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  ‘Well, what have you decided to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Challenge him to a duel, of course!’ firmly replied the husband.

  Théophile’s joy was spoilt. At such courage as Auguste’s both he and his wife shuddered. Then their brother described the awful encounter of the previous night; how, having foolishly hesitated to buy a pistol, he had been forced to content himself with punching the gentleman’s head. True, the gentleman had returned the blow; but all the same he had got a good smack in the eye. A scoundrel who for the last six months had been making a fool of him by pretending to side with him against his wife, and who actually had the impertinence to give him reports about her goings-out. As for her, the wretched creature had taken refuge with her parents; and she could stay there if she liked, as he would never take her back.

  ‘Would you believe that last month I let her have three hundred francs for her dress allowance!’ he cried. ‘I’ve always been so good-natured, so tolerant towards her, ready to put up with anything rather than make myself ill! But this is more than anyone can stand, I can’t put up with it—no!’

  Théophile was thinking of death. He trembled feverishly, almost choking as he stammered:

  ‘It’s ridiculous; you’ll just get spitted. I wouldn’t challenge him.’

  Then, as Valérie looked at him, he sheepishly added:

  ‘If such a thing happened to me.’

  ‘Ah, that wretched woman!’ exclaimed his wife. ‘To think that two men are going to kill each other on her account! If I were her I’d never sleep again.’

  Auguste remained firm. He would fight. Moreover, he had already made arrangements for the duel. As he particularly wanted Duveyrier to be his second, he was now about to go up and tell him what had happened and send him to Octave forthwith. Théophile was obliged to consent; but his cold suddenly seemed to become much worse, and he put on his peevish air, like a sickly child that wants to be cosseted. However, he offered to accompany his brother to the Duveyriers’. They might well be thieves, but in certain circumstances one forgot everything. Both he and his wife seemed anxious to bring about a general reconciliation, having doubtless reflected that it did not serve their interest to sulk any longer. Valérie offered most obligingly to take charge of the pay-desk, to give him time to find a suitable person.

  ‘Only,’ she said, ‘I’ll have to take Camille for a walk in the Tuileries garden at about two.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, just this once,’ said her husband. ‘In any case it’s raining.’

  ‘No, no; the child needs air. I must go.’

  At last the two brothers went upstairs to the Duveyriers’. Théophile had to stop for a while on the first step, overcome by an appalling fit of coughing. He caught hold of the banisters and finally managed to gasp out:

  ‘You know, I’m quite happy now; I’m perfectly sure about her. No, can’t blame her for it. And she’s given me proofs.’

  Auguste, not understanding, stared at him and thought how yellow and jaded he looked, with the sparse bristles of his beard showing up on his flabby flesh. Théophile was annoyed at this; his brother’s temerity quite disconcerted him, and he continued:

  ‘I’m talking about my wife, you know. Poor old chap, I pity you with all my heart! You remember what a fool I made of myself on your wedding-day. But you can’t have any doubts, because you saw them.’

  ‘Bah!’ cried Auguste, to show how brave he was. ‘I’ll soon put a bullet through him. You know, I wouldn’t care a damn about the whole thing, if only I hadn’t got this blasted headache!’

  Just as they rang at the Duveyriers’, Théophile suddenly thought that very probably the judge would not be at home, for ever since he had found Clarisse he had let himself go completely, and slept out quite regularly. Hippolyte, who opened the door, avoided giving any information as to his master’s whereabouts; the gentlemen, he said, would find madame playing her scales. They went in. There sat Clotilde, tightly corseted, at her piano, her fingers running up and down the keyboard with regular precision. While indulging in this exercise for two hours daily, to preserve her lightness of touch, she used her brain at the same time by reading the Revue des deux mondes, which lay open on the desk before her, and her fingers lost nothing of their mechanical velocity of movement thereby.

  ‘Ah! It’s you!’ she exclaimed, as her brothers rescued her from the hailstorm of notes.

  She showed no surprise at seeing Théophile, who bore himself very stiffly, as one who had come on another man’s business. Auguste had already thought of a story, for he was ashamed to tell his sister of his dishonour and afraid to frighten her with his duel. But she gave him no time for a falsehood and, after looking at him intently, said in her quiet way:

  ‘What do you intend doing now?’

  He started back, blushing. So everybody knew about it, apparently. He replied in the same tone of bravado he had used to silence Théophile:

  ‘Fight, of course!’

  ‘Oh!’ she said, this time in a tone of great surprise.

  However, she did not express disapproval. It would only increase the scandal, but honour must be satisfied. She was content merely to remind him of her original disapproval of the marriage. One could expect nothing from a girl who, apparently, was profoundly ignorant of all a woman’s duties. Then, when Auguste asked her where her husband was:

  ‘He’s travelling,’ she replied, without a moment’s hesitation.

  At this news he was quite distressed, for he did not wish to do anything until he had consulted Duveyrier. She listened, without mentioning the new address, as she did not wish her family to share in her domestic troubles. At last she thought of a plan, and advised him to go to see Monsieur Bachelard, in the Rue d’Enghien; he might know something. Then she went back to her piano.

  ‘Auguste asked me to come with him,’ said Théophile, who had not spoken until then. ‘Shall we kiss and be friends, Clotilde? We’re all in trouble.’

  Holding out her cold cheek she said:

  ‘My poor fellow, those in trouble always bring it upon themselves. I always forgive everybody. Now, you ought to take care of yourself; you seem to have got a nasty cough!’ Then, calling Auguste back, she added: ‘if the thing’s not settled let me know, because I’ll worry about it.’

  The hailstorm of notes began again, lapping round her and drowning her; her fingers mechanically ran up and down, hammering out scales in every key, while she gravely resumed her reading of the Revue des deux mondes.

  Downstairs Auguste debated for a moment whether to go to Bachelard’s or not. How could he say to him: ‘Your niece has cuckolded me?’ Finally he decided to get Bachelard to give him Duveyrier’s address without telling him the whole sad story. Everything was arranged. Valérie would mind the shop, while Théophile was to look after the house until his brother’s return. Auguste sent for a cab, and was just about to leave when Saturnin, who had disappeared a moment before, suddenly rushed up from the basement brandishing a large kitchen knife and crying:

  ‘I’ll bleed him! I’ll bleed him!’

  This created a fresh scare. White as a sheet, Auguste hastily jumped into the cab and shut the door, exclaiming:

  ‘He’s got hold of another knife! Where on earth does he find them all, I wonder! For goodness’ sake, Théophile, send him home and don’t let him be here when I get back. As if I hadn’t got enough to worry about as it is!’

  The shop porter caught hold of the madman’s shoulders. Valérie gave the address to the cabman, a hulking, dirty fellow with a face the colour of raw beef. He was recovering from the previous night’s drinking-bout and did not hurry, but leisurely took up the reins after comfortably installing himself on the box.

  ‘By distance, governor?’ he asked, in a hoarse voice.

  ‘No, by the hour, and look sharp. There’ll be a good tip.’

  Off went the cab, an old landau, huge and dirty, rocking alarmingly on its worn-out springs. The gaunt white skeleton of a horse walked along with a remar
kable expenditure of energy as it shook its mane and threw up its hoofs. Auguste looked at his watch: it was nine o’clock. By eleven the duel might be arranged. At first the slowness of the cab annoyed him. Then drowsiness gradually overcame him; he had not had a wink of sleep all night, and this dreadful cab only heightened his depression. Rocked about in it, all by himself, and deafened by the rattling of the cracked panes, the fever which all that morning had sustained him now grew calmer. What a stupid business it was, after all! His face went grey as he put both hands to his head, which ached horribly.

  In the Rue d’Enghien a new problem arose. To begin with, Bachelard’s doorway was so blocked up by vans that he was almost crushed; then, in the glass-roofed courtyard, he found himself in the midst of a gang of packers lustily nailing up cases. Not one of them knew where Bachelard was; and their hammering almost split his skull. However, he had just decided to wait for the uncle when an apprentice, touched by his suffering look, whispered an address in his ear—Mademoiselle Fifi, Rue Saint-Marc, third floor. In all probability, Bachelard was there.

  ‘Where d’ye say?’ asked the cabman, who had fallen asleep.

  ‘Rue Saint-Marc; and drive a bit quicker, if you can.’

  The cab started off again at its funereal pace. On the boulevards one of the wheels caught in an omnibus. The panels cracked, the springs uttered plaintive cries, and dark melancholy further oppressed the wretched husband in search of his second. However, the Rue Saint-Marc was reached at last.

  On the third floor a white, plump little old woman opened the door. She seemed very upset; and when Auguste asked for Monsieur Bachelard she at once admitted him.

  ‘Oh sir, I’m sure you’re one of his friends! Do try and calm him. The poor man, he’s just been put out by something. No doubt you know who I am; he must have mentioned me to you: I’m Mademoiselle Menu.’

  Auguste, quite bewildered, found himself in a small room overlooking the courtyard, a room which had the cleanliness and peace of a country cottage. There was here an atmosphere of work, of order, of the pure, contented existence of humble folk. Seated before an embroidery frame on which hung a priest’s stole, a pretty fair-haired girl with an innocent air was weeping bitterly, while uncle Bachelard, his nose aflame and eyes bloodshot, stood foaming with rage and despair. So upset was he that Auguste’s entrance did not seem to surprise him. He immediately appealed to him as a witness, and the scene went on.

  ‘Now look here, Monsieur Vabre, you’re an honest man; what would you say in my place? I got here this morning rather earlier than usual, went into her room with my lumps of sugar from the café, and three four-sou pieces as a surprise, and found her in bed with that pig Gueulin! Now tell me, frankly, what would you say?’

  Auguste turned scarlet with embarrassment. At first he imagined that Bachelard knew of his trouble and was laughing at him. However, without waiting for a reply the uncle went on:

  ‘My girl, you don’t know what you’ve done, you really don’t! I was growing young again, and felt so glad at having found a nice, quiet little place where I thought I’d be happy! To me you were an angel, a flower, in short, something sweet and pure, and consoled me for all those filthy women. And you go and sleep with that beast Gueulin.’

  He was choked by genuine emotion; his voice quavered with the intensity of his grief. His world had collapsed; and with the hiccoughs of the previous night’s drinking he bemoaned his lost ideals.

  ‘I didn’t know, uncle,’ stammered Fifi, whose sobs grew louder. ‘I didn’t know it would grieve you so much.’

  And indeed she did not look as if she knew. Her eyes, with their ingenuous look, her odour of chastity, her naivety, all seemed to belong to a little girl incapable as yet of distinguishing a gentleman from a lady. Moreover, auntie Menu declared that at heart she was innocent.

  ‘Please don’t be so upset, Monsieur Narcisse. She’s very fond of you, all the same. I was sure you wouldn’t like it. I told her: “If Monsieur Narcisse hears about it he’ll be cross.” But she don’t know what life is yet, she don’t, nor what pleases and what doesn’t please. Don’t cry any more, because it’s you she really loves.’

  As neither Bachelard nor Fifi listened to her, she turned to Auguste to inform him how anxious such an occurrence made her for her niece’s future. It was so difficult to find a respectable home for a young girl nowadays. She, who for thirty years had worked at Messrs Mardienne Brothers’ (the embroiderers in the Rue Saint-Sulpice, where any enquiries about her might be made), well knew how hard it was for a working girl in Paris to make both ends meet if she wanted to keep herself respectable. Good-natured though she was, and though she had received Fifi from the hands of her own brother, Captain Menu, on his deathbed, she could never have managed to bring the child up on her thousand-franc life annuity, which now allowed her to put aside her needle. And seeing her cared for by Monsieur Narcisse, she had hoped to die happy. Not a bit of it. Fifi had gone and made her uncle angry, just for a silly thing like that.

  ‘I dare say you know Villeneuve, near Lille?’ she said finally. ‘That’s my home. It’s a biggish town …’

  Auguste lost all patience. Shaking off the aunt he turned to the uncle, whose noisy grief had now become somewhat subdued.

  ‘I came to ask you for Duveyrier’s new address. I suppose you know what it is.’

  ‘Duveyrier’s address? Duveyrier’s address?’ stammered Bachelard. ‘You mean Clarisse’s address. Just wait a minute!’

  He opened the door of Fifi’s room. To his great surprise Auguste saw Gueulin come out; Bachelard had locked him in so as to give him time to dress, and also to keep him there until he had decided what to do with him. At the sight of the young man, looking thoroughly sheepish, with rumpled hair, Bachelard’s wrath revived.

  ‘You wretch!’ he cried. ‘Dishonoured by my own nephew! You besmirch your family’s good name, and drag my white hairs through the mud! You’ll come to a bad end; one day we’ll see you in the dock!’

  Gueulin listened with bowed head, half embarrassed and half furious.

  ‘Look here, uncle,’ he muttered, ‘this is a bit much. There’s a limit to everything. It’s not much fun for me, either. Why did you bring me to see the girl? I never asked you to. You dragged me here. You drag everybody here!’

  Then Bachelard, breaking into sobs again, went on:

  ‘You’ve taken everything from me. She was all I had left. You’ll be the death of me, and I won’t leave you a sou—not a sou!’

  Then Gueulin, quite beside himself, burst out:

  ‘For God’s sake shut up! I’ve had enough! What did I always tell you? You always pay for these things afterwards! You see what luck I’ve had when, just for once, I thought I’d take advantage of an opportunity. The night was very pleasant of course, but afterwards there’s the devil to pay!’

  Fifi had dried her tears. She felt bored at having nothing to do, so, taking up her needle, she set to work at her embroidery, raising her large, innocent eyes now and again to look at the two men, apparently dazed at their anger.

  ‘I’m in a great hurry,’ Auguste ventured to remark. ‘If you could just give me the address—the street and the number, nothing else.’

  ‘The address?’ said Bachelard. ‘Let me see! Oh, in a minute!’

  Then, overcome by emotion, he seized Gueulin by both hands.

  ‘You thankless fellow; I was keeping her for you, and that’s the truth! I said to myself: now, if he’s good, I’ll give her to him, with a nice little dowry of fifty thousand francs. But, you dirty pig, you couldn’t wait, you had to go and get hold of her all of a sudden like that!’

  ‘Hands off!’ cried Gueulin, touched by the old fellow’s kind-heartedness. ‘I can see very well that I won’t get out of this mess in a hurry.’

  But Bachelard led him up to the girl, and asked her:

  ‘Now Fifi, look at him, and tell me if you would have loved him.’

  ‘Yes uncle, if it would have pleased you,’ she replied.<
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  This answer touched him deeply. He rubbed his eyes and blew his nose, nearly choked by emotion. Well, he would see what could be done. All he had wanted was to make her happy. Then he hurriedly sent Gueulin on his way.

  ‘Be off with you! I’ll think about it!’

  Meanwhile, auntie Menu had taken Auguste aside to explain how she saw things. A workman, she argued, would have beaten the little girl; a clerk would have given her babies all the time. With Monsieur Narcisse, however, there was the chance of having a dowry, which would allow her to make a decent marriage. Thank God, theirs was a respectable family, and she would never have let her niece go wrong, nor fall from the arms of one lover into those of another. No, she wanted Fifi to have a respectable position.

  Just as Gueulin was about to go, Bachelard called him back.

  ‘Kiss her on the forehead; I give you permission.’

  He let Gueulin out himself, and then came back and stood in front of Auguste, holding his hand to his heart.

  ‘I really mean it,’ he said. ‘I give you my word of honour that I meant to give her to him later on!’

  ‘Well, what about that address?’ asked Auguste, losing all patience.

  Bachelard seemed surprised, as if he thought he had answered that question already.

  ‘Eh? What? Clarisse’s address? I don’t know what it is!’

  Auguste started back in anger. Everything was going wrong, and there seemed to be a sort of plot to make him look stupid! Seeing how upset he was, Bachelard made a suggestion. Trublot, no doubt, knew the address, and they would probably find him at Desmarquay’s, the stockbroker, where he worked. And the uncle, with all the alacrity of a man accustomed to rolling about town, offered to accompany his young friend, who accepted.