Complete Works of Emile Zola (42 page)

He remained thus, for forty years, in a little village situated between Aubagne and Cassis. His church was a kind of barn, lime-washed and icily bare; in winter, when the wind blew in one of the window-panes, the interior was chilled for weeks together, for the poor priest did not always possess the few coppers necessary to replace the broken glass. Yet he never complained, he lived peacefully amidst his wretchedness and solitude. He even experienced great joy in suffering, in feeling himself kin to the beggars of his parish.

He was sixty years old, when one of his sisters, a workwoman at Marseille, became an invalid. She wrote to him, beseeching him to come to her. The old priest therefore begged his bishop to find him a small place in one of the city churches. He was kept waiting the fulfilment of his modest request for several months, when at length he received a call to Saint Victor. There he had to undertake, so to say, all the roughest work, all the labour that brought least renown and least profit. He prayed over the coffins of the poor and led them to the cemetery; he even at times fulfilled the duties of sacristan.

It was at this period that he began really to suffer. So long as he had remained in his desert, he had been able to be simple, poor, and old at his ease. Now, he felt that his poverty and old age, his gentleness and simplicity were looked upon as a crime. And his heart was rent when he understood that there could be menials in the Church. He saw well enough that he was looked upon with derision and scorn. He bowed his head still more, becoming yet more humble, weeping over his faith, shaken by the words and deeds of the worldly priests about him.

Fortunately of an evening, he had some happy moments. He nursed his sister, consoling himself in his own way by devoting himself to another. He surrounded the poor invalid with a thousand little joys. Then another pleasure had been vouchsafed him: M. de Cazalis, who had no faith in young abbés, had selected him to be his niece’s spiritual adviser. The old priest seldom attracted a lady penitent and scarcely ever heard a confession. He was moved to tears on the receipt of the deputy’s proposal, and he questioned, he loved Blanche as though she had been his own child.

Marius handed him the young girl’s letter and watched his face for a trace of the emotions the reading of it was about to cause him. He beheld the signs of acute grief. Yet the priest did not appear to experience that surprise which results from unexpected news, and Marius concluded that Blanche had mentioned in confession her growing affection for Philippe.

“You did well to count upon me, sir,” said Abbé Chastanier to Marius. “But I am very weak and not at all skilful. I should have displayed more energy.”

The poor man’s head and hands shook with that sad gentle trembling peculiar to old people.

“I am at your disposal,” he continued. “How can I assist the unhappy child?”

“Sir,” replied Marius, “I am the brother of the young madman who has eloped with Mademoiselle de Cazalis, and I have sworn to right the wrong, to stifle the scandal. Will you join with me. The young lady’s honour is gone if her uncle has already denounced the affair to the authorities. Go, therefore, and find him, endeavour to calm his anger, and tell him his niece shall promptly be restored to him.”

“Why did you not bring her with you? I know how passionate M. de Cazalis can be. Nothing but certainty will satisfy him.”

“It is just that anger which has frightened my brother. Besides, this is no time for reasoning. We are overwhelmed with accomplished facts. Believe me, I feel as indignant as you, and fully understand how disgraceful my brother’s behaviour has been. But, for pity’s sake, let us do something.”

“Very well,” said the abbé simply, “I will go wherever you wish.”

They went along the Boulevard de la Corderie and reached the Cours Bonaparte where the deputy’s town house was situated. M. de Cazalis, a prey to terrible anger and despair, had returned to Marseille early in the morning following the elopement. Abbé Chastanier stopped Marius at the door of the house.

“Do not come in,” said he. “Your visit might be considered an insult. Let me manage, and wait for me here.”

Marius walked feverishly up and down the pavement for a good hour. He would have preferred to have gone in, to have explained matters himself and have asked for pardon in Philippe’s name. Whilst the fate of his family was under discussion in that house, he had to remain there, outside, inactive, and a prey to all the agony of waiting. At length Abbé Chastanier came out. He had been weeping; his eyes were red, his lips quivering.

“M. de Cazalis will listen to nothing,” he said, in a troubled voice. “I found him in a blind rage. He has already been to the crown- attorney.”

The poor priest did not mention that M. de Cazalis had received him with the bitterest reproaches, venting his anger upon him, and accusing him, in his rage, of having given evil counsel to his niece. The abbé bent beneath the storm; he almost fell on his knees, not seeking to defend himself, but imploring the deputy to take pity on the others.

“Tell me all!” exclaimed Marius, in despair.

“It appears,” the priest replied, “that the man with whom your brother left his horse, assisted M. de Cazalis in his search. A complaint was lodged at an early hour this morning, and the police have been to ransack your lodging in the Rue Sainte, and your mother’s house at Saint Just.”

“Good heavens! good heavens!” sighed Marius.

“M. de Cazalis swears that he will crush the whole of your family. I vainly endeavoured to bring him to a kindlier frame of mind. He talks of having your mother arrested.”

“My mother! Whatever for?”

“He makes out that she is an accomplice, that she assisted your brother in carrying off Mademoiselle Blanche.”

“What can we do, how prove the falsity of such an accusation? Ah! wretched Philippe! It will be the death of our mother.”

And Marius sobbed aloud, his face buried in his hands. Abbé Chastanier beheld his fit of despair with tender pity. He understood the goodness and probity of the poor lad, who wept thus in the open street.

“Come, my child,” he said, “be courageous.”

“You are right, father,” exclaimed Marius, “it is courage I need. I was weak, this morning. I should have wrested the young lady from Philippe, and have taken her back to her uncle. An inner voice bade me perform that act of justice, and I am punished for not having obeyed its prompting. They talked to me of love, passion, marriage, and I allowed their words to move me.”

They remained a moment silent, and then Marius said suddenly:

“Come with me. Between us, we shall be strong enough to separate them.”

“I am willing,” the abbé replied.

And, without even thinking to take a cab, they followed the Rue de Bréteuil, the canal quay, the Napoleon quay, and then ascended the Cannebière. They walked hurriedly along, without speaking. When they reached the Coins Saint Louis, the sound of a fresh young voice caused them to turn their heads. It was Fine, the flower-girl, calling Marius.

Josephine Cougourdan, familiarly known by the pet name of Fine, was one of those Marseille brunettes, small and plump, whose refined features have preserved all the delicate purity of their Grecian ancestors. Her round head stood upon slightly drooping shoulders; her pale face bore an expression of disdainful scorn beneath her braided black hair; passionate energy was visible in her large melancholy eyes which were softened now and again by a smile. She was from twenty-two to twenty-four years of age.

When only fifteen she found herself an orphan with a young brother, not more than ten years old, dependent upon her. She bravely took her mother’s place, and three days after the funeral, whilst still suffering from her great grief, she was seated in a kiosk on the Cours Saint Louis making up and selling nosegays, sobbing the while.

The little florist soon became the spoilt child of Marseille. Her youth and grace secured her popularity. Her flowers, it was said, had a sweeter smell than those sold elsewhere. Gallants swarmed around her; she sold them her roses, violets, and carnations, but that was all. And it is thus that she was able to bring up her brother Cadet and apprentice him, when eighteen years old, to a master-stevedore.

The two young people lived on the Place aux Œufs, in the centre of the labouring-class quarter. Cadet was now a big fellow employed at the docks; Fine, grown handsomer and having arrived at womanhood, had the lively gait and careless caressing way of Marseillese women.

She was acquainted with the Cayols through having sold them flowers, and she would speak to them with that tender familiarity which springs from the warm air and gentle language of Provence. Besides which, if all must be told, Philippe had latterly so often bought her roses, that she had ended by feeling a slight tremor when he approached her. The young man, who was by instinct an admirer of the sex, laughed with her and gazed at her so intently that he made her blush, half declaring his love, the while, and all this simply not to forget the ways of wooing. The poor girl, who up till then had made short work of would-be lovers, fell a victim to this flirtation. At night-time she dreamed of Philippe, and wondered, with anguish, whatever he could do with all the flowers she sold him.

When Marius approached her he found her high-coloured and troubled. She was half hidden by her nosegays and looked adorably fresh beneath the broad lappets of her little lace cap.

“Monsieur Marius,” she asked hesitatingly, “is what every one is saying this morning true? That your brother has eloped with a young lady?”

“Who told you that?” asked Marius, quickly.

“Why, every one. The rumour is all over the place.”

And as the young man seemed as troubled as herself, and stood there without speaking, Fine added with slight bitterness:

“I was told that Monsieur Philippe was a flirt. His tongue was too soft for his words to be true.”

She was on the point of weeping, but was forcing back her tears. With painful resignation she then added more gently:

“I can see that you are in trouble. If you should need me, do not fail to let me know.”

Marius looked her in the face and seemed to guess the agony of her heart.

“You are a brave girl!” he exclaimed. “I thank you, and will perhaps avail myself of your services.”

He heartily shook her hand, as he would have done to a comrade, and hastened to rejoin Abbé Chastanier who was waiting for him at the edge of the pavement.

“We have no time to lose,” he said. “The story is spreading all over Marseille. We must take a cab.”

Night was falling when they reached Saint Barnabé. They only found the gardener Ayasse’s wife, who was knitting in a low room. This woman quietly informed them that the gentleman and young lady had become alarmed, and had gone off on foot in the direction of Aix. She added that her son had accompanied them to guide them amongst the hills. The last hope was thus dead. Marius, completely overcome, returned to Marseille without hearing the encouraging words Abbé Chastanier addressed to him. He was thinking of the fatal consequences of Philippe’s madness; he was rebelling against the misfortunes about to befall his family.

“My child,” said the priest, as he left him, “I am only a poor man, but dispose of me as you will. I will go and pray to God for you.”

CHAPTER IV

HOW M. DE CAZALIS AVENGED HIS NIECE’S DISHONOUR

THE lovers had eloped on a Wednesday. On the following Friday all Marseille knew the story; the gossips on their doorsteps embellished the adventure with many dramatic details; the nobility was indignant, whilst the middle-class folk had a hearty laugh. M. de Cazalis, in his rage, had done everything to increase the racket and turn his niece’s flight into a frightful scandal.

Clear-sighted people easily accounted for his show of anger. M. de Cazalis was a deputy of the opposition and had been returned at Marseille by a majority composed of a few liberals, some priests, and members of the aristocracy. Devoted to the cause of legitimacy, bearing one of the most ancient names of Provence, bowing humbly before all-powerful Mother Church, he had experienced considerable repugnance in flattering the liberals and receiving their votes. In his eyes they were merely varlets, servants, fit only to be whipped in the public streets. His indomitable pride suffered at the thought of lowering itself to their level.

Yet he had been obliged to bow before them. The liberals noised abroad the services they were rendering, and for a time a pretence was made of disdaining their assistance; but when they talked of intervening in the election by naming one of their own party as a candidate, M. de Cazalis was forced by circumstances to bury his hatred in the depths of his heart, promising himself his revenge on some future occasion. Then the most shameless jobbery was resorted to; the clergy took the field, votes were secured right and left, thanks to innumerable civilities and promises, with the result that M. de Cazalis was elected.

And here was Philippe Cayol, one of the leaders of the liberal party fallen into his hands. At last he would be able to gratify his hatred on the person of one of the louts who had bargained with him for his return to the Chamber. He should be made to pay for all; his relatives should be ruined and plunged into despair; and as for him, he should be thrown into prison, precipitated from the height of his dream of love on to the straw of a dungeon.

What! a little nobody had dared to win the love of the niece of a Cazalis! He had led her away with him, and now they were both roving along the roads, attending the hedge-school of love. It was a scandal to be made much of. An ordinary person would perhaps have preferred to hush it up, to conceal the deplorable adventure as far as possible; but a Cazalis, deputy and millionaire, was possessed of sufficient influence and pride to proclaim the shame of a relative abroad without a blush.

What mattered a young girl’s honour! All the world might know that Blanche de Cazalis had eloped with Philippe Cayol, but no one should be able to say that she was his wife, that she had degraded herself by marrying a poor devil without a handle to his name. Pride required that the child should remain dishonoured, and that her dishonour should be posted on the walls of Marseille.