Nana by Émile Zola (ebook reader ink .txt) 📖

CHAPTER III

THE PROCESSION

 

I cannot describe my agony during the morning of the following day.

I remember it as a hideous dream in which my impressions were so

ghastly and so confused that I could not formulate them. The

persistent yearning for a sudden awakening increased my torture, and

as the hour for the funeral drew nearer my anguish became more

poignant still.

 

It was only at daybreak that I had recovered a fuller consciousness

of what was going on around me. The creaking of hinges startled me

out of my stupor. Mme Gabin had just opened the window. It must

have been about seven o’clock, for I heard the cries of hawkers in

the street, the shrill voice of a girl offering groundsel and the

hoarse voice of a man shouting “Carrots! The clamorous awakening of

Paris pacified me at first. I could not believe that I should be

laid under the sod in the midst of so much life; and, besides, a

sudden thought helped to calm me. It had just occurred to me that I

had witnessed a case similar to my own when I was employed at the

hospital of Guerande. A man had been sleeping twenty-eight hours,

the doctors hesitating in presence of his apparent lifelessness,

when suddenly he had sat up in bed and was almost at once able to

rise. I myself had already been asleep for some twenty-five hours;

if I awoke at ten I should still be in time.

 

I endeavored to ascertain who was in the room and what was going on

there. Dede must have been playing on the landing, for once when

the door opened I heard her shrill childish laughter outside.

Simoneau must have retired, for nothing indicated his presence. Mme

Gabin’s slipshod tread was still audible over the floor. At last

she spoke.

 

“Come, my dear,” she said. “It is wrong of you not to take it while

it is hot. It would cheer you up.”

 

She was addressing Marguerite, and a slow trickling sound as of

something filtering indicated that she had been making some coffee.

 

“I don’t mind owning,” she continued, “that I needed it. At my age

sitting up IS trying. The night seems so dreary when there is a

misfortune in the house. DO have a cup of coffee, my dear—just a

drop.”

 

She persuaded Marguerite to taste it.

 

“Isn’t it nice and hot?” she continued, “and doesn’t it set one up?

Ah, you’ll be wanting all your strength presently for what you’ve

got to go through today. Now if you were sensible you’d step into

my room and just wait there.”

 

“No, I want to stay here,” said Marguerite resolutely.

 

Her voice, which I had not heard since the previous evening, touched

me strangely. It was changed, broken as by tears. To feel my dear

wife near me was a last consolation. I knew that her eyes were

fastened on me and that she was weeping with all the anguish of her

heart.

 

The minutes flew by. An inexplicable noise sounded from beyond the

door. It seemed as if some people were bringing a bulky piece of

furniture upstairs and knocking against the walls as they did so.

Suddenly I understood, as I heard Marguerite begin to sob; it was

the coffin.

 

“You are too early,” said Mme Gabin crossly. “Put it behind the

bed.”

 

What o’clock was it? Nine, perhaps. So the coffin had come. Amid

the opaque night around me I could see it plainly, quite new, with

roughly planed boards. Heavens! Was this the end then? Was I to

be borne off in that box which I realized was lying at my feet?

 

However, I had one supreme joy. Marguerite, in spite of her

weakness, insisted upon discharging all the last offices. Assisted

by the old woman, she dressed me with all the tenderness of a wife

and a sister. Once more I felt myself in her arms as she clothed me

in various garments. She paused at times, overcome by grief; she

clasped me convulsively, and her tears rained on my face. Oh, how I

longed to return her embrace and cry, “I live!” And yet I was lying

there powerless, motionless, inert!

 

“You are foolish,” suddenly said Mme Gabin; “it is all wasted.”

 

“Never mind,” answered Marguerite, sobbing. “I want him to wear his

very best things.”

 

I understood that she was dressing me in the clothes I had worn on

my wedding day. I had kept them carefully for great occasions.

When she had finished she fell back exhausted in the armchair.

 

Simoneau now spoke; he had probably just entered the room.

 

“They are below,” he whispered.

 

“Well, it ain’t any too soon,” answered Mme Gabin, also lowering her

voice. “Tell them to come up and get it over.”

 

“But I dread the despair of the poor little wife.”

 

The old woman seemed to reflect and presently resumed: “Listen to

me, Monsieur Simoneau. You must take her off to my room. I

wouldn’t have her stop here. It is for her own good. When she is

out of the way we’ll get it done in a jiffy.”

 

These words pierced my heart, and my anguish was intense when I

realized that a struggle was actually taking place. Simoneau had

walked up to Marguerite, imploring her to leave the room.

 

“Do, for pity’s sake, come with me!” he pleaded. “Spare yourself

useless pain.”

 

“No, no!” she cried. “I will remain till the last minute. Remember

that I have only him in the world, and when he is gone I shall be

all alone!”

 

From the bedside Mme Gabin was prompting the young man.

 

“Don’t parley—take hold of her, carry her off in your arms.”

 

Was Simoneau about to lay his hands on Marguerite and bear her away?

She screamed. I wildly endeavored to rise, but the springs of my

limbs were broken. I remained rigid, unable to lift my eyelids to

see what was going on. The struggle continued, and my wife clung to

the furniture, repeating, “Oh, don’t, don’t! Have mercy! Let me

go! I will not—”

 

He must have lifted her in his stalwart arms, for I heard her

moaning like a child. He bore her away; her sobs were lost in the

distance, and I fancied I saw them both—he, tall and strong,

pressing her to his breast; she, fainting, powerless and conquered,

following him wherever he listed.

 

“Drat it all! What a to-do!” muttered Mme Gabin. “Now for the tug

of war, as the coast is clear at last.”

 

In my jealous madness I looked upon this incident as a monstrous

outrage. I had not been able to see Marguerite for twenty-four

hours, but at least I had still heard her voice. Now even this was

denied me; she had been torn away; a man had eloped with her even

before I was laid under the sod. He was alone with her on the other

side of the wall, comforting her—embracing her, perhaps!

 

But the door opened once more, and heavy footsteps shook the floor.

 

“Quick, make haste,” repeated Mme Gabin. “Get it done before the

lady comes back.”

 

She was speaking to some strangers, who merely answered her with

uncouth grunts.

 

“You understand,” she went on, “I am not a relation; I’m only a

neighbor. I have no interest in the matter. It is out of pure good

nature that I have mixed myself up in their affairs. And I ain’t

overcheerful, I can tell you. Yes, yes, I sat up the whole blessed

night—it was pretty cold, too, about four o’clock. That’s a fact.

Well, I have always been a fool—I’m