THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя

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      Marius passed his hand across his forehead.

      “Oh! I remember,” he exclaimed, “it’s frightful!”

      Then he gave Fine an account of the two terrible nights he had passed in the gambling-house. He made her a confession, retracing in detail all he had suffered.

      “It’s a terrible lesson,” he remarked, in conclusion. “I doubted and turned to chance. For a moment I shuddered. I fancied I felt all the instincts of the gambler within me. But I’ve been cured with a red-hot iron.”

      He stopped and then continued anxiously:

      “How long have I been ill?”

      “About three weeks,” answered Fine.

      “Oh! Heavens! Three weeks lost. We have only about twenty days before us.”

      “Do not trouble about that, but get well.”

      “Hasn’t M. Martelly sent to inquire about me?”

      “Don’t worry yourself, I tell you. I have been to see him and everything is arranged.”

      Marius seemed more calm and Fine continued:

      “There is only one course to follow, and that is to borrow money of M. Martelly. We should have commenced by that. All will be well. Now, sleep, do not speak; the doctor has forbidden it.”

      The convalescence advanced at rapid strides, thanks to Fine’s tender and devoted care. The young girl understood that her smile would now suffice to cure Marius, and each morning, she came with that and her fresh breath which filled the little room with a puff of spring.

      “Ah! how nice it is to be ill!” the invalid often repeated.

      The two lovers passed a charming week in this way. Their love had increased, amidst the suffering and dread of death. A new bond united them. Henceforth they were one.

      When, at the expiration of a week of gay and touching intimacy, Marius was able to get downstairs and go for a short walk in the sun on the Cours Bonaparte, he and Fine were taken for two lovers on the morrow of their betrothal. They had been affianced in the midst of devotedness and grief. Now, as they walked along slowly, the flower-girl supported the young man, who was still weak, and gazed at him with bewitching eyes. She was proud of her work, proud at her lover’s recovery, and he thanked her with smiles full of passionate gratitude.

      The next day, the clerk wished to go back to his office, and Fine had to get angry to make him remain at home a day or two longer. He was impatient to see M. Martelly; he desired to feel the ground and ascertain if he could rely on the shipowner.

      “But there is no hurry,” said the flower-girl, with a calmness that astounded the young man. “We have a whole week before us. It will suffice if we have the money at the last moment.”

      At the end of two days Marius obtained the young girl’s permission to return to his work, and it was arranged between them that they would leave for Aix on the following Monday. Fine spoke as if she had the amount necessary for Philippe’s liberty in her pocket.

      Marius went to his office and was received by M. Martelly with paternal kindness. The shipowner wanted to give him another week’s holiday, but the young man assured him that work would complete his convalescence. He felt ashamed in his presence, he was thinking that in two or three days he would be making an effort to borrow a large sum of money from him and that thought troubled him, moreover M. Martelly gazed at him with a piercing look that quite embarrassed him.

      “I have seen Mademoiselle Fine,” said the shipowner accompanying him to his office, “she is a charming person, a noble heart. Be very fond of her, my friend.”

      He smiled again and withdrew. When Marius was alone he experienced inestimable delight at finding himself in the small office where he had lived and worked so long. He again took possession of his little domain, found pleasure in seating himself before his table, in touching the papers and pens lying there. He had been almost dead and he was once more face to face with his daily placid existence.

      The room in which he was working, was opposite the shipowner’s private apartments and sometimes visitors made a mistake and knocked at his door. On that particular morning as he was about to get to work, he heard two discreet knocks and shouted to come in.

      A man dressed in a long black frock coat made his appearance. His face was shaven, his manner was gentle and he had all the humble and sneaking demeanour of a person connected with the Roman Catholic Church.

      “Mademoiselle Claire Martelly?” he inquired.

      Marius, who was occupied in examining him, did not answer: he was wondering where on earth he had seen this devout personage before. The man was hesitating, but he at last pulled a prayer-book confined in a case, out of the immense pockets of his overcoat.

      “I have brought her,” he continued, in a fluty voice, “her prayer-book, which she forgot yesterday evening in a confessional.”

      Marius continued wondering: “Where on earth have I seen the face of that canting rascal?” The man no doubt understood the mute interrogation of his look. He bent his head slightly, adding:

      “I am the beadle at the Church of St. Victor.”

      These few words were like a beam of light for the young man. He remembered having seen the individual before him in the vestry-room, on one occasion when he went to fetch Abbé Chastanier. His intelligence received a sort of shock that stimulated it, and urged on by the power of divination, as it were, he said:

      “It was M. Donadéi who sent you, was it not?”

      “Yes,” answered the beadle, after further hesitation.

      “Very good! give me the prayer-book. I will hand it to Mademoiselle Claire.”

      “But the abbé particularly told me I was to give it to no one but the young lady.”

      “She shall have it in a moment. Perhaps she is not up yet: you will be disturbing her.”

      “You promise me to do the errand?”

      “Certainly.”

      “Tell the young lady that the abbé found this prayer-book in his confessional yesterday, and told me to bring it to her. The abbé sends his compliments to Mademoiselle.”

      “I will tell her all that, rest assured.”

      The beadle placed the prayer-book on the table and withdrew after making a bow. But in closing the door he hesitated again and looked distrustful.

      When he had at last gone, Marius could not help feeling surprised at his persistence in wishing to see Mademoiselle Claire himself. He vaguely remembered the praises Donadéi had bestowed on M. Martelly’s young sister. He looked at the prayer-book and his thoughts were busy with all kinds of reasonings and explanations.

      He stretched out his arm and took the prayer-book. He drew it from its case. It was one of those bulky volumes, almost square, with a handsome binding and corners in open silver-work. The initials of the young girl were interlaced on one of the sides.

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