His Masterpiece, Émile Zola [essential reading txt] 📗

reproaches, the coldness of his sorry, ailing wife. And he kept to his task in desperation; he finished bringing those children into the world, as it were, by dint of unremitting tenderness.

“There, my darling, that’s enough, isn’t it?” he said. “You’ll soon see how big and pretty you’ll become.”

He then placed Alice in the perambulator again, took Gaston, who was still wrapped up, on one of his arms; and when his friends wished to help him, he declined their offer, pushing the little girl’s vehicle along with his right hand, which had remained free.

“Thanks,” he said, “I’m accustomed to it. Ah! the poor darlings are not heavy; and besides, with servants one can never be sure of anything.”

On entering the house, Sandoz and Claude again saw the valet who had been so insolent; and they noticed that Dubuche trembled before him. The kitchen and the hall shared the contempt of the father-in-law, who paid for everything, and treated “madame’s” husband like a beggar whose presence was merely tolerated out of charity. Each time that a shirt was got ready for him, each time that he asked for some more bread, the servants’ impolite gestures made him feel that he was receiving alms.

“Well, goodbye, we must leave you,” said Sandoz, who suffered at the sight of it all.

“No, no, wait a bit. The children are going to breakfast, and afterwards I’ll accompany you with them. They must go for their outing.”

Each day was regulated hour by hour. Of a morning came the baths and the gymnastics; then the breakfast, which was quite an affair, as the children needed special food, which was duly discussed and weighed. And matters were carried to such a point that even their wine and water was slightly warmed, for fear that too chilly a drop might give them a cold. On this occasion they each partook of the yolk of an egg diluted in some broth, and a mutton cutlet, which the father cut up into tiny morsels. Then, prior to the siesta, came the promenade.

Sandoz and Claude found themselves once more out-of-doors, walking down the broad avenues with Dubuche, who again propelled Alice’s perambulator, whilst Gaston walked beside him. They talked about the estate as they went towards the gate. The master glanced over the park with timid, nervous eyes, as if he did not feel at home. Besides he did not know anything; he did not occupy himself about anything. He appeared even to have forgotten the profession which he was said to be ignorant of, and seemed to have gone astray, to be bowed down by sheer inaction.

“And your parents, how are they?” asked Sandoz.

A spark was once more kindled in Dubuche’s dim eyes.

“Oh! my parents are happy,” he said; “I bought them a little house, where they live on the annuity which I had specified in my marriage contract. Well, you see, mamma had advanced enough money for my education, and I had to return it to her, as I had promised, eh? Yes, I can at least say that my parents have nothing to reproach me with.”

Having reached the gate, they tarried there for a few minutes. At last, still looking crushed, Dubuche shook hands with his old comrades; and retaining Claude’s hand in his, he concluded, as if making a simple statement of fact quite devoid of anger:

“Goodbye; try to get out of worry! As for me, I’ve spoilt my life.”

And they watched him walk back towards the house, pushing the perambulator, and supporting Gaston, who was already stumbling with fatigue⁠—he, Dubuche, himself having his back bent and the heavy tread of an old man.

One o’clock was striking, and they both hurried down towards Bennecourt, saddened and ravenous. But mournfulness awaited them there as well; a murderous blast had swept over the place, both Faucheurs, husband and wife, and old Porrette, were all dead; and the inn, having fallen into the hands of that goose Mélie, was becoming repugnant with its filth and coarseness. An abominable repast was served them, an omelette with hairs in it, and cutlets smelling of grease, in the centre of the common room, to which an open window admitted the pestilential odour of a dung heap, while the place was so full of flies that they positively blackened the tables. The heat of the burning afternoon came in with the stench, and Claude and Sandoz did not even feel the courage to order any coffee; they fled.

“And you who used to extol old Mother Faucheur’s omelettes!” said Sandoz. “The place is done for. We are going for a turn, eh?”

Claude was inclined to refuse. Ever since the morning he had had but one idea⁠—that of walking on as fast as possible, as if each step would shorten the disagreeable task and bring him back to Paris. His heart, his head, his whole being had remained there. He looked neither to right nor to left, he glided along without distinguishing aught of the fields or trees, having but one fixed idea in his brain, a prey to such hallucinations that at certain moments he fancied the point of the Cité rose up and called to him from amid the vast expanse of stubble. However, Sandoz’s proposal aroused memories in his mind; and, softening somewhat, he replied:

“Yes, that’s it, we’ll have a look.”

But as they advanced along the river bank, he became indignant and grieved. He could scarcely recognise the place. A bridge had been built to connect Bennecourt with Bonnières: a bridge, good heavens! in the place of the old ferryboat, grating against its chain⁠—the old black boat which, cutting athwart the current, had been so full of interest to the artistic eye. Moreover, a dam established downstream at Port-Villez had raised the level of the river, most of the islands of yore were now submerged, and the little armlets of the stream had become broader. There were no more pretty nooks, no more rippling alleys amid which one could lose oneself; it was a disaster