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

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      CHAPTER VII

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      One morning Daniel went to the rue d’Amsterdam, and on coming home he informed George that he would leave, perhaps never to return.

      He had learnt during the day that Jeanne had finally come out of the convent and was living with her aunt. This news made him like a madman. He had now only one thought: to gain admittance and establish himself in the house where the dear object of his affection was.

      He schemed, plotted, and laid his plans, and ended by finding out that Monsieur Tellier, who had at last entered Parliament, needed a secretary, and he immediately took a decisive course. He sought for a recommendation at the hands of the author of the Dictionary, who was still grateful to him, and he spoke to Monsieur Tellier in his favour. He was to present himself on the morrow, and he was sure to be accepted.

      George, painfully surprised, stared at Daniel, unable to find one word to say. At last he opened his lips and protested: “But we cannot separate thus. We have work in hand to occupy us for several years. I reckoned on you. I have need of your assistance. Where are you going? What do you propose doing?”

      “I am about to take the place of secretary to a deputy,” quietly answered Daniel.

      “You a deputy’s secretary!” and George began to laugh. “You are joking, surely. You cannot really be thinking of sacrificing the fine career which is opening out before you for a place like that. Reflect well; our success is a certainty!”

      Daniel shrugged his shoulders with perfect indifference, and his face had an almost contemptuous smile on it. What mattered celebrity to him? Was not his future the happiness of Jeanne? He gave up all for her without a regret. He lowered himself; he accepted an inferior position in order to watch at his leisure over the child who had been entrusted to him.

      “So you do not intend to work at your masterpiece any more?” persisted George again.

      “My masterpiece is elsewhere,” gently answered Daniel. “I am leaving you to go and work at it. Ask me no questions; I will tell you all some day when my task is done. Above all, do not bewail my lot. I am happy, for during the past twelve years I have been waiting for the joy which is mine for the first time. You know me; you know that I am incapable of a foolish or shameful action. Do not be anxious, therefore. Understand, my friend, that my heart is full of joy, and that I am about to accomplish the ‘task’ of my life.”

      George for answer pressed his hand. Now he understood that the parting was a necessity, he felt there was in his friend’s words an ardour so noble that in this sudden departure he divined a limitless sacrifice.

      On the morrow Daniel left him. He had not lain down all night, having spent it in setting everything in his room in order, bidding a solemn farewell to the walls which he probably would never see again. His heart beat violently and there was an indefinable sadness upon him, that sadness which the warm-hearted feel when leaving a home in which they have experienced both hope and sorrow. In the street he detained George a moment.

      “If I can,” he said, “I shall come and see you. Do not be vexed with me, but go on and do the work of two.”

      And he was off, hurrying away, as he had no wish that his friend should accompany him.

      Such a flood of thought passed through his brain that he arrived at the rue d’Amsterdam without any consciousness of the road he had taken. He was full of the past and future. He saw once again Madame de Rionne dying; he followed with distinctness month by month the events of the years that had passed since then, and at the same time he sought to foresee the events which were about to follow.

      One figure stood out supreme in his meditation — that of Jeanne — Jeanne, quite a little girl, such as he had left her on the gravel path in the boulevard des Invalides, and he felt a scorching flame in his breast, a burning affection in his heart.

      This little girl belonged to him. She was his as an inheritance of love, he explained to himself. He was quite astonished that she had been stolen from him for so long a time. He rebelled, then was appeased when he came to remember that she was to be restored to him. She would be his, wholly his. He would love her as he had loved her mother, worship her as a saint; and wild notions rushed through his brain, and the madness of self-sacrifice began to fill his whole being. His love was overflowing; it suffocated him. During all these years he had firmly repressed the inmost feelings of his heart; he had made himself a mere machine; he had waited coldly, passively, without a word. The awakening had come — a terrible awakening of passion. A hidden, unceasing work had been going on in his heart; his faculty for love, from the want of expansion, had been intensified to the highest degree, and so he had come to have one fixed idea. His СКАЧАТЬ