Nana - Émile Zola (good books to read for young adults txt) 📗
- Author: Émile Zola
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thighs, due to a wound—obliged him to accept the post of major. He
was slightly lame, but it would have been imprudent to tell him so,
as he refused to own it.
“What, you, Major?” said Mme Burle with growing astonishment.
“Yes, thunder,” grumbled Laguitte, “and I must be confoundedly fond
of you to roam the streets on such a night as this. One would think
twice before sending even a parson out.”
He shook himself, and little rivulets fell from his huge boots onto
the floor. Then he looked round him.
“I particularly want to see Burle. Is the lazy beggar already in
bed?”
“No, he is not in yet,” said the old woman in her harsh voice.
The major looked furious, and, raising his voice, he shouted: “What,
not at home? But in that case they hoaxed me at the cafe, Melanie’s
establishment, you know. I went there, and a maid grinned at me,
saying that the captain had gone home to bed. Curse the girl! I
suspected as much and felt like pulling her ears!”
After this outburst he became somewhat calmer, stamping about the
room in an undecided way, withal seeming greatly disturbed. Mme
Burle looked at him attentively.
“Is it the captain personally whom you want to see?” she said at
last.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Can I not tell him what you have to say?”
“No.”
She did not insist but remained standing without taking her eyes off
the major, who did not seem able to make up his mind to leave.
Finally in a fresh burst of rage he exclaimed with an oath: “It
can’t be helped. As I am here yot may as well know—after all, it
is, perhaps, best.”
He sat down before the chimney piece, stretching out his muddy boots
as if a bright fire had been burning. Mme Burle was about to resume
her own seat when she remarked that Charles, overcome by fatigue,
had dropped his head between the open pages of his dictionary. The
arrival of the major had at first interested him, but, seeing that
he remained unnoticed, he had been unable to struggle against his
sleepiness. His grandmother turned toward the table to slap his
frail little hands, whitening in the lamplight, when Laguitte
stopped her.
“No—no!” he said. “Let the poor little man sleep. I haven’t got
anything funny to say. There’s no need for him to hear me.”
The old lady sat down in her armchair; deep silence reigned, and
they looked at one another.
“Well, yes,” said the major at last, punctuating his words with an
angry motion of his chin, “he has been and done it; that hound Burle
has been and done it!”
Not a muscle of Mme Burle’s face moved, but she became livid, and
her figure stiffened. Then the major continued: “I had my doubts.
I had intended mentioning the subject to you. Burle was spending
too much money, and he had an idiotic look which I did not fancy.
Thunder and lightning! What a fool a man must be to behave so
filthily!”
Then he thumped his knee furiously with his clenched fist and seemed
to choke with indignation. The old woman put the straightforward
question:
“He has stolen?”
“You can’t have an idea of it. You see, I never examined his
accounts; I approved and signed them. You know how those things are
managed. However, just before the inspection—as the colonel is a
crotchety old maniac—I said to Burle: ‘I say, old man, look to your
accounts; I am answerable, you know,’ and then I felt perfectly
secure. Well, about a month ago, as he seemed queer and some nasty
stories were circulating, I peered a little closer into the books
and pottered over the entries. I thought everything looked straight
and very well kept—”
At this point he stopped, convulsed by such a fit of rage that he
had to relieve himself by a volley of appalling oaths. Finally he
resumed: “It isn’t the swindle that angers me; it is his disgusting
behavior to me. He has gammoned me, Madame Burle. By God! Does he
take me for an old fool?”
“So he stole?” the mother again questioned.
“This evening,” continued the major more quietly, “I had just
finished my dinner when Gagneux came in—you know Gagneux, the
butcher at the corner of the Place aux Herbes? Another dirty beast
who got the meat contract and makes our men eat all the diseased cow
flesh in the neighborhood! Well, I received him like a dog, and
then he let it all out—blurted out the whole thing, and a pretty
mess it is! It appears that Burle only paid him in driblets and had
got himself into a muddle—a confusion of figures which the devil
himself couldn’t disentangle. In short, Burle owes the butcher two
thousand francs, and Gagneux threatens that he’ll inform the colonel
if he is not paid. To make matters worse, Burle, just to blind me,
handed me every week a forged receipt which he had squarely signed
with Gagneux’s name. To think he did that to me, his old friend!
Ah, curse him!”
With increasing profanity the major rose to his feet, shook his fist
at the ceiling and then fell back in his chair. Mme Burle again
repeated: “He has stolen. It was inevitable.”
Then without a word of judgment or condemnation she added simply:
“Two thousand francs—we have not got them. There are barely thirty
francs in the house.”
“I expected as much,” said Laguitte. “And do you know where all the
money goes? Why, Melanie gets it—yes, Melanie, a creature who has
turned Burle into a perfect fool. Ah, those women! Those fiendish
women! I always said they would do for him! I cannot conceive what
he is made of! He is only five years younger than I am, and yet he
is as mad as ever. What a woman hunter he is!”
Another long silence followed. Outside the rain was increasing in
violence, and throughout the sleepy little town one could hear the
crashing of slates and chimney pots as they were dashed by the blast
onto the pavements of the streets.
“Come,” suddenly said the major, rising, “my stopping here won’t
mend matters. I have warned you—and now I’m off.”
“What is to be done? To whom can we apply?” muttered the old woman
drearily.
“Don’t give way—we must consider. If I only had the two thousand
francs—but you know that I am not rich.”
The major stopped short in confusion. This old bachelor, wifeless
and childless, spent his pay in drink and gambled away at ecarte
whatever money his cognac and absinthe left in his pocket. Despite
that, however, he was scrupulously honest from a sense of
discipline.
“Never mind,” he added as he reached the threshold. “I’ll begin by
stirring him up. I shall move heaven and earth! What! Burle,
Colonel Burle’s son, condemned for theft! That cannot be! I would
sooner burn down the town. Now, thunder and lightning, don’t worry;
it is far more annoying for me than for you.”
He shook the old lady’s hand roughly and vanished into the shadows
of the staircase, while she held the lamp aloft to light the way.
When she returned and replaced the lamp on the table she stood for a
moment motionless in front of Charles, who was still asleep with his
face lying on the dictionary. His pale cheeks and long fair hair
made him look like a girl, and she gazed at him dreamily, a shade of
tenderness passing over her harsh countenance. But it was only a
passing emotion; her features regained their look of cold, obstinate
determination, and, giving the youngster a sharp rap on his little
hand, she said:
“Charles—your lessons.”
The boy awoke, dazed and shivering, and again rapidly turned over
the leaves. At the same moment Major Laguitte, slamming the house
door behind him, received on his head a quantity of water falling
from the gutters above, whereupon he began to swear in so loud a
voice that he could be heard above the storm. And after that no
sound broke upon the pelting downpour save the slight rustle of the
boy’s pen traveling over the paper. Mme Burle had resumed her seat
near the chimney piece, still rigid, with her eyes fixed on the dead
embers, preserving, indeed, her habitual attitude and absorbed in
her one idea.
THE CAFE
The Cafe de Paris, kept by Melanie Cartier, a widow, was situated on
the Place du Palais, a large irregular square planted with meager,
dusty elm trees. The place was so well known in Vauchamp that it
was customary to say, “Are you coming to Melanie’s?” At the farther
end of the first room, which was a spacious one, there was another
called “the divan,” a narrow apartment having sham leather benches
placed against the walls, while at each corner there stood a marble-topped table. The widow, deserting her seat in the front room,
where she left her little servant Phrosine, spent her evenings in
the inner apartment, ministering to a few customers, the usual
frequenters of the place, those who were currently styled “the
gentlemen of the divan.” When a man belonged to that set it was as
if he had a label on his back; he was spoken of with smiles of
mingled contempt and envy.
Mme Cartier had become a widow when she was five and twenty. Her
husband, a wheelwright, who on the death of an uncle had amazed
Vauchamp by taking the Cafe de Paris, had one fine day brought her
back with him from Montpellier, where he was wont to repair twice a
year to purchase liqueurs. As he was stocking his establishment he
selected, together with divers beverages, a woman of the sort he
wanted—of an engaging aspect and apt to stimulate the trade of the
house. It was never known where he had picked her up, but he
married her after trying her in the cafe during six months or so.
Opinions were divided in Vauchamp as to her merits, some folks
declaring that she was superb, while others asserted that she looked
like a drum-major. She was a tall woman with large features and
coarse hair falling low over her forehead. However, everyone agreed
that she knew very well how to fool the sterner sex. She had fine
eyes and was wont to fix them with a bold stare on the gentlemen of
the divan, who colored and became like wax in her hands. She also
had the reputation of possessing a wonderfully fine figure, and
southerners appreciate a statuesque style of beauty.
Cartier had died in a singular way. Rumor hinted at a conjugal
quarrel, a kick, producing some internal tumor. Whatever may have
been the truth, Melanie found herself encumbered with the cafe,
which was far from doing a prosperous business. Her husband had
wasted his uncle’s inheritance in drinking his own absinthe and
wearing out the cloth of his own billiard table. For a while it was
believed that the widow would have to sell out, but she liked the
life and the establishment just as it was. If she could secure a
few customers the bigger room might remain deserted. So she limited
herself to repapering the divan in white and gold and recovering the
benches. She began by entertaining a chemist. Then a vermicelli
maker, a lawyer and a retired magistrate put in an appearance; and
thus it was that the cafe remained open, although the waiter did not
receive twenty orders a day. No objections were raised by the
authorities, as
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