Fruitfulness: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

III

AT the works during the afternoon Mathieu, who wished to be free earlier
than usual in order that, before dining in town, he might call upon his
landlord, in accordance with his promise to Marianne, found himself so
busy that he scarcely caught sight of Beauchene. This was a relief, for
the secret which he had discovered by chance annoyed him, and he feared
lest he might cause his employer embarrassment. But the latter, when they
exchanged a few passing words, did not seem to remember even that there
was any cause for shame on his part. He had never before shown himself
more active, more devoted to business. The fatigue he had felt in the
morning had passed away, and he talked and laughed like one who finds
life very pleasant, and has no fear whatever of hard work.

As a rule Mathieu left at six o'clock; but that day he went into
Morange's office at half-past five to receive his month's salary. This
rightly amounted to three hundred and fifty francs; but as five hundred
had been advanced to him in January, which he paid back by instalments of
fifty, he now received only fifteen louis, and these he pocketed with
such an air of satisfaction that the accountant commented on it.

"Well," said the young fellow, "the money's welcome, for I left my wife
with just thirty sous this morning."

It was already more than six o'clock when he found himself outside the
superb house which the Seguin du Hordel family occupied in the Avenue
d'Antin. Seguin's grandfather had been a mere tiller of the soil at
Janville. Later on, his father, as a contractor for the army, had made a
considerable fortune. And he, son of a parvenu, led the life of a rich,
elegant idler. He was a member of the leading clubs, and, while
passionately fond of horses, affected also a taste for art and
literature, going for fashion's sake to extreme opinions. He had proudly
married an almost portionless girl of a very ancient aristocratic race,
the last of the Vaugelades, whose blood was poor and whose mind was
narrow. Her mother, an ardent Catholic, had only succeeded in making of
her one who, while following religious practices, was eager for the joys
of the world. Seguin, since his marriage, had likewise practised
religion, because it was fashionable to do so. His peasant grandfather
had had ten children; his father, the army contractor, had been content
with six; and he himself had two, a boy and a girl, and deemed even that
number more than was right.

One part of Seguin's fortune consisted of an estate of some twelve
hundred acres--woods and heaths--above Janville, which his father had
purchased with some of his large gains after retiring from business. The
old man's long-caressed dream had been to return in triumph to his native
village, whence he had started quite poor, and he was on the point of
there building himself a princely residence in the midst of a vast park
when death snatched him away. Almost the whole of this estate had come to
Seguin in his share of the paternal inheritance, and he had turned the
shooting rights to some account by dividing them into shares of five
hundred francs value, which his friends eagerly purchased. The income
derived from this source was, however, but a meagre one. Apart from the
woods there was only uncultivated land on the estate, marshes, patches of
sand, and fields of stones; and for centuries past the opinion of the
district had been that no agriculturist could ever turn the expanse to
good account. The defunct army contractor alone had been able to picture
there a romantic park, such as he had dreamt of creating around his regal
abode. It was he, by the way, who had obtained an authorization to add to
the name of Seguin that of Du Hordel--taken from a ruined tower called
the Hordel which stood on the estate.

It was through Beauchene, one of the shareholders of the shooting rights,
that Mathieu had made Seguin's acquaintance, and had discovered the old
hunting-box, the lonely, quiet pavilion, which had pleased him so much
that he had rented it. Valentine, who good-naturedly treated Marianne as
a poor friend, had even been amiable enough to visit her there, and had
declared the situation of the place to be quite poetical, laughing the
while over her previous ignorance of it like one who had known nothing of
her property. In reality she herself would not have lived there for an
hour. Her husband had launched her into the feverish life of literary,
artistic, and social Paris, hurrying her to gatherings, studios,
exhibitions, theatres, and other pleasure resorts--all those brasier-like
places where weak heads and wavering hearts are lost. He himself, amid
all his passion for show, felt bored to death everywhere, and was at ease
only among his horses; and this despite his pretensions with respect to
advanced literature and philosophy, his collections of curios, such as
the bourgeois of to-day does not yet understand, his furniture, his
pottery, his pewter-work, and particularly his bookbindings, of which he
was very proud. And he was turning his wife into a copy of himself,
perverting her by his extravagant opinions and his promiscuous
friendships, so that the little devotee who had been confided to his
keeping was now on the high road to every kind of folly. She still went
to mass and partook of the holy communion; but she was each day growing
more and more familiar with wrong-doing. A disaster must surely be at the
end of it all, particularly as he foolishly behaved to her in a rough,
jeering way, which greatly hurt her feelings, and led her to dream of
being loved with gentleness.

When Mathieu entered the house, which displayed eight lofty windows on
each of the stories of its ornate Renaissance facade, he laughed lightly
as he thought: "These folks don't have to wait for a monthly pittance of
three hundred francs, with just thirty sous in hand."

The hall was extremely rich, all bronze and marble. On the right hand
were the dining-room and two drawing-rooms; on the left a billiard-room,
a smoking-room, and a winter garden. On the first floor, in front of the
broad staircase, was Seguin's so-called "cabinet," a vast apartment,
sixteen feet high, forty feet long, and six-and-twenty feet wide, which
occupied all the central part of the house; while the husband's bed and
dressing rooms were on the right, and those of the wife and children on
the left hand. Up above, on the second floor, two complete suites of
rooms were kept in reserve for the time when the children should have
grown up.

A footman, who knew Mathieu, at once took him upstairs to the cabinet and
begged him to wait there, while Monsieur finished dressing. For a moment
the visitor fancied himself alone and glanced round the spacious room,
feeling interested in its adornments, the lofty windows of old stained
glass, the hangings of old Genoese velvet and brocaded silk, the oak

bookcases showing the highly ornamented backs of the volumes they
contained; the tables laden with bibelots, bronzes, marbles, goldsmith's
work, glass work, and the famous collection of modern pewter-work. Then
Eastern carpets were spread out upon all sides; there were low seats and
couches for every mood of idleness, and cosy nooks in which one could
hide oneself behind fringes of lofty plants.

"Oh! so it's you, Monsieur Froment," suddenly exclaimed somebody in the
direction of the table allotted to the pewter curios. And thereupon a
tall young man of thirty, whom a screen had hitherto hidden from
Mathieu's view, came forward with outstretched hand.

"Ah!" said Mathieu, after a moment's hesitation, "Monsieur Charles
Santerre."

This was but their second meeting. They had found themselves together
once before in that same room. Charles Santerre, already famous as a
novelist, a young master popular in Parisian drawing-rooms, had a fine
brow, caressing brown eyes, and a large red mouth which his moustache and
beard, cut in the Assyrian style and carefully curled, helped to conceal.
He had made his way, thanks to women, whose society he sought under
pretext of studying them, but whom he was resolved to use as instruments
of fortune. As a matter of calculation and principle he had remained a
bachelor and generally installed himself in the nests of others. In
literature feminine frailty was his stock subject he had made it his
specialty to depict scenes of guilty love amid elegant, refined
surroundings. At first he had no illusions as to the literary value of
his works; he had simply chosen, in a deliberate way, what he deemed to
be a pleasant and lucrative trade. But, duped by his successes, he had
allowed pride to persuade him that he was really a writer. And nowadays
he posed as the painter of an expiring society, professing the greatest
pessimism, and basing a new religion on the annihilation of human
passion, which annihilation would insure the final happiness of the
world.

"Seguin will be here in a moment," he resumed in an amiable way. "It
occurred to me to take him and his wife to dine at a restaurant this
evening, before going to a certain first performance where there will
probably be some fisticuffs and a rumpus to-night."

Mathieu then for the first time noticed that Santerre was in evening
dress. They continued chatting for a moment, and the novelist called
attention to a new pewter treasure among Seguin's collection. It
represented a long, thin woman, stretched full-length, with her hair
streaming around her. She seemed to be sobbing as she lay there, and
Santerre declared the conception to be a masterpiece. The figure
symbolized the end of woman, reduced to despair and solitude when man
should finally have made up his mind to have nothing further to do with
her. It was the novelist who, in literary and artistic matters, helped on
the insanity which was gradually springing up in the Seguins' home.

However, Seguin himself now made his appearance. He was of the same age
as Santerre, but was taller and slimmer, with fair hair, an aquiline
nose, gray eyes, and thin lips shaded by a slight moustache. He also was
in evening dress.

"Ah! well, my dear fellow," said he with the slight lisp which he
affected, "Valentine is determined to put on a new gown. So we must be
patient; we shall have an hour to wait."

Then, on catching sight of Mathieu, he began to apologize, evincing much
politeness and striving to accentuate his air of frigid distinction. When
the young man, whom he called his amiable tenant, had acquainted him with
the motive of his visit--the leak in the zinc roof of the little pavilion
at Janville--he at once consented to let the local plumber do any
necessary soldering. But when, after fresh explanations, he understood
that the roofing was so worn and damaged that it required to be changed
entirely, he suddenly departed from his lofty affability and began to
protest, declaring that he could not possibly expend in such repairs a
sum which would exceed the whole annual rental of six hundred francs.

"Some soldering," he repeated; "some soldering; it's understood. I will
write to the plumber." And wishing to change the subject he added: "Oh!
wait a moment, Monsieur Froment. You are a man of taste, I know, and I

want to show you a marvel."

He really had some esteem for Mathieu, for he knew that the young fellow
possessed a quick appreciative mind. Mathieu began to smile, outwardly
yielding to this attempt to create a diversion, but determined at heart
that he would not leave the place until he had obtained the promise of a
new roof. He took hold of a book, clad in a marvellous binding, which
Seguin had fetched from a bookcase and tendered with religious care. On
the cover of soft snow-white leather was incrusted a long silver lily,
intersected by a tuft of big violet thistles. The title of the work,
"Beauty Imperishable," was engraved up above, as in a corner of the sky.

"Ah! what a delightful conception, what delightful coloring!" declared
Mathieu, who was really charmed. "Some bindings nowadays are perfect
gems." Then he noticed the title: "Why, it's Monsieur Santerre's last
novel!" said he.

Seguin smiled and glanced at the writer, who had drawn near. And when he
saw him examining the book and looking quite moved by the compliment paid
to it, he exclaimed: "My dear fellow, the binder brought it here this
morning, and I was awaiting an opportunity to surprise you with it. It is
the pearl of my collection! What do you think of the idea--that lily
which symbolizes triumphant purity, and those thistles, the plants which
spring up among ruins, and which symbolize the sterility of the world, at
last deserted, again won over to the only perfect felicity? All your work
lies in those symbols, you know."

"Yes, yes. But you spoil me; you will end by making me proud."

Mathieu had read Santerre's novel, having borrowed a copy of it from Mme.
Beauchene, in order that his wife might see it, since it was a book that
everybody was talking of. And the perusal of it had exasperated him.
Forsaking the customary bachelor's flat where in previous works he had
been so fond of laying scenes of debauchery, Santerre had this time tried
to rise to the level of pure art and lyrical symbolism. The story he told
was one of a certain Countess Anne-Marie, who, to escape a rough-mannered
husband of extreme masculinity, had sought a refuge in Brittany in the
company of a young painter endowed with divine inspiration, one Norbert,
who had undertaken to decorate a convent chapel with paintings that
depicted his various visions. And for thirty years he went on painting
there, ever in colloquy with the angels, and ever having Anne-Marie
beside him. And during those thirty years of love the Countess's beauty
remained unimpaired; she was as young and as fresh at the finish as at
the outset; whereas certain secondary personages, introduced into the
story, wives and mothers of a neighboring little town, sank into physical
and mental decay, and monstrous decrepitude. Mathieu considered the
author's theory that all physical beauty and moral nobility belonged to
virgins only, to be thoroughly imbecile, and he could not restrain
himself from hinting his disapproval of it.

Both Santerre and Seguin, however, hotly opposed him, and quite a
discussion ensued. First Santerre took up the matter from a religious
standpoint. Said he, the words of the Old Testament, "Increase and
multiply," were not to be found in the New Testament, which was the true
basis of the Christian religion. The first Christians, he declared, had
held marriage in horror, and with them the Holy Virgin had become the
ideal of womanhood. Seguin thereupon nodded approval and proceeded to
give his opinions on feminine beauty. But these were hardly to the taste
of Mathieu, who promptly pointed out that the conception of beauty had
often varied.

"To-day," said he, "you conceive beauty to consist in a long, slim,
attenuated, almost angular figure; but at the time of the Renaissance the
type of the beautiful was very different. Take Rubens, take Titian, take
even Raffaelle, and you will see that their women were of robust build.
Even their Virgin Marys have a motherly air. To my thinking, moreover, if
we reverted to some such natural type of beauty, if women were not
encouraged by fashion to compress and attenuate their figures so that
their very nature, their very organism is changed, there would perhaps be
some hope of coping with the evil of depopulation which is talked about
so much nowadays."

The others looked at him and smiled with an air of compassionate
superiority. "Depopulation an evil!" exclaimed Seguin; "can you, my dear
sir, intelligent as you are, still believe in that hackneyed old story?
Come, reflect and reason a little."

Then Santerre chimed in, and they went on talking one after the other and
at times both together. Schopenhauer and Hartmann and Nietzsche were
passed in review, and they claimed Malthus as one of themselves. But all
this literary pessimism did not trouble Mathieu. He, with his belief in
fruitfulness, remained convinced that the nation which no longer had
faith in life must be dangerously ill. True, there were hours when he
doubted the expediency of numerous families and asked himself if ten
thousand happy people were not preferable to a hundred thousand unhappy
ones; in which connection political and economic conditions had to be
taken into account. But when all was said, he remained almost convinced
that the Malthusian hypotheses would prove as false in the future as they
had proved false in the past.

"Moreover," said he, "even if the world should become densely populated,
even if food supplies, such as we know them, should fall short, chemistry
would extract other means of subsistence from inorganic matter. And,
besides, all such eventualities are so far away that it is impossible to
make any calculation on a basis of scientific certainty. In France, too,
instead of contributing to any such danger, we are going backward, we are
marching towards annihilation. The population of France was once a fourth
of the population of Europe, but now it is only one-eighth. In a century
or two Paris will be dead, like ancient Athens and ancient Rome, and we
shall have fallen to the rank that Greece now occupies. Paris seems
determined to die."

But Santerre protested: "No, no; Paris simply wishes to remain
stationary, and it wishes this precisely because it is the most
intelligent, most highly civilized city in the world. The more nations
advance in civilization the smaller becomes their birth-rate. We are
simply giving the world an example of high culture, superior
intelligence, and other nations will certainly follow that example when
in turn they also attain to our state of perfection. There are signs of
this already on every side."

"Quite so!" exclaimed Seguin, backing up his friend. "The phenomenon is
general; all the nations show the same symptoms, and are decreasing in
numbers, or will decrease as soon as they become civilized. Japan is
affected already, and the same will be the case with China as soon as
Europe forces open the door there."

Mathieu had become grave and attentive since the two society men, seated
before him in evening dress, had begun to talk more rationally. The pale,
slim, flat virgin, their ideal of feminine beauty, was no longer in
question. The history of mankind was passing by. And almost as if
communing with himself, he said: "So you do not fear the Yellow Peril,
that terrible swarming of Asiatic barbarians who, it was said, would at
some fatal moment sweep down on our Europe, ravage it, and people it
afresh? In past ages, history always began anew in that fashion, by the
sudden shifting of oceans, the invasion of fierce rough races coming to
endow weakened nations with new blood. And after each such occurrence
civilization flowered afresh, more broadly and freely than ever. How was
it that Babylon, Nineveh, and Memphis fell into dust with their
populations, who seem to have died on the spot? How is it that Athens and
Rome still agonize to-day, unable to spring afresh from their ashes and
renew the splendor of their ancient glory? How is it that death has
already laid its hand upon Paris, which, whatever her splendor, is but
the capital of a France whose virility is weakened? You may argue as you
please and say that, like the ancient capitals of the world, Paris is
dying of an excess of culture, intelligence, and civilization; it is none
the less a fact that she is approaching death, the turn of the tide which
will carry splendor and power to some new nation. Your theory of
equilibrium is wrong. Nothing can remain stationary; whatever ceases to
grow, decreases and disappears. And if Paris is bent on dying, she will
die, and the country with her."

"Well, for my part," declared Santerre, resuming the pose of an elegant
pessimist, "if she wishes to die, I shan't oppose her. In fact, I'm fully
determined to help her."

"It is evident that the really honest, sensible course is to check any
increase of population," added Seguin.

But Mathieu, as if he had not heard them, went on: "I know Herbert
Spencer's law, and I believe it to be theoretically correct. It is
certain that civilization is a check to fruitfulness, so that one may
picture a series of social evolutions conducing now to decrease and now
to increase of population, the whole ending in final equilibrium, by the
very effect of culture's victory when the world shall be entirely
populated and civilized. But who can foretell what road will be followed,
through what disasters and sufferings one may have to go? More and more
nations may disappear, and others may replace them; and how many
thousands of years may not be needed before the final adjustment,
compounded of truth, justice, and peace, is arrived at? At the thought of
this the mind trembles and hesitates, and the heart contracts with a
pang."

Deep silence fell while he thus remained disturbed, shaken in his faith
in the good powers of life, and at a loss as to who was right--he or
those two men so languidly stretched out before him.

But Valentine, Seguin's wife, came in, laughing and making an exhibition
of masculine ways, which it had cost her much trouble to acquire.

"Ah! you people; you must not bear me any malice, you know. That girl
Celeste takes such a time over everything!"

At five-and-twenty Valentine was short, slight, and still girlish. Fair,
with a delicate face, laughing blue eyes, and a pert little nose, she
could not claim to be pretty. Still she was charming and droll, and very
free and easy in her ways; for not only did her husband take her about
with him to all sorts of objectionable places, but she had become quite
familiar with the artists and writers who frequented the house. Thus it
was only in the presence of something extremely insulting that she again
showed herself the last of the Vaugelades, and would all at once draw
herself up and display haughty contempt and frigidity.

"Ah! it's you, Monsieur Froment," she said amiably, stepping towards
Mathieu and shaking his hand in cavalier fashion. "Is Madame Froment in
good health? Are the children flourishing as usual?"

Seguin was examining her dress, a gown of white silk trimmed with
unbleached lace, and he suddenly gave way to one of those horribly rude
fits which burst forth at times amid all his great affectation of
politeness. "What! have you kept us waiting all this time to put that rag
on? Well, you never looked a greater fright in your life!"

And she had entered the room convinced that she looked charming! She made
an effort to control herself, but her girlish face darkened and assumed
an expression of haughty, vindictive revolt. Then she slowly turned her
eyes towards the friend who was present, and who was gazing at her with
ecstasy, striving to accentuate the slavish submissiveness of his
attitude.

"You look delicious!" he murmured; "that gown is a marvel."

Seguin laughed and twitted Santerre on his obsequiousness towards women.
Valentine, mollified by the compliment, soon recovered her birdlike
gayety, and such free and easy conversation ensued between the trio that
Mathieu felt both stupefied and embarrassed. In fact, he would have gone
off at once had it not been for his desire to obtain from his landlord a
promise to repair the pavilion properly.

"Wait another moment," Valentine at last said to her husband; "I told
Celeste to bring the children, so that we might kiss them before
starting."

Mathieu wished to profit by this fresh delay, and sought to renew his
request; but Valentine was already rattling on again, talking of dining
at the most disreputable restaurant possible, and asking if at the first
performance which they were to attend they would see all the horrors
which had been hissed at the dress rehearsal the night before. She
appeared like a pupil of the two men between whom she stood. She even
went further in her opinions than they did, displaying the wildest
pessimism, and such extreme views on literature and art that they
themselves could not forbear laughing. Wagner was greatly over-estimated,
in her opinion; she asked for invertebrate music, the free harmony of the
passing wind. As for her moral views, they were enough to make one
shudder. She had got past the argumentative amours of Ibsen's idiotic,
rebellious heroines, and had now reached the theory of pure intangible
beauty. She deemed Santerre's last creation, Anne-Marie, to be far too
material and degraded, because in one deplorable passage the author
remarked that Norbert's kisses had left their trace on the Countess's
brow. Santerre disputed the quotation, whereupon she rushed upon the
volume and sought the page to which she had referred.

"But I never degraded her," exclaimed the novelist in despair. "She never
has a child."

"Pooh! What of that?" exclaimed Valentine. "If Anne-Marie is to raise our
hearts she ought to be like spotless marble, and Norbert's kisses should
leave no mark upon her."

But she was interrupted, for Celeste, the maid, a tall dark girl with an
equine head, big features, and a pleasant air, now came in with the two
children. Gaston was at this time five years old, and Lucie was three.
Both were slight and delicate, pale like roses blooming in the shade.
Like their mother, they were fair. The lad's hair was inclined to be
carroty, while that of the girl suggested the color of oats. And they
also had their mother's blue eyes, but their faces were elongated like
that of their father. Dressed in white, with their locks curled, arrayed
indeed in the most coquettish style, they looked like big fragile dolls.
The parents were touched in their worldly pride at sight of them, and
insisted on their playing their parts with due propriety.

"Well, don't you wish anybody good evening?"

The children were not timid; they were already used to society and looked
visitors full in the face. If they made little haste, it was because they
were naturally indolent and did not care to obey. They at last made up
their minds and allowed themselves to be kissed.

"Good evening, good friend Santerre."

Then they hesitated before Mathieu, and their father had to remind them
of the gentleman's name, though they had already seen him on two or three
occasions.

"Good evening, Monsieur Froment."

Valentine took hold of them, sat them on her lap, and half stifled them
with caresses. She seemed to adore them, but as soon as she had sat them
down again she forgot all about them.

"So you are going out again, mamma?" asked the little boy.

"Why, yes, my darling. Papas and mammas, you know, have their affairs to
see to."

"So we shall have dinner all alone, mamma?"

Valentine did not answer, but turned towards the maid, who was waiting
for orders;--

"You are not to leave them for a moment, Celeste--you hear? And, above
all things, they are not to go into the kitchen. I can never come home
without finding them in the kitchen. It is exasperating. Let them have
their dinner at seven, and put them to bed at nine. And see that they go
to sleep."

The big girl with the equine head listened with an air of respectful
obedience, while her faint smile expressed the cunning of a Norman
peasant who had been five years in Paris already and was hardened to
service, and well knew what was done with children when the master and
mistress were absent.

"Madame," she said in a simple way, "Mademoiselle Lucie is poorly. She
has been sick again."

"What? sick again!" cried the father in a fury. "I am always hearing of
that! They are always being sick! And it always happens when we are going
out! It is very disagreeable, my dear; you might see to it; you ought not
to let our children have papier-mache stomachs!"

The mother made an angry gesture, as if to say that she could not help
it. As a matter of fact, the children were often poorly. They had
experienced every childish ailment, they were always catching cold or
getting feverish. And they preserved the mute, moody, and somewhat
anxious demeanor of children who are abandoned to the care of servants.

"Is it true you were poorly, my little Lucie?" asked Valentine, stooping
down to the child. "You aren't poorly now, are you? No, no, it's nothing,
nothing at all. Kiss me, my pet; bid papa good night very prettily, so
that he may not feel worried in leaving you."

She rose up, already tranquillized and gay again; and, noticing that
Mathieu was looking at her, she exclaimed:

"Ah! these little folks give one a deal of worry. But one loves them
dearly all the same, though, so far as there is happiness in life, it
would perhaps be better for them never to have been born. However, my
duty to the country is done. Each wife ought to have a boy and a girl as
I have."

Thereupon Mathieu, seeing that she was jesting, ventured to say with a
laugh:

"Well, that isn't the opinion of your medical man, Dr. Boutan. He
declares that to make the country prosperous every married couple ought
to have four children."

"Four children! He's mad!" cried Seguin. And again with the greatest
freedom of language he brought forward his pet theories. There was a
world of meaning in his wife's laughter while Celeste stood there unmoved
and the children listened without understanding. But at last Santerre led
the Seguins away. It was only in the hall that Mathieu obtained from his
landlord a promise that he would write to the plumber at Janville and
that the roof of the pavilion should be entirely renovated, since the
rain came into the bedrooms.

The Seguins' landau was waiting at the door. When they had got into it
with their friend, it occurred to Mathieu to raise his eyes; and at one
of the windows he perceived Celeste standing between the two children,
intent, no doubt, on assuring herself that Monsieur and Madame were
really going. The young man recalled Reine's departure from her parents;
but here both Lucie and Gaston remained motionless, gravely mournful, and
neither their father nor their mother once thought of looking up at them.

Back to chapter list of: Fruitfulness