THE FOUR GOSPELS (Les Quatre Évangiles). Эмиль Золя

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СКАЧАТЬ distress, on smarting from the sudden, gaping, incurable wound of her bereavement, she had drawn nearer to that brother in misfortune, treating him with a kindness which she showed to none other. At times she would invite him to spend an evening with her, and the pair of them would chat together, or more often remain silent, face to face, sharing each other’s woe. Later on she had profited by this intimacy to obtain information from Morange respecting affairs at the factory, of which her husband avoided speaking. It was more particularly since she had suspected the latter of bad management, blunders and debts, that she endeavored to turn the accountant into a confidant, even a spy, who might aid her to secure as much control of the business as possible. And this was why she was so anxious to return to the factory that day, and profit by the opportunity to see Morange privately, persuaded as she was that she would induce him to speak out in the absence of his superiors.

      She scarcely tarried to take off her gloves and her bonnet. She found the accountant in his little office, seated in his wonted place, and leaning over the everlasting ledger which was open before him.

      “Why, is the christening finished?” he exclaimed in astonishment.

      Forthwith she explained her presence in such a way as to enable her to speak of what she had at heart. “Why, yes. That is to say, I came away because I had such a dreadful headache. The others have remained yonder. And as we are alone here together it occurred to me that it might do me good to have a chat with you. You know how highly I esteem you. Ah! I am not happy, not happy at all.”

      She had sunk upon a chair overcome by the tears which she had been restraining so long in the presence of the happiness of others. Quite upset at seeing her in this condition, having little strength himself, Morange wished to summon her maid. He almost feared that she might have a fainting fit. But she prevented him.

      “I have only you left me, my friend,” said she. “Everybody else forsakes me, everybody is against me. I can feel it; I am being ruined; folks are bent on annihilating me, as if I had not already lost everything when I lost my child. And since you alone remain to me, you who know my torments, you who have no daughter left you, pray for heaven’s sake help me and tell me the truth! In that wise I shall at least be able to defend myself.”

      On hearing her speak of his daughter Morange also had begun to weep. And now, therefore, she might question him, it was certain that he would answer and tell her everything, overpowered as he was by the common grief which she had evoked. Thus he informed her that an agreement was indeed on the point of being signed by Blaise and Beauchene, only it was not precisely a deed of partnership. Beauchene having drawn large sums from the strong-box of the establishment for expenses which he could not confess — a horrible story of blackmailing, so it was rumored — had been obliged to make a confidant of Blaise, the trusty and active lieutenant who managed the establishment. And he had even asked him to find somebody willing to lend him some money. Thereupon the young man had offered it himself; but doubtless it was his father, Mathieu Froment, who advanced the cash, well pleased to invest it in the works in his son’s name. And now, with the view of putting everything in order, it had been resolved that the property should be divided into six parts, and that one of these parts or shares should be attributed to Blaise as reimbursement for the loan. Thus the young fellow would possess an interest of one sixth in the establishment, unless indeed Beauchene should buy him out again within a stipulated period. The danger was that, instead of freeing himself in this fashion, Beauchene might yield to the temptation of selling the other parts one by one, now that he was gliding down a path of folly and extravagance.

      Constance listened to Morange, quivering and quite pale. “Is this signed?” she asked.

      “No, not yet. But the papers are ready and will be signed shortly. Moreover, it is a reasonable and necessary solution of the difficulty.”

      She was evidently of another opinion. A feeling of revolt possessed her, and she strove to think of some decisive means of preventing the ruin and shame which in her opinion threatened her. “My God, what am I to do? How can I act?” she gasped; and then, in her rage at finding no device, at being powerless, this cry escaped her: “Ah! that scoundrel Blaise!”

      Worthy Morange was quite moved by it. Still he had not fully understood. And so, in his quiet way, he endeavored to calm Constance, explaining that Blaise had a very good heart, and that in the circumstances in question he had behaved in the best way possible, doing all that he could to stifle scandal, and even displaying great disinterestedness. And as Constance had risen, satisfied with knowing the truth, and anxious that the three men might not find her there on their arrival, the accountant likewise quitted his chair, and accompanied her along the gallery which she had to follow in order to return to her house.

      “I give you my word of honor, madame,” said Morange, “that the young man has made no base calculations in the matter. All the papers pass through my hands, and nobody could know more than I know myself. Besides, if I had entertained the slightest doubt of any machination, I should have endeavored to requite your kindness by warning you.”

      She no longer listened to him, however; in fact, she was anxious to get rid of him, for all at once the long-threatening rain had begun to fall violently, lashing the glass roof. So dark a mass of clouds had overspread the sky that it was almost night in the gallery, though four o’clock had scarcely struck. And it occurred to Constance that in presence of such a deluge the three men would certainly take a cab. So she hastened her steps, still followed, however, by the accountant.

      “For instance,” he continued, “when it was a question of drawing up the agreement—”

      But he suddenly paused, gave vent to a hoarse exclamation, and stopped her, pulling her back as if in terror.

      “Take care!” he gasped.

      There was a great cavity before them. Here, at the end of the gallery, before reaching the corridor which communicated with the private house, there was a steam lift of great power, which was principally used for lowering heavy articles to the packing room. It only worked as a rule on certain days; on all others the huge trap remained closed. When the appliance was working a watchman was always stationed there to superintend the operations.

      “Take care! take care!” Morange repeated, shuddering with terror.

      The trap was open, and the huge cavity gaped before them; there was no barrier, nothing to warn them and prevent them from making a fearful plunge. The rain still pelted on the glass roof, and the darkness had become so complete in the gallery that they had walked on without seeing anything before them. Another step would have hurled them to destruction. It was little short of miraculous that the accountant should have become anxious in presence of the increasing gloom in that corner, where he had divined rather than perceived the abyss.

      Constance, however, still failing to understand her companion, sought to free herself from his wild grasp.

      “But look!” he cried.

      And he bent forward and compelled her also to stoop over the cavity. It descended through three floors to the very lowest basement, like a well of darkness. A damp odor arose: one could scarce distinguish the vague outlines of thick ironwork; alone, right at the bottom, burnt a lantern, a distant speck of light, as if the better to indicate the depth and horror of the gulf. Morange and Constance drew back again blanching.

      And now Morange burst into a temper. “It is idiotic!” he exclaimed. “Why don’t they obey the regulations! As a rule there is a man here, a man expressly told off for this duty, who ought not to stir from his post so long as the trap has not come up again. Where is he? What on earth can the rascal be up to?”

      The accountant again approached the hole, and shouted down it in a fury: “Bonnard!”

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