Claude's Confession and Other Early Novels of Émile Zola. Ðмиль ЗолÑ
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occasions. Daniel often had the opportunity of moralising to her, and each time he felt he was losing ground with her instead of gaining it. He found her colder and more disdainful than before when he met her afterwards. She must have argued that this poor wretch meddled with what did not concern him, and he could not say to her as he longed to: “You are my beloved child; I only live for you. You are the precious legacy of her to whom I owe all. Your kind words fill me with delight; your malicious laughter wounds and crushes me. In pity be kind that I may be kind in return, I implore you! I am working solely for your good and for your happiness.”
For a time he had had a serious fear, from which he was now happily delivered. He trembled lest Monsieur de Rionne should remember his daughter and seek her out. But since he lived at the Tellier’s he had never yet seen anything of her father, the man whose cowardice and vice horrified him.
Monsieur de Rionne absolutely forgot his daughter’s very existence. He had come to see her once after she left the convent, solely in order to beg his sister on no account to ever bring her to see him. “You understand,” he had said, with a faint smile, “I only receive men, and Jeanne would be quite out of place at my house.”
And he went off feeling sure that he would never be disturbed, happy at the precautions he had just taken. He never went there again, fearing he should have to submit to some caprice of his daughter.
But now Daniel often came across some one in the house whose presence there gave him great anxiety. Lorin was for ever there. He was a good talker, and made himself most agreeable; and, in fact, he was always pleasant. And Jeanne seemed to like to see and hear him. He knew how to amuse her. When she showed herself mischievous he allowed himself with good grace to serve as a butt for her wit So he became almost indispensable to her.
Daniel, perplexed with terror, wondered what this man’s aim was. The scrap of conversation which he had had with him filled him with anxiety. Since that day he had never lost sight of him; he even sought to question him, but he learnt nothing which could confirm his suspicions. Nevertheless he had misgivings, and longed ardently to withdraw Jeanne from the influences which were poisoning her mind. He felt convinced that he would always be powerless as long as she lived among the giddy pleasures of the world. He wished he could carry her away far from the crowd to a calm solitude.
His dream came true — this dream-hope in a way was realised. One morning Monsieur Tellier informed him that in a week he should start with his wife and Jeanne to go and spend the spring and summer in the country. He reckoned upon taking his secretary with him, and there passing their time together at his great work, which was, so far, only making slow progress.
Daniel went up to his room, delirious with joy. He had passed a terrible winter, living a life which was killing him, and now at last he would be able to breathe freely again under the open sky near his well-beloved Jeanne. There, in the sweet peace of spring, he would try to accomplish the wish of the dead.
The following week he was in Normandy on an estate belonging to Monsieur Tellier on the banks of the Seine.
CHAPTER X
One could see glistening in the sun the Seine with its wooded banks, reflecting dark shadows in its waters. The vast, flat landscape was stretched out under the wide expanse of sky, dotted with little fleecy clouds.
One could have imagined that a flood of milk had passed over fruitful nature. The earth without upheavals, without rocks, yielded life in abundance to the trees which grew straight and strong, like vigorous children. And the rows of willows, in their sweet freshness, bathed their long gray branches in the limpid waters.
When the sun rose during the hot months of July the whole landscape was enveloped in a shining, white mist. Only the poplars were seen as dark streaks against the white sky. A sweet and peaceful country scene, in which the heart felt at peace and rest once more.
When Jeanne, the day after her arrival, opened her window and looked out on the vast plain before her the tears welled up to her eyes, and she hurried down to enjoy the fresh air, which caused her bosom to swell with an unknown joy. She became a child again. The feverish existence she had led during the last winter, the evening receptions in hot rooms, the life full of turmoil which had passed over her as a storm, agitating her body but not penetrating her soul, was past for the present at least. In the quiet freshness of spring she immediately recovered all the gaiety and tranquillity of her school-days. She seemed to be back once more at her convent where, as a little girl, she ran merrily about under the trees of the garden. And here the garden was the wide country, the lawn and the park, the islets and the lands which gradually disappeared in the haze of the horizon. It was a rugged fairyland to her.
She was so lighthearted that she longed to play hide-and-seek between the trunks of the gnarled old oaks. It was such a reawakening of youth. Her eighteen years, whose high spirits were suppressed in drawingrooms for fear of rumpling her laces, sang their happy song to her in this enchanting spot. She felt the life-blood coursing through her veins anew, and she was carried away by sudden impulses which drove her to the freedom of vagabondage, and made her laugh like a boy. This rush of youthful blood, however, was only physical, for her heart did not beat any faster in the peacefulness of the fields; she was simply giving herself up to the ardent life which burned within her.
Madame Tellier looked at her galloping about, and shrugged her shoulders. As far as she was concerned Mesuil Rouge was a place of exile, where fashion compelled her to remain during the summer months. She was aristocratically bored there, passing her days in yawning and counting the weeks which must elapse before the autumn and winter should come round again. When a pining for Paris seized her too violently, she made an effort to be interested in the trees, and she went down to the borders of the Seine to watch the river flow by. But she always came back deeply dejected; nothing seemed more stupid to her, or more dirty, than a river; and when she heard people eulogising the pleasures of the country, she was filled with the utmost astonishment.
In her drawingroom when the subject of green trees and running streams was mooted, not to be singular she certainly pretended to have the same love of these things as the others, but at heart she entertained a ferocious hatred against the grass, which soiled her dress, and against the sun, which burned her skin and freckled her face.
Her longest walks were round the lawns. She always went forward very cautiously, never letting her eyes wander from the path for fear of accidents. Withered leaves dropping terrified her, and one day she uttered piercing screams because a thorn had slightly scratched her hand.
When Jeanne ran about in all directions she gazed at her with an air of pity and grief. She had hoped for better things of this child, who had all the winter played her role of coquette so well.
“Good heavens! Jeanne,” she cried, “how vulgar you have grown. Really, one would think you were positively amusing yourself. Oh, heavens! here is a big hole full of water. Come quickly and give me a hand.”
And the young girl, wishing to simulate the distinguished airs of her aunt, also began to utter little cries of fright. She was not frightened at all, but was simply following Madame Tellier’s lead, whom she looked upon as a queen in a matter of taste. Then, little by little, her feet itched to run about again; she hurried her steps, walking right through the mud, and this made her laugh heartily; then she started off running again.
The only distraction the Telliers enjoyed was the arrival of a visitor. On those days Madame Tellier was radiant. She drew the curtains so as to shut out the view of the trees, and fancied herself in Paris, talking the old, vapid, worldly gossip, and intoxicating herself in imagination with the distant perfumes of the drawingrooms.
At times when she forgot to have the curtains drawn, and she happened in the midst of her gossip to cast her eyes on the wide horizon, a real terror seized her; she felt how little she was in all that immensity, and her woman’s pride suffered.
Jeanne herself was not insensible to these reminders of Paris; and she remained in the great reception-room at Mesuil