Pot Luck

by Emile Zola

  Meanwhile Gueulin, sprawling on a sofa near the window, muttered:

  ‘What a crook!’

  He had overheard a phrase about the insurance money, and chuckled as he told Octave and Trublot the actual truth of the matter. The policy had been taken out at his office; there was not a penny due; the Vabres had been completely taken in. Then, as the other two laughed heartily at this splendid joke, he added, for further comic effect:

  ‘I want a hundred francs. If uncle doesn’t give me a hundred francs, I’ll split!’

  The voices were becoming louder, as the champagne gradually upset the decorum upon which Clarisse liked to insist. Her parties always became rather rowdy before they ended. She herself had occasional lapses. Trublot drew Octave’s attention to her. She was standing behind a door with her arms round the neck of a strapping young fellow with the build of a peasant, a stone-cutter just arrived from the South, whom his native town wanted to turn into an artist. But Duveyrier pushed back the door, whereupon she quickly removed her arms and introduced the young man to him—Monsieur Payan, a sculptor of the most refined talent. Duveyrier was delighted, and promised to find him some work.

  ‘Work, indeed!’ muttered Gueulin, under his breath, ‘he’s got as much work as he wants here, the idiot!’

  At about two o’clock, when the three young men left the Rue de la Cerisaie with Bachelard, the latter was completely drunk. They would have liked to pack him into a cab, but the whole neighbourhood was asleep, wrapped in solemn silence—not a sound of a wheel, nor even of some belated footstep. So they decided to help him home. The moon had risen clear and bright, whitening the pavements. In the deserted streets their voices assumed a grave sonority.

  ‘For God’s sake hold up, uncle! You’ll break our arms!’

  Choking back his tears, he was now in a tender moralizing mood.

  ‘Go away, Gueulin! Go away!’ he spluttered. ‘I don’t want you to see your uncle in such a state! No, my boy, it’s not right. Go away!’

  And when his nephew called him an old swindler, he said:

  ‘Swindler? That doesn’t mean anything. One must command respect. I certainly respect women—virtuous women, that is; and if there’s no feeling, it disgusts me. Go away, Gueulin, you’re making your uncle blush. These gentlemen are sufficient help.’

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Gueulin, ‘you must give me a hundred francs. I really must have them to pay my rent; otherwise I’ll be turned out.’

  At this unexpected demand Bachelard’s drunkenness increased to such an extent that he had to be propped up against the shutters of a shop. He stuttered:

  ‘Eh? What? A hundred francs? It’s no good looking in my pockets—I’ve only got a few pence. So you can squander the money in some brothel? No, I won’t encourage you in your vices! Your mother, on her deathbed, made me promise to look after you! If you look in my pockets I’ll call for help!’

  And he kept on muttering, condemning the dissolute ways of young men, and insisting on the need for virtue.

  ‘Look,’ cried Gueulin, ‘I haven’t got to the point of swindling whole families! You know what I mean! If I split on you you’d soon give me my hundred francs!’

  His uncle had suddenly become stone-deaf, as he went stumbling and grunting along. In the narrow street where they were, behind the church of Saint Gervais, a single white lamp glimmered like a night-light, showing a huge number painted on the frosted glass. A sort of muffled noise could be heard inside the house; a few thin rays of light came through the closed shutters.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this!’ exclaimed Gueulin abruptly. ‘Excuse me, uncle, I left my umbrella upstairs.’

  So saying, he went into the house. Bachelard, indignant and full of disgust, declared that one ought at least to have a little respect for women. Immorality of that sort would be the ruin of France. On reaching the Place de l’Hôtel-de-Ville, Octave and Trublot eventually found a cab into which they bundled him.

  ‘Rue d’Enghien,’ they told the driver. ‘You’ll have to pay yourself. Look in his pockets.’

  On Thursday the marriage contract was signed before the notary, Maître Renaudin, in the Rue de Grammont. Just as they were starting there had been another furious row at the Josserands’, with the father, in a moment of supreme revolt, telling his wife that she was responsible for the lie they wanted him to endorse; and once again they dragged each other’s families through the mud. Where did they think he was going to get ten thousand francs every six months? The very idea was driving him mad. Uncle Bachelard, who was there, kept slapping his chest and pouring out fresh promises, now that he had arranged things in such a way that he would not have to part with a penny, tenderly declaring that he would never leave his dear little Berthe in a fix. But Josserand, exasperated, only shrugged his shoulders, and asked him if he really thought he was such a fool.

  However, at the notary’s the reading of the contract, drawn up from notes provided by Duveyrier, calmed Monsieur Josserand somewhat. There was no mention of the insurance; moreover, the first instalment of ten thousand francs was to fall due six months after the marriage. They would thus have a breathing-space. Auguste, who listened very attentively, showed some signs of impatience. He looked at the smiling Berthe, at the Josserands, at Duveyrier, and at last ventured to speak of the insurance, a guarantee which he thought it only reasonable to mention. They all appeared very surprised. What was the good of that? There was surely no need to mention the insurance; and they quickly signed the paper, while Maître Renaudin, a very obliging young man, said nothing but simply handed the ladies a pen. It was not until they were outside that Madame Duveyrier ventured to express her surprise. Not a word had been said about any insurance. The dowry, so they understood, was to have been paid by uncle Bachelard. But Madame Josserand naively remarked that her brother’s name had never been mentioned by her in connection with so paltry a sum. He would eventually leave his whole fortune to Berthe.

  That same evening a cab came to fetch Saturnin. His mother had declared that it was too dangerous to let him be present at the ceremony. It would hardly do, at a wedding, to turn a lunatic who talked of splitting people’s heads open loose among the guests; Monsieur Josserand, broken-hearted, had been obliged to get the poor lad admitted to the Moulineaux Asylum, kept by Doctor Chassagne. The cab was brought up to the porch at dusk. Saturnin came down, holding Berthe’s hand, thinking he was going into the country with her. But when he had got into the cab he struggled furiously, breaking the windows and shaking his bloodstained fists through them. Monsieur Josserand went upstairs in tears, overcome by this departure in the dark, his ears still ringing with the wretched boy’s shrieks, mingled with the cracking of the whip and the galloping of the horse.

  During dinner, as tears again rose to his eyes at the sight of Saturnin’s empty place, his wife, not understanding, impatiently exclaimed:

  ‘That’s enough, isn’t it, sir? Are you going to your daughter’s wedding with that miserable face? Listen! By all that I hold most sacred, by my father’s grave, I swear that her uncle will pay the first ten thousand francs. He solemnly swore that he would, as we were leaving the notary’s!’

  Monsieur Josserand did not even answer. He spent the night addressing wrappers. By the chill daybreak he had finished his second thousand, and had earned six francs. Several times he had raised his head, listening, as usual, to know whether Saturnin was moving in his room. Then, at the thought of Berthe, he worked with fresh ardour. Poor child! She would have liked a wedding-dress of white moiré. However, six francs would enable her to have more flowers in her bridal bouquet.

  VIII

  The civil marriage had taken place on the Thursday. On the Saturday morning, as early as a quarter-past ten, some of the lady guests were already waiting in the Josserands’ drawing-room, the religious ceremony having been fixed for half-past eleven at Saint-Roch. Madame Juzeur was there, in black silk as usual; Madame Dambreville, squeezed into a dress the colour of dead leaves; and Madame Duve
yrier, dressed very simply in pale blue. All three were talking in low voices among the rows of empty chairs, while Madame Josserand, in the next room, was putting the finishing touches to Berthe’s toilet, assisted by the servant and the two bridesmaids, Hortense and Angèle Campardon.

  ‘Oh, it’s not that!’ murmured Madame Duveyrier. ‘The family is quite honourable. But I must admit that, for Auguste’s sake, I’m rather afraid of the mother’s domineering temperament. One can’t be too careful, you know!’

  ‘No, indeed!’ said Madame Juzeur. ‘Very often one marries not only the daughter but the mother as well; and it’s so disagreeable when she interferes in household matters.’

  At this moment the door of the next room opened, and Angèle ran out, exclaiming:

  ‘A hook, at the bottom of the left-hand drawer! Wait a minute!’

  She rushed across the drawing-room and then ran back again; her white frock, tied at the waist by a broad blue sash, floating behind her like foam in the wake of a ship.

  ‘I think you’re mistaken,’ resumed Madame Dambreville. ‘The mother’s only too glad to get her daughter off her hands. The only thing she cares about is her Tuesday at-homes. And she’s still after another victim.’

  Valérie now came in, wearing a provocative red dress. She had hurried up the stairs, afraid she would be late.

  ‘Théophile will never be ready,’ she said to her sister-in-law. ‘I dismissed Françoise this morning, and he’s looking everywhere for his tie. I left him in such a mess!’

  ‘The question of health is also very important,’ continued Madame Dambreville.

  ‘It is indeed,’ replied Madame Duveyrier. ‘We had a discreet word with Doctor Juillerat. It seems that the girl has an excellent constitution. The mother’s, as you know, is astonishing; and it was that which, to some extent, helped us to make a decision, because nothing’s more annoying than looking after sickly relatives. It’s always best to have good, healthy relatives.’

  ‘Especially if they haven’t got anything to leave,’ said Madame Juzeur, in her soft voice.

  Valérie had taken a seat, but not having grasped the subject of their conversation, and still out of breath, she asked:

  ‘What? Who are you talking about?’

  The door was again suddenly opened, and they could hear the sounds of quarrelling going on in the other room.

  ‘I tell you the box isn’t on the table.’

  ‘It’s not true; I saw it there just a second ago.’

  ‘Oh, you are obstinate! Go and see for yourself.’

  Hortense, also in white, with a large blue sash, passed through the drawing-room. The pale folds of the muslin made her look older, giving a hardness to her features and a yellowness to her complexion. She returned, furious, with the bridal bouquet, for which they had been hunting for the last five minutes in every corner of the disordered apartment.

  ‘Well, you see,’ said Madame Dambreville, by way of conclusion, ‘marriages never happen just as one would like. The wisest thing is to come to the best possible arrangement afterwards.’

  Angèle and Hortense now opened the folding-doors so that the bride’s veil would not catch on anything, and Berthe appeared in a white silk dress, with white flowers on a white ground, a white wreath, a white bouquet, and a spray of white flowers across her skirt, which vanished near the train in a shower of little white buds. Amidst all this whiteness she looked charming, with her fresh complexion, golden hair, laughing eyes and ingenuous-looking mouth.

  ‘She looks lovely!’ cried all the ladies.

  They all embraced her, in ecstasies. The Josserands had been at their wits’ end to know how to find the two thousand francs which the wedding would cost—five hundred francs for the dress, and another fifteen hundred for their share of the dinner and dance expenses. So they had been obliged to send Berthe to Doctor Chassagne’s asylum to see Saturnin, to whom an aunt had just left three thousand francs; Berthe, having obtained permission to take her brother out for a drive, smothered him with caresses in the carriage until he became quite dazed, and then took him for a moment to see the lawyer, who, not knowing the poor lad’s condition, had everything ready for him to sign. Thus it was that the silk dress and the profusion of flowers came as a surprise to all these ladies, who were estimating the cost while exclaiming in admiration: ‘Exquisite! So tasteful!’

  Madame Josserand came in, radiant in a garish mauve dress which made her look bigger and rounder than ever—a sort of majestic tower. She fumed at Monsieur Josserand, called to Hortense to bring her her shawl, and vehemently forbade Berthe to sit down.

  ‘Mind, or you’ll crush your flowers!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Clotilde, in her calm voice. ‘We’ve got plenty of time. Auguste has to come and fetch us.’

  While they were all waiting in the drawing-room, Théophile suddenly burst in, without a hat, his coat buttoned up the wrong way, and his white tie tied so tightly that it looked like a piece of cord. His face, with its wispy moustache and discoloured teeth, was livid; he was trembling all over with rage, like a feverish child.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked his sister in amazement.

  ‘It’s … It’s that …’

  A fit of coughing cut his sentence short, and he stood there for a minute, choking and spitting in his handkerchief, beside himself at being unable to give vent to his anger. Valérie, disconcerted, watched him, as if some instinct told her the cause of this outburst. At length he shook his fist at her, oblivious to the presence of the bride and the other ladies.

  ‘Yes; as I was hunting everywhere for my tie I found a letter in front of the wardrobe.’

  He nervously crumpled a piece of paper between his fingers. His wife turned pale. She saw the situation at a glance and, to avoid the scandal of a public argument, she went into the room Berthe had just left.

  ‘Oh! well,’ she said simply. ‘I’d rather not stay here if he’s going to behave like a lunatic.’

  ‘Leave me alone!’ exclaimed Théophile, as Madame Duveyrier tried to pacify him. ‘I want to have it out with her. This time I’ve got proof, absolute proof. I won’t just let it pass, because I know the fellow …’

  His sister, seizing his arm, shook it vigorously.

  ‘Be quiet! Don’t you know where you are? This isn’t the right time—do you understand?’

  But he began again.

  ‘Yes, it is the right time! I don’t care about the others. Too bad that it’s happened today. It’ll be a lesson to everybody.’

  He lowered his voice, however, and sank exhausted into a chair, almost bursting into tears. Everyone in the drawing-room felt thoroughly uncomfortable. Madame Dambreville and Madame Juzeur politely moved away, affecting not to understand. Madame Josserand, feeling greatly annoyed that an incident of this sort should throw a pall over the wedding, went into the adjoining room to comfort Valérie. As for Berthe, she kept looking at her wreath in the mirror, and pretended not to hear, while questioning Hortense in a low voice. They whispered together, and the elder sister, pointing out Théophile, explained the situation while pretending to be busy arranging the folds of the veil.

  ‘Oh, that’s it!’ said the bride, with an air of innocent amusement, as she gazed at Théophile, perfectly self-possessed beneath her halo of white flowers.

  Clotilde was questioning her brother in an undertone. Madame Josserand came back, exchanged a few words with her, and then returned to the next room. It was an exchange of diplomatic notes. The husband accused Octave, that counter-jumper, whose head he would punch in church if he dared to come there. He swore that he had seen him the day before on the steps of Saint-Roch with his wife. At first he had had his doubts, but now he was sure: everything tallied—his height, his walk. Yes, madame invented stories about luncheons with her lady friends, or else went into Saint-Roch with Camille, by the main entrance, as if to pray; then she would leave the child with the chair-keeper, and go off with her gentleman by the old, dirty passage, where nobo
dy would have thought of looking for her. However, when Octave’s name was mentioned Valérie smiled. She hadn’t been with him, she swore to Madame Josserand—in fact, she hadn’t been with anyone at all, she added, but certainly not with him. Feeling strong in the knowledge that truth was on her side, she in turn talked of confounding her husband by proving that the letter was not in Octave’s handwriting, any more than he was the mysterious gentleman of Saint-Roch. Madame Josserand listened and watched her knowingly, merely anxious to find some way for Valérie to deceive her husband. And she gave her the best advice she could.

  ‘Leave it all to me. Since he will have it that it’s Monsieur Mouret, very well then, it’s Monsieur Mouret! There’s no harm, is there, in being seen on the steps of a church with Monsieur Mouret? But the letter is rather compromising. It will be a triumph for you when our young friend shows him a couple of lines in his own handwriting. Be really careful that you say exactly what I say. I can’t let him spoil a day like this.’

  When she returned to the drawing-room with Valérie, who seemed greatly upset, Théophile was saying to his sister in a choking voice:

  ‘For your sake I won’t make a scene here, because it wouldn’t be right, on account of the wedding. But I won’t be responsible for what might happen at the church. If that counter-jumper dares to show up at the church, in front of my whole family, I’ll do for both of them.’

  Auguste, looking very smart in his evening coat, his left eye half closed by the migraine he had been dreading for the last three days, now arrived to take his fiancée to church. He was accompanied by his father and brother-in-law, both looking very solemn. There was a little jostling, as they had ended up being late. Two of the ladies, Madame Duveyrier and Madame Dambreville, were obliged to help Madame Josserand to put on her shawl—a sort of huge tapestry shawl with a yellow ground, which she always brought out on special occasions, though the fashion for such things had long gone. It enveloped her in folds so ample and so brilliant that she caused a sensation in the streets. They had still to wait for Monsieur Josserand, who was looking under the furniture for a cufflink which had been swept into the dustbin the day before. At last he made his appearance, stammering excuses, looking bewildered yet happy, as he led the way downstairs, tightly holding Berthe’s arm in his. Auguste and Madame Josserand followed, and the others came after, in no particular order, their chatter disturbing the dignified silence of the hall. Théophile had got hold of Duveyrier, whose dignity he upset with his story; pouring all his woes into his ear, he begged for advice, while Valérie, who had recovered her self-possession, walked modestly in front, Madame Juzeur comforting her tenderly. She appeared not to notice the terrible glances of her husband.