Pot Luck Read online

  ‘My work will never be finished; that’s what’s killing me,’ he murmured.

  ‘I suppose you take a great interest in art, don’t you?’ said Monsieur Josserand, trying to flatter him.

  The old man stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘Oh, no! There’s no need for me to see the pictures, it’s just a matter of statistics. Well, well! I’d better get to bed, so that my head will be clearer in the morning. Goodnight, sir.’

  He leant on a stick, which he used even indoors, and hobbled off, evidently suffering from partial paralysis of the spine. Monsieur Josserand was perplexed; he felt he hadn’t quite grasped what the old man had said, and was afraid that he had not reacted with sufficient enthusiasm to the mention of catalogue-slips.

  Just then there was a faint murmur in the drawing-room, which brought Trublot and Octave back to the door. They saw a lady of about fifty coming in. She was powerfully built, still good-looking, and accompanied by a serious, carefully dressed young man.

  ‘What! They’ve come together!’ murmured Trublot. ‘Well I never!’

  The newcomers were Madame Dambreville and Léon Josserand. She had agreed to find him a wife, but in the meantime had kept him for her own personal use, and now, with their romance in full swing, they advertised their affair in every bourgeois drawing-room. There was much whispering among mothers with marriageable daughters. Madame Duveyrier, however, hastened to welcome Madame Dambreville, who was useful in finding her young men to sing in her choruses. Then Madame Josserand, in turn, showered her with polite conversation, thinking that some day she might make use of her son’s friend. Léon drily exchanged a few words with his mother, who was beginning to believe that he might be able to do something for himself, after all.

  ‘Berthe hasn’t noticed you,’ she said to Madame Dambreville. ‘She’s just telling Monsieur Auguste about a cure for his headaches.’

  ‘But of course. They really shouldn’t be disturbed,’ said Madame Dambreville, understanding at a glance.

  With maternal solicitude, they both watched Berthe. She had contrived to push Auguste into the window-recess, and had hemmed him in there with her pretty gestures. He was becoming quite animated and running the risk of a migraine.

  Meanwhile, in the parlour, several of the men were gravely talking politics. The day before there had been a stormy sitting of the Senate, when the Roman question had come up for debate. Doctor Juillerat, an atheist and a revolutionary, was in favour of giving Rome up to the King of Italy, while Father Mauduit, one of the heads of the Ultramontane party, prophesied the direst catastrophes if France did not shed the last drop of her blood in support of the temporal power of the Pope.*

  ‘Perhaps some modus vivendi acceptable to both parties can be found,’ said Léon Josserand, who had joined the group.

  He was acting then as secretary to a famous barrister, one of the deputies of the Left. For the last two years, expecting nothing from his parents, whose mediocrity exasperated him, he had posed in the Latin Quarter as a red-hot Radical. But since he had got to know the Dambrevilles his radicalism had become blunted, he had grown calmer and was gradually becoming a doctrinaire Republican.

  ‘No,’ said the priest, ‘no agreement is possible. The Church can’t compromise.’

  ‘Then it will disappear,’ cried the doctor.

  Though great friends, having met at the bedsides of all those who had died in the Saint-Roch district, they now seemed irreconcilable—the doctor thin and nervous, the priest portly and affable. The latter smiled politely even when making the most absolute statements, like a man of the world who tolerates the ills of life, but also like a good Catholic who has no intention of abandoning his beliefs.

  ‘The Church disappear? Nonsense!’ said Campardon, with a show of anger, for he wanted to ingratiate himself with the priest from whom he expected to get work.

  Moreover, all those present shared his opinion: the Church could never disappear. Théophile Vabre, as he coughed and spat and shivered, dreamed of universal happiness achieved by the formation of a humanitarian republic, and was the only one to say that the Church would have to change.

  Then, in his gentle voice, the priest continued:

  ‘The Empire is committing suicide. Wait and see what happens next year, at the elections.’

  ‘Oh! As far as the Empire’s concerned, you can get rid of that,’ said the doctor, bluntly. ‘You’d be doing us a great favour.’

  Whereupon Duveyrier, who appeared to be profoundly interested in the discussion, shook his head. He belonged to an Orleanist* family; but he owed everything to the Empire and thought himself bound to defend it.

  ‘Believe me,’ he said at last, severely, ‘it won’t do to shake the foundations of society, or everything will collapse. We’re the ones who suffer from every disaster.’

  ‘That’s very true,’ remarked Monsieur Josserand, who had no opinion of his own, but remembered his wife’s instructions.

  Then everybody spoke at once. None of them was in favour of the Empire. Doctor Juillerat condemned the Mexican Expedition,* Father Mauduit spoke against the recognition of the Kingdom of Italy. Yet Théophile Vabre, and even Léon, felt anxious when Duveyrier threatened them with another ’93. What was the use of these perpetual revolutions? Hadn’t liberty been achieved? Hatred of new ideas, fear of the people claiming their share, tempered the liberalism of these self-satisfied bourgeois. However, they all declared that they would vote against the Emperor. He had to be taught a lesson.

  ‘Oh, dear! How boring they are,’ said Trublot, who had been trying to understand for some minutes past.

  Octave persuaded him to return to the ladies. In the window recess Berthe was deafening Auguste with her laughter. The big, sickly fellow was forgetting his fear of women, and had become quite flushed before the attacks of his bewitching companion, whose warm breath touched his face. Madame Josserand, however, appeared to feel that the campaign was flagging, for she looked meaningfully at Hortense who, obedient to the signal, went to her sister’s aid.

  ‘I hope you’ve fully recovered, madam,’ Octave ventured to say to Valérie.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she coolly replied, as if she remembered nothing.

  Madame Juzeur asked the young man about some old lace she wanted to show him and get his opinion on, and he had to promise to drop in on her the next day. Then, as Father Mauduit came back to the drawing-room, she called him and made him sit beside her, as she assumed an air of rapture.

  The conversation continued. The ladies were discussing their servants.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Madame Duveyrier, ‘I’m quite satisfied with Clémence; she’s a very clean, active girl.’

  ‘And Hippolyte?’ asked Madame Josserand. ‘Weren’t you thinking of dismissing him?’

  Just then Hippolyte, the manservant, was handing round ices. He was tall and strong, with a ruddy complexion, and when he had withdrawn Clotilde replied, with some embarrassment:

  ‘We’ve decided to keep him; changing is so difficult. Servants get used to each other, you see, and I couldn’t part with Clémence.’

  Madame Josserand was quick to agree, feeling they were on delicate ground. They hoped to arrange a marriage between them some day; and Father Mauduit, whom the Duveyriers had consulted about the matter, gently shook his head, as if to hide a scandal which everyone in the house knew about, but which no one ever mentioned. However, the ladies unburdened themselves in other ways. That very morning Valérie had sent away another maid—the third within a week; Madame Juzeur had decided to get a little girl of fifteen from the Foundling Hospital and train her herself; as for Madame Josserand, she never tired of abusing Adèle, whom she called a slut and a good-for-nothing, and whose terrible habits she described at length. Sitting languidly amid the glare of the candles and the perfume of the flowers, they wallowed in all this below-stairs gossip, as they eagerly discussed badly kept accounts, a coachman’s insolence, or the surliness of a parlourmaid.

  ‘Hav
e you seen Julie?’ Trublot suddenly asked Octave, in a mysterious voice.

  As Octave looked at him in amazement, he added:

  ‘My dear fellow, she’s stunning. Go and have a look at her. Just pretend you want to leave the room for a moment and slip into the kitchen. She’s simply stunning.’

  He was talking about the Duveyriers’ cook. Meanwhile, the ladies’ conversation had taken another turn. Madame Josserand, in the most gushing manner, was praising the very modest estate the Duveyriers owned near Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, and which she had noticed once from the train when going to Fontainebleau. But Clotilde did not like the country; she lived there as little as possible, only during the holidays of her son Gustave, who was in the top class at the Lycée Bonaparte.

  ‘Caroline is quite right not to want any children,’ she declared, turning to Madame Hédouin, who was sitting two chairs away. ‘They interfere so much with all one’s habits.’

  Madame Hédouin said she liked children very much. But she was far too busy for babies; her husband was constantly travelling, and she had the business to look after.

  Octave, standing behind her, noticed the little black curls on the nape of her neck and the snowy whiteness of her bosom, which disappeared in a mass of delicate lace on her low-cut dress. She began to disconcert him as she sat there so calmly, saying little, and with her beautiful smile. He had never met anyone so fascinating, not even in Marseilles. It was certainly worth trying for, even if it took a long time.

  ‘Having children spoils a woman’s looks,’ he whispered in her ear, anxious to say something to her yet not knowing what other remark to make.

  She slowly raised her large eyes and said simply, just as if she were giving him an order at the shop:

  ‘Oh, no! Monsieur Octave, with me that’s not the reason. I need the time, that’s all.’

  Madame Duveyrier interrupted them. She had merely greeted Octave with a slight nod when Campardon had introduced him to her. Now she watched him and listened to his conversation with sudden, undisguised interest. As she heard him talking to her friend, she could not resist enquiring:

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but—what sort of voice do you have?’

  At first he hardly understood what she meant, but ended by saying that he had a tenor voice. Clotilde became quite enthusiastic. A tenor voice—really! What a piece of luck—tenor voices were becoming so rare! For the ‘Benediction of the Poniards’,* which they were going to sing directly, she had never been able to find more than three tenors among all her acquaintances, though at least five were needed. And, her eyes sparkling with sudden excitement, she could hardly refrain from going straight to the piano to try his voice. He had to promise to call in on her one evening and let her do so. Trublot kept nudging him from behind, enjoying himself enormously in his impassive way.

  ‘So you’re in for it too, are you?’ he murmured, when she had moved away. ‘She thought I was a baritone at first. Then, when that didn’t do, she tried me as a tenor, which was worse still. So she’s decided to use me tonight as a bass. I’m one of the monks.’

  Just then he was called away by Madame Duveyrier. They were going to sing the chorus from the Huguenots, the great event of the evening. There was a great commotion as fifteen men, all amateurs recruited from among the guests, tried to squeeze past the ladies and reach their positions near the piano. They kept stopping and begging to be excused, their voices drowned by the buzz of conversation, while fans moved more rapidly as the heat increased. Madame Duveyrier counted them at last: they were all there, and she began to distribute the parts which she herself had copied out. Campardon took the role of Saint-Bris; a young auditor employed by the Council of State had been entrusted with De Nevers’ few bars; and there were eight nobles, four provosts, and three monks, represented by barristers, clerks, and simple householders. Madame Duveyrier accompanied, having, moreover, reserved the part of Valentina for herself, uttering passionate shrieks as she struck crashing chords. She was resolved to have no lady among all the gentlemen, whom, in a resigned troop, she led with all the rigour of an orchestra conductor.

  Meanwhile the talking went on, the noise in the parlour, where obviously the political discussion had grown more heated, becoming quite intolerable. So, taking a key from her pocket, Clotilde tapped gently on the piano with it. There was a murmur throughout the room, a hush of voices, two streams of black evening coats again surged towards the doors, and above the rows of heads for an instant Duveyrier’s blotchy face was seen, wearing a look of anguish. Octave had remained standing behind Madame Hédouin, looking down at the shadows around her bosom swathed in lace. But just as silence had been established there was a burst of laughter, and he looked up. It was Berthe, amused by a joke of Auguste’s. She had heated up his poor blood to such a pitch that he was becoming quite rakish. Everyone looked at them; mothers became grave, and relatives exchanged meaningful glances.

  ‘She’s so highly strung!’ murmured Madame Josserand fondly, loud enough to be heard.

  Hortense, with a complacent air of self-sacrifice, stood close to her sister in order to help, echoing her laughter and pushing her up against the young man, while a breeze from the open window behind them gently stirred the large red-silk curtains.

  Suddenly a sepulchral voice was heard, and all heads turned towards the piano. With mouth agape and beard waving in a gust of lyrical fervour, Campardon declaimed the opening stave:

  Aye, by the Queen’s command we are gathered here.

  Clotilde immediately ran up the scale and down again; then, with her eyes fixed on the ceiling, and a look of terror on her face, she screamed:

  I tremble!

  And then the whole thing began, as the eight lawyers, householders, and clerks, their noses glued to the score and looking like schoolboys mumbling a page of Greek, swore that, one and all, they were ready to deliver France. This beginning created some surprise, as the voices were deadened by the low ceiling, so that one could only hear a rumbling like the noise of carts full of pavingstones, which make the window-panes rattle as they pass. But when Saint-Bris’s melodious phrase, ‘For this cause so holy,’ developed the leading theme, some of the ladies recognized it and nodded to show how clever they were. They were warming to the work, and the nobles shouted out at random:

  We swear! We will follow you!

  Every time it was like an explosion, a blow that struck each guest full in the face.

  ‘They’re singing too loud,’ murmured Octave in Madame Hédouin’s ear.

  She did not move. Then, bored by the vocal explanations of De Nevers and Valentina, the more so because the auditor attached to the Council of State was not a baritone at all, he made signs to Trublot, who was waiting for the monks’ entrance, and winked significantly at the window-recess, where Berthe still kept Auguste imprisoned. The two were now alone, breathing in the cool outdoor air, while Hortense was keeping a lookout, leaning against the curtain and mechanically twisting its loop. No one was looking at them now; even Madame Josserand and Madame Dambreville had given up watching them, after exchanging significant glances.

  Meanwhile, with her fingers on the keys, Clotilde, who in her excitement dared not gesticulate, could only stretch out her neck as she addressed to the music-stand the following vow, intended for De Nevers:

  Ah, from this day forth my blood shall all be yours!

  The aldermen had now entered, as well as a substitute, two solicitors, and a notary. The quartet was doing its utmost with the phrase, ‘For this cause so holy,’ which was repeated in broader style, half the chorus taking it up as the whole theme gradually expanded. Campardon, whose mouth grew ever wider, gave the order to attack with a tremendous volley of syllables. Then all at once the monks’ chant broke forth; Trublot’s psalm-singing came from his stomach, so as to get at the low notes.

  Octave, who had watched him singing with some curiosity, was greatly surprised when he looked once more at the curtained window. As if carried away by the singing, Hortense ha
d unhooked the loop by a movement which might have been unintentional, and the curtain had completely hidden Auguste and Berthe. They were there behind it, leaning against the window-bar; not a single movement betrayed their presence. Octave had lost all interest in Trublot, who just then was blessing the poniards:

  Ye holy poniards, now by us be blessed.

  What could they be doing behind that curtain? The fugue was beginning as, to the monks’ deep tones, the chorus replied: ‘Death! death! death!’ And still the couple behind the curtain did not move. Perhaps, overcome by the heat, they were simply looking out at the passing cabs. Saint-Bris’s melodious phrase again came back; all the singers gradually uttered it at the top of their voices, progressively, in a final outburst of amazing force. It was like a sudden gust of wind that swept through the narrow room, making the candles flare and the guests grow pale as the blood rushed to their ears. Clotilde furiously thumped the piano, galvanizing the chorus by her very glance; then the voices sank to a whisper:

  At midnight, not a sound!

  Then she went on by herself, using the soft pedal as she imitated the regular footfall of the patrol dying away in the distance.

  All at once, as the music slowly expired, providing a pleasant lull after the storm, a voice was heard to exclaim:

  ‘Don’t! You’re hurting me!’

  Everyone looked round again towards the window. Madame Dambreville, anxious to make herself useful, was kind enough to pull the curtain aside. And the whole room beheld Auguste looking very confused, and Berthe very red, still leaning against the window-bar.

  ‘What is it, my precious?’ asked Madame Josserand earnestly.