Complete Works of Emile Zola (1771 page)

With her forehead resting on one of her naked arms, she took up a necklace and began toying with the pearls. Then she set it down, opened the program, and began turning it over. The little book had a weary and indifferent air. Georgette ran her eye over it without much attention, thinking apparently of something else.

As she turned the pages, the name of Charles written at the head of each of them, ended by trying her patience.

“Always Charles,” she said to herself. “My cousin has a fine handwriting; those long sloping letters have a very serious aspect. His hand rarely trembles, even when he presses mine. My cousin is a very sedate young man. One of these days he is to be my husband. At each ball he takes my program, without asking me, and writes himself down for the first dance. That is no doubt a husband’s right. That right displeases me.”

The program became more and more cold. Georgette gazing into space, seemed to be working out some momentous problem.

“A husband,” she resumed, “that is what frightens me. Charles always treats me as a little girl; because he won eight or ten prizes at college, he considers himself compelled to be pedantic. After all I don’t know exactly why he should be my husband; I never asked him to marry me; he on his side has never asked my permission. We played together formally; I remember he was very unkind. Now he is very polite; I should like him better if he were unkind. So, I am going to be his wife; I had never seriously thought of that: his wife, I really don’t see the reason why. Charles, always Charles! One would think I belonged to him already. I shall ask him not to write so big on my program: his name occupies too much space.”

The little book, which also seemed tired of cousin Charles, almost closed itself with weariness. I suspect ball-programs of feeling the most candid hatred for husbands. This one turned over its pages and slyly presented other names to Georgette.

“Louis,” murmured the child. “That name recalls a singular dancer. He came, almost without looking at me, and asked me to grant him a quadrille. Then, at the first sounds of the instruments, he dragged me to the other end of the ball-room, I cannot understand why, opposite a tall, fair lady, who was following him with her eyes. At times he smiled at her, and so absolutely forgot my presence, that on two occasions I was obliged to pick up my bouquet myself. When the dance brought him near her, he spoke to her in an undertone; as for me, I listened, but could understand nothing. Perhaps it was his sister. His sister, oh! no: he trembled when he took her hand; then when he held that hand in his, the orchestra summoned him in vain to my side. I stood there like a stupid, with my arm stretched out, which looked very bad; the figures were all in confusion. It was perhaps his wife. How simple I am! His wife, really, yes! but Charles never speaks to me when dancing. It was perhaps—”

Georgette remained with parted lips absorbed in reflection, like a child placed before an unknown toy, not daring to approach and opening her eyes to see better. She listlessly counted the tassels on the counterpane, her right hand extended and wide open on the program. The latter began to show signs of animation; it stirred about and seemed to know perfectly well who the fair lady was. I am unaware whether the libertine confided the secret to the young girl. She drew back the lace which was slipping down, over her shoulders, completed scrupulously counting the tassels on the counterpane, and at last said in an undertone:

“It’s singular, that beautiful lady was neither M. Louis’ wife nor his sister.”

She resumed turning over the pages. A name soon stopped her.

“This Robert is a wicked man,” she continued. “I should never have thought that any one with such an elegant waistcoat could be so base-minded. For a full quarter of an hour he was comparing me to a thousand beautiful things — the stars, flowers, and I know not what else. I felt flattered. I experienced so much pleasure that I did not know what to answer. He spoke well, and for a long time without stopping. Then he led me back to my seat, and there he almost wept at leaving me. Afterwards I went to a window; I was hidden by the curtains which hung down behind me. I was thinking a little, I fancy, of my chatter-box of a partner, when I overheard him laughing and talking. He was speaking to a friend of a silly little thing, who blushed at the slightest word, of a novice just fresh from a convent, who cast down her eyes and made herself ugly by her over modest demeanour. No doubt he was alluding to Thérèse, my dear friend. Thérèse has small eyes and a large mouth. She is a very good girl. Perhaps they were alluding to me. So young men tell falsehoods, then! So, I am ugly. Ugly! Thérèse, however, is more so. They must certainly have been alluding to Thérèse.”

Georgette smiled, and felt a sort of inclination to run and consult her mirror.

“Then,” she added, “they made fun of the ladies at the ball. I continued listening, and at last I failed to understand.

I — fancied they were using ugly words. As I could not get away I courageously stopped my ears.”

The ball-program was convulsed with laughter. It proceeded to quote a swarm of names to prove to Georgette that Thérèse was indeed the silly little thing who made herself appear ugly by a too modest demeanour.

“Paul has blue eyes,” it said. “Paul assuredly does not tell falsehoods, and I have heard him say very sweet things to you.”

“Yes, yes,” repeated Georgette, “M. Paul has blue eyes, and M. Paul does not tell falsehoods. He has fair moustachios, which I like much better than those of Charles.”

“Don’t speak to me of Charles,” continued the program; “his moustachios do not deserve the faintest smile. What do you think of Edouard? He is timid, and only dares speak with his eyes. I don’t know if you understand that language. And Jules? He affirms that you alone know how to waltz. And Lucien, and Georges, and Albert? They all consider you charming, and for long hours beg the charity of a smile.” Georgette recommenced counting the tassels on the counterpane. The program’s chattering began to alarm her. She felt the book was burning her hands; she would have liked to close it, but had not the courage.

“For you were the queen,” continued the demon. “Your lace wouldn’t hide your arms, your forehead of sixteen summers put your tiara in the shade. Ah! my Georgette, you could not see all, otherwise you would have shown pity. The poor fellows feel very sad at the present moment!”

And there was a silence significative of commiseration. The child who was listening, smiling and on the alert, seeing the program remain silent, murmured:

“A bow had fallen from my gown. Surely that made me look ugly. The young men must have made fun as they passed. Those dressmakers are so careless!”

“Did not he dance with you?” interrupted the program. “Who do you mean?” inquired Georgette, blushing so much that her shoulders became quite pink.

And pronouncing, at last, a name she had had before her eyes for a quarter of an hour, and which her heart was spelling out to her, whilst her lips spoke of a torn gown, she said: “M. Edmond seemed sad last night. I saw him looking at me from a distance. As he was afraid to approach, I rose and went over to him. He could not do otherwise than ask me to dance.”

“I am very fond of M. Edmond,” sighed the little book. Georgette pretended not to understand. She continued:

“In dancing I felt his hand trembling on my waist. He stammered out a few words, complaining of the heat. Seeing he cast a look of envy at the roses in my bouquet, I gave him one. There was no harm in that.”

“Oh no! Then, in taking the flower, his lips by a peculiar chance came close to your fingers. He gave them a little kiss.”

“There is no harm in that,” repeated Georgette, who for a few moments had been very restless in bed.

“Oh no! But I must really scold you for having made him wait for that poor kiss so long. Edmond would make a charming little husband.”

The child, more and more troubled, did not notice that her fichu had fallen off and that one of her feet had thrown back the bedclothes.

“A charming little husband,” she repeated again.

“I am very fond of him,” continued the tempter. “If I were in your place I would willingly return him his kiss.”

Georgette was scandalised. The good apostle continued:

“Only a kiss, there, softly on his name. I won’t tell him about it.”

The young girl vowed by all she respected that she would not do it. And I know not how it was that the page came to her lips. She knew nothing about it herself. Amidst her protests, she kissed the name twice.

Then, she perceived her foot, which was smiling in a ray of the sun. All in confusion she pulled up the bedclothes, and completely lost her head on hearing the handle of the door turn.

The ball-program slipped amidst the lace and disappeared in great haste under the pillow.

It was the chambermaid.

SHE WHO LOVES ME

I

Is she who loves me a grand lady, smothered in silk, lace and jewels, dreaming of our love on the sofa of a boudoir? Marchioness or duchess, graceful and light as a dream, languidly trailing a profusion of white petticoats across the carpets, and making a little pout sweeter than a smile?

Is she who loves me a smart grisette, tripping along, catching up her skirt to jump over the gutters, searching with her eyes for a compliment on her taper leg? Is she the good-natured girl who drinks out of every one’s glass, clothed in satin to-day, in coarse calico to-morrow, and who finds a little love for each in her wealth of heart?

Is she who loves me the blond child kneeling down to say her prayers beside her mother? The foolish virgin calling on me at night in the darkness of the narrow streets? Is she the sunburnt country-girl who looks at me as I pass, and carries a remembrance of me away with her amongst the corn and ripe vines? Is she the poverty-stricken creature who thanks me for my charity? Is she the mate of another, lover or husband, whom I followed one day, and saw no more?

Is she who loves me a daughter of Europe, as white as dawn, a daughter of Asia yellow and gold like sunset, or a daughter of the desert as dark as a stormy night?

Is she who loves me separated from me by a thin partition? Is she beyond the seas? Is she beyond the stars?

Is she who loves me still to be born? Did she die a hundred years ago?

II

Yesterday I sought her at a fair. The faubourg was holiday-making, and the people, dressed in their Sunday clothes, were noisily ascending the streets.

The illumination lamps had just been lit. The avenue, from distance to distance, was decked with yellow and blue posts, affixed to which were small coloured cups, burning smoking wicks that were blowing about in the wind. Venetian lanterns were vacillating in the trees. The footways were bordered by canvas booths with the fringe of their red curtains dragging in the gutters. The gilded crockery, the freshly painted sweets, the tinsel of the wares mirrored in the raw light of the Argand lamps.

There was a smell of dust, of gingerbread and waffles made with fat, in the air. The organs resounded; the Merry-Andrews, smothered in flour, laughed and wept beneath a shower of cuffs and kicks. A warm wave weighed upon this joy.

Above this wave and noise expanded a summer sky of pure melancholy depths. An angel had just lit up the azure blue for some divine fête, a supremely calm festival of the infinite.

Lost in the crowd, I felt how solitary was my heart. I advanced, following with my eyes the young girls who smiled at me as I passed along, saying to myself that I would never see those smiles again. That thought of so many amorous lips, perceived for a moment and lost for ever, caused me anguish.

In this manner I reached a cross way, in the middle of the avenue. On the left, against an elm was an isolated booth. In the front, a few ill-joined planks served as a platform, and a couple of lanterns lighted the door which was nothing more than a strip of canvas caught up like a curtain. As I stopped, a man wearing the costume of a magician, a long black gown and pointed hat scattered over with stars, was addressing the crowd from the height of the planks.

“Walk-up,” he shouted, “walk-up, my fine gentlemen, walk-up, my beautiful young ladies! I have come in all haste from the interior of India to make young hearts rejoice. It was there that I conquered, at the peril of my life, the mirror of love, which was guarded by a horrible dragon. My fine gentlemen, my beautiful young ladies, I have brought you the realisation of your dreams. Walk-up, walk-up and see ‘She who loves you!’ For two sous ‘She who loves you!’” An old woman, attired as a bayadere, raised the piece of canvas. Her eyes wandered over the crowd with an idiotic expression: then, she cried in a husky voice:

“For two sous, for two sous ‘She who loves you!’ Walk-up and see ‘She who loves you!’”

III

The magician beat a captivating fanciful rumble on the big drum. The bayadere hung on to a bell and accompanied him.

The public hesitated. A learned ass playing at cards offers lively interest; a strong man raising 100-lb. weights is a sight one would never tire of; it is impossible to deny, moreover, that a half-naked female giant is a fit subject to give pleasant amusement to people of all ages. But to see “She who loves us,” is what one cares about the least, and a thing that does not foreshadow the slightest emotion.

I had listened to the appeal of the man with the long gown with rapture. His promises responded to my heart’s desire; I saw the hand of Providence in the hazard that had directed my footsteps. This worthless fellow rose singularly in my estimation, by reason of the astonishment I experienced in hearing him read my secret thoughts. It seemed to me that I saw him fixing flaming eyes on me, beating the big drum with diabolical fury, shouting out to me to walk-up in a voice louder than the sound of the bell.

I was placing my foot on the first step, when I felt myself stopped. Having turned round, I saw a man at the foot of the platform holding me by my coat. This man was tall and thin; he had large hands covered with cotton gloves that were still larger, and wore a hat that had become russety, a black coat white at the elbows, and dreadful-looking kerseymere trousers, all yellow with grease and mud. He bent himself double in a long and exquisite reverence, then, in a fluty voice, addressed me in the following language: