THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя

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      Every now and then he was seized with sadness. In silence and solitude memory awoke. He recalled his life. He shut his eyes, and all his existence passed before him. From that moment the ceiling faded from his view, and he looked within and examined himself. These were hours without bitterness, in which, indeed, he found solace, for he found no remorse in his conscience.

      His meditations always brought the smiling faces of George and Jeanne before him. That sight, far from reawakening his love-fever, consoled and delighted him. He pictured to himself that their happiness was of his making; he was departing gladly, in having united for ever the only beings he loved in the world.

      With that clear-sightedness that a dying person’s brain has, his mission seemed to have been such as it ought to have been. He realised that he had now fully accomplished the wish of the dead woman. In his last hours he felt that his very love must needs have entered into his task. He would not have watched over Jeanne with such jealous care if he had not loved her. When she was dying, Madame de Rionne must have foreseen the future; she must have said to herself that Daniel would love her daughter, that he would watch over her as a lover, and that, when it was necessary, he would be ready to sacrifice himself and die.

      One day a doubt came into Daniel’s mind. He nearly relapsed into his old agony. He asked himself whether the dead woman had not had a secret thought, and had not given him Jeanne for a wife. Perhaps, after all, he was not fulfilling her last wishes, in dying, in marrying her dear daughter to one other than himself. His heart began to throb; he felt fresh life coming back to him.

      But he at once perceived that this thought was a cowardly one, an expiring cry of his love - passion. A melancholy smile came to his lips when he remembered his ugliness; he knew too well, from bitter experience, that he was born that he might be for ever loving others and never being loved himself. He had acted with wisdom; he had had courage and sense. And peace and silence came to him anew. He was dying — grand, noble, and victorious.

      The end drew near. One morning the death-agony set in. An old neighbour came and established herself at his bedside to close his eyes when he was dead.

      Daniel had not a word of complaint to make. He still heard the sound of the waves, and liked to fancy that the sea was mourning for him, and this was sweet consolation to him.

      As he opened his eyes to see the light for the last time, he observed two figures, George and Jeanne, at his bedside, gazing at him and weeping bitterly. He was not astonished to see them there. He smiled, and said to them, in a feeble voice:

      “How good of you to come to me! I scarcely dared hope to bid you farewell....

      You see I did not want to disturb you nor sadden you in your joy.... But I am very happy to see you, and to thank you.” Jeanne contemplated him with poignant grief. She looked at his pale countenance, which coming death was beautifying. It seemed to her as if there was a halo round that wide forehead. The eyes were sunk in a soft limpidity; the lips had a divine smile. And the young widow thought she had never seen a face in which she could read such high nobility and such deep affection.

      “Daniel,” she asked, gently, “why have you deceived us?”

      The dying man raised himself up. He looked at his friends reproachfully.

      “Do not say that, Jeanne,” he answered; “I cannot understand you.”

      “We know all.... We do not want you to die; we come to bring you happiness.”

      “Then, if you know all, do not spoil my work.”

      And Daniel fell back again on the pillow. The little blood left in him rushed to his cheeks. Even in death he remained the untutored child, with hidden self-sacrifice and silent worship. George drew near him.

      “In pity, listen to me, my friend; do not burden me with remorse. We have lived eighteen years together; we have been like brothers. I do not wish you to suffer.... You see I am calm...

      “I am calmer than you, my poor George,” resumed Daniel, smiling. “I am about to die. All ends well.... I regret now that you came, for I see you are not going to be reasonable. You say you know all, and you know nothing, for you do not know that I die happy and peaceful, that I am well satisfied to end my life thus, looking at you both.... It is I who should ask your pardon, for I have had many moments of weakness.”

      And as George wept on hearing these words, Daniel took his hand in his and said, in a feeble voice:

      “You will love her well, will you not? Don’t grieve, for I am going to rest; I am so weary.”

      Then he looked at Jeanne with affectionate sweetness, and continued:

      “You know all? Then, know that your mother was a saint, and that I worshipped her memory. You were quite a little girl when she died; you were playing on the carpet, I remember. I took you up in my arms and you did not cry; indeed, you began to smile....”

      “Forgive me,” murmured Jeanne, in the midst of her sobs; “I have been ignorant and cruel.”

      “I have nothing to forgive you; I have only to thank you for the joy I have experienced in loving you.... My gratitude could not equal the benefits your mother showered on me. You, my dear, have been good in bearing with a poor creature like myself. What long, blissful hours I have passed in looking at you! There, you cannot know how largely you nave rewarded me. I have no regrets; I die full of peace and full of bliss.”

      His eyes began to grow dim, his voice was nearly inaudible. He was slowly expiring. He gazed at Jeanne with a wondrous expression, passing away with a last look of adoration.

      “But you cannot die thus, for I love you — I love you!” madly cried the young woman.

      Daniel had a sudden revival. His eyes opened wide again, he rose up on his bed and spoke again in a strange, frightened voice: “Do not say that; you give me pain — you are cruel. Have mercy on me!”

      “I love you, I love you!” repeated Jeanne, more passionately still.

      “No, no; it cannot be. You forget; you think I am suffering and you wish to console me. I tell you I am happy.... You see that the end is near.... You should not have said that.”

      He calmed himself and smiled anew. A white light seemed to shine on his face. He stretched out his poor, thin arms and said:

      “Come close to me.... Give me your hands; I wish it.”

      And when Jeanne and George were in front of him, he took their right hands and joined them together. He held them thus locked in his till the sacrifice was complete, till he was dead.

      And as he expired, as he stood on the threshold of eternity, from the depths of the blinding light into which he was passing, he heard a well-known voice, a joyful voice, saying’ to him: “You will marry her to a man worthy of her, and your task will be accomplished.... Come to me.”

      THE END

      THE MYSTERY OF MARSEILLE

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       PART I

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