Pot Luck Page 29

  And to avoid being seen any longer in such company he went into the church, where Father Mauduit’s harsh voice could be heard in counterpoint to the lamentations of the choir.

  ‘He virtually lives there now,’ muttered the doctor, shrugging his shoulders. ‘We ought to get rid of all that nonsense!’

  He felt most strongly about the Roman question.* Then, as Léon reminded them that the Cabinet Minister had told the Senate that the Empire had sprung from the Revolution precisely in order to keep the forces of revolution in check, they again began to talk about the coming elections. All agreed that it was necessary to teach the Emperor a lesson; but they were beginning to feel anxious—divided in their opinions about the various candidates, whose very names conjured up nightmarish visions of the Terror. Close by, Monsieur Gourd, as neatly dressed as a diplomat, listened with utter contempt to what they were saying. He believed in the powers that be—pure and simple.

  The service was drawing to a close. A long melancholy wail from the depths of the church silenced them.

  ‘Requiescat in pace.’

  ‘Amen!’

  At the Père Lachaise Cemetery, as the coffin was being lowered into the grave, Trublot, still arm-in-arm with Octave, saw him exchange another smile with Madame Juzeur.

  ‘Ah, yes!’ he murmured; ‘the little woman who’s terribly unhappy. “Anything-you-like-except-that!”’

  Octave started. What? Had Trublot tried it on too? Then, with a gesture of disdain, the latter explained that he had not, but a friend of his had. And lots of others, who went in for that sort of thing.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he added; ‘now that the old boy’s been stowed away I must go and tell Duveyrier about a job I had to do for him.’

  The relatives, silent and doleful, were now departing. Then Trublot, detaining Duveyrier, told him that he had seen Clarisse’s maid but could not find out the address, as the maid had left the day before Clarisse moved out after a terrible row. Thus the last ray of hope vanished, and Duveyrier, burying his face in his handkerchief, rejoined the other mourners.

  That evening quarrelling began. The family had made a disastrous discovery. With that sceptical carelessness that notaries sometimes display, Monsieur Vabre had left no will. Cupboards and drawers were searched in vain, the worst of it being that not a sou of the hoped-for six or seven hundred thousand francs was to be found, neither in the shape of money, title-deeds, nor shares. All that they found was the sum of seven hundred and thirty-four francs, in tensou pieces—the hidden store of a senile old man. Moreover, there were undeniable traces—a notebook filled with figures, letters from stockbrokers—which revealed to his relatives, livid with rage, the old man’s secret vice, an ungovernable passion for gambling, an inept, mad craving for stock-jobbing, which he hid behind his innocent mania for compiling his masterpiece of statistical research. Everything had been sacrified: his Versailles savings, his house-rents, even the money squeezed out of his children. In recent years he had even mortgaged the house for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, at three different periods. The family, dumbfounded, stood before the fabulous safe in which they believed the fortune was locked up. All that it contained, however, was a lot of odds and ends—scraps picked up about the house, bits of old iron and glass, tags of ribbon, and broken toys stolen long ago when Gustave was a baby.

  Violent recriminations broke out. They called the old man a swindler; it was scandalous to fritter away his money in this way, like a sly rogue who does not care a damn for anybody and who acts out his infamous comedy so as to get people to pet and coddle him. The Duveyriers were inconsolable at having boarded him for twelve years without once asking him for the eighty thousand francs of Clotilde’s dowry, of which they had only received ten thousand. But it was still ten thousand francs, Théophile angrily remarked. He had not yet had a sou of the fifty thousand francs promised at the time of his marriage. Auguste, however, complained more bitterly, reproaching his brother with having at least been able to pocket the interest on that sum for three months, whereas he would never see a centime of the fifty thousand francs specified in his contract. Then Berthe, egged on by her mother, made a number of unpleasant remarks, and appeared to be highly indignant at having become connected with a dishonest family, while Valérie, bemoaning the rent she had continued paying for so long through fear of being disinherited, could not accept the discovery at all, regretting the money as though it had been used for immoral purposes to promote debauchery.

  For a whole fortnight these matters were excitedly discussed by the whole house. Finally it became clear that all that remained was the building, valued at three hundred thousand francs. When the mortgage had been paid off, there would be about half that sum to divide between Monsieur Vabre’s three children. Fifty thousand francs apiece: a meagre consolation, but one with which they would have to be content. Théophile and Auguste had already decided what to do with their shares. It was agreed that the building should be sold. Duveyrier took charge, in his wife’s name, of all arrangements. First of all he persuaded the two brothers not to have a public auction; if they were willing, the sale could take place at his notary’s, Maître Renaudin, a man whose integrity he could vouch for. Then, acting on the notary’s advice, he discreetly suggested to them that it would be best to put up the house at a low figure, only a hundred and forty thousand francs. This was a very sly move, for it would bring crowds of people to the sale; the bids would mount rapidly, and they would realize far more than they expected. Théophile and Auguste chuckled in happy anticipation. However, on the day of the sale, after five or six bids, Maître Renaudin abruptly knocked the house down to Duveyrier for a hundred and forty thousand francs. There was not even enough to pay off the mortgage! It was the final blow.

  No one ever knew the details of the terrible scene which took place at the Duveyriers’ that evening. The house’s solemn walls muffled the shouting. Théphile undoubtedly denounced his brother-in-law as a scoundrel, openly accusing him of having bribed the notary by promising to appoint him a justice of the peace. As for Auguste, he simply talked of the assize court, where he wished to drag Maître Renaudin, whose roguery was the talk of the neighbourhood. But it never transpired how these good people, as rumour had it, finally fell to blows; their parting words on the threshold were overheard—words that had a most unpleasant ring amid the austere decorum of the staircase.

  ‘You rotten scoundrel!’ cried Auguste. ‘You sentence people to penal servitude who have not done half as much!’

  Théophile, who came out last, held on to the door as, half choked by fury and a fit of coughing, he yelled:

  ‘Thief! Thief! Yes, thief! And you too Clotilde, do you hear? You’re a thief!’

  Then he slammed the door so violently that all the others shook. Monsieur Gourd, who was listening, grew alarmed. He stared up at the different floors, but all he could see was Madame Juzeur’s delicate profile. With back bent he returned on tiptoe to his room, where he resumed his dignified demeanour. One could deny having heard anything at all. He was delighted, having decided to side with the new landlord.

  A few days later there was a reconciliation between Auguste and his sister. The whole house was most surprised. Octave had been seen going to the Duveyriers’. The judge, ill at ease, had decided to charge no rent for the ground-floor shop for five years, thus shutting one of the inheritors’ mouths. When Théophile heard this he went downstairs with his wife and made another scene. So he, too, had sold himself, and had joined the gang of thieves! However, Madame Josserand happened to be in the shop and she soon shut him up. She frankly advised Valérie not to sell herself any more than her daughter had done. Valérie, forced to retreat, exclaimed:

  ‘So we’re the only ones to get nothing, are we? Damned if I’ll pay any more rent. I’ve got a lease, and that jailbird won’t dare to turn us out. And as for you, my little Berthe, one day we’ll see what it’ll take to have you!’

  Once more there was a great banging of doors. A deadly feud no
w existed between the two families. Octave, who had just been serving a customer, was present, just as if he were one of the family. Berthe almost swooned in his arms, while Auguste made sure that none of his customers had overheard. Even Madame Josserand put her trust in the young man. She continued, however, to judge the Duveyriers very severely.

  ‘The rent is something,’ she said, ‘but I want those fifty thousand francs.’

  ‘Of course you do, if you pay yours,’ Berthe ventured to remark.

  Her mother did not appear to understand.

  ‘I want them, do you understand? That old fox Vabre must be laughing in his grave. I won’t let him boast of having made a fool of me, though. What dreadful people there are in this world! Fancy promising money you haven’t got! Just wait, my girl, they’ll pay you, or I’ll go and dig him up just to spit in his face!’

  XII

  One morning, when Berthe was at her mother’s, Adèle came in looking very scared, to say that Monsieur Saturnin was there, with a man. Doctor Chassagne, the director of the Moulineaux Asylum, had told the Josserands on a number of occasions that he could not keep their son, for he was not a patient in whom the symptoms of insanity were sufficiently marked. Having heard about the papers making over the three thousand francs which Berthe had badgered her brother into signing, he feared being compromised in the matter and suddenly sent Saturnin home.

  The news came as quite a shock. Madame Josserand, who was afraid she might be throttled, tried to reason with the attendant. But all he said was:

  ‘The director asked me to tell you that when a person is sane enough to give money to his parents, he’s sane enough to live with them.’

  ‘But he’s mad! He’ll murder us!’

  ‘Not so mad that he can’t sign his name, though!’ rejoined the man, as he departed.

  Saturnin came in very quietly, with his hands in his pockets, just as if he were returning from a stroll in the Tuileries gardens. He did not say a word about his stay at the asylum. He embraced his father, who wept, and gave smacking kisses to his mother and Hortense, who both trembled with fright. Then, when he saw Berthe, he was quite delighted, and began to caress her like a little boy. She at once took advantage of his tender mood to tell him of her marriage. He showed no anger, and at first hardly seemed to understand, as if he had forgotten his former fits of rage. But when she wanted to go downstairs he began to yell; he did not care whether she was married or not, so long as she stayed where she was, always with him and close to him. Seeing her mother’s frightened look as she ran and locked herself in another room, it occurred to Berthe that she could take Saturnin to live with her. They would be able to find something for him to do in the basement of their shop, even if it were only tying up parcels.

  That same evening Auguste, despite his evident repugnance, consented to his wife’s wish. They had hardly been married three months, but were slowly drifting apart. It was the collision of two different temperaments and types of education—a husband glum, fastidious, and devoid of passion, and a wife reared in the hothouse of false Parisian luxury, determined to enjoy life to the full, but alone, like a selfish, spoilt child. Thus he was at a loss to understand her need for constant activity, her perpetual goings-out on social calls, on walks, or to the shops, and her racing backwards and forwards to theatres, exhibitions, or other places of amusement. Two or three times a week Madame Josserand came to fetch her daughter, and kept her out till dinner-time, delighted to be seen in her company and to bask in the glory of Berthe’s sumptuous clothes, for which she no longer paid. Auguste’s accesses of revolt were mainly due to these showy dresses, for which he could see no use. Why dress above one’s means and station? What reason was there to spend in such a way money that he so urgently needed for his business? He would often remark that when one sold silks to other women one ought to wear woollens oneself. Then Berthe, assuming her mother’s ferocious demeanour, would ask if he expected her to go about stark naked; and he was disheartened still further by the doubtful cleanliness of her petticoats and her contempt for all linen that was not displayed, she having always a set of stock phrases with which to silence him if he persisted in his complaints.

  ‘I’d rather be envied than pitied. Money’s money, and when I only had twenty sous I always pretended I had forty.’

  After her marriage Berthe began gradually to acquire her mother’s figure. She began to fill out, and resembled Madame Josserand more and more. She was no longer the careless, lissom girl, submissive to maternal slaps; she was a woman of ever-increasing obstinacy, bent on turning everything to her pleasure. Auguste sometimes looked at her, amazed at such sudden maturity. At first she had taken a vain delight in enthroning herself at the cashier’s desk in a studied costume of elegant simplicity. But she had quickly tired of the business; suffering from lack of exercise, threatening to fall ill, yet resigning herself to it all the same, assuming the attitude of a victim sacrificing her life for the good of her home. And ever since that time perpetual warfare had been going on between herself and her husband. She shrugged her shoulders behind his back, just as her mother did behind her father’s; she began with him all the petty domestic bickerings of her own childhood; she treated him simply as one whose business was to pay, heaping upon him her contempt for the male sex, a contempt upon which her entire education had been based.

  ‘Oh, mamma was right!’ she would exclaim after each of their quarrels.

  At first, however, Auguste had tried to please her. He liked peace, and dreamed of a quiet little home—for he was already set in his ways like an old man, having got thoroughly into the habits of a chaste and thrifty bachelor’s life. As his old lodging on the entresol was too small, he had taken one of the apartments on the second floor, facing the courtyard, and thought it wildly extravagant to spend five thousand francs on furniture. Berthe, delighted at first with her room—all polished wood and sky-blue silk—had become utterly contemptuous of it later on, after visiting a friend of hers who was in the process of marrying a banker. The first quarrels, too, had arisen because of the servants. Accustomed as she was to dealing with half-witted, drudge-like maids, whose very bread was doled out to them, Berthe forced her servants to perform such awful tasks that they sat sobbing in their kitchen for whole afternoons. Auguste, not usually tender-hearted, once foolishly ventured to comfort one of them, but an hour later was forced to show her the door, amid the sobs and shouts of his wife, who furiously demanded that he choose between her and that creature. After this came a strapping girl who appeared to make up her mind to stay. Her name was Rachel—a Jewess, no doubt, although she denied it and concealed her origins. She was about twenty-five, with a hard face, a big nose, and jet-black hair. At first Berthe said that she would not put up with her for more than a couple of days, but the newcomer’s mute obedience, her air of understanding all yet saying nothing, gradually won her over. It was as if the mistress, in her turn, had been subjugated, ostensibly keeping the girl for her merits, though at the same time being vaguely afraid of her. Rachel, who submitted without a murmur to the hardest tasks for dry bread alone, gradually took possession of the entire household, with her eyes open and her mouth shut, like a wily servant waiting for the fatal moment when her mistress would be able to refuse her nothing.

  Meanwhile, from top to bottom, a great calm reigned throughout the house after the disturbance caused by Monsieur Vabre’s sudden death. The staircase once more became as peaceful as a chapel, not a sound escaped from behind those mahogany doors which forever shut in the profound respectability of the various families. A rumour was abroad that Duveyrier and his wife had become reconciled. As for Valérie and Théophile, they spoke to no one, as they stalked by with a stiffly dignified air. Never before had the house seemed to embody so completely the strictest of moral principles. Monsieur Gourd, in cap and slippers, patrolled the building like a solemn beadle.

  One evening, at about eleven o’clock, Auguste kept going to the shop door and peering up and down the street with e
ver-increasing impatience. Berthe, whom her mother and sister had fetched during dinner without even letting her finish her dessert, had not yet come back, though she had been gone more than three hours and had promised to return before closing time.

  ‘Oh, goodness gracious!’ he exclaimed at last, as he clasped his hands together, making his fingers crack.

  Then he stopped short in front of Octave, who was ticketing some remnants of silk on the counter. At that late hour no customer ever came to this out-of-the-way corner of the Rue de Choiseul. The shop was only kept open so as to put things in order.

  ‘I’m sure you know where the ladies have gone,’ he said enquiringly.

  Octave looked up with an air of innocent surprise.

  ‘But, sir, they told you—to a lecture.’

  ‘A lecture indeed, a lecture!’ grumbled the husband. ‘Their lecture was over at ten o’clock. Respectable women should be home at this time of night!’

  Then he resumed his walk, giving side glances at Octave, whom he suspected of being the ladies’ accomplice, or at least of wishing to make excuses for them. Octave, feeling ill at ease, watched him furtively too. He had never seen him in such a state of nervous excitement. What could have happened? Turning his head, he saw Saturnin at the other end of the shop, cleaning a mirror with a sponge soaked in spirit. By degrees, they had got the madman to do housework, so that at least he might earn his food. That evening Saturnin’s eyes glittered strangely. He crept up behind Octave and said to him softly:

  ‘Look out! He’s found a piece of paper. Yes, he’s got a piece of paper in his pocket. You’d better look out, if it’s yours!’