Books: The Three Cities Trilogy: Paris, Vol. 4

E >> Emile Zola >> The Three Cities Trilogy: Paris, Vol. 4

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"But what would be the use of my living here?" Pierre muttered bitterly.
"I've no task left me, and I no longer know how to love."

"Well, I will give you a task, and as for love, that will soon be
awakened by the breath of life. Come, brother, consent, consent!"

Then, seeing that Pierre still remained gloomy and sorrowful, and
persisted in his determination to go away and bury himself, Guillaume
added, "Ah! I don't say that the things of this world are such as one
might wish them to be. I don't say that only joy and truth and justice
exist. For instance, the affair of that unhappy fellow Salvat fills me
with anger and revolt. Guilty he is, of course, and yet how many excuses
he had, and how I shall pity him if the crimes of all of us are laid at
his door, if the various political gangs bandy him from one to another,
and use him as a weapon in their sordid fight for power. The thought of
it all so exasperates me that at times I am as unreasonable as yourself.
But now, brother, just to please me, promise that you will come and spend
the day after to-morrow with us."

Then, as Pierre still kept silent, Guillaume went on: "I will have it so.
It would grieve me too much to think that you were suffering from
martyrdom in your solitary nook. I want to cure and save you."

Tears again rose to Pierre's eyes, and in a tone of infinite distress he
answered: "Don't compel me to promise. . . . All I can say is that I will
try to conquer myself."

The week he then spent in his little, dark, empty home proved a terrible
one. Shutting himself up he brooded over his despair at having lost the
companionship of that elder brother whom he once more loved with his
whole soul. He had never before been so keenly conscious of his solitude;
and he was a score of times on the point of hastening to Montmartre, for
he vaguely felt that affection, truth and life were there. But on each
occasion he was held back by a return of the discomfort which he had
already experienced, discomfort compounded of shame and fear. Priest that
he was, cut off from love and the avocations of other men, he would
surely find nothing but hurt and suffering among creatures who were all
nature, freedom and health. While he pondered thus, however, there rose
before him the shades of his father and mother, those sad spirits that
seemed to wander through the deserted rooms lamenting and entreating him
to reconcile them in himself, as soon as he should find peace. What was
he to do,--deny their prayer, and remain weeping with them, or go yonder
in search of the cure which might at last lull them to sleep and bring
them happiness in death by the force of his own happiness in life? At
last a morning came when it seemed to him that his father enjoined him
with a smile to betake himself yonder, while his mother consented with a
glance of her big soft eyes, in which her sorrow at having made so bad a
priest of him yielded to her desire to restore him to the life of our
common humanity.

Pierre did not argue with himself that day: he took a cab and gave
Guillaume's address to the driver for fear lest he should be overcome on
the way and wish to turn back. And when he again found himself, as in a
dream, in the large work-shop, where Guillaume and the young men welcomed
him in a delicately affectionate way, he witnessed an unexpected scene
which both impressed and relieved him.

Marie, who had scarcely nodded to him as he entered, sat there with a
pale and frowning face. And Mere-Grand, who was also grave, said, after
glancing at her: "You must excuse her, Monsieur l'Abbe; but she isn't
reasonable. She is in a temper with all five of us."

Guillaume began to laugh. "Ah! she's so stubborn!" he exclaimed. "You can
have no idea, Pierre, of what goes on in that little head of hers when
anybody says or does anything contrary to her ideas of justice. Such
absolute and lofty ideas they are, that they can descend to no
compromise. For instance, we were talking of that recent affair of a
father who was found guilty on his son's evidence; and she maintained
that the son had only done what was right in giving evidence against his
father, and that one ought invariably to tell the truth, no matter what
might happen. What a terrible public prosecutor she would make, eh?"

Thereupon Marie, exasperated by Pierre's smile, which seemingly indicated
that he also thought her in the wrong, flew into quite a passion: "You
are cruel, Guillaume!" she cried; "I won't be laughed at like this."

"But you are losing your senses, my dear," exclaimed Francois, while
Thomas and Antoine again grew merry. "We were only urging a question of
humanity, father and I, for we respect and love justice as much as you
do."

"There's no question of humanity, but simply one of justice. What is just
and right is just and right, and you cannot alter it."

Then, as Guillaume made a further attempt to state his views and win her
over to them, she rose trembling, in such a passion that she could
scarcely stammer: "No, no, you are all too cruel, you only want to grieve
me. I prefer to go up into my own room."

At this Mere-Grand vainly sought to restrain her. "My child, my child!"
said she, "reflect a moment; this is very wrong, you will deeply regret
it."

"No, no; you are not just, and I suffer too much."

Then she wildly rushed upstairs to her room overhead.

Consternation followed. Scenes of a similar character had occasionally
occurred before, but there had never been so serious a one. Guillaume
immediately admitted that he had done wrong in laughing at her, for she
could not bear irony. Then he told Pierre that in her childhood and youth
she had been subject to terrible attacks of passion whenever she
witnessed or heard of any act of injustice. As she herself explained,
these attacks would come upon her with irresistible force, transporting
her to such a point that she would sometimes fall upon the floor and
rave. Even nowadays she proved quarrelsome and obstinate whenever certain
subjects were touched upon. And she afterwards blushed for it all, fully
conscious that others must think her unbearable.

Indeed, a quarter of an hour later, she came downstairs again of her own
accord, and bravely acknowledged her fault. "Wasn't it ridiculous of me?"
she said. "To think I accuse others of being unkind when I behave like
that! Monsieur l'Abbe must have a very bad opinion of me." Then, after
kissing Mere-Grand, she added: "You'll forgive me, won't you? Oh!
Francois may laugh now, and so may Thomas and Antoine. They are quite
right, our differences are merely laughing matters."

"My poor Marie," replied Guillaume, in a tone of deep affection. "You see
what it is to surrender oneself to the absolute. If you are so healthy
and reasonable it's because you regard almost everything from the
relative point of view, and only ask life for such gifts as it can
bestow. But when your absolute ideas of justice come upon you, you lose
both equilibrium and reason. At the same time, I must say that we are all
liable to err in much the same manner."

Marie, who was still very flushed, thereupon answered in a jesting way:
"Well, it at least proves that I'm not perfect."

"Oh, certainly! And so much the better," said Guillaume, "for it makes me
love you the more."

This was a sentiment which Pierre himself would willingly have re-echoed.
The scene had deeply stirred him. Had not his own frightful torments
originated with his desire for the absolute both in things and beings? He
had sought faith in its entirety, and despair had thrown him into
complete negation. Again, was there not some evil desire for the absolute
and some affectation of pride and voluntary blindness in the haughty
bearing which he had retained amidst the downfall of his belief, the
saintly reputation which he had accepted when he possessed no faith at
all? On hearing his brother praise Marie, because she only asked life for
such things as it could give, it had seemed to him that this was advice
for himself. It was as if a refreshing breath of nature had passed before
his face. At the same time his feelings in this respect were still vague,
and the only well-defined pleasure that he experienced came from the
young woman's fit of anger, that error of hers which brought her nearer
to him, by lowering her in some degree from her pedestal of serene
perfection. It was, perhaps, that seeming perfection which had made him
suffer; however, he was as yet unable to analyse his feelings. That day,
for the first time, he chatted with her for a little while, and when he
went off he thought her very good-hearted and very human.

Two days later he again came to spend the afternoon in the large sunlit
work-shop overlooking Paris. Ever since he had become conscious of the
idle life he was leading, he had felt very bored when he was alone, and
only found relief among that gay, hardworking family. His brother scolded
him for not having come to /dejeuner/, and he promised to do so on the
morrow. By the time a week had elapsed, none of the discomfort and covert
hostility which had prevailed between him and Marie remained: they met
and chatted on a footing of good fellowship. Although he was a priest,
she was in no wise embarrassed by his presence. With her quiet atheism,
indeed, she had never imagined that a priest could be different from
other men. Thus her sisterly cordiality both astonished and delighted
Pierre. It was as if he wore the same garments and held the same ideas as
his big nephews, as if there were nothing whatever to distinguish him
from other men. He was still more surprised, however, by Marie's silence
on all religious questions. She seemed to live on quietly and happily,
without a thought of what might be beyond life, that terrifying realm of
mystery, which to him had brought such agony of mind.

Now that he came every two or three days to Montmartre she noticed that
he was suffering. What could be the matter with him, she wondered. When
she questioned him in a friendly manner and only elicited evasive
replies, she guessed that he was ashamed of his sufferings, and that they
were aggravated, rendered well-nigh incurable, by the very secrecy in
which he buried them. Thereupon womanly compassion awoke within her, and
she felt increasing affection for that tall, pale fellow with feverish
eyes, who was consumed by grievous torments which he would confess to
none. No doubt she questioned Guillaume respecting her brother's sadness,
and he must have confided some of the truth to her in order that she
might help him to extricate Pierre from his sufferings, and give him back
some taste for life. The poor fellow always seemed so happy when she
treated him like a friend, a brother!

At last, one evening, on seeing his eyes full of tears as he gazed upon
the dismal twilight falling over Paris, she herself pressed him to
confide his trouble to her. And thereupon he suddenly spoke out,
confessing all his torture and the horrible void which the loss of faith
had left within him. Ah! to be unable to believe, to be unable to love,
to be nothing but ashes, to know of nothing certain by which he might
replace the faith that had fled from him! She listened in stupefaction.
Why, he must be mad! And she plainly told him so, such was her
astonishment and revolt at hearing such a desperate cry of wretchedness.
To despair, indeed, and believe in nothing and love nothing, simply
because a religious hypothesis had crumbled! And this, too, when the
whole, vast world was spread before one, life with the duty of living it,
creatures and things to be loved and succoured, without counting the
universal labour, the task which one and all came to accomplish!
Assuredly he must be mad, mad with the gloomiest madness; still she vowed
she would cure him.

From that time forward she felt the most compassionate affection for this
extraordinary young man, who had first embarrassed and afterwards
astonished her. She showed herself very gentle and gay with him; she
looked after him with the greatest skill and delicacy of heart and mind.
There had been certain similar features in their childhood; each had been
reared in the strictest religious views by a pious mother. But afterwards
how different had been their fates! Whilst he was struggling with his
doubts, bound by his priestly vows, she had grown up at the Lycee
Fenelon, where her father had placed her as soon as her mother died; and
there, far removed from all practice of religion, she had gradually
reached total forgetfulness of her early religious views. It was a
constant source of surprise for him to find that she had thus escaped all
distress of mind at the thought of what might come after death, whereas
that same thought had so deeply tortured him. When they chatted together
and he expressed his astonishment at it, she frankly laughed, saying that
she had never felt any fear of hell, for she was certain that no hell
existed. And she added that she lived in all quietude, without hope of
going to any heaven, her one thought being to comply in a reasonable way
with the requirements and necessities of earthly life. It was, perhaps,
in some measure a matter of temperament with her; but it was also a
matter of education. Yet, whatever that education had been, whatever
knowledge she had acquired, she had remained very womanly and very
loving. There was nothing stern or masculine about her.

"Ah, my friend," she said one day to Pierre, "if you only knew how easy
it is for me to remain happy so long as I see those I love free from any
excessive suffering. For my own part I can always adapt myself to life. I
work and content myself no matter what may happen. Sorrow has only come
to me from others, for I can't help wishing that everybody should be
fairly happy, and there are some who won't. . . . I was for a long time
very poor, but I remained gay. I wish for nothing, except for things that
can't be purchased. Still, want is the great abomination which distresses
me. I can understand that you should have felt everything crumbling when
charity appeared to you so insufficient a remedy as to be contemptible.
Yet it does bring relief; and, moreover, it is so sweet to be able to
give. Some day, too, by dint of reason and toil, by the good and
efficient working of life itself, the reign of justice will surely come.
But now it's I that am preaching! Oh! I have little taste for it! It
would be ridiculous for me to try to heal you with big phrases. All the
same, I should like to cure you of your gloomy sufferings. To do so, all
that I ask of you is to spend as much time as you can with us. You know
that this is Guillaume's greatest desire. We will all love you so well,
you will see us all so affectionately united, and so gay over our common
work, that you will come back to truth by joining us in the school of our
good mother nature. You must live and work, and love and hope."

Pierre smiled as he listened. He now came to Montmartre nearly every day.
She was so nice and affectionate when she preached to him in that way
with a pretty assumption of wisdom. As she had said too, life was so
delightful in that big workroom; it was so pleasant to be all together,
and to labour in common at the same work of health and truth. Ashamed as
Pierre was of doing nothing, anxious as he was to occupy his mind and
fingers, he had first taken an interest in Antoine's engraving, asking
why he should not try something of the kind himself. However, he felt
that he lacked the necessary gift for art. Then, too, he recoiled from
Francois' purely intellectual labour, for he himself had scarcely emerged
from the harrowing study of conflicting texts. Thus he was more inclined
for manual toil like that of Thomas. In mechanics he found precision and
clearness such as might help to quench his thirst for certainty. So he
placed himself at the young man's orders, pulled his bellows and held
pieces of mechanism for him. He also sometimes served as assistant to
Guillaume, tying a large blue apron over his cassock in order to help in
the experiments. From that time he formed part of the work-shop, which
simply counted a worker the more.

One afternoon early in April, when they were all busily engaged there,
Marie, who sat embroidering at the table in front of Mere-Grand, raised
her eyes to the window and suddenly burst into a cry of admiration: "Oh!
look at Paris under that rain of sunlight!"

Pierre drew near; the play of light was much the same as that which he
had witnessed at his first visit. The sun, sinking behind some slight
purple clouds, was throwing down a hail of rays and sparks which on all
sides rebounded and leapt over the endless stretch of roofs. It might
have been thought that some great sower, hidden amidst the glory of the
planet, was scattering handfuls of golden grain from one horizon to the
other.

Pierre, at sight of it, put his fancy into words: "It is the sun sowing
Paris with grain for a future harvest," said he. "See how the expanse
looks like ploughed land; the brownish houses are like soil turned up,
and the streets are deep and straight like furrows."

"Yes, yes, that's true," exclaimed Marie gaily. "The sun is sowing Paris
with grain. See how it casts the seed of light and health right away to
the distant suburbs! And yet, how singular! The rich districts on the
west seem steeped in a ruddy mist, whilst the good seed falls in golden
dust over the left bank and the populous districts eastward. It is there,
is it not, that the crop will spring up?"

They had all drawn near, and were smiling at the symbol. As Marie had
said, it seemed indeed that while the sun slowly sank behind the lacework
of clouds, the sower of eternal life scattered his flaming seed with a
rhythmical swing of the arm, ever selecting the districts of toil and
effort. One dazzling handful of grain fell over yonder on the district of
the schools; and then yet another rained down to fertilise the district
of the factories and work-shops.

"Ah! well," said Guillaume gaily. "May the crop soon sprout from the good
ground of our great Paris, which has been turned up by so many
revolutions, and enriched by the blood of so many workers! It is the only
ground in the world where Ideas can germinate and bloom. Yes, yes, Pierre
is quite right, it is the sun sowing Paris with the seed of the future
world, which can sprout only up here!"

Then Thomas, Francois and Antoine, who stood behind their father in a
row, nodded as if to say that this was also their own conviction; whilst
Mere-Grand gazed afar with dreamy eyes as though she could already behold
the splendid future.

"Ah! but it is only a dream; centuries must elapse. We shall never see
it!" murmured Pierre with a quiver.

"But others will!" cried Marie. "And does not that suffice?"

Those lofty words stirred Pierre to the depths of his being. And all at
once there came to him the memory of another Marie*--the adorable Marie
of his youth, that Marie de Guersaint who had been cured at Lourdes, and
the loss of whom had left such a void in his heart. Was that new Marie
who stood there smiling at him, so tranquil and so charming in her
strength, destined to heal that old-time wound? He felt that he was
beginning to live again since she had become his friend.

* The heroine of M. Zola's "Lourdes."

Meantime, there before them, the glorious sun, with the sweep of its
rays, was scattering living golden dust over Paris, still and ever sowing
the great future harvest of justice and of truth.

II

TOWARDS LIFE

ONE evening, at the close of a good day's work, Pierre, who was helping
Thomas, suddenly caught his foot in the skirt of his cassock and narrowly
escaped falling. At this, Marie, after raising a faint cry of anxiety,
exclaimed: "Why don't you take it off?"

There was no malice in her inquiry. She simply looked upon the priestly
robe as something too heavy and cumbersome, particularly when one had
certain work to perform. Nevertheless, her words deeply impressed Pierre,
and he could not forget them. When he was at home in the evening and
repeated them to himself they gradually threw him into feverish
agitation. Why, indeed, had he not divested himself of that cassock,
which weighed so heavily and painfully on his shoulders? Then a frightful
struggle began within him, and he spent a terrible, sleepless night,
again a prey to all his former torments.

At first sight it seemed a very simple matter that he should cast his
priestly gown aside, for had he not ceased to discharge any priestly
office? He had not said mass for some time past, and this surely meant
renunciation of the priesthood. Nevertheless, so long as he retained his
gown it was possible that he might some day say mass again, whereas if he
cast it aside he would, as it were, strip himself, quit the priesthood
entirely, without possibility of return. It was a terrible step to take,
one that would prove irrevocable; and thus he paced his room for hours,
in great anguish of mind.

He had formerly indulged in a superb dream. Whilst believing nothing
himself he had resolved to watch, in all loyalty, over the belief of
others. He would not so lower himself as to forswear his vows, he would
be no base renegade, but however great the torments of the void he felt
within him he would remain the minister of man's illusions respecting the
Divinity. And it was by reason of his conduct in this respect that he had
ended by being venerated as a saint--he who denied everything, who had
become a mere empty sepulchre. For a long time his falsehood had never
disturbed him, but it now brought him acute suffering. It seemed to him
that he would be acting in the vilest manner if he delayed placing his
life in accord with his opinions. The thought of it all quite rent his
heart.

The question was a very clear one. By what right did he remain the
minister of a religion in which he no longer believed? Did not elementary
honesty require that he should quit a Church in which he denied the
presence of the Divinity? He regarded the dogmas of that Church as
puerile errors, and yet he persisted in teaching them as if they were
eternal truths. Base work it was, that alarmed his conscience. He vainly
sought the feverish glow of charity and martyrdom which had led him to
offer himself as a sacrifice, willing to suffer all the torture of doubt
and to find his own life lost and ravaged, provided that he might yet
afford the relief of hope to the lowly. Truth and nature, no doubt, had
already regained too much ascendancy over him for those feelings to
return. The thought of such a lying apostolate now wounded him; he no
longer had the hypocritical courage to call the Divinity down upon the
believers kneeling before him, when he was convinced that the Divinity
would not descend. Thus all the past was swept away; there remained
nothing of the sublime pastoral part he would once have liked to play,
that supreme gift of himself which lay in stubborn adherence to the rules
of the Church, and such devotion to faith as to endure in silence the
torture of having lost it.

What must Marie think of his prolonged falsehood, he wondered, and
thereupon he seemed to hear her words again: "Why not take your cassock
off?" His conscience bled as if those words were a stab. What contempt
must she not feel for him, she who was so upright, so high-minded? Every
scattered blame, every covert criticism directed against his conduct,
seemed to find embodiment in her. It now sufficed that she should condemn
him, and he at once felt guilty. At the same time she had never voiced
her disapproval to him, in all probability because she did not think she
had any right to intervene in a struggle of conscience. The superb
calmness and healthiness which she displayed still astonished him. He
himself was ever haunted and tortured by thoughts of the unknown, of what
the morrow of death might have in store for one; but although he had
studied and watched her for days together, he had never seen her give a
sign of doubt or distress. This exemption from such sufferings as his own
was due, said she, to the fact that she gave all her gaiety, all her
energy, all her sense of duty, to the task of living, in such wise that
life itself proved a sufficiency, and no time was left for mere fancies
to terrify and stultify her. Well, then, since she with her air of quiet
strength had asked him why he did not take off his cassock, he would take
it off--yes, he would divest himself of that robe which seemed to burn
and weigh him down.

He fancied himself calmed by this decision, and towards morning threw
himself upon his bed; but all at once a stifling sensation, a renewal of
his abominable anguish, brought him to his feet again. No, no, he could
not divest himself of that gown which clung so tightly to his flesh. His
skin would come away with his cloth, his whole being would be lacerated!
Is not the mark of priesthood an indelible one, does it not brand the
priest for ever, and differentiate him from the flock? Even should he
tear off his gown with his skin, he would remain a priest, an object of
scandal and shame, awkward and impotent, shut off from the life of other
men. And so why tear it off, since he would still and ever remain in
prison, and a fruitful life of work in the broad sunlight was no longer
within his reach? He, indeed, fancied himself irremediably stricken with
impotence. Thus he was unable to come to any decision, and when he
returned to Montmartre two days later he had again relapsed into a state
of torment.

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