STORIES FOR NINON & NEW STORIES FOR NINON. Эмиль Золя
Читать онлайн книгу.
I could tell by the dull sound that it penetrated to the centre of the earth. Then, glancing at the rocks forming the enclosure, I saw that the flood was approaching the top of them. The voice of the abyss cried out to me: the flood, which is rising, will continue to do so and will attain the summit of the rocks. It will rise higher, and then a river, escaping from the terrible basin, will pour down on to the plains. The mountains, weary of struggling with the flood, will sink down. The entire lake will then fall upon the world and inundate it. It is thus that men who are to come, will die drowned in the blood shed by their fathers.’”
“That day is near at hand,” said Gneuss: “the flood was high last night.”
IV
The sun was rising, when Clérian had completed the account of his dream. The sound of a bugle wafted by the morning breeze, was heard towards the north. It was the signal for the soldiers dispersed over the plain to assemble round the flag.
The three companions rose and took their arms. As they were setting out, casting a last glance at the extinguished fire, they saw Flem advancing towards them, running in the tall grass. His feet were white with dust.
“Friends,” he said, “I have ran so fast that I know not whence I come. I have seen the trees flying behind me in a disorderly dance for hours. The sound of my footsteps lulling me made me close my eyelids, and, while still running, without slackening my speed, I slept a strange sleep.
“I found myself on a desolated hill. The scorching sun fell upon the great rocks. I could not set my feet down without the flesh being burnt. I hastened to reach the summit.
“And, as I bounded onward, I perceived a man walking slowly. He was crowned with thorns; a heavy burden weighed upon his shoulders and his face was bathed in blood-like sweat He advanced slowly, stumbling at each step.
“The ground was burning hot, I could not bear his torment; I went up and waited for him beneath a tree at the top of the hill. Then I saw he was carrying a cross. By his crown, his purple robe stained with mud, it seemed to me that he was a king, and I felt great joy at his suffering.
“Soldiers were following him, hurrying him on with their iron-tipped lances. On reaching the highest rock they stripped him of his garments, and made him lie down on the forbidding timber.
“The man smiled sadly. He held his hands out wide open to the executioners, and the nails made two ghastly holes in them. Then, bringing his feet together, he crossed them, and one nail sufficed.
“He lay silent on his back gazing at the sky. Two tears coursed slowly down his cheeks, tears which he did not feel and which were lost in the submissive smile upon his lips.
“The cross was erected, the weight of the body increased the size of the wounds horribly. The crucified man gave a prolonged shudder. Then, he cast his eyes up to heaven again.
“I gazed at him. Observing his courage in the face of death, I said, ‘This man is not a king.’ Then I felt pity, and cried out to the soldiers to pierce his heart” A feathered songster was singing on the cross. Its song was sad, and sounded in my ears like the voice of a virgin in tears.
“‘Blood colours the flame,’ it sang, ‘blood gives purple to the flower, blood reddens the naked. I stood upon the sand and my claws were covered with blood; I grazed the branches of the oak and my wings were red.
“‘I met a just man and followed him. I had been bathing at the spring, and my coat was pure. My song said: Be joyful, my feathers; on this man’s shoulder you will not be soiled with the rain of murder.
“‘My song says now: Weep, warbler of Golgotha, weep for your coat stained by the blood of him who kept a shelter for thee in his bosom. He came to give the warblers back their purity, helas! and men made him wet me with the dew of his wounds.
“‘I doubt, and I weep over my soiled coat Where shall I find thy brother, O Jesus I so that he may open his linen garment to me? Ah! poor master, what son born of thee will wash my feathers reddened with your blood?’
“The crucified man listened to the warbler. The breath of death made his eyelids quiver; agony distorted his lips. He cast his eyes up towards the bird, and they bore an expression of sweet reproach; his smile was bright and as serene as hope.
“Then, he uttered a loud cry. His head fell upon his breast, and the warbler flew off, borne away in a sob. The sky turned black, earth shuddered in the darkness.
“I continued running, and I still slept. Dawn had come, the valleys were awakening, smiling in the morning mist. The storm of the night had cleared the sky, and had given greater strength to the green leaves. But the path was bordered by the same thorns as tore me on the previous evening. The same hard, sharp flints rolled beneath my feet; the same serpents stole along in the thickets, and threatened me on the way. The blood of the Just One had ran into the veins of the old world, without giving it back the innocence of its youth.
“The warbler passed overhead, and cried to me:
‘“Ah! ah! I am very sad. I cannot find a spring pure enough to bathe in. Look, the earth is as wicked as formerly. Jesus is dead, and the grass has not flowered. Ah! ah! it is but one more murder.’”
V
The bugle continued sounding the departure.
“Boys,” said Gneuss, “our calling is an unpleasant one. Our slumber is troubled by the phantoms of those whom we strike. I, like you, have felt the demon of nightmare weighing on my chest for long hours. For thirty years I have been killing, and I need sleep. Let us leave our brethren there. I know of a glen where ploughs require hands. Shall we taste the bread of toil?”
“We will,” answered his companions.
Thereupon the soldiers dug a great hole at the foot of a rock, and buried their arms. They went down and bathed in the river; then, all four arm in arm disappeared at the turn of the pathway.
THE THIEVES AND THE ASS
I
I know a young man, Ninon, to whom you would give a good scolding. Léon is passionately fond of Balzac and cannot bear George Sand; Michelet’s book almost made him sick. He naïvely says that woman is born a slave, and never utters the words love and modesty without laughing. Ah! how ill he speaks of you! No doubt, he communes with himself at night the better to tear you to pieces during the daytime. He is twenty.
Ugliness seems to him a crime. Small eyes, a mouth too large, set him beside himself. He pretends that as there are no ugly flowers in the fields, all girls should be born equally beautiful. When by chance he meets an ugly one in the street, he fumes for three whole days about her scanty stock of hair, large feet and thick hands. When on the contrary the woman is pretty, he smiles wickedly, and his silence then is so full of naughty thoughts that it seems quite dreadful.
I know not which of you would find favour in his eyes. Blondes and brunettes, young and old, graceful and deformed, he envelops you all in the same malediction. The naughty boy! And how laughingly tender are his eyes! how soft and fondling his speech!
Léon lives in the midst of the Latin Quarter.
And now, Ninon, I feel very much embarrassed At the least thing, I would hold my tongue, regretting I ever had the singular idea to commence this story. Your inquisitive mind is eager for the scandal, and I hardly know how to introduce you to a world where you have never placed the tips of your little toes.
This world, my well-beloved, would be Paradise, if it were not Hell.
Let us open the poet’s volume and read the song of twenty summers. Look, the window faces the south; the garret, full of flowers and light, is so high, so high in the sky, that sometimes one hears the angels chatting on the roof. Like the birds that select the loftiest branch to hide their nests from man, so have the lovers built theirs on