Complete Works of Emile Zola (39 page)

Above all, it was he whom Jeanne selected to confess her love to; he whom she entrusted to give her to another! Verily, there was needed nothing more but this additional suffering, this last mockery. Did they think, then, that he was too ugly, too despicable to have a heart? They made use of him like a devoted machine, and had not the least suspicion that this machine could have life and love on its own account. So, then, he was never to live, never to love.

The thought of Madame de Rionne was far off at this moment. Daniel was wearied of his part — ever a brother, never a lover. The idea was repulsive to him.

The crisis lasted a long time. The blow had been too heavy, too unforeseen. Never could Daniel have believed that George and Jeanne had come to an understanding to make him suffer thus. In the whole world they were all he had to love, and they were torturing him to madness. Only a day ago he was so happy, and now! The year that had just passed had given him the only happiness he was to know in this world. He was being precipitated from the heights of bliss that he had lived in, and he was dashed to pieces with his fall. And he recognised that, unknowingly, it was the hands of George and Jeanne who had hurled him down.

At moments he was calmer, Then his sobs choked him again; the rebellious spirit within him awoke burning and tumultuous thoughts of crime. He questioned himself as to what he should do. The wild beast bounding within him turned furiously in its rage against itself, not knowing whom to spring upon.

Then a deep shame took possession of him. He bowed his head, sitting motionless, and thinking more gently, he heard the slow, melancholy beating of his heart softly complaining, and he waited for this crisis of the blood and nerves to pass away.

Daniel pulled the curtains to; the daylight hurt him. Then in the silence he remained motionless, staring into the darkness. His tears no longer fell; the feverish shiverings had passed away. He was allowing himself to calm down.

Who could analyse what next took place in this soul? Daniel tore himself away from humanity and re-ascended to the heights of passionless love. There he found again all virtue, all self-sacrifice. A deep gentleness entered his heart; his body seemed to become lighter, and his soul thanked it for freeing it thus. He no longer reflected; he let himself drift, for he understood that the true, pure love was penetrating him, and accomplishing a great work in him. And when this great work was completed, Daniel began to smile sadly. He was dead to all the follies of the world. Now that the flesh was conquered, he felt that the soul would not long delay her departure.

Little by little Madame de Rionne’s image had come back to him, and he felt himself ready to fulfil the dead woman’s wish. His eyes had now a profound and bright look, and his mind saw matters clearly. His soul impelled him to consummate the sacrifice.

He rose and went to find George. He accosted him with a kind smile, and his hand did not shake as it took that of his friend. No chord vibrated any longer in his numbed faculties. He was all soul.

He knew that George loved Jeanne passionately. The veil was torn away, and he was conscious of a thousand little facts whose meaning he did not grasp before. He spoke in a decided. tone, quietly, and affectionately. He was about to finish killing his love — himself.

“My dear friend,” said he to George,” I can now confess to you the secret of my life.”

And he related to him his story of self-sacrifice in a modest way. He told him that he had been to Jeanne a father, a brother. He recalled to him those abrupt absences during the time they lived in the impasse St Dominique d’Enfer, his role as secretary at Monsieur Tellier’s, his tortures at the marriage of his dear daughter with Lorin. And he explained all this by his gratitude to Madame de Rionne. He put himself in the light of a disinterested guardian, as a protector, who was accomplishing his task without any human weaknesses. Then, with a gentle gaiety, he continued:

“To-day my mission is fulfilled. I am about to marry off my daughter; I am going to give her to a man worthy of her, and all I shall have to do will be to retire.... Do you guess whom I have selected?”

George, who had listened to his friend with deep emotion, began to tremble with joy.

“Finish my task,” continued Daniel; “give her every happiness. I bequeath to you my mission. You love our dear Jeanne, and it is for you to grant rest and peace to the soul of the poor dead one.... My daughter waits for you.”

George was ecstatic, mad with joy. He could not utter a word. Daniel seemed to him really as if he were the father of the young lady, and he contemplated him with admiration and respect, for he felt as if there were something in him more than human.

Daniel was astonished at not suffering more. He found a sweet consolation in his sublime lie — his self-abnegating extinction of the passion of his life. He spoke to George of letters he had addressed to Jeanne; but he spoke of them in a vague kind of way. His heart no longer throbbed, and he put away the thought of those burning words he had written, of which he had no longer even an exact knowledge.

George suspected nothing. He gave himself up to a child’s joy. His friend was too affectionate and too calm for him to have any idea of the terrible crisis of misery through which he had passed. Then he spoke with adoration of Jeanne. He vowed to Daniel to make her happy, and drew a vivid picture of the pleasures he should give and enjoy with her. He dwelt much on his coming happiness, describing it in passionate terms.

Daniel listened, smiling. He feared, however, that he would not have sufficient strength to assist at the final sacrifice. When, therefore, they had talked together for some time, he said to George:

“Now that all is arranged, I will go and take a rest. I will return to Saint-Henri.” And as George demurred, anxious for him to take part in his happiness, he added: “No, I shall be in the way. Lovers like to be alone. Let me go. You must come and pay me a visit.” The next day he departed. He felt great weakness in his heart, and his. whole being was sinking away in that peace only felt by the dying.

CHAPTER XIV

WHEN Daniel had gone, George, without acknowledging it to himself, breathed more freely. He found himself alone with his love, alone with Jeanne, and it seemed to him that he was at the same time her lover and her brother. Now she had no longer any one to watch over her, he took a delicate pride in not going at once and casting himself at her feet. For two days he abstained from seeing her, and dreamt of the first words he should address to her, and the first look she would give him.

The interview at first was constrained but charming. They were both in love for the first time. They were full of a delicious confusion, which made them, for fully ten minutes, exchange only small talk. Then their hearts opened. Everything was arranged during this conversation. Jeanne, who had to complete her time of mourning, wished to defer the marriage for a few more months. George showed himself tractable. He was happy when she told him that she had no fortune at all, for he felt he could not accept any of Lorin’s money.

How far from their minds was poor Daniel! They talked of him for a moment, just as one talks of a far distant friend whose face will never be seen again. They had all the egoism of lovers; they lived for the present and the future in themselves.

For nearly six weeks they lived in this loving, fancy fairyland. They loved, and that was enough. They did not give a thought even to the circumstances which had brought them together.

One day Jeanne tremblingly spoke to George of the letters he had written her. It was a memory of the past which occurred to her in the midst of their love gossip.

At her questions George experienced a terrible anguish. Daniel’s image rose up abruptly before him. He made no answer, and regretted not having asked his friend about this correspondence which made his
fiancée
tremble in this way.

She would not desist. She reminded him of certain passages, and recited even whole sentences to him. George had a suspicion. He asked her if she had preserved the letters. She smiled and brought them to him.

“Here they are,” she said. “You love me so much now that no doubt you do not recollect having loved me in former days.... Listen.”

And she read a page of one of the love letters. George was gazing at her with a bewildered look that made her laugh. Then he took the letters and went through them feverishly. He understood all.

Daniel had fled, without even dreaming that he had left behind him proofs of his passion and devotion. In the crisis of despair he had gone through, one single thought had filled his mind — that of departure, immediate departure.

At last George could read the depths of that great heart. He held in his hands the whole secret, and he would not be outdone by this sublime courage. His love cried aloud in his breast, but he imposed silence on it.

He took Jeanne’s hand in his.

“We pretend to love each other,” he said, “and all the time we are only children. We have not yet given one thought to the man who gave us to one another. He suffers far from us, whilst we are here passing tender moments with the selfishness of lovers. You must know all, Jeanne, for we must not be among those who nave bad hearts. These letters have just taught me the truth.... Listen to the history of Daniel’s life.”

And, quite simply, he told Jeanne what his friend had confided to him. He related to her the story of that noble life, full of self-sacrifice and love. He depicted Daniel to her kneeling by the bed of her dying mother. And then she began to weep. She became conscious of her cruel behaviour in the past; she saw once more that guardian who had supported her through each perilous hour of her life.

But George kept on without stopping, relating the long martyrdom slowly and tenderly. He emphasised each particular; he laid bare the poor creature’s miseries and sufferings. He dwelt first on those twelve years of solitude and adoration, during which Jeanne was at the convent; then afterwards he dilated upon Daniel’s whole-hearted and complete self-sacrifice, his work at Monsieur Tellier’s, his jealous supervision of her in the midst of the feverish frivolities of the world, and then came the excursions at Mesuil Rouge. As he proceeded he saw the whole story in a clearer light himself; he saw an explanation for all that had happened; he found out what his friend had kept secret from him. His voice shook and his eyes became moist. Lastly George spoke of the letters. He confessed the truth, depicted Daniel’s love, and disclosed the depths of that bleeding heart to Jeanne. And it was they who had broken that heart without knowing it! In reward for his devotion they had just imposed on him another supreme, a god-like sacrifice.

When he had finished George felt calmer-

He raised his head and fixed his eyes on the woman he loved, who had drawn herself up, trembling.

She remembered the last conversation she had with Daniel, and she was horrified at the sufferings she must have inflicted upon him. She had learned, as in a flash of lightning, the life of that miserable young man. She felt the deepest pity for him, and a need to seek his forgiveness.

“We cannot allow this murder,” she said in a rapid voice. “We too must know how to sacrifice ourselves. We should be miserable, you know, if our happiness were bought at the cost of so many tears, so much anguish.”

“What do you suggest we should do?” asked George.

“What you would do in my place? Dictate my duty to me yourself.”

George looked her full in the face, and said softly: “Let us go and find Daniel.”

In the evening he received a letter from his friend which made him anxious. This feverishly written letter seemed like a last farewell. Daniel said he found himself slightly indisposed. He had tried to be cheerful, but notwithstanding all his courage complaints would escape him.

Jeanne and George grew frightened, and hastened their departure.

Daniel, when he left Paris, hoped that he had done with sorrow, but despondency seized him during the journey. He no longer suffered poignantly. His very thoughts floated in a kind of dim, healing twilight. His life was wrecked; he was growing weaker, and gave himself up joyfully to this final engulfment.

On arrival at Saint-Henri he hired his old room where he had suffered a great deal on a former occasion. He opened the window and gazed out over the sea. The sea, from some strange cause, appeared to him to be quite small, the reason being that he inwardly felt a void — a void still more immense. He listened to the sound of the waves, and it seemed to him that they beat on the rocks with a noise as of thunder. Passion no longer raised her voice complainingly in his veins, and he heard the wash of the waves in the great silence of his being. He once more took his walks along the beach; but he only dragged along now — his breath failed him at every step. He was quite astonished to find the line of horizon changed; at times he fancied he was walking in some far-off and unknown country. He was changed from that being with a burning heart who threw sobs to the winds of heaven. He was no longer feverish with the depths of his anguish, and infinity was veiled in a mist.

Soon it became impossible for him to go out.

He remained sitting at the windows of his room for whole days together, watching the breaking waters. He acquired quite a fresh love for it. He gazed upon it affectionately. He knew that it was hastening his death, for its dull, melancholy roar, re-echoing in his heart, continually increased his despondency.

Afterwards he was consoled by losing himself in the immensity of the ocean and the infinity of the sky. This great purity of sky, air, water, charmed his delicacy in his sickness. Nothing offended his weakened eyes in that enormous azure gulf, which seemed to open on the next world. Right down in the depths of the sky he saw at times a blinding light in which he longed, so to speak, to be annihilated. Soon he was obliged to keep to his bed. He had nothing now before his eyes but the white ceiling and the crude wall-paper. The whole day long he only gazed at the hard, cold-looking plaster. It seemed to him that he was dead already, and he fancied himself buried deep down in the cold earth.