Already, Abbé Marnier was forcing her to sit down, resuming the litany of his consolations, invoking the divine name, and the tenebrous power of superior designs—but those murmured washed over the dolor of the disillusioned mother; there was no emission in her frightful desolation. Timid and meek, however, she let the rebellion of her heart escape in a comment that wounded the surgeon more deeply than any other.
“Oh, I should have listened to Dr. Varon!”
Less expressive, but just as dejected, Monsieur Savoie advanced toward Caresco and, with a curt gesture, handed him the envelope he was holding.
“There, Monsieur,” he said. “Ten thousand francs: the agreed fee.”
There as such criticism in that brutal fashion of regulating the murder that the surgeon’s comprehension was aroused of the enemies he had just made. He sensed all the danger of it, and, like the heroic fighter he was, tried to modify opinion.
“Alas, Monsieur,” he said, pocketing the money, “We have not been fortunate with your poor child. I truly believed, however, that he could be returned to you.”
There was the ring of truth in his voice, but deceit and treason in his fugitive gaze, which turned away, attaching itself to the arabesques in the Oriental carpet. Monsieur Savoie did not reply, sealed like a wine-cellar, immured in his dolor.
“But the thing is,” the surgeon continued, “that he came to us too late, and the intervention that would have been so benign at the outset became very perilous in the end. You can’t imagine how much filth I found in your child’s abdomen! I don’t want to put Dr. Varon on trial, whose only sin was ignorance, but it’s evident that if the decision had been made a fortnight or a month earlier, your child would still be alive.”
In order to deflect blame from himself, not only was the wretch reopening the wound before the parents, displaying it in all its horror, but attributing the fault to an honest and decent absent colleague.
“Look,” he said, “At the same time as your son, I operated on Mademoiselle Romé, whose condition was at least equally serious, but she was reached in time; she’s doing very well, and in a week she’ll be cured, as your son would have been if...”
“Enough, Monsieur, enough!” said Monsieur Savoie, finally. “Respect my wife’s grief, I beg you. You can see that she can take no more!”
In fact, Madame Savoie had been gripped once again by a terrible fit of tears. The chimes of the clock sounded eleven times in the icy silence of the drawing room; it was like the plaintive toll of a death-knell. It was the time at which the funeral directors were to take away the body.
Soeur Cunégonde had asked in vain for the removal to take place at daybreak in order not to throw discredit on the house, attracting the attention of passers-by and the residents of the little street on to which the back gate of the house opened—a street too often troubled by sinister convoys. Monsieur Savoie, who had to arrange for the coffin to be taken to a distant location, had not wanted to yield to those interested reasons—and the time for the lugubrious departure had arrived.
Soeur Cunégonde came in, with a pitying glance at Caresco. She understood his embarrassment. She went to Monsieur Savoie and said, discreetly, as if for a religious confidence: “The undertakers are here, Monsieur.”
“Yes, let’s go, let’s go,” he replied, in a weary and defeated fashion, glad to flee the abomination of that house.
He took his wife’s arm with the delicacy of a nurse, and led her to the door. Abbé Marnier sustained her other arm. She allowed herself to be guided, unseeing, almost uncomprehending, dazed by an extraordinary despair.
Caresco remained alone in the vast reception room, understanding the futility of his efforts to attract the sympathy of the unhappy household to himself, and not having the courage to pursue, by means of an attitude of participation, the movement he had commenced toward his own rehabilitation.
But if he was cursed down below he knew that he was blessed up above. So, while the dolorous cortege headed toward the funerary chamber, he hastened to climb the stairs that led to joyful effusions, to the triumph of hope. And as he climbed, his face was transformed, filling with happy serenity.
Indeed, as soon as he had gone into Aline’s room, the sight of the friendly group around the patient’s bed, the beaming faces, the seeming good health of the person who had undergone the operation, and the exuberance of Madame Bise, welcomed him favorably. Laughter filled the bright and cheerful room.
Madame Bise, the sister serving as a nurse, and even Madeleine, were enormously amused by the declaration that Aline had just made that she did not want ever to leave the house, and always to be ill.
“You have only to marry him,” Madame Bise had replied, voicing a secret wish—and when Aline went pale, that response had awakened general gaiety. They laughed without knowing why, in the infantile contentment of seeing the patient make such a rapid post-operative recovery, her appearance now being radiant.
Caresco came in at this junction.
“Here’s the Word!” proclaimed Madame Bise.
“The Word?” the surgeon interrogated, unfamiliar with Catholic terminology. “Why the Word?”
“The savior, of course!” replied Madame Bise.
Aline considered him ardently. The Master’s eye became positive and cold. He sensed the necessity of cutting short the enthusiasm, because another serious game was about to begin.
“Let’s see, you’re doing well now?” he said, going to wash his hands at the wheeled basin in a corner of the room.
He came back to Aline, unfastened the pins of the dressing, uncovered the wound in the side that had closed completely, admirably healthy, without a drop of pus. The young woman shivered from head to toe, seeking the caress of the hand that brushed her flesh.
“Don’t move, Mademoiselle, don’t move!”
With a pad of cotton wool steeped in a solution of sublimate, he gently dabbed the points of the suture.
Madeleine gazed at the cut, which as neither large not ugly, with all the force of her vision—for the question had been raised the day before of her also undergoing a minor operation to cure her rapidly, like her cousin.
It was Madame Bise who had submitted that proposal to her, invoking reason, and the delay that such a state of health might cause to her marriage. She had not replied either by a refusal or an acceptance, wanting to talk to Georges first. But truly, her cousin’s operation, about which so much fuss has been made, seemed to have been accomplished in a very benign fashion; the wound did not have the frightening appearance that she had imagined, and scarcely any trace of it would remain in time.
“Isn’t it admirable,” exclaimed Madame Bise, speaking for Madeleine’s benefit, “to see such serious maladies cured so swiftly!”
“But Madame,” said Caresco, turning to Madeleine, “the results would be just as sure and as prompt for Mademoiselle de Jancy.”
“Oh yes,” said Aline, supportively. “Consign yourself to the devotion and skill of the doctor. It’s so good to be cured! I’m so content!”
Madeleine remained nonplussed, surprised by that extension of will toward her. She was beginning to submit to the influence of the environment, the seduction of the example. Her antipathy for Caresco was blurred by the desire for a rapid cure, and the desire to be united sooner with the man she adored.
Oh, certainly, if the operation could deliver her from that inexplicable and frightful illness, she would submit to it wholeheartedly—for she understood that it was time to act, to do something to liberate herself from the astonishing tumor that as growing in her belly without emission, with dull pulsations that made it manifest that an intimate, horrible and mysterious process was being accomplished in her loins.
She did not like Caresco; a kind of physical repulsion caused her to recoil from him; but in spite of that, in spite of the perverse rumors that were going around concerning the surgeon, which Aline herself had passed on to her—she had certainly changed her mind since!—and in spite of the repug
nance that his avid and base gaze caused her, it was necessary to recognize that the doctor was a skillful scientist who had just extracted her cousin from a bad situation. Could he not do the same for her? Had Madame Bise not told her that the surgeon, having had plenty of time to examine her on the day when she had fainted in front of him, had affirmed that her cure was certain, offering an even greater probability than Aline’s?
Her disorientated mind not daring, by reason of the base materiality of the subject, to confide in the good sense of her fiancé, without a reflective guide since her mother’s death, by virtue of a sort of deviation resulting from her unhealthy and nervous weakness, now accorded a powerful credit to the opinion of Madame Bise. She was like the frightened bird that directs its flight toward the hunter’s rifle. The possibility of a cure by Caresco became imposing, deflecting her resolution, precipitating her toward his practices.
And once born, the idea was not about to stop; it was about to come to the boil in the pressure-cooker of the sanitarium, where the environment, the example and the encouragements were lending such powerful aid to its fermentation.
The surgeon had finished the dressing, and went to wash his hands again. Aline, pink and fresh, took Madeleine’s hand.
“You see, eh? You see how simple it is? One despairs, on seeing death arrive, one becomes sad, one weeps—but it only requires a minute of resolution and an hour of courage. Oh, I’m very content.”
“Can you at least make a decision?” demanded Madame Bise.
“Personally, I’d like nothing better,” Madeleine replied, “if Georges consents...”
A flame of triumph lit up in Armand Caresco’s heart. Although seemingly occupied with his ablutions, he was lending all the might of his auditory faculties to the whispered murmurs at the foot of the bed.
So, still—as ever—formidable chance was taking his side, holding on to him like a mysterious hand, sweeping away the dangers suspended over his head.
That operation was the annihilation of his crime, the reparative effacement, the salutary destruction; it was fortune entering yet again through the wide-open door: the debt settled; the banker Israel impotent to harm him; the bailiffs put off; prosperity uncompromised; the glory of the house made illustrious by his talent and audacity, having tottered momentarily, taking flight again, also cured and fortified. It was also Mathilde, his passion, his addiction, retained to him, still possessed, still his.
Before the insistences of the family, before Madeleine’s decision, surely, Georges Ponviane would not raise any objection, would also be resolved. The sole obstacle to overcome would be Bordier: honest Bordier, perspicacious and knowledgeable; Bordier, who might smash everything if he found out. He felt threatened—but Bordier was absent, due to remain in Bordeaux for a few more days, and Caresco resolved that the operation would take place before his return.
“If George consents,” Madeleine had said. And at that very moment, someone knocked on the door.
Georges Ponviane came in, preceded by his father, very pale after having seen Stella’s intoxicated body being dragged out of the elevator. But the joyful radiance of the room, the contentment of the faces, quickly dissipated that painful impression. He came to Madeleine and hugged her to his bosom. Then, noticing the rings around her eyes, and her poor dear features fatigued by the toil of maternity, he interrogated her.
“You’re pale this morning, Madeleine. You’re not suffering?” And as she remained indecisive, with a confession on her lips, he added: “And for some time now, I’ve noticed that you haven’t been very well. What’s wrong, Madeleine?”
“I have something disquieting to tell you, my friend—but I don’t have the courage. Ask Aunt Bise.”
Frightened by that reticence, the young man turned to the aunt, who tried to soften the blow.
“No, no…the little darling’s exaggerating her condition. It’s not as grave as she implies. Ask the doctor.”
And it was the surgeon who submitted to the anxious interrogation of Monsieur Ponviane and Georges. Deeply delighted to see that the battle was going his way, sure of the means of victory, he adopted a grave expression. “Indeed, Mademoiselle de Jancy offers certain symptoms about which I’ll be happy to inform you, Messieurs. Would you be kind enough to come down to my study? We can talk more freely there.”
They went out, Georges after a glance at Madeleine, into which he strove to put all the force of his tenderness and devotion.
When the three men had gone, an immense sadness reigned in the room, squeezing the hearts of those who remained in an expectantly emotional group around the bed. The artificial exaggeration of gaiety that had radiated a shot while before had fallen flat; a few rare and heavy words were exchanged, but remained unechoed, so keenly did they sense that a grave conversation was taking place downstairs, that a destiny as about to be decided.
What were they saying? What would Georges think? Madeleine shivered, and the minutes of frightful uncertainty were eternities.
Finally, Monsieur Ponviane and Georges reappeared; the latter had the trace of revelations in his eyes. The father, feigning indifference, came to pinch Madeleine’s cheek.
“Come on, come on, my daughter-in-law,” he said, “it’ll be nothing. A little cut, and in a week, it will all be over.”
So the operation had been decided!
The surgeon’s persuasive genius had been manifest once again, and had wound itself cleverly enough around the fiancé’s soul to lead to an acceptance. It had not been without tears and suffering; the young man’s red eyes testified to that; the expression of affectionate commiseration with which he considered Madeleine was a further proof of it—but as he took Madeleine by the hand, astonished to find, even so, a smile upon his lips, what Bordier had said to him came back to mind.
“Don’t do anything without me,” his friend had said, with an unforgettable expression.
Now, Caresco, during the conversation he had just had with him, had insisted on the urgency of the determination, had declared that every day that went by would make the difficulties greater, the success less certain. He had been so affirmative, so convincing, so warmly persuasive, that the father and the son, without reflecting on the gravity of the resolution, without demanding another expert opinion, had decided, under the restriction of Madeleine’s willingness, that the operation would take place the day after next.
Now that he was not longer subject to the surgeon’s magnetism, Georges was seized by a frightful doubt, cursing the weakness of character that had prevented him from discussing the problem before resolving it.
What could he do, now that everything was decided, now that even the number of the room destined for the young woman had been chosen? How could he take a step back, go against the current?
I’ll write to Bordier immediately, Georges thought. He’ll receive the letter tomorrow morning, and will have time to telegraph his opinion. Oh, how I regret his absence!
The appearance of Soeur Cunégonde provided a distraction. Her nose, more congested than ever, seemed all the more triumphant at the victory won by her master. She had been quickly informed of it, with the result that she had come in search of Madeleine in order to take her to her room—and the young woman, whom she had take by the waist, thought of those engravings in which a husband, after the ceremony, draws his wife amorously to the nuptial chamber.
Toward what hymen, what defloration, was she going on Soeur Cunégonde’s arm? Toward what beach dolorously abandoned by the waves of dreams and joys was she being drawn?
Fortunately, in the dark immensity of her soul, a lighthouse was blazing, and that lighthouse was Georges, her handsome, her dear amour.
Alas, would the lighthouse still want to shine for her. Would George still want a scarred wife?
“My dear, it’s necessary to put you to bed immediately. It’s what the doctor wants.”
And Soeur Cunégonde turned down the white sheets on the bed, and patted the pillows. Madeleine got undressed slowly, and ag
ain, the dolorous formation of her abdomen appeared to her, seemingly more accentuated.
When she was in bed, she said: “Sister, will you ask Monsieur Georges to come to talk to me? I’d like to be alone with him.”
Soeur Cunégonde started. Leave a young man and a young woman alone! Propriety was opposed to it. But the fiancé came in, as if solicited by an interior voice, and the sister left.
“Georges,” said the young woman, “come closer to the bed. Sit down here. Take my hand; I need to talk to you.”
She was serious and affectionate. Georges tried to smile, but the joy died on his lips.
“Georges,” Madeleine continued, “the day after tomorrow, I have to undergo an operation. It is, I believe, not very serious—but still, it’s an operation, and I’ve heard it said that chloroform sometimes puts people to sleep…definitively.”
“That’s crazy!” he said, rendered crazier himself by fear, with a desire to weep that absorbed all his contention.
She shook her head, pensively, and went on, her eyes lost in the vagueness of the room: “No, not crazy. I’ve already thought hard about all that. I seem timid and tranquil, but you see, Georges, I’ve also been seething with ideas. I’ve thought that my illness might not be cured by the operation, and that you might thereafter have the burden of a permanently debilitated wife to care for, instead of a happy companion, vigorously traversing life on your arm.
“I know that you’re good and loyal to the extent of devotion, but I would judge myself truly wretched if I were to take advantage of that generosity and that loyalty, to the point of demanding such a sacrifice from you. That’s why, Georges, for the reasons that I’ve said, and in order that you won’t have to wear mourning for me if I die, and in order for you not to have to care for me if I continue to live as an invalid, I’m asking you—look me in the eyes, Georges, and you’ll see my heart therein—to take back your promise.”
Before that manifestation of superb abnegation, Georges could not hold back his tears. He pushed away the chair on which he had been sitting and knelt beside the bed. Without her resisting, he passed his arm beneath her charming head, through the blonde wave of her hair scattered on the pillow, and, slowly and melodiously, his voice flowed, enveloping the young woman with an exquisite charm.
The Necessary Evil Page 26
