THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя

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СКАЧАТЬ stayed her on the brink of wrong, prevented her accompanying you. Ah! don’t talk to me of love. I recognise only the love of justice and duty.”

      Philippe smiled disdainfully, and drew Blanche to his breast.

      “My poor Marius,” said he, “you are a good fellow but you have never been in love and do not understand its fever. This is my defence.”

      And he allowed Blanche to embrace him as she clung quiveringly to him. The poor child felt well enough that her only hope was in this man. She had given herself away, she belonged to him. And now she worshipped him almost as a slave, lovingly and in fear.

      Marius, in despair, felt that he would do no more good in talking reason to the lovers. He determined to show his own instincts, and asked for full details of the unhappy affair. Philippe quietly answered his questions.

      “I have known Blanche for nearly eight months,” he said. “I met her first at a public festival. She was smiling in the crowd, and I fancied her smile was meant for me. Since that day I have loved her and have sought every opportunity of meeting and addressing her.”

      “Haven’t you written to her?” asked Marius.

      “Yes, many times.”

      “Where are your letters?”

      “She has burnt them. Each time I wrote, I bought a bouquet of Fine, the florist on the Cours Saint Louis, and slipped my letter in amongst the flowers. Marguerite, the milkwoman, used to take Blanche the bouquets.”

      “And did your letters remain unanswered?”

      “At first, yes, Blanche refused the flowers. Then, she accepted them; and finally, she ended by answering me. I was madly in love. I dreamed of marrying her and of loving her for ever.”

      Marius shrugged his shoulders and drew Philippe on one side. He there continued the investigation with more harshness in his voice.

      “You’re either a fool or a liar,” said he quietly. “You know very well that M. de Cazalis, deputy, millionaire, all-powerful in Marseille, would never have given his niece to Philippe Cayol, poor, plebeian, and republican in addition to his other drawbacks. Confess that you have reckoned on the scandal that your elopement will occasion to force Blanche’s uncle to come to terms.”

      “Well! and what then?” retorted Philippe, impetuously. “Blanche loves me, and I have in no way forced her will. She has freely chosen me for her husband.”

      “Yes, yes, I am aware of all that. You have said it too often for me not to know how much of it I should believe. But you have not considered M. de Cazalis’ anger, which will fall with terrible force on you and your relations. I know the man; last night he no doubt exhibited his outraged pride to all Marseille. The best thing you can do is to take the young lady back to her home at Saint Joseph.”

      “No, I will not, I cannot. Blanche would never dare return home. She had only been at the country-house about a week; I was in the habit of seeing her twice a day, in a little pinewood. Her uncle knew nothing, and it must have been a great shock to him. It is impossible for us to go there at present.”

      “Well! listen, give me the letter for Abbé Chastanier. I will see him, and, if necessary, will go with him to call on M. de Cazalis. We must hush up the scandal. I have a task to perform, the task of repairing the wrong you have done. Promise me you will not leave this house, that you will await here my further instructions.”

      “I promise you to wait, if no danger threatens me.”

      Marius took Philippe’s hand and looked him loyally in the face.

      “Love this child well,” he said, in a deep voice, pointing to Blanche; “you will never be able to undo the wrong you have done her.”

      He was about to take his leave, when Mademoiselle de Cazalis came forward. She clasped her hands in supplication, stifling her sobs.

      “If you see my uncle, sir,” she stammered, “be sure and tell him that I love him. I cannot account for what has happened. I would like to remain Philippe’s wife and to return to my home in his company.”

      Marius slightly bowed.

      “Have hope,” he said.

      And he went off sad and troubled, feeling that his words were a lie, and that to hope would be madness.

      CHAPTER III

      THERE ARE MENIALS IN THE CHURCH

      ON reaching Marseille, Marius directed his steps to the church of Saint Victor, to which Abbé Chastanier was attached. It is one of the oldest churches in Marseille; its dark, high, and crenelated walls give it the appearance of a fortress. The rough people of the port hold it in particular veneration.

      The young fellow found the priest in the sacristy. He was a tall old man, with a long emaciated face, pale as wax; his sad eyes had a fixed look of suffering and misery. He had just returned from a funeral, and was slowly taking off his surplice.

      His history was a short and sad one. Born of peasant parents, and as gentle and innocent as a child, he had taken orders to satisfy the pious wish of his mother. In becoming a priest he had desired to perform an act of humility, of absolute devotion. He believed, in his simplicity, that a minister of God should bury himself in the infiniteness of divine love, renounce the ambitions and intrigues of the world, and live in the heart of the sanctuary, absolving sins with one hand and dispensing charity with the other.

      Ah! poor abbé! how they let him see that the simpleminded are only fit to suffer and remain in obscurity! He was soon to learn that ambition is a sacerdotal virtue, and that young priests often love God for the sake of the worldly favours that His church distributes. He beheld all his comrades of the seminary struggling tooth and nail. He assisted at these internal battles, those secret intrigues which turn a diocese into a turbulent little kingdom. And, as he remained humbly on his knees, as he did not seek to please the feminine portion of the congregation, as he asked for nothing and appeared piously stupid, he was endowed with a miserable living, thrown to him as one casts a bone to a dog.

      He remained thus, for forty years, in a little village situated between Aubagne and Cassis. His church was a kind of barn, lime-washed and icily bare; in winter, when the wind blew in one of the windowpanes, the interior was chilled for weeks together, for the poor priest did not always possess the few coppers necessary to replace the broken glass. Yet he never complained, he lived peacefully amidst his wretchedness and solitude. He even experienced great joy in suffering, in feeling himself kin to the beggars of his parish.

      He was sixty years old, when one of his sisters, a workwoman at Marseille, became an invalid. She wrote to him, beseeching him to come to her. The old priest therefore begged his bishop to find him a small place in one of the city churches. He was kept waiting the fulfilment of his modest request for several months, when at length he received a call to Saint Victor. There he had to undertake, so to say, all the roughest work, all the labour that brought least renown and least profit. He prayed over the coffins of the poor and led them to the cemetery; he even at times fulfilled the duties of sacristan.

      It was at this period that he began really to suffer. So long as he had remained in his desert, he had been able to be simple, poor, and old at his ease. Now, he felt that his poverty and old age, his gentleness and simplicity were looked upon СКАЧАТЬ