Complete Works of Emile Zola (791 page)

The whole night passed while she was thus wrestling with herself. When the day broke, she at last undressed. She was perfectly calm now, and enjoyed profound repose, though still unable to sleep. She had never before felt so easy, so satisfied with herself, so free from all anxiety. All was end­ing; she had just severed the bonds of egotism, she had no hopes now centred in any person or thing, and within her lurked all the subtle pleasure that comes of self-sacrifice. She did not even experience any longer her old craving to prove all-sufficient for the happiness of her people. The pride of abnegation had vanished, and she was willing that those she loved should be happy through other instrumentality than her own., It was the loftiest height which love for others can reach, to suppress one’s self, to give up everything and still think one has not given enough, to love so deeply as to rejoice in a happiness which one has neither bestowed nor shares. The sun was rising when she at last dropped off into a deep sleep.

Pauline came downstairs very late that morning. When she awoke, it made her happy to find that all the resolutions she had taken during the night remained fixed and unwavering within her. But she began to reflect that she had forgotten what would become of herself, and that she must make some plans for her future altered circumstances. Though she might have the courage to bring about the marriage of Lazare and Louise, she would certainly never be brave enough to remain with them and watch their happiness. Self-devotion has its limits, and she was afraid of some return of her violent outbursts, some terrible scene which would kill her. Besides, was she not really doing all that could possibly be demanded of her, and could anyone have the cruelty to impose useless torture upon her? She came to an immediate and irrevocable decision. She would go away, leave the house, which was so full of disquieting associations. This would mean a complete change in her life, but she did not shrink from it.

At breakfast she showed a calm cheerfulness, which she henceforth maintained. She bravely endured the sight of Lazare and Louise, sitting side by side, whispering and smiling, without any other feeling of weakness than a chilly coldness at her heart. As it was Saturday, she made up her mind to send them out for a long walk together in order that she might be alone when Doctor Cazenove came. They went off, and Pauline then took the precaution of going out into the road to meet the Doctor. As soon as he caught sight of her he wanted her to get up into his gig and drive to the house with him. But she begged him to alight, and they walked along slowly together, while Martin, a hundred yards in the rear, brought on the empty vehicle.

In a few simple words Pauline unbosomed herself to the Doctor. She told him everything — her plan of giving Lazare to Louise and her determination to leave the house. This confession had seemed necessary to her; she was unwilling to act upon mere inspiration, and the old doctor was the only person who could understand her.

Cazenove suddenly halted in the middle of the road and clasped the girl in his long bony arms. He was trembling with emotion, and he kissed her on the hair, as he said affectionately:

‘You are quite right, my dear; you are quite right. And it pleases me very much to hear it, for matters might have had a much worse ending. For months past I have been feeling grieved, and I was longing to come and talk to you, for I knew you were very unhappy. Ah! they have plundered you and stripped you nicely, those good folks! First your money and now your heart!’

The young girl tried to stop him.

‘My dear friend, I beg you — You are judging them unfairly.’

‘Perhaps so, but that does not prevent me from being glad on your account. Yes, yes! Give up your Lazare! It is not a very valuable present that you are making to the other one! I daresay that he is a very charming fellow, and that he has the best intentions in the world; but I prefer that the other should be unhappy with him, and not you. Those fine fellows who grow bored with everything are far too heavy even for broad shoulders like yours to support. I would rather see you marry some sturdy butcher-lad — yes, I mean it — some butcher-lad who would shake his sides day and night with honest, merry laughter.’

Then, as he saw her eyes fill with tears, he added:

‘Ah, well! you love him, I suppose, and so I won’t say anything more. Give me a kiss again, since you are brave enough to act so sensibly. Ah I what a fool he is not to see what he is doing!’

He took her arm and drew her close to his side. Then they began to talk seriously together as they resumed their walk. The Doctor told her that she would certainly do best to leave Bonneville, and he undertook to find her a situation. He happened, he said, to have a rich old relative living at Saint-Lô, who was looking for a young lady companion. Pauline would be perfectly happy with her, and very likely the old lady, who had no children of her own, would grow much attached to her and subsequently adopt her. They arranged everything between themselves, and the Doctor promised Pauline a definite reply from his relative in a few days’ time.

Meanwhile it was settled she should say nothing about her determination to leave the Chanteaus. She was afraid that if she did it might seem to be in some way a threat, and she was anxious to bring the marriage to an issue and then immediately leave the house like one who could no longer be of use there.

On the third day Pauline received a letter from the Doctor. She was expected at Saint-Lô as soon as she could get away. It was on this same day, during Lazare’s absence, that she led Louise to an old seat beneath a clump of tamarisks at the bottom of the kitchen-garden. In front of them, above the low wall, they could see nothing but the sea and sky — a measureless expanse of blue, intersected by the far-stretching line of the horizon.

‘My dear girl,’ said Pauline to Louise with her maternal air, ‘let us talk as though we were two sisters. You love me a little, don’t you?’

Louise threw one arm round her friend’s waist as she exclaimed:

‘Indeed I do! You know I do!’

‘Well, then, since you love me, it was very wrong of you not to tell me everything. Why do you keep secrets from me?’

‘Indeed, I have no secrets.’

‘Ah! yes; think again now. Come, open your heart to me.’

Each looked into the other’s face so closely for a moment that they felt the warmth of one another’s breath. And the eyes of one gradually grew troubled beneath the clear, unruffled gaze of the other. The silence was growing painful.

‘Tell me everything. When things are discussed openly it is possible to arrange them satisfactorily, but dissimulation is apt to have an unhappy ending. Isn’t that so, eh? It would be very painful for us to disagree again and to have a repetition of what caused us so much grief and trouble.’

At this Louise burst into a violent fit of sobbing. She clasped Pauline round the waist convulsively, and hid her face against her friend’s shoulder while stammering amidst her tears:

‘Oh! it is very unkind of you to speak of that again! You ought never to have mentioned it again, never! Send me away at once, rather than pain me like this!’

It was in vain that Pauline tried to soothe her.

‘No, no!’ the weeping girl went on; ‘I understand it all. You still suspect me. Why do you speak to me of secrets? I have no secret at all. I do everything quite openly, so that you may have no cause to find fault with me or reproach me. I am not to blame because things happen which disturb you — I who am even careful how I laugh, though you don’t know it — But, if you don’t believe me, I had better go away at once. Let me go! Let me go!’

They were quite alone in that far-reaching space. The kitchen-garden, scorched by the west wind, lay at their feet like a piece of waste land, while, further away, the calm sea spread out in its immensity.

‘But listen to what I have to say,’ Pauline cried. ‘I am not reproaching you at all; on the contrary, I want to en­courage you.’

Then, taking Louise by the shoulders and forcing her to raise her eyes, she said to her gently, like a mother question­ing her daughter:

‘You love Lazare? And he, too, loves you, I am sure.’

The blood surged to Louise’s cheeks. She trembled yet more violently, and tried to liberate herself and escape.

‘Good gracious! How clumsily I must express myself if you can’t understand me!’ Pauline resumed. ‘Do you think I should talk to you on such a subject only to torture you? You love each other, don’t you? Well, I want to get you married to one another! It’s very simple!’

Louise, distracted, ceased to struggle. Stupor checked the flow of her tears, rendered her motionless, with her hands hanging inertly beside her.

‘What! And yourself?’ she gasped.

‘I, my dear? Well, I have been questioning myself very seriously for some weeks past, at night-time especially, during those waking hours when one’s mind sees things in a clearer light. And I have recognised that I only feel sincere friend­ship for Lazare. Haven’t you been able to see as much for yourself? We are comrades, chums; like a couple of boys, in fact. We do not feel those loving transports—’

She hesitated, trying to find some suitable phrase which would give an appearance of probability to her falsehoods. But her rival still gazed at her with fixed eyes, as though she had discovered the meaning which was hidden beneath her words.

‘Why do you tell me untruths?’ she murmured at last. ‘Is it possible for you to cease to love where you have once loved?’

Pauline grew confused.

‘Well! well!’ she said; ‘what does that matter? You love each other, and it is quite natural that he should marry you. I — I was brought up with him, and I shall continue to be a sister to him. One’s ideas alter when one has been waiting so long — And, then, there are several other reasons—’

She was conscious that she was growing more confused, and, carried away by her frankness, she went on:

‘Oh! my dear, let me have my way. If I still love him sufficiently to want to see him your husband, it is because I now believe that you are necessary to his happiness. That doesn’t vex you, does it? You would do the same if you were in my place, would you not? Come, let us talk it over quietly. Will you join in the little plot? Shall we come to an understanding together to force him into being happy? Even if he seems vexed about it and persists in believing that he is yet bound to me, you must help me to persuade him, for it is you whom he loves, and it is you who are necessary to him. Be my accomplice, I beg you, and let us get everything arranged at once, now, while we are alone.’

But Louise, seeing how she trembled, how heart-broken she was in making those entreaties, persisted in rebelling.

‘No, no! I couldn’t think of such a thing! It would be abominable. You still love him; I am sure of it, and you are only planning your own torment. Instead of helping you, I will tell him everything. Yes, as soon as he comes back—’

Then Pauline threw her kindly arms round her again to prevent her from continuing, and drew her face close to her breast.

‘Hold your tongue, you wicked child! It must be so. It is he whom we have to think about.’

Silence fell again, while they lingered in that embrace. Her powers of resistance already exhausted, Louise gave way, yielded with affectionate languor, while tears mounted to her eyes — happy tears that trickled slowly down her cheeks. She spoke no word, but pressed her friend to her, as though she could find no discreeter or more sincere way of expressing her gratitude. She recognised that Pauline was so much above her, so lofty, so self-sacrificing, that she dared not raise her eyes to meet her gaze. However, after a few minutes, she ventured to lift her head in smiling confusion, and then, protruding her lips, gave her friend a silent kiss. In the distance the sea stretched out beneath the cloudless sky without a single wave breaking on its blue immensity.

When Lazare returned to the house, Pauline went up to him in his room, that big and well-loved chamber where they had grown up together. She was anxious to finish her task that very day. With her cousin she sought no preliminary remarks, but went straight to the point. The room teemed with associations of their old life. Pieces of dry seaweed still lay about there, the models of the stockades littered the piano, and the table was strewn with scientific treatises and scores of music.

‘Lazare,’ she began, ‘I want to talk to you. I have something serious to say to you.’

He seemed surprised, and then took his stand before her.

‘What is the matter? Is my father threatened with another attack?’

‘No, listen. It is necessary that the subject should now be mentioned; keeping silence about it cannot do any good. You know that my aunt intended we should be married. We have frequently spoken about it, and for months past it has been considered a settled matter. Well, I think that it would now be better if all thought of it were abandoned.’

The young man had turned pale, but he did not allow his cousin to finish; he exclaimed excitedly:

‘What? What nonsense are you talking? Are you not already my wife? We will go to-morrow, if you like, and ask the priest to put the finishing-stroke to the matter. And this is what you call something serious!’

The girl replied in her tranquil voice:

‘It is very serious; and, though it displeases you, I repeat that it is certainly necessary we should speak about it. We are two old friends and comrades, but I am afraid we should never be two lovers. So what is the good of obstinately persisting in an idea which would probably never result in happiness for either of us?’

Then Lazare burst out into a torrent of ejaculations. Was she trying to quarrel with him? She couldn’t expect him to spend his whole time clinging round her neck! And, though the marriage had been put off from month to month, she knew quite well that it wasn’t his fault. It was unjust of her, moreover, to say that he no longer loved her. He had loved her so warmly, and in that very room too! At this reference to the past a blush mounted to Pauline’s cheeks. Her cousin was right. She recollected his passing gusts of passion, and his hot breath fanning her neck. But, ah! how far off were those delicious thrilling moments; and what an unimpassioned, brotherly friendship he manifested for her now! So it was with an expression of sadness that she replied to him: