Héloïse Pajadou’s Calvary (Le Calvaire de Héloïse Pajadou originally), by Lucien Descaves, and published for the first time in 1883, is a Naturalist novel set in mid-18th century France, during the French Second Empire or possibly later.
This is a tale of marital infidelity on the part of a vulgar, but wily, inveterate skirt-chaser, Pajadou, and the toll his extra-marital affairs, ever more audacious, take on his good, good-hearted, faithful wife Héloïse, who runs a laundry business with him and her mother, in a small country village outside Paris.
Just when Pajadouʼs behavior seemed like it could not get any worse, the family-owned business apprentices Reine, a girl “not yet fourteen years old; she looked twelve, if that. She was small in stature, very slender, with an immensely sweet prettiness. Her very blond and very fine hair were tucked up under a little white bonnet pulled down over her ears. But what was particularly pretty about her was her complexion. Her white skin, a transparent, delicately pink white skin, which her eyelashes cast a shadow on, gave her a luminous face: it was like a spray of flowers...”
If you like Naturalism -- and what is there not to like about the Naturalist style of writing -- you will like this story. Which is not to say that it is pure Naturalism, but maybe it is (will need a definition here). In any case, I'm not entirely sure that Lucien Descaves hopped into the same bed with Emile Zola, as perhaps maybe Paul Alexis did. Literarily, not physically.
It is probably as Naturalistic a novel as one will find, get, or wish for, in the style of L'Assommoir arguably -- particularly if Naturalism refers to a written piece of literature whose theme scrapes along the bottom of the human well. If Naturalism means prurient, then this is Naturalist par excellence. If you like prurience, you'll love this novel. If you like Naturalism, the same.
It's a good read. In all transparency (as everything must be transparent nowadays, -- no more surprises -- from the comments we make, to the decisions we decide on, to the people we fantasize about, to every wretched thought rattling around in our head, to the clothes we wear like so many Kings in new habit), -- I translated it.