by Emile Zola
A few days passed. Hélène’s entire life was disrupted. She no longer lived at home, in her every thought she lived at Henri’s. Nothing existed except the house over the way, where her heart was. As soon as she had a pretext she ran round there, forgetting herself, happy to be breathing the same air as him. In the first ecstasy of possession, seeing Juliette made her feel happy since she was Henri’s dependant. However, Henri had not managed to see her on her own even for a moment. She seemed to be making an art of delaying the time of their second rendezvous. But one evening in the hall when he was seeing her out, she had made him swear not to go back to the house in the Passage des Eaux, adding that that would compromise her. But both thrilled in expectation of the passion they would enjoy, they knew not where, somewhere, some night. And Hélène, haunted by that desire, lived only for that minute, indifferent to the rest, spending her days in hope, very happy except for the nagging feeling that Jeanne was coughing just nearby.
Jeanne coughed, an obstinate little dry cough, that worsened towards evening. Then she had a slight temperature. Sweating in her sleep weakened her. When her mother questioned her, she said she wasn’t poorly, was not in pain. It was probably her cold dragging on. And Hélène, reassured by this explanation, and in her rapturous state not having a clear view of what was happening around her, dimly felt the weight of sorrow bruising and wounding her in some place she could not determine. Sometimes, in the middle of one of those inexplicable moments of joy which bathed her in love, she was overcome by anxiety and it seemed to her that something maleficent was behind her. She turned round and smiled. When one’s happiness is too great, one is always fearful. No one was there. Jeanne had just coughed but she was drinking herb tea, so it was nothing.
Meanwhile one afternoon old Doctor Bodin, who was coming to pay a friendly call, had prolonged his visit, thinking hard and studying Jeanne surreptitiously with his little blue eyes. He questioned her, pretending to be having a game. That day he said nothing. But two days later he came again, and this time did not examine Jeanne, but with the benign air of an old man who has seen many things in his time, began to talk about travel. He used to be a surgeon in the army. He knew Italy well. It was a splendid country you needed to see in the spring. Why didn’t Madame Grandjean take her daughter there? And so he skilfully brought the conversation round to advising a holiday there in the land of sun, as he called it. Hélène stared at him. Then he asserted that of course neither one of them was ill! But the change of air would do them good. She had gone a deathly white, ice-cold at the thought of leaving Paris. Oh God! To go so far away! To lose Henri so suddenly, leaving their love in limbo! It was such torture for her that she bent over Jeanne to hide her emotion. Did Jeanne want to go? The child had locked her little fingers together as if she were cold. Oh yes, she would love to! Oh, she would love to go to the sun, all on their own, just her mother and her. And on her poor little thin face, with the fever burning her cheeks, the hope of a new life beamed forth. But Hélène, sickened and suspicious, was not listening, now persuaded that everybody was against her, the abbé, Doctor Bodin, and Jeanne herself, on purpose to keep her away from Henri. When he saw that she was so pale the old doctor felt he had spoken out of turn. He hastened to say that there was no hurry, and resolved to bring up the subject at a later date.
Madame Deberle, in the event, must be at home that day. As soon as the doctor had left, Hélène hurriedly put on her hat. Jeanne refused to go out. She felt better by the fire. She would be good and not open the window. For some time now she had not pestered her mother to take her with her, she just stared at her as she left. Then when she was alone she curled up in her chair and remained there for hours without moving.
‘Maman, is Italy a long way away?’ she asked when Hélène came to kiss her.
‘Oh, a very long way, darling.’
But Jeanne clung to her neck. She did not let her stand up again straight away, but murmured:
‘Why can’t we go? Rosalie could look after your things. We shouldn’t need her... With a small trunk, you know... Oh, it would be lovely, Maman! Only us two! I would be really plump by the time I came back, look, like this!’
She puffed out her cheeks and her arms described a curve. Hélène said she would see. Then she slipped away, telling Rosalie to keep a close eye on Mademoiselle. So the child curled up in a ball by the fireside, looking at the fire burning, sunk in a reverie. From time to time she put her hands to the fire, mechanically, to warm them. The reflection from the fire tired her big eyes. She was so lost to the world that she did not hear Monsieur Rambaud come in. He was making lots of visits. He had come, he said, on account of the disabled woman that Doctor Deberle had not yet managed to get into the hospice. When he saw that Jeanne was all alone he sat down on the other side of the fire and chatted to her as if she were a grown-up. It was very worrying, this poor woman had been waiting for a week. But he’d go down in a while and see the doctor, who would perhaps be able to give him an answer. Still he did not move.
‘So didn’t your mother take you with her?’ he asked.
Jeanne gave a slight shrug in a tired sort of way. She couldn’t be bothered to go out. Nothing pleased her now.
She added:
‘I’m growing up, I can’t go on playing for ever. Maman likes going out and I like staying in. So we are not good company for one another.’
There was a silence. The child shivered and held up her hands to the fire that was burning with a bright rosy flame. And she did indeed resemble a little old lady wrapped up in a huge shawl, with a scarf round her neck and another round her head. You could well imagine that underneath all those clothes she was no bigger than a frail little bird, dishevelled and blowing into its feathers. Monsieur Rambaud, hands clasped on his lap, was gazing into the fire. Turning to Jeanne, he asked her if her mother had gone out the previous day. She nodded. And the day before, and the day before that? She kept nodding her head in assent. Her mother went out every day. Then Monsieur Rambaud and the little girl looked at each other for a long time with faces that were pale and solemn, as though they had a deep sorrow to share. They did not speak of it, because a little girl and an old man cannot speak of things like that to each other. But they knew why they were so sad and why they liked staying there on the right and left of the fireside in the empty house. That gave them some consolation. They drew closer to each other so that they wouldn’t feel quite so abandoned. They felt moved by a great tenderness and pity, they wanted to hug each other and cry.
‘You are cold, I am sure you are. Come nearer the fire.’
‘No no, darling, I’m not cold.’
‘Oh, you fibber! Your hands are like ice. Come a bit nearer or I’ll be cross.’
Then he was the one to get worried.
‘I’ll bet nobody has left you any herb tea... I’ll make some for you, shall I? Oh, I know how to make it. If I were looking after you, you’d see, you would have everything you needed.’
He did not allow himself to make any further innuendoes. Jeanne protested that she found herb tea disgusting, they made her drink too much of it. But on occasions she let Monsieur Rambaud fuss around her like a mother. He propped her up with a pillow, gave her the medicine she would have forgotten, offered her his arm to hang on to in her room. They were both very attached to these little attentions. As Jeanne explained with the intense look the good fellow found so upsetting, they were playing at being father and daughter while the mother was out. Suddenly they were overcome with sadness, said no more, but studied one another covertly, pityingly.
That day after a lengthy silence, the child repeated the question she had already put to her mother:
‘Italy, is it a long way away?’
‘Oh yes, I think so,’ said Monsieur Rambaud. ‘It’s over there beyond Marseilles, somewhere. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ she declared solemnly.
Then she complained of her ignorance. She had always been ill and hadn’t gone to school. Both were sil
ent, the very hot fire was sending them to sleep.
Meanwhile Hélène had found Madame Deberle and her sister Pauline in the Japanese conservatory where they often spent the afternoon. It was very warm in there, a gas heater gave off a suffocating heat. The large windows were shut. You could see the narrow garden in its winter garb, like a big sepia photograph, perfectly finished, with the little black branches of the trees standing out against the brown earth. The two sisters were having an acrimonious discussion.
‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ cried Juliette. ‘It’s in our interest to support Turkey, obviously.’
‘I’ve been speaking to a Russian,’ Pauline replied, just as animated. ‘People in St Petersburg like us. Our true allies are in that part of the world.’
But Juliette adopted a grave attitude and folded her arms: ‘So what do you do about the balance of Europe?’
The Eastern question* was the talk of Paris, it was on everyone’s lips, any half-enlightened woman could not decently discuss anything else. So for the last two days Madame Deberle had been deep into foreign politics, and spoke with some conviction. She held very fixed opinions about the different impending outcomes. Her sister Pauline annoyed her a great deal because she was of the bizarre view that they should support Russia, which was quite obviously contrary to the interests of France. She tried persuasion at first, and then got cross with her.
‘Oh, be quiet, such foolish things you say. If only you had studied the question as I have...’
She broke off to greet Hélène who had come in.
‘Good morning, my dear. So nice of you to come. You haven’t heard the news: they’re talking about delivering an ultimatum. The Chambre des Communes has had a very turbulent session.’
‘No, I haven’t heard anything,’ Hélène replied, taken aback by the question. ‘I get out so rarely.’
Juliette had not waited for her reply in any case. She was explaining to Pauline why they had to make the Black Sea a neutral zone, dropping first names of the English and Russian generals into the conversation from time to time, in a very careful accent. But Henri had just appeared, holding a pile of newspapers in his hand. Hélène realized he’d come down to see her. Their eyes had met, and they had let them dwell on one another; then their entire selves were enfolded in a long, silent handshake.
‘What’s in the papers?’ Juliette asked feverishly.
‘In the newspapers, my dear?’ asked the doctor. ‘There’s never anything.’
The Eastern question was forgotten for the time being. Several times they spoke of someone they were expecting who had not arrived. Pauline remarked that it was nearly three o’clock. Oh, he would come, affirmed Madame Deberle. He had promised faithfully. But she didn’t say who. Hélène was listening, but did not take it in. Anything which did not have to do with Henri was of no interest to her. She no longer brought her needlework, she stayed two hours, took no part in the conversation, her head often full of the same childish fancies, imagining that by some miracle everyone else had disappeared and that she was left alone with him. However, she did answer Juliette when she asked something, at the same time painfully and deliciously aware of Henri’s eyes for ever on hers. He went over behind her chair as though to raise one of the shutters and she could tell, by the slight brushing against her hair, that he was demanding a rendezvous. She was willing, she could not resist him any longer.
‘There’s the bell, it must be him,’ said Pauline suddenly. The two sisters feigned indifference. It was Malignon who appeared, even more smartly turned out than usual, with a touch of the formal about him. He shook the proffered hands, but avoided his normal pleasantries, he was coming back formally into the house he had not frequented for some time. While the doctor and Pauline complained of the rarity of his visits, Juliette leaned over to whisper to Hélène, who, although she was really indifferent, was taken by surprise.
‘Are you surprised then? Oh my goodness, I don’t bear him a grudge. Basically he is such a nice boy, you can’t be cross with him for long. Just think, he has unearthed a husband for Pauline. That’s nice of him, don’t you think?’
‘Of course,’ Hélène replied, to be agreeable.
‘Yes, one of his friends, a very rich man, with marriage the last thing on his mind, and whom he swore to bring along... We were expecting him today, to have a definite answer... So, as you can imagine I had to shut my eyes to a lot of things. Oh, there’s no problem, we are good friends now.’
She laughed prettily, blushing a little at the memory. Then she quickly commandeered Malignon’s attention. Hélène smiled back. This easy-going attitude meant her conduct was also excused. It was quite wrong of her to imagine dire tragedies, everything was resolved in such a delightful, good-natured fashion. But just while she was experiencing the pusillanimous happiness of telling herself that nothing was out of bounds, Juliette and Pauline opened the door of the conservatory and were conducting Malignon into the garden. All at once behind her head she heard Henri’s voice, low and urgent:
‘Please, Hélène, I beg you.’
She shivered and looked about her, worried once more. They were definitely on their own, she caught sight of the other three walking slowly along a path. Henri went so far as to catch hold of her by the shoulders; she trembled, but her terror was full of rapture.
‘Whenever you like,’ she faltered, realizing that he was asking for a rendezvous.
And they exchanged a few swift words.
‘Wait for me tonight in that house in the Passage des Eaux.’
‘No, I can’t. I told you, you swore...’
‘Somewhere else then, where you like, as long as I can see you. At your house, tonight?’
She was repelled, but could only show it by a gesture, seized as she was with terror again at seeing the two women and Malignon coming back. Madame Deberle had pretended to take the young man to see something marvellous, clumps of violets in full flower in spite of the cold weather. She hurried back and was first to come in, smiling happily.
‘It’s done!’ she said.
‘What is?’ asked Hélène, still shaken and unable to remember what she meant.
‘This marriage, of course! Oh, that’s a good thing done. Pauline was starting to make difficulties. The young man has seen her and thinks she’s charming. Tomorrow we’ll all have dinner at Papa’s. I could have hugged Malignon for bringing us such good news.’
Henri, perfectly cool, had managed to manoeuvre himself away from Hélène. He too thought Malignon charming. He seemed fully to share his wife’s delight at seeing their younger sister set up.
Then he told Hélène that she was about to lose one of her gloves. She thanked him. In the garden you could hear Pauline’s voice joking. She was leaning over to Malignon, whispering one or two words to him and bursting into laughter when he whispered back in her ear. No doubt he was telling her things about her intended. Through the door of the conservatory which had been left open Hélène was drinking in the fresh air.
Back in her house, at that very moment, Jeanne and Monsieur Rambaud had fallen silent, lulled into torpor by the heat of the fire. The child emerged from the long silence and suddenly asked, as though this question was the conclusion of her reverie:
‘Shall we go into the kitchen? We’ll see if we can see Maman.’
‘Yes, all right,’ answered Monsieur Rambaud.
She was rather stronger that day. She walked without help and flattened her face against the window. Monsieur Rambaud also looked out into the garden. There were no leaves, through the large clear glass you could easily see inside the Japanese conservatory. Rosalie, who was tending a stew, told Mademoiselle she was being nosey. But the little girl had recognized her mother’s dress, and she pointed it out, pressing her face to the glass for a better view. Meanwhile Pauline had looked up and waved. Hélène appeared and beckoned to her.
‘They have seen you, Mademoiselle,’ said the cook. ‘They are telling you to go down.’
Monsieur Rambaud had
to open the window. They asked him to bring Jeanne down, everybody wanted her to come. Jeanne ran into her bedroom again, in a passionate refusal, accusing her friend of tapping deliberately on the window. She liked to watch her mother but she didn’t want to go to that house again. And to all the pleadings of Monsieur Rambaud she replied with her dreadful word ‘because’, as though that explained everything.
‘You are not the one who should be making me go,’ she said finally in dark tones.
But he told her again that she would make her mother very sad, that you couldn’t behave in that silly way with people. He would put a warm coat on her, she wouldn’t be cold. And as he spoke he tied the shawl around her waist, took off the scarf she had over her head and replaced it with a little woollen hat. When she was ready, she still protested. Finally she allowed herself to be taken out on condition he would bring her back straight away if she felt too ill. The concierge opened the communicating door and in the garden there were joyous greetings and exclamations. Madame Deberle especially showed a great deal of affection towards Jeanne. She settled her into a chair near the heating vent, wanted them to shut the windows immediately, remarking that the air was a little fresh for the poor child. Malignon had left. And as Hélène tidied the little girl’s dishevelled hair, a little ashamed to see her like that in society, wrapped up in a shawl and with a woollen hat, Juliette exclaimed:
