DOCTOR PASCAL

By Emile Zola

Translated By Mary J. Serrano

I. 

In the heat of the glowing July afternoon, the room, with blindscarefully closed, was full of a great calm. From the three windows, through the cracks of the old wooden shutters, came only a few scatteredsunbeams which, in the midst of the obscurity, made a soft brightnessthat bathed surrounding objects in a diffused and tender light. Itwas cool here in comparison with the overpowering heat that was feltoutside, under the fierce rays of the sun that blazed upon the front ofthe house. 

Standing before the press which faced the windows, Dr. Pascal waslooking for a paper that he had come in search of. With doors wideopen, this immense press of carved oak, adorned with strong and handsomemountings of metal, dating from the last century, displayed within itscapacious depths an extraordinary collection of papers and manuscriptsof all sorts, piled up in confusion and filling every shelf tooverflowing. For more than thirty years the doctor had thrown into itevery page he wrote, from brief notes to the complete texts of his greatworks on heredity. Thus it was that his searches here were not alwayseasy. He rummaged patiently among the papers, and when he at last foundthe one he was looking for, he smiled. 

For an instant longer he remained near the bookcase, reading the note bya golden sunbeam that came to him from the middle window. He himself, in this dawnlike light, appeared, with his snow-white hair and beard, strong and vigorous; although he was near sixty, his color was so fresh, his features were so finely cut, his eyes were still so clear, andhe had so youthful an air that one might have taken him, in hisclose-fitting, maroon velvet jacket, for a young man with powdered hair. 

"Here, Clotilde, " he said at last, "you will copy this note. Ramondwould never be able to decipher my diabolical writing. "

And he crossed the room and laid the paper beside the young girl, whostood working at a high desk in the embrasure of the window to theright. 

"Very well, master, " she answered. 

She did not even turn round, so engrossed was her attention with thepastel which she was at the moment rapidly sketching in with broadstrokes of the crayon. Near her in a vase bloomed a stalk of hollyhocksof a singular shade of violet, striped with yellow. But the profileof her small round head, with its short, fair hair, was clearlydistinguishable; an exquisite and serious profile, the straight foreheadcontracted in a frown of attention, the eyes of an azure blue, the nosedelicately molded, the chin firm. Her bent neck, especially, of a milkywhiteness, looked adorably youthful under the gold of the clusteringcurls. In her long black blouse she seemed very tall, with her slightfigure, slender throat, and flexible form, the flexible slendernessof the divine figures of the Renaissance. In spite of her twenty-fiveyears, she still retained a childlike air and looked hardly eighteen. 

"And, " resumed the doctor, "you will arrange the press a little. Nothingcan be found there any longer. "

"Very well, master, " she repeated, without raising her head;"presently. "

Pascal had turned round to seat himself at his desk, at the other endof the room, before the window to the left. It was a plain black woodentable, and was littered also with papers and pamphlets of all sorts. Andsilence again reigned in the peaceful semi-obscurity, contrasting withthe overpowering glare outside. The vast apartment, a dozen meters longand six wide, had, in addition to the press, only two bookcases, filledwith books. Antique chairs of various kinds stood around in disorder, while for sole adornment, along the walls, hung with an old _salon_Empire paper of a rose pattern, were nailed pastels of flowers ofstrange coloring dimly visible. The woodwork of three folding-doors, the door opening on the hall and two others at opposite ends of theapartment, the one leading to the doctor's room, the other to that ofthe young girl, as well as the cornice of the smoke-darkened ceiling, dated from the time of Louis XV. 

An hour passed without a sound, without a breath. Then Pascal, who, asa diversion from his work, had opened a newspaper--_Le Temps_--which hadlain forgotten on the table, uttered a slight exclamation:

"Why! your father has been appointed editor of the _Epoque_, theprosperous republican journal which has the publishing of the papers ofthe Tuileries. "

This news must have been unexpected by him, for he laughed frankly, atonce pleased and saddened, and in an undertone he continued:

"My word! If things had been invented, they could not have been finer. Life is a strange thing. This is a very interesting article. "

Clotilde made no answer, as if her thoughts were a hundred leagues awayfrom what her uncle was saying. And he did not speak again, but takinghis scissors after he had read the article, he cut it out and pasted iton a sheet of paper, on which he made some marginal notes in his large, irregular handwriting. Then he went back to the press to classify thisnew document in it. But he was obliged to take a chair, the shelf beingso high that he could not reach it notwithstanding his tall stature. 

On this high shelf a whole series of enormous bundles of papers werearranged in order, methodically classified. Here were papers of allsorts: sheets of manuscript, documents on stamped paper, articles cutout of newspapers, arranged in envelopes of strong blue paper, each ofwhich bore on the outside a name written in large characters. One feltthat these documents were tenderly kept in view, taken out continually, and carefully replaced; for of the whole press, this corner was the onlyone kept in order. 

When Pascal, mounted on the chair, had found the package he was lookingfor, one of the bulkiest of the envelopes, on which was written the name"Saccard, " he added to it the new document, and then replaced the wholeunder its corresponding alphabetical letter. A moment later he hadforgotten the subject, and was complacently straightening a pile ofpapers that were falling down. And when he at last jumped down off thechair, he said:

"When you are arranging the press, Clotilde, don't touch the packages atthe top; do you hear?"

"Very well, master, " she responded, for the third time, docilely. 

He laughed again, with the gaiety that was natural to him. 

"That is forbidden. "

"I know it, master. "

And he closed the press with a vigorous turn of the key, which hethen threw into a drawer of his writing table. The young girl wassufficiently acquainted with his researches to keep his manuscripts insome degree of order; and he gladly employed her as his secretary; hemade her copy his notes when some _confrere_ and friend, like Dr. Ramondasked him to send him some document. But she was not a _savante_; hesimply forbade her to read what he deemed it useless that she shouldknow. 

At last, perceiving her so completely absorbed in her work, hisattention was aroused. 

"What is the matter with you, that you don't open your lips?" he said. "Are you so taken up with the copying of those flowers that you can'tspeak?"

This was another of the labors which he often intrusted to her--to makedrawings, aquarelles, and pastels, which he afterward used in his worksas plates. Thus, for the past five years he had been making some curiousexperiments on a collection of hollyhocks; he had obtained a wholeseries of new colorings by artificial fecundations. She made these sortsof copies with extraordinary minuteness, an exactitude of design andof coloring so extreme that he marveled unceasingly at theconscientiousness of her work, and he often told her that she had a"good, round, strong, clear little headpiece. "

But, this time, when he approached her to look over her shoulder, heuttered a cry of comic fury. 

"There you are at your nonsense! Now you are off in the clouds again!Will you do me the favor to tear that up at once?"

She straightened herself, her cheeks flushed, her eyes aglow with thedelight she took in her work, her slender fingers stained with the redand blue crayon that she had crushed. 

"Oh, master!"

And in this "master, " so tender, so caressingly submissive, this termof complete abandonment by which she called him, in order to avoid usingthe words godfather or uncle, which she thought silly, there was, forthe first time, a passionate accent of revolt, the revindication of abeing recovering possession of and asserting itself. 

For nearly two hours she had been zealously striving to produce an exactand faithful copy of the hollyhocks, and she had just thrown on anothersheet a whole bunch of imaginary flowers, of dream-flowers, extravagantand superb. She had, at times, these abrupt shiftings, a need ofbreaking away in wild fancies in the midst of the most precise ofreproductions. She satisfied it at once, falling always into thisextraordinary efflorescence of such spirit and fancy that it neverrepeated itself; creating roses, with bleeding hearts, weeping tears ofsulphur, lilies like crystal urns, flowers without any known form, even, spreading out starry rays, with corollas floating like clouds. To-day, on a groundwork dashed in with a few bold strokes of black crayon, itwas a rain of pale stars, a whole shower of infinitely soft petals;while, in a corner, an unknown bloom, a bud, chastely veiled, wasopening. 

"Another to nail there!" resumed the doctor, pointing to the wall, onwhich there was already a row of strangely curious pastels. "But whatmay that represent, I ask you?"

She remained very grave, drawing back a step, the better to contemplateher work. 

"I know nothing about it; it is beautiful. "

At this moment appeared Martine, the only servant, become the realmistress of the house, after nearly thirty years of service with thedoctor. Although she had passed her sixtieth year, she, too, stillretained a youthful air as she went about, silent and active, in hereternal black gown and white cap that gave her the look of a nun, withher small, white, calm face, and lusterless eyes, the light in whichseemed to have been extinguished. 

Without speaking, she went and sat down on the floor before aneasy-chair, through a rent in the old covering of which the hair wasescaping, and drawing from her pocket a needle and a skein of worsted, she set to work to mend it. For three days past she had been waiting foran hour's time to do this piece of mending, which haunted her. 

"While you are about it, Martine, " said Pascal jestingly, taking betweenboth his hands the mutinous head of Clotilde, "sew me fast, too, thislittle noodle, which sometimes wanders off into the clouds. "

Martine raised her pale eyes, and looked at her master with her habitualair of adoration?

"Why does monsieur say that?"

"Because, my good girl, in very truth, I believe it is you who havestuffed this good little round, clear, strong headpiece full of notionsof the other world, with all your devoutness. "

The two women exchanged a glance of intelligence. 

"Oh, monsieur! religion has never done any harm to any one. And whenpeople have not the same ideas, it is certainly better not to talk aboutthem. "

An embarrassed silence followed; this was the one difference of opinionwhich, at times, brought about disagreements among these three unitedbeings who led so restricted a life. Martine was only twenty-nine, ayear older than the doctor, when she entered his house, at the time whenhe made his _debut_ as a physician at Plassans, in a bright little houseof the new town. And thirteen years later, when Saccard, a brother ofPascal, sent him his daughter Clotilde, aged seven, after his wife'sdeath and at the moment when he was about to marry again, it was shewho brought up the child, taking it to church, and communicating to ita little of the devout flame with which she had always burned; while thedoctor, who had a broad mind, left them to their joy of believing, for he did not feel that he had the right to interdict to any one thehappiness of faith; he contented himself later on with watching overthe young girl's education and giving her clear and sound ideas abouteverything. For thirteen years, during which the three had lived thisretired life at La Souleiade, a small property situated in the outskirtsof the town, a quarter of an hour's walk from St. Saturnin, thecathedral, his life had flowed happily along, occupied in secret greatworks, a little troubled, however, by an ever increasing uneasiness--thecollision, more and more violent, every day, between their beliefs. 

Pascal took a few turns gloomily up and down the room. Then, like a manwho did not mince his words, he said:

"See, my dear, all this phantasmagoria of mystery has turned your prettyhead. Your good God had no need of you; I should have kept you formyself alone; and you would have been all the better for it. "

But Clotilde, trembling with excitement, her clear eyes fixed boldlyupon his, held her ground. 

"It is you, master, who would be all the better, if you did not shutyourself up in your eyes of flesh. That is another thing, why do you notwish to see?"

And Martine came to her assistance, in her own style. 

"Indeed, it is true, monsieur, that you, who are a saint, as I sayeverywhere, should accompany us to church. Assuredly, God will saveyou. But at the bare idea that you should not go straight to paradise, Itremble all over. "

He paused, for he had before him, in open revolt, those two whom he hadbeen accustomed to see submissive at his feet, with the tenderness ofwomen won over by his gaiety and his goodness. Already he opened hismouth, and was going to answer roughly, when the uselessness of thediscussion became apparent to him. 

"There! Let us have peace. I would do better to go and work. And aboveall, let no one interrupt me!"

With hasty steps he gained his chamber, where he had installed a sort oflaboratory, and shut himself up in it. The prohibition to enter it wasformal. It was here that he gave himself up to special preparations, ofwhich he spoke to no one. Almost immediately the slow and regular soundof a pestle grinding in a mortar was heard. 

"Come, " said Clotilde, smiling, "there he is, at his devil's cookery, asgrandmother says. "

And she tranquilly resumed her copying of the hollyhocks. She completedthe drawing with mathematical precision, she found the exact tone ofthe violet petals, striped with yellow, even to the most delicatediscoloration of the shades. 

"Ah!" murmured Martine, after a moment, again seated on the ground, andoccupied in mending the chair, "what a misfortune for a good man likethat to lose his soul wilfully. For there is no denying it; I have knownhim now for thirty years, and in all that time he has never so much asspoken an unkind word to any one. A real heart of gold, who would takethe bit from his own mouth. And handsome, too, and always well, andalways gay, a real blessing! It is a murder that he does not wishto make his peace with the good God. We will force him to do it, mademoiselle, will we not?"

Clotilde, surprised at hearing her speak so long at one time on thesubject, gave her word with a grave air. 

"Certainly, Martine, it is a promise. We will force him. "

Silence reigned again, broken a moment afterward by the ringing of thebell attached to the street door below. It had been attached to the doorso that they might have notice when any one entered the house, too vastfor the three persons who inhabited it. The servant appeared surprised, and grumbled a few words under her breath. Who could have come in suchheat as this? She rose, opened the door, and went and leaned over thebalustrade; then she returned, saying:

"It is Mme. Felicite. "

Old Mme. Rougon entered briskly. In spite of her eighty years, she hadmounted the stairs with the activity of a young girl; she was still thebrown, lean, shrill grasshopper of old. Dressed elegantly now inblack silk, she might still be taken, seen from behind, thanks to theslenderness of her figure, for some coquette, or some ambitious womanfollowing her favorite pursuit. Seen in front, her eyes still lightedup her withered visage with their fires, and she smiled with an engagingsmile when she so desired. 

"What! is it you, grandmother?" cried Clotilde, going to meet her. "Why, this sun is enough to bake one. "

Felicite, kissing her on the forehead, laughed, saying:

"Oh, the sun is my friend!"

Then, moving with short, quick steps, she crossed the room, and turnedthe fastening of one of the shutters. 

"Open the shutters a little! It is too gloomy to live in the dark inthis way. At my house I let the sun come in. "

Through the opening a jet of hot light, a flood of dancing sparksentered. And under the sky, of the violet blue of a conflagration, theparched plain could be seen, stretching away in the distance, as ifasleep or dead in the overpowering, furnace-like heat, while to theright, above the pink roofs, rose the belfry of St. Saturnin, a gildedtower with arises that, in the blinding light, looked like whitenedbones. 

"Yes, " continued Felicite, "I think of going shortly to the Tulettes, and I wished to know if Charles were here, to take him with me. He isnot here--I see that--I will take him another day. "

But while she gave this pretext for her visit, her ferret-like eyes weremaking the tour of the apartment. Besides, she did not insist, speakingimmediately afterward of her son Pascal, on hearing the rhythmical noiseof the pestle, which had not ceased in the adjoining chamber. 

"Ah! he is still at his devil's cookery! Don't disturb him, I havenothing to say to him. "

Martine, who had resumed her work on the chair, shook her head, as ifto say that she had no mind to disturb her master, and there was silenceagain, while Clotilde wiped her fingers, stained with crayon, on acloth, and Felicite began to walk about the room with short steps, looking around inquisitively. 

Old Mme. Rougon would soon be two years a widow. Her husband who hadgrown so corpulent that he could no longer move, had succumbed to anattack of indigestion on the 3d of September, 1870, on the night of theday on which he had learned of the catastrophe of Sedan. The ruin of thegovernment of which he flattered himself with being one of the founders, seemed to have crushed him. Thus, Felicite affected to occupy herself nolonger with politics, living, thenceforward, like a dethroned queen, theonly surviving power of a vanished world. No one was unaware that theRougons, in 1851, had saved Plassans from anarchy, by causing the _coupd'etat_ of the 2d of December to triumph there, and that, a fewyears later, they had won it again from the legitimist and republicancandidates, to give it to a Bonapartist deputy. Up to the time of thewar, the Empire had continued all-powerful in the town, so popular thatit had obtained there at the plebiscite an overwhelming majority. Butsince the disasters the town had become republican, the quarter St. Marchad returned to its secret royalist intrigues, while the old quarter andthe new town had sent to the chamber a liberal representative, slightlytinged with Orleanism, and ready to take sides with the republic, ifit should triumph. And, therefore, it was that Felicite, like theintelligent woman she was, had withdrawn her attention from politics, and consented to be nothing more than the dethroned queen of a fallengovernment. 

But this was still an exalted position, surrounded by a melancholypoetry. For sixteen years she had reigned. The tradition of her two_salons_, the yellow _salon_, in which the _coup d'etat_ had matured, and the green _salon_, later the neutral ground on which the conquestof Plassans was completed, embellished itself with the reflection of thevanished past, and was for her a glorious history. And besides, she wasvery rich. Then, too, she had shown herself dignified in her fall, neveruttering a regret or a complaint, parading, with her eighty years, so long a succession of fierce appetites, of abominable maneuvers, ofinordinate gratifications, that she became august through them. Her onlyhappiness, now, was to enjoy in peace her large fortune and her pastroyalty, and she had but one passion left--to defend her past, to extendits fame, suppressing everything that might tarnish it later. Her pride, which lived on the double exploit of which the inhabitants stillspoke, watched with jealous care, resolved to leave in existence onlycreditable documents, those traditions which caused her to be salutedlike a fallen queen when she walked through the town. 

She went to the door of the chamber and listened to the persistent noiseof the pestle, which did not cease. Then, with an anxious brow, shereturned to Clotilde. 

"Good Heavens! What is he making? You know that he is doing himself thegreatest harm with his new drug. I was told, the other day, that he camenear killing one of his patients. "

"Oh, grandmother!" cried the young girl. 

But she was now launched. 

"Yes, exactly. The good wives say many other things, besides! Why, goquestion them, in the faubourg! They will tell you that he grinds deadmen's bones in infants' blood. "

This time, while even Martine protested, Clotilde, wounded in heraffection, grew angry. 

"Oh, grandmother, do not repeat such abominations! Master has so great aheart that he thinks only of making every one happy!"

Then, when she saw that they were both angry, Felicite, comprehendingthat she had gone too far, resumed her coaxing manner. 

"But, my kitten, it is not I who say those frightful things. I repeatto you the stupid reports they spread, so that you may comprehend thatPascal is wrong to pay no heed to public opinion. He thinks he has founda new remedy--nothing could be better! and I will even admit that hewill be able to cure everybody, as he hopes. Only, why affect thesemysterious ways; why not speak of the matter openly; why, above all, tryit only on the rabble of the old quarter and of the country, instead of, attempting among the well-to-do people of the town, striking cures whichwould do him honor? No, my child, you see your uncle has never been ableto act like other people. "

She had assumed a grieved tone, lowering her voice, to display thesecret wound of her heart. 

"God be thanked! it is not men of worth who are wanting in our family;my other sons have given me satisfaction enough. Is it not so? YourUncle Eugene rose high enough, minister for twelve years, almostemperor! And your father himself handled many a million, and had a partin many a one of the great works which have made Paris a new city. Notto speak at all of your brother, Maxime, so rich, so distinguished, norof your cousin, Octave Mouret, one of the kings of the new commerce, norof our dear Abbe Mouret, who is a saint! Well, then, why does Pascal, who might have followed in the footsteps of them all, persist in livingin his hole, like an eccentric old fool?"

And as the young girl was again going to protest, she closed her mouth, with a caressing gesture of her hand. 

"No, no, let me finish. I know very well that Pascal is not a fool, thathe has written remarkable works, that his communications to the Academyof Medicine have even won for him a reputation among _savants_. But whatdoes that count for, compared to what I have dreamed of for him?Yes, all the best practice of the town, a large fortune, thedecoration--honors, in short, and a position worthy of the family. Myword! I used to say to him when he was a child: 'But where do you comefrom? You are not one of us!' As for me, I have sacrificed everythingfor the family; I would let myself be hacked to pieces, that the familymight always be great and glorious!"

She straightened her small figure, she seemed to grow tall with theone passion that had formed the joy and pride of her life. But as sheresumed her walk, she was startled by suddenly perceiving on the floorthe copy of the _Temps_, which the doctor had thrown there, aftercutting out the article, to add it to the Saccard papers, and the lightfrom the open window, falling full upon the sheet, enlightened her, nodoubt, for she suddenly stopped walking, and threw herself into a chair, as if she at last knew what she had come to learn. 

"Your father has been appointed editor of the _Epoque_, " she saidabruptly. 

"Yes, " answered Clotilde tranquilly, "master told me so; it was in thepaper. "

With an anxious and attentive expression, Felicite looked at her, for this appointment of Saccard, this rallying to the republic, wassomething of vast significance. After the fall of the empire he haddared return to France, notwithstanding his condemnation as director ofthe Banque Universelle, the colossal fall of which had preceded thatof the government. New influences, some incredible intrigue must haveplaced him on his feet again, for not only had he received his pardon, but he was once more in a position to undertake affairs of considerableimportance, launched into journalism, having his share again of all thegood things going. And the recollection came to her of the quarrels ofother days between him and his brother Eugene Rougon, whom he had sooften compromised, and whom, by an ironical turn of events, he wasperhaps going to protect, now that the former minister of the Empirewas only a simple deputy, resigned to the single role of standing byhis fallen master with the obstinacy with which his mother stood byher family. She still obeyed docilely the orders of her eldest son, thegenius, fallen though he was; but Saccard, whatever he might do, hadalso a part in her heart, from his indomitable determination to succeed, and she was also proud of Maxime, Clotilde's brother, who had taken uphis quarters again, after the war, in his mansion in the Avenue of theBois de Boulogne, where he was consuming the fortune left him by hiswife, Louise de Mareuil, become prudent, with the wisdom of a man struckin a vital part, and trying to cheat the paralysis which threatened him. 

"Editor of the _Epoque_, " she repeated; "it is really the position ofa minister which your father has won. And I forgot to tell you, I havewritten again to your brother, to persuade him to come and see us. Thatwould divert him, it would do him good. Then, there is that child, thatpoor Charles--"

She did not continue. This was another of the wounds from which herpride bled; a son whom Maxime had had when seventeen by a servant, andwho now, at the age of fifteen, weak of intellect, a half-idiot, livedat Plassans, going from the house of one to that of another, a burden toall. 

She remained silent a moment longer, waiting for some remark fromClotilde, some transition by which she might come to the subject shewished to touch upon. When she saw that the young girl, occupied inarranging the papers on her desk, was no longer listening, she came toa sudden decision, after casting a glance at Martine, who continuedmending the chair, as if she were deaf and dumb. 

"Your uncle cut the article out of the _Temps_, then?"

Clotilde smiled calmly. 

"Yes, master put it away among his papers. Ah! how many notes he buriesin there! Births, deaths, the smallest event in life, everything goes inthere. And the genealogical tree is there also, our famous genealogicaltree, which he keeps up to date!"

The eyes of old Mme. Rougon flamed. She looked fixedly at the younggirl. 

"You know them, those papers?"

"Oh, no, grandmother; master has never spoken to me of them; and he hasforbidden me to touch them. "

But she did not believe her. 

"Come! you have them under your hands, you must have read them. "

Very simple, with her calm rectitude, Clotilde answered, smilinglyagain. 

"No, when master forbids me to do anything, it is because he has hisreasons, and I do not do it. "

"Well, my child, " cried Felicite vehemently, dominated by her passion, "you, whom Pascal loves tenderly, and whom he would listen to, perhaps, you ought to entreat him to burn all that, for if he should chance todie, and those frightful things which he has in there were to be found, we should all be dishonored!"

Ah, those abominable papers! she saw them at night, in her nightmares, revealing in letters of fire, the true histories, the physiologicalblemishes of the family, all that wrong side of her glory which shewould have wished to bury forever with the ancestors already dead! Sheknew how it was that the doctor had conceived the idea of collectingthese documents at the beginning of his great studies on heredity; howhe had found himself led to take his own family as an example, struck bythe typical cases which he saw in it, and which helped to support lawsdiscovered by him. Was it not a perfectly natural field of observation, close at hand and with which he was thoroughly familiar? And with thefine, careless justness of the scientist, he had been accumulating forthe last thirty years the most private data, collecting and classifyingeverything, raising this genealogical tree of the Rougon-Macquarts, of which the voluminous papers, crammed full of proofs, were only thecommentary. 

"Ah, yes, " continued Mme. Rougon hotly, "to the fire, to the fire withall those papers that would tarnish our name!"

And as the servant rose to leave the room, seeing the turn theconversation was taking, she stopped her by a quick gesture. 

"No, no, Martine; stay! You are not in the way, since you are now one ofthe family. "

Then, in a hissing voice:

"A collection of falsehoods, of gossip, all the lies that our enemies, enraged by our triumph, hurled against us in former days! Think a littleof that, my child. Against all of us, against your father, against yourmother, against your brother, all those horrors!"

"But how do you know they are horrors, grandmother?"

She was disconcerted for a moment. 

"Oh, well; I suspect it! Where is the family that has not hadmisfortunes which might be injuriously interpreted? Thus, the mother ofus all, that dear and venerable Aunt Dide, your great-grandmother, has she not been for the past twenty-one years in the madhouse at theTulettes? If God has granted her the grace of allowing her to live tothe age of one hundred and four years, he has also cruelly afflicted herin depriving her of her reason. Certainly, there is no shame in that;only, what exasperates me--what must not be--is that they should sayafterward that we are all mad. And, then, regarding your grand-uncleMacquart, too, deplorable rumors have been spread. Macquart had hisfaults in past days, I do not seek to defend him. But to-day, is he notliving very reputably on his little property at the Tulettes, two stepsaway from our unhappy mother, over whom he watches like a good son? Andlisten! one last example. Your brother, Maxime, committed a great faultwhen he had by a servant that poor little Charles, and it is certain, besides, that the unhappy child is of unsound mind. No matter. Willit please you if they tell you that your nephew is degenerate; that hereproduces from four generations back, his great-great-grandmother thedear woman to whom we sometimes take him, and with whom he likes so muchto be? No! there is no longer any family possible, if people begin tolay bare everything--the nerves of this one, the muscles of that. It isenough to disgust one with living!"

Clotilde, standing in her long black blouse, had listened to hergrandmother attentively. She had grown very serious; her arms hung byher sides, her eyes were fixed upon the ground. There was silence for amoment; then she said slowly:

"It is science, grandmother. "

"Science!" cried Felicite, trotting about again. "A fine thing, theirscience, that goes against all that is most sacred in the world! Whenthey shall have demolished everything they will have advanced greatly!They kill respect, they kill the family, they kill the good God!"

"Oh! don't say that, madame!" interrupted Martine, in a grieved voice, her narrow devoutness wounded. "Do not say that M. Pascal kills the goodGod!"

"Yes, my poor girl, he kills him. And look you, it is a crime, from thereligious point of view, to let one's self be damned in that way. You donot love him, on my word of honor! No, you do not love him, you two whohave the happiness of believing, since you do nothing to bring him backto the right path. Ah! if I were in your place, I would split that pressopen with a hatchet. I would make a famous bonfire with all the insultsto the good God which it contains!"

She had planted herself before the immense press and was measuringit with her fiery glance, as if to take it by assault, to sack it, todestroy it, in spite of the withered and fragile thinness of her eightyyears. Then, with a gesture of ironical disdain:

"If, even with his science, he could know everything!"

Clotilde remained for a moment absorbed in thought, her gaze lost invacancy. Then she said in an undertone, as if speaking to herself:

"It is true, he cannot know everything. There is always something elsebelow. That is what irritates me; that is what makes us quarrel: for Icannot, like him, put the mystery aside. I am troubled by it, so muchso that I suffer cruelly. Below, what wills and acts in the shudderingdarkness, all the unknown forces--"

Her voice had gradually become lower and now dropped to an indistinctmurmur. 

Then Martine, whose face for a moment past had worn a somber expression, interrupted in her turn:

"If it was true, however, mademoiselle, that monsieur would be damned onaccount of those villainous papers, tell me, ought we to let it happen?For my part, look you, if he were to tell me to throw myself down fromthe terrace, I would shut my eyes and throw myself, because I know thathe is always right. But for his salvation! Oh! if I could, I would workfor that, in spite of him. In every way, yes! I would force him; it istoo cruel to me to think that he will not be in heaven with us. "

"You are quite right, my girl, " said Felicite approvingly. "You, atleast, love your master in an intelligent fashion. "

Between the two, Clotilde still seemed irresolute. In her, belief didnot bend to the strict rule of dogma; the religious sentiment did notmaterialize in the hope of a paradise, of a place of delights, where shewas to meet her own again. It was in her simply a need of a beyond, acertainty that the vast world does not stop short at sensation, thatthere is a whole unknown world, besides, which must be taken intoaccount. But her grandmother, who was so old, this servant, who was sodevoted, shook her in her uneasy affection for her uncle. Did they notlove him better, in a more enlightened and more upright fashion, theywho desired him to be without a stain, freed from his manias as ascientist, pure enough to be among the elect? Phrases of devotionalbooks recurred to her; the continual battle waged against the spirit ofevil; the glory of conversions effected after a violent struggle. Whatif she set herself to this holy task; what if, after all, in spite ofhimself, she should be able to save him! And an exaltation graduallygained her spirit, naturally inclined to adventurous enterprises. 

"Certainly, " she said at last, "I should be very happy if he would notpersist in his notion of heaping up all those scraps of paper, and if hewould come to church with us. "

Seeing her about to yield, Mme. Rougon cried out that it was necessaryto act, and Martine herself added the weight of all her real authority. They both approached the young girl, and began to instruct her, loweringtheir voices as if they were engaged in a conspiracy, whence was toresult a miraculous benefit, a divine joy with which the whole housewould be perfumed. What a triumph if they reconciled the doctor withGod! and what sweetness, afterward, to live altogether in the celestialcommunion of the same faith!

"Well, then, what must I do?" asked Clotilde, vanquished, won over. 

But at this moment the doctor's pestle was heard in the silence, withits continued rhythm. And the victorious Felicite, who was about tospeak, turned her head uneasily, and looked for a moment at the door ofthe adjoining chamber. Then, in an undertone, she said:

"Do you know where the key of the press is?"

Clotilde answered only with an artless gesture, that expressed all herrepugnance to betray her master in this way. 

"What a child you are! I swear to you that I will take nothing; I willnot even disturb anything. Only as we are alone and as Pascal neverreappears before dinner, we might assure ourselves of what there is inthere, might we not? Oh! nothing but a glance, on my word of honor. "

The young girl stood motionless, unwilling, still, to give her consent. 

"And then, it may be that I am mistaken; no doubt there are none ofthose bad things there that I have told you of. "

This was decisive; she ran to take the key from the drawer, and sheherself opened wide the press. 

"There, grandmother, the papers are up there. "

Martine had gone, without a word, to station herself at the door of thedoctor's chamber, her ear on the alert, listening to the pestle, whileFelicite, as if riveted to the spot by emotion, regarded the papers. Atlast, there they were, those terrible documents, the nightmare that hadpoisoned her life! She saw them, she was going to touch them, tocarry them away! And she reached up, straining her little legs, in theeagerness of her desire. 

"It is too high, my kitten, " she said. "Help me; give them to me!"

"Oh! not that, grandmother! Take a chair!"

Felicite took a chair, and mounted slowly upon it. But she was still tooshort. By an extraordinary effort she raised herself, lengthening herstature until she was able to touch the envelopes of strong blue paperwith the tips of her fingers; and her fingers traveled over them, contracting nervously, scratching like claws. Suddenly there was acrash--it was a geological specimen, a fragment of marble that had beenon a lower shelf, and that she had just thrown down. 

Instantly the pestle stopped, and Martine said in a stifled voice:

"Take care; here he comes!"

But Felicite, grown desperate, did not hear, did not let go her holdwhen Pascal entered hastily. He had supposed that some accident hadhappened, that some one had fallen, and he stood stupefied at what hesaw--his mother on the chair, her arm still in the air, while Martinehad withdrawn to one side, and Clotilde, very pale, stood waiting, without turning her head. When he comprehended the scene, he himselfbecame as white as a sheet. A terrible anger arose within him. 

Old Mme. Rougon, however, troubled herself in no wise. When she saw thatthe opportunity was lost, she descended from the chair, without makingany illusion whatever to the task at which he had surprised her. 

"Oh, it is you! I do not wish to disturb you. I came to embraceClotilde. But here I have been talking for nearly two hours, and I mustrun away at once. They will be expecting me at home; they won't knowwhat has become of me at this hour. Good-by until Sunday. "

She went away quite at her ease, after smiling at her son, who stoodbefore her silent and respectful. It was an attitude that he had longsince adopted, to avoid an explanation which he felt must be cruel, andwhich he had always feared. He knew her, he was willing to pardon hereverything, in his broad tolerance as a scientist, who made allowancefor heredity, environment, and circumstances. And, then, was she nothis mother? That ought to have sufficed, for, in spite of the frightfulblows which his researches inflicted upon the family, he preserved agreat affection for those belonging to him. 

When his mother was no longer there, his anger burst forth, and fellupon Clotilde. He had turned his eyes away from Martine, and fixed themon the young girl, who did not turn hers away, however, with a couragewhich accepted the responsibility of her act. 

"You! you!" he said at last. 

He seized her arm, and pressed it until she cried. But she continuedto look him full in the face, without quailing before him, withthe indomitable will of her individuality, of her selfhood. She wasbeautiful and provoking, with her tall, slender figure, robed inits black blouse; and her exquisite, youthful fairness, her straightforehead, her finely cut nose, her firm chin, took on something of awarlike charm in her rebellion. 

"You, whom I have made, you who are my pupil, my friend, my other mind, to whom I have given a part of my heart and of my brain! Ah, yes! Ishould have kept you entirely for myself, and not have allowed yourstupid good God to take the best part of you!"

"Oh, monsieur, you blaspheme!" cried Martine, who had approached him, inorder to draw upon herself a part of his anger. 

But he did not even see her. Only Clotilde existed for him. And he wasas if transfigured, stirred up by so great a passion that his handsomeface, crowned by his white hair, framed by his white beard, flamed withyouthful passion, with an immense tenderness that had been wounded andexasperated. 

"You, you!" he repeated in a trembling voice. 

"Yes, I! Why then, master, should I not love you better than you loveme? And why, if I believe you to be in peril, should I not try to saveyou? You are greatly concerned about what I think; you would like wellto make me think as you do!"

She had never before defied him in this way. 

"But you are a little girl; you know nothing!"

"No, I am a soul, and you know no more about souls than I do!"

He released her arm, and waved his hand vaguely toward heaven, andthen a great silence fell--a silence full of grave meaning, of theuselessness of the discussion which he did not wish to enter upon. Thrusting her aside rudely, he crossed over to the middle window andopened the blinds, for the sun was declining, and the room was growingdark. Then he returned. 

But she, feeling a need of air and space, went to the open window. Theburning rain of sparks had ceased, and there fell now, from on high, only the last shiver of the overheated and paling sky; and from thestill burning earth ascended warm odors, with the freer respiration ofevening. At the foot of the terrace was the railroad, with the outlyingdependencies of the station, of which the buildings were to be seen inthe distance; then, crossing the vast arid plain, a line of trees markedthe course of the Viorne, beyond which rose the hills of Sainte-Marthe, red fields planted with olive trees, supported on terraces by walls ofuncemented stones and crowned by somber pine woods--broad amphitheaters, bare and desolate, corroded by the heats of summer, of the color of oldbaked brick, which this fringe of dark verdure, standing out against thebackground of the sky, bordered above. To the left opened the gorges ofthe Seille, great yellow stones that had broken away from the soil, andlay in the midst of blood-colored fields, dominated by an immense bandof rocks like the wall of a gigantic fortress; while to the right, atthe very entrance to the valley through which flowed the Viorne, rose, one above another, the discolored pink-tiled roofs of the town ofPlassans, the compact and confused mass of an old town, pierced by thetops of ancient elms, and dominated by the high tower of St. Saturnin, solitary and serene at this hour in the limpid gold of sunset. 

"Ah, my God!" said Clotilde slowly, "one must be arrogant, indeed, toimagine that one can take everything in one's hand and know everything!"

Pascal had just mounted on the chair to assure himself that not one ofhis packages was missing. Then he took up the fragment of marble, andreplaced it on the shelf, and when he had again locked the press with avigorous turn of the hand, he put the key into his pocket. 

"Yes, " he replied; "try not to know everything, and above all, trynot to bewilder your brain about what we do not know, what we shalldoubtless never know!"

Martine again approached Clotilde, to lend her her support, to show herthat they both had a common cause. And now the doctor perceived her, also, and felt that they were both united in the same desire forconquest. After years of secret attempts, it was at last open war; the_savant_ saw his household turn against his opinions, and menace themwith destruction. There is no worse torture than to have treason inone's own home, around one; to be trapped, dispossessed, crushed, bythose whom you love, and who love you!

Suddenly this frightful idea presented itself to him. 

"And yet both of you love me!" he cried. 

He saw their eyes grow dim with tears; he was filled with an infinitesadness, on this tranquil close of a beautiful day. All his gaiety, allhis kindness of heart, which came from his intense love of life, wereshaken by it. 

"Ah, my dear! and you, my poor girl, " he said, "you are doing this formy happiness, are you not? But, alas, how unhappy we are going to be!"

II. 

On the following morning Clotilde was awake at six o'clock. She had goneto bed angry with Pascal; they were at variance with each other. And herfirst feeling was one of uneasiness, of secret distress, an instant needof making her peace, so that she might no longer have upon her heart theheavy weight that lay there now. 

Springing quickly out of bed, she went and half opened the shutters ofboth windows. The sun, already high, sent his light across the chamberin two golden bars. Into this drowsy room that exhaled a sweet odor ofyouth, the bright morning brought with it fresh, cheerful air; but theyoung girl went back and sat down on the edge of the bed in a thoughtfulattitude, clad only in her scant nightdress, which made her look stillmore slender, with her long tapering limbs, her strong, slender body, with its round throat, round neck, round and supple arms; and heradorable neck and throat, of a milky whiteness, had the exquisitesoftness and smoothness of white satin. For a long time, at theungraceful age between twelve and eighteen, she had looked awkwardlytall, climbing trees like a boy. Then, from the ungainly hoyden had beenevolved this charming, delicate and lovely creature. 

With absent gaze she sat looking at the walls of the chamber. AlthoughLa Souleiade dated from the last century, it must have been refurnishedunder the First Empire, for it was hung with an old-fashioned printedcalico, with a pattern representing busts of the Sphinx, and garlandsof oak leaves. Originally of a bright red, this calico had faded to apink--an undecided pink, inclining to orange. The curtains of thetwo windows and of the bed were still in existence, but it had beennecessary to clean them, and this had made them still paler. And thisfaded purple, this dawnlike tint, so delicately soft, was in truthexquisite. As for the bed, covered with the same stuff, it had come downfrom so remote an antiquity that it had been replaced by another bedfound in an adjoining room; another Empire bed, low and very broad, of massive mahogany, ornamented with brasses, its four square pillarsadorned also with busts of the Sphinx, like those on the wall. Therest of the furniture matched, however--a press, with whole doors andpillars; a chest of drawers with a marble top, surrounded by a railing;a tall and massive cheval-glass, a large lounge with straight feet, andseats with straight, lyre-shaped backs. But a coverlet made of an oldLouis XV. Silk skirt brightened the majestic bed, that occupied themiddle of the wall fronting the windows; a heap of cushions made thelounge soft; and there were, besides, two _etageres_ and a table alsocovered with old flowered silk, at the further end of the room. 

Clotilde at last put on her stockings and slipped on a morning gown ofwhite _pique_, and thrusting the tips of her feet into her gray canvasslippers, she ran into her dressing-room, a back room looking out on therear of the house. She had had it hung plainly with an _ecru_ drill withblue stripes, and it contained only furniture of varnished pine--thetoilette table, two presses, and two chairs. It revealed, however, anatural and delicate coquetry which was very feminine. This had grownwith her at the same time with her beauty. Headstrong and boyish thoughshe still was at times, she had become a submissive and affectionatewoman, desiring to be loved, above everything. The truth was that shehad grown up in freedom, without having learned anything more than toread and write, having acquired by herself, later, while assisting heruncle, a vast fund of information. But there had been no plan settledupon between them. He had not wished to make her a prodigy; she hadmerely conceived a passion for natural history, which revealed to herthe mysteries of life. And she had kept her innocence unsullied like afruit which no hand has touched, thanks, no doubt, to her unconsciousand religious waiting for the coming of love--that profound femininefeeling which made her reserve the gift of her whole being for the manwhom she should love. 

She pushed back her hair and bathed her face; then, yielding to herimpatience, she again softly opened the door of her chamber and venturedto cross the vast workroom, noiselessly and on tiptoe. The shutters werestill closed, but she could see clearly enough not to stumble againstthe furniture. When she was at the other end before the door of thedoctor's room, she bent forward, holding her breath. Was he already up?What could he be doing? She heard him plainly, walking about with shortsteps, dressing himself, no doubt. She never entered this chamber inwhich he chose to hide certain labors; and which thus remained closed, like a tabernacle. One fear had taken possession of her; that of beingdiscovered here by him if he should open the door; and the agitationproduced by the struggle between her rebellious pride and a desireto show her submission caused her to grow hot and cold by turns, withsensations until now unknown to her. For an instant her desire forreconciliation was so strong that she was on the point of knocking. Then, as footsteps approached, she ran precipitately away. 

Until eight o'clock Clotilde was agitated by an ever-increasingimpatience. At every instant she looked at the clock on the mantelpieceof her room; an Empire clock of gilded bronze, representing Love leaningagainst a pillar, contemplating Time asleep. 

Eight was the hour at which she generally descended to the dining-roomto breakfast with the doctor. And while waiting she made a carefultoilette, arranged her hair, and put on another morning gown of whitemuslin with red spots. Then, having still a quarter of an hour on herhands, she satisfied an old desire and sat down to sew a piece of narrowlace, an imitation of Chantilly, on her working blouse, that blackblouse which she had begun to find too boyish, not feminine enough. But on the stroke of eight she laid down her work, and went downstairsquickly. 

"You are going to breakfast entirely alone, " said Martine tranquilly toher, when she entered the dining-room. 

"How is that?"

"Yes, the doctor called me, and I passed him in his egg through thehalf-open door. There he is again, at his mortar and his filter. Wewon't see him now before noon. "

Clotilde turned pale with disappointment. She drank her milk standing, took her roll in her hand, and followed the servant into thekitchen. There were on the ground floor, besides this kitchen and thedining-room, only an uninhabited room in which the potatoes were stored, and which had formerly been used as an office by the doctor, when hereceived his patients in his house--the desk and the armchair had yearsago been taken up to his chamber--and another small room, which openedinto the kitchen; the old servant's room, scrupulously clean, andfurnished with a walnut chest of drawers and a bed like a nun's withwhite hangings. 

"Do you think he has begun to make his liquor again?" asked Clotilde. 

"Well, it can be only that. You know that he thinks of neither eatingnor drinking when that takes possession of him!"

Then all the young girl's vexation was exhaled in a low plaint:

"Ah, my God! my God!"

And while Martine went to make up her room, she took an umbrella fromthe hall stand and went disconsolately to eat her roll in the garden, not knowing now how she should occupy her time until midday. 

It was now almost seventeen years since Dr. Pascal, having resolvedto leave his little house in the new town, had bought La Souleiade fortwenty thousand francs, in order to live there in seclusion, and alsoto give more space and more happiness to the little girl sent him by hisbrother Saccard from Paris. This Souleiade, situated outside the towngates on a plateau dominating the plain, was part of a large estatewhose once vast grounds were reduced to less than two hectares inconsequence of successive sales, without counting that the constructionof the railroad had taken away the last arable fields. The house itselfhad been half destroyed by a conflagration and only one of the twobuildings remained--a quadrangular wing "of four walls, " as they say inProvence, with five front windows and roofed with large pink tiles. And the doctor, who had bought it completely furnished, had contentedhimself with repairing it and finishing the boundary walls, so as to beundisturbed in his house. 

Generally Clotilde loved this solitude passionately; this narrowkingdom which she could go over in ten minutes, and which still retainedremnants of its past grandeur. But this morning she brought theresomething like a nervous disquietude. She walked for a few moments alongthe terrace, at the two extremities of which stood two secular cypresseslike two enormous funeral tapers, which could be seen three leagues off. The slope then descended to the railroad, walls of uncemented stonessupporting the red earth, in which the last vines were dead; and onthese giant steps grew only rows of olive and almond trees, with sicklyfoliage. The heat was already overpowering; she saw the little lizardsrunning about on the disjointed flags, among the hairy tufts of caperbushes. 

Then, as if irritated by the vast horizon, she crossed the orchard andthe kitchen garden, which Martine still persisted in cultivating inspite of her age, calling in a man only twice a week for the heavierlabors; and she ascended to a little pine wood on the right, all thatremained of the superb pines which had formerly covered the plateau;but, here, too, she was ill at ease; the pine needles crackled under herfeet, a resinous, stifling odor descended from the branches. And walkingalong the boundary wall past the entrance gate, which opened on theroad to Les Fenouilleres, three hundred meters from the first houses ofPlassans, she emerged at last on the threshing-yard; an immense yard, fifteen meters in radius, which would of itself have sufficed to provethe former importance of the domain. Ah! this antique area, paved withsmall round stones, as in the days of the Romans; this species of vastesplanade, covered with short dry grass of the color of gold as with athick woolen carpet; how joyously she had played there in other days, running about, rolling on the grass, lying for hours on her back, watching the stars coming out one by one in the depths of theillimitable sky!

She opened her umbrella again, and crossed the yard with slower steps. Now she was on the left of the terrace. She had made the tour of theestate, so that she had returned by the back of the house, through theclump of enormous plane trees that on this side cast a thick shade. Thiswas the side on which opened the two windows of the doctor's room. Andshe raised her eyes to them, for she had approached only in the suddenhope of at last seeing him. But the windows remained closed, and shewas wounded by this as by an unkindness to herself. Then only didshe perceive that she still held in her hand her roll, which she hadforgotten to eat; and she plunged among the trees, biting it impatientlywith her fine young teeth. 

It was a delicious retreat, this old quincunx of plane trees, anotherremnant of the past splendor of La Souleiade. Under these giant trees, with their monstrous trunks, there was only a dim light, a greenishlight, exquisitely cool, even on the hottest days of summer. Formerlya French garden had been laid out here, of which only the box bordersremained; bushes which had habituated themselves to the shade, no doubt, for they grew vigorously, as tall as trees. And the charm of thisshady nook was a fountain, a simple leaden pipe fixed in the shaft ofa column; whence flowed perpetually, even in the greatest drought, athread of water as thick as the little finger, which supplied a largemossy basin, the greenish stones of which were cleaned only once inthree or four years. When all the wells of the neighborhood were dry, La Souleiade still kept its spring, of which the great plane trees wereassuredly the secular children. Night and day for centuries past thisslender thread of water, unvarying and continuous, had sung the samepure song with crystal sound. 

Clotilde, after wandering awhile among the bushes of box, which reachedto her shoulder, went back to the house for a piece of embroidery, andreturning with it, sat down at a stone table beside the fountain. Somegarden chairs had been placed around it, and they often took coffeehere. And after this she affected not to look up again from her work, as if she was completely absorbed in it. Now and then, while seeming tolook between the trunks of trees toward the sultry distance, toward theyard, on which the sun blazed fiercely and which glowed like a brazier, she stole a glance from under her long lashes up to the doctor'swindows. Nothing appeared, not a shadow. And a feeling of sadness, ofresentment, arose within her at this neglect, this contempt in which heseemed to hold her after their quarrel of the day before. She who hadgot up with so great a desire to make peace at once! He was in no hurry, however; he did not love her then, since he could be satisfied to liveat variance with her. And gradually a feeling of gloom took possessionof her, her rebellious thoughts returned, and she resolved anew to yieldin nothing. 

At eleven o'clock, before setting her breakfast on the fire, Martinecame to her for a moment, the eternal stocking in her hand which shewas always knitting even while walking, when she was not occupied in theaffairs of the house. 

"Do you know that he is still shut up there like a wolf in his hole, athis villainous cookery?"

Clotilde shrugged her shoulders, without lifting her eyes from herembroidery. 

"And then, mademoiselle, if you only knew what they say! Mme. Felicitewas right yesterday when she said that it was really enough to make oneblush. They threw it in my face that he had killed old Boutin, thatpoor old man, you know, who had the falling sickness and who died onthe road. To believe those women of the faubourg, every one into whom heinjects his remedy gets the true cholera from it, without counting thatthey accuse him of having taken the devil into partnership. "

A short silence followed. Then, as the young girl became more gloomythan before, the servant resumed, moving her fingers still more rapidly:

"As for me, I know nothing about the matter, but what he is making thereenrages me. And you, mademoiselle, do you approve of that cookery?"

At last Clotilde raised her head quickly, yielding to the flood ofpassion that swept over her. 

"Listen; I wish to know no more about it than you do, but I think thathe is on a very dangerous path. He no longer loves us. "

"Oh, yes, mademoiselle; he loves us. "

"No, no; not as we love him. If he loved us, he would be here with us, instead of endangering his soul and his happiness and ours, up there, inhis desire to save everybody. "

And the two women looked at each other for a moment with eyes burningwith affection, in their jealous anger. Then they resumed their work insilence, enveloped in shadow. 

Above, in his room, Dr. Pascal was working with the serenity of perfectjoy. He had practised his profession for only about a dozen years, fromhis return to Paris up to the time when he had retired to La Souleiade. Satisfied with the hundred and odd thousand francs which he hadearned and which he had invested prudently, he devoted himself almostexclusively to his favorite studies, retaining only a practise amongfriends, never refusing to go to the bedside of a patient but neversending in his account. When he was paid he threw the money into adrawer in his writing desk, regarding this as pocket-money for hisexperiments and caprices, apart from his income which sufficed for hiswants. And he laughed at the bad reputation for eccentricity which hisway of life had gained him; he was happy only when in the midst of hisresearches on the subjects for which he had a passion. It was matter forsurprise to many that this scientist, whose intellectual gifts had beenspoiled by a too lively imagination, should have remained at Plassans, this out-of-the-way town where it seemed as if every requirement for hisstudies must be wanting. But he explained very well the advantages whichhe had discovered here; in the first place, an utterly peacefulretreat in which he might live the secluded life he desired; then, anunsuspected field for continuous research in the light of the facts ofheredity, which was his passion, in this little town where he knew everyfamily and where he could follow the phenomena kept most secret, throughtwo or three generations. And then he was near the seashore; he wentthere almost every summer, to study the swarming life that is bornand propagates itself in the depths of the vast waters. And there wasfinally, at the hospital in Plassans, a dissecting room to which he wasalmost the only visitor; a large, bright, quiet room, in which for morethan twenty years every unclaimed body had passed under his scalpel. Amodest man besides, of a timidity that had long since become shyness, it had been sufficient for him to maintain a correspondence with his oldprofessors and his new friends, concerning the very remarkable paperswhich he from time to time sent to the Academy of Medicine. He wasaltogether wanting in militant ambition. 

Ah, this heredity! what a subject of endless meditation it was for him!The strangest, the most wonderful part of it all, was it not thatthe resemblance between parents and children should not be perfect, mathematically exact? He had in the beginning made a genealogical treeof his family, logically traced, in which the influences from generationto generation were distributed equally--the father's part and themother's part. But the living reality contradicted the theory almostat every point. Heredity, instead of being resemblance, was an efforttoward resemblance thwarted by circumstances and environment. And he hadarrived at what he called the hypothesis of the abortion of cells. Lifeis only motion, and heredity being a communicated motion, it happenedthat the cells in their multiplication from one another jostled oneanother, pressed one another, made room for themselves, putting forth, each one, the hereditary effort; so that if during this struggle theweaker cells succumbed, considerable disturbances took place, withthe final result of organs totally different. Did not variation, theconstant invention of nature, which clashed with his theories, come fromthis? Did not he himself differ from his parents only in consequence ofsimilar accidents, or even as the effect of larvated heredity, in whichhe had for a time believed? For every genealogical tree has roots whichextend as far back into humanity as the first man; one cannot proceedfrom a single ancestor; one may always resemble a still older, unknownancestor. He doubted atavism, however; it seemed to him, in spite of aremarkable example taken from his own family, that resemblance at theend of two or three generations must disappear by reason of accidents, of interferences, of a thousand possible combinations. There was thena perpetual becoming, a constant transformation in this communicatedeffort, this transmitted power, this shock which breathes into matterthe breath of life, and which is life itself. And a multiplicityof questions presented themselves to him. Was there a physical andintellectual progress through the ages? Did the brain grow with thegrowth of the sciences with which it occupied itself? Might one hope, in time, for a larger sum of reason and of happiness? Then there werespecial problems; one among others, the mystery of which had for a longtime irritated him, that of sex; would science never be able to predict, or at least to explain the sex of the embryo being? He had written avery curious paper crammed full of facts on this subject, but which leftit in the end in the complete ignorance in which the most exhaustiveresearches had left it. Doubtless the question of heredity fascinatedhim as it did only because it remained obscure, vast, and unfathomable, like all the infant sciences where imagination holds sway. Finally, along study which he had made on the heredity of phthisis revived in himthe wavering faith of the healer, arousing in him the noble and wildhope of regenerating humanity. 

In short, Dr. Pascal had only one belief--the belief in life. Life wasthe only divine manifestation. Life was God, the grand motor, thesoul of the universe. And life had no other instrument than heredity;heredity made the world; so that if its laws could be known anddirected, the world could be made to one's will. In him, to whomsickness, suffering, and death had been a familiar sight, the militantpity of the physician awoke. Ah! to have no more sickness, no moresuffering, as little death as possible! His dream ended in thisthought--that universal happiness, the future community of perfectionand of felicity, could be hastened by intervention, by giving health toall. When all should be healthy, strong, and intelligent, there wouldbe only a superior race, infinitely wise and happy. In India, was nota Brahmin developed from a Soudra in seven generations, thus raising, experimentally, the lowest of beings to the highest type of humanity?And as in his study of consumption he had arrived at the conclusion thatit was not hereditary, but that every child of a consumptive carriedwithin him a degenerate soil in which consumption developed withextraordinary facility at the slightest contagion, he had come to thinkonly of invigorating this soil impoverished by heredity; to give itthe strength to resist the parasites, or rather the destructive leaven, which he had suspected to exist in the organism, long before the microbetheory. To give strength--the whole problem was there; and to givestrength was also to give will, to enlarge the brain by fortifying theother organs. 

About this time the doctor, reading an old medical book of the fifteenthcentury, was greatly struck by a method of treating disease calledsignature. To cure a diseased organ, it was only necessary to take froma sheep or an ox the corresponding organ in sound condition, boil it, and give the soup to the patient to drink. The theory was to cure likeby like, and in diseases of the liver, especially, the old work statedthat the cures were numberless. This set the doctor's vivid imaginationworking. Why not make the trial? If he wished to regenerate thoseenfeebled by hereditary influences, he had only to give them the normaland healthy nerve substance. The method of the soup, however, seemed tohim childish, and he invented in its stead that of grinding in a mortarthe brain of a sheep, moistening it with distilled water, and thendecanting and filtering the liquor thus obtained. He tried this liquorthen mixed with Malaga wine, on his patients, without obtaining anyappreciable result. Suddenly, as he was beginning to grow discouraged, he had an inspiration one day, when he was giving a lady sufferingfrom hepatic colics an injection of morphine with the little syringe ofPravaz. What if he were to try hypodermic injections with his liquor?And as soon as he returned home he tried the experiment on himself, making an injection in his side, which he repeated night and morning. The first doses, of a gram only, were without effect. But havingdoubled, and then tripled the dose, he was enchanted, one morning ongetting up, to find that his limbs had all the vigor of twenty. He wenton increasing the dose up to five grams, and then his respiration becamedeeper, and above all he worked with a clearness of mind, an ease, which he had not known for years. A great flood of happiness, of joy inliving, inundated his being. From this time, after he had had a syringemade at Paris capable of containing five grams, he was surprised at thehappy results which he obtained with his patients, whom he had on theirfeet again in a few days, full of energy and activity, as if endowedwith new life. His method was still tentative and rude, and he divinedin it all sorts of dangers, and especially, that of inducing embolism, if the liquor was not perfectly pure. Then he suspected that thestrength of his patients came in part from the fever his treatmentproduced in them. But he was only a pioneer; the method would improvelater. Was it not already a miracle to make the ataxic walk, to bringconsumptives back to life, as it were; even to give hours of lucidity tothe insane? And at the thought of this discovery of the alchemy of thetwentieth century, an immense hope opened up before him; he believed hehad discovered the universal panacea, the elixir of life, which wasto combat human debility, the one real cause of every ill; a veritablescientific Fountain of Youth, which, in giving vigor, health, and willwould create an altogether new and superior humanity. 

This particular morning in his chamber, a room with a northern aspectand somewhat dark owing to the vicinity of the plane trees, furnishedsimply with an iron bedstead, a mahogany writing desk, and a largewriting table, on which were a mortar and a microscope, he wascompleting with infinite care the preparation of a vial of his liquor. Since the day before, after pounding the nerve substance of a sheep indistilled water, he had been decanting and filtering it. And he hadat last obtained a small bottle of a turbid, opaline liquid, irised bybluish gleams, which he regarded for a long time in the light as if heheld in his hand the regenerating blood and symbol of the world. 

But a few light knocks at the door and an urgent voice drew him from hisdream. 

"Why, what is the matter, monsieur? It is a quarter-past twelve; don'tyou intend to come to breakfast?"

For downstairs breakfast had been waiting for some time past in thelarge, cool dining-room. The blinds were closed, with the exception ofone which had just been half opened. It was a cheerful room, with pearlgray panels relieved by blue mouldings. The table, the sideboard, andthe chairs must have formed part of the set of Empire furniture inthe bedrooms; and the old mahogany, of a deep red, stood out in strongrelief against the light background. A hanging lamp of polished brass, always shining, gleamed like a sun; while on the four walls bloomed fourlarge bouquets in pastel, of gillyflowers, carnations, hyacinths, androses. 

Joyous, radiant, Dr. Pascal entered. 

"Ah, the deuce! I had forgotten! I wanted to finish. Look at this, quitefresh, and perfectly pure this time; something to work miracles with!"

And he showed the vial, which he had brought down in his enthusiasm. Buthis eye fell on Clotilde standing erect and silent, with a seriousair. The secret vexation caused by waiting had brought back all herhostility, and she, who had burned to throw herself on his neck in themorning, remained motionless as if chilled and repelled by him. 

"Good!" he resumed, without losing anything of his gaiety, "we are stillat odds, it seems. That is something very ugly. So you don't admire mysorcerer's liquor, which resuscitates the dead?"

He seated himself at the table, and the young girl, sitting downopposite him, was obliged at last to answer:

"You know well, master, that I admire everything belonging to you. Only, my most ardent desire is that others also should admire you. And thereis the death of poor old Boutin--"

"Oh!" he cried, without letting her finish, "an epileptic, who succumbedto a congestive attack! See! since you are in a bad humor, let us talkno more about that--you would grieve me, and that would spoil my day. "

There were soft boiled eggs, cutlets, and cream. Silence reigned for afew moments, during which in spite of her ill-humor she ate heartily, with a good appetite which she had not the coquetry to conceal. Then heresumed, laughing:

"What reassures me is to see that your stomach is in good order. Martine, hand mademoiselle the bread. "

The servant waited on them as she was accustomed to do, watching themeat, with her quiet air of familiarity. 

Sometimes she even chatted with them. 

"Monsieur, " she said, when she had cut the bread, "the butcher hasbrought his bill. Is he to be paid?"

He looked up at her in surprise. 

"Why do you ask me that?" he said. "Do you not always pay him withoutconsulting me?"

It was, in effect, Martine who kept the purse. The amount depositedwith M. Grandguillot, notary at Plassans, produced a round sum of sixthousand francs income. Every three months the fifteen hundred francswere remitted to the servant, and she disposed of them to the bestinterests of the house; bought and paid for everything with thestrictest economy, for she was of so saving a disposition that theybantered her about it continually. Clotilde, who spent very little, hadnever thought of asking a separate purse for herself. As for the doctor, he took what he required for his experiments and his pocket money fromthe three or four thousand francs which he still earned every year, andwhich he kept lying in the drawer of his writing desk; so that there wasquite a little treasure there in gold and bank bills, of which he neverknew the exact amount. 

"Undoubtedly, monsieur, I pay, when it is I who have bought the things;but this time the bill is so large on account of the brains which thebutcher has furnished you--"

The doctor interrupted her brusquely:

"Ah, come! so you, too, are going to set yourself against me, are you?No, no; both of you--that would be too much! Yesterday you pained megreatly, and I was angry. But this must cease. I will not have the houseturned into a hell. Two women against me, and they the only ones wholove me at all? Do you know, I would sooner quit the house at once!"

He did not speak angrily, he even smiled; but the disquietude of hisheart was perceptible in the trembling of his voice. And he added withhis indulgent, cheerful air:

"If you are afraid for the end of the month, my girl, tell the butcherto send my bill apart. And don't fear; you are not going to be asked forany of your money to settle it with; your sous may lie sleeping. "

This was an allusion to Martine's little personal fortune. In thirtyyears, with four hundred francs wages she had earned twelve thousandfrancs, from which she had taken only what was strictly necessary forher wants; and increased, almost trebled, by the interest, her savingsamounted now to thirty thousand francs, which through a caprice, adesire to have her money apart, she had not chosen to place with M. Grandguillot. They were elsewhere, safely invested in the funds. 

"Sous that lie sleeping are honest sous, " she said gravely. "Butmonsieur is right; I will tell the butcher to send a bill apart, as allthe brains are for monsieur's cookery and not for mine. "

This explanation brought a smile to the face of Clotilde, who was alwaysamused by the jests about Martine's avarice; and the breakfast endedmore cheerfully. The doctor desired to take the coffee under the planetrees, saying that he felt the need of air after being shut up allthe morning. The coffee was served then on the stone table beside thefountain; and how pleasant it was there in the shade, listening to thecool murmur of the water, while around, the pine wood, the court, thewhole place, were glowing in the early afternoon sun. 

The doctor had complacently brought with him the vial of nervesubstance, which he looked at as it stood on the table. 

"So, then, mademoiselle, " he resumed, with an air of brusque pleasantry, "you do not believe in my elixir of resurrection, and you believe inmiracles!"

"Master, " responded Clotilde, "I believe that we do not knoweverything. "

He made a gesture of impatience. 

"But we must know everything. Understand then, obstinate little girl, that not a single deviation from the invariable laws which govern theuniverse has ever been scientifically proved. Up to this day there hasbeen no proof of the existence of any intelligence other than the human. I defy you to find any real will, any reasoning force, outside of life. And everything is there; there is in the world no other will thanthis force which impels everything to life, to a life ever broader andhigher. "

He rose with a wave of the hand, animated by so firm a faith that sheregarded him in surprise, noticing how youthful he looked in spite ofhis white hair. 

"Do you wish me to repeat my 'Credo' for you, since you accuse me of notwanting yours? I believe that the future of humanity is in the progressof reason through science. I believe that the pursuit of truth, throughscience, is the divine ideal which man should propose to himself. Ibelieve that all is illusion and vanity outside the treasure of truthsslowly accumulated, and which will never again be lost. I believe thatthe sum of these truths, always increasing, will at last confer on manincalculable power and peace, if not happiness. Yes, I believe in thefinal triumph of life. "

And with a broader sweep of the hand that took in the vast horizon, asif calling on these burning plains in which fermented the saps of allexistences to bear him witness, he added:

"But the continual miracle, my child, is life. Only open your eyes, andlook. "

She shook her head. 

"It is in vain that I open my eyes; I cannot see everything. It is you, master, who are blind, since you do not wish to admit that there isbeyond an unknown realm which you will never enter. Oh, I know you aretoo intelligent to be ignorant of that! Only you do not wish to take itinto account; you put the unknown aside, because it would embarrassyou in your researches. It is in vain that you tell me to put aside themysterious; to start from the known for the conquest of the unknown. Icannot; the mysterious at once calls me back and disturbs me. "

He listened to her, smiling, glad to see her become animated, while hesmoothed her fair curls with his hand. 

"Yes, yes, I know you are like the rest; you do not wish to live withoutillusions and without lies. Well, there, there; we understand each otherstill, even so. Keep well; that is the half of wisdom and of happiness. "

Then, changing the conversation:

"Come, you will accompany me, notwithstanding, and help me in my roundof miracles. This is Thursday, my visiting day. When the heat shall haveabated a little, we will go out together. "

She refused at first, in order not to seem to yield; but she at lastconsented, seeing the pain she gave him. She was accustomed to accompanyhim on his round of visits. They remained for some time longer under theplane trees, until the doctor went upstairs to dress. When he camedown again, correctly attired in a close-fitting coat and wearing abroad-brimmed silk hat, he spoke of harnessing Bonhomme, the horsethat for a quarter of a century had taken him on his visits through thestreets and the environs of Plassans. But the poor old beast was growingblind, and through gratitude for his past services and affection forhimself they now rarely disturbed him. On this afternoon he was verydrowsy, his gaze wandered, his legs were stiff with rheumatism. So thatthe doctor and the young girl, when they went to the stable to see him, gave him a hearty kiss on either side of his nose, telling him to reston a bundle of fresh hay which the servant had brought. And they decidedto walk. 

Clotilde, keeping on her spotted white muslin, merely tied on over hercurls a large straw hat adorned with a bunch of lilacs; and she lookedcharming, with her large eyes and her complexion of milk-and-roses underthe shadow of its broad brim. When she went out thus on Pascal's arm, she tall, slender, and youthful, he radiant, his face illuminated, soto say, by the whiteness of his beard, with a vigor that made him stilllift her across the rivulets, people smiled as they passed, and turnedaround to look at them again, they seemed so innocent and so happy. Onthis day, as they left the road to Les Fenouilleres to enter Plassans, agroup of gossips stopped short in their talk. It reminded one of oneof those ancient kings one sees in pictures; one of those powerful andgentle kings who never grew old, resting his hand on the shoulder of agirl beautiful as the day, whose docile and dazzling youth lends him itssupport. 

They were turning into the Cours Sauvair to gain the Rue de la Banne, when a tall, dark young man of about thirty stopped them. 

"Ah, master, you have forgotten me. I am still waiting for your notes onconsumption. "

It was Dr. Ramond, a young physician, who had settled two years beforeat Plassans, where he was building up a fine practise. With a superbhead, in the brilliant prime of a gracious manhood, he was adored bythe women, but he had fortunately a great deal of good sense and a greatdeal of prudence. 

"Why, Ramond, good day! Not at all, my dear friend; I have not forgottenyou. It is this little girl, to whom I gave the notes yesterday to copy, and who has not touched them yet. "

The two young people shook hands with an air of cordial intimacy. 

"Good day, Mlle. Clotilde. "

"Good day, M. Ramond. "

During a gastric fever, happily mild, which the young girl had hadthe preceding year, Dr. Pascal had lost his head to the extent ofdistrusting his own skill, and he had asked his young colleague toassist him--to reassure him. Thus it was that an intimacy, a sort ofcomradeship, had sprung up among the three. 

"You shall have your notes to-morrow, I promise you, " she said, smiling. 

Ramond walked on with them, however, until they reached the end of theRue de la Banne, at the entrance of the old quarter whither they weregoing. And there was in the manner in which he leaned, smiling, towardClotilde, the revelation of a secret love that had grown slowly, awaiting patiently the hour fixed for the most reasonable of_denouements_. Besides, he listened with deference to Dr. Pascal, whoseworks he admired greatly. 

"And it just happens, my dear friend, that I am going to Guiraude's, that woman, you know, whose husband, a tanner, died of consumption fiveyears ago. She has two children living--Sophie, a girl now going onsixteen, whom I fortunately succeeded in having sent four years beforeher father's death to a neighboring village, to one of her aunts; anda son, Valentin, who has just completed his twenty-first year, andwhom his mother insisted on keeping with her through a blind affection, notwithstanding that I warned her of the dreadful results that mightensue. Well, see if I am right in asserting that consumption is nothereditary, but only that consumptive parents transmit to their childrena degenerate soil, in which the disease develops at the slightestcontagion. Now, Valentin, who lived in daily contact with his father, is consumptive, while Sophie, who grew up in the open air, has superbhealth. "

He added with a triumphant smile:

"But that will not prevent me, perhaps, from saving Valentin, for heis visibly improved, and is growing fat since I have used my injectionswith him. Ah, Ramond, you will come to them yet; you will come to myinjections!"

The young physician shook hands with both of them, saying:

"I don't say no. You know that I am always with you. "

When they were alone they quickened their steps and were soon in the RueCanquoin, one of the narrowest and darkest streets of the old quarter. Hot as was the sun, there reigned here the semi-obscurity and thecoolness of a cave. Here it was, on a ground floor, that Guiraude livedwith her son Valentin. She opened the door herself. She was a thin, wasted-looking woman, who was herself affected with a slow decompositionof the blood. From morning till night she crushed almonds with the endof an ox-bone on a large paving stone, which she held between her knees. This work was their only means of living, the son having been obliged togive up all labor. She smiled, however, to-day on seeing the doctor, forValentin had just eaten a cutlet with a good appetite, a thing whichhe had not done for months. Valentin, a sickly-looking young man, withscanty hair and beard and prominent cheek bones, on each of which wasa bright red spot, while the rest of his face was of a waxen hue, rose quickly to show how much more sprightly he felt! And Clotildewas touched by the reception given to Pascal as a saviour, the awaitedMessiah. These poor people pressed his hands--they would like to havekissed his feet; looking at him with eyes shining with gratitude. True, the disease was not yet cured: perhaps this was only the effect of thestimulus, perhaps what he felt was only the excitement of fever. Butwas it not something to gain time? He gave him another injection whileClotilde, standing before the window, turned her back to them; and whenthey were leaving she saw him lay twenty francs upon the table. Thisoften happened to him, to pay his patients instead of being paid bythem. 

He made three other visits in the old quarter, and then went to see alady in the new town. When they found themselves in the street again, hesaid:

"Do you know that, if you were a courageous girl, we should walk toSeguiranne, to see Sophie at her aunt's. That would give me pleasure. "

The distance was scarcely three kilometers; that would be only apleasant walk in this delightful weather. And she agreed gaily, notsulky now, but pressing close to him, happy to hang on his arm. It wasfive o'clock. The setting sun spread over the fields a great sheet ofgold. But as soon as they left Plassans they were obliged to crossthe corner of the vast, arid plain, which extended to the right of theViorne. The new canal, whose irrigating waters were soon to transformthe face of the country parched with thirst, did not yet water thisquarter, and red fields and yellow fields stretched away into thedistance under the melancholy and blighting glare of the sun, plantedonly with puny almond trees and dwarf olives, constantly cut down andpruned, whose branches twisted and writhed in attitudes of sufferingand revolt. In the distance, on the bare hillsides, were to be seen onlylike pale patches the country houses, flanked by the regulation cypress. The vast, barren expanse, however, with broad belts of desolate fieldsof hard and distinct coloring, had classic lines of a severe grandeur. And on the road the dust lay twenty centimeters thick, a dust like snow, that the slightest breath of wind raised in broad, flying clouds, andthat covered with white powder the fig trees and the brambles on eitherside. 

Clotilde, who amused herself like a child, listening to this dustcrackling under her little feet, wished to hold her parasol over Pascal. 

"You have the sun in your eyes. Lean a little this way. "

But at last he took possession of the parasol, to hold it himself. 

"It is you who do not hold it right; and then it tires you. Besides, weare almost there now. "

In the parched plain they could already perceive an island of verdure, an enormous clump of trees. This was La Seguiranne, the farm on whichSophie had grown up in the house of her Aunt Dieudonne, the wife ofthe cross old man. Wherever there was a spring, wherever there was arivulet, this ardent soil broke out in rich vegetation; and thenthere were walks bordered by trees, whose luxuriant foliage afforded adelightful coolness and shade. Plane trees, chestnut trees, and youngelms grew vigorously. They entered an avenue of magnificent green oaks. 

As they approached the farm, a girl who was making hay in the meadowdropped her fork and ran toward them. It was Sophie, who had recognizedthe doctor and the young lady, as she called Clotilde. She adored them, but she stood looking at them in confusion, unable to express the gladgreeting with which her heart overflowed. She resembled her brotherValentin; she had his small stature, his prominent cheek bones, hispale hair; but in the country, far from the contagion of the paternalenvironment, she had, it seemed, gained flesh; acquired with herrobust limbs a firm step; her cheeks had filled out, her hair had grownluxuriant. And she had fine eyes, which shone with health and gratitude. Her Aunt Dieudonne, who was making hay with her, had come toward themalso, crying from afar jestingly, with something of Provencal rudeness:

"Ah, M. Pascal, we have no need of you here! There is no one sick!"

The doctor, who had simply come in search of this fine spectacle ofhealth, answered in the same tone:

"I hope so, indeed. But that does not prevent this little girl here fromowing you and me a fine taper!"

"Well, that is the pure truth! And she knows it, M. Pascal. There is nota day that she does not say that but for you she would be at this timelike her brother Valentin. "

"Bah! We will save him, too. He is getting better, Valentin is. I havejust been to see him. "

Sophie seized the doctor's hands; large tears stood in her eyes, and shecould only stammer:

"Oh, M. Pascal!"

How they loved him! And Clotilde felt her affection for him increase, seeing the affection of all these people for him. They remained chattingthere for a few moments longer, in the salubrious shade of the greenoaks. Then they took the road back to Plassans, having still anothervisit to make. 

This was to a tavern, that stood at the crossing of two roads and waswhite with the flying dust. A steam mill had recently been establishedopposite, utilizing the old buildings of Le Paradou, an estate datingfrom the last century, and Lafouasse, the tavern keeper, still carriedon his little business, thanks to the workmen at the mill and to thepeasants who brought their corn to it. He had still for customers onSundays the few inhabitants of Les Artauds, a neighboring hamlet. Butmisfortune had struck him; for the last three years he had been dragginghimself about groaning with rheumatism, in which the doctor had finallyrecognized the beginning of ataxia. But he had obstinately refused totake a servant, persisting in waiting on his customers himself, holdingon by the furniture. So that once more firm on his feet, after a dozenpunctures, he already proclaimed his cure everywhere. 

He chanced to be just then at his door, and looked strong and vigorous, with his tall figure, fiery face, and fiery red hair. 

"I was waiting for you, M. Pascal. Do you know that I have been able tobottle two casks of wine without being tired!"

Clotilde remained outside, sitting on a stone bench; while Pascalentered the room to give Lafouasse the injection. She could hearthem speaking, and the latter, who in spite of his stoutness was verycowardly in regard to pain, complained that the puncture hurt, adding, however, that after all a little suffering was a small price to pay forgood health. Then he declared he would be offended if the doctor didnot take a glass of something. The young lady would not affront him byrefusing to take some syrup. He carried a table outside, and there wasnothing for it but they must touch glasses with him. 

"To your health, M. Pascal, and to the health of all the poor devils towhom you give back a relish for their victuals!"

Clotilde thought with a smile of the gossip of which Martine had spokento her, of Father Boutin, whom they accused the doctor of having killed. He did not kill all his patients, then; his remedy worked real miracles, since he brought back to life the consumptive and the ataxic. And herfaith in her master returned with the warm affection for him whichwelled up in her heart. When they left Lafouasse, she was once morecompletely his; he could do what he willed with her. 

But a few moments before, sitting on the stone bench looking at thesteam mill, a confused story had recurred to her mind; was it not herein these smoke-blackened buildings, to-day white with flour, that adrama of love had once been enacted? And the story came back to her;details given by Martine; allusions made by the doctor himself; thewhole tragic love adventure of her cousin the Abbe Serge Mouret, then rector of Les Artauds, with an adorable young girl of a wild andpassionate nature who lived at Le Paradou. 

Returning by the same road Clotilde stopped, and pointing to the vast, melancholy expanse of stubble fields, cultivated plains, and fallowland, said:

"Master, was there not once there a large garden? Did you not tell mesome story about it?"

"Yes, yes; Le Paradou, an immense garden--woods, meadows, orchards, parterres, fountains, and brooks that flowed into the Viorne. A gardenabandoned for an age; the garden of the Sleeping Beauty, returned toNature's rule. And as you see they have cut down the woods, and clearedand leveled the ground, to divide it into lots, and sell it by auction. The springs themselves have dried up. There is nothing there now butthat fever-breeding marsh. Ah, when I pass by here, it makes my heartache!"

She ventured to question him further:

"But was it not in Le Paradou that my cousin Serge and your great friendAlbine fell in love with each other?"

He had forgotten her presence. He went on talking, his gaze fixed onspace, lost in recollections of the past. 

"Albine, my God! I can see her now, in the sunny garden, like a great, fragrant bouquet, her head thrown back, her bosom swelling with joy, happy in her flowers, with wild flowers braided among her blond tresses, fastened at her throat, on her corsage, around her slender, bare brownarms. And I can see her again, after she had asphyxiated herself; deadin the midst of her flowers; very white, sleeping with folded hands, anda smile on her lips, on her couch of hyacinths and tuberoses. Dead forlove; and how passionately Albine and Serge loved each other, in thegreat garden their tempter, in the bosom of Nature their accomplice! Andwhat a flood of life swept away all false bonds, and what a triumph oflife!"

Clotilde, she too troubled by this passionate flow of murmured words, gazed at him intently. She had never ventured to speak to him of anotherstory that she had heard--the story of the one love of his life--a lovewhich he had cherished in secret for a lady now dead. It was said thathe had attended her for a long time without ever so much as venturing tokiss the tips of her fingers. Up to the present, up to near sixty, studyand his natural timidity had made him shun women. But, notwithstanding, one felt that he was reserved for some great passion, with his feelingsstill fresh and ardent, in spite of his white hair. 

"And the girl that died, the girl they mourned, " she resumed, her voicetrembling, her cheeks scarlet, without knowing why. "Serge did not loveher, then, since he let her die?"

Pascal started as though awakening from a dream, seeing her beside himin her youthful beauty, with her large, clear eyes shining under theshadow of her broad-brimmed hat. Something had happened; the same breathof life had passed through them both; they did not take each other'sarms again. They walked side by side. 

"Ah, my dear, the world would be too beautiful, if men did not spoil itall! Albine is dead, and Serge is now rector of St. Eutrope, wherehe lives with his sister Desiree, a worthy creature who has the goodfortune to be half an idiot. He is a holy man; I have never said thecontrary. One may be an assassin and serve God. "

And he went on speaking of the hard things of life, of the blacknessand execrableness of humanity, without losing his gentle smile. He lovedlife; and the continuous work of life was a continual joy to himin spite of all the evil, all the misery, that it might contain. Itmattered not how dreadful life might appear, it must be great and good, since it was lived with so tenacious a will, for the purpose no doubtof this will itself, and of the great work which it unconsciouslyaccomplished. True, he was a scientist, a clear-sighted man; he did notbelieve in any idyllic humanity living in a world of perpetual peace; hesaw, on the contrary, its woes and its vices; he had laid them bare; hehad examined them; he had catalogued them for thirty years past, buthis passion for life, his admiration for the forces of life, sufficed toproduce in him a perpetual gaiety, whence seemed to flow naturally hislove for others, a fraternal compassion, a sympathy, which werefelt under the roughness of the anatomist and under the affectedimpersonality of his studies. 

"Bah!" he ended, taking a last glance at the vast, melancholy plains. "Le Paradou is no more. They have sacked it, defiled it, destroyed it;but what does that matter! Vines will be planted, corn will spring up, a whole growth of new crops; and people will still fall in love invintages and harvests yet to come. Life is eternal; it is a perpetualrenewal of birth and growth. "

He took her arm again and they returned to the town thus, arm in armlike good friends, while the glow of the sunset was slowly fading awayin a tranquil sea of violets and roses. And seeing them both pass again, the ancient king, powerful and gentle, leaning against the shoulder ofa charming and docile girl, supported by her youth, the women of thefaubourg, sitting at their doors, looked after them with a smile oftender emotion. 

At La Souleiade Martine was watching for them. She waved her hand tothem from afar. What! Were they not going to dine to-day? Then, whenthey were near, she said:

"Ah! you will have to wait a little while. I did not venture to put onmy leg of mutton yet. "

They remained outside to enjoy the charm of the closing day. The pinegrove, wrapped in shadow, exhaled a balsamic resinous odor, and fromthe yard, still heated, in which a last red gleam was dying away, achillness arose. It was like an assuagement, a sigh of relief, a restingof surrounding Nature, of the puny almond trees, the twisted olives, under the paling sky, cloudless and serene; while at the back of thehouse the clump of plane trees was a mass of black and impenetrableshadows, where the fountain was heard singing its eternal crystal song. 

"Look!" said the doctor, "M. Bellombre has already dined, and he istaking the air. "

He pointed to a bench, on which a tall, thin old man of seventy wassitting, with a long face, furrowed with wrinkles, and large, staringeyes, and very correctly attired in a close-fitting coat and cravat. 

"He is a wise man, " murmured Clotilde. "He is happy. "

"He!" cried Pascal. "I should hope not!"

He hated no one, and M. Bellombre, the old college professor, nowretired, and living in his little house without any other company thanthat of a gardener who was deaf and dumb and older than himself, was theonly person who had the power to exasperate him. 

"A fellow who has been afraid of life; think of that! afraid of life!Yes, a hard and avaricious egotist! If he banished woman from hisexistence, it was only through fear of having to pay for her shoes. And he has known only the children of others, who have made himsuffer--hence his hatred of the child--that flesh made to be flogged. The fear of life, the fear of burdens and of duties, of annoyances andof catastrophes! The fear of life, which makes us through dread of itssufferings refuse its joys. Ah! I tell you, this cowardliness enragesme; I cannot forgive it. We must live--live a complete life--liveall our life. Better even suffering, suffering only, than suchrenunciation--the death of all there is in us that is living and human!"

M. Bellombre had risen, and was walking along one of the walks withslow, tranquil steps. Then, Clotilde, who had been watching him insilence, at last said:

"There is, however, the joy of renunciation. To renounce, not to live;to keep one's self for the spiritual, has not this always been the greathappiness of the saints?"

"If they had not lived, " cried Pascal, "they could not now be saints. Let suffering come, and I will bless it, for it is perhaps the onlygreat happiness!"

But he felt that she rebelled against this; that he was going to loseher again. At the bottom of our anxiety about the beyond is the secretfear and hatred of life. So that he hastily assumed again his pleasantsmile, so affectionate and conciliating. 

"No, no! Enough for to-day; let us dispute no more; let us love eachother dearly. And see! Martine is calling us, let us go in to dinner. "

III. 

For a month this unpleasant state of affairs continued, every daygrowing worse, and Clotilde suffered especially at seeing that Pascalnow locked up everything. He had no longer the same tranquil confidencein her as before, and this wounded her so deeply that, if she had atany time found the press open, she would have thrown the papers intothe fire as her grandmother Felicite had urged her to do. And thedisagreements began again, so that they often remained without speakingto each other for two days together. 

One morning, after one of these misunderstandings which had lasted sincethe day before, Martine said as she was serving the breakfast:

"Just now as I was crossing the Place de la Sous-Prefecture, I saw astranger whom I thought I recognized going into Mme. Felicite's house. Yes, mademoiselle, I should not be surprised if it were your brother. "

On the impulse of the moment, Pascal and Clotilde spoke. 

"Your brother! Did your grandmother expect him, then?"

"No, I don't think so, though she has been expecting him at any time forthe past six months, I know that she wrote to him again a week ago. "

They questioned Martine. 

"Indeed, monsieur, I cannot say; since I last saw M. Maxime four yearsago, when he stayed two hours with us on his way to Italy, he mayperhaps have changed greatly--I thought, however, that I recognized hisback. "

The conversation continued, Clotilde seeming to be glad of this event, which broke at last the oppressive silence between them, and Pascalended:

"Well, if it is he, he will come to see us. "

It was indeed Maxime. He had yielded, after months of refusal, to theurgent solicitations of old Mme. Rougon, who had still in this quarteran open family wound to heal. The trouble was an old one, and it grewworse every day. 

Fifteen years before, when he was seventeen, Maxime had had a child bya servant whom he had seduced. His father Saccard, and his stepmotherRenee--the latter vexed more especially at his unworthy choice--hadacted in the matter with indulgence. The servant, Justine Megot, belonged to one of the neighboring villages, and was a fair-hairedgirl, also seventeen, gentle and docile; and they had sent her back toPlassans, with an allowance of twelve hundred francs a year, to bring uplittle Charles. Three years later she had married there a harness-makerof the faubourg, Frederic Thomas by name, a good workman and a sensiblefellow, who was tempted by the allowance. For the rest her conduct wasnow most exemplary, she had grown fat, and she appeared to be cured ofa cough that had threatened a hereditary malady due to the alcoholicpropensities of a long line of progenitors. And two other children bornof her marriage, a boy who was now ten and a girl who was seven, bothplump and rosy, enjoyed perfect health; so that she would have been themost respected and the happiest of women, if it had not been for thetrouble which Charles caused in the household. Thomas, notwithstandingthe allowance, execrated this son of another man and gave him no peace, which made the mother suffer in secret, being an uncomplaining andsubmissive wife. So that, although she adored him, she would willinglyhave given him up to his father's family. 

Charles, at fifteen, seemed scarcely twelve, and he had the infantineintelligence of a child of five, resembling in an extraordinary degreehis great-great-grandmother, Aunt Dide, the madwoman at the Tulettes. He had the slender and delicate grace of one of those bloodless littlekings with whom a race ends, crowned with their long, fair locks, lightas spun silk. His large, clear eyes were expressionless, and on hisdisquieting beauty lay the shadow of death. And he had neither brainnor heart--he was nothing but a vicious little dog, who rubbed himselfagainst people to be fondled. His great-grandmother Felicite, won bythis beauty, in which she affected to recognize her blood, had at firstput him in a boarding school, taking charge of him, but he had beenexpelled from it at the end of six months for misconduct. Three timesshe had changed his boarding school, and each time he had been expelledin disgrace. Then, as he neither would nor could learn anything, andas his health was declining rapidly, they kept him at home, sending himfrom one to another of the family. Dr. Pascal, moved to pity, had triedto cure him, and had abandoned the hopeless task only after he had kepthim with him for nearly a year, fearing the companionship for Clotilde. And now, when Charles was not at his mother's, where he scarcely everlived at present, he was to be found at the house of Felicite, or thatof some other relative, prettily dressed, laden with toys, living likethe effeminate little dauphin of an ancient and fallen race. 

Old Mme. Rougon, however, suffered because of this bastard, and shehad planned to get him away from the gossiping tongues of Plassans, bypersuading Maxime to take him and keep him with him in Paris. It wouldstill be an ugly story of the fallen family. But Maxime had for along time turned a deaf ear to her solicitations, in the fear whichcontinually haunted him of spoiling his life. After the war, enriched bythe death of his wife, he had come back to live prudently on his fortunein his mansion on the avenue of the Bois de Boulogne, tormented by thehereditary malady of which he was to die young, having gained from hisprecocious debauchery a salutary fear of pleasure, resolved above allto shun emotions and responsibilities, so that he might last as long aspossible. Acute pains in the limbs, rheumatic he thought them, had beenalarming him for some time past; he saw himself in fancy already aninvalid tied down to an easy-chair; and his father's sudden return toFrance, the fresh activity which Saccard was putting forth, completedhis disquietude. He knew well this devourer of millions; he trembled atfinding him again bustling about him with his good-humored, maliciouslaugh. He felt that he was being watched, and he had the conviction thathe would be cut up and devoured if he should be for a single day at hismercy, rendered helpless by the pains which were invading his limbs. Andso great a fear of solitude had taken possession of him that he had nowyielded to the idea of seeing his son again. If he found the boy gentle, intelligent, and healthy, why should he not take him to live with him?He would thus have a companion, an heir, who would protect him againstthe machinations of his father. Gradually he came to see himself, in hisselfish forethought, loved, petted, and protected; yet for all that hemight not have risked such a journey, if his physician had not just atthat time sent him to the waters of St. Gervais. Thus, having to goonly a few leagues out of his way, he had dropped in unexpectedly thatmorning on old Mme. Rougon, firmly resolved to take the train again inthe evening, after having questioned her and seen the boy. 

At two o'clock Pascal and Clotilde were still beside the fountain underthe plane trees where they had taken their coffee, when Felicite arrivedwith Maxime. 

"My dear, here's a surprise! I have brought you your brother. "

Startled, the young girl had risen, seeing this thin and sallowstranger, whom she scarcely recognized. Since their parting in 1854 shehad seen him only twice, once at Paris and again at Plassans. Yet hisimage, refined, elegant, and vivacious, had remained engraven on hermind; his face had grown hollow, his hair was streaked with silverthreads. But notwithstanding, she found in him still, with hisdelicately handsome head, a languid grace, like that of a girl, even inhis premature decrepitude. 

"How well you look!" he said simply, as he embraced his sister. 

"But, " she responded, "to be well one must live in the sunshine. Ah, howhappy it makes me to see you again!"

Pascal, with the eye of the physician, had examined his nephewcritically. He embraced him in his turn. 

"Goodday, my boy. And she is right, mind you; one can be well only outin the sunshine--like the trees. "

Felicite had gone hastily to the house. She returned, crying:

"Charles is not here, then?"

"No, " said Clotilde. "We went to see him yesterday. Uncle Macquart hastaken him, and he is to remain for a few days at the Tulettes. "

Felicite was in despair. She had come only in the certainty of findingthe boy at Pascal's. What was to be done now? The doctor, with histranquil air, proposed to write to Uncle Macquart, who would bring himback in the morning. But when he learned that Maxime wished positivelyto go away again by the nine o'clock train, without remaining overnight, another idea occurred to him. He would send to the livery stablefor a landau, and all four would go to see Charles at Uncle Macquart's. It would even be a delightful drive. It was not quite three leagues fromPlassans to the Tulettes--an hour to go, and an hour to return, and theywould still have almost two hours to remain there, if they wished tobe back by seven. Martine would get dinner, and Maxime would have timeenough to dine and catch his train. 

But Felicite objected, visibly disquieted by this visit to Macquart. 

"Oh, no, indeed! If you think I am going down there in this frightfulweather, you are mistaken. It is much simpler to send some one to bringCharles to us. "

Pascal shook his head. Charles was not always to be brought back whenone wished. He was a boy without reason, who sometimes, if the whimseized him, would gallop off like an untamed animal. And old Mme. Rougon, overruled and furious at having been unable to make anypreparation, was at last obliged to yield, in the necessity in which shefound herself of leaving the matter to chance. 

"Well, be it as you wish, then! Good Heavens, how unfortunately thingshave turned out!"

Martine hurried away to order the landau, and before three o'clock hadstruck the horses were on the Nice road, descending the declivity whichslopes down to the bridge over the Viorne. Then they turned to the left, and followed the wooded banks of the river for about two miles. Afterthis the road entered the gorges of the Seille, a narrow pass betweentwo giant walls of rock scorched by the ardent rays of the summersun. Pine trees pushed their way through the clefts; clumps of trees, scarcely thicker at the roots than tufts of grass, fringed the crestsand hung over the abyss. It was a chaos; a blasted landscape, a mouth ofhell, with its wild turns, its droppings of blood-colored earth slidingdown from every cut, its desolate solitude invaded only by the eagles'flight. 

Felicite did not open her lips; her brain was at work, and she seemedcompletely absorbed in her thoughts. The atmosphere was oppressive, the sun sent his burning rays from behind a veil of great livid clouds. Pascal was almost the only one who talked, in his passionate love forthis scorched land--a love which he endeavored to make his nephew share. But it was in vain that he uttered enthusiastic exclamations, in vainthat he called his attention to the persistence of the olives, the figtrees, and the thorn bushes in pushing through the rock; the life of therock itself, that colossal and puissant frame of the earth, from whichthey could almost fancy they heard a sound of breathing arise. Maximeremained cold, filled with a secret anguish in presence of those blocksof savage majesty, whose mass seemed to crush him. And he preferred toturn his eyes toward his sister, who was seated in front of him. He wasbecoming more and more charmed with her. She looked so healthy andso happy, with her pretty round head, with its straight, well-moldedforehead. Now and then their glances met, and she gave him anaffectionate smile which consoled him. 

But the wildness of the gorge was beginning to soften, the two walls ofrock to grow lower; they passed between two peaceful hills, with gentleslopes covered with thyme and lavender. It was the desert still, therewere still bare spaces, green or violet hued, from which the faintestbreeze brought a pungent perfume. 

Then abruptly, after a last turn they descended to the valley of theTulettes, which was refreshed by springs. In the distance stretchedmeadows dotted by large trees. The village was seated midway on theslope, among olive trees, and the country house of Uncle Macquart stooda little apart on the left, full in view. The landau turned into theroad which led to the insane asylum, whose white walls they could seebefore them in the distance. 

Felicite's silence had grown somber, for she was not fond of exhibitingUncle Macquart. Another whom the family would be well rid of the daywhen he should take his departure. For the credit of every one heought to have been sleeping long ago under the sod. But he persistedin living, he carried his eighty-three years well, like an old drunkardsaturated with liquor, whom the alcohol seemed to preserve. At Plassanshe had left a terrible reputation as a do-nothing and a scoundrel, and the old men whispered the execrable story of the corpses that laybetween him and the Rougons, an act of treachery in the troublous daysof December, 1851, an ambuscade in which he had left comrades with theirbellies ripped open, lying on the bloody pavement. Later, when he hadreturned to France, he had preferred to the good place of which he hadobtained the promise this little domain of the Tulettes, which Felicitehad bought for him. And he had lived comfortably here ever since; he hadno longer any other ambition than that of enlarging it, looking out oncemore for the good chances, and he had even found the means of obtaininga field which he had long coveted, by making himself useful to hissister-in-law at the time when the latter again reconquered Plassansfrom the legitimists--another frightful story that was whispered also, of a madman secretly let loose from the asylum, running in the nightto avenge himself, setting fire to his house in which four persons wereburned. But these were old stories and Macquart, settled down now, wasno longer the redoubtable scoundrel who had made all the family tremble. He led a perfectly correct life; he was a wily diplomat, and he hadretained nothing of his air of jeering at the world but his banteringsmile. 

"Uncle is at home, " said Pascal, as they approached the house. 

This was one of those Provencal structures of a single story, withdiscolored tiles and four walls washed with a bright yellow. Before thefacade extended a narrow terrace shaded by ancient mulberry trees, whosethick, gnarled branches drooped down, forming an arbor. It was herethat Uncle Macquart smoked his pipe in the cool shade, in summer. And onhearing the sound of the carriage, he came and stood at the edge of theterrace, straightening his tall form neatly clad in blue cloth, his headcovered with the eternal fur cap which he wore from one year's end tothe other. 

As soon as he recognized his visitors, he called out with a sneer:

"Oh, here come some fine company! How kind of you; you are out for anairing. "

But the presence of Maxime puzzled him. Who was he? Whom had he come tosee? They mentioned his name to him, and he immediately cut short theexplanations they were adding, to enable him to straighten out thetangled skein of relationship. 

"The father of Charles--I know, I know! The son of my nephew Saccard, _pardi_! the one who made a fine marriage, and whose wife died--"

He stared at Maxime, seeming happy to find him already wrinkled atthirty-two, with his hair and beard sprinkled with snow. 

"Ah, well!" he added, "we are all growing old. But I, at least, have nogreat reason to complain. I am solid. "

And he planted himself firmly on his legs with his air of ferociousmockery, while his fiery red face seemed to flame and burn. For along time past ordinary brandy had seemed to him like pure water; onlyspirits of 36 degrees tickled his blunted palate; and he took suchdraughts of it that he was full of it--his flesh saturated with it--likea sponge. He perspired alcohol. At the slightest breath whenever hespoke, he exhaled from his mouth a vapor of alcohol. 

"Yes, truly; you are solid, uncle!" said Pascal, amazed. "And you havedone nothing to make you so; you have good reason to ridicule us. Onlythere is one thing I am afraid of, look you, that some day in lightingyour pipe, you may set yourself on fire--like a bowl of punch. "

Macquart, flattered, gave a sneering laugh. 

"Have your jest, have your jest, my boy! A glass of cognac is worth morethan all your filthy drugs. And you will all touch glasses with me, hey?So that it may be said truly that your uncle is a credit to you all. As for me, I laugh at evil tongues. I have corn and olive trees, I havealmond trees and vines and land, like any _bourgeois_. In summer I smokemy pipe under the shade of my mulberry trees; in winter I go to smoke itagainst my wall, there in the sunshine. One has no need to blush for anuncle like that, hey? Clotilde, I have syrup, if you would like some. And you, Felicite, my dear, I know that you prefer anisette. There iseverything here, I tell you, there is everything here!"

He waved his arm as if to take possession of the comforts he enjoyed, now that from an old sinner he had become a hermit, while Felicite, whomhe had disturbed a moment before by the enumeration of his riches, didnot take her eyes from his face, waiting to interrupt him. 

"Thank you, Macquart, we will take nothing; we are in a hurry. Where isCharles?"

"Charles? Very good, presently! I understand, papa has come to see hisboy. But that is not going to prevent you taking a glass. "

And as they positively refused he became offended, and said, with hismalicious laugh:

"Charles is not here; he is at the asylum with the old woman. "

Then, taking Maxime to the end of the terrace, he pointed out to him thegreat white buildings, whose inner gardens resembled prison yards. 

"Look, nephew, you see those three trees in front of you? Well, beyondthe one to the left, there is a fountain in a court. Follow the groundfloor, and the fifth window to the right is Aunt Dide's. And that iswhere the boy is. Yes, I took him there a little while ago. "

This was an indulgence of the directors. In the twenty years that shehad been in the asylum the old woman had not given a moment's uneasinessto her keeper. Very quiet, very gentle, she passed the days motionlessin her easy-chair, looking straight before her; and as the boy liked tobe with her, and as she herself seemed to take an interest in him, they shut their eyes to this infraction of the rules and left him theresometimes for two or three hours at a time, busily occupied in cuttingout pictures. 

But this new disappointment put the finishing stroke to Felicite'sill-humor; she grew angry when Macquart proposed that all five should goin a body in search of the boy. 

"What an idea! Go you alone, and come back quickly. We have no time tolose. "

Her suppressed rage seemed to amuse Uncle Macquart, and perceiving howdisagreeable his proposition was to her, he insisted, with his sneeringlaugh:

"But, my children, we should at the same time have an opportunity ofseeing the old mother; the mother of us all. There is no use in talking;you know that we are all descended from her, and it would hardly bepolite not to go wish her a good-day, when my grandnephew, who has comefrom such a distance, has perhaps never before had a good look at her. I'll not disown her, may the devil take me if I do. To be sure she ismad, but all the same, old mothers who have passed their hundredth yearare not often to be seen, and she well deserves that we should showourselves a little kind to her. "

There was silence for a moment. A little shiver had run through everyone. And it was Clotilde, silent until now, who first declared in avoice full of feeling:

"You are right, uncle; we will all go. "

Felicite herself was obliged to consent. They re-entered the landau, Macquart taking the seat beside the coachman. A feeling of disquietudehad given a sallow look to Maxime's worn face; and during the shortdrive he questioned Pascal concerning Charles with an air of paternalinterest, which concealed a growing anxiety. The doctor constrainedby his mother's imperious glances, softened the truth. Well, the boy'shealth was certainly not very robust; it was on that account, indeed, that they were glad to leave him for weeks together in the country withhis uncle: but he had no definite disease. Pascal did not add that hehad for a moment cherished the dream of giving him a brain and musclesby treating him with his hypodermic injections of nerve substance, but that he had always been met by the same difficulty; the slightestpuncture brought on a hemorrhage which it was found necessary to stopby compresses; there was a laxness of the tissues, due to degeneracy; abloody dew which exuded from the skin; he had especially, bleedings atthe nose so sudden and so violent that they did not dare to leave himalone, fearing lest all the blood in his veins should flow out. And thedoctor ended by saying that although the boy's intelligence had beensluggish, he still hoped that it would develop in an environment ofquicker mental activity. 

They arrived at the asylum and Macquart, who had been listening to thedoctor, descended from his seat, saying:

"He is a gentle little fellow, a very gentle little fellow! And then, heis so beautiful--an angel!"

Maxime, who was still pale, and who shivered in spite of the stiflingheat, put no more questions. He looked at the vast buildings of theasylum, the wings of the various quarters separated by gardens, themen's quarters from those of the women, those of the harmless insanefrom those of the violent insane. A scrupulous cleanliness reignedeverywhere, a gloomy silence--broken from time to time by footsteps andthe noise of keys. Old Macquart knew all the keepers. Besides, the doorswere always to open to Dr. Pascal, who had been authorized to attendcertain of the inmates. They followed a passage and entered a court; itwas here--one of the chambers on the ground floor, a room covered witha light carpet, furnished with a bed, a press, a table, an armchair, andtwo chairs. The nurse, who had orders never to quit her charge, happenedjust now to be absent, and the only occupants of the room were themadwoman, sitting rigid in her armchair at one side of the table, andthe boy, sitting on a chair on the opposite side, absorbed in cuttingout his pictures. 

"Go in, go in!" Macquart repeated. "Oh, there is no danger, she is verygentle!"

The grandmother, Adelaide Fouque, whom her grandchildren, a whole swarmof descendants, called by the pet name of Aunt Dide, did not even turnher head at the noise. In her youth hysterical troubles had unbalancedher mind. Of an ardent and passionate nature and subject to nervousattacks, she had yet reached the great age of eighty-three when adreadful grief, a terrible moral shock, destroyed her reason. At thattime, twenty-one years before, her mind had ceased to act; it had becomesuddenly weakened without the possibility of recovery. And now, at theage of 104 years, she lived here as if forgotten by the world, aquiet madwoman with an ossified brain, with whom insanity might remainstationary for an indefinite length of time without causing death. Oldage had come, however, and had gradually atrophied her muscles. Herflesh was as if eaten away by age. The skin only remained on her bones, so that she had to be carried from her chair to her bed, for it hadbecome impossible for her to walk or even to move. And yet she heldherself erect against the back of her chair, a yellow, dried-upskeleton--like an ancient tree of which the bark only remains--with onlyher eyes still living in her thin, long visage, in which the wrinkleshad been, so to say, worn away. She was looking fixedly at Charles. 

Clotilde approached her a little tremblingly. 

"Aunt Dide, it is we; we have come to see you. Don't you know me, then?Your little girl who comes sometimes to kiss you. "

But the madwoman did not seem to hear. Her eyes remained fixed upon theboy, who was finishing cutting out a picture--a purple king in a goldenmantle. 

"Come, mamma, " said Macquart, "don't pretend to be stupid. You may verywell look at us. Here is a gentleman, a grandson of yours, who has comefrom Paris expressly to see you. "

At this voice Aunt Dide at last turned her head. Her clear, expressionless eyes wandered slowly from one to another, then restedagain on Charles with the same fixed look as before. 

They all shivered, and no one spoke again. 

"Since the terrible shock she received, " explained Pascal in a lowvoice, "she has been that way; all intelligence, all memory seemextinguished in her. For the most part she is silent; at times she poursforth a flood of stammering and indistinct words. She laughs and crieswithout cause, she is a thing that nothing affects. And yet I shouldnot venture to say that the darkness of her mind is complete, that nomemories remain stored up in its depths. Ah! the poor old mother, how Ipity her, if the light has not yet been finally extinguished. Whatcan her thoughts have been for the last twenty-one years, if she stillremembers?"

With a gesture he put this dreadful past which he knew from him. Hesaw her again young, a tall, pale, slender girl with frightened eyes, a widow, after fifteen months of married life with Rougon, the clumsygardener whom she had chosen for a husband, throwing herself immediatelyafterwards into the arms of the smuggler Macquart, whom she loved witha wolfish love, and whom she did not even marry. She had lived thus forfifteen years, with her three children, one the child of her marriage, the other two illegitimate, a capricious and tumultuous existence, disappearing for weeks at a time, and returning all bruised, her armsblack and blue. Then Macquart had been killed, shot down like a dog by a_gendarme_; and the first shock had paralyzed her, so that even then sheretained nothing living but her water-clear eyes in her livid face; andshe shut herself up from the world in the hut which her lover had lefther, leading there for forty years the dead existence of a nun, brokenby terrible nervous attacks. But the other shock was to finish her, tooverthrow her reason, and Pascal recalled the atrocious scene, for hehad witnessed it--a poor child whom the grandmother had taken to livewith her, her grandson Silvere, the victim of family hatred and strife, whose head another _gendarme_ shattered with a pistol shot, at thesuppression of the insurrectionary movement of 1851. She was always tobe bespattered with blood. 

Felicite, meanwhile, had approached Charles, who was so engrossed withhis pictures that all these people did not disturb him. 

"My darling, this gentleman is your father. Kiss him, " she said. 

And then they all occupied themselves with Charles. He was very prettilydressed in a jacket and short trousers of black velvet, braided withgold cord. Pale as a lily, he resembled in truth one of those king'ssons whose pictures he was cutting out, with his large, light eyes andhis shower of fair curls. But what especially struck the attention atthis moment was his resemblance to Aunt Dide; this resemblance whichhad overleaped three generations, which had passed from this witheredcentenarian's countenance, from these dead features wasted by life, tothis delicate child's face that was also as if worn, aged, and wasted, through the wear of the race. Fronting each other, the imbecile child ofa deathlike beauty seemed the last of the race of which she, forgottenby the world, was the ancestress. 

Maxime bent over to press a kiss on the boy's forehead; and a chillstruck to his heart--this very beauty disquieted him; his uneasinessgrew in this chamber of madness, whence, it seemed to him, breathed asecret horror come from the far-off past. 

"How beautiful you are, my pet! Don't you love me a little?"

Charles looked at him without comprehending, and went back to his play. 

But all were chilled. Without the set expression of her countenancechanging Aunt Dide wept, a flood of tears rolled from her living eyesover her dead cheeks. Her gaze fixed immovably upon the boy, she weptslowly, endlessly. A great thing had happened. 

And now an extraordinary emotion took possession of Pascal. He caughtClotilde by the arm and pressed it hard, trying to make her understand. Before his eyes appeared the whole line, the legitimate branch and thebastard branch, which had sprung from this trunk already vitiated byneurosis. Five generations were there present--the Rougons and theMacquarts, Adelaide Fouque at the root, then the scoundrelly old uncle, then himself, then Clotilde and Maxime, and lastly, Charles. Feliciteoccupied the place of her dead husband. There was no link wanting; thechain of heredity, logical and implacable, was unbroken. And what aworld was evoked from the depths of the tragic cabin which breathedthis horror that came from the far-off past in such appalling shape thatevery one, notwithstanding the oppressive heat, shivered. 

"What is it, master?" whispered Clotilde, trembling. 

"No, no, nothing!" murmured the doctor. "I will tell you later. "

Macquart, who alone continued to sneer, scolded the old mother. What anidea was hers, to receive people with tears when they put themselves outto come and make her a visit. It was scarcely polite. And then he turnedto Maxime and Charles. 

"Well, nephew, you have seen your boy at last. Is it not true that he ispretty, and that he is a credit to you, after all?"

Felicite hastened to interfere. Greatly dissatisfied with the turn whichaffairs were taking, she was now anxious only to get away. 

"He is certainly a handsome boy, and less backward than people think. Just see how skilful he is with his hands. And you will see when youhave brightened him up in Paris, in a different way from what we havebeen able to do at Plassans, eh?"

"No doubt, " murmured Maxime. "I do not say no; I will think about it. "

He seemed embarrassed for a moment, and then added:

"You know I came only to see him. I cannot take him with me now as I amto spend a month at St. Gervais. But as soon as I return to Paris I willthink of it, I will write to you. "

Then, taking out his watch, he cried:

"The devil! Half-past five. You know that I would not miss the nineo'clock train for anything in the world. "

"Yes, yes, let us go, " said Felicite brusquely. "We have nothing more todo here. "

Macquart, whom his sister-in-law's anger seemed still to divert, endeavored to delay them with all sorts of stories. He told of the dayswhen Aunt Dide talked, and he affirmed that he had found her one morningsinging a romance of her youth. And then he had no need of the carriage, he would take the boy back on foot, since they left him to him. 

"Kiss your papa, my boy, for you know now that you see him, but youdon't know whether you shall ever see him again or not. "

With the same surprised and indifferent movement Charles raised hishead, and Maxime, troubled, pressed another kiss on his forehead. 

"Be very good and very pretty, my pet. And love me a little. "

"Come, come, we have no time to lose, " repeated Felicite. 

But the keeper here re-entered the room. She was a stout, vigorous girl, attached especially to the service of the madwoman. She carried her toand from her bed, night and morning; she fed her and took care of herlike a child. And she at once entered into conversation with Dr. Pascal, who questioned her. One of the doctor's most cherished dreams was tocure the mad by his treatment of hypodermic injections. Since in theircase it was the brain that was in danger, why should not hypodermicinjections of nerve substance give them strength and will, repairingthe breaches made in the organ? So that for a moment he had dreamedof trying the treatment with the old mother; then he began to havescruples, he felt a sort of awe, without counting that madness atthat age was total, irreparable ruin. So that he had chosen anothersubject--a hatter named Sarteur, who had been for a year past in theasylum, to which he had come himself to beg them to shut him up toprevent him from committing a crime. In his paroxysms, so strong animpulse to kill seized him that he would have thrown himself upon thefirst passer-by. He was of small stature, very dark, with a retreatingforehead, an aquiline face with a large nose and a very short chin, andhis left cheek was noticeably larger than his right. And the doctor hadobtained miraculous results with this victim of emotional insanity, whofor a month past had had no attack. The nurse, indeed being questioned, answered that Sarteur had become quiet and was growing better every day. 

"Do you hear, Clotilde?" cried Pascal, enchanted. "I have not the timeto see him this evening, but I will come again to-morrow. It is myvisiting day. Ah, if I only dared; if she were young still--"

His eyes turned toward Aunt Dide. But Clotilde, whom his enthusiasm madesmile, said gently:

"No, no, master, you cannot make life anew. There, come. We are thelast. "

It was true; the others had already gone. Macquart, on the threshold, followed Felicite and Maxime with his mocking glance as they went away. Aunt Dide, the forgotten one, sat motionless, appalling in her leanness, her eyes again fixed upon Charles with his white, worn face framed inhis royal locks. 

The drive back was full of constraint. In the heat which exhaled fromthe earth, the landau rolled on heavily to the measured trot of thehorses. The stormy sky took on an ashen, copper-colored hue in thedeepening twilight. At first a few indifferent words were exchanged;but from the moment in which they entered the gorges of the Seille allconversation ceased, as if they felt oppressed by the menacing walls ofgiant rock that seemed closing in upon them. Was not this the end of theearth, and were they not going to roll into the unknown, over the edgeof some abyss? An eagle soared by, uttering a shrill cry. 

Willows appeared again, and the carriage was rolling lightly along thebank of the Viorne, when Felicite began without transition, as if shewere resuming a conversation already commenced. 

"You have no refusal to fear from the mother. She loves Charles dearly, but she is a very sensible woman, and she understands perfectly that itis to the boy's advantage that you should take him with you. And I musttell you, too, that the poor boy is not very happy with her, since, naturally, the husband prefers his own son and daughter. For you oughtto know everything. "

And she went on in this strain, hoping, no doubt, to persuade Maxime anddraw a formal promise from him. She talked until they reached Plassans. Then, suddenly, as the landau rolled over the pavement of the faubourg, she said:

"But look! there is his mother. That stout blond at the door there. "

At the threshold of a harness-maker's shop hung round with horsetrappings and halters, Justine sat, knitting a stocking, taking the air, while the little girl and boy were playing on the ground at her feet. And behind them in the shadow of the shop was to be seen Thomas, astout, dark man, occupied in repairing a saddle. 

Maxime leaned forward without emotion, simply curious. He was greatlysurprised at sight of this robust woman of thirty-two, with so sensibleand so commonplace an air, in whom there was not a trace of the wildlittle girl with whom he had been in love when both of the same age wereentering their seventeenth year. Perhaps a pang shot through his heartto see her plump and tranquil and blooming, while he was ill and alreadyaged. 

"I should never have recognized her, " he said. 

And the landau, still rolling on, turned into the Rue de Rome. Justinehad disappeared; this vision of the past--a past so different from thepresent--had sunk into the shadowy twilight, with Thomas, the children, and the shop. 

At La Souleiade the table was set; Martine had an eel from the Viorne, a _sauted_ rabbit, and a leg of mutton. Seven o'clock was striking, andthey had plenty of time to dine quietly. 

"Don't be uneasy, " said Dr. Pascal to his nephew. "We will accompany youto the station; it is not ten minutes' walk from here. As you left yourtrunk, you have nothing to do but to get your ticket and jump on boardthe train. "

Then, meeting Clotilde in the vestibule, where she was hanging up herhat and her umbrella, he said to her in an undertone:

"Do you know that I am uneasy about your brother?"

"Why so?"

"I have observed him attentively. I don't like the way in which hewalks; and have you noticed what an anxious look he has at times?That has never deceived me. In short, your brother is threatened withataxia. "

"Ataxia!" she repeated turning very pale. 

A cruel image rose before her, that of a neighbor, a man still young, whom for the past ten years she had seen driven about in a littlecarriage by a servant. Was not this infirmity the worst of all ills, theax stroke that separates a living being from social and active life?

"But, " she murmured, "he complains only of rheumatism. "

Pascal shrugged his shoulders; and putting a finger to his lip he wentinto the dining-room, where Felicite and Maxime were seated. 

The dinner was very friendly. The sudden disquietude which had sprung upin Clotilde's heart made her still more affectionate to her brother, whosat beside her. She attended to his wants gayly, forcing him to take themost delicate morsels. Twice she called back Martine, who was passingthe dishes too quickly. And Maxime was more and more enchanted by thissister, who was so good, so healthy, so sensible, whose charm envelopedhim like a caress. So greatly was he captivated by her that graduallya project, vague at first, took definite shape within him. Since littleCharles, his son, terrified him so greatly with his deathlike beauty, his royal air of sickly imbecility, why should he not take his sisterClotilde to live with him? The idea of having a woman in his housealarmed him, indeed, for he was afraid of all women, having had toomuch experience of them in his youth; but this one seemed to him trulymaternal. And then, too, a good woman in his house would make a changein it, which would be a desirable thing. He would at least be left nolonger at the mercy of his father, whom he suspected of desiring hisdeath so that he might get possession of his money at once. His hatredand terror of his father decided him. 

"Don't you think of marrying, then?" he asked, wishing to try theground. 

The young girl laughed. 

"Oh, there is no hurry, " she answered. 

Then, suddenly, looking at Pascal, who had raised his head, she added:

"How can I tell? Oh, I shall never marry. "

But Felicite protested. When she saw her so attached to the doctor, sheoften wished for a marriage that would separate her from him, that wouldleave her son alone in a deserted home, where she herself might becomeall powerful, mistress of everything. Therefore she appealed to him. Wasit not true that a woman ought to marry, that it was against nature toremain an old maid?

And he gravely assented, without taking his eyes from Clotilde's face. 

"Yes, yes, she must marry. She is too sensible not to marry. "

"Bah!" interrupted Maxime, "would it be really sensible in her tomarry? In order to be unhappy, perhaps; there are so many ill-assortedmarriages!"

And coming to a resolution, he added:

"Don't you know what you ought to do? Well, you ought to come and livewith me in Paris. I have thought the matter over. The idea of takingcharge of a child in my state of health terrifies me. Am I not a childmyself, an invalid who needs to be taken care of? You will take care ofme; you will be with me, if I should end by losing the use of my limbs. "

There was a sound of tears in his voice, so great a pity did he feelfor himself. He saw himself, in fancy, sick; he saw his sister at hisbedside, like a Sister of Charity; if she consented to remain unmarriedhe would willingly leave her his fortune, so that his father might nothave it. The dread which he had of solitude, the need in which he shouldperhaps stand of having a sick-nurse, made him very pathetic. 

"It would be very kind on your part, and you should have no cause torepent it. "

Martine, who was serving the mutton, stopped short in surprise; andthe proposition caused the same surprise at the table. Felicite was thefirst to approve, feeling that the girl's departure would further herplans. She looked at Clotilde, who was still silent and stunned, as itwere; while Dr. Pascal waited with a pale face. 

"Oh, brother, brother, " stammered the young girl, unable at first tothink of anything else to say. 

Then her grandmother cried:

"Is that all you have to say? Why, the proposition your brother has justmade you is a very advantageous one. If he is afraid of taking Charlesnow, why, you can go with him, and later on you can send for the child. Come, come, that can be very well arranged. Your brother makes an appealto your heart. Is it not true, Pascal, that she owes him a favorableanswer?"

The doctor, by an effort, recovered his self-possession. The chill thathad seized him made itself felt, however, in the slowness with which hespoke. 

"The offer, in effect, is very kind. Clotilde, as I said before, is verysensible and she will accept it, if it is right that she should do so. "

The young girl, greatly agitated, rebelled at this. 

"Do you wish to send me away, then, master? Maxime is very good, and Ithank him from the bottom of my heart. But to leave everything, my God!To leave all that love me, all that I have loved until now!"

She made a despairing gesture, indicating the place and the people, taking in all La Souleiade. 

"But, " responded Pascal, looking at her fixedly, "what if Maxime shouldneed you, what if you had a duty to fulfil toward him?"

Her eyes grew moist, and she remained for a moment trembling anddesperate; for she alone understood. The cruel vision again arose beforeher--Maxime, helpless, driven, about in a little carriage by a servant, like the neighbor whom she used to pity. Had she indeed any duty towarda brother who for fifteen years had been a stranger to her? Did nother duty lie where her heart was? Nevertheless, her distress of mindcontinued; she still suffered in the struggle. 

"Listen, Maxime, " she said at last, "give me also time to reflect. Iwill see. Be assured that I am very grateful to you. And if you shouldone day really have need of me, well, I should no doubt decide to go. "

This was all they could make her promise. Felicite, with her usualvehemence, exhausted all her efforts in vain, while the doctor nowaffected to say that she had given her word. Martine brought a cream, without thinking of hiding her joy. To take away mademoiselle! what anidea, in order that monsieur might die of grief at finding himself allalone. And the dinner was delayed, too, by this unexpected incident. They were still at the dessert when half-past eight struck. 

Then Maxime grew restless, tapped the floor with his foot, and declaredthat he must go. 

At the station, whither they all accompanied him he kissed his sister alast time, saying:

"Remember!"

"Don't be afraid, " declared Felicite, "we are here to remind her of herpromise. "

The doctor smiled, and all three, as soon as the train was in motion, waved their handkerchiefs. 

On this day, after accompanying the grandmother to her door, Dr. Pascaland Clotilde returned peacefully to La Souleiade, and spent a delightfulevening there. The constraint of the past few weeks, the secretantagonism which had separated them, seemed to have vanished. Never hadit seemed so sweet to them to feel so united, inseparable. Doubtless itwas only this first pang of uneasiness suffered by their affection, thisthreatened separation, the postponement of which delighted them. It wasfor them like a return to health after an illness, a new hope of life. They remained for long time in the warm night, under the plane trees, listening to the crystal murmur of the fountain. And they did not evenspeak, so profoundly did they enjoy the happiness of being together. 

IV. 

Ten days later the household had fallen back into its former state ofunhappiness. Pascal and Clotilde remained entire afternoons withoutexchanging a word; and there were continual outbursts of ill-humor. EvenMartine was constantly out of temper. The home of these three had againbecome a hell. 

Then suddenly the condition of affairs was still further aggravated. ACapuchin monk of great sanctity, such as often pass through the townsof the South, came to Plassans to conduct a mission. The pulpit ofSt. Saturnin resounded with his bursts of eloquence. He was a sort ofapostle, a popular and fiery orator, a florid speaker, much given to theuse of metaphors. And he preached on the nothingness of modern sciencewith an extraordinary mystical exaltation, denying the reality of thisworld, and disclosing the unknown, the mysteries of the Beyond. All thedevout women of the town were full of excitement about his preaching. 

On the very first evening on which Clotilde, accompanied by Martine, attended the sermon, Pascal noticed her feverish excitement whenshe returned. On the following day her excitement increased, and shereturned home later, having remained to pray for an hour in a darkcorner of a chapel. From this time she was never absent from theservices, returning languid, and with the luminous eyes of a seer; andthe Capuchin's burning words haunted her; certain of his images stirredher to ecstasy. She grew irritable, and she seemed to have conceived afeeling of anger and contempt for every one and everything around her. 

Pascal, filled with uneasiness, determined to have an explanationwith Martine. He came down early one morning as she was sweeping thedining-room. 

"You know that I leave you and Clotilde free to go to church, ifthat pleases you, " he said. "I do not believe in oppressing any one'sconscience. But I do not wish that you should make her sick. "

The servant, without stopping in her work, said in a low voice:

"Perhaps the sick people are those who don't think that they are sick. "

She said this with such an air of conviction that he smiled. 

"Yes, " he returned; "I am the sick soul whose conversion you pray for;while both of you are in possession of health and of perfect wisdom. Martine, if you continue to torment me and to torment yourselves, as youare doing, I shall grow angry. "

He spoke in so furious and so harsh a voice that the servant stoppedsuddenly in her sweeping, and looked him full in the face. An infinitetenderness, an immense desolation passed over the face of the old maidcloistered in his service. And tears filled her eyes and she hurried outof the room stammering:

"Ah, monsieur, you do not love us. "

Then Pascal, filled with an overwhelming sadness, gave up the contest. His remorse increased for having shown so much tolerance, for not havingexercised his authority as master, in directing Clotilde's educationand bringing up. In his belief that trees grew straight if they werenot interfered with, he had allowed her to grow up in her own way, afterteaching her merely to read and write. It was without any preconceivedplan, while aiding him in making his researches and correcting hismanuscripts, and simply by the force of circumstances, that she hadread everything and acquired a fondness for the natural sciences. Howbitterly he now regretted his indifference! What a powerful impulse hemight have given to this clear mind, so eager for knowledge, insteadof allowing it to go astray, and waste itself in that desire for theBeyond, which Grandmother Felicite and the good Martine favored. Whilehe had occupied himself with facts, endeavoring to keep from goingbeyond the phenomenon, and succeeding in doing so, through hisscientific discipline, he had seen her give all her thoughts to theunknown, the mysterious. It was with her an obsession, an instinctivecuriosity which amounted to torture when she could not satisfy it. Therewas in her a longing which nothing could appease, an irresistible calltoward the unattainable, the unknowable. Even when she was a child, andstill more, later, when she grew up, she went straight to the why andthe how of things, she demanded ultimate causes. If he showed her aflower, she asked why this flower produced a seed, why this seed wouldgerminate. Then, it would be the mystery of birth and death, and theunknown forces, and God, and all things. In half a dozen questions shewould drive him into a corner, obliging him each time to acknowledge hisfatal ignorance; and when he no longer knew what to answer her, when hewould get rid of her with a gesture of comic fury, she would give a gaylaugh of triumph, and go to lose herself again in her dreams, inthe limitless vision of all that we do not know, and all that wemay believe. Often she astounded him by her explanations. Her mind, nourished on science, started from proved truths, but with such animpetus that she bounded at once straight into the heaven of thelegends. All sorts of mediators passed there, angels and saints andsupernatural inspirations, modifying matter, endowing it with life; or, again, it was only one single force, the soul of the world, working tofuse things and beings in a final kiss of love in fifty centuries more. She had calculated the number of them, she said. 

For the rest, Pascal had never before seen her so excited. For thepast week, during which she had attended the Capuchin's mission in thecathedral, she had spent the days visibly in the expectation of thesermon of the evening; and she went to hear it with the rapt exaltationof a girl who is going to her first rendezvous of love. Then, on thefollowing day, everything about her declared her detachment from theexterior life, from her accustomed existence, as if the visible world, the necessary actions of every moment, were but a snare and a folly. She retired within herself in the vision of what was not. Thus she hadalmost completely given up her habitual occupations, abandoning herselfto a sort of unconquerable indolence, remaining for hours at a timewith her hands in her lap, her gaze lost in vacancy, rapt in thecontemplation of some far-off vision. Now she, who had been so active, so early a riser, rose late, appearing barely in time for the secondbreakfast, and it could not have been at her toilet that she spent theselong hours, for she forgot her feminine coquetry, and would come downwith her hair scarcely combed, negligently attired in a gown buttonedawry, but even thus adorable, thanks to her triumphant youth. Themorning walks through La Souleiade that she had been so fond of, theraces from the top to the bottom of the terraces planted with olive andalmond trees, the visits to the pine grove balmy with the odor of resin, the long sun baths in the hot threshing yard, she indulged in no more;she preferred to remain shut up in her darkened room, from which not amovement was to be heard. Then, in the afternoon, in the work room, shewould drag herself about languidly from chair to chair, doing nothing, tired and disgusted with everything that had formerly interested her. 

Pascal was obliged to renounce her assistance; a paper which he gaveher to copy remained three days untouched on her desk. She no longerclassified anything; she would not have stooped down to pick up a paperfrom the floor. More than all, she abandoned the pastels, copies offlowers from nature that she had been making, to serve as plates to awork on artificial fecundations. Some large red mallows, of a new andsingular coloring, faded in their vase before she had finished copyingthem. And yet for a whole afternoon she worked enthusiastically ata fantastic design of dream flowers, an extraordinary efflorescenceblooming in the light of a miraculous sun, a burst of goldenspike-shaped rays in the center of large purple corollas, resemblingopen hearts, whence shot, for pistils, a shower of stars, myriads ofworlds streaming into the sky, like a milky way. 

"Ah, my poor girl, " said the doctor to her on this day, "how can youlose your time in such conceits! And I waiting for the copy of thosemallows that you have left to die there. And you will make yourself ill. There is no health, nor beauty, even, possible outside reality. "

Often now she did not answer, intrenching herself behind her fierceconvictions, not wishing to dispute. But doubtless he had this timetouched her beliefs to the quick. 

"There is no reality, " she answered sharply. 

The doctor, amused by this bold philosophy from this big child, laughed. 

"Yes, I know, " he said; "our senses are fallible. We know this worldonly through our senses, consequently it is possible that the worlddoes not exist. Let us open the door to madness, then; let us acceptas possible the most absurd chimeras, let us live in the realm ofnightmare, outside of laws and facts. For do you not see that there isno longer any law if you suppress nature, and that the only thing thatgives life any interest is to believe in life, to love it, and to putall the forces of our intelligence to the better understanding of it?"

She made a gesture of mingled indifference and bravado, and theconversation dropped. Now she was laying large strokes of blue crayonon the pastel, bringing out its flaming splendor in strong relief on thebackground of a clear summer night. 

But two days later, in consequence of a fresh discussion, matters wentstill further amiss. In the evening, on leaving the table, Pascal wentup to the study to write, while she remained out of doors, sitting onthe terrace. Hours passed by, and he was surprised and uneasy, whenmidnight struck, that he had not yet heard her return to her room. Shewould have had to pass through the study, and he was very certain thatshe had not passed unnoticed by him. Going downstairs, he found thatMartine was asleep; the vestibule door was not locked, and Clotildemust have remained outside, oblivious of the flight of time. This oftenhappened to her on these warm nights, but she had never before remainedout so late. 

The doctor's uneasiness increased when he perceived on the terrace thechair, now vacant, in which the young girl had been sitting. He hadexpected to find her asleep in it. Since she was not there, why had shenot come in. Where could she have gone at such an hour? The night wasbeautiful: a September night, still warm, with a wide sky whose dark, velvety expanse was studded with stars; and from the depths of thismoonless sky the stars shone so large and bright that they lighted theearth with a pale, mysterious radiance. He leaned over the balustrade ofthe terrace, and examined the slope and the stone steps which led downto the railroad; but there was not a movement. He saw nothing but theround motionless tops of the little olive trees. The idea then occurredto him that she must certainly be under the plane trees beside thefountain, whose murmuring waters made perpetual coolness around. Hehurried there, and found himself enveloped in such thick darkness thathe, who knew every tree, was obliged to walk with outstretched handsto avoid stumbling. Then he groped his way through the dark pine grove, still without meeting any one. And at last he called in a muffled voice:

"Clotilde! Clotilde!"

The darkness remained silent and impenetrable. 

"Clotilde! Clotilde!" he cried again, in a louder voice. Not a sound, not a breath. The very echoes seemed asleep. His cry was drowned in theinfinitely soft lake of blue shadows. And then he called her with allthe force of his lungs. He returned to the plane trees. He went back tothe pine grove, beside himself with fright, scouring the entire domain. Then, suddenly, he found himself in the threshing yard. 

At this cool and tranquil hour, the immense yard, the vast circularpaved court, slept too. It was so many years since grain had beenthreshed here that grass had sprung up among the stones, quicklyscorched a russet brown by the sun, resembling the long threads ofa woolen carpet. And, under the tufts of this feeble vegetation, theancient pavement did not cool during the whole summer, smoking fromsunset, exhaling in the night the heat stored up from so many sultrynoons. 

The yard stretched around, bare and deserted, in the cooling atmosphere, under the infinite calm of the sky, and Pascal was crossing it to hurryto the orchard, when he almost fell over a form that he had notbefore observed, extended at full length upon the ground. He uttered afrightened cry. 

"What! Are you here?"

Clotilde did not deign even to answer. She was lying on her back, herhands clasped under the back of her neck, her face turned toward thesky; and in her pale countenance, only her large shining eyes werevisible. 

"And here I have been tormenting myself and calling you for an hourpast! Did you not hear me shouting?"

She at last unclosed her lips. 

"Yes. "

"Then that is very senseless! Why did you not answer me?"

But she fell back into her former silence, refusing all explanation, andwith a stubborn brow kept her gaze fixed steadily on the sky. 

"There, come in and go to bed, naughty child. You will tell meto-morrow. "

She did not stir, however; he begged her ten times over to go into thehouse, but she would not move. He ended by sitting down beside her onthe short grass, through which penetrated the warmth of the pavementbeneath. 

"But you cannot sleep out of doors. At least answer me. What are youdoing here?"

"I am looking. "

And from her large eyes, fixed and motionless, her gaze seemed to mountup among the stars. She seemed wholly absorbed in the contemplation ofthe pure starry depths of the summer sky. 

"Ah, master!" she continued, in a low monotone; "how narrow and limitedis all that you know compared to what there is surely up there. Yes, if I did not answer you it was because I was thinking of you, and I wasfilled with grief. You must not think me bad. "

In her voice there was a thrill of such tenderness that it moved himprofoundly. He stretched himself on the grass beside her, so that theirelbows touched, and they went on talking. 

"I greatly fear, my dear, that your griefs are not rational. It givesyou pain to think of me. Why so?"

"Oh, because of things that I should find it hard to explain to you; Iam not a _savante_. You have taught me much, however, and I have learnedmore myself, being with you. Besides, they are things that I feel. Perhaps I might try to tell them to you, as we are all alone here, andthe night is so beautiful. "

Her full heart overflowed, after hours of meditation, in the peacefulconfidence of the beautiful night. He did not speak, fearing to disturbher, but awaited her confidences in silence. 

"When I was a little girl and you used to talk to me about science, itseemed to me that you were speaking to me of God, your words burned sowith faith and hope. Nothing seemed impossible to you. With science youwere going to penetrate the secret of the world, and make the perfecthappiness of humanity a reality. According to you, we were progressingwith giant strides. Each day brought its discovery, its certainty. Ten, fifty, a hundred years more, perhaps, and the heavens would open and weshould see truth face to face. Well, the years pass, and nothing opens, and truth recedes. "

"You are an impatient girl, " he answered simply. "If ten centuries morebe necessary we must only wait for them to pass. "

"It is true. I cannot wait. I need to know; I need to be happy at once, and to know everything at once, and to be perfectly and forever happy. Oh, that is what makes me suffer, not to be able to reach at a boundcomplete knowledge, not to be able to rest in perfect felicity, freedfrom scruples and doubts. Is it living to advance with tortoiselike pacein the darkness, not to be able to enjoy an hour's tranquillity, withouttrembling at the thought of the coming anguish? No, no! All knowledgeand all happiness in a single day? Science has promised them to us, andif she does not give them to us, then she fails in her engagements. "

Then he, too, began to grow heated. 

"But what you are saying is folly, little girl. Science is notrevelation. It marches at its human pace, its very effort is its glory. And then it is not true that science has promised happiness. "

She interrupted him hastily. 

"How, not true! Open your books up there, then. You know that I haveread them. Do they not overflow with promises? To read them one wouldthink we were marching on to the conquest of earth and heaven. Theydemolish everything, and they swear to replace everything--and thatby pure reason, with stability and wisdom. Doubtless I am like thechildren. When I am promised anything I wish that it shall be givenme at once. My imagination sets to work, and the object must be verybeautiful to satisfy me. But it would have been easy not to havepromised anything. And above all, at this hour, in view of my eager andpainful longing, it would be very ill done to tell me that nothing hasbeen promised me. "

He made a gesture, a simple gesture of protestation and impatience, inthe serene and silent night. 

"In any case, " she continued, "science has swept away all our pastbeliefs. The earth is bare, the heavens are empty, and what do you wishthat I should become, even if you acquit science of having inspired thehopes I have conceived? For I cannot live without belief and withouthappiness. On what solid ground shall I build my house when scienceshall have demolished the old world, and while she is waiting toconstruct the new? All the ancient city has fallen to pieces in thiscatastrophe of examination and analysis; and all that remains of it is amad population vainly seeking a shelter among its ruins, while anxiouslylooking for a solid and permanent refuge where they may begin lifeanew. You must not be surprised, then, at our discouragement and ourimpatience. We can wait no longer. Since tardy science has failed in herpromises, we prefer to fall back on the old beliefs, which for centurieshave sufficed for the happiness of the world. "

"Ah! that is just it, " he responded in a low voice; "we are just at theturning point, at the end of the century, fatigued and exhausted withthe appalling accumulation of knowledge which it has set moving. And itis the eternal need for falsehood, the eternal need for illusion whichdistracts humanity, and throws it back upon the delusive charm of theunknown. Since we can never know all, what is the use of trying to knowmore than we know already? Since the truth, when we have attained it, does not confer immediate and certain happiness, why not be satisfiedwith ignorance, the darkened cradle in which humanity slept the deepsleep of infancy? Yes, this is the aggressive return of the mysterious, it is the reaction against a century of experimental research. And thishad to be; desertions were to be expected, since every need could notbe satisfied at once. But this is only a halt; the onward march willcontinue, up there, beyond our view, in the illimitable fields ofspace. "

For a moment they remained silent, still motionless on their backs, their gaze lost among the myriads of worlds shining in the dark sky. Afalling star shot across the constellation of Cassiopeia, like a flamingarrow. And the luminous universe above turned slowly on its axis, insolemn splendor, while from the dark earth around them arose only afaint breath, like the soft, warm breath of a sleeping woman. 

"Tell me, " he said, in his good-natured voice, "did your Capuchin turnyour head this evening, then?"

"Yes, " she answered frankly; "he says from the pulpit things thatdisturb me. He preaches against everything you have taught me, and it isas if the knowledge which I owe to you, transformed into a poison, wereconsuming me. My God! What is going to become of me?"

"My poor child! It is terrible that you should torture yourself inthis way! And yet I had been quite tranquil about you, for you havea well-balanced mind--you have a good, little, round, clear, solidheadpiece, as I have often told you. You will soon calm down. But whatconfusion in the brains of others, at the end of the century, if you, who are so sane, are troubled! Have you not faith, then?"

She answered only by a heavy sigh. 

"Assuredly, viewed from the standpoint of happiness, faith is a strongstaff for the traveler to lean upon, and the march becomes easy andtranquil when one is fortunate enough to possess it. "

"Oh, I no longer know whether I believe or not!" she cried. "There aredays when I believe, and there are other days when I side with you andwith your books. It is you who have disturbed me; it is through you Isuffer. And perhaps all my suffering springs from this, from my revoltagainst you whom I love. No, no! tell me nothing; do not tell me that Ishall soon calm down. At this moment that would only irritate me stillmore. I know well that you deny the supernatural. The mysterious for youis only the inexplicable. Even you concede that we shall never know all;and therefore you consider that the only interest life can have is thecontinual conquest over the unknown, the eternal effort to know more. Ah, I know too much already to believe. You have already succeeded buttoo well in shaking my faith, and there are times when it seems to methat this will kill me. "

He took her hand that lay on the still warm grass, and pressed it hard. 

"No, no; it is life that frightens you, little girl. And how right youare in saying that happiness consists in continual effort. For from thistime forward tranquil ignorance is impossible. There is no halt to belooked for, no tranquillity in renunciation and wilful blindness. We must go on, go on in any case with life, which goes on always. Everything that is proposed, a return to the past, to dead religions, patched up religions arranged to suit new wants, is a snare. Learn toknow life, then; to love it, live it as it ought to be lived--that isthe only wisdom. "

But she shook off his hand angrily. And her voice trembled withvexation. 

"Life is horrible. How do you wish me to live it tranquil and happy?It is a terrible light that your science throws upon the world. Youranalysis opens up all the wounds of humanity to display their horror. You tell everything; you speak too plainly; you leave us nothing butdisgust for people and for things, without any possible consolation. "

He interrupted her with a cry of ardent conviction. 

"We tell everything. Ah, yes; in order to know everything and to remedyeverything!"

Her anger rose, and she sat erect. 

"If even equality and justice existed in your nature--but youacknowledge it yourself, life is for the strongest, the weak infalliblyperishes because he is weak--there are no two beings equal, either inhealth, in beauty, or intelligence; everything is left to haphazardmeeting, to the chance of selection. And everything falls into ruin, when grand and sacred justice ceases to exist. "

"It is true, " he said, in an undertone, as if speaking to himself, "there is no such thing as equality. No society based upon it couldcontinue to exist. For centuries, men thought to remedy evil bycharacter. But that idea is being exploded, and now they proposejustice. Is nature just? I think her logical, rather. Logic is perhapsa natural and higher justice, going straight to the sum of the commonlabor, to the grand final labor. "

"Then it is justice, " she cried, "that crushes the individual for thehappiness of the race, that destroys an enfeebled species to fattenthe victorious species. No, no; that is crime. There is in that onlyfoulness and murder. He was right this evening in the church. The earthis corrupt, science only serves to show its rottenness. It is on highthat we must all seek a refuge. Oh, master, I entreat you, let me savemyself, let me save you!"

She burst into tears, and the sound of her sobs rose despairingly onthe stillness of the night. He tried in vain to soothe her, her voicedominated his. 

"Listen to me, master. You know that I love you, for you are everythingto me. And it is you who are the cause of all my suffering. I canscarcely endure it when I think that we are not in accord, that weshould be separated forever if we were both to die to-morrow. Why willyou not believe?"

He still tried to reason with her. 

"Come, don't be foolish, my dear--"

But she threw herself on her knees, she seized him by the hands, sheclung to him with a feverish force. And she sobbed louder and louder, insuch a clamor of despair that the dark fields afar off were startled byit. 

"Listen to me, he said it in the church. You must change your life anddo penance; you must burn everything belonging to your past errors--yourbooks, your papers, your manuscripts. Make this sacrifice, master, Ientreat it of you on my knees. And you will see the delightful existencewe shall lead together. "

At last he rebelled. 

"No, this is too much. Be silent!"

"If you listen to me, master, you will do what I wish. I assure youthat I am horribly unhappy, even in loving you as I love you. Thereis something wanting in our affection. So far it has been profound butunavailing, and I have an irresistible longing to fill it, oh, with allthat is divine and eternal. What can be wanting to us but God? Kneeldown and pray with me!"

With an abrupt movement he released himself, angry in his turn. 

"Be silent; you are talking nonsense. I have left you free, leave mefree. "

"Master, master! it is our happiness that I desire! I will take you far, far away. We will go to some solitude to live there in God!"

"Be silent! No, never!"

Then they remained for a moment confronting each other, mute andmenacing. Around them stretched La Souleiade in the deep silence of thenight, with the light shadows of its olive trees, the darkness of itspine and plane trees, in which the saddened voice of the fountain wassinging, and above their heads it seemed as if the spacious sky, studdedwith stars, shuddered and grew pale, although the dawn was still faroff. 

Clotilde raised her arm as if to point to this infinite, shuddering sky;but with a quick gesture Pascal seized her hand and drew it down towardthe earth in his. And no word further was spoken; they were besidethemselves with rage and hate. The quarrel was fierce and bitter. 

She drew her hand away abruptly, and sprang backward, like some proud, untamable animal, rearing; then she rushed quickly through the darknesstoward the house. He heard the patter of her little boots on the stonesof the yard, deadened afterward by the sand of the walk. He, on hisside, already grieved and uneasy, called her back in urgent tones. Butshe ran on without answering, without hearing. Alarmed, and with a heavyheart, he hurried after her, and rounded the clump of plane trees justin time to see her rush into the house like a whirlwind. He darted inafter her, ran up the stairs, and struck against the door of her room, which she violently bolted. And here he stopped and grew calm, by astrong effort resisting the desire to cry out, to call her again, tobreak in the door so as to see her once more, to convince her, to haveher all to himself. For a moment he remained motionless, chilled by thedeathlike silence of the room, from which not the faintest sound issued. Doubtless she had thrown herself on the bed, and was stifling her criesand her sobs in the pillow. He determined at last to go downstairsagain and close the hall door, and then he returned softly and listened, waiting for some sound of moaning. And day was breaking when he wentdisconsolately to bed, choking back his tears. 

Thenceforward it was war without mercy. Pascal felt himself spied upon, trapped, menaced. He was no longer master of his house; he had no longerany home. The enemy was always there, forcing him to be constantly onhis guard, to lock up everything. One after the other, two vials ofnerve-substance which he had compounded were found in fragments, and hewas obliged to barricade himself in his room, where he could be heardpounding for days together, without showing himself even at mealtime. He no longer took Clotilde with him on his visiting days, because shediscouraged his patients by her attitude of aggressive incredulity. Butfrom the moment he left the house, the doctor had only one desire--toreturn to it quickly, for he trembled lest he should find his locksforced, and his drawers rifled on his return. He no longer employedthe young girl to classify and copy his notes, for several of them haddisappeared, as if they had been carried away by the wind. He did noteven venture to employ her to correct his proofs, having ascertainedthat she had cut out of an article an entire passage, the sentiment ofwhich offended her Catholic belief. And thus she remained idle, prowlingabout the rooms, and having an abundance of time to watch for anoccasion which would put in her possession the key of the large press. This was her dream, the plan which she revolved in her mind during herlong silence, while her eyes shone and her hands burned with fever--tohave the key, to open the press, to take and burn everything in an_auto da fe_ which would be pleasing to God. A few pages of manuscript, forgotten by him on a corner of the table, while he went to wash hishands and put on his coat, had disappeared, leaving behind only a littleheap of ashes in the fireplace. He could no longer leave a scrap ofpaper about. He carried away everything; he hid everything. One evening, when he had remained late with a patient, as he was returning home inthe dusk a wild terror seized him at the faubourg, at sight of a thickblack smoke rising up in clouds that darkened the heavens. Was it notLa Souleiade that was burning down, set on fire by the bonfire made withhis papers? He ran toward the house, and was reassured only on seeing ina neighboring field a fire of roots burning slowly. 

But how terrible are the tortures of the scientist who feels himselfmenaced in this way in the labors of his intellect! The discoverieswhich he has made, the writings which he has counted upon leavingbehind him, these are his pride, they are creatures of his blood--hischildren--and whoever destroys, whoever burns them, burns a part ofhimself. Especially, in this perpetual lying in wait for the creaturesof his brain, was Pascal tortured by the thought that the enemy was inhis house, installed in his very heart, and that he loved her in spiteof everything, this creature whom he had made what she was. He was leftdisarmed, without possible defense; not wishing to act, and havingno other resources than to watch with vigilance. On all sides theinvestment was closing around him. He fancied he felt the littlepilfering hands stealing into his pockets. He had no longer anytranquillity, even with the doors closed, for he feared that he wasbeing robbed through the crevices. 

"But, unhappy child, " he cried one day, "I love but you in the world, and you are killing me! And yet you love me, too; you act in this waybecause you love me, and it is abominable. It would be better to havedone with it all at once, and throw ourselves into the river with astone tied around our necks. "

She did not answer, but her dauntless eyes said ardently that she wouldwillingly die on the instant, if it were with him. 

"And if I should suddenly die to-night, what would happen to-morrow?You would empty the press, you would empty the drawers, you would makea great heap of all my works and burn them! You would, would you not?Do you know that that would be a real murder, as much as if youassassinated some one? And what abominable cowardice, to kill thethoughts!"

"No, " she said at last, in a low voice; "to kill evil, to prevent itfrom spreading and springing up again!"

All their explanations only served to kindle anew their anger. And theyhad terrible ones. And one evening, when old Mme. Rougon had chanced inon one of these quarrels, she remained alone with Pascal, after Clotildehad fled to hide herself in her room. There was silence for a moment. Inspite of the heartbroken air which she had assumed, a wicked joy shonein the depths of her sparkling eyes. 

"But your unhappy house is a hell!" she cried at last. 

The doctor avoided an answer by a gesture. He had always felt that hismother backed the young girl, inflaming her religious faith, utilizingthis ferment of revolt to bring trouble into his house. He was notdeceived. He knew perfectly well that the two women had seen eachother during the day, and that he owed to this meeting, to a skilfulembittering of Clotilde's mind, the frightful scene at which he stilltrembled. Doubtless his mother had come to learn what mischief had beenwrought, and to see if the _denouement_ was not at last at hand. 

"Things cannot go on in this way, " she resumed. "Why do you not separatesince you can no longer agree. You ought to send her to her brotherMaxime. He wrote to me not long since asking her again. "

He straightened himself, pale and determined. 

"To part angry with each other? Ah, no, no! that would be an eternalremorse, an incurable wound. If she must one day go away, I wish that wemay be able to love each other at a distance. But why go away? Neitherof us complains of the other. "

Felicite felt that she had been too hasty. Therefore she assumed herhypocritical, conciliating air. 

"Of course, if it pleases you both to quarrel, no one has anything tosay in the matter. Only, my poor friend, permit me, in that case, to saythat I think Clotilde is not altogether in the wrong. You force me toconfess that I saw her a little while ago; yes, it is better that youshould know, notwithstanding my promise to be silent. Well, she is nothappy; she makes a great many complaints, and you may imagine that Iscolded her and preached complete submission to her. But that does notprevent me from being unable to understand you myself, and from thinkingthat you do everything you can to make yourself unhappy. "

She sat down in a corner of the room, and obliged him to sit down withher, seeming delighted to have him here alone, at her mercy. She hadalready, more than once before, tried to force him to an explanation inthis way, but he had always avoided it. Although she had torturedhim for years past, and he knew her thoroughly, he yet remaineda deferential son, he had sworn never to abandon this stubbornlyrespectful attitude. Thus, the moment she touched certain subjects, hetook refuge in absolute silence. 

"Come, " she continued; "I can understand that you should not wish toyield to Clotilde; but to me? How if I were to entreat you to make methe sacrifice of all those abominable papers which are there in thepress! Consider for an instant if you should die suddenly, and thosepapers should fall into strange hands. We should all be disgraced. Youwould not wish that, would you? What is your object, then? Why do youpersist in so dangerous a game? Promise me that you will burn them. "

He remained silent for a time, but at last he answered:

"Mother, I have already begged of you never to speak on that subject. Icannot do what you ask. "

"But at least, " she cried, "give me a reason. Any one would think ourfamily was as indifferent to you as that drove of oxen passing belowthere. Yet you belong to it. Oh, I know you do all you can not to belongto it! I myself am sometimes astonished at you. I ask myself where youcan have come from. But for all that, it is very wicked of you to runthis risk, without stopping to think of the grief you are causing to me, your mother. It is simply wicked. "

He grew still paler, and yielding for an instant to his desire to defendhimself, in spite of his determination to keep silent, he said:

"You are hard; you are wrong. I have always believed in the necessity, the absolute efficacy of truth. It is true that I tell the truth aboutothers and about myself, and it is because I believe firmly that intelling the truth I do the only good possible. In the first place, thosepapers are not intended for the public; they are only personal noteswhich it would be painful to me to part with. And then, I know well thatyou would not burn only them--all my other works would also be throwninto the fire. Would they not? And that is what I do not wish; do youunderstand? Never, while I live, shall a line of my writing be destroyedhere. "

But he already regretted having said so much, for he saw that she wasurging him, leading him on to the cruel explanation she desired. 

"Then finish, and tell me what it is that you reproach us with. Yes, me, for instance; what do you reproach me with? Not with having brought youup with so much difficulty. Ah, fortune was slow to win! If we enjoya little happiness now, we have earned it hard. Since you have seeneverything, and since you put down everything in your papers, you cantestify with truth that the family has rendered greater services toothers than it has ever received. On two occasions, but for us, Plassanswould have been in a fine pickle. And it is perfectly natural that weshould have reaped only ingratitude and envy, to the extent that evento-day the whole town would be enchanted with a scandal that shouldbespatter us with mud. You cannot wish that, and I am sure that you willdo justice to the dignity of my attitude since the fall of the Empire, and the misfortunes from which France will no doubt never recover. "

"Let France rest, mother, " he said, speaking again, for she had touchedthe spot where she knew he was most sensitive. "France is tenacious oflife, and I think she is going to astonish the world by the rapidity ofher convalescence. True, she has many elements of corruption. I have notsought to hide them, I have rather, perhaps, exposed them to view. Butyou greatly misunderstand me if you imagine that I believe in her finaldissolution, because I point out her wounds and her lesions. I believein the life which ceaselessly eliminates hurtful substances, which makesnew flesh to fill the holes eaten away by gangrene, which infalliblyadvances toward health, toward constant renovation, amid impurities anddeath. "

He was growing excited, and he was conscious of it, and making an angrygesture, he spoke no more. His mother had recourse to tears, a fewlittle tears which came with difficulty, and which were quickly dried. And the fears which saddened her old age returned to her, and sheentreated him to make his peace with God, if only out of regard for thefamily. Had she not given an example of courage ever since the downfallof the Empire? Did not all Plassans, the quarter of St. Marc, theold quarter and the new town, render homage to the noble attitude shemaintained in her fall? All she asked was to be helped; she demandedfrom all her children an effort like her own. Thus she cited the exampleof Eugene, the great man who had fallen from so lofty a height, and whoresigned himself to being a simple deputy, defending until his latestbreath the fallen government from which he had derived his glory. Shewas also full of eulogies of Aristide, who had never lost hope, who hadreconquered, under the new government, an exalted position, in spite ofthe terrible and unjust catastrophe which had for a moment buried himunder the ruins of the Union Universelle. And would he, Pascal, holdhimself aloof, would he do nothing that she might die in peace, in thejoy of the final triumph of the Rougons, he who was so intelligent, soaffectionate, so good? He would go to mass, would he not, next Sunday?and he would burn all those vile papers, only to think of which madeher ill. She entreated, commanded, threatened. But he no longer answeredher, calm and invincible in his attitude of perfect deference. He wishedto have no discussion. He knew her too well either to hope to convinceher or to venture to discuss the past with her. 

"Why!" she cried, when she saw that he was not to be moved, "you do notbelong to us. I have always said so. You are a disgrace to us. "

He bent his head and said:

"Mother, when you reflect you will forgive me. "

On this day Felicite was beside herself with rage when she went away;and when she met Martine at the door of the house, in front of the planetrees, she unburdened her mind to her, without knowing that Pascal, whohad just gone into his room, heard all. She gave vent to her resentment, vowing, in spite of everything, that she would in the end succeed inobtaining possession of the papers and destroying them, since he didnot wish to make the sacrifice. But what turned the doctor cold wasthe manner in which Martine, in a subdued voice, soothed her. She wasevidently her accomplice. She repeated that it was necessary to wait;not to do anything hastily; that mademoiselle and she had taken a vow toget the better of monsieur, by not leaving him an hour's peace. They hadsworn it. They would reconcile him with the good God, because it wasnot possible that an upright man like monsieur should remain withoutreligion. And the voices of the two women became lower and lower, untilthey finally sank to a whisper, an indistinct murmur of gossiping andplotting, of which he caught only a word here and there; orders given, measures to be taken, an invasion of his personal liberty. When hismother at last departed, with her light step and slender, youthfulfigure, he saw that she went away very well satisfied. 

Then came a moment of weakness, of utter despair. Pascal dropped into achair, and asked himself what was the use of struggling, since the onlybeings he loved allied themselves against him. Martine, who would havethrown herself into the fire at a word from him, betraying him in thisway for his good! And Clotilde leagued with this servant, plotting withher against him in holes and corners, seeking her aid to set traps forhim! Now he was indeed alone; he had around him only traitresses, whopoisoned the very air he breathed. But these two still loved him. Hemight perhaps have succeeded in softening them, but when he knew thathis mother urged them on, he understood their fierce persistence, andhe gave up the hope of winning them back. With the timidity of a manwho had spent his life in study, aloof from women, notwithstandinghis secret passion, the thought that they were there to oppose him, toattempt to bend him to their will, overwhelmed him. He felt that someone of them was always behind him. Even when he shut himself up in hisroom, he fancied that they were on the other side of the wall; andhe was constantly haunted by the idea that they would rob him of histhought, if they could perceive it in his brain, before he should haveformulated it. 

This was assuredly the period in his life in which Dr. Pascal was mostunhappy. To live constantly on the defensive, as he was obliged to do, crushed him, and it seemed to him as if the ground on which his housestood was no longer his, as if it was receding from beneath his feet. He now regretted keenly that he had not married, and that he had nochildren. Had not he himself been afraid of life? And had he not beenwell punished for his selfishness? This regret for not having childrennow never left him. His eyes now filled with tears whenever he met onthe road bright-eyed little girls who smiled at him. True, Clotilde wasthere, but his affection for her was of a different kind--crossed atpresent by storms--not a calm, infinitely sweet affection, like that fora child with which he might have soothed his lacerated heart. And then, no doubt what he desired in his isolation, feeling that his days weredrawing to an end, was above all, continuance; in a child he wouldsurvive, he would live forever. The more he suffered, the greater theconsolation he would have found in bequeathing this suffering, in thefaith which he still had in life. He considered himself indemnifiedfor the physiological defects of his family. But even the thought thatheredity sometimes passes over a generation, and that the disorders ofhis ancestors might reappear in a child of his did not deter him; andthis unknown child, in spite of the old corrupt stock, in spite of thelong succession of execrable relations, he desired ardently at certaintimes: as one desires unexpected gain, rare happiness, the stroke offortune which is to console and enrich forever. In the shock which hisother affections had received, his heart bled because it was too late. 

One sultry night toward the end of September, Pascal found himselfunable to sleep. He opened one of the windows of his room; the skywas dark, some storm must be passing in the distance, for there was acontinuous rumbling of thunder. He could distinguish vaguely the darkmass of the plane trees, which occasional flashes of lightning detached, in a dull green, from the darkness. His soul was full of anguish; helived over again the last unhappy days, days of fresh quarrels, oftorture caused by acts of treachery, by suspicions, which grew strongerevery day, when a sudden recollection made him start. In his fear ofbeing robbed, he had finally adopted the plan of carrying the key of thelarge press in his pocket. But this afternoon, oppressed by the heat, hehad taken off his jacket, and he remembered having seen Clotilde hangit up on a nail in the study. A sudden pang of terror shot through him, sharp and cold as a steel point; if she had felt the key in the pocketshe had stolen it. He hastened to search the jacket which he had alittle before thrown upon a chair; the key was not here. At this verymoment he was being robbed; he had the clear conviction of it. Twoo'clock struck. He did not again dress himself, but, remaining in histrousers only, with his bare feet thrust into slippers, his chest bareunder his unfastened nightshirt, he hastily pushed open the door, andrushed into the workroom, his candle in his hand. 

"Ah! I knew it, " he cried. "Thief! Assassin!"

It was true; Clotilde was there, undressed like himself, her bare feetcovered by canvas slippers, her legs bare, her arms bare, her shouldersbare, clad only in her chemise and a short skirt. Through caution, shehad not brought a candle. She had contented herself with opening one ofthe window shutters, and the continual lightning flashes of the stormwhich was passing southward in the dark sky, sufficed her, bathingeverything in a livid phosphorescence. The old press, with its broadsides, was wide open. Already she had emptied the top shelf, taking downthe papers in armfuls, and throwing them on the long table in the middleof the room, where they lay in a confused heap. And with feverish haste, fearing lest she should not have the time to burn them, she was makingthem up into bundles, intending to hide them, and send them afterwardto her grandmother, when the sudden flare of the candle, lighting upthe room, caused her to stop short in an attitude of surprise andresistance. 

"You rob me; you assassinate me!" repeated Pascal furiously. 

She still held one of the bundles in her bare arms. He wished to takeit away from her, but she pressed it to her with all her strength, obstinately resolved upon her work of destruction, without showingconfusion or repentance, like a combatant who has right upon his side. Then, madly, blindly, he threw himself upon her, and they struggledtogether. He clutched her bare flesh so that he hurt her. 

"Kill me!" she gasped. "Kill me, or I shall destroy everything!"

He held her close to him, with so rough a grasp that she could scarcelybreathe, crying:

"When a child steals, it is punished!"

A few drops of blood appeared and trickled down her rounded shoulder, where an abrasion had cut the delicate satin skin. And, on the instant, seeing her so breathless, so divine, in her virginal slender height, with her tapering limbs, her supple arms, her slim body with itsslender, firm throat, he released her. By a last effort he tore thepackage from her. 

"And you shall help me to put them all up there again, by Heaven! Comehere: begin by arranging them on the table. Obey me, do you hear?"

"Yes, master!"

She approached, and helped him to arrange the papers, subjugated, crushed by this masculine grasp, which had entered into her flesh, as itwere. The candle which flared up in the heavy night air, lighted them;and the distant rolling of the thunder still continued, the windowfacing the storm seeming on fire. 

V. 

For an instant Pascal looked at the papers, the heap of which seemedenormous, lying thus in disorder on the long table that stood in themiddle of the room. In the confusion several of the blue paper envelopeshad burst open, and their contents had fallen out--letters, newspaperclippings, documents on stamped paper, and manuscript notes. 

He was already mechanically beginning to seek out the names written onthe envelopes in large characters, to classify the packages again, when, with an abrupt gesture, he emerged from the somber meditation into whichhe had fallen. And turning to Clotilde who stood waiting, pale, silent, and erect, he said:

"Listen to me; I have always forbidden you to read these papers, and Iknow that you have obeyed me. Yes, I had scruples of delicacy. It is notthat you are an ignorant girl, like so many others, for I have allowedyou to learn everything concerning man and woman, which is assuredly badonly for bad natures. But to what end disclose to you too early theseterrible truths of human life? I have therefore spared you the historyof our family, which is the history of every family, of all humanity; agreat deal of evil and a great deal of good. "

He paused as if to confirm himself in his resolution and then resumedquite calmly and with supreme energy:

"You are twenty-five years old; you ought to know. And then the life weare leading is no longer possible. You live and you make me live in aconstant nightmare, with your ecstatic dreams. I prefer to show you thereality, however execrable it may be. Perhaps the blow which it willinflict upon you will make of you the woman you ought to be. We willclassify these papers again together, and read them, and learn from thema terrible lesson of life!"

Then, as she still continued motionless, he resumed:

"Come, we must be able to see well. Light those other two candlesthere. "

He was seized by a desire for light, a flood of light; he would havedesired the blinding light of the sun; and thinking that the light ofthe three candles was not sufficient, he went into his room for a pairof three-branched candelabra which were there. The nine candles wereblazing, yet neither of them, in their disorder--he with his chestbare, she with her left shoulder stained with blood, her throat and armsbare--saw the other. It was past two o'clock, but neither of them hadany consciousness of the hour; they were going to spend the night inthis eager desire for knowledge, without feeling the need of sleep, outside time and space. The mutterings of the storm, which, through theopen window, they could see gathering, grew louder and louder. 

Clotilde had never before seen in Pascal's eyes the feverish light whichburned in them now. He had been overworking himself for some time past, and his mental sufferings made him at times abrupt, in spite of hisgood-natured complacency. But it seemed as if an infinite tenderness, trembling with fraternal pity, awoke within him, now that he was aboutto plunge into the painful truths of existence; and it was somethingemanating from himself, something very great and very good which was torender innocuous the terrible avalanche of facts which was impending. Hewas determined that he would reveal everything, since it was necessarythat he should do so in order to remedy everything. Was not this anunanswerable, a final argument for evolution, the story of these beingswho were so near to them? Such was life, and it must be lived. Doubtlessshe would emerge from it like the steel tempered by the fire, full oftolerance and courage. 

"They are setting you against me, " he resumed; "they are making youcommit abominable acts, and I wish to restore your conscience to you. When you know, you will judge and you will act. Come here, and read withme. "

She obeyed. But these papers, about which her grandmother had spoken soangrily, frightened her a little; while a curiosity that grew withevery moment awoke within her. And then, dominated though she was by thevirile authority which had just constrained and subjugated her, she didnot yet yield. But might she not listen to him, read with him? Did shenot retain the right to refuse or to give herself afterward? He spoke atlast. 

"Will you come?"

"Yes, master, I will. "

He showed her first the genealogical tree of the Rougon-Macquarts. Hedid not usually lock it in the press, but kept it in the desk in hisroom, from which he had taken it when he went there for the candelabra. For more than twenty years past he had kept it up to date, inscribingthe births, deaths, marriages, and other important events that had takenplace in the family, making brief notes in each case, in accordance withhis theory of heredity. 

It was a large sheet of paper, yellow with age, with folds cut by wear, on which was drawn boldly a symbolical tree, whose branches spread andsubdivided into five rows of broad leaves; and each leaf bore a name, and contained, in minute handwriting, a biography, a hereditary case. 

A scientist's joy took possession of the doctor at sight of this laborof twenty years, in which the laws of heredity established by him wereso clearly and so completely applied. 

"Look, child! You know enough about the matter, you have copied enoughof my notes to understand. Is it not beautiful? A document so complete, so conclusive, in which there is not a gap? It is like an experimentmade in the laboratory, a problem stated and solved on the blackboard. You see below, the trunk, the common stock, Aunt Dide; then the threebranches issuing from it, the legitimate branch, Pierre Rougon, and thetwo illegitimate branches, Ursule Macquart and Antoine Macquart; then, new branches arise, and ramify, on one side, Maxime, Clotilde, andVictor, the three children of Saccard, and Angelique, the daughter ofSidonie Rougon; on the other, Pauline, the daughter of Lisa Macquart, and Claude, Jacques, Etienne, and Anna, the four children of Gervaise, her sister; there, at the extremity, is Jean, their brother, and here inthe middle, you see what I call the knot, the legitimate issue and theillegitimate issue, uniting in Marthe Rougon and her cousin FrancoisMouret, to give rise to three new branches, Octave, Serge, and DesireeMouret; while there is also the issue of Ursule and the hatter Mouret;Silvere, whose tragic death you know; Helene and her daughter Jean;finally, at the top are the latest offshoots, our poor Charles, yourbrother Maxime's son, and two other children, who are dead, JacquesLouis, the son of Claude Lantier, and Louiset, the son of Anna Coupeau. In all five generations, a human tree which, for five springs already, five springtides of humanity, has sent forth shoots, at the impulse ofthe sap of eternal life. "

He became more and more animated, pointing out each case on the sheet ofold yellow paper, as if it were an anatomical chart. 

"And as I have already said, everything is here. You see in directheredity, the differentiations, that of the mother, Silvere, Lisa, Desiree, Jacques, Louiset, yourself; that of the father, Sidonie, Francois, Gervaise, Octave, Jacques, Louis. Then there are the threecases of crossing: by conjugation, Ursule, Aristide, Anna, Victor;by dissemination, Maxime, Serge, Etienne; by fusion, Antoine, Eugene, Claude. I even noted a fourth case, a very remarkable one, aneven cross, Pierre and Pauline; and varieties are established, thedifferentiation of the mother, for example, often accords with thephysical resemblance of the father; or, it is the contrary which takesplace, so that, in the crossing, the physical and mental predominanceremains with one parent or the other, according to circumstances. Thenhere is indirect heredity, that of the collateral branches. I have butone well established example of this, the striking personal resemblanceof Octave Mouret to his uncle Eugene Rougon. I have also but oneexample of transmission by influence, Anna, the daughter of Gervaise andCoupeau, who bore a striking resemblance, especially in her childhood, to Lantier, her mother's first lover. But what I am very rich in is inexamples of reversion to the original stock--the three finest cases, Marthe, Jeanne, and Charles, resembling Aunt Dide; the resemblancethus passing over one, two, and three generations. This is certainlyexceptional, for I scarcely believe in atavism; it seems to me thatthe new elements brought by the partners, accidents, and the infinitevariety of crossings must rapidly efface particular characteristics, soas to bring back the individual to the general type. And there remainsvariation--Helene, Jean, Angelique. This is the combination, thechemical mixture in which the physical and mental characteristics of theparents are blended, without any of their traits seeming to reappear inthe new being. "

There was silence for a moment. Clotilde had listened to him withprofound attention, wishing to understand. And he remained absorbed inthought, his eyes still fixed on the tree, in the desire to judge hiswork impartially. He then continued in a low tone, as if speaking tohimself:

"Yes, that is as scientific as possible. I have placed there only themembers of the family, and I had to give an equal part to the partners, to the fathers and mothers come from outside, whose blood has mingledwith ours, and therefore modified it. I had indeed made a mathematicallyexact tree, the father and the mother bequeathing themselves, by halves, to the child, from generation to generation, so that in Charles, forexample, Aunt Dide's part would have been only a twelfth--which wouldbe absurd, since the physical resemblance is there complete. I havetherefore thought it sufficient to indicate the elements come fromelsewhere, taking into account marriages and the new factor which eachintroduced. Ah! these sciences that are yet in their infancy, in whichhypothesis speaks stammeringly, and imagination rules, these are thedomain of the poet as much as of the scientist. Poets go as pioneersin the advance guard, and they often discover new countries, suggestingsolutions. There is there a borderland which belongs to them, betweenthe conquered, the definitive truth, and the unknown, whence thetruth of to-morrow will be torn. What an immense fresco there is to bepainted, what a stupendous human tragedy, what a comedy there is tobe written with heredity, which is the very genesis of families, ofsocieties, and of the world!"

His eyes fixed on vacancy, he remained for a time lost in thought. Then, with an abrupt movement, he came back to the envelopes and, pushing thetree aside, said:

"We will take it up again presently; for, in order that you mayunderstand now, it is necessary that events should pass in review beforeyou, and that you should see in action all these actors ticketed here, each one summed up in a brief note. I will call for the envelopes, youwill hand them to me one by one, and I will show you the papers in each, and tell you their contents, before putting it away again up there onthe shelf. I will not follow the alphabetical order, but the order ofevents themselves. I have long wished to make this classification. Come, look for the names on the envelopes; Aunt Dide first. "

At this moment the edge of the storm which lighted up the sky caught LaSouleiade slantingly, and burst over the house in a deluge of rain. But they did not even close the window. They heard neither the peals ofthunder nor the ceaseless beating of the rain upon the roof. She handedhim the envelope bearing the name of Aunt Dide in large characters; andhe took from it papers of all sorts, notes taken by him long ago, whichhe proceeded to read. 

"Hand me Pierre Rougon. Hand me Ursule Macquart. Hand me AntoineMacquart. "

Silently she obeyed him, her heart oppressed by a dreadful anguish atall she was hearing. And the envelopes were passed on, displayed theircontents, and were piled up again in the press. 

First was the foundress of the family, Adelaide Fouque, the tall, crazygirl, the first nervous lesion giving rise to the legitimate branch, Pierre Rougon, and to the two illegitimate branches, Ursule and AntoineMacquart, all that _bourgeois_ and sanguinary tragedy, with the _coupd'etat_ of December, 1854, for a background, the Rougons, Pierre andFelicite, preserving order at Plassans, bespattering with the blood ofSilvere their rising fortunes, while Adelaide, grown old, the miserableAunt Dide, was shut up in the Tulettes, like a specter of expiation andof waiting. 

Then like a pack of hounds, the appetites were let loose. The supremeappetite of power in Eugene Rougon, the great man, the disdainful geniusof the family, free from base interests, loving power for its own sake, conquering Paris in old boots with the adventurers of the comingEmpire, rising from the legislative body to the senate, passing from thepresidency of the council of state to the portfolio of minister; made byhis party, a hungry crowd of followers, who at the same time supportedand devoured him; conquered for an instant by a woman, the beautifulClorinde, with whom he had been imbecile enough to fall in love, buthaving so strong a will, and burning with so vehement a desire to rule, that he won back power by giving the lie to his whole life, marching tohis triumphal sovereignty of vice emperor. 

With Aristide Saccard, appetite ran to low pleasures, the whole hotquarry of money, luxury, women--a devouring hunger which left himhomeless, at the time when millions were changing hands, when thewhirlwind of wild speculation was blowing through the city, tearingdown everywhere to construct anew, when princely fortunes were made, squandered, and remade in six months; a greed of gold whose everincreasing fury carried him away, causing him, almost before the bodyof his wife Angele was cold in death, to sell his name, in order to havethe first indispensable thousand francs, by marrying Renee. And itwas Saccard, too, who, a few years later, put in motion the immensemoney-press of the Banque Universelle. Saccard, the never vanquished;Saccard, grown more powerful, risen to be the clever and daring grandfinancier, comprehending the fierce and civilizing role that moneyplays, fighting, winning, and losing battles on the Bourse, likeNapoleon at Austerlitz and Waterloo; engulfing in disaster a world ofmiserable people; sending forth into the unknown realms of crime hisnatural son Victor, who disappeared, fleeing through the dark night, while he himself, under the impassable protection of unjust nature, wasloved by the adorable Mme. Caroline, no doubt in recompense of all theevil he had done. 

Here a tall, spotless lily had bloomed in this compost, Sidonie Rougon, the sycophant of her brother, the go-between in a hundred suspiciousaffairs, giving birth to the pure and divine Angelique, the littleembroiderer with fairylike fingers who worked into the gold ofthe chasubles the dream of her Prince Charming, so happy among hercompanions the saints, so little made for the hard realities oflife, that she obtained the grace of dying of love, on the day of hermarriage, at the first kiss of Felicien de Hautecoeur, in the triumphantpeal of bells ringing for her splendid nuptials. 

The union of the two branches, the legitimate and the illegitimate, took place then, Marthe Rougon espousing her cousin Francois Mouret, a peaceful household slowly disunited, ending in the direstcatastrophes--a sad and gentle woman taken, made use of, and crushed inthe vast machine of war erected for the conquest of a city; her threechildren torn from her, she herself leaving her heart in the rude graspof the Abbe Faujas. And the Rougons saved Plassans a second time, whileshe was dying in the glare of the conflagration in which her husband wasbeing consumed, mad with long pent-up rage and the desire for revenge. 

Of the three children, Octave Mouret was the audacious conqueror, theclear intellect, resolved to demand from the women the sovereignty ofParis, fallen at his _debut_ into the midst of a corrupt _bourgeois_society, acquiring there a terrible sentimental education, passing fromthe capricious refusal of one woman to the unresisting abandonmentof another, remaining, fortunately, active, laborious, and combative, gradually emerging, and improved even, from the low plotting, theceaseless ferment of a rotten society that could be heard alreadycracking to its foundations. And Octave Mouret, victorious, revolutionized commerce; swallowed up the cautious little shops thatcarried on business in the old-fashioned way; established in the midstof feverish Paris the colossal palace of temptation, blazing withlights, overflowing with velvets, silks, and laces; won fortunesexploiting woman; lived in smiling scorn of woman until the day whena little girl, the avenger of her sex, the innocent and wise Denise, vanquished him and held him captive at her feet, groaning with anguish, until she did him the favor, she who was so poor, to marry him in themidst of the apotheosis of his Louvre, under the golden shower of hisreceipts. 

There remained the two other children, Serge Mouret and Desiree Mouret, the latter innocent and healthy, like some happy young animal; theformer refined and mystical, who was thrown into the priesthood by anervous malady hereditary in his family, and who lived again the storyof Adam, in the Eden of Le Paradou. He was born again to love Albine, and to lose her, in the bosom of sublime nature, their accomplice; to berecovered, afterward by the Church, to war eternally with life, strivingto kill his manhood, throwing on the body of the dead Albine the handfulof earth, as officiating priest, at the very time when Desiree, thesister and friend of animals, was rejoicing in the midst of the swarminglife of her poultry yard. 

Further on there opened a calm glimpse of gentle and tragic life, HeleneMouret living peacefully with her little girl, Jeanne, on the heights ofPassy, overlooking Paris, the bottomless, boundless human sea, in faceof which was unrolled this page of love: the sudden passion of Helenefor a stranger, a physician, brought one night by chance to the bedsideof her daughter; the morbid jealousy of Jeanne--the instinctive jealousyof a loving girl--disputing her mother with love, her mother alreadyso wasted by her unhappy passion that the daughter died because ofher fault; terrible price of one hour of desire in the entire cold anddiscreet life of a woman, poor dead child, lying alone in the silentcemetery, in face of eternal Paris. 

With Lisa Macquart began the illegitimate branch; appearing fresh andstrong in her, as she displayed her portly, prosperous figure, sittingat the door of her pork shop in a light colored apron, watching thecentral market, where the hunger of a people muttered, the age-longbattle of the Fat and the Lean, the lean Florent, her brother-in-law, execrated, and set upon by the fat fishwomen and the fat shopwomen, andwhom even the fat pork-seller herself, honest, but unforgiving, causedto be arrested as a republican who had broken his ban, convinced thatshe was laboring for the good digestion of all honest people. 

From this mother sprang the sanest, the most human of girls, PaulineQuenu, the well-balanced, the reasonable, the virgin; who, knowingeverything, accepted the joy of living in so ardent a love for othersthat, in spite of the revolt of her youthful heart, she resigned to herfriend her cousin and betrothed, Lazare, and afterward saved the childof the disunited household, becoming its true mother; always triumphant, always gay, notwithstanding her sacrificed and ruined life, in hermonotonous solitude, facing the great sea, in the midst of a littleworld of sufferers groaning with pain, but who did not wish to die. 

Then came Gervaise Macquart with her four children: bandy-legged, pretty, and industrious Gervaise, whom her lover Lantier turned intothe street in the faubourg, where she met the zinc worker Coupeau, theskilful, steady workman whom she married, and with whom she livedso happily at first, having three women working in her laundry, but afterward sinking with her husband, as was inevitable, to thedegradation of her surroundings. He, gradually conquered by alcohol, brought by it to madness and death; she herself perverted, become aslattern, her moral ruin completed by the return of Lantier, livingin the tranquil ignominy of a household of three, thenceforward thewretched victim of want, her accomplice, to which she at last succumbed, dying one night of starvation. 

Her eldest son, Claude, had the unhappy genius of a great painter struckwith madness, the impotent madness of feeling within him the masterpieceto which his fingers refused to give shape; a giant wrestler alwaysdefeated, a crucified martyr to his work, adoring woman, sacrificing hiswife Christine, so loving and for a time so beloved, to the increate, divine woman of his visions, but whom his pencil was unable to delineatein her nude perfection, possessed by a devouring passion for producing, an insatiable longing to create, a longing so torturing when it couldnot be satisfied, that he ended it by hanging himself. 

Jacques brought crime, the hereditary taint being transmuted in him intoan instinctive appetite for blood, the young and fresh blood from thegashed throat of a woman, the first comer, the passer-by in the street:a horrible malady against which he struggled, but which took possessionof him again in the course of his _amour_ with the submissive andsensual Severine, whom a tragic story of assassination caused to live inconstant terror, and whom he stabbed one evening in an excess of frenzy, maddened by the sight of her white throat. Then this savage human beastrushed among the trains filing past swiftly, and mounted the snortingengine of which he was the engineer, the beloved engine which was oneday to crush him to atoms, and then, left without a guide, to rushfuriously off into space braving unknown disasters. 

Etienne, in his turn driven out, arrived in the black country on afreezing night in March, descended into the voracious pit, fell in lovewith the melancholy Catherine, of whom a ruffian robbed him; lived withthe miners their gloomy life of misery and base promiscuousness, untilone day when hunger, prompting rebellion, sent across the barren plain ahowling mob of wretches who demanded bread, tearing down and burningas they went, under the menace of the guns of the band that went off ofthemselves, a terrible convulsion announcing the end of the world. Theavenging blood of the Maheus was to rise up later; of Alzire dead ofstarvation, Maheu killed by a bullet, Zacharie killed by an explosion offire-damp, Catherine under the ground. La Maheude alone survived to weepher dead, descending again into the mine to earn her thirty sons, whileEtienne, the beaten chief of the band, haunted by the dread of futuredemands, went away on a warm April morning, listening to the secretgrowth of the new world whose germination was soon to dazzle the earth. 

Nana then became the avenger; the girl born among the social filth ofthe faubourgs; the golden fly sprung from the rottenness below, thatwas tolerated and concealed, carrying in the fluttering of its wingsthe ferment of destruction, rising and contaminating the aristocracy, poisoning men only by alighting upon them, in the palaces through whosewindows it entered; the unconscious instrument of ruin and death--fierceflame of Vandeuvres, the melancholy fate of Foucarmont, lost in theChinese waters, the disaster of Steiner, reduced to live as an honestman, the imbecility of La Faloise and the tragic ruin of the Muffats, and the white corpse of Georges, watched by Philippe, come out of prisonthe day before, when the air of the epoch was so contaminated that sheherself was infected, and died of malignant smallpox, caught at thedeath-bed of her son Louiset, while Paris passed beneath her windows, intoxicated, possessed by the frenzy of war, rushing to general ruin. 

Lastly comes Jean Macquart, the workman and soldier become again apeasant, fighting with the hard earth, which exacts that every grain ofcorn shall be purchased with a drop of sweat, fighting, above all, withthe country people, whom covetousness and the long and difficult battlewith the soil cause to burn with the desire, incessantly stimulated, ofpossession. Witness the Fouans, grown old, parting with their fields asif they were parting with their flesh; the Buteaus in their eager greedcommitting parricide, to hasten the inheritance of a field of lucern;the stubborn Francoise dying from the stroke of a scythe, withoutspeaking, rather than that a sod should go out of the family--all thisdrama of simple natures governed by instinct, scarcely emerged fromprimitive barbarism--all this human filth on the great earth, whichalone remains immortal, the mother from whom they issue and to whom theyreturn again, she whom they love even to crime, who continually remakeslife, for its unknown end, even with the misery and the abomination ofthe beings she nourishes. And it was Jean, too, who, become a widowerand having enlisted again at the first rumor of war, brought theinexhaustible reserve, the stock of eternal rejuvenation which the earthkeeps; Jean, the humblest, the staunchest soldier at the final downfall, swept along in the terrible and fatal storm which, from the frontierto Sedan, in sweeping away the Empire, threatened to sweep away thecountry; always wise, circumspect, firm in his hope, loving withfraternal affection his comrade Maurice, the demented child of thepeople, the holocaust doomed to expiation, weeping tears of blood wheninexorable destiny chose himself to hew off this rotten limb, and afterall had ended--the continual defeats, the frightful civil war, the lostprovinces, the thousands of millions of francs to pay--taking up themarch again, notwithstanding, returning to the land which awaited him, to the great and difficult task of making a new France. 

Pascal paused; Clotilde had handed him all the packages, one by one, and he had gone over them all, laid bare the contents of all, classifiedthem anew, and placed them again on the top shelf of the press. He wasout of breath, exhausted by his swift course through all this humanity, while, without voice, without movement, the young girl, stunned bythis overflowing torrent of life, waited still, incapable of thoughtor judgment. The rain still beat furiously upon the dark fields. Thelightning had just struck a tree in the neighborhood, that had splitwith a terrible crash. The candles flared up in the wind that came infrom the open window. 

"Ah!" he resumed, pointing to the papers again, "there is a world initself, a society, a civilization, the whole of life is there, with itsmanifestations, good and bad, in the heat and labor of the forge whichshapes everything. Yes, our family of itself would suffice as an exampleto science, which will perhaps one day establish with mathematicalexactness the laws governing the diseases of the blood and nervesthat show themselves in a race, after a first organic lesion, andthat determine, according to environment, the sentiments, desires, andpassions of each individual of that race, all the human, natural andinstinctive manifestations which take the names of virtues and vices. And it is also a historical document, it relates the story of the SecondEmpire, from the _coup d'etat_ to Sedan; for our family spring fromthe people, they spread themselves through the whole of contemporarysociety, invaded every place, impelled by their unbridled appetites, bythat impulse, essentially modern, that eager desire that urges the lowerclasses to enjoyment, in their ascent through the social strata. Westarted, as I have said, from Plassans, and here we are now arrived oncemore at Plassans. "

He paused again, and then resumed in a low, dreamy voice:

"What an appalling mass stirred up! how many passions, how many joys, how many sufferings crammed into this colossal heap of facts! There ispure history: the Empire founded in blood, at first pleasure-lovingand despotic, conquering rebellious cities, then gliding to a slowdisintegration, dissolving in blood--in such a sea of blood that theentire nation came near being swamped in it. There are social studies:wholesale and retail trade, prostitution, crime, land, money, the_bourgeoisie_, the people--that people who rot in the sewer ofthe faubourgs, who rebel in the great industrial centers, all thatever-increasing growth of mighty socialism, big with the new century. There are simple human studies: domestic pages, love stories, thestruggle of minds and hearts against unjust nature, the destructionof those who cry out under their too difficult task, the cry of virtueimmolating itself, victorious over pain, There are fancies, flightsof the imagination beyond the real: vast gardens always in bloom, cathedrals with slender, exquisitely wrought spires, marvelous talescome down from paradise, ideal affections remounting to heaven in akiss. There is everything: the good and the bad, the vulgar and thesublime, flowers, mud, blood, laughter, the torrent of life itself, bearing humanity endlessly on!"

He took up again the genealogical tree which had remained neglectedon the table, spread it out and began to go over it once more with hisfinger, enumerating now the members of the family who were still living:Eugene Rougon, a fallen majesty, who remained in the Chamber, thewitness, the impassible defender of the old world swept away at thedownfall of the Empire. Aristide Saccard, who, after having changed hisprinciples, had fallen upon his feet a republican, the editor of a greatjournal, on the way to make new millions, while his natural son Victor, who had never reappeared, was living still in the shade, since he wasnot in the galleys, cast forth by the world into the future, into theunknown, like a human beast foaming with the hereditary virus, who mustcommunicate his malady with every bite he gives. Sidonie Rougon, whohad for a time disappeared, weary of disreputable affairs, had latelyretired to a sort of religious house, where she was living in monasticausterity, the treasurer of the Marriage Fund, for aiding in themarriage of girls who were mothers. Octave Mouret, proprietor of thegreat establishment _Au Bonheur des Dames_, whose colossal fortune stillcontinued increasing, had had, toward the end of the winter, a thirdchild by his wife Denise Baudu, whom he adored, although his mind wasbeginning to be deranged again. The Abbe Mouret, cure at St. Eutrope, inthe heart of a marshy gorge, lived there in great retirement, and verymodestly, with his sister Desiree, refusing all advancement from hisbishop, and waiting for death like a holy man, rejecting all medicines, although he was already suffering from consumption in its first stage. Helene Mouret was living very happily in seclusion with her secondhusband, M. Rambaud, on the little estate which they owned nearMarseilles, on the seashore; she had had no child by her second husband. Pauline Quenu was still at Bonneville at the other extremity of France, in face of the vast ocean, alone with little Paul, since the deathof Uncle Chanteau, having resolved never to marry, in order to devoteherself entirely to the son of her cousin Lazare, who had become awidower and had gone to America to make a fortune. Etienne Lantier, returning to Paris after the strike at Montsou, had compromised himselflater in the insurrection of the Commune, whose principles he haddefended with ardor; he had been condemned to death, but his sentencebeing commuted was transported and was now at Noumea. It was even saidthat he had married immediately on his arrival there, and that he hadhad a child, the sex of which, however, was not known with certainty. Finally, Jean Macquart, who had received his discharge after the BloodyWeek, had settled at Valqueyras, near Plassans, where he had had thegood fortune to marry a healthy girl, Melanie Vial, the daughter of awell-to-do peasant, whose lands he farmed, and his wife had borne him ason in May. 

"Yes, it is true, " he resumed, in a low voice; "races degenerate. Thereis here a veritable exhaustion, rapid deterioration, as if our family, in their fury of enjoyment, in the gluttonous satisfaction of theirappetites, had consumed themselves too quickly. Louiset, dead ininfancy; Jacques Louis, a half imbecile, carried off by a nervousdisease; Victor returned to the savage state, wandering about in whoknows what dark places; our poor Charles, so beautiful and so frail;these are the latest branches of the tree, the last pale offshoots intowhich the puissant sap of the larger branches seems to have been unableto mount. The worm was in the trunk, it has ascended into the fruit, andis devouring it. But one must never despair; families are a continualgrowth. They go back beyond the common ancestor, into the unfathomablestrata of the races that have lived, to the first being; and theywill put forth new shoots without end, they will spread and ramify toinfinity, through future ages. Look at our tree; it counts only fivegenerations. It has not so much importance as a blade of grass, even, in the human forest, vast and dark, of which the peoples are the greatsecular oaks. Think only of the immense roots which spread through thesoil; think of the continual putting forth of new leaves above, whichmingle with other leaves of the ever-rolling sea of treetops, at thefructifying, eternal breath of life. Well, hope lies there, in the dailyreconstruction of the race by the new blood which comes from without. Each marriage brings other elements, good or bad, of which the effectis, however, to prevent certain and progressive regeneration. Breaches are repaired, faults effaced, an equilibrium is inevitablyre-established at the end of a few generations, and it is the averageman that always results; vague humanity, obstinately pursuing itsmysterious labor, marching toward its unknown end. "

He paused, and heaved a deep sigh. 

"Ah! our family, what is it going to become; in what being will itfinally end?"

He continued, not now taking into account the survivors whom he had justnamed; having classified these, he knew what they were capable of, buthe was full of keen curiosity regarding the children who werestill infants. He had written to a _confrere_ in Noumea for preciseinformation regarding the wife whom Etienne had lately married there, and the child which she had had, but he had heard nothing, and he fearedgreatly that on that side the tree would remain incomplete. He was morefully furnished with documents regarding the two children of OctaveMouret, with whom he continued to correspond; the little girl wasgrowing up puny and delicate, while the little boy, who stronglyresembled his mother, had developed superbly, and was perfectly healthy. His strongest hope, besides these, was in Jean's children, the eldest ofwhom was a magnificent boy, full of the youthful vigor of the races thatgo back to the soil to regenerate themselves. Pascal occasionally wentto Valqueyras, and he returned happy from that fertile spot, where thefather, quiet and rational, was always at his plow, the mother cheerfuland simple, with her vigorous frame, capable of bearing a world. Whoknew what sound branch was to spring from that side? Perhaps the wiseand puissant of the future were to germinate there. The worst of it, forthe beauty of his tree, was that all these little boys and girls werestill so young that he could not classify them. And his voice grewtender as he spoke of this hope of the future, these fair-hairedchildren, in the unavowed regret for his celibacy. 

Still contemplating the tree spread out before him, he cried:

"And yet it is complete, it is decisive. Look! I repeat to you that allhereditary cases are to be found there. To establish my theory, Ihad only to base it on the collection of these facts. And indeed, themarvelous thing is that there you can put your finger on the causewhy creatures born of the same stock can appear radically different, although they are only logical modifications of common ancestors. Thetrunk explains the branches, and these explain the leaves. In yourfather Saccard and your Uncle Eugene Rougon, so different in theirtemperaments and their lives, it is the same impulse which made theinordinate appetites of the one and the towering ambition of the other. Angelique, that pure lily, is born from the disreputable Sidonie, in therapture which makes mystics or lovers, according to the environment. Thethree children of the Mourets are born of the same breath which makes ofthe clever Octave the dry goods merchant, a millionaire; of the devoutSerge, a poor country priest; of the imbecile Desiree, a beautiful andhappy girl. But the example is still more striking in the children ofGervaise; the neurosis passes down, and Nana sells herself; Etienne isa rebel; Jacques, a murderer; Claude, a genius; while Pauline, theircousin german, near by, is victorious virtue--virtue which strugglesand immolates itself. It is heredity, life itself which makes imbeciles, madmen, criminals and great men. Cells abort, others take their place, and we have a scoundrel or a madman instead of a man of genius, orsimply an honest man. And humanity rolls on, bearing everything on itstide. "

Then in a new shifting of his thought, growing still more animated, hecontinued:

"And animals--the beast that suffers and that loves, which is the roughsketch, as it were, of man--all the animals our brothers, that live ourlife, yes, I would have put them in the ark, I would give them a placeamong our family, show them continually mingling with us, completing ourexistence. I have known cats whose presence was the mysterious charm ofthe household; dogs that were adored, whose death was mourned, and leftin the heart an inconsolable grief. I have known goats, cows, and assesof very great importance, and whose personality played such a part thattheir history ought to be written. And there is our Bonhomme, our poorold horse, that has served us for a quarter of a century. Do you notthink that he has mingled his life with ours, and that henceforth heis one of the family? We have modified him, as he has influenced us alittle; we shall end by being made in the same image, and this is sotrue that now, when I see him, half blind, with wandering gaze, his legsstiff with rheumatism, I kiss him on both cheeks as if he were a poorold relation who had fallen to my charge. Ah, animals, all creeping andcrawling things, all creatures that lament, below man, how large a placein our sympathies it would be necessary to give them in a history oflife!"

This was a last cry in which Pascal gave utterance to his passionatetenderness for all created beings. He had gradually become more and moreexcited, and had so come to make this confession of his faith in thecontinuous and victorious work of animated nature. And Clotilde, whothus far had not spoken, pale from the catastrophe in which her planshad ended, at last opened her lips to ask:

"Well, master, and what am I here?"

She placed one of her slender fingers on the leaf of the tree onwhich she saw her name written. He had always passed this leaf by. Sheinsisted. 

"Yes, I; what am I? Why have you not read me my envelope?"

For a moment he remained silent, as if surprised at the question. 

"Why? For no reason. It is true, I have nothing to conceal from you. You see what is written here? 'Clotilde, born in 1847. Selection of themother. Reversional heredity, with moral and physical predominanceof the maternal grandfather. ' Nothing can be clearer. Your mother haspredominated in you; you have her fine intelligence, and you havealso something of her coquetry, at times of her indolence and of hersubmissiveness. Yes, you are very feminine, like her. Without your beingaware of it, I would say that you love to be loved. Besides, your motherwas a great novel reader, an imaginative being who loved to spend wholedays dreaming over a book; she doted on nursery tales, had her fortunetold by cards, consulted clairvoyants; and I have always thought thatyour concern about spiritual matters, your anxiety about the unknown, came from that source. But what completed your character by giving you adual nature, was the influence of your grandfather, Commandant Sicardot. I knew him; he was not a genius, but he had at least a great dealof uprightness and energy. Frankly, if it were not for him, I do notbelieve that you would be worth much, for the other influencesare hardly good. He has given you the best part of your nature, combativeness, pride, and frankness. "

She had listened to him with attention. She nodded slightly, to signifythat it was indeed so, that she was not offended, although her lipstrembled visibly at these new details regarding her people and hermother. 

"Well, " she resumed, "and you, master?"

This time he did not hesitate. 

"Oh, I!" he cried, "what is the use of speaking of me? I do not belongto the family. You see what is written here. 'Pascal, born in 1813. Individual variation. Combination in which the physical and moralcharacters of the parents are blended, without any of their traitsseeming to appear in the new being. ' My mother has told me often enoughthat I did not belong to it, that in truth she did not know where Icould have come from. "

Those words came from him like a cry of relief, of involuntary joy. 

"And the people make no mistake in the matter. Have you ever heardme called Pascal Rougon in the town? No; people always say simply Dr. Pascal. It is because I stand apart. And it may not be very affectionateto feel so, but I am delighted at it, for there are in truthinheritances too heavy to bear. It is of no use that I love them all. My heart beats none the less joyously when I feel myself another being, different from them, without any community with them. Not to be of them, my God! not to be of them! It is a breath of pure air; it is whatgives me the courage to have them all here, to put them, in all theirnakedness, in their envelopes, and still to find the courage to live!"

He stopped, and there was silence for a time. The rain had ceased, thestorm was passing away, the thunderclaps sounded more and more distant, while from the refreshed fields, still dark, there came in through theopen window a delicious odor of moist earth. In the calm air the candleswere burning out with a tall, tranquil flame. 

"Ah!" said Clotilde simply, with a gesture of discouragement, "what arewe to become finally?"

She had declared it to herself one night, in the threshing yard; lifewas horrible, how could one live peaceful and happy? It was a terriblelight that science threw on the world. Analysis searched every woundof humanity, in order to expose its horror. And now he had spoken stillmore bluntly; he had increased the disgust which she had for persons andthings, pitilessly dissecting her family. The muddy torrent had rolledon before her for nearly three hours, and she had heard the mostdreadful revelations, the harsh and terrible truth about her people, herpeople who were so dear to her, whom it was her duty to love; her fathergrown powerful through pecuniary crimes; her brother dissolute; hergrandmother unscrupulous, covered with the blood of the just; theothers almost all tainted, drunkards, ruffians, murderers, the monstrousblossoming of the human tree. 

The blow had been so rude that she could not yet recover from it, stunned as she was by the revelation of her whole family history, made to her in this way at a stroke. And yet the lesson was renderedinnocuous, so to say, by something great and good, a breath of profoundhumanity which had borne her through it. Nothing bad had come to herfrom it. She felt herself beaten by a sharp sea wind, the storm windwhich strengthens and expands the lungs. He had revealed everything, speaking freely even of his mother, without judging her, continuing topreserve toward her his deferential attitude, as a scientist who doesnot judge events. To tell everything in order to know everything, inorder to remedy everything, was not this the cry which he had uttered onthat beautiful summer night?

And by the very excess of what he had just revealed to her, she remainedshaken, blinded by this too strong light, but understanding him at last, and confessing to herself that he was attempting in this an immensework. In spite of everything, it was a cry of health, of hope in thefuture. He spoke as a benefactor who, since heredity made the world, wished to fix its laws, in order to control it, and to make a new andhappy world. Was there then only mud in this overflowing stream, whosesluices he had opened? How much gold had passed, mingled with the grassand the flowers on its borders? Hundreds of beings were still flyingswiftly before her, and she was haunted by good and charming faces, delicate girlish profiles, by the serene beauty of women. All passionbled there, hearts swelled with every tender rapture. They werenumerous, the Jeannes, the Angeliques, the Paulines, the Marthes, theGervaises, the Helenes. They and others, even those who were least good, even terrible men, the worst of the band, showed a brotherhood withhumanity. 

And it was precisely this breath which she had felt pass, this broadcurrent of sympathy, that he had introduced naturally into his exactscientific lesson. He did not seem to be moved; he preserved theimpersonal and correct attitude of the demonstrator, but within himwhat tender suffering, what a fever of devotion, what a giving up ofhis whole being to the happiness of others? His entire work, constructedwith such mathematical precision, was steeped in this fraternalsuffering, even in its most cruel ironies. Had he not just spoken ofthe animals, like an elder brother of the wretched living beings thatsuffer? Suffering exasperated him; his wrath was because of histoo lofty dream, and he had become harsh only in his hatred of thefactitious and the transitory; dreaming of working, not for the politesociety of a time, but for all humanity in the gravest hours of itshistory. Perhaps, even, it was this revolt against the vulgarity of thetime which had made him throw himself, in bold defiance, into theoriesand their application. And the work remained human, overflowing as itwas with an infinite pity for beings and things. 

Besides, was it not life? There is no absolute evil. Most often a virtuepresents itself side by side with a defect. No man is bad to every one, each man makes the happiness of some one; so that, when one does notview things from a single standpoint only, one recognizes in the endthe utility of every human being. Those who believe in God should sayto themselves that if their God does not strike the wicked dead, it isbecause he sees his work in its totality, and that he cannot descendto the individual. Labor ends to begin anew; the living, as a whole, continue, in spite of everything, admirable in their courage and theirindustry; and love of life prevails over all. 

This giant labor of men, this obstinacy in living, is their excuse, is redemption. And then, from a great height the eye saw only thiscontinual struggle, and a great deal of good, in spite of everything, even though there might be a great deal of evil. One shared the generalindulgence, one pardoned, one had only an infinite pity and an ardentcharity. The haven was surely there, waiting those who have lost faithin dogmas, who wish to understand the meaning of their lives, in themidst of the apparent iniquity of the world. One must live for theeffort of living, for the stone to be carried to the distant and unknownwork, and the only possible peace in the world is in the joy of makingthis effort. 

Another hour passed; the entire night had flown by in this terriblelesson of life, without either Pascal or Clotilde being conscious ofwhere they were, or of the flight of time. And he, overworked for sometime past, and worn out by the life of suspicion and sadness which hehad been leading, started nervously, as if he had suddenly awakened. 

"Come, you know all; do you feel your heart strong, tempered by thetruth, full of pardon and of hope? Are you with me?"

But, still stunned by the frightful moral shock which she had received, she too, started, bewildered. Her old beliefs had been so completelyoverthrown, so many new ideas were awakening within her, that she didnot dare to question herself, in order to find an answer. She feltherself seized and carried away by the omnipotence of truth. She enduredit without being convinced. 

"Master, " she stammered, "master--"

And they remained for a moment face to face, looking at each other. Daywas breaking, a dawn of exquisite purity, far off in the vast, clearsky, washed by the storm. Not a cloud now stained the pale azure tingedwith rose color. All the cheerful sounds of awakening life in therain-drenched fields came in through the window, while the candles, burned down to the socket, paled in the growing light. 

"Answer; are you with me, altogether with me?"

For a moment he thought she was going to throw herself on his neck andburst into tears. A sudden impulse seemed to impel her. But they saweach other in their semi-nudity. She, who had not noticed it before, wasnow conscious that she was only half dressed, that her arms were bare, her shoulders bare, covered only by the scattered locks of her unboundhair, and on her right shoulder, near the armpit, on lowering her eyes, she perceived again the few drops of blood of the bruise which he hadgiven her, when he had grasped her roughly, in struggling to master her. Then an extraordinary confusion took possession of her, a certainty thatshe was going to be vanquished, as if by this grasp he had become hermaster, and forever. This sensation was prolonged; she was seized anddrawn on, without the consent of her will, by an irresistible impulse tosubmit. 

Abruptly Clotilde straightened herself, struggling with herself, wishingto reflect and to recover herself. She pressed her bare arms againsther naked throat. All the blood in her body rushed to her skin in a rosyblush of shame. Then, in her divine and slender grace, she turned toflee. 

"Master, master, let me go--I will see--"

With the swiftness of alarmed maidenhood, she took refuge in herchamber, as she had done once before. He heard her lock the doorhastily, with a double turn of the key. He remained alone, and he askedhimself suddenly, seized by infinite discouragement and sadness, if hehad done right in speaking, if the truth would germinate in this dearand adored creature, and bear one day a harvest of happiness. 

VI. 

The days wore on. October began with magnificent weather--a sultryautumn in which the fervid heat of summer was prolonged, with acloudless sky. Then the weather changed, fierce winds began to blow, anda last storm channeled gullies in the hillsides. And to the melancholyhousehold at La Souleiade the approach of winter seemed to have broughtan infinite sadness. 

It was a new hell. There were no more violent quarrels between Pascaland Clotilde. The doors were no longer slammed. Voices raised in disputeno longer obliged Martine to go continually upstairs to listen outsidethe door. They scarcely spoke to each other now; and not a single wordhad been exchanged between them regarding the midnight scene, althoughweeks had passed since it had taken place. He, through an inexplicablescruple, a strange delicacy of which he was not himself conscious, didnot wish to renew the conversation, and to demand the answer which heexpected--a promise of faith in him and of submission. She, after thegreat moral shock which had completely transformed her, still reflected, hesitated, struggled, fighting against herself, putting off her decisionin order not to surrender, in her instinctive rebelliousness. And themisunderstanding continued, in the midst of the mournful silence of themiserable house, where there was no longer any happiness. 

During all this time Pascal suffered terribly, without making anycomplaint. He had sunk into a dull distrust, imagining that he was stillbeing watched, and that if they seemed to leave him at peace it wasonly in order to concoct in secret the darkest plots. His uneasinessincreased, even, and he expected every day some catastrophe tohappen--the earth suddenly to open and swallow up his papers, LaSouleiade itself to be razed to the ground, carried away bodily, scattered to the winds. 

The persecution against his thought, against his moral and intellectuallife, in thus hiding itself, and so rendering him helpless to defendhimself, became so intolerable to him that he went to bed every night ina fever. He would often start and turn round suddenly, thinking hewas going to surprise the enemy behind him engaged in some piece oftreachery, to find nothing there but the shadow of his own fears. Atother times, seized by some suspicion, he would remain on the watchfor hours together, hidden, behind his blinds, or lying in wait ina passage; but not a soul stirred, he heard nothing but the violentbeating of his heart. His fears kept him in a state of constantagitation; he never went to bed at night without visiting every room;he no longer slept, or, if he did, he would waken with a start at theslightest noise, ready to defend himself. 

And what still further aggravated Pascal's sufferings was the constant, the ever more bitter thought that the wound was inflicted upon him bythe only creature he loved in the world, the adored Clotilde, whom fortwenty years he had seen grow in beauty and in grace, whose life hadhitherto bloomed like a beautiful flower, perfuming his. She, great God!for whom his heart was full of affection, whom he had never analyzed, she, who had become his joy, his courage, his hope, in whose young lifehe lived over again. When she passed by, with her delicate neck, soround, so fresh, he was invigorated, bathed in health and joy, as at thecoming of spring. 

His whole life, besides, explained this invasion, this subjugation ofhis being by the young girl who had entered into his heart while shewas still a little child, and who, as she grew up, had gradually takenpossession of the whole place. Since he had settled at Plassans, he hadled a blest existence, wrapped up in his books, far from women. The onlypassion he was ever known to have had, was his love for the lady who haddied, whose finger tips he had never kissed. He had not lived; he hadwithin him a reserve of youthfulness, of vigor, whose surging flood nowclamored rebelliously at the menace of approaching age. He would havebecome attached to an animal, a stray dog that he had chanced to pick upin the street, and that had licked his hand. And it was this child whomhe loved, all at once become an adorable woman, who now distracted him, who tortured him by her hostility. 

Pascal, so gay, so kind, now became insupportably gloomy and harsh. Hegrew angry at the slightest word; he would push aside the astonishedMartine, who would look up at him with the submissive eyes of a beatenanimal. From morning till night he went about the gloomy house, carryinghis misery about with him, with so forbidding a countenance that no oneventured to speak to him. 

He never took Clotilde with him now on his visits, but went alone. Andthus it was that he returned home one afternoon, his mind distractedbecause of an accident which had happened; having on his conscience, asa physician, the death of a man. 

He had gone to give a hypodermic injection to Lafouasse, the tavernkeeper, whose ataxia had within a short time made such rapid progressthat he regarded him as doomed. But, notwithstanding, Pascal stillfought obstinately against the disease, continuing the treatment, and asill luck would have it, on this day the little syringe had caught up atthe bottom of the vial an impure particle, which had escaped the filter. Immediately a drop of blood appeared; to complete his misfortune, he hadpunctured a vein. He was at once alarmed, seeing the tavern keeper turnpale and gasp for breath, while large drops of cold perspiration brokeout upon his face. Then he understood; death came as if by a stroke oflightning, the lips turning blue, the face black. It was an embolism;he had nothing to blame but the insufficiency of his preparations, hisstill rude method. No doubt Lafouasse had been doomed. He couldnot, perhaps, have lived six months longer, and that in the midst ofatrocious sufferings, but the brutal fact of this terrible death wasnone the less there, and what despairing regret, what rage againstimpotent and murderous science, and what a shock to his faith! Hereturned home, livid, and did not make his appearance again until thefollowing day, after having remained sixteen hours shut up in his room, lying in a semi-stupor on the bed, across which he had thrown himself, dressed as he was. 

On the afternoon of this day Clotilde, who was sitting beside him in thestudy, sewing, ventured to break the oppressive silence. She looked up, and saw him turning over the leaves of a book wearily, searching forsome information which he was unable to find. 

"Master, are you ill? Why do you not tell me, if you are. I would takecare of you. "

He kept his eyes bent upon the book, and muttered:

"What does it matter to you whether I am ill or not? I need no one totake care of me. "

She resumed, in a conciliating voice:

"If you have troubles, and can tell them to me, it would perhaps be arelief to you to do so. Yesterday you came in looking so sad. You mustnot allow yourself to be cast down in that way. I have spent a veryanxious night. I came to your door three times to listen, tormented bythe idea that you were suffering. "

Gently as she spoke, her words were like the cut of a whip. In his weakand nervous condition a sudden access of rage made him push away thebook and rise up trembling. 

"So you spy upon me, then. I cannot even retire to my room withoutpeople coming to glue their ears to the walls. Yes, you listen even tothe beatings of my heart. You watch for my death, to pillage and burneverything here. "

His voice rose and all his unjust suffering vented itself in complaintsand threats. 

"I forbid you to occupy yourself about me. Is there nothing else thatyou have to say to me? Have you reflected? Can you put your hand in mineloyally, and say to me that we are in accord?"

She did not answer. She only continued to look at him with her largeclear eyes, frankly declaring that she would not surrender yet, whilehe, exasperated more and more by this attitude, lost all self-control. 

"Go away, go away, " he stammered, pointing to the door. "I do not wishyou to remain near me. I do not wish to have enemies near me. I do notwish you to remain near me to drive me mad!"

She rose, very pale, and went at once out of the room, without lookingbehind, carrying her work with her. 

During the month which followed, Pascal took refuge in furious andincessant work. He now remained obstinately, for whole days at a time, alone in the study, sometimes passing even the nights there, going overold documents, to revise all his works on heredity. It seemed as if asort of frenzy had seized him to assure himself of the legitimacy of hishopes, to force science to give him the certainty that humanity could beremade--made a higher, a healthy humanity. He no longer left the house, he abandoned his patients even, and lived among his papers, without airor exercise. And after a month of this overwork, which exhausted himwithout appeasing his domestic torments, he fell into such a state ofnervous exhaustion that illness, for some time latent, declared itselfat last with alarming violence. 

Pascal, when he rose in the morning, felt worn out with fatigue, wearierand less refreshed than he had been on going to bed the night before. Heconstantly had pains all over his body; his limbs failed him, afterfive minutes' walk; the slightest exertion tired him; the least movementcaused him intense pain. At times the floor seemed suddenly to swaybeneath his feet. He had a constant buzzing in his ears, flashes oflight dazzled his eyes. He took a loathing for wine, he had no longerany appetite, and his digestion was seriously impaired. Then, in themidst of the apathy of his constantly increasing idleness he would havesudden fits of aimless activity. The equilibrium was destroyed, hehad at times outbreaks of nervous irritability, without any cause. Theslightest emotion brought tears to his eyes. Finally, he would shuthimself up in his room, and give way to paroxysms of despair so violentthat he would sob for hours at a time, without any immediate cause ofgrief, overwhelmed simply by the immense sadness of things. 

In the early part of December Pascal had a severe attack of neuralgia. Violent pains in the bones of the skull made him feel at times as if hishead must split. Old Mme. Rougon, who had been informed of his illness, came to inquire after her son. But she went straight to the kitchen, wishing to have a talk with Martine first. The latter, with aheart-broken and terrified air, said to her that monsieur must certainlybe going mad; and she told her of his singular behavior, the continualtramping about in his room, the locking of all the drawers, the roundswhich he made from the top to the bottom of the house, until two o'clockin the morning. Tears filled her eyes and she at last hazarded theopinion that monsieur must be possessed with a devil, and that it wouldbe well to notify the cure of St. Saturnin. 

"So good a man, " she said, "a man for whom one would let one's self becut in pieces! How unfortunate it is that one cannot get him to go tochurch, for that would certainly cure him at once. "

Clotilde, who had heard her grandmother's voice, entered at this moment. She, too, wandered through the empty rooms, spending most of her time inthe deserted apartment on the ground floor. She did not speak, however, but only listened with her thoughtful and expectant air. 

"Ah, goodday! It is you, my dear. Martine tells me that Pascal ispossessed with a devil. That is indeed my opinion also; only the devilis called pride. He thinks that he knows everything. He is Pope andEmperor in one, and naturally it exasperates him when people don't agreewith him. "

She shrugged her shoulders with supreme disdain. 

"As for me, all that would only make me laugh if it were not so sad. Afellow who knows nothing about anything; who has always been wrapped upin his books; who has not lived. Put him in a drawing-room, and he wouldknow as little how to act as a new-born babe. And as for women, he doesnot even know what they are. "

Forgetting to whom she was speaking, a young girl and a servant, shelowered her voice, and said confidentially:

"Well, one pays for being too sensible, too. Neither a wife nor asweetheart nor anything. That is what has finally turned his brain. "

Clotilde did not move. She only lowered her eyelids slowly over herlarge thoughtful eyes; then she raised them again, maintaining herimpenetrable countenance, unwilling, unable, perhaps, to give expressionto what was passing within her. This was no doubt all still confused, acomplete evolution, a great change which was taking place, and which sheherself did not clearly understand. 

"He is upstairs, is he not?" resumed Felicite. "I have come to see him, for this must end; it is too stupid. "

And she went upstairs, while Martine returned to her saucepans, andClotilde went to wander again through the empty house. 

Upstairs in the study Pascal sat seemingly in a stupor, his face bentover a large open book. He could no longer read, the words danced beforehis eyes, conveying no meaning to his mind. But he persisted, for itwas death to him to lose his faculty for work, hitherto so powerful. His mother at once began to scold him, snatching the book from him, and flinging it upon a distant table, crying that when one was sick oneshould take care of one's self. He rose with a quick, angry movement, about to order her away as he had ordered Clotilde. Then, by a lasteffort of the will, he became again deferential. 

"Mother, you know that I have never wished to dispute with you. Leaveme, I beg of you. "

She did not heed him, but began instead to take him to task about hiscontinual distrust. It was he himself who had given himself a fever, always fancying that he was surrounded by enemies who were setting trapsfor him, and watching him to rob him. Was there any common sense inimagining that people were persecuting him in that way? And then sheaccused him of allowing his head to be turned by his discovery, hisfamous remedy for curing every disease. That was as much as to thinkhimself equal to the good God; which only made it all the more cruelwhen he found out how mistaken he was. And she mentioned Lafouasse, theman whom he had killed--naturally, she could understand that that hadnot been very pleasant for him; indeed there was cause enough in it tomake him take to his bed. 

Pascal, still controlling himself, very pale and with eyes cast on theground, contented himself with repeating:

"Mother, leave me, I beg of you. "

"No, I won't leave you, " she cried with the impetuosity which wasnatural to her, and which her great age had in no wise diminished. "Ihave come precisely to stir you up a little, to rid you of this feverwhich is consuming you. No, this cannot continue. I don't wish that weshould again become the talk of the whole town on your account. I wishyou to take care of yourself. "

He shrugged his shoulders, and said in a low voice, as if speaking tohimself, with an uneasy look, half of conviction, half of doubt:

"I am not ill. "

But Felicite, beside herself, burst out, gesticulating violently:

"Not ill! not ill! Truly, there is no one like a physician for not beingable to see himself. Why, my poor boy, every one that comes near you isshocked by your appearance. You are becoming insane through pride andfear!"

This time Pascal raised his head quickly, and looked her straight in theeyes, while she continued:

"This is what I had to tell you, since it seems that no one else wouldundertake the task. You are old enough to know what you ought to do. You should make an effort to shake off all this; you should think ofsomething else; you should not let a fixed idea take possession of you, especially when you belong to a family like ours. You know it; havesense, and take care of yourself. "

He grew paler than before, looking fixedly at her still, as if he weresounding her, to know what there was of her in him. And he contentedhimself with answering:

"You are right, mother. I thank you. "

When he was again alone, he dropped into his seat before the table, andtried once more to read his book. But he could not succeed, any morethan before, in fixing his attention sufficiently to understand thewords, whose letters mingled confusedly together before his eyes. Andhis mother's words buzzed in his ears; a vague terror, which had sometime before sprung up within him, grew and took shape, haunting him nowas an immediate and clearly defined danger. He who two months beforehad boasted triumphantly of not belonging to the family, was he aboutto receive the most terrible of contradictions? Ah, this egotistic joy, this intense joy of not belonging to it, was it to give place tothe terrible anguish of being struck in his turn? Was he to have thehumiliation of seeing the taint revive in him? Was he to be draggeddown to the horror of feeling himself in the clutches of the monsterof heredity? The sublime idea, the lofty certitude which he had ofabolishing suffering, of strengthening man's will, of making a new and ahigher humanity, a healthy humanity, was assuredly only the beginning ofthe monomania of vanity. And in his bitter complaint of being watched, in his desire to watch the enemies who, he thought, were obstinatelybent on his destruction, were easily to be recognized the symptoms ofthe monomania of suspicion. So then all the diseases of the race wereto end in this terrible case--madness within a brief space, then generalparalysis, and a dreadful death. 

From this day forth Pascal was as if possessed. The state of nervousexhaustion into which overwork and anxiety had thrown him left him anunresisting prey to this haunting fear of madness and death. All themorbid sensations which he felt, his excessive fatigue on rising, thebuzzing in his ears, the flashes of light before his eyes, evenhis attacks of indigestion and his paroxysms of tears, were so manyinfallible symptoms of the near insanity with which he believed himselfthreatened. He had completely lost, in his own case, the keen powerof diagnosis of the observant physician, and if he still continued toreason about it, it was only to confound and pervert symptoms, under theinfluence of the moral and physical depression into which he had fallen. He was no longer master of himself; he was mad, so to say, to convincehimself hour by hour that he must become so. 

All the days of this pale December were spent by him in going deeperand deeper into his malady. Every morning he tried to escape from thehaunting subject, but he invariably ended by shutting himself in thestudy to take up again, in spite of himself, the tangled skein of theday before. 

The long study which he had made of heredity, his important researches, his works, completed the poisoning of his peace, furnishing him withever renewed causes of disquietude. To the question which he put tohimself continually as to his own hereditary case, the documents werethere to answer it by all possible combinations. They were so numerousthat he lost himself among them now. If he had deceived himself, if hecould not set himself apart, as a remarkable case of variation, shouldhe place himself under the head of reversional heredity, passingover one, two, or even three generations? Or was his case rather amanifestation of larvated heredity, which would bring anew proof to thesupport of his theory of the germ plasm, or was it simply a singularcase of hereditary resemblance, the sudden apparition of some unknownancestor at the very decline of life?

From this moment he never rested, giving himself up completely to theinvestigation of his case, searching his notes, rereading his books. Andhe studied himself, watching the least of his sensations, to deduce fromthem the facts on which he might judge himself. On the days when hismind was most sluggish, or when he thought he experienced particularphenomena of vision, he inclined to a predominance of the originalnervous lesion; while, if he felt that his limbs were affected, his feetheavy and painful, he imagined he was suffering the indirect influenceof some ancestor come from outside. Everything became confused, until atlast he could recognize himself no longer, in the midst of the imaginarytroubles which agitated his disturbed organism. And every evening theconclusion was the same, the same knell sounded in his brain--heredity, appalling heredity, the fear of becoming mad. 

In the early part of January Clotilde was an involuntary spectator of ascene which wrung her heart. She was sitting before one of the windowsof the study, reading, concealed by the high back of her chair, whenshe saw Pascal, who had been shut up in his room since the day before, entering. He held open before his eyes with both hands a sheet ofyellow paper, in which she recognized the genealogical tree. He was socompletely absorbed, his gaze was so fixed, that she might have comeforward without his observing her. He spread the tree upon the table, continuing to look at it for a long time, with the terrified expressionof interrogation which had become habitual to him, which graduallychanged to one of supplication, the tears coursing down his cheeks. 

Why, great God! would not the tree answer him, and tell him whatancestor he resembled, in order that he might inscribe his case on hisown leaf, beside the others? If he was to become mad, why did not thetree tell him so clearly, which would have calmed him, for he believedthat his suffering came only from his uncertainty? Tears clouded hisvision, yet still he looked, he exhausted himself in this longing toknow, in which his reason must finally give way. 

Clotilde hastily concealed herself as she saw him walk over to thepress, which he opened wide. He seized the envelopes, threw them onthe table, and searched among them feverishly. It was the scene of theterrible night of the storm that was beginning over again, the gallopof nightmares, the procession of phantoms, rising at his call from thisheap of old papers. As they passed by, he addressed to each of them aquestion, an ardent prayer, demanding the origin of his malady, hopingfor a word, a whisper which should set his doubts at rest. First, it wasonly an indistinct murmur, then came words and fragments of phrases. 

"Is it you--is it you--is it you--oh, old mother, the mother of usall--who are to give me your madness? Is it you, inebriate uncle, oldscoundrel of an uncle, whose drunkenness I am to pay for? Is it you, ataxic nephew, or you, mystic nephew, or yet you, idiot niece, who areto reveal to me the truth, showing me one of the forms of the lesionfrom which I suffer? Or is it rather you, second cousin, who hangedyourself; or you, second cousin, who committed murder; or you, secondcousin, who died of rottenness, whose tragic ends announce to memine--death in a cell, the horrible decomposition of being?"

And the gallop continued, they rose and passed by with the speed of thewind. The papers became animate, incarnate, they jostled one another, they trampled on one another, in a wild rush of suffering humanity. 

"Ah, who will tell me, who will tell me, who will tell me?--Is it hewho died mad? he who was carried off by phthisis? he who was killedby paralysis? she whose constitutional feebleness caused her to diein early youth?--Whose is the poison of which I am to die? What is it, hysteria, alcoholism, tuberculosis, scrofula? And what is it going tomake of me, an ataxic or a madman? A madman. Who was it said a madman?They all say it--a madman, a madman, a madman!"

Sobs choked Pascal. He let his dejected head fall among the papers, hewept endlessly, shaken by shuddering sobs. And Clotilde, seized by asort of awe, feeling the presence of the fate which rules over races, left the room softly, holding her breath; for she knew that it wouldmortify him exceedingly if he knew that she had been present. 

Long periods of prostration followed. January was very cold. But the skyremained wonderfully clear, a brilliant sun shone in the limpid blue;and at La Souleiade, the windows of the study facing south formed a sortof hothouse, preserving there a delightfully mild temperature. They didnot even light a fire, for the room was always filled with a flood ofsunshine, in which the flies that had survived the winter flew aboutlazily. The only sound to be heard was the buzzing of their wings. Itwas a close and drowsy warmth, like a breath of spring that had lingeredin the old house baked by the heat of summer. 

Pascal, still gloomy, dragged through the days there, and it was there, too, that he overheard one day the closing words of a conversationwhich aggravated his suffering. As he never left his room now beforebreakfast, Clotilde had received Dr. Ramond this morning in the study, and they were talking there together in an undertone, sitting besideeach other in the bright sunshine. 

It was the third visit which Ramond had made during the last week. Personal reasons, the necessity, especially, of establishing definitelyhis position as a physician at Plassans, made it expedient for him notto defer his marriage much longer: and he wished to obtain from Clotildea decisive answer. On each of his former visits the presence of a thirdperson had prevented him from speaking. As he desired to receive heranswer from herself directly he had resolved to declare himself to herin a frank conversation. Their intimate friendship, and the discretionand good sense of both, justified him in taking this step. And he ended, smiling, looking into her eyes:

"I assure you, Clotilde, that it is the most reasonable of_denouements_. You know that I have loved you for a long time. I have aprofound affection and esteem for you. That alone might perhaps not besufficient, but, in addition, we understand each other perfectly, and weshould be very happy together, I am convinced of it. "

She did not cast down her eyes; she, too, looked at him frankly, with afriendly smile. He was, in truth, very handsome, in his vigorous youngmanhood. 

"Why do you not marry Mlle. Leveque, the lawyer's daughter?" she asked. "She is prettier and richer than I am, and I know that she would gladlyaccept you. My dear friend, I fear that you are committing a folly inchoosing me. "

He did not grow impatient, seeming still convinced of the wisdom of hisdetermination. 

"But I do not love Mlle. Leveque, and I do love you. Besides, I haveconsidered everything, and I repeat that I know very well what I amabout. Say yes; you can take no better course. "

Then she grew very serious, and a shadow passed over her face, theshadow of those reflections, of those almost unconscious inwardstruggles, which kept her silent for days at a time. She did not seeclearly yet, she still struggled against herself, and she wished towait. 

"Well, my friend, since you are really serious, do not ask me to giveyou an answer to-day; grant me a few weeks longer. Master is indeed veryill. I am greatly troubled about him; and you would not like to owe myconsent to a hasty impulse. I assure you, for my part, that I have agreat deal of affection for you, but it would be wrong to decide at thismoment; the house is too unhappy. It is agreed, is it not? I will notmake you wait long. "

And to change the conversation she added:

"Yes, I am uneasy about master. I wished to see you, in order to tellyou so. The other day I surprised him weeping violently, and I amcertain the fear of becoming mad haunts him. The day before yesterday, when you were talking to him, I saw that you were examining him. Tell mefrankly, what do you think of his condition? Is he in any danger?"

"Not the slightest!" exclaimed Dr. Ramond. "His system is a little outof order, that is all. How can a man of his ability, who has made soclose a study of nervous diseases, deceive himself to such an extent? Itis discouraging, indeed, if the clearest and most vigorous minds can goso far astray. In his case his own discovery of hypodermic injectionswould be excellent. Why does he not use them with himself?"

And as the young girl replied, with a despairing gesture, that he wouldnot listen to her, that he would not even allow her to speak to him now, Ramond said:

"Well, then, I will speak to him. "

It was at this moment that Pascal came out of his room, attracted bythe sound of voices. But on seeing them both so close to each other, so animated, so youthful, and so handsome in the sunshine--clothed withsunshine, as it were--he stood still in the doorway. He looked fixedlyat them, and his pale face altered. 

Ramond had a moment before taken Clotilde's hand, and he was holding itin his. 

"It is a promise, is it not? I should like the marriage to take placethis summer. You know how much I love you, and I shall eagerly awaityour answer. "

"Very well, " she answered. "Before a month all will be settled. "

A sudden giddiness made Pascal stagger. Here now was this boy, hisfriend, his pupil, who had introduced himself into his house to rob himof his treasure! He ought to have expected this _denouement_, yet thesudden news of a possible marriage surprised him, overwhelmed him likean unforeseen catastrophe that had forever ruined his life. This girlwhom he had fashioned, whom he had believed his own, she would leavehim, then, without regret, she would leave him to die alone in hissolitude. Only the day before she had made him suffer so intensely thathe had asked himself whether he should not part from her and send her toher brother, who was always writing for her. For an instant he had evendecided on this separation, for the good of both. Yet to find her heresuddenly, with this man, to hear her promise to give him an answer, tothink that she would marry, that she would soon leave him, this stabbedhim to the heart. 

At the sound of his heavy step as he came forward, the two young peopleturned round in some embarrassment. 

"Why, master, we were just talking about you, " said Ramond gaily. "Yes, to be frank with you, we were conspiring. Come, why do you not take careof yourself? There is nothing serious the matter with you; you would beon your feet again in a fortnight if you did. "

Pascal, who had dropped into a chair, continued to look at them. He hadstill the power to control himself, and his countenance gave no evidenceof the wound which he had just received. He would assuredly die of it, and no one would suspect the malady which had carried him off. But itwas a relief to him to be able to give vent to his feelings, and hedeclared violently that he would not take even so much as a glass oftisane. 

"Take care of myself!" he cried; "what for? Is it not all over with myold carcass?"

Ramond insisted, with a good-tempered smile. 

"You are sounder than any of us. This is a trifling disturbance, andyou know that you have the remedy in your own hands. Use your hypodermicinjection. "

Pascal did not allow him to finish. This filled the measure of his rage. He angrily asked if they wished him to kill himself, as he had killedLafouasse. His injections! A pretty invention, of which he had goodreason to be proud. He abjured medicine, and he swore that he wouldnever again go near a patient. When people were no longer good foranything they ought to die; that would be the best thing for everybody. And that was what he was going to try to do, so as to have done with itall. 

"Bah! bah!" said Ramond at last, resolving to take his leave, throughfear of exciting him still further; "I will leave you with Clotilde; Iam not at all uneasy, Clotilde will take care of you. "

But Pascal had on this morning received the final blow. He took to hisbed toward evening, and remained for two whole days without openingthe door of his room. It was in vain that Clotilde, at last becomingalarmed, knocked loudly at the door. There was no answer. Martine wentin her turn and begged monsieur, through the keyhole, at least to tellher if he needed anything. A deathlike silence reigned; the room seemedto be empty. 

Then, on the morning of the third day, as the young girl by chanceturned the knob, the door yielded; perhaps it had been unlocked forhours. And she might enter freely this room in which she had never setfoot: a large room, rendered cold by its northern exposure, in which shesaw a small iron bed without curtains, a shower bath in a corner, a longblack wooden table, a few chairs, and on the table, on the floor, alongthe walls, an array of chemical apparatus, mortars, furnaces, machines, instrument cases. Pascal, up and dressed, was sitting on the edge of hisbed, in trying to arrange which he had exhausted himself. 

"Don't you want me to nurse you, then?" she asked with anxioustenderness, without venturing to advance into the room. 

"Oh, you can come in, " he said with a dejected gesture. "I won't beatyou. I have not the strength to do that now. "

And from this day on he tolerated her about him, and allowed her to waiton him. But he had caprices still. He would not let her enter the roomwhen he was in bed, possessed by a sort of morbid shame; then he madeher send him Martine. But he seldom remained in bed, dragging himselfabout from chair to chair, in his utter inability to do any kind ofwork. His malady continued to grow worse, until at last he was reducedto utter despair, tortured by sick headaches, and without the strength, as he said, to put one foot before the other, convinced every morningthat he would spend the night at the Tulettes, a raving maniac. He grewthin; his face, under its crown of white hair--which he still caredfor through a last remnant of vanity--acquired a look of suffering, of tragic beauty. And although he allowed himself to be waited on, herefused roughly all remedies, in the distrust of medicine into which hehad fallen. 

Clotilde now devoted herself to him entirely. She gave up everythingelse; at first she attended low mass, then she left off going to churchaltogether. In her impatience for some certain happiness, she felt as ifshe were taking a step toward that end by thus devoting all her momentsto the service of a beloved being whom she wished to see once more welland happy. She made a complete sacrifice of herself, she sought tofind happiness in the happiness of another; and all this unconsciously, solely at the impulse of her woman's heart, in the midst of the crisisthrough which she was still passing, and which was modifying hercharacter profoundly, without her knowledge. She remained silentregarding the disagreement which separated them. The idea did not againoccur to her to throw herself on his neck, crying that she was his, thathe might return to life, since she gave herself to him. In her thoughtsshe grieved to see him suffer; she was only an affectionate girl, who took care of him, as any female relative would have done. Andher attentions were very pure, very delicate, occupying her life socompletely that her days now passed swiftly, exempt from tormentingthoughts of the Beyond, filled with the one wish of curing him. 

But where she had a hard battle to fight was in prevailing upon himto use his hypodermic injections upon himself. He flew into a passion, disowned his discovery, and called himself an imbecile. She too criedout. It was she now who had faith in science, who grew indignant atseeing him doubt his own genius. He resisted for a long time; thenyielding to the empire which she had acquired over him, he consented, simply to avoid the affectionate dispute which she renewed with himevery morning. From the very first he experienced great relief fromthe injections, although he refused to acknowledge it. His mind becameclearer, and he gradually gained strength. Then she was exultant, filledwith enthusiastic pride in him. She vaunted his treatment, and becameindignant because he did not admire himself, as an example of themiracles which he was able to work. He smiled; he was now beginning tosee clearly into his own condition. Ramond had spoken truly, his illnesshad been nothing but nervous exhaustion. Perhaps he would get over itafter all. 

"Ah, it is you who are curing me, little girl, " he would say, notwishing to confess his hopes. "Medicines, you see, act according to thehand that gives them. "

The convalescence was slow, lasting through the whole of February. Theweather remained clear and cold; there was not a single day in whichthe study was not flooded with warm, pale sunshine. There were hoursof relapse, however, hours of the blackest melancholy, in which all thepatient's terrors returned; when his guardian, disconsolate, was obligedto sit at the other end of the room, in order not to irritate him stillmore. He despaired anew of his recovery. He became again bitter andaggressively ironical. 

It was on one of those bad days that Pascal, approaching a window, sawhis neighbor, M. Bellombre, the retired professor, making the round ofhis garden to see if his fruit trees were well covered with blossoms. The sight of the old man, so neat and so erect, with the fine placidityof the egoist, on whom illness had apparently never laid hold, suddenlyput Pascal beside himself. 

"Ah!" he growled, "there is one who will never overwork himself, whowill never endanger his health by worrying!"

And he launched forth into an ironical eulogy on selfishness. To bealone in the world, not to have a friend, to have neither wife norchild, what happiness! That hard-hearted miser, who for forty yearshad had only other people's children to cuff, who lived aloof from theworld, without even a dog, with a deaf and dumb gardener older thanhimself, was he not an example of the greatest happiness possible onearth? Without a responsibility, without a duty, without an anxiety, other than that of taking care of his dear health! He was a wise man, hewould live a hundred years. 

"Ah, the fear of life! that is cowardice which is truly the best wisdom. To think that I should ever have regretted not having a child of my own!Has any one a right to bring miserable creatures into the world? Badheredity should be ended, life should be ended. The only honest man isthat old coward there!"

M. Bellombre continued peacefully making the round of his pear trees inthe March sunshine. He did not risk a too hasty movement; he economizedhis fresh old age. If he met a stone in his path, he pushed it asidewith the end of his cane, and then walked tranquilly on. 

"Look at him! Is he not well preserved; is he not handsome? Have not allthe blessings of heaven been showered down upon him? He is the happiestman I know. "

Clotilde, who had listened in silence, suffered from the irony ofPascal, the full bitterness of which she divined. She, who usually tookM. Bellombre's part, felt a protest rise up within her. Tears came toher eyes, and she answered simply in a low voice:

"Yes; but he is not loved. "

These words put a sudden end to the painful scene. Pascal, as if he hadreceived an electric shock, turned and looked at her. A sudden rush oftenderness brought tears to his eyes also, and he left the room to keepfrom weeping. 

The days wore on in the midst of these alternations of good and badhours. He recovered his strength but slowly, and what put him in despairwas that whenever he attempted to work he was seized by a profuseperspiration. If he had persisted, he would assuredly have fainted. Solong as he did not work he felt that his convalescence was making littleprogress. He began to take an interest again, however, in his accustomedinvestigations. He read over again the last pages that he had written, and, with this reawakening of the scientist in him, his former anxietiesreturned. At one time he fell into a state of such depression, that thehouse and all it contained ceased to exist for him. He might have beenrobbed, everything he possessed might have been taken and destroyed, without his even being conscious of the disaster. Now he became againwatchful, from time to time he would feel his pocket, to assure himselfthat the key of the press was there. 

But one morning when he had overslept himself, and did not leavehis room until eleven o'clock, he saw Clotilde in the study, quietlyoccupied in copying with great exactness in pastel a branch of floweringalmond. She looked up, smiling; and taking a key that was lying besideher on the desk, she offered it to him, saying:

"Here, master. "

Surprised, not yet comprehending, he looked at the object which she heldtoward him. 

"What is that?" he asked. 

"It is the key of the press, which you must have dropped from yourpocket yesterday, and which I picked up here this morning. "

Pascal took it with extraordinary emotion. He looked at it, and then atClotilde. Was it ended, then? She would persecute him no more. She wasno longer eager to rob everything, to burn everything. And seeing herstill smiling, she also looking moved, an immense joy filled his heart. 

He caught her in his arms, crying:

"Ah, little girl, if we might only not be too unhappy!"

Then he opened a drawer of his table and threw the key into it, as heused to do formerly. 

From this time on he gained strength, and his convalescence progressedmore rapidly. Relapses were still possible, for he was still very weak. But he was able to write, and this made the days less heavy. The sun, too, shone more brightly, the study being so warm at times that itbecame necessary to half close the shutters. He refused to see visitors, barely tolerated Martine, and had his mother told that he was sleeping, when she came at long intervals to inquire for him. He was happy only inthis delightful solitude, nursed by the rebel, the enemy of yesterday, the docile pupil of to-day. They would often sit together in silencefor a long time, without feeling any constraint. They meditated, or lostthemselves in infinitely sweet reveries. 

One day, however, Pascal seemed very grave. He was now convincedthat his illness had resulted from purely accidental causes, and thatheredity had had no part in it. But this filled him none the less withhumility. 

"My God!" he murmured, "how insignificant we are! I who thought myselfso strong, who was so proud of my sane reason! And here have I barelyescaped being made insane by a little trouble and overwork!"

He was silent, and sank again into thought. After a time his eyesbrightened, he had conquered himself. And in a moment of reason andcourage, he came to a resolution. 

"If I am getting better, " he said, "it is especially for your sake thatI am glad. "

Clotilde, not understanding, looked up and said:

"How is that?"

"Yes, on account of your marriage. Now you will be able to fix the day. "

She still seemed surprised. 

"Ah, true--my marriage!"

"Shall we decide at once upon the second week in June?"

"Yes, the second week in June; that will do very well. "

They spoke no more; she fixed her eyes again on the piece of sewing onwhich she was engaged, while he, motionless, and with a grave face, satlooking into space. 

VII. 

On this day, on arriving at La Souleiade, old Mme. Rougon perceivedMartine in the kitchen garden, engaged in planting leeks; and, as shesometimes did, she went over to the servant to have a chat with her, andfind out from her how things were going on, before entering the house. 

For some time past she had been in despair about what she calledClotilde's desertion. She felt truly that she would now never obtainthe documents through her. The girl was behaving disgracefully, she wassiding with Pascal, after all she had done for her; and she was becomingperverted to such a degree that for a month past she had not been seenin Church. Thus she returned to her first idea, to get Clotilde away andwin her son over when, left alone, he should be weakened by solitude. Since she had not been able to persuade the girl to go live with herbrother, she eagerly desired the marriage. She would like to throw herinto Dr. Ramond's arms to-morrow, in her impatience at so many delays. And she had come this afternoon with a feverish desire to hurry onmatters. 

"Good-day, Martine. How is every one here?"

The servant, kneeling down, her hands full of clay, lifted up her paleface, protected against the sun by a handkerchief tied over her cap. 

"As usual, madame, pretty well. "

They went on talking, Felicite treating her as a confidante, as adevoted daughter, one of the family, to whom she could tell everything. She began by questioning her; she wished to know if Dr. Ramond had comethat morning. He had come, but they had talked only about indifferentmatters. This put her in despair, for she had seen the doctor on theprevious day, and he had unbosomed himself to her, chagrined at nothaving yet received a decisive answer, and eager now to obtain at leastClotilde's promise. Things could not go on in this way, the young girlmust be compelled to engage herself to him. 

"He has too much delicacy, " she cried. "I have told him so. I knew verywell that this morning, even, he would not venture to demand a positiveanswer. And I have come to interfere in the matter. We shall see if Icannot oblige her to come to a decision. "

Then, more calmly:

"My son is on his feet now; he does not need her. "

Martine, who was again stooping over the bed, planting her leeks, straightened herself quickly. 

"Ah, that for sure!"

And a flush passed over her face, worn by thirty years of service. For awound bled within her; for some time past the master scarcely toleratedher about him. During the whole time of his illness he had kept her ata distance, accepting her services less and less every day, and finallyclosing altogether to her the door of his room and of the workroom. She had a vague consciousness of what was taking place, an instinctivejealousy tortured her, in her adoration of the master, whose chattel shehad been satisfied to be for so many years. 

"For sure, we have no need of mademoiselle. I am quite able to take careof monsieur. "

Then she, who was so discreet, spoke of her labors in the garden, sayingthat she made time to cultivate the vegetables, so as to save a fewdays' wages of a man. True, the house was large, but when one was notafraid of work, one could manage to do all there was to be done. Andthen, when mademoiselle should have left them, that would be always oneless to wait upon. And her eyes brightened unconsciously at the thoughtof the great solitude, of the happy peace in which they should liveafter this departure. 

"It would give me pain, " she said, lowering her voice, "for it wouldcertainly give monsieur a great deal. I would never have believed thatI could be brought to wish for such a separation. Only, madame, I agreewith you that it is necessary, for I am greatly afraid that mademoisellewill end by going to ruin here, and that there will be another soullost to the good God. Ah, it is very sad; my heart is so heavy about itsometimes that it is ready to burst. "

"They are both upstairs, are they not?" said Felicite. "I will go up andsee them, and I will undertake to oblige them to end the matter. "

An hour later, when she came down again, she found Martine still onher knees on the soft earth, finishing her planting. Upstairs, from herfirst words, when she said that she had been talking with Dr. Ramond, and that he had shown himself anxious to know his fate quickly, she sawthat Dr. Pascal approved--he looked grave, he nodded his head as ifto say that this wish seemed to him very natural. Clotilde, herself, ceasing to smile, seemed to listen to him with deference. But shemanifested some surprise. Why did they press her? Master had fixed themarriage for the second week in June; she had, then, two full monthsbefore her. Very soon she would speak about it with Ramond. Marriage wasso serious a matter that they might very well give her time to reflect, and let her wait until the last moment to engage herself. And she saidall this with her air of good sense, like a person resolved on coming toa decision. And Felicite was obliged to content herself with the evidentdesire that both had that matters should have the most reasonableconclusion. 

"Indeed I believe that it is settled, " ended Felicite. "He seems toplace no obstacle in the way, and she seems only to wish not to acthastily, like a girl who desires to examine her heart closely, beforeengaging herself for life. I will give her a week more for reflection. "

Martine, sitting on her heels, was looking fixedly on the ground with aclouded face. 

"Yes, yes, " she murmured, in a low voice, "mademoiselle has beenreflecting a great deal of late. I am always meeting her in some corner. You speak to her, and she does not answer you. That is the way peopleare when they are breeding a disease, or when they have a secret ontheir mind. There is something going on; she is no longer the same, nolonger the same. "

And she took the dibble again and planted a leek, in her rage for work;while old Mme. Rougon went away, somewhat tranquillized; certain, shesaid, that the marriage would take place. 

Pascal, in effect, seemed to accept Clotilde's marriage as a thingsettled, inevitable. He had not spoken with her about it again, therare allusions which they made to it between themselves, in their hourlyconversations, left them undisturbed; and it was simply as if the twomonths which they still had to live together were to be without end, aneternity stretching beyond their view. 

She, especially, would look at him smiling, putting off to a futureday troubles and decisions with a pretty vague gesture, as if to leaveeverything to beneficent life. He, now well and gaining strength daily, grew melancholy only when he returned to the solitude of his chamberat night, after she had retired. He shuddered and turned cold at thethought that a time would come when he would be always alone. Was it thebeginning of old age that made him shiver in this way? He seemed tosee it stretching before him, like a shadowy region in which he alreadybegan to feel all his energy melting away. And then the regret of havingneither wife nor child filled him with rebelliousness, and wrung hisheart with intolerable anguish. 

Ah, why had he not lived! There were times when he cursed science, accusing it of having taken from him the best part of his manhood. He had let himself be devoured by work; work had consumed his brain, consumed his heart, consumed his flesh. All this solitary, passionatelabor had produced only books, blackened paper, that would be scatteredto the winds, whose cold leaves chilled his hands as he turned themover. And no living woman's breast to lean upon, no child's warm locksto kiss! He had lived the cold, solitary life of a selfish scientist, and he would die in cold solitude. Was he indeed going to die thus?Would he never taste the happiness enjoyed by even the common porters, by the carters who cracked their whips, passing by under his windows?But he must hasten, if he would; soon, no doubt, it would be too late. All his unemployed youth, all his pent-up desires, surged tumultuouslythrough his veins. He swore that he would yet love, that he would livea new life, that he would drain the cup of every passion that he had notyet tasted, before he should be an old man. He would knock at the doors, he would stop the passers-by, he would scour the fields and town. 

On the following day, when he had taken his shower bath and left hisroom, all his fever was calmed, the burning pictures had faded away, and he fell back into his natural timidity. Then, on the next night, thefear of solitude drove sleep away as before, his blood kindled again, and the same despair, the same rebelliousness, the same longing not todie without having known family joys returned. He suffered a great dealin this crisis. 

During these feverish nights, with eyes wide open in the darkness, hedreamed always, over and over again the same dream. A girl would comealong the road, a girl of twenty, marvelously beautiful; and she wouldenter and kneel down before him in an attitude of submissive adoration, and he would marry her. She was one of those pilgrims of love such aswe find in ancient story, who have followed a star to come and restorehealth and strength to some aged king, powerful and covered with glory. He was the aged king, and she adored him, she wrought the miracle, withher twenty years, of bestowing on him a part of her youth. In her lovehe recovered his courage and his faith in life. 

Ah, youth! he hungered fiercely for it. In his declining days thispassionate longing for youth was like a revolt against approaching age, a desperate desire to turn back, to be young again, to begin life overagain. And in this longing to begin life over again, there was not onlyregret for the vanished joys of youth, the inestimable treasure of deadhours, to which memory lent its charm; there was also the determinedwill to enjoy, now, his health and strength, to lose nothing of the joyof loving! Ah, youth! how eagerly he would taste of its every pleasure, how eagerly he would drain every cup, before his teeth should fall out, before his limbs should grow feeble, before the blood should be chilledin his veins. A pang pierced his heart when he remembered himself, aslender youth of twenty, running and leaping agilely, vigorous and hardyas a young oak, his teeth glistening, his hair black and luxuriant. Howhe would cherish them, these gifts scorned before, if a miracle couldrestore them to him!

And youthful womanhood, a young girl who might chance to pass by, disturbed him, causing him profound emotion. This was often evenaltogether apart from the individual: the image, merely, of youth, theperfume and the dazzling freshness which emanated from it, bright eyes, healthy lips, blooming cheeks, a delicate neck, above all, roundedand satin-smooth, shaded on the back with down; and youthful womanhoodalways presented itself to him tall and slight, divinely slender in itschaste nudeness. His eyes, gazing into vacancy, followed the vision, his heart was steeped in infinite longing. There was nothing good ordesirable but youth; it was the flower of the world, the only beauty, the only joy, the only true good, with health, which nature could bestowon man. Ah, to begin life over again, to be young again, to clasp in hisembrace youthful womanhood!

Pascal and Clotilde, now that the fine April days had come, covering thefruit trees with blossoms, resumed their morning walks in La Souleiade. It was the first time that he had gone out since his illness, and sheled him to the threshing yard, along the paths in the pine wood, andback again to the terrace crossed by the two bars of shadows thrown bythe secular cypresses. The sun had already warmed the old flagstonesthere, and the wide horizon stretched out under a dazzling sky. 

One morning when Clotilde had been running, she returned to the house insuch exuberant spirits and so full of pleasant excitement that she wentup to the workroom without taking off either her garden hat or the lacescarf which she had tied around her neck. 

"Oh, " she said, "I am so warm! And how stupid I am, not to have takenoff my things downstairs. I will go down again at once. "

She had thrown the scarf on a chair on entering. 

But her feverish fingers became impatient when she tried to untie thestrings of her large straw hat. 

"There, now! I have fastened the knot. I cannot undo it, and you mustcome to my assistance. "

Pascal, happy and excited too by the pleasure of the walk, rejoiced tosee her so beautiful and so merry. He went over and stood in front ofher. 

"Wait; hold up your chin. Oh, if you keep moving like that, how do yousuppose I can do it?"

She laughed aloud. He could see the laughter swelling her throat, likea wave of sound. His fingers became entangled under her chin, thatdelicious part of the throat whose warm satin he involuntarily touched. She had on a gown cut sloping in the neck, and through the opening heinhaled all the living perfume of the woman, the pure fragrance of heryouth, warmed by the sunshine. All at once a vertigo seized him and hethought he was going to faint. 

"No, no! I cannot do it, " he said, "unless you keep still!"

The blood throbbed in his temples, and his fingers trembled, while sheleaned further back, unconsciously offering the temptation of her freshgirlish beauty. It was the vision of royal youth, the bright eyes, the healthy lips, the blooming cheeks, above all, the delicate neck, satin-smooth and round, shaded on the back by down. And she seemedto him so delicately graceful, with her slender throat, in her divinebloom!

"There, it is done!" she cried. 

Without knowing how, he had untied the strings. The room whirled round, and then he saw her again, bareheaded now, with her starlike face, shaking back her golden curls laughingly. Then he was seized with a fearthat he would catch her in his arms and press mad kisses on her bareneck, and arms, and throat. And he fled from the room, taking with himthe hat, which he had kept in his hand, saying:

"I will hang it in the hall. Wait for me; I want to speak to Martine. "

Once downstairs, he hurried to the abandoned room and locked himselfinto it, trembling lest she should become uneasy and come down hereto seek him. He looked wild and haggard, as if he had just committeda crime. He spoke aloud, and he trembled as he gave utterance for thefirst time to the cry that he had always loved her madly, passionately. Yes, ever since she had grown into womanhood he had adored her. Andhe saw her clearly before him, as if a curtain had been suddenly tornaside, as she was when, from an awkward girl, she became a charming andlovely creature, with her long tapering limbs, her strong slender body, with its round throat, round neck, and round and supple arms. And it wasmonstrous, but it was true--he hungered for all this with a devouringhunger, for this youth, this fresh, blooming, fragrant flesh. 

Then Pascal, dropping into a rickety chair, hid his face in his hands, as if to shut out the light of day, and burst into great sobs. Good God!what was to become of him? A girl whom his brother had confided tohim, whom he had brought up like a good father, and who was now--thistemptress of twenty-five--a woman in her supreme omnipotence! He felthimself more defenseless, weaker than a child. 

And above this physical desire, he loved her also with an immensetenderness, enamored of her moral and intellectual being, of herright-mindedness, of her fine intelligence, so fearless and so clear. Even their discord, the disquietude about spiritual things by which shewas tortured, made her only all the more precious to him, as if shewere a being different from himself, in whom he found a little of theinfinity of things. She pleased him in her rebellions, when she held herground against him, --she was his companion and pupil; he saw her suchas he had made her, with her great heart, her passionate frankness, her triumphant reason. And she was always present with him; he didnot believe that he could exist where she was not; he had need of herbreath; of the flutter of her skirts near him; of her thoughtfulness andaffection, by which he felt himself constantly surrounded; of her looks;of her smile; of her whole daily woman's life, which she had given him, which she would not have the cruelty to take back from him again. At thethought that she was going away, that she would not be always here, itseemed to him as if the heavens were about to fall and crush him; as ifthe end of all things had come; as if he were about to be plunged inicy darkness. She alone existed in the world, she alone was lofty andvirtuous, intelligent and beautiful, with a miraculous beauty. Why, then, since he adored her and since he was her master, did he not goupstairs and take her in his arms and kiss her like an idol? They wereboth free, she was ignorant of nothing, she was a woman in age. Thiswould be happiness. 

Pascal, who had ceased to weep, rose, and would have walked to the door. But suddenly he dropped again into his chair, bursting into a freshpassion of sobs. No, no, it was abominable, it could not be! He felt onhis head the frost of his white hair; and he had a horror of his age, of his fifty-nine years, when he thought of her twenty-five years. Hisformer chill fear again took possession of him, the certainty thatshe had subjugated him, that he would be powerless against the dailytemptation. And he saw her giving him the strings of her hat to untie;compelling him to lean over her to make some correction in her work; andhe saw himself, too, blind, mad, devouring her neck with ardent kisses. His indignation against himself at this was so great that he arose, now courageously, and had the strength to go upstairs to the workroom, determined to conquer himself. 

Upstairs Clotilde had tranquilly resumed her drawing. She did not evenlook around at his entrance, but contented herself with saying:

"How long you have been! I was beginning to think that Martine must havemade a mistake of at least ten sous in her accounts. "

This customary jest about the servant's miserliness made him laugh. And he went and sat down quietly at his table. They did not speak againuntil breakfast time. A great sweetness bathed him and calmed him, nowthat he was near her. He ventured to look at her, and he was touched byher delicate profile, by her serious, womanly air of application. Hadhe been the prey of a nightmare, downstairs, then? Would he be able toconquer himself so easily?

"Ah!" he cried, when Martine called them, "how hungry I am! You shallsee how I am going to make new muscle!"

She went over to him, and took him by the arm, saying:

"That's right, master; you must be gay and strong!"

But that night, when he was in his own room, the agony began again. Atthe thought of losing her he was obliged to bury his face in the pillowto stifle his cries. He pictured her to himself in the arms of another, and all the tortures of jealousy racked his soul. Never could he findthe courage to consent to such a sacrifice. All sorts of plans claspedtogether in his seething brain; he would turn her from the marriage, andkeep her with him, without ever allowing her to suspect his passion;he would take her away, and they would go from city to city, occupying their minds with endless studies, in order to keep up theircompanionship as master and pupil; or even, if it should be necessary, he would send her to her brother to nurse him, he would lose her foreverrather than give her to a husband. And at each of these resolutions hefelt his heart, torn asunder, cry out with anguish in the imperiousneed of possessing her entirely. He was no longer satisfied with herpresence, he wished to keep her for himself, with himself, as sheappeared to him in her radiant beauty, in the darkness of his chamber, with her unbound hair falling around her. 

His arms clasped the empty air, and he sprang out of bed, staggeringlike a drunken man; and it was only in the darkness and silence of theworkroom that he awoke from this sudden fit of madness. Where, then, was he going, great God? To knock at the door of this sleeping child?to break it in, perhaps, with a blow of his shoulder? The soft, purerespiration, which he fancied he heard like a sacred wind in the midstof the profound silence, struck him on the face and turned him back. Andhe returned to his room and threw himself on his bed, in a passion ofshame and wild despair. 

On the following day when he arose, Pascal, worn out by want of sleep, had come to a decision. He took his daily shower bath, and he felthimself stronger and saner. The resolution to which he had come was tocompel Clotilde to give her word. When she should have formally promisedto marry Ramond, it seemed to him that this final solution would calmhim, would forbid his indulging in any false hopes. This would be abarrier the more, an insurmountable barrier between her and him. Hewould be from that moment armed against his desire, and if he stillsuffered, it would be suffering only, without the horrible fear ofbecoming a dishonorable man. 

On this morning, when he told the young girl that she ought to delayno longer, that she owed a decisive answer to the worthy fellow who hadbeen awaiting it so long, she seemed at first astonished. She lookedstraight into his eyes, but he had sufficient command over himself notto show confusion; he insisted merely, with a slightly grieved air, asif it distressed him to have to say these things to her. Finally, shesmiled faintly and turned her head aside, saying:

"Then, master, you wish me to leave you?"

"My dear, " he answered evasively, "I assure you that this is becomingridiculous. Ramond will have the right to be angry. "

She went over to her desk, to arrange some papers which were on it. Then, after a moment's silence, she said:

"It is odd; now you are siding with grandmother and Martine. They, too, are persecuting me to end this matter. I thought I had a few days more. But, in truth, if you all three urge me--"

She did not finish, and he did not press her to explain herself moreclearly. 

"When do you wish me to tell Ramond to come, then?"

"Why, he may come whenever he wishes; it does not displease me to seehim. But don't trouble yourself. I will let him know that we will expecthim one of these afternoons. "

On the following day the same scene began over again. Clotilde had takenno step yet, and Pascal was now angry. He suffered martyrdom; he hadcrises of anguish and rebelliousness when she was not present to calmhim by her smiling freshness. And he insisted, in emphatic language, that she should behave seriously and not trifle any longer with anhonorable man who loved her. 

"The devil! Since the thing is decided, let us be done with it. I warnyou that I will send word to Ramond, and that he will be here to-morrowat three o'clock. "

She listened in silence, her eyes fixed on the ground. Neither seemedto wish to touch upon the question as to whether the marriage had reallybeen decided on or not, and they took the standpoint that there had beena previous decision, which was irrevocable. When she looked up again hetrembled, for he felt a breath pass by; he thought she was on the pointof saying that she had questioned herself, and that she refused thismarriage. What would he have done, what would have become of him, goodGod! Already he was filled with an immense joy and a wild terror. Butshe looked at him with the discreet and affectionate smile which nevernow left her lips, and she answered with a submissive air:

"As you please, master. Send him word to be here to-morrow at threeo'clock. "

Pascal spent so dreadful a night that he rose late, saying, as anexcuse, that he had one of his old headaches. He found relief only underthe icy deluge of the shower bath. At ten o'clock he left the house, saying he would go himself to see Ramond; but he had another objectin going out--he had seen at a show in Plassans a corsage of old pointd'Alencon; a marvel of beauty which lay there awaiting some lover'sgenerous folly, and the thought had come to him in the midst of thetortures of the night, to make a present of it to Clotilde, to adorn herwedding gown. This bitter idea of himself adorning her, of making herbeautiful and fair for the gift of herself, touched his heart, exhaustedby sacrifice. She knew the corsage, she had admired it with him one daywonderingly, wishing for it only to place it on the shoulders of theVirgin at St. Saturnin, an antique Virgin adored by the faithful. Theshopkeeper gave it to him in a little box which he could conceal, and which he hid, on his return to the house, in the bottom of hiswriting-desk. 

At three o'clock Dr. Ramond presented himself, and he found Pascal andClotilde in the parlor, where they had been awaiting him with secretexcitement and a somewhat forced gaiety, avoiding any further allusionto his visit. They received him smilingly with exaggerated cordiality. 

"Why, you are perfectly well again, master!" said the young man. "Younever looked so strong. "

Pascal shook his head. 

"Oh, oh, strong, perhaps! only the heart is no longer here. "

This involuntary avowal made Clotilde start, and she looked from one tothe other, as if, by the force of circumstances, she compared them witheach other--Ramond, with his smiling and superb face--the face of thehandsome physician adored by the women--his luxuriant black hair andbeard, in all the splendor of his young manhood; and Pascal, with hiswhite hair and his white beard. This fleece of snow, still so abundant, retained the tragic beauty of the six months of torture that he hadjust passed through. His sorrowful face had aged a little, only his eyesremained still youthful; brown eyes, brilliant and limpid. But at thismoment all his features expressed so much gentleness, such exaltedgoodness, that Clotilde ended by letting her gaze rest upon him withprofound tenderness. There was silence for a moment and each heartthrilled. 

"Well, my children, " resumed Pascal heroically, "I think you havesomething to say to each other. I have something to do, too, downstairs. I will come up again presently. "

And he left the room, smiling back at them. 

And soon as they were alone, Clotilde went frankly straight over toRamond, with both hands outstretched. Taking his hands in hers, she heldthem as she spoke. 

"Listen, my dear friend; I am going to give you a great grief. You mustnot be too angry with me, for I assure you that I have a very profoundfriendship for you. "

He understood at once, and he turned very pale. 

"Clotilde give me no answer now, I beg of you; take more time, if youwish to reflect further. "

"It is useless, my dear friend, my decision is made. "

She looked at him with her fine, loyal look. She had not released hishands, in order that he might know that she was not excited, and thatshe was his friend. And it was he who resumed, in a low voice:

"Then you say no?"

"I say no, and I assure you that it pains me greatly to say it. Ask menothing; you will no doubt know later on. "

He sat down, crushed by the emotion which he repressed like a strong andself-contained man, whose mental balance the greatest sufferings cannotdisturb. Never before had any grief agitated him like this. He remainedmute, while she, standing, continued:

"And above all, my friend, do not believe that I have played thecoquette with you. If I have allowed you to hope, if I have made youwait so long for my answer, it was because I did not in very truth seeclearly myself. You cannot imagine through what a crisis I have justpassed--a veritable tempest of emotions, surrounded by darkness from outof which I have but just found my way. "

He spoke at last. 

"Since it is your wish, I will ask you nothing. Besides, it issufficient for you to answer one question. You do not love me, Clotilde?"

She did not hesitate, but said gravely, with an emotion which softenedthe frankness of her answer:

"It is true, I do not love you; I have only a very sincere affection foryou. "

He rose, and stopped by a gesture the kind words which she would haveadded. 

"It is ended; let us never speak of it again. I wished you to be happy. Do not grieve for me. At this moment I feel as if the house had justfallen about me in ruins. But I must only extricate myself as best Ican. "

A wave of color passed over his pale face, he gasped for air, he crossedover to the window, then he walked back with a heavy step, seekingto recover his self-possession. He drew a long breath. In the painfulsilence which had fallen they heard Pascal coming upstairs noisily, toannounce his return. 

"I entreat you, " murmured Clotilde hurriedly, "to say nothing to master. He does not know my decision, and I wish to break it to him myself, forhe was bent upon this marriage. "

Pascal stood still in the doorway. He was trembling and breathless, asif he had come upstairs too quickly. He still found strength to smile atthem, saying:

"Well, children, have you come to an understanding?"

"Yes, undoubtedly, " responded Ramond, as agitated as himself. 

"Then it is all settled?"

"Quite, " said Clotilde, who had been seized by a faintness. 

Pascal walked over to his work-table, supporting himself by thefurniture, and dropped into the chair beside it. 

"Ah, ah! you see the legs are not so strong after all. It is this oldcarcass of a body. But the heart is strong. And I am very happy, mychildren, your happiness will make me well again. "

But when Ramond, after a few minutes' further conversation, had goneaway, he seemed troubled at finding himself alone with the young girl, and he again asked her:

"It is settled, quite settled; you swear it to me?"

"Entirely settled. "

After this he did not speak again. He nodded his head, as if to repeatthat he was delighted; that nothing could be better; that at last theywere all going to live in peace. He closed his eyes, feigning todrop asleep, as he sometimes did in the afternoon. But his heart beatviolently, and his closely shut eyelids held back the tears. 

That evening, at about ten o'clock, when Clotilde went downstairs for amoment to give an order to Martine before she should have gone to bed, Pascal profited by the opportunity of being left alone, to go and laythe little box containing the lace corsage on the young girl's bed. Shecame upstairs again, wished him the accustomed good-night, and he hadbeen for at least twenty minutes in his own room, and was already in hisshirt sleeves, when a burst of gaiety sounded outside his door. A littlehand tapped, and a fresh voice cried, laughing:

"Come, come and look!"

He opened the door, unable to resist this appeal of youth, conquered byhis joy. 

"Oh, come, come and see what a beautiful little bird has put on my bed!"

And she drew him to her room, taking no refusal. She had lighted the twocandles in it, and the antique, pleasant chamber, with its hangings offaded rose color, seemed transformed into a chapel; and on the bed, likea sacred cloth offered to the adoration of the faithful, she had spreadthe corsage of old point d'Alencon. 

"You would not believe it! Imagine, I did not see the box at first. Iset things in order a little, as I do every evening. I undressed, andit was only when I was getting into bed that I noticed your present. Ah, what a surprise! I was overwhelmed by it! I felt that I could never waitfor the morning, and I put on a skirt and ran to look for you. "

It was not until then that he perceived that she was only half dressed, as on the night of the storm, when he had surprised her stealing hispapers. And she seemed divine, with her tall, girlish form, her taperinglimbs, her supple arms, her slender body, with its small, firm throat. 

She took his hands and pressed them caressingly in her little ones. 

"How good you are; how I thank you! Such a marvel of beauty, so lovelya present for me, who am nobody! And you remember that I had admiredit, this antique relic of art. I said to you that only the Virgin of St. Saturnin was worthy of wearing it on her shoulders. I am so happy!oh, so happy! For it is true, I love beautiful things; I love them sopassionately that at times I wish for impossibilities, gowns woven ofsunbeams, impalpable veils made of the blue of heaven. How beautiful Iam going to look! how beautiful I am going to look!"

Radiant in her ecstatic gratitude, she drew close to him, still lookingat the corsage, and compelling him to admire it with her. Then a suddencuriosity seized her. 

"But why did you make me this royal present?"

Ever since she had come to seek him in her joyful excitement, Pascalhad been walking in a dream. He was moved to tears by this affectionategratitude; he stood there, not feeling the terror which he had dreaded, but seeming, on the contrary, to be filled with joy, as at the approachof a great and miraculous happiness. This chamber, which he neverentered, had the religious sweetness of holy places that satisfy alllongings for the unattainable. 

His countenance, however, expressed surprise. And he answered:

"Why, this present, my dear, is for your wedding gown. "

She, in her turn, looked for a moment surprised as if she had notunderstood him. Then, with the sweet and singular smile which she hadworn of late she said gayly:

"Ah, true, my marriage!"

Then she grew serious again, and said:

"Then you want to get rid of me? It was in order to have me here nolonger that you were so bent upon marrying me. Do you still think meyour enemy, then?"

He felt his tortures return, and he looked away from her, wishing toretain his courage. 

"My enemy, yes. Are you not so? We have suffered so much through eachother these last days. It is better in truth that we should separate. And then I do not know what your thoughts are; you have never given methe answer I have been waiting for. "

She tried in vain to catch his glance, which he still kept turned away. She began to talk of the terrible night on which they had gone togetherthrough the papers. It was true, in the shock which her whole being hadsuffered, she had not yet told him whether she was with him or againsthim. He had a right to demand an answer. 

She again took his hands in hers, and forced him to look at her. 

"And it is because I am your enemy that you are sending me away? I amnot your enemy. I am your servant, your chattel, your property. Do youhear? I am with you and for you, for you alone!"

His face grew radiant; an intense joy shone within his eyes. 

"Yes, I will wear this lace. It is for my wedding day, for I wish to bebeautiful, very beautiful for you. But do you not understand me, then?You are my master; it is you I love. "

"No, no! be silent; you will make me mad! You are betrothed to another. You have given your word. All this madness is happily impossible. "

"The other! I have compared him with you, and I have chosen you. I havedismissed him. He has gone away, and he will never return. There areonly we two now, and it is you I love, and you love me. I know it, and Igive myself to you. "

He trembled violently. He had ceased to struggle, vanquished by thelonging of eternal love. 

The spacious chamber, with its antique furniture, warmed by youth, wasas if filled with light. There was no longer either fear or suffering;they were free. She gave herself to him knowingly, willingly, and heaccepted the supreme gift like a priceless treasure which the strengthof his love had won. Suddenly she murmured in his ear, in a caressingvoice, lingering tenderly on the words:

"Master, oh, master, master!"

And this word, which she used formerly as a matter of habit, at thishour acquired a profound significance, lengthening out and prolongingitself, as if it expressed the gift of her whole being. She utteredit with grateful fervor, like a woman who accepts, and who surrendersherself. Was not the mystic vanquished, the real acknowledged, lifeglorified with love at last confessed and shared. 

"Master, master, this comes from far back. I must tell you; I must makemy confession. It is true that I went to church in order to be happy. But I could not believe. I wished to understand too much; my reasonrebelled against their dogmas; their paradise appeared to me anincredible puerility. But I believed that the world does not stop atsensation; that there is a whole unknown world, which must be takeninto account; and this, master, I believe still. It is the idea of theBeyond, which not even happiness, found at last upon your neck, willefface. But this longing for happiness, this longing to be happy atonce, to have some certainty--how I have suffered from it. If I went tochurch, it was because I missed something, and I went there to seek it. My anguish consisted in this irresistible need to satisfy my longing. You remember what you used to call my eternal thirst for illusion andfalsehood. One night, in the threshing yard, under the great starrysky, do you remember? I burst out against your science, I was indignantbecause of the ruins with which it strews the earth, I turned my eyesaway from the dreadful wounds which it exposes. And I wished, master, to take you to a solitude where we might both live in God, far from theworld, forgotten by it. Ah, what torture, to long, to struggle, and notto be satisfied!"

Softly, without speaking, he kissed her on both eyes. 

"Then, master, do you remember again, there was the great moral shock onthe night of the storm, when you gave me that terrible lesson of life, emptying out your envelopes before me. You had said to me already: 'Knowlife, love it, live it as it ought to be lived. ' But what a vast, whata frightful flood, rolling ever onward toward a human sea, swelling itunceasingly for the unknown future! And, master, the silent work withinme began then. There was born, in my heart and in my flesh, the bitterstrength of the real. At first I was as if crushed, the blow was sorude. I could not recover myself. I kept silent, because I did not knowclearly what to say. Then, gradually, the evolution was effected. Istill had struggles, I still rebelled against confessing my defeat. Butevery day after this the truth grew clearer within me, I knew well thatyou were my master, and that there was no happiness for me outside ofyou, of your science and your goodness. You were life itself, broad andtolerant life; saying all, accepting all, solely through the love ofenergy and effort, believing in the work of the world, placing themeaning of destiny in the labor which we all accomplish with love, inour desperate eagerness to live, to love, to live anew, to live always, in spite of all the abominations and miseries of life. Oh, to live, tolive! This is the great task, the work that always goes on, and thatwill doubtless one day be completed!"

Silent still, he smiled radiantly, and kissed her on the mouth. 

"And, master, though I have always loved you, even from my earliestyouth, it was, I believe, on that terrible night that you marked me for, and made me your own. You remember how you crushed me in your grasp. Itleft a bruise, and a few drops of blood on my shoulder. Then your beingentered, as it were into mine. We struggled; you were the stronger, andfrom that time I have felt the need of a support. At first I thoughtmyself humiliated; then I saw that it was but an infinitely sweetsubmission. I always felt your power within me. A gesture of your handin the distance thrilled me as though it had touched me. I would havewished that you had seized me again in your grasp, that you had crushedme in it, until my being had mingled with yours forever. And I wasnot blind; I knew well that your wish was the same as mine, that theviolence which had made me yours had made you mine; that you struggledwith yourself not to seize me and hold me as I passed by you. To nurseyou when you were ill was some slight satisfaction. From that time, light began to break upon me, and I at last understood. I went no moreto church, I began to be happy near you, you had become certainty andhappiness. Do you remember that I cried to you, in the threshing yard, that something was wanting in our affection. There was a void in itwhich I longed to fill. What could be wanting to us unless it were God?And it was God--love, and life. "

VIII. 

Then came a period of idyllic happiness. Clotilde was the spring, thetardy rejuvenation that came to Pascal in his declining years. She came, bringing to him, with her love, sunshine and flowers. Their rapturelifted them above the earth; and all this youth she bestowed on himafter his thirty years of toil, when he was already weary and wornprobing the frightful wounds of humanity. He revived in the light of hergreat shining eyes, in the fragrance of her pure breath. He had faithagain in life, in health, in strength, in the eternal renewal of nature. 

On the morning after her avowal it was ten o'clock before Clotilde lefther room. In the middle of the workroom she suddenly came upon Martineand, in her radiant happiness, with a burst of joy that carriedeverything before it, she rushed toward her, crying:

"Martine, I am not going away! Master and I--we love each other. "

The old servant staggered under the blow. Her poor worn face, nunlikeunder its white cap and with its look of renunciation, grew white in thekeenness of her anguish. Without a word, she turned and fled for refugeto her kitchen, where, leaning her elbows on her chopping-table, andburying her face in her clasped hands, she burst into a passion of sobs. 

Clotilde, grieved and uneasy, followed her. And she tried to comprehendand to console her. 

"Come, come, how foolish you are! What possesses you? Master and I willlove you all the same; we will always keep you with us. You are notgoing to be unhappy because we love each other. On the contrary, thehouse is going to be gay now from morning till night. "

But Martine only sobbed all the more desperately. 

"Answer me, at least. Tell me why you are angry and why you cry. Doesit not please you then to know that master is so happy, so happy! See, Iwill call master and he will make you answer. "

At this threat the old servant suddenly rose and rushed into her ownroom, which opened out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. Invain the young girl called and knocked until she was tired; shecould obtain no answer. At last Pascal, attracted by the noise, camedownstairs, saying:

"Why, what is the matter?"

"Oh, it is that obstinate Martine! Only fancy, she began to cry when sheknew that we loved each other. And she has barricaded herself in there, and she will not stir. "

She did not stir, in fact. Pascal, in his turn, called and knocked. Hescolded; he entreated. Then, one after the other, they began all overagain. Still there was no answer. A deathlike silence reigned inthe little room. And he pictured it to himself, this little room, religiously clean, with its walnut bureau, and its monastic bedfurnished with white hangings. No doubt the servant had thrown herselfacross this bed, in which she had slept alone all her woman's life, andwas burying her face in the bolster to stifle her sobs. 

"Ah, so much the worse for her?" said Clotilde at last, in the egotismof her joy, "let her sulk!"

Then throwing her arms around Pascal, and raising to his her charmingface, still glowing with the ardor of self-surrender, she said:

"Master, I will be your servant to-day. "

He kissed her on the eyes with grateful emotion; and she at once setabout preparing the breakfast, turning the kitchen upside down. Shehad put on an enormous white apron, and she looked charming, with hersleeves rolled up, showing her delicate arms, as if for some greatundertaking. There chanced to be some cutlets in the kitchen which shecooked to a turn. She added some scrambled eggs, and she even succeededin frying some potatoes. And they had a delicious breakfast, twentytimes interrupted by her getting up in her eager zeal, to run for thebread, the water, a forgotten fork. If he had allowed her, she wouldhave waited upon him on her knees. Ah! to be alone, to be only they twoin this large friendly house, and to be free to laugh and to love eachother in peace. 

They spent the whole afternoon in sweeping and putting things in order. He insisted upon helping her. It was a play; they amused themselves liketwo merry children. From time to time, however, they went back to knockat Martine's door to remonstrate with her. Come, this was foolish, shewas not going to let herself starve! Was there ever seen such a mule, when no one had said or done anything to her! But only the echo of theirknocks came back mournfully from the silent room. Not the slightestsound, not a breath responded. Night fell, and they were obliged to makethe dinner also, which they ate, sitting beside each other, from thesame plate. Before going to bed, they made a last attempt, threateningto break open the door, but their ears, glued to the wood, could notcatch the slightest sound. And on the following day, when they wentdownstairs and found the door still hermetically closed, they began tobe seriously uneasy. For twenty-four hours the servant had given no signof life. 

Then, on returning to the kitchen after a moment's absence, Clotilde andPascal were stupefied to see Martine sitting at her table, picking somesorrel for the breakfast. She had silently resumed her place as servant. 

"But what was the matter with you?" cried Clotilde. "Will you speaknow?"

She lifted up her sad face, stained by tears. It was very calm, however, and it expressed now only the resigned melancholy of old age. She lookedat the young girl with an air of infinite reproach; then she bent herhead again without speaking. 

"Are you angry with us, then?"

And as she still remained silent, Pascal interposed:

"Are you angry with us, my good Martine?"

Then the old servant looked up at him with her former look of adoration, as if she loved him sufficiently to endure all and to remain in spite ofall. At last she spoke. 

"No, I am angry with no one. The master is free. It is all right, if heis satisfied. "

A new life began from this time. Clotilde, who in spite of hertwenty-five years had still remained childlike, now, under the influenceof love, suddenly bloomed into exquisite womanhood. Since her heart hadawakened, the serious and intelligent boy that she had looked like, with her round head covered with its short curls, had given place to anadorable woman, altogether womanly, submissive and tender, loving to beloved. Her great charm, notwithstanding her learning picked up at randomfrom her reading and her work, was her virginal _naivete_, as if herunconscious awaiting of love had made her reserve the gift of her wholebeing to be utterly absorbed in the man whom she should love. No doubtshe had given her love as much through gratitude and admiration asthrough tenderness; happy to make him happy; experiencing a profound joyin being no longer only a little girl to be petted, but something of hisvery own which he adored, a precious possession, a thing of grace andjoy, which he worshiped on bended knees. She still had the religioussubmissiveness of the former devotee, in the hands of a master matureand strong, from whom she derived consolation and support, retaining, above and beyond affection, the sacred awe of the believer in thespiritual which she still was. But more than all, this woman, sointoxicated with love, was a delightful personification of health andgaiety; eating with a hearty appetite; having something of the valorof her grandfather the soldier; filling the house with her swift andgraceful movements, with the bloom of her satin skin, the slender graceof her neck, of all her young form, divinely fresh. 

And Pascal, too, had grown handsome again under the influence oflove, with the serene beauty of a man who had retained his vigor, notwithstanding his white hairs. His countenance had no longer thesorrowful expression which it had worn during the months of grief andsuffering through which he had lately passed; his eyes, youthful still, had recovered their brightness, his features their smiling grace; whilehis white hair and beard grew thicker, in a leonine abundance whichlent him a youthful air. He had kept himself, in his solitary life as apassionate worker, so free from vice and dissipation that he found nowwithin him a reserve of life and vigor eager to expend itself at last. There awoke within him new energy, a youthful impetuosity that brokeforth in gestures and exclamations, in a continual need of expansion, ofliving. Everything wore a new and enchanting aspect to him; the smallestglimpse of sky moved him to wonder; the perfume of a simple flower threwhim into an ecstasy; an everyday expression of affection, worn by use, touched him to tears, as if it had sprung fresh from the heart and hadnot been hackneyed by millions of lips. Clotilde's "I love you, " wasan infinite caress, whose celestial sweetness no human being had everbefore known. And with health and beauty he recovered also his gaiety, that tranquil gaiety which had formerly been inspired by his love oflife, and which now threw sunshine over his love, over everything thatmade life worth living. 

They two, blooming youth and vigorous maturity, so healthy, so gay, so happy, made a radiant couple. For a whole month they remained inseclusion, not once leaving La Souleiade. The place where both now likedto be was the spacious workroom, so intimately associated with theirhabits and their past affection. They would spend whole days there, scarcely working at all, however. The large carved oak press remainedwith closed doors; so, too, did the bookcases. Books and papers layundisturbed upon the tables. Like a young married couple they wereabsorbed in their one passion, oblivious of their former occupations, oblivious of life. The hours seemed all too short to enjoy the charm ofbeing together, often seated in the same large antique easy-chair, happyin the depths of this solitude in which they secluded themselves, inthe tranquillity of this lofty room, in this domain which was altogethertheirs, without luxury and without order, full of familiar objects, brightened from morning till night by the returning gaiety of the Aprilsunshine. When, seized with remorse, he would talk about working, shewould link her supple arms through his and laughingly hold him prisoner, so that he should not make himself ill again with overwork. Anddownstairs, they loved, too, the dining-room, so gay with its lightpanels relieved by blue bands, its antique mahogany furniture, its largeflower pastels, its brass hanging lamp, always shining. They ate in itwith a hearty appetite and they left it, after each meal, only to goupstairs again to their dear solitude. 

Then when the house seemed too small, they had the garden, all LaSouleiade. Spring advanced with the advancing sun, and at the end ofApril the roses were beginning to bloom. And what a joy was this domain, walled around, where nothing from the outside world could troublethem! Hours flew by unnoted, as they sat on the terrace facing thevast horizon and the shady banks of the Viorne, and the slopes ofSainte-Marthe, from the rocky bars of the Seille to the valley ofPlassans in the dusty distance. There was no shade on the terrace butthat of the two secular cypresses planted at its two extremities, liketwo enormous green tapers, which could be seen three leagues away. Attimes they descended the slope for the pleasure of ascending the giantsteps, and climbing the low walls of uncemented stones which supportedthe plantations, to see if the stunted olive trees and the puny almondswere budding. More often there were delightful walks under the delicateneedles of the pine wood, steeped in sunshine and exhaling a strong odorof resin; endless walks along the wall of inclosure, from behind whichthe only sound they could hear was, at rare intervals, the grating noiseof some cart jolting along the narrow road to Les Fenouilleres; and theyspent delightful hours in the old threshing yard, where they could seethe whole horizon, and where they loved to stretch themselves, tenderlyremembering their former tears, when, loving each other unconsciouslyto themselves, they had quarreled under the stars. But their favoriteretreat, where they always ended by losing themselves, was the quincunxof tall plane trees, whose branches, now of a tender green, looked likelacework. Below, the enormous box trees, the old borders of the Frenchgarden, of which now scarcely a trace remained, formed a sort oflabyrinth of which they could never find the end. And the slender streamof the fountain, with its eternal crystalline murmur, seemed to singwithin their hearts. They would sit hand in hand beside the mossy basin, while the twilight fell around them, their forms gradually fading intothe shadow of the trees, while the water which they could no longer see, sang its flutelike song. 

Up to the middle of May Pascal and Clotilde secluded themselves in thisway, without even crossing the threshold of their retreat. One morninghe disappeared and returned an hour later, bringing her a pair ofdiamond earrings which he had hurried out to buy, remembering this washer birthday. She adored jewels, and the gift astonished and delightedher. From this time not a week passed in which he did not go out once ortwice in this way to bring her back some present. The slightest excusewas sufficient for him--a _fete_, a wish, a simple pleasure. He broughther rings, bracelets, a necklace, a slender diadem. He would take outthe other jewels and please himself by putting them all upon her inthe midst of their laughter. She was like an idol, seated on her chair, covered with gold, --a band of gold on her hair, gold on her bare armsand on her bare throat, all shining with gold and precious stones. Herwoman's vanity was delightfully gratified by this. She allowed herselfto be adored thus, to be adored on bended knees, like a divinity, knowing well that this was only an exalted form of love. She began atlast to scold a little, however; to make prudent remonstrances; for, intruth, it was an absurdity to bring her all these gifts which she mustafterward shut up in a drawer, without ever wearing them, as she wentnowhere. 

They were forgotten after the hour of joy and gratitude which they gaveher in their novelty was over. But he would not listen to her, carriedaway by a veritable mania for giving; unable, from the moment the ideaof giving her an article took possession of him, to resist the desireof buying it. It was a munificence of the heart; an imperious desire toprove to her that he thought of her always; a pride in seeing her themost magnificent, the happiest, the most envied of women; a generositymore profound even, which impelled him to despoil himself of everything, of his money, of his life. And then, what a delight, when he saw he hadgiven her a real pleasure, and she threw herself on his neck, blushing, thanking him with kisses. After the jewels, it was gowns, articles ofdress, toilet articles. Her room was littered, the drawers were filledto overflowing. 

One morning she could not help getting angry. He had brought her anotherring. 

"Why, I never wear them! And if I did, my fingers would be covered tothe tips. Be reasonable, I beg of you. "

"Then I have not given you pleasure?" he said with confusion. 

She threw her arms about his neck, and assured him with tears in hereyes that she was very happy. He was so good to her! He was so unweariedin his devotion to her! And when, later in the morning, he ventured tospeak of making some changes in her room, of covering the walls withtapestry, of putting down a carpet, she again remonstrated. 

"Oh! no, no! I beg of you. Do not touch my old room, so full ofmemories, where I have grown up, where I told you I loved you. I shouldno longer feel myself at home in it. "

Downstairs, Martine's obstinate silence condemned still more stronglythese excessive and useless expenses. She had adopted a less familiarattitude, as if, in the new situation, she had fallen from her roleof housekeeper and friend to her former station of servant. TowardClotilde, especially, she changed, treating her like a young lady, likea mistress to whom she was less affectionate but more obedient thanformerly. Two or three times, however, she had appeared in the morningwith her face discolored and her eyes sunken with weeping, answeringevasively when questioned, saying that nothing was the matter, that shehad taken cold. And she never made any remark about the gifts with whichthe drawers were filled. She did not even seem to see them, arrangingthem without a word either of praise or dispraise. But her whole naturerebelled against this extravagant generosity, of which she could neverhave conceived the possibility. She protested in her own fashion;exaggerating her economy and reducing still further the expenses ofthe housekeeping, which she now conducted on so narrow a scale that sheretrenched even in the smallest expenses. For instance, she took onlytwo-thirds of the milk which she had been in the habit of taking, andshe served sweet dishes only on Sundays. Pascal and Clotilde, withoutventuring to complain, laughed between themselves at this parsimony, repeating the jests which had amused them for ten years past, sayingthat after dressing the vegetables she strained them in the colander, inorder to save the butter for future use. 

But this quarter she insisted upon rendering an account. She was in thehabit of going every three months to Master Grandguillot, the notary, to receive the fifteen hundred francs income, of which she disposedafterward according to her judgment, entering the expenses in a bookwhich the doctor had years ago ceased to verify. She brought it to himnow and insisted upon his looking over it. He excused himself, sayingthat it was all right. 

"The thing is, monsieur, " she said, "that this time I have been able toput some money aside. Yes, three hundred francs. Here they are. "

He looked at her in amazement. Generally she just made both ends meet. By what miracle of stinginess had she been able to save such a sum?

"Ah! my poor Martine, " he said at last, laughing, "that is the reason, then, that we have been eating so many potatoes of late. You are a pearlof economy, but indeed you must treat us a little better in the future. "

This discreet reproach wounded her so profoundly that she allowedherself at last to say:

"Well, monsieur, when there is so much extravagance on the one hand, itis well to be prudent on the other. "

He understood the allusion, but instead of being angry, he was amused bythe lesson. 

"Ah, ah! it is you who are examining my accounts! But you know verywell, Martine, that I, too, have my savings laid by. "

He alluded to the money which he still received occasionally from hispatients, and which he threw into a drawer of his writing-desk. For morethan sixteen years past he had put into this drawer every year aboutfour thousand francs, which would have amounted to a little fortuneif he had not taken from it, from day to day, without counting them, considerable sums for his experiments and his whims. All the money forthe presents came out of this drawer, which he now opened continually. He thought that it would never be empty; he had been so accustomed totake from it whatever he required that it had never occurred to him tofear that he would ever come to the bottom of it. 

"One may very well have a little enjoyment out of one's savings, " hesaid gayly. "Since it is you who go to the notary's, Martine, you arenot ignorant that I have my income apart. "

Then she said, with the colorless voice of the miser who is haunted bythe dread of an impending disaster:

"And what would you do if you hadn't it?"

Pascal looked at her in astonishment, and contented himself withanswering with a shrug, for the possibility of such a misfortune hadnever even entered his mind. He fancied that avarice was turning herbrain, and he laughed over the incident that evening with Clotilde. 

In Plassans, too, the presents were the cause of endless gossip. Therumor of what was going on at La Souleiade, this strange and suddenpassion, had spread, no one could tell how, by that force of expansionwhich sustains curiosity, always on the alert in small towns. Theservant certainly had not spoken, but her air was perhaps sufficient;words perhaps had dropped from her involuntarily; the lovers might havebeen watched over the walls. And then came the buying of the presents, confirming the reports and exaggerating them. When the doctor, in theearly morning, scoured the streets and visited the jeweler's and thedressmaker's, eyes spied him from the windows, his smallest purchaseswere watched, all the town knew in the evening that he had given her asilk bonnet, a bracelet set with sapphires. And all this was turned intoa scandal. This uncle in love with his niece, committing a young man'sfollies for her, adorning her like a holy Virgin. The most extraordinarystories began to circulate, and people pointed to La Souleiade as theypassed by. 

But old Mme. Rougon was, of all persons, the most bitterly indignant. She had ceased going to her son's house when she learned that Clotilde'smarriage with Dr. Ramond had been broken off. They had made sport ofher. They did nothing to please her, and she wished to show how deep herdispleasure was. Then a full month after the rupture, during which shehad understood nothing of the pitying looks, the discreet condolences, the vague smiles which met her everywhere, she learned everything with asuddenness that stunned her. She, who, at the time of Pascal's illness, in her mortification at the idea of again becoming the talk of the townthrough that ugly story, had raised such a storm! It was far worsethis time; the height of scandal, a love affair for people to regalethemselves with. The Rougon legend was again in peril; her unhappy sonwas decidedly doing his best to find some way to destroy the familyglory won with so much difficulty. So that in her anger she, who hadmade herself the guardian of this glory, resolving to purify the legendby every means in her power, put on her hat one morning and hurried toLa Souleiade with the youthful vivacity of her eighty years. 

Pascal, whom the rupture with his mother enchanted, was fortunatelynot at home, having gone out an hour before to look for a silver bucklewhich he had thought of for a belt. And Felicite fell upon Clotildeas the latter was finishing her toilet, her arms bare, her hair loose, looking as fresh and smiling as a rose. 

The first shock was rude. The old lady unburdened her mind, grewindignant, spoke of the scandal they were giving. Suddenly her angervanished. She looked at the young girl, and she thought her adorable. Inher heart she was not surprised at what was going on. She laughed at it, all she desired was that it should end in a correct fashion, so as tosilence evil tongues. And she cried with a conciliating air:

"Get married then! Why do you not get married?"

Clotilde remained silent for a moment, surprised. She had not thought ofmarriage. Then she smiled again. 

"No doubt we will get married, grandmother. But later on, there is nohurry. "

Old Mme. Rougon went away, obliged to be satisfied with this vaguepromise. 

It was at this time that Pascal and Clotilde ceased to secludethemselves. Not through any spirit of bravado, not because they wishedto answer ugly rumors by making a display of their happiness, but as anatural amplification of their joy; their love had slowly acquired theneed of expansion and of space, at first beyond the house, then beyondthe garden, into the town, as far as the whole vast horizon. It filledeverything; it took in the whole world. 

The doctor then tranquilly resumed his visits, and he took the younggirl with him. They walked together along the promenades, along thestreets, she on his arm, in a light gown, with flowers in her hat, hebuttoned up in his coat with his broad-brimmed hat. He was all white;she all blond. They walked with their heads high, erect and smiling, radiating such happiness that they seemed to walk in a halo. At firstthe excitement was extraordinary. The shopkeepers came and stood attheir doors, the women leaned out of the windows, the passers-by stoppedto look after them. People whispered and laughed and pointed to them. Then they were so handsome; he superb and triumphant, she so youthful, so submissive, and so proud, that an involuntary indulgence graduallygained on every one. People could not help defending them and lovingthem, and they ended by smiling on them in a delightful contagion oftenderness. A charm emanated from them which brought back all hearts tothem. The new town, with its _bourgeois_ population of functionariesand townspeople who had grown wealthy, was the last conquest. But theQuartier St. Marc, in spite of its austerity, showed itself at once kindand discreetly tolerant when they walked along its deserted grass-wornsidewalks, beside the antique houses, now closed and silent, whichexhaled the evaporated perfume of the loves of other days. But it wasthe old quarter, more especially, that promptly received them withcordiality, this quarter of which the common people, instinctivelytouched, felt the grace of the legend, the profound myth of the couple, the beautiful young girl supporting the royal and rejuvenated master. The doctor was adored here for his goodness, and his companion quicklybecame popular, and was greeted with tokens of admiration and approvalas soon as she appeared. They, meantime, if they had seemed ignorantof the former hostility, now divined easily the forgiveness and theindulgent tenderness which surrounded them, and this made them morebeautiful; their happiness charmed the entire town. 

One afternoon, as Pascal and Clotilde turned the corner of the Rue de laBanne, they perceived Dr. Ramond on the opposite side of the street. Ithad chanced that they had learned the day before that he had asked andhad obtained the hand of Mlle. Leveque, the advocate's daughter. It wascertainly the most sensible course he could have taken, for his businessinterests made it advisable that he should marry, and the young girl, who was very pretty and very rich, loved him. He, too, would certainlylove her in time. Therefore Clotilde joyfully smiled her congratulationsto him as a sincere friend. Pascal saluted him with an affectionategesture. For a moment Ramond, a little moved by the meeting, stoodperplexed. His first impulse seemed to have been to cross over to them. But a feeling of delicacy must have prevented him, the thought that itwould be brutal to interrupt their dream, to break in upon this solitude_a deux_, in which they moved, even amid the elbowings of the street. And he contented himself with a friendly salutation, a smile in which heforgave them their happiness. This was very pleasant for all three. 

At this time Clotilde amused herself for several days by paintinga large pastel representing the tender scene of old King David andAbishag, the young Shunammite. It was a dream picture, one of thosefantastic compositions into which her other self, her romantic self, puther love of the mysterious. Against a background of flowers thrown onthe canvas, flowers that looked like a shower of stars, of barbaricrichness, the old king stood facing the spectator, his hand resting onthe bare shoulder of Abishag. He was attired sumptuously in a robe heavywith precious stones, that fell in straight folds, and he wore the royalfillet on his snowy locks. But she was more sumptuous still, with onlythe lilylike satin of her skin, her tall, slender figure, her round, slender throat, her supple arms, divinely graceful. He reigned over, heleaned, as a powerful and beloved master, on this subject, chosen fromamong all others, so proud of having been chosen, so rejoiced to give toher king the rejuvenating gift of her youth. All her pure and triumphantbeauty expressed the serenity of her submission, the tranquillity withwhich she gave herself, before the assembled people, in the full lightof day. And he was very great and she was very fair, and there radiatedfrom both a starry radiance. 

Up to the last moment Clotilde had left the faces of the two figuresvaguely outlined in a sort of mist. Pascal, standing behind her, jestedwith her to hide his emotion, for he fancied he divined her intention. And it was as he thought; she finished the faces with a few strokes ofthe crayon--old King David was he, and she was Abishag, the Shunammite. But they were enveloped in a dreamlike brightness, it was themselvesdeified; the one with hair all white, the other with hair all blond, covering them like an imperial mantle, with features lengthened byecstasy, exalted to the bliss of angels, with the glance and the smileof immortal youth. 

"Ah, dear!" he cried, "you have made us too beautiful; you have wanderedoff again to dreamland--yes, as in the days, do you remember, when Iused to scold you for putting there all the fantastic flowers of theUnknown?"

And he pointed to the walls, on which bloomed the fantastic _parterre_of the old pastels, flowers not of the earth, grown in the soil ofparadise. 

But she protested gayly. 

"Too beautiful? We could not be too beautiful! I assure you it is thusthat I picture us to myself, thus that I see us; and thus it is that weare. There! see if it is not the pure reality. "

She took the old fifteenth century Bible which was beside her, andshowed him the simple wood engraving. 

"You see it is exactly the same. "

He smiled gently at this tranquil and extraordinary affirmation. 

"Oh, you laugh, you look only at the details of the picture. It isthe spirit which it is necessary to penetrate. And look at the otherengravings, it is the same theme in all--Abraham and Hagar, Ruth andBoaz. And you see they are all handsome and happy. "

Then they ceased to laugh, leaning over the old Bible whose pages sheturned with her white fingers, he standing behind her, his white beardmingling with her blond, youthful tresses. 

Suddenly he whispered to her softly:

"But you, so young, do you never regret that you have chosen me--me, whoam so old, as old as the world?"

She gave a start of surprise, and turning round looked at him. 

"You old! No, you are young, younger than I!"

And she laughed so joyously that he, too, could not help smiling. But heinsisted a little tremulously:

"You do not answer me. Do you not sometimes desire a younger lover, youwho are so youthful?"

She put up her lips and kissed him, saying in a low voice:

"I have but one desire, to be loved--loved as you love me, above andbeyond everything. "

The day on which Martine saw the pastel nailed to the wall, she lookedat it a moment in silence, then she made the sign of the cross, butwhether it was because she had seen God or the devil, no one couldsay. A few days before Easter she had asked Clotilde if she wouldnot accompany her to church, and the latter having made a sign in thenegative, she departed for an instant from the deferential silence whichshe now habitually maintained. Of all the new things whichastonished her in the house, what most astonished her was the suddenirreligiousness of her young mistress. So she allowed herself to resumeher former tone of remonstrance, and to scold her as she used to do whenshe was a little girl and refused to say her prayers. "Had she no longerthe fear of the Lord before her, then? Did she no longer tremble at theidea of going to hell, to burn there forever?"

Clotilde could not suppress a smile. 

"Oh, hell! you know that it has never troubled me a great deal. But youare mistaken if you think I am no longer religious. If I have left offgoing to church it is because I perform my devotions elsewhere, that isall. "

Martine looked at her, open-mouthed, not comprehending her. It was allover; mademoiselle was indeed lost. And she never again asked her toaccompany her to St. Saturnin. But her own devotion increased until itat last became a mania. She was no longer to be met, as before, with theeternal stocking in her hand which she knitted even when walking, whennot occupied in her household duties. Whenever she had a moment tospare, she ran to church and remained there, repeating endless prayers. One day when old Mme. Rougon, always on the alert, found her behind apillar, an hour after she had seen her there before, Martine excusedherself, blushing like a servant who had been caught idling, saying:

"I was praying for monsieur. "

Meanwhile Pascal and Clotilde enlarged still more their domain, takinglonger and longer walks every day, extending them now outside thetown into the open country. One afternoon, as they were going to LaSeguiranne, they were deeply moved, passing by the melancholy fieldswhere the enchanted gardens of Le Paradou had formerly extended. Thevision of Albine rose before them. Pascal saw her again blooming likethe spring, in the rejuvenation which this living flower had broughthim too, feeling the pressure of this pure arm against his heart. Nevercould he have believed, he who had already thought himself very old whenhe used to enter this garden to give a smile to the little fairy within, that she would have been dead for years when life, the good mother, should bestow upon him the gift of so fresh a spring, sweetening hisdeclining years. And Clotilde, having felt the vision rise before them, lifted up her face to his in a renewed longing for tenderness. She wasAlbine, the eternal lover. He kissed her on the lips, and though no wordhad been uttered, the level fields sown with corn and oats, where LeParadou had once rolled its billows of luxuriant verdure, thrilled insympathy. 

Pascal and Clotilde were now walking along the dusty road, through thebare and arid country. They loved this sun-scorched land, these fieldsthinly planted with puny almond trees and dwarf olives, these stretchesof bare hills dotted with country houses, that showed on them like palepatches accentuated by the dark bars of the secular cypresses. It waslike an antique landscape, one of those classic landscapes representedin the paintings of the old schools, with harsh coloring and wellbalanced and majestic lines. All the ardent sunshine of successivesummers that had parched this land flowed through their veins, and lentthem a new beauty and animation, as they walked under the sky foreverblue, glowing with the clear flame of eternal love. She, protected fromthe sun by her straw hat, bloomed and luxuriated in this bath of lightlike a tropical flower, while he, in his renewed youth, felt the burningsap of the soil ascend into his veins in a flood of virile joy. 

This walk to La Seguiranne had been an idea of the doctor's, who hadlearned through Aunt Dieudonne of the approaching marriage of Sophie toa young miller of the neighborhood; and he desired to see if everyone was well and happy in this retired corner. All at once they wererefreshed by a delightful coolness as they entered the avenue of tallgreen oaks. On either side the springs, the mothers of these giant shadetrees, flowed on in their eternal course. And when they reached thehouse of the shrew they came, as chance would have it, upon the twolovers, Sophie and her miller, kissing each other beside the well; forthe girl's aunt had just gone down to the lavatory behind the willowsof the Viorne. Confused, the couple stood in blushing silence. But thedoctor and his companion laughed indulgently, and the lovers, reassured, told them that the marriage was set for St. John's Day, which was a longway off, to be sure, but which would come all the same. Sophie, savedfrom the hereditary malady, had improved in health and beauty, and wasgrowing as strong as one of the trees that stood with their feet in themoist grass beside the springs, and their heads bare to the sunshine. Ah, the vast, glowing sky, what life it breathed into all createdthings! She had but one grief, and tears came to her eyes when she spokeof her brother Valentin, who perhaps would not live through the week. She had had news of him the day before; he was past hope. And the doctorwas obliged to prevaricate a little to console her, for he himselfexpected hourly the inevitable termination. When he and his companionleft La Seguiranne they returned slowly to Plassans, touched by thishappy, healthy love saddened by the chill of death. 

In the old quarter a woman whom Pascal was attending informed him thatValentin had just died. Two of the neighbors were obliged to take awayLa Guiraude, who, half-crazed, clung, shrieking, to her son's body. Thedoctor entered the house, leaving Clotilde outside. At last, they againtook their way to La Souleiade in silence. Since Pascal had resumedhis visits he seemed to make them only through professional duty; he nolonger became enthusiastic about the miracles wrought by his treatment. But as far as Valentin's death was concerned, he was surprised thatit had not occurred before; he was convinced that he had prolongedthe patient's life for at least a year. In spite of the extraordinaryresults which he had obtained at first, he knew well that death was theinevitable end. That he had held it in check for months ought then tohave consoled him and soothed his remorse, still unassuaged, for havinginvoluntarily caused the death of Lafouasse, a few weeks sooner than itwould otherwise have occurred. But this did not seem to be the case, and his brow was knitted in a frown as they returned to their belovedsolitude. But there a new emotion awaited him; sitting under the planetrees, whither Martine had sent him, he saw Sarteur, the hatter, the inmate of the Tulettes whom he had been so long treating by hishypodermic injections, and the experiment so zealously continued seemedto have succeeded. The injections of nerve substance had evidently givenstrength to his will, since the madman was here, having left the asylumthat morning, declaring that he no longer had any attacks, that he wasentirely cured of the homicidal mania that impelled him to throw himselfupon any passer-by to strangle him. The doctor looked at him as hespoke. He was a small dark man, with a retreating forehead and aquilinefeatures, with one cheek perceptibly larger than the other. He wasperfectly quiet and rational, and filled with so lively a gratitude thathe kissed his saviour's hands. The doctor could not help being greatlyaffected by all this, and he dismissed the man kindly, advising him toreturn to his life of labor, which was the best hygiene, physical andmoral. Then he recovered his calmness and sat down to table, talkinggaily of other matters. 

Clotilde looked at him with astonishment and even with a littleindignation. 

"What is the matter, master?" she said. "You are no longer satisfiedwith yourself. "

"Oh, with myself I am never satisfied!" he answered jestingly. "And withmedicine, you know--it is according to the day. "

It was on this night that they had their first quarrel. She was angrywith him because he no longer had any pride in his profession. Shereturned to her complaint of the afternoon, reproaching him for nottaking more credit to himself for the cure of Sarteur, and even for theprolongation of Valentin's life. It was she who now had a passion forhis fame. She reminded him of his cures; had he not cured himself? Couldhe deny the efficacy of his treatment? A thrill ran through him ashe recalled the great dream which he had once cherished--to combatdebility, the sole cause of disease; to cure suffering humanity; to makea higher, and healthy humanity; to hasten the coming of happiness, thefuture kingdom of perfection and felicity, by intervening and givinghealth to all! And he possessed the liquor of life, the universalpanacea which opened up this immense hope!

Pascal was silent for a moment. Then he murmured:

"It is true. I cured myself, I have cured others, and I still think thatmy injections are efficacious in many cases. I do not deny medicine. Remorse for a deplorable accident, like that of Lafouasse, does notrender me unjust. Besides, work has been my passion, it is in work thatI have up to this time spent my energies; it was in wishing to prove tomyself the possibility of making decrepit humanity one day strong andintelligent that I came near dying lately. Yes, a dream, a beautifuldream!"

"No, no! a reality, the reality of your genius, master. "

Then, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, he breathed thisconfession:

"Listen, I am going to say to you what I would say to no one else inthe world, what I would not say to myself aloud. To correct nature, tointerfere, in order to modify it and thwart it in its purpose, is thisa laudable task? To cure the individual, to retard his death, for hispersonal pleasure, to prolong his existence, doubtless to the injury ofthe species, is not this to defeat the aims of nature? And have we theright to desire a stronger, a healthier humanity, modeled after our ideaof health and strength? What have we to do in the matter? Why should weinterfere in this work of life, neither the means nor the end of whichare known to us? Perhaps everything is as it ought to be. Perhaps weshould risk killing love, genius, life itself. Remember, I make theconfession to you alone; but doubt has taken possession of me, I trembleat the thought of my twentieth century alchemy. I have come to believethat it is greater and wiser to allow evolution to take its course. "

He paused; then he added so softly that she could scarcely hear him:

"Do you know that instead of nerve-substance I often use only water withmy patients. You no longer hear me grinding for days at a time. I toldyou that I had some of the liquor in reserve. Water soothes them, this is no doubt simply a mechanical effect. Ah! to soothe, to preventsuffering--that indeed I still desire! It is perhaps my greatestweakness, but I cannot bear to see any one suffer. Suffering puts mebeside myself, it seems a monstrous and useless cruelty of nature. Ipractise now only to prevent suffering. "

"Then, master, " she asked, in the same indistinct murmur, "if you nolonger desire to cure, do you still think everything must be told? Forthe frightful necessity of displaying the wounds of humanity had noother excuse than the hope of curing them. "

"Yes, yes, it is necessary to know, in every case, and to concealnothing; to tell everything regarding things and individuals. Happinessis no longer possible in ignorance; certainty alone makes life tranquil. When people know more they will doubtless accept everything. Do you notcomprehend that to desire to cure everything, to regenerate everythingis a false ambition inspired by our egotism, a revolt against life, which we declare to be bad, because we judge it from the point of viewof self-interest? I know that I am more tranquil, that my intellect hasbroadened and deepened ever since I have held evolution in respect. Itis my love of life which triumphs, even to the extent of not questioningits purpose, to the extent of confiding absolutely in it, of losingmyself in it, without wishing to remake it according to my ownconception of good and evil. Life alone is sovereign, life alone knowsits aim and its end. I can only try to know it in order to live it as itshould be lived. And this I have understood only since I have possessedyour love. Before I possessed it I sought the truth elsewhere, Istruggled with the fixed idea of saving the world. You have come, andlife is full; the world is saved every hour by love, by the immense andincessant labor of all that live and love throughout space. Impeccablelife, omnipotent life, immortal life!"

They continued to talk together in low tones for some time longer, planning an idyllic life, a calm and healthful existence in the country. It was in this simple prescription of an invigorating environment thatthe experiments of the physician ended. He exclaimed against cities. People could be well and happy only in the country, in the sunshine, onthe condition of renouncing money, ambition, even the proud excesses ofintellectual labor. They should do nothing but live and love, cultivatethe soil, and bring up their children. 

IX. 

Dr. Pascal then resumed his professional visits in the town and thesurrounding country. And he was generally accompanied by Clotilde, who went with him into the houses of the poor, where she, too, broughthealth and cheerfulness. 

But, as he had one night confessed to her in secret, his visits were nowonly visits of relief and consolation. If he had before practised withrepugnance it was because he had felt how vain was medical science. Empiricism disheartened him. From the moment that medicine ceased to bean experimental science and became an art, he was filled with disquietat the thought of the infinite variety of diseases and of theirremedies, according to the constitution of the patient. Treatmentchanged with every new hypothesis; how many people, then, must themethods now abandoned have killed! The perspicacity of the physicianbecame everything, the healer was only a happily endowed diviner, himself groping in the dark and effecting cures through his fortunateendowment. And this explained why he had given up his patients almostaltogether, after a dozen years of practise, to devote himself entirelyto study. Then, when his great labors on heredity had restored to himfor a time the hope of intervening and curing disease by his hypodermicinjections, he had become again enthusiastic, until the day when hisfaith in life, after having impelled him, to aid its action in this way, by restoring the vital forces, became still broader and gave him thehigher conviction that life was self-sufficing, that it was the onlygiver of health and strength, in spite of everything. And he continuedto visit, with his tranquil smile, only those of his patients whoclamored for him loudly, and who found themselves miraculously relievedwhen he injected into them only pure water. 

Clotilde now sometimes allowed herself to jest about these hypodermicinjections. She was still at heart, however, a fervent worshiper of hisskill; and she said jestingly that if he performed miracles as he did itwas because he had in himself the godlike power to do so. Then he wouldreply jestingly, attributing to her the efficacy of their common visits, saying that he cured no one now when she was absent, that it was shewho brought the breath of life, the unknown and necessary force from theBeyond. So that the rich people, the _bourgeois_, whose houses she didnot enter, continued to groan without his being able to relieve them. And this affectionate dispute diverted them; they set out each time asif for new discoveries, they exchanged glances of kindly intelligencewith the sick. Ah, this wretched suffering which revolted them, andwhich was now all they went to combat; how happy they were when theythought it vanquished! They were divinely recompensed when they saw thecold sweats disappear, the moaning lips become stilled, the deathlikefaces recover animation. It was assuredly the love which they brought tothis humble, suffering humanity that produced the alleviation. 

"To die is nothing; that is in the natural order of things, " Pascalwould often say. "But why suffer? It is cruel and unnecessary!"

One afternoon the doctor was going with the young girl to the littlevillage of Sainte-Marthe to see a patient, and at the station, for theywere going by train, so as to spare Bonhomme, they had a reencounter. The train which they were waiting for was from the Tulettes. Sainte-Marthe was the first station in the opposite direction, going toMarseilles. When the train arrived, they hurried on board and, openingthe door of a compartment which they thought empty, they saw old Mme. Rougon about to leave it. She did not speak to them, but passing themby, sprang down quickly in spite of her age, and walked away with astiff and haughty air. 

"It is the 1st of July, " said Clotilde when the train had started. "Grandmother is returning from the Tulettes, after making her monthlyvisit to Aunt Dide. Did you see the glance she cast at me?"

Pascal was at heart glad of the quarrel with his mother, which freed himfrom the continual annoyance of her visits. 

"Bah!" he said simply, "when people cannot agree it is better for themnot to see each other. "

But the young girl remained troubled and thoughtful. After a few momentsshe said in an undertone:

"I thought her changed--looking paler. And did you notice? she who isusually so carefully dressed had only one glove on--a yellow glove, onthe right hand. I don't know why it was, but she made me feel sick atheart. "

Pascal, who was also disturbed, made a vague gesture. His mother wouldno doubt grow old at last, like everybody else. But she was very active, very full of fire still. She was thinking, he said, of bequeathingher fortune to the town of Plassans, to build a house of refuge, whichshould bear the name of Rougon. Both had recovered their gaiety when hecried suddenly:

"Why, it is to-morrow that you and I are to go to the Tulettes to seeour patients. And you know that I promised to take Charles to UncleMacquart's. "

Felicite was in fact returning from the Tulettes, where she wentregularly on the first of every month to inquire after Aunt Dide. Formany years past she had taken a keen interest in the madwoman's health, amazed to see her lasting so long, and furious with her for persistingin living so far beyond the common term of life, until she had become avery prodigy of longevity. What a relief, the fine morning on whichthey should put under ground this troublesome witness of the past, thisspecter of expiation and of waiting, who brought living before her theabominations of the family! When so many others had been taken she, whowas demented and who had only a spark of life left in her eyes, seemedforgotten. On this day she had found her as usual, skeleton-like, stiffand erect in her armchair. As the keeper said, there was now no reasonwhy she should ever die. She was a hundred and five years old. 

When she left the asylum Felicite was furious. She thought of UncleMacquart. Another who troubled her, who persisted in living withexasperating obstinacy! Although he was only eighty-four years old, three years older than herself, she thought him ridiculously aged, pastthe allotted term of life. And a man who led so dissipated a life, whohad gone to bed dead drunk every night for the last sixty years!The good and the sober were taken away; he flourished in spite ofeverything, blooming with health and gaiety. In days past, just afterhe had settled at the Tulettes, she had made him presents of wines, liqueurs and brandy, in the unavowed hope of ridding the family of afellow who was really disreputable, and from whom they had nothing toexpect but annoyance and shame. But she had soon perceived that all thisliquor served, on the contrary, to keep up his health and spirits andhis sarcastic humor, and she had left off making him presents, seeingthat he throve on what she had hoped would prove a poison to him. Shehad cherished a deadly hatred toward him since then. She would havekilled him if she had dared, every time she saw him, standing firmly onhis drunken legs, and laughing at her to her face, knowing well that shewas watching for his death, and triumphant because he did not give herthe pleasure of burying with him all the old dirty linen of the family, the blood and mud of the two conquests of Plassans. 

"You see, Felicite, " he would often say to her with his air of wickedmockery, "I am here to take care of the old mother, and the day onwhich we both make up our minds to die it would be through complimentto you--yes, simply to spare you the trouble of running to see us sogood-naturedly, in this way, every month. "

Generally she did not now give herself the disappointment of going toMacquart's, but inquired for him at the asylum. But on this occasion, having learned there that he was passing through an extraordinary attackof drunkenness, not having drawn a sober breath for a fortnight, andso intoxicated that he was probably unable to leave the house, she wasseized with the curiosity to learn for herself what his condition reallywas. And as she was going back to the station, she went out of her wayin order to stop at Macquart's house. 

The day was superb--a warm and brilliant summer day. On either side ofthe path which she had taken, she saw the fields that she had given himin former days--all this fertile land, the price of his secrecy and hisgood behavior. Before her appeared the house, with its pink tiles andits bright yellow walls, looking gay in the sunshine. Under the ancientmulberry trees on the terrace she enjoyed the delightful coolness andthe beautiful view. What a pleasant and safe retreat, what a happysolitude was this for an old man to end in joy and peace a long andwell-spent life!

But she did not see him, she did not hear him. The silence was profound. The only sound to be heard was the humming of the bees circling aroundthe tall marshmallows. And on the terrace there was nothing to be seenbut a little yellow dog, stretched at full length on the bare ground, seeking the coolness of the shade. He raised his head growling, about tobark, but, recognizing the visitor, he lay down again quietly. 

Then, in this peaceful and sunny solitude she was seized with a strangechill, and she called:

"Macquart! Macquart!"

The door of the house under the mulberry trees stood wide open. But shedid not dare to go in; this empty house with its wide open door gave hera vague uneasiness. And she called again:

"Macquart! Macquart!"

Not a sound, not a breath. Profound silence reigned again, but thehumming of the bees circling around the tall marshmallows sounded louderthan before. 

At last Felicite, ashamed of her fears, summoned courage to enter. Thedoor on the left of the hall, opening into the kitchen, where UncleMacquart generally sat, was closed. She pushed it open, but she coulddistinguish nothing at first, as the blinds had been closed, probablyin order to shut out the heat. Her first sensation was one of choking, caused by an overpowering odor of alcohol which filled the room; everyarticle of furniture seemed to exude this odor, the whole house wasimpregnated with it. At last, when her eyes had become accustomed to thesemi-obscurity, she perceived Macquart. He was seated at the table, on which were a glass and a bottle of spirits of thirty-six degrees, completely empty. Settled in his chair, he was sleeping profoundly, deaddrunk. This spectacle revived her anger and contempt. 

"Come, Macquart, " she cried, "is it not vile and senseless to put one'sself in such a state! Wake up, I say, this is shameful!"

His sleep was so profound that she could not even hear him breathing. Invain she raised her voice, and slapped him smartly on the hands. 

"Macquart! Macquart! Macquart! Ah, faugh! You are disgusting, my dear!"

Then she left him, troubling herself no further about him, and walkedaround the room, evidently seeking something. Coming down the dusky roadfrom the asylum she had been seized with a consuming thirst, and shewished to get a glass of water. Her gloves embarrassed her, and she tookthem off and put them on a corner of the table. Then she succeeded infinding the jug, and she washed a glass and filled it to the brim, andwas about to empty it when she saw an extraordinary sight--a sight whichagitated her so greatly that she set the glass down again beside hergloves, without drinking. 

By degrees she had begun to see objects more clearly in the room, whichwas lighted dimly by a few stray sunbeams that filtered through thecracks of the old shutters. She now saw Uncle Macquart distinctly, neatly dressed in a blue cloth suit, as usual, and on his head theeternal fur cap which he wore from one year's end to the other. He hadgrown stout during the last five or six years, and he looked like averitable mountain of flesh overlaid with rolls of fat. And she noticedthat he must have fallen asleep while smoking, for his pipe--a shortblack pipe--had fallen into his lap. Then she stood still, stupefiedwith amazement--the burning tobacco had been scattered in the fall, andthe cloth of the trousers had caught fire, and through a hole in thestuff, as large already as a hundred-sous piece, she saw the bare thigh, whence issued a little blue flame. 

At first Felicite had thought that it was linen--the drawers or theshirt--that was burning. But soon doubt was no longer possible, she sawdistinctly the bare flesh and the little blue flame issuing from it, lightly dancing, like a flame wandering over the surface of a vessel oflighted alcohol. It was as yet scarcely higher than the flame of a nightlight, pale and soft, and so unstable that the slightest breath of aircaused it to change its place. But it increased and spread rapidly, andthe skin cracked and the fat began to melt. 

An involuntary cry escaped from Felicite's throat. 

"Macquart! Macquart!"

But still he did not stir. His insensibility must have been complete;intoxication must have produced a sort of coma, in which there was anabsolute paralysis of sensation, for he was living, his breast could beseen rising and falling, in slow and even respiration. 

"Macquart! Macquart!"

Now the fat was running through the cracks of the skin, feeding theflame, which was invading the abdomen. And Felicite comprehended vaguelythat Uncle Macquart was burning before her like a sponge soaked withbrandy. He had, indeed, been saturated with it for years past, andof the strongest and most inflammable kind. He would no doubt soon beblazing from head to foot, like a bowl of punch. 

Then she ceased to try to awaken him, since he was sleeping so soundly. For a full minute she had the courage to look at him, awe-stricken, but gradually coming to a determination. Her hands, however, beganto tremble, with a little shiver which she could not control. She waschoking, and taking up the glass of water again with both hands, sheemptied it at a draught. And she was going away on tiptoe, when sheremembered her gloves. She went back, groped for them anxiously on thetable and, as she thought, picked them both up. Then she left the room, closing the door behind her carefully, and as gently as if she wereafraid of disturbing some one. 

When she found herself once more on the terrace, in the cheerfulsunshine and the pure air, in face of the vast horizon bathed in light, she heaved a sigh of relief. The country was deserted; no one could haveseen her entering or leaving the house. Only the yellow dog was stillstretched there, and he did not even deign to look up. And she wentaway with her quick, short step, her youthful figure lightly swaying. Ahundred steps away, an irresistible impulse compelled her to turn roundto give a last look at the house, so tranquil and so cheerful on thehillside, in the declining light of the beautiful day. 

Only when she was in the train and went to put on her gloves did sheperceive that one of them was missing. But she supposed that it hadfallen on the platform at the station as she was getting into the car. She believed herself to be quite calm, but she remained with one handgloved and one hand bare, which, with her, could only be the result ofgreat agitation. 

On the following day Pascal and Clotilde took the three o'clock train togo to the Tulettes. The mother of Charles, the harness-maker's wife, had brought the boy to them, as they had offered to take him to UncleMacquart's, where he was to remain for the rest of the week. Freshquarrels had disturbed the peace of the household, the husband havingresolved to tolerate no longer in his house another man's child, thatdo-nothing, imbecile prince's son. As it was Grandmother Rougon who haddressed him, he was, indeed, dressed on this day, again, in black velvettrimmed with gold braid, like a young lord, a page of former times goingto court. And during the quarter of an hour which the journey lasted, Clotilde amused herself in the compartment, in which they were alone, by taking off his cap and smoothing his beautiful blond locks, hisroyal hair that fell in curls over his shoulders. She had a ring on herfinger, and as she passed her hand over his neck she was startled toperceive that her caress had left behind it a trace of blood. Onecould not touch the boy's skin without the red dew exuding from it;the tissues had become so lax through extreme degeneration that theslightest scratch brought on a hemorrhage. The doctor became at onceuneasy, and asked him if he still bled at the nose as frequently asformerly. Charles hardly knew what to answer; first saying no, then, recollecting himself, he said that he had bled a great deal the otherday. He seemed, indeed, weaker; he grew more childish as he grew older;his intelligence, which had never developed, had become clouded. Thistall boy of fifteen, so beautiful, so girlish-looking, with the color ofa flower that had grown in the shade, did not look ten. 

At the Tulettes Pascal decided that they would first take the boy toUncle Macquart's. They ascended the steep road. In the distance thelittle house looked gay in the sunshine, as it had looked on the daybefore, with its yellow walls and its green mulberry trees extendingtheir twisted branches and covering the terrace with a thick, leafyroof. A delightful sense of peace pervaded this solitary spot, thissage's retreat, where the only sound to be heard was the humming of thebees, circling round the tall marshmallows. 

"Ah, that rascal of an uncle!" said Pascal, smiling, "how I envy him!"

But he was surprised not to have already seen him standing at the edgeof the terrace. And as Charles had run off dragging Clotilde with him tosee the rabbits, as he said, the doctor continued the ascent alone, andwas astonished when he reached the top to see no one. The blinds wereclosed, the hill door yawned wide open. Only the yellow dog was at thethreshold, his legs stiff, his hair bristling, howling with a low andcontinuous moan. When he saw the visitor, whom he no doubt recognized, approaching, he stopped howling for an instant and went and stoodfurther off, then he began again to whine softly. 

Pascal, filled with apprehension, could not keep back the uneasy crythat rose to his lips:

"Macquart! Macquart!"

No one answered; a deathlike silence reigned over the house, with itsdoor yawning wide open, like the mouth of a cavern. The dog continued tohowl. 

Then Pascal grew impatient, and cried more loudly. 

"Macquart! Macquart!"

There was not a stir; the bees hummed, the sky looked down serenely onthe peaceful scene. Then he hesitated no longer. Perhaps Macquart wasasleep. But the instant he pushed open the door of the kitchen on theleft of the hall, a horrible odor escaped from it, an odor of burnedflesh and bones. When he entered the room he could hardly breathe, sofilled was it by a thick vapor, a stagnant and nauseous cloud, whichchoked and blinded him. The sunbeams that filtered through the cracksmade only a dim light. He hurried to the fireplace, thinking thatperhaps there had been a fire, but the fireplace was empty, and thearticles of furniture around appeared to be uninjured. Bewildered, andfeeling himself growing faint in the poisoned atmosphere, he ran to thewindow and threw the shutters wide open. A flood of light entered. 

Then the scene presented to the doctor's view filled him with amazement. Everything was in its place; the glass and the empty bottle of spiritswere on the table; only the chair in which Uncle Macquart must have beensitting bore traces of fire, the front legs were blackened and the strawwas partially consumed. What had become of Macquart? Where could hehave disappeared? In front of the chair, on the brick floor, which wassaturated with grease, there was a little heap of ashes, beside whichlay the pipe--a black pipe, which had not even broken in falling. All ofUncle Macquart was there, in this handful of fine ashes; and he was inthe red cloud, also, which floated through the open window; in the layerof soot which carpeted the entire kitchen; the horrible grease of burntflesh, enveloping everything, sticky and foul to the touch. 

It was the finest case of spontaneous combustion physician had everseen. The doctor had, indeed, read in medical papers of surprisingcases, among others that of a shoemaker's wife, a drunken woman who hadfallen asleep over her foot warmer, and of whom they had found onlya hand and foot. He had, until now, put little faith in these cases, unwilling to admit, like the ancients, that a body impregnatedwith alcohol could disengage an unknown gas, capable of taking firespontaneously and consuming the flesh and the bones. But he denied thetruth of them no longer; besides, everything became clear to him ashe reconstructed the scene--the coma of drunkenness producing absoluteinsensibility; the pipe falling on the clothes, which had taken fire;the flesh, saturated with liquor, burning and cracking; the fat melting, part of it running over the ground and part of it aiding the combustion, and all, at last--muscles, organs, and bones--consumed in a generalblaze. Uncle Macquart was all there, with his blue cloth suit, and hisfur cap, which he wore from one year's end to the other. Doubtless, assoon as he had begun to burn like a bonfire he had fallen forward, whichwould account for the chair being only blackened; and nothing of him wasleft, not a bone, not a tooth, not a nail, nothing but this little heapof gray dust which the draught of air from the door threatened at everymoment to sweep away. 

Clotilde had meanwhile entered, Charles remaining outside, his attentionattracted by the continued howling of the dog. 

"Good Heavens, what a smell!" she cried. "What is the matter?"

When Pascal explained to her the extraordinary catastrophe that hadtaken place, she shuddered. She took up the bottle to examine it, butshe put it down again with horror, feeling it moist and sticky withUncle Macquart's flesh. Nothing could be touched, the smallest objectswere coated, as it were, with this yellowish grease which stuck to thehands. 

A shudder of mingled awe and disgust passed through her, and she burstinto tears, faltering:

"What a sad death! What a horrible death!"

Pascal had recovered from his first shock, and he was almost smiling. 

"Why horrible? He was eighty-four years old; he did not suffer. As forme, I think it a superb death for that old rascal of an uncle, who, itmay be now said, did not lead a very exemplary life. You remember hisenvelope; he had some very terrible and vile things upon his conscience, which did not prevent him, however, from settling down later and growingold, surrounded by every comfort, like an old humbug, receiving therecompense of virtues which he did not possess. And here he lies likethe prince of drunkards, burning up of himself, consumed on the burningfuneral pile of his own body!"

And the doctor waved his hand in admiration. 

"Just think of it. To be drunk to the point of not feeling that one ison fire; to set one's self aflame, like a bonfire on St. John's day; todisappear in smoke to the last bone. Think of Uncle Macquart startingon his journey through space; first diffused through the four corners ofthe room, dissolved in air and floating about, bathing all that belongedto him; then escaping in a cloud of dust through the window, when Iopened it for him, soaring up into the sky, filling the horizon. Why, that is an admirable death! To disappear, to leave nothing of himselfbehind but a little heap of ashes and a pipe beside it!"

And he picked up the pipe to keep it, as he said, as a relic of UncleMacquart; while Clotilde, who thought she perceived a touch of bittermockery in his eulogistic rhapsody, shuddered anew with horror anddisgust. But suddenly she perceived something under the table--part ofthe remains, perhaps. 

"Look at that fragment there. "

He stooped down and picked up with surprise a woman's glove, a yellowglove. 

"Why!" she cried, "it is grandmother's glove; the glove that was missinglast evening. "

They looked at each other; by a common impulse the same explanationrose to their lips, Felicite was certainly there yesterday; and a suddenconviction forced itself on the doctor's mind--the conviction that hismother had seen Uncle Macquart burning and that she had not quenchedhim. Various indications pointed to this--the state of complete coolnessin which he found the room, the number of hours which he calculated tohave been necessary for the combustion of the body. He saw clearly thesame thought dawning in the terrified eyes of his companion. But as itseemed impossible that they should ever know the truth, he fabricatedaloud the simplest explanation:

"No doubt your grandmother came in yesterday on her way back fromthe asylum, to say good day to Uncle Macquart, before he had begundrinking. "

"Let us go away! let us go away!" cried Clotilde. "I am stifling here; Icannot remain here!"

Pascal, too, wished to go and give information of the death. He went outafter her, shut up the house, and put the key in his pocket. Outside, they heard the little yellow dog still howling. He had taken refugebetween Charles' legs, and the boy amused himself pushing him with hisfoot and listening to him whining, without comprehending. 

The doctor went at once to the house of M. Maurin, the notary at theTulettes, who was also mayor of the commune. A widower for ten yearspast, and living with his daughter, who was a childless widow, he hadmaintained neighborly relations with old Macquart, and had occasionallykept little Charles with him for several days at a time, his daughterhaving become interested in the boy who was so handsome and so muchto be pitied. M. Maurin, horrified at the news, went at once with thedoctor to draw up a statement of the accident, and promised to make outthe death certificate in due form. As for religious ceremonies, funeralobsequies, they seemed scarcely possible. When they entered the kitchenthe draught from the door scattered the ashes about, and when theypiously attempted to collect them again they succeeded only in gatheringtogether the scrapings of the flags, a collection of accumulated dirt, in which there could be but little of Uncle Macquart. What, then, could they bury? It was better to give up the idea. So they gave itup. Besides, Uncle Macquart had been hardly a devout Catholic, and thefamily contented themselves with causing masses to be said later on forthe repose of his soul. 

The notary, meantime, had immediately declared that there existed awill, which had been deposited with him, and he asked Pascal to meet himat his house on the next day but one for the reading; for he thought hemight tell the doctor at once that Uncle Macquart had chosen him ashis executor. And he ended by offering, like a kindhearted man, to keepCharles with him until then, comprehending how greatly the boy, who wasso unwelcome at his mother's, would be in the way in the midst of allthese occurrences. Charles seemed enchanted, and he remained at theTulettes. 

It was not until very late, until seven o'clock, that Clotilde andPascal were able to take the train to return to Plassans, after thedoctor had at last visited the two patients whom he had to see. Butwhen they returned together to the notary's on the day appointed for themeeting, they had the disagreeable surprise of finding old Mme. Rougoninstalled there. She had naturally learned of Macquart's death, and hadhurried there on the following day, full of excitement, and making agreat show of grief; and she had just made her appearance again to-day, having heard the famous testament spoken of. The reading of the will, however, was a simple matter, unmarked by any incident. Macquarthad left all the fortune that he could dispose of for the purpose oferecting a superb marble monument to himself, with two angels withfolded wings, weeping. It was his own idea, a reminiscence of a similartomb which he had seen abroad--in Germany, perhaps--when he was asoldier. And he had charged his nephew Pascal to superintend theerection of the monument, as he was the only one of the family, he said, who had any taste. 

During the reading of the will Clotilde had remained in the notary'sgarden, sitting on a bench under the shade of an ancient chestnut tree. When Pascal and Felicite again appeared, there was a moment of greatembarrassment, for they had not spoken to one another for some monthspast. The old lady, however, affected to be perfectly at her ease, making no allusion whatever to the new situation, and giving it to beunderstood that they might very well meet and appear united before theworld, without for that reason entering into an explanation or becomingreconciled. But she committed the mistake of laying too much stresson the great grief which Macquart's death had caused her. Pascal, whosuspected the overflowing joy, the unbounded delight which it gave herto think that this family ulcer was to be at last healed, that thisabominable uncle was at last out of the way, became gradually possessedby an impatience, an indignation, which he could not control. His eyesfastened themselves involuntarily on his mother's gloves, which wereblack. 

Just then she was expressing her grief in lowered tones:

"But how imprudent it was, at his age, to persist in living alone--likea wolf in his lair! If he had only had a servant in the house with him!"

Then the doctor, hardly conscious of what he was saying, terrified athearing himself say the words, but impelled by an irresistible force, said:

"But, mother, since you were there, why did you not quench him?"

Old Mme. Rougon turned frightfully pale. How could her son have known?She looked at him for an instant in open-mouthed amazement; whileClotilde grew as pale as she, in the certainty of the crime, which wasnow evident. It was an avowal, this terrified silence which had fallenbetween the mother, the son, and the granddaughter--the shudderingsilence in which families bury their domestic tragedies. The doctor, indespair at having spoken, he who avoided so carefully all disagreeableand useless explanations, was trying desperately to retract his words, when a new catastrophe extricated him from his terrible embarrassment. 

Felicite desired to take Charles away with her, in order not to trespasson the notary's kind hospitality; and as the latter had sent the boyafter breakfast to spend an hour or two with Aunt Dide, he had sent themaid servant to the asylum with orders to bring him back immediately. Itwas at this juncture that the servant, whom they were waiting for in thegarden, made her appearance, covered with perspiration, out of breath, and greatly excited, crying from a distance:

"My God! My God! come quickly. Master Charles is bathed in blood. "

Filled with consternation, all three set off for the asylum. This daychanced to be one of Aunt Dide's good days; very calm and gentle she saterect in the armchair in which she had spent the hours, the long hoursfor twenty-two years past, looking straight before her into vacancy. Sheseemed to have grown still thinner, all the flesh had disappeared, herlimbs were now only bones covered with parchment-like skin; and herkeeper, the stout fair-haired girl, carried her, fed her, took herup and laid her down as if she had been a bundle. The ancestress, theforgotten one, tall, bony, ghastly, remained motionless, her eyes, onlyseeming to have life, her eyes shining clear as spring water in her thinwithered face. But on this morning, again a sudden rush of tears hadstreamed down her cheeks, and she had begun to stammer words withoutany connection; which seemed to prove that in the midst of her senileexhaustion and the incurable torpor of madness, the slow induration ofthe brain and the limbs was not yet complete; there still were memoriesstored away, gleams of intelligence still were possible. Then her facehad resumed its vacant expression. She seemed indifferent to every oneand everything, laughing, sometimes, at an accident, at a fall, but mostoften seeing nothing and hearing nothing, gazing fixedly into vacancy. 

When Charles had been brought to her the keeper had immediatelyinstalled him before the little table, in front of hisgreat-great-grandmother. The girl kept a package of pictures forhim--soldiers, captains, kings clad in purple and gold, and she gavethem to him with a pair of scissors, saying:

"There, amuse yourself quietly, and behave well. You see that to-daygrandmother is very good. You must be good, too. "

The boy raised his eyes to the madwoman's face, and both looked at eachother. At this moment the resemblance between them was extraordinary. Their eyes, especially, their vacant and limpid eyes, seemed to losethemselves in one another, to be identical. Then it was the physiognomy, the whole face, the worn features of the centenarian, that passed overthree generations to this delicate child's face, it, too, worn already, as it were, and aged by the wear of the race. Neither smiled, theyregarded each other intently, with an air of grave imbecility. 

"Well!" continued the keeper, who had acquired the habit of talking toherself to cheer herself when with her mad charge, "you cannot deny eachother. The same hand made you both. You are the very spit-down ofeach other. Come, laugh a bit, amuse yourselves, since you like to betogether. "

But to fix his attention for any length of time fatigued Charles, andhe was the first to lower his eyes; he seemed to be interested in hispictures, while Aunt Dide, who had an astonishing power of fixing herattention, as if she had been turned into stone, continued to look athim fixedly, without even winking an eyelid. 

The keeper busied herself for a few moments in the little sunny room, made gay by its light, blue-flowered paper. She made the bed which shehad been airing, she arranged the linen on the shelves of the press. But she generally profited by the presence of the boy to take a littlerelaxation. She had orders never to leave her charge alone, and now thathe was here she ventured to trust her with him. 

"Listen to me well, " she went on, "I have to go out for a little, and ifshe stirs, if she should need me, ring for me, call me at once; do youhear? You understand, you are a big enough boy to be able to call one. "

He had looked up again, and made a sign that he had understood and thathe would call her. And when he found himself alone with Aunt Dide hereturned to his pictures quietly. This lasted for a quarter of an houramid the profound silence of the asylum, broken only at intervals bysome prison sound--a stealthy step, the jingling of a bunch of keys, and occasionally a loud cry, immediately silenced. But the boy must havebeen tired by the excessive heat of the day, for sleep gradually stoleover him. Soon his head, fair as a lily, drooped, and as if weighed downby the too heavy casque of his royal locks, he let it sink gently on thepictures and fell asleep, with his cheek resting on the gold and purplekings. The lashes of his closed eyelids cast a shadow on his delicateskin, with its small blue veins, through which life pulsed feebly. Hewas beautiful as an angel, but with the indefinable corruption of awhole race spread over his countenance. And Aunt Dide looked at him withher vacant stare in which there was neither pleasure nor pain, the stareof eternity contemplating things earthly. 

At the end of a few moments, however, an expression of interest seemedto dawn in the clear eyes. Something had just happened, a drop of bloodwas forming on the edge of the left nostril of the boy. This drop felland another formed and followed it. It was the blood, the dew of blood, exuding this time, without a scratch, without a bruise, which issuedand flowed of itself in the laxity of the degenerate tissues. The dropsbecame a slender thread which flowed over the gold of the pictures. Alittle pool covered them, and made its way to a corner of the table;then the drops began again, splashing dully one by one upon the floor. And he still slept, with the divinely calm look of a cherub, not evenconscious of the life that was escaping from him; and the madwomancontinued to look at him, with an air of increasing interest, butwithout terror, amused, rather, her attention engaged by this, as by theflight of the big flies, which her gaze often followed for hours. 

Several minutes more passed, the slender thread had grown larger, thedrops followed one another more rapidly, falling on the floor with amonotonous and persistent drip. And Charles, at one moment, stirred, opened his eyes, and perceived that he was covered with blood. Buthe was not frightened; he was accustomed to this bloody spring, whichissued from him at the slightest cause. He merely gave a sigh ofweariness. Instinct, however, must have warned him, for he moaned moreloudly than before, and called confusedly in stammering accents:

"Mamma! mamma!"

His weakness was no doubt already excessive, for an irresistible stuporonce more took possession of him, his head dropped, his eyes closed, andhe seemed to fall asleep again, continuing his plaint, as if in a dream, moaning in fainter and fainter accents:

"Mamma! mamma!"

Now the pictures were inundated; the black velvet jacket and trousers, braided with gold, were stained with long streaks of blood, and thelittle red stream began again to flow persistently from his leftnostril, without stopping, crossed the red pool on the table and fellupon the ground, where it at last formed a veritable lake. A loud cryfrom the madwoman, a terrified call would have sufficed. But she didnot cry, she did not call; motionless, rigid, emaciated, sitting thereforgotten of the world, she gazed with the fixed look of the ancestresswho sees the destinies of her race being accomplished. She sat there asif dried up, bound; her limbs and her tongue tied by her hundred years, her brain ossified by madness, incapable of willing or of acting. Andyet the sight of the little red stream began to stir some feeling inher. A tremor passed over her deathlike countenance, a flush mounted toher cheeks. Finally, a last plaint roused her completely:

"Mamma! mamma!"

Then it was evident that a terrible struggle was taking place in AuntDide. She carried her skeleton-like hand to her forehead as if she felther brain bursting. Her mouth was wide open, but no sound issuedfrom it; the dreadful tumult that had arisen within her had no doubtparalyzed her tongue. She tried to rise, to run, but she had no longerany muscles; she remained fastened to her seat. All her poor bodytrembled in the superhuman effort which she was making to cry for help, without being able to break the bonds of old age and madness whichheld her prisoner. Her face was distorted with terror; memory graduallyawakening, she must have comprehended everything. 

And it was a slow and gentle agony, of which the spectacle lasted forseveral minutes more. Charles, silent now, as if he had again fallenasleep, was losing the last drops of blood that had remained in hisveins, which were emptying themselves softly. His lily-like whitenessincreased until it became a deathlike pallor. His lips lost their rosycolor, became a pale pink, then white. And, as he was about to expire, he opened his large eyes and fixed them on his great-great-grandmother, who watched the light dying in them. All the waxen face was alreadydead, the eyes only were still living. They still kept their limpidity, their brightness. All at once they became vacant, the light in them wasextinguished. This was the end--the death of the eyes, and Charles haddied, without a struggle, exhausted, like a fountain from which allthe water has run out. Life no longer pulsed through the veins of hisdelicate skin, there was now only the shadow of its wings on his whiteface. But he remained divinely beautiful, his face lying in blood, surrounded by his royal blond locks, like one of those little bloodlessdauphins who, unable to bear the execrable heritage of their race, dieof decrepitude and imbecility at sixteen. 

The boy exhaled his latest breath as Dr. Pascal entered the room, followed by Felicite and Clotilde. And when he saw the quantity of bloodthat inundated the floor, he cried:

"Ah, my God! it is as I feared, a hemorrhage from the nose! The poordarling, no one was with him, and it is all over!"

But all three were struck with terror at the extraordinary spectaclethat now met their gaze. Aunt Dide, who seemed to have grown taller, inthe superhuman effort she was making, had almost succeeded in raisingherself up, and her eyes, fixed on the dead boy, so fair and so gentle, and on the red sea of blood, beginning to congeal, that was lying aroundhim, kindled with a thought, after a long sleep of twenty-two years. This final lesion of madness, this irremediable darkness of the mind, was evidently not so complete but that some memory of the past, lyinghidden there, might awaken suddenly under the terrible blow which hadstruck her. And the ancestress, the forgotten one, lived again, emergedfrom her oblivion, rigid and wasted, like a specter of terror and grief. 

For an instant she remained panting. Then with a shudder, which made herteeth chatter, she stammered a single phrase:

"The _gendarme_! the _gendarme_!"

Pascal and Felicite and Clotilde understood. They looked at one anotherinvoluntarily, turning very pale. The whole dreadful history of the oldmother--of the mother of them all--rose before them, the ardent loveof her youth, the long suffering of her mature age. Already two moralshocks had shaken her terribly--the first, when she was in her ardentprime, when a _gendarme_ shot down her lover Macquart, the smuggler, like a dog; the second, years ago, when another _gendarme_ shatteredwith a pistol shot the skull of her grandson Silvere, the insurgent, thevictim of the hatred and the sanguinary strife of the family. Bloodhad always bespattered her. And a third moral shock finished her; bloodbespattered her again, the impoverished blood of her race, which shehad just beheld flowing slowly, and which lay upon the ground, while thefair royal child, his veins and his heart empty, slept. 

Three times--face to face with her past life, her life red with passionand suffering, haunted by the image of expiation--she stammered:

"The _gendarme_! the _gendarme_! the _gendarme_!"

Then she sank back into her armchair. They thought she was dead, killedby the shock. 

But the keeper at this moment at last appeared, endeavoring to excuseherself, fearing that she would be dismissed. When, aided by her, Dr. Pascal had placed Aunt Dide on the bed, he found that the old mother wasstill alive. She was not to die until the following day, at the age ofone hundred and five years, three months, and seven days, of congestionof the brain, caused by the last shock she had received. 

Pascal, turning to his mother, said:

"She will not live twenty-four hours; to-morrow she will be dead. Ah!Uncle Macquart, then she, and this poor boy, one after another. How muchmisery and grief!"

He paused and added in a lower tone:

"The family is thinning out; the old trees fall and the young diestanding. "

Felicite must have thought this another allusion. She was sincerelyshocked by the tragic death of little Charles. But, notwithstanding, above the horror which she felt there arose a sense of immense relief. Next week, when they should have ceased to weep, what a rest to be ableto say to herself that all this abomination of the Tulettes was at anend, that the family might at last rise, and shine in history!

Then she remembered that she had not answered the involuntary accusationmade against her by her son at the notary's; and she spoke again ofMacquart, through bravado:

"You see now that servants are of no use. There was one here, and yetshe prevented nothing; it would have been useless for Uncle Macquartto have had one to take care of him; he would be in ashes now, all thesame. "

She sighed, and then continued in a broken voice:

"Well, well, neither our own fate nor that of others is in our hands;things happen as they will. These are great blows that have fallen uponus. We must only trust to God for the preservation and the prosperity ofour family. "

Dr. Pascal bowed with his habitual air of deference and said:

"You are right, mother. "

Clotilde knelt down. Her former fervent Catholic faith had revived inthis chamber of blood, of madness, and of death. Tears streamed down hercheeks, and with clasped hands she was praying fervently for the dearones who were no more. She prayed that God would grant that theirsufferings might indeed be ended, their faults pardoned, and that theymight live again in another life, a life of unending happiness. And sheprayed with the utmost fervor, in her terror of a hell, which after thismiserable life would make suffering eternal. 

From this day Pascal and Clotilde went to visit their sick side by side, filled with greater pity than ever. Perhaps, with Pascal, the feelingof his powerlessness against inevitable disease was even stronger thanbefore. The only wisdom was to let nature take its course, to eliminatedangerous elements, and to labor only in the supreme work of givinghealth and strength. But the suffering and the death of those who aredear to us awaken in us a hatred of disease, an irresistible desire tocombat and to vanquish it. And the doctor never tasted so great a joyas when he succeeded, with his hypodermic injections, in soothing aparoxysm of pain, in seeing the groaning patient grow tranquil and fallasleep. Clotilde, in return, adored him, proud of their love, as if itwere a consolation which they carried, like the viaticum, to the poor. 

X. 

Martine one morning obtained from Dr. Pascal, as she did every threemonths, his receipt for fifteen hundred francs, to take it to the notaryGrandguillot, to get from him what she called their "income. " The doctorseemed surprised that the payment should have fallen due again so soon;he had never been so indifferent as he was now about money matters, leaving to Martine the care of settling everything. And he and Clotildewere under the plane trees, absorbed in the joy that filled their life, lulled by the ceaseless song of the fountain, when the servant returnedwith a frightened face, and in a state of extraordinary agitation. Shewas so breathless with excitement that for a moment she could not speak. 

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" she cried at last. "M. Grandguillot has goneaway!"

Pascal did not at first comprehend. 

"Well, my girl, there is no hurry, " he said; "you can go back anotherday. "

"No, no! He has gone away; don't you hear? He has gone away forever--"

And as the waters rush forth in the bursting of a dam, her emotionvented itself in a torrent of words. 

"I reached the street, and I saw from a distance a crowd gatheredbefore the door. A chill ran through me; I felt that some misfortunehad happened. The door closed, and not a blind open, as if there wassomebody dead in the house. They told me when I got there that he hadrun away; that he had not left a sou behind him; that many familieswould be ruined. "

She laid the receipt on the stone table. 

"There! There is your paper! It is all over with us, we have not a souleft, we are going to die of starvation!" And she sobbed aloud in theanguish of her miserly heart, distracted by this loss of a fortune, andtrembling at the prospect of impending want. 

Clotilde sat stunned and speechless, her eyes fixed on Pascal, whosepredominating feeling at first seemed to be one of incredulity. Heendeavored to calm Martine. Why! why! it would not do to give up inthis way. If all she knew of the affair was what she had heard from thepeople in the street, it might be only gossip, after all, which alwaysexaggerates everything. M. Grandguillot a fugitive; M. Grandguillot athief; that was monstrous, impossible! A man of such probity, a houseliked and respected by all Plassans for more than a century past. Whypeople thought money safer there than in the Bank of France. 

"Consider, Martine, this would not have come all of a sudden, like athunderclap; there would have been some rumors of it beforehand. Thedeuce! an old reputation does not fall to pieces in that way, in anight. "

At this she made a gesture of despair. 

"Ah, monsieur, that is what most afflicts me, because, you see, itthrows some of the responsibility on me. For weeks past I have beenhearing stories on all sides. As for you two, naturally you hearnothing; you don't even know whether you are alive or dead. "

Neither Pascal nor Clotilde could refrain from smiling; for it wasindeed true that their love lifted them so far above the earth that noneof the common sounds of existence reached them. 

"But the stories I heard were so ugly that I didn't like to worry youwith them. I thought they were lies. "

She was silent for a moment, and then added that while some peoplemerely accused M. Grandguillot of having speculated on the Bourse, therewere others who accused him of still worse practises. And she burst intofresh sobs. 

"My God! My God! what is going to become of us? We are all going to dieof starvation!"

Shaken, then, moved by seeing Clotilde's eyes, too, filled with tears, Pascal made an effort to remember, to see clearly into the past. Yearsago, when he had been practising in Plassans, he had deposited atdifferent times, with M. Grandguillot, the twenty thousand francs on theinterest of which he had lived comfortably for the past sixteen years, and on each occasion the notary had given him a receipt for the sumdeposited. This would no doubt enable him to establish his position asa personal creditor. Then a vague recollection awoke in his memory; heremembered, without being able to fix the date, that at the request ofthe notary, and in consequence of certain representations made by him, which Pascal had forgotten, he had given the lawyer a power of attorneyfor the purpose of investing the whole or a part of his money, inmortgages, and he was even certain that in this power the name of theattorney had been left in blank. But he was ignorant as to whether thisdocument had ever been used or not; he had never taken the trouble toinquire how his money had been invested. A fresh pang of miserly anguishmade Martine cry out:

"Ah, monsieur, you are well punished for your sin. Was that a way toabandon one's money? For my part, I know almost to a sou how my accountstands every quarter; I have every figure and every document at myfingers' ends. "

In the midst of her distress an unconscious smile broke over her face, lighting it all up. Her long cherished passion had been gratified; herfour hundred francs wages, saved almost intact, put out at interest forthirty years, at last amounted to the enormous sum of twenty thousandfrancs. And this treasure was put away in a safe place which no oneknew. She beamed with delight at the recollection, and she said no more. 

"But who says that our money is lost?" cried Pascal. 

"M. Grandguillot had a private fortune; he has not taken away with himhis house and his lands, I suppose. They will look into the affair; theywill make an investigation. I cannot make up my mind to believe him acommon thief. The only trouble is the delay: a liquidation drags on solong. "

He spoke in this way in order to reassure Clotilde, whose growinganxiety he observed. She looked at him, and she looked around her at LaSouleiade; her only care his happiness; her most ardent desire to livehere always, as she had lived in the past, to love him always in thisbeloved solitude. And he, wishing to tranquilize her, recovered his fineindifference; never having lived for money, he did not imagine that onecould suffer from the want of it. 

"But I have some money!" he cried, at last. "What does Martine meanby saying that we have not a sou left, and that we are going to die ofstarvation!"

And he rose gaily, and made them both follow him saying:

"Come, come, I am going to show you some money. And I will give some ofit to Martine that she may make us a good dinner this evening. "

Upstairs in his room he triumphantly opened his desk before them. Itwas in a drawer of this desk that for years past he had thrown the moneywhich his later patients had brought him of their own accord, for he hadnever sent them an account. Nor had he ever known the exact amount ofhis little treasure, of the gold and bank bills mingled together inconfusion, from which he took the sums he required for his pocket money, his experiments, his presents, and his alms. During the last few monthshe had made frequent visits to his desk, making deep inroads intoits contents. But he had been so accustomed to find there the sums herequired, after years of economy during which he had spent scarcelyanything, that he had come to believe his savings inexhaustible. 

He gave a satisfied laugh, then, as he opened the drawer, crying:

"Now you shall see! Now you shall see!"

And he was confounded, when, after searching among the heap of notes andbills, he succeeded in collecting only a sum of 615 francs--two notes of100 francs each, 400 francs in gold, and 15 francs in change. He shookout the papers, he felt in every corner of the drawer, crying:

"But it cannot be! There was always money here before, there was a heapof money here a few days ago. It must have been all those old bills thatmisled me. I assure you that last week I saw a great deal of money. Ihad it in my hand. "

He spoke with such amusing good faith, his childlike surprise was sosincere, that Clotilde could not keep from smiling. Ah, the poor master, what a wretched business man he was! Then, as she observed Martine'slook of anguish, her utter despair at sight of this insignificant sum, which was now all there was for the maintenance of all three, she wasseized with a feeling of despair; her eyes filled with tears, and shemurmured:

"My God, it is for me that you have spent everything; if we have nothingnow, if we are ruined, it is I who am the cause of it!"

Pascal had already forgotten the money he had taken for the presents. Evidently that was where it had gone. The explanation tranquilized him. And as she began to speak in her grief of returning everything to thedealers, he grew angry. 

"Give back what I have given you! You would give a piece of my heartwith it, then! No, I would rather die of hunger, I tell you!"

Then his confidence already restored, seeing a future of unlimitedpossibilities opening out before him, he said:

"Besides, we are not going to die of hunger to-night, are we, Martine?There is enough here to keep us for a long time. "

Martine shook her head. She would undertake to manage with it fortwo months, for two and a half, perhaps, if people had sense, but notlonger. Formerly the drawer was replenished; there was always some moneycoming in; but now that monsieur had given up his patients, they hadabsolutely no income. They must not count on any help from outside, then. And she ended by saying:

"Give me the two one-hundred-franc bills. I'll try and make them lastfor a month. Then we shall see. But be very prudent; don't touch thefour hundred francs in gold; lock the drawer and don't open it again. "

"Oh, as to that, " cried the doctor, "you may make your mind easy. Iwould rather cut off my right hand. "

And thus it was settled. Martine was to have entire control of thislast purse; and they might trust to her economy, they were sure that shewould save the centimes. As for Clotilde, who had never had a privatepurse, she would not even feel the want of money. Pascal only wouldsuffer from no longer having his inexhaustible treasure to draw upon, but he had given his promise to allow the servant to buy everything. 

"There! That is a good piece of work!" he said, relieved, as happy asif he had just settled some important affair which would assure them aliving for a long time to come. 

A week passed during which nothing seemed to have changed at LaSouleiade. In the midst of their tender raptures neither Pascal norClotilde thought any more of the want which was impending. And onemorning during the absence of the latter, who had gone with Martine tomarket, the doctor received a visit which filled him at first with asort of terror. It was from the woman who had sold him the beautifulcorsage of old point d'Alencon, his first present to Clotilde. He felthimself so weak against a possible temptation that he trembled. Evenbefore the woman had uttered a word he had already begun to defendhimself--no, no, he neither could nor would buy anything. And withoutstretched hands he prevented her from taking anything out of herlittle bag, declaring to himself that he would look at nothing. Thedealer, however, a fat, amiable woman, smiled, certain of victory. In aninsinuating voice she began to tell him a long story of how a lady, whomshe was not at liberty to name, one of the most distinguished ladiesin Plassans, who had suddenly met with a reverse of fortune, had beenobliged to part with one of her jewels; and she then enlarged on thesplendid chance--a piece of jewelry that had cost twelve hundred francs, and she was willing to let it go for five hundred. She opened her bagslowly, in spite of the terrified and ever-louder protestations of thedoctor, and took from it a slender gold necklace set simply with sevenpearls in front; but the pearls were of wonderful brilliancy--flawless, and perfect in shape. The ornament was simple, chaste, and of exquisitedelicacy. And instantly he saw in fancy the necklace on Clotilde'sbeautiful neck, as its natural adornment. Any other jewel would havebeen a useless ornament, these pearls would be the fitting symbol of heryouth. And he took the necklace in his trembling fingers, experiencinga mortal anguish at the idea of returning it. He defended himself still, however; he declared that he had not five hundred francs, while thedealer continued, in her smooth voice, to push the advantage she hadgained. After another quarter an hour, when she thought she had himsecure, she suddenly offered him the necklace for three hundred francs, and he yielded; his mania for giving, his desire to please his idol, toadorn her, conquered. When he went to the desk to take the fifteengold pieces to count them out to the dealer, he felt convinced that thenotary's affairs would be arranged, and that they would soon have plentyof money. 

When Pascal found himself once more alone, with the ornament in hispocket, he was seized with a childish delight, and he planned his littlesurprise, while waiting, excited and impatient, for Clotilde's return. The moment she made her appearance his heart began to beat violently. She was very warm, for an August sun was blazing in the sky, and shelaid aside her things quickly, pleased with her walk, telling him, laughing, of the good bargain Martine had made--two pigeons for eighteensous. While she was speaking he pretended to notice something on herneck. 

"Why, what have you on your neck? Let me see. "

He had the necklace in his hand, and he succeeded in putting it aroundher neck, while feigning to pass his fingers over it, to assure himselfthat there was nothing there. But she resisted, saying gaily:

"Don't! There is nothing on my neck. Here, what are you doing? What haveyou in your hand that is tickling me?"

He caught hold of her, and drew her before the long mirror, in which shehad a full view of herself. On her neck the slender chain showed like athread of gold, and the seven pearls, like seven milky stars, shone withsoft luster against her satin skin. She looked charmingly childlike. Suddenly she gave a delighted laugh, like the cooing of a dove swellingout its throat proudly. 

"Oh, master, master, how good you are! Do you think of nothing but me, then? How happy you make me!"

And the joy which shone in her eyes, the joy of the woman and the lover, happy to be beautiful and to be adored, recompensed him divinely for hisfolly. 

She drew back her head, radiant, and held up her mouth to him. He bentover and kissed her. 

"Are you happy?"

"Oh, yes, master, happy, happy! Pearls are so sweet, so pure! And theseare so becoming to me!"

For an instant longer she admired herself in the glass, innocently vainof her fair flower-like skin, under the nacre drops of the pearls. Then, yielding to a desire to show herself, hearing the servant moving aboutoutside, she ran out, crying:

"Martine, Martine! See what master has just given me! Say, am I notbeautiful!"

But all at once, seeing the old maid's severe face, that had suddenlyturned an ashen hue, she became confused, and all her pleasure wasspoiled. Perhaps she had a consciousness of the jealous pang whichher brilliant youth caused this poor creature, worn out in the dumbresignation of her servitude, in adoration of her master. This, however, was only a momentary feeling, unconscious in the one, hardly suspectedby the other, and what remained was the evident disapprobation of theeconomical servant, condemning the present with her sidelong glance. 

Clotilde was seized with a little chill. 

"Only, " she murmured, "master has rummaged his desk again. Pearls arevery dear, are they not?"

Pascal, embarrassed, too, protested volubly, telling them of thesplendid opportunity presented by the dealer's visit. An incredibly goodstroke of business--it was impossible to avoid buying the necklace. 

"How much?" asked the young girl with real anxiety. 

"Three hundred francs. "

Martine, who had not yet opened her lips, but who looked terrible in hersilence, could not restrain a cry. 

"Good God! enough to live upon for six weeks, and we have not bread!"

Large tears welled from Clotilde's eyes. She would have torn thenecklace from her neck if Pascal had not prevented her. She wished togive it to him on the instant, and she faltered in heart-broken tones:

"It is true, Martine is right. Master is mad, and I am mad, too, to keepthis for an instant, in the situation in which we are. It would burn myflesh. Let me take it back, I beg of you. "

Never would he consent to this, he said. Now his eyes, too, were moist, he joined in their grief, crying that he was incorrigible, that theyought to have taken all the money away from him. And running to the deskhe took the hundred francs that were left, and forced Martine to takethem, saying:

"I tell you that I will not keep another sou. I should spend this, too. Take it, Martine; you are the only one of us who has any sense. You willmake the money last, I am very certain, until our affairs are settled. And you, dear, keep that; do not grieve me. "

Nothing more was said about this incident. But Clotilde kept thenecklace, wearing it under her gown; and there was a sort of delightfulmystery in feeling on her neck, unknown to every one, this simple, pretty ornament. Sometimes, when they were alone, she would smile atPascal and draw the pearls from her dress quickly, and show them to himwithout a word; and as quickly she would replace them again on her warmneck, filled with delightful emotion. It was their fond folly which shethus recalled to him, with a confused gratitude, a vivid and radiantjoy--a joy which nevermore left her. 

A straitened existence, sweet in spite of everything, now began forthem. Martine made an exact inventory of the resources of the house, andit was not reassuring. The provision of potatoes only promised to beof any importance. As ill luck would have it, the jar of oil was almostout, and the last cask of wine was also nearly empty. La Souleiade, having neither vines nor olive trees, produced only a few vegetables andsome fruits--pears, not yet ripe, and trellis grapes, which were to betheir only delicacies. And meat and bread had to be bought every day. Sothat from the first day the servant put Pascal and Clotilde on rations, suppressing the former sweets, creams, and pastry, and reducing the foodto the quantity barely necessary to sustain life. She resumed allher former authority, treating them like children who were not to beconsulted, even with regard to their wishes or their tastes. It wasshe who arranged the menus, who knew better than themselves what theywanted; but all this like a mother, surrounding them with unceasingcare, performing the miracle of enabling them to live still with comforton their scanty resources; occasionally severe with them, for their owngood, as one is severe with a child when it refuses to eat its food. Andit seemed as if this maternal care, this last immolation, the illusorypeace with which she surrounded their love, gave her, too, a littlehappiness, and drew her out of the dumb despair into which she hadfallen. Since she had thus watched over them she had begun to look likeher old self, with her little white face, the face of a nun vowed tochastity; her calm ash-colored eyes, which expressed the resignation ofher thirty years of servitude. When, after the eternal potatoes and thelittle cutlet at four sous, undistinguishable among the vegetables, shewas able, on certain days, without compromising her budget, to give thempancakes, she was triumphant, she laughed to see them laugh. 

Pascal and Clotilde thought everything she did was right, which did notprevent them, however, from jesting about her when she was not present. The old jests about her avarice were repeated over and over again. Theysaid that she counted the grains of pepper, so many grains for eachdish, in her passion for economy. When the potatoes had too little oil, when the cutlets were reduced to a mouthful, they would exchange a quickglance, stifling their laughter in their napkins, until she had leftthe room. Everything was a source of amusement to them, and they laughedinnocently at their misery. 

At the end of the first month Pascal thought of Martine's wages. Usuallyshe took her forty francs herself from the common purse which she kept. 

"My poor girl, " he said to her one evening, "what are you going to dofor your wages, now that we have no more money?"

She remained for a moment with her eyes fixed on the ground, with an airof consternation, then she said:

"Well, monsieur, I must only wait. "

But he saw that she had not said all that was in her mind, that she hadthought of some arrangement which she did not know how to propose tohim, so he encouraged her. 

"Well, then, if monsieur would consent to it, I should like monsieur tosign me a paper. "

"How, a paper?"

"Yes, a paper, in which monsieur should say, every month, that he owesme forty francs. "

Pascal at once made out the paper for her, and this made her quitehappy. She put it away as carefully as if it had been real money. This evidently tranquilized her. But the paper became a new subject ofwondering amusement to the doctor and his companion. In what did theextraordinary power consist which money has on certain natures? Thisold maid, who would serve him on bended knees, who adored him aboveeverything, to the extent of having devoted to him her whole life, toask for this silly guarantee, this scrap of paper which was of no value, if he should be unable to pay her. 

So far neither Pascal nor Clotilde had any great merit in preservingtheir serenity in misfortune, for they did not feel it. They lived highabove it, in the rich and happy realm of their love. At table they didnot know what they were eating; they might fancy they were partaking ofa princely banquet, served on silver dishes. They were unconscious ofthe increasing destitution around them, of the hunger of the servantwho lived upon the crumbs from their table; and they walked through theempty house as through a palace hung with silk and filled with riches. This was undoubtedly the happiest period of their love. The workroom hadpleasant memories of the past, and they spent whole days there, wrappedluxuriously in the joy of having lived so long in it together. Then, outof doors, in every corner of La Souleiade, royal summer had set up hisblue tent, dazzling with gold. In the morning, in the embalsamed walkson the pine grove; at noon under the dark shadow of the plane trees, lulled by the murmur of the fountain; in the evening on the coolterrace, or in the still warm threshing yard bathed in the faint blueradiance of the first stars, they lived with rapture their straitenedlife, their only ambition to live always together, indifferent to allelse. The earth was theirs, with all its riches, its pomps, and itsdominions, since they loved each other. 

Toward the end of August however, matters grew bad again. At times theyhad rude awakenings, in the midst of this life without ties, withoutduties, without work; this life which was so sweet, but which it wouldbe impossible, hurtful, they knew, to lead always. One evening Martinetold them that she had only fifty francs left, and that they would havedifficulty in managing for two weeks longer, even giving up wine. Inaddition to this the news was very serious; the notary Grandguillot wasbeyond a doubt insolvent, so that not even the personal creditors wouldreceive anything. In the beginning they had relied on the house and thetwo farms which the fugitive notary had left perforce behind him, but itwas now certain that this property was in his wife's name and, whilehe was enjoying in Switzerland, as it was said, the beauty of themountains, she lived on one of the farms, which she cultivatedquietly, away from the annoyances of the liquidation. In short, it wasinfamous--a hundred families ruined; left without bread. An assignee hadindeed been appointed, but he had served only to confirm the disaster, since not a centime of assets had been discovered. And Pascal, with hisusual indifference, neglected even to go and see him to speak to himabout his own case, thinking that he already knew all that there wasto be known about it, and that it was useless to stir up this uglybusiness, since there was neither honor nor profit to be derived fromit. 

Then, indeed, the future looked threatening at La Souleiade. Black wantstared them in the face. And Clotilde, who, in reality, had a greatdeal of good sense, was the first to take alarm. She maintained hercheerfulness while Pascal was present, but, more prescient than he, inher womanly tenderness, she fell into a state of absolute terror if heleft her for an instant, asking herself what was to become of him athis age with so heavy a burden upon his shoulders. For several days shecherished in secret a project--to work and earn money, a great deal ofmoney, with her pastels. People had so often praised her extraordinaryand original talent that, taking Martine into her confidence, she senther one fine morning to offer some of her fantastic bouquets to thecolor dealer of the Cours Sauvaire, who was a relation, it was said, ofa Parisian artist. It was with the express condition that nothing was tobe exhibited in Plassans, that everything was to be sent to a distance. But the result was disastrous; the merchant was frightened by thestrangeness of the design, and by the fantastic boldness of theexecution, and he declared that they would never sell. This threw herinto despair; great tears welled her eyes. Of what use was she? It wasa grief and a humiliation to be good for nothing. And the servant wasobliged to console her, saying that no doubt all women were not born forwork; that some grew like the flowers in the gardens, for the sakeof their fragrance; while others were the wheat of the fields that isground up and used for food. 

Martine, meantime, cherished another project; it was to urge the doctorto resume his practise. At last she mentioned it to Clotilde, who atonce pointed out to her the difficulty, the impossibility almost, ofsuch an attempt. She and Pascal had been talking about his doing so onlythe day before. He, too, was anxious, and had thought of work as theonly chance of salvation. The idea of opening an office again wasnaturally the first that had presented itself to him. But he had beenfor so long a time the physician of the poor! How could he venture nowto ask payment when it was so many years since he had left off doing so?Besides, was it not too late, at his age, to recommence a career? not tospeak of the absurd rumors that had been circulating about him, the namewhich they had given him of a crack-brained genius. He would not find asingle patient now, it would be a useless cruelty to force him to makean attempt which would assuredly result only in a lacerated heart andempty hands. Clotilde, on the contrary, had used all her influence toturn him from the idea. Martine comprehended the reasonableness of theseobjections, and she too declared that he must be prevented from runningthe risk of so great a chagrin. But while she was speaking a new ideaoccurred to her, as she suddenly remembered an old register, which shehad met with in a press, and in which she had in former times enteredthe doctor's visits. For a long time it was she who had kept theaccounts. There were so many patients who had never paid that a listof them filled three of the large pages of the register. Why, then, nowthat they had fallen into misfortune, should they not ask from thesepeople the money which they justly owed? It might be done without sayinganything to monsieur, who had never been willing to appeal to thelaw. And this time Clotilde approved of her idea. It was a perfectconspiracy. Clotilde consulted the register, and made out the bills, andthe servant presented them. But nowhere did she receive a sou; they toldher at every door that they would look over the account; that they wouldstop in and see the doctor himself. Ten days passed, no one came, andthere were now only six francs in the house, barely enough to live uponfor two or three days longer. 

Martine, when she returned with empty hands on the following day from anew application to an old patient, took Clotilde aside and told her thatshe had just been talking with Mme. Felicite at the corner of the Rue dela Banne. The latter had undoubtedly been watching for her. She hadnot again set foot in La Souleiade. Not even the misfortune which hadbefallen her son--the sudden loss of his money, of which the wholetown was talking--had brought her to him; she still continued stern andindignant. But she waited in trembling excitement, she maintained herattitude as an offended mother only in the certainty that she would atlast have Pascal at her feet, shrewdly calculating that he would sooneror later be compelled to appeal to her for assistance. When he had not asou left, when he knocked at her door, then she would dictate herterms; he should marry Clotilde, or, better still, she would demand thedeparture of the latter. But the days passed, and he did not come. Andthis was why she had stopped Martine, assuming a pitying air, askingwhat news there was, and seeming to be surprised that they had not hadrecourse to her purse, while giving it to be understood that her dignityforbade her to take the first step. 

"You should speak to monsieur, and persuade him, " ended the servant. Andindeed, why should he not appeal to his mother? That would be entirelynatural. 

"Oh! never would I undertake such a commission, " cried Clotilde. "Master would be angry, and with reason. I truly believe he would die ofstarvation before he would eat grandmother's bread. "

But on the evening of the second day after this, at dinner, as Martinewas putting on the table a piece of boiled beef left over from the daybefore, she gave them notice. 

"I have no more money, monsieur, and to-morrow there will be onlypotatoes, without oil or butter. It is three weeks now that you have hadonly water to drink; now you will have to do without meat. "

They were still cheerful, they could still jest. 

"Have you salt, my good girl?"

"Oh, that; yes, monsieur, there is still a little left. "

"Well, potatoes and salt are very good when one is hungry. "

That night, however, Pascal noticed that Clotilde was feverish; this wasthe hour in which they exchanged confidences, and she ventured to tellhim of her anxiety on his account, on her own, on that of the wholehouse. What was going to become of them when all their resources shouldbe exhausted? For a moment she thought of speaking to him of his mother. But she was afraid, and she contented herself with confessing to himwhat she and Martine had done--the old register examined, the bills madeout and sent, the money asked everywhere in vain. In other circumstanceshe would have been greatly annoyed and very angry at this confession;offended that they should have acted without his knowledge, and contraryto the attitude he had maintained during his whole professional life. Heremained for a long tine silent, strongly agitated, and this would havesufficed to prove how great must be his secret anguish at times, underhis apparent indifference to poverty. Then he forgave Clotilde, claspingher wildly to his breast, and finally he said that she had done right, that they could not continue to live much longer as they were living, in a destitution which increased every day. Then they fell into silence, each trying to think of a means of procuring the money necessary fortheir daily wants, each suffering keenly; she, desperate at the thoughtof the tortures that awaited him; he unable to accustom himself to theidea of seeing her wanting bread. Was their happiness forever ended, then? Was poverty going to blight their spring with its chill breath?

At breakfast, on the following day, they ate only fruit. The doctor wasvery silent during the morning, a prey to a visible struggle. And it wasnot until three o'clock that he took a resolution. 

"Come, we must stir ourselves, " he said to his companion. "I do notwish you to fast this evening again; so put on your hat, we will go outtogether. "

She looked at him, waiting for an explanation. 

"Yes, since they owe us money, and have refused to give it to you, Iwill see whether they will also refuse to give it to me. "

His hands trembled; the thought of demanding payment in this way, afterso many years, evidently made him suffer terribly; but he forceda smile, he affected to be very brave. And she, who knew from thetrembling of his voice the extent of his sacrifice, had tears in hereyes. 

"No, no, master; don't go if it makes you suffer so much. Martine can goagain. "

But the servant, who was present, approved highly of monsieur'sintention. 

"And why should not monsieur go? There's no shame in asking what is owedto one, is there? Every one should have his own; for my part, I think itquite right that monsieur should show at last that he is a man. "

Then, as before, in their hours of happiness, old King David, as Pascaljestingly called himself, left the house, leaning on Abishag's arm. Neither of them was yet in rags; he still wore his tightly buttonedovercoat; she had on her pretty linen gown with red spots, but doubtlessthe consciousness of their poverty lowered them in their own estimation, making them feel that they were now only two poor people who occupieda very insignificant place in the world, for they walked along by thehouses, shunning observation. The sunny streets were almost deserted. Afew curious glances embarrassed them. They did not hasten their steps, however; only their hearts were oppressed at the thought of the visitsthey were about to make. 

Pascal resolved to begin with an old magistrate whom he had treatedfor an affection of the liver. He entered the house, leaving Clotildesitting on the bench in the Cours Sauvaire. But he was greatly relievedwhen the magistrate, anticipating his demand, told him that he did notreceive his rents until October, and that he would pay him then. Atthe house of an old lady of seventy, a paralytic, the rebuff was of adifferent kind. She was offended because her account had been sent toher through a servant who had been impolite; so that he hastened tooffer her his excuses, giving her all the time she desired. Then heclimbed up three flights of stairs to the apartment of a clerk in thetax collector's office, whom he found still ill, and so poor that he didnot even venture to make his demand. Then followed a mercer, a lawyer'swife, an oil merchant, a baker--all well-to-do people; and all turnedhim away, some with excuses, others by denying him admittance; a feweven pretended not to know what he meant. There remained the Marquisede Valqueyras, the sole representative of a very ancient family, a widowwith a girl of ten, who was very rich, and whose avarice was notorious. He had left her for the last, for he was greatly afraid of her. Finallyhe knocked at the door of her ancient mansion, at the foot of the CoursSauvaire, a massive structure of the time of Mazarin. He remained solong in the house that Clotilde, who was walking under the trees, atlast became uneasy. 

When he finally made his appearance, at the end of a full half hour, shesaid jestingly, greatly relieved:

"Why, what was the matter? Had she no money?"

But here, too, he had been unsuccessful; she complained that her tenantsdid not pay her. 

"Imagine, " he continued, in explanation of his long absence, "the littlegirl is ill. I am afraid that it is the beginning of a gastric fever. Soshe wished me to see the child, and I examined her. "

A smile which she could not suppress came to Clotilde's lips. 

"And you prescribed for her?"

"Of course; could I do otherwise?"

She took his arm again, deeply affected, and he felt her press itagainst her heart. For a time they walked on aimlessly. It was all over;they had knocked at every debtor's door, and nothing now remained forthem to do but to return home with empty hands. But this Pascal refusedto do, determined that Clotilde should have something more than thepotatoes and water which awaited them. When they ascended the CoursSauvaire, they turned to the left, to the new town; drifting now whithercruel fate led them. 

"Listen, " said Pascal at last; "I have an idea. If I were to speak toRamond he would willingly lend us a thousand francs, which we couldreturn to him when our affairs are arranged. "

She did not answer at once. Ramond, whom she had rejected, who was nowmarried and settled in a house in the new town, in a fair way to becomethe fashionable physician of the place, and to make a fortune! She knew, indeed, that he had a magnanimous soul and a kind heart. If he had notvisited them again it had been undoubtedly through delicacy. Wheneverthey chanced to meet, he saluted them with so admiring an air, he seemedso pleased to see their happiness. 

"Would that be disagreeable to you?" asked Pascal ingenuously. For hispart, he would have thrown open to the young physician his house, hispurse, and his heart. 

"No, no, " she answered quickly. "There has never been anything betweenus but affection and frankness. I think I gave him a great deal of pain, but he has forgiven me. You are right; we have no other friend. It is toRamond that we must apply. "

Ill luck pursued them, however. Ramond was absent from home, attending aconsultation at Marseilles, and he would not be back until the followingevening. And it young Mme. Ramond, an old friend of Clotilde's, some three years her junior, who received them. She seemed a littleembarrassed, but she was very amiable, notwithstanding. But the doctor, naturally, did not prefer his request, and contented himself withsaying, in explanation of his visit, that he had missed Ramond. Whenthey were in the street again, Pascal and Clotilde felt themselves oncemore abandoned and alone. Where now should they turn? What new effortshould they make? And they walked on again aimlessly. 

"I did not tell you, master, " Clotilde at last ventured to murmur, "butit seems that Martine met grandmother the other day. Yes, grandmotherhas been uneasy about us. She asked Martine why we did not go to her, ifwe were in want. And see, here is her house. "

They were in fact, in the Rue de la Banne. They could see the corner ofthe Place de la Sous-Prefecture. But he at once silenced her. 

"Never, do you hear! Nor shall you go either. You say that because itgrieves you to see me in this poverty. My heart, too, is heavy, to thinkthat you also are in want, that you also suffer. But it is better tosuffer than to do a thing that would leave one an eternal remorse. Iwill not. I cannot. "

They emerged from the Rue de la Banne, and entered the old quarter. 

"I would a thousand times rather apply to a stranger. Perhaps we stillhave friends, even if they are only among the poor. "

And resolved to beg, David continued his walk, leaning on the arm ofAbishag; the old mendicant king went from door to door, leaning on theshoulder of the loving subject whose youth was now his only support. It was almost six o'clock; the heat had abated; the narrow streets werefilling with people; and in this populous quarter where they were loved, they were everywhere greeted with smiles. Something of pity was mingledwith the admiration they awakened, for every one knew of their ruin. Butthey seemed of a nobler beauty than before, he all white, she all blond, pressing close to each other in their misfortune. They seemed moreunited, more one with each other than ever; holding their heads erect, proud of their glorious love, though touched by misfortune; he shaken, while she, with a courageous heart, sustained him. And in spite of thepoverty that had so suddenly overtaken them they walked without shame, very poor and very great, with the sorrowful smile under which theyconcealed the desolation of their souls. Workmen in dirty blouses passedthem by, who had more money in their pockets than they. No one venturedto offer them the sou which is not refused to those who are hungry. Atthe Rue Canoquin they stopped at the house of Gulraude. She had diedthe week before. Two other attempts which they made failed. They werereduced now to consider where they could borrow ten francs. They hadbeen walking about the town for three hours, but they could not resolveto go home empty-handed. 

Ah, this Plassans, with its Cours Sauvaire, its Rue de Rome, and its Ruede la Banne, dividing it into three quarters; this Plassans; with itswindows always closed, this sun-baked town, dead in appearance, butwhich concealed under this sleeping surface a whole nocturnal life ofthe clubhouse and the gaming table. They walked through it three timesmore with slackened pace, on this clear, calm close of a glowing Augustday. In the yard of the coach office a few old stage-coaches, whichstill plied between the town and the mountain villages, were standingunharnessed; and under the thick shade of the plane trees at the doorsof the cafes, the customers, who were to be seen from seven o'clockin the morning, looked after them smiling. In the new town, too, theservants came and stood at the doors of the wealthy houses; they metwith less sympathy here than in the deserted streets of the Quartier St. Marc, whose antique houses maintained a friendly silence. They returnedto the heart of the old quarter where they were most liked; they went asfar as St. Saturnin, the cathedral, whose apse was shaded by the gardenof the chapter, a sweet and peaceful solitude, from which a beggar drovethem by himself asking an alms from them. They were building rapidly inthe neighborhood of the railway station; a new quarter was growing upthere, and they bent their steps in that direction. Then they returned alast time to the Place de la Sous-Prefecture, with a sudden reawakeningof hope, thinking that they might meet some one who would offer themmoney. But they were followed only by the indulgent smile of the town, at seeing them so united and so beautiful. Only one woman had tears inher eyes, foreseeing, perhaps, the sufferings that awaited them. Thestones of the Viorne, the little sharp paving stones, wounded theirfeet. And they had at last to return to La Souleiade, without havingsucceeded in obtaining anything, the old mendicant king and hissubmissive subject; Abishag, in the flower of her youth, leading backDavid, old and despoiled of his wealth, and weary from having walked thestreets in vain. 

It was eight o'clock, and Martine, who was waiting for them, comprehended that she would have no cooking to do this evening. Shepretended that she had dined, and as she looked ill Pascal sent her atonce to bed. 

"We do not need you, " said Clotilde. "As the potatoes are on the fire wecan take them up very well ourselves. "

The servant, who was feverish and out of humor, yielded. She mutteredsome indistinct words--when people had eaten up everything what was theuse of sitting down to table? Then, before shutting herself into herroom, she added:

"Monsieur, there is no more hay for Bonhomme. I thought he was lookingbadly a little while ago; monsieur ought to go and see him. "

Pascal and Clotilde, filled with uneasiness, went to the stable. The oldhorse was, in fact, lying on the straw in the somnolence of expiring oldage. They had not taken him out for six months past, for his legs, stiffwith rheumatism, refused to support him, and he had become completelyblind. No one could understand why the doctor kept the old beast. Even Martine had at last said that he ought to be slaughtered, if onlythrough pity. But Pascal and Clotilde cried out at this, as much excitedas if it had been proposed to them to put an end to some aged relativewho was not dying fast enough. No, no, he had served them for more thana quarter of a century; he should die comfortably with them, like theworthy fellow he had always been. And to-night the doctor did not scornto examine him, as if he had never attended any other patients thananimals. He lifted up his hoofs, looked at his gums, and listened to thebeating of his heart. 

"No, there is nothing the matter with him, " he said at last. "It issimply old age. Ah, my poor old fellow, I think, indeed, we shall neveragain travel the roads together. "

The idea that there was no more hay distressed Clotilde. But Pascalreassured her--an animal of that age, that no longer moved about, neededso little. She stooped down and took a few handfuls of grass from a heapwhich the servant had left there, and both were rejoiced when Bonhommedeigned, solely and simply through friendship, as it seemed, to eat thegrass out of her hand. 

"Oh, " she said, laughing, "so you still have an appetite! You cannot bevery sick, then; you must not try to work upon our feelings. Good night, and sleep well. "

And they left him to his slumbers after having each given him, as usual, a hearty kiss on either side of his nose. 

Night fell, and an idea occurred to them, in order not to remaindownstairs in the empty house--to close up everything and eat theirdinner upstairs. Clotilde quickly took up the dish of potatoes, thesalt-cellar, and a fine decanter of water; while Pascal took charge ofa basket of grapes, the first which they had yet gathered from an earlyvine at the foot of the terrace. They closed the door, and laid thecloth on a little table, putting the potatoes in the middle between thesalt-cellar and the decanter, and the basket of grapes on a chair besidethem. And it was a wonderful feast, which reminded them of the deliciousbreakfast they had made on the morning on which Martine had obstinatelyshut herself up in her room, and refused to answer them. Theyexperienced the same delight as then at being alone, at waiting uponthemselves, at eating from the same plate, sitting close beside eachother. This evening, which they had anticipated with so much dread, hadin store for them the most delightful hours of their existence. As soonas they found themselves at home in the large friendly room, as farremoved from the town which they had just been scouring as if they hadbeen a hundred leagues away from it, all uneasiness and all sadnessvanished--even to the recollection of the wretched afternoon wasted inuseless wanderings. They were once more indifferent to all that wasnot their affection; they no longer remembered that they had lost theirfortune; that they might have to hunt up a friend on the morrow in orderto be able to dine in the evening. Why torture themselves with fearsof coming want, when all they required to enjoy the greatest possiblehappiness was to be together?

But Pascal felt a sudden terror. 

"My God! and we dreaded this evening so greatly! Is it wise to be happyin this way? Who knows what to-morrow may have in store for us?"

But she put her little hand over his mouth; she desired that he shouldhave one more evening of perfect happiness. 

"No, no; to-morrow we shall love each other as we love each otherto-day. Love me with all your strength, as I love you. "

And never had they eaten with more relish. She displayed the appetite ofa healthy young girl with a good digestion; she ate the potatoes with ahearty appetite, laughing, thinking them delicious, better than themost vaunted delicacies. He, too, recovered the appetite of his youthfuldays. They drank with delight deep draughts of pure water. Then thegrapes for dessert filled them with admiration; these grapes so fresh, this blood of the earth which the sun had touched with gold. They ateto excess; they became drunk on water and fruit, and more than all ongaiety. They did not remember ever before to have enjoyed such a feasttogether; even the famous breakfast they had made, with its luxuries ofcutlets and bread and wine, had not given them this intoxication, thisjoy in living, when to be together was happiness enough, changing thechina to dishes of gold, and the miserable food to celestial fare suchas not even the gods enjoyed. 

It was now quite dark, but they did not light the lamp. Through thewide open windows they could see the vast summer sky. The night breezeentered, still warm and laden with a faint odor of lavender. The moonhad just risen above the horizon, large and round, flooding the roomwith a silvery light, in which they saw each other as in a dream lightinfinitely bright and sweet. 

XI. 

But on the following day their disquietude all returned. They were nowobliged to go in debt. Martine obtained on credit bread, wine, anda little meat, much to her shame, be it said, forced as she was tomaneuver and tell lies, for no one was ignorant of the ruin that hadovertaken the house. The doctor had indeed thought of mortgaging LaSouleiade, but only as a last resource. All he now possessed was thisproperty, which was worth twenty thousand francs, but for which he wouldperhaps not get fifteen thousand, if he should sell it; and when theseshould be spent black want would be before them, the street, withouteven a stone of their own on which to lay their heads. Clotildetherefore begged Pascal to wait and not to take any irrevocable step solong as things were not utterly desperate. 

Three or four days passed. It was the beginning of September, andthe weather unfortunately changed; terrible storms ravaged the entirecountry; a part of the garden wall was blown down, and as Pascal wasunable to rebuild it, the yawning breach remained. Already they werebeginning to be rude at the baker's. And one morning the old servantcame home with the meat from the butcher's in tears, saying that he hadgiven her the refuse. A few days more and they would be unable to obtainanything on credit. It had become absolutely necessary to consider howthey should find the money for their small daily expenses. 

One Monday morning, the beginning of another week of torture, Clotildewas very restless. A struggle seemed to be going on within her, and itwas only when she saw Pascal refuse at breakfast his share of a piece ofbeef which had been left over from the day before that she at last cameto a decision. Then with a calm and resolute air, she went out afterbreakfast with Martine, after quietly putting into the basket of thelatter a little package--some articles of dress which she was givingher, she said. 

When she returned two hours later she was very pale. But her large eyes, so clear and frank, were shining. She went up to the doctor at once andmade her confession. 

"I must ask your forgiveness, master, for I have just been disobeyingyou, and I know that I am going to pain you greatly. "

"Why, what have you been doing?" he asked uneasily, not understandingwhat she meant. 

Slowly, without removing her eyes from him, she drew from her pocketan envelope, from which she took some bank-notes. A sudden intuitionenlightened him, and he cried:

"Ah, my God! the jewels, the presents I gave you!"

And he, who was usually so good-tempered and gentle, was convulsed withgrief and anger. He seized her hands in his, crushing with almost brutalforce the fingers which held the notes. 

"My God! what have you done, unhappy girl? It is my heart that you havesold, both our hearts, that had entered into those jewels, whichyou have given with them for money! The jewels which I gave you, thesouvenirs of our divinest hours, your property, yours only, how canyou wish me to take them back, to turn them to my profit? Can it bepossible--have you thought of the anguish that this would give me?"

"And you, master, " she answered gently, "do you think that I couldconsent to our remaining in the unhappy situation in which we are, inwant of everything, while I had these rings and necklaces and earringslaid away in the bottom of a drawer? Why, my whole being would rise inprotest. I should think myself a miser, a selfish wretch, if I hadkept them any longer. And, although it was a grief for me to part withthem--ah, yes, I confess it, so great a grief that I could hardly findthe courage to do it--I am certain that I have only done what I ought tohave done as an obedient and loving woman. "

And as he still grasped her hands, tears came to her eyes, and she addedin the same gentle voice and with a faint smile:

"Don't press so hard; you hurt me. "

Then repentant and deeply moved, Pascal, too, wept. 

"I am a brute to get angry in this way. You acted rightly; you couldnot do otherwise. But forgive me; it was hard for me to see you despoilyourself. Give me your hands, your poor hands, and let me kiss away themarks of my stupid violence. "

He took her hands again in his tenderly; he covered them with kisses; hethought them inestimably precious, so delicate and bare, thusstripped of their rings. Consoled now, and joyous, she told him of herescapade--how she had taken Martine into her confidence, and how bothhad gone to the dealer who had sold him the corsage of point d'Alencon, and how after interminable examining and bargaining the woman had givensix thousand francs for all the jewels. Again he repressed a gestureof despair--six thousand francs! when the jewels had cost him more thanthree times that amount--twenty thousand francs at the very least. 

"Listen, " he said to her at last; "I will take this money, since, inthe goodness of your heart, you have brought it to me. But it is clearlyunderstood that it is yours. I swear to you that I will, for the future, be more miserly than Martine herself. I will give her only the few sousthat are absolutely necessary for our maintenance, and you will find inthe desk all that may be left of this sum, if I should never be able tocomplete it and give it back to you entire. "

He clasped her in an embrace that still trembled with emotion. Presently, lowering his voice to a whisper, he said:

"And did you sell everything, absolutely everything?"

Without speaking, she disengaged herself a little from his embrace, and put her fingers to her throat, with her pretty gesture, smiling andblushing. Finally, she drew out the slender chain on which shone theseven pearls, like milky stars. Then she put it back again out of sight. 

He, too, blushed, and a great joy filled his heart. He embraced herpassionately. 

"Ah!" he cried, "how good you are, and how I love you!"

But from this time forth the recollection of the jewels which had beensold rested like a weight upon his heart; and he could not look atthe money in his desk without pain. He was haunted by the thoughtof approaching want, inevitable want, and by a still more bitterthought--the thought of his age, of his sixty years which rendered himuseless, incapable of earning a comfortable living for a wife; he hadbeen suddenly and rudely awakened from his illusory dream of eternallove to the disquieting reality. He had fallen unexpectedly intopoverty, and he felt himself very old--this terrified him and filled himwith a sort of remorse, of desperate rage against himself, as if he hadbeen guilty of a crime. And this embittered his every hour; if throughmomentary forgetfulness he permitted himself to indulge in a littlegaiety his distress soon returned with greater poignancy than ever, bringing with it a sudden and inexplicable sadness. He did not dare toquestion himself, and his dissatisfaction with himself and his sufferingincreased every day. 

Then a frightful revelation came to him. One morning, when he was alone, he received a letter bearing the Plassans postmark, the superscriptionon which he examined with surprise, not recognizing the writing. Thisletter was not signed; and after reading a few lines he made anangry movement as if to tear it up and throw it away; but he sat downtrembling instead, and read it to the end. The style was perfectlycourteous; the long phrases rolled on, measured and carefully worded, like diplomatic phrases, whose only aim is to convince. It wasdemonstrated to him with a superabundance of arguments that the scandalof La Souleiade had lasted too long already. If passion, up to a certainpoint, explained the fault, yet a man of his age and in his situationwas rendering himself contemptible by persisting in wrecking thehappiness of the young relative whose trustfulness he abused. No onewas ignorant of the ascendency which he had acquired over her; it wasadmitted that she gloried in sacrificing herself for him; but ought henot, on his side, to comprehend that it was impossible that she shouldlove an old man, that what she felt was merely pity and gratitude, andthat it was high time to deliver her from this senile love, which wouldfinally leave her with a dishonored name! Since he could not even assureher a small fortune, the writer hoped he would act like an honorableman, and have the strength to separate from her, through considerationfor her happiness, if it were not yet too late. And the letter concludedwith the reflection that evil conduct was always punished in the end. 

From the first sentence Pascal felt that this anonymous letter came fromhis mother. Old Mme. Rougon must have dictated it; he could hear in itthe very inflections of her voice. But after having begun the letterangry and indignant, he finished it pale and trembling, seized by theshiver which now passed through him continually and without apparentcause. The letter was right, it enlightened him cruelly regarding thesource of his mental distress, showing him that it was remorse forkeeping Clotilde with him, old and poor as he was. He got up and walkedover to a mirror, before which he stood for a long time, his eyesgradually filling with tears of despair at sight of his wrinkles and hiswhite beard. The feeling of terror which arose within him, the mortalchill which invaded his heart, was caused by the thought that separationhad become necessary, inevitable. He repelled the thought, he feltthat he would never have the strength for a separation, but it stillreturned; he would never now pass a single day without being assailed byit, without being torn by the struggle between his love and his reasonuntil the terrible day when he should become resigned, his strength andhis tears exhausted. In his present weakness, he trembled merely at thethought of one day having this courage. And all was indeed over, theirrevocable had begun; he was filled with fear for Clotilde, so youngand so beautiful, and all there was left him now was the duty of savingher from himself. 

Then, haunted by every word, by every phrase of the letter, he torturedhimself at first by trying to persuade himself that she did not lovehim, that all she felt for him was pity and gratitude. It would make therupture more easy to him, he thought, if he were once convinced that shesacrificed herself, and that in keeping her with him longer he was onlygratifying his monstrous selfishness. But it was in vain that he studiedher, that he subjected her to proofs, she remained as tender and devotedas ever, making the dreaded decision still more difficult. Then hepondered over all the causes that vaguely, but ceaselessly urged theirseparation. The life which they had been leading for months past, thislife without ties or duties, without work of any sort, was not good. Hethought no longer of himself, he considered himself good for nothing nowbut to go away and bury himself out of sight in some remote corner; butfor her was it not an injurious life, a life which would deteriorateher character and weaken her will? And suddenly he saw himself in fancydying, leaving her alone to perish of hunger in the streets. No, no!this would be a crime; he could not, for the sake of the happinessof his few remaining days, bequeath to her this heritage of shame andmisery. 

One morning Clotilde went for a walk in the neighborhood, from which shereturned greatly agitated, pale and trembling, and as soon as shewas upstairs in the workroom, she almost fainted in Pascal's arms, faltering:

"Oh, my God! oh, my God! those women!"

Terrified, he pressed her with questions. 

"Come, tell me! What has happened?"

A flush mounted to her face. She flung her arms around his neck and hidher head on his shoulder. 

"It was those women! Reaching a shady spot, I was closing my parasol, and I had the misfortune to throw down a child. And they all roseagainst me, crying out such things, oh, such things--things that Icannot repeat, that I could not understand!"

She burst into sobs. He was livid; he could find nothing to say to her;he kissed her wildly, weeping like herself. He pictured to himselfthe whole scene; he saw her pursued, hooted at, reviled. Presently hefaltered:

"It is my fault, it is through me you suffer. Listen, we will go awayfrom here, far, far away, where we shall not be known, where you will behonored, where you will be happy. "

But seeing him weep, she recovered her calmness by a violent effort. Anddrying her tears, she said:

"Ah! I have behaved like a coward in telling you all this. Afterpromising myself that I would say nothing of it to you. But when I foundmyself at home again, my anguish was so great that it all came out. Butyou see now it is all over, don't grieve about it. I love you. "

She smiled, and putting her arms about him she kissed him in her turn, trying to soothe his despair. 

"I love you. I love you so dearly that it will console me foreverything. There is only you in the world, what matters anything thatis not you? You are so good; you make me so happy!"

But he continued to weep, and she, too, began to weep again, and therewas a moment of infinite sadness, of anguish, in which they mingledtheir kisses and their tears. 

Pascal, when she left him alone for an instant, thought himself awretch. He could no longer be the cause of misfortune to this child, whom he adored. And on the evening of the same day an event took placewhich brought about the solution hitherto sought in vain, with the fearof finding it. After dinner Martine beckoned him aside, and gave him aletter, with all sorts of precautions, saying:

"I met Mme. Felicite, and she charged me to give you this letter, monsieur, and she told me to tell you that she would have brought itto you herself, only that regard for her reputation prevented herfrom returning here. She begs you to send her back M. Maxime's letter, letting her know mademoiselle's answer. "

It was, in fact, a letter from Maxime, and Mme. Felicite, glad to havereceived it, used it as a new means of conquering her son, after havingwaited in vain for misery to deliver him up to her, repentant andimploring. As neither Pascal nor Clotilde had come to demand aid orsuccor from her, she had once more changed her plan, returning to herold idea of separating them; and, this time, the opportunity seemedto her decisive. Maxime's letter was a pressing one; he urged hisgrandmother to plead his cause with his sister. Ataxia had declareditself; he was able to walk now only leaning on his servant's arm. Hissolitude terrified him, and he urgently entreated his sister to come tohim. He wished to have her with him as a rampart against his father'sabominable designs; as a sweet and upright woman after all, who wouldtake care of him. The letter gave it to be understood that if sheconducted herself well toward him she would have no reason to repent it;and ended by reminding the young girl of the promise she had made him, at the time of his visit to Plassans, to come to him, if the day everarrived when he really needed her. 

Pascal turned cold. He read the four pages over again. Here anopportunity to separate presented itself, acceptable to him andadvantageous for Clotilde, so easy and so natural that they ought toaccept it at once; yet, in spite of all his reasoning he felt so weak, so irresolute still that his limbs trembled under him, and he wasobliged to sit down for a moment. But he wished to be heroic, andcontrolling himself, he called to his companion. 

"Here!" he said, "read this letter which your grandmother has sent me. "

Clotilde read the letter attentively to the end without a word, withouta sign. Then she said simply:

"Well, you are going to answer it, are you not? I refuse. "

He was obliged to exercise a strong effort of self-control to avoiduttering a great cry of joy, as he pressed her to his heart. As if itwere another person who spoke, he heard himself saying quietly:

"You refuse--impossible! You must reflect. Let us wait till to-morrow togive an answer; and let us talk it over, shall we?"

Surprised, she cried excitedly:

"Part from each other! and why? And would you really consent to it? Whatfolly! we love each other, and you would have me leave you and go awaywhere no one cares for me! How could you think of such a thing? It wouldbe stupid. "

He avoided touching on this side of the question, and hastened to speakof promises made--of duty. 

"Remember, my dear, how greatly affected you were when I told you thatMaxime was in danger. And think of him now, struck down by disease, helpless and alone, calling you to his side. Can you abandon him in thatsituation? You have a duty to fulfil toward him. "

"A duty?" she cried. "Have I any duties toward a brother who has neveroccupied himself with me? My only duty is where my heart is. "

"But you have promised. I have promised for you. I have said that youwere rational, and you are not going to belie my words. "

"Rational? It is you who are not rational. It is not rational toseparate when to do so would make us both die of grief. "

And with an angry gesture she closed the discussion, saying:

"Besides, what is the use of talking about it? There is nothing simpler;it is only necessary to say a single word. Answer me. Are you tired ofme? Do you wish to send me away?"

He uttered a cry. 

"Send you away! I! Great God!"

"Then it is all settled. If you do not send me away I shall remain. "

She laughed now, and, running to her desk, wrote in red pencil acrossher brother's letter two words--"I refuse;" then she called Martine andinsisted upon her taking the letter back at once. Pascal was radiant;a wave of happiness so intense inundated his being that he let her haveher way. The joy of keeping her with him deprived him even of his powerof reasoning. 

But that very night, what remorse did he not feel for having been socowardly! He had again yielded to his longing for happiness. A deathlikesweat broke out upon him when he saw her in imagination far away;himself alone, without her, without that caressing and subtle essencethat pervaded the atmosphere when she was near; her breath, herbrightness, her courageous rectitude, and the dear presence, physicaland mental, which had now become as necessary to his life as the lightof day itself. She must leave him, and he must find the strength todie of it. He despised himself for his want of courage, he judged thesituation with terrible clear-sightedness. All was ended. An honorableexistence and a fortune awaited her with her brother; he could not carryhis senile selfishness so far as to keep her any longer in the misery inwhich he was, to be scorned and despised. And fainting at the thought ofall he was losing, he swore to himself that he would be strong, that hewould not accept the sacrifice of this child, that he would restore herto happiness and to life, in her own despite. 

And now the struggle of self-abnegation began. Some days passed; hehad demonstrated to her so clearly the rudeness of her "I refuse, " onMaxime's letter, that she had written a long letter to her grandmother, explaining to her the reasons for her refusal. But still she would notleave La Souleiade. As Pascal had grown extremely parsimonious, in hisdesire to trench as little as possible on the money obtained by the saleof the jewels, she surpassed herself, eating her dry bread with merrylaughter. One morning he surprised her giving lessons of economy toMartine. Twenty times a day she would look at him intently and thenthrow herself on his neck and cover his face with kisses, to combat thedreadful idea of a separation, which she saw always in his eyes. Thenshe had another argument. One evening after dinner he was seized with apalpitation of the heart, and almost fainted. This surprised him; he hadnever suffered from the heart, and he believed it to be simply a returnof his old nervous trouble. Since his great happiness he had felt lessstrong, with an odd sensation, as if some delicate hidden spring hadsnapped within him. Greatly alarmed, she hurried to his assistance. Well! now he would no doubt never speak again of her going away. Whenone loved people, and they were ill, one stayed with them to take careof them. 

The struggle thus became a daily, an hourly one. It was a continualassault made by affection, by devotion, by self-abnegation, in the onedesire for another's happiness. But while her kindness and tendernessmade the thought of her departure only the more cruel for Pascal, he felt every day more and more strongly the necessity for it. Hisresolution was now taken. But he remained at bay, trembling andhesitating as to the means of persuading her. He pictured to himself herdespair, her tears; what should he do? how should he tell her? how couldthey bring themselves to give each other a last embrace, never to seeeach other again? And the days passed, and he could think of nothing, and he began once more to accuse himself of cowardice. 

Sometimes she would say jestingly, with a touch of affectionate malice:

"Master, you are too kind-hearted not to keep me. "

But this vexed him; he grew excited, and with gloomy despair answered:

"No, no! don't talk of my kindness. If I were really kind you would havebeen long ago with your brother, leading an easy and honorable life, with a bright and tranquil future before you, instead of obstinatelyremaining here, despised, poor, and without any prospect, to be the sadcompanion of an old fool like me! No, I am nothing but a coward and adishonorable man!"

She hastily stopped him. And it was in truth his kindness of heart, above all, that bled, that immense kindness of heart which sprang fromhis love of life, which he diffused over persons and things, in hiscontinual care for the happiness of every one and everything. To bekind, was not this to love her, to make her happy, at the price of hisown happiness? This was the kindness which it was necessary for him toexercise, and which he felt that he would one day exercise, heroic anddecisive. But like the wretch who has resolved upon suicide, he waitedfor the opportunity, the hour, and the means, to carry out his design. Early one morning, on going into the workroom, Clotilde was surprisedto see Dr. Pascal seated at his table. It was many weeks since he hadeither opened a book or touched a pen. 

"Why! you are working?" she said. 

Without raising his head he answered absently:

"Yes; this is the genealogical tree that I had not even brought up todate. "

She stood behind him for a few moments, looking at him writing. He wascompleting the notices of Aunt Dide, of Uncle Macquart, and of littleCharles, writing the dates of their death. Then, as he did not stir, seeming not to know that she was there, waiting for the kisses and thesmiles of other mornings, she walked idly over to the window and backagain. 

"So you are in earnest, " she said, "you are really working?"

"Certainly; you see I ought to have noted down these deaths last month. And I have a heap of work waiting there for me. "

She looked at him fixedly, with that steady inquiring gaze with whichshe sought to read his thoughts. 

"Very well, let us work. If you have papers to examine, or notes tocopy, give them to me. "

And from this day forth he affected to give himself up entirely to work. Besides, it was one of his theories that absolute rest was unprofitable, that it should never be prescribed, even to the overworked. As the fishlives in the water, so a man lives only in the external medium whichsurrounds him, the sensations which he receives from it transformingthemselves in him into impulses, thoughts, and acts; so that if therewere absolute rest, if he continued to receive sensations without givingthem out again, digested and transformed, an engorgement would result, a_malaise_, an inevitable loss of equilibrium. For himself he had alwaysfound work to be the best regulator of his existence. Even on themornings when he felt ill, if he set to work he recovered his equipoise. He never felt better than when he was engaged on some long work, methodically planned out beforehand, so many pages to so many hoursevery morning, and he compared this work to a balancing-pole, whichenabled him to maintain his equilibrium in the midst of daily miseries, weaknesses, and mistakes. So that he attributed entirely to the idlenessin which he had been living for some weeks past, the palpitation whichat times made him feel as if he were going to suffocate. If he wished torecover his health he had only to take up again his great work. 

And Pascal spent hours developing and explaining these theories toClotilde, with a feverish and exaggerated enthusiasm. He seemed to beonce more possessed by the love of knowledge and study in which, upto the time of his sudden passion for her, he had spent his lifeexclusively. He repeated to her that he could not leave his workunfinished, that he had still a great deal to do, if he desired to leavea lasting monument behind him. His anxiety about the envelopes seemedto have taken possession of him again; he opened the large press twentytimes a day, taking them down from the upper shelf and enriching themby new notes. His ideas on heredity were already undergoing atransformation; he would have liked to review the whole, to recast thewhole, to deduce from the family history, natural and social, a vastsynthesis, a resume, in broad strokes, of all humanity. Then, besides, he reviewed his method of treatment by hypodermic injections, with thepurpose of amplifying it--a confused vision of a new therapeutics;a vague and remote theory based on his convictions and his personalexperience of the beneficent dynamic influence of work. 

Now every morning, when he seated himself at his table, he would lament:

"I shall not live long enough; life is too short. "

He seemed to feel that he must not lose another hour. And one morninghe looked up abruptly and said to his companion, who was copying amanuscript at his side:

"Listen well, Clotilde. If I should die--"

"What an idea!" she protested, terrified. 

"If I should die, " he resumed, "listen to me well--close all the doorsimmediately. You are to keep the envelopes, you, you only. And when youhave collected all my other manuscripts, send them to Ramond. These aremy last wishes, do you hear?"

But she refused to listen to him. 

"No, no!" she cried hastily, "you talk nonsense!"

"Clotilde, swear to me that you will keep the envelopes, and that youwill send all my other papers to Ramond. "

At last, now very serious, and her eyes filled with tears, she gavehim the promise he desired. He caught her in his arms, he, too, deeplymoved, and lavished caresses upon her, as if his heart had all at oncereopened to her. Presently he recovered his calmness, and spoke of hisfears. Since he had been trying to work they seemed to have returned. Hekept constant watch upon the press, pretending to have observed Martineprowling about it. Might they not work upon the fanaticism of this girl, and urge her to a bad action, persuading her that she was securing hermaster's eternal welfare? He had suffered so much from suspicion! In thedread of approaching solitude his former tortures returned--the torturesof the scientist, who is menaced and persecuted by his own, at his ownfireside, in his very flesh, in the work of his brain. 

One evening, when he was again discussing this subject with Clotilde, hesaid unthinkingly:

"You know that when you are no longer here--"

She turned very pale and, as he stopped with a start, she cried:

"Oh, master, master, you have not given up that dreadful idea, then?I can see in your eyes that you are hiding something from me, that youhave a thought which you no longer share with me. But if I go away andyou should die, who will be here then to protect your work?"

Thinking that she had become reconciled, to the idea of her departure, he had the strength to answer gaily:

"Do you suppose that I would allow myself to die without seeing you oncemore. I will write to you, of course. You must come back to close myeyes. "

Now she burst out sobbing, and sank into a chair. 

"My God! Can it be! You wish that to-morrow we should be together nolonger, we who have never been separated!"

From this day forth Pascal seemed more engrossed than ever in hiswork. He would sit for four or five hours at a time, whole mornings andafternoons, without once raising his head. He overacted his zeal. He would allow no one to disturb him, by so much as a word. And whenClotilde would leave the room on tiptoe to give an order downstairs orto go on some errand, he would assure himself by a furtive glance thatshe was gone, and then let his head drop on the table, with an airof profound dejection. It was a painful relief from the extraordinaryeffort which he compelled himself to make when she was present; toremain at his table, instead of going over and taking her in his armsand covering her face with sweet kisses. Ah, work! how ardently hecalled on it as his only refuge from torturing thoughts. But for themost part he was unable to work; he was obliged to feign attention, keeping his eyes fixed upon the page, his sorrowful eyes that grew dimwith tears, while his mind, confused, distracted, filled always with oneimage, suffered the pangs of death. Was he then doomed to see work failnow its effect, he who had always considered it of sovereign power, the creator and ruler of the world? Must he then throw away his pen, renounce action, and do nothing in future but exist? And tears wouldflow down his white beard; and if he heard Clotilde coming upstairsagain he would seize his pen quickly, in order that she might find himas she had left him, buried seemingly in profound meditation, when hismind was now only an aching void. 

It was now the middle of September; two weeks that had seemedinterminable had passed in this distressing condition of things, withoutbringing any solution, when one morning Clotilde was greatly surprisedby seeing her grandmother, Felicite, enter. Pascal had met his motherthe day before in the Rue de la Banne, and, impatient to consummate thesacrifice, and not finding in himself the strength to make the rupture, he had confided in her, in spite of his repugnance, and begged her tocome on the following day. As it happened, she had just received anotherletter from Maxime, a despairing and imploring letter. 

She began by explaining her presence. 

"Yes, it is I, my dear, and you can understand that only very weightyreasons could have induced me to set my foot here again. But, indeed, you are getting crazy; I cannot allow you to ruin your life in this way, without making a last effort to open your eyes. "

She then read Maxime's letter in a tearful voice. He was nailed to anarmchair. It seemed he was suffering from a form of ataxia, rapid in itsprogress and very painful. Therefore he requested a decided answerfrom his sister, hoping still that she would come, and trembling at thethought of being compelled to seek another nurse. This was what he wouldbe obliged to do, however, if they abandoned him in his sad condition. And when she had finished reading the letter she hinted that it would bea great pity to let Maxime's fortune pass into the hands of strangers;but, above all, she spoke of duty; of the assistance one owed to arelation, she, too, affecting to believe that a formal promise had beengiven. 

"Come, my dear, call upon your memory. You told him that if he shouldever need you, you would go to him; I can hear you saying it now. Was itnot so, my son?"

Pascal, his face pale, his head slightly bent, had kept silence sincehis mother's entrance, leaving her to act. He answered only by anaffirmative nod. 

Then Felicite went over all the arguments that he himself had employedto persuade Clotilde--the dreadful scandal, to which insult was nowadded; impending want, so hard for them both; the impossibility ofcontinuing the life they were leading. What future could they hope for, now that they had been overtaken by poverty? It was stupid and cruel topersist longer in her obstinate refusal. 

Clotilde, standing erect and with an impenetrable countenance, remainedsilent, refusing even to discuss the question. But as her grandmothertormented her to give an answer, she said at last:

"Once more, I have no duty whatever toward my brother; my duty is here. He can dispose of his fortune as he chooses; I want none of it. Whenwe are too poor, master shall send away Martine and keep me as hisservant. "

Old Mme. Rougon wagged her chin. 

"Before being his servant it would be better if you had begun by beinghis wife. Why have you not got married? It would have been simpler andmore proper. "

And Felicite reminded her how she had come one day to urge thismarriage, in order to put an end to gossip, and how the young girl hadseemed greatly surprised, saying that neither she nor the doctor hadthought of it, but that, notwithstanding, they would get married lateron, if necessary, for there was no hurry. 

"Get married; I am quite willing!" cried Clotilde. "You are right, grandmother. "

And turning to Pascal:

"You have told me a hundred times that you would do whatever I wished. Marry me; do you hear? I will be your wife, and I will stay here. A wifedoes not leave her husband. "

But he answered only by a gesture, as if he feared that his voicewould betray him, and that he should accept, in a cry of gratitude, theeternal bond which she had proposed to him. His gesture might signify ahesitation, a refusal. What was the good of this marriage _in extremis_, when everything was falling to pieces?

"Those are very fine sentiments, no doubt, " returned Felicite. "You havesettled it all in your own little head. But marriage will not give youan income; and, meantime, you are a great expense to him; you are theheaviest of his burdens. "

The effect which these words had upon Clotilde was extraordinary. Sheturned violently to Pascal, her cheeks crimson, her eyes filled withtears. 

"Master, master! is what grandmother has just said true? Has it come tothis, that you regret the money I cost you here?"

Pascal grew still paler; he remained motionless, in an attitude of utterdejection. But in a far-away voice, as if he were talking to himself, hemurmured:

"I have so much work to do! I should like to go over my envelopes, mymanuscripts, my notes, and complete the work of my life. If I werealone perhaps I might be able to arrange everything. I would sell LaSouleiade, oh! for a crust of bread, for it is not worth much. I shouldshut myself and my papers in a little room. I should work from morningtill night, and I should try not to be too unhappy. "

But he avoided her glance; and, agitated as she was, these painful andstammering utterances were not calculated to satisfy her. She grew everymoment more and more terrified, for she felt that the irrevocable wordwas about to be spoken. 

"Look at me, master, look me in the face. And I conjure you, be brave, choose between your work and me, since you say, it seems, that you sendme away that you may work the better. "

The moment for the heroic falsehood had come. He lifted his head andlooked her bravely in the face, and with the smile of a dying man whodesires death, recovering his voice of divine goodness, he said:

"How excited you get! Can you not do your duty quietly, like everybodyelse? I have a great deal of work to do, and I need to be alone; andyou, dear, you ought to go to your brother. Go then, everything isended. "

There was a terrible silence for the space of a few seconds. She lookedat him earnestly, hoping that he would change his mind. Was he reallyspeaking the truth? was he not sacrificing himself in order that shemight be happy? For a moment she had an intuition that this was thecase, as if some subtle breath, emanating from him, had warned her ofit. 

"And you are sending me away forever? You will not permit me to comeback to-morrow?"

But he held out bravely; with another smile he seemed to answer thatwhen one went away like this it was not to come back again on thefollowing day. She was now completely bewildered; she knew not what tothink. It might be possible that he had chosen work sincerely; that theman of science had gained the victory over the lover. She grew stillpaler, and she waited a little longer, in the terrible silence; then, slowly, with her air of tender and absolute submission, she said:

"Very well, master, I will go away whenever you wish, and I will notreturn until you send for me. "

The die was cast. The irrevocable was accomplished. Each felt thatneither would attempt to recall the decision that had been made; and, from this instant, every minute that passed would bring nearer theseparation. 

Felicite, surprised at not being obliged to say more, at once desiredto fix the time for Clotilde's departure. She applauded herself for hertenacity; she thought she had gained the victory by main force. Itwas now Friday, and it was settled that Clotilde should leave on thefollowing Sunday. A despatch was even sent to Maxime. 

For the past three days the mistral had been blowing. But on thisevening its fury was redoubled, and Martine declared, in accordance withthe popular belief, that it would last for three days longer. The windsat the end of September, in the valley of the Viorne, are terrible. Sothat the servant took care to go into every room in the house to assureherself that the shutters were securely fastened. When the mistral blewit caught La Souleiade slantingly, above the roofs of the houses ofPlassans, on the little plateau on which the house was built. And now itraged and beat against the house, shaking it from garret to cellar, dayand night, without a moment's cessation. The tiles were blown off, thefastenings of the windows were torn away, while the wind, entering thecrevices, moaned and sobbed wildly through the house; and the doors, ifthey were left open for a moment, through forgetfulness, slammed to witha noise like the report of a cannon. They might have fancied they weresustaining a siege, so great were the noise and the discomfort. 

It was in this melancholy house shaken by the storm that Pascal, onthe following day, helped Clotilde to make her preparations for herdeparture. Old Mme. Rougon was not to return until Sunday, to saygood-by. When Martine was informed of the approaching separation, she stood still in dumb amazement, and a flash, quickly extinguished, lighted her eyes; and as they sent her out of the room, saying that theywould not require her assistance in packing the trunks, she returnedto the kitchen and busied herself in her usual occupations, seeming toignore the catastrophe which was about to revolutionize their householdof three. But at Pascal's slightest call she would run so promptly andwith such alacrity, her face so bright and so cheerful, in her zealto serve him, that she seemed like a young girl. Pascal did not leaveClotilde for a moment, helping her, desiring to assure himself that shewas taking with her everything she could need. Two large trunks stoodopen in the middle of the disordered room; bundles and articles ofclothing lay about everywhere; twenty times the drawers and the presseshad been visited. And in this work, this anxiety to forget nothing, thepainful sinking of the heart which they both felt was in some measurelessened. They forgot for an instant--he watching carefully to see thatno space was lost, utilizing the hat-case for the smaller articles ofclothing, slipping boxes in between the folds of the linen; while she, taking down the gowns, folded them on the bed, waiting to put themlast in the top tray. Then, when a little tired they stood up and foundthemselves again face to face, they would smile at each other at first;then choke back the sudden tears that started at the recollection of theimpending and inevitable misfortune. But though their hearts bled theyremained firm. Good God! was it then true that they were to be nolonger together? And then they heard the wind, the terrible wind, whichthreatened to blow down the house. 

How many times during this last day did they not go over to the window, attracted by the storm, wishing that it would sweep away the world. During these squalls the sun did not cease to shine, the sky remainedconstantly blue, but a livid blue, windswept and dusty, and the sun wasa yellow sun, pale and cold. They saw in the distance the vast whiteclouds rising from the roads, the trees bending before the blast, looking as if they were flying all in the same direction, at the samerate of speed; the whole country parched and exhausted by the unvaryingviolence of the wind that blew ceaselessly, with a roar like thunder. Branches were snapped and whirled out of sight; roofs were lifted up andcarried so far away that they were never afterward found. Why could notthe mistral take them all up together and carry them off to some unknownland, where they might be happy? The trunks were almost packed whenPascal went to open one of the shutters that the wind had blown to, butso fierce a gust swept in through the half open window that Clotilde hadto go to his assistance. Leaning with all their weight, they were ableat last to turn the catch. The articles of clothing in the room wereblown about, and they gathered up in fragments a little hand mirrorwhich had fallen from a chair. Was this a sign of approaching death, asthe women of the faubourg said?

In the evening, after a mournful dinner in the bright dining-room, with its great bouquets of flowers, Pascal said he would retire early. Clotilde was to leave on the following morning by the ten o'clocktrain, and he feared for her the long journey--twenty hours of railwaytraveling. But when he had retired he was unable to sleep. At first hethought it was the wind that kept him awake. The sleeping house wasfull of cries, voices of entreaty and voices of anger, mingled together, accompanied by endless sobbing. Twice he got up and went to listen atClotilde's door, but he heard nothing. He went downstairs to close adoor that banged persistently, like misfortune knocking at the walls. Gusts blew through the dark rooms, and he went to bed again, shiveringand haunted by lugubrious visions. 

At six o'clock Martine, fancying she heard her master knocking for heron the floor of his room, went upstairs. She entered the room with thealert and excited expression which she had worn for the past two days;but she stood still, astonished and uneasy, when she saw him lying, half-dressed, across his bed, haggard, biting the pillow to stifle hissobs. He got out of bed and tried to finish dressing himself, but afresh attack seized him, and, his head giddy and his heart palpitatingto suffocation, recovering from a momentary faintness, he faltered inagonized tones:

"No, no, I cannot; I suffer too much. I would rather die, die now--"

He recognized Martine, and abandoning himself to his grief, his strengthtotally gone, he made his confession to her:

"My poor girl, I suffer too much, my heart is breaking. She is takingaway my heart with her, she is taking away my whole being. I cannot livewithout her. I almost died last night. I would be glad to die before herdeparture, not to have the anguish of seeing her go away. Oh, my God!she is going away, and I shall have her no longer, and I shall be leftalone, alone, alone!"

The servant, who had gone upstairs so gaily, turned as pale as wax, anda hard and bitter look came into her face. For a moment she watched himclutching the bedclothes convulsively, uttering hoarse cries of despair, his face pressed against the coverlet. Then, by a violent effort, sheseemed to make up her mind. 

"But, monsieur, there is no sense in making trouble for yourself inthis way. It is ridiculous. Since that is how it is, and you cannot dowithout mademoiselle, I shall go and tell her what a state you have letyourself get into. "

At these words he got up hastily, staggering still, and, leaning forsupport on the back of a chair, he cried:

"I positively forbid you to do so, Martine!"

"A likely thing that I should listen to you, seeing you like that! Tofind you some other time half dead, crying your eyes out! No, no! Ishall go to mademoiselle and tell her the truth, and compel her toremain with us. "

But he caught her angrily by the arm and held her fast. 

"I command you to keep quiet, do you hear? Or you shall go with her!Why did you come in? It was this wind that made me ill. That concerns noone. "

Then, yielding to a good-natured impulse, with his usual kindness ofheart, he smiled. 

"My poor girl, see how you vex me? Let me act as I ought, for thehappiness of others. And not another word; you would pain me greatly. "

Martine's eyes, too, filled with tears. It was just in time that theymade peace, for Clotilde entered almost immediately. She had risenearly, eager to see Pascal, hoping doubtless, up to the last moment, that he would keep her. Her own eyelids were heavy from want of sleep, and she looked at him steadily as she entered, with her inquiring air. But he was still so discomposed that she began to grow uneasy. 

"No, indeed, I assure you, I would even have slept well but for themistral. I was just telling you so, Martine, was I not?"

The servant confirmed his words by an affirmative nod. And Clotilde, too, submitted, saying nothing of the night of anguish and mentalconflict she had spent while he, on his side, had been suffering thepangs of death. Both of the women now docilely obeyed and aided him, inhis heroic self-abnegation. 

"What, " he continued, opening his desk, "I have something here for you. There! there are seven hundred francs in that envelope. "

And in spite of her exclamations and protestations he persisted inrendering her an account. Of the six thousand francs obtained by thesale of the jewels two hundred only had been spent, and he had kept onehundred to last till the end of the month, with the strict economy, thepenuriousness, which he now displayed. Afterward he would no doubt sellLa Souleiade, he would work, he would be able to extricate himself fromhis difficulties. But he would not touch the five thousand francs whichremained, for they were her property, her own, and she would find themagain in the drawer. 

"Master, master, you are giving me a great deal of pain--"

"I wish it, " he interrupted, "and it is you who are trying to break myheart. Come, it is half-past seven, I will go and cord your trunks sincethey are locked. "

When Martine and Clotilde were alone and face to face they looked ateach other for a moment in silence. Ever since the commencement of thenew situation, they had been fully conscious of their secret antagonism, the open triumph of the young mistress, the half concealed jealousy ofthe old servant about her adored master. Now it seemed that the victoryremained with the servant. But in this final moment their common emotiondrew them together. 

"Martine, you must not let him eat like a poor man. You promise me thathe shall have wine and meat every day?"

"Have no fear, mademoiselle. "

"And the five thousand francs lying there, you know belong to him. Youare not going to let yourselves starve to death, I suppose, with thosethere. I want you to treat him very well. "

"I tell you that I will make it my business to do so, mademoiselle, andthat monsieur shall want for nothing. "

There was a moment's silence. They were still regarding each other. 

"And watch him, to see that he does not overwork himself. I am goingaway very uneasy; he has not been well for some time past. Take goodcare of him. "

"Make your mind easy, mademoiselle, I will take care of him. "

"Well, I give him into your charge. He will have only you now; and it issome consolation to me to know that you love him dearly. Love him withall your strength. Love him for us both. "

"Yes, mademoiselle, as much as I can. "

Tears came into their eyes; Clotilde spoke again. 

"Will you embrace me, Martine?"

"Oh, mademoiselle, very gladly. "

They were in each other's arms when Pascal reentered the room. Hepretended not to see them, doubtless afraid of giving way to hisemotion. In an unnaturally loud voice he spoke of the final preparationsfor Clotilde's departure, like a man who had a great deal on his handsand was afraid that the train might be missed. He had corded the trunks, a man had taken them away in a little wagon, and they would find them atthe station. But it was only eight o'clock, and they had still two longhours before them. Two hours of mortal anguish, spent in unoccupiedand weary waiting, during which they tasted a hundred times over thebitterness of parting. The breakfast took hardly a quarter of an hour. Then they got up, to sit down again. Their eyes never left the clock. The minutes seemed long as those of a death watch, throughout themournful house. 

"How the wind blows!" said Clotilde, as a sudden gust made all the doorscreak. 

Pascal went over to the window and watched the wild flight of thestorm-blown trees. 

"It has increased since morning, " he said. "Presently I must see to theroof, for some of the tiles have been blown away. "

Already they had ceased to be one household. They listened in silence tothe furious wind, sweeping everything before it, carrying with it theirlife. 

Finally Pascal looked for a last time at the clock, and said simply:

"It is time, Clotilde. "

She rose from the chair on which she had been sitting. She had for aninstant forgotten that she was going away, and all at once the dreadfulreality came back to her. Once more she looked at him, but he did notopen his arms to keep her. It was over; her hope was dead. And from thismoment her face was like that of one struck with death. 

At first they exchanged the usual commonplaces. 

"You will write to me, will you not?"

"Certainly, and you must let me hear from you as often as possible. "

"Above all, if you should fall ill, send for me at once. "

"I promise you that I will do so. But there is no danger. I am verystrong. "

Then, when the moment came in which she was to leave this dear house, Clotilde looked around with unsteady gaze; then she threw herself onPascal's breast, she held him for an instant in her arms, faltering:

"I wish to embrace you here, I wish to thank you. Master, it is you whohave made me what I am. As you have often told me, you have correctedmy heredity. What should I have become amid the surroundings in whichMaxime has grown up? Yes, if I am worth anything, it is to you aloneI owe it, you, who transplanted me into this abode of kindness andaffection, where you have brought me up worthy of you. Now, after havingtaken me and overwhelmed me with benefits, you send me away. Be it asyou will, you are my master, and I will obey you. I love you, in spiteof all, and I shall always love you. "

He pressed her to his heart, answering:

"I desire only your good, I am completing my work. "

When they reached the station, Clotilde vowed to herself that she wouldone day come back. Old Mme. Rougon was there, very gay and very brisk, in spite of her eighty-and-odd years. She was triumphant now; shethought she would have her son Pascal at her mercy. When she saw themboth stupefied with grief she took charge of everything; got the ticket, registered the baggage, and installed the traveler in a compartmentin which there were only ladies. Then she spoke for a long timeabout Maxime, giving instructions and asking to be kept informed ofeverything. But the train did not start; there were still five cruelminutes during which they remained face to face, without speaking toeach other. Then came the end, there were embraces, a great noise ofwheels, and waving of handkerchiefs. 

Suddenly Pascal became aware that he was standing alone upon theplatform, while the train was disappearing around a bend in the road. Then, without listening to his mother, he ran furiously up the slope, sprang up the stone steps like a young man, and found himself in threeminutes on the terrace of La Souleiade. The mistral was raging there--afierce squall which bent the secular cypresses like straws. In thecolorless sky the sun seemed weary of the violence of the wind, whichfor six days had been sweeping over its face. And like the wind-blowntrees Pascal stood firm, his garments flapping like banners, his beardand hair blown about and lashed by the storm. His breath caught by thewind, his hands pressed upon his heart to quiet its throbbing, he sawthe train flying in the distance across the bare plain, a little trainwhich the mistral seemed to sweep before it like a dry branch. 

XII. 

From the day following Clotilde's departure, Pascal shut himself up inthe great empty house. He did not leave it again, ceasing entirely therare professional visits which he had still continued to make, livingthere with doors and windows closed, in absolute silence and solitude. Martine had received formal orders to admit no one under any pretextwhatever. 

"But your mother, monsieur, Mme. Felicite?"

"My mother, less than any one else; I have my reasons. Tell her thatI am working, that I require to concentrate my thoughts, and that Irequest her to excuse me. "

Three times in succession old Mme. Rougon had presented herself. Shewould storm at the hall door. He would hear her voice rising in anger asshe tried in vain to force her way in. Then the noise would be stilled, and there would be only a whisper of complaint and plotting between herand the servant. But not once did he yield, not once did he lean overthe banisters and call to her to come up. 

One day Martine ventured to say to him:

"It is very hard, all the same, monsieur, to refuse admittance to one'smother. The more so, as Mme. Felicite comes with good intentions, forshe knows the straits that monsieur is in, and she insists only in orderto offer her services. "

"Money!" he cried, exasperated. "I want no money, do you hear? Andfrom her less than anybody. I will work, I will earn my own living; whyshould I not?"

The question of money, however, began to grow pressing. He obstinatelyrefused to take another sou from the five thousand francs locked upin the desk. Now that he was alone, he was completely indifferent tomaterial things; he would have been satisfied to live on bread andwater; and every time the servant asked him for money to buy wine, meat, or sweets, he shrugged his shoulders--what was the use? there remained acrust from the day before, was not that sufficient? But in her affectionfor her master, whom she felt to be suffering, the old servant washeart-broken at this miserliness which exceeded her own; this utterdestitution to which he abandoned himself and the whole house. Theworkmen of the faubourgs lived better. Thus it was that for a whole daya terrible conflict went on within her. Her doglike love struggled withher love for her money, amassed sou by sou, hidden away, "making more, "as she said. She would rather have parted with a piece of her flesh. So long as her master had not suffered alone the idea of touching hertreasure had not even occurred to her. And she displayed extraordinaryheroism the morning when, driven to extremity, seeing her stove coldand the larder empty, she disappeared for an hour and then returned withprovisions and the change of a hundred-franc note. 

Pascal, who just then chanced to come downstairs, asked her inastonishment where the money had come from, furious already, andprepared to throw it all into the street, imagining she had applied tohis mother. 

"Why, no; why, no, monsieur!" she stammered, "it is not that at all. "

And she told him the story that she had prepared. 

"Imagine, M. Grandguillot's affairs are going to be settled--or at leastI think so. It occurred to me this morning to go to the assignee's toinquire, and he told me that you would undoubtedly recover something, and that I might have a hundred francs now. Yes, he was even satisfiedwith a receipt from me. He knows me, and you can make it all rightafterward. "

Pascal seemed scarcely surprised. She had calculated correctly that hewould not go out to verify her account. She was relieved, however, tosee with what easy indifference he accepted her story. 

"Ah, so much the better!" he said. "You see now that one must neverdespair. That will give me time to settle my affairs. "

His "affairs" was the sale of La Souleiade, about which he had beenthinking vaguely. But what a grief to leave this house in which Clotildehad grown up, where they had lived together for nearly eighteen years!He had taken two or three weeks already to reflect over the matter. Nowthat he had the hope of getting back a little of the money he had lostthrough the notary's failure, he ceased to think any more about it. Herelapsed into his former indifference, eating whatever Martine servedhim, not even noticing the comforts with which she once more surroundedhim, in humble adoration, heart-broken at giving her money, but veryhappy to support him now, without his suspecting that his sustenancecame from her. 

But Pascal rewarded her very ill. Afterward he would be sorry, andregret his outbursts. But in the state of feverish desperation in whichhe lived this did not prevent him from again flying into a passion withher, at the slightest cause of dissatisfaction. One evening, after hehad been listening to his mother talking for an interminable time withher in the kitchen, he cried in sudden fury:

"Martine, I do not wish her to enter La Souleiade again, do you hear? Ifyou ever let her into the house again I will turn you out!"

She listened to him in surprise. Never, during the thirty-two years inwhich she had been in his service, had he threatened to dismiss her inthis way. Big tears came to her eyes. 

"Oh, monsieur! you would not have the courage to do it! And I would notgo. I would lie down across the threshold first. "

He already regretted his anger, and he said more gently:

"The thing is that I know perfectly well what is going on. She comesto indoctrinate you, to put you against me, is it not so? Yes, she iswatching my papers; she wishes to steal and destroy everything up therein the press. I know her; when she wants anything, she never gives upuntil she gets it. Well, you can tell her that I am on my guard; thatwhile I am alive she shall never even come near the press. And the keyis here in my pocket. "

In effect, all his former terror--the terror of the scientist who feelshimself surrounded by secret enemies, had returned. Ever since hehad been living alone in the deserted house he had had a feeling ofreturning danger, of being constantly watched in secret. The circle hadnarrowed, and if he showed such anger at these attempts at invasion, if he repulsed his mother's assaults, it was because he did not deceivehimself as to her real plans, and he was afraid that he might yield. Ifshe were there she would gradually take possession of him, until she hadsubjugated him completely. Therefore his former tortures returned, and he passed the days watching; he shut up the house himself in theevening, and he would often rise during the night, to assure himselfthat the locks were not being forced. What he feared was that theservant, won over by his mother, and believing she was securing hiseternal welfare, would open the door to Mme. Felicite. In fancy he sawthe papers blazing in the fireplace; he kept constant guard over them, seized again by a morbid love, a torturing affection for this icy heapof papers, these cold pages of manuscript, to which he had sacrificedthe love of woman, and which he tried to love sufficiently to be able toforget everything else for them. 

Pascal, now that Clotilde was no longer there, threw himself eagerlyinto work, trying to submerge himself in it, to lose himself in it. Ifhe secluded himself, if he did not set foot even in the garden, ifhe had had the strength, one day when Martine came up to announce Dr. Ramond, to answer that he would not receive him, he had, in this bitterdesire for solitude, no other aim than to kill thought by incessantlabor. That poor Ramond, how gladly he would have embraced him! forhe divined clearly the delicacy of feeling that had made him hastento console his old master. But why lose an hour? Why risk emotions andtears which would leave him so weak? From daylight he was at his table, he spent at it his mornings and his afternoons, extended often into theevening after the lamp was lighted, and far into the night. He wishedto put his old project into execution--to revise his whole theoryof heredity, employing the documents furnished by his own family toestablish the laws according to which, in a certain group of humanbeings, life is distributed and conducted with mathematical precisionfrom one to another, taking into account the environment--a vast bible, the genesis of families, of societies, of all humanity. He hoped thatthe vastness of such a plan, the effort necessary to develop so colossalan idea, would take complete possession of him, restoring to him hishealth, his faith, his pride in the supreme joy of the accomplishedwork. But it was in vain that he threw himself passionately, persistently, without reserve, into his work; he succeeded only infatiguing his body and his mind, without even being able to fix histhoughts or to put his heart into his work, every day sicker and moredespairing. Had work, then, finally lost its power? He whose lifehad been spent in work, who had regarded it as the sole motor, thebenefactor, and the consoler, must he then conclude that to love andto be loved is beyond all else in the world? Occasionally he wouldhave great thoughts, he continued to sketch out his new theory of theequilibrium of forces, demonstrating that what man receives in sensationhe should return in action. How natural, full, and happy would lifebe if it could be lived entire, performing its functions like awell-ordered machine, giving back in power what was consumed in fuel, maintaining itself in vigor and in beauty by the simultaneous andlogical play of all its organs. He believed physical and intellectuallabor, feeling and reasoning should be in equal proportions, andnever excessive, for excess meant disturbance of the equilibrium and, consequently, disease. Yes, yes, to begin life over again and to knowhow to live it, to dig the earth, to study man, to love woman, to attainto human perfection, the future city of universal happiness, through theharmonious working of the entire being, what a beautiful legacy fora philosophical physician to leave behind him would this be! And thisdream of the future, this theory, confusedly perceived, filled him withbitterness at the thought that now his life was a force wasted and lost. 

At the very bottom of his grief Pascal had the dominating feeling thatfor him life was ended. Regret for Clotilde, sorrow at having her nolonger beside him, the certainty that he would never see her again, filled him with overwhelming grief. Work had lost its power, and hewould sometimes let his head drop on the page he was writing, and weepfor hours together, unable to summon courage to take up the pen again. His passion for work, his days of voluntary fatigue, led to terriblenights, nights of feverish sleeplessness, in which he would stuff thebedclothes into his mouth to keep from crying out Clotilde's name. Shewas everywhere in this mournful house in which he secluded himself. He saw her again, walking through the rooms, sitting on the chairs, standing behind the doors. Downstairs, in the dining-room, he could notsit at table, without seeing her opposite him. In the workroom upstairsshe was still his constant companion, for she, too, had lived so longsecluded in it that her image seemed reflected from everything; he felther constantly beside him, he could fancy he saw her standing before herdesk, straight and slender--her delicate face bent over a pastel. And ifhe did not leave the house to escape from the dear and torturing memoryit was because he had the certainty that he should find her everywherein the garden, too: dreaming on the terrace; walking with slow stepsthrough the alleys in the pine grove; sitting under the shade of theplane trees; lulled by the eternal song of the fountain; lying in thethreshing yard at twilight, her gaze fixed on space, waiting forthe stars to come out. But above all, there existed for him a sacredsanctuary which he could not enter without trembling--the chamber whereshe had confessed her love. He kept the key of it; he had not moveda single object from its place since the sorrowful morning of herdeparture; and a skirt which she had forgotten lay still upon herarmchair. He opened his arms wildly to clasp her shade floating in thesoft half light of the room, with its closed shutters and its walls hungwith the old faded pink calico, of a dawnlike tint. 

In the midst of his unremitting toil Pascal had another melancholypleasure--Clotilde's letters. She wrote to him regularly twice a week, long letters of eight or ten pages, in which she described to him allher daily life. She did not seem to lead a very happy life in Paris. Maxime, who did not now leave his sick chair, evidently tortured herwith the exactions of a spoiled child and an invalid. She spoke as ifshe lived in complete retirement, always waiting on him, so that shecould not even go over to the window to look out on the avenue, alongwhich rolled the fashionable stream of the promenaders of the Bois; andfrom certain of her expressions it could be divined that her brother, after having entreated her so urgently to go to him, suspected heralready, and had begun to regard her with hatred and distrust, as he didevery one who approached him, in his continual fear of being made use ofand robbed. He did not give her the keys, treating her like a servant towhom he found it difficult to accustom himself. Twice she had seen herfather, who was, as always, very gay, and overwhelmed with business; hehad been converted to the Republic, and was at the height of politicaland financial success. Saccard had even taken her aside, to sympathizewith her, saying that poor Maxime was really insupportable, and that shewould be truly courageous if she consented to be made his victim. As shecould not do everything, he had even had the kindness to send her, on the following day, the niece of his hairdresser, a fair-haired, innocent-looking girl of eighteen, named Rose, who was assisting hernow to take care of the invalid. But Clotilde made no complaint; sheaffected, on the contrary, to be perfectly tranquil, contented, andresigned to everything. Her letters were full of courage, showingneither anger nor sorrow at the cruel separation, making no desperateappeal to Pascal's affection to recall her. But between the lines, hecould perceive that she trembled with rebellious anger, that herwhole being yearned for him, that she was ready to commit the folly ofreturning to him immediately, at his lightest word. 

And this was the one word that Pascal would not write. Everything wouldbe arranged in time. Maxime would become accustomed to his sister; thesacrifice must be completed now that it had been begun. A single linewritten by him in a moment of weakness, and all the advantage of theeffort he had made would be lost, and their misery would begin again. Never had Pascal had greater need of courage than when he was answeringClotilde's letters. At night, burning with fever, he would toss about, calling on her wildly; then he would get up and write to her to comeback at once. But when day came, and he had exhausted himself withweeping, his fever abated, and his answer was always very short, almostcold. He studied every sentence, beginning the letter over again whenhe thought he had forgotten himself. But what a torture, these dreadfulletters, so short, so icy, in which he went against his heart, solelyin order to wean her from him gradually, to take upon himself all theblame, and to make her believe that she could forget him, since heforgot her. They left him covered with perspiration, and as exhausted asif he had just performed some great act of heroism. 

One morning toward the end of October, a month after Clotilde'sdeparture, Pascal had a sudden attack of suffocation. He had had, several times already, slight attacks, which he attributed to overwork. But this time the symptoms were so plain that he could not mistakethem--a sharp pain in the region of the heart, extending over the wholechest and along the left arm, and a dreadful sensation of oppression anddistress, while cold perspiration broke out upon him. It was an attackof angina pectoris. It lasted hardly more than a minute, and he wasat first more surprised than frightened. With that blindness whichphysicians often show where their own health is concerned, he neversuspected that his heart might be affected. 

As he was recovering his breath Martine came up to say that Dr. Ramondwas downstairs, and again begged the doctor to see him. And Pascal, yielding perhaps to an unconscious desire to know the truth, cried:

"Well, let him come up, since he insists upon it. I will be glad to seehim. "

The two men embraced each other, and no other allusion was made to theabsent one, to her whose departure had left the house empty, than anenergetic and sad hand clasp. 

"You don't know why I have come?" cried Ramond immediately. "It is abouta question of money. Yes, my father-in-law, M. Leveque, the advocate, whom you know, spoke to me yesterday again about the funds which you hadwith the notary Grandguillot. And he advises you strongly to take someaction in the matter, for some persons have succeeded, he says, inrecovering something. "

"Yes, I know that that business is being settled, " said Pascal. "Martinehas already got two hundred francs out of it, I believe. "

"Martine?" said Ramond, looking greatly surprised, "how could shedo that without your intervention? However, will you authorize myfather-in-law to undertake your case? He will see the assignee, and siftthe whole affair, since you have neither the time nor the inclination toattend to it. "

"Certainly, I authorize M. Leveque to do so, and tell him that I thankhim a thousand times. "

Then this matter being settled, the young man, remarking the doctor'spallor, and questioning him as to its cause, Pascal answered with asmile:

"Imagine, my friend, I have just had an attack of angina pectoris. Oh, it is not imagination, all the symptoms were there. And stay! since youare here you shall sound me. "

At first Ramond refused, affecting to turn the consultation into ajest. Could a raw recruit like him venture to pronounce judgment onhis general? But he examined him, notwithstanding, seeing that his facelooked drawn and pained, with a singular look of fright in the eyes. Heended by auscultating him carefully, keeping his ear pressed closely tohis chest for a considerable time. Several minutes passed in profoundsilence. 

"Well?" asked Pascal, when the young physician stood up. 

The latter did not answer at once. He felt the doctor's eyes lookingstraight into his; and as the question had been put to him with quietcourage, he answered in the same way:

"Well, it is true, I think there is some sclerosis. "

"Ah! it was kind of you not to attempt to deceive me, " returned thedoctor, smiling. "I feared for an instant that you would tell me anuntruth, and that would have hurt me. "

Ramond, listening again, said in an undertone:

"Yes, the beat is strong, the first sound is dull, while the second, onthe contrary, is sharp. It is evident that the apex has descended and isturned toward the armpit. There is some sclerosis, at least it is veryprobable. One may live twenty years with that, " he ended, straighteninghimself. 

"No doubt, sometimes, " said Pascal. "At least, unless one chances to dieof a sudden attack. "

They talked for some time longer, discussed a remarkable case ofsclerosis of the heart, which they had seen at the hospital at Plassans. And when the young physician went away, he said that he would return assoon as he should have news of the Grandguillot liquidation. 

But when he was alone Pascal felt that he was lost. Everything was nowexplained: his palpitations for some weeks past, his attacks of vertigoand suffocation; above all that weakness of the organ, of his poorheart, overtasked by feeling and by work, that sense of intense fatigueand impending death, regarding which he could no longer deceive himself. It was not as yet fear that he experienced, however. His first thoughtwas that he, too, would have to pay for his heredity, that sclerosiswas the species of degeneration which was to be his share of thephysiological misery, the inevitable inheritance bequeathed him by histerrible ancestry. In others the neurosis, the original lesion, hadturned to vice or virtue, genius, crime, drunkenness, sanctity; othersagain had died of consumption, of epilepsy, of ataxia; he had livedin his feelings and he would die of an affection of the heart. Andhe trembled no longer, he rebelled no longer against this manifestheredity, fated and inevitable, no doubt. On the contrary, a feelingof humility took possession of him; the idea that all revolt againstnatural laws is bad, that wisdom does not consist in holding one's selfapart, but in resigning one's self to be only a member of the wholegreat body. Why, then, was he so unwilling to belong to his familythat it filled him with triumph, that his heart beat with joy, when hebelieved himself different from them, without any community with them?Nothing could be less philosophical. Only monsters grew apart. And tobelong to his family seemed to him in the end as good and as fine asto belong to any other family, for did not all families, in the main, resemble one another, was not humanity everywhere identical with thesame amount of good and evil? He came at last, humbly and gently, evenin the face of impending suffering and death, to accept everything lifehad to give him. 

From this time Pascal lived with the thought that he might die at anymoment. And this helped to perfect his character, to elevate him to acomplete forgetfulness of self. He did not cease to work, but he hadnever understood so well how much effort must seek its reward in itself, the work being always transitory, and remaining of necessity incomplete. One evening at dinner Martine informed him that Sarteur, the journeymanhatter, the former inmate of the asylum at the Tulettes, had just hangedhimself. All the evening he thought of this strange case, of this manwhom he had believed he had cured of homicidal mania by his treatment ofhypodermic injections, and who, seized by a fresh attack, had evidentlyhad sufficient lucidity to hang himself, instead of springing at thethroat of some passer-by. He again saw him, so gentle, so reasonable, kissing his hands, while he was advising him to return to his life ofhealthful labor. What then was this destructive and transforming force, the desire to murder, changing to suicide, death performing its taskin spite of everything? With the death of this man his last vestige ofpride as a healer disappeared; and each day when he returned to his workhe felt as if he were only a learner, spelling out his task, constantlyseeking the truth, which as constantly receded from him, assuming evermore formidable proportions. 

But in the midst of his resignation one thought still troubled him--whatwould become of Bonhomme, his old horse, if he himself should die beforehim? The poor brute, completely blind and his limbs paralyzed, didnot now leave his litter. When his master went to see him, however, heturned his head, he could feel the two hearty kisses which were pressedon his nose. All the neighbors shrugged their shoulders and joked aboutthis old relation whom the doctor would not allow to be slaughtered. Washe then to be the first to go, with the thought that the knacker wouldbe called in on the following day. But one morning, when he entered thestable, Bonhomme did not hear him, did not raise his head. He was dead;he lay there, with a peaceful expression, as if relieved that death hadcome to him so gently. His master knelt beside him and kissed him againand bade him farewell, while two big tears rolled down his cheeks. 

It was on this day that Pascal saw his neighbor, M. Bellombre, for thelast time. Going over to the window he perceived him in his garden, inthe pale sunshine of early November, taking his accustomed walk; and thesight of the old professor, living so completely happy in his solitude, filled him at first with astonishment. He could never have imagined sucha thing possible, as that a man of sixty-nine should live thus, withoutwife or child, or even a dog, deriving his selfish happiness fromthe joy of living outside of life. Then he recalled his fits of angeragainst this man, his sarcasms about his fear of life, the catastropheswhich he had wished might happen to him, the hope that punishment wouldcome to him, in the shape of some housekeeper, or some female relationdropping down on him unexpectedly. But no, he was still as fresh asever, and Pascal was sure that for a long time to come he would continueto grow old like this, hard, avaricious, useless, and happy. And yethe no longer execrated him; he could even have found it in his heartto pity him, so ridiculous and miserable did he think him for not beingloved. Pascal, who suffered the pangs of death because he was alone!He whose heart was breaking because he was too full of others. Rathersuffering, suffering only, than this selfishness, this death of allthere is in us of living and human!

In the night which followed Pascal had another attack of anginapectoris. It lasted for five minutes, and he thought that he wouldsuffocate without having the strength to call Martine. Then when herecovered his breath, he did not disturb himself, preferring to speak tono one of this aggravation of his malady; but he had the certainty thatit was all over with him, that he might not perhaps live a month longer. His first thought was Clotilde. Should he then never see her again? andso sharp a pang seized him that he believed another attack was comingon. Why should he not write to her to come to him? He had received aletter from her the day before; he would answer it this morning. Thenthe thought of the envelopes occurred to him. If he should die suddenly, his mother would be the mistress and she would destroy them; and notonly the envelopes, but his manuscripts, all his papers, thirty years ofhis intelligence and his labor. Thus the crime which he had so greatlydreaded would be consummated, the crime of which the fear alone, duringhis nights of fever, had made him get up out of bed trembling, his earon the stretch, listening to hear if they were forcing open the press. The perspiration broke out upon him, he saw himself dispossessed, outraged, the ashes of his work thrown to the four winds. And when histhoughts reverted to Clotilde, he told himself that everything would besatisfactorily arranged, that he had only to call her back--she would behere, she would close his eyes, she would defend his memory. And he satdown to write at once to her, so that the letter might go by the morningmail. 

But when Pascal was seated before the white paper, with the pen betweenhis fingers, a growing doubt, a feeling of dissatisfaction with himself, took possession of him. Was not this idea of his papers, this fineproject of providing a guardian for them and saving them, a suggestionof his weakness, an excuse which he gave himself to bring back Clotilde, and see her again? Selfishness was at the bottom of it. He was thinkingof himself, not of her. He saw her returning to this poor house, condemned to nurse a sick old man; and he saw her, above all, in hergrief, in her awful agony, when he should terrify her some day bydropping down dead at her side. No, no! this was the dreadful momentwhich he must spare her, those days of cruel adieus and want afterward, a sad legacy which he could not leave her without thinking himself acriminal. Her tranquillity, her happiness only, were of any consequence, the rest did not matter. He would die in his hole, then, abandoned, happy to think her happy, to spare her the cruel blow of his death. Asfor saving his manuscripts he would perhaps find a means of doing so, he would try to have the strength to part from them and give them toRamond. But even if all his papers were to perish, this was less of asacrifice than to resign himself not to see her again, and he acceptedit, and he was willing that nothing of him should survive, not even histhoughts, provided only that nothing of him should henceforth troubleher dear existence. 

Pascal accordingly proceeded to write one of his usual answers, which, by a great effort, he purposely made colorless and almost cold. Clotilde, in her last letter, without complaining of Maxime, had givenit to be understood that her brother had lost his interest in her, preferring the society of Rose, the niece of Saccard's hairdresser, thefair-haired young girl with the innocent look. And he suspected stronglysome maneuver of the father: a cunning plan to obtain possession of theinheritance of the sick man, whose vices, so precocious formerly, gainednew force as his last hour approached. But in spite of his uneasiness hegave Clotilde very good advice, telling her that she must make allowancefor Maxime's sufferings, that he had undoubtedly a great deal ofaffection and gratitude for her, in short that it was her duty to devoteherself to him to the end. When he signed the letter tears dimmedhis sight. It was his death warrant--a death like that of an old andsolitary brute, a death without a kiss, without the touch of a friendlyhand--that he was signing. Never again would he embrace her. Thendoubts assailed him; was he doing right in leaving her amid such evilsurroundings, where he felt that she was in continual contact with everyspecies of wickedness?

The postman brought the letters and newspapers to La Souleiade everymorning at about nine o'clock; and Pascal, when he wrote to Clotilde, was accustomed to watch for him, to give him his letter, so as tobe certain that his correspondence was not intercepted. But on thismorning, when he went downstairs to give him the letter he had justwritten, he was surprised to receive one from him from Clotilde, although it was not the usual day for her letters. He allowed his own togo, however. Then he went upstairs, resumed his seat at his table, andtore open the envelope. 

The letter was short, but its contents filled Pascal with a great joy. 

* * * * *

But the sound of footsteps made him control himself. He turned round andsaw Martine, who was saying:

"Dr. Ramond is downstairs. "

"Ah! let him come up, let him come up, " he said. 

It was another piece of good fortune that had come to him. Ramond criedgaily from the door:

"Victory, master! I have brought you your money--not all, but a goodsum. "

And he told the story--an unexpected piece of good luck which hisfather-in-law, M. Leveque, had brought to light. The receipts forthe hundred and twenty thousand francs, which constituted Pascal thepersonal creditor of Grandguillot, were valueless, since the latter wasinsolvent. Salvation was to come from the power of attorney which thedoctor had sent him years before, at his request, that he might investall or part of his money in mortgages. As the name of the proxy was inblank in the document, the notary, as is sometimes done, had made useof the name of one of his clerks, and eighty thousand francs, which hadbeen invested in good mortgages, had thus been recovered through theagency of a worthy man who was not in the secrets of his employer. IfPascal had taken action in the matter, if he had gone to the publicprosecutor's office and the chamber of notaries, he would havedisentangled the matter long before. However, he had recovered a sureincome of four thousand francs. 

He seized the young man's hands and pressed them, smiling, his eyesstill moist with tears. 

"Ah! my friend, if you knew how happy I am! This letter of Clotilde'shas brought me a great happiness. Yes, I was going to send for her; butthe thought of my poverty, of the privations she would have to endurehere, spoiled for me the joy of her return. And now fortune has comeback, at least enough to set up my little establishment again!"

In the expansion of his feelings he held out the letter to Ramond, andforced him to read it. Then when the young man gave it back to him, smiling, comprehending the doctor's emotion, and profoundly touched byit, yielding to an overpowering need of affection, he caught him inhis arms, like a comrade, a brother. The two men kissed each othervigorously on either cheek. 

"Come, since good fortune has sent you, I am going to ask anotherservice from you. You know I distrust every one around me, even my oldhousekeeper. Will you take my despatch to the telegraph office!"

He sat down again at the table, and wrote simply, "I await you; startto-night. "

"Let me see, " he said, "to-day is the 6th of November, is it not? It isnow near ten o'clock; she will have my despatch at noon. That will giveher time enough to pack her trunks and to take the eight o'clock expressthis evening, which will bring her to Marseilles in time for breakfast. But as there is no train which connects with it, she cannot be hereuntil to-morrow, the 7th, at five o'clock. "

After folding the despatch he rose:

"My God, at five o'clock to-morrow! How long to wait still! What shall Ido with myself until then?"

Then a sudden recollection filled him with anxiety, and he became grave. 

"Ramond, my comrade, will you give me a great proof of your friendshipby being perfectly frank with me?"

"How so, master?"

"Ah, you understand me very well. The other day you examined me. Do youthink I can live another year?"

He fixed his eyes on the young man as he spoke, compelling him to lookat him. Ramond evaded a direct answer, however, with a jest--was itreally a physician who put such a question?

"Let us be serious, Ramond, I beg of you. "

Then Ramond answered in all sincerity that, in his opinion, the doctormight very justly entertain the hope of living another year. He gave hisreasons--the comparatively slight progress which the sclerosis had made, and the absolute soundness of the other organs. Of course they mustmake allowance for what they did not and could not know, for a suddenaccident was always possible. And the two men discussed the case as ifthey been in consultation at the bedside of a patient, weighing thepros and cons, each stating his views and prognosticating a fataltermination, in accordance with the symptoms as defined by the bestauthorities. 

Pascal, as if it were some one else who was in question, had recoveredall his composure and his heroic self-forgetfulness. 

"Yes, " he murmured at last, "you are right; a year of life is stillpossible. Ah, my friend, how I wish I might live two years; a mad wish, no doubt, an eternity of joy. And yet, two years, that would notbe impossible. I had a very curious case once, a wheelwright ofthe faubourg, who lived for four years, giving the lie to all myprognostications. Two years, two years, I will live two years! I mustlive two years!"

Ramond sat with bent head, without answering. He was beginning tobe uneasy, fearing that he had shown himself too optimistic; and thedoctor's joy disquieted and grieved him, as if this very exaltation, this disturbance of a once strong brain, warned him of a secret andimminent danger. 

"Did you not wish to send that despatch at once?" he said. 

"Yes, yes, go quickly, my good Ramond, and come back again to see us theday after to-morrow. She will be here then, and I want you to come andembrace us. "

The day was long, and the following morning, at about four o'clock, shortly after Pascal had fallen asleep, after a happy vigil filled withhopes and dreams, he was wakened by a dreadful attack. He felt as if anenormous weight, as if the whole house, had fallen down upon his chest, so that the thorax, flattened down, touched the back. He could notbreathe; the pain reached the shoulders, then the neck, and paralyzedthe left arm. But he was perfectly conscious; he had the feeling thathis heart was about to stop, that life was about to leave him, in thedreadful oppression, like that of a vise, which was suffocating him. Before the attack reached its height he had the strength to rise and toknock on the floor with a stick for Martine. Then he fell back on hisbed, unable to speak or to move, and covered with a cold sweat. 

Martine, fortunately, in the profound silence of the empty house, heardthe knock. She dressed herself, wrapped a shawl about her, and wentupstairs, carrying her candle. The darkness was still profound; dawnwas about to break. And when she perceived her master, whose eyes aloneseemed living, looking at her with locked jaws, speechless, his facedistorted by pain, she was awed and terrified, and she could only rushtoward the bed crying:

"My God! My God! what is the matter, monsieur? Answer me, monsieur, youfrighten me!"

For a full minute Pascal struggled in vain to recover his breath. Then, the viselike pressure on his chest relaxing slowly, he murmured in afaint voice:

"The five thousand francs in the desk are Clotilde's. Tell her that theaffair of the notary is settled, that she will recover from it enough tolive upon. "

Then Martine, who had listened to him in open-mouthed wonder, confessedthe falsehood she had told him, ignorant of the good news that had beenbrought by Ramond. 

"Monsieur, you must forgive me; I told you an untruth. But it would bewrong to deceive you longer. When I saw you alone and so unhappy, I tooksome of my own money. "

"My poor girl, you did that!"

"Oh, I had some hope that monsieur would return it to me one day. "

By this time the attack had passed off, and he was able to turn his headand look at her. He was amazed and moved. What was passing in the heartof this avaricious old maid, who for thirty years had been saving upher treasure painfully, who had never taken a sou from it, either forherself or for any one else? He did not yet comprehend, but he wished toshow himself kind and grateful. 

"You are a good woman, Martine. All that will be returned to you. Itruly think I am going to die--"

She did not allow him to finish, her whole being rose up in rebelliousprotest. 

"Die; you, monsieur! Die before me! I do not wish it. I will not let youdie!"

She threw herself on her knees beside the bed; she caught him wildlyin her arms, feeling him, to see if he suffered, holding him as if shethought that death would not dare to take him from her. 

"You must tell me what is the matter with you. I will take care of you. I will save you. If it were necessary to give my life for you, I wouldgive it, monsieur. I will sit up day and night with you. I am strongstill; I will be stronger than the disease, you shall see. To die!to die! oh, no, it cannot be! The good God cannot wish so great aninjustice. I have prayed so much in my life that he ought to listen tome a little now, and he will grant my prayer, monsieur; he will saveyou. "

Pascal looked at her, listened to her, and a sudden light broke in uponhis mind. She loved him, this miserable woman; she had always loved him. He thought of her thirty years of blind devotion, her mute adoration, when she had waited upon him, on her knees, as it were, when shewas young; her secret jealousy of Clotilde later; what she must havesecretly suffered all that time! And she was here on her knees nowagain, beside his deathbed; her hair gray; her eyes the color of ashesin her pale nun-like face, dulled by her solitary life. And he felt thatshe was unconscious of it all; that she did not even know with what sortof love she loved him, loving him only for the happiness of loving him:of being with him, and of waiting on him. 

Tears rose to Pascal's eyes; a dolorous pity and an infinite humantenderness flowed from his poor, half-broken heart. 

"My poor girl, " he said, "you are the best of girls. Come, embrace me, as you love me, with all your strength. "

She, too, sobbed. She let her gray head, her face worn by her longservitude, fall on her master's breast. Wildly she kissed him, puttingall her life into the kiss. 

"There, let us not give way to emotion, for you see we can do nothing;this will be the end, just the same. If you wish me to love you, obeyme. Now that I am better, that I can breathe easier, do me the favor torun to Dr. Ramond's. Waken him and bring him back with you. "

She was leaving the room when he called to her, seized by a sudden fear. 

"And remember, I forbid you to go to inform my mother. "

She turned back, embarrassed, and in a voice of entreaty, said:

"Oh, monsieur, Mme. Felicite has made me promise so often--"

But he was inflexible. All his life he had treated his mother withdeference, and he thought he had acquired the right to defend himselfagainst her in the hour of his death. He would not let the servant gountil she had promised him that she would be silent. Then he smiled oncemore. 

"Go quickly. Oh, you will see me again; it will not be yet. "

Day broke at last, the melancholy dawn of the pale November day. Pascalhad had the shutters opened, and when he was left alone he watched thebrightening dawn, doubtless that of his last day of life. It had rainedthe night before, and the mild sun was still veiled by clouds. From theplane trees came the morning carols of the birds, while far away in thesleeping country a locomotive whistled with a prolonged moan. And hewas alone; alone in the great melancholy house, whose emptiness he feltaround him, whose silence he heard. The light slowly increased, andhe watched the patches it made on the window-panes broadening andbrightening. Then the candle paled in the growing light, and the wholeroom became visible. And with the dawn, as he had anticipated, camerelief. The sight of the familiar objects around him brought himconsolation. 

But Pascal, although the attack had passed away, still sufferedhorribly. A sharp pain remained in the hollow of his chest, and his leftarm, benumbed, hung from his shoulder like lead. In his long waitingfor the help that Martine had gone to bring, he had reflected onthe suffering which made the flesh cry out. And he found that he wasresigned; he no longer felt the rebelliousness which the mere sight ofphysical pain had formerly awakened in him. It had exasperated him, asif it had been a monstrous and useless cruelty of nature. In his doubtsas a physician, he had attended his patients only to combat it, and torelieve it. If he ended by accepting it, now that he himself sufferedits horrible torture, was it that he had risen one degree higher in hisfaith of life, to that serene height whence life appeared altogethergood, even with the fatal condition of suffering attached to it;suffering which is perhaps its spring? Yes, to live all of life, to liveit and to suffer it all without rebellion, without believing that it ismade better by being made painless, this presented itself clearly tohis dying eyes, as the greatest courage and the greatest wisdom. And tocheat pain while he waited, he reviewed his latest theories; he dreamedof a means of utilizing suffering by transforming it into action, intowork. If it be true that man feels pain more acutely according as herises in the scale of civilization, it is also certain that he becomesstronger through it, better armed against it, more capable of resistingit. The organ, the brain which works, develops and grows stronger, provided the equilibrium between the sensations which it receives andthe work which it gives back be not broken. Might not one hope, then, for a humanity in which the amount of work accomplished would so exactlyequal the sum of sensations received, that suffering would be utilizedand, as it were, abolished?

The sun had risen, and Pascal was confusedly revolving these distanthopes in his mind, in the drowsiness produced by his disease, when hefelt a new attack coming on. He had a moment of cruel anxiety--wasthis the end? Was he going to die alone? But at this instant hurriedfootsteps mounted the stairs, and a moment later Ramond entered, followed by Martine. And the patient had time to say before the attackbegan:

"Quick! quick! a hypodermic injection of pure water. "

Unfortunately the doctor had to look for the little syringe and thento prepare everything. This occupied some minutes, and the attack wasterrible. He followed its progress with anxiety--the face becomingdistorted, the lips growing livid. Then when he had given the injection, he observed that the phenomena, for a moment stationary, slowlydiminished in intensity. Once more the catastrophe was averted. 

As soon as he recovered his breath Pascal, glancing at the clock, saidin his calm, faint voice:

"My friend, it is seven o'clock--in twelve hours, at seven o'clockto-night, I shall be dead. "

And as the young man was about to protest, to argue the question, "No, "he resumed, "do not try to deceive me. You have witnessed the attack. You know what it means as well as I do. Everything will now proceed withmathematical exactness; and, hour by hour, I could describe to you thephases of the disease. "

He stopped, gasped for breath, and then added:

"And then, all is well; I am content. Clotilde will be here at five; allI ask is to see her and to die in her arms. "

A few moments later, however, he experienced a sensible improvement. Theeffect of the injection seemed truly miraculous; and he was able to situp in bed, his back resting against the pillows. He spoke clearly, andwith more ease, and never had the lucidity of his mind appeared greater. 

"You know, master, " said, Ramond, "that I will not leave you. I havetold my wife, and we will spend the day together; and, whatever you maysay to the contrary, I am very confident that it will not be the last. You will let me make myself at home, here, will you not?"

Pascal smiled, and gave orders to Martine to go and prepare breakfastfor Ramond, saying that if they needed her they would call her. And thetwo men remained alone, conversing with friendly intimacy; the one withhis white hair and long white beard, lying down, discoursing like asage, the other sitting at his bedside, listening with the respect of adisciple. 

"In truth, " murmured the master, as if he were speaking to himself, "theeffect of those injections is extraordinary. "

Then in a stronger voice, he said almost gaily:

"My friend Ramond, it may not be a very great present that I am givingyou, but I am going to leave you my manuscripts. Yes, Clotilde hasorders to send them to you when I shall be no more. Look through them, and you will perhaps find among them things that are not so very bad. Ifyou get a good idea from them some day--well, that will be so much thebetter for the world. "

And then he made his scientific testament. He was clearly consciousthat he had been himself only a solitary pioneer, a precursor, planningtheories which he tried to put in practise, but which failed becauseof the imperfection of his method. He recalled his enthusiasm when hebelieved he had discovered, in his injections of nerve substance, theuniversal panacea, then his disappointments, his fits of despair, theshocking death of Lafouasse, consumption carrying off Valentin in spiteof all his efforts, madness again conquering Sarteur and causing him tohang himself. So that he would depart full of doubt, having no longerthe confidence necessary to the physician, and so enamored of life thathe had ended by putting all his faith in it, certain that it must drawfrom itself alone its health and strength. But he did not wish to closeup the future; he was glad, on the contrary, to bequeath his hypothesesto the younger generation. Every twenty years theories changed;established truths only, on which science continued to build, remainedunshaken. Even if he had only the merit of giving to science a momentaryhypothesis, his work would not be lost, for progress consisted assuredlyin the effort, in the onward march of the intellect. 

And then who could say that he had died in vain, troubled and weary, hishopes concerning the injections unrealized--other workers would come, young, ardent, confident, who would take up the idea, elucidate it, expand it. And perhaps a new epoch, a new world would date from this. 

"Ah, my dear Ramond, " he continued, "if one could only live life overagain. Yes, I would take up my idea again, for I have been struck latelyby the singular efficacy of injections even of pure water. It is not theliquid, then, that matters, but simply the mechanical action. During thelast month I have written a great deal on that subject. You willfind some curious notes and observations there. In short, I should beinclined to put all my faith in work, to place health in the harmoniousworking of all the organs, a sort of dynamic therapeutics, if I mayventure to use the expression. "

He had gradually grown excited, forgetting his approaching death in hisardent curiosity about life. And he sketched, with broad strokes, hislast theory. Man was surrounded by a medium--nature--which irritatedby perpetual contact the sensitive extremities of the nerves. Hence theaction, not only of the senses, but of the entire surface of the body, external and internal. For it was these sensations which, reverberatingin the brain, in the marrow, and in the nervous centers, were thereconverted into tonicity, movements, and thoughts; and he was convincedthat health consisted in the natural progress of this work, in receivingsensations, and in giving them back in thoughts and in actions, thehuman machine being thus fed by the regular play of the organs. Workthus became the great law, the regulator of the living universe. Henceit became necessary if the equilibrium were broken, if the externalexcitations ceased to be sufficient, for therapeutics to createartificial excitations, in order to reestablish the tonicity which isthe state of perfect health. And he dreamed of a whole new system oftreatment--suggestion, the all-powerful authority of the physician, for the senses; electricity, friction, massage for the skin and for thetendons; diet for the stomach; air cures on high plateaus for thelungs, and, finally, transfusion, injections of distilled water, for thecirculatory system. It was the undeniable and purely mechanical actionof these latter that had put him on the track; all he did now was toextend the hypothesis, impelled by his generalizing spirit; he saw theworld saved anew in this perfect equilibrium, as much work given assensation received, the balance of the world restored by unceasinglabor. 

Here he burst into a frank laugh. 

"There! I have started off again. I, who was firmly convinced that theonly wisdom was not to interfere, to let nature take its course. Ah, what an incorrigible old fool I am!"

Ramond caught his hands in an outburst of admiration and affection. 

"Master, master! it is of enthusiasm, of folly like yours that genius ismade. Have no fear, I have listened to you, I will endeavor to be worthyof the heritage you leave; and I think, with you, that perhaps the greatfuture lies entirely there. "

In the sad and quiet room Pascal began to speak again, with thecourageous tranquillity of a dying philosopher giving his last lesson. He now reviewed his personal observations; he said that he had oftencured himself by work, regular and methodical work, not carried toexcess. Eleven o'clock struck; he urged Ramond to take his breakfast, and he continued the conversation, soaring to lofty and distant heights, while Martine served the meal. The sun had at last burst through themorning mists, a sun still half-veiled in clouds, and mild, whose goldenlight warmed the room. Presently, after taking a few sips of milk, Pascal remained silent. 

At this moment the young physician was eating a pear. 

"Are you in pain again?" he asked. 

"No, no; finish. "

But he could not deceive Ramond. It was an attack, and a terrible one. The suffocation came with the swiftness of a thunderbolt, and he fellback on the pillow, his face already blue. He clutched at the bedclothesto support himself, to raise the dreadful weight which oppressed hischest. Terrified, livid, he kept his wide open eyes fixed upon theclock, with a dreadful expression of despair and grief; and for tenminutes it seemed as if every moment must be his last. 

Ramond had immediately given him a hypodermic injection. The relief wasslow to come, the efficacy less than before. 

When Pascal revived, large tears stood in his eyes. He did not speaknow, he wept. Presently, looking at the clock with his darkening vision, he said:

"My friend, I shall die at four o'clock; I shall not see her. "

And as his young colleague, in order to divert his thoughts, declared, in spite of appearances, that the end was not so near, Pascal, againbecoming enthusiastic, wished to give him a last lesson, based on directobservation. He had, as it happened, attended several cases similar tohis own, and he remembered especially to have dissected at the hospitalthe heart of a poor old man affected with sclerosis. 

"I can see it--my heart. It is the color of a dead leaf; its fibers arebrittle, wasted, one would say, although it has augmented slightly involume. The inflammatory process has hardened it; it would be difficultto cut--"

He continued in a lower voice. A little before, he had felt his heartgrowing weaker, its contractions becoming feebler and slower. Insteadof the normal jet of blood there now issued from the aorta only a redfroth. Back of it all the veins were engorged with black blood; thesuffocation increased, according as the lift and force pump, theregulator of the whole machine, moved more slowly. And after theinjection he had been able to follow in spite of his suffering thegradual reviving of the organ as the stimulus set it beating again, removing the black venous blood, and sending life into it anew, withthe red arterial blood. But the attack would return as soon as themechanical effect of the injection should cease. He could predict italmost within a few minutes. Thanks to the injections he would havethree attacks more. The third would carry him off; he would die at fouro'clock. 

Then, while his voice grew gradually weaker, in a last outburst ofenthusiasm, he apostrophized the courage of the heart, that persistentlife maker, working ceaselessly, even during sleep, when the otherorgans rested. 

"Ah, brave heart! how heroically you struggle! What faithful, whatgenerous muscles, never wearied! You have loved too much, you have beattoo fast in the past months, and that is why you are breaking now, brave heart, who do not wish to die, and who strive rebelliously to beatstill!"

But now the first of the attacks which had been announced came on. Pascal came out of this panting, haggard, his speech sibilant andpainful. Low moans escaped him, in spite of his courage. Good God! wouldthis torture never end? And yet his most ardent desire was to prolonghis agony, to live long enough to embrace Clotilde a last time. If hemight only be deceiving himself, as Ramond persisted in declaring. If hemight only live until five o'clock. His eyes again turned to the clock, they never now left the hands, every minute seeming an eternity. Theymarked three o'clock. Then half-past three. Ah, God! only two hours oflife, two hours more of life. The sun was already sinking toward thehorizon; a great calm descended from the pale winter sky, and he heardat intervals the whistles of the distant locomotives crossing the bareplain. The train that was passing now was the one going to the Tulettes;the other, the one coming from Marseilles, would it never arrive, then!

At twenty minutes to four Pascal signed to Ramond to approach. He couldno longer speak loud enough to be heard. 

"You see, in order that I might live until six o'clock, the pulse shouldbe stronger. I have still some hope, however, but the second movement isalmost imperceptible, the heart will soon cease to beat. "

And in faint, despairing accents he called on Clotilde again and again. The immeasurable grief which he felt at not being able to see her againbroke forth in this faltering and agonized appeal. Then his anxietyabout his manuscripts returned, an ardent entreaty shone in his eyes, until at last he found the strength to falter again:

"Do not leave me; the key is under my pillow; tell Clotilde to take it;she has my directions. "

At ten minutes to four another hypodermic injection was given, butwithout effect. And just as four o'clock was striking, the second attackdeclared itself. Suddenly, after a fit of suffocation, he threw himselfout of bed; he desired to rise, to walk, in a last revival of hisstrength. A need of space, of light, of air, urged him toward the skies. Then there came to him an irresistible appeal from life, his whole life, from the adjoining workroom, where he had spent his days. And he wentthere, staggering, suffocating, bending to the left side, supportinghimself by the furniture. 

Dr. Ramond precipitated himself quickly toward him to stop him, crying:

"Master, master! lie down again, I entreat you!"

But Pascal paid no heed to him, obstinately determined to die on hisfeet. The desire to live, the heroic idea of work, alone survived inhim, carrying him onward bodily. He faltered hoarsely:

"No, no--out there, out there--"

His friend was obliged to support him, and he walked thus, stumbling andhaggard, to the end of the workroom, and dropped into his chair besidehis table, on which an unfinished page still lay among a confusion ofpapers and books. 

Here he gasped for breath and his eyes closed. After a moment he openedthem again, while his hands groped about, seeking his work, no doubt. They encountered the genealogical tree in the midst of other papersscattered about. Only two days before he had corrected some dates in it. He recognized it, and drawing it toward him, spread it out. 

"Master, master! you will kill yourself!" cried Ramond, overcome withpity and admiration at this extraordinary spectacle. 

Pascal did not listen, did not hear. He felt a pencil under his fingers. He took it and bent over the tree, as if his dying eyes no longer saw. The name of Maxime arrested his attention, and he wrote: "Died of ataxiain 1873, " in the certainty that his nephew would not live through theyear. Then Clotilde's name, beside it, struck him and he completed thenote thus: "Has a son, by her Uncle Pascal, in 1874. " But it was his ownname that he sought wearily and confusedly. When he at last found ithis hand grew firmer, and he finished his note, in upright and boldcharacters: "Died of heart disease, November 7, 1873. " This was thesupreme effort, the rattle in his throat increased, everything wasfading into nothingness, when he perceived the blank leaf aboveClotilde's name. His vision grew dark, his fingers could no longer holdthe pencil, but he was still able to add, in unsteady letters, intowhich passed the tortured tenderness, the wild disorder of his poorheart: "The unknown child, to be born in 1874. What will it be?" Then heswooned, and Martine and Ramond with difficulty carried him back to bed. 

The third attack came on about four o'clock. In this last access ofsuffocation Pascal's countenance expressed excruciating suffering. Deathwas to be very painful; he must endure to the end his martyrdom, as aman and a scientist. His wandering gaze still seemed to seek the clock, to ascertain the hour. And Ramond, seeing his lips move, bent down andplaced his ear to the mouth of the dying man. The latter, in effect, wasstammering some vague words, so faint that they scarcely rose above abreath:

"Four o'clock--the heart is stopping; no more red blood in theaorta--the valve relaxes and bursts. "

A dreadful spasm shook him; his breathing grew fainter. 

"Its progress is too rapid. Do not leave me; the key is under thepillow--Clotilde, Clotilde--"

At the foot of the bed Martine was kneeling, choked with sobs. Shesaw well that monsieur was dying. She had not dared to go for a priestnotwithstanding her great desire to do so; and she was herself recitingthe prayers for the dying; she prayed ardently that God would pardonmonsieur, and that monsieur might go straight to Paradise. 

Pascal was dying. His face was quite blue. After a few seconds ofimmobility, he tried to breathe: he put out his lips, opened his poormouth, like a little bird opening its beak to get a last mouthful ofair. And he was dead. 

XIII. 

It was not until after breakfast, at about one o'clock, that Clotildereceived the despatch. On this day it had chanced that she had quarreledwith her brother Maxime, who, taking advantage of his privileges as aninvalid, had tormented her more and more every day by his unreasonablecaprices and his outbursts of ill temper. In short, her visit to him hadnot proved a success. He found that she was too simple and too seriousto cheer him; and he had preferred, of late, the society of Rose, thefair-haired young girl, with the innocent look, who amused him. So thatwhen his sister told him that their uncle had sent for her, and that shewas going away, he gave his approval at once, and although he asked herto return as soon as she should have settled her affairs at home, he didso only with the desire of showing himself amiable, and he did not pressthe invitation. 

Clotilde spent the afternoon in packing her trunks. In the feverishexcitement of so sudden a decision she had thought of nothing but thejoy of her return. But after the hurry of dinner was over, after she hadsaid good-by to her brother, after the interminable drive in a hackneycoach along the avenue of the Bois de Boulogne to the Lyons railwaystation, when she found herself in the ladies' compartment, startingon the long journey on a cold and rainy November night, already rollingaway from Paris, her excitement began to abate, and reflections forcedtheir way into her mind and began to trouble her. Why this brief andurgent despatch: "I await you; start this evening. " Doubtless it was theanswer to her letter; but she knew how greatly Pascal had desired thatshe should remain in Paris, where he thought she was happy, and she wasastonished at his hasty summons. She had not expected a despatch, buta letter, arranging for her return a few weeks later. There must besomething else, then; perhaps he was ill and felt a desire, a longing tosee her again at once. And from this time forward this fear seized herwith the force of a presentiment, and grew stronger and stronger, untilit soon took complete possession of her. 

All night long the rain beat furiously against the windows of the trainwhile they were crossing the plains of Burgundy, and did not cease untilthey reached Macon. When they had passed Lyons the day broke. Clotildehad Pascal's letters with her, and she had waited impatiently for thedaylight that she might read again carefully these letters, thewriting of which had seemed changed to her. And noticing the unsteadycharacters, the breaks in the words, she felt a chill at her heart. Hewas ill, very ill--she had become certain of this now, by a divinationin which there was less of reasoning than of subtle prescience. And therest of the journey seemed terribly long, for her anguish increasedin proportion as she approached its termination. And worse than all, arriving at Marseilles at half-past twelve, there was no train forPlassans until twenty minutes past three. Three long hours of waiting!She breakfasted at the buffet in the railway station, eating hurriedly, as if she was afraid of missing this train; then she dragged herselfinto the dusty garden, going from bench to bench in the pale, mildsunshine, among omnibuses and hackney coaches. At last she was once morein the train, which stopped at every little way station. When they wereapproaching Plassans she put her head out of the window eagerly, longingto see the town again after her short absence of two months. It seemedto her as if she had been away for twenty years, and that everythingmust be changed. When the train was leaving the little station ofSainte-Marthe her emotion reached its height when, leaning out, shesaw in the distance La Souleiade with the two secular cypresses on theterrace, which could be seen three leagues off. 

It was five o'clock, and twilight was already falling. The trainstopped, and Clotilde descended. But it was a surprise and a keen griefto her not to see Pascal waiting for her on the platform. She had beensaying to herself since they had left Lyons: "If I do not see him atonce, on the arrival of the train, it will be because he is ill. " Hemight be in the waiting-room, however, or with a carriage outside. Shehurried forward, but she saw no one but Father Durieu, a driver whom thedoctor was in the habit of employing. She questioned him eagerly. Theold man, a taciturn Provencal, was in no haste to answer. His wagon wasthere, and he asked her for the checks for her luggage, wishing to seeabout the trunks before anything else. In a trembling voice she repeatedher question:

"Is everybody well, Father Durieu?"

"Yes, mademoiselle. "

And she was obliged to put question after question to him before shesucceeded in eliciting the information that it was Martine who had toldhim, at about six o'clock the day before, to be at the station with hiswagon, in time to meet the train. He had not seen the doctor, no one hadseen him, for two months past. It might very well be since he was nothere that he had been obliged to take to his bed, for there was a reportin the town that he was not very well. 

"Wait until I get the luggage, mademoiselle, " he ended, "there is roomfor you on the seat. "

"No, Father Durieu, it would be too long to wait. I will walk. "

She ascended the slope rapidly. Her heart was so tightened thatshe could scarcely breathe. The sun had sunk behind the hills ofSainte-Marthe, and a fine mist was falling from the chill gray Novembersky, and as she took the road to Les Fenouilleres she caught anotherglimpse of La Souleiade, which struck a chill to her heart--the frontof the house, with all its shutters closed, and wearing a look ofabandonment and desolation in the melancholy twilight. 

But Clotilde received the final and terrible blow when she saw Ramondstanding at the hall door, apparently waiting for her. He had indeedbeen watching for her, and had come downstairs to break the dreadfulnews gently to her. She arrived out of breath; she had crossed thequincunx of plane trees near the fountain to shorten the way, and onseeing the young man there instead of Pascal, whom she had in spite ofeverything expected to see, she had a presentiment of overwhelming ruin, of irreparable misfortune. Ramond was pale and agitated, notwithstandingthe effort he made to control his feelings. At the first moment he couldnot find a word to say, but waited to be questioned. Clotilde, who washerself suffocating, said nothing. And they entered the house thus; heled her to the dining-room, where they remained for a few seconds, faceto face, in mute anguish. 

"He is ill, is he not?" she at last faltered. 

"Yes, " he said, "he is ill. "

"I knew it at once when I saw you, " she replied. "I knew when he was nothere that he must be ill. He is very ill, is he not?" she persisted. 

As he did not answer but grew still paler, she looked at him fixedly. And on the instant she saw the shadow of death upon him; on his handsthat still trembled, that had assisted the dying man; on his sad face;in his troubled eyes, which still retained the reflection of the deathagony; in the neglected and disordered appearance of the physician who, for twelve hours, had maintained an unavailing struggle against death. 

She gave a loud cry:

"He is dead!"

She tottered, and fell fainting into the arms of Ramond, who with agreat sob pressed her in a brotherly embrace. And thus they wept on eachother's neck. 

When he had seated her in a chair, and she was able to speak, he said:

"It was I who took the despatch you received to the telegraph officeyesterday, at half-past ten o'clock. He was so happy, so full of hope!He was forming plans for the future--a year, two years of life. And thismorning, at four o'clock, he had the first attack, and he sent for me. He saw at once that he was doomed, but he expected to last untilsix o'clock, to live long enough to see you again. But the diseaseprogressed too rapidly. He described its progress to me, minute byminute, like a professor in the dissecting room. He died with your nameupon his lips, calm, but full of anguish, like a hero. "

Clotilde listened, her eyes drowned in tears which flowed endlessly. Every word of the relation of this piteous and stoical death penetratedher heart and stamped itself there. She reconstructed every hour of thedreadful day. She followed to its close its grand and mournful drama. She would live it over in her thoughts forever. 

But her despairing grief overflowed when Martine, who had entered theroom a moment before, said in a harsh voice:

"Ah, mademoiselle has good reason to cry! for if monsieur is dead, mademoiselle is to blame for it. "

The old servant stood apart, near the door of her kitchen, in such apassion of angry grief, because they had taken her master from her, because they had killed him, that she did not even try to find a wordof welcome or consolation for this child whom she had brought up. Andwithout calculating the consequences of her indiscretion, the grief orthe joy which she might cause, she relieved herself by telling all sheknew. 

"Yes, if monsieur has died, it is because mademoiselle went away. "

From the depths of her overpowering grief Clotilde protested. She hadexpected to see Martine weeping with her, like Ramond, and she wassurprised to feel that she was an enemy. 

"Why, it was he who would not let me stay, who insisted upon my goingaway, " she said. 

"Oh, well! mademoiselle must have been willing to go or she wouldhave been more clear-sighted. The night before your departure I foundmonsieur half-suffocated with grief; and when I wished to informmademoiselle, he himself prevented me; he had such courage. Then I couldsee it all, after mademoiselle had gone. Every night it was the samething over again, and he could hardly keep from writing to you to comeback. In short, he died of it, that is the pure truth. "

A great light broke in on Clotilde's mind, making her at the same timevery happy and very wretched. Good God! what she had suspected for amoment, was then true. Afterward she had been convinced, seeing Pascal'sangry persistence, that he was speaking the truth; that between her andwork he had chosen work sincerely, like a man of science with whom loveof work has gained the victory over the love of woman. And yet hehad not spoken the truth; he had carried his devotion, hisself-forgetfulness to the point of immolating himself to what hebelieved to be her happiness. And the misery of things willed that heshould have been mistaken, that he should have thus consummated theunhappiness of both. 

Clotilde again protested wildly:

"But how could I have known? I obeyed; I put all my love in myobedience. "

"Ah, " cried Martine again, "it seems to me that I should have guessed. "

Ramond interposed gently. He took Clotilde's hands once more in his, andexplained to her that grief might indeed have hastened the fatal issue, but that the master had unhappily been doomed for some time past. Theaffection of the heart from which he had suffered must have been of longstanding--a great deal of overwork, a certain part of heredity, and, finally, his late absorbing love, and the poor heart had broken. 

"Let us go upstairs, " said Clotilde simply. "I wish to see him. "

Upstairs in the death-chamber the blinds were closed, shutting out eventhe melancholy twilight. On a little table at the foot of the bed burnedtwo tapers in two candlesticks. And they cast a pale yellow light onPascal's form extended on the bed, the feet close together, the handsfolded on the breast. The eyes had been piously closed. The face, of abluish hue still, but already looking calm and peaceful, framed by theflowing white hair and beard, seemed asleep. He had been dead scarcelyan hour and a half, yet already infinite serenity, eternal silence, eternal repose, had begun. 

Seeing him thus, at the thought that he no longer heard her, that he nolonger saw her, that she was alone now, that she was to kiss him for thelast time, and then lose him forever, Clotilde, in an outburst ofgrief, threw herself upon the bed, and in broken accents of passionatetenderness cried:

"Oh, master, master, master--"

She pressed her lips to the dead man's forehead, and, feeling it stillwarm with life, she had a momentary illusion: she fancied that hefelt this last caress, so cruelly awaited. Did he not smile in hisimmobility, happy at last, and able to die, now that he felt her herebeside him? Then, overcome by the dreadful reality, she burst again intowild sobs. 

Martine entered, bringing a lamp, which she placed on a corner ofthe chimney-piece, and she heard Ramond, who was watching Clotilde, disquieted at seeing her passionate grief, say:

"I shall take you away from the room if you give way like this. Considerthat you have some one else to think of now. "

The servant had been surprised at certain words which she had overheardby chance during the day. Suddenly she understood, and she turned palereven than before, and on her way out of the room, she stopped at thedoor to hear more. 

"The key of the press is under his pillow, " said Ramond, lowering hisvoice; "he told me repeatedly to tell you so. You know what you have todo?"

Clotilde made an effort to remember and to answer. 

"What I have to do? About the papers, is it not? Yes, yes, I remember; Iam to keep the envelopes and to give you the other manuscripts. Have nofear, I am quite calm, I will be very reasonable. But I will not leavehim; I will spend the night here very quietly, I promise you. "

She was so unhappy, she seemed so resolved to watch by him, to remainwith him, until he should be taken away, that the young physicianallowed her to have her way. 

"Well, I will leave you now. They will be expecting me at home. Thenthere are all sorts of formalities to be gone through--to give noticeat the mayor's office, the funeral, of which I wish to spare you thedetails. Trouble yourself about nothing. Everything will be arrangedto-morrow when I return. "

He embraced her once more and then went away. And it was only then thatMartine left the room, behind him, and locking the hall door she ran outinto the darkness. 

Clotilde was now alone in the chamber; and all around and about her, inthe unbroken silence, she felt the emptiness of the house. Clotilde wasalone with the dead Pascal. She placed a chair at the head of the bedand sat there motionless, alone. On arriving, she had merely removed herhat: now, perceiving that she still had on her gloves, she took themoff also. But she kept on her traveling dress, crumpled and dusty, aftertwenty hours of railway travel. No doubt Father Durieu had brought thetrunks long ago, and left them downstairs. But it did not occur to her, nor had she the strength to wash herself and change her clothes, butremained sitting, overwhelmed with grief, on the chair into which shehad dropped. One regret, a great remorse, filled her to the exclusion ofall else. Why had she obeyed him? Why had she consented to leave him?If she had remained she had the ardent conviction that he would not havedied. She would have lavished so much love, so many caresses upon him, that she would have cured him. If one was anxious to keep a belovedbeing from dying one should remain with him and, if necessary, giveone's heart's blood to keep him alive. It was her own fault if she hadlost him, if she could not now with a caress awaken him from hiseternal sleep. And she thought herself imbecile not to have understood;cowardly, not to have devoted herself to him; culpable, and to beforever punished for having gone away when plain common sense, indefault of feeling, ought to have kept her here, bound, as a submissiveand affectionate subject, to the task of watching over her king. 

The silence had become so complete, so profound, that Clotilde liftedher eyes for a moment from Pascal's face to look around the room. Shesaw only vague shadows--the two tapers threw two yellow patches on thehigh ceiling. At this moment she remembered the letters he had writtento her, so short, so cold; and she comprehended his heroic sacrifice, the torture it had been to him to silence his heart, desiring toimmolate himself to the end. What strength must he not have requiredfor the accomplishment of the plan of happiness, sublime and disastrous, which he had formed for her. He had resolved to pass out of her life inorder to save her from his old age and his poverty; he wished her to berich and free, to enjoy her youth, far away from him; this indeed wasutter self-effacement, complete absorption in the love of another. Andshe felt a profound gratitude, a sweet solace in the thought, mingledwith a sort of angry bitterness against evil fortune. Then, suddenly, the happy years of her childhood and her long youth spent beside him whohad always been so kind and so good-humored, rose before her--how he hadgradually won her affection, how she had felt that she was his, afterthe quarrels which had separated them for a time, and with what atransport of joy she had at last given herself to him. 

Seven o'clock struck. Clotilde started as the clear tones broke theprofound silence. Who was it that had spoken? Then she remembered, andshe looked at the clock. And when the last sound of the seven strokes, each of which had fallen like a knell upon her heart, had died away, sheturned her eyes again on the motionless face of Pascal, and once moreshe abandoned herself to her grief. 

It was in the midst of this ever-increasing prostration that Clotilde, afew minutes later, heard a sudden sound of sobbing. Some one had rushedinto the room; she looked round and saw her Grandmother Felicite. Butshe did not stir, she did not speak, so benumbed was she with grief. Martine, anticipating the orders which Clotilde would undoubtedly havegiven her, had hurried to old Mme. Rougon's, to give her the dreadfulnews; and the latter, dazed at first by the suddenness of thecatastrophe, and afterward greatly agitated, had hurried to the house, overflowing with noisy grief. She burst into tears at sight of her son, and then embraced Clotilde, who returned her kiss, as in a dream. Andfrom this instant the latter, without emerging from the overwhelminggrief in which she isolated herself, felt that she was no longer alone, hearing a continual stir and bustle going on around her. It was Felicitecrying, coming in and going out on tiptoe, setting things in order, spying about, whispering, dropping into a chair, to get up again amoment afterward, after saying that she was going to die in it. At nineo'clock she made a last effort to persuade her granddaughter to eatsomething. Twice already she had lectured her in a low voice; she camenow again to whisper to her:

"Clotilde, my dear, I assure you you are wrong. You must keep up yourstrength or you will never be able to hold out. "

But the young woman, with a shake of her head, again refused. 

"Come, you breakfasted at the buffet at Marseilles, I suppose, but youhave eaten nothing since. Is that reasonable? I do not wish you to fallill also. Martine has some broth. I have told her to make a light soupand to roast a chicken. Go down and eat a mouthful, only a mouthful, andI will remain here. "

With the same patient gesture Clotilde again refused. At last shefaltered:

"Do not ask me, grandmother, I entreat you. I could not; it would chokeme. "

She did not speak again, falling back into her former state of apathy. She did not sleep, however, her wide open eyes were fixed persistentlyon Pascal's face. For hours she sat there, motionless, erect, rigid, asif her spirit were far away with the dead. At ten o'clock she heard anoise; it was Martine bringing up the lamp. Toward eleven Felicite, whowas sitting watching in an armchair, seemed to grow restless, got up andwent out of the room, and came back again. From this forth there was acontinual coming and going as of impatient footsteps prowling aroundthe young woman, who was still awake, her large eyes fixed motionless onPascal. Twelve o'clock struck, and one persistent thought alone piercedher weary brain, like a nail, and prevented sleep--why had she obeyedhim? If she had remained she would have revived him with her youth, andhe would not have died. And it was not until a little before onethat she felt this thought, too, grow confused and lose itself in anightmare. And she fell into a heavy sleep, worn out with grief andfatigue. 

When Martine had announced to Mme. Rougon the unexpected death of herson Pascal, in the shock which she received there was as much of angeras of grief. What! her dying son had not wished to see her; he had madethis servant swear not to inform her of his illness! This thought sentthe blood coursing swiftly through her veins, as if the struggle betweenthem, which had lasted during his whole life, was to be continued beyondthe grave. Then, when after hastily dressing herself she had hurriedto La Souleiade, the thought of the terrible envelopes, of all themanuscripts piled up in the press, had filled her with trembling rage. Now that Uncle Macquart and Aunt Dide were dead, she no longer fearedwhat she called the abomination of the Tulettes; and even poor littleCharles, in dying, had carried with him one of the most humiliatingof the blots on the family. There remained only the envelopes, theabominable envelopes, to menace the glorious Rougon legend which she hadspent her whole life in creating, which was the sole thought of her oldage, the work to the triumph of which she had persistently devotedthe last efforts of her wily and active brain. For long years she hadwatched these envelopes, never wearying, beginning the struggle overagain, when he had thought her beaten, always alert and persistent. Ah!if she could only succeed in obtaining possession of them and destroyingthem! It would be the execrable past destroyed, effaced; it would be theglory of her family, so hardly won, at last freed from all fear, at lastshining untarnished, imposing its lie upon history. And she saw herselftraversing the three quarters of Plassans, saluted by every one, bearingherself as proudly as a queen, mourning nobly for the fallen Empire. Sothat when Martine informed her that Clotilde had come, she quickened hersteps as she approached La Souleiade, spurred by the fear of arrivingtoo late. 

But as soon as she was installed in the house, Felicite at once regainedher composure. There was no hurry, they had the whole night before them. She wished, however, to win over Martine without delay, and she knewwell how to influence this simple creature, bound up in the doctrines ofa narrow religion. Going down to the kitchen, then, to see the chickenroasting, she began by affecting to be heartbroken at the thought of herson dying without having made his peace with the Church. She questionedthe servant, pressing her for particulars. But the latter shook her headdisconsolately--no, no priest had come, monsieur had not even made thesign of the cross. She, only, had knelt down to say the prayers for thedying, which certainly could not be enough for the salvation of a soul. And yet with what fervor she had prayed to the good God that monsieurmight go straight to Paradise!

With her eyes fixed on the chicken turning on the spit, before a brightfire, Felicite resumed in a lower voice, with an absorbed air:

"Ah, my poor girl, what will most prevent him from going to Paradise arethe abominable papers which the unhappy man has left behind him up therein the press. I cannot understand why it is that lightning from heavenhas not struck those papers before this and reduced them to ashes. Ifthey are allowed to leave this house it will be ruin and disgrace andeternal perdition!"

Martine listened, very pale. 

"Then madame thinks it would be a good work to destroy them, a work thatwould assure the repose of monsieur's soul?"

"Great God! Do I believe it! Why, if I had those dreadful papers in myhands, I would throw every one of them into the fire. Oh, you would notneed then to put on any more sticks; with the manuscripts upstairs aloneyou would have fuel enough to roast three chickens like that. "

The servant took a long spoon and began to baste the fowl. She, too, seemed now to reflect. 

"Only we haven't got them. I even overheard some words on the subject, which I may repeat to madame. It was when mademoiselle went upstairs. Dr. Raymond spoke to her about the papers, asking her if she rememberedsome orders which she had received, before she went away, no doubt; andshe answered that she remembered, that she was to keep the envelopes andto give him all the other manuscripts. "

Felicite trembled; she could not restrain a terrified movement. Alreadyshe saw the papers slipping out of her reach; and it was not theenvelopes only which she desired, but all the manuscripts, all thatunknown, suspicious, and secret work, from which nothing but scandalcould come, according to the obtuse and excitable mind of the proud old_bourgeoise_. 

"But we must act!" she cried, "act immediately, this very night!To-morrow it may be too late. "

"I know where the key of the press is, " answered Martine in a low voice. "The doctor told mademoiselle. "

Felicite immediately pricked up her ears. 

"The key; where is it?"

"Under the pillow, under monsieur's head. "

In spite of the bright blaze of the fire of vine branches the air seemedto grow suddenly chill, and the two old women were silent. The onlysound to be heard was the drip of the chicken juice falling into thepan. 

But after Mme. Rougon had eaten a hasty and solitary dinner she wentupstairs again with Martine. Without another word being spoken theyunderstood each other, it was decided that they would use all possiblemeans to obtain possession of the papers before daybreak. The simplestwas to take the key from under the pillow. Clotilde would no doubt atlast fall asleep--she seemed too exhausted not to succumb to fatigue. All they had to do was to wait. They set themselves to watch, then, going back and forth on tiptoe between the study and the bedroom, waiting for the moment when the young woman's large motionless eyesshould close in sleep. One of them would go to see, while the otherwaited impatiently in the study, where a lamp burned dully on the table. This was repeated every fifteen minutes until midnight. The fathomlesseyes, full of gloom and of an immense despair, did not close. A littlebefore midnight Felicite installed herself in an armchair at the foot ofthe bed, resolved not to leave the spot until her granddaughter shouldhave fallen asleep. From this forth she did not take her eyes offClotilde, and it filled her with a sort of fear to remark that the girlscarcely moved her eyelids, looking with that inconsolable fixity whichdefies sleep. Then she herself began to feel sleep stealing over her. Exasperated, trembling with nervous impatience, she could remain whereshe was no longer. And she went to rejoin the servant, who was watchingin the study. 

"It is useless; she will not sleep, " she said in a stifled and tremblingvoice. "We must find some other way. "

It had indeed occurred to her to break open the press. 

But the old oaken boards were strong, the old iron held firmly. Howcould they break the lock--not to speak of the noise they would make andwhich would certainly be heard in the adjoining room?

She stood before the thick doors, however, and felt them with herfingers, seeking some weak spot. 

"If I only had an instrument, " she said. 

Martine, less eager, interrupted her, objecting: "Oh, no, no, madame!We might be surprised! Wait, I will go again and see if mademoiselle isasleep now. "

She went to the bedroom on tiptoe and returned immediately, saying:

"Yes, she is asleep. Her eyes are closed, and she does not stir. "

Then both went to look at her, holding their breath and walking with theutmost caution, so that the boards might not creak. Clotilde had indeedjust fallen asleep: and her stupor seemed so profound that the two oldwomen grew bold. They feared, however, that they might touch and wakenher, for her chair stood close beside the bed. And then, to putone's hand under a dead man's pillow to rob him was a terrible andsacrilegious act, the thought of which filled them with terror. Might itnot disturb his repose? Might he not move at the shock? The thought madethem turn pale. 

Felicite had advanced with outstretched hand, but she drew back, stammering:

"I am too short. You try, Martine. "

The servant in her turn approached the bed. But she was seized with sucha fit of trembling that she was obliged to retreat lest she should fall. 

"No, no, I cannot!" she said. "It seems to me that monsieur is going toopen his eyes. "

And trembling and awe-struck they remained an instant longer in thelugubrious chamber full of the silence and the majesty of death, facingPascal, motionless forever, and Clotilde, overwhelmed by the grief ofher widowhood. Perhaps they saw, glorifying that mute head, guardingits work with all its weight, the nobility of a life spent in honorablelabor. The flame of the tapers burned palely. A sacred awe filled theair, driving them from the chamber. 

Felicite, who was so brave, who had never in her life flinched fromanything, not even from bloodshed, fled as if she was pursued, saying:

"Come, come, Martine, we will find some other way; we will go look foran instrument. "

In the study they drew a breath of relief. Felicite looked in vain amongthe papers on Pascal's work-table for the genealogical tree, whichshe knew was usually there. She would so gladly have begun her work ofdestruction with this. It was there, but in her feverish excitement shedid not perceive it. 

Her desire drew her back again to the press, and she stood before it, measuring it and examining it with eager and covetous look. In spite ofher short stature, in spite of her eighty-odd years, she displayed anactivity and an energy that were truly extraordinary. 

"Ah!" she repeated, "if I only had an instrument!"

And she again sought the crevice in the colossus, the crack into whichshe might introduce her fingers, to break it open. She imagined plansof assault, she thought of using force, and then she fell back onstratagem, on some piece of treachery which would open to her the doors, merely by breathing upon them. 

Suddenly her glance kindled; she had discovered the means. 

"Tell me, Martine; there is a hook fastening one of the doors, is therenot?"

"Yes, madame; it catches in a ring above the middle shelf. See, it isabout the height of this molding. "

Felicite made a triumphant gesture. 

"Have you a gimlet--a large gimlet? Give me a gimlet!"

Martine went down into her kitchen and brought back the tool that hadbeen asked. 

"In that way, you see, we shall make no noise, " resumed the old woman, setting herself to her task. 

With a strength which one would not have suspected in her little hands, withered by age, she inserted the gimlet, and made a hole at the heightindicated by the servant. But it was too low; she felt the point, aftera time, entering the shelf. A second attempt brought the instrument indirect contact with the iron hook. This time the hole was too near. Andshe multiplied the holes to right and left, until finally she succeededin pushing the hook out of the ring. The bolt of the lock slipped, andboth doors opened. 

"At last!" cried Felicite, beside herself. 

Then she remained motionless for a moment, her ear turned uneasilytoward the bedroom, fearing that she had wakened Clotilde. But silencereigned throughout the dark and sleeping house. There came from thebedroom only the august peace of death; she heard nothing but the clearvibration of the clock; Clotilde fell asleep near one. And the pressyawned wide open, displaying the papers with which it overflowed, heapedup on its three shelves. Then she threw herself upon it, and the work ofdestruction began, in the midst of the sacred obscurity of the infiniterepose of this funereal vigil. 

"At last!" she repeated, in a low voice, "after thirty years of waiting. Let us hurry--let us hurry. Martine, help me!"

She had already drawn forward the high chair of the desk, and mounted onit at a bound, to take down, first of all, the papers on the top shelf, for she remembered that the envelopes were there. But she was surprisednot to see the thick blue paper wrappers; there was nothing there butbulky manuscripts, the doctor's completed but unpublished works, worksof inestimable value, all his researches, all his discoveries, themonument of his future fame, which he had left in Ramond's charge. Doubtless, some days before his death, thinking that only the envelopeswere in danger, and that no one in the world would be so daring as todestroy his other works, he had begun to classify and arrange the papersanew, and removed the envelopes out of sight. 

"Ah, so much the worse!" murmured Felicite; "let us begin anywhere;there are so many of them that if we wish to get through we musthurry. While I am up here, let us clear these away forever. Here, catchMartine!"

And she emptied the shelf, throwing the manuscripts, one by one, intothe arms of the servant, who laid them on the table with as little noiseas possible. Soon the whole heap was on it, and Felicite sprang downfrom the chair. 

"To the fire! to the fire! We shall lay our hands on the others, and too, by and by, on those I am looking for. These can go into it, meantime. It will be a good riddance, at any rate, a fine clearance, yes, indeed! To the fire, to the fire with them all, even to thesmallest scrap of paper, even to the most illegible scrawl, if we wishto be certain of destroying the contamination of evil. "

She herself, fanatical and fierce, in her hatred of the truth, in hereagerness to destroy the testimony of science, tore off the first pageof one of the manuscripts, lighted it at the lamp, and then threw thisburning brand into the great fireplace, in which there had not been afire for perhaps twenty years, and she fed the fire, continuing tothrow on it the rest of the manuscript, piece by piece. The servant, asdetermined as herself, came to her assistance, taking another enormousnotebook, which she tore up leaf by leaf. From this forth the fire didnot cease to burn, filling the wide fireplace with a bright blaze, withtongues of flame that seemed to die away from time to time, only toburn up more brightly than ever when fresh fuel fed them. The firegrew larger, the heap of ashes rose higher and higher--a thick bed ofblackened leaves among which ran millions of sparks. But it was a long, a never-ending task; for when several pages were thrown on at a time, they would not burn; it was necessary to move them and turn them overwith the tongs; the best way was to stir them up and then wait untilthey were in a blaze, before adding more. The women soon grew skilful attheir task, and the work progressed at a rapid rate. 

In her haste to get a fresh armful of papers Felicite stumbled against achair. 

"Oh, madame, take care, " said Martine. "Some one might come!"

"Come? who should come? Clotilde? She is too sound asleep, poor girl. And even if any one should come, once it is finished, I don't care;I won't hide myself, you may be sure; I shall leave the empty pressstanding wide open; I shall say aloud that it is I who have purifiedthe house. When there is not a line of writing left, ah, good heavens! Ishall laugh at everything else!"

For almost two hours the fireplace blazed. They went back to the pressand emptied the two other shelves, and now there remained only thebottom, which was heaped with a confusion of papers. Little by little, intoxicated by the heat of the bonfire, out of breath and perspiring, they gave themselves up to the savage joy of destruction. They stoopeddown, they blackened their hands, pushing in the partially consumedfragments, with gestures so violent, so feverishly excited, that theirgray locks fell in disorder over their shoulders. It was like a dance ofwitches, feeding a hellish fire for some abominable act--the martyrdomof a saint, the burning of written thought in the public square; a wholeworld of truth and hope destroyed. And the blaze of this fire, whichat moments made the flame of the lamp grow pale, lighted up the vastapartment, and made the gigantic shadows of the two women dance upon theceiling. 

But as she was emptying the bottom of the press, after having burned, handful by handful, the papers with which it had been filled, Feliciteuttered a stifled cry of triumph. 

"Ah, here they are! To the fire! to the fire!"

She had at last come upon the envelopes. Far back, behind the rampartformed by the notes, the doctor had hidden the blue paper wrappers. Andthen began a mad work of havoc, a fury of destruction; the envelopeswere gathered up in handfuls and thrown into the flames, filling thefireplace with a roar like that of a conflagration. 

"They are burning, they are burning! They are burning at last! Hereis another, Martine, here is another. Ah, what a fire, what a gloriousfire!"

But the servant was becoming uneasy. 

"Take care, madame, you are going to set the house on fire. Don't youhear that roar?"

"Ah! what does that matter? Let it all burn. They are burning, they areburning; what a fine sight! Three more, two more, and, see, now the lastis burning!"

She laughed with delight, beside herself, terrible to see, when somefragment of lighted soot fell down. The roar was becoming more and morefierce; the chimney, which was never swept, had caught fire. This seemedto excite her still more, while the servant, losing her head, began toscream and run about the room. 

Clotilde slept beside the dead Pascal, in the supreme calm of thebedroom, unbroken save by the light vibration of the clock strikingthe hours. The tapers burned with a tall, still flame, the air wasmotionless. And yet, in the midst of her heavy, dreamless sleep, sheheard, as in a nightmare, a tumult, an ever-increasing rush and roar. And when she opened her eyes she could not at first understand. Wherewas she? Why this enormous weight that crushed her heart? She came backto reality with a start of terror--she saw Pascal, she heard Martine'scries in the adjoining room, and she rushed out, in alarm, to learntheir cause. 

But at the threshold Clotilde took in the whole scene with crueldistinctness--the press wide open and completely empty; Martine maddenedby her fear of fire; Felicite radiant, pushing into the flames with herfoot the last fragments of the envelopes. Smoke and flying soot filledthe study, where the roaring of the fire sounded like the hoarse gaspingof a murdered man--the fierce roar which she had just heard in hersleep. 

And the cry which sprang from her lips was the same cry that Pascalhimself had uttered on the night of the storm, when he surprised her inthe act of stealing his papers. 

"Thieves! assassins!"

She precipitated herself toward the fireplace, and, in spite of thedreadful roaring of the flames, in spite of the falling pieces of soot, at the risk of setting her hair on fire, and of burning her hands, she gathered up the leaves which remained yet unconsumed and bravelyextinguished them, pressing them against her. But all this was verylittle, only some _debris_; not a complete page remained, not even afew fragments of the colossal labor, of the vast and patient work ofa lifetime, which the fire had destroyed there in two hours. And withgrowing anger, in a burst of furious indignation, she cried:

"You are thieves, assassins! It is a wicked murder which you have justcommitted. You have profaned death, you have slain the mind, you haveslain genius. "

Old Mme. Rougon did not quail. She advanced, on the contrary, feelingno remorse, her head erect, defending the sentence of destructionpronounced and executed by her. 

"It is to me you are speaking, to your grandmother. Is there nothing, then, that you respect? I have done what I ought to have done, what youyourself wished to do with us before. "

"Before, you had made me mad; but since then I have lived, I have loved, I have understood, and it is life that I defend. Even if it be terribleand cruel, the truth ought to be respected. Besides, it was a sacredlegacy bequeathed to my protection, the last thoughts of a dead man, allthat remained of a great mind, and which I should have obliged every oneto respect. Yes, you are my grandmother; I am well aware of it, and itis as if you had just burned your son!"

"Burn Pascal because I have burned his papers!" cried Felicite. "Doyou not know that I would have burned the town to save the honor of ourfamily!"

She continued to advance, belligerent and victorious; and Clotilde, whohad laid on the table the blackened fragments rescued by her fromthe burning flames, protected them with her body, fearing that hergrandmother would throw them back again into the fire. She regarded thetwo women scornfully; she did not even trouble herself about the firein the fireplace, which fortunately went out of itself, while Martineextinguished with the shovel the burning soot and the last flames of thesmoldering ashes. 

"You know very well, however, " continued the old woman, whose littlefigure seemed to grow taller, "that I have had only one ambition, onepassion in life--to see our family rich and powerful. I have fought, Ihave watched all my life, I have lived as long as I have done, only toput down ugly stories and to leave our name a glorious one. Yes, I havenever despaired; I have never laid down my arms; I have been continuallyon the alert, ready to profit by the slightest circumstance. And all Idesired to do I have done, because I have known how to wait. "

And she waved her hand toward the empty press and the fireplace, wherethe last sparks were dying out. 

"Now it is ended, our honor is safe; those abominable papers will nolonger accuse us, and I shall leave behind me nothing to be feared. TheRougons have triumphed. "

Clotilde, in a frenzy of grief, raised her arm, as if to drive her outof the room. But she left it of her own accord, and went down to thekitchen to wash her blackened hands and to fasten up her hair. Theservant was about to follow her when, turning her head, she saw heryoung mistress' gesture, and she returned. 

"Oh! as for me, mademoiselle, I will go away the day after to-morrow, when monsieur shall be in the cemetery. "

There was a moment's silence. 

"But I am not sending you away, Martine. I know well that it is not youwho are most to blame. You have lived in this house for thirty years. Remain, remain with me. "

The old maid shook her gray head, looking very pale and tired. 

"No, I have served monsieur; I will serve no one after monsieur. "

"But I!"

"You, no!"

Clotilde looked embarrassed, hesitated a moment, and remained silent. But Martine understood; she too seemed to reflect for an instant, andthen she said distinctly:

"I know what you would say, but--no!"

And she went on to settle her account, arranging the affair like apractical woman who knew the value of money. 

"Since I have the means, I will go and live quietly on my incomesomewhere. As for you, mademoiselle, I can leave you, for you are notpoor. M. Ramond will explain to you to-morrow how an income of fourthousand francs was saved for you out of the money at the notary's. Meantime, here is the key of the desk, where you will find the fivethousand francs which monsieur left there. Oh? I know that there willbe no trouble between us. Monsieur did not pay me for the last threemonths; I have papers from him which prove it. In addition, I advancedlately almost two hundred francs out of my own pocket, without hisknowing where the money came from. It is all written down; I am not atall uneasy; mademoiselle will not wrong me by a centime. The day afterto-morrow, when monsieur is no longer here, I will go away. "

Then she went down to the kitchen, and Clotilde, in spite of thefanaticism of this woman, which had made her take part in a crime, felt inexpressibly sad at this desertion. When she was gathering up thefragments of the papers, however, before returning to the bedroom, shehad a thrill of joy, on suddenly seeing the genealogical tree, whichthe two women had not perceived, lying unharmed on the table. It was theonly entire document saved from the wreck. She took it and locked it, with the half-consumed fragments, in the bureau in the bedroom. 

But when she found herself again in this august chamber a great emotiontook possession of her. What supreme calm, what immortal peace, reignedhere, beside the savage destruction that had filled the adjoining roomwith smoke and ashes. A sacred serenity pervaded the obscurity; the twotapers burned with a pure, still, unwavering flame. Then she saw thatPascal's face, framed in his flowing white hair and beard, had becomevery white. He slept with the light falling upon him, surrounded by ahalo, supremely beautiful. She bent down, kissed him again, felt on herlips the cold of the marble face, with its closed eyelids, dreaming itsdream of eternity. Her grief at not being able to save the work which hehad left to her care was so overpowering that she fell on her knees andburst into a passion of sobs. Genius had been violated; it seemed to heras if the world was about to be destroyed in this savage destruction ofa whole life of labor. 

XIV. 

In the study Clotilde was buttoning her dress, holding her child, whomshe had been nursing, still in her lap. It was after lunch, aboutthree o'clock on a hot sunny day at the end of August, and through thecrevices of the carefully closed shutters only a few scattered sunbeamsentered, piercing the drowsy and warm obscurity of the vast apartment. The rest and peace of the Sunday seemed to enter and diffuse itselfin the room with the last sounds of the distant vesper bell. Profoundsilence reigned in the empty house in which the mother and child were toremain alone until dinner time, the servant having asked permission togo see a cousin in the faubourg. 

For an instant Clotilde looked at her child, now a big boy of threemonths. She had been wearing mourning for Pascal for almost tenmonths--a long and simple black gown, in which she looked divinelybeautiful, with her tall, slender figure and her sad, youthful facesurrounded by its aureole of fair hair. And although she could notsmile, it filled her with sweet emotion to see the beautiful child, soplump and rosy, with his mouth still wet with milk, whose gaze hadbeen arrested by the sunbeam full of dancing motes. His eyes were fixedwonderingly on the golden brightness, the dazzling miracle of light. Then sleep came over him, and he let his little, round, bare head, covered thinly with fair hair, fall back on his mother's arm. 

Clotilde rose softly and laid him in the cradle, which stood beside thetable. She remained leaning over him for an instant to assure herselfthat he was asleep; then she let down the curtain in the alreadydarkened room. Then she busied herself with supple and noiselessmovements, walking with so light a step that she scarcely touched thefloor, in putting away some linen which was on the table. Twice shecrossed the room in search of a little missing sock. She was verysilent, very gentle, and very active. And now, in the solitude of thehouse, she fell into a reverie and all the past year arose before her. 

First, after the dreadful shock of the funeral, came the departure ofMartine, who had obstinately kept to her determination of going away atonce, not even remaining for the customary week, bringing to replace herthe young cousin of a baker in the neighborhood--a stout brunette, whofortunately proved very neat and faithful. Martine herself lived atSainte-Marthe, in a retired corner, so penuriously that she must bestill saving even out of her small income. She was not known to have anyheir. Who, then, would profit by this miserliness? In ten months she hadnot once set foot in La Souleiade--monsieur was not there, and she hadnot even the desire to see monsieur's son. 

Then in Clotilde's reverie rose the figure of her grandmother Felicite. The latter came to see her from time to time with the condescension of apowerful relation who is liberal-minded enough to pardon all faults whenthey have been cruelly expiated. She would come unexpectedly, kissthe child, moralize, and give advice, and the young mother had adoptedtoward her the respectful attitude which Pascal had always maintained. Felicite was now wholly absorbed in her triumph. She was at last aboutto realize a plan that she had long cherished and maturely deliberated, which would perpetuate by an imperishable monument the untarnished gloryof the family. The plan was to devote her fortune, which had becomeconsiderable, to the construction and endowment of an asylum for theaged, to be called Rougon Asylum. She had already bought the ground, a part of the old mall outside the town, near the railway station; andprecisely on this Sunday, at five o'clock, when the heat should haveabated a little, the first stone was to be laid, a really solemnceremony, to be honored by the presence of all the authorities, and ofwhich she was to be the acknowledged queen, before a vast concourse ofpeople. 

Clotilde felt, besides, some gratitude toward her grandmother, whohad shown perfect disinterestedness on the occasion of the openingof Pascal's will. The latter had constituted the young woman hissole legatee; and the mother, who had a right to a fourth part, after declaring her intention to respect her son's wishes, had simplyrenounced her right to the succession. She wished, indeed, to disinheritall her family, bequeathing to them glory only, by employing her largefortune in the erection of this asylum, which was to carry down tofuture ages the revered and glorious name of the Rougons; and afterhaving, for more than half a century, so eagerly striven to acquiremoney, she now disdained it, moved by a higher and purer ambition. AndClotilde, thanks to this liberality, had no uneasiness regarding thefuture--the four thousand francs income would be sufficient for her andher child. She would bring him up to be a man. She had sunk the fivethousand francs that she had found in the desk in an annuity for him;and she owned, besides, La Souleiade, which everybody advised herto sell. True, it cost but little to keep it up, but what a sad andsolitary life she would lead in that great deserted house, much toolarge for her, where she would be lost. Thus far, however, she had notbeen able to make up her mind to leave it. Perhaps she would never beable to do so. 

Ah, this La Souleiade! all her love, all her life, all her memories werecentered in it. It seemed to her at times as if Pascal were living herestill, for she had changed nothing of their former manner of living. The furniture remained in the same places, the hours were the same, thehabits the same. The only change she had made was to lock his room, into which only she went, as into a sanctuary, to weep when she felt herheart too heavy. And although indeed she felt very lonely, very lost, ateach meal in the bright dining-room downstairs, in fancy she heard therethe echoes of their laughter, she recalled the healthy appetite of heryouth; when they two had eaten and drank so gaily, rejoicing in theirexistence. And the garden, too, the whole place was bound up with themost intimate fibers of her being, for she could not take a step in itthat their united images did not appear before her--on the terrace; inthe slender shadow of the great secular cypresses, where they had sooften contemplated the valley of the Viorne, closed in by the ridges ofthe Seille and the parched hills of Sainte-Marthe; the stone steps amongthe puny olive and almond trees, which they had so often challengedeach other to run up in a trial of speed, like boys just let loose fromschool; and there was the pine grove, too, the warm, embalsamed shade, where the needles crackled under their feet; the vast threshing yard, carpeted with soft grass, where they could see the whole sky at night, when the stars were coming out; and above all there were the giant planetrees, whose delightful shade they had enjoyed every day in summer, listening to the soothing song of the fountain, the crystal clear songwhich it had sung for centuries. Even to the old stones of the house, even to the earth of the grounds, there was not an atom at La Souleiadein which she did not feel a little of their blood warmly throbbing, withwhich she did not feel a little of their life diffused and mingled. 

But she preferred to spend her days in the workroom, and here it wasthat she lived over again her best hours. There was nothing new in itbut the cradle. The doctor's table was in its place before the window tothe left--she could fancy him coming in and sitting down at it, for hischair had not even been moved. On the long table in the center, amongthe old heap of books and papers, there was nothing new but the cheerfulnote of the little baby linen, which she was looking over. The bookcasesdisplayed the same rows of volumes; the large oaken press seemed toguard within its sides the same treasure, securely shut in. Under thesmoky ceiling the room was still redolent of work, with its confusion ofchairs, the pleasant disorder of this common workroom, filled with thecaprices of the girl and the researches of the scientist. But what mostmoved her to-day was the sight of her old pastels hanging against thewall, the copies which she had made of living flowers, scrupulouslyexact copies, and of dream flowers of an imaginary world, whither herwild fancy sometimes carried her. 

Clotilde had just finished arranging the little garments on the tablewhen, lifting her eyes, she perceived before her the pastel of oldKing David, with his hand resting on the shoulder of Abishag the youngShunammite. And she, who now never smiled, felt her face flush with athrill of tender and pleasing emotion. How they had loved each other, how they had dreamed of an eternity of love the day on which she hadamused herself painting this proud and loving allegory! The old king, sumptuously clad in a robe hanging in straight folds, heavy withprecious stones, wore the royal bandeau on his snowy locks; but she wasmore sumptuous still, with only her tall slender figure, her delicateround throat, and her supple arms, divinely graceful. Now he was gone, he was sleeping under the ground, while she, her pure and triumphantbeauty concealed by her black robes, had only her child to express thelove she had given him before the assembled people, in the full light ofday. 

Then Clotilde sat down beside the cradle. The slender sunbeamslengthened, crossing the room from end to end, the heat of the warmafternoon grew oppressive in the drowsy obscurity made by the closedshutters, and the silence of the house seemed more profound thanbefore. She set apart some little waists, she sewed on some tapes withslow-moving needle, and gradually she fell into a reverie in the warmdeep peacefulness of the room, in the midst of the glowing heat outside. Her thoughts first turned to her pastels, the exact copies and thefantastic dream flowers; she said to herself now that all her dualnature was to be found in that passion for truth, which had at timeskept her a whole day before a flower in order to copy it with exactness, and in her need of the spiritual, which at other times took her outsidethe real, and carried her in wild dreams to the paradise of flowers suchas had never grown on earth. She had always been thus. She felt that shewas in reality the same to-day as she had been yesterday, in the midstof the flow of new life which ceaselessly transformed her. And then shethought of Pascal, full of gratitude that he had made her what she was. In days past when, a little girl, he had removed her from her execrablesurroundings and taken her home with him, he had undoubtedly followedthe impulses of his good heart, but he had also undoubtedly desiredto try an experiment with her, to see how she would grow up in thedifferent environment, in an atmosphere of truthfulness and affection. This had always been an idea of his. It was an old theory of hiswhich he would have liked to test on a large scale: culture throughenvironment, complete regeneration even, the improvement, the salvationof the individual, physically as well as morally. She owed to himundoubtedly the best part of her nature; she guessed how fanciful andviolent she might have become, while he had made her only enthusiasticand courageous. 

In this retrospection she was clearly conscious of the gradual changethat had taken place within her. Pascal had corrected her heredity, and she lived over again the slow evolution, the struggle between thefantastic and the real in her. It had begun with her outbursts of angeras a child, a ferment of rebellion, a want of mental balance that hadcaused her to indulge in most hurtful reveries. Then came her fitsof extreme devotion, the need of illusion and falsehood, of immediatehappiness in the thought that the inequalities and injustices of thiswicked world would he compensated by the eternal joys of a futureparadise. This was the epoch of her struggles with Pascal, of thetorture which she had caused him, planning to destroy the work of hisgenius. And at this point her nature had changed; she had acknowledgedhim for her master. He had conquered her by the terrible lesson of lifewhich he had given her on the night of the storm. Then, environment hadacted upon her, evolution had proceeded rapidly, and she had ended bybecoming a well-balanced and rational woman, willing to live life as itought to be lived, satisfied with doing her work in the hope that thesum of the common labor would one day free the world from evil and pain. She had loved, she was a mother now, and she understood. 

Suddenly she remembered the night which they had spent in the threshingyard. She could still hear her lamentation under the stars--the crueltyof nature, the inefficacy of science, the wickedness of humanity, andthe need she felt of losing herself in God, in the Unknown. Happinessconsisted in self-renunciation. Then she heard him repeat his creed--theprogress of reason through science, truths acquired slowly and foreverthe only possible good, the belief that the sum of these truths, alwaysaugmenting, would finally confer upon man incalculable power and peace, if not happiness. All was summed up in his ardent faith in life. As heexpressed it, it was necessary to march with life, which marched always. No halt was to be expected, no peace in immobility and renunciation, noconsolation in turning back. One must keep a steadfast soul, the onlyambition to perform one's work, modestly looking for no other rewardof life than to have lived it bravely, accomplishing the task which itimposes. Evil was only an accident not yet explained, humanity appearingfrom a great height like an immense wheel in action, working ceaselesslyfor the future. Why should the workman who disappeared, having finishedhis day's work, abuse the work because he could neither see nor know itsend? Even if it were to have no end why should he not enjoy the delightof action, the exhilarating air of the march, the sweetness of sleepafter the fatigue of a long and busy day? The children would carry onthe task of the parents; they were born and cherished only for this, forthe task of life which is transmitted to them, which they in their turnwill transmit to others. All that remained, then, was to be courageouslyresigned to the grand common labor, without the rebellion of the ego, which demands personal happiness, perfect and complete. 

She questioned herself, and she found that she did not experience thatanguish which had filled her formerly at the thought of what was tofollow death. This anxiety about the Beyond no longer haunted her untilit became a torture. Formerly she would have liked to wrest by forcefrom heaven the secrets of destiny. It had been a source of infinitegrief to her not to know why she existed. Why are we born? What do wecome on earth to do? What is the meaning of this execrable existence, without equality, without justice, which seemed to her like a fevereddream? Now her terror was calmed; she could think of these thingscourageously. Perhaps it was her child, the continuation of herself, which now concealed from her the horror of her end. But her regular lifecontributed also to this, the thought that it was necessary to live forthe effort of living, and that the only peace possible in this world wasin the joy of the accomplishment of this effort. She repeated to herselfa remark of the doctor, who would often say when he saw a peasantreturning home with a contented look after his day's work: "There is aman whom anxiety about the Beyond will not prevent from sleeping. " Hemeant to say that this anxiety troubles and perverts only excitableand idle brains. If all performed their healthful task, all would sleeppeacefully at night. She herself had felt the beneficent power of workin the midst of her sufferings and her grief. Since he had taught her toemploy every one of her hours; since she had been a mother, especially, occupied constantly with her child, she no longer felt a chill ofhorror when she thought of the Unknown. She put aside without an effortdisquieting reveries; and if she still felt an occasional fear, ifsome of her daily griefs made her sick at heart, she found comfort andunfailing strength in the thought that her child was this day a dayolder, that he would be another day older on the morrow, that dayby day, page by page, his work of life was being accomplished. Thisconsoled her delightfully for all her miseries. She had a duty, anobject, and she felt in her happy serenity that she was doing surelywhat she had been sent here to do. 

Yet, even at this very moment she knew that the mystic was not entirelydead within her. In the midst of the profound silence she heard a slightnoise, and she raised her head. Who was the divine mediator thathad passed? Perhaps the beloved dead for whom she mourned, and whosepresence near her she fancied she could divine. There must always bein her something of the childlike believer she had always been, curiousabout the Unknown, having an instinctive longing for the mysterious. She accounted to herself for this longing, she even explained itscientifically. However far science may extend the limits of humanknowledge, there is undoubtedly a point which it cannot pass; and itwas here precisely that Pascal placed the only interest in life--inthe effort which we ceaselessly make to know more--there was only onereasonable meaning in life, this continual conquest of the unknown. Therefore, she admitted the existence of undiscovered forces surroundingthe world, an immense and obscure domain, ten times larger than thedomain already won, an infinite and unexplored realm through whichfuture humanity would endlessly ascend. Here, indeed, was a field vastenough for the imagination to lose itself in. In her hours of reverieshe satisfied in it the imperious need which man seems to have for thespiritual, a need of escaping from the visible world, of interrogatingthe Unknown, of satisfying in it the dream of absolute justice and offuture happiness. All that remained of her former torture, her lastmystic transports, were there appeased. She satisfied there that hungerfor consoling illusions which suffering humanity must satisfy in orderto live. But in her all was happily balanced. At this crisis, in anepoch overburdened with science, disquieted at the ruins it has made, and seized with fright in the face of the new century, wildly desiringto stop and to return to the past, Clotilde kept the happy mean; in herthe passion for truth was broadened by her eagerness to penetrate theUnknown. If sectarian scientists shut out the horizon to keep strictlyto the phenomenon, it was permitted to her, a good, simple creature, toreserve the part that she did not know, that she would never know. Andif Pascal's creed was the logical deduction from the whole work, theeternal question of the Beyond, which she still continued to put toheaven, reopened the door of the infinite to humanity marching everonward. Since we must always learn, while resigning ourselves neverto know all, was it not to will action, life itself, to reserve theUnknown--an eternal doubt and an eternal hope?

Another sound, as of a wing passing, the light touch of a kiss upon herhair, this time made her smile. He was surely here; and her whole beingwent out toward him, in the great flood of tenderness with which herheart overflowed. How kind and cheerful he was, and what a love forothers underlay his passionate love of life! Perhaps he, too, had beenonly a dreamer, for he had dreamed the most beautiful of dreams, thefinal belief in a better world, when science should have bestowedincalculable power upon man--to accept everything, to turn everythingto our happiness, to know everything and to foresee everything, tomake nature our servant, to live in the tranquillity of intelligencesatisfied. Meantime faith in life, voluntary and regular labor, wouldsuffice for health. Evil was only the unexplained side of things;suffering would one day be assuredly utilized. And regarding from abovethe enormous labor of the world, seeing the sum total of humanity, goodand bad--admirable, in spite of everything, for their courage andtheir industry--she now regarded all mankind as united in a commonbrotherhood, she now felt only boundless indulgence, an infinitepity, and an ardent charity. Love, like the sun, bathes the earth, andgoodness is the great river at which all hearts drink. 

Clotilde had been plying her needle for two hours, with the same regularmovement, while her thoughts wandered away in the profound silence. Butthe tapes were sewed on the little waists, she had even marked some newwrappers, which she had bought the day before. And, her sewing finished, she rose to put the linen away. Outside the sun was declining, andonly slender and oblique sunbeams entered through the crevices of theshutters. She could not see clearly, and she opened one of the shutters, then she forgot herself for a moment, at the sight of the vast horizonsuddenly unrolled before her. The intense heat had abated, a deliciousbreeze was blowing, and the sky was of a cloudless blue. To the leftcould be distinguished even the smallest clumps of pines, among theblood-colored ravines of the rocks of the Seille, while to the right, beyond the hills of Sainte-Marthe, the valley of the Viorne stretchedaway in the golden dust of the setting sun. She looked for a moment atthe tower of St. Saturnin, all golden also, dominating the rose-coloredtown; and she was about to leave the window when she saw a sight thatdrew her back and kept her there, leaning on her elbow for a long timestill. 

Beyond the railroad a multitude of people were crowded together on theold mall. Clotilde at once remembered the ceremony. She knew that herGrandmother Felicite was going to lay the first stone of the RougonAsylum, the triumphant monument destined to carry down to future agesthe glory of the family. Vast preparations had been going on for a weekpast. There was talk of a silver hod and trowel, which the old lady wasto use herself, determined to figure to triumph, with her eighty-twoyears. What swelled her heart with regal pride was that on this occasionshe made the conquest of Plassans for the third time, for she compelledthe whole town, all the three quarters, to range themselves around her, to form an escort for her, and to applaud her as a benefactress. For, ofcourse, there had to be present lady patronesses, chosen from among thenoblest ladies of the Quartier St. Marc; a delegation from thesocieties of working-women of the old quarter, and, finally, themost distinguished residents of the new town, advocates, notaries, physicians, without counting the common people, a stream of peopledressed in their Sunday clothes, crowding there eagerly, as to afestival. And in the midst of this supreme triumph she was perhapsmost proud--she, one of the queens of the Second Empire, the widow whomourned with so much dignity the fallen government--in havingconquered the young republic itself, obliging it, in the person of thesub-prefect, to come and salute her and thank her. At first there hadbeen question only of a discourse of the mayor; but it was known withcertainty, since the previous day, that the sub-prefect also wouldspeak. From so great a distance Clotilde could distinguish only a movingcrowd of black coats and light dresses, under the scorching sun. Thenthere was a distant sound of music, the music of the amateur band of thetown, the sonorous strains of whose brass instruments were borne to herat intervals on the breeze. 

She left the window and went and opened the large oaken press to putaway in it the linen that had remained on the table. It was in thispress, formerly so full of the doctor's manuscripts, and now empty, that she kept the baby's wardrobe. It yawned open, vast, seeminglybottomless, and on the large bare shelves there was nothing but the babylinen, the little waists, the little caps, the little socks, all thefine clothing, the down of the bird still in the nest. Where so manythoughts had been stored up, where a man's unremitting labor for thirtyyears had accumulated in an overflowing heap of papers, there was nowonly a baby's clothing, only the first garments which would protect itfor an hour, as it were, and which very soon it could no longer use. The vastness of the antique press seemed brightened and all refreshed bythem. 

When Clotilde had arranged the wrappers and the waists upon a shelf, she perceived a large envelope containing the fragments of the documentswhich she had placed there after she had rescued them from the fire. Andshe remembered a request which Dr. Ramond had come only the day beforeto make her--that she would see if there remained among this _debris_any fragment of importance having a scientific interest. He wasinconsolable for the loss of the precious manuscripts which the masterhad bequeathed to him. Immediately after the doctor's death he had madean attempt to write from memory his last talk, that summary of vasttheories expounded by the dying man with so heroic a serenity; but hecould recall only parts of it. He would have needed complete notes, observations made from day to day, the results obtained, and the lawsformulated. The loss was irreparable, the task was to be begun overagain, and he lamented having only indications; he said that it would beat least twenty years before science could make up the loss, and take upand utilize the ideas of the solitary pioneer whose labors a wicked andimbecile catastrophe had destroyed. 

The genealogical tree, the only document that had remained intact, wasattached to the envelope, and Clotilde carried the whole to the tablebeside the cradle. After she had taken out the fragments, one by one, she found, what she had been already almost certain of, that not asingle entire page of manuscript remained, not a single complete notehaving any meaning. There were only fragments of documents, scraps ofhalf-burned and blackened paper, without sequence or connection. But asshe examined them, these incomplete phrases, these words half consumedby fire, assumed for her an interest which no one else could haveunderstood. She remembered the night of the storm, and the phrasescompleted themselves, the beginning of a word evoked before her personsand histories. Thus her eye fell on Maxime's name, and she reviewedthe life of this brother who had remained a stranger to her, and whosedeath, two months before, had left her almost indifferent. Then, ahalf-burned scrap containing her father's name gave her an uneasyfeeling, for she believed that her father had obtained possession of thefortune and the house on the avenue of Bois de Boulogne through the goodoffices of his hairdresser's niece, the innocent Rose, repaid, no doubt, by a generous percentage. Then she met with other names, that ofher uncle Eugene, the former vice emperor, now dead, the cureof Saint-Eutrope, who, she had been told yesterday, was dying ofconsumption. And each fragment became animated in this way; theexecrable family lived again in these scraps, these black ashes, wherewere now only disconnected words. 

Then Clotilde had the curiosity to unfold the genealogical tree andspread it out upon the table. A strong emotion gained on her; she wasdeeply affected by these relics; and when she read once more the notesadded in pencil by Pascal, a few moments before his death, tears rose toher eyes. With what courage he had written down the date of his death!And what despairing regret for life one divined in the trembling wordsannouncing the birth of the child! The tree ascended, spread outits branches, unfolded its leaves, and she remained for a long timecontemplating it, saying to herself that all the work of the masterwas to be found here in the classified records of this family tree. She could still hear certain of his words commenting on each hereditarycase, she recalled his lessons. But the children, above all, interestedher; she read again and again the notes on the leaves which bore theirnames. The doctor's colleague in Noumea, to whom he had written forinformation about the child born of the marriage of the convict Etienne, had at last made up his mind to answer; but the only information he gavewas in regard to the sex--it was a girl, he said, and she seemed to behealthy. Octave Mouret had come near losing his daughter, who had alwaysbeen very frail, while his little boy continued to enjoy superb health. But the chosen abode of vigorous health and of extraordinary fecunditywas still the house of Jean, at Valqueyras, whose wife had had twochildren in three years and was about to have a third. The nestlingsthrove in the sunshine, in the heart of a fertile country, while thefather sang as he guided his plow, and the mother at home cleverly madethe soup and kept the children in order. There was enough new vitalityand industry there to make another family, a whole race. Clotildefancied at this moment that she could hear Pascal's cry: "Ah, ourfamily! what is it going to be, in what kind of being will it end?" Andshe fell again into a reverie, looking at the tree sending its latestbranches into the future. Who could tell whence the healthy branch wouldspring? Perhaps the great and good man so long awaited was germinatingthere. 

A slight cry drew Clotilde from her reflections. The muslin curtain ofthe cradle seemed to become animate. It was the child who had wakened upand was moving about and calling to her. She at once took him out of thecradle and held him up gaily, that he might bathe in the golden light ofthe setting sun. But he was insensible to the beauty of the closing day;his little vacant eyes, still full of sleep, turned away from the vastsky, while he opened wide his rosy and ever hungry mouth, like a birdopening its beak. And he cried so loud, he had wakened up so ravenous, that she decided to nurse him again. Besides, it was his hour; it wouldsoon be three hours since she had last nursed him. 

Clotilde sat down again beside the table. She took him on her lap, buthe was not very good, crying louder and louder, growing more and moreimpatient; and she looked at him with a smile while she unfastened herdress, showing her round, slender throat. Already the child knew, andraising himself he felt with his lips for the breast. When she placedit in his mouth he gave a little grunt of satisfaction; he threw himselfupon her with the fine, voracious appetite of a young gentleman who wasdetermined to live. At first he had clutched the breast with his littlefree hand, as if to show that it was his, to defend it and to guard it. Then, in the joy of the warm stream that filled his throat he raised hislittle arm straight up, like a flag. And Clotilde kept her unconscioussmile, seeing him so healthy, so rosy, and so plump, thriving so wellon the nourishment he drew from her. During the first few weeks she hadsuffered from a fissure, and even now her breast was sensitive; but shesmiled, notwithstanding, with that peaceful look which mothers wear, happy in giving their milk as they would give their blood. 

When she had unfastened her dress, showing her bare throat and breast, in the solitude and silence of the study, another of her mysteries, one of her sweetest and most hidden secrets, was revealed at the sametime--the slender necklace with the seven pearls, the seven fine, milkystars which the master had put around her neck on a day of misery, inhis mania for giving. Since it had been there no one else had seen it. It seemed as if she guarded it with as much modesty as if it were a partof her flesh, so simple, so pure, so childlike. And all the time thechild was nursing she alone looked at it in a dreamy reverie, moved bythe tender memory of the kisses whose warm perfume it still seemed tokeep. 

A burst of distant music seemed to surprise Clotilde. She turned herhead and looked across the fields gilded by the oblique rays of the sun. Ah, yes! the ceremony, the laying of the corner stone yonder! Thenshe turned her eyes again on the child, and she gave herself up to thedelight of seeing him with so fine an appetite. She had drawn forward alittle bench, to raise one of her knees, resting her foot upon it, and she leaned one shoulder against the table, beside the tree and theblackened fragments of the envelopes. Her thoughts wandered away in aninfinitely sweet reverie, while she felt the best part of herself, thepure milk, flowing softly, making more and more her own the dear beingshe had borne. The child had come, the redeemer, perhaps. The bellsrang, the three wise men had set out, followed by the people, byrejoicing nature, smiling on the infant in its swaddling clothes. She, the mother, while he drank life in long draughts, was dreaming alreadyof his future. What would he be when she should have made him tall andstrong, giving herself to him entirely? A scientist, perhaps, who wouldreveal to the world something of the eternal truth; or a great captain, who would confer glory on his country; or, still better, one of thoseshepherds of the people who appease the passions and bring about thereign of justice. She saw him, in fancy, beautiful, good and powerful. Hers was the dream of every mother--the conviction that she had broughtthe expected Messiah into the world; and there was in this hope, in thisobstinate belief, which every mother has in the certain triumph of herchild, the hope which itself makes life, the belief which gives humanitythe ever renewed strength to live still. 

What would the child be? She looked at him, trying to discover whomhe resembled. He had certainly his father's brow and eyes, therewas something noble and strong in the breadth of the head. She saw aresemblance to herself, too, in his fine mouth and his delicate chin. Then, with secret uneasiness, she sought a resemblance to the others, the terrible ancestors, all those whose names were there inscribed onthe tree, unfolding its growth of hereditary leaves. Was it this one, orthis, or yet this other, whom he would resemble? She grew calm, however, she could not but hope, her heart swelled with eternal hope. Thefaith in life which the master had implanted in her kept her brave andsteadfast. What did misery, suffering and wickedness matter! Health wasin universal labor, in the effort made, in the power which fecundatesand which produces. The work was good when the child blessed love. Thenhope bloomed anew, in spite of the open wounds, the dark picture ofhuman shame. It was life perpetuated, tried anew, life which we cannever weary of believing good, since we live it so eagerly, with all itsinjustice and suffering. 

Clotilde had glanced involuntarily at the ancestral tree spread outbeside her. Yes, the menace was there--so many crimes, so much filth, side by side with so many tears, and so much patient goodness; soextraordinary a mixture of the best and the most vile, a humanity inlittle, with all its defects and all its struggles. It was a questionwhether it would not be better that a thunderbolt should come anddestroy all this corrupt and miserable ant-hill. And after so manyterrible Rougons, so many vile Macquarts, still another had been born. Life did not fear to create another of them, in the brave defiance ofits eternity. It continued its work, propagated itself according to itslaws, indifferent to theories, marching on in its endless labor. Evenat the risk of making monsters, it must of necessity create, since, inspite of all it creates, it never wearies of creating in the hope, nodoubt, that the healthy and the good will one day come. Life, life, which flows like a torrent, which continues its work, beginning it overand over again, without pause, to the unknown end! life in which webathe, life with its infinity of contrary currents, always in motion, and vast as a boundless sea!

A transport of maternal fervor thrilled Clotilde's heart, and shesmiled, seeing the little voracious mouth drinking her life. It was aprayer, an invocation, to the unknown child, as to the unknown God! Tothe child of the future, to the genius, perhaps, that was to be, to theMessiah that the coming century awaited, who would deliver the peoplefrom their doubt and their suffering! Since the nation was to beregenerated, had he not come for this work? He would make the experimentanew, he would raise up walls, give certainty to those who were indoubt, he would build the city of justice, where the sole law oflabor would insure happiness. In troublous times prophets were to beexpected--at least let him not be the Antichrist, the destroyer, thebeast foretold in the Apocalypse--who would purge the earth of itswickedness, when this should become too great. And life would go onin spite of everything, only it would be necessary to wait for othermyriads of years before the other unknown child, the benefactor, shouldappear. 

But the child had drained her right breast, and, as he was growingangry, Clotilde turned him round and gave him the left. Then she beganto smile, feeling the caress of his greedy little lips. At all eventsshe herself was hope. A mother nursing, was she not the image of theworld continued and saved? She bent over, she looked into his limpideyes, which opened joyously, eager for the light. What did the child sayto her that she felt her heart beat more quickly under the breast whichhe was draining? To what cause would he give his blood when he shouldbe a man, strong with all the milk which he would have drunk? Perhaps hesaid nothing to her, perhaps he already deceived her, and yet she was sohappy, so full of perfect confidence in him. 

Again there was a distant burst of music. This must be the apotheosis, the moment when Grandmother Felicite, with her silver trowel, laid thefirst stone of the monument to the glory of the Rougons. The vast bluesky, gladdened by the Sunday festivities, rejoiced. And in the warmsilence, in the solitary peace of the workroom, Clotilde smiled at thechild, who was still nursing, his little arm held straight up in theair, like a signal flag of life.