Doctor Pascal: Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Dr. Pascal then resumed his professional visits in the town and the
surrounding country. And he was generally accompanied by Clotilde, who
went with him into the houses of the poor, where she, too, brought
health and cheerfulness.

But, as he had one night confessed to her in secret, his visits were
now only visits of relief and consolation. If he had before practised
with repugnance it was because he had felt how vain was medical
science. Empiricism disheartened him. From the moment that medicine
ceased to be an experimental science and became an art, he was filled
with disquiet at the thought of the infinite variety of diseases and
of their remedies, according to the constitution of the patient.
Treatment changed with every new hypothesis; how many people, then,
must the methods now abandoned have killed! The perspicacity of the
physician became everything, the healer was only a happily endowed
diviner, himself groping in the dark and effecting cures through his
fortunate endowment. And this explained why he had given up his
patients almost altogether, after a dozen years of practise, to devote
himself entirely to study. Then, when his great labors on heredity had
restored to him for a time the hope of intervening and curing disease
by his hypodermic injections, he had become again enthusiastic, until
the day when his faith in life, after having impelled him, to aid its
action in this way, by restoring the vital forces, became still
broader and gave him the higher conviction that life was
self-sufficing, that it was the only giver of health and strength, in
spite of everything. And he continued to visit, with his tranquil smile,
only those of his patients who clamored for him loudly, and who found
themselves miraculously relieved when he injected into them only pure
water.

Clotilde now sometimes allowed herself to jest about these hypodermic
injections. She was still at heart, however, a fervent worshiper of
his skill; and she said jestingly that if he performed miracles as he
did it was because he had in himself the godlike power to do so. Then
he would reply jestingly, attributing to her the efficacy of their
common visits, saying that he cured no one now when she was absent,
that it was she who brought the breath of life, the unknown and
necessary force from the Beyond. So that the rich people, the
_bourgeois_, whose houses she did not enter, continued to groan
without his being able to relieve them. And this affectionate dispute
diverted them; they set out each time as if for new discoveries, they
exchanged glances of kindly intelligence with the sick. Ah, this
wretched suffering which revolted them, and which was now all they
went to combat; how happy they were when they thought it vanquished!
They were divinely recompensed when they saw the cold sweats
disappear, the moaning lips become stilled, the deathlike faces
recover animation. It was assuredly the love which they brought to
this humble, suffering humanity that produced the alleviation.

"To die is nothing; that is in the natural order of things," Pascal
would often say. "But why suffer? It is cruel and unnecessary!"

One afternoon the doctor was going with the young girl to the little
village of Sainte-Marthe to see a patient, and at the station, for
they were going by train, so as to spare Bonhomme, they had a
reencounter. The train which they were waiting for was from the
Tulettes. Sainte-Marthe was the first station in the opposite
direction, going to Marseilles. When the train arrived, they hurried
on board and, opening the door of a compartment which they thought
empty, they saw old Mme. Rougon about to leave it. She did not speak
to them, but passing them by, sprang down quickly in spite of her age,
and walked away with a stiff and haughty air.

"It is the 1st of July," said Clotilde when the train had started.
"Grandmother is returning from the Tulettes, after making her monthly
visit to Aunt Dide. Did you see the glance she cast at me?"

Pascal was at heart glad of the quarrel with his mother, which freed
him from the continual annoyance of her visits.

"Bah!" he said simply, "when people cannot agree it is better for them
not to see each other."

But the young girl remained troubled and thoughtful. After a few
moments she said in an undertone:

"I thought her changed--looking paler. And did you notice? she who is
usually so carefully dressed had only one glove on--a yellow glove, on
the right hand. I don't know why it was, but she made me feel sick at
heart."

Pascal, who was also disturbed, made a vague gesture. His mother would
no doubt grow old at last, like everybody else. But she was very
active, very full of fire still. She was thinking, he said, of
bequeathing her fortune to the town of Plassans, to build a house of
refuge, which should bear the name of Rougon. Both had recovered their
gaiety when he cried suddenly:

"Why, it is to-morrow that you and I are to go to the Tulettes to see
our patients. And you know that I promised to take Charles to Uncle
Macquart's."

Felicite was in fact returning from the Tulettes, where she went
regularly on the first of every month to inquire after Aunt Dide. For
many years past she had taken a keen interest in the madwoman's
health, amazed to see her lasting so long, and furious with her for
persisting in living so far beyond the common term of life, until she
had become a very prodigy of longevity. What a relief, the fine
morning on which they should put under ground this troublesome witness
of the past, this specter of expiation and of waiting, who brought
living before her the abominations of the family! When so many others
had been taken she, who was demented and who had only a spark of life
left in her eyes, seemed forgotten. On this day she had found her as
usual, skeleton-like, stiff and erect in her armchair. As the keeper
said, there was now no reason why she should ever die. She was a
hundred and five years old.

When she left the asylum Felicite was furious. She thought of Uncle
Macquart. Another who troubled her, who persisted in living with
exasperating obstinacy! Although he was only eighty-four years old,
three years older than herself, she thought him ridiculously aged,
past the allotted term of life. And a man who led so dissipated a
life, who had gone to bed dead drunk every night for the last sixty
years! The good and the sober were taken away; he flourished in spite
of everything, blooming with health and gaiety. In days past, just
after he had settled at the Tulettes, she had made him presents of
wines, liqueurs and brandy, in the unavowed hope of ridding the family
of a fellow who was really disreputable, and from whom they had
nothing to expect but annoyance and shame. But she had soon perceived
that all this liquor served, on the contrary, to keep up his health
and spirits and his sarcastic humor, and she had left off making him
presents, seeing that he throve on what she had hoped would prove a
poison to him. She had cherished a deadly hatred toward him since
then. She would have killed him if she had dared, every time she saw
him, standing firmly on his drunken legs, and laughing at her to her
face, knowing well that she was watching for his death, and triumphant
because he did not give her the pleasure of burying with him all the
old dirty linen of the family, the blood and mud of the two conquests
of Plassans.

"You see, Felicite," he would often say to her with his air of wicked
mockery, "I am here to take care of the old mother, and the day on
which we both make up our minds to die it would be through compliment
to you--yes, simply to spare you the trouble of running to see us so
good-naturedly, in this way, every month."

Generally she did not now give herself the disappointment of going to
Macquart's, but inquired for him at the asylum. But on this occasion,
having learned there that he was passing through an extraordinary
attack of drunkenness, not having drawn a sober breath for a
fortnight, and so intoxicated that he was probably unable to leave the
house, she was seized with the curiosity to learn for herself what his
condition really was. And as she was going back to the station, she
went out of her way in order to stop at Macquart's house.

The day was superb--a warm and brilliant summer day. On either side of
the path which she had taken, she saw the fields that she had given
him in former days--all this fertile land, the price of his secrecy
and his good behavior. Before her appeared the house, with its pink
tiles and its bright yellow walls, looking gay in the sunshine. Under
the ancient mulberry trees on the terrace she enjoyed the delightful
coolness and the beautiful view. What a pleasant and safe retreat,
what a happy solitude was this for an old man to end in joy and peace
a long and well-spent life!

But she did not see him, she did not hear him. The silence was
profound. The only sound to be heard was the humming of the bees
circling around the tall marshmallows. And on the terrace there was
nothing to be seen but a little yellow dog, stretched at full length
on the bare ground, seeking the coolness of the shade. He raised his
head growling, about to bark, but, recognizing the visitor, he lay
down again quietly.

Then, in this peaceful and sunny solitude she was seized with a
strange chill, and she called:

"Macquart! Macquart!"

The door of the house under the mulberry trees stood wide open. But
she did not dare to go in; this empty house with its wide open door
gave her a vague uneasiness. And she called again:

"Macquart! Macquart!"

Not a sound, not a breath. Profound silence reigned again, but the
humming of the bees circling around the tall marshmallows sounded
louder than before.

At last Felicite, ashamed of her fears, summoned courage to enter. The
door on the left of the hall, opening into the kitchen, where Uncle
Macquart generally sat, was closed. She pushed it open, but she could
distinguish nothing at first, as the blinds had been closed, probably
in order to shut out the heat. Her first sensation was one of choking,
caused by an overpowering odor of alcohol which filled the room; every
article of furniture seemed to exude this odor, the whole house was
impregnated with it. At last, when her eyes had become accustomed to
the semi-obscurity, she perceived Macquart. He was seated at the
table, on which were a glass and a bottle of spirits of thirty-six
degrees, completely empty. Settled in his chair, he was sleeping
profoundly, dead drunk. This spectacle revived her anger and contempt.

"Come, Macquart," she cried, "is it not vile and senseless to put
one's self in such a state! Wake up, I say, this is shameful!"

His sleep was so profound that she could not even hear him breathing.
In vain she raised her voice, and slapped him smartly on the hands.

"Macquart! Macquart! Macquart! Ah, faugh! You are disgusting, my
dear!"

Then she left him, troubling herself no further about him, and walked
around the room, evidently seeking something. Coming down the dusky
road from the asylum she had been seized with a consuming thirst, and
she wished to get a glass of water. Her gloves embarrassed her, and
she took them off and put them on a corner of the table. Then she
succeeded in finding the jug, and she washed a glass and filled it to
the brim, and was about to empty it when she saw an extraordinary
sight--a sight which agitated her so greatly that she set the glass
down again beside her gloves, without drinking.

By degrees she had begun to see objects more clearly in the room,
which was lighted dimly by a few stray sunbeams that filtered through
the cracks of the old shutters. She now saw Uncle Macquart distinctly,
neatly dressed in a blue cloth suit, as usual, and on his head the
eternal fur cap which he wore from one year's end to the other. He had
grown stout during the last five or six years, and he looked like a
veritable mountain of flesh overlaid with rolls of fat. And she
noticed that he must have fallen asleep while smoking, for his pipe--a
short black pipe--had fallen into his lap. Then she stood still,
stupefied with amazement--the burning tobacco had been scattered in
the fall, and the cloth of the trousers had caught fire, and through a
hole in the stuff, as large already as a hundred-sous piece, she saw
the bare thigh, whence issued a little blue flame.

At first Felicite had thought that it was linen--the drawers or the
shirt--that was burning. But soon doubt was no longer possible, she
saw distinctly the bare flesh and the little blue flame issuing from
it, lightly dancing, like a flame wandering over the surface of a
vessel of lighted alcohol. It was as yet scarcely higher than the
flame of a night light, pale and soft, and so unstable that the
slightest breath of air caused it to change its place. But it
increased and spread rapidly, and the skin cracked and the fat began
to melt.

An involuntary cry escaped from Felicite's throat.

"Macquart! Macquart!"

But still he did not stir. His insensibility must have been complete;
intoxication must have produced a sort of coma, in which there was an
absolute paralysis of sensation, for he was living, his breast could
be seen rising and falling, in slow and even respiration.

"Macquart! Macquart!"

Now the fat was running through the cracks of the skin, feeding the
flame, which was invading the abdomen. And Felicite comprehended
vaguely that Uncle Macquart was burning before her like a sponge
soaked with brandy. He had, indeed, been saturated with it for years
past, and of the strongest and most inflammable kind. He would no
doubt soon be blazing from head to foot, like a bowl of punch.

Then she ceased to try to awaken him, since he was sleeping so
soundly. For a full minute she had the courage to look at him,
awe-stricken, but gradually coming to a determination. Her hands,
however, began to tremble, with a little shiver which she could not
control. She was choking, and taking up the glass of water again with
both hands, she emptied it at a draught. And she was going away on
tiptoe, when she remembered her gloves. She went back, groped for them
anxiously on the table and, as she thought, picked them both up. Then
she left the room, closing the door behind her carefully, and as gently
as if she were afraid of disturbing some one.

When she found herself once more on the terrace, in the cheerful
sunshine and the pure air, in face of the vast horizon bathed in
light, she heaved a sigh of relief. The country was deserted; no one
could have seen her entering or leaving the house. Only the yellow dog
was still stretched there, and he did not even deign to look up. And
she went away with her quick, short step, her youthful figure lightly
swaying. A hundred steps away, an irresistible impulse compelled her
to turn round to give a last look at the house, so tranquil and so
cheerful on the hillside, in the declining light of the beautiful day.

Only when she was in the train and went to put on her gloves did she
perceive that one of them was missing. But she supposed that it had
fallen on the platform at the station as she was getting into the car.
She believed herself to be quite calm, but she remained with one hand
gloved and one hand bare, which, with her, could only be the result of
great agitation.

On the following day Pascal and Clotilde took the three o'clock train
to go to the Tulettes. The mother of Charles, the harness-maker's
wife, had brought the boy to them, as they had offered to take him to
Uncle Macquart's, where he was to remain for the rest of the week.
Fresh quarrels had disturbed the peace of the household, the husband
having resolved to tolerate no longer in his house another man's
child, that do-nothing, imbecile prince's son. As it was Grandmother
Rougon who had dressed him, he was, indeed, dressed on this day,
again, in black velvet trimmed with gold braid, like a young lord, a
page of former times going to court. And during the quarter of an hour
which the journey lasted, Clotilde amused herself in the compartment,
in which they were alone, by taking off his cap and smoothing his
beautiful blond locks, his royal hair that fell in curls over his
shoulders. She had a ring on her finger, and as she passed her hand
over his neck she was startled to perceive that her caress had left
behind it a trace of blood. One could not touch the boy's skin without
the red dew exuding from it; the tissues had become so lax through
extreme degeneration that the slightest scratch brought on a
hemorrhage. The doctor became at once uneasy, and asked him if he
still bled at the nose as frequently as formerly. Charles hardly knew
what to answer; first saying no, then, recollecting himself, he said
that he had bled a great deal the other day. He seemed, indeed,
weaker; he grew more childish as he grew older; his intelligence,
which had never developed, had become clouded. This tall boy of
fifteen, so beautiful, so girlish-looking, with the color of a flower
that had grown in the shade, did not look ten.

At the Tulettes Pascal decided that they would first take the boy to
Uncle Macquart's. They ascended the steep road. In the distance the
little house looked gay in the sunshine, as it had looked on the day
before, with its yellow walls and its green mulberry trees extending
their twisted branches and covering the terrace with a thick, leafy
roof. A delightful sense of peace pervaded this solitary spot, this
sage's retreat, where the only sound to be heard was the humming of
the bees, circling round the tall marshmallows.

"Ah, that rascal of an uncle!" said Pascal, smiling, "how I envy him!"

But he was surprised not to have already seen him standing at the edge
of the terrace. And as Charles had run off dragging Clotilde with him
to see the rabbits, as he said, the doctor continued the ascent alone,
and was astonished when he reached the top to see no one. The blinds
were closed, the hill door yawned wide open. Only the yellow dog was
at the threshold, his legs stiff, his hair bristling, howling with a
low and continuous moan. When he saw the visitor, whom he no doubt
recognized, approaching, he stopped howling for an instant and went
and stood further off, then he began again to whine softly.

Pascal, filled with apprehension, could not keep back the uneasy cry
that rose to his lips:

"Macquart! Macquart!"

No one answered; a deathlike silence reigned over the house, with its
door yawning wide open, like the mouth of a cavern. The dog continued
to howl.

Then Pascal grew impatient, and cried more loudly.

"Macquart! Macquart!"

There was not a stir; the bees hummed, the sky looked down serenely on
the peaceful scene. Then he hesitated no longer. Perhaps Macquart was
asleep. But the instant he pushed open the door of the kitchen on the
left of the hall, a horrible odor escaped from it, an odor of burned
flesh and bones. When he entered the room he could hardly breathe, so
filled was it by a thick vapor, a stagnant and nauseous cloud, which
choked and blinded him. The sunbeams that filtered through the cracks
made only a dim light. He hurried to the fireplace, thinking that
perhaps there had been a fire, but the fireplace was empty, and the
articles of furniture around appeared to be uninjured. Bewildered, and
feeling himself growing faint in the poisoned atmosphere, he ran to
the window and threw the shutters wide open. A flood of light entered.

Then the scene presented to the doctor's view filled him with
amazement. Everything was in its place; the glass and the empty bottle
of spirits were on the table; only the chair in which Uncle Macquart
must have been sitting bore traces of fire, the front legs were
blackened and the straw was partially consumed. What had become of
Macquart? Where could he have disappeared? In front of the chair, on
the brick floor, which was saturated with grease, there was a little
heap of ashes, beside which lay the pipe--a black pipe, which had not
even broken in falling. All of Uncle Macquart was there, in this
handful of fine ashes; and he was in the red cloud, also, which
floated through the open window; in the layer of soot which carpeted
the entire kitchen; the horrible grease of burnt flesh, enveloping
everything, sticky and foul to the touch.

It was the finest case of spontaneous combustion physician had ever
seen. The doctor had, indeed, read in medical papers of surprising
cases, among others that of a shoemaker's wife, a drunken woman who
had fallen asleep over her foot warmer, and of whom they had found
only a hand and foot. He had, until now, put little faith in these
cases, unwilling to admit, like the ancients, that a body impregnated
with alcohol could disengage an unknown gas, capable of taking fire
spontaneously and consuming the flesh and the bones. But he denied the
truth of them no longer; besides, everything became clear to him as he
reconstructed the scene--the coma of drunkenness producing absolute
insensibility; the pipe falling on the clothes, which had taken fire;
the flesh, saturated with liquor, burning and cracking; the fat
melting, part of it running over the ground and part of it aiding the
combustion, and all, at last--muscles, organs, and bones--consumed in
a general blaze. Uncle Macquart was all there, with his blue cloth
suit, and his fur cap, which he wore from one year's end to the other.
Doubtless, as soon as he had begun to burn like a bonfire he had
fallen forward, which would account for the chair being only
blackened; and nothing of him was left, not a bone, not a tooth, not a
nail, nothing but this little heap of gray dust which the draught of
air from the door threatened at every moment to sweep away.

Clotilde had meanwhile entered, Charles remaining outside, his
attention attracted by the continued howling of the dog.

"Good Heavens, what a smell!" she cried. "What is the matter?"

When Pascal explained to her the extraordinary catastrophe that had
taken place, she shuddered. She took up the bottle to examine it, but
she put it down again with horror, feeling it moist and sticky with
Uncle Macquart's flesh. Nothing could be touched, the smallest objects
were coated, as it were, with this yellowish grease which stuck to the
hands.

A shudder of mingled awe and disgust passed through her, and she burst
into tears, faltering:

"What a sad death! What a horrible death!"

Pascal had recovered from his first shock, and he was almost smiling.

"Why horrible? He was eighty-four years old; he did not suffer. As for
me, I think it a superb death for that old rascal of an uncle, who, it
may be now said, did not lead a very exemplary life. You remember his
envelope; he had some very terrible and vile things upon his
conscience, which did not prevent him, however, from settling down
later and growing old, surrounded by every comfort, like an old
humbug, receiving the recompense of virtues which he did not possess.
And here he lies like the prince of drunkards, burning up of himself,
consumed on the burning funeral pile of his own body!"

And the doctor waved his hand in admiration.

"Just think of it. To be drunk to the point of not feeling that one is
on fire; to set one's self aflame, like a bonfire on St. John's day;
to disappear in smoke to the last bone. Think of Uncle Macquart

starting on his journey through space; first diffused through the four
corners of the room, dissolved in air and floating about, bathing all
that belonged to him; then escaping in a cloud of dust through the
window, when I opened it for him, soaring up into the sky, filling the
horizon. Why, that is an admirable death! To disappear, to leave
nothing of himself behind but a little heap of ashes and a pipe beside
it!"

And he picked up the pipe to keep it, as he said, as a relic of Uncle
Macquart; while Clotilde, who thought she perceived a touch of bitter
mockery in his eulogistic rhapsody, shuddered anew with horror and
disgust. But suddenly she perceived something under the table--part of
the remains, perhaps.

"Look at that fragment there."

He stooped down and picked up with surprise a woman's glove, a yellow
glove.

"Why!" she cried, "it is grandmother's glove; the glove that was
missing last evening."

They looked at each other; by a common impulse the same explanation
rose to their lips, Felicite was certainly there yesterday; and a
sudden conviction forced itself on the doctor's mind--the conviction
that his mother had seen Uncle Macquart burning and that she had not
quenched him. Various indications pointed to this--the state of
complete coolness in which he found the room, the number of hours
which he calculated to have been necessary for the combustion of the
body. He saw clearly the same thought dawning in the terrified eyes of
his companion. But as it seemed impossible that they should ever know
the truth, he fabricated aloud the simplest explanation:

"No doubt your grandmother came in yesterday on her way back from the
asylum, to say good day to Uncle Macquart, before he had begun
drinking."

"Let us go away! let us go away!" cried Clotilde. "I am stifling here;
I cannot remain here!"

Pascal, too, wished to go and give information of the death. He went
out after her, shut up the house, and put the key in his pocket.
Outside, they heard the little yellow dog still howling. He had taken
refuge between Charles' legs, and the boy amused himself pushing him
with his foot and listening to him whining, without comprehending.

The doctor went at once to the house of M. Maurin, the notary at the
Tulettes, who was also mayor of the commune. A widower for ten years
past, and living with his daughter, who was a childless widow, he had
maintained neighborly relations with old Macquart, and had
occasionally kept little Charles with him for several days at a time,
his daughter having become interested in the boy who was so handsome
and so much to be pitied. M. Maurin, horrified at the news, went at
once with the doctor to draw up a statement of the accident, and
promised to make out the death certificate in due form. As for
religious ceremonies, funeral obsequies, they seemed scarcely
possible. When they entered the kitchen the draught from the door
scattered the ashes about, and when they piously attempted to collect
them again they succeeded only in gathering together the scrapings of
the flags, a collection of accumulated dirt, in which there could be
but little of Uncle Macquart. What, then, could they bury? It was
better to give up the idea. So they gave it up. Besides, Uncle
Macquart had been hardly a devout Catholic, and the family contented
themselves with causing masses to be said later on for the repose of
his soul.

The notary, meantime, had immediately declared that there existed a
will, which had been deposited with him, and he asked Pascal to meet
him at his house on the next day but one for the reading; for he
thought he might tell the doctor at once that Uncle Macquart had
chosen him as his executor. And he ended by offering, like a
kindhearted man, to keep Charles with him until then, comprehending
how greatly the boy, who was so unwelcome at his mother's, would be in
the way in the midst of all these occurrences. Charles seemed
enchanted, and he remained at the Tulettes.

It was not until very late, until seven o'clock, that Clotilde and
Pascal were able to take the train to return to Plassans, after the
doctor had at last visited the two patients whom he had to see. But
when they returned together to the notary's on the day appointed for
the meeting, they had the disagreeable surprise of finding old Mme.
Rougon installed there. She had naturally learned of Macquart's death,
and had hurried there on the following day, full of excitement, and
making a great show of grief; and she had just made her appearance
again to-day, having heard the famous testament spoken of. The reading
of the will, however, was a simple matter, unmarked by any incident.
Macquart had left all the fortune that he could dispose of for the
purpose of erecting a superb marble monument to himself, with two
angels with folded wings, weeping. It was his own idea, a reminiscence
of a similar tomb which he had seen abroad--in Germany, perhaps--when
he was a soldier. And he had charged his nephew Pascal to superintend
the erection of the monument, as he was the only one of the family, he
said, who had any taste.

During the reading of the will Clotilde had remained in the notary's
garden, sitting on a bench under the shade of an ancient chestnut
tree. When Pascal and Felicite again appeared, there was a moment of
great embarrassment, for they had not spoken to one another for some
months past. The old lady, however, affected to be perfectly at her
ease, making no allusion whatever to the new situation, and giving it
to be understood that they might very well meet and appear united
before the world, without for that reason entering into an explanation
or becoming reconciled. But she committed the mistake of laying too
much stress on the great grief which Macquart's death had caused her.
Pascal, who suspected the overflowing joy, the unbounded delight which
it gave her to think that this family ulcer was to be at last healed,
that this abominable uncle was at last out of the way, became
gradually possessed by an impatience, an indignation, which he could
not control. His eyes fastened themselves involuntarily on his
mother's gloves, which were black.

Just then she was expressing her grief in lowered tones:

"But how imprudent it was, at his age, to persist in living alone--
like a wolf in his lair! If he had only had a servant in the house
with him!"

Then the doctor, hardly conscious of what he was saying, terrified at
hearing himself say the words, but impelled by an irresistible force,
said:

"But, mother, since you were there, why did you not quench him?"

Old Mme. Rougon turned frightfully pale. How could her son have known?
She looked at him for an instant in open-mouthed amazement; while
Clotilde grew as pale as she, in the certainty of the crime, which was
now evident. It was an avowal, this terrified silence which had fallen
between the mother, the son, and the granddaughter--the shuddering
silence in which families bury their domestic tragedies. The doctor,
in despair at having spoken, he who avoided so carefully all
disagreeable and useless explanations, was trying desperately to
retract his words, when a new catastrophe extricated him from his
terrible embarrassment.

Felicite desired to take Charles away with her, in order not to
trespass on the notary's kind hospitality; and as the latter had sent
the boy after breakfast to spend an hour or two with Aunt Dide, he had
sent the maid servant to the asylum with orders to bring him back
immediately. It was at this juncture that the servant, whom they were
waiting for in the garden, made her appearance, covered with
perspiration, out of breath, and greatly excited, crying from a
distance:

"My God! My God! come quickly. Master Charles is bathed in blood."

Filled with consternation, all three set off for the asylum. This day
chanced to be one of Aunt Dide's good days; very calm and gentle she
sat erect in the armchair in which she had spent the hours, the long
hours for twenty-two years past, looking straight before her into
vacancy. She seemed to have grown still thinner, all the flesh had
disappeared, her limbs were now only bones covered with parchment-like
skin; and her keeper, the stout fair-haired girl, carried her, fed
her, took her up and laid her down as if she had been a bundle. The
ancestress, the forgotten one, tall, bony, ghastly, remained
motionless, her eyes, only seeming to have life, her eyes shining
clear as spring water in her thin withered face. But on this morning,
again a sudden rush of tears had streamed down her cheeks, and she had
begun to stammer words without any connection; which seemed to prove
that in the midst of her senile exhaustion and the incurable torpor of
madness, the slow induration of the brain and the limbs was not yet
complete; there still were memories stored away, gleams of
intelligence still were possible. Then her face had resumed its vacant
expression. She seemed indifferent to every one and everything,
laughing, sometimes, at an accident, at a fall, but most often seeing
nothing and hearing nothing, gazing fixedly into vacancy.

When Charles had been brought to her the keeper had immediately
installed him before the little table, in front of his great-great-
grandmother. The girl kept a package of pictures for him--soldiers,
captains, kings clad in purple and gold, and she gave them to him with
a pair of scissors, saying:

"There, amuse yourself quietly, and behave well. You see that to-day
grandmother is very good. You must be good, too."

The boy raised his eyes to the madwoman's face, and both looked at
each other. At this moment the resemblance between them was
extraordinary. Their eyes, especially, their vacant and limpid eyes,
seemed to lose themselves in one another, to be identical. Then it was
the physiognomy, the whole face, the worn features of the centenarian,
that passed over three generations to this delicate child's face, it,
too, worn already, as it were, and aged by the wear of the race.
Neither smiled, they regarded each other intently, with an air of
grave imbecility.

"Well!" continued the keeper, who had acquired the habit of talking to
herself to cheer herself when with her mad charge, "you cannot deny
each other. The same hand made you both. You are the very spit-down of
each other. Come, laugh a bit, amuse yourselves, since you like to be
together."

But to fix his attention for any length of time fatigued Charles, and
he was the first to lower his eyes; he seemed to be interested in his
pictures, while Aunt Dide, who had an astonishing power of fixing her
attention, as if she had been turned into stone, continued to look at
him fixedly, without even winking an eyelid.

The keeper busied herself for a few moments in the little sunny room,
made gay by its light, blue-flowered paper. She made the bed which she
had been airing, she arranged the linen on the shelves of the press.
But she generally profited by the presence of the boy to take a little
relaxation. She had orders never to leave her charge alone, and now
that he was here she ventured to trust her with him.

"Listen to me well," she went on, "I have to go out for a little, and
if she stirs, if she should need me, ring for me, call me at once; do
you hear? You understand, you are a big enough boy to be able to call
one."

He had looked up again, and made a sign that he had understood and
that he would call her. And when he found himself alone with Aunt Dide
he returned to his pictures quietly. This lasted for a quarter of an
hour amid the profound silence of the asylum, broken only at intervals
by some prison sound--a stealthy step, the jingling of a bunch of
keys, and occasionally a loud cry, immediately silenced. But the boy
must have been tired by the excessive heat of the day, for sleep
gradually stole over him. Soon his head, fair as a lily, drooped, and
as if weighed down by the too heavy casque of his royal locks, he let
it sink gently on the pictures and fell asleep, with his cheek resting
on the gold and purple kings. The lashes of his closed eyelids cast a
shadow on his delicate skin, with its small blue veins, through which
life pulsed feebly. He was beautiful as an angel, but with the
indefinable corruption of a whole race spread over his countenance.
And Aunt Dide looked at him with her vacant stare in which there was
neither pleasure nor pain, the stare of eternity contemplating things
earthly.

At the end of a few moments, however, an expression of interest seemed
to dawn in the clear eyes. Something had just happened, a drop of
blood was forming on the edge of the left nostril of the boy. This
drop fell and another formed and followed it. It was the blood, the
dew of blood, exuding this time, without a scratch, without a bruise,
which issued and flowed of itself in the laxity of the degenerate
tissues. The drops became a slender thread which flowed over the gold
of the pictures. A little pool covered them, and made its way to a
corner of the table; then the drops began again, splashing dully one
by one upon the floor. And he still slept, with the divinely calm look
of a cherub, not even conscious of the life that was escaping from
him; and the madwoman continued to look at him, with an air of
increasing interest, but without terror, amused, rather, her attention
engaged by this, as by the flight of the big flies, which her gaze
often followed for hours.

Several minutes more passed, the slender thread had grown larger, the
drops followed one another more rapidly, falling on the floor with a
monotonous and persistent drip. And Charles, at one moment, stirred,
opened his eyes, and perceived that he was covered with blood. But he
was not frightened; he was accustomed to this bloody spring, which
issued from him at the slightest cause. He merely gave a sigh of
weariness. Instinct, however, must have warned him, for he moaned more
loudly than before, and called confusedly in stammering accents:

"Mamma! mamma!"

His weakness was no doubt already excessive, for an irresistible
stupor once more took possession of him, his head dropped, his eyes
closed, and he seemed to fall asleep again, continuing his plaint, as
if in a dream, moaning in fainter and fainter accents:

"Mamma! mamma!"

Now the pictures were inundated; the black velvet jacket and trousers,
braided with gold, were stained with long streaks of blood, and the
little red stream began again to flow persistently from his left
nostril, without stopping, crossed the red pool on the table and fell
upon the ground, where it at last formed a veritable lake. A loud cry
from the madwoman, a terrified call would have sufficed. But she did
not cry, she did not call; motionless, rigid, emaciated, sitting there
forgotten of the world, she gazed with the fixed look of the
ancestress who sees the destinies of her race being accomplished. She
sat there as if dried up, bound; her limbs and her tongue tied by her
hundred years, her brain ossified by madness, incapable of willing or
of acting. And yet the sight of the little red stream began to stir
some feeling in her. A tremor passed over her deathlike countenance, a
flush mounted to her cheeks. Finally, a last plaint roused her
completely:

"Mamma! mamma!"

Then it was evident that a terrible struggle was taking place in Aunt
Dide. She carried her skeleton-like hand to her forehead as if she
felt her brain bursting. Her mouth was wide open, but no sound issued
from it; the dreadful tumult that had arisen within her had no doubt
paralyzed her tongue. She tried to rise, to run, but she had no longer
any muscles; she remained fastened to her seat. All her poor body
trembled in the superhuman effort which she was making to cry for
help, without being able to break the bonds of old age and madness
which held her prisoner. Her face was distorted with terror; memory
gradually awakening, she must have comprehended everything.

And it was a slow and gentle agony, of which the spectacle lasted for
several minutes more. Charles, silent now, as if he had again fallen
asleep, was losing the last drops of blood that had remained in his
veins, which were emptying themselves softly. His lily-like whiteness
increased until it became a deathlike pallor. His lips lost their rosy
color, became a pale pink, then white. And, as he was about to expire,
he opened his large eyes and fixed them on his great-great-
grandmother, who watched the light dying in them. All the waxen face
was already dead, the eyes only were still living. They still kept
their limpidity, their brightness. All at once they became vacant, the
light in them was extinguished. This was the end--the death of the
eyes, and Charles had died, without a struggle, exhausted, like a
fountain from which all the water has run out. Life no longer pulsed
through the veins of his delicate skin, there was now only the shadow
of its wings on his white face. But he remained divinely beautiful,
his face lying in blood, surrounded by his royal blond locks, like one
of those little bloodless dauphins who, unable to bear the execrable
heritage of their race, die of decrepitude and imbecility at sixteen.

The boy exhaled his latest breath as Dr. Pascal entered the room,
followed by Felicite and Clotilde. And when he saw the quantity of
blood that inundated the floor, he cried:

"Ah, my God! it is as I feared, a hemorrhage from the nose! The poor
darling, no one was with him, and it is all over!"

But all three were struck with terror at the extraordinary spectacle
that now met their gaze. Aunt Dide, who seemed to have grown taller,
in the superhuman effort she was making, had almost succeeded in
raising herself up, and her eyes, fixed on the dead boy, so fair and
so gentle, and on the red sea of blood, beginning to congeal, that was
lying around him, kindled with a thought, after a long sleep of
twenty-two years. This final lesion of madness, this irremediable
darkness of the mind, was evidently not so complete but that some
memory of the past, lying hidden there, might awaken suddenly under
the terrible blow which had struck her. And the ancestress, the
forgotten one, lived again, emerged from her oblivion, rigid and
wasted, like a specter of terror and grief.

For an instant she remained panting. Then with a shudder, which made
her teeth chatter, she stammered a single phrase:

"The _gendarme_! the _gendarme_!"

Pascal and Felicite and Clotilde understood. They looked at one
another involuntarily, turning very pale. The whole dreadful history
of the old mother--of the mother of them all--rose before them, the
ardent love of her youth, the long suffering of her mature age.
Already two moral shocks had shaken her terribly--the first, when she
was in her ardent prime, when a _gendarme_ shot down her lover
Macquart, the smuggler, like a dog; the second, years ago, when
another _gendarme_ shattered with a pistol shot the skull of her
grandson Silvere, the insurgent, the victim of the hatred and the
sanguinary strife of the family. Blood had always bespattered her. And
a third moral shock finished her; blood bespattered her again, the
impoverished blood of her race, which she had just beheld flowing
slowly, and which lay upon the ground, while the fair royal child, his
veins and his heart empty, slept.

Three times--face to face with her past life, her life red with
passion and suffering, haunted by the image of expiation--she
stammered:

"The _gendarme_! the _gendarme_! the _gendarme_!"

Then she sank back into her armchair. They thought she was dead,
killed by the shock.

But the keeper at this moment at last appeared, endeavoring to excuse
herself, fearing that she would be dismissed. When, aided by her, Dr.
Pascal had placed Aunt Dide on the bed, he found that the old mother
was still alive. She was not to die until the following day, at the
age of one hundred and five years, three months, and seven days, of
congestion of the brain, caused by the last shock she had received.

Pascal, turning to his mother, said:

"She will not live twenty-four hours; to-morrow she will be dead. Ah!
Uncle Macquart, then she, and this poor boy, one after another. How
much misery and grief!"

He paused and added in a lower tone:

"The family is thinning out; the old trees fall and the young die
standing."

Felicite must have thought this another allusion. She was sincerely
shocked by the tragic death of little Charles. But, notwithstanding,
above the horror which she felt there arose a sense of immense relief.
Next week, when they should have ceased to weep, what a rest to be
able to say to herself that all this abomination of the Tulettes was
at an end, that the family might at last rise, and shine in history!

Then she remembered that she had not answered the involuntary
accusation made against her by her son at the notary's; and she spoke
again of Macquart, through bravado:

"You see now that servants are of no use. There was one here, and yet
she prevented nothing; it would have been useless for Uncle Macquart
to have had one to take care of him; he would be in ashes now, all the
same."

She sighed, and then continued in a broken voice:

"Well, well, neither our own fate nor that of others is in our hands;
things happen as they will. These are great blows that have fallen
upon us. We must only trust to God for the preservation and the
prosperity of our family."

Dr. Pascal bowed with his habitual air of deference and said:

"You are right, mother."

Clotilde knelt down. Her former fervent Catholic faith had revived in
this chamber of blood, of madness, and of death. Tears streamed down
her cheeks, and with clasped hands she was praying fervently for the
dear ones who were no more. She prayed that God would grant that their
sufferings might indeed be ended, their faults pardoned, and that they
might live again in another life, a life of unending happiness. And
she prayed with the utmost fervor, in her terror of a hell, which
after this miserable life would make suffering eternal.

From this day Pascal and Clotilde went to visit their sick side by
side, filled with greater pity than ever. Perhaps, with Pascal, the
feeling of his powerlessness against inevitable disease was even
stronger than before. The only wisdom was to let nature take its
course, to eliminate dangerous elements, and to labor only in the
supreme work of giving health and strength. But the suffering and the
death of those who are dear to us awaken in us a hatred of disease, an
irresistible desire to combat and to vanquish it. And the doctor never
tasted so great a joy as when he succeeded, with his hypodermic
injections, in soothing a paroxysm of pain, in seeing the groaning
patient grow tranquil and fall asleep. Clotilde, in return, adored
him, proud of their love, as if it were a consolation which they
carried, like the viaticum, to the poor.

Back to chapter list of: Doctor Pascal