Читать книгу The Complete Works of Emile Zola - Emile Zola - Страница 81

HOW AN UGLY MAN MAY BECOME HANDSOME

IT was now more than two months since Marius and Fine had returned to Marseille.

On leaving the notary’s office, the young man had to own to himself that up till then he had been wasting his time, and that so far he had not obtained the first franc of the fifteen thousand he required for Philippe’s safety. After all, he knew only how to show his love and devotion; he felt he had a soul too upright, a mind too loyal and too generously artless for him to be able to procure in a few weeks the large sum he was so despairingly seeking. He had always acted like a child. The deplorable incidents with which he had recently found himself mixed up, the loves of Armande and Sauvaire, Douglas’ hypocrisy and forgeries, had shown him life under a terrifying aspect which discouraged him. He retreated instead of advancing, he feared, in making another attempt, to fail and even compromise himself, by falling again into the hands of rogues who would take advantage of him. In his suspicious state, he saw nothing but snares around him. Such tender hearts, ignorant of evil and desirous of good, are predestined to be wounded and made to bleed at every hour of the day.

Yet the month of December was drawing nigh, and it was necessary to make haste if Philippe was to be saved. No further mercy would be shown, and the condemned man would be undoubtedly fastened to the infamous pillory. At that thought, Marius shed tears of impotence and weariness. He would he could have freed his brother by some Herculean task; if he had been put to the proof, he would have undertaken to pierce the prison wall with his nails, to have scraped and crumbled the stone away beneath his fingers. That laborious exploit would not have appeared to him a hard one and he would have succeeded in it although he wore his fingers to the bone. But the thought of the fifteen thousand francs terrified him; once it was a question of money, of taking humiliating steps or of engaging in more or less equivocal dealings, he went off his head and felt incapable of conducting the least enterprise to a successful conclusion. This explained the artless confidence which had taken him to Armande and Douglas.

All hope, however, was not yet dead within him. Thanks to those same qualities which were his weakness, to his kindly heart and upright mind, he always returned to thoughts of self-reliance and hope. The lessons which the ignominies of life had taught him, could not prevent him still believing in the helpful sympathy of others.

“I have more than six weeks before me yet,” he thought. “It’s impossible that I shall not find some true friend by then. There’s no reason for despair.”

He would certainly have fallen ill with the anguish, the hopes and disappointments of his task, if he had not had a comforter at hand who smiled at him when most depressed. A strong friendship had grown up between him and the Cougourdans. He went nearly every day to see Fine and spent long evenings in her society. At the beginning they talked together of Philippe; then, whilst not forgetting the poor prisoner, they conversed about themselves, about their childhood and future. These were chats quite free from all restraint which rested them after the fatigues and anxieties of the day, and gave them fresh courage for the morrow.

Every morning Marius, little by little, began ardently to long for the evening, in order to find himself back in Fine’s little room. When he had a gleam of hope he ran to tell it to his friend, and when he had met with some disappointment he also hastened to relate it to her and be consoled. It was only there, in that clean and tidy attic which smelt so sweet and looked so gay, that he felt at ease in the midst of his tender sadness.

One evening he persisted in helping the young woman who was making up some bouquets for the morrow’s sale; he took a childish delight in removing the thorns from the roses, in gathering up the pinks into slender bunches, in delicately taking one by one the violets and marguerites and handing them to Fine. From that time he became a florist every evening between eight and ten. The work amused him, he said, and quieted his anxieties. If ever his fingers touched Fine’s when handing her the flowers, he felt a gentle warmth rise to his face; the strange uneasiness, the penetrating emotion he then experienced, was no doubt the sole cause of his sudden inclination for making bouquets.

Marius was certainly a simpleton. He would have been much surprised, even hurt, if anyone had told him that he was falling in love with Fine. He would have exclaimed that he knew he was much too ugly to dare to love the young woman, and that, moreover, such a love, born and developed in the shadow of his brother’s misfortune, would have seemed to him a crime. But his heart would soon have protested.

He had never lived much in the society of a woman, and had let himself be caught by the first affectionate glance bestowed upon him. Fine, consoling and encouraging him, ever ready with a caressing smile and a warm pressure of the hand seemed to him, at first, both a sister and a mother whom heaven had sent him in his affliction. The truth was that unbeknown to himself this sister, this mother, was becoming a bride, a bride whom he already loved with all the tender and devoted ardour of his heart. And this love was bound to spring up between two young people who wept and smiled in company. Chance had brought them together and their goodness was uniting them. They were worthy of each other, they possessed the all-powerful sympathy of devotion.

For some time past a sly smile, which Marius had failed to notice, had been playing about Fine’s lips. She guessed the young man loved her long before he himself had become aware of his love. Women have a special gift of penetrating this sort of secret; they can read in their lovers’ eyes and see into the innermost recesses of their souls. The flower-girl, however, was careful to hide her blushes; she schooled herself to remain Marius’ cordial friend, and not to open his eyes by a warmer grasp of the hand. To see them each evening, seated opposite one another, with a table covered with roses between them, one would have taken them for brother and sister.

On Sundays Fine went to Saint Henri. She felt a sort of sympathetic pity, a compassionate friendship for Blanche. The poor young girl who was soon to become a mother, and whose life was for ever blighted, became every day dearer to her; she saw her remorse, her tears of regret, she assisted at her disconsolate existence, and sought by her visits to assuage her misery. She brought her bright smile to that little house by the sea, where Blanche was weeping as she thought of Philippe and her unborn babe. It was like a holy pilgrimage for the flower-girl and she accomplished it religiously. She started off about midday, after luncheon, and remained till dusk with Mademoiselle de Cazalis. In the evening, as night was falling, she found Marius waiting for her on the seashore, and they returned together to Marseille on foot, arm-in-arm like a young married couple.

Marius tasted pure joy during these walks. Sunday evening became for him the reward of all his efforts of the week. He waited for Fine by the sea, forgetful of his sorrows, feverishly watching for the young woman’s arrival; then, when she was there, they smiled at each other and returned slowly in the soft shadows of the gathering night, exchanging words of friendship and hope. Never did the young man think the road long enough.

One Sunday, Marius arrived early. As a feeling of delicacy prevented him calling at Blanche’s house and so adding to her grief, he sat down on the cliff which rises near the village, and took patience in watching the blue immensity spread out before him. He remained there nearly two hours, lost in a vague reverie, in thoughts of love and happiness which softly lulled him. The immense horizon moved him; unconsciously, his love for Fine rose from his heart to his lips; the sea and sky, the infinity of the waters and the air affected him, opened his soul; he beheld but Fine in the boundless sea, he heard but her name in the dull and regular murmur of the waves.

The flower-girl arrived and seated herself on the rock beside the young man, who took her hand without speaking. Before them was spread the sea and heavens, both of a soft pale blue. Twilight was falling. Profound serenity was alike enfeebling the last sounds and the last rays. Thin rosy gleams in the west were casting their delicate reflections on the rocks of the shore. There was a breath of tenderness in the air, a great quivering voice which grew softer and softer. Deeply moved, Marius kept his friend’s hand in his, as he continued his dream. His eyes fixed on the horizon, on that vague haze where heaven and sea mingle together, he was smiling sadly. And in a low voice, and quite unconsciously, his lips gave utterance to the thoughts of his heart.

“No, no,” he murmured, “I am too ugly.”

From the moment Marius took her hand, Fine had been smiling in her sly and tender way. At last her friend was going to make up his mind to speak; she guessed it from the deeper look in his eyes, his tighter grasp. When she heard the young man say he was too ugly, she seemed surprised and annoyed.

“Too ugly!” she exclaimed; “but you are quite handsome, Marius!”

Fine had put so much feeling into the cry which had escaped her, that Marius looked round and clasped his hands, as he gazed at her anxiously. She, feeling that she had abruptly delivered up the secret of her heart, lowered her face, which became covered with blushes. She remained thus, speechless and embarrassed, during some seconds. But she was not the girl to withdraw from the complete avowal of her love; she possessed too much frankness and sprightliness to indulge in the hypocritical comedy which most young persons in love go through on similar occasions. She courageously raised her face and looked straight at Marius, who was trembling.

“Listen, my friend,” she said to him. “I wish to speak frankly. Six months ago I hardly thought of you at all. I considered you to be ugly, no doubt I had never really looked at you. Today, I think you quite handsome. I don’t know how it has happened, I assure you — “

In spite of her resolution, she hesitated a little, and sudden blushes again covered her cheeks. She stopped short, unable to tell Marius plainly that she loved him. She knew the young man’s timidity and had spoken solely to encourage him.

Marius remained in his state of tender ecstasy; he required no more, and would have remained there on the cliff all night, without seeking to obtain from Fine a more complete avowal. She was growing impatient.

The story of her love was a simple one. At first she had admired Philippe’s tall frame and energetic countenance, with that blindness of young girls which prompts them to choose handsome lads, those who carry all their beauty on their faces and none in their souls. Then wounded to the heart by the indifference of Blanche’s lover, seeing at last clearly into his vain nature, she had begun to look more severely upon his conduct and had become little by little estranged from him. It was at this time that she found herself frequently with Marius, in an intimacy which brought them closer and closer together.

In this instance love had been born of kindliness.

Marius, ugly to the eyes became beautiful for the heart. At first, Fine had seen in him merely a disheartened friend who needed help; she had undertaken half his task in a sisterly way, prompted a little by love for Philippe and a great deal by a natural desire to be serviceable. She had therefore joined Marius, and their common thought of deliverance had united them more each day. It was thus that their affection grew, they loved each other through their self-devotion, whilst living on the same hope and working for the same object.

And it was in the accomplishment of this generous task that Marius became handsome. The comparison which Fine could not help drawing between Philippe and Marius, made the latter appear an exceptional being, the charming prince of young girls’ dreams. Marius’ countenance became forthwith transfigured in her eyes; it appeared to her quite handsome with all the beauty of his loyal and tender nature. She would have been immensely surprised had anyone told her her lover was ugly.

Marius could still hear the young woman’s cry, that cry of the heart which as good as told him: “You are handsome, and I love you!” He dared not speak, fearing to dispel the sweet dream which was so deliciously soothing his mind. Fine, in her embarrassment, continued to smile.

“You don’t believe me?” she asked, speaking merely for the sake of speaking, and scarcely knowing what she was saying.

“Yes, I believe you,” Marius replied in a low deep voice, “I need to believe you. When you were not there, the murmur of the waves told me a secret. I don’t know what is the matter with the sea and the sky this evening. They speak in so sweet a voice that they have moved my heart and disturbed my mind. At this close of day, amidst the sadness of the twilight, I have just discovered within myself a happiness I had never dreamed of. Would you like to know the secret the waves whispered in my ear?”

“Yes,” said the young woman, while her emotion caused her hand to tremble.

Marius leant towards her, and murmured in a faint and timid tone of voice:

“The waves told me that I loved you.”

The shadows were falling more grey and solemn. In the heavens, lights appeared amid a milky transparency. The dark blue motionless sea was slumbering as it wafted its sluggish heavy breath. Fresh and briny odours arose, borne by the evening breeze, and the serenity of space spread in the advancing night. The hour was a fit one for an avowal of love. A divine tenderness, a smiling calm came from the vast compassionate sea. At the foot of the cliff the waves were slowly breaking, lulling the sleeping coast; whilst, from the earth, still hot and feverish, rose a fierce breath of passion. It seemed as though the vast sea was adding its voice to Marius’s tender words.

“Well,” said the flower-girl gaily, “the waves are chatterboxes. But did they tell you the truth?”

“Yes, yes,” he exclaimed, “the waves spoke the truth. I feel it now, my friend, I’ve been loving you for months past. Ah! what a lot of good this avowal does me. For a long time past I have felt there was something wanting: when I was in your presence, I became penetrated by some pleasant sensation, I could hear some indistinct voices within me, and I could not make out what they were whispering. Now, the silence of this cliff has sufficed for me to hear them tell of my love.”

Fine listened to Marius’s words with a smile on her lips. The shadows were becoming more and more bluish and mysterious. Marius hesitated for a moment, then asked in soft and humble tone of voice:

“You are not angry at what I am telling you? I know very well that you cannot love me.’’

“You know nothing at all,” replied Fine, with abrupt tenderness. “Good heavens! what a time you are making up your mind! My answer has been ready for more than a month past.”

“And what is it?”

“Ask the waves,” the young woman answered, with a laugh.

She held out her hands to Marius, who kissed them passionately. It was now quite dark, and the dull moan of the sea lingered voluptuously in the gloom. The young man bent over the young woman and their lips met. Then they talked as lovers do, in the puerile way of children, going from recollections of the past to projects for the future. Their voices were a music which caressed them, and they talked to hear each other speak, to feel one another’s warm breath play about their faces. They were so happy in the obscurity, in face of the infinite which lay open before them!

“Listen,” said Fine, “we will get married when your brother is free. Philippe must be placed in safety first.”

At the mention of Philippe’s name, Marius shuddered. He had forgotten his brother. The sad reality rose before him. For two hours he had been living in the seventh heaven, and now he had fallen back to the earth from the height of his dream.

“Philippe,” he murmured despondently, “yes, we must think of him. O heavens! is my happiness already dead? You love my brother, do you not? For mercy’s sake, tell me the truth.”

Fine said nothing, but burst into sobs. The young man’s words were breaking her heart. In his despair, he pressed for an answer, and at last the flower-girl cried:

“I love you because you are good, because you know how to love. So you see well enough that I cannot love Philippe.”

There was such a burst of faith and love in this cry that Marius at last understood. He placed his arms around her in a sudden transport of adoration. And then he had a slight feeling of remorse.

“We are happy,” he observed, “and egotistical. Whilst we are breathing here the free air of heaven, our brother is pining in prison. Ah! we know not how to work for his deliverance.”

“Yes, you’ll see!” Fine replied. “You’ll see what one can do, when one’s in love and loved in return.”

They remained hand in hand, without saying another word, while the sea continued to lull their love with its monotonous voice. The stars were shining brightly as they reentered Marseille, their hearts full of their young hopes and affection.