by Emile Zola
At other times there were visits. These were a delight to Madame Deberle. Since Easter she had finished having her ‘Saturdays’ as was right and proper at this time of the year. But she was fearful of solitude, and thrilled when people came to call on her informally in her garden. Her chief preoccupation on those occasions was the choosing of the seaside resort where she would spend the month of August. With each visitor she began the same discussion again. She explained that her husband would not go with her to the seaside; then she questioned everyone, could not decide. It wasn’t for her sake, it was for Lucien’s. When the handsome Malignon arrived, he straddled a rustic chair. He hated the country. You had to be mad to leave Paris on the pretext of going to catch cold on the edge of the ocean. Yet he discussed beaches. They were all unhealthy, and he declared that apart from Trouville there were absolutely none anywhere near clean. Each day Hélène heard the same discussion without growing tired of it, even contented with the monotony of her days, which soothed her and sent her to sleep with one thought in mind. At the end of the month, Madame Deberle still did not know where she was going.
One evening as Hélène was leaving, Juliette said:
‘I have to go out tomorrow, but don’t let that prevent you from coming down. Wait there for me, I shan’t be late.’
Hélène accepted. She spent a delightful afternoon alone in the garden. Above her head she could hear nothing but the sparrows’ wings fluttering in the trees. All the charm of this sunny little spot entered into her. And from that day, her happiest afternoons were those when her friend left her on her own.
Relations between her and the Deberles grew steadily stronger. She dined with them, was invited at the last minute, as a close friend, to eat with them. When she was sitting late under the elms and Pierre came out on to the steps saying dinner was ready, Juliette begged her to stay and sometimes she agreed. These were family meals, enlivened by the noise of the children. Doctor Deberle and Hélène appeared to be good friends of a reasonable, rather cool, disposition, who liked one another. So Juliette often cried:
‘Oh, you’d get on very well together... But it exasperates me that you are so quiet!’
Every afternoon the doctor came back from his visits at about six o’clock. He would find the women in the garden and sit down next to them. At first Hélène had said she would leave straight away, to let husband and wife be together. But Juliette had become so cross at her sudden departure that now she stayed. She found herself included in the domestic life of this family, which always seemed so united. When the doctor arrived, his wife, with the same friendly gesture, always offered her cheek to be kissed, and he kissed it. Then as Lucien seized hold of his legs, he helped him climb up and took him on his lap, chatting the while. The child closed his mouth with his little hands, pulled his hair in the middle of a sentence, behaved so badly that in the end he put him down and told him to go and play with Jeanne. And Hélène smiled at their games, looking up from her sewing for a moment in order to quietly encompass the father, mother, and little boy. The husband’s kiss caused her not the slightest embarrassment, and she found Lucien’s mischievous ways endearing. You would have supposed she was basking in their serene domesticity.
Meanwhile the sun was setting, yellowing the highest branches. Peace descended from the pale sky. Juliette, who loved to ask questions, even of people she did not know at all well, bombarded her husband with enquiries, often not waiting to hear his answers.
‘Where did you go? What have you been doing?’
Then he would tell her about the visits he’d made, somebody he’d met, give her some information about a fabric or piece of furniture seen in a shop window. And often, as he talked, his eyes met Hélène’s. Neither turned away. They looked straight at one another, serious for a moment, as though they were able to read each other’s hearts. Then they smiled, eyelids slightly closed. The nervous gaiety of Juliette, which she masked with a studied languorousness, did not let them chat for long, for the young woman interrupted all conversation. Yet they did exchange some words, slow banalities which seemed to take on a deeper meaning, reaching beyond the sound of their own voices. Every time they uttered a word they gave a little nod of approval as if all their thoughts were shared. It was an absolute understanding, intimate, issuing from the depths of their being, growing stronger even in the silences. Sometimes Juliette ceased her prattling, slightly ashamed of always talking so much.
‘You are not enjoying yourself, are you?’ she said. ‘We are speaking about things you are not at all interested in.’
‘No, don’t pay any attention to me,’ Hélène answered brightly. ‘I am never bored... It makes me happy to listen and not talk.’
She was not lying. It was during those long silences that she most enjoyed being there. Head bowed over her needlework, looking up from time to time to exchange those long glances with the doctor that connected them to each other, she was happy to be enfolded in the privacy of her own emotions. She now admitted to herself that there was a secret feeling between them, something very precious that was all the sweeter because no one in the world shared it with them. But she kept her secret with composure and without shame, for no bad feelings troubled her. How lovely he was with his wife and his child! She loved him even more when he tossed Lucien up in the air and kissed Juliette on the cheek. Ever since she had seen him in his home surroundings their friendship had grown. Now she was one of the family, she didn’t think they would ever be apart. And inwardly she called him Henri, quite naturally through hearing Juliette call him that. Her lips would form the word ‘Monsieur’ but her whole being echoed ‘Henri’.
One day the doctor found Hélène under the elm trees. Juliette went out almost every afternoon.
‘Oh, is my wife not here?’ he asked.
‘No, she has abandoned me,’ she laughed. ‘But you have come back earlier, you know.’
The children were playing at the other end of the garden. He sat down beside her. Their closeness did not bother them at all. For more than an hour they chatted about a multitude of things, without for a moment wishing to allude to the loving feeling which filled their hearts. What was the point of talking about that? Did they not already know what they would have said to each other? All that was necessary to their pleasure was to be together, to agree on everything, to enjoy their carefree reclusion in that very place where he kissed his wife every evening in her presence. That day he teased her about her industriousness.
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I don’t even know what colour your eyes are, you keep them on your needle the whole time.’
She lifted her head and gazed at him as she usually did, right in the eyes.
‘Are you teasing me by any chance?’ she asked softly.
But he went on:
‘Oh, they are grey, grey with a fleck of blue. Is that right?’
That was all they dared say, but these words, the first that came to mind, were infused with infinite sweetness. Often after that day he found her on her own in the twilight. In spite of themselves, all unawares, their familiarity grew. Their voices changed and contained tender inflexions which they did not have when in company. And yet, when Juliette arrived with her feverish chatter after shopping in Paris, they were not embarrassed by her, they were able to continue the conversation they had begun without having to worry or move their seats further apart. It seemed that this beautiful spring, the garden where the lilacs were in bloom, made the first delights of their passion last longer.
Towards the end of the month Madame Deberle was all agog with a great plan. She had suddenly conceived the idea of having a children’s party. The season was well advanced but this idea obsessed her so much, she straight away threw herself into preparing for it with her usual frenzy. She wanted to put on something quite out of the ordinary. It should be a fancy-dress ball. Then that was all she talked about, at home, in other people’s houses, everywhere. In the garden there were endless conversations. Malignon found the plan a bit ‘silly’ b
ut he deigned to take an interest and promised to bring along a singer of comic songs whom he knew. One afternoon when everybody was down under the trees, Juliette was pondering the all-important question of Lucien’s and Jeanne’s costumes.
‘I can’t decide,’ she said. ‘I thought perhaps a Pierrot in white satin.’
‘Oh, everyone does that,’ said Malignon. ‘You’ll have at least a dozen Pierrots at your ball... Wait, we must think of something more original.’
And he began to think hard, sucking the knob on his cane. Pauline, arriving, cried:
‘I want to go as a soubrette...’
‘You!’ said Madame Deberle, taken aback. ‘But you’re not going to dress up! Do you think you are a child, you silly? You will do me the pleasure of wearing a white frock.’
‘Well, I should have enjoyed that,’ said Pauline, who, in spite of being eighteen and having womanly curves, loved to romp around with very small children.
Hélène meanwhile was doing her needlework at the foot of a tree, looking up now and then to smile at the doctor and Monsieur Rambaud who were standing in front of her, chatting.
Monsieur Rambaud had ended up becoming very friendly with the Deberles.
‘And what about Jeanne,’ enquired the doctor. ‘What will you dress her as?’
But his question was interrupted by an exclamation from Malignon:
‘I’ve got it!... A Louis XV marquis!’
And he twirled his cane, with a look of triumph. Then as nobody present seemed to get excited by the idea he looked very surprised.
‘What? Don’t you understand? Lucien is entertaining his little guests, isn’t he? Well, so you position him at the door to the drawing room dressed as a marquis with a large bouquet of roses beside him and he bows to the ladies.’
‘But we shall have dozens of marquises,’ Juliette objected.
‘What difference does that make?’ said Malignon calmly. The more marquises, the funnier it will be. I tell you it’s a wonderful idea... The master of the house has to be dressed as a marquis, otherwise your ball will be a disaster.’
He seemed so convinced, that before long Juliette got very enthusiastic about the idea too. It was true that dressed as the Marquis de Pompadour in white satin, with little sprigs of flowers, he would be charming.
‘And what about Jeanne?’ the doctor asked again.
The little girl had come over and was leaning affectionately on her mother’s shoulder, as she was so fond of doing. As Hélène was about to say something, she murmured:
‘Oh Maman, you know what you promised?’
‘What?’ asked those around her.
So, while her daughter threw her a pleading look, Hélène replied with a smile:
‘Jeanne doesn’t want to tell what she will wear.’
‘That’s right!’ cried the little girl. ‘When you tell people what you are going to wear, you don’t create an effect at all.’
This coquettish remark made them all laugh for a moment. Monsieur Rambaud started to joke with her. Jeanne had been sulky with him for some time and the poor man, desperate, not knowing how to get back in his little friend’s good graces, had begun to tease her, to bring her round to liking him again. He said several times, looking at her:
‘I shall tell, I shall tell...’
The little girl had gone very pale. Her sweet little worried face grew hard and angry, her brow was furrowed and her chin tensed and protruding.
‘You are not to say anything,’ she stammered. And wildly, as he still looked as though he was going to tell everyone, she flung herself at him, shouting:
‘Be quiet, I tell you, be quiet! I tell you!’
Hélène had not had time to intervene and stop her burst of temper, one of those blind outbursts that shook the little girl so violently. She admonished her:
‘Jeanne, be careful, or I shall have to smack you.’
But Jeanne wasn’t listening. Trembling all over, stumbling, choking, she repeated: ‘I tell you, I tell you!’ in a voice that was more and more hoarse and broken; and with clenched hands she took hold of Monsieur Rambaud’s arm and was twisting it with extraordinary strength. Hélène threatened her in vain. Then, unable to control her with sternness, and very distressed by this public display, she made do with murmuring softly:
‘Jeanne, you are making me very sad.’
The child immediately let go and turned round. And when she saw her mother’s unhappy face with her eyes full of unshed tears, she burst out crying and threw her arms round her neck, stammering:
‘No, Maman, no, Maman...’
She placed her hands over her mother’s face to stop her crying. Her mother slowly put her from her. Then, broken-hearted, not knowing what she was doing, the little girl dropped on to a seat a few steps away and cried all the more. Lucien, to whom she was always being held up as an example, looked at her, surprised and in a way pleased. And as Hélène was folding up her needlework and apologizing for such a scene, Juliette said that for heaven’s sake, children ought to be forgiven everything; the little girl was after all very good-natured and the poor little love was so upset that she had already been punished more than enough. She called her over to embrace her, but Jeanne, refusing to be forgiven, remained on her bench convulsed with tears.
Meanwhile Monsieur Rambaud and the doctor had gone over to her. The former leaned down and asked in his kind, concerned voice:
‘Come, darling, why are you so cross? What have I done?’
‘You wanted to take Maman away from me,’ said the child, spreading out her hands and showing him her desolated face.
The doctor, who was listening, began to laugh. Monsieur Rambaud did not understand at first.
‘What are you saying?’
‘Yes, yes, the Tuesday before last... You know very well, you got down on your knees and asked me what I would say if you lived in our house.’
The doctor’s smile faded. His pale lips trembled slightly. But a blush had spread over Monsieur Rambaud’s cheeks, and he stammered, in a low voice:
‘But you said we would always play together.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t realize,’ the little girl went on violently. ‘I don’t want to, do you hear? Don’t ever speak of it again, and we can be friends.’
Hélène, standing up with her needlework in her bag, had heard these last words.
‘Come on, Jeanne, let’s go,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to annoy people by crying.’
She said goodbye, pushing the little girl in front of her. The doctor, very pale, was staring at her. Monsieur Rambaud was in a state of consternation. As for Madame Deberle and Pauline, with the help of Malignon, they had caught hold of Lucien and were turning him round between them, having an animated discussion about how his Marquis de Pompadour costume would look on his little shoulders.
The next day Hélène was by herself under the elm trees. Madame Deberle, rushing here and there with her preparations, had taken Lucien and Jeanne with her. When the doctor got home, earlier than usual, he went quickly down the steps, but did not sit down, he walked round the young woman, pulling bits of bark off the trees. She glanced at him for a second, unnerved by his agitated behaviour.
‘The weather is worsening,’ she said, embarrassed by the silence. ‘It’s almost cold this afternoon.’
‘It’s only April,’ he murmured, making an effort to keep his voice level.
He seemed to want to go. But he came over and asked her abruptly:
‘So are you getting married?’
This brutal question took her by surprise and made her drop her needlework. She went very white. In a superb effort of will she managed to keep her unruffled countenance, looking at him with wide eyes. She didn’t answer and he pleaded with her:
‘Oh, tell me, just tell me, are you getting married?’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ she finally answered in icy tones. ‘What is it to you?’
He threw up his hands and shouted:
‘But that’s impossibl
e!’
‘Why?’ she responded, her eyes fixed on him.
Then, beneath that gaze that choked back the words on the tip of his tongue, he was forced to stop talking. He remained there a moment longer, putting his hands to his head. Then, as he was filled with emotion and afraid he might do something violent, he went away, while she pretended to take up her needlework again, unconcerned.
But the charm of these precious afternoons had been broken. He tried in vain next day to be affectionate and respectful, but Hélène looked uncomfortable as soon as she was alone with him. There was no longer that pleasant informality, that carefree trust which let them be together without worrying, just enjoying the pure delight of each other’s company. Despite the care he took not to frighten her, he would look at her sometimes, and a sudden shudder would go through him, his face reddening. She too had lost her lovely repose. She trembled all over, languished, her hands were weak and idle. All sorts of angry feelings and desires seemed to have been aroused in them.
Hélène got to the point of not wanting Jeanne to be away from her. The doctor found she was there between them all the time, watching them with her big, limpid eyes. But the thing that Hélène simply could not bear was feeling embarrassed now in Madame Deberle’s company. When she came back, her hair flying in the wind, and called her ‘my dear’, telling her about her errands, she no longer listened with her usual cheerful calm. A storm was beginning to rage in the depths of her being, feelings she did not want to analyse. Shame and resentment played a part in it. But then her honest nature was dismayed. She held out her hand to Juliette but could not repress a physical shiver when she touched the warm hands of her friend. Meanwhile the weather had worsened. Heavy showers forced the ladies to take refuge in the Japanese pavilion. The garden, beautifully clean and tidy, had become a lake, and you did not dare walk on the paths for fear of bringing the dirt in on the soles of your shoes. When a ray of light shone through between two clouds, the sodden greenery dried its leaves, the lilacs had pearls hanging on each of their little florets. Under the elms large raindrops fell.