Complete Works of Emile Zola (34 page)

Daniel was perfectly ignorant of the disturbance he caused or had caused in the household. He went blindly on, straight to his goal, as a man strong in the righteousness of his intentions. As a matter of fact, he went awkwardly to work at his task. Madame de Rionne could not have found any one with a more whole-hearted devotion and more profound affection; but she probably expected him to display more tact in the accomplishment of his painful task.

The young man was passionately fulfilling his mission of love. His ignorance, his brusque kind-heartedness should even have raised him in any one’s estimation.

If he found himself as a stranger in the world in which circumstances compelled him to live, still he was the representative there of plighted faith, of self-sacrifice. The dead woman, with the clear foresight of the dying, had judged Daniel rightly, however. Whilst Monsieur de Rionne was consummating his own downfall, without even remembering that he had a daughter, whilst Madame Tellier selfishly wrought harm to Jeanne, Daniel, having no other tie but that of gratitude, watched over the young girl, and bitterly regretted that he could invoke no human answer to his love. He had ended by understanding that he gave her daily offence. Jeanne must have asked herself by what right he thus followed her about everywhere, looking at her all the while with his serious eyes. All he was to her, he told himself, was a simple employé — a poor devil, with difficulty gaining his daily bread. Out of sheer pity she did not want him to be dismissed. Poor Daniel, his heart almost failed him at times; he felt that Jeanne’s disdainful manner was crushing him, and an immeasurable bitterness took possession of him.

If, however, he had studied more carefully the haughty but timid looks that the young girl cast upon him, he would have experienced a joy that would have somewhat consoled. He excited in her an emotion she could not define; the affection that lay dormant in the depths of her nature was imperceptibly stirred; she mistook for anger what was only the nervous awakening of her true self. Daniel developed in her a remorse she had not yet acknowledged even to herself. When he was near her she felt a sort of shame, and this was what made her angry with him.

Daniel every day fully persuaded himself that he had made a great mistake in not abducting her when she was quite a little thing. This was a perpetual source of despair to him. In the place of this harebrained, mocking girl, he pictured to himself the gentle, good young girl whom he would have brought up. His child’s heart had been spoiled, and now he could not educate her over again; he must look on with anguish at the frivolities, the mischievousness of this poor lost soul, of whom he had promised to make a good, loving, true woman.

One day Jeanne went to Monsieur Tellier’s study to look for a book and took a malicious pleasure in walking round and round Daniel, thinking to embarrass him. She had noticed that the Black Knight was only stem before the world, and that he became extremely timid when he found himself alone with her. And she was right. He felt like a coward before the young girl. He had never dreamt of trying to explain to himself the sudden blushes, the trembling which seized him in her presence when alone together. He dreaded seeing her, hearing her speak, face to face, because then he became for the time being nothing but a little boy, and then she triumphed over him.

Jeanne on this day, despairing of making him lift his head up, was about to withdraw, when her skirt caught on the sharp corner of a piece of furniture and was torn with a rasping noise. At the crackling of the stuff he looked up and saw Jeanne smiling quietly at him, whilst disengaging her dress.

He felt the necessity of speaking, and he said something idiotic.

“There is a dress done for,” he muttered.

Jeanne cast at him a surprised look which clearly signified “What business is it of yours?” Then, with a mischievous smile, she asked: “Do you happen to be a tailor by any chance, that you can thus estimate the amount of damage done?”

“I am poor,” replied Daniel, more firmly than before. “I do not like to see expensive things destroyed. Pray forgive me.”

The young girl was touched with the emotion he had put in these few words. She blamed herself for saying what she did.

“You hate luxury, do you not, Monsieur Daniel?” added she.

“I do not hate it,” answered the young man; “I fear it.”

“Do you, then, frequent places where the fashionable world congregates, in order to test your courage? I fancy I have seen you in very good company sometimes.”

Daniel did not answer at first “I fear luxury,” he repeated, adding, however, afterwards, “because it is dangerous for the soul as well as the mind.”

Jeanne was hurt at the look with which he accompanied these words.

“You are not very polite,” she concluded, drily.

And she went out of the room, irritated, leaving the poor creature in despair at his want of tact and his rudeness.

He realised that she had escaped him, and he condemned himself for not knowing how to give her good advice gently but profitably. The moment he succeeded in touching her feelings, in getting rid of the mocking smile on her lips, that moment he spoiled all by telling her truths so bluntly that she was offended and angered.

The fact was that he could not fight advantageously against the all-powerful influences which surrounded Jeanne. She belonged to the world; she lived in a constant state of excitement which prevented her hearing the suppressed sorrow at her heart. The emotions that Daniel’s words at times gave birth to were quickly stifled by the continual dissipation in the midst of which she found herself.

The scene of the tom dress was renewed in other forms on several occasions. Daniel often had the opportunity of moralising to her, and each time he felt he was losing ground with her instead of gaining it. He found her colder and more disdainful than before when he met her afterwards. She must have argued that this poor wretch meddled with what did not concern him, and he could not say to her as he longed to: “You are my beloved child; I only live for you. You are the precious legacy of her to whom I owe all. Your kind words fill me with delight; your malicious laughter wounds and crushes me. In pity be kind that I may be kind in return, I implore you! I am working solely for your good and for your happiness.”

For a time he had had a serious fear, from which he was now happily delivered. He trembled lest Monsieur de Rionne should remember his daughter and seek her out. But since he lived at the Tellier’s he had never yet seen anything of her father, the man whose cowardice and vice horrified him.

Monsieur de Rionne absolutely forgot his daughter’s very existence. He had come to see her once after she left the convent, solely in order to beg his sister on no account to ever bring her to see him. “You understand,” he had said, with a faint smile, “I only receive men, and Jeanne would be quite out of place at my house.”

And he went off feeling sure that he would never be disturbed, happy at the precautions he had just taken. He never went there again, fearing he should have to submit to some caprice of his daughter.

But now Daniel often came across some one in the house whose presence there gave him great anxiety. Lorin was for ever there. He was a good talker, and made himself most agreeable; and, in fact, he was always pleasant. And Jeanne seemed to like to see and hear him. He knew how to amuse her. When she showed herself mischievous he allowed himself with good grace to serve as a butt for her wit So he became almost indispensable to her.

Daniel, perplexed with terror, wondered what this man’s aim was. The scrap of conversation which he had had with him filled him with anxiety. Since that day he had never lost sight of him; he even sought to question him, but he learnt nothing which could confirm his suspicions. Nevertheless he had misgivings, and longed ardently to withdraw Jeanne from the influences which were poisoning her mind. He felt convinced that he would always be powerless as long as she lived among the giddy pleasures of the world. He wished he could carry her away far from the crowd to a calm solitude.

His dream came true — this dream-hope in a way was realised. One morning Monsieur Tellier informed him that in a week he should start with his wife and Jeanne to go and spend the spring and summer in the country. He reckoned upon taking his secretary with him, and there passing their time together at his great work, which was, so far, only making slow progress.

Daniel went up to his room, delirious with joy. He had passed a terrible winter, living a life which was killing him, and now at last he would be able to breathe freely again under the open sky near his well-beloved Jeanne. There, in the sweet peace of spring, he would try to accomplish the wish of the dead.

The following week he was in Normandy on an estate belonging to Monsieur Tellier on the banks of the Seine.

CHAPTER X

One could see glistening in the sun the Seine with its wooded banks, reflecting dark shadows in its waters. The vast, flat landscape was stretched out under the wide expanse of sky, dotted with little fleecy clouds.

One could have imagined that a flood of milk had passed over fruitful nature. The earth without upheavals, without rocks, yielded life in abundance to the trees which grew straight and strong, like vigorous children. And the rows of willows, in their sweet freshness, bathed their long gray branches in the limpid waters.

When the sun rose during the hot months of July the whole landscape was enveloped in a shining, white mist. Only the poplars were seen as dark streaks against the white sky. A sweet and peaceful country scene, in which the heart felt at peace and rest once more.

When Jeanne, the day after her arrival, opened her window and looked out on the vast plain before her the tears welled up to her eyes, and she hurried down to enjoy the fresh air, which caused her bosom to swell with an unknown joy. She became a child again. The feverish existence she had led during the last winter, the evening receptions in hot rooms, the life full of turmoil which had passed over her as a storm, agitating her body but not penetrating her soul, was past for the present at least. In the quiet freshness of spring she immediately recovered all the gaiety and tranquillity of her school-days. She seemed to be back once more at her convent where, as a little girl, she ran merrily about under the trees of the garden. And here the garden was the wide country, the lawn and the park, the islets and the lands which gradually disappeared in the haze of the horizon. It was a rugged fairyland to her.

She was so light-hearted that she longed to play hide-and-seek between the trunks of the gnarled old oaks. It was such a re-awakening of youth. Her eighteen years, whose high spirits were suppressed in drawing-rooms for fear of rumpling her laces, sang their happy song to her in this enchanting spot. She felt the life-blood coursing through her veins anew, and she was carried away by sudden impulses which drove her to the freedom of vagabondage, and made her laugh like a boy. This rush of youthful blood, however, was only physical, for her heart did not beat any faster in the peacefulness of the fields; she was simply giving herself up to the ardent life which burned within her.

Madame Tellier looked at her galloping about, and shrugged her shoulders. As far as she was concerned Mesuil Rouge was a place of exile, where fashion compelled her to remain during the summer months. She was aristocratically bored there, passing her days in yawning and counting the weeks which must elapse before the autumn and winter should come round again. When a pining for Paris seized her too violently, she made an effort to be interested in the trees, and she went down to the borders of the Seine to watch the river flow by. But she always came back deeply dejected; nothing seemed more stupid to her, or more dirty, than a river; and when she heard people eulogising the pleasures of the country, she was filled with the utmost astonishment.

In her drawing-room when the subject of green trees and running streams was mooted, not to be singular she certainly pretended to have the same love of these things as the others, but at heart she entertained a ferocious hatred against the grass, which soiled her dress, and against the sun, which burned her skin and freckled her face.

Her longest walks were round the lawns. She always went forward very cautiously, never letting her eyes wander from the path for fear of accidents. Withered leaves dropping terrified her, and one day she uttered piercing screams because a thorn had slightly scratched her hand.

When Jeanne ran about in all directions she gazed at her with an air of pity and grief. She had hoped for better things of this child, who had all the winter played her role of coquette so well.

“Good heavens! Jeanne,” she cried, “how vulgar you have grown. Really, one would think you were positively amusing yourself. Oh, heavens! here is a big hole full of water. Come quickly and give me a hand.”

And the young girl, wishing to simulate the distinguished airs of her aunt, also began to utter little cries of fright. She was not frightened at all, but was simply following Madame Tellier’s lead, whom she looked upon as a queen in a matter of taste. Then, little by little, her feet itched to run about again; she hurried her steps, walking right through the mud, and this made her laugh heartily; then she started off running again.

The only distraction the Telliers enjoyed was the arrival of a visitor. On those days Madame Tellier was radiant. She drew the curtains so as to shut out the view of the trees, and fancied herself in Paris, talking the old, vapid, worldly gossip, and intoxicating herself in imagination with the distant perfumes of the drawing-rooms.

At times when she forgot to have the curtains drawn, and she happened in the midst of her gossip to cast her eyes on the wide horizon, a real terror seized her; she felt how little she was in all that immensity, and her woman’s pride suffered.

Jeanne herself was not insensible to these reminders of Paris; and she remained in the great reception-room at Mesuil Rouge, questioned the visitors, and resumed her role as a mocking beauty. On those days she forgot the sweetness of the air, the loveliness of the sky, and the refreshing coolness of the streams. She was no longer the tomboy who tore about the alleys, but became once more that beautiful, disdainful young lady who terrified Daniel so much. Daniel, on these occasions, shut himself up in the little room on the top storey, just above a kind of pigeon-house, where he could see miles away into space. In his disgust he toiled away at the deputy’s work, or else he crossed over all alone to an island, and there, lying among the tall grass, waited angrily for the visitors’ departure that he might have his dear daughter restored to him.