Читать книгу The Complete Early Novels - Emile Zola - Страница 37

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TOWARDS morning Daniel again went up to his room. This big fellow of eighteen had the heart of a child. The peculiar circumstances under which he found himself had deeply stirred his affectionate disposition. He made himself laughable by his youth and devotion.

It will, no doubt, have been recognised by this time that he was the orphan mentioned in the Semaphore. Blanche de Rionne, the young unknown protector, had had him educated, and when he grew older, put him to the Lycée at Marseilles. She made it a rule seldom to see him, wishing that he should barely know her, and that he should only, so to speak, have Providence to thank for his position.

When she married she did not even speak to Monsieur de Rionne of her adopted child. This was one of her many secret good works.

At the Lycée Daniel’s awkward manners, joined to the timidity of an orphan, drew upon him the ridicule of his companions, and he was deeply wounded at being treated as a pariah. Then his gait became yet more ungainly. He was left alone, and thus he kept all his early innocence. He escaped all those first lessons in vice that youths of fifteen and upwards, in France particularly, impart to each other.

He was ignorant of everything, and had no knowledge of life whatever. In the loneliness created by his awkwardness an ardent love of study had seized him.

His quick and emotional intellect, which should have made him a poet, drove him, by a seeming contradiction, to the study of science, for in his nature there was a deep desire for truth.

He discovered a profound joy in seeking step by step the solution of some intricate problem in mathematics, and thus in a way he made poetry. He withdrew into himself and Nature, and circumstances led him to a life of meditation.

He was at home in science, for in its pursuit he had nothing to do with men; he had nothing to do with schoolmates, who laughed at his yellow hair. All human society terrified him; he loved better to live higher up in the regions of pure speculation, of absolute truth. There he could theorise poetically at his ease; he was no longer encumbered by his awkwardness of person. These scholars — these aged children of timid manners whom one meets in the streets — are sometimes great poets.

Railed at by his companions, his nerves always highly strung, Daniel hid away his affections in the recesses of his heart. All he had to love in this world was that unknown mother who watched over him, and he had loved her with all the intensity of passion which is centred on one object alone. Side by side with the poet-mathematician there was the passionate adorer, with an affection which grew in warmth the more it was repulsed. Daniel’s adoration of the good fairy had grown with years and made his existence sweet for him. The obscurity in which she kept herself made her all the more saintly to him. He knew her face thoroughly from having met her two or three times, and he spoke of her as he would of something wonderful and sacred.

One day, when he was almost eighteen, as he was leaving the Lycée he was told that Madame de Rionne had sent for him to be with her in Paris. He nearly went out of his mind with joy, for now he would be able to see her freely, to thank and love her, at his ease.

The wild dream of his youth was about to be realised; the good fairy, the saint, his providence, was admitting him into the heaven where she dwelt, and so he started in all haste.

He arrived and found Madame de Rionne in her bed, dying. Every evening, for eight days, he went down to the room she occupied; he gazed at her from a distance and wept. He thus awaited the terrible end, intoxicated with grief, unable to understand how it happened that saints could be mortal and die.

Then at last he had knelt down at her bedside and solemnly promised the dying woman that her last wish should be carried out.

He passed the night near the body, in the company of the watcher. Monsieur de Rionne had remained on his knees an hour, and afterwards discreetly retired.

Whilst the priest prayed and the watcher rested in an easy chair, Daniel was in dreamland, with dry eyes, unable to weep. He felt crushed, but was in that quiet, tranquil state, without pain, similar to the light drowsiness that precedes sleep. He grasped nothing distinctly, and every now and then his thoughts wandered. For nearly ten hours one idea alone filled his brain: Blanche was dead, and henceforth little Jeanne would be the saint whom he would love, to whom he would give his devotion.

But, unconsciously, during that long, mournful night his courage was rapidly maturing; he was becoming a man indeed.

The terrible scene at which he had assisted, the despair which had so deeply shaken him, all this stern education in suffering had killed the timidity of childhood in him. In his oppression he dimly felt this working of sorrow; he yielded to the force which was transforming him, and ripening, in a few hours, his heart and mind.

In the morning, when he went back to his room, he was like a drunken man who could not recognise the place he lived in. The long, narrow room had only a window which opened in the slanting roof, whence once could see the tops of the trees of the esplanade, as it were a lake of verdure; further on, to the left, could be seen the heights of Passy. The window had remained open, a bright light filled the room, and it felt almost cold.

Daniel sat down on the edge of his bed. He was ready to drop with fatigue, but did not dream of going to rest. He remained thus a long time, forgetting himself, whilst staring at the furniture, asking himself now and then what he was doing there, and suddenly remembering all.

At times he listened, astonished, wondering why he did not hear himself weeping. Then he went and stood at the window, and the air did him good. Not a sound came up from the house. Below, in the little garden, there were people silently hurrying about On the boulevard the carriages rolled along as if nothing sorrowful had taken place in the night Paris was slowly awakening, and now a pale sunlight whitened the topmost leaves of the trees. The joyful aspect of the sky, the heedlessness of the city, saddened Daniel profoundly, and gave him excuse to weep again. It was a salutary crisis, which made his head feel lighter. He remained at the window in the fresh air, trying to reflect as to what he should do.

Then he understood that as yet nothing rational would come to his brain, and decided to occupy himself mechanically. He moved several objects from one place to another, ferreted in his trunk, took out some clothes, which he put back again directly afterwards.

His head began to grow less painful. When night came once more he was quite surprised. He could have sworn the day had only just begun. He had remained shut up, pondering on one idea only, and that long day of suffering seemed quite short. He left his room and tried to eat; then he wished to see Madame de Rionne once more. He could not, however, gain admittance to the death chamber. So, going up again to his own room, he fell into a heavy sleep, which overpowered him till very late the next day.

When he awoke he heard a suppressed murmur of voices. The funeral carriages were about to leave the house. He hastily dressed himself and went downstairs. On the way he met the coffin, which four men could just manage. It gave out a dull sound at every concussion.

At the start there was some confusion on the boulevard. The followers were numerous, and the procession was only slowly organised.

Monsieur de Rionne put himself at the head of it, accompanied by his brother-in-law. His sister, a young woman, whose eyes wandered freely over the crowd, entered another carriage. Immediately behind Monsieur de Rionne came the frequenters of the house, the servants, and Daniel took up his place amongst the latter. Then the remainder of the followers came in groups, in irregular file.

Thus S. Clothilde — the church, surrounded by flowers and verdure — was reached. The nave filled up, and the choir began chanting.

Daniel knelt down in a corner near a chapel. He was calm now and could pray. But he could not follow the priest’s prayers; his lips remained closed — his prayer was only a passionate cry of the heart At one moment he felt faint, and was obliged to go out. The odour of the wax, the plaintive melody of the chants, oppressed and suffocated him. Outside he slowly walked about on the sandy paths of the little plot of ground which surrounds the church. Every now and then he stopped and gazed at the verdure-clad masonry. His heart, however, still wept, and sent forth its ardent prayer. When the hearse and carriages started on the last journey he went and placed himself among the servants again.

The procession reached the boulevards, and took the direction of the cemetery of Mont Parnasse.

The morning air was soft, and the sun shining on the early leaves of the great elms painted them green. The freshness and limpidity of the atmosphere caused the horizon to be particularly and clearly defined. One might say that the winter rains had so washed the earth that now it radiated freshness and cleanliness.

Those who followed the body of Madame de Rionne to the grave that bright morning had for the most part forgotten that they were assisting at a funeral. Smiles were seen on many of the faces. One would have said they were merely taking a stroll and basking in the sun, enjoying the sweetness of spring.

The procession slowly advanced in groups, growing yet more irregular, and the uneven sounds of footsteps and the increasing hum of conversation was heard.

Every one talked with his neighbour of his private affairs, and gradually all breathed more freely and grew cheerful.

Daniel, his eyes fixed on the ground, bareheaded, stricken dumb with grief, was dreaming of the mother whom he had just lost; he was recalling memories of his childhood, conjuring up the most minute details of the night of her death; to him it was a sad, profound vision, in which he lost himself.

And yet his ears, in spite of himself, heard what the servants were talking about.... His brain took in the brutally plain words... He did not want to listen, but not one word escaped him. Whilst his poor heart was bleeding, whilst he was giving himself over wholly to despair at the solemn farewell he had taken of one whom he adored, he was compelled to overhear the cynical conversation of the valets and coachmen. Just behind him there happened to be two servants carrying on an animated discussion. One sided with monsieur, one with madame.

“Pooh!” said the latter; “the best thing the poor woman could do was to die. She ought to be happy in her coffin. She had a hard life with monsieur.”

“What do you know about it?” asked the former. “She was always smiling. Her husband did not beat her. She was proud, and posed as a victim in order to make others suffer.”

“I know what I know. I have seen her crying in a way that was painful to see. Her husband did not beat her, certainly, but he kept mistresses; and see here, she most assuredly died of grief, because he no longer loved her.”

“If he left her it was because she wearied him. Madame was not amusing. I could not live with a woman like that She was quite short, but so serious that she seemed quite tall. I would wager that she herself spread the report that monsieur kept mistresses.”

“Have you seen them — these mistresses — yourself?”

“I have seen one of them. I delivered a letter to her. A fair, untidy baggage. She laughed in my face. She dug me in the ribs familiarly, and that made me understand very well what she was. And all the answer she gave me was, ‘Do not forget to tell your master not to send your stupid carcass here again.’” The other servant set off giggling. No doubt he found the fair baggage very amusing. “Well, after all, what is the damage?” added he. “It is the privilege of rich men to have mistresses. At my last place, as the master went out too often, the wife had taken a lover, and the whole establishment got on comfortably. Why should not madame have done as much instead of dying?”

“That does not suit every one. For my own part I could not have cared for madame.”

“For myself I believe I could have loved her. She was very sweet, and had an appearance which gained on one. She was indeed a mistress, attractive in a very different way from monsieur’s fair one.”

Daniel could not endure any more of this. He turned sharply round, and his irritated look frightened the chatterers, who began talking of other things.

But the young man had noticed at his side the immovable face of Louis, the valet. He alone kept up a decent demeanour. He had certainly overheard the conversation of the two servants, and had remained dignified, his lips slightly curled with his mysterious smile.

Daniel resumed his sad dreamings. He was thinking now of the hidden suffering of which Madame de Rionne had spoken, and was beginning to understand what that suffering must have been. The words he had just heard explained what in his childlike innocence had been obscure to him before, and he bowed his head in shame at the infamy, as if he had himself committed it. He told himself inwardly that it was enough to make her indignant, even in her coffin.

What wounded him above all was the outrageous freedom of speech of these men. Her body was barely cold, it was being carried to its last resting place, and here were men who seemed to delight in besmirching her. Nothing was more cruel to him than in thus receiving his first lesson on the world’s viciousness and vice at the burial of his beloved saint.

As he pondered on these things the hearse and carriages entered the cemetery.

The family of Rionne had a marble vault in the form of a Gothic chapel. This tomb was situate in a part where the monuments almost touched each other, leaving room only for narrow paths between.

The attendance of people was very far short of that at the church, but those who had the courage to come so far made a circle round the grave.

Monsieur de Rionne drew near, and the priests recited the prayers for the departed. Then the body was lowered into the grave. The sorrowing husband had burst into tears at the sight of the little Gothic chapel. When quite a child he had followed his father and mother there, and it had always been a terrifying object to him, which came back and haunted him in his dark moments. He knew it was there that his body would come to crumble and decay, and the idea made the sight of it terrible to him.

He gave a sigh of relief when he was again seated in the carriage. The funeral ceremony was at last over, and he would now be able to forget all about it Not that any one would really confess to such thoughts, but nevertheless they are there at the bottom of every coward’s heart The rest of the followers had gone away, but Daniel still stood before the grave. He wished to remain last that he might be alone with the dear dead one, to bid farewell to her without the intervening crowd between her and himself. He stood perfectly still for a long time, conversing in spirit with the soul of the angel that had fled.

Then he left the cemetery and returned to the house. He fancied he noticed the porter looking at him in a peculiar way. One might have imagined that he was hesitating whether he should admit him, and was on the point of asking him his name, as if he were a stranger.

In the little garden situated between the gate and the mansion, the servants, still dressed in mourning, were gossiping; in front of the stables, a groom, who had not been at the funeral, was washing a carriage with a big sponge. Daniel, who from timidity avoided passing up the big path, made a round and advanced to the group of servants. On seeing him the conversation suddenly ceased, and he saw every eye turned on him. Malicious sneers showed themselves on cloddish faces; some of them cackled and pointed at the poor boy, who reddened without knowing why. As he drew. near, he instinctively felt their hostility towards him. The two men on whom he had imposed silence at the funeral by his irritated looks were there also among their companions, and speaking in a low voice to each other as if stirring up the others. To the sudden silence his appearance caused succeeded words uttered in a raised voice, in an aggressive tone.

Daniel, red with shame, stopped and asked himself if he should not retreat; then the thought of Madame de Rionne came to him, and he walked bravely on. As he passed he heard ironical laughter, and cruel words lashed him, so to speak, in the face. Every one had their say.

“Look at the handsome page-boy madame had there!”

“And that creature has been well educated! Whilst we have to toil like niggers this barefooted rascal does nothing for his living.”

“Yes, we have been obliged to wait on his lordship, but this is all at an end.”

“Chuck him out, the beggar!”

And as Daniel passed before the man who was washing the carriage, the man called out: “Hi, mate, come and give us a paw!” The whole group burst out laughing.

Daniel had passed by, shuddering. These men recalled the schoolmates who insulted him. He felt himself deserted, as of old, and hastened to take refuge in solitude. His delicate sensitiveness was cut to the quick by the brutal words of these wretches, who, thinking they could do so with impunity, satisfied their base rancour. Then, seized with indignation, he retraced his footsteps, and looked these insolent fellows straight in the face. The men began to fear they had gone a little too far, they were silent, and rather embarrassed, ready to cringe even, if necessary. The young man fixed them thus, in silence, with an open, straightforward look. Then he walked on, and almost fainting after that moment’s energetic action, he slowly ascended the staircase.

On the second landing he met Monsieur de Rionne coming down. He drew back against the wall. The master of the house, who barely knew him, stared at him, wondering what this strange youth wanted in his house.

Daniel did not mistake that look. He understood its dumb enquiry; and, if he did not speak, it was that his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and that, besides, he could find nothing to say.

Monsieur de Rionne, who seemed very disturbed himself, did not stop, and Daniel hastened to go up to his room.

When there a grievous fact presented itself to him; it was that he could not possibly continue to remain in the house. He had not thought of that, and the idea of leaving was very painful. He laughed a melancholy laugh when he considered the matter, and felt he was certainly very simpleminded. His dear angel-mother was no longer there, and he would certainly be forcibly put out at the door if he refused to leave with a good grace.

Out there in the garden he could still hear the laughter of the servants, and a damp sweat broke out on his forehead. He made up his mind to go away at once.

Dreamingly he had seated himself. He was not thinking about himself, and gave no heed as to where he should sleep that night, or what he would do on the morrow. He cared little: he had all the courageous heedlessness of childhood.

Not knowing life, he proposed going right forward, always right forward. Then he thought of Jeanne, and with bitterness asked himself of what assistance he could be to her when he left the house for good. Necessity was driving him out, whilst the dead woman’s wish seemed to keep him here ‘midst offence and ignominy. Then he understood that it could not be. Madame de Rionne had commanded him to walk with head erect, and ever dignified. Above all, he must get away, and after that he would seek means to accomplish his task. Then he uprose. His trunk was open, showing his clothes and linen that he had not yet had time to put in the cupboard. The table was covered with books and papers, and on a corner of the mantelpiece lay a purse containing a little money.

He disarranged nothing — took nothing with him. The words of the insolent servants still rang in his ears, and all the things now seemed not to belong to him. He would have looked on himself as a thief if he had taken away the smallest object.

He went out quite quietly, taking nothing but the clothes he stood up in, leaving the key in the lock of the door.

As he crossed the garden he perceived little Jeanne playing on the path, and was unable to resist the temptation of embracing her before leaving.

The child was frightened, and drew back. Then he asked her if she remembered him. She looked at him without answering. That strange-looking being smiling at her astonished her exceedingly, and no doubt she was trying to call him to mind. Then, as it seemed to worry her, she showed signs of getting up and running away as quickly as possible. Daniel held her gently back.

“As you do not recognise me,” said he, “take a good look at me. Believe me, I love you very much, and it would make me very happy if you could love me ever so little. I wish to be your friend.”

Jeanne could not understand much of this serious speech, but the tenderness of his voice reassured her. She began to laugh happily.

“You must always recognise me now,” added Daniel, laughing also. “I am about to go away, but I shall come back. I shall have all sorts of beautiful things to tell you about if you are good. Will you kiss me, as you kissed your mother?”

He bent down; but the little one, when she heard her mother spoken of, began to cry. She pushed Daniel away with childish anger, and called, “Mamma! mamma!” as loud as her tears would let her. The poor young man stood petrified, but as a servant came out of the house he moved away, deeply wounded at thus leaving the child to whose happiness he was about to devote his whole life.

He found himself in the street stripped of everything, with a heavy task before him to accomplish. His affection and devotion alone sustained him. It was four o’clock in the afternoon.