Pot Luck

by Emile Zola

  Trublot nudged Octave, for they both knew about the unsuccessful attempt at suicide.

  ‘There, you hear what he says?’ he whispered. ‘Joking apart, it really does improve his voice. It’s more stirring, isn’t it? It goes straight to the heart now. And if you’d only seen him standing there in his long red robes, with his face all crooked! He quite frightened me, he looked so odd, so strangely majestic that he really gave me the shivers.’

  At this point he stopped to listen to what the ladies were saying in the drawing-room. They were again on the subject of servants. That very day Madame Duveyrier had given Julie a week’s notice. Certainly she had nothing to say against the girl’s cooking; in her eyes, however, good conduct was the first thing. The real fact was that, acting on the advice of Doctor Juillerat, and anxious about the health of her son, whose goings-on at home she tolerated so as to control them better, she had cross-examined Julie, who for some time past had been unwell. Julie, as behoved a first-class cook, of the sort that never quarrel with her employers, had accepted her dismissal without even condescending to retort that perhaps she had misbehaved, but all the same, she would not have fallen ill if it had not been for the unclean state of Master Gustave, her son. Madame Josserand immediately expressed her agreement with Clotilde. Yes, one had to be very strict on the question of morality. For instance, she kept on that slut Adèle, with all her filthy, stupid ways, simply because the fool was so thoroughly honest. Oh! on that score she had nothing whatever to reproach her with!

  ‘Poor Adèle! When one thinks of it,’ muttered Trublot, touched at the thought of the poor wretch lying half-frozen upstairs under her thin counterpane.

  Then in Octave’s ear he whispered, sniggeringly:

  ‘I say, Duveyrier might at least send her up a bottle of claret.’

  ‘Yes, gentlemen,’ continued the judge, ‘statistics show that infanticide is assuming alarming proportions. Sentimental reasons nowadays carry far too much weight; people put too much trust in science, in your so-called psychology, which before long will prevent us from distinguishing good from evil. There’s no cure for debauchery; we must destroy it at its root.’

  This retort was directed mainly at Doctor Juillerat, who had sought to give a medical explanation of the boot-stitcher’s case. All the other gentlemen, however, displayed great severity and disgust. Campardon failed to understand vice; uncle Bachelard spoke in defence of children; Théophile demanded an enquiry; Léon discussed prostitution in its relation to the state; and Trublot, in reply to Octave, told him all about Duveyrier’s new mistress, who this time was quite a presentable person, decidedly mature, but of a romantic disposition, able to understand that ideal which her keeper declared was so necessary to the perfect purification of love—in short, a worthy woman who would give him a well-ordered home, imposing upon him and sleeping with his friends, but never being too much bother. The priest alone remained silent as, with downcast eyes, he listened, sad at heart and deeply troubled.

  They were about to sing the ‘Benediction of the Poniards’. The drawing-room soon became full; there was a crush of bright dresses under the light of the chandeliers and lamps, and laughter rippled along the rows of chairs. Amid the general murmur, Clotilde chided Auguste in a low voice as he caught hold of Berthe’s arm and tried to make her leave the room when he saw Octave and the other chorus-singers enter. But his resolution wavered as migraine now completely overcame him, while the mute disapproval of the ladies served to increase his confusion. Madame Dambreville’s austere gaze utterly disconcerted him; even the other Madame Campardon sided against him. It was Madame Josserand, however, who finished him off. She abruptly interfered, threatening to take back her daughter and never to pay him the dowry of fifty thousand francs, for she was always promising this dowry in the most unblushing manner. Then, turning to Bachelard, who was sitting behind her and next to Madame Juzeur, she made him renew his promises. Hand on heart, the uncle declared that he would do his duty: family before everything. Auguste, baffled, was obliged to beat a retreat; he fled to the bay window, where he pressed his burning brow against the ice-cold panes.

  Then Octave had the strange feeling that it was all beginning anew. His two years in the Rue de Choiseul were like a blank. There sat his wife, smiling at him, yet no change had come into his life; today was the same as yesterday, with neither pause nor stop. Trublot pointed out the new partner, a fair, dapper little fellow, sitting next to Berthe. He was said to give her heaps of presents. Uncle Bachelard, grown poetical, was disclosing his sentimental side to Madame Juzeur, who was quite touched at certain confidential details concerning Fifi and Gueulin. Théophile, a prey to doubts and doubled up by violent fits of coughing, took Doctor Juillerat aside and begged him to give his wife something to soothe her nerves. Campardon, his eyes fixed on cousin Gasparine, talked about the Evreux diocese, and then of the big alterations in the new Rue du Dix-Décembre. God and art were all that mattered; the rest could go hang, for all he cared; he was an artist! Behind a flower-stand could be seen a gentleman’s back, which all the young ladies contemplated with the utmost curiosity. It was Verdier, who was talking to Hortense. They were having a somewhat acrimonious discussion about the wedding, which they again postponed until the spring so as not to turn the woman and her brat into the street in midwinter.

  Then the chorus burst forth. The architect, with his mouth wide open, declaimed the opening phrase. Clotilde struck a chord, and uttered her usual cry. Then the voices broke forth into ever-increasing uproar; so great was the din that the candles flickered and the ladies grew pale. Trublot, found wanting as a bass, was again being tried as a baritone. The five tenors, however, made the greatest effect, especially Octave; Clotilde was sorry that she had not entrusted him with a solo. As the voices fell and, with the aid of the soft pedal, she imitated the footfall of a patrol departing in the distance, there was loud applause and both she and the gentlemen were showered with compliments. Meanwhile, in the adjoining room, behind a triple row of black coats, Duveyrier could be seen clenching his teeth so as not to shout out in anguish, while his jaw was all askew and his blotches inflamed and bleeding.

  Then, when the tea was served, the same set filed past, with the same teacups, the same sandwiches. For a moment Father Mauduit stood alone in the middle of the empty drawing-room. Through the wide-open door he watched the throng of guests and, as though vanquished, smiled as once more he threw the cloak of religion over this corrupt bourgeois society, as if he were some master of ceremonies, veiling the canker in an attempt to delay the final moment of decomposition. Then, as usual on Saturdays, when it struck twelve the guests departed one by one. Campardon was one of the first to leave, accompanied by the other Madame Campardon; Léon and Madame Dambreville were not long in following, quite like husband and wife. Verdier had long since disappeared, when Madame Josserand took Hortense off with her, scolding her for what she called her sentimental obstinacy. Uncle Bachelard, who had got very drunk on punch, kept Madame Juzeur talking at the door for a moment. Her advice, based on wide experience, he found quite refreshing. Trublot, who had pocketed some sugar to take to Adèle, was going to make a getaway by the back stairs but, seeing Berthe and Auguste in the hall, he became embarrassed and pretended to be looking for his hat.

  Just at this moment Octave and his wife, accompanied by Clotilde, also came out and asked for their wraps. There was an awkward pause. The hall was not large; Berthe and Madame Mouret were squeezed against each other, while Hippolyte was turning everything upside-down. They smiled at each other. Then, when the door was opened, the two men, Octave and Auguste, brought face to face, stepped aside and bowed politely. At last Berthe consented to pass first, while slight bows were exchanged. Then Valérie, who was leaving with Théophile, gave Octave another glance, the glance of an affectionate, disinterested friend, as much as to say that they two alone were able to tell each other everything.

  ‘Goodbye!’ said Clotilde graciously to the two couples before going back to
the drawing-room.

  Octave suddenly stopped short. Downstairs he caught sight of Auguste’s new partner going away, the dapper little fair man. Saturnin, who had come down from Marie’s, was squeezing his hands in a wild outburst of affection, as he stammered, ‘Friend, friend, friend!’ At first he felt a strange twinge of jealousy; then he smiled. The past came back, with visions of his bygone affairs and reminiscences of his whole Parisian campaign—the complaisance of that good little Marie Pichon; Valérie’s rebuff, of which he had a fond recollection; his stupid intrigue with Berthe, which he regretted as so much lost time. Now he had achieved what he had come to do. Paris was conquered; and he gallantly followed her whom in his heart he still styled Madame Hédouin, stooping at times to prevent her train from catching in the stair-rods.

  Once again the house had resumed its grand air of bourgeois dignity. He fancied he could hear the faint echo of Marie’s plaintive ballad. In the hall he met Jules coming home; Madame Vuillaume was dangerously ill, and refused to see her daughter. Everybody had gone; the doctor and the priest were the last to leave, still arguing. Trublot had slyly crept up to see Adèle, and the deserted staircase slumbered in its warm atmosphere, with its chaste portals shut close upon so many righteous hearths. One o’clock was striking when Monsieur Gourd, whom Madame Gourd was snugly awaiting in bed, turned out the gas. Then the whole house was plunged into solemn darkness, lulled by chaste and virtuous dreams. Not a trace of indecency remained; life fell back to its usual level of apathy and boredom.

  The next morning, when Trublot had gone after watching over her like a tender parent, Adèle dragged herself down to her kitchen to allay suspicion. During the night it had thawed, and she was opening the window, feeling stifled, when Hippolyte shouted up furiously from the bottom of the narrow courtyard:

  ‘Eh, you sluts! Who’s been emptying the slops out of the window again? Madame’s dress is totally messed up!’

  He had hung one of Madame Duveyrier’s gowns out to dry after getting the mud off it, and had found it splashed with greasy slops. Then all the maids from the top of the house to the bottom looked out of their windows and violently denied the charge. The sluice was opened, and filthy language surged up out of this stinking sewer. When it thawed the walls dripped with damp, and a stench arose from the dark little courtyard. All the secret corruptions of each floor seemed to fuse into each other in this stinking drain.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ said Adèle, leaning over. ‘I’ve only just come down.’

  Lisa looked up sharply.

  ‘Hullo! So you’re on your legs again? What was the matter then? Did you nearly kick the bucket?’

  ‘Yes, I had stomach-ache real bad, I can tell you.’

  This interruption put a stop to the quarrel. The new maidservants of Berthe and Valérie, christened ‘The Big Camel’ and ‘The Little Donkey’ respectively, stared at Adèle’s pale face. Victoire and Julie both wanted to have a look at her, and craned their necks in the attempt. They both suspected something, for it was not normal for someone to writhe about and groan in that way.

  ‘Perhaps you ate something that didn’t agree with you,’ said Lisa.

  The others burst out laughing, and there was another flood of filthy talk, while the unfortunate girl stammered out in her fright:

  ‘Just shut up with your foul jokes. I’m bad enough as it is. Do you want to finish me off?’

  Of course not. They didn’t want to go that far. She was the biggest fool going, and dirty enough to make the whole neighbourhood sick, but they were too clannish to want to do her any harm. So, naturally, they vented their spite on their employers, and discussed the previous night’s party with an air of profound disgust.

  ‘So it seems they’ve all made it up again, eh?’ asked Victoire as she sipped her syrup and brandy.

  Hippolyte, sponging madame’s gown, replied:

  ‘None of ’em ’ave got any more feelings than my old boots! When they spit in each other’s faces they wash themselves with it, to make you believe they’re clean.’

  ‘It’s better that they’ve made up, though,’ said Lisa, ‘’cos otherwise it would soon be our turn.’

  Suddenly there was a panic. A door opened and the maids rushed back to their kitchens. Then Lisa said it was only little Angèle. There was nothing to fear with the child; she was all right. And from the black hole all the resentment of the domestics arose once more amid the stale, poisonous smell of the thaw. All the dirty linen of the previous two years was now being washed. How glad they were not to belong to the bourgeoisie when they saw their masters living in this filthy state, and liking it too, for they were always getting up to their tricks all over again.

  ‘Eh! you up there!’ suddenly shouted Victoire, ‘was it old Twisted-face who gave you that stomach-ache?’

  Crude laughter echoed round the stinking cesspool. Hippolyte actually tore madame’s dress; but he didn’t care, it was far too good for her as it was. ‘The Big Camel!’ and ‘The Little Donkey’ split their sides laughing as they looked out over their windowsills. Meanwhile Adèle, terrified and dizzy with weakness, reeled backwards. Above the coarse shouting came her answer:

  ‘You’re all heartless! When you’re dying I’ll come and dance round your beds!’

  ‘Ah, mademoiselle,’ continued Lisa, leaning over to address Julie, ‘you must be really pleased to be leaving this rotten house next week! My word! It makes you bad in spite of yourself. I hope you’ll find something better.’

  Julie, with bare arms all bloody from cleaning a turbot for dinner, leant out again by the side of the footman. She shrugged her shoulders and, in conclusion, delivered herself of the following philosophic declaration:

  ‘Dear me, mademoiselle, if it’s this hole or that hole it doesn’t matter. They’re all pretty much alike. If you’ve been in one of ’em you’ve been in ’em all. They’re just pig-sties.’

  Explanatory Notes

  3 November afternoon: the action of the novel takes place between November 1861 and December 1863.

  Plassans: Plassans, the origin of the Rougon-Macquart family, is Zola’s fictional name for Aix-en-Provence. Octave Mouret is the son of François and Marthe Mouret, the protagonists of The Conquest of Plassans (1873) and grandchildren of Tante Dide, the ancestor of the whole family (The Fortune of the Rougons).

  4 Le Moniteur: the quasi-official organ of the Imperial regime.

  9 every day: rents increased very rapidly during the Second Empire, chiefly because of Baron Haussmann’s spectacular redevelopment of Paris, which caused land and property values to skyrocket.

  opera house: Charles Garnier’s grandiose opera house (the one we know today) was built between 1862 and 1874. The ‘big thoroughfare’ between the Bourse (France’s Stock Exchange) and the Opéra was to be called the Avenue du Dix-Décembre, renamed the Rue du Quatre-Septembre after the fall of the Empire on 3 September 1870. Its construction was officially announced in August 1864, but work on it did not begin until late 1868 (and was completed in 1869).

  10 Gazette de France: the oldest newspaper in France, founded by Théophraste Renaudot in 1631. During the Second Empire it was the organ of the Legitimist (monarchist) party.

  11 left it: Octave Mouret is only tenuously connected to the genealogical tree of the Rougon-Macquart. The action of The Conquest of Plassans extends from 1858 to 1864—in other words, it overlaps substantially with the action of Pot Luck, yet there is no reference in Pot Luck (or The Ladies’ Paradise) to the tragic fate of Octave’s parents as described in The Conquest of Plassans: it is as if Octave is disconnected from his own family.

  16 gas: the gradual displacement of oil lighting by gas lighting represented a major change in the nineteenth-century urban environment. Gaslight spread throughout Paris during the 1840s; by the 1850s 3,000 new gas lamps had been installed on the streets, along with the practice of all-night lighting, and the main boulevards were fully equipped with gas lamps in 1857. During the Second Empire gaslight, like the railway
, reigned supreme as a symbol of human and industrial progress. See Wolfgang Schivelbusch, Disenchanted Night: The Industrialization of Light in the Nineteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988).

  22 ‘… like that!’: see note to p. 226.

  24 Le Temps: the newspaper of the moderate liberals.

  27 Jocelyn: a long lyrical poem by the Romantic poet Alphonse de Lamartine (1790–1869).

  saint’s day: or ‘name day’ is, according to Catholic custom, the feast day of the saint after whom a person is named.

  43 Béranger: Pierre-Jean de Béranger (1780–1857) was an extremely popular songwriter.

  50 throat: a lump in the throat was considered at the time to be a hysterical symptom.

  52 Dame Blanche: a comic opera (1825) by François Adrien Boieldieu, some of whose tunes were highly popular thoughout the nineteenth century.

  54 ‘Girl with a Broken Pitcher’: Jean-Baptiste Greuze (1725–1805) was a painter of sentimental genre subjects. This painting, considered to be his masterpiece, was reproduced many times throughout the nineteenth century.

  66 uplifting: Monsieur Vuillaume’s eulogistic remarks about George Sand’s novel (1834) indicate, through ironic inversion, Zola’s views on the noxious effects of this type of romantic literature on girls whose upbringing was as cloistered as that of Marie Pichon. Campardon, it is noted, owns Sand’s complete works.

  sacrifices: the piano was a supreme emblem of bourgeois culture: it is the focal point of Clotilde Duveyrier’s social activity, one of Berthe Josserand’s vital weapons in her quest for a husband, and a telling symbol of Clarisse’s social rise.

  69 chlorotic: chlorosis (also called green-sickness) is a benign type of iron-deficiency anaemia in adolescent girls, marked by a pale yellow-green complexion.

  83 Salon: the annual exhibition of contemporary art in Paris sponsored by the Académie des Beaux-Arts.