by Emile Zola
‘Good heavens! Is the house on fire?’ cried a voice anxiously from within.
The door opened at once. It was Lisa, who had only just left mademoiselle’s bedroom, on tiptoe, carrying a candlestick. The furious tug at the bell had made her jump just as she was crossing the hall. The sight of Berthe in her chemise utterly amazed her.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ she asked.
Berthe came inside, slammed the door, and leaning, breathless, against the wall, gasped:
‘Ssh! Don’t make a noise! He wants to kill me!’
Lisa could get no more rational explanation from her, when Campardon, looking very anxious, appeared on the scene. This extraordinary uproar had disturbed him and Gasparine in their narrow bed. He was wearing only his underpants, his puffy face was covered in perspiration, while his yellow beard was quite out of shape, and covered with white fluff from the pillow, as he breathlessly tried to put on the bold front of a husband who always sleeps by himself.
‘Is that you, Lisa?’ he cried from the drawing-room. ‘What on earth is this? Why aren’t you upstairs?’
‘I was afraid I hadn’t locked the door properly, sir, and the thought of it prevented me from going to sleep, so I just came down to make sure. But here’s Madame …’
At the sight of Berthe in her chemise, leaning against the wall, Campardon was as one petrified. A sudden sense of decency caused him to feel if his underpants were properly buttoned. Berthe, seeming to forget how scantily clad she was, repeated:
‘Oh, sir, please let me stay here with you! He wants to kill me!’
‘Who does?’
‘My husband.’
Gasparine now made her appearance in the background. She had taken time to put on her dress, her unkempt hair was covered with fluff as well, her breasts were flaccid and pendulous, her bony shoulders stuck out under her gown as she approached, full of ill- humour at her interrupted pleasure. The sight of Berthe, soft, plump, and nude, only made her more irritable.
‘Whatever have you been doing to your husband then?’ she asked.
At this simple question Berthe was overcome with embarrassment. She suddenly realized that she was half-naked, and blushed from head to foot. Convulsed with shame, she crossed her arms over her bosom as if to shield herself from scrutiny and stammered out:
‘He found me … He caught me …’
Campardon and Gasparine understood, and looked at each other, profoundly shocked. Lisa, whose candle lighted up the scene, affected to share in her masters’ indignation. However, all explanation was cut short, for Angèle came running, pretending to have just woken up, rubbing her eyes heavy with sleep. The sight of Berthe in her chemise brought her to a sudden halt, as every muscle quivered in her slender, girlish frame.
‘Oh!’ she cried.
‘It’s nothing, go back to bed!’ exclaimed her father.
Then, aware that he must invent some sort of story, he said the first thing that came into his head, and it sounded utterly ludicrous.
‘Madam sprained her ankle coming downstairs, so she asked us to help her. Go back to bed, you’ll catch cold.’
Lisa almost laughed as her eyes met Angèle’s, and she went back to bed, flushed and rosy, delighted that she had seen such a sight. For some time Madame Campardon had been calling to them from her room. Engrossed in Dickens, she had not yet put her light out and wanted to know what was happening. Who was there? Why didn’t they come and tell her?
‘Come in here, madam,’ said Campardon, taking Berthe by the arm. ‘Just wait a moment, Lisa.’
In the bedroom Rose was still spread out in the middle of the big bed, throned luxuriously like a queen, looking as tranquil and serene as an idol. She had been greatly affected by what she had read, and had placed the book on her bosom, making it gently rise and fall as she breathed. When Gasparine briefly explained matters to her she also appeared to be most shocked. How could any woman sleep with a man who was not her husband! She was filled with disgust for something to which she had now grown unaccustomed. At this point the architect began to glance furtively at Berthe’s breasts, until Gasparine began to blush.
‘I can’t have this!’ she cried. ‘Really, madam, it’s shocking! Cover yourself up, please!’
She threw one of Rose’s shawls over Berthe’s shoulders, a large knitted shawl which was lying about. It hardly reached her thighs, and Campardon, in spite of himself, kept staring at her legs.
Berthe was still trembling from head to foot. Though safe enough where she was, she still kept glancing at the door. Her eyes filled with tears as she begged Rose, who looked so calm and comfortable, to protect her.
‘Oh, madam, hide me! Save me! He’s going to kill me!’
There was a pause. They all looked questioningly at each other, without attempting to conceal their disapproval of such scandalous conduct. The very idea of suddenly appearing like that after midnight in your chemise and waking people up! No, such things were not done; it showed a lack of tact, and placed them in far too embarrassing a position.
‘We have a little girl here,’ said Gasparine at length. ‘Please consider our responsibility, madam.’
‘The best thing would be for you to go back to your parents,’ suggested Campardon. ‘If you’ll allow me to come with you, I …’
Berthe started back in terror.
‘No, no! He’s on the stairs; he’ll kill me!’
She begged to be allowed to stay, on a chair, anywhere, until morning came, when she would quietly slip out. To this the architect and his wife were inclined to consent, he being fascinated by her physical charms, and she being interested in such a dramatic adventure at midnight. Gasparine, however, remained implacable. Yet her curiosity was roused, and at length she enquired:
‘Wherever were you?’
‘Upstairs in the room at the end of the corridor, you know.’
Campardon instantly threw up his arms, exclaiming:
‘What! With Octave? Impossible!’
With Octave, that puny fellow, such a pretty, well proportioned young woman! The idea annoyed him. Rose too felt annoyed, and became very serious. As for Gasparine, her fury knew no bounds, stung to the quick by her instinctive hatred of Octave. So he had been at it again! She was absolutely convinced that he had them all; but she wasn’t going to be such a fool as to keep them warm for him in her own apartment.
‘Put yourself in our place,’ she said sternly. ‘As I said before, we’ve got a little girl here.’
‘And there’s the house to think about,’ Campardon chimed in. ‘There’s your husband, too. I’ve always been on the best of terms with him. He would have a right to be surprised. We can hardly appear publicly to approve of your conduct, madam—conduct I don’t presume to judge, but which is perhaps, shall I say, rather—er—thoughtless, don’t you think?’
‘Of course, we wouldn’t be the ones to throw stones at you,’ continued Rose. ‘But people are so spiteful! They might say that you used to meet here. And my husband, you know, works for such strait-laced folk. The least stain on his good name, and he would lose everything. But, if I may ask you, madam, how is it that religion did not restrain you from doing such a thing? Only the other day Father Mauduit was talking to us about you in a very paternal way.’
Berthe looked first at one, then at another as they spoke, utterly dazed and bewildered. In her terror she had begun to understand, and was surprised to find herself there. Why had she rung the bell? Why had she disturbed them all at that time of night? Now she saw plainly who they were—the wife spread out in the conjugal bed, the husband in his underpants, the cousin in a thin petticoat, both covered with white feathers from the same pillow. They were right: it did not do to come bursting in on people like that. Then, as Campardon gently pushed her towards the hall, she departed without even replying to Rose’s question about her religious scruples.
‘Would you like me to come with you to your parents’ apartment?’ asked Campardon. ‘Your place is with them.’
‘Then wait a moment; I’ll just see if there’s anybody on the stairs, because I’d be really sorry if anything happened to you.’
Lisa had remained in the hall holding a light. He took it from her, went outside on to the landing, and came back immediately.
‘There’s absolutely no one there. Run up quickly.’
Then Berthe, who had not uttered another word, took off the woollen shawl and threw it on the floor, saying:
‘Here! This is yours. He’s going to kill me, so there’s no point in keeping it.’
Then, in her chemise, she ran out into the dark, just as she had come. Campardon, furious, double-locked the door, murmuring:
‘Huh! Go and get laid somewhere else!’
Then, as Lisa behind him burst out laughing, he added:
‘It’s true; they’d be coming here every night if we were prepared to take them in. You’ve got to look out for yourself. I wouldn’t mind giving her a hundred francs, but I must think of my reputation!’
In the bedroom Rose and Gasparine tried to regain their composure. Had anyone ever seen such a brazen creature? Running up and down the stairs stark-naked! Really! There were some women who stopped at nothing, when the mood took them! But it was nearly two o’clock, they must get some sleep. So they all kissed again. ‘Goodnight, my love.’ ‘Goodnight, my poppet.’ How nice it was to live in perfect love and harmony when one saw what awful things happened in other people’s homes! Rose picked up her Dickens, which had slipped down. He was enough for her; she would read another page or two and then fall asleep, emotionally exhausted, letting the book slide under the sheets as she did every night. Campardon followed Gasparine, making her get into bed first. Then he lay down beside her and they both grumbled, for the sheets had got cold and they felt most uncomfortable; it would take them a good half-hour to get warm again.
Meanwhile Lisa, before going upstairs, went back to Angèle’s room and said to her:
‘The lady sprained her ankle. Show me how she did it!’
‘Like this, like this!’ replied the child, as she threw her arms round the maid’s neck and kissed her on the lips.
Berthe was shivering on the stairs. It was cold, as the hot-air stoves were never lighted before the beginning of November. However, her terror had subsided. She had gone down and listened at the door of her apartment: nothing, not a sound. Then she had come up again, not daring to go as far as Octave’s room, but listening from a distance. It was as quiet as the grave; not a sound, not a whisper. Then she squatted down on the mat outside her parents’ door, with the vague intention of waiting for Adèle. The thought of having to confess everything to her mother upset her as much as if she were still a little girl. Then gradually the solemn staircase filled her with fresh anguish; it was so black, so austere. No one could see her; and yet she was overcome with confusion at sitting there in her chemise amid such respectable gilt and stucco. The wide mahogany doors, the conjugal dignity of these hearths, seemed to load her with reproaches. Never had the house appeared to her so saturated with purity and virtue. Then, as a ray of moonlight streamed through the windows on the landing, it seemed as if she was in a church; from the hall to the attics, peace pervaded all, the fumes of bourgeois virtue floated everywhere in the gloom, while in the eerie light her naked body seemed almost to gleam. The very walls were scandalized, and she drew her chemise closer about her, covering up her feet, terrified that she might see the spectre of Monsieur Gourd emerge in velvet cap and slippers.
Suddenly a noise made her jump, and she was about to thump with both fists on her mother’s door when the sound of someone calling stopped her.
It was a voice faintly whispering:
‘Madam, madam!’
She looked over the banisters, but could see nothing.
‘Madam, madam, it’s me!’
Marie appeared, also in her chemise. She had heard the disturbance and had slipped out of bed, leaving Jules fast asleep, while she stopped to listen in her little dining-room in the dark.
‘Come in. You’re in distress. I’m a friend.’
Then she gently comforted her, telling her everything that had happened. The two men had not hurt each other. Octave, cursing horribly, had pushed the chest of drawers in front of his door, shutting himself in, while the other had gone downstairs with a bundle in his hand—some of the things she had left, her shoes and stockings, which probably he had rolled up in her dressing-gown when he saw them lying about. Anyhow, it was all over. It would be easy enough, the next day, to prevent them fighting a duel.
But Berthe remained standing on the threshold, still frightened and abashed at entering a stranger’s apartment. Marie had to take her by the hand.
‘You can sleep here, on the sofa. I’ll lend you a shawl and I’ll go and see your mother. Dear, dear; what a dreadful thing! But when you’re in love, you never stop to think!’
‘There wasn’t much pleasure, though, for either of us!’ said Berthe, as she heaved a sigh of regret for all the emptiness and folly of her night. ‘I don’t wonder he cursed and swore. If he’s like me, he must have had more than enough of it!’
They were on the point of speaking about Octave, when suddenly they stopped and, groping in the darkness, fell sobbing into each other’s arms. Each clasped the other’s naked limbs convulsively, passionately, crushing their breasts all wet with scalding tears. It was a sort of final collapse, a great sadness, the end of everything. They did not say another word, but their tears kept falling, falling, ceaselessly in the gloom, while, lapped in decency, the chaste house slumbered on.
XV
That morning, as the house awoke, it wore its most majestic air of bourgeois decorum. The staircase bore not a trace of all the scandals of the night; the stucco panelling preserved no reflection of a lady scampering past in her chemise, nor did the carpet reveal the spot where the odour of her white body had evaporated. Monsieur Gourd, while doing his rounds, at about seven o’clock, sniffed vaguely as he passed the walls in question. However, what did not concern him did not concern him, and when, as he came down, he saw Lisa and Julie discussing the scandal, no doubt, for they seemed so excited, he fixed them with an icy stare, separating them at once. Then he went out, to be sure that everything was quiet in the street. There all was calm. However, the maids must already have been gossiping, for the female neighbours kept stopping, and tradesmen stood at their shopdoors looking up, agape, at the different floors, just as people stare at houses where some crime has been committed. Before so handsome a façade, however, the onlookers were silent, and soon politely passed along.
At half-past seven Madame Juzeur appeared in her dressing-gown; she was looking for Louise, so she said. Her eyes glittered; her hands were feverishly hot. She stopped Marie, who was going upstairs with her milk, and tried to make her talk. But she could get nothing out of her, and did not even learn how the mother had received her errant daughter. Then, pretending to wait a moment for the postman, she finally stopped at the Gourds’ to ask why Monsieur Octave had not come down. Perhaps he was not well? The concierge said that he did not know; Monsieur Octave, however, never came down before ten minutes past eight. Just then the other Madame Campardon passed by, pale and stiff; they all bowed. Obliged to go upstairs again, Madame Juzeur at last was lucky enough, on reaching her landing, to catch Campardon just coming out, buttoning his gloves. At first they exchanged rueful glances; then he shrugged his shoulders.
‘Poor things!’ she murmured.
‘No, no! It serves them right!’ he said viciously. ‘They deserve to be made an example of. A fellow I introduce into a respectable house, begging him not to bring any women, and who, to show how little he cares, sleeps with the landlord’s sister-in-law! It makes me look such a fool!’
Nothing further was said. Madame Juzeur went back to her apartment while Campardon hurried downstairs in such a rage that he tore one of his gloves.
As eight o’clock was stri
king, Auguste, looking quite worn out, his features distorted by migraine, crossed the courtyard on his way to the shop. He had come down by the back stairs, so ashamed was he and so afraid of meeting anyone. However, he could hardly close the shop. At the sight of Berthe’s empty desk in the middle of the counter his feelings almost overcame him. The porter was taking down the shutters, and Auguste was proceeding to give orders for the day when Saturnin appeared, coming up from the basement, and gave him a dreadful fright. The madman’s eyes flamed; his white teeth glittered like those of some ravenous wolf. With clenched fists, he went straight up to Auguste.
‘Where is she? If you touch her, I’ll bleed you like a pig.’ Auguste, exasperated, stepped back.
‘Now there’s this one,’ he gasped.
‘Be quiet, or I’ll bleed you!’ cried Saturnin once more, making a lunge at him.
Deeming discretion the better part of valour, Auguste beat a retreat. He had a horror of lunatics; there was no arguing with such people. After shouting to the porter to shut Saturnin up in the basement, he was going out into the porch when he suddenly found himself face to face with Valérie and Théophile. The latter, who had a terrible cold, was wrapped up in a thick red comforter and kept coughing and groaning. They must have heard what had happened, for they both looked sympathetically at Auguste. Since the quarrel about the inheritance the two families were no longer on speaking terms, being deadly enemies.
‘You’ve still got a brother,’ said Théophile, after a fit of coughing, as he shook Auguste by the hand. ‘Don’t forget that.’
‘Yes,’ added Valérie, ‘this ought to pay her back for all the nasty things she said to me, eh? But we’re very sorry for you—we’re not heartless.’
Greatly touched by their kindness, Auguste took them into the back-shop, while keeping his eye on Saturnin, who was still prowling about. Here their reconciliation became complete. Berthe’s name was never mentioned; Valérie merely remarked that that woman had been at the bottom of all their dissension, for there had not been a single unpleasant word in the family until she entered it and brought them dishonour. Auguste, his eyes lowered, listened and nodded. A certain cheeriness underlay Théophile’s pity, for he was delighted that he was no longer the only one, and scutinized his brother to see how people looked in that predicament.
