THE FOUR GOSPELS (Les Quatre Évangiles). Эмиль Золя

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Mathieu would soon take a further portion of the estate off his hands.

      Then, as soon as they had walked to the old pavilion, now transformed into a little farm, and had seated themselves in the garden, pending dinnertime, the conversation fell upon children. Marianne, as it happened, had weaned Gervais the day before, and he was there among the ladies, still somewhat unsteady on his legs, and yet boldly going from one to the other, careless of his frequent falls on his back or his nose. He was a gay-spirited child who seldom lost his temper, doubtless because his health was so good. His big clear eyes were ever laughing; he offered his little hands in a friendly way, and was very white, very pink, and very sturdy — quite a little man indeed, though but fifteen and a half months old. Constance and Valentine admired him, while Marianne jested and turned him away each time that he greedily put out his little hands towards her.

      “No, no, monsieur, it’s over now. You will have nothing but soup in future.”

      “Weaning is such a terrible business,” then remarked Constance. “Did he let you sleep last night?”

      “Oh! yes, he had good habits, you know; he never troubled me at night. But this morning he was stupefied and began to cry. Still, you see, he is fairly well behaved already. Besides, I never had more trouble than this with the other ones.”

      Beauchene was standing there, listening, and, as usual, smoking a cigar. Constance appealed to him:

      “You are lucky. But you, dear, remember — don’t you? — what a life Maurice led us when his nurse went away. For three whole nights we were unable to sleep.”

      “But just look how your Maurice is playing!” exclaimed Beauchene. “Yet you’ll be telling me again that he is ill.”

      “Oh! I no longer say that, my friend; he is quite well now. Besides, I was never anxious; I know that he is very strong.”

      A great game of hide-and-seek was going on in the garden, along the paths and even over the flowerbeds, among the eight children who were assembled there. Besides the four of the house — Blaise, Denis, Ambroise, and Rose — there were Gaston and Lucie, the two elder children of the Seguins, who had abstained, however, from bringing their other daughter — little Andree. Then, too, both Reine and Maurice were present. And the latter now, indeed, seemed to be all right upon his legs, though his square face with its heavy jaw still remained somewhat pale. His mother watched him running about, and felt so happy and so vain at the realization of her dream that she became quite amiable even towards these poor relatives the Froments, whose retirement into the country seemed to her like an incomprehensible downfall, which forever thrust them out of her social sphere.

      “Ah! well,” resumed Beauchene, “I’ve only one boy, but he’s a sturdy fellow, I warrant it; isn’t he, Mathieu?”

      These words had scarcely passed his lips when he must have regretted them. His eyelids quivered and a little chill came over him as his glance met that of his former designer. For in the latter’s clear eyes he beheld, as it were, a vision of that other son, Norine’s illfated child, who had been cast into the unknown. Then there came a pause, and amid the shrill cries of the boys and girls playing at hide-and-seek a number of little shadows flitted through the sunlight: they were the shadows of the poor doomed babes who scarce saw the light before they were carried off from homes and hospitals to be abandoned in corners, and die of cold, and perhaps even of starvation!

      Mathieu had been unable to answer a word. And his emotion increased when he noticed Morange huddled up on a chair, and gazing with blurred, tearful eyes at little Gervais, who was laughingly toddling hither and thither. Had a vision come to him also? Had the phantom of his dead wife, shrinking from the duties of motherhood and murdered in a hateful den, risen before him in that sunlit garden, amid all the turbulent mirth of happy, playful children?

      “What a pretty girl your daughter Reine is!” said Mathieu, in the hope of drawing the accountant from his haunting remorse. “Just look at her running about! — so girlish still, as if she were not almost old enough to be married.”

      Morange slowly raised his head and looked at his daughter. And a smile returned to his eyes, still moist with tears. Day by day his adoration increased. As Reine grew up he found her more and more like her mother, and all his thoughts became centred in her. His one yearning was that she might be very beautiful, very happy, very rich. That would be a sign that he was forgiven — that would be the only joy for which he could yet hope. And amid it all there was a vague feeling of jealousy at the thought that a husband would some day take her from him, and that he would remain alone in utter solitude, alone with the phantom of his dead wife.

      “Married?” he murmured; “oh! not yet. She is only fourteen.”

      At this the others expressed surprise: they would have taken her to be quite eighteen, so womanly was her precocious beauty already.

      “As a matter of fact,” resumed her father, feeling flattered, “she has already been asked in marriage. You know that the Baroness de Lowicz is kind enough to take her out now and then. Well, she told me that an arch-millionnaire had fallen in love with Reine — but he’ll have to wait! I shall still be able to keep her to myself for another five or six years at least!”

      He no longer wept, but gave a little laugh of egotistical satisfaction, without noticing the chill occasioned by the mention of Seraphine’s name; for even Beauchene felt that his sister was hardly a fit companion for a young girl.

      Then Marianne, anxious at seeing the conversation drop, began, questioning Valentine, while Gervais at last slyly crept to her knees.

      “Why did you not bring your little Andree?” she inquired. “I should have been so pleased to kiss her. And she would have been able to play with this little gentleman, who, you see, does not leave me a moment’s peace.”

      But Seguin did not give his wife time to reply. “Ah! no, indeed!” he exclaimed; “in that case I should not have come. It is quite enough to have to drag the two others about. That fearful child has not ceased deafening us ever since her nurse went away.”

      Valentine then explained that Andree was not really well behaved. She had been weaned at the beginning of the previous week, and La Catiche, after terrorizing the household for more than a year, had plunged it by her departure into anarchy. Ah! that Catiche, she might compliment herself on all the money she had cost! Sent away almost by force, like a queen who is bound to abdicate at last, she had been loaded with presents for herself and her husband, and her little girl at the village! And now it had been of little use to take a dry-nurse in her place, for Andree did not cease shrieking from morning till night. They had discovered, too, that La Catiche had not only carried off with her a large quantity of linen, but had left the other servants quite spoilt, disorganized, so that a general clearance seemed necessary.

      “Oh!” resumed Marianne, as if to smooth things, “when the children are well one can overlook other worries.”

      “Why, do you imagine that Andree is well?” cried Seguin, giving way to one of his brutal fits. “That Catiche certainly set her right at first, but I don’t know what happened afterwards, for now she is simply skin and bones.” Then, as his wife wished to protest, he lost his temper. “Do you mean to say that I don’t speak the truth? Why, look at our two others yonder: they have papier-mache faces, too! It is evident that you don’t look after them enough. You know what a poor opinion Santerre has of them!”

      For him Santerre’s opinion remained authoritative. However, Valentine contented herself with shrugging her shoulders; while the others, feeling slightly embarrassed, looked at Gaston and Lucie, who amid the romping of their companions, soon lost СКАЧАТЬ