Читать книгу The Complete Early Novels - Emile Zola - Страница 42

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THE next day Daniel was settled at Monsieur Tellier’s. He was to occupy a rather big room on the fourth storey, in which the windows looked out on the courtyard. He had to work in the mornings from eight o’clock to mid-day in the study. His work consisted in writing a few letters, and listening to the interminable orations of the deputy, who seemed to be trying the effect of his speeches on his secretary. Then in the afternoon Daniel spent his time in arranging the mass of papers which Monsieur Tellier invariably left about. In the evening he was free.

Daniel had expressed a desire to eat in his own room, and the first few days the servants of the establishment did not even know of his presence there. He proceeded straight to the study very quietly. Then he shut himself up, and was seen and heard no more.

One night, however, he went out to see George. His friend found him careworn and anxious-looking. He did not say a word of the life he was now leading. He talked feverishly of the past. George understood that he was seeking consolation in its memories. He proposed to him, not without hesitation, to come back and lodge with him, and take up their common task again. But Daniel refused, almost angrily.

During those sad first days at Monsieur Tellier’s he had only had one idea — to fathom Jeanne’s heart, and find out what they had done with his dear little daughter to make her change so. She was restored to him very different from what he left her, and he asked himself who this grand young lady with the disdainful smile could be.

He turned himself into a sort of private detective. He spied on Jeanne’s actions, taking note of her slightest movements, her slightest word. He was angry that he could not obtain a greater acquaintance with her. All he saw of her was just when she was passing through a room; all he heard of her was just a laugh when she was saying a few hurried words. He dared not approach her more closely. She seemed to him unapproachable, surrounded by a blinding halo. When she was before him in the dazzling brightness of her beauty and youth he felt overpowered as if by the presence of a divinity.

Every afternoon towards four o’clock, when it was fine, he took up his place at the window.”

Below in the courtyard a carriage was nearly always waiting for Madame Tellier and Jeanne, to take them to the Bois de Boulogne. The two ladies slowly descended the doorsteps with trailing skirts, but Daniel had eyes only for the young girl. He studied her least movements. She leant back on the cushions of the carriage with a careless ease that was most distasteful to him. Her toilettes, too, shocked him; he felt that it was all these ribbons and laces that intimidated him and kept him at a distance from her.

The carriage started and Daniel was alone again at his window above the courtyard. The great gulf between him and her seemed blacker and more desolate than ever. He stared sorrowfully at the blank walls, and pondered bitterly over the beautiful dreams he formerly had whilst gazing at the elms in the impasse St. Dominique d’Enfer.

He concluded that Jeanne had a bad disposition, and that the poor dead woman had reason to be afraid for her future. He argued in this way from vexation, angry because he could not understand what he saw going on about him. The transition he had undergone was too abrupt. He had lived himself as austerely as a Benedictine monk in his cell; he knew only the miseries and rough side of life. This big, simple scholar had a holy horror of luxury, and knew absolutely nothing of a woman’s heart. And all of a sudden he found himself face to face with this life of riches and selfish ease; he had to set himself the task of deciphering the mystery of a young girl’s heart. If Jeanne had merely come forward in a friendly way and held out her hand, as George had lately held out his, he would have thought such an action quite natural, for he had no experience of the ways of society. He could not get beyond those, to him, terrifying furbelows, and he imagined that her heart was spoiled.

Kept in a convent till the age of eighteen, Jeanne had preserved all the infantile ways of early childhood. Her heart and mind had been wrapped up in the gossip of her little friends, and far off, at a distance, life seemed to her as a dazzling fairyland which she would enter later. Her days were filled by the thousand and one pretty follies of the education that is given to girls in France. So she had become an excitable child — a doll that was to be prepared for fashion and distinction. She had only a vague memory of her mother. No one spoke to her about her, and she herself only thought of her when she saw the mothers of other girls come into the parlour. She did then feel that there was something lacking in her heart, but she could not tell what it was. As she grew up she became accustomed to the solitude of her life. Her heart had recoiled into itself. She became reckless, almost wicked. Her spirit stirred in her a mocking, aggressive spirit, and she acquired the terrible reputation of being a scoffer. All the tenderness of her affectionate nature went to sleep, so to speak, in the depths of her heart. Even a kiss might perhaps have made a loving, self-sacrificing woman of this sarcastic girl. But then there was no one to give her this kiss.

Then she left the convent and went under the deplorable influence of Madame Tellier. There were two distinct natures in her: the young maiden of mocking spirit, the disdainful rebellious child, and the goodhearted girl who ignored self, and showed, at times, by a mere look, a deeply affectionate disposition. Now she plunged headlong into luxury and gaiety; she satisfied all the feverish desires of her young days, which she had been unable to satisfy. It was a frenzy. At times she felt all the emptiness of the life she led with her aunt, but then she laughed and told herself that she had everything she wanted, and accused herself of longing for things which had no existence. And, truly, love had so far no existence for her. After that she gave herself up wholly to pleasure. She endeavoured to satisfy herself with vanity only; she extracted all the happiness she possibly could from the rustling of her beautiful silks, from the admiration of the crowd, from comfort and wealth; and she thought she was enjoying real life.

The foolish Daniel in his blindness could not penetrate the recesses of that intricate heart. He saw clearly her contemptuous looks, but he did not perceive a tender light in the depths of her eyes. He heard well enough her sharp mocking words, but he did not discern the hidden tears under the bursts of laughter; so he made up his mind that Jeanne had an evil disposition, and he suffered terribly at this unpleasant discovery. Consequently he decided not to make himself known, at least at present. He wished to play the part of an invisible guardian, and not that of an irksome protector. Besides he foresaw that Jeanne’s haughty temperament would shake off the yoke, however light it was. Then how to tell the truth? He would never have found either the courage or necessary words to do so, if he had been compelled to confess to the young girl who he was, and with what mission Madame de Rionne had entrusted him.

What astonished him was to feel his devotion and affection for Jeanne growing, instead of diminishing, since he had decided that she had a bad nature. He experienced for her a mixture of anger and adoration. When he saw her in a mocking humour, when he saw her putting her happiness in a dress or a trinket, he ran and shut himself up in his room; and there he found her again in his mind’s eye such as she had been before — stately, beautiful, and good. Then he vowed he would keep his love for her awake, to be able to worship her unrestrainedly.

So far he could not clearly discover what position the young girl held at her aunt’s. He remembered that Madame de Rionne had spoken to him of impending ruin, and for the last twelve years the father must have been consummating his ruin pretty rapidly. He made some discreet inquiries, and learnt that this fast liver was getting down to his last louis.

And Jeanne — she probably had no fortune at all. From that moment Daniel was astonished at the generous hospitality extended by Madame Tellier to her niece.

The truth was that Madame Tellier had well understood from the first that, in a way, she was adopting her brother’s daughter; and it was for this reason that she left her as long as possible at the convent. Then, when she was getting near her fortieth year, a despondency settled on her from some secret disappointment. She recollected Jeanne at her convent and sent for her, with the idea of getting distraction in seeking a husband for her. Besides, the expenses she incurred for the young girl were mostly for her own pleasures at the same time. She was always the practical woman. In decking out Jeanne she was decking her out for her own sake; she was satisfying solely her own love of luxury and her own vanity. As her niece must be there in her drawingrooms, she would not have allowed her to be there unless she had been thoroughly, smartly dressed.

There might perhaps have been also another feeling in her heart. She was probably delighted to spend the last years of her beauty in flirtations. She engaged in a species of rivalry with this young girl; she was quite delighted when her guests neglected Jeanne to come and pay their court to her. It was a new recreation to her to tell every one that her niece had no dowry, and when the men who were courting Jeanne grew cool, she laughed.

Perhaps even she reckoned on the disastrous effect Jeanne’s rich toilettes produced on her suitors when they learned that this lovely young lady had not a sou. Her niece became to them as a rare but dangerous flower — one that would be too costly to keep. She thus placed Jeanne out of the reach of all, enjoying her own fun immensely. Moreover, she expected to find her a simpleton; but Jeanne’s sharp, reserved, and sarcastic character had given her an agreeable surprise. She had taken quite a fancy to this scoffer; she entertained her vastly, so she stirred her up and urged her on to mischievousness, without thinking that she was doing any harm. Not possessing that quality herself, which should have awakened the dormant goodness in her niece’s heart, the aunt really believed she was conferring on Jeanne a true benefit in giving her a worldly training.

Both lived the same life — the aunt without a qualm, the niece with secret misgivings. In Paris they were received, one as the queen of fashion, the other as an aspirant who one day or other might be queen.

When Daniel, from his bedroom window, saw them enter the same carriage he was seized with fits of anger. He recollected the words of the dying woman, who foresaw the evil influences her husband’s sister would have upon her daughter, and he wondered how he could counteract these evil lessons.

One morning Monsieur Tellier, who had taken a great liking to his secretary, invited him to a soiree he was having that evening. Daniel’s first terrified thought was to refuse. The idea of finding himself in a drawingroom, in the full blaze of many candles, in the midst of a fashionable crowd, was insupportable to him.

Then he heard a voice — the vanished voice of Madame de Rionne — saying to him inwardly: “Everywhere she goes, you must go; you must shield her from the world.” And he accepted Monsieur Tellier’s invitation, in fear and trembling. In the evening he spent over an hour in his room before his glass at his toilet.

The poor young man had not a spark of vanity in him, but he was afraid of looking ridiculous before Jeanne. He managed to dress himself in as quiet a fashion as possible, so as not to attract any one’s attention to himself. Then he went down and slipped into the drawingroom.

On entering Daniel experienced that feeling of suffocation and blindness which a swimmer feels when he plunges his head under water: the lights had advanced before his eyes, the sound of the guests’ voices buzzed in his ears, and he could hardly breathe. For one moment he stood motionless, overwhelmed, fighting against the uncomfortable feeling which oppressed him.

No one had noticed him when he came in. Little by little the weight which crushed him diminished, and he breathed freely again. He could observe the scene he had before him quite clearly — the large drawingroom in white and gold, resplendent with the light of many candles; the gilt bronzes brightly shining, and the walls covered with mirrors, giving out reflections which made the eyes blink.

A close tepid atmosphere gradually pervaded the room from the odour of bouquets mixed with the perfume from bare shoulders.

Daniel noticed that the women sat together at one end of the room, whilst the men were huddled together near the windows and doors. All these people were thus disseminated in small groups — the black coats standing, the silk skirts displayed on the sofas and armchairs. Nothing could be heard but a slight murmur of voices, in which every now and then was mingled a little laughter.

A sort of instinctive respect had taken possession of Daniel. He looked at those serious men and those elegant youths, and he was ready honestly to admire them. Never had he been at such a gathering before. It all came upon him as a surprise; he felt as if he were suddenly transported to a world of light, where everything must be good and beautiful. The rows of armchairs where the ladies, with smiling faces, showed their bare necks and arms covered in jewellery, fascinated him particularly. And then in the midst of them all he perceived Jeanne, proud, triumphant, surrounded by admirers — worshippers rather — and there was the sacred place for him whence every glory radiated.

He wanted to enjoy the conversation of these superior beings, and so he discreetly drew near one group, in which Monsieur Tellier seemed to be discussing some grave matter. This is what he heard:

“I have had a rather bad cold since yesterday,” solemnly said the deputy.

“You must nurse it,” rejoined an old gentleman.

“Bah! it will go away as it came....”

Daniel did not listen to more, and he regretted having forgotten what he had known for a fortnight, that Monsieur Tellier was a conceited idiot. He went a little further and found himself behind a young man and a young woman.

The young woman, seated in a languid way, was bending slightly forward, with a smile on her lips, and seemed to be listening to the music of angels, to be living far from the earth, in an ideal world. The young man, resting his arms lightly on the back of the armchair, looked like a cherubim clothed in black.

Daniel thought that his ear would catch one of those love chats which one reads of in poetry.

“What abominable weather we have had today,” quietly murmured the young man.

“Oh, do not speak of it,” answered the young woman with emotion; “the rain makes me depressed, and I must be looking very plain tonight.”

“You are adorably lovely!”

“Have you noticed that when it rains the hair comes out of curl?”

“Certainly.”

“I was obliged to have my head dressed three times, and see how straight it is now.”

“In such a case I myself use gum mixed with powder.”

“Really!... I am much obliged for the recipe.”

Daniel thought he must have come across a hairdresser, and he hurried off so as not to intrude on such tender, confidential talk.

Then he drew near two tall young men who were conversing apart. He thought that these, having no woman to amuse, must be talking sensibly like men. As a matter of fact they were talking like grooms. Daniel only partly understood their language. Drawing - room jargon was a new tongue to him, and at first he thought they must be foreigners. Then he recognised a few French words, and he guessed they were talking of women and horses, without very well knowing which expressions they were applying to the women and which to the horses, for they spoke of them both with the same affection and the same vulgarity.

Then Daniel looked boldly round the room. He began to understand that he had been the dupe of outward form. He now saw all the platitudes and frivolous speeches he had heard, in their clear, naked aspect, like those rags of dialogue which drag so miserably in pantomimes, in the midst of the splendid scenery. He grasped at once that there was nothing before him but the light playing on the jewels and costly dresses. These heads, young and old, were empty, and had become empty from politeness and would-be gentility. All these men were comedians in whom one could neither distinguish heart nor brain; all these women were so many dolls exposing their shoulders, set on chairs like porcelain statuettes set on mantel boards. And Daniel experienced an intense pride, for at this moment he was proud even of his awkwardness and his ignorance of the world. He no longer feared being seen. Holding his head erect he marched into the centre of the room. Unpolished as he was, he considered himself so superior to these people that their laughter had no effect on him. He had, as it were, a reawakening of pride, and he quietly took up again the place that was his by right, in the full blaze of light

He had not yet dared to approach the group in the midst of which Jeanne was enthroned as a queen. Now he marched straight up to this group, and, keeping at the back of the others, waited for a favourable moment to pass to the front row.

Jeanne seemed absent-minded. She scarcely attended to the men around who were paying her court. She knew by heart all their set phrases, and their frivolity wearied her tonight. She was nervously pulling out the petals of a rose; her bare shoulders had an imperceptible movement of contempt. Daniel was ill at ease when he saw his dear girl so décolleté, and he felt a kind of strange warmth coursing from his heart all through his veins.

He found the young girl most deliciously beautiful. Never had he had such a good view of her. She was very much like her mother, and he remembered the pale, thin face of Madame de Rionne reclining on the pillow.

In this case the cheeks were rosy, the eyes were bright with the quick fire of life, and the light breath of the mouth delicately opened the lips.

In front of Jeanne there was a young man who every now and then bent over her, partly hiding her from view. Daniel was irritated with this young man, whose face he could not see; he felt, in fact, that he hated him. Why did this unknown man approach the young girl so closely? What did he want of her? By what right did he put himself between her and him? Then the young man turned round and Daniel recognised Lorin, who, on his side, having observed Daniel, advanced with outstretched hand and a smile on his lips.

Lorin was an habitué of the house. Whilst he was making his fortune he had entrusted various sums to Monsieur Tellier, and the merchant having invested these sums had made them yield enormous profits for both. Hence their friendship. There were mischievous tongues that said the young man had other motives in going to the house, and that for a long time he had come to talk of business with the husband and of love with the wife. Whatever the case may have been, since Jeanne’s arrival Lorin neglected Madame Tellier very markedly.

He now took Daniel’s arm and crossed the room thus, talking to him confidentially.

“What!” said he, “you here? How pleased I am to meet you again!”

“I am extremely obliged, I am sure,” drily answered Daniel, annoyed at this meeting.

“How is Raymond?”

“First-rate.”

“So you allowed yourself to be drawn out of your cell and go astray in this world’s paradise?”

“Oh, I shall get back there. I know my way all right.”

“You come, perhaps, after that young lady out there, whom you are devouring with such greedy eyes?”

“Me!” exclaimed Daniel, in a strange voice.

And he looked Lorin in the face, trembling at the idea of having allowed this man to see into his heart.

“Well, is there anything that can be wondered at in that?” added Lorin. “We all love her. She has magnificent eyes and red, tempting lips. Then she is full of fun, and one could not possibly be dull with her.”

This praise of Jeanne from such a mouth angered Daniel extremely; yet he concealed his wrath, and tried to assume an air of indifference.

“But no money, my dear fellow,” went on Lorin; “not a fraction! Madame Tellier, who is well disposed towards me, had the kindness to warn me. The little girl is as beautiful as an angel, but she is one of those angels who is not satisfied with the clothing her wings give her, but goes to a frightful expense in silks and satins. She would make a charming wife; the worst of it is, she would cost abominably dear.”

After that he was silent a moment or two and seemed to be reflecting. Then suddenly he said:

“Raimboult, would you marry a woman who had not a sou?”

“I do not know,” answered Daniel, astonished at this abrupt question; “I have never considered the matter. I believe I should marry the woman I loved.”

“Perhaps you would be right,” slowly answered Lorin. “As far as I am concerned, I should think I was committing an act of egregious folly.” Then, hesitating, he stopped.

“Pooh!” exclaimed he at last. “Follies are committed every day.” And he changed the subject. He boasted of his fortune. Then he noticed Madame Tellier coming in, being quickly surrounded by a circle of admirers.

“Would you like,” he asked Daniel, “to be introduced to the queen of these regions?”

“There is no need to introduce me,” answered the other; “she is already acquainted with me.”

“But I have never seen you here.”

“It is the first time I have come downstairs. I live in the house. I have been Monsieur Tellier’s secretary the last fortnight.”

Those three short, dry sentences had a most disagreeable effect on Lorin.

“You have?” said he.

And this “you have” in his mouth meant distinctly, “Why the devil did you not inform me of this sooner? I would not have strolled about with you so long.”

He gently dropped Daniel’s arm, and went and joined the group round Madame Tellier. The moment he found out his old comrade was only a secretary, a paid servant, he considered it compromising to be seen with him.

Daniel smiled contemptuously, and regretted not having spoken out sooner, so as to have been the quicker rid of his obnoxious presence. He also, in turn, approached Madame Tellier, keeping, however, a few steps off.

The lady was most elaborately and carefully rejuvenated, having aimed at a youthful appearance, although her face already bore traces of wrinkles. From time to time she cast a furtive look towards Jeanne, and was overjoyed at noticing that she herself was still surrounded by the largest circle, and was still the most courted. The young girl merely represented an object of comparison for her that reassured her against the first signs of old age.

Lorin was there, attentive and gallant. He had far too much hypocritical diplomacy to break off suddenly with a power. He loved and admired the niece, but recollected that the aunt might be useful to him.

Madame Tellier, vain as she was, was yet by no means deceived as to the young man’s inmost thoughts. At the end of a few minutes she said to him in a mischievous, mocking way:

“Monsieur Lorin, pray go and entertain my niece a little; she seems rather dull out there by herself.”

The moment she had spoken, she was sorry. Lorin, annoyed at her guessing his thoughts, bowed and went across to Jeanne. He was followed by some other young men, who hastened to take Madame Tellier’s words literally. A circle was formed round the young girl. Daniel succeeded in gaining the first row.

Jeanne was no longer absent-minded or indifferent. Her eyes brightened and her mouth assumed a mocking expression. She entered feverishly into the worldly gossip carried on around her, stirring up the flippant talk with all the vivacity of her active spirit. Her heart had no share in it. Daniel listened in pained silence. He thought that she was not foolish like the others, but had all their hardness of heart. Then he remembered the dying woman’s words, and began to feel that the room was suffocating, and that his heart must soon cease beating in it.

Jeanne railed on like a spoiled child. She had taken Lorin apart and was saying to him: “So you are quite sure that I am adorable?”

“Most adorable,” emphatically repeated Lorin.

“Would you dare confess this before my aunt?”

“She herself has sent me to tell you so.”

“I am much obliged for her kindness, but I am merciful, and I warn you you are running a great risk.”

“What risk, may I ask?”

“That of my taking seriously what you have just said to me out of compliment.... You must know that I am about to set keepers near me.”

“Keepers! For what reason?” asked Lorin, for her vivacity had cut him to the quick.

Jeanne shrugged her shoulders and set off laughing.

“Can you not guess?” added she. “To prevent fools from falling into the dark pit dug for them by a dowerless girl.”

“I do not understand you,” muttered Lorin.

The young girl looked him in the face and made him lower his eyes.

“All the better,” said she. “Then you must have told me a falsehood; you do not find me adorable.” And she began speaking of other things.

“Have you heard of the terrible accident that took place yesterday at the ‘de la Marche’ races?” suddenly asked Lorin.

“No,” answered Jeanne. “What happened?”

“A jockey broke his ribs in taking the third obstacle. The wretched man uttered groans of agony, and the worst of it was that the horse following his broke his leg also.”

“I was there,” joined in a young man. “I never saw a more dreadful sight.”

A slight shudder contracted Jeanne’s calm face. A pang of pain shot through her form, and then she quietly said: “He must have been an awkward fellow. One ought never to fall off a horse.”

Daniel, so far, had listened in silence. The young girl’s last words made his heart bound in his breast Now he said: “Pardon me, these gentlemen do not know the whole story.” Every one turned towards the interrupter, who spoke with emotion.

“This morning,” continued he, “I read a full account of the accident in the paper. The awkward fellow, who committed the folly of getting killed, was carried, covered in blood, to his mother. This woman, a poor old thing of sixty, went mad with despair. At the present moment her son’s corpse is still unburied; and there is, in a little cell of the ‘Salprêtrière’ (lunatic asylum), a shrieking, lamenting mother.”

Lorin thought his former comrade’s sally in very bad taste, and considered the barbarian was decidedly incorrigible.

Whilst Daniel was speaking, Jeanne was looking fixedly at him. When he had finished, “I thank you, monsieur,” she simply said, and two tears trickled slowly down her cheeks that had become pale.

Daniel gazed at those falling tears with the most profound joy.