THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя
to die in my arms, at this solemn hour when my tenderness was also dying, and her agony, mingled with that of my love, filled my soul with compassion so deep that I again stretched out my hands into space with a more biting anxiety, searching for some one.
I lifted myself up, and, in a low, broken voice, repeated:
“Let us pray, my child, let us pray together.”
Marie smiled.
“Pray, Claude?” said she. “Why do you wish me to pray?”
“To console us, Marie, to obtain pardon for us.”
“I have no pardon to ask for, I have no sorrow to be softened. See, I am smiling, I am happy; my heart reproaches me with nothing.”
She was silent for a moment, putting aside her locks from her forehead; then she resumed, in a weaker tone:
“I know not how to pray, because I have never had to ask for pardon. The woman who brought me up assured me that the wicked alone went to church to obtain absolution for their crimes. I am a child who never did evil; never have I had need of God.
Whenever I wept, my tears flowed copiously down my cheeks and the wind dried them. Do you wish me to pray for you, Claude?” added she, after another period of silence. “You shall clasp my hands and make me repeat the words which they teach to the children in the villages. I will ask God not to make you weep any more!”
Trembling, touched, I prayed for Marie, I prayed for myself. I found in the depths of my being words of supplication and adoration, and I uttered them one by one without moving my lips. I supplicated Heaven to be merciful, to make death easy, to put this child to sleep in her ecstasy, in her ignorance. And, while I prayed, Marie, without seeing that I was addressing God, clung to my neck with greater force, bending over my face.
“Listen, Claude,” said she; “I will get up tomorrow, I will put on a white dress and we will leave this house. You will find a little chamber in which we will shut ourselves up all alone. I plainly see that Jacques loves me no more, because I am too weak, too white. You have a kind heart; you will take good care of me and I will live with more happiness, more gayety, than ever before. I am a trifle weary, I have need of a kind brother. Will you be that brother, Claude?”
These words, uttered with languishing tenderness, were horrible in the mouth of the dying girl. She preserved her innocent shamelessness even in the arms of death; she offered herself upon her dying bed as a sister and a sweetheart of ten years of age. I supported her poor body as if its flesh had been sacred, I listened to her ardent and low voice with a holy compassion.
I thought, no longer being able to pray. What then is evil? Was I not in the presence of absolute good? Surely, God created everything sinless, everything perfect. Evil is one of our inventions, one of the wounds with which we are covered by reason of our own iniquity. This child who was dying was no more disturbed, in life, by the kisses she had given her admirers than a little girl is disturbed by the caresses which she gives her doll. And Laurence, sad and desolate Laurence, showed such degradation that her shamelessness was no more than the tacit acceptance of a purely material act. Where shall we find the evil in all this, and who would dare to punish Laurence and Marie, the one for her brutishness, the other for her ignorance? The heart had fallen asleep, or had not yet been awakened. It could not be the accomplice of the flesh, which itself remained innocent in its silence. If I had had to condemn these two women, I would have had more tears than severity, I would have desired for them death, supreme peace.
They ought to sleep very soundly in their tombs, these poor creatures who have lived amid tumult and feverish gayety. Perhaps, nevertheless, their hearts will love at last in death, suffering frightfully at the thought of a life passed in loving without love; they would struggle now, but they are nailed in their coffin. Marie was departing, white and pure, astonished, quivering, realizing, perhaps, that she was dying before having known life. I wished that she could take with her Laurence who had no more to learn, having exhausted every pleasure. They would both descend into the unknown with the same step, equally soiled, equally innocent, daughters of God bruised by men.
I was supporting Marie’s head, which was weighed down with agony.
“Where is Jacques?” she asked.
“Jacques,” I replied, “is with Laurence. They have abandoned us; we are alone.”
“Alone! Has Laurence left you, Claude?”
“Yes. She has left me. We are alone.”
She gently rubbed her hands one against the other.
“Oh! it is good, oh I it is good to be alone,” murmured she; “we can live under the same roof. They have done well to arrange matters in this way. We owe them our thanks. May they be happy on their side; we will be happy on ours.”
Then, she assumed a tone of confidence, and said, in a low and joyous voice:
“You never knew it, but I did not like Laurence. She was bad to you; she made you shed tears which I would willingly have dried. At night, I could not sleep; I was rude even to Jacques; I wished to ascend to your chamber to watch over you, in order that she might not harm you. You will never leave me again, will you, Claude? I will be a good little woman, and will take up as small a space as possible.”
Marie maintained silence for a short time, smiling at her thoughts. She was growing weaker and weaker, she was becoming inert. I supported her form, I felt the life quitting her flesh with every word she uttered. She had now but a few minutes to live. Her smile faded away, she seemed to be stricken with fear.
“You are deceiving me, Claude,” she suddenly resumed: “Laurence is not in Jacques’ chamber. You are trying to please me. Have you ever seen him kiss her?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Over there, opposite, upon the wall.”
Marie clasped her hands.
“I wish to see,” said she, pressing against me.
She had a hollow and supplicating voice; she caressed me, humbly and gently.
I took her in my arms and lifted her from the bed. She was very light, all palpitating; she abandoned herself to my grasp. I carried her cautiously, scarcely feeling her weight, fearing to hurt her. My hands touched with a holy respect this poor, dishevelled creature, who clung to my neck, belonging already to death.
When, with outstretched arms I held her before the window, Marie, whose head was thrown back, looked at the sky. The heavens were of a deep blue, sown with stars; the calm air was full of warm, slow quivers.
The eyes of the dying girl were fixed upon the stars, she breathed the lukewarm air. Her visage, until then resigned, had a painful contraction, like a revolt of the expiring flesh in the presence of the breath of life. She was absorbed in her contemplation, her glance wandered about in the sombre space, she seemed to be dreaming her last dream.
I heard her murmur and bent down. She said:
“I do not see them, they are not kissing.”
And she gently agitated her poor hands in the air, as if to tear away the veil which was stretched before her sight.
Then, I lifted up her head. The shadows, in the square patch of yellow light, were still kissing. They were blacker, more energetic, and their sharpness made them frightful. Marie saw them.
A glad smile showed itself upon her lips. With childish joy, with a youthful voice, she approached my ear, caressing me with her hand.
“Oh! I see them, I see them,” she said. “They are kissing. They have enormous heads, all black. I am afraid. Tell them that we are together, that they must come no more to torment us. One night they kissed each other thus; we also kissed on our side, and it was from that moment that I no longer liked Laurence. Do you remember that night? Come closer that I may kiss you. It will be our second kiss, that of our betrothal.”
Marie tremblingly placed her mouth against mine. I