Chapter XIV: Part 14

The Trouches were now reigning in all sovereignty. They completed the conquest of the house, and made their way into every corner of it. The Abbé's own rooms were the only ones they respected. It was only before him that they trembled. But even his presence in the house did not prevent them from inviting their friends, and indulging in debauches till two o'clock in the morning. Guillaume Porquier came with parties of mere youths. Olympe, notwithstanding her thirty-seven years, then simpered and put on girlish airs; and flirted with more than one of the college lads. The house was becoming a perfect paradise to her. Trouche sniggered and joked about it when they were alone together.

'Well,' she said, quite tranquilly, 'you do as you like, don't you? We are both free to do as we please, you know.'

Trouche had, as a matter of fact, all but brought his pleasant life to an abrupt conclusion. There had been an unpleasant affair at the Home of the Virgin in connection with one of the girls there. One of the Sisters of St. Joseph had complained of Trouche to Abbé Faujas. He had thanked her for telling him, and had impressed upon her that the cause of religion would suffer by such a scandal. So the affair was hushed up, and the lady patronesses never had the faintest suspicion of it. Abbé Faujas, however, had a terrible scene with his brother-in-law, whom he assailed in Olympe's presence, so that his wife might have a weapon against him, and be able to keep him in check.

The Trouches had been troubled for a long time past by another matter. Notwithstanding their life of clover, although they were provided with so many things out of Marthe's cupboards, they had got terribly into debt in the neighbourhood. Trouche squandered his salary away in cafés, and Olympe wasted the money which she drew out of Marthe's pockets by indulging in all sorts of silly fancies. As for the necessaries of life, they made a point of getting these upon credit. There was one account which made them particularly uneasy, that of a pastrycook in the Rue de la Banne, which amounted to more than a hundred francs, for the pastrycook was a rough, blunt sort of man, who had threatened to lay the whole matter before Abbé Faujas. The Trouches thus long lived in a state of alarm, but when the bill was actually presented to him Abbé Faujas paid it without a word, and even forgot to address any reproaches to them on the subject. The priest seemed to be above all those sordid little matters, and went on living a gloomy and rigid life in this house that was given up to pillage, without appearing conscious of the gradual ruin which was falling upon it. Everything, indeed, was crumbling away around him, while he continued to advance straight towards the goal of his ambition. He still camped like a soldier in his big bare room, indulging in no comforts, and showing annoyance when any were pressed upon him. Since he had become the master of Plassans, he had dropped back into complete carelessness as to his appearance. His hat became rusty, his stockings muddy; his cassock, which his mother mended every morning, looked just like the pitiful, worn-out rag which he had worn when he first came to Plassans.

'Pooh! it is very good yet,' he used to say, when anyone hazarded a timid remark about it.

He made a display of it, walked about the streets in it, carrying his head loftily, and altogether unheeding the curious glances which were cast at him. There was no bravado in the matter; he was simply following his natural inclinations. Now that he believed that he need no longer lay himself out to please, he fell back into all his old disdain for mere appearance. It was his triumph to sit down just as he was, with his tall, clumsy body, rough, blunt manner and torn clothes, in the midst of conquered Plassans.

Madame de Condamin, distressed by the strong smell which emanated from his cassock, one day gently took him to task about his appearance.

'Do you know,' she said to him, laughing, 'that the ladies are beginning to detest you? They say that you now never take the least trouble over your toilet. Once upon a time, when you took your handkerchief out of your pocket, it was just as though there were a choir-boy swinging a thurible behind you.'

The priest looked greatly astonished. He was quite unaware of any change in himself. Then Madame de Condamin, drawing a little nearer to him, said in a friendly tone:

'Will you let me speak quite frankly to you, my dear Curé? It is really a mistake on your part to be so negligent of your appearance. You scarcely shave, and you never comb your hair; it is as rough and tumbled as though you had been fighting. I can assure you that all this has a very bad effect. Madame Rastoil and Madame Delangre told me yesterday that they could scarcely recognise you. You are really compromising your success.'

The priest gave a laugh of defiance, as he shook his powerful unkempt head.

'Now that the battle is won,' he merely replied, 'they must put up with my hair being uncombed.'

Plassans had, indeed, to put up with him with his hair uncombed. The once seemingly flexible priest was now transformed into a stern, despotic master who bent all wills to his own. His face, which had again become cadaverous in hue, shone with eyes like an eagle's, and he raised his big hands as though they were filled with threats and chastisements. The town was positively terrified on beholding the master it had imposed upon itself, with his shabby, dirty clothing and unkempt hair. The covert alarm of the women only tended, however, to strengthen his power. He was stern and harsh to his penitents, but not one of them dared to leave him. They came to him in fear and trembling, in which they found some touch of painful pleasure.

'I was wrong, my dear,' Madame de Condamin confessed to Marthe, 'in wanting him to perfume himself. I am growing accustomed to him, and even prefer him as he is. He is indeed a man!'

Abbé Faujas was supreme at the Bishop's. Since the elections he had left Monseigneur Rousselot only a show of authority. The Bishop lived amidst his beloved books in his study, where the Abbé, who administered the diocese from an adjoining room, virtually kept him prisoner, only allowing him to see those persons whom he could fully trust. The clergy trembled before this absolute master. The old white-headed priests bent before him with all humility and surrender of personal will. Monseigneur Rousselot, when he was alone with Abbé Surin, often wept silent tears. He regretted the impetuous mastery of Abbé Fenil, who had, at any rate, intervals of affectionate softness, whereas now, under Abbé Faujas's rule, he felt a relentless, ceaseless pressure. However, he would smile again and resign himself, saying with a sort of pleasant self-satisfaction:

'Come, my child, let us get to work. I must not complain, for I am now leading the life which I always dreamed of--a life of perfect solitude amongst my books.'

Then he sighed, and continued in a lower tone:

'I should be quite happy if I were not afraid of losing you, my dear Surin. He will end by not tolerating your presence here any longer. I thought that he looked at you very suspiciously yesterday. Always agree with him, I beseech you; take his side and don't spare me. Ah me! I have only you left now.'

Two months after the elections Abbé Vial, one of the Bishop's grand-vicars, went to settle at Rome. Abbé Faujas stepped into his place as a matter of course, although it had been promised long ago to Abbé Bourrette. He did not even promote the latter to the living of Saint-Saturnin's which he vacated, but preferred to it a young ambitious priest whom he had made a tool of his own.

'His lordship would not hear of you,' he said curtly to Abbé Bourrette when he met him.

When the poor old priest stammered out that he would go and see the Bishop, and ask for an explanation, Abbé Faujas added more gently:

'His lordship is too unwell to see you. Trust yourself in my hands; I will plead your cause for you.'

From his first appearance in the Chamber in Paris Monsieur Delangre had voted with the majority. Plassans was conquered for the Empire. Abbé Faujas almost seemed actuated by a feeling of revenge in the rough way in which he treated the prudent townspeople. He again closed the little doors that led into the Impasse des Chevillottes, and compelled Monsieur Rastoil and his friends to enter the Sub-Prefecture by the official door facing the Place. When he appeared at the sub-prefect's friendly gatherings, the guests showed themselves very humble in his presence. So great was the fascination he exercised, and so great the fear he inspired, that even when he was not present nobody dared to make the slightest equivocal remark concerning him.

'He is a man of the greatest merit,' declared Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies, who now counted on being promoted to a prefecture.

'A very remarkable man, indeed,' chimed in Doctor Porquier. All the company nodded their heads approvingly till Monsieur de Condamin, who began to feel irritated by this eulogistic unanimity, amused himself by putting them into embarrassment.

'Well, he hasn't a pleasant temper, anyway,' said he.

This remark had a chilling effect upon the company. Each was afraid that his neighbour might be in the terrible Abbé's pay.

'The grand-vicar has an excellent heart,' Monsieur Rastoil prudently remarked; 'but, like all great minds, he appears at first sight to be a little stern.'

'It is just so with me; I am very easy to get on with, but I have always had the reputation of being a hard, stern man,' exclaimed Monsieur de Bourdeu, who had become reconciled with the party again after a long private interview which he had had with Abbé Faujas.

Then, wishing to put everyone at ease again, the presiding judge exclaimed:

'Have you heard that there is a probability of a bishopric for the grand-vicar?'

At this they brightened up. Monsieur Maffre expressed the opinion that it would be of Plassans itself that Abbé Faujas would become bishop, after the retirement of Monseigneur Rousselot, whose health was very feeble.

'Everyone would gain by it,' said Abbé Bourrette guilelessly. 'Illness has embittered his lordship; I know that our excellent Faujas has made the greatest efforts to persuade him out of certain unjust prejudices which he entertains.'

'He is very fond of you,' asserted Judge Paloque, who had just received his decoration; 'my wife has heard him complain of the way in which you are neglected.'

When Abbé Surin was present, he, too, joined in the general chorus; but, although he had a mitre in his pocket, to use the expression of the priests of the diocese, the success of Abbé Faujas made him uneasy. He looked at him in his pretty way, and, calling to mind the Bishop's prediction, tried to discover the weak point which would bring that colossus toppling in the dust.

The gentlemen of the party, it should be said, had had their desires satisfied; that is, excepting Monsieur de Bourdeu and Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies, who were still waiting for the marks of the government's favour. These two were, consequently, the warmest partisans of Abbé Faujas. The others, to tell the truth, would have been glad to rebel, if they had dared. They were growing secretly weary of the continual gratitude which was exacted from them by their master, and they ardently wished that some strong, bold hand would effect their deliverance. One day Madame Paloque, with an affectation of indifference inquired:

'What has become of Abbé Fenil? I haven't seen or heard of him for an age.'

There was profound silence. Monsieur de Condamin was the only one present capable of venturing upon such dangerous ground. They all looked at him.

'Oh!' he said quietly, 'I believe he shuts himself up at his place at Les Tulettes.'

Madame de Condamin added with an ironical smile:

'He can sleep quietly now. His career is over; he will take no part again in the affairs of Plassans.'

There was only Marthe who remained a real obstacle in Abbé Faujas's path. He felt that she was escaping him more and more each day. He stiffened his will and called up all his forces as priest and man to bend her, without succeeding in moderating the flame which he had fanned into life. She was striving to reach the logical end of her passionate longings, and insisted upon forcing her way further and further into the peace and ecstasy and perfect self-forgetfulness of divine happiness. It was bitter pain and anguish to her to be, as it were, walled in and prevented from reaching that threshold of light, of which she fancied she caught a glimpse, though it seemed to be ever receding from her reach. She shivered and trembled now at Saint-Saturnin's in the coldness and the gloom amidst which she had once felt such thrills of delight. The peals of the organ no longer stirred her with a tremor of voluptuous joy; the white clouds of incense no longer lulled her into sweet mystic dreams; the gleaming chapels and the sacred pyxes that flashed like stars, the chasubles with their sheen of gold and silver, all now seemed pale and wan to her eyes that were dull and dim with tears. Like a damned soul yearning after Paradise, she threw up her arms in bitter desperation and besought the love that denied itself to her, sobbing and wailing:

'My God, my God! why hast Thou forsaken me?'

Bowed down with shame, hurt, as it were, by the cold silence of the vaulted roof, Marthe left the church, burning with the anger of a scorned woman. She had wild dreams of pouring out her blood, and she writhed madly at her impotence to do more than to pray, at being unable to spring at a single bound into the arms of God. And when she returned home, she felt that her only hope was in Abbé Faujas. It was he alone that could make her God's. He had revealed to her the initiatory joys; he must now tear aside the whole veil. But the priest fell into a passion with her and treated her roughly, refusing to hear her so long as she was not on her knees before him, humble and unresisting like a corpse. She listened to him, standing upright, sustained by an impulse of revolt that thrilled her whole being, as she vented upon him the bitterness that came of her deceived yearnings, and accused him of the base treachery which was torturing her.

Old Madame Rougon often thought it was her duty to intervene between the Abbé and her daughter, as she had formerly done between the latter and Mouret. Marthe having told her of her troubles, she spoke to the priest like a mother-in-law desiring the happiness of her children and doing her best to restore peace in their home.

'Well,' she said to him with a smile, 'can't you manage to live in peace? Marthe is constantly complaining and you seem to be perpetually grieving her. I know very well that women are exacting, but you must confess that you are a little wanting in consideration. I am extremely distressed by what occurs; it would be so easy for you to arrange matters pleasantly! Do, I beg of you, my dear Abbé, be a little more gentle with her.'

She also scolded him in a friendly fashion for his slovenly appearance. She could see, with her shrewd feminine intelligence, that he was abusing his victory. Then she began to make excuses for her daughter. The dear child, she said, had suffered a great deal, and her nervous sensitiveness required most careful treatment; but she had an excellent disposition and an affectionate nature which a clever man might mould after his own wishes. One day, however, when she was thus showing him how he might make Marthe what he liked, Abbé Faujas grew weary of her perpetual advice.

'No, no!' he cried, 'your daughter is mad; she bores me to death. I won't have anything more to do with her. I would pay the fellow well who would free me of her.'

Madame Rougon looked him keenly in the face and tightly pressed her lips.

'Listen to me, my friend,' she said after a short silence; 'you are wanting in tact, and that will prove your ruin. Overthrow yourself, if you like; I wash my hands of you. I assisted you, not for your own sake, but to please our friends in Paris. They wrote to me and asked me to pilot you, and I did so. But understand this, I will never allow you to come the master over me. It's all very well for little Péqueur, and simple Rastoil, but we are not at all afraid of you, and we mean to remain the masters. My husband conquered Plassans before you did, and I warn you that we shall keep our conquest.'

From that day forward there was great coldness between the Rougons and Abbé Faujas. When Marthe again came to complain to her mother, the latter said to her very plainly:

'Your Abbé is only making a fool of you. If I were in your place I shouldn't hesitate to tell him a few plain truths. To begin with, he has been disgustingly dirty for a long time past, and I can't understand how you can bear to take your meals at the same table with him.'

Madame Rougon had, in truth, hinted at a very ingenious plan to her husband, by which the Abbé should be ousted, and they themselves should reap the reward of his success. Now that the town voted properly, Rougon, who had not cared to risk the conduct of the campaign, was quite able to keep it in the proper path. The green drawing-room would become all the more influential, and Félicité began to await developments with that crafty patience to which she owed her fortune.

On the day when her mother told her that the Abbé was only making a fool of her, Marthe again repaired to Saint-Saturnin's resolved upon a last supreme appeal. She remained in the deserted church for two hours, pouring out her soul in prayer, waiting longingly for the ecstasy that came not, and torturing herself with her search for consolation. Impulses of deep humility stretched her prostrate upon the flag-stones, momentary thrills of rebellion made her start up again with her teeth clenched, while her whole being, wildly racked and strained, broke down at not being able to grasp or kiss aught save the aching void of her own passion. When she rose and left the church the sky seemed black to her; she was not conscious of the pavement beneath her feet; the narrow streets left upon her the impression of some immense lonely wilderness. She threw her hat and shawl upon the dining-room table and went straight upstairs to Abbé Faujas's room.

The Abbé sat buried in thought, at his little table. His pen had fallen from his fingers. He opened the door, still full of his thoughts, but when he saw Marthe standing before him, very pale, and with the light of deep resolution burning in her eyes, he made a gesture of anger.

'What do you want?' he asked. 'Why have you come upstairs? Go down again and wait for me, if you have anything to say to me.'

She pushed him aside and entered the room without speaking a word.

The priest hesitated for a moment, struggling against the influence which was prompting him to raise his hand against her. He remained standing in front of her, without closing the door that was wide open.

'What do you want?' he repeated. 'I am busy.'

Then Marthe closed the door, and having done so, drew nearer to the Abbé and said to him:

'I want to speak to you.'

She sat down and looked about the room, at the narrow bed, the shabby chest of drawers, and at the big black wooden crucifix, the sight of which, as it stood out conspicuously on the bare wall, gave her a passing thrill. A freezing silence seemed to fall from the ceiling. The grate was quite empty; there was not even a pinch of ashes in it.

'You will take cold,' said the priest in a calmer voice. 'Let us go downstairs, I beg you.'

'No; I want to speak to you,' said Marthe again.

Then, clasping her hands together like a penitent making her confession, she continued:

'I owe you much. Before you came, I was without a soul. It was you who willed that I should be saved. It is through you that I have known the only joys of my life. You are my saviour and my father. For these last five years I have only lived through you and for you.'

Her voice broke down and she almost slipped upon her knees. The priest stopped her with a gesture.

'And now, to-day,' she cried, 'I am suffering and have need of your help. Listen to me, father. Do not withdraw from me. You cannot abandon me thus. I tell you that God does not listen to me any longer. I do not feel His presence any longer. Have pity upon me, I beseech you. Advise me, lead me to those divine graces whose first joys you made me know; teach me what I should do to cure myself, and ever advance in the love of God.'

'You must pray,' said the priest gravely.

'I have prayed; I have prayed for hours with my head buried in my hands, trying to lose myself in every word of adoration, and yet I have not received consolation. I have not felt the presence of God.'

'You must pray and pray again, pray continually, pray until God is moved by your prayers and descends to you.'

She looked at him in anguish.

'Then there is nothing but prayer?' she asked. 'You cannot give me any help?'

'No; none at all,' he replied roughly.

She threw up her trembling hands in a burst of desperation, her breast heaving with anger. But she restrained herself, and she stammered:

'Your heaven is fast closed. You have led me on so far only to crush me against a wall. I was very peaceful, you will remember, when you came. I was living quietly at home here, without a single desire or curiosity. It was you who awoke me with words that stirred and roused my heart. It was you who made me enter upon a fresh youth. Oh! you cannot tell what joys you brought me at first! It was like sweet soft warmth thrilling my whole being. My heart woke up within me. I was filled with mighty hopes. Sometimes, when I reflected that I was forty years old, it all seemed foolish to me, and I smiled, and then I defended myself, for I felt so happy in it all. Now I want the promised happiness. I am growing weary of the desire for it, a desire that burns me and tortures me. I have no time to lose, now that my health has broken down, and I don't want to find myself deceived and duped. There must be something more; tell me that there is something more.'

Abbé Faujas stood quite impassive, letting this flood of words pass without reply.

'Ah! So there is nothing else! there is nothing else!' she continued, in a burst of indignation; 'then you have deceived me! Down there on the terrace, on those star-lit evenings, you promised me heaven, and I believed your promises. I sold myself, and gave myself up. I was quite mad during those first transports of prayer. To-day the bargain holds no longer. I shall return to my old ways, and resume my old peaceful quiet. I will turn everybody out of the house, and make it as it used to be; I will again sit in my old corner on the terrace, and mend the linen. Needlework never wearies me. And I will have Désirée back to sit beside me on her little stool. She used to sit there, the dear innocent, and laugh and make dolls----'

Then she burst into a fit of sobbing:

'I want my children! They were my safeguard. Since they left I have lost my head, I have done things that I ought not to have done. Why did you take them from me? They went away from me one by one, and the house became like a strange house to me. My heart was no longer wrapped up in it, I was glad when I left it for an afternoon; and when I came back in the evening, I seemed to have fallen amongst strangers. The very furniture seemed cold and unfriendly. I quite hated the house. But I will go and fetch them again, the poor darlings. Everything will become as it used to be directly they return. Oh! if I could only sink down again into my old sleepy quiet!'

She was growing more and more excited. The priest tried to calm her by a method which he had often before found efficacious.

'Be calm, my dear lady, be calm,' he said, trying to take her hands, and hold them between his own.

'Don't touch me!' she cried, recoiling from him. 'I don't want you to do so. When you hold me I am as weak as a child. The warmth of your hands takes all my resolution and strength away. The trouble would only begin again to-morrow; for I cannot go on living like this, and you only assuage me for an hour.'

A deep shadow passed over her face as she continued:

'No! I am damned now! I shall never love my home again. And if the children come, they would ask for their father--Oh! it is that which is killing me! I shall never be forgiven till I have confessed my crime to a priest.'

Then she fell upon her knees.

'I am a guilty woman. That is why God turns His face from me.'

Abbé Faujas tried to make her rise from her knees.

'Be silent!' he cried loudly. 'I cannot hear your confession here. Come to Saint-Saturnin's to-morrow.'

'Father,' she said entreatingly, 'have pity upon me. To-morrow I shall not have the strength for it.'

'I forbid you to speak,' he cried more violently than before. 'I won't listen to anything; I shall turn my head away and close my ears.'

He stepped backward and crossed his arms, trying to check the confession that was on Marthe's lips. They looked at each other for a moment in silence, with the lurking anger that came from their conscious complicity.

'It is not a priest who listens to you,' said the Abbé in a huskier voice. 'Here there is only a man to judge and condemn you.'

At this she rose from her knees, and continued feverishly: 'A man! I prefer it, for I am not confessing; I am simply telling you of my wrong-doing. After the children had gone, I allowed their father to be put away too. He had never struck me, the unhappy man. It was I myself who was mad.... Oh, you cannot guess what frightful nightmares overwhelmed me and made me hurl myself upon the floor. All hell seemed to be racking my brain with its torments. He, poor man, with his chattering teeth, excited my pity. It was he who was afraid of me. When you had left the room he dared not venture near me; he passed the night on a chair.'

Again did Abbé Faujas try to stop her.

'You are killing yourself,' he exclaimed. 'Don't stir up these recollections. God will take count of your sufferings.'

'It was I who sent him to Les Tulettes,' she continued, silencing the priest with an energetic gesture. 'You all told me that he was mad. Oh, the unendurable life I have led! I have always been terrified by the thought of madness. When I was quite young, I used to feel as though my skull were being opened and my head were being emptied. I seemed to have a block of ice within my brow. Ah! I felt that awful coldness again, and I was perpetually in fear of going mad. They took my husband away. I let them take him. I didn't know what I was doing. But, ever since that day, I have been unable to close my eyes without seeing him over yonder. It is that which makes me behave so strangely, which roots me for hours to the same spot, with my eyes wide open. I know the place; I can see it. My uncle Macquart showed it to me. It is as gloomy as a prison, with its black windows.'

She seemed to be choking. She raised her handkerchief to her lips, and when she took it away again it was spotted with blood. The priest, with his arms rigidly crossed in front of him, waited till the attack was over.

'You know it all, don't you?' she resumed, in stammering accents. 'I am a miserable guilty woman, I sinned for you. But give me life, give me happiness, I entreat you!'

'You lie,' said the priest slowly. 'I know nothing; I was ignorant that you were guilty of that wickedness.'

She recoiled, clasping her hands, stammering, and gazing at him with a look of terror. And at last, utterly unable to restrain herself, she broke out wildly and recklessly:

'Hear me, Ovide, I love you, and you know that I do, do you not? I have loved you, Ovide, since the first day you came here. I refrained from telling you so, for I saw it displeased you; but I knew quite well that you were gaining my whole heart. Then it was that I emptied the house for your sake. I dragged myself on my knees, and became your slave. You surely cannot go on being cruel for ever. Now that I am ill and abandoned, and my heart is broken and my head seems empty, you surely cannot reject me. It is true that we have said nothing openly before; but surely my love spoke to you, and your silence made answer. Oh! I love you, Ovide, I love you, and it is killing me.'

She burst into another fit of sobbing. Abbé Faujas had braced himself up to his full height. He stepped towards Marthe and poured out upon her all his scorn of woman.

'Oh, miserable creature!' he said. 'I hoped that you would be reasonable, and that you would never lower yourself to the shame of uttering all that vileness. Ah! it is the eternal struggle of evil against will. You are the temptation from below that leads men to base back-sliding and final overthrow. The priest has no worse enemy than such as you; you ought to be driven from the churches as impure and accursed!'

'I love you, Ovide,' she again stammered; 'I love you; help me.'

'I have already come too near you,' the priest continued. 'Go away and depart from me; you are Satan! I will beat you if it be necessary to force the evil spirit from your body.'

She sank into a crouching posture against the wall, silent with terror at the priest's threatening fist. Her hair became unloosened, and a long white lock fell over her brow. As she looked about the room for a refuge, she espied the big black crucifix, and she still had strength left to stretch her hands towards it with a passionate gesture.

'Do not implore the Cross!' cried the priest in wild anger. 'Jesus lived chastely, and it was that which enabled Him to die.'

At that same moment Madame Faujas came into the room, carrying on her arm a big provision basket. She put it down at once on seeing her son so wrathful, and threw her arms around him.

'Ovide, my child, calm yourself,' she said, as she caressed him.

Then, turning upon the cowering Marthe an annihilating glance, she cried:

'Can you never leave him at peace? Are you not ashamed of yourself? Go downstairs; it is quite impossible for you to remain here. This is no place for such as you!'

Marthe did not move. Madame Faujas had to lift her up and push her towards the door. The old woman stormed at her, charging her with having waited till she had gone out, and making her promise that she would never again come upstairs to make such scenes. And finally she banged the door violently behind her.

Marthe went on, reeling down the stairs. She had ceased sobbing, and kept repeating to herself:

'François will come back again; François will turn them all out into the street.'

XXI

The Toulon coach, which passed through Les Tulettes, where it changed horses, left Plassans at three o'clock. Marthe, goaded on by a fixed, unswerving resolve, was anxious not to lose a moment. She put on her shawl and hat, and ordered Rose to dress immediately.

'I can't tell what madame's after,' said the cook to Olympe: 'but I fancy we're going away for some days.'

Marthe left the keys in the cupboard doors; she was in a hurry to be off. Olympe, who went with her to the front door, vainly tried to ascertain where she was going and how long she would be away.

'Well, make yourself quite easy,' she said to her in her pleasant way, as they parted; 'I will look after everything, you will find things all right when you come back. Don't hurry yourself, take the time to do all you want. If you go to Marseilles, bring us back some fresh shell-fish.'

Before Marthe had turned the corner of the Rue Taravelle, Olympe had taken possession of the whole house. When Trouche came home he found his wife banging the doors and examining the contents of the drawers and closets, as she hummed and sang and rushed about the rooms.

'She's gone off and taken that beast of a cook with her,' she cried to him as she lolled into an easy-chair. 'What luck it would be if they should both get upset into a ditch and stop there! Well, we must enjoy ourselves for as long as we have the chance. It's very nice being alone, isn't it, Honoré? Come and give me a kiss! We are quite by ourselves now, and we can do just as we like.'

Marthe and Rose reached the Cours Sauvaire only just in time to catch the Toulon coach. The coupé was disengaged. When the cook heard her mistress tell the conductor to set them down at Les Tulettes, she took her place with an expression of vexation, and before the coach had got out of the town she had begun grumbling in her cross-grained fashion.

'Well, I did think that you were at last going to behave sensibly! I felt sure that we were going to Marseilles to see Monsieur Octave. We could have brought back a lobster and some oysters. Ah! I shouldn't have hurried myself so if I had known. But it's just like you. You are always hunting after troubles, and always doing things that upset you.'

Marthe was lying back in her corner in a semi-conscious condition. Now that she was no longer stiffening herself against the pains which oppressed her heart, a death-like faintness was creeping over her. But the cook did not even look towards her.

'Did anyone ever hear of such an absurd idea as going to see the master?' she continued. 'A cheerful sort of sight it will be for us. We sha'n't be able to sleep for a week after it. You may be as frightened as you like at nights, now; you won't get me to come and look under the furniture for you. It isn't as though your going to see him could do the master any good. He's just as likely to fly at your face as not! I hope to goodness that they won't let you see him. It's against the rules, I know. I ought not to have got into the coach when I heard you mention Les Tulettes, for I don't think you would have ventured to go on such a foolish errand all by yourself.'

A deep sigh from Marthe checked her flow of words. She turned round to her mistress, saw her pale and suffocating, and grew still angrier than before as she opened the window to let in some fresh air.

'There now, you'll have to come and lie in my arms! Don't you think you'd have been ever so much better in bed, taking care of yourself? To think that you have had the good fortune to be surrounded by pious, holy people without being the least bit grateful to God Almighty for it! You know it's only the truth I'm saying. His reverence the Curé and his mother and sister, and even Monsieur Trouche himself, are all attention towards you. They would throw themselves into the fire for you; they are ready to do anything at any hour of the day or night. I saw Madame Olympe crying--yes, crying--the last time you were ill. And what sort of gratitude do you show them for all their kindness and attention? Why, you do all you can to distress them, and set off on the sly to see the master, although you know quite well that you will grieve them dreadfully by doing so, for it's impossible that they should be fond of the master, who treated you so cruelly. I'll tell you what, madame--marriage has done you no good; you've got infected with all the master's bad nature. There are times when you are every bit as bad as he is.'

All the way to Les Tulettes she continued in this strain, eulogising the Faujases and the Trouches, and accusing her mistress of every kind of wrong-doing. And she concluded by saying:

'Ah, they are the sort of people who would make excellent masters if they could only afford to keep servants. But fortune merely comes in the way of bad-hearted folks!'

Marthe, who was now calmer, made no reply. She gazed out of the window, watching the scraggy trees and the wide-stretching fields which spread out like great lengths of brown cloth. Rose's growlings were lost amidst the noisy jolting of the coach.

When they reached Les Tulettes, Marthe hastened towards the house of her uncle Macquart, followed by the cook, who had now subsided into silence, contenting herself by shrugging her shoulders and biting her lips.

'Hallo! is that you?' cried the uncle in great surprise. 'I thought you were in your bed. I heard that you were very ill. Well, my little dear, you really don't look very strong. Have you come to ask me for some dinner?'

'I should like to see François, uncle,' said Marthe.

'François?' repeated Macquart, looking her in the face. 'You would like to see François? It is a very kind thought of yours. The poor fellow has been crying for you a great deal. I have seen him from the end of my garden knocking his fist against the walls while he called for you to come to him. And so it is to see him that you have come, eh? I really thought that you had forgotten all about him over yonder.'

Big tears welled into Marthe's eyes.

'It will not be very easy to see him to-day,' Macquart continued. 'It is getting on for four o'clock, and I'm not at all sure that the manager will give you leave. Mouret hasn't been very quiet lately. He smashes everything that he can lay his hands on, and talks about burning the place down. Those madmen are not in a pleasant humour every day.'

Marthe trembled as she listened to her uncle; she was going to question him, but instead of doing so she merely stretched out her hands supplicatingly.

'I beseech you to help me,' said she. 'I have come on purpose. It is absolutely necessary that I should speak to François to-day, at once. You have friends in the asylum, and you can obtain me admission.'

'No doubt, no doubt,' he replied, without committing himself further.

He appeared to be in a state of great perplexity, unable to divine the real cause of Marthe's sudden journey, and revolving the matter in his own mind from a point of view known only to himself. He glanced inquisitively at the cook, who turned her back upon him. At last a slight smile began to play about his lips.

'Well,' he said, 'since you wish it, I will see what I can do for you. Only, remember, that if your mother is displeased about it, you must tell her that I was not able to dissuade you. I am afraid that you may do yourself harm; it isn't a pleasant place to visit.'

Rose absolutely declined to accompany them to the asylum. She had seated herself in front of a fire of vine-stocks, which was blazing on the great hearth.

'I don't want to have my eyes torn out,' she said snappishly. 'The master isn't over fond of me. I would rather stop here and warm myself.'

'It would be very good of you if you were to get us some mulled wine ready,' Macquart whispered in her ear. 'The wine and sugar are in the cupboard yonder. We shall want it when we come back.'

Macquart did not take his niece to the principal gate of the asylum. He went round to the left and inquired at a little door for warder Alexandre, with whom, on his appearance, he exchanged a few words in a low voice. Then they all three silently entered the seemingly interminable corridors. The warder walked in front.

'I will wait for you here,' said Macquart, coming to a halt in a little courtyard. 'Alexandre will remain with you.'

'I would rather be left alone,' said Marthe.

'Madame would very quickly have enough of it, if she were,' Alexandre replied, with a tranquil smile. 'I'm running a good deal of risk as it is.'

He took Marthe through another court, and stopped in front of a little door. As he softly turned the key, he said in a low voice:

'Don't be afraid. He has been quieter to-day, and they have been able to take the strait-waistcoat off. If he shows any violence you must step out backwards, and leave me alone with him.'

Marthe trembled as she passed through the narrow doorway. At first she could only see something lying in a heap against the wall in one of the corners. The daylight was waning, and the cell was merely lighted by a pale glimmer which fell from a grated window.

'Well, my fine fellow!' Alexandre exclaimed familiarly, as he stepped up to Mouret and tapped him on the shoulder; 'I am bringing you a visitor. I hope you will behave properly.'

Then he returned and leant against the door, keeping his eyes fixed upon the madman. Mouret slowly rose to his feet. He did not show the slightest sign of surprise.

'Is it you, my dear?' he said in his quiet voice. 'I was expecting you; I was getting uneasy about the children.'

Marthe's knees trembled under her, and she looked at him anxiously, rendered quite speechless by his affectionate reception. He did not appear changed at all. If anything, he looked better than he had done before. He was sleek and plump, and cleanly shaved. His eyes, too, were bright; all his former little mannerisms had reappeared, and he rubbed his hands and winked, and stalked about with his old bantering air.

'I am very well indeed, my dear. We can go back home together. You have come for me, haven't you? I hope the garden has been well looked after. The slugs were dreadfully fond of the lettuces, and the beds were quite eaten up with them, but I know a way of destroying them. I have some splendid ideas in my head that I'll tell you of. We are very comfortably off, and we can afford to pay for our fancies. By the way, have you seen old Gautier of Saint-Eutrope while I've been absent? I bought thirty hogsheads of common wine from him for blending. I must go and see him to-morrow. You never recollect anything.'

He spoke in a jesting way, and shook his finger at her playfully.

'I'll be bound that I shall find everything in dreadful disorder,' he continued. 'You never look after anything. The tools will be all lying about, the cupboard doors will be open, and Rose will be dirtying the rooms with her broom. Why hasn't Rose come with you? Ah, what a strange creature she is! Do you know, she actually wanted to turn me out of the house one day? Really, she seems to think that the whole place belongs to her. She goes on in the most amusing way possible. But you don't tell me anything about the children. Désirée is still with her nurse, I suppose. We will go and kiss her and see if she is tired of staying there. And I want to go to Marseilles as well, for I am a little uneasy about Octave. The last time I was there I found him leading a wild life. As for Serge, I have no anxiety about him; he is almost too quiet and steady. He will sanctify the whole family. Ah! I quite enjoy talking about the house and the children.'

He rattled along at great length, inquiring about every tree in his garden, going into the minutest details of the household arrangements, and showing an extraordinary memory of a host of insignificant matters. Marthe was deeply touched by the gentle affection which he manifested for her. She thought she could detect a loving delicacy in the care which he took to say nothing that savoured of reproach, to make no allusion, however slight, to all that had passed. She felt, indeed, that she was forgiven, and she vowed that she would atone for her crime by becoming the submissive servant of this man who was so sublime in his good nature. Big silent tears rolled down her cheeks, and her knees bent under her in her gratitude.

'Take care!' the warder whispered in her ear. 'I don't like the look of his eyes.'

'But he isn't mad!' she stammered; 'I swear to you that he isn't mad! I must speak to the manager. I want to take him away with me at once.'

'Take care!' the warder repeated sharply, pulling her by her arm.

Mouret had suddenly stopped short in the midst of his chatter, and was now crouching upon the floor. Then, all at once, he began to crawl along beside the wall, on his hands and knees.

'Wow! wow!' he barked in hoarse, prolonged notes.

He gave a spring into the air and fell upon his side. Then a dreadful scene ensued. He began to writhe like a worm, beat his face with his fist, and tore his flesh with his nails. In a short time he was half naked, his clothes in rags, and himself bruised and lacerated and groaning.

'Come away, madame, come away!' cried the warder.

Marthe stood rooted to the floor. She recognised in the scene before her her own writhings at home. It was in that way that she had thrown herself upon the floor of her bedroom; it was in that way that she had beaten and torn herself. She even recognised the very tones of her voice. Mouret vented the same rattling groan. It was she who had brought the poor man into this miserable state.

'He is not mad!' she stammered; 'he cannot be mad, it would be too horrible! I would rather die!'

The warder put his arm round her and pushed her out of the cell, but she remained leaning against the door on the other side. She could hear a terrible struggle going on within, screams like those of a pig being slaughtered; then a dull fall like that of a bundle of damp linen, and afterwards death-like silence. When the warder came out of the cell, the night had nearly fallen. Through the partially open doorway, Marthe could see nothing.

'Well, upon my word, madame,' cried the warder, 'you are a very queer person to say that he is not mad. I nearly left my thumb behind me; he got firmly hold of it between his teeth. However, he's quieted now for a few hours.'

And as he took her back to her uncle, he continued:

'You've no idea how cunning they all are. They are as quiet as can be for hours together, and talk to you in quite a sensible manner; and then, without the least warning, they fly at your throat. I could see very well that he was up to some mischief or other just now when he was talking to you about the children, for there was such a strange look in his eyes.'

When Marthe got back to Macquart, in the small courtyard, she exclaimed feverishly in a weak, broken voice:

'He is mad! he is mad!'

'There's no doubt he's mad,' said her uncle with a snigger. 'Why, what did you expect to find? People are not brought here for nothing. And the place isn't healthy either. If I were to be shut up there for a couple of hours, I should go mad myself.'

He was watching her askance, and he noted her nervous start and shudder. Then, in his good-natured way, he said:

'Perhaps you would like to go and see the grandmother?'

Marthe made a gesture of terror, and hid her face in her hands.

'It would be no trouble to anyone,' he said. 'Alexandre would be glad to take us. She is over yonder, on that side, and there is nothing to be afraid of with her. She is perfectly quiet. She never gives any trouble, does she, Alexandre? She always remains seated and gazing in front of her. She hasn't moved for the last dozen years. However, if you'd rather not see her, we won't go.'[7]

As the warder was taking his leave of them, Macquart invited him to come and drink a glass of mulled wine, winking the while in a certain fashion which seemed to induce Alexandre to accept the invitation. They were obliged to support Marthe, whose legs sank beneath her at each step. When they reached the house, they were actually carrying her. Her face was convulsed, her eyes were staring widely, and her whole body was rigidly stiffened by one of those nervous seizures which kept her like a dead woman for hours at a time.

'There! what did I tell you?' cried Rose, when she saw them. 'A nice state she's in! How are we to get home, I should like to know? Good heavens! how can people take such absurd fancies into their heads? The master ought to have given her neck a twist, and it would have taught her a lesson, perhaps.'

'Pooh!' said Macquart; 'I'll lay her down on my bed. It won't kill us if we have to sit up round the fire all night.'

He drew aside a calico curtain which hung in front of a recess. Rose proceeded to undress her mistress, growling as she did so. The only thing they could do, she said, was to put a hot brick at her feet.

'Now that she's all snug, we'll have a drop to drink,' resumed Macquart, with his wolfish snigger. 'That wine of yours smells awfully nice, old lady!'

'I found a lemon on the mantelpiece,' Rose said, 'and I used it.'

'You did quite right. There is everything here that is wanted. When I make a brew, there's nothing missing that ought to be in the place, I assure you.'

He pulled the table in front of the fire, and then he sat down between Rose and Alexandre, and poured the hot wine into some big yellow cups. When he had swallowed a couple of mouthfuls with great gusto, he smacked his lips and cried:

'Ah! that's first-rate. You understand how to make it. It's really better than what I make myself. You must leave me your recipe.'

Rose, greatly mollified by these compliments, began to laugh. The vine-wood fire was now a great mass of glowing embers. The cups were filled again.

'And so,' said Macquart, leaning on his elbows and looking Rose in the face, 'it was a sudden whim of my niece to come here?'

'Oh, don't talk about it,' replied the cook; 'it will make me angry again. Madame is getting as mad as the master. She can no longer tell who are her friends and who are not. I believe she had a quarrel with his reverence the Curé before she set off; I heard them shouting.'

Macquart laughed noisily.