THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя
nor more decisive. Then he laughed at himself in mockery, for he knew full well that he was lying again, and that it was his love alone which drove him to desire Jeanne’s happiness. His heart lay bare before him. The honourable guardian had become the passionate lover, who no longer watched over the woman entrusted to him for any other reason except that of jealousy.
And he put his face between his hands and wept, seeking with anguish a means of saving her, and of saving himself at the same time. Then, as he could think of none, he took a sheet of notepaper and began to write to Jeanne. The tears dried on his cheeks, and all the fever passed into his hand, so rapidly did he write.
For two hours he never raised his head; he was gaining consolation. His letter was an effusion of love, a flood of affection breaking down all obstacles, and spreading far and wide. All the accumulated adoration of years found an issue in that confession. This poor wretch let himself go, so to speak, and told her all. He even had no consciousness of this outpouring of his feelings; he simply yielded to that inner force that controlled him, He opened his heart to her because he was suffocating and wanted breathing space.
When he felt calmer he stopped. He did not even read over what he had written. He avoided betraying his personality in his letter, and wrote it anonymously. The next day he sent it on to Jeanne. He did not know what effect the letter would have on her. He merely lived in hope.
CHAPTER XIII
THIS is what Daniel wrote to Jeanne: “Forgive me, I can no longer keep silence; I must open my heart to you. You will never know who I am. This is the confession of an unknown, who is cowardly and has not the courage to love you without telling you so. I ask for nothing; I only wish you to read this letter in order that you may know that, in the background, there is a man on his knees praying, weeping when you weep. Sorrow is less bitter when shared with another; I, who shed lonely tears, feel how hard a lonely life is to grief-stricken hearts.
“I have no desire to be consoled, I am resigned to living on in the bitterness of sorrow; but I wish, if I can, to make your life one of supreme happiness, and give you the peace which kind and good hearts enjoy.
“And I am writing to tell you I love you, that you are not deserted, and must not give way to despair. You have never known the bitter joys of a lonely and retired life. It seems to me that I love you in another life, and that you are mine in the vast regions of dreamland. And no one has penetrated my secret. I hoard up my love as a miser hoards his gold. I am alone in loving you, and the only one that knows that I love you.
“You seemed to me sad the other night, and I cannot work for your happiness. I am nothing to you; I dare not pray you even to exist in the dream I have of you. Ascend higher — still higher! Tell yourself that you will never see me and love me. And above, in those regions of dreamland, you will discover the world I live in.
“I have striven to stifle the feelings of my heart, but it refused to be stifled. Then I knelt down before you — in spirit — as before a saint, adoring you in an ecstasy.
“I do not know why I was born, except it was to love you — to tell you of my love, and yet I must keep silence, for ever silent, I wish I was one of the objects you make use of — the dust even that you tread under your foot.
“But I am weeping, weeping with shame and sorrow. I know you are suffering, that you are battling with your own heart. I, myself, am alone here, trembling with agony, shuddering at the thought that you are about to shake the faith which makes me worship you. You understand me, do you not? My heart, my religion are at stake.
“I was living so happily up above in dreamland in silent adoration. It would be so grand for us both to ascend there together, to love each other in the depths of infinity.”
And Daniel went on writing in this strain, repeating continually the same ideas and the same words. One single thought, in fact, pervaded his brain; he loved Jeanne, and Jeanne was on the point of loving another. His letter contained but this one sentiment, expressed in different forms in the midst of the most ardent supplications. It was an act of faith and love, Jeanne had at times received scented billets-doux, in which some gentleman or other laid his heart at her feet. As a rule, after reading the first few lines, she at once destroyed these so-called declarations of affection. They did not even make her laugh. Daniel’s letter reached her in the midst of that sadness that the suffering creature feels on awakening and, terrified, finds itself obliged once more to take up for a whole day its burden of anguish at the point it had left it behind the day before. The young woman was deeply moved whilst reading the first lines of this letter. The paper shook in her hands, and tears rose to her eyes.
She could not explain to herself the singular feeling of sweetness and peace which came over all her being. She read on to the end with delight without asking herself whether she was doing right or wrong.
The fact was that this letter had taken life, so to speak, in her hands. In short, it spoke to her of passion; it revealed to her love in its fullness. Jeanne was no longer merely reading; she believed she actually heard this unknown lover declaring his passion in a voice broken by sobs. The paper was to her as if saturated with blood and tears, and she felt a heart’s throb in every sentence, in every word. Her body shivered and her thoughts wandered far away. Her soul was answering this appeal sent from above. She was ascending to that peaceful region from which the voice of Daniel reached her. And thus she was elevated and purified in the religion of superhuman affection and self-sacrifice.
Then, ashamed of her cowardice, she determined to accept this solitude, in which she would be no longer alone. A passionate desire to act rightly had taken hold of her; it seemed to her as if the breath of one who loved her was passing over her forehead with caressing warmth. In any case she would now have one thought, one aspiration, always with her that should sustain her in her weak moments. They might make her weep, but her tears would no longer sear her soul, for now peace and hope reigned in her bosom.
She comforted herself with infinite joy, for she felt she was loved — that her heart would not die of weariness. The world at this moment seemed very far off. She saw, as through the darkness of night, men in black coats moving across her drawingroom, like spectres of the past. She was wrapped up in her vision, in the thought of that lover who wept far from her, who sent her words full of passion and consolation.
This lover had no body. She contemplated him as in a vision; she could fix no outlines to his dear soul. As yet he was only love itself. He had come as a breath of wind, wafting her to the light, and she suffered herself to be carried away without seeking to understand what the power was which raised her thus towards heaven.
Daniel, for a whole week, dare not revisit Lorin’s house. A thousand chimeras passed through his brain. He feared to find Jeanne still with the love fever, and if such were the case all that would be left him then would be to die.
At last he did decide to go there. It was quite a festal day for George who accompanied him. This time they had the good luck to choose a day when Jeanne happened to be alone. Lorin had been called to England on business which caused him grave anxiety. The young wife received them with bright smiles and charming cordiality in a little blue boudoir.
From the first look a deep joy had penetrated Daniel’s heart. Jeanne appeared to him transfigured. She was wearing a white cashmere dress. Her face was once more calm and restful. Her lips no longer quivered, and Daniel felt that peace had come over her soul.
The young woman detained the two friends a long time, made them at home, and the three together had one of those pleasant chats which make the hours pass so quickly.
Daniel saw that he had not been detected as the writer of the anonymous letter. He therefore thoroughly rejoiced at the peaceful expression which had come into Jeanne’s face. In the inflections of her voice he perceived a caress for the unknown lover; he noticed a softened light in her eyes, and tasted an infinite pleasure in the signs of love that belonged to him, that unknown one.
He vowed to himself to be content with this happiness. The thought of her finding out the facts terrified him; the idea of making himself known caused him to shudder, for he feared that Jeanne