by Émile Zola
In time even Claude grew to appreciate her feminine tidiness, and occasionally, to get her to sit down for a quiet chat, he would ask her to put a stitch or two in a shirt cuff or mend a tear in a jacket. She herself had volunteered to go over his linen, but mending was not among the foremost of her housewifely accomplishments. She did not know how to sew, to start with; that was obvious from the way she held her needle. Besides, she did not like sitting still, and it maddened her to have to concentrate on a darn. The studio was as spick and span as any drawing-room, but Claude was still in rags, and that amused the pair of them; they thought it a great joke.
How happy they were during those four months of rain and frost they spent in the studio, with the stove drawing red and roaring like an organ-pipe! Winter cut them off completely from the rest of the world. While the snow lay thick on the neighbouring roofs and sparrows came and fluttered at the attic window, they smiled to think how cosy they were and yet how isolated in the silent heart of the great city. In time, however, their happiness ventured outside the studio’s narrow limits, when at last she gave him permission to escort her on her way home. For a long time she had insisted on going back alone, still ashamed at the idea of being seen abroad in the company of a man. Then one day there was a sudden heavy shower and she was obliged to let him escort her with an umbrella. But as it stopped raining as soon as they had crossed the Pont Louis-Philippe she told him to go back, so they simply stood for a moment or two on the embankment, looking down on the Mail, happy to be together under a cloudless sky. Alongside the wharf below, great river barges loaded with apples were drawn up four deep and so closely packed that the gang-planks connecting them were like alleyways thronged with women and children unloading the fruit in big round baskets. They were thrilled by the sight of such an avalanche of fruit piling up and completely blocking the wharf, giving out a strong, almost unpleasant smell of fermenting apple juice which rose to their nostrils mingled with the dank breath of the river. The following week, as the sun was shining and Claude had been saying how few people one met on the embankment in the Ile Saint-Louis, she agreed to take a walk. So they went up the Quai de Bourbon and the Quai d’Anjou, stopping every few yards, attracted by the various activities along the Seine, the dredger with its grating buckets, the laundry-boat loud with the shouts of a quarrel, a crane in the distance busy unloading a barge. Christine was amazed; she could not believe that the busy Quai des Ormes on the far bank, and the Quai Henri-Quatre she was on, with its broad strand like a beach, and dogs and children rolling about on the heaps of sand, and the whole sky-line of this city so full of life and activity, was the sky-line of that accursed city, lurid and spattered with blood, she had glimpsed the night of her arrival. They moved on then, round the tip of the island, lingering to savour the silent, forsaken atmosphere of its stately old houses; they watched the water seething among the forest of piles at the breakwater and came back round by the Quai de Béthune and the Quai d’Orléans. They were closer to each other now than when they started out, forced together by the broadening of the stream, until they stood shoulder to shoulder looking over its huge current across to the Port-au-Vin and the Jardin des Plantes. Against the sky domed roofs of buildings were turning a deeper blue. As they approached the Pont Saint-Louis, he had to tell her it was Notre-Dame she could see since she did not recognize it from the east end, from which it looked like some enormous crouching beast with flying-buttress legs, raising its head of twin towers at the end of its lengthy monster’s spine. But their great discovery on that particular day was the westerly end of the island, like the prow of a vessel eternally at anchor, straining towards Paris without ever reaching it. At the foot of a steep flight of steps they found a wharf planted with huge trees and not a soul about, a pleasant refuge, a sanctuary in the heart of the crowd, for all around on the bridges and embankment Paris roared while they, on the water’s edge, tasted all the joy of being alone and ignored by the rest of the world. From that moment the wharf was their little strip of countryside, their bit of open air where they made the most of the sunshine when the oppressive heat of the studio with its red-hot, roaring stove grew too stifling for them and began to make their hands tingle with a fever they instinctively distrusted. Even then Christine still refused to let Claude escort her any further than the Mail. At the Quai des Ormes she always sent him back, as if Paris, its crowd, and all its possible encounters began at that long stretch of embankment that lay ahead of her. But Passy was such a long way off, and she was beginning to be so bored by making the entire journey alone, that little by little she relented and allowed him first to go as far as the Hôtel de Ville, then as far as the Pont-Neuf, then to the Tuileries. She began, too, to forget the danger she had imagined, and in the end they would go off together arm in arm, like a pair of newlyweds, and with time the same leisurely walk along the same pavements, along the riverside, had assumed an infinite charm and filled them with a keen sense of happiness the like of which they were never to know again. They belonged to each other heart and soul, though neither had embraced the other physically, and the soul of the great city, rising from the waters, wrapped them in all the tenderness that had ever pulsed through its age-old stones.
When the weather turned really wintry, in December, Christine started coming only in the afternoon, so that the sun was going down when Claude started out with her, about four o’clock, in the direction of Passy. On clear days, as soon as they came out on to the Pont Louis-Philippe, the whole vast stretch of the embankment, apparently endless, lay open before them. Along its entire length the slanting rays of the sun cast over the houses on the right bank a dusting of warm gold, while on the left bank and the islands the buildings stood out black against the flaming glory of the sunset. Between these two margins, one ablaze with light, the other gloomy with shadow, the spangled Seine flowed, cut across by the narrow stripes of the bridges, the five arches of the Pont Notre-Dame under the single span of the Pont d’Arcole, then the Pont au Change and beyond that the Pont-Neuf, each narrower than the other, the shadow of each followed by a stripe of bright light where the satin-blue water faded to white. While the twilit silhouettes on the left bank culminated in the pointed towers of the Palais de Justice harshly blacked on the cloudless sky, on the right a gentle curve swung through the sunlight running away into the distance so far that the Pavillon de Flore standing out like a citadel yonder at its utmost tip, looked like a dream castle rising, smoky blue, airy and quivering against the rosy mists on the horizon. But Claude and Christine, drenched in sunshine under the leafless plane-trees, did not look for long at the mighty splash of colour in the west, but took pleasure in other sights, and always the same ones, especially the ancient houses that stand above the Mail. There were little one-storey ironmongery or fishing-tackle shops surmounted by balconies gay with green shrubs and virginia creepers and backed by taller houses, all badly in need of repair, all sporting washing at their windows, the whole making an amazing pile of odd-looking buildings, a surprising jumble of beams and masonry, crumbling walls and hanging gardens through which balls of glass lit up like stars.
Following the embankment, they soon left behind the next batch of big buildings, the barracks, the Hôtel de Ville, and turned their attention to the other bank of the Seine, the Cité, packed tight inside its straight, smooth walls rising sheer from the water. Above the houses dark in shadow the towers of Notre Dame stood resplendent, as though freshly gilded. Booksellers’ boxes were beginning to take over the parapets along the embankment; under an arch of the Pont Notre-Dame, a lighter laden with coal was straining against the powerful current. There, on flower-market days, they would stop, whatever the weather, to smell the first violets and the early wall-flowers. On the left, the embankment was now more open, and another long stretch of it came into view. Beyond the pointed towers of the Palais de Justice they could see the pallid little houses on the Quai de l’Horloge, leading to the terrace with its clump of trees. Further along, other parts of the embankment began
to show through the mist; the Quai Voltaire away in the distance, and the Quai Malaquais, the dome of the Institut, the square edifice that was the Mint, then a long grey strip of houses where the windows were quite indistinguishable, and a promontory of roof-tops made by the chimney-pots to look like a rocky headland jutting into a phosphorescent sea. On the opposite bank, meanwhile, the Pavillon de Flore was losing its dreamlike quality and solidifying into reality in the final burst of glory of the setting sun. Now, to right, to left, on either bank of the river, opened the endless vistas of the Boulevard de Sébastopol and the Boulevard du Palais and, further ahead, the new buildings on the Quai de la Mégisserie, with the new Préfecture de Police opposite, then the old Pont-Neuf with its statue that resembled an ink-blot against the sky, and beyond that, the Louvre, the Tuileries and, rising above Grenelle, the heights of Sèvres and the open country flooded in early evening sunshine. Claude was never allowed to go beyond the Pont-Royal; Christine always stopped him near the big trees next to Vigier’s bathing establishment, and when they stopped to exchange a final handshake and looked back along the river in the red gold of the sunset they could see that over the Ile Saint-Louis, their starting-point, the other nebulous boundary of the capital, night was already coming down from the slate-blue sky in the east.
The lovely sunsets they watched on those weekly strolls along the Seine, when the sun shone ahead of them all the way through the many lively aspects of embankment life: the Seine itself, the lights and shadows dancing on its face, the amusing little shops, each one as warm as a greenhouse, the pots of flowers on the seedsmen’s stalls, the deafening twitter from the bird-shops, and all the joyous confusion of sounds and colours that makes the waterfront the everlasting youth of any city. As they strolled along, the glowing embers of the sunset turned a deeper red above the dark line of the houses on their left, and the sun seemed to wait until they had passed the Pont Notre-Dame and reached the wider stretch of river before it began to glide slowly down behind the distant rooftops. Never, over ancient forest, mountain pathway, or meadow in the plain does day depart in such a blaze of triumph as over the dome of the Institut, when Paris retires to rest in all its glory. They never saw it twice the same; there was always some new furnace adding its fire and flame to the diadem. One evening, in an unexpected shower, the sun, as it reappeared through the falling rain, lit up every cloud in the sky, making the rain overhead glow like liquid fire shot through with pink and blue. On days when the sky was clear, the sun like a ball of fire would sink majestically into a waveless lake of sapphire. For a moment, as it passed behind the black dome of the Institut, it was horned like a moon on the wane; then as its disc reddened to deepest purple it would pass out of sight in the depths of the lake transformed into a pool of blood. After February, as the curve of the decline increased, it would fall straight into the Seine, which seemed to boil on the horizon at the touch of the red-hot disc. But the most theatrical effects, the most magnificent transformation scenes were only produced in a cloudy sky. Then, according to the whim of the prevailing wind, they would see waves of sulphur breaking on boulders of coral, palaces, towers, and buildings piled up in a blazing heap or crumbling down as torrents of lava poured through the gaps in their walls. Or, at other times, the sun already out of sight, hidden by a veil of mist, would suddenly break through with such a mighty thrust of light that a tracery of sparks would be sent shooting clear across the sky like a flight of golden arrows. And twilight would come down as they took leave of each other, their eyes still dazzled by the glory of the sky, and felt that Paris in its triumph had its share in the boundless joy that was theirs every time they wandered along the old stone parapets of the Seine.
The day came at last when the thing happened that Claude had always feared, though never expressed. Christine seemed to have given up the idea that they might meet someone they knew. Who knew her, anyhow? she asked. She could go about for ever and meet no one she knew. But he never quite forgot his artist friends and often felt a slight shock when he thought he recognized somebody’s back in the near distance. He was obsessed by a strange sense of modesty; he suffered unspeakable torments at the thought of anyone staring at the girl, accosting her, or maybe going so far as to make fun of her. And on the day in question, with her clinging to his arm, they were just approaching the Pont des Arts when they came upon Sandoz and Dubuche coming down the steps. It was impossible to avoid them, since they met practically face to face. It was even possible his friends had seen him first, for they were both smiling. He went pale, but did not turn aside, though he thought all was lost when he saw Dubuche make a move in his direction; then Sandoz held him back and led him firmly ahead. They passed, apparently quite indifferent, and disappeared into the courtyard of the Louvre without even looking back. They had both recognized the original of the pastel head that Claude had kept hidden out of sight, like a jealous lover. Christine was far too happy to have noticed anything, but Claude, his heart thumping in his breast, answered her with difficulty as he choked back tears of gratitude for the thoughtful gesture of his two old friends.
A few days later he received another shock. He was not expecting Christine, and had told Sandoz to call, when she ran up to spend an hour with him and give him one of the surprises they both enjoyed. They had just taken the key out of the lock, as they always did, when someone gave a friendly thump on the door. Claude recognized the knock at once and was so flustered that he knocked over a chair. That made it impossible not to answer the door. But Christine turned deathly pale and with a frantic gesture begged him not to stir. He did not move, and held his breath. The knocking continued and someone shouted: ‘Claude! Claude!’ He still did not move, but stood there, overcome, pale to the lips, his eyes cast down. There was a long silence, then footsteps going down the creaking wooden stairs. His heart was suddenly filled with a tremendous sadness and he felt ready to burst with remorse at every receding footstep, as if he had denied his oldest friendship.
Then, one afternoon, someone knocked again and Claude had only time to whisper in dismay:
‘The key’s still in the lock!’
Christine had forgotten to take it out. In alarm she rushed behind the screen and dropped on to the edge of the bed, stuffing her handkerchief into her mouth to cover the sound of her breathing.
As the banging grew louder and somebody laughed outside, Claude was forced to call out:
‘Come in!’
His discomfiture increased when he saw it was Jory who, with a great show of gallantry, ushered in Irma Bécot. Fagerolles had passed her on to him a fortnight ago, or, to be exact, he had agreed to her whim rather than lose her altogether. Out of sheer physical exuberance she was squandering her youth and beauty right and left, in one studio after another, packing her three chemises every week and moving on, but prepared to go back for the odd night if the fancy took her.
‘She wanted to come, so I’ve brought her,’ was the way Jory explained their visit.
Without waiting to be invited, she at once made herself at home and began to explore, exclaiming:
‘I say, this is a funny place! … Oh! What funny painting! My! … Come on, now, be kind and show me all there is to see. That’s what I’ve come for. … I say, where do you sleep?’
Claude was terrified lest she should move the screen, thinking of Christine behind it and grieved already at what she was hearing.
‘You know what she’s come to ask you, don’t you?’ went on the gallant Jory. ‘Don’t say you’ve forgotten. You promised you’d let her pose for something or other. … She’ll pose for anything you like, won’t you, darling?’
‘You bet! Now, if you like!’
Claude was embarrassed.
‘Well, you see, this picture’s going to keep me pretty busy up to the Salon. … There is one figure in it that’s giving me a bit of trouble. I don’t seem to get what I want from any of those damned models!’
‘What, this nude on the grass?’ she asked, standing in front of the canvas
and tilting her little nose with an air of understanding.
‘I wonder if there’s anything I can do to help?’
Jory was on fire with enthusiasm in a second.
‘Why, of course! Marvellous idea! You’re looking for a good model and can’t find one. … Why not have a look at Irma? … Come along, dear, slip your things off and let him see what you’re like.’
Irma whipped off her hat with one hand and with the other began to undo the hooks on her dress, undeterred by Claude’s emphatic refusals and his violent attempts to extricate himself from the outrageous situation.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Thanks very much, but it’s quite useless. … Madame is not large enough. … Not at all the type I want, really, not at all the type.’
‘What does that matter?’ she said. ‘Have a look all the same.’
Jory, too, insisted.
‘Yes, go on! Have a look. The pleasure’s hers. She doesn’t model generally, doesn’t need to, but she gets a great kick out of showing herself. … Wouldn’t mind if she never wore a stitch. Come on, darling, undo your frock. We’ll just have the bust, as he obviously thinks you’re going to eat him!’
In the end Claude did manage to prevent her from undressing, stammering excuses meanwhile: he would be delighted, later, but not now; he was afraid that at this stage a new model might only confuse him still further. And so she merely shrugged her shoulders, fixed him with her pretty eyes sparkling with vice and an air of smiling contempt.
Then Jory began talking about the gang. Why had Claude not been at Sandoz’s last Thursday? They never saw him these days, and Dubuche accused him of being kept by an actress. There’d been a fine old scrap between Fagerolles and Mahoudeau about modern dress in sculpture. The Sunday before, Gagnière had come out of a Wagner concert with a black eye. He himself had nearly had a duel at the Café Baudequin on account of one of his latest articles in Le Tambour. Oh, he treated ’em rough, all the twopenny-ha’penny daubers and their overrated reputations. The campaign against the Selection Committee was creating a devil of a fuss. By the time he’d finished with them there’d be nothing left of that band of self-appointed excisemen who put an embargo on nature and impounded ideals as if they were contraband. Claude listened with unveiled irritation and impatience. He picked up his palette and kept hovering about his easel until at last Jory took the hint.