A Love Story

by Emile Zola

  The following Saturday in the course of the evening, Hélène heard such a noise that she decided to see what was going on.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Are you having a fight with the furniture?’

  ‘I’m washing the floor, Madame,’ Rosalie replied, dishevelled and perspiring, crouching on the tiles and scrubbing as hard as her small arms could manage.

  It was finished, she was mopping. She had never cleaned her kitchen so thoroughly. A newly-wed could have slept there, everything was white, as for a wedding. The table and sideboard looked as if they had been planed down, she had worn out her fingers to such an extent. And the saucepans and pots arranged in their proper order of size were a sight to see, each one on its nail, even the frying pan and the grill pan shining without a spot of black on them. Hélène remained there for a moment, not speaking. Then she smiled and withdrew.

  Thereafter, every Saturday, Rosalie did the same amount of cleaning, four hours spent in dust and water. On Sundays she wanted to show Zéphyrin how cleanly she was. That was her ‘at home’ day. She would have been ashamed to see a spider’s web. When everything was shining she was in a good mood and began to sing. At three o’clock she was still washing her hands, and putting on a bonnet with ribbons. Then, pulling the cotton curtain halfway down so that the light was like that of a boudoir, in the middle of her tidy kitchen beautifully scented with thyme and laurel, she waited for Zéphyrin to arrive.

  Zéphyrin arrived at precisely half-past three. He had been walking up and down the street until the half-hour chimed on the clocks all around. Rosalie listened to the sound of his shoes clumping up the stairs, and opened the door when he paused on the landing. She had forbidden him to touch the bell-pull. Each time the same words were exchanged:

  ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’

  And they stayed there, their noses touching, eyes sparkling and mouths pursed. Then Zéphyrin followed Rosalie in, but she stopped him before she had taken off his shako and his sword. She didn’t want them in her kitchen, she hid the sword and the shako at the back of a cupboard. Then she sat her lover down near the window in the place she had prepared and did not let him move.

  ‘Behave yourself, you can watch me prepare Madame’s dinner, if you like.’

  But he almost never arrived empty-handed. Usually he had spent the morning with his comrades in the woods of Meudon, trailing around on interminable walks, drinking in the fresh air at his leisure, vaguely nostalgic for home. To keep his hands busy, he cut sticks, sharpened them, decorated them as he walked along with all kinds of curlicues; and he would slow down even more, stop near the fortifications, his shako tipped back, his eyes fixed on his knife carving the wood. Then, as he couldn’t bring himself to throw his sticks away, he brought them to Rosalie in the afternoon, who took them off him, protesting a little, because it made the kitchen dirty. The truth was that she made a collection of them. Under her bed she had a bundle, of different lengths and designs.

  One day he arrived with a nest full of eggs that he had put in the bottom of his shako under his handkerchief. He said an omelette made of birds’ eggs was really delicious. Rosalie threw the disgusting things away but kept the nest, which went to join the sticks. In any case his pockets were always full to bursting. He took out strange things from them, translucent pebbles, found on the banks of the Seine, old iron objects, wild berries which were drying, unidentifiable bits and pieces that the rag and bone men didn’t want. Above all he liked pictures. Along the road he collected wrapping papers of chocolate or soap on which there were negroes and palm trees, belly dancers or bunches of roses. Old tins with blonde and rapturous ladies on the lids, polished engravings and silver paper from apple sugar jettisoned in the fairs round about were among his precious finds and made him swell with happiness. All this booty disappeared into his pockets. He wrapped the best pieces in a sheet of newspaper. And on Sundays whenever Rosalie had a minute to spare between a sauce and a roast, he showed her these pictures. She could have them if she liked. But since the paper wrapped around them wasn’t always clean, he cut out the pictures, which he greatly enjoyed doing. Rosalie got annoyed, shreds of paper fluttered up into her dishes, and the peasant cunning he employed, the lengths he went to to get hold of her scissors had to be seen to be believed. Sometimes she gave them to him impatiently, to be rid of him.

  Meanwhile a roux sauce was bubbling in a pan, Rosalie was watching the sauce, wielding a wooden spoon, while Zéphyrin, his shoulders looking wider because of the red epaulettes, bent over and cut out his pictures. He was so closely shaven, you could see his bare head. And his yellow collar gaped at the back, revealing his sunburnt neck. For an entire quarter of an hour neither would speak. When Zéphyrin raised his head, he watched Rosalie with the deepest interest as she took some flour, chopped up parsley and seasoned the dish with salt and pepper. Then he would utter the odd word.

  ‘Hmm! Smells good!’

  The cook, in the middle of her cooking, did not deign to answer immediately. After a long silence she said:

  ‘It has to simmer, you see.’

  And their conversations went no further than that. They did not even talk any more about where they came from. When they were reminded of something, they only had to say one word to understand each other, and laughed inwardly for the rest of the afternoon. That was enough for them. By the time Rosalie showed Zéphyrin the door, they had enjoyed each other’s company enormously.

  ‘Right, time you went. I am going to serve up Madame’s dinner.’

  She gave him back his shako and his sword, pushed him away and served Madame, her flushed cheeks betraying her pleasure, while he, swinging his arms, went back to the barracks with his nostrils still tingling with the sweet scents of thyme and bay.

  For the first few times Hélène thought she should keep an eye on them. She sometimes arrived without warning to give her orders. But she always found Zéphyrin in his place between the table and the window near the clay water tank which obliged him to keep his legs tucked under him. As soon as Madame appeared, he got up as if he were presenting arms and remained standing. If Madame spoke to him he answered with only respectful greetings and mutterings. Little by little Hélène was reassured, noticing that she was never in their way and that in the patience of their love they were never perturbed.

  Rosalie seemed at that time a lot sharper than Zéphyrin. She had already spent some months in Paris, so was becoming more savvy, although she only knew three streets, the Rue de Passy, the Rue Franklin, and the Rue Vineuse. He, in his regiment, was still a bumpkin. She insisted to Madame that they were ‘coarsening’ him; for where he came from, of course, he’d been smarter than that. It was the fault of the uniform, she claimed. All the boys who ended up as soldiers became stupid as could be. It was true, Zéphyrin, his head turned by this new existence, had the round eyes and the gawkiness of a goose. Beneath his epaulettes he was still stolid like a countryman, the barracks had not yet taught him the fine phrases or the swaggering manner of the Parisian infantryman. Oh, Madame need not worry! He was not a man to lark about.

  So Rosalie was maternal towards him. She lectured Zéphyrin while roasting meat on the spit, gave him good advice about the terrible dangers he must avoid. And he obeyed, giving a vigorous nod to each piece of advice. Every Sunday he had to swear to her he had been to Mass and had said his prayers dutifully morning and night. She exhorted him to be cleanly, brushed his coat when he left, sewed a button tighter on his jacket, and looked him over from top to toe, to see that nothing was out of place. She worried about his health as well and suggested remedies for all sorts of maladies. Zéphyrin, grateful for all her little kindnesses, offered to fill her water tank. For quite some time she refused, fearing he might spill the water. But one day he brought up the two pails without letting so much as a drop fall on the stairs; and from then on, he it was who filled it on Sundays. He did other jobs for her, all the heavy ones, and would go and get butter from the grocer’s if she
had forgotten to buy any. Eventually he even helped with the cooking. First he peeled the vegetables. Later she allowed him to cut them up. After six weeks he did not make the sauces, but he watched over them, wooden spoon in hand. Rosalie had made him her assistant and sometimes burst out laughing to see him in his red trousers and yellow collar in action in front of the stove, a tea towel over his arm like a kitchen boy.

  One Sunday, Hélène came into the kitchen. Her slippers muffled the sound of her steps, she stayed outside the door without either the maid or the soldier hearing her. In his corner, Zéphyrin was at the table in front of a steaming bowl of soup. Rosalie, who had her back to the door, was cutting long pieces of bread to dip in the soup.

  ‘Come on, eat up, my dear!’ she said. ‘You do too much walking, that’s why you are empty. Here, have you got enough? Do you want some more?’

  And she brooded over him, with an expression of loving concern. He was bent squarely over his bowl, swallowing a piece of bread with every mouthful. His yellow-freckled face was reddening in the steam that bathed it. He muttered:

  ‘Well, this is good stuff, sure enough! Whatever do you put in it?’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she went on, ‘if you like leeks...’

  But as she turned round she caught sight of Madame. She uttered a little cry. Both were turned to stone. Then Rosalie started to apologize and the words came flooding out.

  ‘It’s my share, Madame. Oh, believe you me... I wouldn’t have had a second helping, it’s God’s truth! I told him: “If you want my share of the soup I’ll give it you.” Well, say something, you, you know quite well that’s what happened...’

  And worried by the silence of her mistress, thinking her cross, she went on in a broken voice:

  ‘He was dying of hunger, Madame. He stole a raw carrot from me... They don’t feed them properly! And imagine, Madame, he walked such a long way up the river, I don’t know where. You would have said yourself: “Rosalie, give him some soup.” ’

  Then Hélène, looking at the little soldier, there with his mouth full, not daring to swallow, could not be stern with him. She answered gently:

  ‘Well, my dear, when he’s hungry you must let him stay for dinner, that’s all. I give you permission.’

  Seeing the two of them, she had felt her heart melt, as it had once before, making her forget to be strict. They were so happy in this kitchen! The cotton curtain, half-pulled down, let in the setting sun. On the back wall the copper pans were blazing, lighting up the darkening room with rosy reflections. And there in that golden shadow, their two small round faces were visible, quiet and clear as moons. Their love had a calm certainty about it, it was entirely in keeping with the order and beauty of the kitchen utensils. The good smells from the stove made them relax, their appetites were sharpened and their hearts nourished.

  ‘Tell me, Maman,’ said Jeanne that evening, after pondering the matter at some length. ‘Rosalie’s cousin doesn’t ever kiss her, why is that?’

  ‘And why should they kiss each other?’ Hélène replied. ‘They’ll kiss on their wedding day.’

  Chapter 2

  After the soup that Tuesday Hélène looked up and remarked:

  ‘It’s pouring down, can you hear? My dear friends, you’ll be soaked this evening.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just a drop or two,’ said the abbé quietly. His old soutane was already damp on the shoulders.

  ‘I’ve got a good little way to go,’ said Monsieur Rambaud, ‘but I’ll walk back all the same. I enjoy that and besides I have an umbrella.’

  Jeanne was thoughtful, and was solemnly contemplating her last spoonful of vermicelli. Then she said slowly:

  ‘Rosalie was saying you wouldn’t come because of the bad weather... Maman said you would... You are really nice, you always do come.’

  Around the table everyone smiled. Hélène nodded affectionately in the direction of the two brothers. Outside the thudding rain did not cease and sudden gusts of wind rattled the blinds. Winter seemed to be back. Rosalie had carefully drawn the red rep curtain. Amidst the battering of the strong winds, there was a delightful atmosphere of loving intimacy in the little dining room, all its doors tight shut, and lit by the tranquil beam of the white pendant light. On the mahogany sideboard the china reflected its quiet glow. And in this peaceful ambience the four talked in a leisurely fashion around a table where all was just as it should be, and waited for the maid to put in an appearance.

  ‘Oh, you were waiting for me! Never mind!’ said Rosalie, unceremoniously, coming in with a dish. ‘It’s grilled fillets of sole for Monsieur Rambaud, and they don’t need cooking till the last minute.’

  Monsieur Rambaud pretended to love his food, to amuse Jeanne and to please Rosalie, who was very proud of her talents as a cook. He turned to her, saying:

  ‘Tell me, what have you got for us today? You always bring us treats when I’m no longer hungry.’

  ‘Oh,’ she replied. ‘There are three dishes, as usual; no more, no less. After the sole fillets, you are going to have lamb and brussel sprouts... that’s all, I swear.’

  But Monsieur Rambaud was looking at Jeanne out of the corner of his eyes. The little girl enjoyed that, stifling her merriment behind her hands, shaking her head as much as to say that the maid was fibbing. Then he clicked his tongue doubtfully and Rosalie pretended to get cross.

  ‘You don’t believe me,’ she said, ‘because Mademoiselle is laughing... Well, you can rely upon it, if you don’t eat your fill, you’ll see if you don’t have to have something else to eat when you go back home.’

  When the maid had gone, Jeanne, in fits of laughter, was itching to say something.

  ‘You do love your food,’ she began; ‘I went into the kitchen...’

  But she broke off.

  ‘Oh no, we mustn’t tell him, must we, Maman? It’s nothing, nothing at all. I was only laughing to catch you out.’

  This scene was replayed every Tuesday with always the same success. Hélène was touched by the good humour with which Monsieur Rambaud lent himself to this game, for she was well aware that he had once lived, with Provençal frugality, on anchovies and a dozen olives a day. As for Abbé Jouve, he was never aware of what he was eating. They often even teased him about this and his absent-mindedness. Jeanne watched him with glowing eyes. When they had been served, she said to the priest:

  ‘The whiting’s delicious!’

  ‘Delicious, my pet,’ he murmured. ‘Oh yes, it’s whiting. I thought it was turbot.’

  And as everyone was laughing, he naively asked why Rosalie, who had just come in, seemed very hurt. Well, where she came from, the priest knew his food. He could tell how old a chicken was, to the nearest week, just by carving it. He didn’t need to go into the kitchen to know in advance what was for dinner, he could smell what it was going to be. Goodness, if she had been in the service of a priest like Monsieur l’Abbé she wouldn’t even know now how to cook an omelette. And the priest apologized in an embarrassed way as if the absolute lack of any appreciation of good food was a fault he was desperate to correct. But in reality he had a lot of other things on his mind.

  ‘This is a joint of lamb,’ declared Rosalie, putting the lamb on the table.

  Everyone started to laugh again, Abbé Jouve was the first. He thrust out his large head, winking his little eyes.

  ‘Yes that’s definitely a leg of lamb,’ he said. ‘I think I should have known that.’

  In fact that day the abbé was more distracted than usual. He ate quickly with the haste of someone who doesn’t care what is placed in front of him, and who eats standing up when he’s at home. Then he waited for the others, absorbed in his own thoughts, just smiling in reply to what was said. Every minute he threw a glance of both encouragement and anxiety at his brother. Monsieur Rambaud did not seem to be his usual calm self either; his anxiety expressed itself in the need to talk and to fidget on his chair, which was not natural to a man normally so thoughtful. After the brussel sprouts, there was
a silence, as Rosalie was slow in bringing the dessert. Outside, torrents of rain, even louder now, were beating at the house. In the dining room they found the air rather stuffy. Then Hélène realized that the atmosphere had changed, that there was something between the two brothers they were not saying. She looked at them in some concern and finally said:

  ‘Goodness me, what dreadful rain!... Is it bothering you? You both seem to be rather troubled about something?’

  But they said no, they hastened to reassure her. And as Rosalie arrived carrying a huge dish, Monsieur Rambaud cried, to hide his feelings:

  ‘What did I tell you! Another treat!’

  The treat that day was a vanilla cream, one of the cook’s specialities. The wide smile with which she put it on the table, without a word, was something to be seen. Jeanne clapped her hands, saying over and over:

  ‘I knew it, I knew it! I saw the eggs in the kitchen.’

  ‘But I’m not hungry any more!’ said Monsieur Rambaud, desperately. ‘I can’t possibly eat any.’

  Then Rosalie’s face fell, and she was full of repressed resentment. But she simply said, in a dignified voice:

  ‘What! A cream I made for you! Well, just try to stop yourself eating any! Yes, just you try!’

  He resigned himself, and took a large helping of the cream. The abbé remained distracted. He rolled up his napkin, got up before the dessert was over, as he often did. He walked around for a moment, his head on one side. Then, when Hélène in her turn left the table, he threw Monsieur Rambaud a meaningful glance and took the young woman into the bedroom. Behind them, through the door which had been left open, the measured tone of their voices could be heard almost immediately, without the words being audible.