Complete Works of Emile Zola (539 page)

“Oh, mamma, see what a number of stars!”

But behind them, like an echo of their own, came the footfall of Mother Fetu. Nearer and nearer she approached, till they could hear her muttering the opening words of the Angelic Salutation “
Ave Marie, gratia plena
,” repeating them over and over again with the same confused persistency. She was telling her beads on her homeward way.

“I have still something left — may I give it to her?” Jeanne asked her mother.

And thereupon, without waiting for a reply, she left them, running towards the old woman, who was on the point of entering the Passage des Eaux. Mother Fetu clutched at the coin, calling upon all the angels of Heaven to bless her. As she spoke, however, she grasped the child’s hand and detained her by her side, then asking in changed tones:

“The other lady is ill, is she not?”

“No,” answered Jeanne, surprised.

“May Heaven shield her! May it shower its favors on her and her husband! Don’t run away yet, my dear little lady. Let me say an
Ave Maria
for your mother’s sake, and you will join in the ‘Amen’ with me. Oh! your mother will allow you; you can catch her up.”

Meanwhile Henri and Helene trembled as they found themselves suddenly left alone in the shadow cast by a line of huge chestnut trees that bordered the road. They quietly took a few steps. The chestnut trees had strewn the ground with their bloom, and they were walking upon this rosy-tinted carpet. On a sudden, however, they came to a stop, their hearts filled with such emotion that they could go no farther.

“Forgive me,” said Henri simply.

“Yes, yes,” ejaculated Helene. “But oh! be silent, I pray you.”

She had felt his hand touch her own, and had started back. Fortunately Jeanne ran towards them at the moment.

“Mamma, mamma!” she cried; “she made me say an
Ave
; she says it will bring you good luck.”

The three then turned into the Rue Vineuse, while Mother Fetu crept down the steps of the Passage des Eaux, busy completing her rosary.

The month slipped away. Two or three more services were attended by Madame Deberle. One Sunday, the last one, Henri once more ventured to wait for Helene and Jeanne. The walk home thrilled them with joy. The month had been one long spell of wondrous bliss. The little church seemed to have entered into their lives to soothe their love and render its way pleasant. At first a great peace had settled on Helene’s soul; she had found happiness in this sanctuary where she imagined she could without shame dwell on her love; however, the undermining had continued, and when her holy rapture passed away she was again in the grip of her passion, held by bonds that would have plucked at her heartstrings had she sought to break them asunder. Henri still preserved his respectful demeanor, but she could not do otherwise than see the passion burning in his face. She dreaded some outburst, and even grew afraid of herself.

One afternoon, going homewards after a walk with Jeanne, she passed along the Rue de l’Annonciation and entered the church. The child was complaining of feeling very tired. Until the last day she had been unwilling to admit that the evening services exhausted her, so intense was the pleasure she derived from them; but her cheeks had grown waxy-pale, and the doctor advised that she should take long walks.

“Sit down here,” said her mother. “It will rest you; we’ll only stay ten minutes.”

She herself walked towards some chairs a short way off, and knelt down. She had placed Jeanne close to a pillar. Workmen were busy at the other end of the nave, taking down the hangings and removing the flowers, the ceremonials attending the month of Mary having come to an end the evening before. With her face buried in her hands Helene saw nothing and heard nothing; she was eagerly catechising her heart, asking whether she ought not to confess to Abbe Jouve what an awful life had come upon her. He would advise her, perhaps restore her lost peace. Still, within her there arose, out of her very anguish, a fierce flood of joy. She hugged her sorrow, dreading lest the priest might succeed in finding a cure for it. Ten minutes slipped away, then an hour. She was overwhelmed by the strife raging within her heart.

At last she raised her head, her eyes glistening with tears, and saw Abbe Jouve gazing at her sorrowfully. It was he who was directing the workmen. Having recognized Jeanne, he had just come forward.

“Why, what is the matter, my child?” he asked of Helene, who hastened to rise to her feet and wipe away her tears.

She was at a loss what answer to give; she was afraid lest she should once more fall on her knees and burst into sobs. He approached still nearer, and gently resumed:

“I do not wish to cross-question you, but why do you not confide in me? Confide in the priest and forget the friend.”

“Some other day,” she said brokenly, “some other day, I promise you.”

Jeanne meantime had at first been very good and patient, finding amusement in looking at the stained-glass windows, the statues over the great doorway, and the scenes of the journey to the Cross depicted in miniature bas-reliefs along the aisles. By degrees, however, the cold air of the church had enveloped her as with a shroud; and she remained plunged in a weariness that even banished thought, a feeling of discomfort waking within her with the holy quiet and far-reaching echoes, which the least sound stirred in this sanctuary where she imagined she was going to die. But a grievous sorrow rankled in her heart — the flowers were being borne away. The great clusters of roses were vanishing, and the altar seemed to become more and more bare and chill. The marble looked icy-cold now that no wax-candle shone on it and there was no smoking incense. The lace-robed Virgin moreover was being moved, and after suddenly tottering fell backward into the arms of two workmen. At the sight Jeanne uttered a faint cry, stretched out her arms, and fell back rigid; the illness that had been threatening her for some days had at last fallen upon her.

And when Helene, in distraction, carried her child, with the assistance of the sorrowing Abbe, into a cab, she turned towards the porch with outstretched, trembling hands.

“It’s all this church! it’s all this church!” she exclaimed, with a vehemence instinct with regret and self-reproach as she thought of the month of devout delight which she herself had tasted there.

CHAPTER XII.

When evening came Jeanne was somewhat better. She was able to get up, and, in order to remove her mother’s fears, persisted in dragging herself into the dining-room, where she took her seat before her empty plate.

“I shall be all right,” she said, trying to smile. “You know very well that the least thing upsets me. Get on with your dinner, mamma; I want you to eat.”

And in the end she pretended an appetite she did not feel, for she observed that her mother sat watching her paling and trembling, without being able to swallow a morsel. She promised to take some jam, and Helene then hurried through her dinner, while the child, with a never-fading smile and her head nodding tremblingly, watched her with worshipping looks. On the appearance of the dessert she made an effort to carry out her promise, but tears welled into her eyes.

“You see I can’t get it down my throat,” she murmured. “You mustn’t be angry with me.”

The weariness that overwhelmed her was terrible. Her legs seemed lifeless, her shoulders pained her as though gripped by a hand of iron. But she was very brave through it all, and choked at their source the moans which the shooting pains in her neck awakened. At one moment, however, she forgot herself, her head felt too heavy, and she was bent double by pain. Her mother, as she gazed on her, so faint and feeble, was wholly unable to finish the pear which she was trying to force down her throat. Her sobs choked her, and throwing down her napkin, she clasped Jeanne in her arms.

“My child! my child!” she wailed, her heart bursting with sorrow, as her eyes ranged round the dining-room where her darling, when in good health, had so often enlivened her by her fondness for tid-bits.

At last Jeanne woke to life again, and strove to smile as of old.

“Don’t worry, mamma,” said she; “I shall be all right soon. Now that you have done you must put me to bed. I only wanted to see you have your dinner. Oh! I know you; you wouldn’t have eaten as much as a morsel of bread.”

Helene bore her away in her arms. She had brought the little crib close to her own bed in the blue room. When Jeanne had stretched out her limbs, and the bedclothes were tucked up under her chin, she declared she felt much better. There were no more complaints about dull pains at the back of her head; but she melted into tenderness, and her passionate love seemed to grow more pronounced. Helene was forced to caress her, to avow intense affection for her, and to promise that she would again kiss her when she came to bed.

“Never mind if I’m sleeping,” said Jeanne. “I shall know you’re there all the same.”

She closed her eyes and fell into a doze. Helene remained near her, watching over her slumber. When Rosalie entered on tip-toe to ask permission to go to bed, she answered “Yes” with a nod. At last eleven o’clock struck, and Helene was still watching there, when she imagined she heard a gentle tapping at the outer door. Bewildered with astonishment, she took up the lamp and left the room to make sure.

“Who is there?”

“‘Tis I; open the door,” replied a voice in stifled tones.

It was Henri’s voice. She quickly opened the door, thinking his coming only natural. No doubt he had but now been informed of Jeanne’s illness, and had hastened to her, although she had not summoned him to her assistance, feeling a certain shame at the thought of allowing him to share in attending on her daughter.

However, he gave her no opportunity to speak. He followed her into the dining-room, trembling, with inflamed visage.

“I beseech you, pardon me,” he faltered, as he caught hold of her hand. “I haven’t seen you for three days past, and I cannot resist the craving to see you.”

Helene withdrew her hand. He stepped back, but, with his gaze still fixed on her, continued: “Don’t be afraid; I love you. I would have waited at the door had you not opened it. Oh! I know very well it is simple madness, but I love you, I love you all the same!”

Her face was grave as she listened, eloquent with a dumb reproach which tortured him, and impelled him to pour forth his passionate love.

But Helene still remained standing, wholly unmoved. At last she spoke. “You know nothing, then?” asked she.

He had taken her hand, and was raising it to his lips, when she started back with a gesture of impatience.

“Oh! leave me!” she exclaimed. “You see that I am not even listening to you. I have something far different to think about!”

Then becoming more composed, she put her question to him a second time. “You know nothing? Well, my daughter is ill. I am pleased to see you; you will dispel my fears.”

She took up the lamp and walked on before him, but as they were passing through the doorway, she turned, and looking at him, said firmly:

“I forbid you beginning again here. Oh! you must not!”

He entered behind her, scarcely understanding what had been enjoined on him. His temples throbbed convulsively, as he leaned over the child’s little crib.

“She is asleep; look at her,” said Helene in a whisper.

He did not hear her; his passion would not be silenced. She was hanging over the bed in front of him, and he could see her rosy neck, with its wavy hair. He shut his eyes that he might escape the temptation of kissing her, as she said to him:

“Doctor, look at her, she is so feverish. Oh, tell me whether it is serious!”

Then, yielding to professional habit, despite the tempest raging in his brain, he mechanically felt Jeanne’s pulse. Nevertheless, so fierce was the struggle that he remained for a time motionless, seemingly unaware that he held this wasted little hand in his own.

“Is it a violent fever?” asked Helene.

“A violent fever! Do you think so?” he repeated.

The little hand was scorching his own. There came another silence; the physician was awakening within him, and passion was dying from his eyes. His face slowly grew paler; he bent down uneasily, and examined Jeanne.

“You are right; this is a very severe attack,” he exclaimed. “My God! the poor child!”

His passion was now dead; he was solely consumed by a desire to be of service to her. His coolness at once returned; he sat down, and was questioning the mother respecting the child’s condition previous to this attack of illness, when Jeanne awoke, moaning loudly. She again complained of a terrible pain in the head. The pangs which were darting through her neck and shoulders had attained such intensity that her every movement wrung a sob from her. Helene knelt on the other side of the bed, encouraging her, and smiling on her, though her heart almost broke at the sight of such agony.

“There’s some one there, isn’t there, mamma?” Jeanne asked, as she turned round and caught sight of the doctor.

“It is a friend, whom you know.”

The child looked at him for a time with thoughtful eyes, as if in doubt; but soon a wave of affection passed over her face. “Yes, yes, I know him; I love him very much.” And with her coaxing air she added: “You will have to cure me, won’t you, sir, to make mamma happy? Oh, I’ll be good; I’ll drink everything you give me.”

The doctor again felt her pulse, while Helene grasped her other hand; and, as she lay there between them, her eyes travelled attentively from one to the other, as though no such advantageous opportunity of seeing and comparing them had ever occurred before. Then her head shook with a nervous trembling; she grew agitated; and her tiny hands caught hold of her mother and the doctor with a convulsive grip.

“Do not go away; I’m so afraid. Take care of me; don’t let all the others come near me. I only want you, only you two, near me. Come closer up to me, together!” she stammered.

Drawing them nearer, with a violent effort she brought them close to her, still uttering the same entreaty: “Come close, together, together!”

Several times did she behave in the same delirious fashion. Then came intervals of quiet, when a heavy sleep fell on her, but it left her breathless and almost dead. When she started out of these short dozes she heard nothing, saw nothing — a white vapor shrouded her eyes. The doctor remained watching over her for a part of the night, which proved a very bad one. He only absented himself for a moment to procure some medicine. Towards morning, when he was about to leave, Helene, with terrible anxiety in her face accompanied him into the ante-room.