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

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СКАЧАТЬ all the tender joys of love. One object of affection is enough to fill an existence, and for her the dear little one was the necessary and consoling object of affection.

      For five years she lived this solitary life, alone with Jeanne. She allowed no one to come near her child, wishing to be her servant and friend, and in every way her guide. She took her out walking, played with her, gave her her first lessons, and so developed her mind and heart. Her own life practically dead, she only existed for and by her child.

      What happy dreams she had during those long hours of voluntary solitude! Whilst Jeanne played at her feet she studied her in her first lispings. Naturally she wished her to be sincere at heart. She looked forward to being always able to help her, and to be for ever by her side as a counsellor and exemplar.

      Then, her imagination taking flight, she saw her married and happy. She then transferred her dreams of happiness in thought to her daughter. She had never once thought that death could come and separate them. Oh, those happy days! And now death was about to take her, and Jeanne would remain alone. Her dreams had been false to her. She would not be able to let her gain by her own experience. Now she would not be able to develop her intelligence or guide her heart. Tomorrow Jeanne would pass into the hands of her father — into the hands of a reckless, unreliable man, who cared not one iota for the legacy of the dead woman, his wife. It thus happened that her soul was tranquilised in dictating to Daniel the testament of her love.

      Whilst Madame de Rionne was dying, her husband was with Mademoiselle Julia, a ravishing creature, not the least wearisome, but wickedly pleasant withal. He knew full well that his wife was ill; but in order that he himself should not suffer too much, he tried to consider the disease which was to carry her off as a slight indisposition, and he had succeeded in persuading himself that he could live his usual life without worrying himself in any way about her.

      Such was the nature of this man, this good fellow, whose purse was always open. He would give a sovereign to a poor man, perhaps, but at the same time he would not have sacrificed any of his pleasures. He avoided all emotion, and cheated himself with that sophistication of conceit which makes all cowards and egoists self-deceivers. He had seen the doctor that morning, and repented that he had asked some questions, for the doctor told him frankly that death might come at any moment At this blunt announcement he felt a dreadful chill flow through his blood. Death terrified him; he could not bear to hear it spoken of without shuddering. Then the thought of his wife’s death had rudely shown him all the vexations which would result from the mourning. It is true he would regain his liberty, but what a lot of worry and fuss there would be: first the funeral, then compulsory abstention from all pleasure, and all the rest of it! The dreaded idea of being pitied; he trembled at the thought of any privation. His wife could not die like that; he said it was only a fortnight since she was well. He uttered these things, in a dry, anxious, rapid tone, seeking to recover that happy equilibrium they wanted to rob him of.

      At last, towards evening, he hurried to see Julia. Yet he was not perfectly reassured, and every now and then he turned round as if some one was there, bringing him bad news. However, at the end of half an hour he recovered his selfish serenity. His mistress’s little blue drawingroom was a quiet corner where he could be at his ease. He went there as a dog goes to his kennel — because it was snug and warm.

      But this day Julia was nervous, and in a capricious humour. She received him very coldly. He cared little for this, for what he loved in her were the faint perfumes from her body, her loosely-hanging clothes, her freedom of speech and caresses, and the disorder that reigned in her apartment. He joked with her, made himself at home, and forgot everything unpleasant. Notwithstanding, however, she continued to sulk. He spoke of taking a private box for her for the first night of a play at the theatre. He was about to shake off his feeling of ennui when a parlour-maid came in and said he was wanted as quickly as possible at home. Monsieur de Rionne was stupefied. A violent remorse seized his heart. He dared not embrace his mistress, and hurried off after merely shaking hands. But on the staircase he thought to himself he might just as well have embraced her. The truth was, he was afraid he had offended her, and that he would not be able to go back later when he should have done with this deplorable business.

      Below he found Louis, his valet-de-chambre — a great, fair, frigid fellow, whom he had made his tool. Louis had the merit of never showing any emotion outwardly, never speaking, and never hearing anything he was not wanted to. He was a most excellent machine, which worked when it was wound up. But, looked at closely, there was a suspicion of a smirk on his lips, which showed that the machine had certain secret wheels working on their own account.

      Louis simply informed his master that he had heard Mademoiselle Jeanne running about the house calling for her father. He had thought madame was dying, and he had also thought he might come and disturb him.

      Monsieur de Rionne felt quite upset; tears of fear and pain welled into his eyes. It was a selfish, personal suffering which tortured him. Had he been questioned he would have exposed the truth that grief for his wife had no place in the depths of his despair.

      However, in good faith, he lied to himself, and he had the consolation of thinking that he was really weeping at Blanche’s approaching death, and thus he arrived home, suffering but rebellious.

      When he entered the room where the sick woman lay in agony, he was seized with faintness. His brain no longer retained Julia’s little blue room, but his flesh had kept a remembrance of it, and having just left that perfumed retreat, it quivered in this great gloomy apartment through which was passing the cold breath of death.

      He drew near the bed, and when he saw the pale face of the dying woman he burst into tears. He thought of Julia out there in her big armchair, with a look half-cross, half-smiling, and sulking ‘midst her waving curls. Here, in the soft dim light, he saw Blanche, her head resting on her pillow, her eyes closed, and, her features already contracted by the cold finger of death, she lay and looked like a marble figure.

      Monsieur de Rionne stood one moment speechless before that motionless face, which yet had a significant and terrible eloquence for him. Then, thinking that some sign of life would calm his anguish — he longed to see her part her tightened lips — he bent over her in a trembling voice and said:

      “Blanche! Do you hear me? Speak to me, I beg of you.”

      The face of the dying woman twitched slightly, and she raised her eyelids. Her eyes, unnaturally bright, wandered here and there. They looked about in a dazed kind of way, resting at length on Monsieur de Rionne. He had never seen any one die, and, as he had never known genuine sorrow — sorrow that drives one to frantically embrace the corpse of a loved one — he analysed the horror of death. He was thinking of himself, reflecting that he too would die one day, and that he would be like that.

      Blanche fixed her eyes on her husband, and recognised him. She sighed, and tried to smile. In that last hour an idea of forgiveness was taking possession of her. Yet she was battling with herself. The bitterness of her married life was recalled to her, and, in order to be gentle with him, she was obliged to fancy that she was dead already, that earthly miseries no longer weighed her down. Moreover, she did not remember having had her husband summoned.

      At one moment, finding no one in whom to confide, she had the idea of exacting a vow from him. Now that she had poured out her heart, and that she had been able to set a guardian over her daughter, she no longer felt the need of this reassurance.

      Her husband was there, and she was rather surprised at it She looked on him without rancour, as a person whom one knows, and on whom one smiles before departing on a journey.

      Then, as sensibility gradually returned, she recollected herself and almost pitied this man, rendered so unworthy by cowardice. She became full of compassion for him.

      “My friend,” СКАЧАТЬ