The Masterpiece

by Émile Zola

He shrugged his shoulders. Did she really take him for a fool? Automatically, he turned towards the Quai des Célestins, where he knew there was a cab-rank. There was not the faintest glimmer of a lamp to be seen.

  ‘Passy, my dear? Why not Versailles? … And where the devil do you think we’re going to pick up a cab at this hour, on a night like this?’

  She gave a little shriek of terror, dazzled as the lightning flashed again revealing the city once more, lurid this time, baleful and spattered with blood. It was one enormous trench hacked through the glowing embers of a fire, with the river flowing along it from end to end, as far as the eye could see. The minutest details were clearly visible. One could pick out the little closed shutters along the Quai des Ormes and the narrow slits of the Rue de la Masure and the Rue du Paon-Blanc breaking the line of the houses; near the Pont-Marie, where those huge plane-trees provide such a magnificent patch of greenery, one could have counted every single leaf. In the other direction, under the Pont Louis-Philippe, the flat river barges moored four deep along the Mail, piled high with yellow apples, were a blaze of gold. It was an amazing conglomeration, a whole world, in fact, besides the milling of the water—the tall chimney of the laundry-boat, the static chain of the dredger, the heaps of sand on the opposite wharf—that filled the enormous trough cut out from one horizon to the other. Then, with the sky blotted out again, the river was once more a stream of darkness amid the rattle of the thunder.

  ‘Oh, dear God! It’s no good … Oh, my God! What is to become of me?’

  It began to rain again, hard. Driven by the gale, the rain swept along the embankment as if a flood-gate had been opened.

  ‘Come along now, let me get indoors,’ said Claude. ‘This really won’t do.’

  Both of them were rapidly getting soaked to the skin. By the pale glimmer of the gas-lamp on the corner of the Rue de la Femme-sans-Tête, he could see the rain streaming off her clothes, her wet garments clinging to her body, as the rain beat against the door. He began to feel sorry for her. After all, he had once taken pity on a stray dog on a night like this! But he was annoyed with himself for letting himself be moved. He never took women to his room. He treated them all as if he neither knew nor cared about them, hiding his painful timidity behind an exterior of bluster and off-handedness. And this girl must have thought him unutterably stupid to try to waylay him with such a ridiculous, unconvincing tale. However, he ended up by saying:

  ‘We’ve both had enough of this. Come on in. … You can sleep in my studio.’

  This only increased her dismay and she made a move to get out of the doorway.

  ‘Your studio! Oh no! No, I couldn’t, really I couldn’t. … I must get to Passy somehow, monsieur. Won’t you please, please take me to Passy?’

  At this he lost his temper. Why the devil was she making all this fuss? Wasn’t he offering her shelter for the night? He had rung the bell twice already, and now the door swung open and he pushed the girl inside.

  ‘But I can’t, monsieur, I tell you, I …’

  But a flash of lightning startled her again, and when the thunder roared once more she leaped inside, hardly realizing she was doing so. The heavy door swung to behind her and she found herself in total darkness in an enormous porch.

  ‘It’s me, Madame Joseph,’ Claude called to the concierge. Then he whispered to the girl: ‘Take hold of my hand. We’ve got to get across the courtyard.’

  She offered no further resistance, but, worn out, bewildered, she gave him her hand and, side by side, they dashed out through the driving rain. It was a spacious baronial courtyard, with stone arcades faintly visible through the darkness. When they reached cover again, at a kind of narrow vestibule without a door, he let go her hand and she heard him swearing as he tried to strike match after match. These were all damp, so they had to feel their way upstairs in the dark.

  ‘Keep hold of the rail, and go carefully. The steps are pretty steep.’

  Wearily, and with many a stumble, she clambered up three inordinately long flights of narrow back stairs, and then, he told her, they had to go down a long corridor. He led the way and she followed, feeling her way along the wall, on and on, back towards the part of the house overlooking the river. At the end, there were more stairs, up to the attic this time, one steep flight of rough wooden steps without a handrail which creaked and swayed like a ladder. The landing at the top was so tiny that the girl collided with Claude as he tried to find his key. At last he opened his door.

  ‘Don’t go in,’ he said. ‘Wait, or you’re sure to bump into something or other.’

  So she stayed where she was, panting for breath, her heart pounding, her temples throbbing, worn out by her long climb through the darkness. She felt as if she had been climbing for hours through a mazy network of stairs and passages, and that she would never find her way down again. Inside the studio she could hear heavy footsteps, somebody groping around, something knocked over with a clatter, a muffled oath. There was a light in the doorway.

  ‘There we are. You can come in now.’

  She went in, looked about her, but really saw nothing. One solitary candle made a very feeble light in an attic fifteen feet high, crammed with unrecognizable objects which cast enormous eerie shadows on its grey-painted walls. She looked straight up to the attic window, for the rain was beating against it like the deafening roll of a drum. At that very moment, the lightning flashed across the sky, followed so closely by a clap of thunder that it felt as if the roof had been torn open. Speechless, white as a sheet, she collapsed on to a chair.

  ‘That was a near one,’ said Claude, himself a little pale. ‘Just got in in time. We’re better off here, don’t you think, than out in the street?’

  And he turned and slammed the door, double locking it, while the girl looked on in a daze.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘No place like home.’

  The storm was now practically over; the thunder rolled farther and farther away in the distance, and before long the deluge, too, had ceased. Claude, conscious of a growing feeling of embarrassment, looked the girl up and down out of the corner of his eye. She wasn’t bad-looking, he supposed, and she was certainly young, twenty at the outside. That put him more than ever on his guard, though he was not unaware of a certain feeling of doubt, a vague idea that she might not be telling a pack of lies after all. Anyhow, if she thought she’d been smart, if she thought she’d hooked him, she was making a sad mistake. So he exaggerated his toughness, put on a big voice for her benefit and said:

  ‘Come on, let’s turn in. Nothing like bed after a soaking.’

  She stood up at once, terrified. She, too, had been taking stock of Claude, without looking straight at him, and she was afraid of this gaunt young man with a beard and bony knuckles, who might have been a brigand in a story with his big black hat and his old brown jacket weathered to a dingy green.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, ‘I shall be all right as I am. I can sleep in my clothes.’

  ‘Sleep in your clothes when you’re soaked to the skin! … Don’t be a fool. Take ’em off and get into bed.’

  He kicked a chair or two out of the way and drew aside a dilapidated screen. Behind it she saw there was a washstand and a small single bed. He began to turn back the counterpane.

  ‘No, monsieur, please don’t bother. I prefer to stay where I am. I assure you I do.’

  This infuriated him.

  ‘Stop acting the fool, for God’s sake!’ he cried, with an angry gesture. ‘I’m offering you my bed, what more do you want? … And you can cut out all this modesty, too, because it will get you nowhere. I’m going to sleep on the divan.’

  Standing over her, his fists clenched in anger, he appeared to be threatening her. She was petrified, convinced he was about to strike her and, with trembling fingers, she took off her hat, while the rain from her clothes formed a pool on the floor. Claude, after a moment of inarticulate rage, seemed to give in to a scruple of some kind, and blurted out, as a sort of concession:

>   ‘If it’s me that puts you off, I can always change the bedding.’

  And as he spoke, he began tearing the sheets off the bed and flinging them on to the divan at the far end of the studio. Then he brought out a clean pair from a cupboard and made up the bed afresh, with the deftness of a bachelor who is used to the job, carefully tucking in the blanket on the wall side, plumping up the pillow and finally turning back the sheets.

  ‘There you are. Now off to sleep!’

  Then, as she said nothing, but stood there aimlessly fingering the buttons on her dress without making up her mind to undo them, he closed the screen around her. My God! All this modesty! It did not take him long to turn in himself; he had soon tossed his clothes on to an old easel, arranged the sheets he had taken from the bed, and stretched himself out on the divan. Just as he was about to blow out the candle, he remembered the girl; she would not be able to see; so he waited. For a time he had not heard her moving about at all; perhaps she was still exactly where he had left her, standing by the bed. But now he could just make out the rustle of garments and imagine her slow, stealthy movements as if she, too, kept stopping and listening, wondering why the light was not put out. It was some considerable time before he heard the faint creak of the mattress, followed by a long silence.

  ‘Are you all right, mademoiselle?’ he called, in a much gentler voice.

  Her reply was barely audible, for her voice still quavered with emotion.

  ‘Yes, monsieur, thank you.’

  ‘Good night, then.’

  ‘Good night.’

  He blew out the light. The silence seemed deeper than ever. In spite of his weariness, Claude could not keep his eyes closed, and he soon found himself wide awake, staring up at the window. The sky had cleared again and he watched the stars twinkling in the sultry July night. It was still very close, in spite of the storm, and he was so hot that he lay with his bare arms outside the sheets. His thoughts kept running on the girl and in his mind a lively battle was being fought out between the contempt he was only too happy to show, the fear of finding himself saddled for the rest of his days if he gave way, and the fear of looking ridiculous because he didn’t take advantage of the situation. It was contempt that won in the end, and Claude chuckled as he congratulated himself on resisting the temptation, for he imagined the whole affair as some kind of plot to ruin his peace of mind. He was still too hot, so he kicked off the sheet and lay there, drowsy but half awake, straying through a glowing maze of stars in pursuit of the beauties he worshipped, women in all their naked loveliness. As his vision faded, his thoughts returned to the girl. What was she doing? he wondered. For a long time he had thought she was asleep, for she hardly seemed to be breathing. Now he could hear she was restless, like himself, though she stirred with infinite precaution, holding her breath as she did so. With what little he knew of women, he began trying to make some sense of the story she had told him, for he was perplexed by some of the details now that he came to think about them. But his mind refused to work logically, so what was the use of racking his brains to no purpose? Whether she was telling the truth or spinning a yarn, he had no use for her, so it was all one to him! In the morning she would take her leave; hail and farewell and that would be that; they would never see each other again. It was growing light, and the stars were paling when he finally dropped off to sleep. Behind the screen, the girl, exhausted though she was by her journey, was still unable to relax, for the room, being immediately under the zinc of the roof, was very stuffy. As dawn drew near, however, she stirred with less restraint, even giving vent, in a sudden spasm of nervous impatience, to a virgin’s sigh of irritation at the irksome presence of this man asleep, so close to where she lay.

  When he woke in the morning, Claude found he could hardly bear to open his eyes, for the day was well advanced and the sun was streaming in through his attic window. It was a theory of his that the young ‘open air’ painters* ought to take the studios the academic painters refused, the ones that were lighted by the full blaze of the sun. But the first slight shock made him sit for a moment on the edge of his couch, wondering how on earth he came to be sleeping there, on the divan. On looking about him, still bleary-eyed with sleep, he noticed a heap of petticoats on the floor, partly hidden by the screen. Then he remembered. That girl! He listened, and could hear her smooth, regular breathing, peaceful as a child’s. That meant she was still so fast asleep that it would be a pity to wake her. He sat there, scratching his bare legs, not knowing quite what to do, rather annoyed with the situation he was in which was going to upset all his morning’s work. He was obviously being far too soft-hearted. What he ought to do was rouse her and send her on her way as soon as possible. And yet, when he had put on his trousers and slid his feet into his slippers, there he was going about the room on tip-toe!

  When the cuckoo-clock struck nine and there was still no sign of life behind the screen beyond the soft, regular breathing, Claude began to be worried. The best thing to do, he thought, would be to get on with his painting and make his breakfast later, when he was free to make a noise. But somehow he could not make a start. He was used to living in unspeakable disorder, but that heap of garments, slipped off and left lying on the floor, troubled him. They were still wet, too, lying in the pool of rain water which had seeped out of them during the night. Grumbling under his breath, he picked them up one by one and spread them out on chairs in the sunshine. How could anybody leave their things lying around like that? They’d never be dry and he’d never be rid of her! By the way he handled them and shook them out, he was clearly unused to women’s things. He got very tangled up in the black woollen bodice and had to crawl about on hands and knees to retrieve the stockings which had dropped down behind one of his old canvases. They were grey lisle stockings, very long and very fine. He examined them closely before hanging them up. They were damp, from contact with the hem of the skirt, so he stretched them and smoothed them out between his warm hands, to make sure he would lose no time in packing her off.

  Ever since he got up Claude had been wanting to move the screen, and his curiosity, which he admitted was foolish, only added to his ill-humour. At last, just as, with a characteristic shrug of the shoulders, he had decided to take up his brushes, a murmur and a rustle of bed linen interrupted the gentle breathing and this time he gave in, put down his brushes and looked round the edge of the screen. What he saw rooted him to the spot, and he stood there, gazing in ecstasy, with a gasp of mingled surprise and admiration:

  ‘Good God!’

  In the hothouse heat of the sunlit room, the girl had thrown back the sheet and, exhausted after a night without sleep, was now slumbering peacefully, bathed in sunlight, and so lost to consciousness that not a sign of a tremor disturbed her naked innocence. During her sleepless tossing the shoulder-straps of her chemise had come unfastened and the one on her left shoulder had slipped off completely, leaving her bosom bare. Her flesh was faintly golden and silk-like in its texture, her firm little breasts, tipped with palest rose-colour, thrust upwards with all the freshness of spring. Her sleepy head lay back upon the pillow, her right arm folded under it, thus displaying her bosom in a line of trusting, delicious abandon, clothed only in the dark mantle of her loose black hair.

  ‘By God, she’s a beauty!’ Claude muttered to himself. Here it was, the very thing, the model he’d tried in vain to find for his picture, and, what’s more, posed nearly as he wanted her! A bit on the thin side, perhaps, and still with something of the undeveloped child about her, but so supple, so fresh, so youthful! And yet her breasts were fully formed. How the devil had she managed to hide them last night? Why hadn’t he even suspected what she was like? This was a find, and no mistake!

  Softly he hurried to fetch his crayon-box and a big sheet of paper and, perching on the edge of a low chair, with a board across his knees, he began to draw. He looked profoundly happy. All his agitation, carnal curiosity, and repressed desire gave way before the spellbound admiration of the artist with
a keen eye for lovely colouring and well-formed muscles. The girl herself was already forgotten in the thrill of seeing how the snowy whiteness of her breasts lit up the delicate amber of her shoulders, and in the presence of nature in all its beauty he was overcome with such apprehensive modesty that he felt like a small boy again, sitting to attention, respectful and well-behaved.

  He went on drawing for about a quarter of an hour, stopping from time to time to look at her with half-closed eyes. He was afraid she would move, so he pressed on with his work, holding his breath for fear of disturbing her.

  Absorbed as he was in his task, he nevertheless found himself indulging in vague speculations as to who she could be. She was certainly not the trollop he had taken her for, her bloom was too fresh for that. But whatever had made her spin such an incredible yarn? He thought over a number of other possible explanations for her escapade. Perhaps she had been seduced, brought to Paris by her lover and then abandoned. Perhaps she was a nice girl who had been led astray by one of her school friends and was afraid to go back to her parents. Or perhaps the whole affair was much more complicated, a case of some extraordinary girlish perversion, or even of horrors he would never be able to fathom. The more he guessed, the harder he found it to make up his mind about her, and it was in that uncertain state of mind that he began to sketch her face. He studied it very closely. The upper half was very kind and very gentle; the brow limpid, clear and smooth as a mirror, the nose small, the nostrils delicate and sensitive, and he could tell that, under their closed lids, the eyes wore a smile, a smile that would light up the whole face. The lower half, however, destroyed that impression of radiant tenderness, for the firm, strong chin, the blood-red lips, too full over the strong white teeth, were like a burst of passion—the stirrings of unconscious puberty—over features otherwise suffused with childlike delicacy.

  Suddenly a faint shudder rippled the satin of her skin, as if she had unexpectedly become aware of masculine scrutiny, and she opened her eyes wide and gave a little cry of fright.