A Love Story

by Emile Zola

  There was a ring on the doorbell and the sound of voices on the landing. Hélène was wiping her tears away when Rosalie came in.

  ‘It’s Doctor Deberle, Madame.’

  ‘I don’t want to see him.’

  ‘He’s asking for news of Mademoiselle.’

  ‘Tell him she’s dying.’

  The door had remained open and Henri heard.

  Then, without waiting for the maidservant, he went downstairs. Every day he went up to the apartment, received the same answer, and went away again.

  But it was the visits that broke Hélène’s heart. The few ladies she had got to know at the Deberles felt they should come to express their sympathy. Madame de Chermette, Madame Levasseur, Madame de Guiraud, among others, arrived. They did not insist on coming in, but questioned Rosalie so loudly that the sound of their voices came through the thin walls of the little apartment. Then, her impatience getting the upper hand, Hélène received them standing in the dining room, without saying much. She wore her dressing gown all day, forgetting to change her linen, her lovely hair simply twisted up at the back. Her eyes in her flushed face kept closing through tiredness, her sour breath, furred mouth could no longer find any words. When Juliette came up, she could not very well forbid her to come into the bedroom, but let her sit briefly next to the bed.

  ‘My dear,’ said Juliette one day in a friendly fashion. ‘You are letting yourself go. You must be brave.’

  And Hélène was forced to answer, while Juliette tried to take her mind off it by discussing the things people were talking about in Paris.

  ‘We are definitely going to war, you know. I am very worried. I’ve got two cousins who will go and fight.’

  She came up like that when she returned from her shopping trips across Paris, animated from a whole afternoon’s chatting, brushing into this quiet sickroom with a whirl of her long skirts; and it was no use her keeping her voice down and putting on a sympathetic expression, her radiant indifference shone through, you could see that she was happy and triumphant that she herself was in good health. Hélène, worn-out and dejected, suffered jealous torments when Juliette was there.

  ‘Madame,’ whispered Jeanne one evening, ‘why doesn’t Lucien come and play with me?’

  After a moment’s embarrassment, Juliette made do with a smile.

  ‘Is he ill as well?’ asked the little girl.

  ‘No, darling, he’s not ill. He’s at school.’

  And as Hélène went out on to the landing with her, she tried to explain her lie.

  ‘Oh, I would certainly bring him, I know it’s not contagious. But children get scared so quickly and Lucien is so silly! He might well burst into tears when he saw your poor little angel.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you are quite right,’ Hélène interrupted, heartbroken at the thought that this happy woman had her healthy child at home.

  A second week went by. The illness ran its course, every hour it carried away a little of Jeanne’s life. At a terrifying speed, but without hurry, moving through all its predictable phases, sparing her none, it was destroying her frail and adorable body. The spitting of blood had disappeared; occasionally the coughing stopped. The child was crushed under the weight of the illness and you could keep track of the damage it was doing in that little chest by her difficulty breathing. It was too hard for such weakness; the eyes of both the priest and Monsieur Rambaud filled with tears when they heard her. Day and night the sound of her breathing could be heard from behind the curtain; the poor little creature who, it seemed, might have been extinguished by the merest touch, sweated and laboured and could not finish dying. Her exhausted mother, unable to bear the noise of her rattling breath any more, went into the room next door and leaned her head against a wall.

  Jeanne was becoming more and more remote from the world. She could no longer recognize anyone, she wore the expression of a person drowned, lost, as if she was already living in some place apart. When the people around her wanted to attract her attention and said who they were so that she would recognize them, she gazed at them unsmilingly, then turned to face the wall with an air of weariness. A shadow had descended on her, and she was leaving the world in a state of anxious brooding like that of the bad days of her jealousy. Yet in her sickness she might still be made alert by some whim. One morning she asked her mother:

  ‘Is it Sunday today?’

  ‘No, my love,’ Hélène replied. ‘It’s only Friday. Why do you ask?’

  She no longer seemed to know what question she had asked. But two days later when Rosalie was in the bedroom, she said in a little voice:

  ‘It’s Sunday. Zéphyrin is here — ask him to come.’

  The maid hesitated, but Hélène, who had overheard, made a sign to her that it was all right. The child repeated:

  ‘Bring him here, both of you come, it would make me happy.’

  When Rosalie came in with Zéphyrin, she raised herself on her pillow. The little soldier, bareheaded, spreading his hands, shuffled uneasily back and forth to hide his emotion. He was fond of Mademoiselle and was truly upset to see her ‘with her back to the wall’, as he said in the kitchen. So in spite of Rosalie’s injunctions — she had told him to be cheery — he stood there foolishly and his face fell when he saw she was so pale and nothing but skin and bones. For all his swagger, his was a sensitive soul. He could not bring to mind a single one of the fine phrases he had acquired of late. The maid, standing behind him, pinched him to make him laugh. But he only managed to stammer out:

  ‘I am sorry... Mademoiselle, friends...’

  Jeanne was still raised on her thin arms. She opened her big vacant eyes, she seemed to be searching for something. Her head trembled, no doubt the bright light blinded her in the shadows into which she was already sinking.

  ‘Come over here, my dear,’ said Hélène to the soldier. ‘Mademoiselle wants to see you.’

  The sun was coming through the window, creating a wide patch of yellow in which the dust from the rug was dancing. March had arrived, outside the spring was coming into life. Zéphyrin took a step forward into the sunshine. His little round freckled face had the golden hue of ripe corn, while the buttons on his tunic glinted and his red trousers looked like a blood-red field of poppies. Then Jeanne saw him. But her eyes again grew worried, uncertain, moving from one to the other.

  ‘What do you want, my love?’ asked her mother. ‘Everybody’s here.’

  Then she realized.

  ‘Rosalie, come over here... Mademoiselle wants to see you.’

  Rosalie in her turn moved forward into the sunlight. She was wearing a bonnet with the ribbons thrown back over her shoulders, flying out like the wings of a butterfly. A golden dust fell on to her coarse black hair and honest face with its squashed nose and thick lips. And they had become the only ones in that room, the little soldier and the cook, standing side by side in the rays of the sun. Jeanne looked at them.

  ‘Well, darling,’ Hélène said, ‘aren’t you going to speak to them? They are both here.’

  Jeanne looked at them, her head shaking with the slight tremor of a very old woman. There they were, like husband and wife, ready to return arm in arm to their village. The mild air of springtime warmed them and, wanting to cheer up Mademoiselle, they ended up laughing together in a simple, loving way. Around their strong shoulders was an aura of rude health. Had they been on their own, it was certain that Zéphyrin would have seized hold of Rosalie and would have received a good slap from her. You could tell from the way they looked at each other.

  ‘Well, darling, have you nothing to say to them?’

  Jeanne looked at them, more choked than ever. She said nothing. Suddenly she burst into tears. Zéphyrin and Rosalie had to leave the room forthwith.

  ‘I am sorry..., Mademoiselle... friends...’, repeated the little soldier, aghast, on his way out.

  And that was one of Jeanne’s last caprices. She fell into a sombre mood and nothing could draw her out of it. She detached herself f
rom everything, including her mother. When the latter leaned over her bed to look closely at her, the child’s face was blank as if only the shadow of the curtains passed before her eyes. She was silent, in the black resignation of someone who has been totally abandoned and who feels death is near. At times she remained with her eyelids half-closed and from her half-shut lids nobody could guess at the unrelenting thought that absorbed her. Nothing existed for her any more, with the exception of her big doll lying beside her. They had given it to her one night to distract her from her unbearable suffering, and she refused to give it back, she protected it fiercely as soon as they tried to take it from her. The doll, its cardboard head on the bolster, was lying there like a sick person with the blanket up around her shoulders. No doubt the little girl looked after her, for from time to time she touched the pink limbs, torn away and emptied of their bran stuffing, with her feverish hands. For hours on end her eyes did not leave the doll’s constant fixed enamel stare, the white teeth which did not stop smiling. Then she would be overcome with love for her, and feel the need to clutch her to her breast and lean her cheek against the little mop of hair, which seemed to comfort her when she touched it. And so she took refuge in the love of her big doll, making sure when she emerged from her sleepy state that she was still there, seeing nothing but her, chatting to her, sometimes with the shadow of a smile on her face as though the doll had whispered words in her ear.

  It was nearing the end of the third week. The old doctor came and sat down by her one morning. Hélène understood it meant that her daughter would not last the day. Since the day before, she had been in a stupor, not even conscious of what she did. Now they were not fighting for the child’s life, they were counting the hours. As the sick girl was suffering from a burning thirst, the doctor had recommended just giving her a drink laced with opiates to make her dying easier. And this abandoning of any remedy unbalanced Hélène’s mind. As long as there were potions lying on the bedside table, she still hoped for a miracle cure. Now that the vials and tins were no longer there, her last shred of faith vanished. All she felt was the instinct to be near to Jeanne, not to leave her, to watch over her. The doctor, who wanted to take her away from this terrible vigil, tried to induce her to leave her daughter, tasking her with little jobs. But she came back, drawn to her, with the physical need to see her. Straight-backed, with her arms to her sides, in a despair which made her face puff up, she waited.

  Towards one o’clock Abbé Jouve and Monsieur Rambaud arrived. The doctor went to meet them and whispered to them. Both turned pale. They stood there, horror-stricken. And their hands trembled. Hélène had not turned her head.

  The day was splendid, one of those sunny afternoons in the first few days of April. Jeanne was tossing and turning in her bed. The thirst which devoured her now and then caused painful little movements of her lips. She put her poor little translucent hands outside the blanket and was waving them gently to and fro in the air. The unseen work of the malady was over, she did not cough, her faint voice was nothing but a breath. She turned her head a moment, searching for the light. Doctor Bodin opened the window wide. Then Jeanne was quiet and rested her cheek on the pillow, her eyes towards Paris, her laboured breathing growing slower and slower.

  During those three weeks of pain, her face had often turned towards the city spread out along the far horizon. Her expression became grave and thoughtful. At this last hour, Paris smiled in the pale April sun. From outside came the warm breeze, children’s laughter, the chirping of sparrows. And the dying girl made a last supreme effort to still see, to follow the spirals of smoke which rose from the distant faubourgs. She could make out the three monuments she knew, the Invalides, the Panthéon, the Tour Saint-Jacques; then the unknown began, her lids half closed before this vast sea of roofs. Perhaps she dreamed that she was gradually becoming very light and flying away like a bird. Well, she would soon know, she would land on the domes and the spires, after seven or eight beats of her wings she would see the forbidden things they don’t let children know about. But again she became agitated, her hands reached out once more, and she was only quiet again when she held her big doll in her little arms against her breast. She wanted to take her with her. Her gaze vanished into the distance, amongst the chimney-tops that glowed pink in the sun.

  It had just struck four, the blue shadows of evening were already falling. The end had come, a slow, still, suffocating death. The little angel had no more strength for the fight. Monsieur Rambaud, defeated, collapsed on to his knees, shaken by silent sobs, crouched behind a curtain to hide his grief. The abbé knelt down at the bedside, his hands together, gabbling the prayers for the dying.

  ‘Jeanne, Jeanne,’ whispered Hélène, ice-cold with a terror that blew a cold draught through her hair.

  She had pushed the doctor aside, thrown herself on the floor, leant over the bed to look closely at her daughter. Jeanne opened her eyes but did not look at her mother. Her eyes still went over to vanishing Paris. She squeezed her doll tighter, her last love. A huge sigh swelled her chest, then came two lighter sighs. Her eyes paled, and briefly her face expressed a terrible anguish. But soon she seemed relieved as she breathed her last, her mouth open.

  ‘It’s over,’ said the doctor, taking her hand.

  Jeanne was looking at Paris with her big, unseeing eyes. Her fawn-like face grew longer still, and sterner, a grey shadow spread down under the frowning eyebrows. And so too in death her face was the pallid face of a jealous woman. The doll with her head hanging back, her hair falling down, seemed, like her, to be dead.

  ‘It’s over,’ said the doctor, relinquishing the cold little hand.

  Hélène, her features strained, pressed her fists against her forehead as if she feared her head might burst open. She did not weep, she looked wildly about her. Then a sob caught in her throat. She had just spied a small pair of shoes, forgotten at the foot of the bed. It was over, Jeanne would never put them on again, they could give the little shoes to the poor. And her tears flowed, she remained there on the floor, rubbing her face over her dead daughter’s hand, which had slipped down. Monsieur Rambaud was sobbing. The abbé had raised his voice, while Rosalie, at the half-open door of the dining room, was biting her handkerchief so that she wouldn’t make too much noise.

  Just at that moment Doctor Deberle rang the doorbell. He could not refrain from going up to enquire.

  ‘How is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, Monsieur,’ stammered Rosalie. ‘She is dead.’

  He stood stock-still, devastated at this ending that he had been daily expecting. Then he whispered:

  ‘My God! The poor child! What a terrible thing!’

  And this desperate banality was all he could think of to say. The door had closed. He went downstairs again.

  Chapter 4

  When Madame Deberle learned of Jeanne’s death, she wept, she had one of those passionate outbursts that sent her into a frenzy for forty-eight hours. A noisy despair, out of all proportion. She went up and threw herself into the arms of Hélène. Then, at something that was said, she became obsessed with the idea of arranging a touching burial for the little girl and it soon occupied every waking minute. She offered her help, took responsibility for every last detail. The mother, exhausted by crying, sat defeated upon a chair. Monsieur Rambaud, acting on her behalf, was losing his wits. He accepted with effusive and grateful thanks. Hélène roused herself for a moment to say that she wanted flowers, lots of flowers.

  So Madame Deberle promptly went to immense trouble. She spent the next day running round to all her lady friends to tell them the dreadful news. She dreamed of having a procession of little girls in white dresses. She must have at least thirty, and she did not go home until that quota was reached. She had herself visited the Funeral Directors, discussing what class it should be and choosing the drapes. The hangings would cover the garden railings, the corpse would be on display in the middle of the lilac which was already covered with little green shoots. It would be charming
.

  ‘Oh my goodness, let’s hope it’s fine tomorrow,’ she pronounced, when all her errands were done.

  The morning was radiant, blue sky, golden sun, with the pure, living breath of spring. The funeral procession was at ten o’clock. At nine, the drapes were hung. Juliette came to advise the workmen. She wanted them not to cover the trees completely. The white cloths with silver fringes made a porchway between the two iron gates which had been pushed back into the lilac. But she returned to the salon quickly to greet the ladies. They were meeting at her house, so as not to encumber Madame Grandjean’s apartment. But she was very annoyed that her husband had had to leave that morning for Versailles: a consultation that could not be postponed, he said. She was on her own. She would never be able to manage.

  Madame Berthier arrived first with her two daughters.

  ‘Would you believe it!’ cried Madame Deberle. ‘Henri has abandoned me! Well, Lucien, aren’t you going to say hello?’

  Lucien was there, all ready for the burial, wearing black gloves. He seemed surprised when he saw Sophie and Blanche dressed up as if for a procession. A silk ribbon was bound round their muslin dresses and their veils which reached down to the ground hid their little caps of tulle illusion.* While the two mothers were chatting, the three children looked at each other rather stiffly in their costumes. Then Lucien said:

  ‘Jeanne is dead.’

  He was upset, but he was smiling in an astonished sort of way. Since yesterday, the idea that Jeanne was dead had made him well behaved. As his mother did not answer him, being too busy, he had questioned the servants. So did you not move any more when you were dead?

  ‘She’s dead, she’s dead,’ echoed the two sisters, all pink in their white veils. ‘Are we going to see her?’