Pot Luck

by Emile Zola

  Madame Duveyrier, however, was losing her head. Emotion was gradually rising in her cold nature. She kept repeating:

  ‘Do you think so? Do you think so? Good heavens! Oh, my poor father!’

  Hippolyte was in no hurry to move. He was uneasy, visibly repelled at the thought of touching the old man, who perhaps might pass away while he was holding him. Octave was obliged to shout at him for help. Between them, they laid him down on the bed.

  ‘Bring some warm water,’ said the young man to Julie. ‘Wipe his face.’

  Clotilde now became angry at her husband’s absence. Was it necessary for him to be away? What would become of her if anything happened? It was as if he’d done it on purpose; he was never at home when he was wanted, and heaven knows that was not very often! Octave, interrupting, advised her to send for Doctor Juillerat. No one had thought of that. Hippolyte started off at once, glad to get away.

  ‘Leaving me alone like this!’ Clotilde went on. ‘I don’t know, but there must be all sorts of things to settle. Oh, my poor father!’

  ‘Would you like me to tell the other members of the family?’ said Octave. ‘I can fetch your brothers. It might be wise.’

  She did not answer. Two large tears filled her eyes, while Julie and Clémence tried to undress the old man. But she stopped Octave; her brother Auguste was out, having an appointment that evening, and as for Théophile, it was better that he should not come up, for the mere sight of him would be enough to kill the old man. Then she described how her father had gone personally to Théophile to get rent from him which was overdue, but they had both given him a most brutal reception, especially Valérie, refusing to pay and claiming the sum which he had promised to let them have at the time of their marriage. This seizure was doubtless the result of that scene, for he had come back in a terrible state.

  ‘Madame,’ said Clémence, ‘he’s already quite cold on one side.’

  This merely increased Madame Duveyrier’s indignation. She was afraid to say anything more in front of the servants. Her husband obviously could not care less about their interests! If she only had some knowledge of the law! She could not keep still, but walked up and down in front of the bed. Octave, distracted by the sight of the catalogue slips, gazed at the vast preparations that covered the table. There, in a large oak box, was a whole series of cardboard tickets, meticulously classified, a whole lifetime of idiotic labour. Just as he was reading on one of those tickets the inscription: ‘Isidore Charbotel: Salon 1857, Atalanta; Salon 1859, Androcles and the Lion; Salon 1861, Portrait of Monsieur P***’, Clotilde stepped forward and said resolutely, in an undertone:

  ‘Go and fetch him.’

  As he seemed surprised, she, as it were, shrugged off the tale about drawing up a report on the Rue de Provence affair—one of those eternal fictions with which she supplied the outside world. In her emotion, she kept nothing back.

  ‘You know, Rue de la Cerisaie. All our friends know where he is.’

  He began to protest. ‘I assure you, madam, that …’

  ‘Don’t defend him,’ she went on. ‘I’m only too glad; he can stay there if he likes. Oh, good heavens! If it weren’t for my poor father!’

  Octave nodded. Julie was wiping Monsieur Vabre’s eye with the corner of a towel; but the ink was drying, the splash-mark sinking into the skin, stained with dark blotches. Madame Duveyrier advised her not to rub so hard, and then turned back to Octave, who was moving towards the door.

  ‘Not a word to anyone,’ she murmured. ‘There’s no point in upsetting the whole house. Take a cab, knock at the door, and make sure you bring him back with you.’

  When Octave had gone she sank on to a chair near the old man’s pillow. He was still unconscious; his slow, painful breathing was all that broke the mournful silence of the bedroom. Then, as the doctor did not come, and seeing herself alone with the two terrified maidservants, she burst into tears, sobbing violently in a paroxysm of grief.

  Bachelard had invited Monsieur Duveyrier to dinner at the Café Anglais, though one hardly knew why. Perhaps it was for the pleasure of having an eminent judge as his guest, and of showing him that tradespeople knew how to spend their money. He had invited Trublot and Gueulin as well—four men and no women, for women, he felt, didn’t know how to enjoy a good dinner. They prevented one from enjoying the truffles, and ruined one’s digestion. Bachelard, in fact, was well known all along the boulevards for his sumptuous dinners whenever some customer of his turned up from India or Brazil—dinners at three hundred francs a head, by which he nobly upheld the prestige of French commission agencies. He had an absolute mania for spending money; he insisted on having the most expensive dishes, gastronomical rarities that were at times uneatable: sterlets from the Volga, eels from the Tiber, grouse from Scotland, bustards from Sweden, bears’ feet from the Black Forest, bison-humps from America, turnips from Teltow, gourds from Greece. And he insisted on having things that were not in season, such as peaches in December, or partridges in July, and demanded, too, flowers in profusion, silver plate, cut-glass, and such constant waiting-upon that the whole restaurant was driven half-mad. Then there were the wines, for which the cellar had to be ransacked; he always required unknown vintages, nothing being old or rare enough for him, for he was forever dreaming of unique bottles of wine at two louis a glass.

  That evening, as it was summertime, a season when everything is in abundance, he had found it quite difficult to run up a bill. The menu, which had been arranged the day before, was, however, outstanding—cream of asparagus soup, with tiny timbales à la Pompadour, two relevés, trout à la genevoise, and Chateaubriand fillet of beef; two entrées, ortolans à la Lucullus, and a crayfish salad; then a haunch of venison, with artichokes à la jardinière, followed by a chocolate soufflé and assorted fruits. It was simple in its grandeur, and was made even more remarkable by a princely choice of wines—old Madeira with the soup, Château-Filhot ’58 with the hors-d’oeuvre, Johannisberger and Pichon-Longueville with the relevés, Château-Lafite ’48 with the entrées; sparkling Moselle with the roast, and iced Roederer with the dessert. He was most distressed at the loss of a bottle of Johannisberger, a hundred and five years old, which had been sold just three days before to a Turk for ten louis.

  ‘Drink away, sir, drink away!’ he kept telling Duveyrier; ‘when wine is good it never goes to your head. It’s like food, which never does you any harm if it’s of the finest quality.’

  He was on his best behaviour, posing as a fine gentleman, with a rose in his buttonhole and carefully groomed, refraining from smashing the dishes as was his wont. Trublot and Gueulin ate of everything. The uncle’s theory appeared to be the correct one, for Duveyrier, whose digestion was not of the best, drank great quantities of wine and then had another helping of crayfish salad without feeling any ill effects; the red blotches on his face merely turned purple.

  At nine o’clock the dinner was still in full swing. The candles, which flared in the breeze from an open window, made the silver plate and the glass sparkle, while amid the wreckage of the feast stood four large baskets filled with exquisite, fast-fading flowers. Besides the two maîtres d’hôtel, each guest had a waiter behind his chair, whose special business it was to supply him with wine and bread and change his plates. Despite the cool breeze from the boulevard, it was very warm. A sense of repletion became general, amid the spicy aroma of the dishes and the vanilla-like perfumes of the fine wines.

  Then, when coffee had been served, with liqueurs and cigars, and all the waiters had withdrawn, uncle Bachelard, throwing himself back in his chair, heaved a great sigh of satisfaction.

  ‘Ah, that was really good!’ he declared.

  Trublot and Gueulin, stretching themselves, leant back in their chairs as well.

  ‘I’m absolutely full!’ said the one.

  ‘Up to the eyes!’ added the other.

  Duveyrier, puffing, gave a nod of assent and murmured:

  ‘Oh, those crayfish!’

  All four l
ooked at each other and chuckled. Their bellies distended to bursting-point, they slowly, selfishly proceeded to digest, like four worthy bourgeois citizens who had just enjoyed stuffing themselves away from family worries. It had cost a fortune; no one else was there to partake of it with them; no girl was there to take advantage of their relaxed mood; so they were able to unbutton and, as it were, lay their paunches on the table. With half-closed eyes, they at first refrained from speaking, each absorbed in his own personal bliss. Then, feeling completely free, and glad that no women were there, they placed their elbows on the table, put their red faces close together and talked endlessly about women.

  ‘I’m thoroughly disillusioned!’ declared uncle Bachelard. ‘It’s much better to be virtuous, after all.’ Duveyrier nodded in approval. ‘So I’ve turned my back on that sort of thing. At one time I used to do nothing else, I must confess. You know, in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy I know them all—blondes, brunettes, redheads. Some of them are pretty shapely, but not many. Then there are those dirty holes in Montmartre—furnished lodgings, you know; and those filthy alleyways in my part of the world, where you can pick up the most amazing creatures, very ugly, and with extraordinary bodies.’

  ‘Tarts!’ broke in Trublot, in his contemptuous way. ‘What a waste of time! I never touch them—you never get your money’s worth.’

  This smutty talk tickled Duveyrier’s fancy. He drank his kummel in sips, his stiff features twitching now and again with little sensual thrills.

  ‘For my part,’ he said, ‘I can’t stand vice; it disgusts me. To love a woman, you must respect her, mustn’t you? I simply couldn’t have anything to do with one of those unfortunate creatures, unless, of course, she showed some repentance and one was rescuing her from her terrible life with a view to making an honest woman of her. Love could not have a nobler mission than that. A respectable mistress, you understand! In that case I’m not sure I could resist.’

  ‘But I’ve had no end of respectable mistresses,’ cried Bachelard. ‘They’re even worse than the others, and such sluts too! Bitches that, behind your back, lead a life fit to give you every sort of disease! Take the last one I had—a very respectable-looking little lady I met at a church door. I set her up with a milliner’s shop at Ternes, just to give her a position, you know. She never had a single customer though. And—would you believe it?—she had the whole street sleeping with her!’

  Gueulin chuckled, his red hair looking even more spiky than usual, while the heat of the candles brought beads of perspiration to his brow. Sucking his cigar, he mumbled:

  ‘And the other one, the tall one from Passy, who had a sweetmeat-shop? And the other one who had a room over there, with her outfits for orphans? And the captain’s widow—you remember, the one who liked to show off the scar on her belly from a sword-cut. All of them, every one, made a fool of you, uncle! I can tell you that now, can’t I? You know, one evening I had to fend her off, the one with the sword-mark on her belly. She wanted to … but I wasn’t such a fool! There’s no telling where women like that might lead you.’

  Bachelard seemed annoyed. He recovered his good humour however and, screwing up his great eyelids and winking hideously, he said:

  ‘My boy, you can have ’em all if you like. I’ve got something much better.’

  And he refused to explain himself, delighted to have aroused the others’ curiosity. Yet he was dying to be indiscreet, to let them guess what his treasure was.

  ‘A young girl,’ he said at last; ‘but the real thing, I can assure you!’

  ‘Impossible!’ cried Trublot. ‘You can’t find that sort of thing any more.’

  ‘Of good family?’ asked Duveyrier.

  ‘Most respectable as regards family,’ affirmed Bachelard. ‘Imagine something stupidly chaste … Purely by chance … I just had her like that. I’m absolutely sure she thinks nothing has happened!’

  Gueulin listened in astonishment. Then, with a sceptical gesture, he muttered:

  ‘Ah, yes! I know.’

  ‘What do you mean, you know!’ said Bachelard angrily. ‘You know nothing at all, my boy; nor does any one else. She belongs to yours truly; she isn’t to be looked at or touched—she’s private property!’

  Then, turning to Duveyrier, he said:

  ‘You, sir, being kind-hearted, can understand my feelings. It’s quite touching to go and see her; it almost makes me feel young again. Anyhow, there I’ve got a quiet little nook where I can rest after all that whoring. And if you knew how sweet and clean she is, such soft white skin, and a nice little figure—not undeveloped at all, but round and firm as a peach!’

  The judge’s red blotches glowed again as the blood rushed to his face. Trublot and Gueulin looked at Bachelard, feeling almost like hitting him as he sat there, with his row of glittering false teeth and saliva dribbling down from both sides of his mouth. What! this wreck of an uncle, this worn-out debauchee, whose big flaming nose alone kept its place between his blubbery cheeks, had got stored up somewhere some flower of innocence, some soft budding body, whose young flesh he was tainting with his filthy middle-aged vices which he concealed under his air of drunken benevolence!

  Meanwhile, becoming quite sentimental, he carried on talking as he licked the edge of his liqueur glass:

  ‘After all, my one dream is to make the child happy! But, you know, her belly has begun to swell; I’ll soon be a papa! I swear that if I could find some steady young chap, I’d give her to him—in marriage, of course.’

  ‘That would make two people happy,’ murmured Duveyrier, becoming sentimental too.

  The atmosphere in the little room had become stifling. A glass of chartreuse had been upset, making the tablecloth, blackened by cigar-ash, very sticky. These gentlemen were clearly in need of some fresh air.

  ‘Would you like to have a look at her?’ Bachelard suddenly asked, rising from his seat.

  They looked at each other. Oh, yes! they would like to very much, if it gave him pleasure; and in their feigned indifference there lurked a sort of epicurean satisfaction at the idea of finishing their dessert by inspecting the old fellow’s little girl. Duveyrier merely observed that Clarisse was expecting them. Bachelard, pale and agitated since he had made the proposal, declared that they would not even stop to sit down. They would merely have a look at her and then go off at once. They left the table and stood outside for a few minutes on the boulevard, while their host paid the bill.

  When he reappeared, Gueulin pretended not to know where the young lady in question resided.

  ‘So let’s go, uncle! Which way is it?’

  Bachelard became quite grave, tortured by the vanity that drove him to exhibit Fifi, and the dread that she might thus be stolen from him. He cast an anxious glance to left and right, and then blurted out:

  ‘Well, no, we won’t go after all.’

  And he obstinately refused, untouched by Trublot’s teasing, not even deigning to invent an excuse for his sudden change of mind. They were thus obliged to go to Clarisse’s, and since it was a lovely evening they decided to walk, as it would help their digestion. So they set off along the Rue de Richelieu, fairly steady on their legs, but so full that the pavement hardly seemed wide enough.

  Gueulin and Trublot went in front. Behind them came Bachelard and Duveyrier, deeply involved in an exchange of fraternal confidences. The former earnestly assured the latter that it was not he whom he distrusted; he would have shown her to him, for he knew how discreet he was; but it was always unwise to expect too much from young people, was it not? Duveyrier agreed with him, admitting that he had had similar fears with regard to Clarisse. At first he had kept all his friends away, but then it had pleased him to invite them and turn the place into a charming little retreat for himself after she had given him singular proofs of her fidelity. Oh, she was an intelligent woman, very discreet, good-hearted, and with very healthy ideas! Of course, there were certain little things in her past with which she could be reproached, things due to lack of guidance. Since lo
ving him, however, she had turned to the path of honour. The judge talked on in this vein all along the Rue de Rivoli, while Bachelard, annoyed at not being able to put in another word or two about his own little girl, only just managed not to inform Duveyrier that his wonderful Clarisse slept with everybody.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure!’ he murmured. ‘Really, there’s nothing like virtue.’

  The house in the Rue de la Cerisaie seemed fast asleep amid the emptiness and silence of the street. Duveyrier was surprised at not seeing any lights in the third-floor windows. Trublot gravely observed that no doubt Clarisse had gone to bed to wait for them. Or perhaps, Gueulin added, she was playing a game of bezique in the kitchen with her maid. They knocked. The gas on the stairs was burning with the straight, motionless flame of a lamp in some chapel. Not a sound, not a whisper. But as the four men were about to mount the stairs, the concierge rushed out of his room, saying:

  ‘Sir, sir, the key!’

  Duveyrier stopped short on the first step.

  ‘Is madame not at home, then?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir. Wait a moment; you’ll need to take a candle.’

  As he handed him the candlestick, the concierge, despite the look of exaggerated respect on his pallid face, could not repress a crude chuckle. Neither the uncle nor the two young men said a word. So, in hunched silence, they filed up the stairs, the endless sound of their footsteps echoing along the gloomy corridors. Duveyrier, trying to understand, led the way, lifting his feet mechanically like a sleepwalker, while the candle he held in his trembling hand threw the four shadows of this weird group on the wall, like a procession of broken puppets.

  On the third floor he suddenly grew faint and was quite unable to find the keyhole. So Trublot opened the door for him. The key, as it turned in the lock, made a hollow, reverberating sound, as if beneath the vaulted roof of a cathedral.

  ‘I say!’ he muttered, ‘it doesn’t seem as if anybody lives here!’

  ‘Sounds pretty empty,’ said Bachelard.