STORIES FOR NINON & NEW STORIES FOR NINON. Эмиль Золя

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      VI

      I went down the three stairs; I found myself again among the crowd decided on seeking “She who loves me,” now that I knew her by her smile.

      The lamps smoked, the tumult increased, the throng of people threatened the safety of the booths. The fête had reached that ideal hour of joy, at which one runs the risk of enjoying the happiness of being stifled.

      Standing on my toes, I had an horizon of cotton caps and silk hats. I advanced, jostling the men and turning with precaution round the ample petticoats of the ladies. Perhaps it was this pink hood; perhaps this tulle cap trimmed with mauve ribbons; perhaps this delicious straw toque with an ostrich feather. Alas! the hood was sixty years of age; the cap, abominably ugly, was leaning amorously on the shoulder of a sapper; the toque was shouting with laughter, enlarging the finest eyes in the world, and I did not recognise them in the least.

      Hovering above crowds is a sort of anguish, a kind of immense sadness, as if a breath of pity and terror came from the multitude. I have never found myself in a great gathering of people without experiencing vague uneasiness. It seems to me that a terrible misfortune threatens these men assembled together, that a single flash will suffice in the exaltation of their movements and voices, to strike them with immobility and eternal silence.

      Little by little I slackened my pace, contemplating this joy which lacerated my heart. An old beggar, with a stiffened body, horribly distorted by paralysis, was standing upright at the foot of a tree, in the yellow light of the lamps. He raised his pallid face towards the passersby, blinking his eyes in a most lamentable way, in order to excite more pity. He gave his limbs sudden fits of shivering, which shook him like a dead branch. The fresh and blushing young girls passed before this hideous sight laughing.

      Further on, two workmen were fighting at the door of a wineshop. The glasses had been upset in the struggle, and the wine, streaming on the pavement, had the appearance of blood that had come from deep wounds.

      The laughter seemed to change into sobs, the lights became an immense fire, the crowd turned about struck with horror. I moved along, feeling intensely sad, peering into the youthful faces and unable to find “She who loves me.”

      VII

      I saw a man standing before one of the posts to which the lamps were affixed, and contemplating it with the air of a person profoundly engrossed in thought. From his anxious look I imagined he was seeking the solution to some serious problem. That man was the People’s Friend Turning his head, he perceived me.

      “Sir,” he said, “the oil used at these festivals costs twenty sous the litre. In a litre, there are twenty small glass cups like those you see there: that is to say a sou of oil for each cup. This post has sixteen rows of eight cups each: one hundred and twenty-eight cups in all. Moreover — follow my calculations carefully — I have counted sixty similar posts in the avenue, which makes seven thousand six hundred and eighty cups, consequently seven thousand six hundred and eighty sous, or rather three hundred and eighty-four francs.”

      Whilst speaking thus, the People’s Friend gesticulated, accentuating the figures with his voice, curving his long body, as if to put himself within reach of my weak understanding. When he was silent he threw himself triumphantly backward; then, he crossed his arms, looking me in the face with deep concern.

      “Three hundred and eighty-four francs worth of oil,” he exclaimed, scanning each syllable, “and the poor are in want of bread, sir! I ask you, and I ask you with tears in my eyes, would it not be more honourable for humanity, to distribute these three hundred and eighty-four francs to the three thousand indigent people in this faubourg. Such a charitable measure would give each of them about two sous and a half of bread. This thought is worthy of being pondered over by tenderhearted people, sir.”

      Seeing that I contemplated him with curiosity, he continued in a low voice, assuring the safety of his gloves between his fingers:

      “The poor should not make merry, sir. It is absolutely dishonest for them to forget their poverty for an hour. Who would weep over the people’s misfortunes if the government were often to treat them to such saturnalias.”

      He wiped away a tear and left me. I saw him enter a wineshop where he drowned his emotion in five or six drams taken one after the other at the counter.

      VIII

      The last illumination lamp had just gone out. The crowd had dispersed. By the vacillating light of the gas, I saw only a few dark forms strolling beneath the trees, couples of belated lovers, drunkards, and policemen giving their melancholy thoughts an airing. The grey and silent booths stretched along on either side of the avenue, like tents in a deserted camp.

      The morning wind, a wind damp with dew, made the leaves of the elms rustle. The sour emanations of the evening had given place to delicious freshness. Soft silence and the transparent shadow of the infinite, fell slowly from the depths of heaven, and the festival of the stars succeeded that of the illumination lamps. Respectable folk would at last be able to amuse themselves a little.

      I felt quite a man again, the hour of my delight having arrived. I was going along at a smart pace, ascending and descending the walks, when I saw a grey shadow flitting along the houses. This shadow came towards me, rapidly, without seeming to see me; by the light step, by the cadenced rhythm of the clothing, I knew it was a woman.

      She was about to knock up against me, when she instinctively raised her eyes. I saw her face by the light of a neighbouring lamp, and then I recognised “She who loves me:” not the immortal in the cloud of white muslin; but a poor girl of the earth, attired in washed-out calico. She still appeared charming in her misery, although pale and tired. There was no room for doubt: there were the great eyes, the fondling lips of the vision; and, moreover, gazing at her thus at close quarters, one could perceive that the gentle aspect of her features was the result of suffering.

      As she stopped for a second, I grasped her hand, which I kissed. She raised her head and gave me a vague smile without seeking to withdraw her fingers. Seeing I remained silent, and that emotion was choking me, she shrugged her shoulders and resumed her rapid walk.

      I ran after her, accompanied her, my arm round her waist. She laughed to herself; then shivered and said in a low voice:

      “I’m cold: let us walk quick.”

      Poor angel, she was cold! Her shoulders trembled beneath the thin black shawl in the fresh night wind. I kissed her on the forehead and inquired softly:

      “Do you know me?”

      She raised her eyes a third time and answered without hesitation:

      “No.”

      I know not what rapid reasoning passed through my mind. In my turn I shuddered.

      “Where are we going to?” I asked her.

      She shrugged her shoulders with an unconcerned little pout, and answered in her childlike voice:

      “Wherever you like, to my place, to yours; what does it matter?”

      IX

      We were still walking, descending the avenue.

      On a bench I perceived two soldiers, one of whom was gravely descanting, while the other listened respectfully. It was the sergeant and the conscript The sergeant, who seemed very much affected, made СКАЧАТЬ