Complete Works of Emile Zola (1641 page)

Then she lay down in her bed, turned her face to the wall, and drew the coverings closely over her.

About ten o’clock Félicie, her maid, came at last into the chamber; she had been surprised that madame had not rung her bell, and was impatient for the summons, because she had a great piece of news to tell.

“
Madame is not sick, I hope?”

As no answer came, she paused a minute, and then went towards the window to open the Venetian blinds, as she always did. But a murmur that came from the bed stopped her.

“Does madame wish to stay in bed?”

There was still no answer. Félicie was burning with the wish to tell her mistress her great news, and decided to impart it, so she said:

“Does madame not know?”

Cold silence seemed to fill the chamber. Out of the bed came only a strange, stifled sound beneath the bedclothes.

“Well, madame, a workman from the Pit... that Ragu; you know him... has just killed Monsieur Luc, the master of La Crêcherie. He stabbed him with a knife.”

Fernande, as if moved by a spring, started up, very white, with her hair falling about her.

She sat up in her tumbled bed, but all she said was, “Ah!”

“Yes, madame,. Ragu has stabbed him in the back, right in between his shoulders. They say it was something about his wife. What a catastrophe!”

With eyes fixed as if looking at something far off, Fernande, in the half-light, sat motionless.

“All right,” she said; “now let me sleep.”

And when the maid had softly shut, the door she fell back on her pillows. A dreadful thirst for blood, a triumphant joy in successful crime, took possession of her.

It was about nine o’clock in the pale, early light of a winter morning when Luc was stabbed. He was making his morning visit to his schools, usually the pleasantest moment of his day, when Ragu, who was lying in wait for him hidden behind some furze bushes, sprang out and struck him with a knife between his shoulders as he crossed the threshold, laughing with some little girls who had run to meet him. He gave a loud cry and fell, while the murderer made his escape, gained the slopes of the Monts Bleuses, and disappeared among the rocks and bushes. It happened that at that moment Sœurette was not at hand, being busy in the dairy in another part of the park. The little girls who were on the spot fled terrified, screaming for help, crying out that Ragu had killed Monsieur Luc. Several minutes elapsed before laborers from the works arrived and raised the stricken man, who had fainted from the violence of the blow. His blood had flowed freely, and the steps of the Communal House, where the schools were held, were red with it. Nobody thought of capturing Ragu, who was seen running away in the distance, and Luc, when the workmen were going to carry him to one of the near rooms in the Communal House, having recovered consciousness, implored them in a weak voice not to do so.

“No — no, friends. My own home.”

They obeyed him, and carried him on a stretcher to the little detached house that he inhabited. But it was with great difficulty that they lifted him on to his bed, where he again lost consciousness from the violence of his pain.

At this moment Sœurette arrived. One of the girls had had the presence of mind to go and tell her at the dairy, while a workman hastened to Beauclair
to
summon Dr. Novarre. When Sœurette entered the room and saw Luc stretched out, pale and covered with blood, she thought he was dead. She fell on her knees beside him, a prey to such grief that the secret of her love escaped her. She took one of his apparently dead hands and kissed it and sobbed. She murmured all the tender words that she had never before addressed to him even in thought, all the passionate affection she had hidden in her heart. She called him her only love and the one thing that she cherished in life. If she lost him she would lose everything. She would never love another man; she would not survive him! And in her despair she did not perceive that Luc, whom she was moistening with her tears, had come to himself, and was listening to her with infinite affection, but with infinite sadness.

Then he murmured, though his voice was hardly louder than a breath:

“You love me? Ah! poor, poor Sœurette!”

But she, happy in the surprise of finding he was still living, did not regret her avowal, so happy was she that she need no longer conceal anything from him and so sure that her love was so great that she could keep herself from ever being to him a cause of suffering.

“Yes, I love you, Luc,” said she; “but what can it matter about me? You live, and that is all I ask. I am not jealous of what may make you happy. Oh, Luc! do but live, and I will be your servant.”

At this tragic moment, when he thought that death was near him, the discovery of this love, so silent, so absolute, love bestowed like that of a guardian angel, filled him both with tenderness and regret.

“Poor, poor Sœurette! Oh! my divine, but unhappy friend!” he murmured, with a weak voice.

The door opened, and in came Dr. Novarre, who was very much affected, and at once began to examine the wound, assisted by Sœurette, whom he knew to be an experienced nurse. The room was very silent; it was a time of unspeakable anguish. Then there came unexpected relief, for the doctor said there was hope. The knife had struck the shoulder-blade, and had then been turned aside, so that it had not pierced any vital organ. It had merely lacerated the flesh, yet the wound was frightful. The shoulder-blade was broken, and this might lead to complications. Although there was no immediate danger, recovery would certainly be slow. But what happiness it was to know that death was averted!

Luc held Soeurette’s hand, smiling feebly at this good news.

“And my kind Jordan,” said he; “does he know?”

“No, he has heard nothing yet. He has shut himself up for three days past in his laboratory. But I will bring him here. Oh, my friend! how happy I am in the assurance given us by the doctor!”

She was sitting, happy, with her hand in his, when again the door opened, and this time it was Josine who came in. She had hastened hither on first hearing of the assault, overwhelmed and beside herself. What she had long dreaded had now happened! Who could have told her secret? And Ragu had taken the life of her husband, her child’s father! Her life was over. She had no longer anything to hide. She would die there by his side.

On seeing her Luc gave a slight cry, and letting go Soeurette’s hand, he suddenly stretched out his arms. “Ah! Josine, it is you! You have come back to me!” She staggered forward and fell on the bed at his side. He understood her mortal anguish, and reassured her.

“You have come back to me, Josine, with the dear little one. But do not despair. The doctor says I am going to live, to live for both of you.”

She heard him and heaved a great sight, as if the breath of life had come back to her. Ah! was she now to realize her secret hopes? Life had been very hard, but its hardships might have been the preparation for happiness. He lived, and that cruel stab might be the means of uniting for life two beings who seemed formed for each other.

“Yes — yes, I have come back to you, Luc,” said she. “We have come. It is all over. We will never leave you, for we shall no longer have anything to hide. Do you remember how I promised to come back whenever I knew that you had need of me; when I should be no longer a danger, an embarrassment, but a help? All other ties are broken now. My place is beside your pillow.”

He was greatly moved, and so filled with joy that tears came into his eyes.

“Ah! dear, dear Josine,” said he, “love and happiness have come to me with you.”

But on a sudden he remembered Sœurette, and, raising his eyes, saw her standing on the other side of the bed. She was pale, but stood smiling. With an impulse of affection he again took her hand.

“My kind Sœurette, this is a secret that I have wished to hide from you.”

She trembled slightly, but simply said:

“Oh! I knew it. I saw Josine one morning coming from your house.”

“What! did you know?”

And then he guessed all. He felt a deep pity for her, and infinite admiration and tenderness. Her self-denial, the love that she preserved for him and which she showed him by unbounded affection, giving up all her life to him without looking for return, touched him, and raised her in his eyes as a woman capable of the greatest heroism. Leaning over him, she whispered, softly:

“Do not fear, Luc. I knew. I shall be only the most devoted, the most sisterly of your friends.”

“Ah! Sœurette!” he repeated, in a voice almost indistinct; “ah! my divine and unhappy friend!”

When the doctor saw him so much moved he interfered, and forbade him absolutely to talk. The good doctor smiled discreetly, for he fancied that he understood what was going on. His patient had a sister and a wife to take care of him, but he must be reasonable and not bring on a fever by too much emotion. Luc promised to be very good. He ceased to speak, but cast loving glances at Josine and Sœurette, his two angels, one on the right and the other on the left side of his bed.

There was a long silence. The blood of the young apostle had been shed; he had passed through his time of suffering, and henceforth his course might be one of triumph. As the two women gently performed little services around him, the wounded man opened his eyes and smiled at them. Then he went to sleep, whispering as he did so:

“Love has come at last, and now we shall be conquerors.”

CHAPTER V

COMPLICATIONS set in, and Luc came near dying. For two days he was believed to be past hope, and neither Josine nor Sœurette left his bedside. Jordan himself, abandoning his laboratory, which he had never done before since his mother’s last illness, came to sit beside his friend’s couch. The grief of these kind hearts was acute as they waited from hour to hour expecting to close the eyes of one whom they loved so tenderly., La Crêcherie was thrown into confusion by the news of the injury that Ragu had inflicted upon Luc. The work went on as usual the next morning in the workshops, but the workmen were unanimous in their manifestation of affection for the victim, which they displayed by a constant desire for news of his condition. The foolish and unprovoked attack, the blood which had been shed, stimulated the existence of friendly feeling in a manner that years of humanitarian experiment could not have succeeded in doing. Sympathy was expressed even in Beauclair, and many people thought kindly of this young man, so handsome, so active, and in the prime of life, whose only crime, apart from his efforts for justice, was his affection for a very lovable woman whose husband ill-treated her with outrages and blows. Upon the whole, no one was surprised or shocked at Josine’s installing herself at Luc’s bedside. On the contrary, this seemed very natural, for was he not the father of her child, and had they not both purchased, at the cost of their tears, the right to be together? On the other hand, the gendarmes sent in pursuit of Ragu had failed to find any trace of him; all efforts made in this direction during the past two weeks had been in vain; and the mystery seemed to be solved at length by the discovery, at the bottom of a ravine in the Monts Bleuses, of the body of a man half eaten by wolves, which the police claimed to recognize as the remains of Ragu. A certificate of registry of death could not be drawn up, but the story was circulated and believed that Ragu was dead, as a result of an accident or of suicide committed during madness caused by his crime. Then, if Josine was a widow, why should she not marry Luc, and what reason was there that the Jordans should not receive them under their protection? The tie between the two was so natural, so strong, and thenceforward so indissoluble, that later on it occurred to no one that at first they had not been legally married.

At last, on a fine morning in February, when the sun was shining brightly, Dr. Novarre pronounced Luc’s recovery assured, and this was confirmed some days later by his complete convalescence. Jordan, much relieved, had returned to his laboratory. Sœurette and Josine were left alone, both full of happiness, but greatly fatigued by loss of rest. Josine especially, who had refused to spare herself, had suffered much in silence. At last there came a morning, bright with the sunshine of an early spring, when her strength failed her completely, after she had brought Luc for his breakfast the first egg that the doctor had permitted; she was forced to allow Sœurette to remove her into the adjoining room. When Dr. Novarre arrived for his daily visit he found two patients instead of one, and only a short time elapsed before a faint cry was heard, the first cry of a new voice which is raised to greet the light. In Luc, whose whole being was tense with expectation, this sound aroused a sensation of exquisite joy.

“A son, a son?” he cried, with delight.

“Certainly,” answered Dr. Novarre. “It is a son; it is a little man.”

Some little time later Sœurette brought the child to his father. Her pure heart was so full of love that she herself was radiant with the happy issue of the event, and to be a sharer in Luc’s happiness occasioned her a heavenly joy. And when, after he had kissed the child, he said to her, tenderly, in his overpowering delight:

“Sœurette, my dear friend, let me embrace you, too; you have been so much to me, and I am so happy.”

She answered in the same tone of tenderness and joy:

“My dear Luc, embrace me if you wish; we are all so glad.”

The weeks that followed were filled with all the pleasures of a double convalescence. As soon as the doctor allowed Luc to get up he passed an hour each day in an arm-chair beside Josine, who was still in bed. An unusually early spring filled the room with sunshine, and there was always on the table a bunch of exquisite roses, which the doctor brought each day from his garden, as a prescription, he said, for youth, health, and beauty. It was now the child, the little Hilaire, who inspired them both with fresh strength and hope. Luc was making continual projects for the future; and while he was waiting to be able to go to work he kept repeating that he would be thereafter perfectly content, since he was certain that he should establish the city of justice and of peace, because he himself was in possession of love, a perfect wealth of love, in Josine and little Hilaire. The child is a necessity to the foundation of anything; it is the living spring of action, widening and continuing life, and forming the connection between to-day and to-morrow. It is only those who have children who can really labor for human happiness; it is they alone who will succeed in saving mankind from iniquity and wretchedness.