a life of unending happiness. And she +prayed with the utmost fervor, in her terror of a hell, which after this +miserable life would make suffering eternal. + +From this day Pascal and Clotilde went to visit their sick side by side, +filled with greater pity than ever. Perhaps, with Pascal, the feeling +of his powerlessness against inevitable disease was even stronger than +before. The only wisdom was to let nature take its course, to eliminate +dangerous elements, and to labor only in the supreme work of giving +health and strength. But the suffering and the death of those who are +dear to us awaken in us a hatred of disease, an irresistible desire to +combat and to vanquish it. And the doctor never tasted so great a joy +as when he succeeded, with his hypodermic injections, in soothing a +paroxysm of pain, in seeing the groaning patient grow tranquil and fall +asleep. Clotilde, in return, adored him, proud of their love, as if it +were a consolation which they carried, like the viaticum, to the poor. + + + + +X. + +Martine one morning obtained from Dr. Pascal, as she did every three +months, his receipt for fifteen hundred francs, to take it to the notary +Grandguillot, to get from him what she called their "income." The doctor +seemed surprised that the payment should have fallen due again so soon; +he had never been so indifferent as he was now about money matters, +leaving to Martine the care of settling everything. And he and Clotilde +were under the plane trees, absorbed in the joy that filled their life, +lulled by the ceaseless song of the fountain, when the servant returned +with a frightened face, and in a state of extraordinary agitation. She +was so breathless with excitement that for a moment she could not speak. + +"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" she cried at last. "M. Grandguillot has gone +away!" + +Pascal did not at first comprehend. + +"Well, my girl, there is no hurry," he said; "you can go back another +day." + +"No, no! He has gone away; don't you hear? He has gone away forever--" + +And as the waters rush forth in the bursting of a dam, her emotion +vented itself in a torrent of words. + +"I reached the street, and I saw from a distance a crowd gathered +before the door. A chill ran through me; I felt that some misfortune +had happened. The door closed, and not a blind open, as if there was +somebody dead in the house. They told me when I got there that he had +run away; that he had not left a sou behind him; that many families +would be ruined." + +She laid the receipt on the stone table. + +"There! There is your paper! It is all over with us, we have not a sou +left, we are going to die of starvation!" And she sobbed aloud in the +anguish of her miserly heart, distracted by this loss of a fortune, and +trembling at the prospect of impending want. + +Clotilde sat stunned and speechless, her eyes fixed on Pascal, whose +predominating feeling at first seemed to be one of incredulity. He +endeavored to calm Martine. Why! why! it would not do to give up in +this way. If all she knew of the affair was what she had heard from the +people in the street, it might be only gossip, after all, which always +exaggerates everything. M. Grandguillot a fugitive; M. Grandguillot a +thief; that was monstrous, impossible! A man of such probity, a house +liked and respected by all Plassans for more than a century past. Why +people thought money safer there than in the Bank of France. + +"Consider, Martine, this would not have come all of a sudden, like a +thunderclap; there would have been some rumors of it beforehand. The +deuce! an old reputation does not fall to pieces in that way, in a +night." + +At this she made a gesture of despair. + +"Ah, monsieur, that is what most afflicts me, because, you see, it +throws some of the responsibility on me. For weeks past I have been +hearing stories on all sides. As for you two, naturally you hear +nothing; you don't even know whether you are alive or dead." + +Neither Pascal nor Clotilde could refrain from smiling; for it was +indeed true that their love lifted them so far above the earth that none +of the common sounds of existence reached them. + +"But the stories I heard were so ugly that I didn't like to worry you +with them. I thought they were lies." + +She was silent for a moment, and then added that while some people +merely accused M. Grandguillot of having speculated on the Bourse, there +were others who accused him of still worse practises. And she burst into +fresh sobs. + +"My God! My God! what is going to become of us? We are all going to die +of starvation!" + +Shaken, then, moved by seeing Clotilde's eyes, too, filled with tears, +Pascal made an effort to remember, to see clearly into the past. Years +ago, when he had been practising in Plassans, he had deposited at +different times, with M. Grandguillot, the twenty thousand francs on the +interest of which he had lived comfortably for the past sixteen years, +and on each occasion the notary had given him a receipt for the sum +deposited. This would no doubt enable him to establish his position as +a personal creditor. Then a vague recollection awoke in his memory; he +remembered, without being able to fix the date, that at the request of +the notary, and in consequence of certain representations made by him, +which Pascal had forgotten, he had given the lawyer a power of attorney +for the purpose of investing the whole or a part of his money, in +mortgages, and he was even certain that in this power the name of the +attorney had been left in blank. But he was ignorant as to whether this +document had ever been used or not; he had never taken the trouble to +inquire how his money had been invested. A fresh pang of miserly anguish +made Martine cry out: + +"Ah, monsieur, you are well punished for your sin. Was that a way to +abandon one's money? For my part, I know almost to a sou how my account +stands every quarter; I have every figure and every document at my +fingers' ends." + +In the midst of her distress an unconscious smile broke over her face, +lighting it all up. Her long cherished passion had been gratified; her +four hundred francs wages, saved almost intact, put out at interest for +thirty years, at last amounted to the enormous sum of twenty thousand +francs. And this treasure was put away in a safe place which no one +knew. She beamed with delight at the recollection, and she said no more. + +"But who says that our money is lost?" cried Pascal. + +"M. Grandguillot had a private fortune; he has not taken away with him +his house and his lands, I suppose. They will look into the affair; they +will make an investigation. I cannot make up my mind to believe him a +common thief. The only trouble is the delay: a liquidation drags on so +long." + +He spoke in this way in order to reassure Clotilde, whose growing +anxiety he observed. She looked at him, and she looked around her at La +Souleiade; her only care his happiness; her most ardent desire to live +here always, as she had lived in the past, to love him always in this +beloved solitude. And he, wishing to tranquilize her, recovered his fine +indifference; never having lived for money, he did not imagine that one +could suffer from the want of it. + +"But I have some money!" he cried, at last. "What does Martine mean +by saying that we have not a sou left, and that we are going to die of +starvation!" + +And he rose gaily, and made them both follow him saying: + +"Come, come, I am going to show you some money. And I will give some of +it to Martine that she may make us a good dinner this evening." + +Upstairs in his room he triumphantly opened his desk before them. It +was in a drawer of this desk that for years past he had thrown the money +which his later patients had brought him of their own accord, for he had +never sent them an account. Nor had he ever known the exact amount of +his little treasure, of the gold and bank bills mingled together in +confusion, from which he took the sums he required for his pocket money, +his experiments, his presents, and his alms. During the last few months +he had made frequent visits to his desk, making deep inroads into +its contents. But he had been so accustomed to find there the sums he +required, after years of economy during which he had spent scarcely +anything, that he had come to believe his savings inexhaustible. + +He gave a satisfied laugh, then, as he opened the drawer, crying: + +"Now you shall see! Now you shall see!" + +And he was confounded, when, after searching among the heap of notes and +bills, he succeeded in collecting only a sum of 615 francs--two notes of +100 francs each, 400 francs in gold, and 15 francs in change. He shook +out the papers, he felt in every corner of the drawer, crying: + +"But it cannot be! There was always money here before, there was a heap +of money here a few days ago. It must have been all those old bills that +misled me. I assure you that last week I saw a great deal of money. I +had it in my hand." + +He spoke with such amusing good faith, his childlike surprise was so +sincere, that Clotilde could not keep from smiling. Ah, the poor master, +what a wretched business man he was! Then, as she observed Martine's +look of anguish, her utter despair at sight of this insignificant sum, +which was now all there was for the maintenance of all three, she was +seized with a feeling of despair; her eyes filled with tears, and she +murmured: + +"My God, it is for me that you have spent everything; if we have nothing +now, if we are ruined, it is I who am the cause of it!" + +Pascal had already forgotten the money he had taken for the presents. +Evidently that was where it had gone. The explanation tranquilized him. +And as she began to speak in her grief of returning everything to the +dealers, he grew angry. + +"Give back what I have given you! You would give a piece of my heart +with it, then! No, I would rather die of hunger, I tell you!" + +Then his confidence already restored, seeing a future of unlimited +possibilities opening out before him, he said: + +"Besides, we are not going to die of hunger to-night, are we, Martine? +There is enough here to keep us for a long time." + +Martine shook her head. She would undertake to manage with it for +two months, for two and a half, perhaps, if people had sense, but not +longer. Formerly the drawer was replenished; there was always some money +coming in; but now that monsieur had given up his patients, they had +absolutely no income. They must not count on any help from outside, +then. And she ended by saying: + +"Give me the two one-hundred-franc bills. I'll try and make them last +for a month. Then we shall see. But be very prudent; don't touch the +four hundred francs in gold; lock the drawer and don't open it again." + +"Oh, as to that," cried the doctor, "you may make your mind easy. I +would rather cut off my right hand." + +And thus it was settled. Martine was to have entire control of this +last purse; and they might trust to her economy, they were sure that she +would save the centimes. As for Clotilde, who had never had a private +purse, she would not even feel the want of money. Pascal only would +suffer from no longer having his inexhaustible treasure to draw upon, +but he had given his promise to allow the servant to buy everything. + +"There! That is a good piece of work!" he said, relieved, as happy as +if he had just settled some important affair which would assure them a +living for a long time to come. + +A week passed during which nothing seemed to have changed at La +Souleiade. In the midst of their tender raptures neither Pascal nor +Clotilde thought any more of the want which was impending. And one +morning during the absence of the latter, who had gone with Martine to +market, the doctor received a visit which filled him at first with a +sort of terror. It was from the woman who had sold him the beautiful +corsage of old point d'Alencon, his first present to Clotilde. He felt +himself so weak against a possible temptation that he trembled. Even +before the woman had uttered a word he had already begun to defend +himself--no, no, he neither could nor would buy anything. And with +outstretched hands he prevented her from taking anything out of her +little bag, declaring to himself that he would look at nothing. The +dealer, however, a fat, amiable woman, smiled, certain of victory. In an +insinuating voice she began to tell him a long story of how a lady, whom +she was not at liberty to name, one of the most distinguished ladies +in Plassans, who had suddenly met with a reverse of fortune, had been +obliged to part with one of her jewels; and she then enlarged on the +splendid chance--a piece of jewelry that had cost twelve hundred francs, +and she was willing to let it go for five hundred. She opened her bag +slowly, in spite of the terrified and ever-louder protestations of the +doctor, and took from it a slender gold necklace set simply with seven +pearls in front; but the pearls were of wonderful brilliancy--flawless, +and perfect in shape. The ornament was simple, chaste, and of exquisite +delicacy. And instantly he saw in fancy the necklace on Clotilde's +beautiful neck, as its natural adornment. Any other jewel would have +been a useless ornament, these pearls would be the fitting symbol of her +youth. And he took the necklace in his trembling fingers, experiencing +a mortal anguish at the idea of returning it. He defended himself still, +however; he declared that he had not five hundred francs, while the +dealer continued, in her smooth voice, to push the advantage she had +gained. After another quarter an hour, when she thought she had him +secure, she suddenly offered him the necklace for three hundred francs, +and he yielded; his mania for giving, his desire to please his idol, to +adorn her, conquered. When he went to the desk to take the fifteen +gold pieces to count them out to the dealer, he felt convinced that the +notary's affairs would be arranged, and that they would soon have plenty +of money. + +When Pascal found himself once more alone, with the ornament in his +pocket, he was seized with a childish delight, and he planned his little +surprise, while waiting, excited and impatient, for Clotilde's return. +The moment she made her appearance his heart began to beat violently. +She was very warm, for an August sun was blazing in the sky, and she +laid aside her things quickly, pleased with her walk, telling him, +laughing, of the good bargain Martine had made--two pigeons for eighteen +sous. While she was speaking he pretended to notice something on her +neck. + +"Why, what have you on your neck? Let me see." + +He had the necklace in his hand, and he succeeded in putting it around +her neck, while feigning to pass his fingers over it, to assure himself +that there was nothing there. But she resisted, saying gaily: + +"Don't! There is nothing on my neck. Here, what are you doing? What have +you in your hand that is tickling me?" + +He caught hold of her, and drew her before the long mirror, in which she +had a full view of herself. On her neck the slender chain showed like a +thread of gold, and the seven pearls, like seven milky stars, shone with +soft luster against her satin skin. She looked charmingly childlike. +Suddenly she gave a delighted laugh, like the cooing of a dove swelling +out its throat proudly. + +"Oh, master, master, how good you are! Do you think of nothing but me, +then? How happy you make me!" + +And the joy which shone in her eyes, the joy of the woman and the lover, +happy to be beautiful and to be adored, recompensed him divinely for his +folly. + +She drew back her head, radiant, and held up her mouth to him. He bent +over and kissed her. + +"Are you happy?" + +"Oh, yes, master, happy, happy! Pearls are so sweet, so pure! And these +are so becoming to me!" + +For an instant longer she admired herself in the glass, innocently vain +of her fair flower-like skin, under the nacre drops of the pearls. Then, +yielding to a desire to show herself, hearing the servant moving about +outside, she ran out, crying: + +"Martine, Martine! See what master has just given me! Say, am I not +beautiful!" + +But all at once, seeing the old maid's severe face, that had suddenly +turned an ashen hue, she became confused, and all her pleasure was +spoiled. Perhaps she had a consciousness of the jealous pang which +her brilliant youth caused this poor creature, worn out in the dumb +resignation of her servitude, in adoration of her master. This, however, +was only a momentary feeling, unconscious in the one, hardly suspected +by the other, and what remained was the evident disapprobation of the +economical servant, condemning the present with her sidelong glance. + +Clotilde was seized with a little chill. + +"Only," she murmured, "master has rummaged his desk again. Pearls are +very dear, are they not?" + +Pascal, embarrassed, too, protested volubly, telling them of the +splendid opportunity presented by the dealer's visit. An incredibly good +stroke of business--it was impossible to avoid buying the necklace. + +"How much?" asked the young girl with real anxiety. + +"Three hundred francs." + +Martine, who had not yet opened her lips, but who looked terrible in her +silence, could not restrain a cry. + +"Good God! enough to live upon for six weeks, and we have not bread!" + +Large tears welled from Clotilde's eyes. She would have torn the +necklace from her neck if Pascal had not prevented her. She wished to +give it to him on the instant, and she faltered in heart-broken tones: + +"It is true, Martine is right. Master is mad, and I am mad, too, to keep +this for an instant, in the situation in which we are. It would burn my +flesh. Let me take it back, I beg of you." + +Never would he consent to this, he said. Now his eyes, too, were moist, +he joined in their grief, crying that he was incorrigible, that they +ought to have taken all the money away from him. And running to the desk +he took the hundred francs that were left, and forced Martine to take +them, saying: + +"I tell you that I will not keep another sou. I should spend this, too. +Take it, Martine; you are the only one of us who has any sense. You will +make the money last, I am very certain, until our affairs are settled. +And you, dear, keep that; do not grieve me." + +Nothing more was said about this incident. But Clotilde kept the +necklace, wearing it under her gown; and there was a sort of delightful +mystery in feeling on her neck, unknown to every one, this simple, +pretty ornament. Sometimes, when they were alone, she would smile at +Pascal and draw the pearls from her dress quickly, and show them to him +without a word; and as quickly she would replace them again on her warm +neck, filled with delightful emotion. It was their fond folly which she +thus recalled to him, with a confused gratitude, a vivid and radiant +joy--a joy which nevermore left her. + +A straitened existence, sweet in spite of everything, now began for +them. Martine made an exact inventory of the resources of the house, and +it was not reassuring. The provision of potatoes only promised to be +of any importance. As ill luck would have it, the jar of oil was almost +out, and the last cask of wine was also nearly empty. La Souleiade, +having neither vines nor olive trees, produced only a few vegetables and +some fruits--pears, not yet ripe, and trellis grapes, which were to be +their only delicacies. And meat and bread had to be bought every day. So +that from the first day the servant put Pascal and Clotilde on rations, +suppressing the former sweets, creams, and pastry, and reducing the food +to the quantity barely necessary to sustain life. She resumed all +her former authority, treating them like children who were not to be +consulted, even with regard to their wishes or their tastes. It was +she who arranged the menus, who knew better than themselves what they +wanted; but all this like a mother, surrounding them with unceasing +care, performing the miracle of enabling them to live still with comfort +on their scanty resources; occasionally severe with them, for their own +good, as one is severe with a child when it refuses to eat its food. And +it seemed as if this maternal care, this last immolation, the illusory +peace with which she surrounded their love, gave her, too, a little +happiness, and drew her out of the dumb despair into which she had +fallen. Since she had thus watched over them she had begun to look like +her old self, with her little white face, the face of a nun vowed to +chastity; her calm ash-colored eyes, which expressed the resignation of +her thirty years of servitude. When, after the eternal potatoes and the +little cutlet at four sous, undistinguishable among the vegetables, she +was able, on certain days, without compromising her budget, to give them +pancakes, she was triumphant, she laughed to see them laugh. + +Pascal and Clotilde thought everything she did was right, which did not +prevent them, however, from jesting about her when she was not present. +The old jests about her avarice were repeated over and over again. They +said that she counted the grains of pepper, so many grains for each +dish, in her passion for economy. When the potatoes had too little oil, +when the cutlets were reduced to a mouthful, they would exchange a quick +glance, stifling their laughter in their napkins, until she had left +the room. Everything was a source of amusement to them, and they laughed +innocently at their misery. + +At the end of the first month Pascal thought of Martine's wages. Usually +she took her forty francs herself from the common purse which she kept. + +"My poor girl," he said to her one evening, "what are you going to do +for your wages, now that we have no more money?" + +She remained for a moment with her eyes fixed on the ground, with an air +of consternation, then she said: + +"Well, monsieur, I must only wait." + +But he saw that she had not said all that was in her mind, that she had +thought of some arrangement which she did not know how to propose to +him, so he encouraged her. + +"Well, then, if monsieur would consent to it, I should like monsieur to +sign me a paper." + +"How, a paper?" + +"Yes, a paper, in which monsieur should say, every month, that he owes +me forty francs." + +Pascal at once made out the paper for her, and this made her quite +happy. She put it away as carefully as if it had been real money. +This evidently tranquilized her. But the paper became a new subject of +wondering amusement to the doctor and his companion. In what did the +extraordinary power consist which money has on certain natures? This +old maid, who would serve him on bended knees, who adored him above +everything, to the extent of having devoted to him her whole life, to +ask for this silly guarantee, this scrap of paper which was of no value, +if he should be unable to pay her. + +So far neither Pascal nor Clotilde had any great merit in preserving +their serenity in misfortune, for they did not feel it. They lived high +above it, in the rich and happy realm of their love. At table they did +not know what they were eating; they might fancy they were partaking of +a princely banquet, served on silver dishes. They were unconscious of +the increasing destitution around them, of the hunger of the servant +who lived upon the crumbs from their table; and they walked through the +empty house as through a palace hung with silk and filled with riches. +This was undoubtedly the happiest period of their love. The workroom had +pleasant memories of the past, and they spent whole days there, wrapped +luxuriously in the joy of having lived so long in it together. Then, out +of doors, in every corner of La Souleiade, royal summer had set up his +blue tent, dazzling with gold. In the morning, in the embalsamed walks +on the pine grove; at noon under the dark shadow of the plane trees, +lulled by the murmur of the fountain; in the evening on the cool +terrace, or in the still warm threshing yard bathed in the faint blue +radiance of the first stars, they lived with rapture their straitened +life, their only ambition to live always together, indifferent to all +else. The earth was theirs, with all its riches, its pomps, and its +dominions, since they loved each other. + +Toward the end of August however, matters grew bad again. At times they +had rude awakenings, in the midst of this life without ties, without +duties, without work; this life which was so sweet, but which it would +be impossible, hurtful, they knew, to lead always. One evening Martine +told them that she had only fifty francs left, and that they would have +difficulty in managing for two weeks longer, even giving up wine. In +addition to this the news was very serious; the notary Grandguillot was +beyond a doubt insolvent, so that not even the personal creditors would +receive anything. In the beginning they had relied on the house and the +two farms which the fugitive notary had left perforce behind him, but it +was now certain that this property was in his wife's name and, while +he was enjoying in Switzerland, as it was said, the beauty of the +mountains, she lived on one of the farms, which she cultivated +quietly, away from the annoyances of the liquidation. In short, it was +infamous--a hundred families ruined; left without bread. An assignee had +indeed been appointed, but he had served only to confirm the disaster, +since not a centime of assets had been discovered. And Pascal, with his +usual indifference, neglected even to go and see him to speak to him +about his own case, thinking that he already knew all that there was +to be known about it, and that it was useless to stir up this ugly +business, since there was neither honor nor profit to be derived from +it. + +Then, indeed, the future looked threatening at La Souleiade. Black want +stared them in the face. And Clotilde, who, in reality, had a great +deal of good sense, was the first to take alarm. She maintained her +cheerfulness while Pascal was present, but, more prescient than he, in +her womanly tenderness, she fell into a state of absolute terror if he +left her for an instant, asking herself what was to become of him at +his age with so heavy a burden upon his shoulders. For several days she +cherished in secret a project--to work and earn money, a great deal of +money, with her pastels. People had so often praised her extraordinary +and original talent that, taking Martine into her confidence, she sent +her one fine morning to offer some of her fantastic bouquets to the +color dealer of the Cours Sauvaire, who was a relation, it was said, of +a Parisian artist. It was with the express condition that nothing was to +be exhibited in Plassans, that everything was to be sent to a distance. +But the result was disastrous; the merchant was frightened by the +strangeness of the design, and by the fantastic boldness of the +execution, and he declared that they would never sell. This threw her +into despair; great tears welled her eyes. Of what use was she? It was +a grief and a humiliation to be good for nothing. And the servant was +obliged to console her, saying that no doubt all women were not born for +work; that some grew like the flowers in the gardens, for the sake +of their fragrance; while others were the wheat of the fields that is +ground up and used for food. + +Martine, meantime, cherished another project; it was to urge the doctor +to resume his practise. At last she mentioned it to Clotilde, who at +once pointed out to her the difficulty, the impossibility almost, of +such an attempt. She and Pascal had been talking about his doing so only +the day before. He, too, was anxious, and had thought of work as the +only chance of salvation. The idea of opening an office again was +naturally the first that had presented itself to him. But he had been +for so long a time the physician of the poor! How could he venture now +to ask payment when it was so many years since he had left off doing so? +Besides, was it not too late, at his age, to recommence a career? not to +speak of the absurd rumors that had been circulating about him, the name +which they had given him of a crack-brained genius. He would not find a +single patient now, it would be a useless cruelty to force him to make +an attempt which would assuredly result only in a lacerated heart and +empty hands. Clotilde, on the contrary, had used all her influence to +turn him from the idea. Martine comprehended the reasonableness of these +objections, and she too declared that he must be prevented from running +the risk of so great a chagrin. But while she was speaking a new idea +occurred to her, as she suddenly remembered an old register, which she +had met with in a press, and in which she had in former times entered +the doctor's visits. For a long time it was she who had kept the +accounts. There were so many patients who had never paid that a list +of them filled three of the large pages of the register. Why, then, now +that they had fallen into misfortune, should they not ask from these +people the money which they justly owed? It might be done without saying +anything to monsieur, who had never been willing to appeal to the +law. And this time Clotilde approved of her idea. It was a perfect +conspiracy. Clotilde consulted the register, and made out the bills, and +the servant presented them. But nowhere did she receive a sou; they told +her at every door that they would look over the account; that they would +stop in and see the doctor himself. Ten days passed, no one came, and +there were now only six francs in the house, barely enough to live upon +for two or three days longer. + +Martine, when she returned with empty hands on the following day from a +new application to an old patient, took Clotilde aside and told her that +she had just been talking with Mme. Felicite at the corner of the Rue de +la Banne. The latter had undoubtedly been watching for her. She had +not again set foot in La Souleiade. Not even the misfortune which had +befallen her son--the sudden loss of his money, of which the whole +town was talking--had brought her to him; she still continued stern and +indignant. But she waited in trembling excitement, she maintained her +attitude as an offended mother only in the certainty that she would at +last have Pascal at her feet, shrewdly calculating that he would sooner +or later be compelled to appeal to her for assistance. When he had not a +sou left, when he knocked at her door, then she would dictate her +terms; he should marry Clotilde, or, better still, she would demand the +departure of the latter. But the days passed, and he did not come. And +this was why she had stopped Martine, assuming a pitying air, asking +what news there was, and seeming to be surprised that they had not had +recourse to her purse, while giving it to be understood that her dignity +forbade her to take the first step. + +"You should speak to monsieur, and persuade him," ended the servant. And +indeed, why should he not appeal to his mother? That would be entirely +natural. + +"Oh! never would I undertake such a commission," cried Clotilde. +"Master would be angry, and with reason. I truly believe he would die of +starvation before he would eat grandmother's bread." + +But on the evening of the second day after this, at dinner, as Martine +was putting on the table a piece of boiled beef left over from the day +before, she gave them notice. + +"I have no more money, monsieur, and to-morrow there will be only +potatoes, without oil or butter. It is three weeks now that you have had +only water to drink; now you will have to do without meat." + +They were still cheerful, they could still jest. + +"Have you salt, my good girl?" + +"Oh, that; yes, monsieur, there is still a little left." + +"Well, potatoes and salt are very good when one is hungry." + +That night, however, Pascal noticed that Clotilde was feverish; this was +the hour in which they exchanged confidences, and she ventured to tell +him of her anxiety on his account, on her own, on that of the whole +house. What was going to become of them when all their resources should +be exhausted? For a moment she thought of speaking to him of his mother. +But she was afraid, and she contented herself with confessing to him +what she and Martine had done--the old register examined, the bills made +out and sent, the money asked everywhere in vain. In other circumstances +he would have been greatly annoyed and very angry at this confession; +offended that they should have acted without his knowledge, and contrary +to the attitude he had maintained during his whole professional life. He +remained for a long tine silent, strongly agitated, and this would have +sufficed to prove how great must be his secret anguish at times, under +his apparent indifference to poverty. Then he forgave Clotilde, clasping +her wildly to his breast, and finally he said that she had done right, +that they could not continue to live much longer as they were living, +in a destitution which increased every day. Then they fell into silence, +each trying to think of a means of procuring the money necessary for +their daily wants, each suffering keenly; she, desperate at the thought +of the tortures that awaited him; he unable to accustom himself to the +idea of seeing her wanting bread. Was their happiness forever ended, +then? Was poverty going to blight their spring with its chill breath? + +At breakfast, on the following day, they ate only fruit. The doctor was +very silent during the morning, a prey to a visible struggle. And it was +not until three o'clock that he took a resolution. + +"Come, we must stir ourselves," he said to his companion. "I do not +wish you to fast this evening again; so put on your hat, we will go out +together." + +She looked at him, waiting for an explanation. + +"Yes, since they owe us money, and have refused to give it to you, I +will see whether they will also refuse to give it to me." + +His hands trembled; the thought of demanding payment in this way, after +so many years, evidently made him suffer terribly; but he forced +a smile, he affected to be very brave. And she, who knew from the +trembling of his voice the extent of his sacrifice, had tears in her +eyes. + +"No, no, master; don't go if it makes you suffer so much. Martine can go +again." + +But the servant, who was present, approved highly of monsieur's +intention. + +"And why should not monsieur go? There's no shame in asking what is owed +to one, is there? Every one should have his own; for my part, I think it +quite right that monsieur should show at last that he is a man." + +Then, as before, in their hours of happiness, old King David, as Pascal +jestingly called himself, left the house, leaning on Abishag's arm. +Neither of them was yet in rags; he still wore his tightly buttoned +overcoat; she had on her pretty linen gown with red spots, but doubtless +the consciousness of their poverty lowered them in their own estimation, +making them feel that they were now only two poor people who occupied +a very insignificant place in the world, for they walked along by the +houses, shunning observation. The sunny streets were almost deserted. A +few curious glances embarrassed them. They did not hasten their steps, +however; only their hearts were oppressed at the thought of the visits +they were about to make. + +Pascal resolved to begin with an old magistrate whom he had treated +for an affection of the liver. He entered the house, leaving Clotilde +sitting on the bench in the Cours Sauvaire. But he was greatly relieved +when the magistrate, anticipating his demand, told him that he did not +receive his rents until October, and that he would pay him then. At +the house of an old lady of seventy, a paralytic, the rebuff was of a +different kind. She was offended because her account had been sent to +her through a servant who had been impolite; so that he hastened to +offer her his excuses, giving her all the time she desired. Then he +climbed up three flights of stairs to the apartment of a clerk in the +tax collector's office, whom he found still ill, and so poor that he did +not even venture to make his demand. Then followed a mercer, a lawyer's +wife, an oil merchant, a baker--all well-to-do people; and all turned +him away, some with excuses, others by denying him admittance; a few +even pretended not to know what he meant. There remained the Marquise +de Valqueyras, the sole representative of a very ancient family, a widow +with a girl of ten, who was very rich, and whose avarice was notorious. +He had left her for the last, for he was greatly afraid of her. Finally +he knocked at the door of her ancient mansion, at the foot of the Cours +Sauvaire, a massive structure of the time of Mazarin. He remained so +long in the house that Clotilde, who was walking under the trees, at +last became uneasy. + +When he finally made his appearance, at the end of a full half hour, she +said jestingly, greatly relieved: + +"Why, what was the matter? Had she no money?" + +But here, too, he had been unsuccessful; she complained that her tenants +did not pay her. + +"Imagine," he continued, in explanation of his long absence, "the little +girl is ill. I am afraid that it is the beginning of a gastric fever. So +she wished me to see the child, and I examined her." + +A smile which she could not suppress came to Clotilde's lips. + +"And you prescribed for her?" + +"Of course; could I do otherwise?" + +She took his arm again, deeply affected, and he felt her press it +against her heart. For a time they walked on aimlessly. It was all over; +they had knocked at every debtor's door, and nothing now remained for +them to do but to return home with empty hands. But this Pascal refused +to do, determined that Clotilde should have something more than the +potatoes and water which awaited them. When they ascended the Cours +Sauvaire, they turned to the left, to the new town; drifting now whither +cruel fate led them. + +"Listen," said Pascal at last; "I have an idea. If I were to speak to +Ramond he would willingly lend us a thousand francs, which we could +return to him when our affairs are arranged." + +She did not answer at once. Ramond, whom she had rejected, who was now +married and settled in a house in the new town, in a fair way to become +the fashionable physician of the place, and to make a fortune! She knew, +indeed, that he had a magnanimous soul and a kind heart. If he had not +visited them again it had been undoubtedly through delicacy. Whenever +they chanced to meet, he saluted them with so admiring an air, he seemed +so pleased to see their happiness. + +"Would that be disagreeable to you?" asked Pascal ingenuously. For his +part, he would have thrown open to the young physician his house, his +purse, and his heart. + +"No, no," she answered quickly. "There has never been anything between +us but affection and frankness. I think I gave him a great deal of pain, +but he has forgiven me. You are right; we have no other friend. It is to +Ramond that we must apply." + +Ill luck pursued them, however. Ramond was absent from home, attending a +consultation at Marseilles, and he would not be back until the following +evening. And it young Mme. Ramond, an old friend of Clotilde's, +some three years her junior, who received them. She seemed a little +embarrassed, but she was very amiable, notwithstanding. But the doctor, +naturally, did not prefer his request, and contented himself with +saying, in explanation of his visit, that he had missed Ramond. When +they were in the street again, Pascal and Clotilde felt themselves once +more abandoned and alone. Where now should they turn? What new effort +should they make? And they walked on again aimlessly. + +"I did not tell you, master," Clotilde at last ventured to murmur, "but +it seems that Martine met grandmother the other day. Yes, grandmother +has been uneasy about us. She asked Martine why we did not go to her, if +we were in want. And see, here is her house." + +They were in fact, in the Rue de la Banne. They could see the corner of +the Place de la Sous-Prefecture. But he at once silenced her. + +"Never, do you hear! Nor shall you go either. You say that because it +grieves you to see me in this poverty. My heart, too, is heavy, to think +that you also are in want, that you also suffer. But it is better to +suffer than to do a thing that would leave one an eternal remorse. I +will not. I cannot." + +They emerged from the Rue de la Banne, and entered the old quarter. + +"I would a thousand times rather apply to a stranger. Perhaps we still +have friends, even if they are only among the poor." + +And resolved to beg, David continued his walk, leaning on the arm of +Abishag; the old mendicant king went from door to door, leaning on the +shoulder of the loving subject whose youth was now his only support. +It was almost six o'clock; the heat had abated; the narrow streets were +filling with people; and in this populous quarter where they were loved, +they were everywhere greeted with smiles. Something of pity was mingled +with the admiration they awakened, for every one knew of their ruin. But +they seemed of a nobler beauty than before, he all white, she all blond, +pressing close to each other in their misfortune. They seemed more +united, more one with each other than ever; holding their heads erect, +proud of their glorious love, though touched by misfortune; he shaken, +while she, with a courageous heart, sustained him. And in spite of the +poverty that had so suddenly overtaken them they walked without shame, +very poor and very great, with the sorrowful smile under which they +concealed the desolation of their souls. Workmen in dirty blouses passed +them by, who had more money in their pockets than they. No one ventured +to offer them the sou which is not refused to those who are hungry. At +the Rue Canoquin they stopped at the house of Gulraude. She had died +the week before. Two other attempts which they made failed. They were +reduced now to consider where they could borrow ten francs. They had +been walking about the town for three hours, but they could not resolve +to go home empty-handed. + +Ah, this Plassans, with its Cours Sauvaire, its Rue de Rome, and its Rue +de la Banne, dividing it into three quarters; this Plassans; with its +windows always closed, this sun-baked town, dead in appearance, but +which concealed under this sleeping surface a whole nocturnal life of +the clubhouse and the gaming table. They walked through it three times +more with slackened pace, on this clear, calm close of a glowing August +day. In the yard of the coach office a few old stage-coaches, which +still plied between the town and the mountain villages, were standing +unharnessed; and under the thick shade of the plane trees at the doors +of the cafes, the customers, who were to be seen from seven o'clock +in the morning, looked after them smiling. In the new town, too, the +servants came and stood at the doors of the wealthy houses; they met +with less sympathy here than in the deserted streets of the Quartier St. +Marc, whose antique houses maintained a friendly silence. They returned +to the heart of the old quarter where they were most liked; they went as +far as St. Saturnin, the cathedral, whose apse was shaded by the garden +of the chapter, a sweet and peaceful solitude, from which a beggar drove +them by himself asking an alms from them. They were building rapidly in +the neighborhood of the railway station; a new quarter was growing up +there, and they bent their steps in that direction. Then they returned a +last time to the Place de la Sous-Prefecture, with a sudden reawakening +of hope, thinking that they might meet some one who would offer them +money. But they were followed only by the indulgent smile of the town, +at seeing them so united and so beautiful. Only one woman had tears in +her eyes, foreseeing, perhaps, the sufferings that awaited them. The +stones of the Viorne, the little sharp paving stones, wounded their +feet. And they had at last to return to La Souleiade, without having +succeeded in obtaining anything, the old mendicant king and his +submissive subject; Abishag, in the flower of her youth, leading back +David, old and despoiled of his wealth, and weary from having walked the +streets in vain. + +It was eight o'clock, and Martine, who was waiting for them, +comprehended that she would have no cooking to do this evening. She +pretended that she had dined, and as she looked ill Pascal sent her at +once to bed. + +"We do not need you," said Clotilde. "As the potatoes are on the fire we +can take them up very well ourselves." + +The servant, who was feverish and out of humor, yielded. She muttered +some indistinct words--when people had eaten up everything what was the +use of sitting down to table? Then, before shutting herself into her +room, she added: + +"Monsieur, there is no more hay for Bonhomme. I thought he was looking +badly a little while ago; monsieur ought to go and see him." + +Pascal and Clotilde, filled with uneasiness, went to the stable. The old +horse was, in fact, lying on the straw in the somnolence of expiring old +age. They had not taken him out for six months past, for his legs, stiff +with rheumatism, refused to support him, and he had become completely +blind. No one could understand why the doctor kept the old beast. +Even Martine had at last said that he ought to be slaughtered, if only +through pity. But Pascal and Clotilde cried out at this, as much excited +as if it had been proposed to them to put an end to some aged relative +who was not dying fast enough. No, no, he had served them for more than +a quarter of a century; he should die comfortably with them, like the +worthy fellow he had always been. And to-night the doctor did not scorn +to examine him, as if he had never attended any other patients than +animals. He lifted up his hoofs, looked at his gums, and listened to the +beating of his heart. + +"No, there is nothing the matter with him," he said at last. "It is +simply old age. Ah, my poor old fellow, I think, indeed, we shall never +again travel the roads together." + +The idea that there was no more hay distressed Clotilde. But Pascal +reassured her--an animal of that age, that no longer moved about, needed +so little. She stooped down and took a few handfuls of grass from a heap +which the servant had left there, and both were rejoiced when Bonhomme +deigned, solely and simply through friendship, as it seemed, to eat the +grass out of her hand. + +"Oh," she said, laughing, "so you still have an appetite! You cannot be +very sick, then; you must not try to work upon our feelings. Good night, +and sleep well." + +And they left him to his slumbers after having each given him, as usual, +a hearty kiss on either side of his nose. + +Night fell, and an idea occurred to them, in order not to remain +downstairs in the empty house--to close up everything and eat their +dinner upstairs. Clotilde quickly took up the dish of potatoes, the +salt-cellar, and a fine decanter of water; while Pascal took charge of +a basket of grapes, the first which they had yet gathered from an early +vine at the foot of the terrace. They closed the door, and laid the +cloth on a little table, putting the potatoes in the middle between the +salt-cellar and the decanter, and the basket of grapes on a chair beside +them. And it was a wonderful feast, which reminded them of the delicious +breakfast they had made on the morning on which Martine had obstinately +shut herself up in her room, and refused to answer them. They +experienced the same delight as then at being alone, at waiting upon +themselves, at eating from the same plate, sitting close beside each +other. This evening, which they had anticipated with so much dread, had +in store for them the most delightful hours of their existence. As soon +as they found themselves at home in the large friendly room, as far +removed from the town which they had just been scouring as if they had +been a hundred leagues away from it, all uneasiness and all sadness +vanished--even to the recollection of the wretched afternoon wasted in +useless wanderings. They were once more indifferent to all that was +not their affection; they no longer remembered that they had lost their +fortune; that they might have to hunt up a friend on the morrow in order +to be able to dine in the evening. Why torture themselves with fears +of coming want, when all they required to enjoy the greatest possible +happiness was to be together? + +But Pascal felt a sudden terror. + +"My God! and we dreaded this evening so greatly! Is it wise to be happy +in this way? Who knows what to-morrow may have in store for us?" + +But she put her little hand over his mouth; she desired that he should +have one more evening of perfect happiness. + +"No, no; to-morrow we shall love each other as we love each other +to-day. Love me with all your strength, as I love you." + +And never had they eaten with more relish. She displayed the appetite of +a healthy young girl with a good digestion; she ate the potatoes with a +hearty appetite, laughing, thinking them delicious, better than the +most vaunted delicacies. He, too, recovered the appetite of his youthful +days. They drank with delight deep draughts of pure water. Then the +grapes for dessert filled them with admiration; these grapes so fresh, +this blood of the earth which the sun had touched with gold. They ate +to excess; they became drunk on water and fruit, and more than all on +gaiety. They did not remember ever before to have enjoyed such a feast +together; even the famous breakfast they had made, with its luxuries of +cutlets and bread and wine, had not given them this intoxication, this +joy in living, when to be together was happiness enough, changing the +china to dishes of gold, and the miserable food to celestial fare such +as not even the gods enjoyed. + +It was now quite dark, but they did not light the lamp. Through the +wide open windows they could see the vast summer sky. The night breeze +entered, still warm and laden with a faint odor of lavender. The moon +had just risen above the horizon, large and round, flooding the room +with a silvery light, in which they saw each other as in a dream light +infinitely bright and sweet. + + + + +XI. + +But on the following day their disquietude all returned. They were now +obliged to go in debt. Martine obtained on credit bread, wine, and +a little meat, much to her shame, be it said, forced as she was to +maneuver and tell lies, for no one was ignorant of the ruin that had +overtaken the house. The doctor had indeed thought of mortgaging La +Souleiade, but only as a last resource. All he now possessed was this +property, which was worth twenty thousand francs, but for which he would +perhaps not get fifteen thousand, if he should sell it; and when these +should be spent black want would be before them, the street, without +even a stone of their own on which to lay their heads. Clotilde +therefore begged Pascal to wait and not to take any irrevocable step so +long as things were not utterly desperate. + +Three or four days passed. It was the beginning of September, and +the weather unfortunately changed; terrible storms ravaged the entire +country; a part of the garden wall was blown down, and as Pascal was +unable to rebuild it, the yawning breach remained. Already they were +beginning to be rude at the baker's. And one morning the old servant +came home with the meat from the butcher's in tears, saying that he had +given her the refuse. A few days more and they would be unable to obtain +anything on credit. It had become absolutely necessary to consider how +they should find the money for their small daily expenses. + +One Monday morning, the beginning of another week of torture, Clotilde +was very restless. A struggle seemed to be going on within her, and it +was only when she saw Pascal refuse at breakfast his share of a piece of +beef which had been left over from the day before that she at last came +to a decision. Then with a calm and resolute air, she went out after +breakfast with Martine, after quietly putting into the basket of the +latter a little package--some articles of dress which she was giving +her, she said. + +When she returned two hours later she was very pale. But her large eyes, +so clear and frank, were shining. She went up to the doctor at once and +made her confession. + +"I must ask your forgiveness, master, for I have just been disobeying +you, and I know that I am going to pain you greatly." + +"Why, what have you been doing?" he asked uneasily, not understanding +what she meant. + +Slowly, without removing her eyes from him, she drew from her pocket +an envelope, from which she took some bank-notes. A sudden intuition +enlightened him, and he cried: + +"Ah, my God! the jewels, the presents I gave you!" + +And he, who was usually so good-tempered and gentle, was convulsed with +grief and anger. He seized her hands in his, crushing with almost brutal +force the fingers which held the notes. + +"My God! what have you done, unhappy girl? It is my heart that you have +sold, both our hearts, that had entered into those jewels, which +you have given with them for money! The jewels which I gave you, the +souvenirs of our divinest hours, your property, yours only, how can +you wish me to take them back, to turn them to my profit? Can it be +possible--have you thought of the anguish that this would give me?" + +"And you, master," she answered gently, "do you think that I could +consent to our remaining in the unhappy situation in which we are, in +want of everything, while I had these rings and necklaces and earrings +laid away in the bottom of a drawer? Why, my whole being would rise in +protest. I should think myself a miser, a selfish wretch, if I had +kept them any longer. And, although it was a grief for me to part with +them--ah, yes, I confess it, so great a grief that I could hardly find +the courage to do it--I am certain that I have only done what I ought to +have done as an obedient and loving woman." + +And as he still grasped her hands, tears came to her eyes, and she added +in the same gentle voice and with a faint smile: + +"Don't press so hard; you hurt me." + +Then repentant and deeply moved, Pascal, too, wept. + +"I am a brute to get angry in this way. You acted rightly; you could +not do otherwise. But forgive me; it was hard for me to see you despoil +yourself. Give me your hands, your poor hands, and let me kiss away the +marks of my stupid violence." + +He took her hands again in his tenderly; he covered them with kisses; he +thought them inestimably precious, so delicate and bare, thus +stripped of their rings. Consoled now, and joyous, she told him of her +escapade--how she had taken Martine into her confidence, and how both +had gone to the dealer who had sold him the corsage of point d'Alencon, +and how after interminable examining and bargaining the woman had given +six thousand francs for all the jewels. Again he repressed a gesture +of despair--six thousand francs! when the jewels had cost him more than +three times that amount--twenty thousand francs at the very least. + +"Listen," he said to her at last; "I will take this money, since, in +the goodness of your heart, you have brought it to me. But it is clearly +understood that it is yours. I swear to you that I will, for the future, +be more miserly than Martine herself. I will give her only the few sous +that are absolutely necessary for our maintenance, and you will find in +the desk all that may be left of this sum, if I should never be able to +complete it and give it back to you entire." + +He clasped her in an embrace that still trembled with emotion. +Presently, lowering his voice to a whisper, he said: + +"And did you sell everything, absolutely everything?" + +Without speaking, she disengaged herself a little from his embrace, +and put her fingers to her throat, with her pretty gesture, smiling and +blushing. Finally, she drew out the slender chain on which shone the +seven pearls, like milky stars. Then she put it back again out of sight. + +He, too, blushed, and a great joy filled his heart. He embraced her +passionately. + +"Ah!" he cried, "how good you are, and how I love you!" + +But from this time forth the recollection of the jewels which had been +sold rested like a weight upon his heart; and he could not look at +the money in his desk without pain. He was haunted by the thought +of approaching want, inevitable want, and by a still more bitter +thought--the thought of his age, of his sixty years which rendered him +useless, incapable of earning a comfortable living for a wife; he had +been suddenly and rudely awakened from his illusory dream of eternal +love to the disquieting reality. He had fallen unexpectedly into +poverty, and he felt himself very old--this terrified him and filled him +with a sort of remorse, of desperate rage against himself, as if he had +been guilty of a crime. And this embittered his every hour; if through +momentary forgetfulness he permitted himself to indulge in a little +gaiety his distress soon returned with greater poignancy than ever, +bringing with it a sudden and inexplicable sadness. He did not dare to +question himself, and his dissatisfaction with himself and his suffering +increased every day. + +Then a frightful revelation came to him. One morning, when he was alone, +he received a letter bearing the Plassans postmark, the superscription +on which he examined with surprise, not recognizing the writing. This +letter was not signed; and after reading a few lines he made an +angry movement as if to tear it up and throw it away; but he sat down +trembling instead, and read it to the end. The style was perfectly +courteous; the long phrases rolled on, measured and carefully worded, +like diplomatic phrases, whose only aim is to convince. It was +demonstrated to him with a superabundance of arguments that the scandal +of La Souleiade had lasted too long already. If passion, up to a certain +point, explained the fault, yet a man of his age and in his situation +was rendering himself contemptible by persisting in wrecking the +happiness of the young relative whose trustfulness he abused. No one +was ignorant of the ascendency which he had acquired over her; it was +admitted that she gloried in sacrificing herself for him; but ought he +not, on his side, to comprehend that it was impossible that she should +love an old man, that what she felt was merely pity and gratitude, and +that it was high time to deliver her from this senile love, which would +finally leave her with a dishonored name! Since he could not even assure +her a small fortune, the writer hoped he would act like an honorable +man, and have the strength to separate from her, through consideration +for her happiness, if it were not yet too late. And the letter concluded +with the reflection that evil conduct was always punished in the end. + +From the first sentence Pascal felt that this anonymous letter came from +his mother. Old Mme. Rougon must have dictated it; he could hear in it +the very inflections of her voice. But after having begun the letter +angry and indignant, he finished it pale and trembling, seized by the +shiver which now passed through him continually and without apparent +cause. The letter was right, it enlightened him cruelly regarding the +source of his mental distress, showing him that it was remorse for +keeping Clotilde with him, old and poor as he was. He got up and walked +over to a mirror, before which he stood for a long time, his eyes +gradually filling with tears of despair at sight of his wrinkles and his +white beard. The feeling of terror which arose within him, the mortal +chill which invaded his heart, was caused by the thought that separation +had become necessary, inevitable. He repelled the thought, he felt +that he would never have the strength for a separation, but it still +returned; he would never now pass a single day without being assailed by +it, without being torn by the struggle between his love and his reason +until the terrible day when he should become resigned, his strength and +his tears exhausted. In his present weakness, he trembled merely at the +thought of one day having this courage. And all was indeed over, the +irrevocable had begun; he was filled with fear for Clotilde, so young +and so beautiful, and all there was left him now was the duty of saving +her from himself. + +Then, haunted by every word, by every phrase of the letter, he tortured +himself at first by trying to persuade himself that she did not love +him, that all she felt for him was pity and gratitude. It would make the +rupture more easy to him, he thought, if he were once convinced that she +sacrificed herself, and that in keeping her with him longer he was only +gratifying his monstrous selfishness. But it was in vain that he studied +her, that he subjected her to proofs, she remained as tender and devoted +as ever, making the dreaded decision still more difficult. Then he +pondered over all the causes that vaguely, but ceaselessly urged their +separation. The life which they had been leading for months past, this +life without ties or duties, without work of any sort, was not good. He +thought no longer of himself, he considered himself good for nothing now +but to go away and bury himself out of sight in some remote corner; but +for her was it not an injurious life, a life which would deteriorate +her character and weaken her will? And suddenly he saw himself in fancy +dying, leaving her alone to perish of hunger in the streets. No, no! +this would be a crime; he could not, for the sake of the happiness +of his few remaining days, bequeath to her this heritage of shame and +misery. + +One morning Clotilde went for a walk in the neighborhood, from which she +returned greatly agitated, pale and trembling, and as soon as she +was upstairs in the workroom, she almost fainted in Pascal's arms, +faltering: + +"Oh, my God! oh, my God! those women!" + +Terrified, he pressed her with questions. + +"Come, tell me! What has happened?" + +A flush mounted to her face. She flung her arms around his neck and hid +her head on his shoulder. + +"It was those women! Reaching a shady spot, I was closing my parasol, +and I had the misfortune to throw down a child. And they all rose +against me, crying out such things, oh, such things--things that I +cannot repeat, that I could not understand!" + +She burst into sobs. He was livid; he could find nothing to say to her; +he kissed her wildly, weeping like herself. He pictured to himself +the whole scene; he saw her pursued, hooted at, reviled. Presently he +faltered: + +"It is my fault, it is through me you suffer. Listen, we will go away +from here, far, far away, where we shall not be known, where you will be +honored, where you will be happy." + +But seeing him weep, she recovered her calmness by a violent effort. And +drying her tears, she said: + +"Ah! I have behaved like a coward in telling you all this. After +promising myself that I would say nothing of it to you. But when I found +myself at home again, my anguish was so great that it all came out. But +you see now it is all over, don't grieve about it. I love you." + +She smiled, and putting her arms about him she kissed him in her turn, +trying to soothe his despair. + +"I love you. I love you so dearly that it will console me for +everything. There is only you in the world, what matters anything that +is not you? You are so good; you make me so happy!" + +But he continued to weep, and she, too, began to weep again, and there +was a moment of infinite sadness, of anguish, in which they mingled +their kisses and their tears. + +Pascal, when she left him alone for an instant, thought himself a +wretch. He could no longer be the cause of misfortune to this child, +whom he adored. And on the evening of the same day an event took place +which brought about the solution hitherto sought in vain, with the fear +of finding it. After dinner Martine beckoned him aside, and gave him a +letter, with all sorts of precautions, saying: + +"I met Mme. Felicite, and she charged me to give you this letter, +monsieur, and she told me to tell you that she would have brought it +to you herself, only that regard for her reputation prevented her +from returning here. She begs you to send her back M. Maxime's letter, +letting her know mademoiselle's answer." + +It was, in fact, a letter from Maxime, and Mme. Felicite, glad to have +received it, used it as a new means of conquering her son, after having +waited in vain for misery to deliver him up to her, repentant and +imploring. As neither Pascal nor Clotilde had come to demand aid or +succor from her, she had once more changed her plan, returning to her +old idea of separating them; and, this time, the opportunity seemed +to her decisive. Maxime's letter was a pressing one; he urged his +grandmother to plead his cause with his sister. Ataxia had declared +itself; he was able to walk now only leaning on his servant's arm. His +solitude terrified him, and he urgently entreated his sister to come to +him. He wished to have her with him as a rampart against his father's +abominable designs; as a sweet and upright woman after all, who would +take care of him. The letter gave it to be understood that if she +conducted herself well toward him she would have no reason to repent it; +and ended by reminding the young girl of the promise she had made him, +at the time of his visit to Plassans, to come to him, if the day ever +arrived when he really needed her. + +Pascal turned cold. He read the four pages over again. Here an +opportunity to separate presented itself, acceptable to him and +advantageous for Clotilde, so easy and so natural that they ought to +accept it at once; yet, in spite of all his reasoning he felt so weak, +so irresolute still that his limbs trembled under him, and he was +obliged to sit down for a moment. But he wished to be heroic, and +controlling himself, he called to his companion. + +"Here!" he said, "read this letter which your grandmother has sent me." + +Clotilde read the letter attentively to the end without a word, without +a sign. Then she said simply: + +"Well, you are going to answer it, are you not? I refuse." + +He was obliged to exercise a strong effort of self-control to avoid +uttering a great cry of joy, as he pressed her to his heart. As if it +were another person who spoke, he heard himself saying quietly: + +"You refuse--impossible! You must reflect. Let us wait till to-morrow to +give an answer; and let us talk it over, shall we?" + +Surprised, she cried excitedly: + +"Part from each other! and why? And would you really consent to it? What +folly! we love each other, and you would have me leave you and go away +where no one cares for me! How could you think of such a thing? It would +be stupid." + +He avoided touching on this side of the question, and hastened to speak +of promises made--of duty. + +"Remember, my dear, how greatly affected you were when I told you that +Maxime was in danger. And think of him now, struck down by disease, +helpless and alone, calling you to his side. Can you abandon him in that +situation? You have a duty to fulfil toward him." + +"A duty?" she cried. "Have I any duties toward a brother who has never +occupied himself with me? My only duty is where my heart is." + +"But you have promised. I have promised for you. I have said that you +were rational, and you are not going to belie my words." + +"Rational? It is you who are not rational. It is not rational to +separate when to do so would make us both die of grief." + +And with an angry gesture she closed the discussion, saying: + +"Besides, what is the use of talking about it? There is nothing simpler; +it is only necessary to say a single word. Answer me. Are you tired of +me? Do you wish to send me away?" + +He uttered a cry. + +"Send you away! I! Great God!" + +"Then it is all settled. If you do not send me away I shall remain." + +She laughed now, and, running to her desk, wrote in red pencil across +her brother's letter two words--"I refuse;" then she called Martine and +insisted upon her taking the letter back at once. Pascal was radiant; +a wave of happiness so intense inundated his being that he let her have +her way. The joy of keeping her with him deprived him even of his power +of reasoning. + +But that very night, what remorse did he not feel for having been so +cowardly! He had again yielded to his longing for happiness. A deathlike +sweat broke out upon him when he saw her in imagination far away; +himself alone, without her, without that caressing and subtle essence +that pervaded the atmosphere when she was near; her breath, her +brightness, her courageous rectitude, and the dear presence, physical +and mental, which had now become as necessary to his life as the light +of day itself. She must leave him, and he must find the strength to +die of it. He despised himself for his want of courage, he judged the +situation with terrible clear-sightedness. All was ended. An honorable +existence and a fortune awaited her with her brother; he could not carry +his senile selfishness so far as to keep her any longer in the misery in +which he was, to be scorned and despised. And fainting at the thought of +all he was losing, he swore to himself that he would be strong, that he +would not accept the sacrifice of this child, that he would restore her +to happiness and to life, in her own despite. + +And now the struggle of self-abnegation began. Some days passed; he +had demonstrated to her so clearly the rudeness of her "I refuse," on +Maxime's letter, that she had written a long letter to her grandmother, +explaining to her the reasons for her refusal. But still she would not +leave La Souleiade. As Pascal had grown extremely parsimonious, in his +desire to trench as little as possible on the money obtained by the sale +of the jewels, she surpassed herself, eating her dry bread with merry +laughter. One morning he surprised her giving lessons of economy to +Martine. Twenty times a day she would look at him intently and then +throw herself on his neck and cover his face with kisses, to combat the +dreadful idea of a separation, which she saw always in his eyes. Then +she had another argument. One evening after dinner he was seized with a +palpitation of the heart, and almost fainted. This surprised him; he had +never suffered from the heart, and he believed it to be simply a return +of his old nervous trouble. Since his great happiness he had felt less +strong, with an odd sensation, as if some delicate hidden spring had +snapped within him. Greatly alarmed, she hurried to his assistance. +Well! now he would no doubt never speak again of her going away. When +one loved people, and they were ill, one stayed with them to take care +of them. + +The struggle thus became a daily, an hourly one. It was a continual +assault made by affection, by devotion, by self-abnegation, in the one +desire for another's happiness. But while her kindness and tenderness +made the thought of her departure only the more cruel for Pascal, +he felt every day more and more strongly the necessity for it. His +resolution was now taken. But he remained at bay, trembling and +hesitating as to the means of persuading her. He pictured to himself her +despair, her tears; what should he do? how should he tell her? how could +they bring themselves to give each other a last embrace, never to see +each other again? And the days passed, and he could think of nothing, +and he began once more to accuse himself of cowardice. + +Sometimes she would say jestingly, with a touch of affectionate malice: + +"Master, you are too kind-hearted not to keep me." + +But this vexed him; he grew excited, and with gloomy despair answered: + +"No, no! don't talk of my kindness. If I were really kind you would have +been long ago with your brother, leading an easy and honorable life, +with a bright and tranquil future before you, instead of obstinately +remaining here, despised, poor, and without any prospect, to be the sad +companion of an old fool like me! No, I am nothing but a coward and a +dishonorable man!" + +She hastily stopped him. And it was in truth his kindness of heart, +above all, that bled, that immense kindness of heart which sprang from +his love of life, which he diffused over persons and things, in his +continual care for the happiness of every one and everything. To be +kind, was not this to love her, to make her happy, at the price of his +own happiness? This was the kindness which it was necessary for him to +exercise, and which he felt that he would one day exercise, heroic and +decisive. But like the wretch who has resolved upon suicide, he waited +for the opportunity, the hour, and the means, to carry out his design. +Early one morning, on going into the workroom, Clotilde was surprised +to see Dr. Pascal seated at his table. It was many weeks since he had +either opened a book or touched a pen. + +"Why! you are working?" she said. + +Without raising his head he answered absently: + +"Yes; this is the genealogical tree that I had not even brought up to +date." + +She stood behind him for a few moments, looking at him writing. He was +completing the notices of Aunt Dide, of Uncle Macquart, and of little +Charles, writing the dates of their death. Then, as he did not stir, +seeming not to know that she was there, waiting for the kisses and the +smiles of other mornings, she walked idly over to the window and back +again. + +"So you are in earnest," she said, "you are really working?" + +"Certainly; you see I ought to have noted down these deaths last month. +And I have a heap of work waiting there for me." + +She looked at him fixedly, with that steady inquiring gaze with which +she sought to read his thoughts. + +"Very well, let us work. If you have papers to examine, or notes to +copy, give them to me." + +And from this day forth he affected to give himself up entirely to work. +Besides, it was one of his theories that absolute rest was unprofitable, +that it should never be prescribed, even to the overworked. As the fish +lives in the water, so a man lives only in the external medium which +surrounds him, the sensations which he receives from it transforming +themselves in him into impulses, thoughts, and acts; so that if there +were absolute rest, if he continued to receive sensations without giving +them out again, digested and transformed, an engorgement would result, a +_malaise_, an inevitable loss of equilibrium. For himself he had always +found work to be the best regulator of his existence. Even on the +mornings when he felt ill, if he set to work he recovered his equipoise. +He never felt better than when he was engaged on some long work, +methodically planned out beforehand, so many pages to so many hours +every morning, and he compared this work to a balancing-pole, which +enabled him to maintain his equilibrium in the midst of daily miseries, +weaknesses, and mistakes. So that he attributed entirely to the idleness +in which he had been living for some weeks past, the palpitation which +at times made him feel as if he were going to suffocate. If he wished to +recover his health he had only to take up again his great work. + +And Pascal spent hours developing and explaining these theories to +Clotilde, with a feverish and exaggerated enthusiasm. He seemed to be +once more possessed by the love of knowledge and study in which, up +to the time of his sudden passion for her, he had spent his life +exclusively. He repeated to her that he could not leave his work +unfinished, that he had still a great deal to do, if he desired to leave +a lasting monument behind him. His anxiety about the envelopes seemed +to have taken possession of him again; he opened the large press twenty +times a day, taking them down from the upper shelf and enriching them +by new notes. His ideas on heredity were already undergoing a +transformation; he would have liked to review the whole, to recast the +whole, to deduce from the family history, natural and social, a vast +synthesis, a resume, in broad strokes, of all humanity. Then, besides, +he reviewed his method of treatment by hypodermic injections, with the +purpose of amplifying it--a confused vision of a new therapeutics; +a vague and remote theory based on his convictions and his personal +experience of the beneficent dynamic influence of work. + +Now every morning, when he seated himself at his table, he would lament: + +"I shall not live long enough; life is too short." + +He seemed to feel that he must not lose another hour. And one morning +he looked up abruptly and said to his companion, who was copying a +manuscript at his side: + +"Listen well, Clotilde. If I should die--" + +"What an idea!" she protested, terrified. + +"If I should die," he resumed, "listen to me well--close all the doors +immediately. You are to keep the envelopes, you, you only. And when you +have collected all my other manuscripts, send them to Ramond. These are +my last wishes, do you hear?" + +But she refused to listen to him. + +"No, no!" she cried hastily, "you talk nonsense!" + +"Clotilde, swear to me that you will keep the envelopes, and that you +will send all my other papers to Ramond." + +At last, now very serious, and her eyes filled with tears, she gave +him the promise he desired. He caught her in his arms, he, too, deeply +moved, and lavished caresses upon her, as if his heart had all at once +reopened to her. Presently he recovered his calmness, and spoke of his +fears. Since he had been trying to work they seemed to have returned. He +kept constant watch upon the press, pretending to have observed Martine +prowling about it. Might they not work upon the fanaticism of this girl, +and urge her to a bad action, persuading her that she was securing her +master's eternal welfare? He had suffered so much from suspicion! In the +dread of approaching solitude his former tortures returned--the tortures +of the scientist, who is menaced and persecuted by his own, at his own +fireside, in his very flesh, in the work of his brain. + +One evening, when he was again discussing this subject with Clotilde, he +said unthinkingly: + +"You know that when you are no longer here--" + +She turned very pale and, as he stopped with a start, she cried: + +"Oh, master, master, you have not given up that dreadful idea, then? +I can see in your eyes that you are hiding something from me, that you +have a thought which you no longer share with me. But if I go away and +you should die, who will be here then to protect your work?" + +Thinking that she had become reconciled, to the idea of her departure, +he had the strength to answer gaily: + +"Do you suppose that I would allow myself to die without seeing you once +more. I will write to you, of course. You must come back to close my +eyes." + +Now she burst out sobbing, and sank into a chair. + +"My God! Can it be! You wish that to-morrow we should be together no +longer, we who have never been separated!" + +From this day forth Pascal seemed more engrossed than ever in his +work. He would sit for four or five hours at a time, whole mornings and +afternoons, without once raising his head. He overacted his zeal. +He would allow no one to disturb him, by so much as a word. And when +Clotilde would leave the room on tiptoe to give an order downstairs or +to go on some errand, he would assure himself by a furtive glance that +she was gone, and then let his head drop on the table, with an air +of profound dejection. It was a painful relief from the extraordinary +effort which he compelled himself to make when she was present; to +remain at his table, instead of going over and taking her in his arms +and covering her face with sweet kisses. Ah, work! how ardently he +called on it as his only refuge from torturing thoughts. But for the +most part he was unable to work; he was obliged to feign attention, +keeping his eyes fixed upon the page, his sorrowful eyes that grew dim +with tears, while his mind, confused, distracted, filled always with one +image, suffered the pangs of death. Was he then doomed to see work fail +now its effect, he who had always considered it of sovereign power, +the creator and ruler of the world? Must he then throw away his pen, +renounce action, and do nothing in future but exist? And tears would +flow down his white beard; and if he heard Clotilde coming upstairs +again he would seize his pen quickly, in order that she might find him +as she had left him, buried seemingly in profound meditation, when his +mind was now only an aching void. + +It was now the middle of September; two weeks that had seemed +interminable had passed in this distressing condition of things, without +bringing any solution, when one morning Clotilde was greatly surprised +by seeing her grandmother, Felicite, enter. Pascal had met his mother +the day before in the Rue de la Banne, and, impatient to consummate the +sacrifice, and not finding in himself the strength to make the rupture, +he had confided in her, in spite of his repugnance, and begged her to +come on the following day. As it happened, she had just received another +letter from Maxime, a despairing and imploring letter. + +She began by explaining her presence. + +"Yes, it is I, my dear, and you can understand that only very weighty +reasons could have induced me to set my foot here again. But, indeed, +you are getting crazy; I cannot allow you to ruin your life in this way, +without making a last effort to open your eyes." + +She then read Maxime's letter in a tearful voice. He was nailed to an +armchair. It seemed he was suffering from a form of ataxia, rapid in its +progress and very painful. Therefore he requested a decided answer +from his sister, hoping still that she would come, and trembling at the +thought of being compelled to seek another nurse. This was what he would +be obliged to do, however, if they abandoned him in his sad condition. +And when she had finished reading the letter she hinted that it would be +a great pity to let Maxime's fortune pass into the hands of strangers; +but, above all, she spoke of duty; of the assistance one owed to a +relation, she, too, affecting to believe that a formal promise had been +given. + +"Come, my dear, call upon your memory. You told him that if he should +ever need you, you would go to him; I can hear you saying it now. Was it +not so, my son?" + +Pascal, his face pale, his head slightly bent, had kept silence since +his mother's entrance, leaving her to act. He answered only by an +affirmative nod. + +Then Felicite went over all the arguments that he himself had employed +to persuade Clotilde--the dreadful scandal, to which insult was now +added; impending want, so hard for them both; the impossibility of +continuing the life they were leading. What future could they hope for, +now that they had been overtaken by poverty? It was stupid and cruel to +persist longer in her obstinate refusal. + +Clotilde, standing erect and with an impenetrable countenance, remained +silent, refusing even to discuss the question. But as her grandmother +tormented her to give an answer, she said at last: + +"Once more, I have no duty whatever toward my brother; my duty is here. +He can dispose of his fortune as he chooses; I want none of it. When +we are too poor, master shall send away Martine and keep me as his +servant." + +Old Mme. Rougon wagged her chin. + +"Before being his servant it would be better if you had begun by being +his wife. Why have you not got married? It would have been simpler and +more proper." + +And Felicite reminded her how she had come one day to urge this +marriage, in order to put an end to gossip, and how the young girl had +seemed greatly surprised, saying that neither she nor the doctor had +thought of it, but that, notwithstanding, they would get married later +on, if necessary, for there was no hurry. + +"Get married; I am quite willing!" cried Clotilde. "You are right, +grandmother." + +And turning to Pascal: + +"You have told me a hundred times that you would do whatever I wished. +Marry me; do you hear? I will be your wife, and I will stay here. A wife +does not leave her husband." + +But he answered only by a gesture, as if he feared that his voice +would betray him, and that he should accept, in a cry of gratitude, the +eternal bond which she had proposed to him. His gesture might signify a +hesitation, a refusal. What was the good of this marriage _in extremis_, +when everything was falling to pieces? + +"Those are very fine sentiments, no doubt," returned Felicite. "You have +settled it all in your own little head. But marriage will not give you +an income; and, meantime, you are a great expense to him; you are the +heaviest of his burdens." + +The effect which these words had upon Clotilde was extraordinary. She +turned violently to Pascal, her cheeks crimson, her eyes filled with +tears. + +"Master, master! is what grandmother has just said true? Has it come to +this, that you regret the money I cost you here?" + +Pascal grew still paler; he remained motionless, in an attitude of utter +dejection. But in a far-away voice, as if he were talking to himself, he +murmured: + +"I have so much work to do! I should like to go over my envelopes, my +manuscripts, my notes, and complete the work of my life. If I were +alone perhaps I might be able to arrange everything. I would sell La +Souleiade, oh! for a crust of bread, for it is not worth much. I should +shut myself and my papers in a little room. I should work from morning +till night, and I should try not to be too unhappy." + +But he avoided her glance; and, agitated as she was, these painful and +stammering utterances were not calculated to satisfy her. She grew every +moment more and more terrified, for she felt that the irrevocable word +was about to be spoken. + +"Look at me, master, look me in the face. And I conjure you, be brave, +choose between your work and me, since you say, it seems, that you send +me away that you may work the better." + +The moment for the heroic falsehood had come. He lifted his head and +looked her bravely in the face, and with the smile of a dying man who +desires death, recovering his voice of divine goodness, he said: + +"How excited you get! Can you not do your duty quietly, like everybody +else? I have a great deal of work to do, and I need to be alone; and +you, dear, you ought to go to your brother. Go then, everything is +ended." + +There was a terrible silence for the space of a few seconds. She looked +at him earnestly, hoping that he would change his mind. Was he really +speaking the truth? was he not sacrificing himself in order that she +might be happy? For a moment she had an intuition that this was the +case, as if some subtle breath, emanating from him, had warned her of +it. + +"And you are sending me away forever? You will not permit me to come +back to-morrow?" + +But he held out bravely; with another smile he seemed to answer that +when one went away like this it was not to come back again on the +following day. She was now completely bewildered; she knew not what to +think. It might be possible that he had chosen work sincerely; that the +man of science had gained the victory over the lover. She grew still +paler, and she waited a little longer, in the terrible silence; then, +slowly, with her air of tender and absolute submission, she said: + +"Very well, master, I will go away whenever you wish, and I will not +return until you send for me." + +The die was cast. The irrevocable was accomplished. Each felt that +neither would attempt to recall the decision that had been made; and, +from this instant, every minute that passed would bring nearer the +separation. + +Felicite, surprised at not being obliged to say more, at once desired +to fix the time for Clotilde's departure. She applauded herself for her +tenacity; she thought she had gained the victory by main force. It +was now Friday, and it was settled that Clotilde should leave on the +following Sunday. A despatch was even sent to Maxime. + +For the past three days the mistral had been blowing. But on this +evening its fury was redoubled, and Martine declared, in accordance with +the popular belief, that it would last for three days longer. The winds +at the end of September, in the valley of the Viorne, are terrible. So +that the servant took care to go into every room in the house to assure +herself that the shutters were securely fastened. When the mistral blew +it caught La Souleiade slantingly, above the roofs of the houses of +Plassans, on the little plateau on which the house was built. And now it +raged and beat against the house, shaking it from garret to cellar, day +and night, without a moment's cessation. The tiles were blown off, the +fastenings of the windows were torn away, while the wind, entering the +crevices, moaned and sobbed wildly through the house; and the doors, if +they were left open for a moment, through forgetfulness, slammed to with +a noise like the report of a cannon. They might have fancied they were +sustaining a siege, so great were the noise and the discomfort. + +It was in this melancholy house shaken by the storm that Pascal, on +the following day, helped Clotilde to make her preparations for her +departure. Old Mme. Rougon was not to return until Sunday, to say +good-by. When Martine was informed of the approaching separation, +she stood still in dumb amazement, and a flash, quickly extinguished, +lighted her eyes; and as they sent her out of the room, saying that they +would not require her assistance in packing the trunks, she returned +to the kitchen and busied herself in her usual occupations, seeming to +ignore the catastrophe which was about to revolutionize their household +of three. But at Pascal's slightest call she would run so promptly and +with such alacrity, her face so bright and so cheerful, in her zeal +to serve him, that she seemed like a young girl. Pascal did not leave +Clotilde for a moment, helping her, desiring to assure himself that she +was taking with her everything she could need. Two large trunks stood +open in the middle of the disordered room; bundles and articles of +clothing lay about everywhere; twenty times the drawers and the presses +had been visited. And in this work, this anxiety to forget nothing, the +painful sinking of the heart which they both felt was in some measure +lessened. They forgot for an instant--he watching carefully to see that +no space was lost, utilizing the hat-case for the smaller articles of +clothing, slipping boxes in between the folds of the linen; while she, +taking down the gowns, folded them on the bed, waiting to put them +last in the top tray. Then, when a little tired they stood up and found +themselves again face to face, they would smile at each other at first; +then choke back the sudden tears that started at the recollection of the +impending and inevitable misfortune. But though their hearts bled they +remained firm. Good God! was it then true that they were to be no +longer together? And then they heard the wind, the terrible wind, which +threatened to blow down the house. + +How many times during this last day did they not go over to the window, +attracted by the storm, wishing that it would sweep away the world. +During these squalls the sun did not cease to shine, the sky remained +constantly blue, but a livid blue, windswept and dusty, and the sun was +a yellow sun, pale and cold. They saw in the distance the vast white +clouds rising from the roads, the trees bending before the blast, +looking as if they were flying all in the same direction, at the same +rate of speed; the whole country parched and exhausted by the unvarying +violence of the wind that blew ceaselessly, with a roar like thunder. +Branches were snapped and whirled out of sight; roofs were lifted up and +carried so far away that they were never afterward found. Why could not +the mistral take them all up together and carry them off to some unknown +land, where they might be happy? The trunks were almost packed when +Pascal went to open one of the shutters that the wind had blown to, but +so fierce a gust swept in through the half open window that Clotilde had +to go to his assistance. Leaning with all their weight, they were able +at last to turn the catch. The articles of clothing in the room were +blown about, and they gathered up in fragments a little hand mirror +which had fallen from a chair. Was this a sign of approaching death, as +the women of the faubourg said? + +In the evening, after a mournful dinner in the bright dining-room, +with its great bouquets of flowers, Pascal said he would retire early. +Clotilde was to leave on the following morning by the ten o'clock +train, and he feared for her the long journey--twenty hours of railway +traveling. But when he had retired he was unable to sleep. At first he +thought it was the wind that kept him awake. The sleeping house was +full of cries, voices of entreaty and voices of anger, mingled together, +accompanied by endless sobbing. Twice he got up and went to listen at +Clotilde's door, but he heard nothing. He went downstairs to close a +door that banged persistently, like misfortune knocking at the walls. +Gusts blew through the dark rooms, and he went to bed again, shivering +and haunted by lugubrious visions. + +At six o'clock Martine, fancying she heard her master knocking for her +on the floor of his room, went upstairs. She entered the room with the +alert and excited expression which she had worn for the past two days; +but she stood still, astonished and uneasy, when she saw him lying, +half-dressed, across his bed, haggard, biting the pillow to stifle his +sobs. He got out of bed and tried to finish dressing himself, but a +fresh attack seized him, and, his head giddy and his heart palpitating +to suffocation, recovering from a momentary faintness, he faltered in +agonized tones: + +"No, no, I cannot; I suffer too much. I would rather die, die now--" + +He recognized Martine, and abandoning himself to his grief, his strength +totally gone, he made his confession to her: + +"My poor girl, I suffer too much, my heart is breaking. She is taking +away my heart with her, she is taking away my whole being. I cannot live +without her. I almost died last night. I would be glad to die before her +departure, not to have the anguish of seeing her go away. Oh, my God! +she is going away, and I shall have her no longer, and I shall be left +alone, alone, alone!" + +The servant, who had gone upstairs so gaily, turned as pale as wax, and +a hard and bitter look came into her face. For a moment she watched him +clutching the bedclothes convulsively, uttering hoarse cries of despair, +his face pressed against the coverlet. Then, by a violent effort, she +seemed to make up her mind. + +"But, monsieur, there is no sense in making trouble for yourself in +this way. It is ridiculous. Since that is how it is, and you cannot do +without mademoiselle, I shall go and tell her what a state you have let +yourself get into." + +At these words he got up hastily, staggering still, and, leaning for +support on the back of a chair, he cried: + +"I positively forbid you to do so, Martine!" + +"A likely thing that I should listen to you, seeing you like that! To +find you some other time half dead, crying your eyes out! No, no! I +shall go to mademoiselle and tell her the truth, and compel her to +remain with us." + +But he caught her angrily by the arm and held her fast. + +"I command you to keep quiet, do you hear? Or you shall go with her! +Why did you come in? It was this wind that made me ill. That concerns no +one." + +Then, yielding to a good-natured impulse, with his usual kindness of +heart, he smiled. + +"My poor girl, see how you vex me? Let me act as I ought, for the +happiness of others. And not another word; you would pain me greatly." + +Martine's eyes, too, filled with tears. It was just in time that they +made peace, for Clotilde entered almost immediately. She had risen +early, eager to see Pascal, hoping doubtless, up to the last moment, +that he would keep her. Her own eyelids were heavy from want of sleep, +and she looked at him steadily as she entered, with her inquiring air. +But he was still so discomposed that she began to grow uneasy. + +"No, indeed, I assure you, I would even have slept well but for the +mistral. I was just telling you so, Martine, was I not?" + +The servant confirmed his words by an affirmative nod. And Clotilde, +too, submitted, saying nothing of the night of anguish and mental +conflict she had spent while he, on his side, had been suffering the +pangs of death. Both of the women now docilely obeyed and aided him, in +his heroic self-abnegation. + +"What," he continued, opening his desk, "I have something here for you. +There! there are seven hundred francs in that envelope." + +And in spite of her exclamations and protestations he persisted in +rendering her an account. Of the six thousand francs obtained by the +sale of the jewels two hundred only had been spent, and he had kept one +hundred to last till the end of the month, with the strict economy, the +penuriousness, which he now displayed. Afterward he would no doubt sell +La Souleiade, he would work, he would be able to extricate himself from +his difficulties. But he would not touch the five thousand francs which +remained, for they were her property, her own, and she would find them +again in the drawer. + +"Master, master, you are giving me a great deal of pain--" + +"I wish it," he interrupted, "and it is you who are trying to break my +heart. Come, it is half-past seven, I will go and cord your trunks since +they are locked." + +When Martine and Clotilde were alone and face to face they looked at +each other for a moment in silence. Ever since the commencement of the +new situation, they had been fully conscious of their secret antagonism, +the open triumph of the young mistress, the half concealed jealousy of +the old servant about her adored master. Now it seemed that the victory +remained with the servant. But in this final moment their common emotion +drew them together. + +"Martine, you must not let him eat like a poor man. You promise me that +he shall have wine and meat every day?" + +"Have no fear, mademoiselle." + +"And the five thousand francs lying there, you know belong to him. You +are not going to let yourselves starve to death, I suppose, with those +there. I want you to treat him very well." + +"I tell you that I will make it my business to do so, mademoiselle, and +that monsieur shall want for nothing." + +There was a moment's silence. They were still regarding each other. + +"And watch him, to see that he does not overwork himself. I am going +away very uneasy; he has not been well for some time past. Take good +care of him." + +"Make your mind easy, mademoiselle, I will take care of him." + +"Well, I give him into your charge. He will have only you now; and it is +some consolation to me to know that you love him dearly. Love him with +all your strength. Love him for us both." + +"Yes, mademoiselle, as much as I can." + +Tears came into their eyes; Clotilde spoke again. + +"Will you embrace me, Martine?" + +"Oh, mademoiselle, very gladly." + +They were in each other's arms when Pascal reentered the room. He +pretended not to see them, doubtless afraid of giving way to his +emotion. In an unnaturally loud voice he spoke of the final preparations +for Clotilde's departure, like a man who had a great deal on his hands +and was afraid that the train might be missed. He had corded the trunks, +a man had taken them away in a little wagon, and they would find them at +the station. But it was only eight o'clock, and they had still two long +hours before them. Two hours of mortal anguish, spent in unoccupied +and weary waiting, during which they tasted a hundred times over the +bitterness of parting. The breakfast took hardly a quarter of an hour. +Then they got up, to sit down again. Their eyes never left the clock. +The minutes seemed long as those of a death watch, throughout the +mournful house. + +"How the wind blows!" said Clotilde, as a sudden gust made all the doors +creak. + +Pascal went over to the window and watched the wild flight of the +storm-blown trees. + +"It has increased since morning," he said. "Presently I must see to the +roof, for some of the tiles have been blown away." + +Already they had ceased to be one household. They listened in silence to +the furious wind, sweeping everything before it, carrying with it their +life. + +Finally Pascal looked for a last time at the clock, and said simply: + +"It is time, Clotilde." + +She rose from the chair on which she had been sitting. She had for an +instant forgotten that she was going away, and all at once the dreadful +reality came back to her. Once more she looked at him, but he did not +open his arms to keep her. It was over; her hope was dead. And from this +moment her face was like that of one struck with death. + +At first they exchanged the usual commonplaces. + +"You will write to me, will you not?" + +"Certainly, and you must let me hear from you as often as possible." + +"Above all, if you should fall ill, send for me at once." + +"I promise you that I will do so. But there is no danger. I am very +strong." + +Then, when the moment came in which she was to leave this dear house, +Clotilde looked around with unsteady gaze; then she threw herself on +Pascal's breast, she held him for an instant in her arms, faltering: + +"I wish to embrace you here, I wish to thank you. Master, it is you who +have made me what I am. As you have often told me, you have corrected +my heredity. What should I have become amid the surroundings in which +Maxime has grown up? Yes, if I am worth anything, it is to you alone +I owe it, you, who transplanted me into this abode of kindness and +affection, where you have brought me up worthy of you. Now, after having +taken me and overwhelmed me with benefits, you send me away. Be it as +you will, you are my master, and I will obey you. I love you, in spite +of all, and I shall always love you." + +He pressed her to his heart, answering: + +"I desire only your good, I am completing my work." + +When they reached the station, Clotilde vowed to herself that she would +one day come back. Old Mme. Rougon was there, very gay and very brisk, +in spite of her eighty-and-odd years. She was triumphant now; she +thought she would have her son Pascal at her mercy. When she saw them +both stupefied with grief she took charge of everything; got the ticket, +registered the baggage, and installed the traveler in a compartment +in which there were only ladies. Then she spoke for a long time +about Maxime, giving instructions and asking to be kept informed of +everything. But the train did not start; there were still five cruel +minutes during which they remained face to face, without speaking to +each other. Then came the end, there were embraces, a great noise of +wheels, and waving of handkerchiefs. + +Suddenly Pascal became aware that he was standing alone upon the +platform, while the train was disappearing around a bend in the road. +Then, without listening to his mother, he ran furiously up the slope, +sprang up the stone steps like a young man, and found himself in three +minutes on the terrace of La Souleiade. The mistral was raging there--a +fierce squall which bent the secular cypresses like straws. In the +colorless sky the sun seemed weary of the violence of the wind, which +for six days had been sweeping over its face. And like the wind-blown +trees Pascal stood firm, his garments flapping like banners, his beard +and hair blown about and lashed by the storm. His breath caught by the +wind, his hands pressed upon his heart to quiet its throbbing, he saw +the train flying in the distance across the bare plain, a little train +which the mistral seemed to sweep before it like a dry branch. + + + + +XII. + +From the day following Clotilde's departure, Pascal shut himself up in +the great empty house. He did not leave it again, ceasing entirely the +rare professional visits which he had still continued to make, living +there with doors and windows closed, in absolute silence and solitude. +Martine had received formal orders to admit no one under any pretext +whatever. + +"But your mother, monsieur, Mme. Felicite?" + +"My mother, less than any one else; I have my reasons. Tell her that +I am working, that I require to concentrate my thoughts, and that I +request her to excuse me." + +Three times in succession old Mme. Rougon had presented herself. She +would storm at the hall door. He would hear her voice rising in anger as +she tried in vain to force her way in. Then the noise would be stilled, +and there would be only a whisper of complaint and plotting between her +and the servant. But not once did he yield, not once did he lean over +the banisters and call to her to come up. + +One day Martine ventured to say to him: + +"It is very hard, all the same, monsieur, to refuse admittance to one's +mother. The more so, as Mme. Felicite comes with good intentions, for +she knows the straits that monsieur is in, and she insists only in order +to offer her services." + +"Money!" he cried, exasperated. "I want no money, do you hear? And +from her less than anybody. I will work, I will earn my own living; why +should I not?" + +The question of money, however, began to grow pressing. He obstinately +refused to take another sou from the five thousand francs locked up +in the desk. Now that he was alone, he was completely indifferent to +material things; he would have been satisfied to live on bread and +water; and every time the servant asked him for money to buy wine, meat, +or sweets, he shrugged his shoulders--what was the use? there remained a +crust from the day before, was not that sufficient? But in her affection +for her master, whom she felt to be suffering, the old servant was +heart-broken at this miserliness which exceeded her own; this utter +destitution to which he abandoned himself and the whole house. The +workmen of the faubourgs lived better. Thus it was that for a whole day +a terrible conflict went on within her. Her doglike love struggled with +her love for her money, amassed sou by sou, hidden away, "making more," +as she said. She would rather have parted with a piece of her flesh. +So long as her master had not suffered alone the idea of touching her +treasure had not even occurred to her. And she displayed extraordinary +heroism the morning when, driven to extremity, seeing her stove cold +and the larder empty, she disappeared for an hour and then returned with +provisions and the change of a hundred-franc note. + +Pascal, who just then chanced to come downstairs, asked her in +astonishment where the money had come from, furious already, and +prepared to throw it all into the street, imagining she had applied to +his mother. + +"Why, no; why, no, monsieur!" she stammered, "it is not that at all." + +And she told him the story that she had prepared. + +"Imagine, M. Grandguillot's affairs are going to be settled--or at least +I think so. It occurred to me this morning to go to the assignee's to +inquire, and he told me that you would undoubtedly recover something, +and that I might have a hundred francs now. Yes, he was even satisfied +with a receipt from me. He knows me, and you can make it all right +afterward." + +Pascal seemed scarcely surprised. She had calculated correctly that he +would not go out to verify her account. She was relieved, however, to +see with what easy indifference he accepted her story. + +"Ah, so much the better!" he said. "You see now that one must never +despair. That will give me time to settle my affairs." + +His "affairs" was the sale of La Souleiade, about which he had been +thinking vaguely. But what a grief to leave this house in which Clotilde +had grown up, where they had lived together for nearly eighteen years! +He had taken two or three weeks already to reflect over the matter. Now +that he had the hope of getting back a little of the money he had lost +through the notary's failure, he ceased to think any more about it. He +relapsed into his former indifference, eating whatever Martine served +him, not even noticing the comforts with which she once more surrounded +him, in humble adoration, heart-broken at giving her money, but very +happy to support him now, without his suspecting that his sustenance +came from her. + +But Pascal rewarded her very ill. Afterward he would be sorry, and +regret his outbursts. But in the state of feverish desperation in which +he lived this did not prevent him from again flying into a passion with +her, at the slightest cause of dissatisfaction. One evening, after he +had been listening to his mother talking for an interminable time with +her in the kitchen, he cried in sudden fury: + +"Martine, I do not wish her to enter La Souleiade again, do you hear? If +you ever let her into the house again I will turn you out!" + +She listened to him in surprise. Never, during the thirty-two years in +which she had been in his service, had he threatened to dismiss her in +this way. Big tears came to her eyes. + +"Oh, monsieur! you would not have the courage to do it! And I would not +go. I would lie down across the threshold first." + +He already regretted his anger, and he said more gently: + +"The thing is that I know perfectly well what is going on. She comes +to indoctrinate you, to put you against me, is it not so? Yes, she is +watching my papers; she wishes to steal and destroy everything up there +in the press. I know her; when she wants anything, she never gives up +until she gets it. Well, you can tell her that I am on my guard; that +while I am alive she shall never even come near the press. And the key +is here in my pocket." + +In effect, all his former terror--the terror of the scientist who feels +himself surrounded by secret enemies, had returned. Ever since he +had been living alone in the deserted house he had had a feeling of +returning danger, of being constantly watched in secret. The circle had +narrowed, and if he showed such anger at these attempts at invasion, +if he repulsed his mother's assaults, it was because he did not deceive +himself as to her real plans, and he was afraid that he might yield. If +she were there she would gradually take possession of him, until she had +subjugated him completely. Therefore his former tortures returned, +and he passed the days watching; he shut up the house himself in the +evening, and he would often rise during the night, to assure himself +that the locks were not being forced. What he feared was that the +servant, won over by his mother, and believing she was securing his +eternal welfare, would open the door to Mme. Felicite. In fancy he saw +the papers blazing in the fireplace; he kept constant guard over them, +seized again by a morbid love, a torturing affection for this icy heap +of papers, these cold pages of manuscript, to which he had sacrificed +the love of woman, and which he tried to love sufficiently to be able to +forget everything else for them. + +Pascal, now that Clotilde was no longer there, threw himself eagerly +into work, trying to submerge himself in it, to lose himself in it. If +he secluded himself, if he did not set foot even in the garden, if +he had had the strength, one day when Martine came up to announce Dr. +Ramond, to answer that he would not receive him, he had, in this bitter +desire for solitude, no other aim than to kill thought by incessant +labor. That poor Ramond, how gladly he would have embraced him! for +he divined clearly the delicacy of feeling that had made him hasten +to console his old master. But why lose an hour? Why risk emotions and +tears which would leave him so weak? From daylight he was at his table, +he spent at it his mornings and his afternoons, extended often into the +evening after the lamp was lighted, and far into the night. He wished +to put his old project into execution--to revise his whole theory +of heredity, employing the documents furnished by his own family to +establish the laws according to which, in a certain group of human +beings, life is distributed and conducted with mathematical precision +from one to another, taking into account the environment--a vast bible, +the genesis of families, of societies, of all humanity. He hoped that +the vastness of such a plan, the effort necessary to develop so colossal +an idea, would take complete possession of him, restoring to him his +health, his faith, his pride in the supreme joy of the accomplished +work. But it was in vain that he threw himself passionately, +persistently, without reserve, into his work; he succeeded only in +fatiguing his body and his mind, without even being able to fix his +thoughts or to put his heart into his work, every day sicker and more +despairing. Had work, then, finally lost its power? He whose life +had been spent in work, who had regarded it as the sole motor, the +benefactor, and the consoler, must he then conclude that to love and +to be loved is beyond all else in the world? Occasionally he would +have great thoughts, he continued to sketch out his new theory of the +equilibrium of forces, demonstrating that what man receives in sensation +he should return in action. How natural, full, and happy would life +be if it could be lived entire, performing its functions like a +well-ordered machine, giving back in power what was consumed in fuel, +maintaining itself in vigor and in beauty by the simultaneous and +logical play of all its organs. He believed physical and intellectual +labor, feeling and reasoning should be in equal proportions, and +never excessive, for excess meant disturbance of the equilibrium and, +consequently, disease. Yes, yes, to begin life over again and to know +how to live it, to dig the earth, to study man, to love woman, to attain +to human perfection, the future city of universal happiness, through the +harmonious working of the entire being, what a beautiful legacy for +a philosophical physician to leave behind him would this be! And this +dream of the future, this theory, confusedly perceived, filled him with +bitterness at the thought that now his life was a force wasted and lost. + +At the very bottom of his grief Pascal had the dominating feeling that +for him life was ended. Regret for Clotilde, sorrow at having her no +longer beside him, the certainty that he would never see her again, +filled him with overwhelming grief. Work had lost its power, and he +would sometimes let his head drop on the page he was writing, and weep +for hours together, unable to summon courage to take up the pen again. +His passion for work, his days of voluntary fatigue, led to terrible +nights, nights of feverish sleeplessness, in which he would stuff the +bedclothes into his mouth to keep from crying out Clotilde's name. She +was everywhere in this mournful house in which he secluded himself. +He saw her again, walking through the rooms, sitting on the chairs, +standing behind the doors. Downstairs, in the dining-room, he could not +sit at table, without seeing her opposite him. In the workroom upstairs +she was still his constant companion, for she, too, had lived so long +secluded in it that her image seemed reflected from everything; he felt +her constantly beside him, he could fancy he saw her standing before her +desk, straight and slender--her delicate face bent over a pastel. And if +he did not leave the house to escape from the dear and torturing memory +it was because he had the certainty that he should find her everywhere +in the garden, too: dreaming on the terrace; walking with slow steps +through the alleys in the pine grove; sitting under the shade of the +plane trees; lulled by the eternal song of the fountain; lying in the +threshing yard at twilight, her gaze fixed on space, waiting for +the stars to come out. But above all, there existed for him a sacred +sanctuary which he could not enter without trembling--the chamber where +she had confessed her love. He kept the key of it; he had not moved +a single object from its place since the sorrowful morning of her +departure; and a skirt which she had forgotten lay still upon her +armchair. He opened his arms wildly to clasp her shade floating in the +soft half light of the room, with its closed shutters and its walls hung +with the old faded pink calico, of a dawnlike tint. + +In the midst of his unremitting toil Pascal had another melancholy +pleasure--Clotilde's letters. She wrote to him regularly twice a week, +long letters of eight or ten pages, in which she described to him all +her daily life. She did not seem to lead a very happy life in Paris. +Maxime, who did not now leave his sick chair, evidently tortured her +with the exactions of a spoiled child and an invalid. She spoke as if +she lived in complete retirement, always waiting on him, so that she +could not even go over to the window to look out on the avenue, along +which rolled the fashionable stream of the promenaders of the Bois; and +from certain of her expressions it could be divined that her brother, +after having entreated her so urgently to go to him, suspected her +already, and had begun to regard her with hatred and distrust, as he did +every one who approached him, in his continual fear of being made use of +and robbed. He did not give her the keys, treating her like a servant to +whom he found it difficult to accustom himself. Twice she had seen her +father, who was, as always, very gay, and overwhelmed with business; he +had been converted to the Republic, and was at the height of political +and financial success. Saccard had even taken her aside, to sympathize +with her, saying that poor Maxime was really insupportable, and that she +would be truly courageous if she consented to be made his victim. As she +could not do everything, he had even had the kindness to send her, +on the following day, the niece of his hairdresser, a fair-haired, +innocent-looking girl of eighteen, named Rose, who was assisting her +now to take care of the invalid. But Clotilde made no complaint; she +affected, on the contrary, to be perfectly tranquil, contented, and +resigned to everything. Her letters were full of courage, showing +neither anger nor sorrow at the cruel separation, making no desperate +appeal to Pascal's affection to recall her. But between the lines, he +could perceive that she trembled with rebellious anger, that her +whole being yearned for him, that she was ready to commit the folly of +returning to him immediately, at his lightest word. + +And this was the one word that Pascal would not write. Everything would +be arranged in time. Maxime would become accustomed to his sister; the +sacrifice must be completed now that it had been begun. A single line +written by him in a moment of weakness, and all the advantage of the +effort he had made would be lost, and their misery would begin again. +Never had Pascal had greater need of courage than when he was answering +Clotilde's letters. At night, burning with fever, he would toss about, +calling on her wildly; then he would get up and write to her to come +back at once. But when day came, and he had exhausted himself with +weeping, his fever abated, and his answer was always very short, almost +cold. He studied every sentence, beginning the letter over again when +he thought he had forgotten himself. But what a torture, these dreadful +letters, so short, so icy, in which he went against his heart, solely +in order to wean her from him gradually, to take upon himself all the +blame, and to make her believe that she could forget him, since he +forgot her. They left him covered with perspiration, and as exhausted as +if he had just performed some great act of heroism. + +One morning toward the end of October, a month after Clotilde's +departure, Pascal had a sudden attack of suffocation. He had had, +several times already, slight attacks, which he attributed to overwork. +But this time the symptoms were so plain that he could not mistake +them--a sharp pain in the region of the heart, extending over the whole +chest and along the left arm, and a dreadful sensation of oppression and +distress, while cold perspiration broke out upon him. It was an attack +of angina pectoris. It lasted hardly more than a minute, and he was +at first more surprised than frightened. With that blindness which +physicians often show where their own health is concerned, he never +suspected that his heart might be affected. + +As he was recovering his breath Martine came up to say that Dr. Ramond +was downstairs, and again begged the doctor to see him. And Pascal, +yielding perhaps to an unconscious desire to know the truth, cried: + +"Well, let him come up, since he insists upon it. I will be glad to see +him." + +The two men embraced each other, and no other allusion was made to the +absent one, to her whose departure had left the house empty, than an +energetic and sad hand clasp. + +"You don't know why I have come?" cried Ramond immediately. "It is about +a question of money. Yes, my father-in-law, M. Leveque, the advocate, +whom you know, spoke to me yesterday again about the funds which you had +with the notary Grandguillot. And he advises you strongly to take some +action in the matter, for some persons have succeeded, he says, in +recovering something." + +"Yes, I know that that business is being settled," said Pascal. "Martine +has already got two hundred francs out of it, I believe." + +"Martine?" said Ramond, looking greatly surprised, "how could she +do that without your intervention? However, will you authorize my +father-in-law to undertake your case? He will see the assignee, and sift +the whole affair, since you have neither the time nor the inclination to +attend to it." + +"Certainly, I authorize M. Leveque to do so, and tell him that I thank +him a thousand times." + +Then this matter being settled, the young man, remarking the doctor's +pallor, and questioning him as to its cause, Pascal answered with a +smile: + +"Imagine, my friend, I have just had an attack of angina pectoris. Oh, +it is not imagination, all the symptoms were there. And stay! since you +are here you shall sound me." + +At first Ramond refused, affecting to turn the consultation into a +jest. Could a raw recruit like him venture to pronounce judgment on +his general? But he examined him, notwithstanding, seeing that his face +looked drawn and pained, with a singular look of fright in the eyes. He +ended by auscultating him carefully, keeping his ear pressed closely to +his chest for a considerable time. Several minutes passed in profound +silence. + +"Well?" asked Pascal, when the young physician stood up. + +The latter did not answer at once. He felt the doctor's eyes looking +straight into his; and as the question had been put to him with quiet +courage, he answered in the same way: + +"Well, it is true, I think there is some sclerosis." + +"Ah! it was kind of you not to attempt to deceive me," returned the +doctor, smiling. "I feared for an instant that you would tell me an +untruth, and that would have hurt me." + +Ramond, listening again, said in an undertone: + +"Yes, the beat is strong, the first sound is dull, while the second, on +the contrary, is sharp. It is evident that the apex has descended and is +turned toward the armpit. There is some sclerosis, at least it is very +probable. One may live twenty years with that," he ended, straightening +himself. + +"No doubt, sometimes," said Pascal. "At least, unless one chances to die +of a sudden attack." + +They talked for some time longer, discussed a remarkable case of +sclerosis of the heart, which they had seen at the hospital at Plassans. +And when the young physician went away, he said that he would return as +soon as he should have news of the Grandguillot liquidation. + +But when he was alone Pascal felt that he was lost. Everything was now +explained: his palpitations for some weeks past, his attacks of vertigo +and suffocation; above all that weakness of the organ, of his poor +heart, overtasked by feeling and by work, that sense of intense fatigue +and impending death, regarding which he could no longer deceive himself. +It was not as yet fear that he experienced, however. His first thought +was that he, too, would have to pay for his heredity, that sclerosis +was the species of degeneration which was to be his share of the +physiological misery, the inevitable inheritance bequeathed him by his +terrible ancestry. In others the neurosis, the original lesion, had +turned to vice or virtue, genius, crime, drunkenness, sanctity; others +again had died of consumption, of epilepsy, of ataxia; he had lived +in his feelings and he would die of an affection of the heart. And +he trembled no longer, he rebelled no longer against this manifest +heredity, fated and inevitable, no doubt. On the contrary, a feeling +of humility took possession of him; the idea that all revolt against +natural laws is bad, that wisdom does not consist in holding one's self +apart, but in resigning one's self to be only a member of the whole +great body. Why, then, was he so unwilling to belong to his family +that it filled him with triumph, that his heart beat with joy, when he +believed himself different from them, without any community with them? +Nothing could be less philosophical. Only monsters grew apart. And to +belong to his family seemed to him in the end as good and as fine as +to belong to any other family, for did not all families, in the main, +resemble one another, was not humanity everywhere identical with the +same amount of good and evil? He came at last, humbly and gently, even +in the face of impending suffering and death, to accept everything life +had to give him. + +From this time Pascal lived with the thought that he might die at any +moment. And this helped to perfect his character, to elevate him to a +complete forgetfulness of self. He did not cease to work, but he had +never understood so well how much effort must seek its reward in itself, +the work being always transitory, and remaining of necessity incomplete. +One evening at dinner Martine informed him that Sarteur, the journeyman +hatter, the former inmate of the asylum at the Tulettes, had just hanged +himself. All the evening he thought of this strange case, of this man +whom he had believed he had cured of homicidal mania by his treatment of +hypodermic injections, and who, seized by a fresh attack, had evidently +had sufficient lucidity to hang himself, instead of springing at the +throat of some passer-by. He again saw him, so gentle, so reasonable, +kissing his hands, while he was advising him to return to his life of +healthful labor. What then was this destructive and transforming force, +the desire to murder, changing to suicide, death performing its task +in spite of everything? With the death of this man his last vestige of +pride as a healer disappeared; and each day when he returned to his work +he felt as if he were only a learner, spelling out his task, constantly +seeking the truth, which as constantly receded from him, assuming ever +more formidable proportions. + +But in the midst of his resignation one thought still troubled him--what +would become of Bonhomme, his old horse, if he himself should die before +him? The poor brute, completely blind and his limbs paralyzed, did +not now leave his litter. When his master went to see him, however, he +turned his head, he could feel the two hearty kisses which were pressed +on his nose. All the neighbors shrugged their shoulders and joked about +this old relation whom the doctor would not allow to be slaughtered. Was +he then to be the first to go, with the thought that the knacker would +be called in on the following day. But one morning, when he entered the +stable, Bonhomme did not hear him, did not raise his head. He was dead; +he lay there, with a peaceful expression, as if relieved that death had +come to him so gently. His master knelt beside him and kissed him again +and bade him farewell, while two big tears rolled down his cheeks. + +It was on this day that Pascal saw his neighbor, M. Bellombre, for the +last time. Going over to the window he perceived him in his garden, in +the pale sunshine of early November, taking his accustomed walk; and the +sight of the old professor, living so completely happy in his solitude, +filled him at first with astonishment. He could never have imagined such +a thing possible, as that a man of sixty-nine should live thus, without +wife or child, or even a dog, deriving his selfish happiness from +the joy of living outside of life. Then he recalled his fits of anger +against this man, his sarcasms about his fear of life, the catastrophes +which he had wished might happen to him, the hope that punishment would +come to him, in the shape of some housekeeper, or some female relation +dropping down on him unexpectedly. But no, he was still as fresh as +ever, and Pascal was sure that for a long time to come he would continue +to grow old like this, hard, avaricious, useless, and happy. And yet +he no longer execrated him; he could even have found it in his heart +to pity him, so ridiculous and miserable did he think him for not being +loved. Pascal, who suffered the pangs of death because he was alone! +He whose heart was breaking because he was too full of others. Rather +suffering, suffering only, than this selfishness, this death of all +there is in us of living and human! + +In the night which followed Pascal had another attack of angina +pectoris. It lasted for five minutes, and he thought that he would +suffocate without having the strength to call Martine. Then when he +recovered his breath, he did not disturb himself, preferring to speak to +no one of this aggravation of his malady; but he had the certainty that +it was all over with him, that he might not perhaps live a month longer. +His first thought was Clotilde. Should he then never see her again? and +so sharp a pang seized him that he believed another attack was coming +on. Why should he not write to her to come to him? He had received a +letter from her the day before; he would answer it this morning. Then +the thought of the envelopes occurred to him. If he should die suddenly, +his mother would be the mistress and she would destroy them; and not +only the envelopes, but his manuscripts, all his papers, thirty years of +his intelligence and his labor. Thus the crime which he had so greatly +dreaded would be consummated, the crime of which the fear alone, during +his nights of fever, had made him get up out of bed trembling, his ear +on the stretch, listening to hear if they were forcing open the press. +The perspiration broke out upon him, he saw himself dispossessed, +outraged, the ashes of his work thrown to the four winds. And when his +thoughts reverted to Clotilde, he told himself that everything would be +satisfactorily arranged, that he had only to call her back--she would be +here, she would close his eyes, she would defend his memory. And he sat +down to write at once to her, so that the letter might go by the morning +mail. + +But when Pascal was seated before the white paper, with the pen between +his fingers, a growing doubt, a feeling of dissatisfaction with himself, +took possession of him. Was not this idea of his papers, this fine +project of providing a guardian for them and saving them, a suggestion +of his weakness, an excuse which he gave himself to bring back Clotilde, +and see her again? Selfishness was at the bottom of it. He was thinking +of himself, not of her. He saw her returning to this poor house, +condemned to nurse a sick old man; and he saw her, above all, in her +grief, in her awful agony, when he should terrify her some day by +dropping down dead at her side. No, no! this was the dreadful moment +which he must spare her, those days of cruel adieus and want afterward, +a sad legacy which he could not leave her without thinking himself a +criminal. Her tranquillity, her happiness only, were of any consequence, +the rest did not matter. He would die in his hole, then, abandoned, +happy to think her happy, to spare her the cruel blow of his death. As +for saving his manuscripts he would perhaps find a means of doing so, +he would try to have the strength to part from them and give them to +Ramond. But even if all his papers were to perish, this was less of a +sacrifice than to resign himself not to see her again, and he accepted +it, and he was willing that nothing of him should survive, not even his +thoughts, provided only that nothing of him should henceforth trouble +her dear existence. + +Pascal accordingly proceeded to write one of his usual answers, +which, by a great effort, he purposely made colorless and almost cold. +Clotilde, in her last letter, without complaining of Maxime, had given +it to be understood that her brother had lost his interest in her, +preferring the society of Rose, the niece of Saccard's hairdresser, the +fair-haired young girl with the innocent look. And he suspected strongly +some maneuver of the father: a cunning plan to obtain possession of the +inheritance of the sick man, whose vices, so precocious formerly, gained +new force as his last hour approached. But in spite of his uneasiness he +gave Clotilde very good advice, telling her that she must make allowance +for Maxime's sufferings, that he had undoubtedly a great deal of +affection and gratitude for her, in short that it was her duty to devote +herself to him to the end. When he signed the letter tears dimmed +his sight. It was his death warrant--a death like that of an old and +solitary brute, a death without a kiss, without the touch of a friendly +hand--that he was signing. Never again would he embrace her. Then +doubts assailed him; was he doing right in leaving her amid such evil +surroundings, where he felt that she was in continual contact with every +species of wickedness? + +The postman brought the letters and newspapers to La Souleiade every +morning at about nine o'clock; and Pascal, when he wrote to Clotilde, +was accustomed to watch for him, to give him his letter, so as to +be certain that his correspondence was not intercepted. But on this +morning, when he went downstairs to give him the letter he had just +written, he was surprised to receive one from him from Clotilde, +although it was not the usual day for her letters. He allowed his own to +go, however. Then he went upstairs, resumed his seat at his table, and +tore open the envelope. + +The letter was short, but its contents filled Pascal with a great joy. + +* * * * * + +But the sound of footsteps made him control himself. He turned round and +saw Martine, who was saying: + +"Dr. Ramond is downstairs." + +"Ah! let him come up, let him come up," he said. + +It was another piece of good fortune that had come to him. Ramond cried +gaily from the door: + +"Victory, master! I have brought you your money--not all, but a good +sum." + +And he told the story--an unexpected piece of good luck which his +father-in-law, M. Leveque, had brought to light. The receipts for +the hundred and twenty thousand francs, which constituted Pascal the +personal creditor of Grandguillot, were valueless, since the latter was +insolvent. Salvation was to come from the power of attorney which the +doctor had sent him years before, at his request, that he might invest +all or part of his money in mortgages. As the name of the proxy was in +blank in the document, the notary, as is sometimes done, had made use +of the name of one of his clerks, and eighty thousand francs, which had +been invested in good mortgages, had thus been recovered through the +agency of a worthy man who was not in the secrets of his employer. If +Pascal had taken action in the matter, if he had gone to the public +prosecutor's office and the chamber of notaries, he would have +disentangled the matter long before. However, he had recovered a sure +income of four thousand francs. + +He seized the young man's hands and pressed them, smiling, his eyes +still moist with tears. + +"Ah! my friend, if you knew how happy I am! This letter of Clotilde's +has brought me a great happiness. Yes, I was going to send for her; but +the thought of my poverty, of the privations she would have to endure +here, spoiled for me the joy of her return. And now fortune has come +back, at least enough to set up my little establishment again!" + +In the expansion of his feelings he held out the letter to Ramond, and +forced him to read it. Then when the young man gave it back to him, +smiling, comprehending the doctor's emotion, and profoundly touched by +it, yielding to an overpowering need of affection, he caught him in +his arms, like a comrade, a brother. The two men kissed each other +vigorously on either cheek. + +"Come, since good fortune has sent you, I am going to ask another +service from you. You know I distrust every one around me, even my old +housekeeper. Will you take my despatch to the telegraph office!" + +He sat down again at the table, and wrote simply, "I await you; start +to-night." + +"Let me see," he said, "to-day is the 6th of November, is it not? It is +now near ten o'clock; she will have my despatch at noon. That will give +her time enough to pack her trunks and to take the eight o'clock express +this evening, which will bring her to Marseilles in time for breakfast. +But as there is no train which connects with it, she cannot be here +until to-morrow, the 7th, at five o'clock." + +After folding the despatch he rose: + +"My God, at five o'clock to-morrow! How long to wait still! What shall I +do with myself until then?" + +Then a sudden recollection filled him with anxiety, and he became grave. + +"Ramond, my comrade, will you give me a great proof of your friendship +by being perfectly frank with me?" + +"How so, master?" + +"Ah, you understand me very well. The other day you examined me. Do you +think I can live another year?" + +He fixed his eyes on the young man as he spoke, compelling him to look +at him. Ramond evaded a direct answer, however, with a jest--was it +really a physician who put such a question? + +"Let us be serious, Ramond, I beg of you." + +Then Ramond answered in all sincerity that, in his opinion, the doctor +might very justly entertain the hope of living another year. He gave his +reasons--the comparatively slight progress which the sclerosis had made, +and the absolute soundness of the other organs. Of course they must +make allowance for what they did not and could not know, for a sudden +accident was always possible. And the two men discussed the case as if +they been in consultation at the bedside of a patient, weighing the +pros and cons, each stating his views and prognosticating a fatal +termination, in accordance with the symptoms as defined by the best +authorities. + +Pascal, as if it were some one else who was in question, had recovered +all his composure and his heroic self-forgetfulness. + +"Yes," he murmured at last, "you are right; a year of life is still +possible. Ah, my friend, how I wish I might live two years; a mad wish, +no doubt, an eternity of joy. And yet, two years, that would not +be impossible. I had a very curious case once, a wheelwright of +the faubourg, who lived for four years, giving the lie to all my +prognostications. Two years, two years, I will live two years! I must +live two years!" + +Ramond sat with bent head, without answering. He was beginning to +be uneasy, fearing that he had shown himself too optimistic; and the +doctor's joy disquieted and grieved him, as if this very exaltation, +this disturbance of a once strong brain, warned him of a secret and +imminent danger. + +"Did you not wish to send that despatch at once?" he said. + +"Yes, yes, go quickly, my good Ramond, and come back again to see us the +day after to-morrow. She will be here then, and I want you to come and +embrace us." + +The day was long, and the following morning, at about four o'clock, +shortly after Pascal had fallen asleep, after a happy vigil filled with +hopes and dreams, he was wakened by a dreadful attack. He felt as if an +enormous weight, as if the whole house, had fallen down upon his chest, +so that the thorax, flattened down, touched the back. He could not +breathe; the pain reached the shoulders, then the neck, and paralyzed +the left arm. But he was perfectly conscious; he had the feeling that +his heart was about to stop, that life was about to leave him, in the +dreadful oppression, like that of a vise, which was suffocating him. +Before the attack reached its height he had the strength to rise and to +knock on the floor with a stick for Martine. Then he fell back on his +bed, unable to speak or to move, and covered with a cold sweat. + +Martine, fortunately, in the profound silence of the empty house, heard +the knock. She dressed herself, wrapped a shawl about her, and went +upstairs, carrying her candle. The darkness was still profound; dawn +was about to break. And when she perceived her master, whose eyes alone +seemed living, looking at her with locked jaws, speechless, his face +distorted by pain, she was awed and terrified, and she could only rush +toward the bed crying: + +"My God! My God! what is the matter, monsieur? Answer me, monsieur, you +frighten me!" + +For a full minute Pascal struggled in vain to recover his breath. Then, +the viselike pressure on his chest relaxing slowly, he murmured in a +faint voice: + +"The five thousand francs in the desk are Clotilde's. Tell her that the +affair of the notary is settled, that she will recover from it enough to +live upon." + +Then Martine, who had listened to him in open-mouthed wonder, confessed +the falsehood she had told him, ignorant of the good news that had been +brought by Ramond. + +"Monsieur, you must forgive me; I told you an untruth. But it would be +wrong to deceive you longer. When I saw you alone and so unhappy, I took +some of my own money." + +"My poor girl, you did that!" + +"Oh, I had some hope that monsieur would return it to me one day." + +By this time the attack had passed off, and he was able to turn his head +and look at her. He was amazed and moved. What was passing in the heart +of this avaricious old maid, who for thirty years had been saving up +her treasure painfully, who had never taken a sou from it, either for +herself or for any one else? He did not yet comprehend, but he wished to +show himself kind and grateful. + +"You are a good woman, Martine. All that will be returned to you. I +truly think I am going to die--" + +She did not allow him to finish, her whole being rose up in rebellious +protest. + +"Die; you, monsieur! Die before me! I do not wish it. I will not let you +die!" + +She threw herself on her knees beside the bed; she caught him wildly +in her arms, feeling him, to see if he suffered, holding him as if she +thought that death would not dare to take him from her. + +"You must tell me what is the matter with you. I will take care of you. +I will save you. If it were necessary to give my life for you, I would +give it, monsieur. I will sit up day and night with you. I am strong +still; I will be stronger than the disease, you shall see. To die! +to die! oh, no, it cannot be! The good God cannot wish so great an +injustice. I have prayed so much in my life that he ought to listen to +me a little now, and he will grant my prayer, monsieur; he will save +you." + +Pascal looked at her, listened to her, and a sudden light broke in upon +his mind. She loved him, this miserable woman; she had always loved him. +He thought of her thirty years of blind devotion, her mute adoration, +when she had waited upon him, on her knees, as it were, when she +was young; her secret jealousy of Clotilde later; what she must have +secretly suffered all that time! And she was here on her knees now +again, beside his deathbed; her hair gray; her eyes the color of ashes +in her pale nun-like face, dulled by her solitary life. And he felt that +she was unconscious of it all; that she did not even know with what sort +of love she loved him, loving him only for the happiness of loving him: +of being with him, and of waiting on him. + +Tears rose to Pascal's eyes; a dolorous pity and an infinite human +tenderness flowed from his poor, half-broken heart. + +"My poor girl," he said, "you are the best of girls. Come, embrace me, +as you love me, with all your strength." + +She, too, sobbed. She let her gray head, her face worn by her long +servitude, fall on her master's breast. Wildly she kissed him, putting +all her life into the kiss. + +"There, let us not give way to emotion, for you see we can do nothing; +this will be the end, just the same. If you wish me to love you, obey +me. Now that I am better, that I can breathe easier, do me the favor to +run to Dr. Ramond's. Waken him and bring him back with you." + +She was leaving the room when he called to her, seized by a sudden fear. + +"And remember, I forbid you to go to inform my mother." + +She turned back, embarrassed, and in a voice of entreaty, said: + +"Oh, monsieur, Mme. Felicite has made me promise so often--" + +But he was inflexible. All his life he had treated his mother with +deference, and he thought he had acquired the right to defend himself +against her in the hour of his death. He would not let the servant go +until she had promised him that she would be silent. Then he smiled once +more. + +"Go quickly. Oh, you will see me again; it will not be yet." + +Day broke at last, the melancholy dawn of the pale November day. Pascal +had had the shutters opened, and when he was left alone he watched the +brightening dawn, doubtless that of his last day of life. It had rained +the night before, and the mild sun was still veiled by clouds. From the +plane trees came the morning carols of the birds, while far away in the +sleeping country a locomotive whistled with a prolonged moan. And he +was alone; alone in the great melancholy house, whose emptiness he felt +around him, whose silence he heard. The light slowly increased, and +he watched the patches it made on the window-panes broadening and +brightening. Then the candle paled in the growing light, and the whole +room became visible. And with the dawn, as he had anticipated, came +relief. The sight of the familiar objects around him brought him +consolation. + +But Pascal, although the attack had passed away, still suffered +horribly. A sharp pain remained in the hollow of his chest, and his left +arm, benumbed, hung from his shoulder like lead. In his long waiting +for the help that Martine had gone to bring, he had reflected on +the suffering which made the flesh cry out. And he found that he was +resigned; he no longer felt the rebelliousness which the mere sight of +physical pain had formerly awakened in him. It had exasperated him, as +if it had been a monstrous and useless cruelty of nature. In his doubts +as a physician, he had attended his patients only to combat it, and to +relieve it. If he ended by accepting it, now that he himself suffered +its horrible torture, was it that he had risen one degree higher in his +faith of life, to that serene height whence life appeared altogether +good, even with the fatal condition of suffering attached to it; +suffering which is perhaps its spring? Yes, to live all of life, to live +it and to suffer it all without rebellion, without believing that it is +made better by being made painless, this presented itself clearly to +his dying eyes, as the greatest courage and the greatest wisdom. And to +cheat pain while he waited, he reviewed his latest theories; he dreamed +of a means of utilizing suffering by transforming it into action, into +work. If it be true that man feels pain more acutely according as he +rises in the scale of civilization, it is also certain that he becomes +stronger through it, better armed against it, more capable of resisting +it. The organ, the brain which works, develops and grows stronger, +provided the equilibrium between the sensations which it receives and +the work which it gives back be not broken. Might not one hope, then, +for a humanity in which the amount of work accomplished would so exactly +equal the sum of sensations received, that suffering would be utilized +and, as it were, abolished? + +The sun had risen, and Pascal was confusedly revolving these distant +hopes in his mind, in the drowsiness produced by his disease, when he +felt a new attack coming on. He had a moment of cruel anxiety--was +this the end? Was he going to die alone? But at this instant hurried +footsteps mounted the stairs, and a moment later Ramond entered, +followed by Martine. And the patient had time to say before the attack +began: + +"Quick! quick! a hypodermic injection of pure water." + +Unfortunately the doctor had to look for the little syringe and then +to prepare everything. This occupied some minutes, and the attack was +terrible. He followed its progress with anxiety--the face becoming +distorted, the lips growing livid. Then when he had given the injection, +he observed that the phenomena, for a moment stationary, slowly +diminished in intensity. Once more the catastrophe was averted. + +As soon as he recovered his breath Pascal, glancing at the clock, said +in his calm, faint voice: + +"My friend, it is seven o'clock--in twelve hours, at seven o'clock +to-night, I shall be dead." + +And as the young man was about to protest, to argue the question, "No," +he resumed, "do not try to deceive me. You have witnessed the attack. +You know what it means as well as I do. Everything will now proceed with +mathematical exactness; and, hour by hour, I could describe to you the +phases of the disease." + +He stopped, gasped for breath, and then added: + +"And then, all is well; I am content. Clotilde will be here at five; all +I ask is to see her and to die in her arms." + +A few moments later, however, he experienced a sensible improvement. The +effect of the injection seemed truly miraculous; and he was able to sit +up in bed, his back resting against the pillows. He spoke clearly, and +with more ease, and never had the lucidity of his mind appeared greater. + +"You know, master," said, Ramond, "that I will not leave you. I have +told my wife, and we will spend the day together; and, whatever you may +say to the contrary, I am very confident that it will not be the last. +You will let me make myself at home, here, will you not?" + +Pascal smiled, and gave orders to Martine to go and prepare breakfast +for Ramond, saying that if they needed her they would call her. And the +two men remained alone, conversing with friendly intimacy; the one with +his white hair and long white beard, lying down, discoursing like a +sage, the other sitting at his bedside, listening with the respect of a +disciple. + +"In truth," murmured the master, as if he were speaking to himself, "the +effect of those injections is extraordinary." + +Then in a stronger voice, he said almost gaily: + +"My friend Ramond, it may not be a very great present that I am giving +you, but I am going to leave you my manuscripts. Yes, Clotilde has +orders to send them to you when I shall be no more. Look through them, +and you will perhaps find among them things that are not so very bad. If +you get a good idea from them some day--well, that will be so much the +better for the world." + +And then he made his scientific testament. He was clearly conscious +that he had been himself only a solitary pioneer, a precursor, planning +theories which he tried to put in practise, but which failed because +of the imperfection of his method. He recalled his enthusiasm when he +believed he had discovered, in his injections of nerve substance, the +universal panacea, then his disappointments, his fits of despair, the +shocking death of Lafouasse, consumption carrying off Valentin in spite +of all his efforts, madness again conquering Sarteur and causing him to +hang himself. So that he would depart full of doubt, having no longer +the confidence necessary to the physician, and so enamored of life that +he had ended by putting all his faith in it, certain that it must draw +from itself alone its health and strength. But he did not wish to close +up the future; he was glad, on the contrary, to bequeath his hypotheses +to the younger generation. Every twenty years theories changed; +established truths only, on which science continued to build, remained +unshaken. Even if he had only the merit of giving to science a momentary +hypothesis, his work would not be lost, for progress consisted assuredly +in the effort, in the onward march of the intellect. + +And then who could say that he had died in vain, troubled and weary, his +hopes concerning the injections unrealized--other workers would come, +young, ardent, confident, who would take up the idea, elucidate it, +expand it. And perhaps a new epoch, a new world would date from this. + +"Ah, my dear Ramond," he continued, "if one could only live life over +again. Yes, I would take up my idea again, for I have been struck lately +by the singular efficacy of injections even of pure water. It is not the +liquid, then, that matters, but simply the mechanical action. During the +last month I have written a great deal on that subject. You will +find some curious notes and observations there. In short, I should be +inclined to put all my faith in work, to place health in the harmonious +working of all the organs, a sort of dynamic therapeutics, if I may +venture to use the expression." + +He had gradually grown excited, forgetting his approaching death in his +ardent curiosity about life. And he sketched, with broad strokes, his +last theory. Man was surrounded by a medium--nature--which irritated +by perpetual contact the sensitive extremities of the nerves. Hence the +action, not only of the senses, but of the entire surface of the body, +external and internal. For it was these sensations which, reverberating +in the brain, in the marrow, and in the nervous centers, were there +converted into tonicity, movements, and thoughts; and he was convinced +that health consisted in the natural progress of this work, in receiving +sensations, and in giving them back in thoughts and in actions, the +human machine being thus fed by the regular play of the organs. Work +thus became the great law, the regulator of the living universe. Hence +it became necessary if the equilibrium were broken, if the external +excitations ceased to be sufficient, for therapeutics to create +artificial excitations, in order to reestablish the tonicity which is +the state of perfect health. And he dreamed of a whole new system of +treatment--suggestion, the all-powerful authority of the physician, +for the senses; electricity, friction, massage for the skin and for the +tendons; diet for the stomach; air cures on high plateaus for the +lungs, and, finally, transfusion, injections of distilled water, for the +circulatory system. It was the undeniable and purely mechanical action +of these latter that had put him on the track; all he did now was to +extend the hypothesis, impelled by his generalizing spirit; he saw the +world saved anew in this perfect equilibrium, as much work given as +sensation received, the balance of the world restored by unceasing +labor. + +Here he burst into a frank laugh. + +"There! I have started off again. I, who was firmly convinced that the +only wisdom was not to interfere, to let nature take its course. Ah, +what an incorrigible old fool I am!" + +Ramond caught his hands in an outburst of admiration and affection. + +"Master, master! it is of enthusiasm, of folly like yours that genius is +made. Have no fear, I have listened to you, I will endeavor to be worthy +of the heritage you leave; and I think, with you, that perhaps the great +future lies entirely there." + +In the sad and quiet room Pascal began to speak again, with the +courageous tranquillity of a dying philosopher giving his last lesson. +He now reviewed his personal observations; he said that he had often +cured himself by work, regular and methodical work, not carried to +excess. Eleven o'clock struck; he urged Ramond to take his breakfast, +and he continued the conversation, soaring to lofty and distant heights, +while Martine served the meal. The sun had at last burst through the +morning mists, a sun still half-veiled in clouds, and mild, whose golden +light warmed the room. Presently, after taking a few sips of milk, +Pascal remained silent. + +At this moment the young physician was eating a pear. + +"Are you in pain again?" he asked. + +"No, no; finish." + +But he could not deceive Ramond. It was an attack, and a terrible one. +The suffocation came with the swiftness of a thunderbolt, and he fell +back on the pillow, his face already blue. He clutched at the bedclothes +to support himself, to raise the dreadful weight which oppressed his +chest. Terrified, livid, he kept his wide open eyes fixed upon the +clock, with a dreadful expression of despair and grief; and for ten +minutes it seemed as if every moment must be his last. + +Ramond had immediately given him a hypodermic injection. The relief was +slow to come, the efficacy less than before. + +When Pascal revived, large tears stood in his eyes. He did not speak +now, he wept. Presently, looking at the clock with his darkening vision, +he said: + +"My friend, I shall die at four o'clock; I shall not see her." + +And as his young colleague, in order to divert his thoughts, declared, +in spite of appearances, that the end was not so near, Pascal, again +becoming enthusiastic, wished to give him a last lesson, based on direct +observation. He had, as it happened, attended several cases similar to +his own, and he remembered especially to have dissected at the hospital +the heart of a poor old man affected with sclerosis. + +"I can see it--my heart. It is the color of a dead leaf; its fibers are +brittle, wasted, one would say, although it has augmented slightly in +volume. The inflammatory process has hardened it; it would be difficult +to cut--" + +He continued in a lower voice. A little before, he had felt his heart +growing weaker, its contractions becoming feebler and slower. Instead +of the normal jet of blood there now issued from the aorta only a red +froth. Back of it all the veins were engorged with black blood; the +suffocation increased, according as the lift and force pump, the +regulator of the whole machine, moved more slowly. And after the +injection he had been able to follow in spite of his suffering the +gradual reviving of the organ as the stimulus set it beating again, +removing the black venous blood, and sending life into it anew, with +the red arterial blood. But the attack would return as soon as the +mechanical effect of the injection should cease. He could predict it +almost within a few minutes. Thanks to the injections he would have +three attacks more. The third would carry him off; he would die at four +o'clock. + +Then, while his voice grew gradually weaker, in a last outburst of +enthusiasm, he apostrophized the courage of the heart, that persistent +life maker, working ceaselessly, even during sleep, when the other +organs rested. + +"Ah, brave heart! how heroically you struggle! What faithful, what +generous muscles, never wearied! You have loved too much, you have beat +too fast in the past months, and that is why you are breaking now, +brave heart, who do not wish to die, and who strive rebelliously to beat +still!" + +But now the first of the attacks which had been announced came on. +Pascal came out of this panting, haggard, his speech sibilant and +painful. Low moans escaped him, in spite of his courage. Good God! would +this torture never end? And yet his most ardent desire was to prolong +his agony, to live long enough to embrace Clotilde a last time. If he +might only be deceiving himself, as Ramond persisted in declaring. If he +might only live until five o'clock. His eyes again turned to the clock, +they never now left the hands, every minute seeming an eternity. They +marked three o'clock. Then half-past three. Ah, God! only two hours of +life, two hours more of life. The sun was already sinking toward the +horizon; a great calm descended from the pale winter sky, and he heard +at intervals the whistles of the distant locomotives crossing the bare +plain. The train that was passing now was the one going to the Tulettes; +the other, the one coming from Marseilles, would it never arrive, then! + +At twenty minutes to four Pascal signed to Ramond to approach. He could +no longer speak loud enough to be heard. + +"You see, in order that I might live until six o'clock, the pulse should +be stronger. I have still some hope, however, but the second movement is +almost imperceptible, the heart will soon cease to beat." + +And in faint, despairing accents he called on Clotilde again and again. +The immeasurable grief which he felt at not being able to see her again +broke forth in this faltering and agonized appeal. Then his anxiety +about his manuscripts returned, an ardent entreaty shone in his eyes, +until at last he found the strength to falter again: + +"Do not leave me; the key is under my pillow; tell Clotilde to take it; +she has my directions." + +At ten minutes to four another hypodermic injection was given, but +without effect. And just as four o'clock was striking, the second attack +declared itself. Suddenly, after a fit of suffocation, he threw himself +out of bed; he desired to rise, to walk, in a last revival of his +strength. A need of space, of light, of air, urged him toward the skies. +Then there came to him an irresistible appeal from life, his whole life, +from the adjoining workroom, where he had spent his days. And he went +there, staggering, suffocating, bending to the left side, supporting +himself by the furniture. + +Dr. Ramond precipitated himself quickly toward him to stop him, crying: + +"Master, master! lie down again, I entreat you!" + +But Pascal paid no heed to him, obstinately determined to die on his +feet. The desire to live, the heroic idea of work, alone survived in +him, carrying him onward bodily. He faltered hoarsely: + +"No, no--out there, out there--" + +His friend was obliged to support him, and he walked thus, stumbling and +haggard, to the end of the workroom, and dropped into his chair beside +his table, on which an unfinished page still lay among a confusion of +papers and books. + +Here he gasped for breath and his eyes closed. After a moment he opened +them again, while his hands groped about, seeking his work, no doubt. +They encountered the genealogical tree in the midst of other papers +scattered about. Only two days before he had corrected some dates in it. +He recognized it, and drawing it toward him, spread it out. + +"Master, master! you will kill yourself!" cried Ramond, overcome with +pity and admiration at this extraordinary spectacle. + +Pascal did not listen, did not hear. He felt a pencil under his fingers. +He took it and bent over the tree, as if his dying eyes no longer saw. +The name of Maxime arrested his attention, and he wrote: "Died of ataxia +in 1873," in the certainty that his nephew would not live through the +year. Then Clotilde's name, beside it, struck him and he completed the +note thus: "Has a son, by her Uncle Pascal, in 1874." But it was his own +name that he sought wearily and confusedly. When he at last found it +his hand grew firmer, and he finished his note, in upright and bold +characters: "Died of heart disease, November 7, 1873." This was the +supreme effort, the rattle in his throat increased, everything was +fading into nothingness, when he perceived the blank leaf above +Clotilde's name. His vision grew dark, his fingers could no longer hold +the pencil, but he was still able to add, in unsteady letters, into +which passed the tortured tenderness, the wild disorder of his poor +heart: "The unknown child, to be born in 1874. What will it be?" Then he +swooned, and Martine and Ramond with difficulty carried him back to bed. + +The third attack came on about four o'clock. In this last access of +suffocation Pascal's countenance expressed excruciating suffering. Death +was to be very painful; he must endure to the end his martyrdom, as a +man and a scientist. His wandering gaze still seemed to seek the clock, +to ascertain the hour. And Ramond, seeing his lips move, bent down and +placed his ear to the mouth of the dying man. The latter, in effect, was +stammering some vague words, so faint that they scarcely rose above a +breath: + +"Four o'clock--the heart is stopping; no more red blood in the +aorta--the valve relaxes and bursts." + +A dreadful spasm shook him; his breathing grew fainter. + +"Its progress is too rapid. Do not leave me; the key is under the +pillow--Clotilde, Clotilde--" + +At the foot of the bed Martine was kneeling, choked with sobs. She +saw well that monsieur was dying. She had not dared to go for a priest +notwithstanding her great desire to do so; and she was herself reciting +the prayers for the dying; she prayed ardently that God would pardon +monsieur, and that monsieur might go straight to Paradise. + +Pascal was dying. His face was quite blue. After a few seconds of +immobility, he tried to breathe: he put out his lips, opened his poor +mouth, like a little bird opening its beak to get a last mouthful of +air. And he was dead. + + + + +XIII. + +It was not until after breakfast, at about one o'clock, that Clotilde +received the despatch. On this day it had chanced that she had quarreled +with her brother Maxime, who, taking advantage of his privileges as an +invalid, had tormented her more and more every day by his unreasonable +caprices and his outbursts of ill temper. In short, her visit to him had +not proved a success. He found that she was too simple and too serious +to cheer him; and he had preferred, of late, the society of Rose, the +fair-haired young girl, with the innocent look, who amused him. So that +when his sister told him that their uncle had sent for her, and that she +was going away, he gave his approval at once, and although he asked her +to return as soon as she should have settled her affairs at home, he did +so only with the desire of showing himself amiable, and he did not press +the invitation. + +Clotilde spent the afternoon in packing her trunks. In the feverish +excitement of so sudden a decision she had thought of nothing but the +joy of her return. But after the hurry of dinner was over, after she had +said good-by to her brother, after the interminable drive in a hackney +coach along the avenue of the Bois de Boulogne to the Lyons railway +station, when she found herself in the ladies' compartment, starting +on the long journey on a cold and rainy November night, already rolling +away from Paris, her excitement began to abate, and reflections forced +their way into her mind and began to trouble her. Why this brief and +urgent despatch: "I await you; start this evening." Doubtless it was the +answer to her letter; but she knew how greatly Pascal had desired that +she should remain in Paris, where he thought she was happy, and she was +astonished at his hasty summons. She had not expected a despatch, but +a letter, arranging for her return a few weeks later. There must be +something else, then; perhaps he was ill and felt a desire, a longing to +see her again at once. And from this time forward this fear seized her +with the force of a presentiment, and grew stronger and stronger, until +it soon took complete possession of her. + +All night long the rain beat furiously against the windows of the train +while they were crossing the plains of Burgundy, and did not cease until +they reached Macon. When they had passed Lyons the day broke. Clotilde +had Pascal's letters with her, and she had waited impatiently for the +daylight that she might read again carefully these letters, the +writing of which had seemed changed to her. And noticing the unsteady +characters, the breaks in the words, she felt a chill at her heart. He +was ill, very ill--she had become certain of this now, by a divination +in which there was less of reasoning than of subtle prescience. And the +rest of the journey seemed terribly long, for her anguish increased +in proportion as she approached its termination. And worse than all, +arriving at Marseilles at half-past twelve, there was no train for +Plassans until twenty minutes past three. Three long hours of waiting! +She breakfasted at the buffet in the railway station, eating hurriedly, +as if she was afraid of missing this train; then she dragged herself +into the dusty garden, going from bench to bench in the pale, mild +sunshine, among omnibuses and hackney coaches. At last she was once more +in the train, which stopped at every little way station. When they were +approaching Plassans she put her head out of the window eagerly, longing +to see the town again after her short absence of two months. It seemed +to her as if she had been away for twenty years, and that everything +must be changed. When the train was leaving the little station of +Sainte-Marthe her emotion reached its height when, leaning out, she +saw in the distance La Souleiade with the two secular cypresses on the +terrace, which could be seen three leagues off. + +It was five o'clock, and twilight was already falling. The train +stopped, and Clotilde descended. But it was a surprise and a keen grief +to her not to see Pascal waiting for her on the platform. She had been +saying to herself since they had left Lyons: "If I do not see him at +once, on the arrival of the train, it will be because he is ill." He +might be in the waiting-room, however, or with a carriage outside. She +hurried forward, but she saw no one but Father Durieu, a driver whom the +doctor was in the habit of employing. She questioned him eagerly. The +old man, a taciturn Provencal, was in no haste to answer. His wagon was +there, and he asked her for the checks for her luggage, wishing to see +about the trunks before anything else. In a trembling voice she repeated +her question: + +"Is everybody well, Father Durieu?" + +"Yes, mademoiselle." + +And she was obliged to put question after question to him before she +succeeded in eliciting the information that it was Martine who had told +him, at about six o'clock the day before, to be at the station with his +wagon, in time to meet the train. He had not seen the doctor, no one had +seen him, for two months past. It might very well be since he was not +here that he had been obliged to take to his bed, for there was a report +in the town that he was not very well. + +"Wait until I get the luggage, mademoiselle," he ended, "there is room +for you on the seat." + +"No, Father Durieu, it would be too long to wait. I will walk." + +She ascended the slope rapidly. Her heart was so tightened that +she could scarcely breathe. The sun had sunk behind the hills of +Sainte-Marthe, and a fine mist was falling from the chill gray November +sky, and as she took the road to Les Fenouilleres she caught another +glimpse of La Souleiade, which struck a chill to her heart--the front +of the house, with all its shutters closed, and wearing a look of +abandonment and desolation in the melancholy twilight. + +But Clotilde received the final and terrible blow when she saw Ramond +standing at the hall door, apparently waiting for her. He had indeed +been watching for her, and had come downstairs to break the dreadful +news gently to her. She arrived out of breath; she had crossed the +quincunx of plane trees near the fountain to shorten the way, and on +seeing the young man there instead of Pascal, whom she had in spite of +everything expected to see, she had a presentiment of overwhelming ruin, +of irreparable misfortune. Ramond was pale and agitated, notwithstanding +the effort he made to control his feelings. At the first moment he could +not find a word to say, but waited to be questioned. Clotilde, who was +herself suffocating, said nothing. And they entered the house thus; he +led her to the dining-room, where they remained for a few seconds, face +to face, in mute anguish. + +"He is ill, is he not?" she at last faltered. + +"Yes," he said, "he is ill." + +"I knew it at once when I saw you," she replied. "I knew when he was not +here that he must be ill. He is very ill, is he not?" she persisted. + +As he did not answer but grew still paler, she looked at him fixedly. +And on the instant she saw the shadow of death upon him; on his hands +that still trembled, that had assisted the dying man; on his sad face; +in his troubled eyes, which still retained the reflection of the death +agony; in the neglected and disordered appearance of the physician who, +for twelve hours, had maintained an unavailing struggle against death. + +She gave a loud cry: + +"He is dead!" + +She tottered, and fell fainting into the arms of Ramond, who with a +great sob pressed her in a brotherly embrace. And thus they wept on each +other's neck. + +When he had seated her in a chair, and she was able to speak, he said: + +"It was I who took the despatch you received to the telegraph office +yesterday, at half-past ten o'clock. He was so happy, so full of hope! +He was forming plans for the future--a year, two years of life. And this +morning, at four o'clock, he had the first attack, and he sent for me. +He saw at once that he was doomed, but he expected to last until +six o'clock, to live long enough to see you again. But the disease +progressed too rapidly. He described its progress to me, minute by +minute, like a professor in the dissecting room. He died with your name +upon his lips, calm, but full of anguish, like a hero." + +Clotilde listened, her eyes drowned in tears which flowed endlessly. +Every word of the relation of this piteous and stoical death penetrated +her heart and stamped itself there. She reconstructed every hour of the +dreadful day. She followed to its close its grand and mournful drama. +She would live it over in her thoughts forever. + +But her despairing grief overflowed when Martine, who had entered the +room a moment before, said in a harsh voice: + +"Ah, mademoiselle has good reason to cry! for if monsieur is dead, +mademoiselle is to blame for it." + +The old servant stood apart, near the door of her kitchen, in such a +passion of angry grief, because they had taken her master from her, +because they had killed him, that she did not even try to find a word +of welcome or consolation for this child whom she had brought up. And +without calculating the consequences of her indiscretion, the grief or +the joy which she might cause, she relieved herself by telling all she +knew. + +"Yes, if monsieur has died, it is because mademoiselle went away." + +From the depths of her overpowering grief Clotilde protested. She had +expected to see Martine weeping with her, like Ramond, and she was +surprised to feel that she was an enemy. + +"Why, it was he who would not let me stay, who insisted upon my going +away," she said. + +"Oh, well! mademoiselle must have been willing to go or she would +have been more clear-sighted. The night before your departure I found +monsieur half-suffocated with grief; and when I wished to inform +mademoiselle, he himself prevented me; he had such courage. Then I could +see it all, after mademoiselle had gone. Every night it was the same +thing over again, and he could hardly keep from writing to you to come +back. In short, he died of it, that is the pure truth." + +A great light broke in on Clotilde's mind, making her at the same time +very happy and very wretched. Good God! what she had suspected for a +moment, was then true. Afterward she had been convinced, seeing Pascal's +angry persistence, that he was speaking the truth; that between her and +work he had chosen work sincerely, like a man of science with whom love +of work has gained the victory over the love of woman. And yet he +had not spoken the truth; he had carried his devotion, his +self-forgetfulness to the point of immolating himself to what he +believed to be her happiness. And the misery of things willed that he +should have been mistaken, that he should have thus consummated the +unhappiness of both. + +Clotilde again protested wildly: + +"But how could I have known? I obeyed; I put all my love in my +obedience." + +"Ah," cried Martine again, "it seems to me that I should have guessed." + +Ramond interposed gently. He took Clotilde's hands once more in his, and +explained to her that grief might indeed have hastened the fatal issue, +but that the master had unhappily been doomed for some time past. The +affection of the heart from which he had suffered must have been of long +standing--a great deal of overwork, a certain part of heredity, and, +finally, his late absorbing love, and the poor heart had broken. + +"Let us go upstairs," said Clotilde simply. "I wish to see him." + +Upstairs in the death-chamber the blinds were closed, shutting out even +the melancholy twilight. On a little table at the foot of the bed burned +two tapers in two candlesticks. And they cast a pale yellow light on +Pascal's form extended on the bed, the feet close together, the hands +folded on the breast. The eyes had been piously closed. The face, of a +bluish hue still, but already looking calm and peaceful, framed by the +flowing white hair and beard, seemed asleep. He had been dead scarcely +an hour and a half, yet already infinite serenity, eternal silence, +eternal repose, had begun. + +Seeing him thus, at the thought that he no longer heard her, that he no +longer saw her, that she was alone now, that she was to kiss him for the +last time, and then lose him forever, Clotilde, in an outburst of +grief, threw herself upon the bed, and in broken accents of passionate +tenderness cried: + +"Oh, master, master, master--" + +She pressed her lips to the dead man's forehead, and, feeling it still +warm with life, she had a momentary illusion: she fancied that he +felt this last caress, so cruelly awaited. Did he not smile in his +immobility, happy at last, and able to die, now that he felt her here +beside him? Then, overcome by the dreadful reality, she burst again into +wild sobs. + +Martine entered, bringing a lamp, which she placed on a corner of +the chimney-piece, and she heard Ramond, who was watching Clotilde, +disquieted at seeing her passionate grief, say: + +"I shall take you away from the room if you give way like this. Consider +that you have some one else to think of now." + +The servant had been surprised at certain words which she had overheard +by chance during the day. Suddenly she understood, and she turned paler +even than before, and on her way out of the room, she stopped at the +door to hear more. + +"The key of the press is under his pillow," said Ramond, lowering his +voice; "he told me repeatedly to tell you so. You know what you have to +do?" + +Clotilde made an effort to remember and to answer. + +"What I have to do? About the papers, is it not? Yes, yes, I remember; I +am to keep the envelopes and to give you the other manuscripts. Have no +fear, I am quite calm, I will be very reasonable. But I will not leave +him; I will spend the night here very quietly, I promise you." + +She was so unhappy, she seemed so resolved to watch by him, to remain +with him, until he should be taken away, that the young physician +allowed her to have her way. + +"Well, I will leave you now. They will be expecting me at home. Then +there are all sorts of formalities to be gone through--to give notice +at the mayor's office, the funeral, of which I wish to spare you the +details. Trouble yourself about nothing. Everything will be arranged +to-morrow when I return." + +He embraced her once more and then went away. And it was only then that +Martine left the room, behind him, and locking the hall door she ran out +into the darkness. + +Clotilde was now alone in the chamber; and all around and about her, in +the unbroken silence, she felt the emptiness of the house. Clotilde was +alone with the dead Pascal. She placed a chair at the head of the bed +and sat there motionless, alone. On arriving, she had merely removed her +hat: now, perceiving that she still had on her gloves, she took them +off also. But she kept on her traveling dress, crumpled and dusty, after +twenty hours of railway travel. No doubt Father Durieu had brought the +trunks long ago, and left them downstairs. But it did not occur to her, +nor had she the strength to wash herself and change her clothes, but +remained sitting, overwhelmed with grief, on the chair into which she +had dropped. One regret, a great remorse, filled her to the exclusion of +all else. Why had she obeyed him? Why had she consented to leave him? +If she had remained she had the ardent conviction that he would not have +died. She would have lavished so much love, so many caresses upon him, +that she would have cured him. If one was anxious to keep a beloved +being from dying one should remain with him and, if necessary, give +one's heart's blood to keep him alive. It was her own fault if she had +lost him, if she could not now with a caress awaken him from his +eternal sleep. And she thought herself imbecile not to have understood; +cowardly, not to have devoted herself to him; culpable, and to be +forever punished for having gone away when plain common sense, in +default of feeling, ought to have kept her here, bound, as a submissive +and affectionate subject, to the task of watching over her king. + +The silence had become so complete, so profound, that Clotilde lifted +her eyes for a moment from Pascal's face to look around the room. She +saw only vague shadows--the two tapers threw two yellow patches on the +high ceiling. At this moment she remembered the letters he had written +to her, so short, so cold; and she comprehended his heroic sacrifice, +the torture it had been to him to silence his heart, desiring to +immolate himself to the end. What strength must he not have required +for the accomplishment of the plan of happiness, sublime and disastrous, +which he had formed for her. He had resolved to pass out of her life in +order to save her from his old age and his poverty; he wished her to be +rich and free, to enjoy her youth, far away from him; this indeed was +utter self-effacement, complete absorption in the love of another. And +she felt a profound gratitude, a sweet solace in the thought, mingled +with a sort of angry bitterness against evil fortune. Then, suddenly, +the happy years of her childhood and her long youth spent beside him who +had always been so kind and so good-humored, rose before her--how he had +gradually won her affection, how she had felt that she was his, after +the quarrels which had separated them for a time, and with what a +transport of joy she had at last given herself to him. + +Seven o'clock struck. Clotilde started as the clear tones broke the +profound silence. Who was it that had spoken? Then she remembered, and +she looked at the clock. And when the last sound of the seven strokes, +each of which had fallen like a knell upon her heart, had died away, she +turned her eyes again on the motionless face of Pascal, and once more +she abandoned herself to her grief. + +It was in the midst of this ever-increasing prostration that Clotilde, a +few minutes later, heard a sudden sound of sobbing. Some one had rushed +into the room; she looked round and saw her Grandmother Felicite. But +she did not stir, she did not speak, so benumbed was she with grief. +Martine, anticipating the orders which Clotilde would undoubtedly have +given her, had hurried to old Mme. Rougon's, to give her the dreadful +news; and the latter, dazed at first by the suddenness of the +catastrophe, and afterward greatly agitated, had hurried to the house, +overflowing with noisy grief. She burst into tears at sight of her son, +and then embraced Clotilde, who returned her kiss, as in a dream. And +from this instant the latter, without emerging from the overwhelming +grief in which she isolated herself, felt that she was no longer alone, +hearing a continual stir and bustle going on around her. It was Felicite +crying, coming in and going out on tiptoe, setting things in order, +spying about, whispering, dropping into a chair, to get up again a +moment afterward, after saying that she was going to die in it. At nine +o'clock she made a last effort to persuade her granddaughter to eat +something. Twice already she had lectured her in a low voice; she came +now again to whisper to her: + +"Clotilde, my dear, I assure you you are wrong. You must keep up your +strength or you will never be able to hold out." + +But the young woman, with a shake of her head, again refused. + +"Come, you breakfasted at the buffet at Marseilles, I suppose, but you +have eaten nothing since. Is that reasonable? I do not wish you to fall +ill also. Martine has some broth. I have told her to make a light soup +and to roast a chicken. Go down and eat a mouthful, only a mouthful, and +I will remain here." + +With the same patient gesture Clotilde again refused. At last she +faltered: + +"Do not ask me, grandmother, I entreat you. I could not; it would choke +me." + +She did not speak again, falling back into her former state of apathy. +She did not sleep, however, her wide open eyes were fixed persistently +on Pascal's face. For hours she sat there, motionless, erect, rigid, as +if her spirit were far away with the dead. At ten o'clock she heard a +noise; it was Martine bringing up the lamp. Toward eleven Felicite, who +was sitting watching in an armchair, seemed to grow restless, got up and +went out of the room, and came back again. From this forth there was a +continual coming and going as of impatient footsteps prowling around +the young woman, who was still awake, her large eyes fixed motionless on +Pascal. Twelve o'clock struck, and one persistent thought alone pierced +her weary brain, like a nail, and prevented sleep--why had she obeyed +him? If she had remained she would have revived him with her youth, and +he would not have died. And it was not until a little before one +that she felt this thought, too, grow confused and lose itself in a +nightmare. And she fell into a heavy sleep, worn out with grief and +fatigue. + +When Martine had announced to Mme. Rougon the unexpected death of her +son Pascal, in the shock which she received there was as much of anger +as of grief. What! her dying son had not wished to see her; he had made +this servant swear not to inform her of his illness! This thought sent +the blood coursing swiftly through her veins, as if the struggle between +them, which had lasted during his whole life, was to be continued beyond +the grave. Then, when after hastily dressing herself she had hurried +to La Souleiade, the thought of the terrible envelopes, of all the +manuscripts piled up in the press, had filled her with trembling rage. +Now that Uncle Macquart and Aunt Dide were dead, she no longer feared +what she called the abomination of the Tulettes; and even poor little +Charles, in dying, had carried with him one of the most humiliating +of the blots on the family. There remained only the envelopes, the +abominable envelopes, to menace the glorious Rougon legend which she had +spent her whole life in creating, which was the sole thought of her old +age, the work to the triumph of which she had persistently devoted +the last efforts of her wily and active brain. For long years she had +watched these envelopes, never wearying, beginning the struggle over +again, when he had thought her beaten, always alert and persistent. Ah! +if she could only succeed in obtaining possession of them and destroying +them! It would be the execrable past destroyed, effaced; it would be the +glory of her family, so hardly won, at last freed from all fear, at last +shining untarnished, imposing its lie upon history. And she saw herself +traversing the three quarters of Plassans, saluted by every one, bearing +herself as proudly as a queen, mourning nobly for the fallen Empire. So +that when Martine informed her that Clotilde had come, she quickened her +steps as she approached La Souleiade, spurred by the fear of arriving +too late. + +But as soon as she was installed in the house, Felicite at once regained +her composure. There was no hurry, they had the whole night before them. +She wished, however, to win over Martine without delay, and she knew +well how to influence this simple creature, bound up in the doctrines of +a narrow religion. Going down to the kitchen, then, to see the chicken +roasting, she began by affecting to be heartbroken at the thought of her +son dying without having made his peace with the Church. She questioned +the servant, pressing her for particulars. But the latter shook her head +disconsolately--no, no priest had come, monsieur had not even made the +sign of the cross. She, only, had knelt down to say the prayers for the +dying, which certainly could not be enough for the salvation of a soul. +And yet with what fervor she had prayed to the good God that monsieur +might go straight to Paradise! + +With her eyes fixed on the chicken turning on the spit, before a bright +fire, Felicite resumed in a lower voice, with an absorbed air: + +"Ah, my poor girl, what will most prevent him from going to Paradise are +the abominable papers which the unhappy man has left behind him up there +in the press. I cannot understand why it is that lightning from heaven +has not struck those papers before this and reduced them to ashes. If +they are allowed to leave this house it will be ruin and disgrace and +eternal perdition!" + +Martine listened, very pale. + +"Then madame thinks it would be a good work to destroy them, a work that +would assure the repose of monsieur's soul?" + +"Great God! Do I believe it! Why, if I had those dreadful papers in my +hands, I would throw every one of them into the fire. Oh, you would not +need then to put on any more sticks; with the manuscripts upstairs alone +you would have fuel enough to roast three chickens like that." + +The servant took a long spoon and began to baste the fowl. She, too, +seemed now to reflect. + +"Only we haven't got them. I even overheard some words on the subject, +which I may repeat to madame. It was when mademoiselle went upstairs. +Dr. Raymond spoke to her about the papers, asking her if she remembered +some orders which she had received, before she went away, no doubt; and +she answered that she remembered, that she was to keep the envelopes and +to give him all the other manuscripts." + +Felicite trembled; she could not restrain a terrified movement. Already +she saw the papers slipping out of her reach; and it was not the +envelopes only which she desired, but all the manuscripts, all that +unknown, suspicious, and secret work, from which nothing but scandal +could come, according to the obtuse and excitable mind of the proud old +_bourgeoise_. + +"But we must act!" she cried, "act immediately, this very night! +To-morrow it may be too late." + +"I know where the key of the press is," answered Martine in a low voice. +"The doctor told mademoiselle." + +Felicite immediately pricked up her ears. + +"The key; where is it?" + +"Under the pillow, under monsieur's head." + +In spite of the bright blaze of the fire of vine branches the air seemed +to grow suddenly chill, and the two old women were silent. The only +sound to be heard was the drip of the chicken juice falling into the +pan. + +But after Mme. Rougon had eaten a hasty and solitary dinner she went +upstairs again with Martine. Without another word being spoken they +understood each other, it was decided that they would use all possible +means to obtain possession of the papers before daybreak. The simplest +was to take the key from under the pillow. Clotilde would no doubt at +last fall asleep--she seemed too exhausted not to succumb to fatigue. +All they had to do was to wait. They set themselves to watch, then, +going back and forth on tiptoe between the study and the bedroom, +waiting for the moment when the young woman's large motionless eyes +should close in sleep. One of them would go to see, while the other +waited impatiently in the study, where a lamp burned dully on the table. +This was repeated every fifteen minutes until midnight. The fathomless +eyes, full of gloom and of an immense despair, did not close. A little +before midnight Felicite installed herself in an armchair at the foot of +the bed, resolved not to leave the spot until her granddaughter should +have fallen asleep. From this forth she did not take her eyes off +Clotilde, and it filled her with a sort of fear to remark that the girl +scarcely moved her eyelids, looking with that inconsolable fixity which +defies sleep. Then she herself began to feel sleep stealing over her. +Exasperated, trembling with nervous impatience, she could remain where +she was no longer. And she went to rejoin the servant, who was watching +in the study. + +"It is useless; she will not sleep," she said in a stifled and trembling +voice. "We must find some other way." + +It had indeed occurred to her to break open the press. + +But the old oaken boards were strong, the old iron held firmly. How +could they break the lock--not to speak of the noise they would make and +which would certainly be heard in the adjoining room? + +She stood before the thick doors, however, and felt them with her +fingers, seeking some weak spot. + +"If I only had an instrument," she said. + +Martine, less eager, interrupted her, objecting: "Oh, no, no, madame! +We might be surprised! Wait, I will go again and see if mademoiselle is +asleep now." + +She went to the bedroom on tiptoe and returned immediately, saying: + +"Yes, she is asleep. Her eyes are closed, and she does not stir." + +Then both went to look at her, holding their breath and walking with the +utmost caution, so that the boards might not creak. Clotilde had indeed +just fallen asleep: and her stupor seemed so profound that the two old +women grew bold. They feared, however, that they might touch and waken +her, for her chair stood close beside the bed. And then, to put +one's hand under a dead man's pillow to rob him was a terrible and +sacrilegious act, the thought of which filled them with terror. Might it +not disturb his repose? Might he not move at the shock? The thought made +them turn pale. + +Felicite had advanced with outstretched hand, but she drew back, +stammering: + +"I am too short. You try, Martine." + +The servant in her turn approached the bed. But she was seized with such +a fit of trembling that she was obliged to retreat lest she should fall. + +"No, no, I cannot!" she said. "It seems to me that monsieur is going to +open his eyes." + +And trembling and awe-struck they remained an instant longer in the +lugubrious chamber full of the silence and the majesty of death, facing +Pascal, motionless forever, and Clotilde, overwhelmed by the grief of +her widowhood. Perhaps they saw, glorifying that mute head, guarding +its work with all its weight, the nobility of a life spent in honorable +labor. The flame of the tapers burned palely. A sacred awe filled the +air, driving them from the chamber. + +Felicite, who was so brave, who had never in her life flinched from +anything, not even from bloodshed, fled as if she was pursued, saying: + +"Come, come, Martine, we will find some other way; we will go look for +an instrument." + +In the study they drew a breath of relief. Felicite looked in vain among +the papers on Pascal's work-table for the genealogical tree, which +she knew was usually there. She would so gladly have begun her work of +destruction with this. It was there, but in her feverish excitement she +did not perceive it. + +Her desire drew her back again to the press, and she stood before it, +measuring it and examining it with eager and covetous look. In spite of +her short stature, in spite of her eighty-odd years, she displayed an +activity and an energy that were truly extraordinary. + +"Ah!" she repeated, "if I only had an instrument!" + +And she again sought the crevice in the colossus, the crack into which +she might introduce her fingers, to break it open. She imagined plans +of assault, she thought of using force, and then she fell back on +stratagem, on some piece of treachery which would open to her the doors, +merely by breathing upon them. + +Suddenly her glance kindled; she had discovered the means. + +"Tell me, Martine; there is a hook fastening one of the doors, is there +not?" + +"Yes, madame; it catches in a ring above the middle shelf. See, it is +about the height of this molding." + +Felicite made a triumphant gesture. + +"Have you a gimlet--a large gimlet? Give me a gimlet!" + +Martine went down into her kitchen and brought back the tool that had +been asked. + +"In that way, you see, we shall make no noise," resumed the old woman, +setting herself to her task. + +With a strength which one would not have suspected in her little hands, +withered by age, she inserted the gimlet, and made a hole at the height +indicated by the servant. But it was too low; she felt the point, after +a time, entering the shelf. A second attempt brought the instrument in +direct contact with the iron hook. This time the hole was too near. And +she multiplied the holes to right and left, until finally she succeeded +in pushing the hook out of the ring. The bolt of the lock slipped, and +both doors opened. + +"At last!" cried Felicite, beside herself. + +Then she remained motionless for a moment, her ear turned uneasily +toward the bedroom, fearing that she had wakened Clotilde. But silence +reigned throughout the dark and sleeping house. There came from the +bedroom only the august peace of death; she heard nothing but the clear +vibration of the clock; Clotilde fell asleep near one. And the press +yawned wide open, displaying the papers with which it overflowed, heaped +up on its three shelves. Then she threw herself upon it, and the work of +destruction began, in the midst of the sacred obscurity of the infinite +repose of this funereal vigil. + +"At last!" she repeated, in a low voice, "after thirty years of waiting. +Let us hurry--let us hurry. Martine, help me!" + +She had already drawn forward the high chair of the desk, and mounted on +it at a bound, to take down, first of all, the papers on the top shelf, +for she remembered that the envelopes were there. But she was surprised +not to see the thick blue paper wrappers; there was nothing there but +bulky manuscripts, the doctor's completed but unpublished works, works +of inestimable value, all his researches, all his discoveries, the +monument of his future fame, which he had left in Ramond's charge. +Doubtless, some days before his death, thinking that only the envelopes +were in danger, and that no one in the world would be so daring as to +destroy his other works, he had begun to classify and arrange the papers +anew, and removed the envelopes out of sight. + +"Ah, so much the worse!" murmured Felicite; "let us begin anywhere; +there are so many of them that if we wish to get through we must +hurry. While I am up here, let us clear these away forever. Here, catch +Martine!" + +And she emptied the shelf, throwing the manuscripts, one by one, into +the arms of the servant, who laid them on the table with as little noise +as possible. Soon the whole heap was on it, and Felicite sprang down +from the chair. + +"To the fire! to the fire! We shall lay our hands on the others, +and too, by and by, on those I am looking for. These can go into it, +meantime. It will be a good riddance, at any rate, a fine clearance, +yes, indeed! To the fire, to the fire with them all, even to the +smallest scrap of paper, even to the most illegible scrawl, if we wish +to be certain of destroying the contamination of evil." + +She herself, fanatical and fierce, in her hatred of the truth, in her +eagerness to destroy the testimony of science, tore off the first page +of one of the manuscripts, lighted it at the lamp, and then threw this +burning brand into the great fireplace, in which there had not been a +fire for perhaps twenty years, and she fed the fire, continuing to +throw on it the rest of the manuscript, piece by piece. The servant, as +determined as herself, came to her assistance, taking another enormous +notebook, which she tore up leaf by leaf. From this forth the fire did +not cease to burn, filling the wide fireplace with a bright blaze, with +tongues of flame that seemed to die away from time to time, only to +burn up more brightly than ever when fresh fuel fed them. The fire +grew larger, the heap of ashes rose higher and higher--a thick bed of +blackened leaves among which ran millions of sparks. But it was a long, +a never-ending task; for when several pages were thrown on at a time, +they would not burn; it was necessary to move them and turn them over +with the tongs; the best way was to stir them up and then wait until +they were in a blaze, before adding more. The women soon grew skilful at +their task, and the work progressed at a rapid rate. + +In her haste to get a fresh armful of papers Felicite stumbled against a +chair. + +"Oh, madame, take care," said Martine. "Some one might come!" + +"Come? who should come? Clotilde? She is too sound asleep, poor girl. +And even if any one should come, once it is finished, I don't care; +I won't hide myself, you may be sure; I shall leave the empty press +standing wide open; I shall say aloud that it is I who have purified +the house. When there is not a line of writing left, ah, good heavens! I +shall laugh at everything else!" + +For almost two hours the fireplace blazed. They went back to the press +and emptied the two other shelves, and now there remained only the +bottom, which was heaped with a confusion of papers. Little by little, +intoxicated by the heat of the bonfire, out of breath and perspiring, +they gave themselves up to the savage joy of destruction. They stooped +down, they blackened their hands, pushing in the partially consumed +fragments, with gestures so violent, so feverishly excited, that their +gray locks fell in disorder over their shoulders. It was like a dance of +witches, feeding a hellish fire for some abominable act--the martyrdom +of a saint, the burning of written thought in the public square; a whole +world of truth and hope destroyed. And the blaze of this fire, which +at moments made the flame of the lamp grow pale, lighted up the vast +apartment, and made the gigantic shadows of the two women dance upon the +ceiling. + +But as she was emptying the bottom of the press, after having burned, +handful by handful, the papers with which it had been filled, Felicite +uttered a stifled cry of triumph. + +"Ah, here they are! To the fire! to the fire!" + +She had at last come upon the envelopes. Far back, behind the rampart +formed by the notes, the doctor had hidden the blue paper wrappers. And +then began a mad work of havoc, a fury of destruction; the envelopes +were gathered up in handfuls and thrown into the flames, filling the +fireplace with a roar like that of a conflagration. + +"They are burning, they are burning! They are burning at last! Here +is another, Martine, here is another. Ah, what a fire, what a glorious +fire!" + +But the servant was becoming uneasy. + +"Take care, madame, you are going to set the house on fire. Don't you +hear that roar?" + +"Ah! what does that matter? Let it all burn. They are burning, they are +burning; what a fine sight! Three more, two more, and, see, now the last +is burning!" + +She laughed with delight, beside herself, terrible to see, when some +fragment of lighted soot fell down. The roar was becoming more and more +fierce; the chimney, which was never swept, had caught fire. This seemed +to excite her still more, while the servant, losing her head, began to +scream and run about the room. + +Clotilde slept beside the dead Pascal, in the supreme calm of the +bedroom, unbroken save by the light vibration of the clock striking +the hours. The tapers burned with a tall, still flame, the air was +motionless. And yet, in the midst of her heavy, dreamless sleep, she +heard, as in a nightmare, a tumult, an ever-increasing rush and roar. +And when she opened her eyes she could not at first understand. Where +was she? Why this enormous weight that crushed her heart? She came back +to reality with a start of terror--she saw Pascal, she heard Martine's +cries in the adjoining room, and she rushed out, in alarm, to learn +their cause. + +But at the threshold Clotilde took in the whole scene with cruel +distinctness--the press wide open and completely empty; Martine maddened +by her fear of fire; Felicite radiant, pushing into the flames with her +foot the last fragments of the envelopes. Smoke and flying soot filled +the study, where the roaring of the fire sounded like the hoarse gasping +of a murdered man--the fierce roar which she had just heard in her +sleep. + +And the cry which sprang from her lips was the same cry that Pascal +himself had uttered on the night of the storm, when he surprised her in +the act of stealing his papers. + +"Thieves! assassins!" + +She precipitated herself toward the fireplace, and, in spite of the +dreadful roaring of the flames, in spite of the falling pieces of soot, +at the risk of setting her hair on fire, and of burning her hands, +she gathered up the leaves which remained yet unconsumed and bravely +extinguished them, pressing them against her. But all this was very +little, only some _debris_; not a complete page remained, not even a +few fragments of the colossal labor, of the vast and patient work of +a lifetime, which the fire had destroyed there in two hours. And with +growing anger, in a burst of furious indignation, she cried: + +"You are thieves, assassins! It is a wicked murder which you have just +committed. You have profaned death, you have slain the mind, you have +slain genius." + +Old Mme. Rougon did not quail. She advanced, on the contrary, feeling +no remorse, her head erect, defending the sentence of destruction +pronounced and executed by her. + +"It is to me you are speaking, to your grandmother. Is there nothing, +then, that you respect? I have done what I ought to have done, what you +yourself wished to do with us before." + +"Before, you had made me mad; but since then I have lived, I have loved, +I have understood, and it is life that I defend. Even if it be terrible +and cruel, the truth ought to be respected. Besides, it was a sacred +legacy bequeathed to my protection, the last thoughts of a dead man, all +that remained of a great mind, and which I should have obliged every one +to respect. Yes, you are my grandmother; I am well aware of it, and it +is as if you had just burned your son!" + +"Burn Pascal because I have burned his papers!" cried Felicite. "Do +you not know that I would have burned the town to save the honor of our +family!" + +She continued to advance, belligerent and victorious; and Clotilde, who +had laid on the table the blackened fragments rescued by her from +the burning flames, protected them with her body, fearing that her +grandmother would throw them back again into the fire. She regarded the +two women scornfully; she did not even trouble herself about the fire +in the fireplace, which fortunately went out of itself, while Martine +extinguished with the shovel the burning soot and the last flames of the +smoldering ashes. + +"You know very well, however," continued the old woman, whose little +figure seemed to grow taller, "that I have had only one ambition, one +passion in life--to see our family rich and powerful. I have fought, I +have watched all my life, I have lived as long as I have done, only to +put down ugly stories and to leave our name a glorious one. Yes, I have +never despaired; I have never laid down my arms; I have been continually +on the alert, ready to profit by the slightest circumstance. And all I +desired to do I have done, because I have known how to wait." + +And she waved her hand toward the empty press and the fireplace, where +the last sparks were dying out. + +"Now it is ended, our honor is safe; those abominable papers will no +longer accuse us, and I shall leave behind me nothing to be feared. The +Rougons have triumphed." + +Clotilde, in a frenzy of grief, raised her arm, as if to drive her out +of the room. But she left it of her own accord, and went down to the +kitchen to wash her blackened hands and to fasten up her hair. The +servant was about to follow her when, turning her head, she saw her +young mistress' gesture, and she returned. + +"Oh! as for me, mademoiselle, I will go away the day after to-morrow, +when monsieur shall be in the cemetery." + +There was a moment's silence. + +"But I am not sending you away, Martine. I know well that it is not you +who are most to blame. You have lived in this house for thirty years. +Remain, remain with me." + +The old maid shook her gray head, looking very pale and tired. + +"No, I have served monsieur; I will serve no one after monsieur." + +"But I!" + +"You, no!" + +Clotilde looked embarrassed, hesitated a moment, and remained silent. +But Martine understood; she too seemed to reflect for an instant, and +then she said distinctly: + +"I know what you would say, but--no!" + +And she went on to settle her account, arranging the affair like a +practical woman who knew the value of money. + +"Since I have the means, I will go and live quietly on my income +somewhere. As for you, mademoiselle, I can leave you, for you are not +poor. M. Ramond will explain to you to-morrow how an income of four +thousand francs was saved for you out of the money at the notary's. +Meantime, here is the key of the desk, where you will find the five +thousand francs which monsieur left there. Oh? I know that there will +be no trouble between us. Monsieur did not pay me for the last three +months; I have papers from him which prove it. In addition, I advanced +lately almost two hundred francs out of my own pocket, without his +knowing where the money came from. It is all written down; I am not at +all uneasy; mademoiselle will not wrong me by a centime. The day after +to-morrow, when monsieur is no longer here, I will go away." + +Then she went down to the kitchen, and Clotilde, in spite of the +fanaticism of this woman, which had made her take part in a crime, +felt inexpressibly sad at this desertion. When she was gathering up the +fragments of the papers, however, before returning to the bedroom, she +had a thrill of joy, on suddenly seeing the genealogical tree, which +the two women had not perceived, lying unharmed on the table. It was the +only entire document saved from the wreck. She took it and locked it, +with the half-consumed fragments, in the bureau in the bedroom. + +But when she found herself again in this august chamber a great emotion +took possession of her. What supreme calm, what immortal peace, reigned +here, beside the savage destruction that had filled the adjoining room +with smoke and ashes. A sacred serenity pervaded the obscurity; the two +tapers burned with a pure, still, unwavering flame. Then she saw that +Pascal's face, framed in his flowing white hair and beard, had become +very white. He slept with the light falling upon him, surrounded by a +halo, supremely beautiful. She bent down, kissed him again, felt on her +lips the cold of the marble face, with its closed eyelids, dreaming its +dream of eternity. Her grief at not being able to save the work which he +had left to her care was so overpowering that she fell on her knees and +burst into a passion of sobs. Genius had been violated; it seemed to her +as if the world was about to be destroyed in this savage destruction of +a whole life of labor. + + + + +XIV. + +In the study Clotilde was buttoning her dress, holding her child, whom +she had been nursing, still in her lap. It was after lunch, about +three o'clock on a hot sunny day at the end of August, and through the +crevices of the carefully closed shutters only a few scattered sunbeams +entered, piercing the drowsy and warm obscurity of the vast apartment. +The rest and peace of the Sunday seemed to enter and diffuse itself +in the room with the last sounds of the distant vesper bell. Profound +silence reigned in the empty house in which the mother and child were to +remain alone until dinner time, the servant having asked permission to +go see a cousin in the faubourg. + +For an instant Clotilde looked at her child, now a big boy of three +months. She had been wearing mourning for Pascal for almost ten +months--a long and simple black gown, in which she looked divinely +beautiful, with her tall, slender figure and her sad, youthful face +surrounded by its aureole of fair hair. And although she could not +smile, it filled her with sweet emotion to see the beautiful child, so +plump and rosy, with his mouth still wet with milk, whose gaze had +been arrested by the sunbeam full of dancing motes. His eyes were fixed +wonderingly on the golden brightness, the dazzling miracle of light. +Then sleep came over him, and he let his little, round, bare head, +covered thinly with fair hair, fall back on his mother's arm. + +Clotilde rose softly and laid him in the cradle, which stood beside the +table. She remained leaning over him for an instant to assure herself +that he was asleep; then she let down the curtain in the already +darkened room. Then she busied herself with supple and noiseless +movements, walking with so light a step that she scarcely touched the +floor, in putting away some linen which was on the table. Twice she +crossed the room in search of a little missing sock. She was very +silent, very gentle, and very active. And now, in the solitude of the +house, she fell into a reverie and all the past year arose before her. + +First, after the dreadful shock of the funeral, came the departure of +Martine, who had obstinately kept to her determination of going away at +once, not even remaining for the customary week, bringing to replace her +the young cousin of a baker in the neighborhood--a stout brunette, who +fortunately proved very neat and faithful. Martine herself lived at +Sainte-Marthe, in a retired corner, so penuriously that she must be +still saving even out of her small income. She was not known to have any +heir. Who, then, would profit by this miserliness? In ten months she had +not once set foot in La Souleiade--monsieur was not there, and she had +not even the desire to see monsieur's son. + +Then in Clotilde's reverie rose the figure of her grandmother Felicite. +The latter came to see her from time to time with the condescension of a +powerful relation who is liberal-minded enough to pardon all faults when +they have been cruelly expiated. She would come unexpectedly, kiss +the child, moralize, and give advice, and the young mother had adopted +toward her the respectful attitude which Pascal had always maintained. +Felicite was now wholly absorbed in her triumph. She was at last about +to realize a plan that she had long cherished and maturely deliberated, +which would perpetuate by an imperishable monument the untarnished glory +of the family. The plan was to devote her fortune, which had become +considerable, to the construction and endowment of an asylum for the +aged, to be called Rougon Asylum. She had already bought the ground, +a part of the old mall outside the town, near the railway station; and +precisely on this Sunday, at five o'clock, when the heat should have +abated a little, the first stone was to be laid, a really solemn +ceremony, to be honored by the presence of all the authorities, and of +which she was to be the acknowledged queen, before a vast concourse of +people. + +Clotilde felt, besides, some gratitude toward her grandmother, who +had shown perfect disinterestedness on the occasion of the opening +of Pascal's will. The latter had constituted the young woman his +sole legatee; and the mother, who had a right to a fourth part, +after declaring her intention to respect her son's wishes, had simply +renounced her right to the succession. She wished, indeed, to disinherit +all her family, bequeathing to them glory only, by employing her large +fortune in the erection of this asylum, which was to carry down to +future ages the revered and glorious name of the Rougons; and after +having, for more than half a century, so eagerly striven to acquire +money, she now disdained it, moved by a higher and purer ambition. And +Clotilde, thanks to this liberality, had no uneasiness regarding the +future--the four thousand francs income would be sufficient for her and +her child. She would bring him up to be a man. She had sunk the five +thousand francs that she had found in the desk in an annuity for him; +and she owned, besides, La Souleiade, which everybody advised her +to sell. True, it cost but little to keep it up, but what a sad and +solitary life she would lead in that great deserted house, much too +large for her, where she would be lost. Thus far, however, she had not +been able to make up her mind to leave it. Perhaps she would never be +able to do so. + +Ah, this La Souleiade! all her love, all her life, all her memories were +centered in it. It seemed to her at times as if Pascal were living here +still, for she had changed nothing of their former manner of living. +The furniture remained in the same places, the hours were the same, the +habits the same. The only change she had made was to lock his room, +into which only she went, as into a sanctuary, to weep when she felt her +heart too heavy. And although indeed she felt very lonely, very lost, at +each meal in the bright dining-room downstairs, in fancy she heard there +the echoes of their laughter, she recalled the healthy appetite of her +youth; when they two had eaten and drank so gaily, rejoicing in their +existence. And the garden, too, the whole place was bound up with the +most intimate fibers of her being, for she could not take a step in it +that their united images did not appear before her--on the terrace; in +the slender shadow of the great secular cypresses, where they had so +often contemplated the valley of the Viorne, closed in by the ridges of +the Seille and the parched hills of Sainte-Marthe; the stone steps among +the puny olive and almond trees, which they had so often challenged +each other to run up in a trial of speed, like boys just let loose from +school; and there was the pine grove, too, the warm, embalsamed shade, +where the needles crackled under their feet; the vast threshing yard, +carpeted with soft grass, where they could see the whole sky at night, +when the stars were coming out; and above all there were the giant plane +trees, whose delightful shade they had enjoyed every day in summer, +listening to the soothing song of the fountain, the crystal clear song +which it had sung for centuries. Even to the old stones of the house, +even to the earth of the grounds, there was not an atom at La Souleiade +in which she did not feel a little of their blood warmly throbbing, with +which she did not feel a little of their life diffused and mingled. + +But she preferred to spend her days in the workroom, and here it was +that she lived over again her best hours. There was nothing new in it +but the cradle. The doctor's table was in its place before the window to +the left--she could fancy him coming in and sitting down at it, for his +chair had not even been moved. On the long table in the center, among +the old heap of books and papers, there was nothing new but the cheerful +note of the little baby linen, which she was looking over. The bookcases +displayed the same rows of volumes; the large oaken press seemed to +guard within its sides the same treasure, securely shut in. Under the +smoky ceiling the room was still redolent of work, with its confusion of +chairs, the pleasant disorder of this common workroom, filled with the +caprices of the girl and the researches of the scientist. But what most +moved her to-day was the sight of her old pastels hanging against the +wall, the copies which she had made of living flowers, scrupulously +exact copies, and of dream flowers of an imaginary world, whither her +wild fancy sometimes carried her. + +Clotilde had just finished arranging the little garments on the table +when, lifting her eyes, she perceived before her the pastel of old +King David, with his hand resting on the shoulder of Abishag the young +Shunammite. And she, who now never smiled, felt her face flush with a +thrill of tender and pleasing emotion. How they had loved each other, +how they had dreamed of an eternity of love the day on which she had +amused herself painting this proud and loving allegory! The old king, +sumptuously clad in a robe hanging in straight folds, heavy with +precious stones, wore the royal bandeau on his snowy locks; but she was +more sumptuous still, with only her tall slender figure, her delicate +round throat, and her supple arms, divinely graceful. Now he was gone, +he was sleeping under the ground, while she, her pure and triumphant +beauty concealed by her black robes, had only her child to express the +love she had given him before the assembled people, in the full light of +day. + +Then Clotilde sat down beside the cradle. The slender sunbeams +lengthened, crossing the room from end to end, the heat of the warm +afternoon grew oppressive in the drowsy obscurity made by the closed +shutters, and the silence of the house seemed more profound than +before. She set apart some little waists, she sewed on some tapes with +slow-moving needle, and gradually she fell into a reverie in the warm +deep peacefulness of the room, in the midst of the glowing heat outside. +Her thoughts first turned to her pastels, the exact copies and the +fantastic dream flowers; she said to herself now that all her dual +nature was to be found in that passion for truth, which had at times +kept her a whole day before a flower in order to copy it with exactness, +and in her need of the spiritual, which at other times took her outside +the real, and carried her in wild dreams to the paradise of flowers such +as had never grown on earth. She had always been thus. She felt that she +was in reality the same to-day as she had been yesterday, in the midst +of the flow of new life which ceaselessly transformed her. And then she +thought of Pascal, full of gratitude that he had made her what she was. +In days past when, a little girl, he had removed her from her execrable +surroundings and taken her home with him, he had undoubtedly followed +the impulses of his good heart, but he had also undoubtedly desired +to try an experiment with her, to see how she would grow up in the +different environment, in an atmosphere of truthfulness and affection. +This had always been an idea of his. It was an old theory of his +which he would have liked to test on a large scale: culture through +environment, complete regeneration even, the improvement, the salvation +of the individual, physically as well as morally. She owed to him +undoubtedly the best part of her nature; she guessed how fanciful and +violent she might have become, while he had made her only enthusiastic +and courageous. + +In this retrospection she was clearly conscious of the gradual change +that had taken place within her. Pascal had corrected her heredity, +and she lived over again the slow evolution, the struggle between the +fantastic and the real in her. It had begun with her outbursts of anger +as a child, a ferment of rebellion, a want of mental balance that had +caused her to indulge in most hurtful reveries. Then came her fits +of extreme devotion, the need of illusion and falsehood, of immediate +happiness in the thought that the inequalities and injustices of this +wicked world would he compensated by the eternal joys of a future +paradise. This was the epoch of her struggles with Pascal, of the +torture which she had caused him, planning to destroy the work of his +genius. And at this point her nature had changed; she had acknowledged +him for her master. He had conquered her by the terrible lesson of life +which he had given her on the night of the storm. Then, environment had +acted upon her, evolution had proceeded rapidly, and she had ended by +becoming a well-balanced and rational woman, willing to live life as it +ought to be lived, satisfied with doing her work in the hope that the +sum of the common labor would one day free the world from evil and pain. +She had loved, she was a mother now, and she understood. + +Suddenly she remembered the night which they had spent in the threshing +yard. She could still hear her lamentation under the stars--the cruelty +of nature, the inefficacy of science, the wickedness of humanity, and +the need she felt of losing herself in God, in the Unknown. Happiness +consisted in self-renunciation. Then she heard him repeat his creed--the +progress of reason through science, truths acquired slowly and forever +the only possible good, the belief that the sum of these truths, always +augmenting, would finally confer upon man incalculable power and peace, +if not happiness. All was summed up in his ardent faith in life. As he +expressed it, it was necessary to march with life, which marched always. +No halt was to be expected, no peace in immobility and renunciation, no +consolation in turning back. One must keep a steadfast soul, the only +ambition to perform one's work, modestly looking for no other reward +of life than to have lived it bravely, accomplishing the task which it +imposes. Evil was only an accident not yet explained, humanity appearing +from a great height like an immense wheel in action, working ceaselessly +for the future. Why should the workman who disappeared, having finished +his day's work, abuse the work because he could neither see nor know its +end? Even if it were to have no end why should he not enjoy the delight +of action, the exhilarating air of the march, the sweetness of sleep +after the fatigue of a long and busy day? The children would carry on +the task of the parents; they were born and cherished only for this, for +the task of life which is transmitted to them, which they in their turn +will transmit to others. All that remained, then, was to be courageously +resigned to the grand common labor, without the rebellion of the ego, +which demands personal happiness, perfect and complete. + +She questioned herself, and she found that she did not experience that +anguish which had filled her formerly at the thought of what was to +follow death. This anxiety about the Beyond no longer haunted her until +it became a torture. Formerly she would have liked to wrest by force +from heaven the secrets of destiny. It had been a source of infinite +grief to her not to know why she existed. Why are we born? What do we +come on earth to do? What is the meaning of this execrable existence, +without equality, without justice, which seemed to her like a fevered +dream? Now her terror was calmed; she could think of these things +courageously. Perhaps it was her child, the continuation of herself, +which now concealed from her the horror of her end. But her regular life +contributed also to this, the thought that it was necessary to live for +the effort of living, and that the only peace possible in this world was +in the joy of the accomplishment of this effort. She repeated to herself +a remark of the doctor, who would often say when he saw a peasant +returning home with a contented look after his day's work: "There is a +man whom anxiety about the Beyond will not prevent from sleeping." He +meant to say that this anxiety troubles and perverts only excitable +and idle brains. If all performed their healthful task, all would sleep +peacefully at night. She herself had felt the beneficent power of work +in the midst of her sufferings and her grief. Since he had taught her to +employ every one of her hours; since she had been a mother, especially, +occupied constantly with her child, she no longer felt a chill of +horror when she thought of the Unknown. She put aside without an effort +disquieting reveries; and if she still felt an occasional fear, if +some of her daily griefs made her sick at heart, she found comfort and +unfailing strength in the thought that her child was this day a day +older, that he would be another day older on the morrow, that day +by day, page by page, his work of life was being accomplished. This +consoled her delightfully for all her miseries. She had a duty, an +object, and she felt in her happy serenity that she was doing surely +what she had been sent here to do. + +Yet, even at this very moment she knew that the mystic was not entirely +dead within her. In the midst of the profound silence she heard a slight +noise, and she raised her head. Who was the divine mediator that +had passed? Perhaps the beloved dead for whom she mourned, and whose +presence near her she fancied she could divine. There must always be +in her something of the childlike believer she had always been, curious +about the Unknown, having an instinctive longing for the mysterious. +She accounted to herself for this longing, she even explained it +scientifically. However far science may extend the limits of human +knowledge, there is undoubtedly a point which it cannot pass; and it +was here precisely that Pascal placed the only interest in life--in +the effort which we ceaselessly make to know more--there was only one +reasonable meaning in life, this continual conquest of the unknown. +Therefore, she admitted the existence of undiscovered forces surrounding +the world, an immense and obscure domain, ten times larger than the +domain already won, an infinite and unexplored realm through which +future humanity would endlessly ascend. Here, indeed, was a field vast +enough for the imagination to lose itself in. In her hours of reverie +she satisfied in it the imperious need which man seems to have for the +spiritual, a need of escaping from the visible world, of interrogating +the Unknown, of satisfying in it the dream of absolute justice and of +future happiness. All that remained of her former torture, her last +mystic transports, were there appeased. She satisfied there that hunger +for consoling illusions which suffering humanity must satisfy in order +to live. But in her all was happily balanced. At this crisis, in an +epoch overburdened with science, disquieted at the ruins it has made, +and seized with fright in the face of the new century, wildly desiring +to stop and to return to the past, Clotilde kept the happy mean; in her +the passion for truth was broadened by her eagerness to penetrate the +Unknown. If sectarian scientists shut out the horizon to keep strictly +to the phenomenon, it was permitted to her, a good, simple creature, to +reserve the part that she did not know, that she would never know. And +if Pascal's creed was the logical deduction from the whole work, the +eternal question of the Beyond, which she still continued to put to +heaven, reopened the door of the infinite to humanity marching ever +onward. Since we must always learn, while resigning ourselves never +to know all, was it not to will action, life itself, to reserve the +Unknown--an eternal doubt and an eternal hope? + +Another sound, as of a wing passing, the light touch of a kiss upon her +hair, this time made her smile. He was surely here; and her whole being +went out toward him, in the great flood of tenderness with which her +heart overflowed. How kind and cheerful he was, and what a love for +others underlay his passionate love of life! Perhaps he, too, had been +only a dreamer, for he had dreamed the most beautiful of dreams, the +final belief in a better world, when science should have bestowed +incalculable power upon man--to accept everything, to turn everything +to our happiness, to know everything and to foresee everything, to +make nature our servant, to live in the tranquillity of intelligence +satisfied. Meantime faith in life, voluntary and regular labor, would +suffice for health. Evil was only the unexplained side of things; +suffering would one day be assuredly utilized. And regarding from above +the enormous labor of the world, seeing the sum total of humanity, good +and bad--admirable, in spite of everything, for their courage and +their industry--she now regarded all mankind as united in a common +brotherhood, she now felt only boundless indulgence, an infinite +pity, and an ardent charity. Love, like the sun, bathes the earth, and +goodness is the great river at which all hearts drink. + +Clotilde had been plying her needle for two hours, with the same regular +movement, while her thoughts wandered away in the profound silence. But +the tapes were sewed on the little waists, she had even marked some new +wrappers, which she had bought the day before. And, her sewing finished, +she rose to put the linen away. Outside the sun was declining, and +only slender and oblique sunbeams entered through the crevices of the +shutters. She could not see clearly, and she opened one of the shutters, +then she forgot herself for a moment, at the sight of the vast horizon +suddenly unrolled before her. The intense heat had abated, a delicious +breeze was blowing, and the sky was of a cloudless blue. To the left +could be distinguished even the smallest clumps of pines, among the +blood-colored ravines of the rocks of the Seille, while to the right, +beyond the hills of Sainte-Marthe, the valley of the Viorne stretched +away in the golden dust of the setting sun. She looked for a moment at +the tower of St. Saturnin, all golden also, dominating the rose-colored +town; and she was about to leave the window when she saw a sight that +drew her back and kept her there, leaning on her elbow for a long time +still. + +Beyond the railroad a multitude of people were crowded together on the +old mall. Clotilde at once remembered the ceremony. She knew that her +Grandmother Felicite was going to lay the first stone of the Rougon +Asylum, the triumphant monument destined to carry down to future ages +the glory of the family. Vast preparations had been going on for a week +past. There was talk of a silver hod and trowel, which the old lady was +to use herself, determined to figure to triumph, with her eighty-two +years. What swelled her heart with regal pride was that on this occasion +she made the conquest of Plassans for the third time, for she compelled +the whole town, all the three quarters, to range themselves around her, +to form an escort for her, and to applaud her as a benefactress. For, of +course, there had to be present lady patronesses, chosen from among the +noblest ladies of the Quartier St. Marc; a delegation from the +societies of working-women of the old quarter, and, finally, the +most distinguished residents of the new town, advocates, notaries, +physicians, without counting the common people, a stream of people +dressed in their Sunday clothes, crowding there eagerly, as to a +festival. And in the midst of this supreme triumph she was perhaps +most proud--she, one of the queens of the Second Empire, the widow who +mourned with so much dignity the fallen government--in having +conquered the young republic itself, obliging it, in the person of the +sub-prefect, to come and salute her and thank her. At first there had +been question only of a discourse of the mayor; but it was known with +certainty, since the previous day, that the sub-prefect also would +speak. From so great a distance Clotilde could distinguish only a moving +crowd of black coats and light dresses, under the scorching sun. Then +there was a distant sound of music, the music of the amateur band of the +town, the sonorous strains of whose brass instruments were borne to her +at intervals on the breeze. + +She left the window and went and opened the large oaken press to put +away in it the linen that had remained on the table. It was in this +press, formerly so full of the doctor's manuscripts, and now empty, +that she kept the baby's wardrobe. It yawned open, vast, seemingly +bottomless, and on the large bare shelves there was nothing but the baby +linen, the little waists, the little caps, the little socks, all the +fine clothing, the down of the bird still in the nest. Where so many +thoughts had been stored up, where a man's unremitting labor for thirty +years had accumulated in an overflowing heap of papers, there was now +only a baby's clothing, only the first garments which would protect it +for an hour, as it were, and which very soon it could no longer use. +The vastness of the antique press seemed brightened and all refreshed by +them. + +When Clotilde had arranged the wrappers and the waists upon a shelf, +she perceived a large envelope containing the fragments of the documents +which she had placed there after she had rescued them from the fire. And +she remembered a request which Dr. Ramond had come only the day before +to make her--that she would see if there remained among this _debris_ +any fragment of importance having a scientific interest. He was +inconsolable for the loss of the precious manuscripts which the master +had bequeathed to him. Immediately after the doctor's death he had made +an attempt to write from memory his last talk, that summary of vast +theories expounded by the dying man with so heroic a serenity; but he +could recall only parts of it. He would have needed complete notes, +observations made from day to day, the results obtained, and the laws +formulated. The loss was irreparable, the task was to be begun over +again, and he lamented having only indications; he said that it would be +at least twenty years before science could make up the loss, and take up +and utilize the ideas of the solitary pioneer whose labors a wicked and +imbecile catastrophe had destroyed. + +The genealogical tree, the only document that had remained intact, was +attached to the envelope, and Clotilde carried the whole to the table +beside the cradle. After she had taken out the fragments, one by one, +she found, what she had been already almost certain of, that not a +single entire page of manuscript remained, not a single complete note +having any meaning. There were only fragments of documents, scraps of +half-burned and blackened paper, without sequence or connection. But as +she examined them, these incomplete phrases, these words half consumed +by fire, assumed for her an interest which no one else could have +understood. She remembered the night of the storm, and the phrases +completed themselves, the beginning of a word evoked before her persons +and histories. Thus her eye fell on Maxime's name, and she reviewed +the life of this brother who had remained a stranger to her, and whose +death, two months before, had left her almost indifferent. Then, a +half-burned scrap containing her father's name gave her an uneasy +feeling, for she believed that her father had obtained possession of the +fortune and the house on the avenue of Bois de Boulogne through the good +offices of his hairdresser's niece, the innocent Rose, repaid, no doubt, +by a generous percentage. Then she met with other names, that of +her uncle Eugene, the former vice emperor, now dead, the cure +of Saint-Eutrope, who, she had been told yesterday, was dying of +consumption. And each fragment became animated in this way; the +execrable family lived again in these scraps, these black ashes, where +were now only disconnected words. + +Then Clotilde had the curiosity to unfold the genealogical tree and +spread it out upon the table. A strong emotion gained on her; she was +deeply affected by these relics; and when she read once more the notes +added in pencil by Pascal, a few moments before his death, tears rose to +her eyes. With what courage he had written down the date of his death! +And what despairing regret for life one divined in the trembling words +announcing the birth of the child! The tree ascended, spread out +its branches, unfolded its leaves, and she remained for a long time +contemplating it, saying to herself that all the work of the master +was to be found here in the classified records of this family tree. +She could still hear certain of his words commenting on each hereditary +case, she recalled his lessons. But the children, above all, interested +her; she read again and again the notes on the leaves which bore their +names. The doctor's colleague in Noumea, to whom he had written for +information about the child born of the marriage of the convict Etienne, +had at last made up his mind to answer; but the only information he gave +was in regard to the sex--it was a girl, he said, and she seemed to be +healthy. Octave Mouret had come near losing his daughter, who had always +been very frail, while his little boy continued to enjoy superb health. +But the chosen abode of vigorous health and of extraordinary fecundity +was still the house of Jean, at Valqueyras, whose wife had had two +children in three years and was about to have a third. The nestlings +throve in the sunshine, in the heart of a fertile country, while the +father sang as he guided his plow, and the mother at home cleverly made +the soup and kept the children in order. There was enough new vitality +and industry there to make another family, a whole race. Clotilde +fancied at this moment that she could hear Pascal's cry: "Ah, our +family! what is it going to be, in what kind of being will it end?" And +she fell again into a reverie, looking at the tree sending its latest +branches into the future. Who could tell whence the healthy branch would +spring? Perhaps the great and good man so long awaited was germinating +there. + +A slight cry drew Clotilde from her reflections. The muslin curtain of +the cradle seemed to become animate. It was the child who had wakened up +and was moving about and calling to her. She at once took him out of the +cradle and held him up gaily, that he might bathe in the golden light of +the setting sun. But he was insensible to the beauty of the closing day; +his little vacant eyes, still full of sleep, turned away from the vast +sky, while he opened wide his rosy and ever hungry mouth, like a bird +opening its beak. And he cried so loud, he had wakened up so ravenous, +that she decided to nurse him again. Besides, it was his hour; it would +soon be three hours since she had last nursed him. + +Clotilde sat down again beside the table. She took him on her lap, but +he was not very good, crying louder and louder, growing more and more +impatient; and she looked at him with a smile while she unfastened her +dress, showing her round, slender throat. Already the child knew, and +raising himself he felt with his lips for the breast. When she placed +it in his mouth he gave a little grunt of satisfaction; he threw himself +upon her with the fine, voracious appetite of a young gentleman who was +determined to live. At first he had clutched the breast with his little +free hand, as if to show that it was his, to defend it and to guard it. +Then, in the joy of the warm stream that filled his throat he raised his +little arm straight up, like a flag. And Clotilde kept her unconscious +smile, seeing him so healthy, so rosy, and so plump, thriving so well +on the nourishment he drew from her. During the first few weeks she had +suffered from a fissure, and even now her breast was sensitive; but she +smiled, notwithstanding, with that peaceful look which mothers wear, +happy in giving their milk as they would give their blood. + +When she had unfastened her dress, showing her bare throat and breast, +in the solitude and silence of the study, another of her mysteries, +one of her sweetest and most hidden secrets, was revealed at the same +time--the slender necklace with the seven pearls, the seven fine, milky +stars which the master had put around her neck on a day of misery, in +his mania for giving. Since it had been there no one else had seen it. +It seemed as if she guarded it with as much modesty as if it were a part +of her flesh, so simple, so pure, so childlike. And all the time the +child was nursing she alone looked at it in a dreamy reverie, moved by +the tender memory of the kisses whose warm perfume it still seemed to +keep. + +A burst of distant music seemed to surprise Clotilde. She turned her +head and looked across the fields gilded by the oblique rays of the sun. +Ah, yes! the ceremony, the laying of the corner stone yonder! Then +she turned her eyes again on the child, and she gave herself up to the +delight of seeing him with so fine an appetite. She had drawn forward a +little bench, to raise one of her knees, resting her foot upon it, +and she leaned one shoulder against the table, beside the tree and the +blackened fragments of the envelopes. Her thoughts wandered away in an +infinitely sweet reverie, while she felt the best part of herself, the +pure milk, flowing softly, making more and more her own the dear being +she had borne. The child had come, the redeemer, perhaps. The bells +rang, the three wise men had set out, followed by the people, by +rejoicing nature, smiling on the infant in its swaddling clothes. She, +the mother, while he drank life in long draughts, was dreaming already +of his future. What would he be when she should have made him tall and +strong, giving herself to him entirely? A scientist, perhaps, who would +reveal to the world something of the eternal truth; or a great captain, +who would confer glory on his country; or, still better, one of those +shepherds of the people who appease the passions and bring about the +reign of justice. She saw him, in fancy, beautiful, good and powerful. +Hers was the dream of every mother--the conviction that she had brought +the expected Messiah into the world; and there was in this hope, in this +obstinate belief, which every mother has in the certain triumph of her +child, the hope which itself makes life, the belief which gives humanity +the ever renewed strength to live still. + +What would the child be? She looked at him, trying to discover whom +he resembled. He had certainly his father's brow and eyes, there +was something noble and strong in the breadth of the head. She saw a +resemblance to herself, too, in his fine mouth and his delicate chin. +Then, with secret uneasiness, she sought a resemblance to the others, +the terrible ancestors, all those whose names were there inscribed on +the tree, unfolding its growth of hereditary leaves. Was it this one, or +this, or yet this other, whom he would resemble? She grew calm, however, +she could not but hope, her heart swelled with eternal hope. The +faith in life which the master had implanted in her kept her brave and +steadfast. What did misery, suffering and wickedness matter! Health was +in universal labor, in the effort made, in the power which fecundates +and which produces. The work was good when the child blessed love. Then +hope bloomed anew, in spite of the open wounds, the dark picture of +human shame. It was life perpetuated, tried anew, life which we can +never weary of believing good, since we live it so eagerly, with all its +injustice and suffering. + +Clotilde had glanced involuntarily at the ancestral tree spread out +beside her. Yes, the menace was there--so many crimes, so much filth, +side by side with so many tears, and so much patient goodness; so +extraordinary a mixture of the best and the most vile, a humanity in +little, with all its defects and all its struggles. It was a question +whether it would not be better that a thunderbolt should come and +destroy all this corrupt and miserable ant-hill. And after so many +terrible Rougons, so many vile Macquarts, still another had been born. +Life did not fear to create another of them, in the brave defiance of +its eternity. It continued its work, propagated itself according to its +laws, indifferent to theories, marching on in its endless labor. Even +at the risk of making monsters, it must of necessity create, since, in +spite of all it creates, it never wearies of creating in the hope, no +doubt, that the healthy and the good will one day come. Life, life, +which flows like a torrent, which continues its work, beginning it over +and over again, without pause, to the unknown end! life in which we +bathe, life with its infinity of contrary currents, always in motion, +and vast as a boundless sea! + +A transport of maternal fervor thrilled Clotilde's heart, and she +smiled, seeing the little voracious mouth drinking her life. It was a +prayer, an invocation, to the unknown child, as to the unknown God! To +the child of the future, to the genius, perhaps, that was to be, to the +Messiah that the coming century awaited, who would deliver the people +from their doubt and their suffering! Since the nation was to be +regenerated, had he not come for this work? He would make the experiment +anew, he would raise up walls, give certainty to those who were in +doubt, he would build the city of justice, where the sole law of +labor would insure happiness. In troublous times prophets were to be +expected--at least let him not be the Antichrist, the destroyer, the +beast foretold in the Apocalypse--who would purge the earth of its +wickedness, when this should become too great. And life would go on +in spite of everything, only it would be necessary to wait for other +myriads of years before the other unknown child, the benefactor, should +appear. + +But the child had drained her right breast, and, as he was growing +angry, Clotilde turned him round and gave him the left. Then she began +to smile, feeling the caress of his greedy little lips. At all events +she herself was hope. A mother nursing, was she not the image of the +world continued and saved? She bent over, she looked into his limpid +eyes, which opened joyously, eager for the light. What did the child say +to her that she felt her heart beat more quickly under the breast which +he was draining? To what cause would he give his blood when he should +be a man, strong with all the milk which he would have drunk? Perhaps he +said nothing to her, perhaps he already deceived her, and yet she was so +happy, so full of perfect confidence in him. + +Again there was a distant burst of music. This must be the apotheosis, +the moment when Grandmother Felicite, with her silver trowel, laid the +first stone of the monument to the glory of the Rougons. The vast blue +sky, gladdened by the Sunday festivities, rejoiced. And in the warm +silence, in the solitary peace of the workroom, Clotilde smiled at the +child, who was still nursing, his little arm held straight up in the +air, like a signal flag of life. + + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Doctor Pascal, by Emile Zola + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOCTOR PASCAL *** + +***** This file should be named 10720.txt or 10720.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/7/2/10720/ + +Produced by David Widger, Dagny, and John Bickers + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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