THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя

      CHAPTER XVII

      IN WHICH SAUVAIRE MAKES UP HIS MIND TO HAVE HIS MONEY’S WORTH OF FUN

      MADEMOISELLE CLAIRE MARTELLY was a tall, handsome girl of twenty-three, whom circumstances had thrown into devotion. She was to have married one of her cousins, who was accidentally drowned at Endoume during a pleasure trip. Despair had brought her nearer to God, and, little by little, she had tasted such sweetness in frequenting churches that she had fallen asleep, as it were, in the penetrating perfume of the incense, soothed by the murmuring voices of the priests.

      Hers was not precisely a religious mind, it was a gentle and contemplative one, which religion had consoled, and which was grateful on that account. Perhaps, one of these days, there might be an awakening and she would return to the joys of the world. In the meanwhile she lived a rather retired, calm life, and her tastes were simple. Her brother, who was a freethinker and a Republican, of broad intellect and a kindly nature, allowed her to do as she pleased. He only took advantage of his position as head of the family, to protect her interests and assure her an independent position.

      Marius found Mademoiselle Claire in a small drawingroom where she generally worked at baby-linen which she gave away to the poor. The young girl knew Marius and treated him affectionately, as a friend of the family. M. Martelly had often taken his clerk with him to an estate he owned near Estaque, and there Marius and Claire had become good friends. Brave hearts find each other out and are not long in coming to an understanding.

      The beautiful devout on seeing the clerk enter, jumped up and held out her hand to him.

      “Ah! It’s you, Marius,” she exclaimed gaily. “So you’re well again. So much the better. Heaven has granted my prayer.”

      The young man felt very much touched at this friendly welcome. He gazed in the young girl’s eyes and found naught there but a pure flame and a look of calm virginity. That look appeared to him so tranquil and straightforward, that he felt as if relieved of a lump that had been choking him.

      “I thank you,” he answered. “But I have not come to show you a ghost.”

      And handing her the prayer-book, he added:

      “Here is a mass-book which it appears you left behind you yesterday at Saint Victor.”

      “Ah! yes,” said the young girl. “I was going to send and fetch it. How did it come into your hands?”

      “A beadle just brought it.”

      “A beadle!”

      “Yes, from Abbé Donadéi.”

      Claire took the book and placed it quietly on a piece of furniture without showing the least concern. Marius followed her anxiously with his eyes. If the slightest colour had risen to her cheeks, he would have thought all lost.

      “By the way,” continued the young girl, sitting down, “I think you know M. Chastanier.”

      “Yes,” answered Marius astonished.

      “He is an excellent man, is he not?”

      “Certainly, he has a good heart and a profoundly pious and upright mind.”

      “My brother has sung his praises to me loudly; but in religious matters, you know, I do not place unlimited confidence in my brother.”

      She smiled. Marius could not understand what she was coming to; only he found her so quiet and happy that he felt entirely reassured.

      “I see Abbé Chastanier is a positive saint,” she continued, “and from tomorrow I shall entrust him with the care of directing my conscience.”

      “Are you going to leave Abbé Donadéi?” exclaimed Marius, warmly.

      The young girl again raised her head, surprised at the clerk’s tone of voice.

      “Yes, I am leaving him,” she answered, very simply. “He is young and has the light mind of an Italian. Besides, I have learnt ugly things about him.”

      She continued stitching quietly with her needle, there was not a tremor in her hands and her forehead remained white and pure. Then Marius withdrew, convinced that he could act without wounding this virgin conscience, and that while punishing Donadéi, he would punish him only. He did not know the real cause that had decided Claire to change her confessor; perhaps she had understood that she was no longer in safety in the hands of the gallant abbé; but, in any case, there had been no actor word at which she had cause to blush.

      Marius had preserved the soft pink paper containing Donadéi’s declaration. He could have simply taken it to the Bishop of Marseille, but he preferred to punish and deride the abbé himself, in return for his having impudently made fun of him when he had sought to recommend Philippe to his kindness. His plan was formed. Only to put it into execution, he required the assistance of Sauvaire.

      He did not return to his office after lunch, but went in search of the master-stevedore in all the cafés. Sauvaire was not to be found. He then made up his mind to go and ask Cadet Cougourdan if he knew where his principal was in hiding.

      “Oh! He is not hiding himself, that’s not his habit,” answered Cadet laughing. “He must be in a restaurant at the Reserve, and I’ll bet he’s trying to show himself to all Marseille.”

      Marius went down to the Port and was rowed to the Reserve in one of those small pleasure boats supplied with a spare red-and-yellow striped awning. The boat glided slowly over the dense water of the harbour, amidst refuse of all sorts, orange peel, vegetable remains, objects without a name which were gathered together in a sort of whitish froth. And it continued on its way in the middle of a passage preserved between the vessels, skimming along in proximity to their dark sides. It was as if lost in a forest which shot up, on all sides, its straight, slender stems, each surmounted by a shred of crimson bunting.

      Before Marius had landed he could hear the noisy laughter of Sauvaire seated at a table on a terrace of a restaurant. He could not be seen, but he arranged matters so as to make known he was there.

      The restaurants at the Reserve resemble those at Asnières and Saint Cloud: they are chalets, pavilions, all kinds of ugly architectural conceptions. As a matter of fact they are built of plaster and planks, and the blasts of wind threaten to blow them out to sea. Sauvaire delighted in frequenting these restaurants because the charges there are very high, and one can be seen a long way off.

      Marius, guided by the master-stevedore’s elevated voice, found him at once. He was on a terrace with Clairon and Isnarde whom he no longer left: he was convinced he had the appearance of being more wealthy when dragging two women along with him, one on each arm. The terrace trembled beneath the storm of Sauvaire’s gaiety. Moreover, the worthy man was getting slightly tipsy.

      “Bravo, bravo!” he shouted, perceiving Marius, “we will begin lunching again. We have been lunching since noon. We have eaten cockles, bouillabaisse, tunny — “

      He continued and enumerated a dozen dishes with childlike pride. He felt quite flattered at having given himself indigestion.

      “Heh!” he continued, “one is very comfortable here. It’s expensive, but everything is very correct. What will you have to eat?”

      Marius excused himself, pointing out that it was three o’clock and that he had lunched long before.

      “Go along with you! One can always eat,” exclaimed Sauvaire, delighted at being caught at such a rakish pleasure party. “We are going on eating like this until evening. It’ll cost