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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 *** |