THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя

      CHAPTER V

      BLANCHE JOURNEYS SIX LEAGUES ON FOOT, AND SEES A PROCESSION PASS BY

      BLANCHE and Philippe left the gardener’s house at dusk, at about half-past seven o’clock. During the day, they had noticed gendarmes on the road; they were assured that they would be arrested that evening, and fright drove them from this their first retreat. Philippe put on a peasant’s blouse, whilst Blanche borrowed a workwoman’s dress from the gardener’s wife, a red cotton gown with a flowery pattern and a black apron; she put a yellow check fichu round her breast and a big coarse straw hat on her head. Victor, the son of the house, a lad of fifteen, accompanied them, to show them the way across the fields to the Aix road.

      The warm night air was full of murmurs. A hot breath rose from the earth, counteracting the fresh breeze which was wafted, now and again, from the Mediterranean. A bright light, like the reflection of a fire, still illumined the west; the rest of the sky was of a violet blue, gradually growing paler in colour, while the stars appeared one by one in the night, similar to the flickering lights of a distant town.

      The fugitives hastened along with bowed heads, and without exchanging a word. They were in a hurry to find themselves amidst the solitude of the hills. So long as they were crossing the outskirts of Marseille, they met a few passersby, whom they eyed with distrust. At last the open country spread out before them, and the only human beings they encountered were now and again some grave shepherds standing at the edge of the path, watching their flocks.

      And their flight continued in the gloom and the emotional silence of the serene night. Vague sounds floated around them; pebbles rolled beneath their feet with a noise that filled them with uneasiness. The sleeping countryside extended like a black mass in the monotony of the darkness. Blanche, affrighted, clung to Philippe, hastening her little footsteps in order to keep up with him; she heaved deep sighs as she recalled the peacefulness of her nights at home.

      Then they reached the hills, with the deep ravines which had to be crossed. Around Marseille the roads are soft and easy; but out in the country one meets those rocky ridges which cut up the whole centre of Provence into narrow, sterile valleys. Uncultivated plains, stony slopes, with here and there some sorry tufts of thyme and lavender, now extended before the fugitives in all their desolate mournfulness. The paths wound up and down the sides of the hills; fallen rock now and again blocked the way; beneath the bluish serenity of the heavens, one could have fancied it a sea of pebbles, an ocean of stones stricken with eternal immobility in the midst of a hurricane.

      Victor, leading the way, softly whistled a Provençal air as he jumped from rock to rock with the agility of a chamois; he had grown up amid this desert and was acquainted with its innermost recesses. Blanche and Philippe followed him laboriously; the young man was supporting the girl, whose feet were rut by the sharp stones on the way. She did not complain, and whenever her lover gazed inquiringly into her face in the transparent darkness, she smiled to him with sad sweetness.

      They had just passed Septème, when the young girl, worn out, sank to the ground. The moon slowly rising in the heavens lit up her pale face bathed in tears. Philippe bent over her in great distress.

      “You are crying,” he exclaimed, “you are in pain, my poor, darling child! Ah! it was cowardly of me to keep you with me, was it not?”

      “Do not say that, Philippe,” replied Blanche. “I am weeping because I am a miserable girl. See, I can scarcely walk. We should have done better to have fallen on our knees before my uncle and have implored him with clasped hands.” She regained her feet with an effort, and they continued their journey over the arid hills. It was far different from the gay and foolish escapade of a couple of lovers; it was a dismal flight, full of anxiety, the flight of a guilty couple, silent and quaking with fear. They traversed the Gardanne district, struggling during five hours against the obstacles of the way. At last, they decided to descend to the high road leading to Aix, and there they were able to proceed more freely. The dust, however, nearly blinded them.

      When they reached the top of the Arc hill, they dismissed Victor. Blanche had covered six leagues among the rocks, on foot, in less than six hours; she sat down on a stone seat at the gate of the town, and declared that she could not proceed any further. Philippe, who feared to be arrested if he remained at Aix, went in search of a vehicle; he came across a woman driving a light cart who agreed to give him and Blanche a lift as far as Lambesc, whither she was bound.

      In spite of the jolting, Blanche fell into a sound sleep and did not wake up until they were nearing their destination. This sleep calmed the fever of her blood; she felt soothed and stronger. The lovers alighted from the vehicle just as day was breaking, a fresh and radiant dawn which filled them with hope. The terrors of the night had vanished; the fugitives had forgotten the Septème rocks, and were walking side by side in the damp grass, intoxicated with their youth and love.

      Not finding M. de Girousse, of whom Philippe had intended asking hospitality, they went to an inn, where they were at last able to enjoy a day of peace. On the morrow, Philippe saw M. de Girousse who had returned. He told him the whole story and asked his advice.

      “The deuce!” exclaimed the old nobleman, “your matter is serious. You know, my friend, you’re but a clodhopper; a hundred years ago, M. de Cazalis would have hanged you for daring to touch his niece; now-a-days, he can only have you cast into prison. And you may be sure he won’t omit to do so.”

      “But what had I better do now?”

      “What had you better do? Why, restore the young lady to her uncle, and make for the frontier as fast as you can.”

      “You know very well that I shall never do that.”

      “Very well, then just wait quietly until you’re arrested. I’ve no other advice to give you. So there!”

      Beneath a friendly abruptness, M. de Girousse hid the kindest heart in the world. As Philippe, confused by the curtness of his reception, was about to take his departure, he called him back, and, taking his hand, continued with slight bitterness:

      “My duty would be to have you arrested. I belong to that nobility you have just insulted. Listen, I have somewhere on the other side of Lambesc a little unoccupied house of which I will give you the key. Go and hide yourselves there, but don’t tell me you’re going to do so. If you do, I’ll send the gendarmes after you.”

      It was thus the lovers remained nearly a week at Lambesc. They lived in retirement, amid a peacefulness broken at times by sudden alarms. Philippe had received the thousand francs Marius had sent him. Blanche was becoming quite a little housekeeper, and they ate out of the same plate with delight. This new life was like a dream to the young girl. At times, however, she would wonder why she had gone off with Philippe; she would then experience a revulsion of feeling, and wish to return to her uncle; but she never dared say so.

      It was then the time of the feast of Corpus Christi. One afternoon, as Blanche was looking out of the window, she saw a procession pass by. She knelt down and joined her hands, and fancied she could see herself dressed in white among the singers. Her heart was bursting. That night, Philippe received an anonymous letter warning him that he would be arrested on the morrow. He thought he recognised M. de Girousse’s handwriting. The flight was resumed, more difficult and painful.