Complete Works of Emile Zola (41 page)

“Fly, fly,” repeated the child. “Ah! I fear I have not the courage to do so. I am too weak, too timid.”

“I will sustain you, Blanche. We will live a life of love.”

Blanche, without hearing, without replying, let her head drop on Philippe’s shoulder.

“Oh! I dread, I dread the convent,” she resumed, after a time, in a low voice. “You will marry me, you will love me always?”

“I love you. See, I am on my knees.”

Then, closing her eyes, yielding, Blanche hastily descended the slope, clinging to the arm of Philippe who had risen. After she had gone some distance, she looked back a last time at the home she was leaving, and a poignant emotion filled her eyes with tears.

A minute’s error had sufficed to throw her into the young man’s arms, exhausted and confiding. She loved Philippe with all the warmth of a first passion, with all the folly of her inexperience. She was running away like a school-girl, voluntarily, and without weighing the terrible consequences of her flight. And Philippe was carrying her off, intoxicated with his victory and quivering at feeling her moving and panting at his side.

At first he thought of hastening to Marseille to procure a vehicle. But he was afraid to leave her alone on the high road, and he preferred to go with her on foot as far as his mother’s country-house, which was situated quite a league away, in the Saint Just quarter.

Philippe had to leave his horse behind, and the two lovers started off bravely together. They passed through meadows, ploughed fields and pine woods, taking short cuts and walking very quickly. It was about four o’clock. The sun, clear and scorching, cast before them broad sheets of light. And they hastened along in the warm air, urged on by the madness which was eating into their hearts. As they passed by, the labourers raised their heads and watched their flight with amazement.

It did not take them an hour to reach the home of Philippe’s mother. Blanche, quite tired out, seated herself on a stone bench beside the door, whilst the young man went to see if the coast was clear. He then returned and conducted her to his room. He had begged Ayasse, a gardener whom his mother was employing that day, to fetch a vehicle from Marseille.

Both were still a prey to the excitement of their flight. Whilst awaiting the vehicle, they remained silent and anxious. Philippe, having led Blanche to a little chair, knelt at her feet and gazed lingeringly at her, seeking to reassure her by gently kissing the hand she yielded to him.

“You cannot remain in that light gown,” he said, after a time. “Would you like to dress up as a man?”

Blanche smiled. She felt childlike joy at the thought of disguising herself.

“My brother is rather short,” continued Philippe. “You can put on some of his things.”

It made them quite merry. The young girl dressed herself, laughing the while. She was charmingly awkward, and Philippe eagerly kissed the blushes on her cheeks. When she was ready, she had quite the appearance of a little man, of a youngster of twelve. She had great difficulty in confining her mass of hair in the hat, and her lover’s hands trembled as he gathered the rebellious locks together.

Ayasse at length returned with the vehicle. He consented to receive the fugitives in his own home at Saint Barnabé. Philippe took what money he possessed, and all three entered the carriage which they left at the Pont du Jarret, continuing the journey to the gardener’s house on foot.

It was now twilight. Transparent shadows were falling from the pale heavens, whilst acrid odours rose from the earth, still warm with the last rays of the sun. Then a vague fear took possession of Blanche. Her heart was sinking within her, she sought to gain time.

“Listen,” said she to Philippe, “I will write to my confessor, Abbé Chastanier. He will go and see my uncle, to obtain my pardon and his consent to our marriage. I think I should not be so frightened were I your wife.”

Philippe smiled at the tender simplicity of the last words.

“Write to Abbé Chastanier,” he answered. “For my part, I will send my brother our address. He will come tomorrow and will take your letter.”

It was thus that Blanche de Cazalis eloped with Philippe Cayol, one fine May evening.

Ah! sweet and terrible night! which was doomed to overwhelm the lovers with wretchedness, and bring them nothing but suffering and regret for the rest of their lives.

CHAPTER II

INTRODUCES THE HERO, MARIUS CAYOL

MARIUS CAYOL, the brother of Blanche’s lover, was about twenty-five years old. He was short, thin and puny. His light yellow face, with its long narrow black eyes, was lighted up at times with a kind smile of self-devotion and resignation. He walked with a slight stoop, and the hesitation and timidity of a child. But the hatred of evil, the love of uprightness, that filled his being, made him appear almost handsome.

He had assumed the hardships of the family, leaving his brother to follow his ambitious and passionate instincts.

He made himself quite insignificant beside him, saying, generally, that as he was the ugly one he ought not to emerge from his ugliness; he added that it was excusable for Philippe to like to display his fine figure and the vigorous beauty of his countenance. Moreover, when necessary, he could be severe towards the great impetuous child, who was his senior, and whom he treated with the remonstrances and affection of a father.

Their mother, now a widow, was not at all wealthy. She had a difficulty in making both ends meet on the remnants of her dowry, the major portion of which her husband had lost in business. This money, deposited at a banker’s, yielded her a small income which had enabled her to bring up her two sons. But, when they had reached man’s estate, she showed them her empty hands, and placed them face to face with the difficulties of life. And the two brothers, thrown thus into the struggle for existence, led on by their different natures, followed diametrically opposite courses.

Philippe, who had an appetite for wealth and liberty, could not bend himself to labour. He wished to attain fortune by the shortest road, and had visions of making a rich marriage. That was, in his idea, an excellent expedient, a rapid means of obtaining an income and a pretty wife. So he passed his life in the sunshine, became amorous, and even slightly dissipated. He experienced an extreme delight in being well-dressed, in displaying his elegant, hasty manners, his eccentric garments, his love-laden glances and speeches, about Marseille. His mother and brother, who spoilt him, endeavoured to provide for his whims. Moreover, Philippe was acting in good faith: he adored women, and it seemed natural to him to be beloved and carried off some day by a rich and beautiful young girl of noble birth.

Whilst his brother was exhibiting his fine looks, Marius had taken a situation as clerk in the office of M. Martelly, a ship-owner residing in the Rue de la Darse. He felt quite happy hidden away in his office, his sole ambition being to earn a modest competence, and to live a peaceful and unostentatious life. Besides this, he felt a secret pleasure in assisting his mother and brother. The money he earned was dear to him, because he could give it away and bestow happiness with it, and himself taste the profound delights of self-sacrifice. He had chosen in life the straight way, the painful path which leads to peace, joy, and self-respect.

The young man was on the point of starting for his office, when he received the letter in which his brother informed him of his elopement with Mademoiselle de Cazalis. It filled him with painful surprise, and he beheld at a glance the frightful chasm into the depths of which the lovers had cast themselves. He hastened without loss of time to Saint Barnabé.

At the door of Ayasse the gardener’s house was a vine trained to form an arbour, whilst two big mulberry trees, pruned to the shape of parasols, spread their knotty branches around and cast their shade upon the entry. Marius found Philippe seated in the arbour, gazing lovingly upon Blanche de Cazalis beside him. The young girl, already weary, was silently regretting what they had done.

The interview was a painful one, full of anguish and shame. Philippe rose up.

“You blame me?” he asked, holding his hand out to his brother.

“Yes, I blame you,” answered Marius energetically. “You have committed a base action. Pride has led you away and passion has ruined you. You have not thought of the evils you will bring on your family and yourself.”

Philippe protested.

“You are frightened,” he said bitterly. “For myself, I did not stop to consider. I loved Blanche and she returned my love. I said to her: ‘Will you come with me?’ and she came. That is the whole story. We are neither of us deserving of censure.”

“Why lie?” replied Marius with greater severity. “You’re not a child, and you know very well that your duty was to protect this young lady against herself: you should have stayed her on the brink of wrong, prevented her accompanying you. Ah! don’t talk to me of love. I recognise only the love of justice and duty.”

Philippe smiled disdainfully, and drew Blanche to his breast.

“My poor Marius,” said he, “you are a good fellow but you have never been in love and do not understand its fever. This is my defence.”

And he allowed Blanche to embrace him as she clung quiveringly to him. The poor child felt well enough that her only hope was in this man. She had given herself away, she belonged to him. And now she worshipped him almost as a slave, lovingly and in fear.

Marius, in despair, felt that he would do no more good in talking reason to the lovers. He determined to show his own instincts, and asked for full details of the unhappy affair. Philippe quietly answered his questions.

“I have known Blanche for nearly eight months,” he said. “I met her first at a public festival. She was smiling in the crowd, and I fancied her smile was meant for me. Since that day I have loved her and have sought every opportunity of meeting and addressing her.”

“Haven’t you written to her?” asked Marius.

“Yes, many times.”

“Where are your letters?”

“She has burnt them. Each time I wrote, I bought a bouquet of Fine, the florist on the Cours Saint Louis, and slipped my letter in amongst the flowers. Marguerite, the milkwoman, used to take Blanche the bouquets.”

“And did your letters remain unanswered?”

“At first, yes, Blanche refused the flowers. Then, she accepted them; and finally, she ended by answering me. I was madly in love. I dreamed of marrying her and of loving her for ever.”

Marius shrugged his shoulders and drew Philippe on one side. He there continued the investigation with more harshness in his voice.

“You’re either a fool or a liar,” said he quietly. “You know very well that M. de Cazalis, deputy, millionaire, all-powerful in Marseille, would never have given his niece to Philippe Cayol, poor, plebeian, and republican in addition to his other drawbacks. Confess that you have reckoned on the scandal that your elopement will occasion to force Blanche’s uncle to come to terms.”

“Well! and what then?” retorted Philippe, impetuously. “Blanche loves me, and I have in no way forced her will. She has freely chosen me for her husband.”

“Yes, yes, I am aware of all that. You have said it too often for me not to know how much of it I should believe. But you have not considered M. de Cazalis’ anger, which will fall with terrible force on you and your relations. I know the man; last night he no doubt exhibited his outraged pride to all Marseille. The best thing you can do is to take the young lady back to her home at Saint Joseph.”

“No, I will not, I cannot. Blanche would never dare return home. She had only been at the country-house about a week; I was in the habit of seeing her twice a day, in a little pine-wood. Her uncle knew nothing, and it must have been a great shock to him. It is impossible for us to go there at present.”

“Well! listen, give me the letter for Abbé Chastanier. I will see him, and, if necessary, will go with him to call on M. de Cazalis. We must hush up the scandal. I have a task to perform, the task of repairing the wrong you have done. Promise me you will not leave this house, that you will await here my further instructions.”

“I promise you to wait, if no danger threatens me.”

Marius took Philippe’s hand and looked him loyally in the face.

“Love this child well,” he said, in a deep voice, pointing to Blanche; “you will never be able to undo the wrong you have done her.”

He was about to take his leave, when Mademoiselle de Cazalis came forward. She clasped her hands in supplication, stifling her sobs.

“If you see my uncle, sir,” she stammered, “be sure and tell him that I love him. I cannot account for what has happened. I would like to remain Philippe’s wife and to return to my home in his company.”

Marius slightly bowed.

“Have hope,” he said.

And he went off sad and troubled, feeling that his words were a lie, and that to hope would be madness.

CHAPTER III

THERE ARE MENIALS IN THE CHURCH

ON reaching Marseille, Marius directed his steps to the church of Saint Victor, to which Abbé Chastanier was attached. It is one of the oldest churches in Marseille; its dark, high, and crenelated walls give it the appearance of a fortress. The rough people of the port hold it in particular veneration.

The young fellow found the priest in the sacristy. He was a tall old man, with a long emaciated face, pale as wax; his sad eyes had a fixed look of suffering and misery. He had just returned from a funeral, and was slowly taking off his surplice.

His history was a short and sad one. Born of peasant parents, and as gentle and innocent as a child, he had taken orders to satisfy the pious wish of his mother. In becoming a priest he had desired to perform an act of humility, of absolute devotion. He believed, in his simplicity, that a minister of God should bury himself in the infiniteness of divine love, renounce the ambitions and intrigues of the world, and live in the heart of the sanctuary, absolving sins with one hand and dispensing charity with the other.

Ah! poor abbé! how they let him see that the simple-minded are only fit to suffer and remain in obscurity! He was soon to learn that ambition is a sacerdotal virtue, and that young priests often love God for the sake of the worldly favours that His church distributes. He beheld all his comrades of the seminary struggling tooth and nail. He assisted at these internal battles, those secret intrigues which turn a diocese into a turbulent little kingdom. And, as he remained humbly on his knees, as he did not seek to please the feminine portion of the congregation, as he asked for nothing and appeared piously stupid, he was endowed with a miserable living, thrown to him as one casts a bone to a dog.