Complete Works of Emile Zola (1672 page)

All three laughed as he spoke, for they loved to humor him.

“Of course we do,” said Josine. “I see over there, on that house with blue tiles and white stars, a ray of sunshine which tells us that there is great joy within. There must be lovers there — people who have passed a happy night.”

“
And look opposite,” said Sœurette, “on the bright façade of that other house, with its white tiles, ornamented with roses, how the windows shine, as if a star were rising. A child must just have been born there.”

“And everywhere, over all houses in the whole city,” said Suzanne, “the rays of the sun are falling and gathering themselves together like ears of golden corn in a field of brotherly affection, which is wonderful for its fertility. Does not that mean peace for all, and love for all, which every day is springing up in our dear town, and will be harvested in the future?”

Luc listened to them with delight. What a delicious reward it was for him; what an adorable gift of love they gave him, as in his extreme old age they surrounded him with tokens of sublime affection — these three women whose presence made sunny and fragrant his last days on earth. Nowhere else had love brought forth so magnificent a harvest; in his own house, around his own chair, love had results most profuse and most delightful. Three women adored him. They watched over him every hour with solicitude, they worshipped him with affection and devotion, providing for all his little wants with tender care. They were all infinitely kind and good, and infinitely tender. Each had a serene look which showed that she was glad to be alive, and to be able, with gentle hands, to support him to the entrance of the tomb. They were all three very old. Their hair was white, as was their complexion, but they were as light as phantoms. They had all grown venerable, and were like pure flames, bright and cheerful, flames kindled upon the altar of youthful but most constant love felt for the old man whom they now waited upon. He was still living, and therefore they wanted to live. They supplied him with strength, activity, and knowledge of what was going on around him. They were always there, always in good health and good preservation, going and coming on his behalf, for he was not able to rise. They were his guardians and his housekeepers, his companions who seemed to prolong his long existence, which had now overpassed the limits usually allotted to man.

Josine, at seventy-eight, was the one he had loved, the Eve whom he had rescued from a fall and from suffering. She was very slight; but like a withered flower that retains its perfume, she had kept her supple gracefulness and her delicate charm. In bright sunshine her white hair would sometimes show something of the tint of gold, so beautiful in her youth. And Luc continued to adore her, even as he had done upon that far-off day when he had succored her, loving in her the suffering people, and having selected her as the most wretched and the most unhappy in order to save with her, if he saved her, all the abandoned of this world suffering through disgrace and hunger. He often kissed fervently her hand which had been mutilated by cruel labor, in that penitentiary of wage-earners, whence his pity and his love for her had prompted him to rescue others. To complete his mission of redemption and deliverance, he had felt the necessity of being aided by a wife; without her he could not be strong and complete, nor able to redeem his fellows. It was from the union of man and woman, from the fruit of their love, that a new generation must be born into the world. When Josine had borne him children he felt his work would go on from generation to generation. She, too, adored him. She loved him, as she had done from the day that they first met, with a flame of tender gratitude. She gave herself to him body and soul, and age had not extinguished or diminished her love.

Sœurette, who was of the same age as Luc, being almost eighty-five, was the most active of the three women. She was on her feet morning and night, and she was always busy. She had not seemed to grow older for many years. Always slender, she was now still more ephemeral, but had certainly grown handsomer in her old age. She had formerly been dark, thin, and unlovely, but had now become an exquisite little old lady, a white mouse, as it were, with brilliant eyes. Long ago, in the painful crisis of her love for Luc, when she felt what it was to love and not be loved, her good brother had told her that in time she would become resigned, and make others happy by the sacrifice of herself. She had daily become more resigned, and her renouncement had ended by giving her pure joy — by being a spring of divine happiness.

Suzanne, now eighty-eight, was the eldest of the three women, the most serious and the most venerable. She was not tall, but she carried herself erect, with a soft, tender face, the only charm of which in youth had been its look of goodness and intelligence. But she was no longer able to walk, though her eyes showed how anxious she was to be helpful to others, and to be active in good works. She might generally be found sitting beside Luc. She kept him company, while the two others, Josine and Sœurette, hurried about, trotting noiselessly through the room, or stood near their dear old invalid, who sat smiling in his easy-chair. Suzanne, too, had loved him in the days of her sad youth, but her love was long unknown to herself.

Thus Luc, now very old, very tall, and handsome still, was ending his life beloved by three women who, like himself, were old, but handsome in old age. He, with his tall form not yet bent by the weight of years, was strong and in good health — as sound as an oak. Only his legs had swollen. They had become stiff and unserviceable, so that he was nailed to his seat before his window, ever looking with delight on the city he had founded. Over his brow stood up a cluster of thick hair, for age had not brought baldness; but his head was now quite white, and his hair was a mane, like that of an old lion. The last days of his life were perfumed by the tender love of those around him, Josine, Sœurette, and Suzanne. He had long loved them. He loved all three of them, and they rejoiced in his great love, in which they perceived such brotherly kindness, such goodness. Love was a river in which his life flowed on to its close, and the woman he had passionately loved and his dear friends he now folded to his heart with equal pressure, and found in their love for him and in his for them fresh life and joy in living.

But there were signs that the end was drawing near. Like Jordan, Luc felt that, his work being now done, he must go away from earth. He felt sleep beginning to overcome him and rest to be at hand; he had deserved it, and now he joyfully looked forward to it. He saw death draw near, and welcomed it; he knew it to be necessary, and thought it would give him a gentle summons. Good man as he was, spending his life to ameliorate the lot of others, he had lived more for earth than heaven. He believed in an immortality to be found in his work, carried on after his death by his children and grandchildren; and he was happy in thinking that because he had lived men of the future would be better and more happy. So Josine, Sœurette, and Suzanne, seeing him so sweetly falling asleep, could not be sad. Every morning they opened his windows that the sun he loved might freely enter, and they dressed his room with fragrant flowers. Besides this, well knowing his delight in children, they wanted him constantly to see some of them around him; little lads and lasses with their fair curls or their brown locks, who were like other flowers, buds now, but to be all strength and beauty in later years. And when these little folks were in his room, laughing and playing round his easy-chair, Luc would smile tenderly, watching their romps with an air of amusement, and delighted that his life would end in so much hope and gayety.

But the day of his death kept coming near. The three women who saw it approaching, by the look in the clear eyes of the old man, sent for his little great-grandchildren, the sight of whom, in his last moments, would most remind him of his youth and speak most to him of the future. These children brought with them older ones, their playfellows, descendants of the workmen whose united efforts had years before founded La Crêcherie.

The sunny chamber was a charming sight, full of children and of roses, among which sat the hero, the old lion with his silvery mane, still interested in these little ones, looking at once moved and delighted. He recognized them all, called them by name, and asked them questions.

A great lad of eighteen, François, son of Hippolyte Mitaine and Laure Fauchard, looked at him with two great tears in his eyes, which he was trying to conceal.

Luc called him.

“Come and press my hand, my fine François,” said he. “You must not be sorry; you see that we all feel satisfied. Be a brave man. How you have grown! Some day you will make a splendid lover.” —

The next to whom he spoke were two young girls about fifteen — Amélie, the daughter of Alexandre Feuillat and Clémentine Bourron, and Simonne, whose parents were Adolphe Laboque and Germaine Yvonnot.

“
Ah! you are always merry, you two beautiful girls, and that is right. Come here and let me kiss you on your fresh young cheeks; and be always gay and beautiful, for that makes people happy.”

After that he spoke to none of them but his own descendants, who had increased and multiplied rapidly. Two of his grandchildren were there — Alice, a young girl of eighteen, daughter of Charles Froment and Claudine Bonnaire, and a grandson of sixteen, Richard, whose father was Jules Froment and his mother Celine Lenfant. Josine and Sœurette had sent for the girls and boys only; the room would have been too full had the fathers and mothers come with their children. Luc laughed tenderly as he called Alice and Richard up to him.

“
My pretty Alice,” said he, “you are almost old enough to be married; look out for some young man who has good health and is as handsome as yourself. Ah! you have seen to that already? Love each other much, have healthy, handsome children. And you, my big Richard, I hear that you are going to be apprenticed in the shoemaking shop. I am told that what you take most interest in is music, of which you are passionately fond. Work hard at the shop, and then enjoy your music. Cultivate your genius, if you have any, my boy.”

At this moment four very little children came in. They were three boys and a girl, Luc’s great-grandchildren, who tried to climb up on his knees. He began by lifting up the eldest, Georges, who was seven, the son of Maurice Morfain and Berthe Jollivet, who were cousins, one the son of Raymond Morfain and Thérèse Froment, the other the daughter of André Jollivet and Luc’s daughter Pauline.

“
Ah!” said the great-grandfather, “my good little Georges, dear grandson of my two daughters, Thérèse the brunette and Pauline the blonde! You used to have eyes like my Pauline, and now they are getting to be like those of Thérèse! And your pretty mouth with its smile — is it like that of my Thérèse, or is it Pauline’s? Give me a good kiss, a hearty kiss, my dear little Georges, that you may remember for a long, long time how you have seen me.”

Then it was the turn of Grégoire Bonnaire, who was younger than Georges, being hardly five. He was the son of Félicien Bonnaire and of Hélène Jollivet, the first child of Severin Bonnaire and Léonie Gourier; her mother was the second daughter of André Jollivet and Pauline Froment.

“So you are another little man belonging to my Pauline! Tell me, Grégoire, is not grandmamma Pauline very charming, with her hands always full of nice things?

And you love me, too, your great-grandpapa, my Grégoire.

You want to be a good boy always, do you not? Think of that when you think of me. Kiss me; give me a good hearty kiss.”

Afterwards he took up the two youngest, Clement and Luce, brother and sister, setting one on his right knee,. the other on his left. Clement was five, Luce only two.  They were the children of Ludovic Boisgelin and Mariette Froment. But in them there was great mingling of the blood of those we have before known in this narrative. Ludovic was the son of Paul Boisgelin and of Antoinette Bonnaire, and Mariette was the daughter of Hilaire Froment and Colette, the charming eldest daughter of Nanet and Nise. They were thus descended from the Delaveaus, the Boisgelins, the Bonnaires, and the Froments, with their fair foreheads and their pretty curls.

“Come, come, little Clement and little Luce, my darlings. If you could only know all that I recall as I look into your bright eyes! Little Clement, you are a good boy and a strong boy. Oh, I know; I have heard all about you from grandpapa Hilaire, who is always so glad to hear you laughing. And you, my little Luce, you dear little atom, who can hardly talk, I know you are a brave little woman, for you never cry, and you lift up your plump little fists to the bright sun. You must kiss me, both of you, my handsome, darling children. You are the best things I shall leave behind; in you will be my strength and hope when I am gone.”

The others had drawn near, and he would have been glad to have arms long enough to enfold all of them and to press them to his heart. To them he entrusted the future; he put his work into their hands, as if they were new forces which might carry it on and enlarge that work by-and-by. He had always looked to children, to generations yet unborn, to complete the work of happiness. And those dear children sprung from himself, now standing round him in this last hour — an hour of peace — what a legacy of justice, virtue, and happiness he was about to leave them! How earnestly and passionately he looked to them to realize his dream of the human race made day by day more free and more happy!

“Now, then, my darlings, be good, be honest, and be always kind! Remember how you have all kissed me today, and love me always, but love one another, too. You will some day know what we have accomplished, and you will do as we have done; and your children in their turn will do as their fathers did with labor, energy, and much love! Meantime, dear children, go away now and play, and be always healthy and very merry.”

Josine, Sœurette, and Suzanne wanted to send the children home, for fear that they might make too much noise, since they saw that Luc was gradually growing weaker; but he would not let them go. He wanted to keep the children near him, and to die with the sound of their merry laughter in his ears. It was therefore settled that they might all play under his window in the garden. He heard them and could see them and was content.