by Emile Zola
‘You don’t love me any more, you don’t love me!’
‘Be quiet my angel, don’t say that,’ cried her mother. ‘I love you more than anything else in the world. You’ll see if I love you!’
She tended her till morning, resolved to pour out all her love on her, horrified to see her own love have such painful repercussions on this dear creature. Her daughter was living her love. The next day she demanded a consultation. Doctor Bodin came, as if he were just dropping in, and examined the invalid, listened to her chest, joking the while. Then he had a long conversation with Doctor Deberle, who had remained in the room next door. Both were in agreement that her present condition wasn’t serious, but they were afraid of complications, they questioned Hélène for a long time, feeling they had before them one of those nervous conditions which run in families and are disconcerting for medical science. Then she told them what they already partly knew, about her grandmother shut away in the asylum in Les Tulettes, some kilometres from Plassans, her mother’s sudden death from galloping consumption after a life of derangement and nervous crises. She herself took after her father, whom she resembled, and whose equilibrium she had inherited. Jeanne, on the other hand, was the spitting image of her grandmother; but she was frailer, she would never have her stature or her strong bony build. The two doctors said again that they had to manage it carefully. One could not take too many precautions with these chloro-anaemic infections, which are the breeding ground for so many cruel illnesses.
Henri had listened to old Doctor Bodin with a deference that he had never shown before for a colleague. He consulted him about Jeanne with the expression of a student who is unsure of himself. The truth was that he was very nervous dealing with this child; she eluded his scientific knowledge, he was afraid of killing her and losing her mother. A week went by. Hélène did not let him into the sickroom any more. So, cut to the quick and ill himself, he stopped coming to visit.
Towards the end of the month of August, Jeanne was finally able to get up and walk around the apartment. She laughed in relief. She had not had an attack for a fortnight. Her mother whom she had to herself, always at her side, had been enough to cure her. At first the child was still suspicious, eager for kisses, worried about what she was doing, demanded that she held her hand when she went to sleep, and wanted her to stay there while she slept. Then when she saw that no one else was visiting, that she didn’t have to share her, she regained confidence, happy at beginning their old life again, both of them alone, working in front of the window. Every day she became more pink-cheeked. Rosalie said you could watch her blooming.
However, on certain evenings when night fell, Hélène let her emotions show. Ever since her daughter’s illness she had remained serious, a little pale, her forehead lined as never before. And when Jeanne saw one of these moments of weariness, one of those desperate, empty moments, she herself felt very unhappy, her heart heavy with a vague remorse. Gently, without saying anything, she put her arms around her neck. Then she whispered:
‘Are you happy, Maman?’
Hélène started. She replied hastily:
‘Yes of course, my love.’
The child insisted:
‘Are you happy, are you happy, are you sure?’
‘Sure. Why do you think I’m not?’
Then Jeanne squeezed her tight in her little arms, as though to reward her. She wanted to love her so much, she said, that you could not find a mother so happy in the whole of Paris.
Chapter 4
In August Doctor Deberle’s garden was like a verdant leafy well. The branches of the lilac and laburnum intertwined against the railing while the climbers, the ivies, the honeysuckle, the clematis, put out endless shoots in all directions, sliding, tangling, cascading down, growing into the elms at the bottom after running along the walls; and it looked as though an awning were draped there from one tree to the next, the elms rising like great pillars of dense foliage out of a room of greenery. This garden was so small that the least bit of shade covered it. In the centre the midday sun made a single splash of yellow, emphasizing the shape of the round lawn, with its two large tubs of flowers on either side. By the flight of steps there was a large rose bush, with hundreds of large tea roses in bloom. In the evening when the heat was lessening, their perfume became penetrating, the hot scent of roses heavy under the elms. And nothing was more delightful than this secret place, so fragrant and hidden away from the neighbours, and which made you imagine a virgin forest, while barrel organs played polkas outside in the Rue Vineuse.
‘Madame,’ Rosalie enquired every day, ‘why doesn’t Mademoiselle go down into the garden? She would be really comfortable under the trees.’
Rosalie’s kitchen was invaded by the branches of one of the young elms. She plucked the leaves off with her hands, she took enormous pleasure in this colossal bouquet, behind which nothing was visible. But Hélène replied:
‘She’s not strong enough yet, the coolness of the shade might harm her.’
But Rosalie held her ground. When she thought she had a good idea, she did not easily let it go. Madame was wrong to suppose the shade would be bad for her. It was rather that Madame was afraid of imposing; but she was wrong, Mademoiselle would surely not be in anybody’s way, for there wasn’t a soul there. The gentleman did not go there any more, the lady was supposed to be staying at the seaside until the middle of September. It was indeed true — the concierge had asked Zéphyrin to do some raking in the garden, and for the last two Sundays Zéphyrin and she had spent the afternoon there. Oh, it was so pretty, you wouldn’t believe it!
Hélène still refused. Jeanne seemed to have a burning desire to go into the garden, which she had often mentioned when she was ill; but a strange feeling, a sort of embarrassment which caused her to lower her eyes, seemed to prevent her from insisting to her mother that she go. Finally the following Sunday, the maid came in, saying breathlessly:
‘Oh, Madame, nobody’s there, I swear. There’s only me, and Zéphyrin raking... Let her go down. You can’t imagine how nice it is. Come down and see, just for a little while.’
And she was so insistent that Hélène gave in. She wrapped Jeanne up in a shawl and told Rosalie to take a big rug. The child, quietly thrilled, with a silent delight that was only visible in her large shining eyes, wanted to go down the stairs unaided to prove how strong she was. Behind her came her mother, hands outstretched ready to support her. Once down, when they stepped into the garden, they both uttered a cry. They did not recognize it, this impenetrable thicket bore so little resemblance to the tidy, bourgeois garden they had seen in the spring.
‘I told you so!’ Rosalie crowed.
The flower beds had grown out, labyrinth-like, narrowing the paths, and your skirts caught against them as you walked. You would have thought it was the edge of a distant wood beneath the canopy of foliage which cast a green light, sweet and mysterious. Hélène sought the elm tree at whose foot she had sat in April.
‘But I don’t want to sit there,’ she said. ‘It’s too cold in the shade.’
‘Just wait,’ said the maid. ‘You’ll see.’
In a few paces they had walked through the wood. And there in the middle of the greenery, on the grass, they found some sun, a wide, golden light which fell, warm and silent, like in a clearing. When you looked up you could see only branches, delicate as lace, against the blue cloth of the sky. The tea roses of the great rose bush, wilting a little in the heat, were bending sleepily on their stems. In the pots, red and white daisies, of traditional tones, looked like pieces of ancient tapestry.
‘You’ll see,’ repeated Rosalie. ‘Leave it to me, I’ll see to it.’
She had folded and spread the rug on the edge of a path just where the shade stopped. Then she sat Jeanne down, her shoulders covered by a shawl, telling her to stretch her little legs out. Like that, the child had her head in the shade and her feet in the sun.
‘Are you all right, darling?’ Hélène asked.
&nbs
p; ‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘I’m not cold. I feel as if I am warming myself by a big fire... Oh, how good it is to breathe the fresh air!’ Then Hélène, who was looking anxiously at the closed shutters of the large house, said she would go back for a moment. And she issued all sorts of injunctions to Rosalie: to be careful of the sun, to let her stay there no more than half an hour, to watch her constantly.
‘Don’t worry, Maman,’ cried the little girl, laughing. ‘There are no cabs going past here.’
When she was left alone, she picked up handfuls of gravel, next to her, playing at letting them trickle like rain from one hand to the other. Meanwhile Zéphyrin was raking. Seeing Madame and Mademoiselle, he had been quick to put on his cap again, which he’d hung on a branch; and he stood there, having stopped his raking out of respect. For the whole duration of Jeanne’s illness he had come every Sunday; but he slipped into the kitchen so gingerly that Hélène would never have suspected he was there had it not been for Rosalie asking for news on his behalf, adding that he shared in the worries of the household.
He was learning a few manners, she said, he was polishing himself up a treat in Paris. So, leaning on his rake, he nodded at her sympathetically. When she saw that, she smiled.
‘I’ve been very poorly,’ she said.
‘I know, Mademoiselle,’ he replied, putting his hand to his heart.
Then he tried to find something kind to say, a joke to cheer her up. And he added:
‘Your health was asleep, you see. Now it’s woken up and will start chirping like a cricket!’
Jeanne took another handful of gravel. Then, pleased with himself, and laughing silently with a smile that split his face from ear to ear, he began to rake again, as hard as he could. The rake made a regular, scraping noise on the gravel. After a few minutes Rosalie, who saw the little girl was calm and happy and absorbed in her game, gradually moved away as though drawn by the scratching of the rake. Zéphyrin was on the other side of the lawn, in full sun.
‘You are sweating like a pig,’ she said to him in a low voice. ‘Take off your cap. Mademoiselle won’t be offended, go on with you!’
He took off his cap and again hung it on a branch. His red trousers, held at the waist by a strap, came up very high, while his shirt of coarse grey calico tied at the neck by a horsehair collar was so stiff that it stuck out and made him look even rounder. He rolled up his sleeves as he swaggered about, wanting to show off to Rosalie the two scarlet hearts that he’d had tattooed in the regiment with this motto: For ever.
‘Did you go to Mass this morning?’ enquired Rosalie, who put him through the same interrogation each Sunday.
‘To Mass, to Mass,’ he repeated with a chuckle.
His two red ears stuck out from under his hair which was shaved very short, and his whole round little person gave off an air that was deeply sardonic.
‘Of course I went to Mass,’ he finally brought out.
‘You are telling fibs!’ Rosalie shouted at him. ‘I can see you are lying, your nose is twitching. Oh, Zéphyrin, you are a lost soul, you haven’t any religion now. Be careful!’
His only answer was to make a gallant grab for her waist. But she was scandalized, crying:
‘I’ll make you put your cap on again if you don’t behave yourself. You should be ashamed! Mademoiselle is watching you.’
Then Zéphyrin went on raking harder than ever. In fact Jeanne had looked up. She was rather bored with her game; after the gravel she had picked leaves and pulled out grasses; but she was feeling very lazy, it was more fun not doing anything, looking at the sun that was creeping over her. A little while ago only her legs up to the knees were soaking in this hot bath of sunshine; now it had come up to her waist and was getting hotter, she could feel it caressing her more and more, tickling her agreeably. What she liked most were the round spots of a beautiful golden yellow dancing on her shawl. They looked like little insects. And she threw back her head to see if they would crawl over her face. In the meantime she had clasped her two little hands together in the sunshine. How thin they looked! How transparent! The sun shone right through them, but she thought they were pretty just the same, pink like shells, fine and slim like Jesus’ tiny hands. The fresh air, these great trees around her, this heat made her feel rather heady. She thought she must be asleep and yet she could see and hear. It was very good, very pleasant.
‘Mademoiselle, supposing you move back a little,’ said Rosalie, who had returned. ‘You are getting too hot in the sun.’
But Jeanne refused to move. She was fine there. At that moment it was the maid and the little soldier who interested her, she was indulging in one of those fits of curiosity about things that adults hide from children. Slyly she lowered her eyes, wanting to make them think she wasn’t looking; but between her long eyelashes she was watching them, while pretending to be dozing.
Rosalie stayed there a few minutes more. She could not resist the noise of the rake. She joined Zéphyrin again, one step at a time, as though she couldn’t help herself. She grumbled at him about the new airs he was putting on. But to tell the truth she was fascinated by him, her heart was full of silent admiration. In his long walks with his comrades in the Jardin des Plantes and the Place du Château d’Eau where his barracks were, the little soldier was acquiring the accomplishments and flowery manners of the Parisian infantryman. He was learning the rhetoric, the gallantries, the mannerisms which women find so attractive. Sometimes she couldn’t speak for pleasure and swelled with pride when she heard him saying things with a swagger of his shoulders, using words she did not understand. He no longer felt constrained by the uniform: he threw his arms around wildly, so fearlessly it seemed they might drop off; and especially he had a way of wearing his shako on the back of his neck, which revealed his round face, his protruding nose, while his shako gently bobbed up and down on the rolling of his body. Then he conquered his inhibitions, drank a drop or two of brandy, showed off his manhood. He chuckled with innuendo, he definitely knew more about life than she did now. Paris was making him too clever by half. And she stood facing him, delighted and furious at the same time, hesitating between the twin urges to scratch him or allow him to flirt with her.
Meanwhile as he raked, Zéphyrin had turned down another path. He was behind a huge spindleberry bush, glancing sideways at Rosalie, while he seemed to be drawing her gradually nearer, with each movement of his rake. When she was very near he pinched her bottom...
‘Don’t scream, it’s ’cos I love you!’ he growled. ‘And here’s another one!’
He kissed her ear carelessly. Then, as Rosalie in her turn pinched him as hard as she could, he planted another kiss, this time on her nose. She blushed scarlet, deep down very happy, though exasperated that she couldn’t slap him because of Mademoiselle.
‘I got pricked,’ she said coming back to Jeanne, by way of explanation for the little scream.
But the child had seen what happened through the thin branches of the spindleberry. The soldier’s red trousers and shirt made a vivid splash of colour amongst the greenery. She raised her eyes slowly to Rosalie, looked at her for a moment as she blushed redder still, her lips damp and her hair awry. Then she lowered her eyelids again, picked up another handful of gravel, but did not have the strength to play. And she remained with her hands in the warm earth, sleepy, the sun beating down on her. Waves of well-being entered her and took her breath away. The trees seemed to her gigantic and powerful, the roses drowned her with their perfume. She was surprised and delighted, as vague thoughts ran through her head.
‘Whatever are you thinking about, Mademoiselle?’ Rosalie was worried.
‘Oh, nothing, I don’t know,’ said Jeanne. ‘Oh yes, I know. I was thinking I’d like to live till I’m very old...’
And she could not explain why she said that. It was just something that came into her head. But in the evening after dinner as she was still dreamy and her mother questioned her, she suddenly asked:
‘Maman, do boy and girl cou
sins get married?’
‘Yes, they do,’ said Hélène. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Nothing, I just wanted to know.’
Hélène was used to these extraordinary questions in any case. The child was so much restored by her hour spent in the garden that she went down whenever it was a sunny day. Hélène’s reservations gradually vanished. The house remained shut up, Henri did not appear, she had ended up sitting down next to Jeanne on a piece of the rug. But the following Sunday she was worried when she saw the windows open in the morning.
‘Oh, they’re just airing up the rooms,’ said Rosalie, trying to persuade her to go down. ‘I tell you nobody’s there!’
That day was hotter still. Showers of golden arrows pierced the leaves. Jeanne, who was beginning to regain her strength, walked for nearly ten minutes leaning on her mother’s arm. Then, fatigued, she came back to sit on the rug, making room on it for Hélène. They exchanged smiles, amused to see each other on the ground like that. Zéphyrin, having finished his raking, was helping Rosalie cut bunches of parsley, which was growing wild along the wall at the bottom.
Suddenly a loud noise could be heard in the house. And just as Hélène was thinking of going, Madame Deberle appeared on the steps. She arrived in her travelling costume, talking loudly, very full of arrangements. But when she caught sight of Madame Grandjean and her daughter sitting on the ground at the front of the lawn, she rushed out, overwhelming them with kisses and a profusion of words.
‘What, are you there? Oh, how pleased I am to see you! Give me a kiss, Jeanne. You have been really poorly, haven’t you, my poor darling? But you are better now, you have some colour in your cheeks. I’ve thought of you such a lot, my dear! I wrote, did you get my letters? You must have been through some terrible times. Well, it’s over now... May I give you a kiss?’