Fruitfulness. Эмиль Золя
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unable to spring afresh from their ashes and renew the splendor of their ancient glory? How is it that death has already laid its hand upon Paris, which, whatever her splendor, is but the capital of a France whose virility is weakened? You may argue as you please and say that, like the ancient capitals of the world, Paris is dying of an excess of culture, intelligence, and civilization; it is none the less a fact that she is approaching death, the turn of the tide which will carry splendor and power to some new nation. Your theory of equilibrium is wrong. Nothing can remain stationary; whatever ceases to grow, decreases and disappears. And if Paris is bent on dying, she will die, and the country with her.”
“Well, for my part,” declared Santerre, resuming the pose of an elegant pessimist, “if she wishes to die, I shan’t oppose her. In fact, I’m fully determined to help her.”
“It is evident that the really honest, sensible course is to check any increase of population,” added Seguin.
But Mathieu, as if he had not heard them, went on: “I know Herbert Spencer’s law, and I believe it to be theoretically correct. It is certain that civilization is a check to fruitfulness, so that one may picture a series of social evolutions conducing now to decrease and now to increase of population, the whole ending in final equilibrium, by the very effect of culture’s victory when the world shall be entirely populated and civilized. But who can foretell what road will be followed, through what disasters and sufferings one may have to go? More and more nations may disappear, and others may replace them; and how many thousands of years may not be needed before the final adjustment, compounded of truth, justice, and peace, is arrived at? At the thought of this the mind trembles and hesitates, and the heart contracts with a pang.”
Deep silence fell while he thus remained disturbed, shaken in his faith in the good powers of life, and at a loss as to who was right—he or those two men so languidly stretched out before him.
But Valentine, Seguin’s wife, came in, laughing and making an exhibition of masculine ways, which it had cost her much trouble to acquire.
“Ah! you people; you must not bear me any malice, you know. That girl Celeste takes such a time over everything!”
At five-and-twenty Valentine was short, slight, and still girlish. Fair, with a delicate face, laughing blue eyes, and a pert little nose, she could not claim to be pretty. Still she was charming and droll, and very free and easy in her ways; for not only did her husband take her about with him to all sorts of objectionable places, but she had become quite familiar with the artists and writers who frequented the house. Thus it was only in the presence of something extremely insulting that she again showed herself the last of the Vaugelades, and would all at once draw herself up and display haughty contempt and frigidity.
“Ah! it’s you, Monsieur Froment,” she said amiably, stepping towards Mathieu and shaking his hand in cavalier fashion. “Is Madame Froment in good health? Are the children flourishing as usual?”
Seguin was examining her dress, a gown of white silk trimmed with unbleached lace, and he suddenly gave way to one of those horribly rude fits which burst forth at times amid all his great affectation of politeness. “What! have you kept us waiting all this time to put that rag on? Well, you never looked a greater fright in your life!”
And she had entered the room convinced that she looked charming! She made an effort to control herself, but her girlish face darkened and assumed an expression of haughty, vindictive revolt. Then she slowly turned her eyes towards the friend who was present, and who was gazing at her with ecstasy, striving to accentuate the slavish submissiveness of his attitude.
“You look delicious!” he murmured; “that gown is a marvel.”
Seguin laughed and twitted Santerre on his obsequiousness towards women. Valentine, mollified by the compliment, soon recovered her birdlike gayety, and such free and easy conversation ensued between the trio that Mathieu felt both stupefied and embarrassed. In fact, he would have gone off at once had it not been for his desire to obtain from his landlord a promise to repair the pavilion properly.
“Wait another moment,” Valentine at last said to her husband; “I told Celeste to bring the children, so that we might kiss them before starting.”
Mathieu wished to profit by this fresh delay, and sought to renew his request; but Valentine was already rattling on again, talking of dining at the most disreputable restaurant possible, and asking if at the first performance which they were to attend they would see all the horrors which had been hissed at the dress rehearsal the night before. She appeared like a pupil of the two men between whom she stood. She even went further in her opinions than they did, displaying the wildest pessimism, and such extreme views on literature and art that they themselves could not forbear laughing. Wagner was greatly over-estimated, in her opinion; she asked for invertebrate music, the free harmony of the passing wind. As for her moral views, they were enough to make one shudder. She had got past the argumentative amours of Ibsen’s idiotic, rebellious heroines, and had now reached the theory of pure intangible beauty. She deemed Santerre’s last creation, Anne-Marie, to be far too material and degraded, because in one deplorable passage the author remarked that Norbert’s kisses had left their trace on the Countess’s brow. Santerre disputed the quotation, whereupon she rushed upon the volume and sought the page to which she had referred.
“But I never degraded her,” exclaimed the novelist in despair. “She never has a child.”
“Pooh! What of that?” exclaimed Valentine. “If Anne-Marie is to raise our hearts she ought to be like spotless marble, and Norbert’s kisses should leave no mark upon her.”
But she was interrupted, for Celeste, the maid, a tall dark girl with an equine head, big features, and a pleasant air, now came in with the two children. Gaston was at this time five years old, and Lucie was three. Both were slight and delicate, pale like roses blooming in the shade. Like their mother, they were fair. The lad’s hair was inclined to be carroty, while that of the girl suggested the color of oats. And they also had their mother’s blue eyes, but their faces were elongated like that of their father. Dressed in white, with their locks curled, arrayed indeed in the most coquettish style, they looked like big fragile dolls. The parents were touched in their worldly pride at sight of them, and insisted on their playing their parts with due propriety.
“Well, don’t you wish anybody good evening?”
The children were not timid; they were already used to society and looked visitors full in the face. If they made little haste, it was because they were naturally indolent and did not care to obey. They at last made up their minds and allowed themselves to be kissed.
“Good evening, good friend Santerre.”
Then they hesitated before Mathieu, and their father had to remind them of the gentleman’s name, though they had already seen him on two or three occasions.
“Good evening, Monsieur Froment.”
Valentine took hold of them, sat them on her lap, and half stifled them with caresses. She seemed to adore them, but as soon as she had sat them down again she forgot all about them.
“So you are going out again, mamma?” asked the little boy.
“Why, yes, my darling. Papas and mammas, you know, have their affairs to see to.”
“So we shall have dinner all alone, mamma?”
Valentine did not answer, but turned towards the maid, who was waiting for orders;—
“You are not to leave them for a moment, Celeste—you hear? And, above all things, they are not to go into the kitchen. I can never come home without finding them in the kitchen. It is exasperating. Let them have their dinner at seven, and put them to bed at nine. And see that they go to sleep.”
The big girl with the equine head listened with an air of respectful obedience, while her faint smile expressed the cunning of a Norman peasant who had been five years in Paris already and was hardened to service, and well knew what was done with children when the master and mistress were absent.
“Madame,”