That morning the house awoke with a great middle-class dignity. Nothing of the staircase preserved a trace of the scandals of the night, neither the imitation marble which had reflected that gallop of a woman in her chemise, nor the Wilton carpet from which all the odor of her semi-nudity had evaporated. Monsieur Gourd alone, when he went up-stairs toward seven o’clock to give his look round, sniffed at the walls; but what did not concern him, did not concern him; and as, on going down-stairs again, he saw two of the servants in the courtyard, Lisa and Julie, who were no doubt discussing the catastrophe, for they seemed deeply interested, he stared at them so fixedly that they at once separated. Then he went outside to make sure of the tranquillity of the street. It was calm. Only, the servants must already have been talking, for some of the neighbors’ wives stopped, tradespeople came to their shop doors, looking up in the air, examining and searching the different floors, in the gaping way in which the crowd scrutinizes houses where a crime has been committed. In the presence of the rich frontage, however, people held their tongues and politely passed on.
At half-past seven, Madame Juzeur appeared in a dressing-gown, to look after Louise, she said. Her eyes sparkled, and her hands were feverishly hot. She stopped Marie, who was going up with her milk, and endeavored to get her to talk; but she could draw nothing out of her, and did not even learn how the mother had received her guilty daughter. Then, under the pretense of waiting a minute for the postman, she entered the Gourds’ room, and ended by asking why Monsieur Octave did not come down; perhaps he was ill. The doorkeeper replied that he did not know; moreover, Monsieur Octave never came down before ten minutes past eight. At this moment, the other Madame Campardon, pale and erect, passed by; every one bowed to her. And Madame Juzeur, obliged to go up-stairs again, had the luck, on reaching the landing, to meet the architect just starting off and putting on his gloves. At first they both looked at each other in a dejected sort of way; then he shrugged his shoulders.
“Poor things!” murmured she.
“No, no, it serves them right!” said he ferociously. “An example must be made of them. A fellow whom I introduce into a respectable house, beseeching him not to bring any women there, and who, to humbug me, goes and sleeps with the landlord’s sister-in-law! I look like a fool in it all!”
No more was said. Madame Juzeur entered her apartments, whilst Campardon continued on his way down-stairs in such a state of fury that he tore one of his gloves.
Just as eight o’clock was striking, Auguste, looking very dejected, his features contracted by an atrocious headache, crossed the courtyard to go to his warehouse. Filled with shame, and dreading to meet any one, he had come down by way of the servants’ staircase. However, he could not leave his business to take care of itself. When in the midst of his counters, and before the pay-desk where Berthe usually sat, his emotion almost choked him. The porter was taking down the shutters, and Auguste was giving the orders for the day, when the abrupt appearance of Saturnin coming up from the basement gave him an awful fright. The madman’s eyes were like flames of fire, his white teeth resembled a famished wolf’s. He went straight up to the husband, clenching his fists.
“Where is she? If you touch her, I’ll bleed you to death like a pig!”
Auguste drew back, exasperated.
“Here’s this one, now!”
“Shut up, or I’ll bleed you!” repeated Saturnin, making a rush at him.
Then the husband preferred to beat a retreat. He had a horror of madmen; one could not reason with such people. But, as he went out into the porch, calling to the porter to shut Saturnin up in the basement, he found himself face to face with Valérie and Théophile. The latter, who had caught a frightful cold, was wrapped up in a big red comforter, and coughed and moaned. They must both have known everything, for they stopped before Auguste with an air of condolence. Since the quarrel about the inheritance, the two couples had been sworn enemies, and were no longer on speaking terms.
“You still have a brother,” said Théophile, shaking him by the hand, when he had finished coughing. “I wish you to remember it in your misfortune.”
“Yes,” added Valérie, “this ought to avenge me, for she said some filthy things to me, did she not? But we pity you all the same, for we are not quite heartless.”
Auguste, deeply touched by their kind manner, led them to the end of his warehouse, keeping an eye on Saturnin, who was prowling about. And, there, their reconciliation became complete. Berthe’s name was not mentioned; only, Valérie allowed it to be understood that all the unpleasantness arose from that woman, for there never had been a disagreeable word said in the family till she had entered it to dishonor them. Auguste, his eyes cast on the ground, listened and nodded his head approvingly. And a certain gayety gleamed beneath Théophile’s commiseration, for he was delighted at no longer being the only one, and he examined his brother’s face to see how a person looks when in that awkward position.
“Now, what have you decided to do?” inquired he.
“To challenge him, of course!” firmly replied the husband.
Théophile’s joy was spoilt. His wife and he became cooler, in the presence of Auguste’s courage. The latter related to them the frightful scene of the night—how, having been foolish enough to hesitate purchasing a pistol, he had been forced to content himself with merely slapping the gentleman’s face; and to tell the truth, the gentleman had done the same to him, but that did not prevent his having received a pretty good hiding! A scoundrel who had been making a fool of him for six months past by pretending to take his part against his wife, and whose impudence had gone as far as making reports respecting her on the days she went out! As for her, the creature, as she had gone to her parents, she could remain with them; he would never take her back.
“Would you believe that last month I allowed her three hundred francs for her dress!” cried he. “I who am so kind, so tolerant, who had decided to put up with everything sooner than make myself ill! But one cannot put up with that—no! no! one cannot!”
Théophile was thinking of death. He trembled feverishly, and almost choked as he said:
“It’s absurd, you will get spitted. I would not fight.”
And, as Valérie looked at him, he added, in an embarrassed manner:
“If such a thing happened to me.”
“Ah! the wretched woman!” then murmured his wife, “when one thinks that two men are going to kill each other on account of her! In her place I could never sleep again.”
Auguste remained firm. He would fight. Moreover, his plans were settled. As he particularly wished Duveyrier to be second, he was going up to inform him of what had taken place, and to send him at once to Octave. Valérie, who was most obliging to Auguste, ended by offering to attend at the pay-desk, to give him time to find a suitable person.
“Only,” added she, “I must take Camille to the Tuileries gardens toward two o’clock.”
“Oh! it does not matter for once in a way!” said her husband. “It’s raining, too.”
“No, no, the child wants air. I must go out.”
At length the two brothers went up to the Duveyriers’. But an abominable fit of coughing obliged Théophile to stop on the very first stair. He held on the hand-rail, and, when he was able to speak, though still with a slight rattle in his throat, he stammered:
“You know, I’m very happy now; I’m quite sure of her, No; I’ve not the least thing to reproach her with, and she has given me proofs.”
Auguste stared at him without comprehending, and saw how yellow and half dead he looked, with the scanty hairs of his beard drying up in his flabby flesh. The look completed Théophile’s annoyance, whilst he felt quite embarrassed by his brother’s valor.
“I am speaking of my wife,” he resumed. “Ah! poor old fellow, I pity you with all my heart! You recollect my stupidity on your wedding day. But with you there can be no mistake, as you saw them.”
“Bah!” said Auguste, doing the brave, “I’ll spit him like a lark. On my word, I shouldn’t care a hang if I hadn’t such a headache!”
Just as they rang at the Duveyriers’ door, Théophile suddenly thought that very likely the counselor would not be in, for since the day he had found Clarisse, he had been drifting into bad habits, and had now even got to the point of sleeping out. Hippolyte, who opened the door to them, avoided answering with respect to his master; but he said that the gentlemen would find madame playing her scales. They entered. Clotilde, tightly laced up from the moment she got out of bed, was seated at her piano, practicing with a regular and continuous movement of her hands; and, as she went in for this kind of exercise for two hours every day, so as not to lose the lightness of her touch, she occupied her mind in another way, by reading the “Revue des deux Mondes,” which stood open on the piano before her, without the agility of her fingers being in any way hampered.
“Why! it’s you!” said she, when her brothers had drawn her from the volley of notes, which isolated and enveloped her like a storm of hail.
And she did not even show her surprise when she caught sight of Théophile. The latter, moreover, kept himself very stiff, like a man who had come on another’s account. Auguste, filled with shame at the thought of telling his sister of his misfortune, and afraid of terrifying her with his duel, had a story all ready. But she did not give him time to lie, she questioned him in her quiet way, after looking at him intently.
“What do you intend doing now?”
He started and blushed. So every one knew it, then? and he answered in the brave tone which had already closed Théophile’s mouth:
“Why, fight, of course!”
“Ah!” said she, greatly surprised this time.
However, she did not disapprove. It would increase the scandal, but yet honor had to be satisfied. She contented herself with recalling that she had at first opposed the marriage. One could expect nothing of a young girl who appeared to be ignorant of all a woman’s duties. Then, as Auguste asked her where her husband was:
“He is traveling,” answered she, without the least hesitation.
Then he was quite distressed, for he did not wish to do anything before consulting Duveyrier. She listened to him, without mentioning the new address, unwilling to acquaint her family with her home troubles. At length she hit on an expedient: she advised him to go to Monsieur Bachelard, in the Rue d’Enghien; perhaps he would be able to tell him something. And she returned to her piano.
“It’s Auguste who asked me to come up,” Théophile, who had not spoken until then, thought it necessary to declare. “Will you let me kiss you, Clotilde? We are all in trouble.”
She presented her cold cheek, and said:
“My poor fellow, only those are in trouble who choose to be. As for me, I forgive every one. And take care of yourself, you seem to me to have a very had cough.”
Then, calling to Auguste, she added:
“If the matter does not get settled, let me know, for I shall then be very anxious.”
The storm of notes recommenced, enveloping and drowning her; and, whilst her nimble fingers practiced the scales in every key, she gravely resumed her reading of the “Revue des deux Mondes,” in the midst of it all.
Down-stairs, Auguste for a moment discussed the question whether he should go to Bachelard’s or not. How could he say to him: “Your niece has deceived me?” At length, he decided to obtain Duveyrier’s address from the uncle, and to tell him nothing. Everything was settled: Valérie would look after the warehouse, whilst Théophile would watch the home, until his brother’s return. The latter had sent for a cab, and he was just going off, when Saturnin, who had disappeared a moment before, came up from the basement with a big kitchen knife, which he flourished about, as he cried:
“I’ll bleed him! I’ll bleed him!”
This created another scare. Auguste, turning very pale, jumped precipitately into the cab, and pulled the door to, saying:
“He’s got another knife! Wherever does he find all those knives? I beseech you, Théophile, send him away, try and arrange that he shall no longer be here when I come back. As though what has already happened were not bad enough for me!”
The porter had hold of the madman by his shoulders. Valérie told the driver the address. But he, a fat and filthy looking man, with a face the color of bullock’s blood, and still drunk from the night before, did not hurry himself, but took his time to gather up the reins and make himself comfortable on the box.
“By distance, governor?” asked he, in a hoarse voice.
“No, by the hour, and quickly please. There will be something handsome for yourself.”
In the Rue d’Enghein, he met with another vexation. To begin with, the commission agent’s doorway was so blocked up with vans that he almost got crushed; then he found himself in the courtyard with the glass roof, amidst a crowd of packers all violently nailing up cases, and not one of whom could tell him where Bachelard was. The hammering seemed to split his skull. He was, however, making up his mind to wait for the uncle, when an apprentice, pitying his suffering look, came and whispered an address in his ear: Mademoiselle Fifi, Rue Saint-Marc, third floor. Old Bachelard was most likely there.
“Where do you say?” asked the driver, who had fallen asleep.
“Rue Saint-Marc, and a little faster, if it’s possible.”
The cab resumed its funereal crawl. On the boulevards, the wheel caught in an omnibus. The panels cracked, the springs uttered plaintive cries, a gloomy melancholy more and more overcame the husband in his search of his second. However, they at last reached the Rue Saint-Marc.
On the third floor, the door was opened by a little old woman, plump and white. She seemed suffering from some strong emotion, and she admitted Auguste directly he asked for Monsieur Bachelard.
“Ah! sir, you are one of his friends, surely. Pray try to calm him. Something happened to vex him a little while ago, the poor dear man. You know me, no doubt, he must have spoken to you of me: I am Mademoiselle Menu.”
Auguste, feeling quite scared, found himself in a narrow room overlooking the courtyard, and as clean and peaceful as a country home. One could almost detect the odor of order and work, the purity of the happy existence of people in a quiet way. Seated before an embroidery frame, on which a priest’s stole was stretched, a fair young girl, pretty and having a candid air, was weeping bitterly; whilst uncle Bachelard, standing up, his nose inflamed, his eyes bloodshot, was driveling with rage and despair. He was so upset that Auguste’s entry did not appear to surprise him in the least. He immediately called upon him to bear witness, and the scene continued.
“Come now, Monsieur Vabre, who are an honest man, what would you say in my place? I arrived here this morning a little earlier than usual. I entered her room with the sugar from the café and three four-sou pieces, just for a surprise for her, and I find her with that pig Gueulin! No, there, frankly what would you say?”
Auguste, greatly embarrassed, turned very red. He at first thought that the uncle knew of his misfortune and was making a fool of him. But the other added, without even waiting for a reply:
“Ah! listen, mademoiselle, you don’t know what it is you have done! I who was becoming young again, who felt so delighted at having found a nice quiet little nook, where I was once more beginning to believe in happiness! Yes, you were an angel, a flower, in short something fresh which helped me to forget a lot of dirty women.”
A genuine emotion contracted his throat, his voice choked in accents of profound suffering. Everything was crumbling away, and he wept for the loss of the ideal, with the hiccoughs of a remnant of drunkenness.
“I did not know uncle,” stammered Fifi, whose sobs redoubled in presence of this pitiful spectacle; “no, I did not know it would cause you so much grief.”
And indeed she did not look as if she did know. She retained her ingenuous eyes, her odor of chastity, the naivete of a little girl unable as yet to distinguish a gentleman from a lady. Aunt Menu, moreover, swore that at heart she was innocent.
“Do be calm, Monsieur Narcisse. She loves you well all the same. I felt that it would not be very agreeable to you. I said to her: ‘If Monsieur Narcisse learns this, he will be annoyed.’ But she has scarcely lived as yet, has she? She does not know what pleases, nor what does not please. Do not weep any more, as her heart is always for you.”
As neither the child nor the uncle listened to her, she turned toward Auguste, she told him how much more anxious such an adventure made her feel for her niece’s future.
“Perhaps you know Villeneuve, near Lille?” said she in conclusion. “I come from there. It is a pretty large town———”
But Auguste’s patience was at an end. He shook himself free of the aunt, and turned toward Bachelard, whose noisy despair was calming down.
“I came to ask you for Duveyrier’s new address. I suppose you know it.”
“Duveyrier’s address, Duveyrier’s address,” stammered the uncle. “You mean Clarisse’s address. Wait a moment.”
And he went and opened the door of Fifi’s bed-room. Auguste was greatly surprised on seeing Gueulin, whom the old man had locked in, come forth. He had wished to give him time to dress himself, and also to detain him, so as to decide afterward what he would do with him. The sight of the young man looking all upset, his hair still unbrushed, revived his anger.
“What! wretch! it’s you, my nephew, who dishonors me! You soil your family, you drag my white hairs in the mire! Ah! you’ll end badly, we shall see you one of these days in the dock of the assize-court!”
Gueulin listened with bowed head, feeling at once both embarrassed and furious.
“I say, uncle, you’re going too far,” murmured he. “There’s a limit to everything. I don’t think it funny either. Why did you bring me to see mademoiselle? I never asked you. You dragged me here. You drag everybody here.”
But Bachelard, again overcome with tears, continued:
“You’ve taken everything from me; I had only her left. You’ll be the cause of my death, and I won’t leave you a sou, not a sou!”
Then Gueulin, quite beside himself, burst out:
“Go to the deuce! I’ve had enough of it! Ah! it’s as I’ve always told you! here they come, here they come, the annoyances of the morrow! See how it succeeds with me, when for once in a way I’ve been fool enough to take advantage of an opportunity. Of course! the night was very pleasant; but, afterward, go to blazes! one will be blubbering like a calf for the rest of one’s life.”
“I am in a great hurry,” Auguste ventured to observe. “Please give me the address, just the name of the street and the number, I require nothing further.”
“The address,” said the uncle, “wait a bit, directly.”
And, carried away by his feelings, which were overflowing, he caught hold of Gueulin’s hands.
“You ungrateful fellow, I was keeping her for you, on my word of honor! I said to myself: If he’s good, I’ll give her to him. Oh! in a proper manner, with a dowry of fifty thousand francs. And, you dirty beast! you can’t wait, you go and take her like that, all on a sudden!”
“No, let me be!” said Gueulin, affected by the old chap’s kindness of heart. “I see very well that the annoyances are going to continue.”
But Bachelard dragged him before the young girl and asked her:
“Come now, Fifi, look at him, would you have loved him?”
“If it would have pleased you, uncle,” answered she.
This kind reply quite broke his heart. He wiped his eyes, blew his nose, and almost choked. Well! he would see. He had always wished to make her happy. And he suddenly sent Gueulin off about his business.
“Be off. I will think about it.”
Just as Gueulin was leaving, Bachelard called him back.
“Kiss her on the forehead; I permit it.”
And then he went himself and put him outside the door, after which he returned to Auguste, and, placing his hand on his heart, he said:
“It’s no joke; I give you my word of honor that I intended giving her to him, later on.”
“And the address?” asked the other, losing all patience.
The uncle appeared surprised, as though he had answered him before.
“Eh? what? Clarisse’s address? Why, I don’t know it.”
Auguste made an angry gesture. Everything was going wrong: there seemed to be a regular plot to render him ridiculous! Seeing him so upset, Bachelard made a suggestion. No doubt, Trublot knew the address, and they might find him at his employer’s—the stockbroker, Desmarquay. And the uncle, with the obliging manner of one accustomed to knock about, offered to accompany his young friend. The latter accepted.
“Listen!” said the uncle to Fifi, after kissing her in his turn on the forehead: “here’s the sugar from the café, all the same, and three four-sou bits for your money-box. Behave well whilst awaiting my orders.”
The young girl, looking very modest, continued drawing her needle with exemplary application. A ray of sunshine, coming from over a neighboring roof, enlivened the little room, gilded this nook of innocence, into which the noise of the passing vehicles did not even penetrate. All the poetry of Bachelard’s nature was stirred.
“May God bless you, Monsieur Narcisse!” said aunt Menu to him as she saw him to the door. “I am more easy now. Only listen to the dictates of your heart, for it will inspire you.”
The driver had again fallen asleep, and he grumbled when the uncle gave him Monsieur Desmarquay’s address in the Rue Saint-Lazare. No doubt the horse was asleep also, for it required quite a hail of blows to get him to move. At length the cab rolled painfully along.
“It’s hard all the same,” resumed the uncle, after a pause. “You can’t imagine the effect it had on me when I saw Gueulin in his shirt. No; one must have gone through such a thing to understand it.”
And he went on, entering into every detail, without noticing Auguste’s increasing uneasiness. At length the latter, feeling his position becoming falser and falser, told him why he was in such a hurry to find Duveyrier.
“Berthe with that counter-jumper!” cried the uncle. “You astonish me, sir!”
And it seemed that his astonishment was especially on account of his niece’s choice. However, after a little reflection, he became very indignant. His sister Eléonore had a great deal to reproach herself with. He would have nothing more to do with the family. Of course, he was not going to mix himself up with the duel; but he considered it indispensable.
“Thus, just now, when I saw Fifi with a man, my first thought was to murder every one. If the same thing should ever happen to you——-”
A painful start of Auguste’s caused him to interrupt himself.
“Ah! true, I was forgetting. My story does not interest you.”
Another pause ensued, whilst the cab swayed in a melancholy fashion.
“I told you Rue Saint-Lazare,” called out the uncle to the driver. “It isn’t at Chaillot. Turn to the left.”
At length the cab stopped. Out of prudence they sent up for Trublot, who came down bareheaded to talk to them in the doorway.
“You know Clarisse’s address?” asked Bachelard.
“Clarisse’s address?”
“Why, of course! Rue d’Assas.”
They thanked him, and were about to re-enter their cab, when Auguste asked in his turn:
“What’s the number?”
“The number! Ah! I don’t know the number.”
At this, the husband declared that he preferred to give up seeing Duveyrier altogether. Trublot did all he could to try and remember. He had dined there once, it was just behind the Luxembourg; but he could not recollect whether it was at the end of the street, or on the right or the left, But he knew the door well; oh! he could have said at once, “That’s it.” Then the uncle had another idea; he begged him to accompany them in spite of Auguste’s protestations, and his talking of returning home and not wishing to disturb any one any further. Trublot, however, refused in a constrained manner. No, he would not trust himself in that hole again.
“Well, I’m off, as Monsieur Trublot can’t come,” said Auguste, whose worries were increased by all these stories.
But Trublot then declared that he would accompany them all the same; only, he would not go up; he would merely show them the door. And, after fetching his hat, and giving a pretext for going out, he joined them in the cab. “Rue d’Assas,” said he to the driver. “Straight down the street; I’ll tell you when to stop.”
The driver swore. Rue d’Assas, by Jove! there were people who liked going about. However, they would get there when they did get there. The big white horse steamed away without making hardly any progress, his neck dislocated in a painful bow at every step.
Bachelard was already relating his misfortune to Trublot. Such things always made him talkative. Yes, with that pig Gueulin, a most delicious little thing! But at this point of his story he recollected Auguste, who, gloomy and doleful, was sitting in a heap in a corner of the cab.
“Ah! true; I beg your pardon!” murmured he; “I keep forgetting.”
And, addressing Trublot, he added:
“Our friend has met with a misfortune in his home also, and that is why we are trying to find Duveyrier. Yes, he found his wife last night—”
He finished with a gesture, then added simply:
“Octave, you know.”
Trublot, always plain-spoken, was about to say that it did not surprise him. Only, he caught back his words, and replaced them by others, full of disdainful anger, and the explanation of which the husband did not dare to ask him for:
“What an idiot that Octave is!” said he.
At this appreciation of adultery there ensued another pause. Each of the three men was buried in his own reflections. The cab scarcely moved at all. It seemed to have been rolling for hours over a bridge, when Trublot, who was the first to emerge from his thoughts, ventured on making this judicious remark:
“This cab doesn’t get along very fast.”
But nothing could increase the horse’s pace. It was eleven o’clock when they reached the Rue d’Assas. And there they wasted nearly another quarter of an hour, for, in spite of Trublot’s boasts, he could not find the door. At first he allowed the driver to go along the street to the very end without stopping him; then he made him drive up and down three times over. And, on his precise indications, Auguste kept entering every tenth house; but the doorkeepers all answered that they knew no one of the name. At length a green-grocer pointed out the door to him. He went in with Bachelard, leaving Trublot in the cab.
It was the big rascal of a brother who admitted them. He had a cigarette stuck between his lips, and blew the smoke into their faces as he showed them into the drawing-room. When they asked for Monsieur Duveyrier, he stood looking at them in a jocular manner without answering. Then he disappeared, perhaps to fetch him. In the middle of the blue satin drawing-room, all luxuriously new, yet already stained with grease, one of the sisters, the youngest, was seated on the carpet scouring out a saucepan which she had brought from the kitchen; whilst the other, the eldest, was hammering with her clenched fists on a magnificent piano, the key of which she had just found. On seeing the gentlemen enter, they had both raised their heads; neither, however, left off her occupation, but continued on the contrary hammering and scouring more energetically than ever. Five minutes passed, yet no one came. The visitors, feeling almost deafened, stood looking at each, when some yells, issuing from a neighboring room, completely terrified them; it was the invalid aunt being washed.
At length an old woman, Madame Bocquet, Clarisse’s mother, passed her head through a partly opened door, not daring to show any more of her person, because of the filthy dress she had on.
“What do you gentlemen desire?” asked she.
“Why, Monsieur Duveyrier!” exclaimed the uncle, losing patience. “We have already told the servant. Let him know that Monsieur Auguste Vabre and Monsieur Narcisse Bachelard wish to see him.”
Madame Bocquet shut the door again. The eldest of the sisters was now mounted on the music stool, and was hammering with her elbows, whilst the youngest was scraping the saucepan with an iron fork, so as to get all she could out of it. Another five minutes passed by. Then, in the midst of the uproar, which did not seem to disturb her in the least, Clarisse appeared.
“Ah! it’s you!” said she to Bachelard, without even looking at Auguste.
“You know, my old fellow,” added she, “if you’ve come to tipple, you may as well get out at once. The old life’s done with. I now intend to be respected.”
“We haven’t called on your account,” replied Bachelard, recovering himself, used as he was to the lively receptions of such ladies. “We must speak to Duveyrier.”
Then Clarisse looked ar the other gentleman. She took him for a bailiff, knowing that Alphonse was already in a mess.
“Oh! after all, I don’t care,” said she. “You can take him and keep him if you like. It’s not so very pleasant to have to dress his pimples!”
She no longer even took the trouble to conceal her disgust, certain, moreover, that all