Complete Works of Emile Zola (1777 page)

One of the oarsmen who was keeping the boat in position whilst holding on to a branch, let the craft go. Then the young woman, feeling herself drifting away, extended her arm and seized a root. She clung to it, called for help, and cried out that she did not want to go any further. Then, when the oarsmen had secured the boat, she sprang on to the grass and came to us, all rosy from the effects of her achievement.

“Don’t be afraid, gentlemen,” she said to us, “I do not wish to be in your way; if it pleases you to go to the north, we will go to the south.”

IV

I had taken up my basket again, and gravely set out to look for the plot of turf that was the least damp. Léon followed me, and was followed himself by Antoinette and her sweethearts. In this order we walked round the island. On returning to our point of departure, I sat down, decided not to make any further search. Antoinette took a few steps, appeared to hesitate, then returned and placed herself opposite me. We were at the north, she did not think of going to the south. Léon then found the site charming, and vowed I could not have made a better selection.

I do not know how it occurred, the baskets happened to be side by side, the provisions went together so perfectly, when they were spread out on the grass, that neither party was able to distinguish which was which. We had to have but one cloth, and in a spirit of justice, we shared the viands.

The two lovers had hastened to seat themselves on either side of the young woman. They anticipated all her wishes. For one piece of anything she asked for, she regularly received two. Her appetite, however, was good.

Léon, on the contrary, ate little, but watched us devouring. Being obliged to sit next to me, he held his tongue, giving me a mocking look each time Antoinette smiled at his neighbours. As she was receiving food on both sides, she held her hands out right and left with equal complacency, tendering thanks each time with her soft voice. Léon, on seeing this, made energetic signs to me which I did not understand.

The young woman was desperately coquettish that day. With her feet drawn under her petticoats, she almost disappeared in the grass; a poet would have made no difficulty about comparing her to a large flower gifted with looks and smiles. She, who was generally so natural, gave herself roguish airs, and there was a simpering tone in her voice which I had never noticed before. The lovers, confused at her kind remarks, looked at each other triumphantly. For my part, astonished at this sudden coquetry; seeing the wicked creature laughing every now and then in her sleeve, I wondered which of us was transforming this simple girl into a shrewd woman.

The repast was almost over. We laughed more than we talked. Léon changed his seat continually, unable to make himself comfortable anywhere. As he had resumed his disagreeable manner, I was afraid a speech was coming, and with a look I begged our lady-friend to pardon me for having such a sulky companion. But she was a plucky girl: a philosopher of twenty, however serious he might be, could not put her out of countenance.

“Sir,” she said to Léon, “you are sad; our merriment seems to annoy you. I am afraid to laugh any more.”

“Laugh, laugh, madam,” he answered. “If I hold my tongue, it is because I am unable to find fine phrases to delight you, like these gentlemen.”

“Does that mean that you do not flatter? In that case speak out at once. I am all attention, I want brutal truths.”

“Women do not like them, madam. Besides, when they are young and pretty, what fib can one tell them that is not true?”

“Come, you see, you are a courtier like the rest. Now you are making me blush. When we are absent, you men tear us to pieces; but let the most insignificant of us appear, and you cannot bow low enough or find language sufficiently tender. That’s hypocrisy! As for myself I am frank, I say: Men are cruel, they do not know how to love. Look here, sir, be straightforward too. What do you say of women?”

“Have I full liberty?”

“Certainly.”

“You will not get angry?”

“Eh! no, I will laugh rather than do so.” Léon struck the attitude of an orator. As I knew the speech by heart, having heard it more than a hundred times over, I began to throw pebbles into the Seine to divert myself and bear with it.”

“When our Maker,” he said, “perceived a being was wanting in His creation, and had used up all the mud, He did not know where to find the necessary material wherewith to repair His forgetfulness. He had to turn to the dumb animals; He took a little flesh from each of them, and with these contributions from the serpent, she-wolf, vulture and so on, He created woman. And so the wise who are familiar with this circumstance, omitted from the Bible, are not surprised to see woman whimsical and everlastingly a prey to contrary humours, as she is a faithful image of the different elements of which she is composed. Each creature has given her a vice; all the evil dispersed throughout creation has been assembled in her; hence her hypocritical caresses, her treachery, her debauchery—”

Any one would have said that Léon was repeating a lesson. He held his tongue, searching for the continuation. Antoinette applauded.

“Women,” resumed the orator, “are born coquettish and giddy, just as they are born dark or fair. They give themselves away by egotism, and take little care to choose according to merit. Let a man be foppish with the regular beauty of a fool, and they will fight over him. Let him be simple and affectionate, ‘satisfied with being a man of intelligence, without proclaiming it from the housetops, and they will not even know of his existence. In all matters they must have playthings that sparkle: silk petticoats, golden necklaces, precious stones, lovers combed and pomatumed. As to the springs of the amusing machine, it matters little whether they work well or badly. They have nothing to do with minds. They know all about black hair and amorous lips, but they are ignorant of things connected with the heart. It is thus that they throw themselves into the arms of the first simpleton they meet, having full confidence in his grand appearance. They love him because he pleases them; and he pleases them, because he pleases them. One day the simpleton thrashes them. They then talk about being martyrs; they are plunged in grief, and say a man cannot touch a heart without breaking it. What foolish creatures. Why do they not seek for the flower of love where it blooms?”

Antoinette applauded again. The speech, as I knew it, stopped there. Léon had delivered it straight off, as if in a hurry to reach the end. When he had uttered the last sentence, he gazed at the young woman and seemed dreaming. Then, declaiming no longer, he added:

“I never had but one sweetheart. She was ten and I twelve. One day she threw me over, for a big dog who let himself be teased without ever showing his teeth. I wept bitterly and vowed I would never love again. I have kept that vow. I know nothing about women. If I were in love I should be jealous and disagreeable; I should love too fondly; I should make myself hated; they would deceive me, and that would be my death.”

He said no more, and, with moist eyes, sought in vain to laugh. Antoinette was no longer joking. She had listened to him very seriously; then, leaving her neighbours, looking Léon in the face, she went and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“You are a child,” she simply said to him.

V

A last beam of the sun gliding over the surface of the river, transformed it into a ribbon of creamy gold. We waited for the first star, so as to descend the current in the cool of the evening. The baskets had been carried back to the boat, and we had laid down, here and there, each according to fancy.

Antoinette and Léon had seated themselves beneath a large sweet-briar, which extended its limbs above their heads. They were half hidden by the green branches. As their backs were turned to me, I could not see whether they were laughing or crying. They spoke in an undertone, and appeared to be quarrelling. As for myself, I had selected a little mound covered with fine grass; and stretching out lazily, I saw at the same time the heavens and the turf on which my feet were resting. The two lovers, appreciating, no doubt, the charm of my attitude, had come and laid down, one on my right and the other on my left.

They profited by their position to talk to me both at the same time.

The one on my left nudged me slightly with his arm when he found I was no longer listening to him.

“Sir,” he said to me, “I have rarely met a more capricious woman than Mademoiselle Antoinette. You cannot imagine how her head turns at the least thing. For example, when we met you this morning we were on our way to dine two leagues away from here. You had hardly disappeared, when she made us retrace our steps; the country didn’t please her, she said. It’s enough to drive one crazy. For my part, I like doing things one can understand.”

The man who was on my right said at the same time, obliging me to listen to him:

“Sir, I have been seeking an opportunity to speak to you in private since this morning. My companion and myself think we owe you an explanation. We have noticed your great friendship for Mademoiselle Antoinette, and we very much regret to interfere with your plans. If we had known of your love a week earlier, we would have withdrawn, so as not to cause a gentleman the least pain; but now it is rather late: we no longer feel strong enough to make the sacrifice. Besides, I will be straightforward: Antoinette loves me. I pity you, and am ready to give you satisfaction.”

I hastened to allay his fears. But although I vowed to him that I never had been, and never would be Antoinette’s sweetheart, he nevertheless continued to lavish the most tender consolation upon me. He found it so delicious to think that he had robbed me of my love.

The other, annoyed at the attention I was paying to his companion, bent over towards me. To compel me to lend him an ear, he confided to me a great secret.

“I want to be straightforward with you,” he said; “Antoinette loves me. I sincerely pity her other admirers.”

At that moment I heard a peculiar sound; it came from the bush beneath which Léon and Antoinette were sheltering themselves. I couldn’t tell whether it was a kiss or the note of a frightened fauvette.

In the meanwhile, my right-hand neighbour had surprised my left-hand neighbour, telling me Antoinette loved him. He raised himself and looked at him defiantly. I slipped away from them, and slyly gained a hedge, behind which I ensconced myself. Then they found themselves face to face.

My cluster of brambles was admirably situated. I could see Antoinette and Léon, but without, however, hearing what they said. They were still quarrelling; only they seemed closer to one another. As to the men in love, they were above me, and I could follow their dispute. The young woman was turning her back to them, so they were able to give vent to their fury at ease.

“You have behaved very badly,” said one; “you should have withdrawn two days ago. Haven’t you sufficient intelligence to see? Antoinette prefers me.”

“No indeed,” answered the other, “I have not that intelligence. But you have the stupidity, you, to take for yourself the smiles and glances intended for me.”

“Rest assured, my poor gentleman, that Antoinette loves me.”

“Rest assured, my happy sir, that Antoinette adores me.”

I looked at Antoinette. There was certainly no fauvette in the bush.

“I am tired of all this,” resumed one of the suitors. “Are not you of my opinion, that it is time for one of us to make himself scarce?”

“I was about to suggest to you that we should cut one another’s throats,” answered the other.

They had raised their voices; were gesticulating, getting up and sitting down again in their anger. The young woman, attracted by the increasing noise of the quarrel, turned her head. I saw her look astonished, then smile. She called Léon’s attention to the two young men, and said a few words to him which made him quite merry.

He rose and went towards the river, leading his companion along with him. They stifled their bursts of laughter, and avoided kicking the stones as they walked along. I thought they were going to hide themselves, so as to cause a search to be made for them afterwards.

The two wooers were shouting still louder; having no swords, they were making ready to use their fists. In the meantime Léon had reached the. boat; he helped Antoinette into it, and quietly began to undo the cord; then he jumped in himself.

Just as one of the suitors was about to strike the other, he caught sight of the boat in mid-stream. Thunderstruck, forgetting to hit, he pointed it out to his companion.

“Heh! heh!” he shouted, running to the bank, “what’s the meaning of this joke?”

I had been entirely forgotten behind my bush. Happiness and misfortune, alike, make persons egotists. I rose.

“Gentlemen,” I said to the poor fellows who stood gaping and bewildered, “don’t you remember the fable? The joke means this: Antoinette, whom you thought you had stolen from me, is being stolen from you.”

“The comparison is gallant!” Léon shouted out to me.
“
Those gentlemen are thieves, and madam is an—”

Madam kissed him, and the kiss smothered the ugly word.

“Brothers,” I added, turning towards my stranded companions, “here we are without food and without a roof above our heads. Let us build a hut, and live on wild berries until a vessel comes to take us off our desert island.”

VI

And then?

And then, what do I know! You are asking me too much, Ninette. Antoinette and Léon have been living for two months, now, in the sky-blue nest. Antoinette continues a frank and good girl. Léon speaks ill of women more impetuously than ever. They dote on each other.

SISTER-OF-THE-POOR

I

AT the age of ten, the poor child seemed so delicate, that it was pitiful to see her working as hard as a farm-servant. She had great, wondering eyes, and the sad smile of those who suffer without complaining. The rich farmers who met her of an evening coming out of the wood, ill-clad and loaded with a heavy burden, sometimes offered, when the corn had sold well, to buy her a good petticoat in thick fustian, and she would then answer: “I know of a poor old man, who stands under the church porch, exposed to this December cold, and who has only one blouse; buy him a cloth jacket, and to-morrow, when I see him so well clad, I shall feel warm.” It was for that reason they had nicknamed her Sister-of-the-poor; and some called her so in derision, on account of her old clothes, whilst others did so as a reward for her kind heart.