by Emile Zola
It was a fatal passion, she had to admit, and Hélène was helpless to defend herself against it. She felt at the end of her strength in the struggle with her heart. Henri could take her, she would surrender. Then she felt a boundless happiness in the fact that she was not fighting it any more. Why should she go on refusing him? Had she not waited long enough? The memory of her past life filled her with scorn and anger. How had she been able to go on living in that state of indifference she was once so proud of? She saw herself as a young girl again, in Marseilles, Rue des Petites-Maries, in that street where she had always been shivering with cold. She saw herself as a married woman, cold as ice in front of that overgrown child who kissed her bare feet, and as housewife, immersing herself in domestic concerns, by way of escape. She saw herself at every stage of her life, walking steadily along the same path, her peace and quiet undisturbed by any passion; but now this regularity, this slumbering of love in her life, exasperated her. To think that she had considered herself happy, proceeding in that lack of all feeling for thirty years, having nothing to fill the void in her heart but the pride of being a respectable woman! Oh, how hypocritical this inflexibility, those scruples of respectability, which confined her within the fruitless pleasures of a nunnery! No, she had had enough, she wanted to live! And she turned in angry contempt against her reason. Her reason! In truth she pitied it, this reason, which in a life that had already lasted quite some while, had not given her anything like the joy she had experienced for the last hour. She had denied she would fall, she had flattered herself foolishly, thinking she would be able to reach the end without even stumbling. Well, now today she was begging for the fall, she wanted it to be immediate and profound. Her revolt boiled down to this one imperious desire. Oh, to disappear in an embrace, to live in one minute all that she had not lived up till now!
Yet deep down a great sorrow was making her weep. It felt tight inside, a sensation of black nothingness. Then she argued her case. Was she not free? Loving Henri, she wasn’t being unfaithful to anyone, she could do what she wanted with his affections. So wasn’t it excusable because of all this? What had her life been like these last two years? She realized that everything had conspired to render her more docile and ready for passion, her widowhood, her total freedom, her solitude. Passion must have been smouldering in her during those long evenings she spent with her two old friends, the priest and his brother, those simple men whose calm serenity soothed her. It smouldered when she sequestered herself so thoroughly from the world, as Paris rumbled away on the horizon; it smouldered each time she leaned on the windowsill, in a trance, such as she was unaware of in the old days, and which was gradually making her so weak. And she remembered something, that bright spring morning when the city was white and clear as if in a crystal, a Paris fair and fresh as a child, which she had so lazily contemplated as she stretched out on her chaise longue, her book fallen into her lap. That morning, love was awakening; it was no more than a thrill she couldn’t put a name to and against which she considered herself very strong. Today she was sitting in the same place, but passion was triumphant and devouring her, while before her eyes, in the setting sun the city caught fire. It seemed to her that it had only taken one day, that this was the evening of the same day, the crimson evening after the bright morning, and she felt that all those flames were burning in her heart.
But the sky had changed. The radiant sun, going down over the hills of Meudon, had just chased the last clouds away. A glory* flamed across the blue sky. On the far horizon, the landslip of chalk rocks that blocked distant Charenton and Choisy-le-Roi was heaped now with carmine blocks edged with bright lacquer; the flotilla of little clouds sailing slowly through the blue sky over Paris was covered now with veils of crimson; while the fine web, the net of white silk stretched over Montmartre, unexpectedly appeared to be made of gold braid, its neat stitches about to catch the rising stars. And beneath this flaming arch spread out the golden city, with its big dark stripes. Down below on the vast square and along the avenues the cabs and omnibuses passed one another in the middle of an orange cloud, amongst the crowd of pedestrians, whose ant-like blackness was lessened and lit up by drops of light. Students from the seminary in a line of soutanes, moving rapidly in serried ranks along the Quai de Billy, made a flash of yellow ochre in the diffuse brightness. Then the cabs and the pedestrians vanished, far away you could only guess at a line of carriages, with gleaming lamps, on some bridge or other. On the left the tall chimneys of the Military Depot, pink and straight, loosed thick swirls of pale smoke of a delicate fleshy hue; while on the other side of the river the beautiful elms along the Quai d’Orsay formed a dark clump, with gaps where the sun pierced through. Between the banks of the Seine, threaded by glancing rays of sunshine, little waves danced together in blue, yellow, and green before they broke apart in a scattering of many colours. But as you looked back up the river this agglomeration of colour, like an oriental seascape, assumed a single gold hue that became ever more dazzling. And there on the horizon it might have been an ingot taken out of some invisible crucible, getting gradually bigger with a mixture of bright colours as it cooled. On this shining river the staggered bridges with their slender, tapering curves cast rods of grey before disappearing in a burning pile of houses, over which the twin towers of Notre-Dame shone red like torches. To right and left the monuments were on fire. The glass of the Palais de l’Industrie in the middle of the trees on the Champs-Élysées was a bed of smouldering embers; a little further off behind the crushed roof of the Madeleine, the immense form of the Opéra looked like a block of copper; and the other buildings, the cupolas and towers, the Vendôme column, Saint-Vincent-de-Paul, and nearer, the wings of the new Louvre and Tuileries were crowned with flames, raising gigantic pyres at every intersection of the streets. The Dôme des Invalides was ablaze, and so bright you would think it was going to collapse at any moment, covering the quartier with sparks from its wooden frame.
Beyond the irregular towers of Saint-Sulpice, the Panthéon stood out on the skyline with a subdued glow like a royal palace of fire about to be burnt to cinders. Then the whole of Paris was lit up at the pyres of monuments as the sun went down. Flickers of light gleamed on the tops of roofs, while black smoke slumbered down below in the dips. All the façades which faced towards the Trocadéro were reddening, their glass sending out showers of sparks, which rose from the city as though some bellows were ceaselessly firing up that colossal forge. Fountains of light, constantly renewing themselves, escaped from the neighbouring quartiers in the hollows of the dark, burnt streets. Even on the far plain, from beyond the rusty embers that buried the ruined faubourgs, which were still hot, the odd rocket, shooting up from some suddenly reignited fire, blazed.
Soon it was a furnace. Paris burned. The sky had grown more crimson, the clouds bled over the huge red and gold city.
Hélène, immersed in these flames and giving herself up to the passion which was devouring her, was watching Paris blaze when a little hand on her shoulder made her start. It was Jeanne.
‘Maman, Maman!’
And when she turned round:
‘Oh, that’s good!... Couldn’t you hear me? I called you ten times.’
The little girl, still in her Japanese lady costume, had shining eyes and cheeks that were all flushed with pleasure. She did not allow her mother time to reply.
‘You left me all alone... We looked everywhere for you afterwards, you know. If it hadn’t been for Pauline who came with me to the foot of the stairs I would not have dared cross the street.’
And with a sweet little gesture she put her face to her mother’s lips and asked immediately:
‘Do you love me?’
Hélène kissed her on the lips, but as though thinking of something else. She was surprised, seemed impatient that she had come home so soon. Was it really an hour since she had escaped from the ball? And in answer to the child’s worried questions, she said that she had indeed felt a little unwell. The fresh air did her good.
She needed a bit of peace and quiet.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m really tired,’ said Jeanne quietly. ‘I’ll stay here and be a good girl. But Mother, I may talk, mayn’t I?’
She snuggled up to Hélène, pressing against her, pleased that she wasn’t having to take off her costume straight away. Her dress embroidered in crimson, her greenish silk petticoat, pleased her enormously. And she nodded her fine head to hear her chignon tapping against the pendants of the long pins that were in it. Then a flood of words came rushing from her lips. Despite looking a bit foolish and out of her depth, she had observed, heard, and remembered everything. Now she was compensating for having been so well behaved, so tight-lipped and apparently unconcerned.
‘Do you know, Maman, it was an old man with a grey beard who was pulling Punch’s strings. I could see clearly when the curtain went up... The little Guiraud boy was crying. He’s so silly, isn’t he! So they told him that the policeman would come and put water in his soup and they had to take him away he was screaming so much... It was like at teatime, Marguerite got her milkmaid costume all spotted with jam. Her mother wiped her, shouting: “Oh, what a dirty girl!” Marguerite had got some in her hair even. I didn’t say anything but it was really funny to see them grab the cakes. They are not polite are they, Mother?’
She broke off for a few seconds, absorbed by remembering something; then she asked thoughtfully:
‘Maman, by the way, did you have any of those cakes that were yellow and had white cream inside? Oh, they were so delicious! I kept the plate near me the whole time.’
Hélène was not listening to this childish babble. But Jeanne was talking to ease her head which was too full. She started again with an extraordinary wealth of detail about the ball. The least little action took on an enormous importance.
‘Didn’t you notice, at the beginning, that my belt came undone? A lady I didn’t know put a pin in it for me. I said to her: “Thank you, Madame.” Then when Lucien was dancing, he pricked himself. He asked me: “What have you got on your front that pricked me?” I didn’t know, I answered that I didn’t have anything. It was Pauline who came and fixed the pin... But you wouldn’t believe it, Maman! Everyone was pushing and shoving and a stupid great boy banged into Sophie’s bottom and she nearly fell over. The Levasseur girls were jumping up and down. You just don’t dance like that, do you? But the best bit was the last, you weren’t there, you don’t know what it was like. We all linked arms and danced in a circle, we were dying of laughter. There were grown men dancing round too. It’s true, cross my heart! Don’t you believe what I’m saying, Mother?’
In the end Hélène’s silence made her cross. She pressed against her harder and shook her hand. Then, seeing she was only managing to extract the odd word, she gradually fell silent herself, slipping into a daze at the thought of this ball that so preoccupied her young heart. Then both of them, mother and daughter, said nothing more, looking out at the blaze that was Paris. It was as unknowable as ever, lit up like that by blood-red clouds, just like some city of legend expiating its passion beneath a rain of fire.
‘Did you dance in a round?’ Hélène suddenly asked, coming to with a start.
‘Yes, yes,’ murmured Jeanne. It was her turn to be rapt.
‘What about the doctor? Did he dance?’
‘Yes, of course, he went round with me... He lifted me up and kept asking me: “Where is your Maman? Where is your Maman?” Then he kissed me.’
Hélène was unaware that she was smiling. She laughed at these signs of his affection. Why did she need to know Henri? It seemed to her sweeter not to know, never to know, but just accept him as the man she had so long been waiting for. Why be surprised or worried? He had crossed her path at the right moment in her life. That was good. Her open nature accepted it all. She felt a sense of calm at the thought that she loved and was loved in return. And she promised herself she would have the courage not to spoil her happiness.
But night was coming, a cold wind was blowing. Jeanne, lost in her own thoughts, shivered. She put her head on her mother’s breast; and, as if the question had been part of her deepest contemplations, she murmured again:
‘Do you love me?’
Then Hélène, still smiling, took her head in both hands and seemed to study her face a moment. Then she let her lips linger a long time above a little pink mark on her mouth. She could tell that it was there that Henri had kissed the little girl.
The dark line of hills in Meudon was already cutting across the moonlike disc of the sun. Over Paris the glancing rays had now lengthened. The shadow of the Dôme des Invalides, immeasurably increased, was drowning all of the Quartier Saint-Germain, while the Opéra, the Tour Saint-Jacques, the columns and the spires, were black strips on the Right Bank. The lines of the façades, the dips of the streets, the raised islands of roofs were burning with less intensity. In the darkened windows the bright little sparks were dying, as if the houses had become embers. Distant bells tolled, a clamour, and then all was quiet. And the sky, wider as evening approached, spread its crimson cloth veined with gold and mauve in an arc round the burning city. Suddenly there was another terrifying incandescence, Paris made one last flamboyant gesture, which lit up even the farthest faubourgs. Then grey ash seemed to fall, and the quartiers remained, insubstantial and black, like burnt-out coals.
Part Three
Chapter 1
One morning in May, Rosalie came rushing out of her kitchen still holding a dishcloth in her hand. And speaking as if she were a member of the family:
‘Oh, Madame, come quickly... Monsieur l’Abbé’s down in the doctor’s garden digging around in the earth!’
Hélène did not move. But Jeanne had already run to the window to have a look.
When she came back she cried:
‘Rosalie’s so silly! He isn’t digging around in the earth at all. He’s with the gardener who’s putting plants into a little cart... Madame Deberle is cutting all her roses...’
‘It must be for the church,’ said Hélène quietly, very busy with her tapestry.
A few minutes later there was a ring on the doorbell and Abbé Jouve appeared. He had come to tell them not to expect him the following Tuesday. His evenings were all taken up with the celebrations for the Month of Mary. The curé had made him responsible for decorating the church. It would be superb. All the ladies were giving him flowers. He was expecting two palm trees four metres high to put on the right and left of the altar.
‘Oh, Maman... Maman...’, murmured Jeanne, who was listening, entranced.
‘Well, my friend, that’s all right,’ said Hélène, smiling, ‘since you can’t come to us, we’ll come and pay you a visit... You have quite turned Jeanne’s head with all your talk of flowers.’
She was scarcely religious at all, and never even went to Mass, on the pretext of the poor health of her daughter, who always came out of churches shivering. The old priest avoided speaking about religion to her. He would simply say, with good-natured tolerance, that beautiful souls achieve their own salvation by their wise behaviour and their good deeds. One day God would certainly lay His hand upon them.
All Jeanne could think about till the following evening was the Month of Mary. She questioned her mother, dreamed of the church filled with white roses, thousands of candles, heavenly voices, and sweet scents. And she wanted to sit near the altar so that she could see the Virgin’s lacy dress, a dress which was worth a fortune according to the priest. But Hélène calmed her down by threatening not to take her if she made herself ill beforehand.
After dinner in the evening they finally left. The nights were still fresh. As they reached the Rue de l’Annonciation where the church of Notre-Dame-de-Grâce was, the child was shivering.
‘The church is heated,’ her mother said. ‘We’ll sit near a vent.’
She pushed open the padded door, which fell back with a soft thud, and they were enveloped by warmth, a bright light dazzled them, and hymns rang out. The service had begun. Seei
ng the central nave already full, Hélène tried to go down one of the side aisles. But she had the most dreadful difficulty getting near the altar. She was holding Jeanne’s hand and patiently moving forward; but then she gave up and took the first two free seats which came along. A pillar hid half the choir.
‘I can’t see anything, Maman,’ the little girl whispered sadly. ‘We are in very bad seats.’
Hélène made her be quiet. Then the child began to sulk. All she could see in front of her was an old lady’s enormous back. When her mother turned her head, she saw she was standing on her chair.
‘Get down!’ she admonished in a whisper. ‘You’re impossible.’
But Jeanne would not.
‘Listen Maman, that’s Madame Deberle. She’s over there waving to us.’
The young woman was very cross and showed her annoyance. She gave the little girl, who was still refusing to sit down, a shake. For the last three days since the ball, she had avoided going back to the doctor’s, giving as her excuse that she was extremely busy.
‘Maman,’ Jeanne went on with a childish obstinacy, ‘she’s looking at you, she’s saying hello.’
So Hélène was obliged to turn her head and acknowledge her. The two women exchanged a nod. Madame Deberle in a silk dress covered with stripes, embroidered with white lace, occupied the central nave, right near the choir, very smart and very much in evidence. She had brought her sister Pauline, who began to gesticulate wildly. The hymns continued, the congregation’s voice spread through a descending scale while the high-pitched notes of the children could occasionally be heard above the long-drawn-out cadence of the canticle.