Читать книгу The Complete Works of Emile Zola - Emile Zola - Страница 114

THE DUEL

A YEAR after the sanguinary events just related, the shadow of death passed again over Marseille and the entire city was touched by it. It was no longer a question of a few dozen wounded: people were struck down by hundreds. Civil war had been followed by the cholera.

A history of the numerous and terrible epidemics that have decimated Marseille, would be a most painful one. The position of the city in a warm climate, its constant connection with Asia, the filth of its old streets, everything seems to fatally indicate it as a hot-bed of infection where contagious diseases spread with frightful rapidity. It is threatened as soon as ever summer comes round. At the least negligence, if by mishap the scourge is allowed to enter the city, it never fails to gain all the coast line, and, from there to spread throughout France. The epidemic of 1849 was relatively benign. It broke out about the middle of August, and it is stated that it was not serious until a convoy of invalided troops were landed from Rome and Algiers. Fifty of these soldiers succumbed, it is said, on the night following their arrival. From that moment the disease had taken firm hold in Marseille.

Amidst the outbursts of political passion at that time, the government of the Republic was bitterly reproached with a decree dated August 10, which authorized vessels from the Levant to enter the Port on a simple declaration from the medical man on board. This decree suppressing quarantine, laid the city open to the germs of the disease. The incubation was rather slow. By the end of August there were one hundred and ninety-six victims, but in the following month the mortality was terrible, no less than twelve hundred persons succumbing. The epidemic died out in October, after nearly five hundred more people had been added to the death list.

The inhabitants were seized with panic from the very outbreak of the disease, and there was a general stampede. The news that the cholera had again visited the city ran from quarter to quarter like a train of gunpowder. A man had died in frightful agony, and the case was forthwith multiplied, old women affirming they had seen more than a hundred burials go by. The people spoke in an undertone of poison, accusing the wealthy of having infected the water at all the pumps, and these statements increased the panic. A poor wretch who was drinking at the fountain on the Cours was nearly massacred because a workman pretended he had seen him throw something into the water. Fright produced terrible effect upon the lively imagination of the crowd. The inhabitants believed a foul vapour was passing over the city, and the women walked about the streets with handkerchiefs pressed to their lips. Daring neither to drink nor breathe, the Marseillese hardly existed.

The city was deserted. All who could run away did so. The country houses in the vicinity were crowded with refugees. There were even families who went and camped out as far as the hills of the Nerthe, preferring to live in the open air under a tent, to remaining in a place where they encountered death at the corner of every street. The wealthy, those who had residences outside or could rent them, were the first to leave; then the employed, the workmen, the bread-winners who compromised their everyday existence by abandoning the work shops, lost courage in the presence of the scourge, and a great number of them preferred to fly and run the risk of starving, so that Marseille, little by little, became dismal and empty.

There remained only men of courage who either resisted the epidemic or regarded it with contempt, and the poor wretches who were forced to remain at their posts in spite of their fright. If there were acts of cowardice, such as the sudden disappearance of doctors and functionaries, there were also examples of energy and self-sacrifice. Offices where assistance could be obtained, had been opened in the most severely visited quarters, from the commencement, and there men devoted themselves, day and night, to the relief of the crazy population who were dying of fright.

Marius was among the first to offer his services, but in presence of the tears of Fine and Joseph, he had to give way and consent to leave Marseille. He knew his wife, she would have remained at his side, and shared the danger, and the child would then have run the same risk. The thought that Fine and Joseph might die in his arms had struck Marius with terror, and he had ran away, trembling for the safety of those he loved.

The family found refuge at a house which they had rented in the Saint Just quarter close to the old country residence of the Cayols. It was then the end of August. Philippe had remained with M. de Girousse at Lambesc for twelve months, and during that time had not set foot in Marseille, waiting till the days of June were forgotten. Indeed, he was not disturbed. Inquiries were made about him at first, but powerful influence having been exerted on his behalf, further search was abandoned.

As soon as he learned that the young household was in the suburbs of Marseille, he bade goodbye to M. de Girousse and hurried off to see his son. He felt weary at Lambesc and soon convinced his brother that he would be able to lodge with him without being guilty of the least imprudence. The cholera had driven all recollection of the rioting out of peoples’ minds; and no one thought of going to arrest him at a long league from Marseille.

A delightful existence commenced. While the disease was ravaging and striking terror into the city, the inmates of the little country house in the Saint Just quarter were enjoying happy hours and charming tranquillity. They drifted into egotism in spite of themselves; after the terrible blows they had received, they bathed in happiness. It was their turn not to suffer. They went out but little, finding the little enclosure surrounding the house quite large enough for fresh air and exercise. A fortnight passed very peacefully, then one morning Philippe, who had been dreaming all night of the past, announced that he was going for a walk. He went out in the direction of the mill of Saint Joseph, following the road he had often passed along before to meet Blanche.

When he came to the little pine wood behind the country house, he thought of that day in May, that afternoon of folly, which had thrown Blanche into his arms and been the misfortune of his existence. That souvenir was both sweet and bitter. He recalled his youth, his mad, burning passion, and at the same time the tears and grief of the only woman he had ever loved. Two great tears rolled down his cheeks without his feeling them. As he wiped them away, and gazed around him, seeking for the spot where Blanche had sat by his side, he all of a sudden perceived M. de Cazalis, standing motionless in the centre of a path with his terrible eyes fixed upon him.

The ex-deputy had been among the first to leave Marseille. He had taken refuge at his country residence in the Saint Joseph quarter, where he was living alone, and was quite ferocious with suppressed irritation. Since his interview with M. de Girousse he had fallen into a state of despondency which was broken at distant intervals, by frightful outbursts of passion. Although a year had passed, he still heard the old Count’s words of indignation and contempt tinkling in his ears. These words were choking him and he would fain have relieved himself by wreaking vengeance on someone. Understanding that it would be impossible to pick a quarrel with M. de Girousse, he ardently desired to find himself face to face with Philippe, so to end the matter one way or another, either killing his enemy or being killed by him.

He thought no more about the money, he had lost his appetite for luxury and power. Since he had heard that the Cayols abandoned all claim to his niece’s fortune it became a matter of indifference to him. He now had but one great desire at heart: to wash away M. de Girousse’s expressions of contempt with the blood of an enemy. And lo! all at once, he met Philippe at a deserted spot, in the middle of this wood which belonged to him. He had gone out, his head bent down, seeking a means to attain his end, and chance placed him face to face with the very person he wished to meet to satisfy his vengeance.

The two men stared for a moment at each other in silence. They had both stooped, as if to be ready to spring at each other’s throats. Then each felt ashamed at finding himself in the attitude of a wild animal, when they wished to act toward one another as civilized animals.

“I have been seeking you for a year,” said M. de Cazalis at last. “You are in my way and I’m in yours. One of us must disappear.”

“I’m quite of your opinion,” answered Philippe.

“I have weapons in that house. Wait for me. In a few seconds I’ll be with you.”

“No. We cannot fight so. If I were to kill you they would accuse me of murdering you. We must have witnesses.”

“And where shall we find them?”

“In a couple of hours both of us can go to Marseille and be back again with two of our friends.”

“Good. The meeting is for noon at this same spot.”

“Yes, at this same spot.”

They had spoken in a stern voice and without the least insult. The provocation was natural, as if it were a matter agreed upon long before.

Philippe went immediately to Marseille, resolving to keep his brother in ignorance of what was about to occur, for he felt the encounter necessary, and would not run the risk of an obstacle being placed in the way of it.

As he was going down the Cours, he met Sauvaire tearing along.

“Don’t stop me,” said the ex-master-stevedore to him. “I’m returning to the Aygalades in great haste. The men are falling like flies here. There were eighty deaths yesterday.”

Philippe, without listening to him, told him he had a duel on hand and relied on him. When he had named his adversary Sauvaire exclaimed:

“I’m your man, and I would not be sorry to see that scoundrel’s brains blown out.”

They called together on M. Martelly, whose courageous behaviour was causing universal admiration in Marseille. The shipowner listened to Philippe gravely, and thought as he did, that the duel was necessary and inevitable.

“I am at your disposal,” he answered simply.

The three men took a cab, and at a little before noon entered the pine wood where they had to wait for M. de Cazalis. At length he arrived. After having ran through Marseille in search of a couple of friends in vain, he had made up his mind to go to a barracks where two obliging sergeants consented to act as witnesses. As soon as the cab that brought them had been sent to stand near that of Philippe, the paces were counted and the weapons loaded, rapidly and in silence, and without any attempt being made at reconciliation. Never before had preparations for a duel been more prompt or simple.

When the principals had been placed face to face, Philippe whom fortune had favoured, raised his arm ready to fire, but he all at once felt a presentiment and shuddered. Before M. de Cazalis had arrived, he had been looking in a melancholy way at the pines which surrounded him and beneath which he had courted in days gone by. Chance is at times cruel. The scenery was the same, the vast heavens expanded with the same limpidity, the country displayed an horizon as soft and peaceful. When Philippe raised his pistol he thought he remembered that he was on the very spot where Blanche had given him her first kiss, and that remembrance caused him singular trouble. He fancied he heard his heart murmur:

“Where I have sinned, there shall I be punished.”

He pressed the trigger with a trembling hand. The bullet, badly aimed, sped, and broke a branch of one of the pines.

M. de Cazalis, in his turn, raised his weapon. He aimed with contracted features and flaming eyes. Sauvaire and Martelly, looking very pale, waited. Philippe with his body slightly sideways, looked courageously at the pistol threatening him, but in truth he did not see it, he was thinking in spite of himself, of Blanche, and he heard all his being crying louder than before:

“Where I have sinned, there shall I be punished.”

The pistol went off. Philippe fell.

M. Martelly and Sauvaire ran up to him. He had sunk down on the grass with his hand to his right side.

“You are touched?” inquired the ex-master-stevedore in an unsteady voice.

“I am killed,” murmured Philippe. “This spot was bound to be fatal to me.”

And he fainted. The two witnesses consulted together for an instant, whilst staunching his wound. In their haste they had not thought of bringing a doctor with them. It was imperative to transport the wounded man to Marseille as rapidly as possible

“Listen,” said M. Martelly, “we’ll put him in a cab and I’ll take him to the hospital, for he’ll be more promptly attended to there than anywhere else. In the meanwhile you run and tell his brother. Act so that the young woman and child do not suspect anything.”

Both were deeply affected, it seemed that they were losing one of theirs. Sauvaire ran off towards Saint Just, while M. Martelly, assisted by the sergeants, carried Philippe to the vehicle. M. de Cazalis had retired, acting the indifferent, but with his heart bounding with intense delight.

The shipowner instructed the driver to go slowly. For nearly an hour that the sad journey lasted, he supported the unconscious wounded man’s pale, vacillating head. He had placed his handkerchief to the wound to stop the blood; but he saw the patient so weak that he feared he would never be able to get him to the hospital alive.

They arrived at last. When M. Martelly stated that he brought a wounded man, he was answered rather abruptly that all the wards were full. At length Philippe was received; only there was no room and he was taken into a cholera ward, the doctor who had seen him on his admission, shaking his head and saying they could put him anywhere, as he was beyond all danger from the disease.

M. Martelly accompanied him, for he would not go away until Marius arrived. The ward into which he entered had a sinister look, and extended in the dim light to a considerable length; the two rows of white beds were set against the walls like tombs, and on them one could perceive the rigidness of the bodies in the furious agony of death. Patients afflicted with the disease yelled and distorted themselves in this long cold room. Sisters of Mercy — slim, delicate women — moved softly round the beds assisting the doctors in their work.

M. Martelly had seated himself near the mattress on which Philippe had been placed, face to face with death, and watched the Sisters of Mercy who were quietly and compassionately attending to the dying. He noticed one, a short distance away from him, who was comforting with her tender words, the last moments of an old man. The face of this patient, although contracted in the death agony, did not seem unknown to him. He drew near and recognised with pain, that it was Abbé Chastanier. The priest was dying, a victim to his consummate charity.

Since the commencement of the epidemic he had not taken an hour’s repose; day and night he ascended to the garrets visiting poor families struck down by the disease; he had parted with all he possessed to give help to the unfortunate, and when he had nothing left but the clothes he wore, he had gone begging to the rich. As he was leaving a house in the old town that morning, he had been struck down with a violent attack of cholera in the street and hurried off to the hospital, where for the last two hours he had been enduring the most atrocious agony with exemplary fortitude.

When M. Martelly approached him, his eyes were already covered with a film and he was unable to see the ground, but he nevertheless recognised the shipowner. He smiled, but could not utter a single word. Then, raising a hand, he pointed to heaven.

After he was dead M. Martelly gazed at him for a moment and then returned to seat himself beside Philippe who continued as rigid as a corpse. Just then, the young Sister of Mercy who had knelt for an instant beside Abbé Chastanier’s body came forward to see if she could not render the wounded man some assistance. She had hardly glanced at Philippe’s face when all her features were distorted with emotion. With her eyes fixed on the young man and her breast heaving, she stood there, lost in painful contemplation.

At that moment Marius entered the room followed by Sauvaire. Seeing his brother extended stiff and livid, he sobbed aloud. The news of the duel and Philippe’s wound had come upon him so abruptly, that he was quite stupid.

As soon as he was face to face with the wounded man, he asked violently for a physician and insisted on the patient being saved. The doctor who was in the ward, touched by this outburst of grief, consented to sound the wound again. Marius felt a burn in his inside when his brother uttered a plaintive cry on feeling the touch of the instrument. That cry made the young Sister of Mercy shudder. As she came forward Marius caught sight of her.

“You here!” he murmured angrily, “ah! I ought to have expected you would be present at the last moments of the man whom your love brought to misfortune. You are the worthy niece of your uncle who has just killed my brother.”

The young Sister of Mercy had joined her hands. She looked humbly and beseechingly at Marius, half choked by anguish, and unable to reply.

“Pardon me,” continued the young man immediately, “I know not what I do. Do not remain there. Philippe might see you on opening his eyes. We must avoid causing him violent emotion. Is it not so?”

He spoke as a child wandering in his mind. When he had recognised Blanche in the costume of the Sisters of Saint Vincent de Paul, he really thought he saw a phantom rise up before him. She reminded him of a whole past full of suffering.

At the outbreak of the epidemic, Blanche had begged as a favour to be allowed to work in the hospital at Marseille. Perhaps she hoped to die there. Her devotedness was the admiration of all. She lived in the midst of death with the courage and abnegation of a martyr. To have seen her bending over the frightful features of the dying, no one would have guessed that her childhood had been so weak and delicate and her birth so illustrious. On several occasions they wanted to send her away, telling her she had discharged her tribute, but she had obtained permission to remain, by beseeching the authorities to allow her to do so. For a month she had been defying death, and death had respected her.

Abbé Chastanier’s last agony, and the sight of Philippe lying inanimate before her, had just given her a shock that broke her courage. She was staggering and all her human feelings had returned to her. She retreated a few steps, obedient to Marius’ gesture, while the doctor completed the dressing of the wound. Philippe at last opened his eyes and looked round about him with an expression of lively astonishment, but on seeing his brother, he remembered all.

Marius, mastering his tears with a violent effort, bent over him.

“I don’t see Joseph,” Philippe said to him, in a voice as faint as one’s breath. “Where is he?”

“He is coming,” answered Marius.

“Immediately, is it not so? I want to see him, immediately, immediately.”

He closed his eyes again. Marius had told a falsehood, he had run off without telling Fine and Joseph what had happened, in the desire of delaying their despair for at least a few hours, but now, in face of his brother’s request, he would have given all he possessed in this world, to have brought the child with him.

“Shall I go and fetch the little one?” asked Sauvaire, who felt extremely uneasy amidst all these cholera patients, and yet dared not run away. Marius accepted the offer at once, and the ex-master-stevedore ran off immediately. Philippe had no doubt heard what had been said for he reopened his eyes and thanked his brother with a look. As he turned his head, his face became overspread with a look of happy ecstasy: he had just perceived Blanche, who had drawn near on hearing the sound of his voice.

“Am I dead?” he murmured. “Oh! dear, tender vision.”

And he fainted again.