Complete Works of Emile Zola (43 page)

M. de Cazalis had bills placarded in all the squares of the city, promising ten thousand francs reward to whosoever would bring him his niece and her seducer bound hand and foot. When one loses a pure-bred dog it is also usual to advertise for it.

Among the upper classes, the scandal spread still more noisily. M. de Cazalis disseminated his rage everywhere. He availed himself of the influence of his friends, of the clergy, and nobility. As guardian of Blanche who was an orphan, and as trustee of her fortune, he urged on the authorities in their search, and drew up the indictment of the accused. It might be said that he took pains to procure the greatest possible publicity for the gratis show about to begin.

One of the first measures he resorted to was to secure the arrest of Philippe Cayol’s mother. When the crown-attorney presented himself she replied to all questions that she did not know her son’s whereabouts. Her confusion, her anguish, her mother’s fears, which made her hesitate, were no doubt considered so many proofs of complicity. She was sent to prison, more as a hostage, and possibly in the hope that her son would surrender himself in order to secure her release.

When Marius heard of his mother’s arrest he almost went mad. He knew she was in delicate health, and pictured her, with terror, shut up in a bare and icy cold cell; she would die there, tortured by all the pangs of suffering and despair.

Marius was also suspected at the outset. But his firm answers, and the bail that his employer, the ship-owner Martelly, offered on his behalf, saved him from imprisonment. He wanted to remain free in order to work for the salvation of his family.

Little by little his upright mind was able to properly weigh the facts. At first, he had been overwhelmed by Philippe’s guilt, he had seen only the irreparable wrong his brother had done. And he had humbled himself, desiring solely to calm Blanche’s uncle and give him every reparation possible. But, in face of the deputy’s rigour, of the scandal he was raising, the young man had a revulsion of feeling. He had seen the fugitives, and knew that Blanche was voluntarily accompanying Philippe, and he was indignant at hearing the latter accused of abduction. Hard words flew around him: his brother was called a scoundrel, a villain, and his mother did not come off much better. In consequence, his love of truth prompted him to defend the lovers, to take the part of the fugitives even against the authorities. Besides which, the deputy’s noisy accusations sickened him. He felt that true grief is dumb, and that an affair in which a young girl’s honour is at stake should not be ventilated in public. And he felt all this, not because he wished to see his brother escape chastisement, but because his delicacy was wounded by all this publicity given to a child’s shame. Moreover, he knew the meaning of the deputy’s rage; by striking Philippe, he was striking far more the republican than the abductor.

Marius was thus in his turn overcome with anger. He was insulted through his family — his mother cast into prison, his brother tracked like a wild beast, his dearest affections dragged in the mud — they were the victims of bad faith and passion. At this he held up his head again. The guilt was not all on the side of the ambitious lover who had eloped with a wealthy young lady, it was equally the portion of him who was stirring up Marseille, and who intended using all his power to satisfy his pride. Since the authorities had undertaken to punish the first, Marius swore that sooner or later he would punish the second, and that in the meantime he would upset his plans and endeavour to counterbalance the influence his wealth and birth gave him.

From this moment, Marius displayed febrile energy, he devoted himself entirely to the preservation of his mother and brother. Unfortunately he was unable to learn what had become of Philippe. Two days after the flight, he had received a letter in which the fugitive implored him to send him a thousand francs to defray the expenses of his journey. The letter was dated from Lambesc.

Philippe had there found a few days’ hospitality in the house of M. de Girousse, an old friend of the family. M. de Girousse, who was the son of a former member of the parliament of Aix, was born in the midst of revolution. At his first breath he had inhaled the burning atmosphere of ‘89, and his blood had always preserved a little of the revolutionary fever. He felt uncomfortable in his mansion on the Cours at Aix; in his eyes the nobility of the town seemed possessed of such inordinate pride, such deplorable inertness, that he judged it severely and preferred to live at a distance from it. His upright mind, his love of logic had helped him to accept the new order of things, and he willingly held out his hand to the people and accommodated himself to the tendencies of modern society. At one time he had thought of founding a factory, and of exchanging his title of count for that of manufacturer, considering that now-a-days the only nobility is the nobility of talent and labour. And as he preferred living alone, away from his equals, he stayed the greater part of the year on an estate he owned near the little town of Lambesc. It was there that he had harboured the fugitives.

Marius was overwhelmed by Philippe’s request. His savings did not amount to more than six hundred francs. He bestirred himself, and during two days endeavoured to borrow the remainder of the amount. One morning, when he was beginning to despair, Fine called upon him. He had confided his trouble to the young woman the day before; she had been for ever on his footsteps since Philippe’s flight and constantly asking for news of his brother, being apparently most anxious to know whether the young lady was still with him. Fine laid five hundred francs on a table.

“There,” she said, with a blush. “You can return it to me later on. It’s some money I put aside to purchase my brother’s discharge, if he was drawn in the conscription.”

Marius would not accept it.

“You’re making me waste my time,” resumed Fine, with charming abruptness. “I must hurry back to my flowers. But if you don’t mind, I’ll call here every morning for news.”

And she hastened away.

Marius sent the thousand francs. Then he heard nothing further, but passed a whole fortnight in complete ignorance of the march of events. He knew Philippe was being relentlessly hunted down, and that was all. He would not believe the grotesque or frightful stories that were current with the public. He had enough with his own fears, without being frightened at the gossip of the town. He had never in his life before suffered so much. His anxiety nearly drove him mad; the least sound frightened him; he was for ever on the alert as though expecting some bad news at any moment. He heard that Philippe had gone to Toulon and had almost been arrested there. The fugitives, it was said, had then returned to Aix. There, all trace of them was lost. Had they attempted to cross the frontier? Had they remained in hiding among the hills? No one seemed to know.

Marius was all the more anxious because he had been obliged to neglect his work at the ship-owner Martelly’s. If he had not been fixed to his desk by duty, he would have hastened to Philippe’s assistance, and would have personally occupied himself with his safety. But he dared not leave the business where his services were required. M. Martelly showed him quite a paternal sympathy. A widower for several years past and living with one of his sisters, who was twenty-three years of age, he treated Marius like a son. On the morrow of the scandal raised by M. de Cazalis, the ship-owner called the young man into his private office.

“Ah! my friend,” he exclaimed, “this is a very unpleasant matter. Your brother is done for. We shall never be strong enough to save him from the terrible consequences of his folly!”

M. Martelly belonged to the liberal party, and was noted for the southern violence of his opinions. He had already had some spars with M. de Cazalis, and therefore knew his man. His strict probity, his immense fortune, placed him beyond all attack; but he possessed the haughtiness of his liberalism, and took a sort of pride in never making use of his power. He advised Marius to keep quiet and await events; he would render him all his assistance, once the struggle was started. Marius, consumed by his fever, was about to ask him for leave of absence, when Fine, all in tears, appeared one morning before him.

“The gentleman has been arrested!” she exclaimed, between her sobs. “They found him, with the young lady, in a cottage in the Trois-bons-Dieux quarter, about a league from Aix.”

And, as Marius, greatly agitated, rushed downstairs to make inquiries, which only too fully bore out the truth of Fine’s statement, she, still in tears, smiled and said in a low voice:

“At any rate, the young lady is no longer with him.”

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 passers-by, 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 country-side 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.”