Doctor Pascal | Page 6

of the town, striking cures
which would do him honor? No, my child, you see your uncle has
never been able to act like other people."
She had assumed a grieved tone, lowering her voice, to display the
secret wound of her heart.
"God be thanked! it is not men of worth who are wanting in our family;
my other sons have given me satisfaction enough. Is it not so? Your
Uncle Eugene rose high enough, minister for twelve years, almost
emperor! And your father himself handled many a million, and had a
part in many a one of the great works which have made Paris a new city.
Not to speak at all of your brother, Maxime, so rich, so distinguished,
nor of your cousin, Octave Mouret, one of the kings of the new
commerce, nor of our dear Abbe Mouret, who is a saint! Well, then,
why does Pascal, who might have followed in the footsteps of them all,
persist in living in his hole, like an eccentric old fool?"
And as the young girl was again going to protest, she closed her mouth,
with a caressing gesture of her hand.
"No, no, let me finish. I know very well that Pascal is not a fool, that he
has written remarkable works, that his communications to the Academy

of Medicine have even won for him a reputation among savants. But
what does that count for, compared to what I have dreamed of for him?
Yes, all the best practice of the town, a large fortune, the
decoration--honors, in short, and a position worthy of the family. My
word! I used to say to him when he was a child: 'But where do you
come from? You are not one of us!' As for me, I have sacrificed
everything for the family; I would let myself be hacked to pieces, that
the family might always be great and glorious!"
She straightened her small figure, she seemed to grow tall with the one
passion that had formed the joy and pride of her life. But as she
resumed her walk, she was startled by suddenly perceiving on the floor
the copy of the _Temps_, which the doctor had thrown there, after
cutting out the article, to add it to the Saccard papers, and the light from
the open window, falling full upon the sheet, enlightened her, no doubt,
for she suddenly stopped walking, and threw herself into a chair, as if
she at last knew what she had come to learn.
"Your father has been appointed editor of the _Epoque_," she said
abruptly.
"Yes," answered Clotilde tranquilly, "master told me so; it was in the
paper."
With an anxious and attentive expression, Felicite looked at her, for
this appointment of Saccard, this rallying to the republic, was
something of vast significance. After the fall of the empire he had dared
return to France, notwithstanding his condemnation as director of the
Banque Universelle, the colossal fall of which had preceded that of the
government. New influences, some incredible intrigue must have
placed him on his feet again, for not only had he received his pardon,
but he was once more in a position to undertake affairs of considerable
importance, launched into journalism, having his share again of all the
good things going. And the recollection came to her of the quarrels of
other days between him and his brother Eugene Rougon, whom he had
so often compromised, and whom, by an ironical turn of events, he was
perhaps going to protect, now that the former minister of the Empire
was only a simple deputy, resigned to the single role of standing by his
fallen master with the obstinacy with which his mother stood by her
family. She still obeyed docilely the orders of her eldest son, the genius,
fallen though he was; but Saccard, whatever he might do, had also a

part in her heart, from his indomitable determination to succeed, and
she was also proud of Maxime, Clotilde's brother, who had taken up his
quarters again, after the war, in his mansion in the Avenue of the Bois
de Boulogne, where he was consuming the fortune left him by his wife,
Louise de Mareuil, become prudent, with the wisdom of a man struck
in a vital part, and trying to cheat the paralysis which threatened him.
"Editor of the _Epoque_," she repeated; "it is really the position of a
minister which your father has won. And I forgot to tell you, I have
written again to your brother, to persuade him to come and see us. That
would divert him, it would do him good. Then, there is that child, that
poor Charles--"
She did not continue. This was another of the wounds from which her
pride bled; a son whom Maxime