Complete Works of Emile Zola (30 page)

He delighted, above all, in the study of mathematical truths. He kept the scientific part of the work for himself, and in the evening when he got home he still went on with his work, passionately poring over scientific formulas. In the chaste solitude in which he lived, his head wrapped up in reminiscences of the child of six, he dearly loved to analyse himself, to study impulses of his ardent soul.

Several times George Raymond had tried to make him resign this thankless employment to which he gave the best part of himself. He desired to have him with him, that they might work together on an important work he was engaged in.

But Daniel did not want his freedom; he was quite satisfied with his state of slavery, which gave him what he most desired — incessant and furious toil. George was no longer the poor wretch thankful to read a book humbly on a seat in the Luxembourg gardens. He had used his arms so energetically in gaining a living that he put by enough at last to be able to devote himself entirely to literary work. He began to be known in the scientific world by some very remarkable essays he wrote on certain points of natural history.

However, at last Daniel decided to give up his employment and accept George’s offer. The Encyclopaedic Dictionary was very nearly finished; all that was wanting for its full publication was a few extracts, of which the material was ready.

The two young men did not leave each other again. They had never since their first meeting ceased living in the closest intimacy. They used their brains for a common object, and wrote several essays on their researches, which made a great stir. Daniel agreed to divide the profits, but he would never put his name on the manuscripts. He looked on all this period of his life as time lost, reserving himself for his true work, which was to look after Jeanne’s happiness. He made progress in science, unwillingly in repute, solely not to remain idle.

George having become well-known, even celebrated, had gone to live in an apartment in the rue Soufflot. Daniel was not pleased to leave the old house in the impasse St. Dominique d’Enfer. He found himself at home there in that out-of-the-way corner, far from the noises of the city. His heart expanded the moment he mounted the broken steps of the wide staircase. His narrow room, with its high ceiling and sensation of the tombs, pleased him. He shut himself up in it, and the only wish he ever had was that he might see Jeanne. He loved the sight of the sky and the trees through the window, because very often in his hours of meditation he had looked at them and thought of his dear little girl.

For twelve years he remained thus in that silent room. It was so full to him of his cherished and one idea that he experienced a great sadness at the mere thought of leaving it. It seemed to. him that nowhere else would he have seen Jeanne in every object before him.

Sometimes in the evening George accompanied Daniel as far as his lodgings. Then they had a good long chat on the first years of their friendship, when both of them lodged in the house.

So they lived on now almost alone, only now and then seeing a few friends. And in this solitude their sympathy had ended by becoming affection founded on esteem. They learned to love each other, reason and heart thus going hand in hand. Daniel had quite the feeling of a brother for George. He rested on the loyalty of his character; he knew well his strength and gentleness. George was the third person he had loved in his life, and sometimes he asked himself what would become of him if he had not met him.

When he asked himself this question, he was not thinking of the material assistance his friend had given him; no, it was that eternal want of the human heart to love and be loved that stirred him, and he thanked Providence for having sent him this great friendship which gave zest to life George, whose nature was more reserved, did not have the same effusiveness as Daniel. He treated Daniel slightly as a child and loved him as an elder brother. He had quickly discerned the deep affection of his heart, he knew well what a self-sacrificing spirit was hidden in that ungainly body, and he ended by no longer seeing Daniel’s ugly face. When people laughed at his friend he was astonished; he could not understand why the whole world did not admire his high and delicate order of intelligence.

He had noticed that Daniel had a secret hidden away in the depths of his heart; yet he never questioned him and never tried to force his confidence. He knew Daniel was an orphan, that a pious woman had adopted and educated him, and that this woman was dead. That was enough for him. He felt convinced that his friend could only be hiding some good intention in his heart.

During the twelve years that passed Daniel went every month to the rue d’Amsterdam, but he did not go in. He only walked up and down in front of the house; but at times he ventured to ask for news of Jeanne. On those days he rose early and went there on foot, a good three miles. He walked quickly, happy to be in the streets alone in the midst of crowds, without even George by his side; and there was, moreover, in a corner of his heart a secret hope of at last seeing his child once more.

When he reached the convent he for a long time strolled up and down the pavement, backwards and forwards, looking from a distance at the gates of her home. Then he went nearer and waited for a servant to come out if he saw no one he could make enquiries of. At times he went home sad and cast down; at others he used to decide to go in and speak to the doorkeeper, who received him very sharply and with mistrustful looks.

But how happy he was when he could stop some one belonging to the house and make enquiries at his leisure. Now he had grown very cunning. He made up all kinds of stories, and he drew Mademoiselle de Rionne’s name in quite naturally, and waited anxiously to hear what answer he should get. When they said to him: “She is in good health, she is tall and pretty,” he felt inclined to thank the speaker as if he had congratulated him on the graces of his own child.

And then, light-hearted and happy, he went away, elbowing the passers-by like a drunken man, repressing with difficulty his desire to sing aloud. He went up the faubourgs again, building all kinds of castles in the air. He turned down a side street, had some food in a little restaurant, laughing all the time, covered with mud and dust, and half-dead with fatigue and happiness, and only reached the impasse St. Dominique d’Enfer in the evening.

George was used to these little trips of Daniel. The first few times when his friend came in he joked him and almost scolded him, and as the truant kept a sullen silence he merely smiled now after every fresh excursion of Daniel, thinking to himself: “Well, I suppose my friend has been to pay a visit to his mistress.”

One day, as the young man reached home out of breath and with a radiant countenance, he took hold of his hand and risked saying, “She is pretty, of course,” Daniel, without answering, looked at him with such an astonished and wounded air that George’s conscience smote him for his folly, and from that time he religiously respected his friend’s secret. Thenceforth, after each day of Daniel’s absence, without knowing the reason, he loved him more and more.

Thus they lived on, side by side, day after day, admitting no one to their confidences. At first they received a neighbour, a young man of the name of Lorin, who was anxious to make a fortune. They admitted him, as they did not know very well how to shut the door in his face, but his bilious countenance and shifty eyes displeased and irritated them.

Lorin was a dealer in herbs, and he was watching for his opportunity, quite ready to take advantage of any good chance fate might bring him. He would constantly say that a straight course in life is the longest one. Nothing seemed to him more ill-advised than to take up a career — medicine or law, for instance, for doctors and lawyers could only hope to scrape together sufficient for a very poor living. For his part he must gain his ends quicker than that, so he kept a sharp look-out, and swore that he would make his fortune at one stroke.

And, sure enough, he made it, as he said he would. He talked of his winnings at play, of stock exchange speculations, and what not. No one ever knew exactly what to believe. Then he plunged into business, invested his money in trade, and in a few years, luck still helping him, he became mightily rich.

Daniel and George, who had heard unpleasant rumours about him, were delighted at not seeing him any more. He lived now in the rue Taitbout, and hated the very idea of the impasse St. Dominique d’Enfer.

He came one night, however, to pay them a visit, to display his wealth and fine appearance. In satisfying his ambition he had assumed a very smart appearance. Money had given him assurance and the bilious look had departed from his face. However, the two friends received him very coldly, and he never called again.

Daniel and George found their own company enough. They loved each other and were bound together by their intelligence. Nor did either of them think that they could ever be separated.

CHAPTER VII

One morning Daniel went to the rue d’Amsterdam, and on coming home he informed George that he would leave, perhaps never to return.

He had learnt during the day that Jeanne had finally come out of the convent and was living with her aunt. This news made him like a madman. He had now only one thought: to gain admittance and establish himself in the house where the dear object of his affection was.

He schemed, plotted, and laid his plans, and ended by finding out that Monsieur Tellier, who had at last entered Parliament, needed a secretary, and he immediately took a decisive course. He sought for a recommendation at the hands of the author of the Dictionary, who was still grateful to him, and he spoke to Monsieur Tellier in his favour. He was to present himself on the morrow, and he was sure to be accepted.

George, painfully surprised, stared at Daniel, unable to find one word to say. At last he opened his lips and protested: “But we cannot separate thus. We have work in hand to occupy us for several years. I reckoned on you. I have need of your assistance. Where are you going? What do you propose doing?”

“I am about to take the place of secretary to a deputy,” quietly answered Daniel.

“You a deputy’s secretary!” and George began to laugh. “You are joking, surely. You cannot really be thinking of sacrificing the fine career which is opening out before you for a place like that. Reflect well; our success is a certainty!”

Daniel shrugged his shoulders with perfect indifference, and his face had an almost contemptuous smile on it. What mattered celebrity to him? Was not his future the happiness of Jeanne? He gave up all for her without a regret. He lowered himself; he accepted an inferior position in order to watch at his leisure over the child who had been entrusted to him.

“So you do not intend to work at your masterpiece any more?” persisted George again.

“My masterpiece is elsewhere,” gently answered Daniel. “I am leaving you to go and work at it. Ask me no questions; I will tell you all some day when my task is done. Above all, do not bewail my lot. I am happy, for during the past twelve years I have been waiting for the joy which is mine for the first time. You know me; you know that I am incapable of a foolish or shameful action. Do not be anxious, therefore. Understand, my friend, that my heart is full of joy, and that I am about to accomplish the ‘task’ of my life.”

George for answer pressed his hand. Now he understood that the parting was a necessity, he felt there was in his friend’s words an ardour so noble that in this sudden departure he divined a limitless sacrifice.

On the morrow Daniel left him. He had not lain down all night, having spent it in setting everything in his room in order, bidding a solemn farewell to the walls which he probably would never see again. His heart beat violently and there was an indefinable sadness upon him, that sadness which the warm-hearted feel when leaving a home in which they have experienced both hope and sorrow. In the street he detained George a moment.

“If I can,” he said, “I shall come and see you. Do not be vexed with me, but go on and do the work of two.”

And he was off, hurrying away, as he had no wish that his friend should accompany him.

Such a flood of thought passed through his brain that he arrived at the rue d’Amsterdam without any consciousness of the road he had taken. He was full of the past and future. He saw once again Madame de Rionne dying; he followed with distinctness month by month the events of the years that had passed since then, and at the same time he sought to foresee the events which were about to follow.

One figure stood out supreme in his meditation — that of Jeanne — Jeanne, quite a little girl, such as he had left her on the gravel path in the boulevard des Invalides, and he felt a scorching flame in his breast, a burning affection in his heart.

This little girl belonged to him. She was his as an inheritance of love, he explained to himself. He was quite astonished that she had been stolen from him for so long a time. He rebelled, then was appeased when he came to remember that she was to be restored to him. She would be his, wholly his. He would love her as he had loved her mother, worship her as a saint; and wild notions rushed through his brain, and the madness of self-sacrifice began to fill his whole being. His love was overflowing; it suffocated him. During all these years he had firmly repressed the inmost feelings of his heart; he had made himself a mere machine; he had waited coldly, passively, without a word. The awakening had come — a terrible awakening of passion. A hidden, unceasing work had been going on in his heart; his faculty for love, from the want of expansion, had been intensified to the highest degree, and so he had come to have one fixed idea. His affection had become an exaggeration; he could no longer think of Jeanne without being tempted to worship her image.

Suddenly he found himself in Monsieur Tellier’s private room, without knowing how he came there. He heard a servant saying to him: “Please to be seated; Monsieur will be with you directly,” and he sat down trying to keep calm.

Those few minutes by himself did him good. If he had found his future master there he would have stammered through nervousness and agitation. He got up and took a turn round the study, examining the library and the many different objects with which the articles of furniture and the bureau were loaded. All these things, although luxurious, seemed to him in very poor taste. On a stand there was a pretty statuette in white marble of Liberty, which Daniel was inclined to take for a Venus, till he noticed the Phrygian cap which was coquettishly set on her curly hair.