A Love Story

by Emile Zola

  With great seriousness, Hélène was contemplating all this when Jeanne came in, very excited.

  ‘Maman, Maman, look!’

  The little girl was holding a large bunch of yellow wallflowers. And she told her delightedly that she had watched out for Rosalie coming back with the shopping, so that she could look into her basket. She loved rummaging around in her basket.

  ‘Look, Maman! These were in the bottom... Smell them, how nice they smell!’

  The beige flowers with their purplish stripes gave off a penetrating odour that scented the whole room. Then Hélène, in a passionate gesture, pulled Jeanne to her breast, and the bunch of wallflowers dropped to her knees. Love, love! Yes, she surely loved her little girl. Was that not enough, this great love which had filled her life until now? Such quiet, tender love ought to suffice, it would last for ever, no weariness would destroy it. And she hugged her daughter more, as though to ward off those thoughts which threatened to separate them. Jeanne meanwhile abandoned herself to this windfall of kisses. There were tears in her eyes, she snuggled affectionately against her mother’s shoulder, and nuzzled against her with her delicate neck. Then she put an arm around her waist, and remained in that position, very meekly, her cheek on her mother’s breast. Between them, the wallflowers exhaled their perfume.

  For a long time they didn’t speak. Jeanne, without moving, finally asked in a low voice:

  ‘Maman, do you see that pink dome over there by the river... What is it?’

  It was the dome of the Institute. Hélène looked and for a moment seemed to ponder. Then, gently, she said:

  ‘I don’t know, darling.’

  The little girl was satisfied with this answer, they fell silent again. But she soon had another question:

  ‘And over there, nearby, those lovely trees?’ — pointing to part of the Tuileries gardens.

  ‘Those lovely trees?’ said her mother softly. ‘On the left?... I don’t know, darling.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jeanne.

  Then after a thoughtful pause, she added, frowning:

  ‘We don’t know anything.’

  That was right, they knew nothing about Paris. For the last eighteen months they had looked at it at all times of the day, and yet could not recognize one stone of it. They had gone into the city on just three occasions, but had returned home, heads aching from the effort, and had not managed to find anything in the chaotic jumble of the quartiers.

  But Jeanne would sometimes insist.

  ‘Oh, please tell me!’ she begged. ‘Those windows that are all white?... It’s so big, surely you must know.’

  She pointed to the Palais de l’Industrie. Hélène hesitated.

  ‘It’s a station. No, I think it’s a theatre...’

  She smiled. She kissed Jeanne’s hair and made her usual reply:

  ‘I don’t know, darling.’

  Then they went on looking at Paris, no longer trying to work out what everything was. It was very peaceful, having the city there and being ignorant of it, an infinity, unknown to them. It was as if they had been halted on the threshold of a world whose eternal spectacle lay in front of them and they refused to enter. Paris often made them anxious when she sent them her warm and troubling vapours. But that morning she was gay and innocent as a child, in her mystery wafting across to them there was nothing but gentleness.

  Hélène took up her book again while Jeanne snuggled up close and continued to gaze. In the bright still sky there was not a breath of wind. The smoke from the Military Depot went straight up in wisps which rose high in the sky and disappeared. And along the tops of the houses, ripples passed over the city, throbbing with life, pulsating with all the life contained within it. The shrill voice of the streets took on a relaxed and happy note in the sunshine. But a noise attracted Jeanne’s attention. It was a flight of white pigeons, which had set off from some neighbouring loft and were crossing in front of the window. They filled the horizon, the fluttering snow of their wings obscured the immensity that was Paris.

  Looking up again, gazing into space, Hélène was in deep thought. She was the Lady Rowena, a noble soul, deeply and silently in love. This spring morning, this great, beloved city, these first scented wallflowers on her knees, were little by little melting her heart.

  Part Two

  Chapter 1

  One morning, Hélène was busy tidying her little bookcase, where for the last few days she had left the books in disarray, when Jeanne came in, jumping up and down and clapping her hands.

  ‘Maman,’ she cried, ‘a soldier! A soldier!’

  ‘A soldier? What do you mean, a soldier?’ the young woman asked.

  But the little girl was in one of her gay, exuberant moods; she jumped up and down even more, repeating: ‘A soldier! A soldier!’ without further explanation. Then, as she had left the door of her room open, Hélène got up and was astonished to catch sight of a little soldier in the hallway. Rosalie had gone out; Jeanne must have been playing on the landing despite it being strictly forbidden by her mother.

  ‘What do you want, my friend?’ asked Hélène.

  The little soldier, very uneasy at the appearance of such a beautiful lady in her white lace dressing gown, scuffed his foot on the wooden floor, bowed, and blurted out:

  ‘I’m sorry, excuse me...’

  And he could think of nothing more to say, but retreated, still shuffling, to the wall. Unable to find any more words and seeing that the lady, who couldn’t repress a smile, was waiting, he rummaged energetically in his right-hand pocket and took out a blue handkerchief, a knife, and a hunk of bread. He examined each object and shoved them back again. Then he tried the other pocket. In it was a bit of rope, two rusty nails, pictures wrapped in half a newspaper. He stuffed it all back again and tapped his legs with an anxious expression. And stuttered, terrified:

  ‘I’m sorry, excuse me.’

  But all of a sudden he placed one finger to his nose and burst out laughing. What a fool he was! Now he remembered. He undid two buttons on his greatcoat, and felt around in his chest, pushing his arm in as far as the elbow. Finally he got out a letter, and gave it a violent shake as if to get rid of the dust, before handing it over to Hélène.

  ‘A letter for me, are you sure?’ she asked.

  On the envelope was, indeed, her name and address in large unformed letters, with downstrokes that fell on top of one another like a row of dominoes. And as soon as she had managed to understand, halting at each line by the extraordinary turns of phrase and spelling, she smiled again. It was a letter from Rosalie’s aunt, who was sending Zéphyrin to her. He had been conscripted ‘in spite of the two Masses said for him by Monsieur le Curé’. So, given that Zéphyrin was in love with Rosalie, she begged Madame to allow the children to see each other on Sundays. This request was made over three pages, in the same terms, but more and more muddled, with a constant effort to express something which she wasn’t managing to articulate. But then, before signing, the aunt had seemed suddenly to hit on what she was trying to say, and had written: ‘Monsieur le Curé says it’s all right’, and splattering ink all over it as she pressed down hard with her pen.

  Hélène slowly folded the letter. While she was puzzling out what it could mean she had looked up two or three times to glance at the soldier. He was still standing against the wall and his lips were moving, he seemed to be emphasizing each phrase with a little movement of his chin. No doubt he knew the letter by heart.

  ‘So you are Zéphyrin Lacour?’ she said.

  He began to laugh, then wagged his head.

  ‘Come in, my friend, don’t stay out there.’

  He decided to follow her in, but when Hélène sat down he remained standing by the door. She had not been able to have a good look at him in the dark hall. He must have been exactly Rosalie’s height. A centimetre less and he would have not been in the army. Clean-shaven, and with his red hair cropped very short, he had a very round freckled face, with two piercing eyes thin as gimlet holes. His ne
w greatcoat, too big for him, made him look even rounder. And his legs akimbo in his red trousers, and swinging his képi with the wide peak in front of him, he was a funny and pathetic sight with his small, round face, and still the peasant beneath his army uniform. Hélène wanted to question him and find out some things about him.

  ‘Did you leave the Beauce a week ago?’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  ‘And now you are in Paris. Are you not unhappy about that?’

  ‘No, Madame.’

  He was emboldened, looking around the room, greatly impressed by the blue velvet furnishings.

  ‘Rosalie isn’t here,’ Hélène went on, ‘but she won’t be long. Her aunt tells me you are her good friend.’

  The little soldier didn’t answer. He bowed his head, laughing uncomfortably, and started scuffing the rug again with his foot.

  ‘So you are going to marry her when you finish in the army?’ continued the young woman.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, blushing red, ‘of course, I swear.’

  And won over by the kindly attitude of this lady, turning his képi round and round between his fingers, he decided to tell her everything.

  ‘Oh, I’ve known her a long time. When we were kids we went scrumping together. We got the stick a lot; that’s the truth. The Lacours and the Pichons lived next door to each other in the same street, you see. So Rosalie and I were brought up practically eating off the same plate... Then all her family died. Her Aunt Marguerite fed her, but my word, she was already as strong as an ox...’

  He stopped, feeling that he was getting excited, and he asked in a hesitant voice:

  ‘But maybe she’s told you all that?’

  ‘Yes, but tell me again,’ replied Hélène, amused by him.

  ‘Well then,’ he went on, ‘she was pretty strong, though no bigger than a sparrow; but she could do the business, you ought to have seen her! One day she slapped someone of my acquaintance, oh, indeed she did! Slap me she did! My arm was black and blue for a week. Yes, that’s how it was. Everybody in the neighbourhood had us married. We were hardly ten years old when we were going together, and we still are, Madame, we still are...’

  He put one hand on his heart, spreading out his fingers. But Hélène had become very grave again. The idea of letting a soldier into her household bothered her. Monsieur le Curé might well allow it, but she found it a little risky. In the country you are very free, lovers do as they please. She allowed her fears to show. When Zéphyrin had understood, he thought he would die laughing. But he held back, out of respect.

  ‘Oh Madame, oh Madame, I can see you don’t know what she’s like. She’s given me many a slap! Goodness, we lads like a laugh, don’t we? I used to pinch her bottom sometimes. Then she turns round and “whack!” straight on the snout! Her aunt used to say to her: “Listen, my girl, don’t let yourself be tickled, it’s unlucky.” The curé got involved too and perhaps that’s why we are still friends... We were supposed to get married after the drawing of the lots. Then, what do you know! Things didn’t go too well. Rosalie said she would go into service in Paris to earn enough for her dowry while she waited for me. So that’s the long and short of it!’

  He stood on one leg, then the other, passing his képi from right hand to left. But as Hélène didn’t say anything he thought she doubted his good faith. That wounded him. He cried fervently:

  ‘Mebbe you think I’ll cheat on her? I told you I’ve sworn to be true! I shall marry her, you see, as sure as eggs is eggs. And I’m ready to put my name to that. Yes, if you like I’ll sign a paper.’ His passion roused him. He walked around the room, looking for a pen and some ink. Hélène did her utmost to calm him down. He said again:

  ‘I’d rather sign a paper. Wouldn’t that be enough? You’ll trust me after that.’

  But at that moment Jeanne, who had again vanished, came dancing back, clapping her hands.

  ‘Rosalie! Rosalie, Rosalie!’ she sang, in a catchy little tune she had invented.

  And through the open door you could indeed hear the maid puffing as she climbed the stairs, laden with her basket. Zéphyrin withdrew into a corner; he laughed silently, a smile spread from ear to ear and his gimlet eyes glowed with a peasant’s mischievousness. Without further ado Rosalie came straight into the room as she was in the habit of doing, to show her mistress what she had bought that morning.

  ‘Madame,’ she said, ‘I’ve bought some cauliflowers. Look, two for eighteen sous, not dear!’

  She half-opened her basket when, looking up, she caught sight of Zéphyrin there chuckling. Flabbergasted, she was rooted to the spot. Two or three seconds elapsed before she recognized him beneath his uniform. Her round eyes widened, her little fat face paled, and her coarse black hair shook to and fro.

  ‘Oh,’ was all she could say.

  And, in her surprise, she let go her basket. The provisions fell to the floor, the cauliflowers, onions and apples. Jeanne uttered a cry of delight and threw herself down in the middle of the room, scrambling after the apples, even under the armchairs and the wardrobe with the mirror. Meanwhile Rosalie, still in a state of shock, did not move, but said over and over again:

  ‘What, you! What are you doing here? Tell me, what are you doing here?’

  She turned to Hélène and asked:

  ‘So was it you that let him in?’

  Zéphyrin did not speak, but made do with a wink and a mischievous smile. Then Rosalie’s eyes filled with tears of love and to show how happy she was to see him again, all she could do was make fun of him.

  ‘Oh, go on with you,’ she said. ‘What a sight you look in that get-up! I might have passed you by in the street and not even said “God bless you!” Just look at you! You look as if you’re wearing your sentry box. And they’ve given your head a real good shave, you look like the sacristan’s poodle. How ugly you are, God, you are a sight!’

  Zéphyrin, vexed, decided to open his mouth.

  ‘It’s not my fault, don’t blame me. You wouldn’t look any better if they sent you to the regiment.’

  They had quite forgotten where they were, the room, Hélène, and Jeanne, who was still picking up apples. The maid stood in front of the little soldier, hands clasped on her apron.

  ‘So is everything going all right back home?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, except the Guignards’ cow’s full of water, the quack came and told them she was full of water.’

  ‘If she’s full of water, there’s no hope for her. Apart from that, is everything all right?’

  ‘Oh yes, the beadle’s broken his arm, Old Canivet’s dead. Monsieur le Curé’s lost his purse, there were thirty sous in it, when he was coming back from Grandval. Otherwise everything’s good.’

  Then they stopped. They looked at one another with shining eyes, and their mouths puckered into an affectionate smile. That must have been their manner of embracing, for they hadn’t even shaken hands. But Rosalie suddenly came out of her daze and was upset to see her vegetables on the floor. What a mess! He made her do some fine things to be sure! Madame should have let him wait on the stairs. As she scolded him she bent down and put the apples, onions, cauliflowers into the bottom of her basket, much to Jeanne’s dismay, who did not want anyone to help her. And as Rosalie was returning to her kitchen without a backward glance at Zéphyrin, Hélène, won over by the quiet strength of the pair of lovers, kept her back to say:

  ‘Listen, Rosalie. Your aunt asked me to let this young man come and see you on Sundays... He can come in the afternoon and you must try not to let your work suffer too much.’

  Rosalie stopped and simply turned her head. She was really very pleased but still looked put out.

  ‘Oh, Madame, he’ll be bound to get under my feet!’ she cried.

  And over her shoulder she threw a glance at Zéphyrin and again made an affectionate face at him. The little soldier remained motionless for a moment, his half-open mouth suppressing a laugh. Then he backed out of the door, saying his thank-yous and placing his k
épi over his heart. The door had shut, but he was still taking his leave as he reached the landing.

  ‘Is that Rosalie’s brother?’ asked Jeanne.

  Hélène was very embarrassed by the question. She was sorry she had just given her consent to this, in that impulse of generosity, which had surprised herself. She reflected for a second or two and replied:

  ‘No, it’s her cousin.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the little girl solemnly.

  Rosalie’s kitchen looked out on to the garden of Doctor Deberle, full in the sun. In the summer the branches of the elms came in through the very wide window. It was the sunniest room in the apartment, extremely light and bright, so bright indeed that Rosalie had had to put up a blue cotton curtain, which she drew in the afternoons. All she complained about was the size of this kitchen, which was long and narrow, the oven on the right, a table and a sideboard on the left. But she had arranged the utensils and furniture so skilfully that she had made room near the window for some free space where she worked in the evenings. Keeping the saucepans, kettles, and plates in tip-top condition was a matter of pride for her. So when the sun appeared, the walls glittered splendidly, the copper pans threw out gold sparks, the round iron pans shone like dazzling silver moons, while the blue and white china tiles on the stove lent a paler note to this blaze of light.