Claude's Confession and Other Early Novels of Émile Zola. Ðмиль ЗолÑ
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was far off at this moment. Daniel was wearied of his part — ever a brother, never a lover. The idea was repulsive to him.
The crisis lasted a long time. The blow had been too heavy, too unforeseen. Never could Daniel have believed that George and Jeanne had come to an understanding to make him suffer thus. In the whole world they were all he had to love, and they were torturing him to madness. Only a day ago he was so happy, and now! The year that had just passed had given him the only happiness he was to know in this world. He was being precipitated from the heights of bliss that he had lived in, and he was dashed to pieces with his fall. And he recognised that, unknowingly, it was the hands of George and Jeanne who had hurled him down.
At moments he was calmer, Then his sobs choked him again; the rebellious spirit within him awoke burning and tumultuous thoughts of crime. He questioned himself as to what he should do. The wild beast bounding within him turned furiously in its rage against itself, not knowing whom to spring upon.
Then a deep shame took possession of him. He bowed his head, sitting motionless, and thinking more gently, he heard the slow, melancholy beating of his heart softly complaining, and he waited for this crisis of the blood and nerves to pass away.
Daniel pulled the curtains to; the daylight hurt him. Then in the silence he remained motionless, staring into the darkness. His tears no longer fell; the feverish shiverings had passed away. He was allowing himself to calm down.
Who could analyse what next took place in this soul? Daniel tore himself away from humanity and reascended to the heights of passionless love. There he found again all virtue, all self-sacrifice. A deep gentleness entered his heart; his body seemed to become lighter, and his soul thanked it for freeing it thus. He no longer reflected; he let himself drift, for he understood that the true, pure love was penetrating him, and accomplishing a great work in him. And when this great work was completed, Daniel began to smile sadly. He was dead to all the follies of the world. Now that the flesh was conquered, he felt that the soul would not long delay her departure.
Little by little Madame de Rionne’s image had come back to him, and he felt himself ready to fulfil the dead woman’s wish. His eyes had now a profound and bright look, and his mind saw matters clearly. His soul impelled him to consummate the sacrifice.
He rose and went to find George. He accosted him with a kind smile, and his hand did not shake as it took that of his friend. No chord vibrated any longer in his numbed faculties. He was all soul.
He knew that George loved Jeanne passionately. The veil was torn away, and he was conscious of a thousand little facts whose meaning he did not grasp before. He spoke in a decided. tone, quietly, and affectionately. He was about to finish killing his love — himself.
“My dear friend,” said he to George,” I can now confess to you the secret of my life.”
And he related to him his story of self-sacrifice in a modest way. He told him that he had been to Jeanne a father, a brother. He recalled to him those abrupt absences during the time they lived in the impasse St Dominique d’Enfer, his role as secretary at Monsieur Tellier’s, his tortures at the marriage of his dear daughter with Lorin. And he explained all this by his gratitude to Madame de Rionne. He put himself in the light of a disinterested guardian, as a protector, who was accomplishing his task without any human weaknesses. Then, with a gentle gaiety, he continued:
“To-day my mission is fulfilled. I am about to marry off my daughter; I am going to give her to a man worthy of her, and all I shall have to do will be to retire.... Do you guess whom I have selected?”
George, who had listened to his friend with deep emotion, began to tremble with joy.
“Finish my task,” continued Daniel; “give her every happiness. I bequeath to you my mission. You love our dear Jeanne, and it is for you to grant rest and peace to the soul of the poor dead one.... My daughter waits for you.”
George was ecstatic, mad with joy. He could not utter a word. Daniel seemed to him really as if he were the father of the young lady, and he contemplated him with admiration and respect, for he felt as if there were something in him more than human.
Daniel was astonished at not suffering more. He found a sweet consolation in his sublime lie — his self-abnegating extinction of the passion of his life. He spoke to George of letters he had addressed to Jeanne; but he spoke of them in a vague kind of way. His heart no longer throbbed, and he put away the thought of those burning words he had written, of which he had no longer even an exact knowledge.
George suspected nothing. He gave himself up to a child’s joy. His friend was too affectionate and too calm for him to have any idea of the terrible crisis of misery through which he had passed. Then he spoke with adoration of Jeanne. He vowed to Daniel to make her happy, and drew a vivid picture of the pleasures he should give and enjoy with her. He dwelt much on his coming happiness, describing it in passionate terms.
Daniel listened, smiling. He feared, however, that he would not have sufficient strength to assist at the final sacrifice. When, therefore, they had talked together for some time, he said to George:
“Now that all is arranged, I will go and take a rest. I will return to Saint-Henri.” And as George demurred, anxious for him to take part in his happiness, he added: “No, I shall be in the way. Lovers like to be alone. Let me go. You must come and pay me a visit.” The next day he departed. He felt great weakness in his heart, and his. whole being was sinking away in that peace only felt by the dying.
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