Germinal - Emile Zola [58]
Fortune had also smiled on this house in other respects. At a very young age M. Grégoire had married the daughter of a pharmacist in Marchiennes, a plain-looking girl without a penny to her name whom he adored and who had repaid him with happiness in full measure. She had closeted herself within her domestic life, ecstatically devoted to her husband and with no other desire but his. Never once did a difference in taste come between them, as their desires merged in the pursuit of one and the same ideal of comfort and well-being; and they had been living like this for the past forty years in one long, tender exchange of affection and attentiveness to each other’s needs. They lived a well-regulated life: their forty thousand a year was spent without ostentation and what they saved went on Cécile, whose late arrival had momentarily disrupted their budgeting. Even now they continued to pander to her every whim: a second horse, two more carriages, dresses from Paris. But for them this was simply one further source of joy; nothing was too good for their daughter, even though they themselves were so profoundly averse to show that they continued to wear the fashions of their youth. Any expense which did not serve a purpose seemed to them foolish.
Suddenly the door opened, and a loud voice exclaimed:
‘What’s this? You haven’t had breakfast without me, have you!’
It was Cécile, who had come straight from her bed, her eyes still puffy with sleep. She had merely put her hair up and pulled on a white woollen dressing-gown.
‘No, of course we haven’t,’ said her mother. ‘Can’t you see? We’ve been waiting for you…My poor darling, that wind must have kept you awake.’
The girl looked at her in great surprise.
‘It’s been windy?…I had no idea. I’ve been fast asleep all night.’
They found this funny, and the three of them began to laugh; and the servants bringing in the breakfast burst out laughing also, so hilarious did everyone in the household consider the fact that Mademoiselle had just slept for a whole twelve hours. The appearance of the brioche added the final touch to their general merriment.
‘What? You’ve baked it already?’ Cécile kept saying. ‘Well, this is a surprise. Oh, it’s going to taste so good, all lovely and warm in the chocolate!’
They finally took their places at the table; the chocolate was steaming in the bowls, and for some time the sole subject of conversation was the brioche. Mélanie and Honorine remained in the room, talking about how the baking had gone and watching them all tuck in with buttery lips. What a pleasure it was to cook, they said, when you saw your master and his family eating with such relish.
But then the dogs started barking loudly, and they thought it must be the lady from Marchiennes who came to give Cécile her piano lesson every Monday and Friday. There was a man also who came to teach her literature. The girl’s entire education had been conducted in this manner at La Piolaine, fostering a state of happy ignorance punctuated by childish whim, with books thrown out of the window the moment she found any subject boring.
‘It’s Monsieur Deneulin,’ Honorine announced on her return. Behind her, M. Deneulin, a cousin of M. Grégoire