Part 14

“But, my dear sir,” answered the professor gently, “there are as many Christian codes of morality as there are ages during which Christianity has lasted and countries into which she has penetrated. Religions, like chameleons, copy the colours of the soil over which they run. Morality, though it is peculiar to each generation, since it is the one link to bind it together, changes incessantly along with the habits and customs of which she is the most striking representative, like an enlarged reflection on a wall. So true is this fact that it may actually be affirmed that the morality of these Catholics who offend you resembles your own very closely, and yet differs widely from that of a Catholic at the time of the League—to say nothing of those Christians of the apostolic ages who would seem to M. de Terremondre most extraordinary beings, were it possible for him to see them at close quarters. Be impartial and just, if you can, and tell me this: in what essential respect does your morality as a free-thinker differ from the morality of those good people who to-day go to Mass? They profess, as the bedrock of their creed, the doctrine of the atonement, but they are as indignant as you when that doctrine is put before them in a striking manner by their own priests. They profess to believe that suffering is good and pleasing to God. But—do you ever see them sit down on nails? You have proclaimed toleration for every creed: they marry Jewesses and have stopped burning their fathers-in-law. What ideas have you which they do not share with you about sexual questions, about the family, about marriage, except that you allow divorce, though you take good care not to recommend it? They believe it is damnation to look at a woman and lust after her. Yet at dinners and parties are the necks of their women any less bare than the necks of yours? Do they wear dresses that reveal less of their figures? And do they bear in mind the words of Tertullian about widows’ raiment? Are they veiled and do they hide their hair? Do you not settle their fashions? Do you insist that they shall go naked because you don’t believe that Eve covered herself with a branch of a fig-tree under the curse of Javeh? In what way do your ideas about your country differ from theirs? For they exhort you to serve and defend it, just as if their own abiding city were not in the heavens. Or about forced military service, to which they submit, with the solitary reservation of one point in ecclesiastical discipline, which in practice they yield? Or on war, in which they will fight side by side with you, whenever you wish, although their God gave them the command: “Thou shalt not kill.” Are you anarchical and cosmopolitan enough to separate from them on these important questions in practical life? What can you name which is peculiar to you alone? You cannot even adduce the duel, which, on account of its being fashionable, is a part of their code as of yours, although it is neither in accordance with their principles, since both their kings and priests forbid it, nor with yours, for it is based on the incredible intervention of God Himself. Have you not the same moral code with respect to the organisation of labour, to private property and capital, to the whole organisation of society as it is to-day, under which you both endure injustice with equal patience—as long as you don’t personally suffer from it? You would have to become Socialists for things to be otherwise, and were you to become socialistic, so doubtless would they. You are willing to tolerate injustice that survives from bygone days, every time that it works in your favour. And, on their side, your ostensible opponents gratefully accept the results of the Revolution, whenever it is a question of acquiring a fortune derived from some former impropriator of national property. They are parties to the Concordat, and so are you; so that even religion links you together.

“Their creed has so little effect on their feelings that they love the life they ought to despise, quite as much as you do; and they cling as closely to their possessions, which are a stumbling-block in the way of their salvation. Having practically the same customs as you, they have practically the same moral code. You quibble with them as to matters which only interest politicians and which have no connection with the organisation of a society which cares not a whit about your rival claims. Faithful to the same traditions, ruled by the same prejudices, living in the same depths of ignorance, you devour one another like crabs in a basket. As one watches your conflicts of frogs and mice, one no longer craves for undiluted civil government.”

XVIII

The coming of Marie was like the entrance of death into the house. At the very first sight of her, Madame Bergeret knew that her day was over.

Euphémie sat for a long while on her caneless chair, silent and motionless, but with flushed cheeks. Her deep-rooted attachment to her employers and her employers’ house was instinctive, but sure, and, like a dog’s love, not dependent on reason. She shed no tears, but fever spots came out on her lips. Her good-bye to Madame Bergeret was said with all the solemnity of a pious, countrified heart. During the five years of her service in the house she had endured at Madame Bergeret’s hands, not only abusive violence, but hard avarice, for she was fed but meagrely; on her side, she had given way to fits of insolence and disobedience, and she had slandered her mistress among the other servants. But she was a Christian, and at the bottom of her heart she revered her pastors and masters as she did her father and mother. Snivelling with grief, she said:

“Good-bye, Madame. I will pray to the good God for you, that He may make you happy. I wish I could have said good-bye to the young ladies.”

Madame Bergeret knew that she was being hunted out of the house, like this young girl, but she would not show how moved she was, for fear of seeming undignified.

“Go, child,” said she, “and settle your wages with Monsieur.”

When M. Bergeret handed her her wages, she slowly counted out the amount and moving her lips as though in prayer, made her calculations three times over. She examined the coins anxiously, not being sure of her bearings among so many different varieties. Then she put this little property, her sole wealth in all the world, into the pocket of her skirt, under her handkerchief. Next she dug her hand deep into her pocket, and having taken all these precautions, said:

“You have always been good to me, Monsieur, and I wish you every happiness. But, all the same, you have driven me away.”

“You think I am a wicked man,” answered M. Bergeret. “But if I send you away, my good girl, I do it regretfully and only because it is absolutely necessary. If I can help you in any way, I shall be very glad to do so.”

Euphémie passed the back of her hand over her eyes, sniffed aloud and said softly, with big tears flowing down her cheeks:

“There’s nobody wicked here.”

She went out, closing the door behind her as noiselessly as possible, and M. Bergeret began to picture her standing at the bottom of the waiting-room in Deniseau’s office, with anxious looks fixed on the door, among the melancholy crowd of girls waiting to be hired, in her white head-dress with her blue cotton umbrella stuck between her knees.

Meanwhile Marie, the stable-girl, who had never in her life waited on anything but beasts, was filled with amazement and stupefaction at the ways of these townsfolk, till the terror that she communicated to others began to overwhelm her own mind. She squatted in her kitchen and gazed at the saucepans. Bacon soup was the only thing she could make and dialect the only language she understood. She was not even well recommended, for it turned out that she had not only lived loosely, but was in the habit of drinking brandy and even spirits of wine.

The first visitor to whom she opened the door was Captain Aspertini, who, in passing through the town, had called to see M. Bergeret. She evidently made a deep impression on the Italian savant’s mind, for no sooner had he greeted his host than he began to speak of the maid with that interest which ugliness always inspires when it is overwhelmingly terrible.

“Your maid, Monsieur Bergeret,” said he, “reminds me of that expressive face which Giotto has painted on an arch of the church at Assisi. It represents that Being to whom no one ever opens the door with a smile, and was suggested by a verse in Dante.

“That reminds me,” continued the Italian; “have you seen the portrait of Virgil in mosaic that your compatriots have just discovered at Sousse in Algeria? It is a picture of a Roman with a wide, low forehead, a square head and a strong jaw, and is not in the least like the beautiful youth whom they used to tell us was Virgil. The bust which for a long time was taken for a portrait of the poet is really a Roman copy of a Greek original of the fourth century and represents a young god worshipped in the mysteries of Eleusis. I think I may claim the honour of being the first to give the true explanation of this figure in my pamphlet on the child Triptolemus. But do you know this Virgil in mosaic, Monsieur Bergeret?”

“As well as I can judge from the photograph I have seen,” answered M. Bergeret, “this African mosaic seems the copy of an original full of character. This portrait might quite stand for Virgil, and it is by no means impossible that it is an authentic portrait of him. Your Renaissance scholars, Monsieur Aspertini, always depicted the author of the _Æneid_ with the features of a sage. The old Venetian editions of Dante that I have turned over in our library are full of wood engravings in which Virgil wears the beard of a philosopher. The next age made him as beautiful as a young god. Now we have him with a square jaw and wearing a fringe of hair across his forehead in the Roman style. The mental effect produced by his work has varied just as much. Every literary age creates pictures from it which are entirely different according to the period. And without recalling the legends of the Middle Ages about Virgil the necromancer, it is a fact that the Mantuan is admired for reasons that change according to the period. In him Macrobius hailed the Sibyl of the Empire. It was his philosophy that Dante and Petrarch seized upon, while Chateaubriand and Victor Hugo discovered in him the forerunner of Christianity. For my part, being but a juggler with words, I only use his works as a philological pastime. You, Monsieur Aspertini, see him in the guise of a great storehouse of Roman antiquities, and that is perhaps the most solidly valuable part of the _Æneid_. The truth is that we are in the habit of hanging our ideas upon the letter of these ancient texts. Each generation forms a new conception of these masterpieces of antiquity and thus endows them with a kind of progressive immortality. My colleague Paul Stapfer has said many good things on this head.”

“Very noteworthy things indeed,” answered Captain Aspertini. “But he does not entertain such hopeless views as yours as to the ebb and flow of human opinions.”

Thus did these two good fellows toss from one to the other those glorious and beautiful ideas by which life is embellished.

“Do tell me what has become,” asked Captain Aspertini, “of that soldierly Latinist whom I met here, that charming M. Roux, who seemed to value military glory at its true worth, for he disdained to be a corporal.”

M. Bergeret replied curtly that M. Roux had returned to his regiment.

“When last I passed through the town,” continued Captain Aspertini, “on the second of January I think it was, I caught this young savant under the lime-tree in the courtyard of the library, chatting with the young porteress, whose ears, I remember, were very red. And you know that is a sign that she was listening with pleased excitement. There could be nothing prettier than that dainty little ruby shell clinging above the white neck. With great discretion I pretended not to see them, in order that I might not be like the Pythagorean philosopher who used to harass lovers in Metapontus. That is a very charming young girl, with her red, flame-like hair and her delicate skin, faintly dappled with freckles, yet so pearly that it seems lit up from within. Have you ever noticed her, Monsieur Bergeret?”

M. Bergeret replied by a nod, for he had often noticed her, and found her very much to his taste. He was too honourable a man and had too much prudence and respect for his position ever to have taken any liberty with the young porteress at the library. But the delicate colouring, the thin, supple figure, the graceful beauty of this girl had more than once floated before his eyes in the yellow pages of Servius and Domat, when he had been sitting over them a long while. Her name was Mathilde and she had the reputation of being fond of pretty lads. Although M. Bergeret was usually very indulgent towards lovers, the idea of M. Roux finding favour with Mathilde was distinctly distasteful to him.

“It was in the evening, after I had been reading there,” continued Captain Aspertini. “I had copied three unpublished letters of Muratori, which were not in the catalogue. As I was crossing the court where they keep the remains of ancient buildings in the town, I saw, under the lime-tree near the well and not far from the pillar of the Romano-Gallic boatmen, the young porteress with the golden hair. She was listening with downcast eyes to the remarks of your pupil, M. Roux, while she balanced the great keys at the end of her fingers. What he said was doubtless very like what the herdsman of the Oaristys[15] said to the goat-girl. There was little doubt as to the gist of his remarks. I felt sure, in fact, that he was making an assignation. For, thanks to the skill I have acquired in interpreting the monuments of ancient art, I immediately grasped the meaning of this group.”

[15] First idyll of André Chénier.

He went on with a smile:

“I cannot, Monsieur Bergeret, really feel all the subtleties, all the niceties of your beautiful French tongue, but I do not like to use the word ‘girl’ or ‘young girl’ to describe a child like this porteress of your municipal library. Neither can one use the word maid,[16] which is obsolete and has degenerated in meaning. And I would say in passing, it is a pity that this is the case. It would be ungracious to call her a young person, and I can see nothing but the word nymph to suit her. But, pray, Monsieur Bergeret, do not repeat what I told you about the nymph of the library, lest it should get her into trouble. These secrets need not be divulged to the mayor or the librarians. I should be most distressed, if I thought I had inadvertently done the slightest harm to your nymph.”

[16] _Pucelle._

“It is true,” thought M. Bergeret, “that my nymph is pretty.”

He felt vexed, and at this moment could scarcely have told whether he was more angry with M. Roux for having found favour in the eyes of the library porteress, or for having seduced Madame Bergeret.

“Your nation,” said Captain Aspertini, “has attained to the highest mental and moral culture. But it still retains, as a relic of the barbarism in which it was so long plunged, a kind of uncertainty and awkwardness in dealing with love affairs. In Italy love is everything to the lovers, but of no concern to the outside world. Society in general feels no interest in a matter which only concerns the chief actors in it. An unbiassed estimate of licence and passion saves us from cruelty and hypocrisy.”

For some considerable time Captain Aspertini continued to entertain his French friend with his views on different points in morals, art and politics. Then he rose to take leave, and catching sight of Marie in the hall, said to M. Bergeret:

“Pray don’t take offence at what I said about your cook. Petrarch also had a servant of rare and peculiar ugliness.”

XIX

As soon as he had removed from Madame Bergeret, deposed, the management of his house, M. Bergeret himself took command, and a very bad job he made of it. Yet in excuse it should be said that the maid Marie never carried out his orders, since she never understood them. But since action is the essential condition of life and one can by no means avoid it, Marie acted, and was led by her natural gifts into the most unlucky decisions and the most noxious deeds. Sometimes, however, the light of her genius was quenched by drunkenness. One day, having drunk all the spirits of wine kept for the lamp, she lay stretched unconscious on the kitchen tiles for forty hours. Her awaking was always terrible, and every movement she made was followed by catastrophe. She succeeded in doing what had been beyond the powers of anyone else—in splitting the marble chimney-piece by dashing a candlestick on it. She took to cooking all the food in a frying-pan, amid deafening clamour and poisonous smells, and nothing that she served was eatable.

Shut up alone in the solitude of her bedroom, Madame Bergeret screamed and sobbed with mingled grief and rage, as she watched the ruin of her home. Her misery took on strange, unheard-of shapes that were agony to her conventional soul and became ever more formidable. Until now M. Bergeret had always handed over to her the whole of his monthly salary, without even keeping back his cigarette money from it. But she no longer received a penny from him, and as she had dressed expensively during the gay time of her liaison with M. Roux, and even more expensively during her troublous times when she was upholding her dignity by constantly visiting her entire circle, she was now beginning to be dunned by her milliner and dressmaker, and Messrs. Achard, a firm of outfitters, who did not regard her as a regular customer, actually issued a writ against her, which on this particular evening struck consternation into the proud heart of the daughter of Pouilly. When she perceived that these unprecedented trials were the unexpected, but fatal, results of her sin, she began to perceive the heinousness of adultery. With this thought came a memory of all she had been taught in her youth about this unparalleled, this unique crime; for, in truth, neither envy, nor avarice, nor cruelty bring such shame to the sinner as this one offence of adultery.

As she stood on the hearthrug before stepping into bed, she opened the neck of her nightdress, and dropping her chin, looked down at the shape of her body. Foreshortened in this way beneath the cambric, it looked like a warm white mass of cushions and pillows, lit up by the rays of the lamplight. She knew nothing of the beauty of the simple human form, having merely the dressmaker’s instinct for style, and never asked herself whether these outlines below her eyes were lovely or not. Neither did she find grounds for humiliation or self-glorification in this fleshly envelope; she never even recalled the memory of past pleasures: the only feeling that came was one of troubled anxiety at the sight of the body whose secret impulses had worked such consequences in her home and outside it.

She was a being of moral and religious instincts, and sufficiently philosophic to grasp the absolute value of the points in a game of cards: the idea came to her then that an act in itself entirely trivial might be great in the world of ideas. She felt no remorse, because she was devoid of imagination, and having a rational conception of God, felt that she had already been sufficiently punished. But, at the same time, since she followed the ordinary line of thought in morality and conceived that a woman’s honour could only be judged by the common criterion, since she had formed no colossal plan of overthrowing the moral scheme in order to manufacture for herself an outrageous innocence, she could feel no quietness, no satisfaction in life, nor could she enjoy any sense of the inner peace that sustains the mind in tribulation.

Her troubles were the more harassing because they were so mysterious, so indefinitely prolonged. They unwound themselves like the ball of red string that Madame Magloire, the confectioner in the Place Saint-Exupère, kept on her counter in a boxwood case, and which she used to tie up hundreds of little parcels by means of the thread that passed through a hole in the cover. It seemed to Madame Bergeret that she would never see the end of her worries; she even, under sadness and regret, began to acquire a certain look of spiritual beauty.

One morning she looked at an enlarged photograph of her father, whom she had lost during the first year of her married life, and standing in front of it, she wept, as she thought of the days of her childhood, of the little white cap worn at her first communion, of her Sunday walks when she went to drink milk at the Tuilerie with her cousins, the two Demoiselles Pouilly of the Dictionary, of her mother, still alive, but now an old lady living in her little native town, far away at the other end of France in the _département du Nord_. Madame Bergeret’s father, Victor Pouilly, a headmaster and the author of a popular edition of Lhomond’s grammar, had entertained a lofty notion of his social dignity in the world and of his intellectual prowess. Being overshadowed and patronised by his elder brother, the great Pouilly of the Dictionary, being also under the thumb of the University authorities, he took it out of everybody else and became prouder and prouder of his name, his Grammar, and his gout, which was severe. In his pose he expressed the Pouilly dignity, and to his daughter his portrait seemed to say: “My child, I pass over, I purposely pass over everything in your conduct which cannot be considered exactly conventional. You should recognise the fact that all your troubles come from having married beneath you. In vain I flattered myself that I had raised him to our level. This Bergeret is an uneducated man, and your original mistake, the source of all your troubles, my daughter, was your marriage.” And Madame Bergeret gave ear to this speech, while the wisdom and kindness of her father, so clearly stamped on it, sustained her drooping courage in a measure. Yet, step by step, she began to yield to fate. She ceased to pay denunciatory visits in the town, where, in fact, she had already tired out the curiosity of her friends by the monotonous tenour of her complaints. Even at the rector’s house they began to believe that the stories which were told in the town about her liaison with M. Roux were not entirely fables. She had allowed herself to be compromised, and she wearied them; they let her plainly see both facts. The only person whose sympathy she still retained was Madame Dellion, and to this lady she remained a sort of allegorical figure of injured innocence. But although Madame Dellion, being of higher rank, pitied her, respected her, admired her, she would not receive her. Madame Bergeret was humiliated and alone, childless, husbandless, homeless, penniless.

One last effort she made to resume her rightful position in the house. It was on the morning after the most miserable and wretched day that she had ever spent. After having endured the insolent demands of Mademoiselle Rose, the modiste, and of Lafolie, the butcher, after having caught Marie stealing the three francs seventy-five centimes left by the laundress on the dining-room sideboard, Madame Bergeret went to bed so full of misery and fear that she could not sleep. Her overwhelming troubles brought on an attack of romantic fancy, and in the shades of night she saw a vision of Marie pouring out a poisonous potion that M. Bergeret had prepared for her. With the dawn her fevered terrors fled, and having dressed carefully, she entered M. Bergeret’s study with an air of quiet gravity. So little had he expected her that she found the door open.

“Lucien! Lucien!” said she.