by Emile Zola
‘I’ll break it if you don’t tell me who sent that letter.’
Valérie, frightened, and stifling a cry of pain, turned quite white. Campardon felt her lean on his shoulder in one of those nervous attacks which would torture her for hours at a time. He scarcely had time to take her into the next room, where he laid her on the sofa. Madame Juzeur and Madame Dambreville followed him and proceeded to unlace her, while he discreetly withdrew.
Meanwhile, in the ballroom, only a few people had noticed this brief dramatic scene. Madame Duveyrier and Madame Josserand continued to receive the guests, who streamed in, gradually filling the vast room with bright dresses and black coats. There was a growing murmur of polite conversation as smiling faces revolved round the bride—the fat faces of fathers and mothers, the angular profiles of their daughters, and the delicate, sympathetic countenances of young women. At the far end of the room a violinist was tuning his A string. It gave out little plaintive cries.
‘Sir, I must apologize,’ said Théophile, accosting Octave, whose eyes had met his when he was twisting Valérie’s arm. ‘Anyone in my place would have suspected you, would he not? But I want to shake hands with you, to show you that I recognize my mistake.’
Shaking him by the hand, he took him aside, tortured by the need to pour out his woes, to find some confidant to whom he could unburden himself.
‘Ah! sir, if I were to tell you …’
And he began to talk at length about his wife. As a girl she was delicate, and people said jokingly that marriage would set her right. She could not get fresh air in her parents’ shop, where for three months he visited her every evening, and she had seemed so nice, so obedient, somewhat melancholy in temperament, but quite charming.
‘Well, sir, marriage did not set her right—far from it! After a few weeks she was quite dreadful; we could never agree about anything. Quarrels about nothing at all; changes of mood every minute; laughing, crying, without my having the least idea why. Absurd sentimentality, extravagant ideas, an eternal mania for driving people mad. In short, sir, my home has been turned into a perfect hell on earth!’
‘It’s very odd,’ murmured Octave, who felt obliged to say something.
Then the husband, pale with excitement, straightened his short legs to avoid looking ridiculous, and broached the subject of what he termed his wretched wife’s misconduct. Twice he had had his suspicions; but he was too decent to think it might be true. This time, however, he was obliged to recognize the evidence. There was no doubt whatever, was there? And, his hands trembling, he felt about in his waistcoat pocket for the letter.
‘If she did it for money I could understand it,’ he added, ‘but they don’t give her any, I’m sure of that, because I’d know. Then what is it that drives her to do such a thing? I’m always very nice to her. She’s got everything she wants at home. I can’t understand it. If you can understand it, sir, please tell me.’
‘It’s very odd, very odd,’ repeated Octave, who found all these confidences embarrassing, and was wondering how to make his escape.
But the husband would not let him go, in his feverish anxiety to get at the truth. At this moment Madame Juzeur came back and whispered something to Madame Josserand, who was just curtseying to a wealthy jeweller of the Palais Royal, and who, quite upset, hastened to follow her.
‘I think your wife’s having a very bad attack,’ Octave said to Théophile.
‘Never mind about her!’ exclaimed the latter, furious at not being taken ill too, so that they might look after him. ‘She’s only too glad to have an attack; it always makes everyone sympathize with her. My health is no better than hers, but I’ve never been unfaithful to her.’
Madame Josserand did not return. Among intimate friends the rumour got about that Valérie was in the throes of the most frightful convulsions. It would take several men to hold her down; but, as they had been obliged partially to undress her, Trublot’s and Gueulin’s offers to help were declined. Meanwhile the orchestra was playing a quadrille; Berthe was about to open the ball with Duveyrier, in his official capacity, as her partner, while Auguste, unable to find Madame Josserand, took Hortense to form their vis-à-vis. The news of Valérie’s attack was kept a secret from the bridal pair, for fear that it might upset them. The dance grew lively, and there was a sound of laughter under the gleaming chandeliers. A polka, whose rhythm was vigorously marked by the violins, set all the couples whirling round the room, with trains flowing behind them.
‘Doctor Juillerat! Where’s Doctor Juillerat?’ cried Madame Josserand, rushing back into the room.
The doctor had been invited, but no one had yet noticed his arrival. By now she could no longer contain the rage she had been bottling up since the morning. She was happy to speak quite plainly in front of Octave and Campardon.
‘I’ve had just about enough of it. It’s not very nice for my daughter, this endless business about adultery!’
She looked round for Hortense, and at last noticed her talking to a gentleman of whom she could only see the back but whom she recognized by his broad shoulders. It was Verdier. This increased her ill-humour. She sharply called her daughter over to her, and told her in a whisper that it would be better if she remained at her mother’s disposal on an occasion such as this. Hortense ignored the rebuke. She was triumphant, for Verdier had just fixed their marriage for June—in two months’ time.
‘Hold your tongue!’ said her mother.
‘I assure you he has, mamma. He sleeps out three times a week, to get that other woman used to it, and in a fortnight he’s going to stay away altogether. Then it’ll all be over, and he’ll be mine.’
‘Hold your tongue! I’ve had more than enough of your romance! Just be good enough to wait at the door until Doctor Juillerat comes, and send him to me the moment he does. And don’t mention a word of this to your sister!’
Then she went back into the next room, while Hortense muttered something about not wanting anybody, thank goodness, to approve of her conduct, and that they would all be left gaping one day when they discovered that she had made a better match than the rest. She went over to the door, however, to look out for Doctor Juillerat.
The orchestra was now playing a waltz. Berthe was dancing with one of her husband’s cousins, so as to get rid of her relations in turn. Madame Duveyrier had not been able to refuse uncle Bachelard, who made her most uncomfortable by breathing in her face. The heat increased; the buffet was crowded with gentlemen mopping their brows. Some little girls hopped about together in a corner, while the mothers, sitting apart, dreamt about the weddings of their own daughters that somehow never took place. Congratulations were showered upon the two fathers, Monsieur Vabre and Monsieur Josserand, who never left each other’s side during the whole evening, neither uttering a word. Everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves, and declared that it was a splendid ball. Its gaiety, as Campardon observed, was of the right sort.
Though the architect gallantly professed great concern at Valérie’s condition, he managed not to miss a single dance. He had the idea of sending his daughter Angèle, in his name, to ask for news. The girl, whose childish curiosity had been aroused that morning by this lady about whom everyone was talking, was delighted at being able to go into the next room; but, as she did not return Campardon took the liberty of putting his head round the door. He saw his daughter standing by the couch staring in fascination at Valérie, whose breasts, shaken by spasms, had broken loose from her unhooked bodice. There were loud cries of protest from the ladies, who said that he must not come in; so he withdrew, declaring that he only wanted to know how she was getting on.
‘She’s no better, no better!’ he said mournfully to those who were standing near the door. ‘There are four of them holding her down. She must be very strong, to throw herself about like that without hurting herself!’
There was now quite a group of sympathizers. The slightest phases of the attack were discussed in an undertone. Ladies, hearing what had happened, ran up, ful
l of concern, in the pauses of a quadrille, entered the little room, brought back details to the men, and then went on dancing. It became a sort of mysterious corner for the exchange of whispers and glances in the midst of the ever-increasing din of the dance. Théophile, meanwhile, forsaken and alone, paced up and down in front of the door, tortured by the idea that he was being made a fool of and that he ought not to tolerate it.
Doctor Juillerat now swiftly crossed the ballroom, accompanied by Hortense, who was explaining things to him. They were followed by Madame Duveyrier. Some of the guests seemed surprised; fresh rumours began to circulate. No sooner had the doctor arrived than Madame Josserand came out of the room with Madame Dambreville. Her fury was increasing. She had just emptied two bottles of water over Valérie’s head; never before had she seen hysterics reach such a pitch. Now she had decided to go round the ballroom to put an end to all the gossip by her presence. However, so terrible was her step and so sour her smile that, as she passed, everyone guessed her secret.
Madame Dambreville remained by her side. Ever since the morning she had been talking to her about Léon, vaguely complaining, trying to persuade her to intercede with him on her behalf, and so patch up their relationship. She pointed him out, as he was escorting a tall, gaunt girl to her seat and pretending to pay her great attention.
‘He’s avoiding us, can’t you see?’ she said with a nervous laugh, trembling with suppressed emotion. ‘You should scold him for not even looking at us.’
‘Léon!’ cried Madame Josserand. When he came over she said bluntly, being in no mood to mince her words: ‘Why are you angry with Madame Dambreville? She bears you no ill-will. Go and make it up with her. There’s no point in sulking.’
And she left them looking at each other in embarrassment. Madame Dambreville took Léon’s arm, and they both retired to a window-recess, where they talked for a while, and then left the ballroom together arm-in-arm. She had solemnly sworn to arrange a marriage for him in the autumn.
Meanwhile Madame Josserand was still dispensing smiles, and when she came to Berthe, breathless with dancing, looking quite rosy in her white dress, she was suddenly overcome by emotion. She clasped her in her arms, overwhelmed by a vague association of ideas, as she remembered Valérie lying in the next room with her face convulsed and distorted.
‘My poor darling, my poor darling!’ she murmured, giving her two big kisses.
‘How is she?’ asked Berthe, coolly.
Madame Josserand’s sour look returned at once. What? Berthe knew about it then? But of course she did; everybody knew about it. It was only her husband over there—whom she pointed out taking an old lady to the buffet—who was still ignorant of what had happened. She had even intended to get someone to tell him all about it, for it made him look so silly afterwards always to be the last to know anything.
‘To think that I’ve been struggling to keep it all quiet!’ cried Madame Josserand, beside herself. ‘Well, well, I won’t bother any more, but it must be put a stop to. I won’t let them make you look a fool.’
Everyone did indeed know, but the affair was not talked about so as not to cast any gloom over the ball. The first expressions of sympathy had been drowned by the orchestra, and now, as the dancing became less inhibited, they began to laugh about it. The heat had become intense, and it was growing late. Servants handed round refreshments. On a sofa, overcome by fatigue, two little girls had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, cheek touching cheek. Near the orchestra, to the grunting of a cello, Monsieur Vabre had decided to entertain Monsieur Josserand with the details of his great work, dwelling on a doubt which had been bothering him for a fortnight, regarding the real works of two painters of the same name. Close by, Duveyrier, in the middle of a group, was bitterly censuring the Emperor for having allowed the production, at the Comédie Française, of a play which attacked modern society.* But whenever the orchestra struck up a waltz or a polka the men had to move, as couple after couple joined the dance, while skirts swept over the polished floor, filling the heated air with fine dust and a vague odour of musk.
‘She’s better,’ said Campardon, running up after another peep round the door. ‘We can go in now.’
Some of the men ventured to enter. Valérie was still lying at full length, but the hysteria had subsided and, for decency’s sake, her breasts had been covered by a napkin found lying on a sideboard. At the window Madame Juzeur and Madame Duveyrier stood listening to Doctor Juillerat, who was explaining that attacks of this kind were sometimes relieved by the application of hot-water compresses to the neck. Then, as the patient noticed Octave coming in with Campardon, she beckoned to him and addressed a few incoherent words to him, as if still in a dream. He was obliged to sit down beside her, at the doctor’s special request, for the latter was especially anxious to avoid annoying her; and so the young man listened to her disclosures, just as, earlier in the evening, he had listened to those of her husband. Trembling with fright, she took him for her lover and implored him to hide her. Then she recognized him and burst into tears, thanking him for his lie at mass that morning. Like a greedy schoolboy, Octave thought of that other fit of hysterics which he had tried to turn to advantage. He was now her friend, and she would tell him everything; perhaps it was better this way.
At this moment Théophile, who had been striding up and down outside the door, tried to enter. Other men had gone in, so why not he? This, however, created quite a panic. At the mere sound of his voice Valérie’s trembling fits came back. Everybody feared that she would have another attack. Begging to be let in, he was pushed back by the ladies, and kept doggedly repeating:
‘I only want to ask her his name. Let her tell me the man’s name.’
Then Madame Josserand arrived and gave vent to her wrath. Pulling Théophile aside into the little room, to avoid a scene, she said to him furiously:
‘Look here, are you going to hold your tongue, sir? You’ve been driving us mad with all this nonsense ever since this morning. You’ve no tact, sir, no tact whatever. You shouldn’t keep harping about this sort of thing on someone’s wedding-day!’
‘Excuse me, madam,’ he murmured, ‘but the matter concerns me. It has nothing to do with you.’
‘Oh, really! I’m a member of your family now, sir, and do you suppose I find your affair amusing because of my daughter? A nice wedding she’s had, thanks to you! Not another word, sir; you have no tact whatever!’
He looked about him, bewildered, as if to find someone to take his side. But the ladies all showed by their coldness that they judged him just as severely. He had no tact, that was precisely the problem; for there were times when one ought really to control one’s temper. Even his own sister sided against him. When he again protested, he created a general revolt. No, no, there was no question about it, his behaviour was utterly unacceptable.
This chorus of opposition silenced him. He looked so scared, so puny, with his slender limbs and his face like an old spinster’s, that the women began to smile. When one could not give a woman pleasure, one ought not to marry. Hortense gave him a disdainful glance; little Angèle, whom they had forgotten, hovered about him with her sly air, as if she were looking for something, and he retreated in blushing embarrassment before all these tall, well-built women, who surrounded him with their huge hips. They felt, however, that the matter must be resolved in some way or another. Valérie had started to sob again, while the doctor kept bathing her temples. Understanding one another at a glance, the women were drawn together by a common feeling of defence. They racked their brains in an attempt to explain the letter to Théophile.
‘Hmm!’ muttered Trublot, who had just joined Octave. ‘It’s easy enough; they should simply say it was addressed to the maid.’
Madame Josserand overheard him and turned round, her eyes sparkling with admiration. Then, turning back to Théophile, she said:
‘Do you really think that an innocent woman would stoop so low as to offer an explanation when accused in the brutal way in w
hich you have accused her? I’m free to speak, however. The letter was dropped by Françoise, the maid your wife was obliged to discharge because of her bad conduct. Does that satisfy you? Aren’t you ashamed to look us in the face?’
At first Théophile shrugged his shoulders in disbelief. But they all looked so serious, and met his objections with irresistible logic. He was already quite stunned when, to complete his discomfiture, Madame Duveyrier angrily denounced his behaviour as abominable, and declared that she would have nothing more to do with him. Then, vanquished, yearning for someone to embrace him, he threw his arms round Valérie’s neck and begged her forgiveness. It was most touching. Even Madame Josserand seemed moved.
‘It’s always best to come to an understanding,’ she observed with relief. ‘The day won’t end so badly after all.’
When they had dressed Valérie, and she appeared in the ballroom on Théophile’s arm, the gaiety of the guests seemed to become even greater. It was nearly three o’clock; people had begun to leave, and still the orchestra played quadrille after quadrille with feverish energy. Men exchanged smiles behind the backs of the reconciled pair. A medical remark of Campardon’s about poor Théophile delighted Madame Juzeur. Girls crowded round to stare at Valérie, and then looked sheepish as their mothers, scandalized, glared at them. Berthe, who at last was dancing with her husband, must have whispered something in his ear, for he turned his head on hearing the story about Théophile and, without getting out of step, watched his brother with astonishment and the superiority of a man to whom things of that sort could never happen. There was a final galop, when everybody lost all restraint in the stifling heat and the reddish light of the candles, whose flickering flames made their sockets flash.
