Читать книгу The Complete Early Novels - Emile Zola - Страница 36

Table of Contents

BLANCHE was born in the south near Marseilles. At twenty-three years of age she married Monsieur de Rionne. She had a noble heart, and with a foreknowledge of the miseries of the world she made a rigid and lofty rule of conduct for herself. Her strength lay in her upright principles, and fully - determined will. She married to comply with her father’s wish, without seeking to know Monsieur de Rionne, saying to herself, with a sort of innocent pride, that she would, if necessary, learn how to suffer patiently and keep her self-respect, and she did so. Her husband was indeed a fascinating man, wonderfully polite and elegant, but a really miserable creature, who might have been good, but who preferred remaining bad.

He had a deplorable weakness: a profound cowardice with respect to vice. Yet with all that, his sentiments were the most beautiful in the world, and his heart was open to every kind of pity. He did evil with full consciousness, without any shame, and he knew equally well how to do good, when he chose. But doing good had no interest for him.

He toyed at first with his wife, as he would have toyed with a mistress. She was charming; she had about her a perfume of virtue and modesty that he inhaled for the first time in his life. Afterwards his wife palled upon him. In this delicate creature he found so strong a will and such calm nobility that in the end he grew almost to be afraid of her. In the cowardice of his heart he began to hate this unconquerable courage. So as not to appear weak before Blanche he avoided her more and more; he set up hard comparisons in his conscience when in the presence of his beautiful-charactered wife, and there was nothing he dreaded so much as the disagreeable voice of remorse which constantly disturbed him in his gaieties. He resumed his old habits of frivolity and pursuit of loose pleasures, forgetting as quickly as possible that he had a family and ties, too, that should bind him close.

Blanche had certainly loved this man, even though it had been but for a brief period. Afterwards she despised him, and the wound in her heart had, as it were, been seared by a hot iron. Nothing but deep regret was left. She had reckoned on her courage, and her courage gave her heart nothing but a terrible feeling of emptiness. She still remained high-principled, above the shameful things which surrounded her; but her heart bled in that severe loneliness, and she often longed to begin her life again.

Three years after her marriage her father and mother died and she was left an orphan. She no longer had a single relation who could render her any help. Then she endured a bitter loneliness, and took a kind of pleasure in shutting herself up with her year-old daughter. This child brought her, under another form, 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,” said she, and her words came in a faint whisper, “you did well to come. I shall die more at peace.”

Monsieur de Rionne, much affected by this gentle remark, wept afresh.

Blanche continued without noticing:

“Do not despair. I no longer suffer. I am at peace. I am happy. I have only one wish, and that is to wipe out all dissension that may have existed between us. I do not wish to carry away with me ill thoughts of you, and I do not desire you to have the least remorse when I am gone. If I have caused you offence, forgive me, as I have forgiven you.”

These words acted very sensibly on Monsieur de Rionne’s nerves, and his heart felt as if it would for the moment break. His impatience of grief was over for the time. “I have nothing to forgive you,” he stammered. “You are good. I regret that the difference of our characters should have separated us from each other. You see I weep. I am in despair.”

Blanche looked at him as he struggled to address her. He seemed to her a pitiful object This man could not find one word of condemnation for himself. He besought her in no way to grant him forgiveness. He was simply intoxicated with fear.

She realised that if God had by a miracle spared her, the very next day he would have resumed his old way of life, and deserted her afresh. But she was dying, and her death taught him no lesson; it was merely a lamentable accident at which he was obliged to assist.

She began smiling again, looking him full in the face, subduing him by her will.

“Bid me goodbye,” she said. “I have no ill-will towards you; I swear it. Later this assurance will perhaps be a consolation to you. I trust it will.”

And as she ceased speaking — “What are your last wishes?” asked Monsieur de Rionne.

“I have none,” she answered, quietly. “I have nothing to ask of you, nothing to give you advice about. Act according to the dictates of your own heart.”

She would not speak to him of their daughter. She thought it might be acting ill to extract vows from him which he would not keep. So then, in a still softer voice she repeated, “Goodbye — do not distress yourself,” and with a motion of her hand waved him slowly away, closing her eyes in order not to see him any more. He retired to the foot of the bed, powerless to withdraw his looks from such a terrible sight.

The servants had gone to fetch the doctor, and he had just arrived, knowing, however, that his attendance would be of no avail. An old priest, who had ministered to the dying woman in the morning, had also arrived. He knelt down, and was reciting in quiet tones the prayers for the dying.

Blanche grew weaker and weaker. The end was near. But she raised herself up abruptly and asked for her daughter. As Monsieur de Rionne did not stir, Daniel, who had remained silent, keeping back his tears, ran and fetched Jeanne, who was in the midst of her games in the next room. The poor mother, with distended eyes, as if she were out of her mind, gazed at her daughter, and endeavoured to hold out her arms to her. But she failed to raise them, and Daniel was obliged to hold Jeanne up, with her feet resting on the wooden sides of the bed.

The child did not cry. She looked at her mother’s disordered face with a sort of innocent astonishment. Then, as that face grew calmer — it seemed to fill with heavenly joy, and shone with tenderness — the little girl recognised her sweet smile, and she also began to smile, holding out her little hands.

So Blanche died, a smile on her own face and on that of her child. She fixed her last look on Daniel — a look at once of supplication and command. He was supporting Jeanne; his mission had begun.

Monsieur de Rionne knelt down by the body of his wife, remembering that it was the custom on such occasions so to act. The doctor had just left, and one of the watchers hastened to light two candles. The priest, who had risen to offer the crucifix to Blanche’s lips, resumed his prayers.

Daniel kept Jeanne in his arms, and as the atmosphere of the room became stifling, he took up his position by the window of a neighbouring room. There he wept in silence, whilst the child amused herself by watching the rapidly passing lamps of the carriages on the boulevard.

The air outside was still. In the distance could be heard the clarions of the Ecole Militaire sounding the tatoo.