At these words the abominable Rougemont, the bloody Rougemont, arose before Mathieu's eyes, rearing its peaceful steeple above the low plain, with its cemetery paved with little Parisians, where wild flowers bloomed and hid the victims of so many murders.
But Céleste was rattling on again, saying: "You remember Madame Bourdieu whom you used to know in the Rue de Miromesnil; she died very near our village on some property where she went to live when she gave up business, a good many years ago. She was luckier than her colleague La Rouche, who was far too good-natured with people. You must have read about her case in the newspapers, she was sent to prison with a medical man named Sarraille."
"La Rouche! Sarraille!" Yes, Mathieu had certainly read the trial of those two social pests, who were fated to meet at last in their work of iniquity. And what an echo did those names awaken in the past: Valérie Morange! Reine Morange! Already in the factory yard Mathieu had fancied that he could see the shadow of Morange gliding past him—the punctual, timid, soft-hearted accountant, whom misfortune and insanity had carried off into the darkness. And suddenly the unhappy man here again appeared to Mathieu, like a wandering phantom, the restless victim of all the imbecile ambition, all the desperate craving for pleasure which animated the period; a poor, weak, mediocre being, so cruelly punished for the crimes of others, that he was doubtless unable to sleep in the tomb into which he had flung himself, bleeding, with broken limbs. And before Mathieu's eyes there likewise passed the spectre of Séraphine, with the fierce and pain-fraught face of one who is racked and killed by insatiate desire.
"Well, excuse me for having ventured to stop you, Monsieur Froment," Céleste concluded; "but I am very, very pleased at having met you again."
He was still looking at her; and as he quitted her he said, with the indulgence born of his optimism: "May you keep happy since you are happy. Happiness must know what it does."
Nevertheless, Mathieu remained disturbed, as he thought of the apparent injustice of impassive nature. The memory of his Marianne, struck down by such deep grief, pining away through the impious quarrels of her sons, returned to him. And as Ambroise at last came in and gayly embraced him, after receiving Céleste's thanks, he felt a thrill of anguish, for the decisive moment which would save or wreck the family was now at hand.
Indeed, Denis, after inviting himself and Mathieu to lunch, promptly plunged into the subject.
"We are not here for the mere pleasure of lunching with you," said he; "mamma is ill, did you know it?"
"Ill?" said Ambroise. "Not seriously ill?"
"Yes, very ill, in danger. And are you aware that she has been ill like this ever since she came to speak to you about the quarrel between Grégoire and Gervais, when it seems that you treated her very roughly."