Nana, Émile Zola [reading list txt] 📗

CHAPTER II

FUNERAL PREPARATIONS

 

Marguerite’s cries had attracted attention, for all at once the door

was opened and a voice exclaimed: “What is the matter, neighbor? Is

he worse?”

 

I recognized the voice; it was that of an elderly woman, Mme Gabin,

who occupied a room on the same floor. She had been most obliging

since our arrival and had evidently become interested in our

concerns. On her own side she had lost no time in telling us her

history. A stern landlord had sold her furniture during the

previous winter to pay himself his rent, and since then she had

resided at the lodginghouse in the Rue Dauphine with her daughter

Dede, a child of ten. They both cut and pinked lamp shades, and

between them they earned at the utmost only two francs a day.

 

“Heavens! Is it all over?” cried Mme Gabin, looking at me.

 

I realized that she was drawing nearer. She examined me, touched me

and, turning to Marguerite, murmured compassionately: “Poor girl!

Poor girl!”

 

My wife, wearied out, was sobbing like a child. Mme Gabin lifted

her, placed her in a dilapidated armchair near the fireplace and

proceeded to comfort her.

 

“Indeed, you’ll do yourself harm if you go on like this, my dear.

It’s no reason because your husband is gone that you should kill

yourself with weeping. Sure enough, when I lost Gabin I was just

like you. I remained three days without swallowing a morsel of

food. But that didn’t help me—on the contrary, it pulled me down.

Come, for the Lord’s sake, be sensible!”

 

By degrees Marguerite grew calmer; she was exhausted, and it was

only at intervals that she gave way to a fresh flow of tears.

Meanwhile the old woman had taken possession of the room with a sort

of rough authority.

 

“Don’t worry yourself,” she said as she bustled about. “Neighbors

must help each other. Luckily Dede has just gone to take the work

home. Ah, I see your trunks are not yet all unpacked, but I suppose

there is some linen in the chest of drawers, isn’t there?”

 

I heard her pull a drawer open; she must have taken out a napkin

which she spread on the little table at the bedside. She then

struck a match, which made me think that she was lighting one of the

candles on the mantelpiece and placing it near me as a religious

rite. I could follow her movements in the room and divine all her

actions.

 

“Poor gentleman,” she muttered. “Luckily I heard you sobbing, poor

dear!” Suddenly the vague light which my left eye had detected

vanished. Mme Gabin had just closed my eyelids, but I had not felt

her finger on my face. When I understood this I felt chilled.

 

The door had opened again, and Dede, the child of ten, now rushed

in, calling out in her shrill voice: “Mother, Mother! Ah, I knew

you would be here! Look here, there’s the money—three francs and

four sous. I took back three dozen lamp shades.”

 

“Hush, hush! Hold your tongue,” vainly repeated the mother, who, as

the little girl chattered on, must have pointed to the bed, for I

guessed that the child felt perplexed and was backing toward the

door.

 

“Is the gentleman asleep?” she whispered.

 

“Yes, yes—go and play,” said Mme Gabin.

 

But the child did not go. She was, no doubt, staring at me with

widely opened eyes, startled and vaguely comprehending. Suddenly

she seemed convulsed with terror and ran out, upsetting a chair.

 

“He is dead, Mother; he is dead!” she gasped.

 

Profound silence followed. Marguerite, lying back in the armchair,

had left off crying. Mme Gabin was still rummaging about the room

and talking under her breath.

 

“Children know everything nowadays. Look at that girl. Heaven

knows how carefully she’s brought up! When I send her on an errand

or take the shades back I calculate the time to a minute so that she

can’t loiter about, but for all that she learns everything. She saw

at a glance what had happened here—and yet I never showed her but

one corpse, that of her uncle Francois, and she was then only four

years old. Ah well, there are no children left—it can’t be

helped.”

 

She paused and without any transition passed to another subject.

 

“I say, dearie, we must think of the formalities—there’s the

declaration at the municipal offices to be made and the seeing about

the funeral. You are not in a fit state to attend to business.

What do you say if I look in at Monsieur Simoneau’s to find out if

he’s at home?”

 

Marguerite did not reply. It seemed to me that I watched her from

afar and at times changed into a subtle flame hovering above the

room, while a stranger lay heavy and unconscious on my bed. I

wished that Marguerite had declined the assistance of Simoneau. I

had seen him three or four times during my brief illness, for he

occupied a room close to ours and had been civil and neighborly.

Mme Gabin had told us that he was merely making a short stay in

Paris, having come to collect some old debts due to his father, who

had settled in the country and recently died. He was a tall,

strong, handsome young man, and I hated him, perhaps on account of

his healthy appearance. On the previous evening he had come in to

make inquiries, and I had much disliked seeing him at Marguerite’s

side; she had looked so fair and pretty, and he had gazed so

intently into her face when she smilingly thanked him for his

kindness.

 

“Ah, here is Monsieur Simoneau,” said Mme Gabin, introducing him.

 

He gently pushed the door ajar, and as soon as Marguerite saw him

enter she burst into a flood of tears. The presence of a friend, of

the only person she knew in Paris besides the old woman, recalled

her bereavement. I could not see the young man, but in the darkness

that encompassed me I conjured up his appearance. I pictured him

distinctly, grave and sad at finding poor Marguerite in such

distress. How lovely she must have looked with her golden hair

unbound, her pale face and her dear little baby hands burning with

fever!

 

“I am at your disposal, madame,” he said softly. “Pray allow me to

manage everything.”

 

She only answered him with broken words, but as the young man was

leaving, accompanied by Mme Gabin, I heard the latter mention money.

These things were always expensive, she said, and she feared that

the poor little body hadn’t a farthing—anyhow, he might ask her.

But Simoneau silenced the old woman; he did not want to have the

widow worried; he was going to the municipal office and to the

undertaker’s.

 

When silence reigned once more I wondered if my nightmare would last

much longer. I was certainly alive, for I was conscious of passing

incidents, and I began to realize my condition. I must have fallen

into one of those cataleptic states that I had read of. As a child

I had suffered from syncopes which had lasted several hours, but

surely my heart would beat anew, my blood circulate and my muscles

relax. Yes, I should wake up and comfort Marguerite, and, reasoning

thus, I tried to be patient.

 

Time passed. Mme Gabin had brought in some breakfast, but

Marguerite refused to taste any food. Later on the afternoon waned.

Through the open window I heard the rising clamor of the Rue

Dauphine. By and by a slight ringing of the brass candlestick on

the marble-topped table made me think that a fresh candle had been

lighted. At last Simoneau returned.

 

“Well?” whispered the old woman.

 

“It is all settled,” he answered; “the funeral is ordered for

tomorrow at eleven. There is nothing for you to do, and you needn’t

talk of these things before the poor lady.”

 

Nevertheless, Mme Gabin remarked: “The doctor of the dead hasn’t

come yet.”

 

Simoneau took a seat beside Marguerite and after a few words of

encouragement remained silent. The funeral was to take place at

eleven! Those words rang in my brain like a passing bell. And the

doctor coming—the doctor of the dead, as Mme Gabin had called him.

HE could not possibly fail to find out that I was only in a state of

lethargy; he would do whatever might be necessary to rouse me, so I

longed for his arrival with feverish anxiety.

 

The day was drawing to a close. Mme Gabin, anxious to waste no

time, had brought in her lamp shades and summoned Dede without

asking Marguerite’s permission. “To tell the truth,” she observed,

“I do not like to leave children too long alone.”

 

“Come in, I say,” she whispered to the little girl; “come in, and

don’t be frightened. Only don’t look toward the bed or you’ll catch

it.”

 

She thought it decorous to forbid Dede to look at me, but I was

convinced that the child was furtively glancing at the corner where

I lay, for every now and then I heard her mother rap her knuckles

and repeat angrily: “Get on with your work or you shall leave the

room, and the gentleman will come during the night and pull you by

the feet.”

 

The mother and daughter had sat down at our table. I could plainly

hear the click of their scissors as they clipped the lamp shades,

which no doubt required very delicate manipulation, for they did not

work rapidly. I counted the