Complete Works of Emile Zola (38 page)

“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 drawing-room, 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 then would no longer love him.

But all this was in the future, and he was absorbed in the present. Jeanne was there before him, good and charming, full of the radiant dream he had created for her, and he lost himself in contemplating her.

George, too, was charmed. The young woman talked with him particularly, for Daniel feared that if he talked much his dream would vanish. While he therefore remained silent, Jeanne questioned George about his literary works, and a lively sympathy sprang up between them.

At last it was necessary to take leave of the little blue boudoir. The two friends promised to come again. Both left their hearts behind them in that pleasant little retreat During the next three months Daniel led an existence full of heavenly bliss. He lived as in a dream; he lived elsewhere, up above, far off from the work-a-day world. All his fits of anger had passed away; he no longer wept, no longer had any wishes but the one of remaining for ever in this paradise of love, a love unrecognised but satisfied.

He had not long been able to resist the temptation of writing again to Jeanne, and his letters were now written in a tender and peace-giving strain. “Let us live thus,” he said to her; “let me simply be to you what man is in the sight of the Deity: a prayer, a worship, a humble breath.” Then he showed her heaven open, and led her away from this wicked world.

Jeanne obeyed this pure spirit whom love for a mortal had taken hold of. She accepted him as a guardian, an invisible stay, to keep her from evil.

Daniel often betook himself to Jeanne’s house, and he had a bitter satisfaction, as it were, in the extraordinary situation he had created. After every fresh letter, he went to read on Jeanne’s face the emotions she had experienced from it. He studied with ecstasy the progress that love made in her. He never gave a thought to the awakening. She loved him, she was full of him — that was sufficient. If he revealed his name, if he tore away the veil that hid him, she would perhaps recoil from him. He was still nothing but a timid child, sensitive to a degree, and afraid of the full light of day. The only love that suited him happened to be this secret passion.

He now would beg of George to accompany him to Jeanne. He no longer dared to remain alone with her; he would have stammered and blushed when he spoke, thinking that she read through him. Besides, when George was there he could remain silent; his friend amused Jeanne whilst he dreamed of his love.

During the space of these three months George, notwithstanding that he struggled against his infatuation, had yielded to the temptation of loving the young woman with the deep passion that grows in meditative natures. He hid the state of his heart from every one, even Daniel; above all, Jeanne.

When he found out the truth, there was no time for flight. So he gave way, having no courage to renounce his first love; he continued going to the little blue boudoir, spending some delicious moments there, not daring to ask himself what the end would be.

At times Jeanne looked him full in the face without wavering. She seemed to wish to penetrate the depths of his being and seek some hidden thought there. Under her questioning glance he grew troubled, and then on the lips of the young wife he saw a smile, which was tender but discreet.

One day when the two friends presented themselves at her house they were greeted with most unexpected news. Lorin had just died suddenly in London. They went home very much upset. They could not mourn for Lorin; all they thought of was that the little blue boudoir would be closed to them for some time to come. This death, which gave the woman whom they both loved her freedom, gave them more fear than hope. They found themselves very well as they were, and dreaded any change in what their hearts were accustomed to. No reciprocal confidences had passed between them. They led the same life, but now they both had their own secret and they deferred till later their mutual confession. They let a few weeks pass by; then they ventured to go again to Jeanne’s. Nothing seemed changed. The young widow, looking rather pale perhaps, received them with her usual cordiality, and only showed herself more reserved to George. It was Daniel this time who was obliged to keep the conversation going.

Lorin, having made some disastrous speculations, had left his wife only a remnant of his fortune.

Monsieur de Rionne, who lived at his daughter’s like a parasite, was delighted at his son-in-law’s death. He had ended by conceiving a downright hatred for the man who kept such a tight hold of his money. He could never drag a sou from him, and all he received was board and lodging. When Lorin was dead he demanded money right out, of Jeanne. She willingly surrendered to him the remains of a fortune that burdened her, only keeping for herself what was sufficient to live on quietly.

Daniel, who was made acquainted with these matters, loved Jeanne all the more for her conduct. Every day she grew in his esteem; he rejoiced at seeing the dead woman’s wish at last fulfilled. One evening, as the fever of love was on him, he wrote another letter.

The next day he was stupefied on receiving a note from Jeanne, asking him to come to her at once. He started, without saying anything to George, and rushed there like a madman, his head all in a whirl.

The young widow no longer lived in the vast flat she had occupied with her husband. She now resided on the second storey of a house of humble exterior, and she received Daniel in a little bright room, furnished unpretentiously. She did not even notice his wild look. He could hardly breathe, and was unable to find a word to say. When she had made him sit down, she said to him, with touching familiarity: “You are my best, my only friend. I am sorry that I have overlooked your affection so long. Will you forgive me?”

And she took his hand, looking at him with tears in her eyes. Then, without giving him time to answer, she continued:

“You love me, I know. I have a secret to confide to you, and a service to ask of you.” Daniel became very pale. His wretched awkwardness was returning. He imagined that the young widow had found out everything, and was on the point of speaking to him of his letters.

“I am listening,” he murmured, in a broken voice.

“I have been receiving letters for several months,” she said. “You must know who wrote them. I depend on you to tell me the truth.”

Daniel felt ready to faint. A rush of blood flew to his face.

“You do not answer,” continued Jeanne. “You do not wish to betray your friend’s trust. Well, I myself then will speak out. These letters are from Monsieur George Raymond. Do not deny it; I know all! I have read his love in his looks; I have thought of every one about me, and I have found that no one but he could write to me thus.”

She stopped, thinking what she would say next Daniel, utterly dumbfounded, stared at her aghast.

“I consider you as a brother,” she said, in a slower tone. “I wished to unburden my heart to you.... Your friend wrote to me again, yesterday. He must not continue doing so, for his letters are useless now. I tell you again, I know all; the joke would become cruel and ridiculous if carried any further. Tell your friend to come.... Come with him.” And her looks of emotion completed her confession — Jeanne loved George.

Daniel, frozen up, had suddenly recovered an awful calm. It seemed to him that his soul had departed, and only his body continued to live.

In a quiet voice he conversed of George with Jeanne; he promised to fulfil the part of a brother with which she entrusted him.

Then he found himself in the street, and went home. After that the animal side of his nature awoke in him, and he had a frightful access of despair and folly.

Daniel, at last, had rebelled. His body wept; his heart refused the sacrifice. He could not make up his mind to efface himself thus. He had always kept in the background, living in the shade, condemning himself to silence. But now he must have a supreme reward; he did not feel he had enough virtue to sacrifice himself again, to die without declaring his love and abnegation.

What! he had been able to deceive himself to such a point. He laughed idiotically, with rage and shame. During long months he had selfishly enjoyed a love that did not belong to him; he had lost himself in the contemplation and worship of Jeanne, and Jeanne’s heart was full of the thought of another. He pictured himself once more in that little blue room, studying the young woman’s face, taking to himself her affectionate looks, her tender smiles, and he called to mind his ecstasy, his hopes, his unlimited confidence. All a lie, a cruel jest, an atrocious deceit! Those affectionate looks, those tender smiles, were all for George; he it was whom Jeanne loved, he it was who made her so sweet and kind. “Well,” she had said, “I have thought of every one about me, and I have found no one but George who could write to me thus.” He, Daniel, had no existence for her; he was there simply as an accompaniment, a background. He had been robbed of his devotion, robbed of his love; he was being despoiled still more, and there was nothing left to him, nothing but his tears and his solitude.