Complete Works of Emile Zola (27 page)

Thus S. Clothilde — the church, surrounded by flowers and verdure — was reached. The nave filled up, and the choir began chanting.

Daniel knelt down in a corner near a chapel. He was calm now and could pray. But he could not follow the priest’s prayers; his lips remained closed — his prayer was only a passionate cry of the heart At one moment he felt faint, and was obliged to go out. The odour of the wax, the plaintive melody of the chants, oppressed and suffocated him. Outside he slowly walked about on the sandy paths of the little plot of ground which surrounds the church. Every now and then he stopped and gazed at the verdure-clad masonry. His heart, however, still wept, and sent forth its ardent prayer. When the hearse and carriages started on the last journey he went and placed himself among the servants again.

The procession reached the boulevards, and took the direction of the cemetery of Mont Parnasse.

The morning air was soft, and the sun shining on the early leaves of the great elms painted them green. The freshness and limpidity of the atmosphere caused the horizon to be particularly and clearly defined. One might say that the winter rains had so washed the earth that now it radiated freshness and cleanliness.

Those who followed the body of Madame de Rionne to the grave that bright morning had for the most part forgotten that they were assisting at a funeral. Smiles were seen on many of the faces. One would have said they were merely taking a stroll and basking in the sun, enjoying the sweetness of spring.

The procession slowly advanced in groups, growing yet more irregular, and the uneven sounds of footsteps and the increasing hum of conversation was heard.

Every one talked with his neighbour of his private affairs, and gradually all breathed more freely and grew cheerful.

Daniel, his eyes fixed on the ground, bareheaded, stricken dumb with grief, was dreaming of the mother whom he had just lost; he was recalling memories of his childhood, conjuring up the most minute details of the night of her death; to him it was a sad, profound vision, in which he lost himself.

And yet his ears, in spite of himself, heard what the servants were talking about.... His brain took in the brutally plain words... He did not want to listen, but not one word escaped him. Whilst his poor heart was bleeding, whilst he was giving himself over wholly to despair at the solemn farewell he had taken of one whom he adored, he was compelled to overhear the cynical conversation of the valets and coachmen. Just behind him there happened to be two servants carrying on an animated discussion. One sided with monsieur, one with madame.

“Pooh!” said the latter; “the best thing the poor woman could do was to die. She ought to be happy in her coffin. She had a hard life with monsieur.”

“What do you know about it?” asked the former. “She was always smiling. Her husband did not beat her. She was proud, and posed as a victim in order to make others suffer.”

“I know what I know. I have seen her crying in a way that was painful to see. Her husband did not beat her, certainly, but he kept mistresses; and see here, she most assuredly died of grief, because he no longer loved her.”

“If he left her it was because she wearied him. Madame was not amusing. I could not live with a woman like that She was quite short, but so serious that she seemed quite tall. I would wager that she herself spread the report that monsieur kept mistresses.”

“Have you seen them — these mistresses — yourself?”

“I have seen one of them. I delivered a letter to her. A fair, untidy baggage. She laughed in my face. She dug me in the ribs familiarly, and that made me understand very well what she was. And all the answer she gave me was, ‘Do not forget to tell your master not to send your stupid carcass here again.’” The other servant set off giggling. No doubt he found the fair baggage very amusing. “Well, after all, what is the damage?” added he. “It is the privilege of rich men to have mistresses. At my last place, as the master went out too often, the wife had taken a lover, and the whole establishment got on comfortably. Why should not madame have done as much instead of dying?”

“That does not suit every one. For my own part I could not have cared for madame.”

“For myself I believe I could have loved her. She was very sweet, and had an appearance which gained on one. She was indeed a mistress, attractive in a very different way from monsieur’s fair one.”

Daniel could not endure any more of this. He turned sharply round, and his irritated look frightened the chatterers, who began talking of other things.

But the young man had noticed at his side the immovable face of Louis, the valet. He alone kept up a decent demeanour. He had certainly overheard the conversation of the two servants, and had remained dignified, his lips slightly curled with his mysterious smile.

Daniel resumed his sad dreamings. He was thinking now of the hidden suffering of which Madame de Rionne had spoken, and was beginning to understand what that suffering must have been. The words he had just heard explained what in his child-like innocence had been obscure to him before, and he bowed his head in shame at the infamy, as if he had himself committed it. He told himself inwardly that it was enough to make her indignant, even in her coffin.

What wounded him above all was the outrageous freedom of speech of these men. Her body was barely cold, it was being carried to its last resting place, and here were men who seemed to delight in besmirching her. Nothing was more cruel to him than in thus receiving his first lesson on the world’s viciousness and vice at the burial of his beloved saint.

As he pondered on these things the hearse and carriages entered the cemetery.

The family of Rionne had a marble vault in the form of a Gothic chapel. This tomb was situate in a part where the monuments almost touched each other, leaving room only for narrow paths between.

The attendance of people was very far short of that at the church, but those who had the courage to come so far made a circle round the grave.

Monsieur de Rionne drew near, and the priests recited the prayers for the departed. Then the body was lowered into the grave. The sorrowing husband had burst into tears at the sight of the little Gothic chapel. When quite a child he had followed his father and mother there, and it had always been a terrifying object to him, which came back and haunted him in his dark moments. He knew it was there that his body would come to crumble and decay, and the idea made the sight of it terrible to him.

He gave a sigh of relief when he was again seated in the carriage. The funeral ceremony was at last over, and he would now be able to forget all about it Not that any one would really confess to such thoughts, but nevertheless they are there at the bottom of every coward’s heart The rest of the followers had gone away, but Daniel still stood before the grave. He wished to remain last that he might be alone with the dear dead one, to bid farewell to her without the intervening crowd between her and himself. He stood perfectly still for a long time, conversing in spirit with the soul of the angel that had fled.

Then he left the cemetery and returned to the house. He fancied he noticed the porter looking at him in a peculiar way. One might have imagined that he was hesitating whether he should admit him, and was on the point of asking him his name, as if he were a stranger.

In the little garden situated between the gate and the mansion, the servants, still dressed in mourning, were gossiping; in front of the stables, a groom, who had not been at the funeral, was washing a carriage with a big sponge. Daniel, who from timidity avoided passing up the big path, made a round and advanced to the group of servants. On seeing him the conversation suddenly ceased, and he saw every eye turned on him. Malicious sneers showed themselves on cloddish faces; some of them cackled and pointed at the poor boy, who reddened without knowing why. As he drew. near, he instinctively felt their hostility towards him. The two men on whom he had imposed silence at the funeral by his irritated looks were there also among their companions, and speaking in a low voice to each other as if stirring up the others. To the sudden silence his appearance caused succeeded words uttered in a raised voice, in an aggressive tone.

Daniel, red with shame, stopped and asked himself if he should not retreat; then the thought of Madame de Rionne came to him, and he walked bravely on. As he passed he heard ironical laughter, and cruel words lashed him, so to speak, in the face. Every one had their say.

“Look at the handsome page-boy madame had there!”

“And that creature has been well educated! Whilst we have to toil like niggers this barefooted rascal does nothing for his living.”

“Yes, we have been obliged to wait on his lordship, but this is all at an end.”

“Chuck him out, the beggar!”

And as Daniel passed before the man who was washing the carriage, the man called out: “Hi, mate, come and give us a paw!” The whole group burst out laughing.

Daniel had passed by, shuddering. These men recalled the schoolmates who insulted him. He felt himself deserted, as of old, and hastened to take refuge in solitude. His delicate sensitiveness was cut to the quick by the brutal words of these wretches, who, thinking they could do so with impunity, satisfied their base rancour. Then, seized with indignation, he retraced his footsteps, and looked these insolent fellows straight in the face. The men began to fear they had gone a little too far, they were silent, and rather embarrassed, ready to cringe even, if necessary. The young man fixed them thus, in silence, with an open, straightforward look. Then he walked on, and almost fainting after that moment’s energetic action, he slowly ascended the staircase.

On the second landing he met Monsieur de Rionne coming down. He drew back against the wall. The master of the house, who barely knew him, stared at him, wondering what this strange youth wanted in his house.

Daniel did not mistake that look. He understood its dumb enquiry; and, if he did not speak, it was that his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and that, besides, he could find nothing to say.

Monsieur de Rionne, who seemed very disturbed himself, did not stop, and Daniel hastened to go up to his room.

When there a grievous fact presented itself to him; it was that he could not possibly continue to remain in the house. He had not thought of that, and the idea of leaving was very painful. He laughed a melancholy laugh when he considered the matter, and felt he was certainly very simple-minded. His dear angel-mother was no longer there, and he would certainly be forcibly put out at the door if he refused to leave with a good grace.

Out there in the garden he could still hear the laughter of the servants, and a damp sweat broke out on his forehead. He made up his mind to go away at once.

Dreamingly he had seated himself. He was not thinking about himself, and gave no heed as to where he should sleep that night, or what he would do on the morrow. He cared little: he had all the courageous heedlessness of childhood.

Not knowing life, he proposed going right forward, always right forward. Then he thought of Jeanne, and with bitterness asked himself of what assistance he could be to her when he left the house for good. Necessity was driving him out, whilst the dead woman’s wish seemed to keep him here ‘midst offence and ignominy. Then he understood that it could not be. Madame de Rionne had commanded him to walk with head erect, and ever dignified. Above all, he must get away, and after that he would seek means to accomplish his task. Then he uprose. His trunk was open, showing his clothes and linen that he had not yet had time to put in the cupboard. The table was covered with books and papers, and on a corner of the mantelpiece lay a purse containing a little money.

He disarranged nothing — took nothing with him. The words of the insolent servants still rang in his ears, and all the things now seemed not to belong to him. He would have looked on himself as a thief if he had taken away the smallest object.

He went out quite quietly, taking nothing but the clothes he stood up in, leaving the key in the lock of the door.

As he crossed the garden he perceived little Jeanne playing on the path, and was unable to resist the temptation of embracing her before leaving.

The child was frightened, and drew back. Then he asked her if she remembered him. She looked at him without answering. That strange-looking being smiling at her astonished her exceedingly, and no doubt she was trying to call him to mind. Then, as it seemed to worry her, she showed signs of getting up and running away as quickly as possible. Daniel held her gently back.

“As you do not recognise me,” said he, “take a good look at me. Believe me, I love you very much, and it would make me very happy if you could love me ever so little. I wish to be your friend.”

Jeanne could not understand much of this serious speech, but the tenderness of his voice reassured her. She began to laugh happily.

“You must always recognise me now,” added Daniel, laughing also. “I am about to go away, but I shall come back. I shall have all sorts of beautiful things to tell you about if you are good. Will you kiss me, as you kissed your mother?”

He bent down; but the little one, when she heard her mother spoken of, began to cry. She pushed Daniel away with childish anger, and called, “Mamma! mamma!” as loud as her tears would let her. The poor young man stood petrified, but as a servant came out of the house he moved away, deeply wounded at thus leaving the child to whose happiness he was about to devote his whole life.

He found himself in the street stripped of everything, with a heavy task before him to accomplish. His affection and devotion alone sustained him. It was four o’clock in the afternoon.

CHAPTER IV

As the gates of the mansion closed behind Daniel they made a dull, grinding noise. He looked about him without seeing anything, and then began to walk with bowed head, musing, and not knowing whither his steps would lead him. The crying of Jeanne and the noise of the closing gates still echoed in his ears. He kept on saying to himself that the child neither recognised nor loved him, and that the gates groaned in a most extraordinary way as he left.