Claude's Confession and Other Early Novels of Émile Zola. Ðмиль ЗолÑ
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confusion of shapes, wishing to entirely overthrow my reason. It was an indescribable pellmell, a mass of heads, necks and shoulders, which rolled upon itself as if beaten and flattened by the strokes of a flail. Then, suddenly, at the very instant when I was smiling bitterly, no longer seeking to understand, supreme quietness settled down upon the sombre and agile shadows; the stains gave a final leap, two profiles were thrown upon the wall, enormous, full of energy, standing out with sharpness and vigor. It seemed as if, weary of tormenting me, the shadows had at last decided to reveal themselves; they were there, black, powerful, full of superb truth and insolence. I recognized Laurence and Jacques, out of all proportion, disdainful. The two profiles approached each other slowly and united with a kiss.
I had not ceased to smile. I felt in myself a sort of tearing sensation, followed by a sudden feeling of satisfaction. My heart, with an enormous pulsation, had driven out all the love which was stifling it, and that love had gone out through my veins, giving me a final burn. I felt that sensation of anguish which the patient experiences beneath the hands of the surgeon; I suffered in order that I might cease to suffer.
At last, the shadows had spoken, they had given me a certainty. I had the truth written there, before me, upon the wall; I knew that which I had sought to guess for so many long days; I stared fixedly at those two black heads, which were kissing in the square patch of yellow light.
I was astonished at suffering so little. I had thought I should die on learning the truth, and I felt only an extreme lassitude, a benumbing of all my being. For a long while, I remained leaning upon my elbows, staring at the two shadows which were agitating themselves in a curious fashion, and I thought of the terrible episode which was finished by the kisses of two dark stains upon an illuminated wall. The conversation which I had had with Jacques then returned forcibly to my memory; in the gulf which had opened within me I heard, repeated one by one, gravely and slowly, the words of the practical man, and those words, which I imagined I was listening to for the first time, astonished me strangely, uttered in the presence of the kisses which the shadow of Jacques was giving to the shadow of Laurence. Who was deceived in all this? Was Pâquerette right, or was I staring at one of those inexplicable caprices of the mind, which urge people to lie to themselves? Could it be possible that Jacques was devoting himself to save me, going as far as deceptive caresses? Singular devotedness, which could strike me in my flesh, in my heart, and cure me of an evil by an evil more terrible still!
Little by little, my thoughts grew troubled, I no longer possessed the calmness of the first moment.
I could not comprehend those kisses, and, at last, I began to fear that what I had seen was only a miserable trick.
The struggle between doubt and certainty was, for an instant, reestablished within me, sharper, more biting, than ever. I could not imagine that Jacques loved Laurence; I believed more in him than I believed in Pâquerette. Then, I said to myself that kisses have their intoxication, and that he would learn to love this woman, if he did not love her already, by applying his lips to her lips in that fashion.
Hence I suffered anew. My jealousy was reawakened, my anguish again took me by the throat.
I should have retired from that window, I should not have abandoned myself to the sight of those two shadows. What I suffered in a few minutes cannot be told; it seemed to me that they had torn out my heart and that I could not weep.
The truth was clear, inexorable: little did it matter whether Jacques loved or did not love Laurence; Laurence hung upon his neck, gave herself to him, and she was henceforward dead for me. There was the sole reality, the dénouement at once desired and feared.
Amid the horrible torture which racked my being, I felt everything crumble away within me; I realized that I was now without faith, without love; I went back to Marie’s bed and knelt beside it, sobbing.
Marie awoke, she saw my tears. She made a superhuman effort, and, quivering with fever, sat up in bed. I saw her bend down, leaning her head upon my shoulder, I felt her wasted and burning arm encircle my neck. Her eyes, luminous amid the darkness, full to overflowing with the brightness of death, questioned me with fright and compassion.
I would have liked to pray. I had need of clasping my hands, of imploring a kind and compassionate Divinity. I felt myself weak and deserted; in my childish fear I wanted to give myself to a good God, who would take pity on me. While Jacques was tearing Laurence from me and while the guilty couple, below me, were indulging in loving kisses, I had an overwhelming desire to make my profession of faith and love, to protest on my knees, to love elsewhere, in the light, before all the world. But my lips were ignorant of prayer, I despairingly stretched out my arms, in space, towards the mute sky.
I encountered Marie’s hand, and pressed it gently. Her dilated eyes were still questioning me.
“Oh! let us pray, my child,” said I to her, “let us pray together.”
She seemed not to understand me.
“What is the matter with you?” murmured she, in a faint and caressing voice.
And her feeble hand sought to wipe away my tears. Then, I looked at her and my torn heart melted with pity. She was dying. She was already beyond life, whiter, grander; her glassy eyes were filled with a soft and serene ecstasy; her tranquil countenance was as if wrapped in slumber, her thin lips no longer emitted the rattle. I realized that she was about to die in my arms, at this solemn hour when my tenderness was also dying, and her agony, mingled with that of my love, filled my soul with compassion so deep that I again stretched out my hands into space with a more biting anxiety, searching for some one.
I lifted myself up, and, in a low, broken voice, repeated:
“Let us pray, my child, let us pray together.”
Marie smiled.
“Pray, Claude?” said she. “Why do you wish me to pray?”
“To console us, Marie, to obtain pardon for us.”
“I have no pardon to ask for, I have no sorrow to be softened. See, I am smiling, I am happy; my heart reproaches me with nothing.”
She was silent for a moment, putting aside her locks from her forehead; then she resumed, in a weaker tone:
“I know not how to pray, because I have never had to ask for pardon. The woman who brought me up assured me that the wicked alone went to church to obtain absolution for their crimes. I am a child who never did evil; never have I had need of God.
Whenever I wept, my tears flowed copiously down my cheeks and the wind dried them. Do you wish me to pray for you, Claude?” added she, after another period of silence. “You shall clasp my hands and make me repeat the words which they teach to the children in the villages. I will ask God not to make you weep any more!”
Trembling, touched, I prayed for Marie, I prayed for myself. I found in the depths of my being words of supplication and adoration, and I uttered them one by one without moving my lips. I supplicated Heaven to be merciful, to make death easy, to put this child to sleep in her ecstasy, in her ignorance. And, while I prayed, Marie, without seeing that I was addressing God, clung to my neck with greater force, bending over my face.
“Listen, Claude,” said she; “I will get up tomorrow, I will put on a white dress and we will leave this house. You will find a little chamber in which we will shut ourselves up all alone. I plainly see that Jacques loves me no more, because I am too weak, too white. You have a kind heart; you will take good care of me and I will live with more happiness, more gayety, than ever before. I am a trifle weary, I have need of a kind brother. Will you be that brother, Claude?”
These words, uttered with languishing tenderness, were horrible in the mouth of the dying girl. She preserved her innocent shamelessness even in the arms of death; she offered herself upon her dying bed as a sister and a sweetheart of ten years of age. I supported her poor body as if its flesh had been sacred, I listened to her ardent and low voice with a holy compassion.
I thought, no longer being able to pray. What then is evil? Was I not in the presence of absolute good? Surely, God created everything sinless, everything perfect. Evil is one of our inventions,