Nana, Émile Zola [reading list txt] 📗

into his head to examine a

single page, the murder would be out and Burle would be done for.

 

This idea froze the major, who left off cursing, picturing Mme Burle

erect and despairing, and at the same time he felt his heart swell

with personal grief and shame.

 

“Well,” he muttered, “I must first of all look into the rogue’s

business; I will act afterward.”

 

As he walked over to Burle’s office he caught sight of a skirt

vanishing through the doorway. Fancying that he had a clue to the

mystery, he slipped up quietly and listened and speedily recognized

Melanie’s shrill voice. She was complaining of the gentlemen of the

divan. She had signed a promissory note which she was unable to

meet; the bailiffs were in the house, and all her goods would be

sold. The captain, however, barely replied to her. He alleged that

he had no money, whereupon she burst into tears and began to coax

him. But her blandishments were apparently ineffectual, for Burle’s

husky voice could be heard repeating, “Impossible! Impossible!”

And finally the widow withdrew in a towering passion. The major,

amazed at the turn affairs were taking, waited a few moments longer

before entering the office, where Burle had remained alone. He

found him very calm, and despite his furious inclination to call him

names he also remained calm, determined to begin by finding out the

exact truth.

 

The office certainly did not look like a swindler’s den. A cane-seated chair, covered with an honest leather cushion, stood before

the captain’s desk, and in a corner there was the locked safe.

Summer was coming on, and the song of a canary sounded through the

open window. The apartment was very neat and tidy, redolent of old

papers, and altogether its appearance inspired one with confidence.

 

“Wasn’t it Melanie who was leaving here as I came along?” asked

Laguitte.

 

Burle shrugged his shoulders.

 

“Yes,” he mumbled. “She has been dunning me for two hundred francs,

but she can’t screw ten out of me—not even tenpence.”

 

“Indeed!” said the major, just to try him. “I heard that you had

made up with her.”

 

“I? Certainly not. I have done with the likes of her for good.”

 

Laguitte went away, feeling greatly perplexed. Where had the five

hundred and forty-five francs gone? Had the idiot taken to drinking

or gambling? He decided to pay Burle a surprise visit that very

evening at his own house, and maybe by questioning his mother he

might learn something. However, during the afternoon his leg became

very painful; latterly he had been feeling in ill-health, and he had

to use a stick so as not to limp too outrageously. This stick

grieved him sorely, and he declared with angry despair that he was

now no better than a pensioner. However, toward the evening, making

a strong effort, he pulled himself out of his armchair and, leaning

heavily on his stick, dragged himself through the darkness to the

Rue des Recollets, which he reached about nine o’clock. The street

door was still unlocked, and on going up he stood panting on the

third landing, when he heard voices on the upper floor. One of

these voices was Burle’s, so he fancied, and out of curiosity he

ascended another flight of stairs. Then at the end of a passage on

the left he saw a ray of light coming from a door which stood ajar.

As the creaking of his boots resounded, this door was sharply

closed, and he found himself in the dark.

 

“Some cook going to bed!” he muttered angrily. “I’m a fool.”

 

All the same he groped his way as gently as possible to the door and

listened. Two people were talking in the room, and he stood aghast,

for it was Burle and that fright Rose! Then he listened, and the

conversation he heard left him no doubt of the awful truth. For a

moment he lifted his stick as if to beat down the door. Then he

shuddered and, staggering back, leaned against the wall. His legs

were trembling under him, while in the darkness of the staircase he

brandished his stick as if it had been a saber.

 

What was to be done? After his first moment of passion there had

come thoughts of the poor old lady below. And these made him

hesitate. It was all over with the captain now; when a man sank as

low as that he was hardly worth the few shovelfuls of earth that are

thrown over carrion to prevent them from polluting the atmosphere.

Whatever might be said of Burle, however much one might try to shame

him, he would assuredly begin the next day. Ah, heavens, to think

of it! The money! The honor of the army! The name of Burle, that

respected name, dragged through the mire! By all that was holy this

could and should not be!

 

Presently the major softened. If he had only possessed five hundred

and forty-five francs! But he had not got such an amount. On the

previous day he had drunk too much cognac, just like a mere sub, and

had lost shockingly at cards. It served him right—he ought to have

known better! And if he was so lame he richly deserved it too; by

rights, in fact, his leg ought to be much worse.

 

At last he crept downstairs and rang at the bell of Mme Burle’s

flat. Five minutes elapsed, and then the old lady appeared.

 

“I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting,” she said; “I thought

that dormouse Rose was still about. I must go and shake her.”

 

But the major detained her.

 

“Where is Burle?” he asked.

 

“Oh, he has been snoring since nine o’clock. Would you like to

knock at his door?”

 

“No, no, I only wanted to have a chat with you.”

 

In the parlor Charles sat at his usual place, having just finished

his exercises. He looked terrified, and his poor little white hands

were tremulous. In point of fact, his grandmother, before sending

him to bed, was wont to read some martial stories aloud so as to

develop the latent family heroism in his bosom. That night she had

selected the episode of the Vengeur, the man-of-war freighted with

dying heroes and sinking into the sea. The child, while listening,

had become almost hysterical, and his head was racked as with some

ghastly nightmare.

 

Mme Burle asked the major to let her finish the perusal. “Long live

the republic!” She solemniy closed the volune. Charles was as

white as a sheet.

 

“You see,” said the old lady, “the duty of every French soldier is

to die for his country.”

 

“Yes, Grandmother.”

 

Then the lad kissed her on the forehead and, shivering with fear,

went to bed in his big room, where the faintest creak of the

paneling threw him into a cold sweat.

 

The major had listened with a grave face. Yes, by heavens! Honor

was honor, and he would never permit that wretched Burle to disgrace

the old woman and the boy! As the lad was so devoted to the

military profession, it was necessary that he should be able to

enter Saint-Cyr with his head erect.

 

When Mme Burle took up the lamp to show the major out, she passed

the door of the captain’s room, and stopped short, surprised to see

the key outside, which was a most unusual occurrence.

 

“Do go in,” she said to Laguitte; “it is bad for him to sleep so

much.”

 

And before he could interpose she had opened the door and stood

transfixed on finding the room empty. Laguitte turned crimson and

looked so foolish that she suddenly understood everything,

enlightened by the sudden recollection of several little incidents

to which she had previously attached no importance.

 

“You knew it—you knew it!” she stanmered. “Why was I not told?

Oh, my God, to think of it! Ah, he has been stealing again—I feel

it!”

 

She remained erect, white and rigid. Then she added in a harsh

voice:

 

“Look you—I wish he were dead!”

 

Laguitte caught hold of both her hands, which for a moment he kept

tightly clasped in his own. Then he left her hurriedly, for he felt

a lump rising in his throat and tears coming to his eyes. Ah, by

all the powers, this time his mind was quite made up.