THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя
tears to her eyes. After a silence she murmured, as if speaking to herself:
“No, no, it would be cowardice to seek for calm in that way, to slumber in ecstasy. It would be a sort of divine egotism and I will have none of it. I wish to earn my pardon by working with my hands and heart for the good of the unfortunate. If I cannot watch over my child, I will watch over those children of poor mothers who are without bread. I feel that at such a sacrifice only, shall I be happy.”
There was another silence; then taking the abbé’s hand and gazing in his face, she added:
“My father can you procure my admission among the sisters of Saint Vincent de Paul, those whom they term the sisters of the poor?”
Abbé Chastanier protested, saying she was too delicate, that she would not be able to stand up against the fatigue that these saintly creatures endure in the hospitals, orphanages, everywhere where there are services to be rendered to the suffering and forlorn.
“Do not be alarmed!” exclaimed Blanche, in a transport of self-sacrifice, “I shall be strong in order to earn my forgiveness. I can only accept the chalice of labour. If I do not make myself useful I shall never forget. I have a last request to make to you: let me be placed in an orphanage; I shall fancy myself the mother of all those little creatures entrusted to my care, I will cherish them as I would have my own child.”
She wept; she spoke with such transports of affection that Abbé Chastanier was obliged to give way. He promised to take the necessary steps, and a few days later he announced to Blanche that her wishes would be realized. Besides, he considered the young woman’s decision very natural: her spirit which was full of blind devotion, had been formed to understand extreme abnegation. He wrote to M. de Cazalis who answered him in terms of perfect indifference, that his niece was free, and that whatever she decided on would be satisfactory. At the bottom of his heart, he was delighted to see her enter a poor and modest Order that was not so rapacious for dowries as some of the others.
On the evening of the day preceding that on which Mademoiselle de Cazalis was to leave the cottage, she appeared quite uneasy and embarrassed in Abbé Chastanier’s presence. Fine, who was there, pressed her with questions as to the cause of this sudden sadness. She ended by falling on her knees before the priest and saying to him in a trembling voice:
“My father, I am not yet dead to the pleasures of this world. I should like to see my son for the last time, before belonging entirely to God.”
The abbé hastened to raise her from the ground.
“Go,” he answered her, “go where your heart calls you, and learn that you do not offend Heaven by giving way to your tenderness. Heaven loves those who love. That is all the Christian doctrine.”
Blanche who was quite troubled, hastened to get ready. Fine was to take her to her child and both of them soon went out. From the day the infant had been born, they had both avoided speaking of the poor little creature. The flower-girl had simply set the young mother’s mind easy by saying he was in safety, and well, and had all possible care.
When Fine and Marius found themselves in possession of the newborn babe, they returned in the cabriolet to Marseille. The next morning they played a most audacious game by taking the child to Saint Barnabé, and giving him to the wife of the gardener Ayasse, thinking that M. de Cazalis would never seek him there.
It was to Saint Barnabé, then, that Fine took Blanche. When the latter caught sight of the gardener’s cottage, with the great mulberry trees spreading their branches before the entrance; when she saw the stone bench on which she had been seated with Philippe, all the past flew back to her memory, and she burst out sobbing.
Barely a year had gone by, and yet it seemed as if centuries of suffering separated the hour of her first love from the present. She could still see herself hanging round her lover’s neck, without a care and hoping for a future full of happiness. And, at the same time, she saw herself disconsolate, her heart bleeding, so broken that she was on the point of renouncing the pleasures of her eighteen summers. She was choking with intense bitterness when she reflected that a few months had sufficed to take her from those hopes of happiness which are burning in the hearts of all young girls to the dark thoughts of remorse which weigh on the minds of penitents.
Blanche had come to a standstill before the gardener’s door, trembling with emotion, not daring to enter, fearing to meet Philippe’s ghost in this cottage where he had fondled her. Fine, who perceived her trouble, dispelled her fright and calmed the fever of her memory by calmly saying to her:
“Come, go in. You will find your son there.”
Blanche darted into the house. Her son she thought, would defend her against the past. As soon as she had taken three steps in the first room, which was spacious, countrified, and full of smoke, she found herself before a cradle. She bent over the infant who was sleeping in it and contemplated him for a long time without awakening him. The gardener’s wife sealed near the door, was knitting a stocking and singing a sweet slow Provençal air, in an undertone.
Blanche kissed the babe’s forehead in the twilight. She wept, and her tears awoke the child, who put his little arms forward with a vague complaint. The mother felt her heart fail her. Did not her duty call her to this cradle? Had she the right to take refuge in the bosom of God? But she was afraid of giving way to a yearning she had not avowed, to mad hopes. Then she said to herself that she had sinned and would be punished; she thought she heard a voice crying to her: “Your punishment will be, to be deprived of the caresses of your child!” And she ran away sobbing, after having covered the face of the little creature she was to see no more, with kisses.
Henceforth, the young woman was dead to all love, but that of God; she had just rent in twain the last link that attached her to the world. This final crisis freed her of her own flesh and blood. She became all spirit.
On returning to Marseille she handed Fine the documents establishing the identity of her son, and the following day left for a small town in the department of the Var, where she entered an orphanage in accordance with the wish she had expressed.
CHAPTER VI
A SPECTRE
Two years had passed. In the first months of them Marius married Fine and took a small flat on the Cours Bonaparte. M. Martelly, who put his signature to the marriage contract, endowed the bridegroom by taking him into his business; he was no longer a clerk, but a partner who brought his intelligence and zeal with him in lieu of capital. Fine, on her side, left her kiosk on the Cours Saint Louis, so as to be able to give her whole attention to her household; but as she wished to continue earning her living she made artificial flowers in her spare moments, and was so nimble with her fingers that her work looked almost natural. Sometimes, however, when people complimented her on her ability, she sighed, thought with regret of her fresh, sweet-smelling nosegays of other days, and answered:
“Ah! but if you saw the roses of the good God!” These two years were twenty-four months of peaceful happiness. The young household lived liked birds in a warm, secluded nest of moss. Days followed days, one as happy as the other, full of delightful monotony, and the pair would have liked this sort of life to go on for ever, each hour bringing back to them the same kisses and the same joys. In the morning Marius left for his office; Fine placed herself before her small table twisting the stalks, crumpling the petals and deftly producing delicate muslin flowers with her agile fingers. Then of an evening they both went out for a walk along the noisy streets, and reached the seashore near Endoume. They had discovered a corner among the rocks there, where they seated themselves alone, facing the blue immensity; night set in, and they gazed with emotion at the great sea which had betrothed them at Saint Henri, in the old days. It was thus they came to thank it, and to seek in its deep voice an air suitable for their love. When they returned the bonds of their affection were drawn even closer than before.
Every Sunday they had a day in the country which was spent at Saint Barnabé, setting out in the early morning and returning late at night. The visit they paid to the child of Blanche and Philippe, was a sort of pilgrimage for them; but, apart