THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя
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of blood covering his own hands. His hair stood on end, sparks of madness flashed in his eyes which were almost starting out of his head. He still held the pack of cards. All at once he threw them down, shook his hands violently, as if to get rid of the blood that was running between his fingers, and uttering a harsh cry, fled.
He did not even pick up the few hundreds of francs that were before him. The pool increased little by little, and the bits of gold now seemed bathed in a stream of blood.
Only the corpse and the two girls remained in the room. Sauvaire had been one of the first to fly. When Clairon and Isnarde found themselves alone they approached the table attracted by the gold glittering in the blood.
“Let’s divide,” said Isnarde.
“Yes, let’s be quick,” answered Clairon, “it’s no good giving the police the money.”
And each of them took a handful of gold from the middle of the crimson pool. The coins stained with gore disappeared in their pockets; then they wiped their fingers on their handkerchiefs and in their turn fled, gasping for breath and fancying they heard the voice of the police commissary behind them.
It was three o’clock in the morning. Great gusts of wind were driving along the big, dark clouds that studded the grey sky with black. A sort of mist floated in the air and fell in fine, icy cold rain. There is nothing more mournful than those hours of the early morning in a great city: the streets are dirty, the houses stand out in sad silhouettes.
Marius ran like a madman through the silent and deserted streets. He slipped on the greasy stones, dipping his feet in the gutters, and knocking up against the corners of the pavement. And he continued running with his arms extended before him, wringing his hands in furious rage. He wanted to go and clip them in the sea and wash them with all the water of the ocean. There only, could he find relief for the terrible burn that was devouring him.
He ran, alarmed and fierce, still wringing his hands and taking out-of-the-way streets like a murderer. At moments he was half mad; he imagined it was he who had killed the suicide to rob him of fifteen thousand francs. Then he heard the heavy tread of the gendarmes behind him, he hastened the pace, not knowing where to hide his hands which would bear witness against him.
He had to cross the Cours Belzunce. Workmen were passing along under the trees, and he experienced most horrible anguish. To avoid descending to the harbour by the Cannebière, he plunged into the old town. There the streets are dark and narrow and no one could see his bloodstained hands.
He reached the Place aux Œufs. It was only then that he thought of Fine, he remembered all at once that she was matinal, that she might already be on the Place and would see him covered with blood. She would question him and he would be unable to answer her. He knew nothing, all was confusion in his head, he found himself lost in a nightmare. His hands burned him, that was all, and he continued running; ran to go and plunge them in the sea and extinguish the coals clinging to his flesh.
He descended the narrow streets, the steep inclines, at the risk of breaking his head twenty times over. Twice he slipped and fell; each time he rose with a bound and continued his race.
At length, he perceived the black masses of vessels lying silent in the dense water of the Port. He ran along the white, polished slabs of stone; and as he could find no boat, he for an instant had the insane idea of flinging himself into the water, and thus appeasing his sufferings at a single stroke. The burns he thought he felt, became intolerable. He yelled and wept.
But having at last found a little pleasure-craft fastened at the edge of the quay, he leapt into it, lay down on his stomach and feverishly plunged his arms into the sea up to the shoulders.
A profound sigh of relief escaped him. The cool water appeased his fever, the wavelets washed away the blood that was gnawing into his hands.
He remained lying thus for a long time, forgetting all, not even remembering why he was there. Every now and then he drew his arms out of the water and furiously rubbed his hands, looked at them and rubbed them again. He seemed always to perceive large red spots on his skin. Then he plunged his arms into the sea again, made the water move gently to and fro, enjoying intense delight at the sensation of the cold seizing him and sending a shiver all over his body.
At the end of an hour, he was still there, thinking there would never be sufficient water in the sea to wash his hands. However, little by little, his ideas became calm and his head heavy. It seemed as if his brain were empty. Icy shivers ran over all his limbs. Mechanically, step by step, he reached the Rue Sainte, without thinking of anything. He no longer knew where he had come from, nor what he had done. He went to bed and was seized with a terrible fever.
CHAPTER XVI
MADEMOISELLE CLAIRE’S PRAYER-BOOK
MARIUS remained three weeks in bed a prey to violent delirium. He had an attack of acute cerebral fever which brought him to death’s door. His youth, and the tender attention he received, saved him.
One evening, at twilight, he opened his eves with a clear head. It seemed to him that he had issued from profound darkness. He was so weak that he had no feeling in his body; but the fever had disappeared, and his thoughts, which were still vacillating, returned to him.
The curtains were drawn round his bed. A soft, warm light came through the white linen and surrounded him with gentle brightness. The air of the silent room was pervaded with perfume. He raised himself. And at the slight noise he made, he saw a shadow glide behind the curtains.
“Who is there?” he inquired, in a voice that was hardly distinct.
A hand quietly drew aside the curtains, and Fine, seeing Marius sitting up, exclaimed joyfully:
“Heaven be praised! You are saved, my friend.”
And she began to weep. The invalid understood all, and extended his poor thin hands towards the girl.
“Thanks,” he said to her, “I knew you were there. I feel as if I had had a frightful dream; and, I remember now, in the midst of that dream, I saw you bending over me like a mother.”
He let his head fall on the pillow and continued in a childish voice:
“I have been very ill, have I not?”
“All is over, do not let us think of such disagreeable things,” said the flower-girl gaily. “But where had you been to, my friend, the sleeves of your coat were all wet?”
Marius passed his hand across his forehead.
“Oh! I remember,” he exclaimed, “it’s frightful!”
Then he gave Fine an account of the two terrible nights he had passed in the gambling-house. He made her a confession, retracing in detail all he had suffered.
“It’s a terrible lesson,” he remarked, in conclusion. “I doubted and turned to chance. For a moment I shuddered. I fancied I felt all the instincts of the gambler within me. But I’ve been cured with a red-hot iron.”
He stopped and then continued anxiously:
“How long have I been ill?”
“About three weeks,” answered Fine.
“Oh! Heavens! Three weeks lost. We have only about twenty days before us.”
“Do not trouble about that, but get well.”
“Hasn’t M. Martelly sent to inquire about me?”
“Don’t worry yourself, I tell you. I have been to see him and everything is arranged.”
Marius seemed more calm and Fine continued:
“There is only one course to follow, and that is to borrow money of M. Martelly. We should have commenced by that. All will be well. Now, sleep, do not speak; the doctor has forbidden it.”
The convalescence advanced at rapid strides, thanks to Fine’s tender and devoted care. The young