Complete Works of Emile Zola (531 page)

As she sat there in the shadow, a blush crimsoned Helene’s face. Had the Abbe, then, read her heart? Was he aware of this restlessness which was fast possessing her — this heart-trouble which thrilled her every-day life, and the existence of which she had till now been unwilling to admit? Her needlework fell on her lap. A sensation of weakness pervaded her, and she awaited from the priest something like a pious complicity which would allow her to confess and particularize the vague feelings which she buried in her innermost being. As all was known to him, it was for him to question her, and she would strive to answer.

“I leave myself in your hands, my friend,” she murmured. “You are well aware that I have always listened to you.”

The priest remained for a moment silent, and then slowly and solemnly said:

“My child, you must marry again.”

She remained speechless, with arms dangling, in a stupor this counsel brought upon her. She awaited other words, failing, as it were, to understand him. And the Abbe continued putting before her the arguments which should incline her towards marriage.

“Remember, you are still young. You must not remain longer in this out-of-the-way corner of Paris, scarcely daring to go out, and wholly ignorant of the world. You must return to the every-day life of humanity, lest in the future you should bitterly regret your loneliness. You yourself have no idea how the effects of your isolation are beginning to tell on you, but your friends remark your pallor, and feel uneasy.”

With each sentence he paused, in the hope that she might break in and discuss his proposition. But no; she sat there as if lifeless, seemingly benumbed with astonishment.

“No doubt you have a child,” he resumed. “That is always a delicate matter to surmount. Still, you must admit that even in Jeanne’s interest a husband’s arm would be of great advantage. Of course, we must find some one good and honorable, who would be a true father — “

However, she did not let him finish. With violent revolt and repulsion she suddenly spoke out: “No, no; I will not! Oh, my friend, how can you advise me thus? Never, do you hear, never!”

Her whole heart was rising; she herself was frightened by the violence of her refusal. The priest’s proposal had stirred up that dim nook in her being whose secret she avoided reading, and, by the pain she experienced, she at last understood all the gravity of her ailment. With the open, smiling glance of the priest still bent on her, she plunged into contention.

“No, no; I do not wish it! I love nobody!”

And, as he still gazed at her, she imagined he could read her lie on her face. She blushed and stammered:

“Remember, too, I only left off my mourning a fortnight ago. No, it could not be!”

“My child!” quietly said the priest, “I thought over this a great deal before speaking. I am sure your happiness is wrapped up in it. Calm yourself; you need never act against your own wishes.”

The conversation came to a sudden stop. Helene strove to keep pent within her bosom the angry protests that were rushing to her lips. She resumed her work, and, with head lowered, contrived to put in a few stitches. And amid the silence, Jeanne’s shrill voice could be heard in the dining-room.

“People don’t put a chicken to a carriage; it ought to be a horse! You don’t know how to make a horse, do you?”

“No, my dear; horses are too difficult,” said Monsieur Rambaud. “But if you like I’ll show you how to make carriages.”

This was always the fashion in which their game came to an end. Jeanne, all ears and eyes, watched her kindly playfellow folding the paper into a multitude of little squares, and afterwards she followed his example; but she would make mistakes and then stamp her feet in vexation. However, she already knew how to manufacture boats and bishops’ mitres.

“You see,” resumed Monsieur Rambaud patiently, “you make four corners like that; then you turn them back — “

With his ears on the alert, he must during the last moment have heard some of the words spoken in the next room; for his poor hands were now trembling more and more, while his tongue faltered, so that he could only half articulate his sentences.

Helene, who was unable to quiet herself, now began the conversation anew. “Marry again! And whom, pray?” she suddenly asked the priest, as she laid her work down on the table. “You have some one in view, have you not?”

Abbe Jouve rose from his chair and stalked slowly up and down. Without halting, he nodded assent.

“Well! tell me who he is,” she said.

For a moment he lingered before her erect, then, shrugging his shoulders, said: “What’s the good, since you decline?”

“No matter, I want to know,” she replied. “How can I make up my mind when I don’t know?”

He did not answer her immediately, but remained standing there, gazing into her face. A somewhat sad smile wreathed his lips. At last he exclaimed, almost in a whisper: “What! have you not guessed?”

No, she could not guess. She tried to do so, with increasing wonder, whereupon he made a simple sign — nodding his head in the direction of the dining-room.

“He!” she exclaimed, in a muffled tone, and a great seriousness fell upon her. She no longer indulged in violent protestations; only sorrow and surprise remained visible on her face. She sat for a long time plunged in thought, her gaze turned to the floor. Truly, she had never dreamed of such a thing; and yet, she found nothing in it to object to. Monsieur Rambaud was the only man in whose hand she could put her own honestly and without fear. She knew his innate goodness; she did not smile at his
bourgeois
heaviness. But despite all her regard for him, the idea that he loved her chilled her to the soul.

Meanwhile the Abbe had again begun walking from one to the other end of the room, and on passing the dining-room door he gently called Helene. “Come here and look!”

She rose and did as he wished.

Monsieur Rambaud had ended by seating Jeanne in his own chair; and he, who had at first been leaning against the table, had now slipped down at the child’s feet. He was on his knees before her, encircling her with one of his arms. On the table was the carriage drawn by the chicken, with some boats, boxes, and bishops’ mitres.

“Now, do you love me well?” he asked her. “Tell me that you love me well!”

“Of course, I love you well; you know it.”

He stammered and trembled, as though he were making some declaration of love.

“And what would you say if I asked you to let me stay here with you always?”

“Oh, I should be quite pleased. We would play together, wouldn’t we? That would be good fun.”

“Ah, but you know I should always be here.”

Jeanne had taken up a boat which she was twisting into a gendarme’s hat. “You would need to get mamma’s leave,” she murmured.

By this reply all his fears were again stirred into life. His fate was being decided.

“Of course,” said he. “But if mamma gave me leave, would you say yes, too?”

Jeanne, busy finishing her gendarme’s hat, sang out in a rapturous strain: “I would say yes! yes! yes! I would say yes! yes! yes! Come, look how pretty my hat is!”

Monsieur Rambaud, with tears in his eyes, rose to his knees and kissed her, while she threw her arms round his neck. He had entrusted the asking of Helene’s consent to his brother, whilst he himself sought to secure that of Jeanne.

“You see,” said the priest, with a smile, “the child is quite content.”

Helene still retained her grave air, and made no further inquiry. The Abbe, however, again eloquently took up his plea, and emphasized his brother’s good qualities. Was he not a treasure-trove of a father for Jeanne? She was well acquainted with him; in trusting him she gave no hostages to fortune. Then, as she still remained silent, the Abbe with great feeling and dignity declared that in the step he had taken he had not thought of his brother, but of her and her happiness.

“I believe you; I know how you love me,” Helene promptly answered. “Wait; I want to give your brother his answer in your presence.”

The clock struck ten. Monsieur Rambaud made his entry into the bedroom. With outstretched hands she went to meet him.

“I thank you for your proposal, my friend,” said she. “I am very grateful; and you have done well in speaking — “

She was gazing calmly into his face, holding his big hand in her grasp. Trembling all over, he dared not lift his eyes.

“Yet I must have time to consider,” she resumed. “You will perhaps have to give me a long time.”

“Oh! as long as you like — six months, a year, longer if you please,” exclaimed he with a light heart, well pleased that she had not forthwith sent him about his business.

His excitement brought a faint smile to her face. “But I intend that we shall still continue friends,” said she. “You will come here as usual, and simply give me your promise to remain content till I speak to you about the matter. Is that understood?”

He had withdrawn his hand, and was now feverishly hunting for his hat, signifying his acquiescence by a continuous bobbing of the head. Then, at the moment of leaving, he found his voice once more.

“Listen to me,” said he. “You now know that I am there — don’t you? Well, whatever happens I shall always be there. That’s all the Abbe should have told you. In ten years, if you like; you will only have to make a sign. I shall obey you!”

And it was he who a last time took Helene’s hand and gripped it as though he would crush it. On the stairs the two brothers turned round with the usual good-bye:

“Till next Tuesday!”

“Yes, Tuesday,” answered Helene.

On returning to her room a fresh downfall of rain beating against the shutters filled her with grave concern. Good heavens! what an obstinate downpour, and how wet her poor friends would get! She opened the window and looked down into the street. Sudden gusts of wind were making the gaslights flicker, and amid the shiny puddles and shimmering rain she could see the round figure of Monsieur Rambaud, as he went off with dancing gait, exultant in the darkness, seemingly caring nothing for the drenching torrent.

Jeanne, however, was very grave, for she had overheard some of her playfellow’s last words. She had just taken off her little boots, and was sitting on the edge of the bed in her nightgown, in deep cogitation. On entering the room to kiss her, her mother discovered her thus.

“Good-night, Jeanne; kiss me.”

Then, as the child did not seem to hear her, Helene sank down in front of her, and clasped her round the waist, asking her in a whisper: “So you would be glad if he came to live with us?”

The question seemed to bring no surprise to Jeanne. She was doubtless pondering over this very matter. She slowly nodded her head.

“But you know,” said her mother, “he would be always beside us — night and day, at table — everywhere!”

A great trouble dawned in the clear depths of the child’s eyes. She nestled her cheek against her mother’s shoulder, kissed her neck, and finally, with a quiver, whispered in her ear: “Mamma, would he kiss you?”

A crimson flush rose to Helene’s brow. In her first surprise she was at a loss to answer, but at last she murmured: “He would be the same as your father, my darling!”

Then Jeanne’s little arms tightened their hold, and she burst into loud and grievous sobbing. “Oh! no, no!” she cried chokingly. “I don’t want it then! Oh! mamma, do please tell him I don’t. Go and tell him I won’t have it!”

She gasped, and threw herself on her mother’s bosom, covering her with tears and kisses. Helene did her utmost to appease her, assuring her she would make it all right; but Jeanne was bent on having a definite answer at once.

“Oh! say no! say no, darling mother! You know it would kill me. Never! Oh, never! Eh?”

“Well, I’ll promise it will never be. Now, be good and lie down.”

For some minutes longer the child, speechless with emotion, clasped her mother in her arms, as though powerless to tear herself away, and intent on guarding her against all who might seek to take her from her. After some time Helene was able to put her to bed; but for a part of the night she had to watch beside her. Jeanne would start violently in her sleep, and every half-hour her eyes would open to make sure of her mother’s presence, and then she would doze off again, with her lips pressed to Helene’s hand.

CHAPTER VIII.

It was a month of exquisite mildness. The April sun had draped the garden in tender green, light and delicate as lace. Twining around the railing were the slender shoots of the lush clematis, while the budding honeysuckle filled the air with its sweet, almost sugary perfume. On both sides of the trim and close-shaven lawn red geraniums and white stocks gave the flower beds a glow of color; and at the end of the garden the clustering elms, hiding the adjacent houses, reared the green drapery of their branches, whose little leaves trembled with the least breath of air.

For more than three weeks the sky had remained blue and cloudless. It was like a miraculous spring celebrating the new youth and blossoming that had burst into life in Helene’s heart. Every afternoon she went down into the garden with Jeanne. A place was assigned her against the first elm on the right. A chair was ready for her; and on the morrow she would still find on the gravel walk the scattered clippings of thread that had fallen from her work on the previous afternoon.

“You are quite at home,” Madame Deberle repeated every evening, displaying for Helene one of those affections of hers, which usually lasted some six months. “You will come to-morrow, of course; and try to come earlier, won’t you?”

Helene, in truth, felt thoroughly at her ease there. By degrees she became accustomed to this nook of greenery, and looked forward to her afternoon visit with the longing of a child. What charmed her most in this garden was the exquisite trimness of the lawn and flower beds. Not a single weed interfered with the symmetry of the plants. Helene spent her time there, calmly and restfully. The neatly laid out flower beds, and the network of ivy, the withered leaves of which were carefully removed by the gardener, could exercise no disturbing influence on her spirit. Seated beneath the deep shadow of the elm-trees, in this quiet spot which Madame Deberle’s presence perfumed with a faint odor of musk, she could have imagined herself in a drawing-room; and only the sight of the blue sky, when she raised her head, reminded her that she was out-of-doors, and prompted her to breathe freely.