Читать книгу The Complete Works of Emile Zola - Emile Zola - Страница 96

WHICH TELLS OF THE EFFECTS PRODUCED BY A PIECE OF WHITE RAG

To understand the events that are about to follow, it is necessary to give a short description of the cottage on the seashore. It was built in a rather peculiar way: it had two doors, one in the front which gave access to the rooms below, and the other at the back which led straight from the ground to the rooms upstairs. The cottage was built against the rock, so that the first floor, seen from the country, appeared to be only a ground floor.

The room occupied by Blanche was upstairs to the left of the staircase and had windows facing the sea. Following on to this room was a smaller one which served as a dressing-room, and into this opened the door at the back. This door had a rusty lock and had perhaps not turned on its hinges for twenty years. The key to it being lost, it was never used.

When M. de Cazalis took the house, he had not thought of troubling about this exit, which seemed closed for good.

Blanche, some days before being laid up, while looking for a pin she had dropped, was very much surprised to come across a key hidden between the floor and the wall, and her first thought was that it must belong to the door in question. She was not mistaken: it turned in the lock, and pulling the door towards her she was able to gaze out on the country. She placed her discovery in safety, and spoke to no one about it, being forewarned by a sort of instinct, that she would in future have a means of safety in her hands.

On the day she was taken ill she fastened a piece of white rag to the window shutter, and then, after taking the key from the bottom of a drawer where she had hidden it, went back to bed and slipped it under the bolster.

As soon as M. de Cazalis heard that the baby would be born that evening he resolved to stay in the house, and not leave it until the child was in his possession. He retained a doctor, sent for the midwife, and despatched a messenger to Marseille to fetch a wet-nurse whom he had engaged some time previous, and who was a creature of his own, on whose fidelity he could rely.

When these precautions had been taken he awaited events. To pass the time, he went for a walk beside the sea, feeling very anxious notwithstanding his busy frame of mind, and thinking he would be lost if the infant escaped him. He calmed himself, a little, by reflecting that such a thing was impossible, as he would not leave Blanche’s door until the newborn babe had been taken away by the wet-nurse. He walked for several hours along the beach casting, from time to time, a glance at the windows of his niece’s room. Madame Lambert was to come and call him as soon as all was over. Night closed in, and he ended by seating himself among the boulders, watching the shadows flitting across the cottage windows.

In the meanwhile poor Blanche was in agony, and at one time doctor and midwife despaired of her life. She had been so weakened by sorrow, that she was hardly able to bear up against the present physical trial. She had a son, but she did not hear the poor little thing’s first cry: pale, insensible, and with the appearance of a corpse, she was lying on her couch of pain. The infant was placed beside her, the wet-nurse not having yet arrived, and Madame Lambert ran to inform M. de Cazalis that everything had ended well, and his niece was dying.

The deputy came in all haste, very much annoyed to find that the wet-nurse was not there. He, however, restrained himself, so as not to show his anxiety before the doctor and midwife. At heart he cared very little about his niece’s sufferings, but in presence of her pale exhausted form extended on the bed, he had to assume a concerned and affectionate manner. Turning to the doctor he inquired if there was still danger.

“Not at present,” was the answer, “and I think I can withdraw.”

Then pointing to the midwife:

“Madame’s presence will be sufficient, only I must impress on you that the patient must be spared all worry and excitement. Her life depends on it. I will come again tomorrow.”

The wet-nurse arrived just as M. de Cazalis was seeing the doctor out. He returned with her into the house, and severely upbraided her as they went upstairs to Blanche’s room. The wet-nurse excused herself as best she could and the deputy gave her his final instructions. She was to take away the newborn child and watch over him from hour to hour, with the greatest vigilance. The following morning she was to leave for the village where she resided, and which was situated in an out-of-the-way corner in the department of the Basses-Alpes. He hoped they would not go and ferret out his great nephew at the bottom of such a hole as that.

He found Madame Lambert and the midwife silently bending over the patient’s bed, but when he approached to take the child, so as to give him to the nurse, he met Blanche’s eyes. They had just opened wide, and were fixed upon him. He had the courage, however, to stretch out his arm.

Then the young woman making a great effort succeeded in sitting up in bed and pressed the child to her bosom.

“What do you want?” she said to M. de Cazalis in a choking undertone.

The deputy started back.

“The wet-nurse is here,” he replied, hesitating. “You know what was agreed. You must give her your child.”

He had told her a few days before the event that the honour of the family depended on Philippe’s child being sent away from the moment of its birth. She had shown herself as pliant as usual on hearing her uncle’s brief and cruel words. But she had hoped she would have been able to keep the newborn babe with her at least for twenty-four hours, for it was on that hope she had based her plan for placing him out of harm’s way.

When she heard M. de Cazalis insist on the child being instantly handed over to the nurse, she imagined all was lost. If they took him away at once, her plan was upset, she had no time to put him beyond the danger that she foresaw, with her motherly anxiety, would be in store for him, and she became still paler than before, if possible, as she pressed him to her bosom.

“Oh! for mercy’s sake!” she exclaimed, “leave him me until tomorrow morning.”

She felt herself weak, and was afraid of showing cowardice and obeying.

The deputy continued with a voice that he endeavoured to keep calm, in order not to be overheard by the midwife:

“You are asking me what is impossible. Your son must disappear for some time, if you do not wish to be covered with shame.”

“I will give him you tomorrow,” pleaded Blanche, shuddering. “Be kind, permit me to gaze on him and love him until then. That cannot do you any harm, no one will see him tonight in this room.”

“It’s much better to finish at once. Kiss him and give him to the nurse.”

“No! I shall keep him. You are killing me, sir!”

She uttered these last words in an heartrending tone of voice. M. de Cazalis said no more, fearing to fly into a passion: this unforeseen resistance surprised and alarmed him. He was advancing to grasp the poor little creature which the mother held folded in her arms, when the midwife, who had been listening, took him aside and told him she would not be answerable for his niece if he persevered in this odious scene. He then saw that it was necessary to give way.

“Very well! Keep your son,” he exclaimed sharply. “The wet-nurse will wait until tomorrow.”

Blanche placed the babe beside her, then fell back on the pillow, surprised and happy at her victory. A pink tint overspread her cheeks, she shut her eyes feigning sleep, and felt full of hope and joy.

Shortly afterwards Madame Lambert and the midwife seeing her quiet, withdrew to take a little rest, and M. de Cazalis remained for an instant alone with his niece, who continued to keep her eyes shut. He looked at the newborn babe and said to himself that this poor creature, so weak and puny, was his most cruel enemy. As he was at last about to leave the apartment he fancied he heard a slight noise in the dressing-room. He opened the door and looked, but seeing nothing he thought he must have been mistaken. Then he made up his mind to go downstairs, but with the intention of sitting up all night, for in spite of himself, he felt secretly uneasy. If he had given way to Blanche, it was because he could not do otherwise. The infant ought already to have been far away. However, he would get rid of him tomorrow, that was understood, and it was impossible for the Cayols to come and take him between now and then. He had put bolts on the front door himself.

As soon as Blanche was alone, she abruptly raised herself in bed and listened attentively, for she also had heard a slight noise coming from the dressing-room. She rose with an effort, took the key hidden under the bolster and staggered along, clutching hold of the articles of furniture, towards the door at the back of the house. This was an imprudence that might kill her. But she seemed borne up by superhuman strength and advanced along the tile-flooring without reflecting that she was risking her life. She simply said to herself that she was saving her son.

There was a scratching at the old front door and that was the noise which had attracted the attention of M. de Cazalis. Blanche, who was giddy, managed to get the key into the lock, after having nearly fainted more than ten times, and turn it. The door opened and Fine entered.

The note Blanche had given her in secret a few days before, contained these few sentences: “I have need of your affection and devotedness. I know what your heart is like, and I come to you as to a friend. When I require your assistance I will fasten a white rag to my window shutter. I shall expect you at about one o’clock on the following morning. Keep at the old front door at the back of the house and scratch against it softly to apprise me of your presence. You will be my good angel.”

When Fine had perused this note she understood that it referred to Philippe’s child. She consulted Marius who advised her to comply precisely with the instructions Blanche gave. The next morning, the flower-girl placed a lad on the beach at about a hundred yards from the cottage, with orders to come and tell her as soon as ever he perceived the signal agreed upon. The lad remained at his post for nearly a week without seeing anything. At last, one morning, he caught sight of the white rag and ran in all haste to Marseille.

In the evening Fine and Marius came in a cabriolet to Saint-Henri. They left the vehicle in the village and both walked towards the rocks in the midst of which stood the cottage. He remained in hiding at a few steps from the old front door, while she scratched at it, at the appointed hour.

Blanche barely had time to let her in, before falling into her arms in a fainting fit. The flower-girl promptly carried her to her bed, covered up her shivering limbs, and then hastened to bolt the door on the landing so that no one might surprise them. After that, she threw off her long cloak and gave all her attention to the invalid whose eyes remained closed.

Blanche, little by little, recovered consciousness. As soon as she opened her eyes and recognised Fine beside her, she raised herself up, and with her heart full of joy and hope, fell on the girl’s neck and wept tears of happiness.

For a few moments neither was able to speak, but Fine, catching sight of the baby, took it up and kissed it. Then a stifled cry escaped Blanche’s lips.

“You’ll love him as if you were his mother, won’t you?” she asked.

The flower-girl gazed on the infant with that tender look of girls who are in love and dream of maternity. While contemplating Philippe’s son, she thought with a blush of Marius, and said to herself:

“I shall have a child like that.” Then she placed the babe on the bed and sat down beside Blanche.

“Listen,” the latter said, rapidly, “we have very little time before us. They may come upstairs and surprise us at any moment. You are quite devoted to me, are you not?”

Fine bent forward and kissed her on the forehead.

“I love you as a sister,” she answered.

“I know it, and it is for that reason that I confide in you. I am going to give you the most sacred legacy that any woman can leave behind her.”

“But you are not dead!”

“Yes, I am dead! In a few days, when I am well again, I shall belong to the Almighty. Do not interrupt me. I quit this world, and, before leaving it, I desire to give my child a mother, for he will soon have none, and I have thought of you.”

And Blanche gave Fine a warm pressure of the hand.

“You have done well,” said the flower-girl, calmly. “You know I always considered that your child would be, in a sort of way, mine.”

“I need not tell you to love him,” said the invalid with an effort. “Love him as you know how to love, with all your heart; love him for me and for Philippe, and endeavour to let him have a happier life than that of his parents.”

She was choking with sobs, but after a few moments continued:

“Although I have only to ask you, for you to love my child, I must implore you with joined hands to watch over him vigilantly. From tomorrow, hide him somewhere, in some out-of-the way corner; endeavour to prevent anyone suspecting the secret of his birth; in a word, swear to me that you will protect him against everyone and keep him always near you as a sacred trust.”

As she spoke she became excited and Fine had to make her a sign imploring her to lower her voice.

“Do you fear foul play?” inquired the flower-girl softly.

“I know not what I fear. It seems to me that my uncle hates this child, and I hand him over to you so that he may not remain in his power. As I am unable to be there to watch over him I desire to leave him to an honest person who will make a man of him. Besides if, even, I were not going to quit this world, I would refuse to keep him with me, because I am weak and cowardly, and would not know how to defend him.”

“Defend him against whom?”

“I know not. I shudder, that is all. My uncle is implacable. But do not let us speak of that. I give you my child and in future he will be in safety. I can now go away in tranquillity of mind. I was so afraid not to see you tonight and not to be able to hand you this poor little mite!”

There was a moment’s silence and Fine resumed in a hesitating voice:

“As you are giving me your last instructions, I may, and, indeed, I ought to put a question to you. I know you will not misinterpret my intentions. I think you possess a large fortune which M. de Cazalis is administering?”

“Yes,” answered Blanche, “but I have never troubled about the money.”

“Your son requires nothing now, and so long as he remains with us, he may be poor but we will bestow a wealth of tenderness and happiness on him. Still, some day, a fortune, in his hands, may be a powerful lever. You do not intend to deprive him of your estate?”

“I told you I was leaving the world, I shall be like one who is dead.”

“That is another reason for assuring his future. Ask M. de Cazalis for a statement of his account. Set your affairs in order before you disappear.”

Blanche shuddered.

“Oh! I shall never dare do that,” she murmured. “You have no idea of the terrible power my uncle exercises over me: a mere look crushes me. No, I cannot ask him for a statement.”

“However, your son’s interests require it.”

“No, I tell you, I have not the courage.”

Fine for an instant was silent and embarrassed. Her duty urged her to insist, she would have liked to overcome Blanche’s cowardly attitude.

“As you will not act yourself,” she continued at last, “allow others to watch over the interests of this poor little creature. You make no objection to the fortune, which you now appear to abandon, being, one of these days, claimed on his behalf?”

“You are cruel,” answered the young mother, with tears in her eyes, “you make me feel my weakness and powerlessness to act. You know that I give you all authority.”

“Then nothing is lost. Do not put your name to any document, do not sign away a single inch of your property. And, moreover, as soon as you are better, let me have the certificates establishing your son’s identity. In that way we shall be strong, and able to speak with authority when the time comes.”

Blanche seemed overcome with these questions of money. Had she been possessed of the least energy, she would not have withdrawn from the struggle, she would have lived for her child, protected him, herself, and defended his interests. The flower-girl guessed the tenor of her reflections and added in a lower voice:

“If I have caused you pain, if I have put all these questions to you, it is because there is a man who has claims on this child, and who one of these days will himself watch over his interests. I shall then want to give him an account of my mission and instruct him as to how he must proceed in order to complete it.”

Blanche burst out sobbing:

“I have never spoken to you of Philippe,” she exclaimed, “because I ought to think of him no more. He left within me a love that has devoured me and brought me to repentance. Tell him I have loved him to the point of quitting this world at the age of seventeen, and tell him I entreat him to labour for the welfare of our son. Whatever he does will have my approval.”

Just at that moment Fine heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She rose, hurriedly wrapped her cloak around her and took the child which the weeping mother was holding out to her, and passionately kissing again and again. This farewell was full of mute despair and anxious haste.

Blanche got out of bed to accompany Fine and close the door behind her. On the threshold she gave the little one a last kiss on the forehead. Then, she had only just time to pull back the bolt of her bedroom door and get into bed again. Her uncle entered softly.