THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя

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      Isnard’s cottage was on the slope of the hill which stretches to the left of the Vauvenargues road after one has passed the Repentance glen. It was a small, one-storied house; the ground door consisted of a single room, containing a rickety table and three old rush-bottomed chairs. A ladder led to the upper room, a kind of loft almost entirely bare, and containing merely a wretched mattress on a heap of hay. Isnard had considerately placed a sheet at the foot of the mattress.

      Philippe’s intention was to go on the morrow to Aix, and procure information as to M. de Cazalis’ intentions towards him. He felt that he would be unable to hide himself any longer. He went to rest in an almost peaceful frame of mind, calmed by Blanche’s kind words as she judged events with all a young girl’s hopefulness.

      It was now twenty days that the fugitives had been running about the country, and during this time the gendarmes had been scouring the neighbourhood, following on their track, sometimes losing it, but always getting set right again by some slight circumstance.

      The deputy’s anger had only increased with the delay; his pride was irritated by each fresh obstacle. At Lambesc, the gendarmes came a few hours too late; the arrival of the fugitives at Toulon was not known until the morrow of their return to Aix; everywhere they escaped as though by a miracle.

      The deputy ended by accusing the police of being lukewarm. He was informed at last that the lovers were in the neighbourhood of Aix, and that they were on the point of being arrested. He hastened there to assist in the search.

      The woman of the Cours Sextius, who had given them hospitality for a few hours, was seized with terror. To avoid being accused of complicity, she told all she knew, and said that they were probably hidden in one of Isnard’s cottages. Isnard, who was questioned, quietly denied everything. He declared that he had not seen his relative for several months past. This was happening at the very time Philippe and Blanche were entering the cottage in the Trois-bons-Dieux district. The draper was unable to warn the lovers during the night.

      At five o’clock the next morning a police commissary called on him and informed him that he was going to search his house and three cottages.

      M. de Cazalis remained at Aix, saying he was afraid he would kill his niece’s abductor, if he ever met him face to face. The officers sent to search the cottage at Puyricard found the nest empty. Isnard obligingly offered to lead two gendarmes to his place at Tholonet, feeling certain that they would waste their time. The police commissary, also accompanied by two gendarmes, went to the Trois-bons-Dieux. He took a locksmith with him, Isnard having vaguely stated that the key of the cottage was hidden under a stone on the right of the door.

      It was about six o’clock when the commissary arrived there. Everything was closed, and not a sound came from inside. He went forward and, hammering on the door with his fist, exclaimed in a loud voice:

      “Open in the name of the law!”

      Echo alone answered. Nothing stirred. After waiting a few minutes, the commissary turned towards the locksmith, saying:

      “Pick the lock.”

      The locksmith selected his tools, and the grating of the iron could soon be heard in the silence. The shutter of a window was then violently thrown back, and Philippe Cayol, disdainful and angry, his neck and arms bare, appeared in the bright light of the rising sun.

      “What do you want?” he asked, leaning on the windowsill.

      The first blow struck by the commissary had awoke the fugitives. Seated on the edge of the mattress, still half asleep, they listened anxiously to the voices without.

      The words “In the name of the law!” — that cry which rings so terribly in the ears of the guilty, struck the young man full in the chest. He jumped up, quivering, bewildered, not knowing what to do. The young girl, huddled up in the sheet, her eyes still heavy with sleep, was shedding tears of shame and despair.

      Philippe understood that all was over, and that he had only to surrender himself. But a dull feeling of revolt rose within him. So his dreams were dead, he would never be Blanche’s husband, he had carried off an heiress to be himself cast into gaol: instead of the happy existence he had dreamed of, he ended by gaining a prison cell. Then a cowardly thought passed through his mind: it occurred to him to leave the girl there and fly in the direction of Vauvenargues, in the denies of Sainte-Victoria; perhaps he could escape by a window at the back of the cottage. He bent over Blanche, and in a low, hesitating voice told her of his project. The young girl, half stifled by her sobs, did not understand nor even hear him. He saw, with anguish, that she was not in a state to assist his flight.

      At this moment he heard the sound of the workman picking the lock. The poignant drama that had just been enacted in that bare room had lasted at most a minute. He felt himself lost, and his chafed pride restored his courage. Had he been armed he would have defended himself. But conscious that he was no abductor, Blanche having accompanied him voluntarily, he felt that he had nothing to be ashamed of. So he angrily pushed back the shutter and asked what was wanted.

      “Open the door,” ordered the police commissary. “We will tell you afterwards what we want.”

      Philippe went down and opened the door.

      “Are you M. Philippe Cayol?” resumed the commissary.

      “Yes,” replied the young man energetically.

      “Then I arrest you on the charge of abduction. You have carried off a young girl under sixteen years of age, who is no doubt hidden here with you.”

      Philippe smiled, and said: “Mademoiselle Blanche do Cazalis is upstairs, and can tell you if I used any violence towards her. I don’t know what you mean by talking of abduction. I was about to go this very day to M. de Cazalis and ask him for his niece’s hand in marriage.”

      Blanche, pale and shivering, had just come down the ladder. She had dressed herself hastily.

      “Mademoiselle,” said the commissary, “I have orders to take you to your uncle, who is awaiting you at Aix. He is in great grief.”

      “I am deeply sorry for having displeased my uncle,” replied Blanche with some firmness. “But you must not accuse M. Cayol, whom I accompanied of my own free will.”

      And deeply affected, on the point of again bursting into sobs, she turned towards the young man and continued:

      “Have hope, Philippe. I love you and will beseech my uncle to be good to us. Our separation will only last a few days.”

      Philippe looked at her sadly and shook his head.

      “You are a weak and timid child,” he replied slowly. Then he added in a harsher tone: “Remember, only, that you belong to me. If you forsake me you will find me ever in your life, the recollection of my kisses will never cease scorching your lips, and that will be your punishment.”

      She was weeping.

      “Love me well, as I love you,” he resumed more gently.

      The police commissary placed Blanche in a carriage he had had brought to the spot, and took her back to Aix, whilst the two gendarmes marched Philippe off and placed him in the prison of the town.

      CHAPTER VII

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