Books: The Three Cities Trilogy: Paris, Vol. 4
E >>
Emile Zola >> The Three Cities Trilogy: Paris, Vol. 4
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 Produced by Dagny [dagnypg@yahoo.com]
and David Widger [widger@cecomet.net]
THE THREE CITIES
PARIS
BY
EMILE ZOLA
TRANSLATED BY ERNEST A. VIZETELLY
BOOK IV
I
PIERRE AND MARIE
ON the mild March morning when Pierre left his little house at Neuilly to
accompany Guillaume to Montmartre, he was oppressed by the thought that
on returning home he would once more find himself alone with nothing to
prevent him from relapsing into negation and despair. The idea of this
had kept him from sleeping, and he still found it difficult to hide his
distress and force a smile.
The sky was so clear and the atmosphere so mild that the brothers had
resolved to go to Montmartre on foot by way of the outer boulevards. Nine
o'clock was striking when they set out. Guillaume for his part was very
gay at the thought of the surprise he would give his family. It was as if
he were suddenly coming back from a long journey. He had not warned them
of his intentions; he had merely written to them now and again to tell
them that he was recovering, and they certainly had no idea that his
return was so near at hand.
When Guillaume and Pierre had climbed the sunlit slopes of Montmartre,
and crossed the quiet countrified Place du Tertre, the former, by means
of a latch-key, quietly opened the door of his house, which seemed to be
asleep, so profound was the stillness both around and within it. Pierre
found it the same as on the occasion of his previous and only visit.
First came the narrow passage which ran through the ground-floor,
affording a view of all Paris at the further end. Next there was the
garden, reduced to a couple of plum-trees and a clump of lilac-bushes,
the leaves of which had now sprouted. And this time the priest perceived
three bicycles leaning against the trees. Beyond them stood the large
work-shop, so gay, and yet so peaceful, with its huge window overlooking
a sea of roofs.
Guillaume had reached the work-shop without meeting anybody. With an
expression of much amusement he raised a finger to his lips. "Attention,
Pierre," he whispered; "you'll just see!"
Then having noiselessly opened the door, they remained for a moment on
the threshold.
The three sons alone were there. Near his forge stood Thomas working a
boring machine, with which he was making some holes in a small brass
plate. Then Francois and Antoine were seated on either side of their
large table, the former reading, and the latter finishing a block. The
bright sunshine streamed in, playing over all the seeming disorder of the
room, where so many callings and so many implements found place. A large
bunch of wallflowers bloomed on the women's work-table near the window;
and absorbed as the young men were in their respective tasks the only
sound was the slight hissing of the boring machine each time that the
eldest of them drilled another hole.
However, although Guillaume did not stir, there suddenly came a quiver,
an awakening. His sons seemed to guess his presence, for they raised
their heads, each at the same moment. From each, too, came the same cry,
and a common impulse brought them first to their feet and then to his
arms.
"Father!"
Guillaume embraced them, feeling very happy. And that was all; there was
no long spell of emotion, no useless talk. It was as if he had merely
gone out the day before and, delayed by business, had now come back.
Still, he looked at them with his kindly smile, and they likewise smiled
with their eyes fixed on his. Those glances proclaimed everything, the
closest affection and complete self-bestowal for ever.
"Come in, Pierre," called Guillaume; "shake hands with these young men."
The priest had remained near the door, overcome by a singular feeling of
discomfort. When his nephews had vigorously shaken hands with him, he sat
down near the window apart from them, as if he felt out of his element
there.
"Well, youngsters," said Guillaume, "where's Mere-Grand, and where's
Marie?"
Their grandmother was upstairs in her room, they said; and Marie had
taken it into her head to go marketing. This, by the way, was one of her
delights. She asserted that she was the only one who knew how to buy
new-laid eggs and butter of a nutty odour. Moreover, she sometimes
brought some dainty or some flowers home, in her delight at proving
herself to be so good a housewife.
"And so things are going on well?" resumed Guillaume. "You are all
satisfied, your work is progressing, eh?"
He addressed brief questions to each of them, like one who, on his return
home, at once reverts to his usual habits. Thomas, with his rough face
beaming, explained in a couple of sentences that he was now sure of
perfecting his little motor; Francois, who was still preparing for his
examination, jestingly declared that he yet had to lodge a heap of
learning in his brain; and then Antoine produced the block which he was
finishing, and which depicted his little friend Lise, Jahan's sister,
reading in her garden amidst the sunshine. It was like a florescence of
that dear belated creature whose mind had been awakened by his affection.
However, the three brothers speedily went back to their places, reverting
to their work with a natural impulse, for discipline had made them regard
work as life itself. Then Guillaume, who had glanced at what each was
doing, exclaimed: "Ah! youngsters, I schemed and prepared a lot of things
myself while I was laid up. I even made a good many notes. We walked here
from Neuilly, but my papers and the clothes which Mere-Grand sent me will
come in a cab by-and-by. . . . Ah! how pleased I am to find everything in
order here, and to be able to take up my task with you again! Ah! I shall
polish off some work now, and no mistake!"
He had already gone to his own corner, the space reserved for him between
the window and the forge. He there had a chemical furnace, several glass
cases and shelves crowded with appliances, and a long table, one end of
which he used for writing purposes. And he once more took possession of
that little world. After glancing around with delight at seeing
everything in its place, he began to handle one object and another, eager
to be at work like his sons.
All at once, however, Mere-Grand appeared, calm, grave and erect in her
black gown, at the top of the little staircase which conducted to the
bedrooms. "So it's you, Guillaume?" said she. "Will you come up for a
moment?"
He immediately did so, understanding that she wished to speak to him
alone and tranquillise him. It was a question of the great secret between
them, that one thing of which his sons knew nothing, and which, after
Salvat's crime, had brought him much anguish, through his fear that it
might be divulged. When he reached Mere-Grand's room she at once took him
to the hiding-place near her bed, and showed him the cartridges of the
new explosive, and the plans of the terrible engine of warfare which he
had invented. He found them all as he had left them. Before anyone could
have reached them, she would have blown up the whole place at the risk of
perishing herself in the explosion. With her wonted air of quiet heroism,
she handed Guillaume the key which he had sent her by Pierre.
"You were not anxious, I hope?" she said.
He pressed her hands with a commingling of affection and respect. "My
only anxiety," he replied, "was that the police might come here and treat
you roughly. . . . You are the guardian of our secret, and it would be
for you to finish my work should I disappear."
While Guillaume and Madame Leroi were thus engaged upstairs, Pierre,
still seated near the window below, felt his discomfort increasing. The
inmates of the house certainly regarded him with no other feeling than
one of affectionate sympathy; and so how came it that he considered them
hostile? The truth was that he asked himself what would become of him
among those workers, who were upheld by a faith of their own, whereas he
believed in nothing, and did not work. The sight of those young men, so
gaily and zealously toiling, ended by quite irritating him; and the
arrival of Marie brought his distress to a climax.
Joyous and full of life, she came in without seeing him, a basket on her
arm. And she seemed to bring all the sunlight of the spring morning with
her, so bright was the sparkle of her youth. The whole of her pink face,
her delicate nose, her broad intelligent brow, her thick, kindly lips,
beamed beneath the heavy coils of her black hair. And her brown eyes ever
laughed with the joyousness which comes from health and strength.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "I have brought such a lot of things, youngsters.
Just come and see them; I wouldn't unpack the basket in the kitchen."
It became absolutely necessary for the brothers to draw round the basket
which she had laid upon the table. "First there's the butter!" said she;
"just smell if it hasn't a nice scent of nuts! It's churned especially
for me, you know. Then here are the eggs. They were laid only yesterday,
I'll answer for it. And, in fact, that one there is this morning's. And
look at the cutlets! They're wonderful, aren't they? The butcher cuts
them carefully when he sees me. And then here's a cream cheese, real
cream, you know, it will be delicious! Ah! and here's the surprise,
something dainty, some radishes, some pretty little pink radishes. Just
fancy! radishes in March, what a luxury!"
She triumphed like the good little housewife she was, one who had
followed a whole course of cookery and home duties at the Lycee Fenelon.
The brothers, as merry as she herself, were obliged to compliment her.
All at once, however, she caught sight of Pierre. "What! you are there,
Monsieur l'Abbe?" she exclaimed; "I beg your pardon, but I didn't see
you. How is Guillaume? Have you brought us some news of him?"
"But father's come home," said Thomas; "he's upstairs with Mere-Grand."
Quite thunderstruck, she hastily placed her purchases in the basket.
"Guillaume's come back, Guillaume's come back!" said she, "and you don't
tell me of it, you let me unpack everything! Well, it's nice of me, I
must say, to go on praising my butter and eggs when Guillaume's come
back."
Guillaume, as it happened, was just coming down with Madame Leroi. Marie
gaily hastened to him and offered him her cheeks, on which he planted two
resounding kisses. Then she, resting her hands on his shoulders, gave him
a long look, while saying in a somewhat tremulous voice: "I am pleased,
very pleased to see you, Guillaume. I may confess it now, I thought I had
lost you, I was very anxious and very unhappy."
Although she was still smiling, tears had gathered in her eyes, and he,
likewise moved, again kissed her, murmuring: "Dear Marie! How happy it
makes me to find you as beautiful and as affectionate as ever."
Pierre, who was looking at them, deemed them cold. He had doubtless
expected more tears, and a more passionate embrace on the part of an
affianced pair, whom so grievous an accident had separated almost on the
eve of their wedding. Moreover, his feelings were hurt by the
disproportion of their respective ages. No doubt his brother still seemed
to him very sturdy and young, and his feeling of repulsion must have come
from that young woman whom, most decidedly, he did not like. Ever since
her arrival he had experienced increasing discomfort, a keener and keener
desire to go off and never return.
So acute became his suffering at feeling like a stranger in his brother's
home, that he at last rose and sought to take his leave, under the
pretext that he had some urgent matters to attend to in town.
"What! you won't stay to /dejeuner/ with us!" exclaimed Guillaume in
perfect stupefaction. "Why, it was agreed! You surely won't distress me
like that! This house is your own, remember!"
Then, as with genuine affection they all protested and pressed him to
stay, he was obliged to do so. However, he soon relapsed into silence and
embarrassment, seated on the same chair as before, and listening moodily
to those people who, although they were his relatives, seemed to be far
removed from him.
As it was barely eleven o'clock they resumed work, but every now and
again there was some merry talk. On one of the servants coming for the
provisions, Marie told the girl to call her as soon as it should be time
to boil the eggs, for she prided herself on boiling them to a nicety, in
such wise as to leave the whites like creamy milk. This gave an
opportunity for a few jests from Francois, who occasionally teased her
about all the fine things she had learnt at the Lycee Fenelon, where her
father had placed her when she was twelve years old. However, she was not
afraid of him, but gave him tit for tat by chaffing him about all the
hours which he lost at the Ecole Normale over a mass of pedagogic trash.
"Ah! you big children!" she exclaimed, while still working at her
embroidery. "You are all very intelligent, and you all claim to have
broad minds, and yet--confess it now--it worries you a little that a girl
like me should have studied at college in the same way as yourselves.
It's a sexual quarrel, a question of rivalry and competition, isn't it?"
They protested the contrary, declaring that they were in favour of girls
receiving as complete an education as possible. She was well aware of
this; however, she liked to tease them in return for the manner in which
they themselves plagued her.
"But do you know," said she, "you are a great deal behind the times? I am
well aware of the reproaches which are levelled at girls' colleges by
so-called right-minded people. To begin, there is no religious element
whatever in the education one receives there, and this alarms many
families which consider religious education to be absolutely necessary
for girls, if only as a moral weapon of defence. Then, too, the education
at our Lycees is being democratised--girls of all positions come to them.
Thanks to the scholarships which are so liberally offered, the daughter
of the lady who rents a first floor flat often finds the daughter of her
door-keeper among her school-fellows, and some think this objectionable.
It is said also that the pupils free themselves too much from home
influence, and that too much opportunity is left for personal initiative.
As a matter of fact the extensiveness of the many courses of study, all
the learning that is required of pupils at the examinations, certainly
does tend to their emancipation, to the coming of the future woman and
future society, which you young men are all longing for, are you not?"
"Of course we are!" exclaimed Francois; "we all agree on that point."
She waved her hand in a pretty way, and then quietly continued: "I'm
jesting. My views are simple enough, as you well know, and I don't ask
for nearly as much as you do. As for woman's claims and rights, well, the
question is clear enough; woman is man's equal so far as nature allows
it. And the only point is to agree and love one another. At the same time
I'm well pleased to know what I do--oh! not from any spirit of pedantry
but simply because I think it has all done me good, and given me some
moral as well as physical health."
It delighted her to recall the days she had spent at the Lycee Fenelon,
which of the five State colleges for girls opened in Paris was the only
one counting a large number of pupils. Most of these were the daughters
of officials or professors, who purposed entering the teaching
profession. In this case, they had to win their last diploma at the Ecole
Normale of Sevres, after leaving the Lycee. Marie, for her part, though
her studies had been brilliant, had felt no taste whatever for the
calling of teacher. Moreover, when Guillaume had taken charge of her
after her father's death, he had refused to let her run about giving
lessons. To provide herself with a little money, for she would accept
none as a gift, she worked at embroidery, an art in which she was most
accomplished.
While she was talking to the young men Guillaume had listened to her
without interfering. If he had fallen in love with her it was largely on
account of her frankness and uprightness, the even balance of her nature,
which gave her so forcible a charm. She knew all; but if she lacked the
poetry of the shrinking, lamb-like girl who has been brought up in
ignorance, she had gained absolute rectitude of heart and mind, exempt
from all hypocrisy, all secret perversity such as is stimulated by what
may seem mysterious in life. And whatever she might know, she had
retained such child-like purity that in spite of her six-and-twenty
summers all the blood in her veins would occasionally rush to her cheeks
in fiery blushes, which drove her to despair.
"My dear Marie," Guillaume now exclaimed, "you know very well that the
youngsters were simply joking. You are in the right, of course. . . . And
your boiled eggs cannot be matched in the whole world."
He said this in so soft and affectionate a tone that the young woman
flushed purple. Then, becoming conscious of it, she coloured yet more
deeply, and as the three young men glanced at her maliciously she grew
angry with herself. "Isn't it ridiculous, Monsieur l'Abbe," she said,
turning towards Pierre, "for an old maid like myself to blush in that
fashion? People might think that I had committed a crime. It's simply to
make me blush, you know, that those children tease me. I do all I can to
prevent it, but it's stronger than my will."
At this Mere-Grand raised her eyes from the shirt she was mending, and
remarked: "Oh! it's natural enough, my dear. It is your heart rising to
your cheeks in order that we may see it."
The /dejeuner/ hour was now at hand; and they decided to lay the table in
the work-shop, as was occasionally done when they had a guest. The
simple, cordial meal proved very enjoyable in the bright sunlight.
Marie's boiled eggs, which she herself brought from the kitchen covered
with a napkin, were found delicious. Due honour was also done to the
butter and the radishes. The only dessert that followed the cutlets was
the cream cheese, but it was a cheese such as nobody else had ever
partaken of. And, meantime, while they ate and chatted all Paris lay
below them, stretching away to the horizon with its mighty rumbling.
Pierre had made an effort to become cheerful, but he soon relapsed into
silence. Guillaume, however, was very talkative. Having noticed the three
bicycles in the garden, he inquired of Marie how far she had gone that
morning. She answered that Francois and Antoine had accompanied her in
the direction of Orgemont. The worry of their excursions was that each
time they returned to Montmartre they had to push their machines up the
height. From the general point of view, however, the young woman was
delighted with bicycling, which had many virtues, said she. Then, seeing
Pierre glance at her in amazement, she promised that she would some day
explain her opinions on the subject to him. After this bicycling became
the one topic of conversation until the end of the meal. Thomas gave an
account of the latest improvements introduced into Grandidier's machines;
and the others talked of the excursions they had made or meant to make,
with all the exuberant delight of school children eager for the open air.
In the midst of the chatter, Mere-Grand, who presided at table with the
serene dignity of a queen-mother, leant towards Guillaume, who sat next
to her, and spoke to him in an undertone. Pierre understood that she was
referring to his marriage, which was to have taken place in April, but
must now necessarily be deferred. This sensible marriage, which seemed
likely to ensure the happiness of the entire household, was largely the
work of Mere-Grand and the three young men, for Guillaume would never
have yielded to his heart if she whom he proposed to make his wife had
not already been a well-loved member of the family. At the present time
the last week in June seemed, for all sorts of reasons, to be a
favourable date for the wedding.
Marie, who heard the suggestion, turned gaily towards Mere-Grand.
"The end of June will suit very well, will it not, my dear?" said the
latter.
Pierre expected to see a deep flush rise to the young woman's cheeks, but
she remained very calm. She felt deep affection, blended with the most
tender gratitude, for Guillaume, and was convinced that in marrying him
she would be acting wisely and well both for herself and the others.
"Certainly, the end of June," she repeated, "that will suit very well
indeed."
Then the sons, who likewise had heard the proposal, nodded their heads by
way of assenting also.
When they rose from table Pierre was absolutely determined to go off. The
cordial and simple meal, the sight of that family, which had been
rendered so happy by Guillaume's return, and of that young woman who
smiled so placidly at life, had brought him keen suffering, though why he
could not tell. However, it all irritated him beyond endurance; and he
therefore again pretended that he had a number of things to see to in
Paris. He shook hands in turn with the young men, Mere-Grand and Marie;
both of the women evincing great friendliness but also some surprise at
his haste to leave the house. Guillaume, who seemed saddened and anxious,
sought to detain him, and failing in this endeavour followed him into the
little garden, where he stopped him in order to have an explanation.
"Come," said he, "what is the matter with you, Pierre? Why are you
running off like this?"
"Oh! there's nothing the matter I assure you; but I have to attend to a
few urgent affairs."
"Oh, Pierre, pray put all pretence aside. Nobody here has displeased you
or hurt your feelings, I hope. They also will soon love you as I do."
"I have no doubt of it, and I complain of nobody excepting perhaps
myself."
Guillaume's sorrow was increasing. "Ah! brother, little brother," he
resumed, "you distress me, for I can detect that you are hiding something
from me. Remember that new ties have linked us together and that we love
one another as in the old days when you were in your cradle and I used to
come to play with you. I know you well, remember. I know all your
tortures, since you have confessed them to me; and I won't have you
suffer, I want to cure you, I do!"
Pierre's heart was full, and as he heard those words he could not
restrain his tears. "Oh! you must leave me to my sufferings," he
responded. "They are incurable. You can do nothing for me, I am beyond
the pale of nature, I am a monster."
"What do you say! Can you not return within nature's pale even if you
/have/ gone beyond it? One thing that I will not allow is that you should
go and shut yourself up in that solitary little house of yours, where you
madden yourself by brooding over the fall of your faith. Come and spend
your time with us, so that we may again give you some taste for life."
Ah! the empty little house which awaited him! Pierre shivered at the
thought of it, at the idea that he would now find himself all alone
there, bereft of the brother with whom he had lately spent so many happy
days. Into what solitude and torment must he not now relapse after that
companionship to which he had become accustomed? However, the very
thought of the latter increased his grief, and confession suddenly gushed
from his lips: "To spend my time here, live with you, oh! no, that is an
impossibility. Why do you compel me to speak out, and tell you things
that I am ashamed of and do not even understand. Ever since this morning
you must have seen that I have been suffering here. No doubt it is
because you and your people work, whereas I do nothing, because you love
one another and believe in your efforts, whereas I no longer know how to
love or believe. I feel out of my element. I'm embarrassed here, and I
embarrass you. In fact you all irritate me, and I might end by hating
you. There remains nothing healthy in me, all natural feelings have been
spoilt and destroyed, and only envy and hatred could sprout up from such
ruins. So let me go back to my accursed hole, where death will some day
come for me. Farewell, brother!"
But Guillaume, full of affection and compassion, caught hold of his arms
and detained him. "You shall not go, I will not allow you to go, without
a positive promise that you will come back. I don't wish to lose you
again, especially now that I know all you are worth and how dreadfully
you suffer. I will save you, if need be, in spite of yourself. I will
cure you of your torturing doubts, oh! without catechising you, without
imposing any particular faith on you, but simply by allowing life to do
its work, for life alone can give you back health and hope. So I beg you,
brother, in the name of our affection, come back here, come as often as
you can to spend a day with us. You will then see that when folks have
allotted themselves a task and work together in unison, they escape
excessive unhappiness. A task of any kind--yes, that is what is wanted,
together with some great passion and frank acceptance of life, so that it
may be lived as it should be and loved."
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9