The men began to remove the furniture. Risler watched them at work with an indifferent air, as if he were in a stranger"s house. That magnificence which had once made him so happy and proud inspired in him now an insurmountable disgust. But, when he entered his wife"s bedroom, he was conscious of a vague emotion.
It was a large room, hung with blue satin under white lace. A veritable cocotte"s nest. There were torn and rumpled tulle ruffles lying about, bows, and artificial flowers. The wax candles around the mirror had burned down to the end and cracked the candlesticks; and the bed, with its lace flounces and valances, its great curtains raised and drawn back, untouched in the general confusion, seemed like the bed of a corpse, a state bed on which no one would ever sleep again.
Risler"s first feeling upon entering the room was one of mad indignation, a longing to fall upon the things before him, to tear and rend and shatter everything. Nothing, you see, resembles a woman so much as her bedroom. Even when she is absent, her image still smiles in the mirrors that have reflected it. A little something of her, of her favorite perfume, remains in everything she has touched. Her att.i.tudes are reproduced in the cushions of her couch, and one can follow her goings and comings between the mirror and the toilette table in the pattern of the carpet. The one thing above all others in that room that recalled Sidonie was an "etagere" covered with childish toys, petty, trivial knickknacks, microscopic fans, dolls" tea-sets, gilded shoes, little shepherds and shepherdesses facing one another, exchanging cold, gleaming, porcelain glances. That "etagere" was Sidonie"s very soul, and her thoughts, always commonplace, petty, vain, and empty, resembled those gewgaws. Yes, in very truth, if Risler, while he held her in his grasp last night, had in his frenzy broken that fragile little head, a whole world of "etagere" ornaments would have come from it in place of a brain.
The poor man was thinking sadly of all these things amid the ringing of hammers and the heavy footsteps of the furniture-movers, when he heard an interloping, authoritative step behind him, and Monsieur Chebe appeared, little Monsieur Chebe, flushed and breathless, with flames darting from his eyes. He a.s.sumed, as always, a very high tone with his son-in-law.
"What does this mean? What is this I hear? Ah! so you"re moving, are you?"
"I am not moving, Monsieur Chebe--I am selling out."
The little man gave a leap like a scalded fish.
"You are selling out? What are you selling, pray?"
"I am selling everything," said Risler in a hollow voice, without even looking at him.
"Come, come, son-in-law, be reasonable. G.o.d knows I don"t say that Sidonie"s conduct--But, for my part, I know nothing about it. I never wanted to know anything. Only I must remind you of your dignity. People wash their dirty linen in private, deuce take it! They don"t make spectacles of themselves as you"ve been doing ever since morning. Just see everybody at the workshop windows; and on the porch, too! Why, you"re the talk of the quarter, my dear fellow."
"So much the better. The dishonor was public, the reparation must be public, too."
This apparent coolness, this indifference to all his observations, exasperated Monsieur Chebe. He suddenly changed his tactics, and adopted, in addressing his son-in-law, the serious, peremptory tone which one uses with children or lunatics.
"Well, I say that you haven"t any right to take anything away from here. I remonstrate formally, with all my strength as a man, with all my authority as a father. Do you suppose I am going to let you drive my child into the street. No, indeed! Oh! no, indeed! Enough of such nonsense as that! Nothing more shall go out of these rooms."
And Monsieur Chebe, having closed the door, planted himself in front of it with a heroic gesture. Deuce take it! his own interest was at stake in the matter. The fact was that when his child was once in the gutter he ran great risk of not having a feather bed to sleep on himself. He was superb in that att.i.tude of an indignant father, but he did not keep it long. Two hands, two vises, seized his wrists, and he found himself in the middle of the room, leaving the doorway clear for the workmen.
"Chebe, my boy, just listen," said Risler, leaning over him. "I am at the end of my forbearance. Since this morning I have been making superhuman efforts to restrain myself, but it would take very little now to make my anger burst all bonds, and woe to the man on whom it falls! I am quite capable of killing some one. Come! Be off at once!--"
There was such an intonation in his son-in-law"s voice, and the way that son-in-law shook him as he spoke was so eloquent, that Monsieur Chebe was fully convinced. He even stammered an apology. Certainly Risler had good reason for acting as he had. All honorable people would be on his side. And he backed toward the door as he spoke. When he reached it, he inquired timidly if Madame Chebe"s little allowance would be continued.
"Yes," was Risler"s reply, "but never go beyond it, for my position here is not what it was. I am no longer a partner in the house."
Monsieur Chebe stared at him in amazement, and a.s.sumed the idiotic expression which led many people to believe that the accident that had happened to him--exactly like that of the Duc d"Orleans, you know--was not a fable of his own invention; but he dared not make the slightest observation. Surely some one had changed his son-in-law. Was this really Risler, this tiger-cat, who bristled up at the slightest word and talked of nothing less than killing people?
He took to his heels, recovered his self-possession at the foot of the stairs, and walked across the courtyard with the air of a conqueror.
When all the rooms were cleared and empty, Risler walked through them for the last time, then took the key and went down to Pla.n.u.s"s office to hand it to Madame Georges.
"You can let the apartment," he said, "it will be so much added to the income of the factory."
"But you, my friend?"
"Oh! I don"t need much. An iron bed up under the eaves. That"s all a clerk needs. For, I repeat, I am nothing but a clerk from this time on.
A useful clerk, by the way, faithful and courageous, of whom you will have no occasion to complain, I promise you."
Georges, who was going over the books with Pla.n.u.s, was so affected at hearing the poor fellow talk in that strain that he left his seat precipitately. He was suffocated by his sobs. Claire, too, was deeply moved; she went to the new clerk of the house of Fromont and said to him:
"Risler, I thank you in my father"s name."
At that moment Pere Achille appeared with the mail.
Risler took the pile of letters, opened them tranquilly one by one, and pa.s.sed them over to Sigismond.
"Here"s an order for Lyon. Why wasn"t it answered at Saint-Etienne?"
He plunged with all his energy into these details, and he brought to them a keen intelligence, due to the constant straining of the mind toward peace and forgetfulness.
Suddenly, among those huge envelopes, stamped with the names of business houses, the paper of which and the manner of folding suggested the office and hasty despatch, he discovered one smaller one, carefully sealed, and hidden so cunningly between the others that at first he did not notice it. He recognized instantly that long, fine, firm writing,--To Monsieur Risler--Personal. It was Sidonie"s writing!
When he saw it he felt the same sensation he had felt in the bedroom upstairs.
All his love, all the hot wrath of the betrayed husband poured back into his heart with the frantic force that makes a.s.sa.s.sins. What was she writing to him? What lie had she invented now? He was about to open the letter; then he paused. He realized that, if he should read that, it would be all over with his courage; so he leaned over to the old cashier, and said in an undertone:
"Sigismond, old friend, will you do me a favor?"
"I should think so!" said the worthy man enthusiastically. He was so delighted to hear his friend speak to him in the kindly voice of the old days.
"Here"s a letter someone has written me which I don"t wish to read now.
I am sure it would interfere with my thinking and living. You must keep it for me, and this with it."
He took from his pocket a little package carefully tied, and handed it to him through the grating.
"That is all I have left of the past, all I have left of that woman.
I have determined not to see her, nor anything that reminds me of her, until my task here is concluded, and concluded satisfactorily,--I need all my intelligence, you understand. You will pay the Chebes" allowance.
If she herself should ask for anything, you will give her what she needs. But you will never mention my name. And you will keep this package safe for me until I ask you for it."
Sigismond locked the letter and the package in a secret drawer of his desk with other valuable papers. Risler returned at once to his correspondence; but all the time he had before his eyes the slender English letters traced by a little hand which he had so often and so ardently pressed to his heart.
CHAPTER XXIII. CAFE CHANTANT
What a rare, what a conscientious clerk did that new employe of the house of Fromont prove himself!
Every day his lamp was the first to appear at, and the last to disappear from, the windows of the factory. A little room had been arranged for him under the eaves, exactly like the one he had formerly occupied with Frantz, a veritable Trappist"s cell, furnished with an iron cot and a white wooden table, that stood under his brother"s portrait. He led the same busy, regular, quiet life as in those old days.
He worked constantly, and had his meals brought from the same little creamery. But, alas! the disappearance forever of youth and hope deprived those memories of all their charm. Luckily he still had Frantz and Madame "Chorche," the only two human beings of whom he could think without a feeling of sadness. Madame "Chorche" was always at hand, always trying to minister to his comfort, to console him; and Frantz wrote to him often, without mentioning Sidonie, by the way. Risler supposed that some one had told Frantz of the disaster that had befallen him, and he too avoided all allusion to the subject in his letters.
"Oh! when I can send for him to come home!" That was his dream, his sole ambition: to restore the factory and recall his brother.
Meanwhile the days succeeded one another, always the same to him in the restless activity of business and the heartrending loneliness of his grief. Every morning he walked through the workshops, where the profound respect he inspired and his stern, silent countenance had reestablished the orderly conditions that had been temporarily disturbed. In the beginning there had been much gossip, and various explanations of Sidonie"s departure had been made. Some said that she had eloped with a lover, others that Risler had turned her out. The one fact that upset all conjectures was the att.i.tude of the two partners toward each other, apparently as unconstrained as before. Sometimes, however, when they were talking together in the office, with no one by, Risler would suddenly start convulsively, as a vision of the crime pa.s.sed before his eyes.
Then he would feel a mad longing to spring upon the villain, seize him by the throat, strangle him without mercy; but the thought of Madame "Chorche" was always there to restrain him. Should he be less courageous, less master of himself than that young wife? Neither Claire, nor Fromont, nor anybody else suspected what was in his mind. They could barely detect a severity, an inflexibility in his conduct, which were not habitual with him. Risler awed the workmen now; and those of them upon whom his white hair, blanched in one night, his drawn, prematurely old features did not impose respect, quailed before his strange glance-a glance from eyes of a bluish-black like the color of a gun-barrel.
Whereas he had always been very kind and affable with the workmen, he had become pitilessly severe in regard to the slightest infraction of the rules. It seemed as if he were taking vengeance upon himself for some indulgence in the past, blind, culpable indulgence, for which he blamed himself.
Surely he was a marvellous employe, was this new officer in the house of Fromont.
Thanks to him, the factory bell, notwithstanding the quavering of its old, cracked voice, had very soon resumed its authority; and the man who guided the whole establishment denied himself the slightest recreation.
Sober as an apprentice, he left three-fourths of his salary with Pla.n.u.s for the Chebes" allowance, but he never asked any questions about them.