Claude's Confession and Other Early Novels of Émile Zola. Эмиль Золя

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СКАЧАТЬ emanations of the evening had given place to a delicious coolness. The softened silence, the transparent gloom of the infinite, fell slowly from the depths of the sky, and the fête of the stars followed the fête of the lamps. Honest people, at last, could amuse themselves a little.

      I felt myself thoroughly rejuvenated, brothers, the hour of solitude having arrived. I walked with a firm step, ascending and descending the neighboring streets; then, I saw a gray shadow glide along the houses. This shadow came rapidly towards me, without seeming to see me; from the lightness of the step and the rhythmical rustle of the garments, I recognized a woman. She was about to run against me, when she instinctively raised her eyes. Her visage was revealed to me by the glimmer of a neighboring lantern, and I recognized it immediately as belonging to the girl who loved me: she was not the immortal in the white muslin cloud as I had seen her in the booth, but a poor daughter of this earth clad in faded calico. In her poverty, she seemed to me more charming than before, though pale and fatigued. I could not doubt the evidence of my senses: I saw before me the large eyes, the caressing lips of the vision, and, besides, I distinguished, on inspecting her thus closely, that sweetness of the features imparted by suffering.

      As she stopped for a second, brothers, I seized her hand and kissed it, forgetting Laurence. She raised her head and smiled vaguely upon me, without seeking to withdraw her fingers. Seeing me remain silent, emotion having choked the words in my throat, she shrugged her shoulders and resumed her rapid walk.

      I ran after her, caught her by the arm, and walked beside her. She laughed almost silently; then, she shivered and said, in a low voice:

      “I am cold: let us hasten along.”

      Poor child, she was cold! Beneath her thin black shawl, her shoulders trembled in the cool morning breeze. I said to her, gently:

      “Do you know me?”

      Again she raised her eyes, and, without hesitating, replied: “No.”

      I know not what rapid thought shot through my mind. In my turn, I shivered.

      “Where are you going?” I asked.

      She shrugged her shoulders, and said to me, in a childish voice, with a little, careless pout:

      “I am going home.”

      We walked along down the avenue.

      I saw upon a bench two soldiers, one of whom was discoursing gravely, while the other listened with respect. These soldiers were the sergeant and the conscript. The sergeant, who seemed to me greatly moved, made me a mocking salute, murmuring:

      “The rich lend, sometimes, Monsieur.”

      The conscript, a tender and innocent soul, said to me, in a tone full of grief:

      “I had only her, Monsieur: you are stealing from me the girl who loves me!”

      I crossed the thoroughfare, and took another street., Three youths came towards us, holding each other by the arm and singing very loudly. I recognized the schoolboys. The little wretches had no further need to feign intoxication. They stopped, almost bursting with laughter; then, they followed me a few steps, crying after me, each one in an uncertain voice:

      “Ho! Monsieur, Madame is deceiving you: Madame is the person who loves me!”

      I felt a cold sweat moisten my temples. I hastened my steps in my eagerness to flee, thinking no more of the woman I was dragging along on my arm. At the end of the avenue, as I was about at last to quit this accursed spot, on stepping down from the sidewalk, I ran against a man who was sitting at his ease upon the curbstone. He was leaning his head against a lamppost, his face turned towards the sky, and was executing with the aid of his fingers a very complicated calculation.

      He turned his eyes, and, without moving his head from his pillow, stammered out:

      “Ah! it is you, Monsieur! You must help me to count the stars. I have already found several millions of them, but I am afraid I have forgotten one somewhere. The welfare of humanity, Monsieur, depends upon statistics alone!”

      A hiccough interrupted him. He resumed, with tears in his eyes:

      “Do you know what a star costs? Surely, the great God has gone to vast expense on high, and the people lack bread, Monsieur! Of what good are those lamps up there? Can they be eaten? What is the practical application of them, I beg of you? We have no need whatever of this eternal fête!”

      He had succeeded in turning his body around; he gazed about him with perplexed looks, tossing his heap with an indignant air. It was then that he noticed my companion. He gave a start, and, with purple visage, greedily stretched out his arms.

      “Ah! ah!” he stuttered, “it is the person who loves me!”

      The girl and I walked on a short distance.

      “Listen,” said she: “I am poor; I do what I can to get something to eat. Last winter, I spent fifteen hours a day bent over my work, an honest trade, and yet I was sometimes without bread. In the spring, I threw my needle out of the window. I had found an occupation less fatiguing and more lucrative.

      “I dress myself every evening in white muslin. Alone in a sort of nook, leaning against the back of an armchair, I have nothing to do but smile from six o’clock until midnight. From time to time, I make a courtesy, I send a kiss into space. For this I am paid three francs a sitting.

      “Opposite me, behind a little glass enclosed in the partition, I incessantly see an eye looking at me. Sometimes it is black, sometimes blue. Without this eye, I should be perfectly happy; it spoils the business for me. At times, from always finding it alone and steadily fixed there, I am filled with wild terror, I am tempted to cry out and flee!

      “But one must work for one’s living. I smile, I courtesy, I send my kiss. At midnight, I wash off my rouge and resume my calico dress. Bah! how many women, without being forced to do so, air their graces before a mirror!”

      By this time, we had reached the wretched abode in which this girl dwelt. I left her at the door, and returned to my mansarde and my misery.

      CHAPTER XXVI.

      Table of Contents

      AT MARIE’S BEDSIDE.

      I TAKE a sad pleasure in being in Marie’s chamber. In the morning, I go there and sit upon the edge of the dying girl’s bed; I live there as much as possible, departing with regret. Everywhere else, I belong to Laurence, everywhere else, I am feverish, excited and tormented. I hasten to reach this spot of pacification, I enter it with the feeling of confidence and comfort experienced by an invalid who is going to breathe a milder atmosphere, by which he expects to be cured.

      I love death. The chamber is lukewarm, damp; the light there is gray and softened, made up of shadow and white brightness; everything there floats in a final languor, in a soft and dreamy half transparency. One does not know how sweet to a bleeding heart is the silence which reigns in a chamber where a young girl is dying. This silence is a strange, peculiar silence, full of exquisite mildness, full of restrained tears. The sounds — the clink of a glass, the crackling of a piece of furniture — are subdued, drag along like half stifled complaints; the cries from without enter in murmurs of pity, of compassionate encouragement. СКАЧАТЬ