Fruitfulness: Chapter 2

Chapter 2

II

MORANGE, the chief accountant at Beauchene's works, was a man of
thirty-eight, bald and already gray-headed, but with a superb dark,
fan-shaped beard, of which he was very proud. His full limpid eyes,
straight nose, and well-shaped if somewhat large mouth had in his younger
days given him the reputation of being a handsome fellow. He still took
great care of himself, invariably wore a tall silk hat, and preserved the
correct appearance of a very painstaking and well-bred clerk.

"You don't know our new flat yet, do you?" he asked Mathieu as he led him
away. "Oh! it's perfect, as you will see. A bedroom for us and another
for Reine. And it is so close to the works too. I get there in four
minutes, watch in hand."

He, Morange, was the son of a petty commercial clerk who had died on his
stool after forty years of cloistral office-life. And he had married a
clerk's daughter, one Valerie Duchemin, the eldest of four girls whose
parents' home had been turned into a perfect hell, full of shameful
wretchedness and unacknowledgable poverty, through this abominable
incumbrance. Valerie, who was good-looking and ambitious, was lucky
enough, however, to marry that handsome, honest, and hard-working fellow,
Morange, although she was quite without a dowry; and, this accomplished,
she indulged in the dream of climbing a little higher up the social
ladder, and freeing herself from the loathsome world of petty clerkdom by
making the son whom she hoped to have either an advocate or a doctor.
Unfortunately the much-desired child proved to be a girl; and Valerie
trembled, fearful of finding herself at last with four daughters on her
hands, just as her mother had. Her dream thereupon changed, and she
resolved to incite her husband onward to the highest posts, so that she
might ultimately give her daughter a large dowry, and by this means gain
that admittance to superior spheres which she so eagerly desired. Her
husband, who was weak and extremely fond of her, ended by sharing her
ambition, ever revolving schemes of pride and conquest for her benefit.
But he had now been eight years at the Beauchene works, and he still
earned but five thousand francs a year. This drove him and his wife to
despair. Assuredly it was not at Beauchene's that he would ever make his
fortune.

"You see!" he exclaimed, after going a couple of hundred yards with
Mathieu along the Boulevard de Grenelle, "it is that new house yonder at
the street corner. It has a stylish appearance, eh?"

Mathieu then perceived a lofty modern pile, ornamented with balconies and
sculpture work, which looked quite out of place among the poor little
houses predominating in the district.

"Why, it is a palace!" he exclaimed, in order to please Morange, who
thereupon drew himself up quite proudly.

"You will see the staircase, my dear fellow! Our place, you know, is on
the fifth floor. But that is of no consequence with such a staircase, so
easy, so soft, that one climbs it almost without knowing."

Thereupon Morange showed his guest into the vestibule as if he were
ushering him into a temple. The stucco walls gleamed brightly; there was
a carpet on the stairs, and colored glass in the windows. And when, on
reaching the fifth story, the cashier opened the door with his latchkey,
he repeated, with an air of delight: "You will see, you will see!"

Valerie and Reine must have been on the watch, for they hastened forward.
At thirty-two Valerie was still young and charming. She was a
pleasant-looking brunette, with a round smiling face in a setting of
superb hair. She had a full, round bust, and admirable shoulders, of
which her husband felt quite proud whenever she showed herself in a
low-necked dress. Reine, at this time twelve years old, was the very
portrait of her mother, showing much the same smiling, if rather longer,
face under similar black tresses.

"Ah! it is very kind of you to accept our invitation," said Valerie gayly
as she pressed both Mathieu's hands. "What a pity that Madame Froment
could not come with you! Reine, why don't you relieve the gentleman of
his hat?"

Then she immediately continued: "We have a nice light anteroom, you see.
Would you like to glance over our flat while the eggs are being boiled?
That will always be one thing done, and you will then at least know where
you are lunching."

All this was said in such an agreeable way, and Morange on his side
smiled so good-naturedly, that Mathieu willingly lent himself to this
innocent display of vanity. First came the parlor, the corner room, the
walls of which were covered with pearl-gray paper with a design of golden
flowers, while the furniture consisted of some of those white lacquered
Louis XVI. pieces which makers turn out by the gross. The rosewood piano
showed like a big black blot amidst all the rest. Then, overlooking the
Boulevard de Grenelle, came Reine's bedroom, pale blue, with furniture of
polished pine. Her parents' room, a very small apartment, was at the
other end of the flat, separated from the parlor by the dining-room. The
hangings adorning it were yellow; and a bedstead, a washstand, and a
wardrobe, all of thuya, had been crowded into it. Finally the classic
"old carved oak" triumphed in the dining-room, where a heavily gilded
hanging lamp flashed like fire above the table, dazzling in its
whiteness.

"Why, it's delightful," Mathieu, repeated, by way of politeness; "why,
it's a real gem of a place."

In their excitement, father, mother, and daughter never ceased leading
him hither and thither, explaining matters to him and making him feel the
things. He was most struck, by the circumstance that the place recalled
something he had seen before; he seemed to be familiar with the
arrangement of the drawing-room, and with the way in which the nicknacks
in the bedchamber were set out. And all at once he remembered. Influenced
by envy and covert admiration, the Moranges, despite themselves, no
doubt, had tried to copy the Beauchenes. Always short of money as they
were, they could only and by dint of great sacrifices indulge in a
species of make-believe luxury. Nevertheless they were proud of it, and,
by imitating the envied higher class from afar, they imagined that they
drew nearer to it.

"And then," Morange exclaimed, as he opened the dining-room window,
"there is also this."

Outside, a balcony ran along the house-front, and at that height the view
was really a very fine one, similar to that obtained from the Beauchene
mansion but more extensive, the Seine showing in the distance, and the
heights of Passy rising above the nearer and lower house-roofs.

Valerie also called attention to the prospect. "It is magnificent, is it
not?" said she; "far better than the few trees that one can see from the
quay."

The servant was now bringing the boiled eggs and they took their seats at
table, while Morange victoriously explained that the place altogether
cost him sixteen hundred francs a year. It was cheap indeed, though the
amount was a heavy charge on Morange's slender income. Mathieu now began
to understand that he had been invited more particularly to admire the
new flat, and these worthy people seemed so delighted to triumph over it
before him that he took the matter gayly and without thought of spite.
There was no calculating ambition in his nature; he envied nothing of the
luxury he brushed against in other people's homes, and he was quite
satisfied with the snug modest life he led with Marianne and his
children. Thus he simply felt surprised at finding the Moranges so
desirous of cutting a figure and making money, and looked at them with a
somewhat sad smile.

Valerie was wearing a pretty gown of foulard with a pattern of little
yellow flowers, while her daughter, Reine, whom she liked to deck out
coquettishly, had a frock of blue linen stuff. There was rather too much
luxury about the meal also. Soles followed the eggs, and then came
cutlets, and afterwards asparagus.

The conversation began with some mention of Janville.

"And so your children are in good health? Oh! they are very fine children
indeed. And you really like the country? How funny! I think I should feel
dreadfully bored there, for there is too great a lack of amusements. Why,
yes, we shall be delighted to go to see you there, since Madame Froment
is kind enough to invite us."

Then, as was bound to happen, the talk turned on the Beauchenes. This was
a subject which haunted the Moranges, who lived in perpetual admiration
of the Beauchenes, though at times they covertly criticised them. Valerie
was very proud of being privileged to attend Constance's Saturday
"at-homes," and of having been twice invited to dinner by her during the
previous winter. She on her side now had a day of her own, Tuesday, and
she even gave little private parties, and half ruined herself in
providing refreshments at them. As for her acquaintances, she spoke with
profound respect of Mme. Seguin du Hordel and that lady's magnificent
mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, for Constance had obligingly obtained her
an invitation to a ball there. But she was particularly vain of the
friendship of Beauchene's sister, Seraphine, whom she invariably called
"Madame la Baronne de Lowicz."

"The Baroness came to my at-home one afternoon," she said. "She is so
very good-natured and so gay! You knew her formerly, did you not? After
her marriage, eh? when she became reconciled to her brother and their
wretched disputes about money matters were over. By the way, she has no
great liking for Madame Beauchene, as you must know."

Then she again reverted to the manufacturer's wife, declared that little
Maurice, however sturdy he might look, was simply puffed out with bad
flesh; and she remarked that it would be a terrible blow for the parents
if they should lose that only son. The subject of children was thus
started, and when Mathieu, laughing, observed that they, the Moranges,
had but one child, the cashier protested that it was unfair to compare
him with M. Beauchene, who was such a wealthy man. Valerie, for her part,
pictured the position of her parents, afflicted with four daughters, who
had been obliged to wait months and months for boots and frocks and hats,
and had grown up anyhow, in perpetual terror lest they should never find
husbands. A family was all very well, but when it happened to consist of
daughters the situation became terrible for people of limited means; for
if daughters were to be launched properly into life they must have
dowries.

"Besides," said she, "I am very ambitious for my husband, and I am
convinced that he may rise to a very high position if he will only listen
to me. But he must not be saddled with a lot of incumbrances. As things
stand, I trust that we may be able to get rich and give Reine a suitable
dowry."

Morange, quite moved by this little speech, caught hold of his wife's
hand and kissed it. Weak and good-natured as he was, Valerie was really
the one with will. It was she who had instilled some ambition into him,
and he esteemed her the more for it.

"My wife is a thoroughly good woman, you know, my dear Froment," said he.
"She has a good head as well as a good heart."

Then, while Valerie recapitulated her dream of wealth, the splendid flat
she would have, the receptions she would hold, and the two months which,
like the Beauchenes, she would spend at the seaside every summer, Mathieu
looked at her and her husband and pondered their position. Their case was
very different from that of old Moineaud, who knew that he would never be
a cabinet minister. Morange possibly dreamt that his wife would indeed
make him a minister some day. Every petty bourgeois in a democratic
community has a chance of rising and wishes to do so. Indeed, there is a
universal, ferocious rush, each seeking to push the others aside so that
he may the more speedily climb a rung of the social ladder. This general
ascent, this phenomenon akin to capillarity, is possible only in a
country where political equality and economic inequality prevail; for
each has the same right to fortune and has but to conquer it. There is,
however, a struggle of the vilest egotism, if one wishes to taste the
pleasures of the highly placed, pleasures which are displayed to the gaze
of all and are eagerly coveted by nearly everybody in the lower spheres.
Under a democratic constitution a nation cannot live happily if its
manners and customs are not simple, and if the conditions of life are not
virtually equal for one and all. Under other circumstances than these the
liberal professions prove all-devouring: there is a rush for public
functions; manual toil is regarded with contempt; luxury increases and
becomes necessary; and wealth and power are furiously appropriated by
assault in order that one may greedily taste the voluptuousness of
enjoyment. And in such a state of affairs, children, as Valerie put it,
were incumbrances, whereas one needed to be free, absolutely unburdened,
if one wished to climb over all one's competitors.

Mathieu also thought of that law of imitation which impels even the least
fortunate to impoverish themselves by striving to copy the happy ones of
the world. How great the distress which really lurks beneath that envied
luxury that is copied at such great cost! All sorts of useless needs are
created, and production is turned aside from the strictly necessary. One
can no longer express hardship by saying that people lack bread; what
they lack in the majority of cases is the superfluous, which they are
unable to renounce without imagining that they have gone to the dogs and
are in danger of starvation.

At dessert, when the servant was no longer present, Morange, excited by
his good meal, became expansive. Glancing at his wife he winked towards
their guest, saying:

"Come, he's a safe friend; one may tell him everything."

And when Valerie had consented with a smile and a nod, he went on: "Well,
this is the matter, my dear fellow: it is possible that I may soon leave
the works. Oh! it's not decided, but I'm thinking of it. Yes, I've been
thinking of it for some months past; for, when all is said, to earn five
thousand francs a year, after eight years' zeal, and to think that one
will never earn much more, is enough to make one despair of life."

"It's monstrous," the young woman interrupted: "it is like breaking one's
head intentionally against a wall."

"Well, in such circumstances, my dear friend, the best course is to look
out for something elsewhere, is it not? Do you remember Michaud, whom I
had under my orders at the works some six years ago? A very intelligent
fellow he was. Well, scarcely six years have elapsed since he left us to
go to the Credit National, and what do you think he is now earning there?
Twelve thousand francs--you hear me--twelve thousand francs!"

The last words rang out like a trumpet-call. The Moranges' eyes dilated
with ecstasy. Even the little girl became very red.

"Last March," continued Morange, "I happened to meet Michaud, who told me
all that, and showed himself very amiable. He offered to take me with him
and help me on in my turn. Only there's some risk to run. He explained to
me that I must at first accept three thousand six hundred, so as to rise
gradually to a very big figure. But three thousand six hundred! How can
one live on that in the meantime, especially now that this flat has
increased our expenses?"

At this Valerie broke in impetuously: "'Nothing venture, nothing have!'
That's what I keep on repeating to him. Of course I am in favor of
prudence; I would never let him do anything rash which might compromise
his future. But, at the same time, he can't moulder away in a situation
unworthy of him."

"And so you have made up your minds?" asked Mathieu.

"Well, my wife has calculated everything," Morange replied; "and, yes, we
have made up our minds, provided, of course, that nothing unforeseen
occurs. Besides, it is only in October that any situation will be open at
the Credit National. But, I say, my dear friend, keep the matter entirely
to yourself, for we don't want to quarrel with the Beauchenes just now."

Then he looked at his watch, for, like a good clerk, he was very
punctual, and did not wish to be late at the office. The servant was
hurried, the coffee was served, and they were drinking it, boiling hot as
it was, when the arrival of a visitor upset the little household and
caused everything to be forgotten.

"Oh!" exclaimed Valerie, as she hastily rose, flushed with pride, "Madame
la Baronne de Lowicz!"

Seraphine, at this time nine-and-twenty, was red-haired, tall and
elegant, with magnificent shoulders which were known to all Paris. Her
red lips were wreathed in a triumphant smile, and a voluptuous flame ever
shone in her large brown eyes flecked with gold.

"Pray don't disturb yourselves, my friends," said she. "Your servant
wanted to show me into the drawing-room, but I insisted on coming in
here, because it is rather a pressing matter. I have come to fetch your
charming little Reine to take her to a matinee at the Circus."

A fresh explosion of delight ensued. The child remained speechless with
joy, whilst the mother exulted and rattled on: "Oh! Madame la Baronne,
you are really too kind! You are spoiling the child. But the fact is that
she isn't dressed, and you will have to wait a moment. Come, child, make
haste, I will help you--ten minutes, you understand--I won't keep you
waiting a moment longer."

Seraphine remained alone with the two men. She had made a gesture of
surprise on perceiving Mathieu, whose hand, like an old friend, she now
shook.

"And you, are you quite well?" she asked.

"Quite well," he answered; and as she sat down near him he instinctively
pushed his chair back. He did not seem at all pleased at having met her.

He had been on familiar terms with her during his earlier days at the
Beauchene works. She was a frantic pleasure-lover, and destitute of both
conscience and moral principles. Her conduct had given rise to scandal
even before her extraordinary elopement with Baron de Lowicz, that needy
adventurer with a face like an archangel's and the soul of a swindler.
The result of the union was a stillborn child. Then Seraphine, who was
extremely egotistical and avaricious, quarrelled with her husband and
drove him away. He repaired to Berlin, and was killed there in a brawl at
a gambling den. Delighted at being rid of him, Seraphine made every use
of her liberty as a young widow. She figured at every fete, took part in
every kind of amusement, and many scandalous stories were told of her;
but she contrived to keep up appearances and was thus still received
everywhere.

"You are living in the country, are you not?" she asked again, turning
towards Mathieu.

"Yes, we have been there for three weeks past."

"Constance told me of it. I met her the other day at Madame Seguin's. We
are on the best terms possible, you know, now that I give my brother good
advice."

In point of fact her sister-in-law, Constance, hated her, but with her
usual boldness she treated the matter as a joke.

"We talked about Dr. Gaude," she resumed; "I fancied that she wanted to
ask for his address; but she did not dare."

"Dr. Gaude!" interrupted Morange. "Ah! yes, a friend of my wife's spoke
to her about him. He's a wonderfully clever man, it appears. Some of his
operations are like miracles."

Then he went on talking of Dr. Gaude's clinic at the Hopital Marbeuf, a
clinic whither society folks hastened to see operations performed, just
as they might go to a theatre. The doctor, who was fond of money, and who
bled his wealthy lady patients in more senses than one, was likewise
partial to glory and proud of accomplishing the most dangerous
experiments on the unhappy creatures who fell into his hands. The
newspapers were always talking about him, his cures were constantly
puffed and advertised by way of inducing fine ladies to trust themselves
to his skill. And he certainly accomplished wonders, cutting and carving
his patients in the quietest, most unconcerned way possible, with never a
scruple, never a doubt as to whether what he did was strictly right or
not.

Seraphine had begun to laugh, showing her white wolfish teeth between her
blood-red lips, when she noticed the horrified expression which had
appeared on Mathieu's face since Gaude had been spoken of. "Ah!" said
she; "there's a man, now, who in nowise resembles your squeamish Dr.
Boutan, who is always prattling about the birth-rate. I can't understand
why Constance keeps to that old-fashioned booby, holding the views she
does. She is quite right, you know, in her opinions. I fully share them."

Morange laughed complaisantly. He wished to show her that his opinions
were the same. However, as Valerie did not return with Reine, he grew
impatient, and asked permission to go and see what they were about.
Perhaps he himself might be able to help in getting the child ready.

As soon as Seraphine was alone with Mathieu she turned her big, ardent,
gold-flecked eyes upon him. She no longer laughed with the same laugh as
a moment previously; an expression of voluptuous irony appeared on her
bold bad face. After a spell of silence she inquired, "And is my good
cousin Marianne quite well?"

"Quite well," replied Mathieu.

"And the children are still growing?"

Yes, still growing."

"So you are happy, like a good paterfamilias, in your little nook?"

"Perfectly happy."

Again she lapsed into silence, but she did not cease to look at him, more
provoking, more radiant than ever, with the charm of a young sorceress
whose eyes burn and poison men's hearts. And at last she slowly resumed:
"And so it is all over between us?"

He made a gesture in token of assent. There had long since been a passing
fancy between them. He had been nineteen at the time, and she
two-and-twenty. He had then but just entered life, and she was already
married. But a few months later he had fallen in love with Marianne, and
had then entirely freed himself from her.

"All over--really?" she again inquired, smiling but aggressive.

She was looking very beautiful and bold, seeking to tempt him and carry
him off from that silly little cousin of hers, whose tears would simply
have made her laugh. And as Mathieu did not this time give her any
answer, even by a wave of the hand, she went on: "I prefer that: don't
reply: don't say that it is all over. You might make a mistake, you
know."

For a moment Mathieu's eyes flashed, then he closed them in order that he
might no longer see Seraphine, who was leaning towards him. It seemed as
if all the past were coming back. She almost pressed her lips to his as
she whispered that she still loved him; and when he drew back, full of
mingled emotion and annoyance, she raised her little hand to his mouth as
if she feared that he was again going to say no.

"Be quiet," said she; "they are coming."

The Moranges were now indeed returning with Reine, whose hair had been
curled. The child looked quite delicious in her frock of rose silk decked
with white lace, and her large hat trimmed with some of the dress
material. Her gay round face showed with flowery delicacy under the rose
silk.

"Oh, what a love!" exclaimed Seraphine by way of pleasing the parents.
"Somebody will be stealing her from me, you know."

Then it occurred to her to kiss the child in passionate fashion, feigning
the emotion of a woman who regrets that she is childless. "Yes; indeed
one regrets it very much when one sees such a treasure as this sweet girl
of yours. Ah! if one could only be sure that God would give one such a
charming child--well, at all events, I shall steal her from you; you need
not expect me to bring her back again."

The enraptured Moranges laughed delightedly. And Mathieu, who knew her
well, listened in stupefaction. How many times during their short and
passionate attachment had she not inveighed against children! In her
estimation maternity poisoned love, aged woman, and made a horror of her
in the eyes of man.

The Moranges accompanied her and Reine to the landing. And they could not
find words warm enough to express their happiness at seeing such coveted
wealth and luxury come to seek their daughter. When the door of the flat
was closed Valerie darted on to the balcony, exclaiming, "Let us see them
drive off."

Morange, who no longer gave a thought to the office, took up a position
near her, and called Mathieu and compelled him likewise to lean over and
look down. A well-appointed victoria was waiting below with a
superb-looking coachman motionless on the box-seat. This sight put a
finishing touch to the excitement of the Moranges. When Seraphine had
installed the little girl beside her, they laughed aloud.

"How pretty she looks! How happy she must feel!"

Reine must have been conscious that they were looking at her, for she
raised her head, smiled and bowed. And Seraphine did the same, while the
horse broke into a trot and turned the corner of the avenue. Then came a
final explosion--

"Look at her!" repeated Valerie; "she is so candid! At twelve years old
she is still as innocent as a child in her cradle. You know that I trust
her to nobody. Wouldn't one think her a little duchess who has always had
a carriage of her own?"

Then Morange reverted to his dream of fortune. "Well," said he, "I hope
that she _will_ have a carriage when we marry her off. Just let me get
into the Credit National and you will see all your desires fulfilled."

And turning towards Mathieu he added, "There are three of us, and, as I
have said before, that is quite enough for a man to provide for,
especially as money is so hard to earn."

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