Fruitfulness: Chapter 6

Chapter 6

VI

ABOUT nine o'clock one fine cold morning, a few days afterwards, as
Mathieu, bound for his office, a little late through having lingered near
his wife, was striding hastily across the garden which separated the
pavilion from the factory yard, he met Constance and Maurice, who, clad
in furs, were going out for a walk in the sharp air. Beauchene, who was
accompanying them as far as the gate, bareheaded and ever sturdy and
victorious, gayly exclaimed to his wife:

"Give the youngster a good spin on his legs! Let him take in all the
fresh air he can. There's nothing like that and good food to make a man."

Mathieu, on hearing this, stopped short. "Has Maurice been poorly again?"
he inquired.

"Oh, no!" hastily replied the boy's mother, with an appearance of great
gayety, assumed perhaps from an unconscious desire to hide certain covert
fears. "Only the doctor wants him to take exercise, and it is so fine
this morning that we are going off on quite an expedition."

"Don't go along the quays," said Beauchene again. "Go up towards the
Invalides. He'll have much stiffer marching to do when he's a soldier."

Then, the mother and the child having taken themselves off, he went back
into the works with Mathieu, adding in his triumphant way: "That
youngster, you know, is as strong as an oak. But women are always so
nervous. For my part, I'm quite easy in mind about him, as you can see."
And with a laugh he concluded: "When one has but one son, he keeps him."

That same day, about an hour later, a terrible dispute which broke out
between old Moineaud's daughters, Norine and Euphrasie, threw the factory
into a state of commotion. Norine's intrigue with Beauchene had ended in
the usual way. He had soon tired of the girl and betaken himself to some
other passing fancy, leaving her to her tears, her shame, and all the
consequences of her fault; for although it had hitherto been possible for
her to conceal her condition from her parents, she was unable to deceive
her sister, who was her constant companion. The two girls were always
bickering, and Norine had for some time lived in dread of scandal and
exposure. And that day the trouble came to a climax, beginning with a
trivial dispute about a bit of glass-paper in the workroom, then
developing into a furious exchange of coarse, insulting language, and
culminating in a frantic outburst from Euphrasie, who shrieked to the
assembled work-girls all that she knew about her sister.

There was an outrageous scene: the sisters fought, clawing and scratching
one another desperately, and could not be separated until Beauchene,
Mathieu, and Morange, attracted by the extraordinary uproar, rushed into
the workroom and restored a little order. Fortunately for Beauchene,
Euphrasie did not know the whole truth, and Norine, after giving her
employer a humble, supplicating glance, kept silence; but old Moineaud
was present, and the public revelation of his daughter's shame sent him
into a fury. He ordered Norine out of the works forthwith, and threatened
to throw her out of window should he find her at home when he returned
there in the evening. And Beauchene, both annoyed at the scandal and
ashamed at being the primary cause of it, did not venture to interfere.
It was only after the unhappy Norine had rushed off sobbing that he found
strength of mind to attempt to pacify the father, and assert his
authority in the workroom by threatening to dismiss one and all of the
girls if the slightest scandal, the slightest noise, should ever occur
there again.

Mathieu was deeply pained by the scene, but kept his own counsel. What
most astonished him was the promptness with which Beauchene regained his
self-possession as soon as Norine had fled, and the majesty with which he
withdrew to his office after threatening the others and restoring order.
Another whom the scene had painfully affected was Morange, whom Mathieu,
to his surprise, found ghastly pale, with trembling hands, as if indeed
he had had some share of responsibility in this unhappy business. But
Morange, as he confided to Mathieu, was distressed for other reasons. The
scene in the workroom, the revelation of Norine's condition, the fate
awaiting the girl driven away into the bleak, icy streets, had revived
all his own poignant worries with respect to Valerie. Mathieu had already
heard of the latter's trouble from his wife, and he speedily grasped the
accountant's meaning. It vaguely seemed to him also that Morange was
yielding to the same unreasoning despair as Valerie, and was almost
willing that she should take the desperate course which she had hinted to
Marianne. But it was a very serious matter, and Mathieu did not wish to
be in any way mixed up in it. Having tried his best to pacify the
cashier, he sought forgetfulness of these painful incidents in his work.

That afternoon, however, a little girl, Cecile Moineaud, the old fitter's
youngest daughter, slipped into his office, with a message from her
mother, beseeching him to speak with her. He readily understood that the
woman wished to see him respecting Norine, and in his usual compassionate
way he consented to go. The interview took place in one of the adjacent
streets, down which the cold winter wind was blowing. La Moineaude was
there with Norine and another little girl of hers, Irma, a child eight
years of age. Both Norine and her mother wept abundantly while begging
Mathieu to help them. He alone knew the whole truth, and was in a
position to approach Beauchene on the subject. La Moineaude was firmly
determined to say nothing to her husband. She trembled for his future and
that of her son Alfred, who was now employed at the works; for there was
no telling what might happen if Beauchene's name should be mentioned.
Life was indeed hard enough already, and what would become of them all
should the family bread-winners be turned away from the factory? Norine
certainly had no legal claim on Beauchene, the law being peremptory on
that point; but, now that she had lost her employment, and was driven
from home by her father, could he leave her to die of want in the
streets? The girl tried to enforce her moral claim by asserting that she
had always been virtuous before meeting Beauchene. In any case, her lot
remained a very hard one. That Beauchene was the father of her child
there could be no doubt; and at last Mathieu, without promising success,
told the mother that he would do all he could in the matter.

He kept his word that same afternoon, and after a great deal of
difficulty he succeeded. At first Beauchene fumed, stormed, denied,
equivocated, almost blamed Mathieu for interfering, talked too of
blackmail, and put on all sorts of high and mighty airs. But at heart the
matter greatly worried him. What if Norine or her mother should go to his
wife? Constance might close her eyes as long as she simply suspected
things, but if complaints were formally, openly made to her, there would
be a terrible scandal. On the other hand, however, should he do anything
for the girl, it would become known, and everybody would regard him as
responsible. And then there would be no end to what he called the
blackmailing.

However, when Beauchene reached this stage Mathieu felt that the battle
was gained. He smiled and answered: "Of course, one can never tell--the
girl is certainly not malicious. But when women are driven beyond
endurance, they become capable of the worst follies. I must say that she
made no demands of me; she did not even explain what she wanted; she
simply said that she could not remain in the streets in this bleak
weather, since her father had turned her away from home. If you want my
opinion, it is this: I think that one might at once put her to board at a
proper place. Let us say that four or five months will elapse before she
is able to work again; that would mean a round sum of five hundred francs
in expenses. At that cost she might be properly looked after."

Beauchene walked nervously up and down, and then replied: "Well, I
haven't a bad heart, as you know. Five hundred francs more or less will
not inconvenience me. If I flew into a temper just now it was because the
mere idea of being robbed and imposed upon puts me beside myself. But if
it's a question of charity, why, then, do as you suggest. It must be
understood, however, that I won't mix myself up in anything; I wish even
to remain ignorant of what you do. Choose a nurse, place the girl where
you please, and I will simply pay the bill. Neither more nor less."

Then he heaved a sigh of relief at the prospect of being extricated from
this equivocal position, the worry of which he refused to acknowledge.
And once more he put on the mien of a superior, victorious man, one who
is certain that he will win all the battles of life. In fact, he even
jested about the girl, and at last went off repeating his instructions:
"See that my conditions are fully understood. I don't want to know
anything about any child. Do whatever you please, but never let me hear
another word of the matter."

That day was certainly one fertile in incidents, for in the evening there
was quite an alarm at the Beauchenes. At the moment when they were about
to sit down to dinner little Maurice fainted away and fell upon the
floor. Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed before the child could be
revived, and meantime the distracted parents quarrelled and shouted,
accusing one another of having compelled the lad to go out walking that
morning in such cold, frosty weather. It was evidently that foolish
outing which had chilled him. At least, this was what they said to one
another by way of quieting their anxiety. Constance, while she held her
boy in her arms, pictured him as dead. It occurred to her for the first
time that she might possibly lose him. At this idea she experienced a
terrible heart-pang, and a feeling of motherliness came upon her, so
acute that it was like a revelation. The ambitious woman that was in her,
she who dreamt of royalty for that only son, the future princely owner of
the ever-growing family fortune, likewise suffered horribly. If she was
to lose that son she would have no child left. Why had she none other?
Was it not she who had willed it thus? At this thought a feeling of
desperate regret shot through her like a red-hot blade, burning her
cruelly to the very depths of her being. Maurice, however, at last
recovered consciousness, and even sat down to the table and ate with a
fair appetite. Then Beauchene immediately shrugged his shoulders, and
began to jest about the unreasoning fears of women. And as time went by
Constance herself ceased to think of the incident.

On the morrow, when Mathieu had to attend to the delicate mission which
he had undertaken, he remembered the two women of whom Celeste, the maid,
had spoken on the day of his visit to the Seguins. He at first dismissed
all idea of that Madame Rouche, of whom the girl had spoken so strangely,
but he thought of making some inquiries respecting Madame Bourdieu, who
accommodated boarders at the little house where she resided in the Rue de
Miromesnil. And he seemed to remember that this woman had attended Madame
Morange at the time of Reine's birth, a circumstance which induced him to
question the cashier.

At the very first words the latter seemed greatly disturbed. "Yes, a lady
friend recommended Madame Bourdieu to my wife," said he; "but why do you
ask me?"

And as he spoke he looked at Mathieu with an expression of anguish, as if
that sudden mention of Madame Bourdieu's name signified that the young
fellow had guessed his secret preoccupations. It was as though he had
been abruptly surprised in wrong-doing. Perhaps, too, certain dim,
haunting thoughts, which he had long been painfully revolving in his
mind, without as yet being able to come to a decision, took shape at that
moment. At all events, he turned pale and his lips trembled.

Then, as Mathieu gave him to understand that it was a question of placing
Norine somewhere, he involuntarily let an avowal escape him.

"My wife was speaking to me of Madame Bourdieu only this morning," he
began. "Oh! I don't know how it happened, but, as you are aware, Reine
was born so many years ago that I can't give you any precise information.
It seems that the woman has done well, and is now at the head of a
first-class establishment. Inquire there yourself; I have no doubt you
will find what you want there."

Mathieu followed this advice; but at the same time, as he had been warned
that Madame Bourdieu's terms were rather high, he stifled his prejudices
and began by repairing to the Rue du Rocher in order to reconnoitre
Madame Rouche's establishment and make some inquiries of her. The mere
aspect of the place chilled him. It was one of the black houses of old
Paris, with a dark, evil-smelling passage, leading into a small yard
which the nurse's few squalid rooms overlooked. Above the passage
entrance was a yellow signboard which simply bore the name of Madame
Rouche in big letters. She herself proved to be a person of five- or
six-and-thirty, gowned in black and spare of figure, with a leaden
complexion, scanty hair of no precise color, and a big nose of unusual
prominence. With her low, drawling speech, her prudent, cat-like
gestures, and her sour smile, he divined her to be a dangerous,
unscrupulous woman. She told him that, as the accommodation at her
disposal was so small, she only took boarders for a limited time, and
this of course enabled him to curtail his inquiries. Glad to have done
with her, he hurried off, oppressed by nausea and vaguely frightened by
what he had seen of the place.

On the other hand, Madame Bourdieu's establishment, a little
three-storied house in the Rue de Miromesnil, between the Rue La Boetie
and the Rue de Penthievre, offered an engaging aspect, with its bright
facade and muslin-curtained windows. And Madame Bourdieu, then
two-and-thirty, rather short and stout, had a broad, pleasant white face,
which had greatly helped her on the road to success. She expatiated to
Mathieu on the preliminary training that was required by one of her
profession, the cost of it, the efforts needed to make a position, the
responsibilities, the inspections, the worries of all sorts that she had
to face; and she plainly told the young man that her charge for a boarder
would be two hundred francs a month. This was far more than he was
empowered to give; however, after some further conversation, when Madame
Bourdieu learnt that it was a question of four months' board, she became
more accommodating, and agreed to accept a round sum of six hundred
francs for the entire period, provided that the person for whom Mathieu
was acting would consent to occupy a three-bedded room with two other
boarders.

Altogether there were about a dozen boarders' rooms in the house, some of
these having three, and even four, beds; while others, the terms for
which were naturally higher, contained but one. Madame Bourdieu could
accommodate as many as thirty boarders, and as a rule, she had some
five-and-twenty staying on her premises. Provided they complied with the
regulations, no questions were asked them. They were not required to say
who they were or whence they came, and in most cases they were merely
known by some Christian name which they chose to give.

Mathieu ended by agreeing to Madame Bourdieu's terms, and that same
evening Norine was taken to her establishment. Some little trouble ensued
with Beauchene, who protested when he learnt that five hundred francs
would not suffice to defray the expenses. However, Mathieu managed
affairs so diplomatically that at last the other not only became
reconciled to the terms, but provided the money to purchase a little
linen, and even agreed to supply pocket-money to the extent of ten francs
a month. Thus, five days after Norine had entered Madame Bourdieu's
establishment, Mathieu decided to return thither to hand the girl her
first ten francs and tell her that he had settled everything.

He found her there in the boarders' refectory with some of her companions
in the house--a tall, thin, severe-looking Englishwoman, with lifeless
eyes and bloodless lips, who called herself Amy, and a pale red-haired
girl with a tip-tilted nose and a big mouth, who was known as Victoire.
Then, too, there was a young person of great beauty answering to the name
of Rosine, a jeweller's daughter, so Norine told Mathieu, whose story was
at once pathetic and horrible. The young man, while waiting to see Madame
Bourdieu, who was engaged, sat for a time answering Norine's questions,
and listening to the others, who conversed before him in a free and open
way. His heart was wrung by much that he heard, and as soon as he could
rid himself of Norine he returned to the waiting-room, eager to complete
his business. There, however, two women who wished to consult Madame
Bourdieu, and who sat chatting side by side on a sofa, told him that she
was still engaged, so that he was compelled to tarry a little longer. He
ensconced himself in a large armchair, and taking a newspaper from his
pocket, began to read it. But he had not been thus occupied for many
minutes before the door opened and a servant entered, ushering in a lady
dressed in black and thickly veiled, whom she asked to be good enough to
wait her turn. Mathieu was on the point of rising, for, though his back
was turned to the door, he could see, in a looking-glass, that the new
arrival was none other than Morange's wife, Valerie. After a moment's
hesitation, however, the sight of her black gown and thick veil, which
seemed to indicate that she desired to escape recognition, induced him to
dive back into his armchair and feign extreme attention to his newspaper.
She, on her side, had certainly not noticed him, but by glancing
slantwise towards the looking-glass he could observe all her movements.

Meantime the conversation between the other women on the sofa continued,
and to Mathieu's surprise it suddenly turned on Madame Rouche, concerning
whom one of them began telling the most horrible stories, which fully
confirmed the young man's previous suspicions. These stories seemed to
have a powerful fascination for Valerie, who sat in a corner, never
stirring, but listening intently. She did not even turn her head towards
the other women, but, beneath her veil, Mathieu could detect her big eyes
glittering feverishly. She started but once. It was when one of the
others inquired of her friend where that horrid creature La Rouche
resided, and the other replied, "At the lower end of the Rue du Rocher."

Then their chatter abruptly ceased, for Madame Bourdieu made her
appearance on the threshold of her private room. The gossips exchanged
only a few words with her, and then, as Mathieu remained in his armchair,
the high back of which concealed him from view, Valerie rose from her
seat and followed Madame Bourdieu into the private room.

As soon as he was alone the young man let his newspaper fall upon his
knees, and lapsed into a reverie, haunted by all the chatter he had
heard, both there and in Norine's company, and shuddering at the thought
of the dreadful secrets that had been revealed to him. How long an
interval elapsed he could not tell, but at last he was suddenly roused by
a sound of voices.

Madame Bourdieu was now escorting Valerie to the door. She had the same
plump fresh face as usual, and even smiled in a motherly way; but the
other was quivering, as with distress and grief. "You are not sensible,
my dear child," said Madame Bourdieu to her. "It is simply foolish of
you. Come, go home and be good."

Then, Valerie having withdrawn without uttering a word, Madame Bourdieu
was greatly surprised to see Mathieu, who had risen from his chair. And
she suddenly became serious, displeased with herself at having spoken in
his presence. Fortunately, a diversion was created by the arrival of
Norine, who came in from the refectory; and Mathieu then promptly settled
his business and went off, after promising Norine that he would return
some day to see her.

To make up for lost time he was walking hastily towards the Rue La
Boetie, when, all at once, he came to a halt, for at the very corner of
that street he again perceived Valerie, now talking to a man, none other
than her husband. So Morange had come with her, and had waited for her in
the street while she interviewed Madame Bourdieu. And now they both stood
there consulting together, hesitating and evidently in distress. It was
plain to Mathieu that a terrible combat was going on within them. They
stamped about, moved hither and thither in a feverish way, then halted
once more to resume their conversation in a whisper. At one moment the
young man felt intensely relieved, for, turning into the Rue La Boetie,
they walked on slowly, as if downcast and resigned, in the direction of
Grenelle. But all at once they halted once more and exchanged a few
words; and then Mathieu's heart contracted as he saw them retrace their
steps along the Rue La Boetie and follow the Rue de la Pepiniere as far
as the Rue du Rocher. He readily divined whither they were going, but
some irresistible force impelled him to follow them; and before long,
from an open doorway, in which he prudently concealed himself, he saw
them look round to ascertain whether they were observed, and then slink,
first the wife and afterwards the husband, into the dark passage of La
Rouche's house. For a moment Mathieu lingered in his hiding-place,
quivering, full of dread and horror; and when at last he turned his steps
homeward it was with a heavy heart indeed.

The weeks went by, the winter ran its course, and March had come round,
when the memory of all that the young fellow had heard and seen that
day--things which he had vainly striven to forget--was revived in the
most startling fashion. One morning at eight o'clock Morange abruptly
called at the little pavilion in the Rue de la Federation, accompanied by
his daughter Reine. The cashier was livid, haggard, distracted, and as
soon as Reine had joined Mathieu's children, and could not hear what he
said, he implored the young man to come with him. In a gasp he told the
dreadful truth--Valerie was dying. Her daughter believed her to be in the
country, but that was a mere fib devised to quiet the girl. Valerie was
elsewhere, in Paris, and he, Morange, had a cab waiting below, but lacked
the strength to go back to her alone, so poignant was his grief, so great
his dread.

Mathieu was expecting a happy event that very day, and he at first told
the cashier that he could not possibly go with him; but when he had
informed Marianne that he believed that something dreadful had happened
to the Moranges, she bravely bade him render all assistance. And then the
two men drove, as Mathieu had anticipated, to the Rue du Rocher, and
there found the hapless Valerie, not dying, but dead, and white, and icy
cold. Ah! the desperate, tearless grief of the husband, who fell upon his
knees at the bedside, benumbed, annihilated, as if he also felt death's
heavy hand upon him.

For a moment, indeed, the young man anticipated exposure and scandal. But
when he hinted this to La Rouche she faintly smiled. She had friends on
many sides, it seemed. She had already reported Valerie's death at the
municipal office, and the doctor, who would be sent to certify the
demise, would simply ascribe it to natural causes. Such was the usual
practice!

Then Mathieu bethought himself of leading Morange away; but the other,
still plunged in painful stupor, did not heed him.

"No, no, my friend, I pray you, say nothing," he at last replied, in a
very faint, distant voice, as though he feared to awaken the unfortunate
woman who had fallen asleep forever. "I know what I have done; I shall
never forgive myself. If she lies there, it is because I consented. Yet I
adored her, and never wished her aught but happiness. I loved her too
much, and I was weak. Still, I was the husband, and when her madness came
upon her I ought to have acted sensibly, and have warned and dissuaded
her. I can understand and excuse her, poor creature; but as for me, it is
all over; I am a wretch; I feel horrified with myself."

All his mediocrity and tenderness of heart sobbed forth in this
confession of his weakness. And his voice never gave sign of animation,
never rose in a louder tone from the depths of his annihilated being,
which would evermore be void. "She wished to be gay, and rich, and
happy," he continued. "It was so legitimate a wish on her part, she was
so intelligent and beautiful! There was only one delight for me, to
content her tastes and satisfy her ambition. You know our new flat. We
spent far too much money on it. Then came that story of the Credit
National and the hope of speedily rising to fortune. And thus, when the
trouble came, and I saw her distracted at the idea of having to renounce
all her dreams, I became as mad as she was, and suffered her to do her
will. We thought that our only means of escaping from everlasting penury
and drudgery was to evade Nature, and now, alas! she lies there."

Morange's lugubrious voice, never broken by a sob, never rising to
violence, but sounding like a distant, monotonous, mournful knell, rent
Mathieu's heart. He sought words of consolation, and spoke of Reine.

"Ah, yes!" said the other, "I am very fond of Reine. She is so like her
mother. You will keep her at your house till to-morrow, won't you? Tell
her nothing; let her play; I will acquaint her with this dreadful
misfortune. And don't worry me, I beg you, don't take me away. I promise
you that I will keep very quiet: I will simply stay here, watching her.
Nobody will even hear me; I shan't disturb any one."

Then his voice faltered and he stammered a few more incoherent phrases as
he sank into a dream of his wrecked life.

Mathieu, seeing him so quiet, so overcome, at last decided to leave him
there, and, entering the waiting cab, drove back to Grenelle. Ah! it was
indeed relief for him to see the crowded, sunlit streets again, and to
breathe the keen air which came in at both windows of the vehicle.
Emerging from that horrid gloom, he breathed gladly beneath the vast sky,
all radiant with healthy joy. And the image of Marianne arose before him
like a consolatory promise of life's coming victory, an atonement for
every shame and iniquity. His dear wife, whom everlasting hope kept full
of health and courage, and through whom, even amid her pangs, love would
triumph, while they both held themselves in readiness for to-morrow's
allotted effort! The cab rolled on so slowly that Mathieu almost
despaired, eager as he was to reach his bright little house, that he
might once more take part in life's poem, that august festival instinct
with so much suffering and so much joy, humanity's everlasting hymn, the
coming of a new being into the world.

That very day, soon after his return, Denis and Blaise, Ambroise, Rose,
and Reine were sent round to the Beauchenes', where they filled the house
with their romping mirth. Maurice, however, was again ailing, and had to
lie upon a sofa, disconsolate at being unable to take part in the play of
the others. "He has pains in his legs," said his father to Mathieu, when
he came round to inquire after Marianne; "he's growing so fast, and
getting such a big fellow, you know."

Lightly as Beauchene spoke, his eyes even then wavered, and his face
remained for a moment clouded. Perhaps, in his turn, he also had felt the
passing of that icy breath from the unknown which one evening had made
Constance shudder with dread whilst she clasped her swooning boy in her
arms.

But at that moment Mathieu, who had left Marianne's room to answer
Beauchene's inquiries, was summoned back again. And there he now found
the sunlight streaming brilliantly, like a glorious greeting to new life.
While he yet stood there, dazzled by the glow, the doctor said to him:
"It is a boy."

Then Mathieu leant over his wife and kissed her lovingly. Her beautiful
eyes were still moist with the tears of anguish, but she was already
smiling with happiness.

"Dear, dear wife," said Mathieu, "how good and brave you are, and how I
love you!"

"Yes, yes, I am very happy," she faltered, "and I must try to give you
back all the love that you give me."

Ah! that room of battle and victory, it seemed radiant with triumphant
glory. Elsewhere was death, darkness, shame, and crime, but here holy
suffering had led to joy and pride, hope and trustfulness in the coming
future. One single being born, a poor bare wee creature, raising the
faint cry of a chilly fledgeling, and life's immense treasure was
increased and eternity insured. Mathieu remembered one warm balmy spring
night when, yonder at Chantebled, all the perfumes of fruitful nature had
streamed into their room in the little hunting-box, and now around him
amid equal rapture he beheld the ardent sunlight flaring, chanting the
poem of eternal life that sprang from love the eternal.

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