“Poor Adèle! when one only thinks!” murmured Trublot, again affected at the thought of the wretched creature, half frozen upstairs beneath her thin blanket.
Then, bending toward Octave’s ear, he added with a chuckle:
“I say, Duveyrier might at least take her up a bottle of claret!”
“Yes, gentlemen,” the counselor was continuing, “statistics will bear me out, the crime of infanticide is increasing in the most frightful proportions. Sentiment prevails to too great an extent in the present day, and far too much consideration is shown to science, to your pretended physiology, all of which will end by there soon being neither good nor evil. One cannot cure debauchery; the thing is to destroy it at its root.”
This refutation was addressed above all to Doctor Juillerat, who had wished to give a medical explanation of the boot-stitcher’s case.
The other gentlemen also exhibited great severity and disgust. Campardon could not understand vice, uncle Bachelard defended infancy, Théophile demanded an inquiry, Léon discussed the question of prostitution in its relations with the state; whilst Trublot, in answer to an inquiry of Octave’s, talked of Duveyrier’s new mistress, who was a decent sort of a woman this time, rather mature, but romantic, with a soul expanded by that ideal which the counselor required to purify love; in short, a worthy person who gave him a peaceful home, imposing upon him as much as she liked and sleeping with his friends, without making any unnecessary fuss. And the Abbé Mauduit alone remained silent, his eyes fixed on the ground, his mind sorely troubled, and full of an infinite sadness.
They were now about to sing the “Blessing of the Daggers.” The drawing-room had filled up, a flood of rich dresses was crushing in the brilliant light from the chandelier and the lamps, whilst gay bursts of laughter ran along the rows of chairs; and, in the midst of the buzz, Clotilde in a low voice roughly chided Auguste, who, on seeing Octave enter with the other gentlemen of the chorus, had caught hold of Berthe’s arm to make her leave her seat. But he was already beginning to yield, feeling more and more embarrassed in the presence of the ladies’ dumb disapproval, whilst his head had become entirely the prey of triumphant neuralgia. Madame Dambreville’s stern looks quite drove him to despair, and even the other Madame Campardon was against him. It was reserved to Madame Josserand to finish him off. She abruptly interfered, threatening to take back her daughter and never to pay him the fifty thousand francs dowry; for she was always promising this dowry with the greatest coolness imaginable. Then, turning toward uncle Bachelard, seated behind her, and next to Madame Juzeur, she made him renew his promises. The uncle placed his hand on his heart; he knew his duty, the family before everything! Auguste, repulsed on all sides, beat a retreat, and again sought refuge in the window recess, where he once more pressed his burning forehead against the icy-cold panes.
Then Octave experienced a singular sensation as though his Paris life was beginning over again. It was as though the two years he had lived in the Rue de Choiseul had been a blank. His wife was there, smiling at him, and yet nothing seemed to have passed in his existence; to-day was the same as yesterday, there was neither pause nor ending. Trublot showed him the new partner standing beside Berthe, a little fair fellow very neat in his ways, who gave her, it was said, no end of presents. Uncle Bachelard, who was now going in for poetry, was revealing himself in a sentimental light to Madame Juzeur, whom he quite affected with some intimate details respecting Fifi and Gueulin. Théophile, devoured by doubts, doubled up by violent fits of coughing, was imploring Doctor Juillerat in an out-of-the-way corner to give his wife something to quiet her. Campardon, his eyes fixed on cousin Gasparine, was talking of the diocese of Evreux, and jumping from that to the great works of the new Rue du Dix Décembre, defending God and art, sending the world about its business, for at heart he did not care a hang for it, he was an artist! And behind a flower-stand there could even be seen the back of a gentleman, whom all the marriageable girls contemplated with an air of profound curiosity; it was Verdier, who was talking with Hortense, the pair of them having an acrimonious explanation, again putting off their marriage till the spring, so as not to turn the woman and her child into the street in the depth of winter.
Then the chorus was sung afresh. The architect, with his mouth wide open, gave out the first line. Clotilde struck a chord, and uttered her cry. And the other voices burst forth, the uproar increased little by little, and spread with a violence that scared the candles and caused the ladies to turn pale. Trublot, having been found wanting among the basses, was being tried a second time as a baritone. The five tenors were much noticed, Octave especially, to whom Clotilde regretted being unable to give a solo. When the voices fell, and she had applied the soft pedal, imitating the cadenced and distant footsteps of a departing patrol, the applause was deafening, and she, together with the gentlemen, had every praise showered upon them. And at the farthest end of the adjoining room, right behind a triple row of men in evening dress, one beheld Duveyrier clenching his teeth so as not to cry aloud with anguish, with his mouth all on one side, and his festering eruptions almost bleeding.
The tea coming next, unrolled the same procession, distributed the same cups and the same sandwiches. For a moment, the Abbé Mauduit found himself once more in the middle of the deserted drawing-room. He looked through the wide-open door, on the crush of guests; and, vanquished, he smiled, he again cast the mantle of religion over this corrupt middle-class society, like a master in the ceremonies draping the canker, to stave off the final decomposition. He must save the Church, as Heaven had not answered his cry of misery and despair.