Complete Works of Emile Zola (35 page)

This simple, gentle spirit experienced a veritable delight in living thus in the open air, revelling amid the freedom of nature. He had found at Mesuil Rouge exactly the kind of life that suited him; for the first epoch in his existence he had a good time. His life thus far had been passed in prison cells, so to speak, and he knew nothing of a free life. This peace, therefore, now came to him, and an immense hope entered and pervaded his whole system. On dull days — that is to say, when Mesuil Rouge was empty of visitors — Jeanne belonged to him.

Little by little intimacy had sprung up between them. During the first days there the young girl looked at the islets with the longing of a child. Her imagination was at work; she wanted very much to know what was going on behind those impenetrable leaves.

But her uncle was far too pompous to go and risk his solemnity among the briars, and her aunt had an aversion to bushes planted in the water, for she declared that they must be full of serpents and horrid beasts.

Then it was that Daniel seemed to Jeanne like a worthy young man who could do her a great service. Every morning she saw him take the little boat and disappear in the dark shade of the tiny rivulet, and one day she mustered up courage to ask him to take her with him. She did it in all innocence, to satisfy her curiosity, without even dreaming that Daniel was a man.

For his part he got confused, and he explained his confusion to himself by the joy he felt. And from that day Jeanne very often accompanied him on his excursions.

Madame Tellier, who looked on Daniel merely as a servant, did not see the slightest harm in her niece going on these exploring expeditions with him. She was only astonished at Jeanne’s bad taste in caring for such explorations, especially as she usually came back with her dress covered with mud. The deputy, it may be remarked, had come to have a true respect for his secretary, for, if he had few talents himself, he could recognise ability in others.

These trips became quite an infatuation with the young people. They started towards evening, an hour before twilight, and the moment the rowing boat reached one of the little branches of the river Daniel lifted out the oars, and they glided gently along with the current. They rarely spoke a word to each other. Jeanne, partly reclining in the boat, was lost in day-dreams, watching the ripples made by her fingers dragging through the water, while he was content to sit and watch her. Thus they went along in the green transparent twilight, in the midst of a stillness which would make many people shudder. Then they would land on one of the little islands, and there give themselves up to childlike laughter and mad scamperings.

When they had discovered a small opening among the bushes they stopped to take breath, chatting like old comrades. But she noticed that Daniel would never sit down. Whilst his companion rested a few minutes he kept standing. He had practised climbing the trees to look for birds’ nests. But if Jeanne took compassion on the poor little things’ fate, he climbed up again and replaced them in their nests in the high branches.

The return home was delightful. They lingered under the arches of the leaves where it was quite dark. The freshness of the air became penetrating; the leaves of the willows softly rustled as they brushed against their clothes. The calm water was like a mirror of brown steel. And Daniel, when he had prolonged the journey as long as possible, wanted at last to leave the island.

Then, as the Seine stretched out before them, white as silver, for there was generally some daylight still left — a pale light of a soft, melancholy kind — Jeanne, seated at the bottom of the boat, would gaze over the surface of the water. The river seemed to her like another sky, into which the trees plunged their shadows. As the country round lay sleeping in a deep peace there would come, one knew not whence, a sound as of soft chanting, and all was solemn and tranquilising.

In this calm life he was leading a supreme peace had come to Daniel, and he forgot himself. He felt convinced that he was not born for preaching, and that the role of tutor did not suit him in any way. He knew how to love, that was all. When he called to mind that horrible winter when he had played such a ridiculous part, he suffered terribly. How happy he was now, living in hope and the solace of his affection.

In this manner he occupied himself neither with the past nor the future. It sufficed him to see Jeanne running about among the grass, delighting in the solitude of the islets, showing him at all times an open-hearted friendship. In his opinion all was going well: the present time was good; the young girl was forgetting the evil excitements of the past. The pure country air had made him feel younger again himself, for round about him he saw, as it were, a vast expanse of love.

All through the summer he lived in a glorious confidence. He had not a word of rebuke for Jeanne, not even a harsh look. In his eyes all she did was well done, and he discovered pretexts as excuses for her bad moments. The truth was that the mere presence of the young girl threw him into such ecstasies that the perception of the real state of things was taken away from him.

When she was there in the boat he felt a delicious feeling of happiness in the depths of his being. He longed ardently for the hour when they started out on their expeditions; and in order to keep her near him for long he discovered lengthy excursions that they ought to make. At that time he found her so lovely and good that he felt bitter remorse at having tormented her so. Never again would he scold her.

So the summer went by in hope. Not once had he given up his part of indefatigable and foreseeing protector and guide; and she had ended by accepting him merely as a playmate, whose good nature she could impose upon with the tyranny of a child.

The day before their departure for Paris Daniel and Jeanne wished to go and bid goodbye to the island. They started off together and wandered long in and out of the little arms of the river. The autumn had set in; yellow leaves gently glided down the stream, and the wind sighed in a melancholy way through the denuded branches. It was a sad excursion. It was beginning to get cold. The young girl drew a shawl she had thrown over her shoulders, more tightly about her; she did not talk but gazed at the poor reddened foliage and found it very ugly. Daniel, still confident, gave himself up freely to the charm of this last excursion, without even giving a thought to that terrible Paris, looming straight before him.

When they left the islets, they perceived in the distance three persons who were waiting for them on the banks. They recognised Monsieur Tellier by the enormous black shadow he cast on the green lawn. The other two persons were doubtless visitors, whose features they could not yet distinguish. Then as the boat drew near the shore, great uneasiness took possession of Daniel. He recognised the visitors and wondered what they could want at Mesuil Rouge. Jeanne, jumping lightly out on to the grass, exclaimed: “Why, if it is not Monsieur Lorin and my father!”

She went and embraced Monsieur de Rionne, and then directed her steps towards the chateau in the company of Lorin, who made her laugh boisterously with his Paris news.

Daniel remained alone on the banks, desolate, with tears in his eyes, clearly seeing that his happiness was dead.

In the evening, after dinner, Lorin accosted him, and with a mocking air of superiority, said to him: “How well you row, my dear fellow. I should never have thought, to look at you, that you had such strong arms. I am much obliged to you for having taken Jeanne out all the summer season.”

And as Daniel looked at him with surprise, on the point of rejecting his thanks: “You do not yet know,” added he in a whisper, “that I have quite decided to commit the folly I spoke to you of.”

“What folly?” asked Daniel, in a suffocating voice.

“Oh, a lovely and good folly.... She has not a sou, and she will dip terribly into my purse.... I am marrying Jeanne.”

Daniel looked at him, stupefied. Then he went up to his room without finding a word to say.

CHAPTER XI

LORIN had been anxiously meditating during the past ten months whether he ought to marry Jeanne or not. It was in this way that this clever man committed his gross follies.

He was not precisely in love, but the young girl had captivated him, and turned his head by her proud grace and amusing raillery. He believed that such a wife would do him honour, setting aside the fact that she would open wide the doors of good society to him. He pictured her on his arm, and his vanity was most deliciously tickled. Then, without his heart having any part in the matter, he began to have a selfish longing for her.

However, he felt he would have to pay a high price to gratify that longing, and he had fought against it for some time. Little by little he came to calculating what expense he should be put to — how much he could get in return for such a purchase. He put down every detail in figures, he covered a whole sheet of paper with additions and multiplications, and the total horrified him.

After that he pondered a little. He cut down the figures, and ended by convincing himself that Jeanne, dear as she must cost him, was yet within reach of his purse. He waited another full month, hesitating, and pondering as to whether he would not do better in seeking a wife who would enrich instead of impoverish, may be, his exchequer. Love born of vanity only is just as tenacious as that springing from the heart. Lorin, feeling that he was growing weaker in his resistance, made excuses on the ground that, after all, he had a sufficient fortune, and that he could very well afford to please his fancy. He argued with himself that he must be mad, yet all the time he was railing at himself he went off to find Monsieur de Rionne. He well knew that that gentleman was ruined, but the die was cast.

“Monsieur,” he explained on arrival, “I am come to see you about an important matter. I trust you will be pleased to accede to my request.”

Monsieur de Rionne thought he smelt a creditor. He brought forward an armchair, with a look of enquiry on his face.

“This is the whole business,” said Lorin; “Madame Tellier is kind enough to receive me as a friend at her house, and I have had the opportunity of meeting Mademoiselle Jeanne de Rionne there. I have the honour of asking you for her hand in marriage.”

The father, surprised that he had a daughter to give in marriage, could not find an answer ready at the moment, and Lorin took advantage of his silence to tell him who he was, and inform him of the amount of his fortune. While he was speaking Monsieur de Rionne’s face brightened and his manner became one of extreme politeness. It was not a question of being asked for money; very likely it was one of receiving some.

They had a quiet talk.

Monsieur de Rionne was on the verge of poverty. Julia had eaten up what play had spared him. His debts were becoming pressing, he could no longer get credit, and, age creeping on, he strove from shame to stop himself going further down the hill he was rolling. He was distracted with a hundred thoughts as to what would become of him and where he should go and lodge when obliged to leave his apartments. He did not dare to think of his sister, for he knew she would crush him under all her contempt as a practical woman of the world.

He had still a little pride, however, left in him, when a fresh desertion took away the last vestige of it. Louis, his valet, always imperturbable, had remained faithful to him so long as he could rob him at his ease; but when he found there was nothing more left for him to plunder he went off one fine morning to enjoy his ill-gotten hoard
en bourgeois.
His mysterious smile was at last explained. This humble, precise human machine was laughing up his sleeve when the gold pieces which went astray found their way — by attraction — into his pocket. Moralists say that even in this world evil will find its own punishment. Louis, who had acquired the habit of stealing, was idiotic enough to steal Julia from his master. One day Monsieur de Rionne, when he came to pay his mistress a visit, had the door shut in his face by his valet.

He had sunk to these depths when Lorin came to ask Jeanne of him in marriage. It had never yet entered his head that he could make any capital out of his daughter, and the young man’s petition was a revelation to him. He was seeking a refuge in every direction, and now the refuge was found. He was about to have a sure retreat, where he could grow old peacefully and in luxury. And, in a vague sort of way, he hoped he should be able to get a large enough allowance from the young couple, so that perhaps he need not spend such a very dull life after all. He played the part of the dignified father pretty well. His manner was neither too eager nor too frigid. Inwardly he was quaking lest the marriage should not come off. Lorin assured him that Jeanne loved him. That allayed his anxiety, and he became more outspoken. He talked of his daughter with an emotion truly paternal; all he wished for, he said, was her happiness. It was decided that they should both start the next day for Mesuil Rouge, in order that all the arrangements for the marriage might be made, and before Jeanne came back to Paris. Lorin was not sorry to hasten matters, for he had still some hesitation, and he argued that once the folly was committed he must needs put up with the consequences. Directly after their arrival the question of the wedding was raised, and the young girl was consulted.

Daniel did not close an eye all night. His brain was in such a jumble that he did not know really what to believe. One moment he believed that Lorin was lying; that Jeanne would never marry him. Then a terrible fear seized him, and he was convinced that the marriage would take place. Uppermost in him was a burning sensation of pain in his heart When he depicted Jeanne and Lorin in his mind, side by side, he had furious bursts of rage. When daylight came he tried to calm himself. After all, he said, he only had Lorin’s word to cause him all this despair and irritation. Nothing, perhaps, was settled. He must wait and see; and having gone downstairs, he tried to find out the truth from the expression of the faces round him.

Monsieur Tellier had his everyday look; nothing in the way of emotion could ever be seen on that massive face. Monsieur de Rionne was manifestly delighted; he paid all sorts of little attentions to his daughter, for he looked on her as a precious object is looked on that one is afraid to lose.