CHAPTER 18

On Sundays Mouret, like many of the other retired traders of Plassans, used to take a stroll about the town. It was on Sundays only that he now emerged from that lonely seclusion in which he buried himself, overcome by a sort of shame. And his Sunday outing was gone through quite mechanically. In the morning he shaved himself, put on a clean shirt, and brushed his coat and hat; then, after breakfast, without quite knowing how, he found himself in the street, walking along slowly, with his hands behind his back and looking very sedate and neat.

As he was leaving his house one Sunday, he saw Rose talking with much animation to Monsieur Rastoil's cook on the pathway of the Rue Balande. The two servants became silent when they caught sight of him. They looked at him with such a peculiar expression that he felt behind him to ascertain whether his handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket. When he reached the Place of the Sub-Prefecture he turned his head, looked back, and saw them still standing in the same place. Rose was imitating the reeling of a drunken man, while the president's cook was laughing loudly.

'I am walking too quickly and they are making fun of me,' thought Mouret.

He thereupon slackened his pace. As he passed through the Rue de la Banne towards the market, the shopkeepers ran to their doors and watched him curiously. He gave a little nod to the butcher, who looked confused and did not return the salutation. The baker's wife, to whom he raised his hat, seemed quite alarmed and hastily stepped backwards. The greengrocer, the pastrycook and the grocer pointed him out to each other from opposite sides of the street. As he went along there was ever excitement behind him, people clustered together in groups, and a great deal of talking, mingled with laughs and grins, ensued.

'Did you notice how quickly he was walking?'

'Yes, indeed, when he wanted to stride across the gutter he almost jumped.'

'It is said that they are all like that.'

[Pg 230]

'I felt quite frightened. Why is he allowed to come out? It oughtn't to be permitted.'

Mouret was beginning to feel timid, and dared not venture to look round again. He experienced a vague uneasiness, though he could not feel quite sure that it was about himself that the people were all talking. He quickened his steps and began to swing his arms about. He regretted that he had put on his old overcoat, a hazel-coloured one and no longer of a fashionable cut. When he reached the market-place, he hesitated for a moment, and then boldly strode into the midst of the greengrocers' stalls. The mere sight of him caused quite a commotion there.

All the housewives of Plassans formed in a line about his path, the market-women stood up by their stalls, with their hands on their hips, and stared hard at him. People even pushed one another to get a sight of him, and some of the women mounted on to the benches in the corn-market. Mouret still further quickened his steps and tried to disengage himself from the crowd, not as yet able to believe that it was he who was causing all this excitement.

'Well, anyone would think that his arms were windmill sails,' said a peasant-woman who was selling fruit.

'He flies on like a shot; he nearly upset my stall,' exclaimed another woman, a greengrocer.

'Stop him! stop him!' the millers cried facetiously. Then Mouret, overcome by curiosity, halted and rose on tip-toes to see what was the matter. He imagined that someone had just been detected thieving. But a loud burst of laughter broke out from the crowd, and there were shouts and hisses, all sorts of calls and cries.

'There's no harm in him; don't hurt him.'

'Ah! I'm not so sure of that. I shouldn't like to trust myself too near him. He gets up in the night and strangles people.'

'He certainly looks a bad one.'

'Has it come upon him suddenly?'

'Yes, indeed, all at once. And he used to be so kind and gentle! I'm going away; all this distresses me. Here are the three sous for the turnips.'

Mouret had just recognised Olympe in the midst of a group of women, and he went towards her. She had been buying some magnificent peaches, which she carried in a very fashionable-looking handbag. And she was evidently relating some[Pg 231] very moving story, for all the gossips around her were breaking out into exclamations and clasping their hands with expressions of pity.

'Then,' said she, 'he caught her by the hair, and he would have cut her throat with a razor which was lying on the chest of drawers if we hadn't arrived just in time to prevent the murder. But don't say anything to her about it; it would only bring her more trouble.'

'What trouble?' asked Mouret in amazement. The listeners hurried away, and Olympe assumed an expression of careful watchfulness as, in her turn, she warily slipped off, saying:

'Don't excite yourself, Monsieur Mouret. You had better go back home.'

Mouret took refuge in a little lane that led to the Cours Sauvaire. Thereupon the shouts increased in violence, and for a few moments he was pursued by the angry uproar of the market-folk.

'What is the matter with them to-day?' he wondered. 'Could it be me that they were jeering at? But I never heard my name mentioned. Something out of the common must have happened.'

He then took off his hat and examined it, imagining that perhaps some street lad had thrown a handful of mud at it. It was all right, however, and there was nothing fastened on to his coat-tails. This examination soothed him a little, and he resumed his sedate walk through the silent lane, and quietly turned on to the Cours Sauvaire.

The usual groups of friends were sitting on the benches there.

'Hallo! here's Mouret!' cried the retired captain, with an expression of great astonishment.

The liveliest curiosity became manifest on the sleepy faces of the others. They stretched out their necks without rising from their seats, while Mouret stood in front of them. They examined him minutely from head to foot.

'Ah! you are taking a little stroll?' said the captain, who seemed the boldest.

'Yes, just a short stroll,' replied Mouret, in a listless fashion. 'It's a very fine day.'

The company exchanged meaning smiles. They were feeling chilly and the sky had just become overcast.

'Very fine,' said a retired tanner; 'you are easily pleased.[Pg 232] It is true, however, that you are already wearing winter clothes. What a funny overcoat that is of yours!'

The smiles now grew into grins and titters. A sudden idea seemed to strike Mouret.

'Just look and tell me,' said he, suddenly turning round, 'have I got a sun on my back?'

The retired almond-dealers could no longer keep serious, but burst into loud laughter. The captain, who was the jester of the company, winked.

'A sun?' he asked, 'where? I can only see a moon.'

The others shook with laughter. They thought the captain excessively witty.

'A moon?' said Mouret; 'be kind enough to remove it. It has caused me much inconvenience.'

The captain gave him three or four taps on the back, and then exclaimed:

'There, you are rid of it now. But it must, indeed, be extremely inconvenient to have a moon on one's back. You are not looking very well.'

'I am not very well,' Mouret replied in his listless indifferent way.

Then, imagining that he heard a titter, he added:

'But I am very well taken care of at home. My wife is very kind and attentive, and quite spoils me. But I need rest, and that is the reason why I don't come out now as I used to do. Directly I am better, I shall look after business again.'

'But they say it is your wife who is not very well,' interrupted the retired tanner bluntly.

'My wife! There is nothing the matter with her! It is a pack of falsehoods! There is nothing the matter with her—nothing at all. People say things against us because—because we keep quietly at home. Ill, indeed! my wife! She is very strong, and never even has so much the matter with her as—as a headache.'

He went on speaking in short sentences, stammering and hesitating in the uneasy way of a man who is telling falsehoods; full too of the embarrassment of a whilom gossip who has become tongue-tied. The retired traders shook their heads with pitying looks, and the captain tapped his forehead with his finger. A former hatter of the suburbs who had scrutinised Mouret from his cravat to the bottom button of his overcoat, was now absorbed in the examination of his[Pg 233] boots. The lace of the one on the left foot had come undone, and this seemed to the hatter a most extraordinary circumstance. He nudged his neighbours' elbows, and winked as he called their attention to the loosened lace. Soon the whole bench had eyes for nothing else but the lace. It was the last proof. The men shrugged their shoulders in a way that seemed to imply that they had lost their last spark of hope.

'Mouret,' said the captain, in a paternal fashion, 'fasten up your boot-lace.'

Mouret glanced at his feet, but did not seem to understand; and he went on talking. Then, as no one replied, he became silent, and after standing there for a moment or two longer he quietly continued his walk.

'He will fall, I'm sure,' exclaimed the master-tanner, who had risen from his seat that he might keep Mouret longer in view.

When Mouret got to the end of the Cours Sauvaire, and passed in front of the Young Men's Club, he was again greeted with the low laughs which had followed him since he had set foot out of doors. He could distinctly see Séverin Rastoil, who was standing at the door of the club, pointing him out to a group of young men. Clearly, he thought, it was himself who was thus providing sport for the town. He bent his head and was seized with a kind of fear, which he could not explain to himself, as he hastily stepped past the houses. Just as he was about to turn into the Rue Canquoin, he heard a noise behind him, and, turning his head, he saw three lads following him; two of them were big, impudent-looking boys, while the third was a very little one, with a serious face. The latter was holding in his hand a dirty orange which he had picked out of the gutter. Mouret made his way along the Rue Canquoin, and then, crossing the Place des Récollets, he reached the Rue de la Banne. The lads were still following him.

'Do you want your ears pulled?' he called out, suddenly stepping up to them.

They dashed on one side, shouting and laughing, and made their escape on their hands and knees. Mouret turned very red, realising that he was an object of ridicule. He felt a perfect fear of crossing the Place of the Sub-Prefecture, and passing in front of the Rougons' windows with a following of street-arabs, whom he could hear, increasing in numbers and boldness, behind him. As he went on, he was obliged to step[Pg 234] out of his way to avoid his mother-in-law, who was returning from vespers with Madame de Condamin.

'Wolf! wolf!' cried the lads.

Mouret, with perspiration breaking out on his brow, and his feet stumbling against the flag-stones, overheard old Madame Rougon say to the wife of the conservator of rivers and forests:

'See! there he is, the scoundrel! It is disgraceful; we can't tolerate it much longer.'

Thereupon Mouret could no longer restrain himself from setting off at a run. With swinging arms and a look of distraction upon his face, he rushed into the Rue Balande while some ten or a dozen street-arabs dashed after him. It seemed to him as though all the shopkeepers of the Rue de la Banne, the market-women, the promenaders of the Cours, the young men from the club, the Rougons, the Condamins—all the people of Plassans, in fact—were surging onwards behind his back, breaking out into laughs and jeers, as he sped up the hilly street. The lads stamped and slid over the pavement, making indeed as much noise in that usually quiet neighbourhood as a pack of hounds might have made.

'Catch him!' they screamed.

'Hie! What a scarecrow he looks in that overcoat of his!'

'Some of you go round by the Rue Taravelle, and then you'll nab him!'

'Cut along! cut along as hard as you can go!'

Mouret, now quite frantic, made a desperate rush towards his door, but his foot slipped and he tumbled upon the foot-pavement, where he lay for a few moments, utterly overcome. The lads, afraid lest he should kick out at them, formed a circle around and vented screams of triumph, while the smallest of them, gravely stepping forward, threw the rotten orange at Mouret. It flattened itself against his left eye. He rose up with difficulty, and went in to his house without attempting to wipe himself. Rose was forced to come out with a broom and drive the young ragamuffins away.

From that Sunday forward all Plassans was convinced that Mouret was a lunatic who ought to be placed under restraint. The most surprising statements were made in support of this belief. It was said, for instance, that he shut himself up for days together in a perfectly empty room which had not been touched with a broom for a whole year; and[Pg 235] those who circulated this story vouched for its truth, as they had it, they said, from Mouret's own cook. The accounts differed as to what he did in that empty room. The cook said that he pretended to be dead, a statement which thrilled the whole neighbourhood with horror. The market-people firmly believed that he kept a coffin concealed in the room, laid himself at full length in it, with his eyes open and his hands upon his breast, and remained like that from morning till night.

'The attack had been threatening him for a long time past,' Olympe remarked in every shop she entered. 'It was brooding in him; he had for a long time been very melancholy and low-spirited, hiding in out-of-the-way corners, just like an animal, you know, that feels ill. The very first day I set foot in the house I said to my husband, "The landlord seems to be in a bad way." His eyes were quite yellow and he had such a queer look about him. Afterwards he went on in the strangest way; he had all sorts of extraordinary whims and crotchets. He used to count every lump of sugar, and lock everything up, even the bread. He was so dreadfully miserly that his poor wife hadn't even a pair of boots to put on. Ah! poor thing, she has a dreadful time of it, and I pity her from the bottom of my heart. Imagine the life she leads with a madman who can't even behave decently at table! He throws his napkin away in the middle of dinner, and stalks off, looking stupefied, after having made a horrible mess in his plate. And such a temper he has, too! He used to make the most terrible scenes just because the mustard pot wasn't in its right place. But now he doesn't speak at all, though he glares like a wild beast, and springs at people's throats without uttering a word. Ah! I could tell you some strange stories, if I liked.'

When she had thus excited her listeners' curiosity, and they began to press her with questions, she added:

'No, no; it is no business of mine. Madame Mouret is a perfect saint, and bears her suffering like a true Christian. She has her own ideas on the matter, and one must respect them. But, would you believe it, he tried to cut her throat with a razor!'

The story she told was always the same, but it never failed to produce a great effect. Fists were clenched, and women talked of strangling Mouret. If any incredulous person shook his head, he was put to confusion by a summons to explain[Pg 236] the dreadful scenes which took place every night. Only a madman, people said, was capable of flying in that way at his wife's throat the moment she went to bed. There was a spice of mystery in the affair which helped materially to spread the story about the town. For nearly a month the rumours went on gaining strength. Yet, in spite of Olympe's tragical gossipings, peace had been restored at the Mourets' and the nights now passed in quietness. Marthe exhibited much nervous impatience when her friends, without openly speaking on the subject, advised her to be very careful.

'You will only go your own way, I suppose,' said Rose. 'Well, you'll see, he will begin again, and we shall find you murdered one of these fine mornings.'

Madame Rougon now ostentatiously called at the house every other day. She entered it with an air of extreme uneasiness, and, as soon as the door was opened, she asked Rose:

'Well! has anything happened to-day?'

Then, as soon as she caught sight of her daughter, she kissed her, and threw her arms round her with a great show of affection, as though she had been afraid that she might not find her alive. She passed the most dreadful nights, she said; she trembled at every ring of the bell, imagining that it was the signal of the tidings of some dreadful calamity; and she no longer had any pleasure in living. When Marthe told her that she was in no danger whatever she looked at her with an expression of admiration, and exclaimed:

'You are a perfect angel! If I were not here to look after you, you would allow yourself to be murdered without raising even a sigh. But make yourself easy; I am watching over you, and am taking all precautions. The first time your husband raises his little finger against you, he will hear from me.'

She did not explain herself any further. The truth of the matter was that she had visited every official in Plassans, and had in this way confidentially related her daughter's troubles to the mayor, the sub-prefect, and the presiding judge of the tribunal, making them promise to observe absolute secrecy about the matter.

'It is a mother in despair who tells you this,' she said with tears in her eyes. 'I am giving the honour and reputation of my poor child into your keeping. My husband would take to his bed if there were to be a public scandal, but I can't[Pg 237] wait till there is some fatal catastrophe. Advise me, and tell me what I ought to do.'

The officials showed her the greatest sympathy and kindness. They did their best to reassure her, they promised to keep a careful watch over Madame Mouret without in any way letting it be known, and to take some active step at the slightest sign of danger. In her interviews with Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies and Monsieur Rastoil, she drew their especial attention to the fact that, as they were her son-in-law's immediate neighbours, they would be able to interfere at once in the event of anything going wrong.

This story of a lunatic in his senses, who awaited the stroke of midnight to become mad, imparted much interest to the meetings of the guests in Mouret's garden. They showed great alacrity in going to greet Abbé Faujas. The priest came downstairs at four o'clock, and did the honours of the arbour with much urbanity, but in talking he persisted in keeping in the background, merely nodding in answer to what was said to him. For the first few days, only indirect allusions were made to the drama which was being acted in the house, but one Tuesday Monsieur Maffre, who was gazing at it with an uneasy expression, fixing his eyes upon one of the windows of the first floor, ventured to ask:

'That is the room, isn't it?'

Then, in low tones, the two parties began to discuss the strange story which was exciting the neighbourhood. The priest made some vague remarks: it was very sad, and much to be regretted, said he, and then he pitied everybody, without venturing to say anything more explicit.

'But you, Doctor,' asked Madame de Condamin of Doctor Porquier, 'you who are the family doctor, what do you think about it all?'

Doctor Porquier shook his head for some time before making any reply. He at first affected a discreet reserve.

'It is a very delicate matter,' he muttered. 'Madame Mouret is not robust, and as for Monsieur Mouret——'

'I have seen Madame Rougon,' said the sub-prefect. 'She is very uneasy.'

'Her son-in-law has always been obnoxious to her,' Monsieur de Condamin exclaimed bluntly. 'I met Mouret myself at the club the other day, and he gave me a beating at piquet. He seemed to me to be as sensible as ever. The good man was never a Solomon, you know.'

[Pg 238]

'I have not said that he is mad, in the common interpretation of the word,' said the doctor, thinking that he was being attacked: 'but neither will I say that I think it prudent to allow him to remain at large.'

This statement caused considerable emotion, and Monsieur Rastoil instinctively glanced at the wall which separated the two gardens. Every face was turned towards the doctor.

'I once knew,' he continued, 'a charming lady, who kept up a large establishment, giving dinner-parties, receiving the most distinguished members of society, and showing much sense and wit in her conversation. Well, when that lady retired to her bedroom, she locked herself in, and spent a part of the night in crawling round the room on her hands and knees, barking like a dog. The people in the house long imagined that she really had a dog in the room with her. This lady was an example of what we doctors call lucid madness.'

Abbé Surin's face was wreathed with twinkling smiles as he glanced at Monsieur Rastoil's daughters, who appeared much amused by this story of a fashionable lady turning herself into a dog. Doctor Porquier blew his nose very gravely.

'I could give you a score of other similar instances,' he continued, 'of people who appeared to be in full possession of their senses, and who yet committed the most extravagant actions as soon as they found themselves alone.'

'For my part,' said Abbé Bourrette, 'I once had a very strange penitent. She had a mania for killing flies, and could never see one without feeling an irresistible desire to capture it. She used to keep them at home strung upon knitting needles. When she came to confess, she would weep bitterly and accuse herself of the death of the poor creatures, and believe that she was damned. But I could never correct her of the habit.'

This story was very well received, and even Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies and Monsieur Rastoil themselves condescended to smile.

'There is no great harm done,' said the doctor, 'so long as one confines one's self to killing flies. But the conduct of all lucid madmen is not so innocent as that. Some of them torture their families by some concealed vice, which has reached the degree of a mania; there are other wretched ones who drink and give themselves up to secret debauchery, or[Pg 239] who steal because they can't help stealing, or who are mad with pride or jealousy or ambition. They are able to control themselves in public, to carry out the most complicated schemes and projects, to converse rationally and without giving any one any reason to suspect their mental weakness, but as soon as they get back to their own private life, and are alone with their victims, they surrender themselves to their delirious ideas and become brutal savages. If they don't murder straight out, they do it gradually.'

'Well, now, what about Monsieur Mouret?' asked Madame de Condamin.

'Monsieur Mouret has always been a teasing, restless, despotic sort of man. His cerebral derangement has increased with his years. I should not hesitate now to class him amongst dangerous madmen. I had a patient who used to shut herself up, just as he does, in an unoccupied room, and spend the whole day in contriving the most abominable actions.'

'But, doctor, if that is your opinion, you ought to proffer your advice,' exclaimed Monsieur Rastoil; 'you ought to warn those who are concerned.'

Doctor Porquier seemed slightly embarrassed.

'Well, we will see about it,' he said, smiling again with his fashionable doctor's smile. 'If it should be necessary and matters should become serious, I will do my duty.'

'Pooh!' cried Monsieur de Condamin satirically; 'the greatest lunatics are not those who have the reputation of being so. No brain is sound for a mad-doctor. The doctor here has just been reciting to us a page out of a book on lucid madness, which I have read, and which is as interesting as a novel.'

Abbé Faujas had been listening with curiosity, though he had taken no part in the conversation. Then, as soon as there was a pause, he remarked that their talk about mad people had a depressing effect upon the ladies, and suggested that the subject should be changed. Everybody's curiosity was fully awakened, however, and the two sets of guests began to keep a sharp watch upon Mouret's behaviour. The latter now came out into the garden for an hour a day, while the Faujases remained at table with his wife. Directly he appeared there, he came under the active surveillance of the Rastoils and the frequenters of the Sub-Prefecture. He could not stand for a moment in front of a bed of vegetables or[Pg 240] examine a plant, or even make a gesture of any sort, without exciting in the gardens on his right and left the most unfavourable comments. Everyone was turning against him. Monsieur de Condamin was the only person who still defended him. One day the fair Octavie said to him as they were at luncheon:

'What difference can it make to you whether Mouret is mad or not?'

'To me, my dear? Absolutely none,' he said in astonishment.

'Very well, then, allow that he is mad, since everyone says he is. I don't know why you always persist in holding a contrary opinion to your wife's. It won't prove to your advantage, my dear. Have the intelligence, at Plassans, not to be too intelligent.'

Monsieur de Condamin smiled.

'You are right, my dear, as you always are,' he said gallantly; 'you know that I have put my fortune in your hands—don't wait dinner for me. I am going to ride to Saint-Eutrope to have a look at some timber they are felling.'

Then he left the room, biting the end off a cigar.

Madame de Condamin was well aware that he had a flame for a young girl in the neighbourhood of Saint-Eutrope; but she was very tolerant and had even saved him twice from the consequences of scandalous intrigues. On his side, he felt very easy about his wife; he knew that she was much too prudent to give cause for scandal at Plassans.

'You would never guess how Mouret spends his time in that room where he shuts himself up!' the conservator of rivers and forests said the next morning when he called at the Sub-Prefecture. 'He is counting all the s's in the Bible. He is afraid of making any mistake about the matter, and he has already recommenced counting them for the third time. Ah! you were quite right; he is cracked from top to bottom!'

From this time forward Monsieur de Condamin was very hard upon Mouret. He even exaggerated matters and used all his skill to invent absurd stories to scare the Rastoils; but it was Monsieur Maffre whom he made his special victim. He told him one day that he had seen Mouret standing at one of the windows overlooking the street in a state of complete nudity, having only a woman's cap on his head and bowing[Pg 241] to the empty air. Another day he asserted with amazing assurance that he had seen Mouret dancing like a savage in a little wood three leagues away; and when the magistrate seemed to doubt this story, he appeared to be vexed and declared that Mouret might very easily have got down out of his house by the water-spout without being noticed. The frequenters of the Sub-Prefecture smiled, but the next morning the Rastoils' cook spread these extraordinary stories about the town, where the legend of the man who beat his wife was assuming extraordinary proportions.

One afternoon Aurélie, the elder of Monsieur Rastoil's two daughters, related with a blushing face how on the previous night, having gone to look out of her window about midnight, she had seen their neighbour promenading about his garden, carrying a big altar candle. Monsieur de Condamin thought the girl was making fun of him, but she gave the most minute details.

'He held the candle in his left hand; and he knelt down on the ground and dragged himself along on his knees, sobbing as he did so.'

'Can it be possible that he has committed a murder and has buried the body of his victim in his garden?' exclaimed Monsieur Maffre, who had turned quite pale.

Then the two sets of guests agreed to watch some evening till midnight if necessary, to clear the matter up. The following night, indeed, they kept on the alert, in both gardens, but Mouret did not appear. Three nights were wasted in the same way. The Sub-Prefecture party was going to abandon the watch, and Madame de Condamin declared that she could not stay any longer under the chestnut trees, where it was so dreadfully dark, when all at once a light was seen flickering through the inky blackness of the ground floor of Mouret's house. When Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies' attention was drawn to this, he slipped into the Impasse des Chevillottes to invite the Rastoils to come on to his terrace, which overlooked the neighbouring garden. The presiding judge, who was on the watch with his daughters behind the cascade, hesitated for a moment, reflecting whether he might not compromise himself politically by going to the sub-prefect's in this way, but as the night was very black, and his daughter Aurélie was most anxious to have the truth of her report manifested, he followed Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies with stealthy steps through the darkness. It was in this manner that a[Pg 242] representative of Legitimacy at Plassans for the first time entered the grounds of a Bonapartist official.

'Don't make a noise,' whispered the sub-prefect. 'Lean over the terrace.'

There Monsieur Rastoil and his daughters found Doctor Porquier and Madame de Condamin and her husband. The darkness was so dense that they exchanged salutations without being able to see one another. Then they all held their breath. Mouret had just appeared upon the steps, with a candle, which was stuck in a great kitchen candlestick.

'You see he has got a candle,' whispered Aurélie.

No one dissented. The fact was quite incontrovertible; Mouret certainly was carrying a candle. He came slowly down the steps, turned to the left and then stood motionless before a bed of lettuces. Then he raised his candle to throw a light upon the plants. His face looked quite yellow amidst the black night.

'What a dreadful face!' exclaimed Madame de Condamin. 'I shall dream of it, I'm certain. Is he asleep, doctor?'

'No, no,' replied Doctor Porquier, 'he is not a somnambulist; he is wide awake. Do you notice how fixed his gaze is? Observe, too, the abruptness of his movements——'

'Hush! hush!' interrupted Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies; 'we don't require a lecture just now.'

The most complete silence then fell. Mouret had stridden over the box-edging and was kneeling in the midst of the lettuces. He held his candle down, and began searching along the trenches underneath the spreading leaves of the plants. Every now and then he made a slight examination and seemed to be crushing something and stamping it into the ground. This went on for nearly half an hour.

'He is crying; it is just as I told you,' Aurélie complacently remarked.

'It is really very terrifying,' Madame de Condamin exclaimed nervously. 'Pray let us go back into the house.'

Mouret dropped his candle and it went out. They could hear him uttering exclamations of annoyance as he went back up the steps, stumbling against them in the dark. The Rastoil girls broke out into little cries of terror, and did not quite recover from their fright till they were again in the brightly lighted drawing-room, where Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies insisted upon the company refreshing themselves with some tea and biscuits. Madame de Condamin, who was[Pg 243] still trembling with alarm, huddled up on a couch, said, with a touching smile, that she had never felt so overcome before, not even on the morning when she had had the reprehensible curiosity to go and see a criminal executed.

'It is strange,' remarked Monsieur Rastoil, who had been buried in thought for a moment or two; 'but Mouret looked as if he were searching for slugs amongst his lettuces. The gardens are quite ravaged by them, and I have been told that they can only be satisfactorily exterminated in the night-time.'

'Slugs, indeed!' cried Monsieur de Condamin. 'Do you suppose he troubles himself about slugs? Do people go hunting for slugs with a candle? No; I agree with Monsieur Maffre in thinking that there is some crime at the bottom of the matter. Did this man Mouret ever have a servant who disappeared mysteriously? There ought to be an inquiry made.'

Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies thought that his friend the conservator of rivers and forests was theorising a little further than the facts warranted. He took a sip at his tea and said:

'No, no; my dear sir. He is mad and has extraordinary fancies, but that is all. It is quite bad enough as it is.'

He then took a plate of biscuits, handed it to Monsieur Rastoil's daughter with a gallant bow, and after putting it down again continued:

'And to think this wretched man has mixed himself up in politics! I don't want to insinuate anything against your alliance with the Republicans, my dear judge, but you must allow that in Mouret the Marquis de Lagrifoul had a very peculiar supporter.'

Monsieur Rastoil, who had become very grave, made a vague gesture, without saying anything.

'And he still busies himself with these matters. It is politics, perhaps, which have turned his brain,' said the fair Octavie, as she delicately wiped her lips. 'They say he takes the greatest interest in the approaching elections, don't they, my dear?'

She addressed this question to her husband, casting a glance at him as she spoke.

'He is quite bursting over the matter!' cried Monsieur de Condamin. 'He declares that he can entirely control the election, and can have a shoemaker returned if he chooses.'

'You are exaggerating,' said Doctor Porquier. 'He no[Pg 244] longer has the influence he used to have; the whole town jeers at him.'

'Ah! you are mistaken! If he chooses, he can lead the old quarter of the town and a great number of villages to the poll. He is mad, it is true, but that is a recommendation. I myself consider him still a very sensible person, for a Republican.'

This attempt at wit met with distinct success. Monsieur Rastoil's daughters broke out into school-girl laughs and the presiding judge himself nodded his head in approval. He threw off his serious expression, and, without looking at the sub-prefect, he said:

'Lagrifoul has not rendered us, perhaps, the services we had a right to expect, but a shoemaker would be really too disgraceful for Plassans!'

Then, as though he wanted to prevent any further remarks on the subject, he added quickly: 'Why, it is half-past one o'clock! This is quite an orgie we are having, my dear sub-prefect; we are all very much obliged to you.'

Madame de Condamin wrapped her shawl round her shoulders and contrived to have the last word.

'Well,' she said, 'we really must not let the election be controlled by a man who goes and kneels down in the middle of a bed of lettuces after twelve o'clock at night.'

That night became quite historical, and Monsieur de Condamin derived much amusement from relating the details of what had occurred to Monsieur de Bourdeu, Monsieur Maffre, and the priests, who had not seen Mouret with his candle. Three days later all the neighbourhood was asserting that the madman who beat his wife had been seen walking about with his head enveloped in a sheet. Meantime, the afternoon assemblies under the arbour were much exercised by the possible candidature of Mouret's radical shoemaker. They laughed as they studied each other's demeanour. It was a sort of political pulse-feeling. Certain confidential statements of his friend the presiding judge induced Monsieur de Bourdeu to believe that a tacit understanding might be arrived at between the Sub-Prefecture and the moderate opposition to promote the candidature of himself, and thus inflict a crushing defeat upon the Republicans. Possessed by this idea, he waxed more and more sarcastic against the Marquis de Lagrifoul, and made the most of the latter's blunders in the Chamber. Monsieur Delangre, who only called at long[Pg 245] intervals, alleging the pressure of his municipal duties as an excuse for his infrequent appearance, smiled softly at each fresh sally of the ex-prefect.

'You've only got to bury the marquis, now, your reverence,' he said one day in Abbé Faujas's ear.

Madame de Condamin, who heard him, turned her head and laid her finger upon her lips with a pretty look of mischief.

Abbé Faujas now allowed politics to be mentioned in his presence. He even occasionally expressed an opinion in favour of the union of all honest and religious men. Thereupon all present, Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies, Monsieur Rastoil, Monsieur de Bourdeu, and even Monsieur Maffre, grew quite warm in their expressions of desire for such an agreement. It would be so very easy, they said, for men with a stake in the country to come to an understanding together to work for the firm establishment of the great principles without which no society could hold together. Then the conversation turned upon property, and family and religion. Sometimes Mouret's name was mentioned, and Monsieur de Condamin once said:

'I never let my wife come here without feeling uneasy. I am really getting alarmed. You will see some strange things happen at the next elections if that man is still at liberty.'

Trouche did his best to frighten Abbé Faujas during the interviews which he had with him every morning. He told him the most alarming stories. The working men of the old quarter of the town, said he, were showing too much interest in Mouret; they talked of coming to see him, of judging his condition for themselves, and taking his advice.

As a rule, the priest merely shrugged his shoulders; but one day Trouche came away from him looking quite delighted. He went off to Olympe and kissed her, exclaiming:

'This time, my dear, I've managed it!'

'Has he given you leave?' she asked.

'Yes, full leave. We shall be delightfully comfortable when we have got rid of the old man.'

Olympe was still in bed. She dived under the bed-clothes, and wriggled about and laughed gleefully.

'We shall have everything to do as we like with, then, sha'n't we? I shall take another bedroom, and go out into[Pg 246] the garden whenever I like, and do all my cooking in the kitchen. My brother will have to let us do all that. You must have managed to frighten him very much.'

It was not till about ten o'clock that evening that Trouche made his appearance at the low café where he was accustomed to meet Guillaume Porquier and other wild young fellows. They joked him about the lateness of the hour, and playfully accused him of having been out on the ramparts courting one of the girls of the Home of the Virgin. Jests of this kind generally pleased him, but that night he remained very grave. He declared that he had been engaged with business—very serious business. It was only about midnight, when he had emptied the decanters on the counter, that he became more expansive. Then he began to talk familiarly to Guillaume, leaning the while against the wall, stammering, and lighting his pipe afresh between every two sentences.

'I saw your father this evening. He is a very good fellow. I wanted a paper from him. He was very kind, very kind indeed. He gave it to me. I have it here in my pocket. He didn't want to give it me at first, though. He said it was only the family's business. But I told him, "I am the family; I have got the wife's orders." You know her, don't you? a dear little woman. She seemed quite pleased when I went to talk the matter over with her beforehand. Then he gave me the paper. You can feel it here in my pocket.'

Guillaume looked at him, concealing his extreme curiosity with an incredulous laugh.

'I'm telling you the truth,' continued the drunkard. 'The paper's here in my pocket. Can't you feel it?'

'Oh, it's only a newspaper!' said Guillaume.

At this, Trouche sniggered, and drew a large envelope from the pocket of his overcoat, and laid it on the table amidst the cups and glasses. For a moment, though Guillaume had reached out his hand, he prevented him from taking it, but then he allowed him to have it, laughing loudly the while. The paper proved to be a most detailed statement by Doctor Porquier with respect to the mental condition of Fran?ois Mouret, householder, of Plassans.

'Are they going to shut him up, then?' asked Guillaume, handing back the paper.

'That's no business of yours, my boy,' replied Trouche, who had now become distrustful again. 'This paper here is for his wife. I am merely a friend who is glad to do a[Pg 247] service. She will act as she pleases. However, she can't go on letting herself be half murdered, poor lady!'

By the time they were turned out of the café he was so drunk that Guillaume had to accompany him to the Rue Balande. He wanted to lie down and go to sleep on every seat on the Cours Sauvaire. When they reached the Place of the Sub-Prefecture, he began to shed tears and stutter:

'I've no friends now; everyone despises me just because I'm poor. But you are a good-hearted young fellow, and you shall come and have coffee with us when we get into possession. If the Abbé interferes with us, we'll send him to keep the other one company. He isn't very sharp, the Abbé, in spite of all his grand airs. I can persuade him into believing anything. But you are a real friend, aren't you? Mouret is done for, old chap; we'll drink his wine together.'

When Guillaume had seen Trouche to his door, he walked back through the sleeping town and went and whistled softly before Monsieur Maffre's house. It was a signal he was making. The young Maffres, whom their father locked up in their bedroom, opened a window on the first floor and descended to the ground by the help of the bars with which the ground-floor windows were protected. Every night they thus went off to the haunts of vice in the company of Guillaume Porquier.

'Well,' he said to them, when they had reached the dark paths near the ramparts, 'we needn't trouble ourselves now. If my father talks any more about sending me off anywhere, I shall have something serious to say to him. I'll bet you that I can get elected into the Young Men's Club whenever I like now.'

The following night Marthe had a dreadful attack. She had been present in the morning at a long religious ceremony, the whole of which Olympe had insisted upon seeing. When Rose and the lodgers ran into the room upon hearing her piercing screams, they found her lying at the foot of the bed with her forehead gashed open. Mouret was kneeling in the midst of the bed-clothes, trembling all over.

'He has killed her this time!' cried the cook.

She seized Mouret in her arms, although he was in his night-dress, pushed him out of the room and into his office—the door of which was on the other side of the landing—then she went back to get a mattress and some blankets, which she threw to him. Trouche had set off at a run for Doctor[Pg 248] Porquier. When the doctor arrived he dressed Marthe's wound. If the cut had been a trifle lower down, he said, it would have been fatal. Downstairs in the hall, he declared in the presence of them all that it was necessary to take some active steps, and that Madame Mouret's life could no longer be left at the mercy of a violent madman.

The next morning Marthe was obliged to keep her bed. She was still slightly delirious, and fancied that she saw an iron hand driving a flaming sword into her skull. Rose absolutely declined to allow Mouret to enter the room. She served him his lunch on a dusty table in his own office. He was still gazing at his plate with a look of stupefaction when Rose ushered into the room three men dressed in black.

'Are you the doctors?' he asked. 'How is she getting on?'

'She is better than she was,' replied one of the men.

Mouret began to cut his bread mechanically as though he were going to eat it.

'I wish the children were here,' he said. 'They would look after her, and we should be more lively. It is since the children went away that she has been ill. I am no longer good for anything.'

He raised a piece of bread to his mouth, and heavy tears trickled down his face. The man who had already spoken to him now said, casting at the same time a glance at his companions:

'Shall we go and fetch your children?'

'I should like it very much,' replied Mouret, rising from his seat. 'Let us start at once.'

As he went downstairs he saw no one except Trouche and his wife, who were leaning over the balustrade on the second floor, following each step he took with gleaming eyes. Olympe hurried down behind him and rushed into the kitchen, where Rose, in a state of great emotion, was watching out of the window. When a carriage, which was waiting at the door, had driven off with Mouret, she sprang up the staircase again, four steps at a time, and seizing Trouche by his shoulders, made him dance round the landing in a paroxysm of delight.

'He's packed off!' she cried.

Marthe kept her bed for a week. Her mother came to see her every afternoon and manifested the greatest affection. The Faujases and the Trouches succeeded each other in[Pg 249] attendance at her bedside; and even Madame de Condamin called to see her several times. Nothing was said about Mouret, and Rose told her mistress that she thought he had gone to Marseilles. When Marthe, however, was able to come downstairs again, and took her place at table in the dining-room, she began to manifest some astonishment, and inquired uneasily where her husband was.

'Now, my dear lady, don't distress yourself,' said Madame Faujas, 'or you will make yourself ill again. It was absolutely necessary that something should be done, and your friends felt bound to consult together and take steps for your protection.'

'You've no reason to regret him, I'm sure,' cried Rose harshly. 'The whole neighbourhood breathes more freely now that he's no longer here. One was always afraid of him setting the place on fire or rushing out into the street with a knife. I used to hide all the knives in my kitchen and Monsieur Rastoil's cook did the same. And your poor mother nearly died of fright. Everybody who has been here while you have been ill, those ladies and gentlemen, they all said to me as I let them out, "It is a good riddance for Plassans." A place is always on the alert when a man like that is free to go about as he likes.'

Marthe listened to this stream of words with dilated eyes and pale face. She had let her spoon fall from her hand, and she gazed out of the window in front of her as though some dreadful vision rising from behind the fruit-trees in the garden was filling her with terror.

'Les Tulettes! Les Tulettes!' she gasped, as she buried her face in her trembling hands.

She fell backwards and was fainting away, when Abbé Faujas, who had finished his soup, grasped her hands, pressing them tightly, and saying in his softest tone:

'Show yourself strong before this trial which God is sending you. He will afford you consolation if you do not prove rebellious—He will grant you the happiness you deserve.'

At the pressure of the priest's hands and the tender tone of his voice, Marthe revived and sat up again with flushing cheeks.

'Oh, yes!' she cried, as she burst into sobs, 'I have great need of happiness; promise me great happiness, I beg you.'