Complete Works of Emile Zola (29 page)

The day after his wife’s death the widower had begun to detest this abode of mourning. The odours of death still lingered in the rooms, and he shivered as he went downstairs, always imagining he heard the sound of the coffin bumping against the banisters. So he decided to move to another house as quickly as possible.

Then he reflected too that the sale of the mansion would place in his hands a good round sum. Moreover, he was not sorry to leave the boulevard des Invalides, and go and live in more fashionable quarters. So he hired the whole of a first floor and moved.

Daniel took down the new address, and, driven by his desire to see Jeanne, he proceeded towards the rue de Provence.

But during his long walk his heart did not sing so gaily. The difficulties of his task, the uncertainties of life rose up before him more threateningly than ever. A shower obliged him to take refuge in a doorway. He resumed his journey through muddy streets, and when he went up the sumptuous staircase of the house where Monsieur de Rionne lived, he noticed with horror that he had terribly dirty boots.

It was Louis who opened the door for him. His immovable face did not express the least surprise. One would have said that he did not recognise the young man, but there, in the corner of his lips, was that nearly imperceptible smile which never left him.

He informed Daniel politely that monsieur was out, but that he would not be long before he returned; and he showed him into a magnificent drawing-room, where he left him.

Daniel did not dare to sit down. His feet made great stains on the carpet, and he remained planted there in one spot, afraid to take one step forward, for his heart failed him at each new mark he left behind him. Raising his eyes he saw himself full length in a big mirror. Nothing seemed more strange to him than his own person, and it almost made him light-hearted again.

Really he was almost delighted at the turn things were taking. He was by no means anxious to see Monsieur de Rionne, and hoped that he would be able to embrace Jeanne, and then go quickly away before her father came in. He listened anxiously, and if he had by chance heard the child’s laughter he would quietly have made his way to her.

Whilst his eyes were thus on the alert the bell rang, and he heard the rustling of a silk dress in the ante-chamber. There was a woman’s laugh, and the newcomer began talking in low tones to Louis. The exact words did not reach the young man.

At the expiration of a minute or two the silk dress was heard lightly rustling again, the drawing-room door opened and a young woman came in. It was Julia. She was ravishingly dressed in light gray, with white lace and ribbons of pale blue. Her little head with sharp, bold features was attractively surrounded by fair hair. The powder and paint with which she had covered her face gave her a kind of wicked charm. Her hat consisted of tresses of straw with blue flowers inserted, Julia was in difficulties. They were about to sell up her furniture, and she had remembered Monsieur de Rionne, whom she had not seen for a fortnight. Driven by necessity she had run to him for assistance and it had made her furious.

She advanced, and when she was in the middle of the drawing-room in front of Daniel, the effort she made to restrain the burst of laughter which almost overpowered her, nearly suffocated her. This hulking fellow, with the long face and yellow hair, who stood there with legs apart, quite dumbfounded, seemed to her an object of the utmost absurdity and strangeness. She was choking with amusement She hurried into an adjacent room where Daniel heard her laughing as if she were mad. Then came the sound of another bell; this time it was Monsieur de Rionne coming in. He exchanged a few words with Louis; then suddenly he flew into a passion. He opened the door of the drawing-room violently.

Daniel shrunk back out of sight, whilst asking himself the terrible question: What should he say, and what answer should he get? He had taken refuge in a comer, in an agony of suspense. Monsieur de Rionne did not see him. He hastily crossed the room and went into the adjoining apartment where Julia was. At that moment he was truly indignant at her audacity. His wife’s body seemed to be still in the house and he made a virtue of his mourning.

Daniel, without wishing to listen, overheard these words pronounced in a high pitch:

“What do you want here?” demanded Monsieur de Rionne, in a furious tone of voice.

“I have come to pay you a visit,” quietly answered Julia.

“You know I have forbidden you to come here; you ought to come here less than ever, considering the mourning I am in.”

“Would you like me to go away?”

Monsieur de Rionne appeared not to have heard her. He raised his voice still more.

“Your presence here is totally out of place. I thought you had more feeling and more common sense than to come at such a time.”

“Well, I will be off,” and she began to move as if to go away, giving little taps on her skirt with her parasol. Meanwhile Monsieur de Rionne who grew more enraged, still kept on repeating over and over again that she ought not to have shown herself at his house, whilst she kept on offering to go away; he did not cease abusing her, and she did not go away.

Then their voices calmed down, their sentences became longer, their voices softer; soon there was nothing but a murmur. Daniel at last heard the slight noise of a kiss.

He wished to remain no longer. He went back to the ante-chamber, where he found Louis, who said to him in a dignified way, without a smile on his face:

“I do not think monsieur will receive you to-day.”

Daniel had already opened the door.

“Is Mademoiselle Jeanne at home?” asked he.

Louis was so astonished at this question that he very nearly lost his imperturbable calm.

“On, no! she is with her aunt, Madame Tellier.”

And when Daniel asked him that lady’s address he gave it him. She was residing in the rue d’Amsterdam.

Monsieur de Rionne felt that he could not possibly keep his daughter near him. Besides, he was not sorry to be rid of a witness of his movements, who might have been in his way later. So he left her to take her chance with his sister, without troubling himself about her future.

“She will be better off with you,” he said to Madame Tellier; “a woman is necessary in the education of a girl. If I had had a boy I would have looked after him myself.” But he was lying; what he fervently wished for was full freedom to do as he pleased.

Daniel went away, repeating to himself the address just given him. He was dying of fatigue and hunger, but he would not rest a moment, and hurried on to the rue d’Amsterdam.

The shower had cleared the air, a bright sun was shining, and the pavements were dry again. The young man rubbed the mud off his boots and the bottom of his trousers, and wiped away the marks of rain on his hat.

Madame Tellier lived at one of those big new houses, with wide, plain fronts, ornamented with sculpture. The high, narrow carriage-entrance opened on to a courtyard, where there was just room for a bed of flowers.

Daniel boldly advanced up the carriage entrance. But as he was passing through he was very nearly crushed by a landau, which suddenly came out with a clattering noise, and he only just had time to take refuge on the narrow path.

In the landau he noticed a lady of between twenty-five and thirty, who looked at him with contemptuous indifference. She was wonderfully dressed in a rich and elaborate costume. She resembled Julia, or at least tried to resemble her in her fascinating look and the way she was bedecked.

Daniel went up to a parlour-maid who lingered on the doorsteps, watching the carriage driving away, and asked for Madame Tellier.

“She has just gone out,” answered the girl; “you saw her pass in her carriage.”

Daniel stood confused. So, thought he, that extraordinarily-dressed lady is Jeanne’s new mother; and at this thought he experienced a sickening sensation of fear.

At sixteen Monsieur de Rionne’s sister had been a very ambitious and decided young person, desirous of extracting every possible enjoyment out of existence. She had set the question of marriage before her like an arithmetical problem, and she had evolved that problem with all the precision of a mathematician. With a clear brain she saw distinctly where her own interests lay. The world of morality was non-existent for her, and her heart grasped it in no way. Very narrow when it was a question of passion or sentiment, she showed herself very clever the moment she had to do with the disposal of her person and fortune.

She had early grown to detest the nobility, the class in which she was born. She used to say that among such people the men simply devour everything, and the women very soon have no more than a miserable twenty dresses to put on. She looked down on her brother’s establishment with a pitying condescension, and she thought what a fool poor Blanche had been in marrying a man who kept all the pleasures of life for himself. She had boldly married a tradesman, knowing full well that such a man would toil for her, and that she would be the only one to dip into his purse. And she did dip her hand deeply into it, knowing that it was practically inexhaustible. Her calculation turned out exact at all points. Monsieur Tellier kept his
parvenu
habits; he increased the common store without diminishing it himself. His wife, the days when she was in good humour, was quite convinced that she was the de Rionne of the family.

She had one anxiety, however. The tradesman was gradually turning into the politician, and spoke of going into Parliament. At heart she would have preferred that he should keep on quietly as he was.

She had become the queen of fashion, but the title cost her dear. She had a delightful notoriety for extravagance; she took up anything
outré
, and immediately transformed it into supreme elegance.

She nourished a terrible hatred against Julia and her kind, for she was frequently obliged to copy them; but she discovered a way when copying them of exaggerating their style — of going beyond them, and appearing to set them the fashion, instead of their doing so for her. She had thus reached the stage of madness with respect to dress, and all the fashionable women in Paris vied with her in folly.

One day at the races she had been insulted by a man who mistook her for a loose woman. She pretended to be furious, wept, made herself known and demanded an apology. But at heart she was delighted.

Daniel, as she passed, had a rapid intuition of all this, and stood before the servant, not daring to ask her any questions.

But she was a good sort of girl, and seeing her smile, he asked:

“I beg your pardon, but is Mademoiselle de Rionne at home?”

“Oh, no!” answered she. “She was always at madame’s heels, and madame is far too nervous to endure a child perpetually round her.”

“And where is she now?”

“She was taken to a convent a week ago.” Daniel stood thunderstruck. Hesitatingly he added:

“Will she stay long in the convent? When will she come back?”

“Oh! but how do I know?” answered the servant girl, who was beginning to be irritated. “I really believe madame intends leaving her there quite twelve years.”

CHAPTER VI

TWELVE years passed away. During that long space of time there was no special event in Daniel’s life. Day succeeded day calmly and evenly, and memories of former times were awakened in him; years seemed like months.

He lived within himself, isolating himself, happy in the constant thought which guided him in the world. Jeanne was ever before him in all his actions, in all his thoughts. This species of monomania placed him in a region of peace far from the shame and misery of the world. He was held up at every step by the vision of that fair girl, whom he saw always as quite little, with the sweet smile of an angel.

And this curious kind of ecstasy gave him a solemn look as of the priest passing through the streets with God in his heart. When he was suddenly appealed to, his thoughts always seemed to come down from above, while he was struggling to adapt them to earthly things.

He was no longer the gawky youth, with a wild look, who did not know what to do with his arms and legs; he had developed into a gentle-looking man, slightly eccentric, making one forget his ugliness by the charm of his smile.

However, women did not care for him, for he did not know what to say to them, and their mere presence was sufficient to revive all his old awkwardness.

For eight years he had worked at the Encyclopaedic Dictionary. This anonymous work pleased him. Alone in a corner of the office, he enjoyed a species of delight in reminding himself that he was peaceable and unknown there. He preferred waiting thus, the day when the battle of life should again claim him. At times he raised his head and plunged into dreamland. He pictured the time when Jeanne would come out of her convent and he would be able to see her once more.

That was his great recreation — those his delicious and consoling moments. The remainder of his time, he worked like a machine. In order to leave his mind quite free, he had disciplined his body to carry out his literary labours like clockwork.

The nominal editor or author of the Dictionary very soon perceived the position he could take up with respect to this youth, who worked like a nigger, without complaining, and with a smile even of happiness on his face. For some time past he had been seeking a way to earn his twenty thousand francs without even coming to the office. He was wearied with keeping guard over his prisoners. Daniel was a precious treasure to him. Little by little he entrusted him with the superintendence of the whole business, the distribution of work, the revision of manuscripts, and special researches; and at the cost of only two hundred francs a month, he solved the difficult problem of never touching a pen, and of being the author of a monumental work.

Daniel joyfully allowed himself to be loaded with work. His companions, not having the terrible author at their backs, compiled as little as possible, and Daniel found himself positively doing a part also of their task. He thus acquired a mass of knowledge; his powerful mind retained and classified all the different sciences for which he was obliged to make research, and this Encyclopaedia which he was compiling himself was thus graven in his brain. Those eight years of incessant research made him one of the most learned young men in France. From a humble perfunctory clerk he became a scholar of the first order.