Pot Luck

by Emile Zola

  ‘What I’m interested in’, he said, ‘is who’ll get the house. They’ll divide everything—well and good! But what about the house? They can’t cut that up into three.’

  Octave finally arrived at the shop. The first person he saw, sitting at the cashier’s desk, was Madame Josserand, laced, combed, and carefully done up, in full battle dress. Next to her was Berthe, who had no doubt come down in a hurry. She looked very excited, and charming in her loosely fitting dressing-gown. But on seeing him they stopped talking. The mother gave him a terrible look.

  ‘So, sir,’ she said, ‘this is how you show your attachment to the firm! You take part in the conspiracies of my daughter’s enemies!’

  He tried to defend himself, to explain the facts of the case. But she would not let him speak, accusing him of having spent the night with the Duveyriers, looking for the will so as to insert in it certain clauses. When he laughingly asked what possible interest he could have had in doing such a thing, she rejoined:

  ‘Your own interest—your own interest! In short, sir, you should have come and told us, since God willed it that you should be a witness of the sad event. To think that, but for me, my daughter would still have been ignorant of the matter! Yes, they would have robbed her if I hadn’t rushed downstairs the moment I heard the news. Eh, what? Your interest; yes, your interest, sir! Who knows? Although Madame Duveyrier has lost her looks, there are some people, not over-particular, who might find her all right!’

  ‘Oh, mamma!’ said Berthe, ‘Clotilde, who is so virtuous!’

  Madame Josserand shrugged her shoulders in pity. ‘Pooh! you know very well that people will do anything for money!’

  Octave was obliged to tell them all the particulars of the seizure. They exchanged glances. Obviously, to use the mother’s phrase, there had been manoeuvres. It was really too considerate of Clotilde to wish to spare her family any distress! However, they let the young man go about his work, though they still had their doubts as to his conduct in the matter. And they continued their animated discussion.

  ‘Who will pay the fifty thousand francs agreed in the contract?’ asked Madame Josserand. ‘Once he’s buried, we won’t see a thing.’

  ‘Oh, the fifty thousand francs!’ murmured Berthe, embarrassed. ‘You know that he only agreed, as you did, to pay ten thousand francs every six months. The time isn’t up yet; we’d better wait.’

  ‘Wait? Oh, yes! Wait until he comes to life again and brings them to you personally, I suppose? You great ninny, you want to be robbed, do you? No, no! You must claim them at once from the estate. As for us, we’re still alive, thank God, and we don’t know whether we’ll pay or not; but he’s dead, and so he’s got to pay.’

  She made her daughter swear not to give in, for she herself was not going to be made a fool of by anybody. While working herself slowly into a frenzy, every now and again she strained her ears in an attempt to hear what was going on overhead on the first floor, at the Duveyriers’. The old man’s bedroom was just above her. As soon as she told him what had happened, Auguste had gone upstairs to his father. But that did not pacify her; she wanted to be there herself, and imagined all sorts of intricate schemes.

  ‘You go up, too!’ she cried at last, in a heartfelt outburst. ‘Auguste is too weak; I’m sure they’ll trick him again.’

  So Berthe went upstairs. Octave, who was arranging the window-display, had listened to what they had said. When he saw that he was alone with Madame Josserand and that she was moving towards the door, he asked her whether it would not be the proper thing to close the shop, hoping to get a day’s holiday.

  ‘Whatever for?’ she asked. ‘Wait until he’s dead. It’s not worth losing a day’s business.’

  Then, as he was folding a remnant of crimson silk, she added, in order to soften the harshness of her words:

  ‘But I think, perhaps, you’d better not put anything red in the window.’

  On the first floor Berthe found Auguste with his father. The room had not changed since the evening before: it was still damp, silent, and filled with the same noise of long, difficult breathing. The old man lay on the bed completely rigid, having lost all feeling and movement. The oak box, full of tickets, still lay on the table; none of the furniture seemed to have been moved, nor a drawer to have been opened. The Duveyriers looked more exhausted, however, worn out by a sleepless night; their eyelids twitched nervously; something was clearly troubling them. As early as seven o’clock they had sent Hippolyte to fetch their son Gustave from the Lycée Bonaparte, and the lad, a thin, precocious boy of sixteen, was there, bewildered by this unexpected holiday which was to be spent at the bedside of a dying man.

  ‘Oh, my dear, what a terrible blow!’ said Clotilde, as she went up to embrace Berthe.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ replied the latter, with her mother’s sour pout. ‘We were there to help you to bear it.’

  Auguste, with a look, begged her to be silent. The moment for quarrelling had not yet come. They could afford to wait. Doctor Juillerat, who had already been once, was to pay a second visit, but he could still give no hope: the patient would not live out the day. Auguste was explaining this to his wife when Théophile and Valérie arrived. Clotilde at once came forward, saying again, as she embraced Valérie:

  ‘What a terrible blow, my dear!’

  But Théophile could not contain his anger.

  ‘So now’, he said, without even lowering his voice, ‘it seems that, when one’s father is dying, one has to hear of it through the coal-merchant! I suppose you needed time to go through his pockets!’

  Duveyrier stood up indignantly. But Clotilde motioned him aside while, speaking in a low voice, she answered her brother.

  ‘You awful man! Isn’t even our father’s death-agony sacred to you? Look at him; look at your handiwork; it’s you, yes! you who brought on the attack by refusing to pay the rent you were owing.’

  Valérie burst out laughing.

  ‘Really now, you can’t be serious!’ she said.

  ‘What? Not serious?’ rejoined Clotilde contemptuously. ‘You know how much he liked collecting his rents. If you’d wanted to kill him you couldn’t have done it better.’

  Tempers ran high as they accused each other of wanting to get hold of the inheritance; Auguste, sullen and impassive as ever, called them to order.

  ‘That’s enough! There’s plenty of time for that. It’s not decent at a time like this!’

  The others, admitting the justice of this remark, stationed themselves round the bed. There was a deep silence, broken only by the death-rattle. Berthe and Auguste stood at the foot of the bed; Valérie and Théophile, having come in last, had been obliged to remain at a distance, near the table; Clotilde sat at the head of the bed, with her husband behind her, while close up to the edge of the mattresses she had pushed her son Gustave, whom the old man adored. They now all looked at each other without uttering a word. But their shining eyes and tight lips spoke of hidden thoughts, and of all the anxiety and rancour which filled the minds of these would-be inheritors as they sat there, pale-faced and heavy-eyed. The two young couples were particularly furious at the sight of the schoolboy close to the bed, for, obviously, the Duveyriers were counting on Gustave’s presence to influence his grandfather in their favour if he regained consciousness.

  This manoeuvre, however, was proof that no will existed; and the Vabres furtively glanced at the old iron safe which their father had brought from Versailles and had had fixed in a corner of his room. He had a mania for keeping all kinds of things in it. No doubt the Duveyriers had wasted no time in ransacking this safe during the night. Théophile thought of setting a trap for them, to make them speak.

  ‘I say,’ he whispered at last in the judge’s ear, ‘suppose we send for the notary? Papa may want to make some alteration to his will.’

  At first Duveyrier did not hear. As he found the waiting extremely tedious, all through the night his thoughts had gone back to Clarisse. Decidedly the wisest plan
would be to make it up with his wife. And yet the other woman was so funny when she threw her chemise over her head like a little street urchin, and, as he gazed dreamily at the dying man, it was she he saw in his mind’s eye, and he would have given anything just to enjoy her again, even if it were but once. Théophile had to repeat his question.

  ‘I asked Monsieur Renaudin,’ replied the judge, in bewilderment. ‘There’s no will.’

  ‘Not even here?’

  ‘Neither here nor at the notary’s.’

  Théophile looked at Auguste. It was clear, wasn’t it? The Duveyriers must have gone through the drawers. Clotilde saw the look, and felt annoyed with her husband. What was the matter with him? Had grief robbed him of his senses? She added:

  ‘Papa has no doubt done things properly. Heaven knows, we’ll hear about it all very soon!’

  She began to weep. At the sight of her grief, Valérie and Berthe started sobbing gently too. Théophile went back on tiptoe to his chair. He had found out what he wanted to know. Certainly, if his father regained consciousness he would not allow the Duveyriers to use their brat of a son to turn things to their advantage. But as he sat down he saw his brother Auguste wiping his eyes, and that affected him so much that he became tearful in his turn. The idea of death took hold of him; perhaps he would die in a similar manner; it was awful. Thus the whole family dissolved in tears. Gustave was the only one who could not weep. He was alarmed by it all and looked at the floor, breathing in time with the dying man’s death-rattle in order to have something to do, just as in their gymnastic lessons he and his fellow-pupils were made to keep step.

  Meanwhile the hours slipped past. At eleven o’clock they were distracted when Doctor Juillerat again appeared. The patient was sinking; it was now doubtful whether he would be able to recognize his children before he died. Then the sobbing started again, when Clémence showed in Father Mauduit. Clotilde, rising to meet him, was the first to receive his commiserations. He seemed deeply affected by this family misfortune, and gave to each a word of encouragement. Then, with much tact, he spoke of the rites of religion, hinting that this soul should not be allowed to pass away without the succour of the Church.

  ‘I thought of that,’ murmured Clotilde.

  But Théophile raised objections. Their father was not at all religious; at one time he had held very advanced views, for he read Voltaire. It would be better to do nothing, as they could not consult him. In the heat of the argument he even remarked:

  ‘It’s as if you were to administer the sacrament to a piece of furniture.’

  The three women compelled him to stop. They were all overcome by emotion, declared that the priest was right, and made excuses for not having sent for him because of the confusion created by this sad event. Had Monsieur Vabre been able to speak he would certainly have consented, for he always liked to oblige other people. Moreover, the entire responsibility was theirs.

  ‘If only for the neighbours,’ said Clotilde, ‘it ought to be done.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Father Mauduit, who strongly approved of this remark. ‘A man in your father’s position should set a good example.’

  Auguste had no opinion. But Duveyrier, roused from his musings about Clarisse, whose method of putting on her stockings with one leg in the air was just occupying his thoughts, strongly urged the administration of the sacraments. They were absolutely necessary, and no member of his family should die without them. Doctor Juillerat, who had discreetly stood aside, not even showing his freethinker’s disdain, then went up to the priest and whispered familiarly, as to a colleague whom he often met on occasions of this kind:

  ‘Be quick; there’s no time to lose.’

  The priest hurried away, saying that he would bring the sacrament and the extreme unction so as to be prepared for any emergency. Then Théophile, obstinate as ever, muttered:

  ‘Oh, yes; so now they force the dying to take the sacrament in spite of themselves!’

  Suddenly they were all greatly startled. On going back to her place Clotilde had found the dying man with his eyes wide open. She could not suppress a faint cry. They all rushed to the bedside, and the old man’s gaze slowly wandered from one to the other, his head remaining motionless. Doctor Juillerat, looking very surprised, bent over his patient to watch this final crisis.

  ‘Father, it’s us. Can you recognize us?’ asked Clotilde.

  Monsieur Vabre stared at her; then his lips moved, but they uttered no sound. They all pushed each other aside in their eagerness to catch his last word. Valérie, at the rear, was obliged to stand on tiptoe, and said bitterly:

  ‘You’re suffocating him. Stand back! If he wanted anything no one would know what it was.’

  So the others had to stand back. Monsieur Vabre’s eyes were, indeed, wandering round the room.

  ‘He wants something, that’s certain,’ murmured Berthe.

  ‘Here’s Gustave,’ said Clotilde. ‘You can see him, can’t you? He’s come from school to kiss you. Kiss your grandfather, my boy.’

  As the lad recoiled in dismay she pushed him forward, waiting for a smile to light up the dying man’s distorted features. But Auguste, following the direction of his eyes, declared that he was looking at the table. No doubt he wanted to write. This caused great excitement, and everyone hastened to bring the table close to the bedside, and to fetch some paper, an ink-stand, and a pen. Then they raised him, propping him up with three pillows. The doctor authorized all this by a simple blink of the eyes.

  ‘Give him the pen,’ said Clotilde, trembling, still holding Gustave out towards him.

  Then there was a solemn silence. Crowding round the bed, the family waited anxiously. Monsieur Vabre, who did not seem to recognize anyone, had let the pen slip through his fingers. For a moment his eyes wandered across the table, on which there was the oak box full of tickets. Then, sliding off the pillows, he fell forward like a bundle of rags and, stretching out his arm in a supreme effort, he thrust his hand into the box and began dabbling about in the tickets like a baby delighted at being able to play with something dirty. He beamed, and tried to speak, but could only stammer out one syllable over and over again, one of those monosyllabic cries into which babies in swaddling-clothes can put a whole host of feelings.

  ‘Ga-ga-ga-ga-’

  It was to his life’s work, his great statistical study, that he was saying goodbye. Suddenly his head rolled forward. He was dead.

  ‘I feared as much,’ murmured the doctor, who, seeing the general bewilderment, carefully straightened the dead man’s limbs and closed his eyes.

  Was it possible? Auguste had taken away the table, and all remained chilled and mute. Soon they broke into sobs. Well, since all hope of recovery was gone, they would soon be engaged in sharing out the inheritance. Clotilde, after hastily sending Gustave away to spare him so harrowing a spectacle, wept uncontrollably, leaning her head on Berthe’s shoulder. Berthe and Valérie were also sobbing. Théophile and Auguste, at the window, kept rubbing their eyes. But Duveyrier’s grief seemed the most inconsolable of all, as he stifled loud sobs with his handkerchief. No, he really could not live without Clarisse; he would rather die at once, like Vabre; and the loss of his mistress, coming in the midst of all this mourning, gave immense bitterness to his grief.

  ‘Madam,’ announced Clémence, ‘the holy sacraments.’

  Father Mauduit appeared on the threshold. Behind his back appeared the inquisitive face of a choirboy. Seeing them all sobbing, the priest glanced questioningly at the doctor, who held out his arms as if to say that it was not his fault. Then, after mumbling a few prayers, the priest withdrew in embarrassment, taking the sacraments with him.

  ‘That’s a bad sign,’ said Clémence to the other servants, who were standing in a group by the door of the anteroom. ‘The sacraments are not to be brought for nothing. You’ll see if they’re not back in the house within a year!’

  Monsieur Vabre’s funeral did not take place for two days. All the same, on the circulars an
nouncing his death Duveyrier had inserted the words, ‘Provided with the Holy Sacraments of the Church’. As the shop was closed, Octave found himself at liberty. He was delighted at getting such a holiday, since for a long while he had wanted to rearrange his room, move the furniture, and put his books together in a little bookcase he had picked up second-hand. He had risen earlier than usual, and had just finished his alterations, at about eight o’clock on the morning of the funeral, when Marie knocked at the door. She had brought back his books.

  ‘Since you won’t come and fetch them,’ she said, ‘I’m returning them myself.’

  But, blushing, she refused to come in, shocked at the idea of being in a young man’s room. Their intimacy, however, had completely ceased in the most natural manner possible, as he had stopped running after her. But she was as affectionate as ever, always greeting him with a smile when they met.

  Octave was in high spirits that morning, and began to tease her.

  ‘So Jules won’t let you come to my room?’ he kept saying. ‘How are you getting on with Jules now? Is he nice to you? You know what I mean. Now, tell me.’

  She laughed, not being the least shocked.

  ‘Well, when you take him out you treat him to vermouth, and tell him things that make him come home half-crazy. Oh, he’s much too nice to me! You know, I don’t want him to be that nice! But I’d rather it happened at home than elsewhere, I’m sure of that!’