A LOVE EPISODE BY ÃMILE ZOLA ILLUSTRATED BY DANTAN PREPARERâS NOTE: This eBook was prepared from the edition published by the SociÃ©tÃ© des Beaux-Arts in 1905 for the Comedie d'Amour Series. Registered copy Number 153 of 500. [Illustration] [Illustration] CONTENTS CHAPTER I. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV. CHAPTER V. CHAPTER VI. CHAPTER VII. CHAPTER VIII. CHAPTER IX. CHAPTER X. CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII. CHAPTER XIII. CHAPTER XIV. CHAPTER XV. CHAPTER XVI. CHAPTER XVII. CHAPTER XVIII. CHAPTER XIX. CHAPTER XX. CHAPTER XXI. CHAPTER XXII. CHAPTER XXIII. CHAPTER XXIV. CHAPTER XXV. List of Illustrations Comedie D'amour Series Ãmile Zola Jeanne's Illness Malignon Appoints a Rendezvous With Juliette The Meeting of HÃ©lÃ¨ne and Henri [Illustration] ZOLA AND HIS WRITINGS Ãmile Zola was born in Paris, April 2, 1840. His father was Francois Zola, an Italian engineer, who constructed the Canal Zola in Provence. Zola passed his early youth in the south of France, continuing his studies at the LycÃ©e St. Louis, in Paris, and at Marseilles. His sole patrimony was a lawsuit against the town of Aix. He became a clerk in the publishing house of Hachette, receiving at first the modest honorarium of twenty-five francs a week. His journalistic career, though marked by immense toil, was neither striking nor remunerative. His essays in criticism, of which he collected and published several volumes, were not particularly successful. This was evidently not his field. His first stories, _Les MystÃ¨res de Marseilles_ and _Le Voeu dâUne Morte_ fell flat, disclosing no indication of remarkable talent. But in 1864 appeared _Les Contes Ã Ninon_, which attracted wide attention, the public finding them charming. _Les Confessions de Claude_ was published in 1865. In this work Zola had evidently struck his gait, and when _ThÃ©rÃ¨se Raquin_ followed, in 1867, Zola was fully launched on his great career as a writer of the school which he called âNaturalist.â _ThÃ©rÃ¨se Raquin_ was a powerful study of the effects of remorse preying upon the mind. In this work the naturalism was generally characterized as âbrutal,â yet many critics admitted that it was absolutely true to nature. It had, in fact, all the gruesome accuracy of a clinical lecture. In 1868 came _Madeleine Ferat_, an exemplification of the doctrine of heredity, as inexorable as the âDestinyâ of the Greek tragedies of old. And now dawned in Zolaâs teeming brain the vast conception of a âNaturalistic Comedy of Life.â It was to be Balzac ânaturalized,â so to speak. The great cycle should run through the whole gamut of human passions, foibles, motives and interests. It should consist of human documents, of painstaking minuteness of detail and incontrovertible truth. The idea of destiny or heredity permeates all the works of this portentously ambitious series. Details may be repellant. One should not âsmellâ a picture, as the artists say. If one does, he gets an impression merely of a small blotch of paint. The vast canvas should be studied as a whole. Frailties are certainly not the whole of human nature. But they cannot be excluded from a comprehensive view of it. The â_Rougon-Macquart_ seriesâ did not carry Zola into the Academy. But the reputation of Moliere has managed to survive a similar exclusion, and so will the fame of Zola, who will be bracketed with Balzac in future classifications of artistic excellence. For twenty-two years, from _La Fortune des Rougon_, in 1871, to _Docteur Pascal_ in 1893, the series continued to focus the attention of the world, and Zola was the most talked about man in the literature of the epoch. _La Fortune des Rougon_ was introductory. _La CurÃ©e_ discussed society under the second Empire. _Le Ventre de Paris_ described the great market of Paris. _La Conquete de Plassans_ spoke of life in the south of France. _La Faute de lâAbbÃ© Mouret_ treated of the results of celibacy. _Son Excellence Eugene Rougon_ dealt with official life. _LâAssommoir_ was a tract against the vice of drunkenness. Some think this the strongest of the naturalist series. Its success was prodigious. In this the marvellous talent of Zola for minute description is evinced. _Une Page dâAmour_ (A Love Episode) appeared in 1878. Of _Nana_, 1880, three hundred thousand copies were quickly sold. _Pot-Bouille_ portrayed the lower _bourgeoisie_ and their servants. _Au Bonheur des Dames_ treated of the great retail shops. _La Joie de Vivre_ came in 1884. _Germinal_ told of mining and the misery of the proletariat. _LâOeuvre_ pictured the life of artists and authors. _La Terre_ portrayed, with startling realism, the lowest peasant life. _Le Reve_, which followed, was a reaction. It was a graceful idyl. _Le Reve_ was termed âa symphony in white,â and was considered as a concession to the views of the majority of the French Academy. _La Bete Humaine_ exhausted the details of railway life. _LâArgent_ treats of financial scandals and panics. _La Debacle_, 1892, is a realistic picture of the desperate struggles of the Franco-Prussian war. _Le Docteur Pascal_, 1893, a story of the emotions, wound up the series. Through it all runs the thread of heredity and environment in their influence on human character. But Zolaâs work was not finished. A series of three romances on cities showed a continuance of power. They are _Lourdes_, _Rome_, and _Paris_. After the books on the three cities Zola planned a sort of tetralogy, intended to sum up his social philosophy, which he called the âFour Gospels.â _Feconditie_ is a tract against race suicide. The others of this series are entitled _Travail_, _Verite_ and _Justice_, the latter projected but not begun. The attitude which Zola took in reference to the wretched Dreyfus scandal will add greatly to his fame as a man of courage and a lover of truth. From this filthy mess of perjury and forgery Zolaâs intrepidity and devotion to justice arise clear and white as a lily from a cesspool. Several of Zolaâs books have been dramatized. Zola died suddenly at his home in Paris, in September, 1902. He received a public funeral, Anatole France delivering an oration at the grave. There is every indication that Zolaâs great reputation as an artist and philosopher will increase with the passing of the years. C. C. STARKWEATHER. A LOVE EPISODE CHAPTER I. The night-lamp with a bluish shade was burning on the chimney-piece, behind a book, whose shadows plunged more than half the chamber in darkness. There was a quiet gleam of light cutting across the round table and the couch, streaming over the heavy folds of the velvet curtains, and imparting an azure hue to the mirror of the rosewood wardrobe placed between the two windows. The quiet simplicity of the room, the blue tints on the hangings, furniture, and carpet, served at this hour of night to invest everything with the delightful vagueness of cloudland. Facing the windows, and within sweep of the shadow, loomed the velvet-curtained bed, a black mass, relieved only by the white of the sheets. With hands crossed on her bosom, and breathing lightly, lay HÃ©lÃ¨ne, asleepâmother and widow alike personified by the quiet unrestraint of her attitude. In the midst of the silence one oâclock chimed from the timepiece. The noises of the neighborhood had died away; the dull, distant roar of the city was the only sign of life that disturbed those Trocadero heights. HÃ©lÃ¨neâs breathing, so light and gentle, did not ruffle the chaste repose of her bosom. She was in a beauteous sleep, peaceful yet sound, her profile perfect, her nut-brown hair twisted into a knot, and her head leaning forward somewhat, as though she had fallen asleep while eagerly listening. At the farther end of the room the open door of an adjoining closet seemed but a black square in the wall. Still there was not a sound. The half-hour struck. The pendulum gave but a feeble tick-tack amid the general drowsiness that brooded over the whole chamber. Everything was sleeping, night-lamp and furniture alike; on the table, near an extinguished lamp, some womanâs handiwork was disposed also in slumber. HÃ©lÃ¨ne in her sleep retained her air of gravity and kindliness. Two oâclock struck, and the stillness was broken. A deep sigh issued from the darkness of the closet. There was a rustling of linen sheets, and then silence reigned again. Anon labored breathing broke through the gloom. HÃ©lÃ¨ne had not moved. Suddenly, however, she started up, for the moanings and cries of a child in pain had roused her. Dazed with sleep, she pressed her hands against her temples, but hearing a stifled sob, she leaped from her couch on to the carpet. âJeanne! my Jeanne! what ails you? tell me, love,â she asked; and as the child remained silent, she murmured, while running towards the night-light, âGracious Heaven! why did I go to bed when she was so ill?â Quickly she entered the closet, where deep silence had again fallen. The feeble gleam of the lamp threw but a circular patch of light on the ceiling. Bending over the iron cot, she could at first make out nothing, but amidst the bed-clothes, tossed about in disorder, the dim light soon revealed Jeanne, with limbs quite stiff, her head flung back, the muscles of her neck swollen and rigid. Her sweet face was distorted, her eyes were open and fixed on the curtain-rod above. âMy child!â cried HÃ©lÃ¨ne. âMy God! my God! she is dying.â Setting down the lamp, HÃ©lÃ¨ne touched her daughter with trembling hands. The throbbing of the pulse and the heartâs action seemed to have died away. The childâs puny arms and legs were stretched out convulsively, and the mother grew frantic at the sight. âMy child is dying! Help, help!â she stammered. âMy child! my child!â She wandered back to her room, brushing against the furniture, and unconscious of her movements; then, distracted, she again returned to the little bed, throwing herself on her knees, and ever appealing for help. She took Jeanne in her arms, rained kisses on her hair, and stroked her little body, begging her to answer, and seeking one wordâonly one wordâfrom her silent lips. Where was the pain? Would she have some of the cooling drink she had liked the other day? Perhaps the fresh air would revive her? So she rattled on, bent on making the child speak. âSpeak to me, Jeanne! speak to me, I entreat you!â Oh, God! and not to know what to do in this sudden terror born of the night! There was no light even. Then her ideas grew confused, though her supplications to the child continuedâat one moment she was beseeching, at another answering in her own person. Thus, the pain gripped her in the stomach; no, no, it must be in the breast. It was nothing at all; she need merely keep quiet. Then HÃ©lÃ¨ne tried to collect her scattered senses; but as she felt her daughter stark and stiff in her embrace, her heart sickened unto death. She tried to reason with herself, and to resist the yearning to scream. But all at once, despite herself, her cry rang out âRosalie, Rosalie! my child is dying. Quick, hurry for the doctor.â Screaming out these words, she ran through dining-room and kitchen to a room in the rear, where the maid started up from sleep, giving vent to her surprise. HÃ©lÃ¨ne speeded back again. Clad only in her night-dress she moved about, seemingly not feeling the icy cold of the February night. Pah! this maid would loiter, and her child would die! Back again she hurried through the kitchen to the bedroom before a minute had elapsed. Violently, and in the dark, she slipped on a petticoat, and threw a shawl over her shoulders. The furniture in her way was overturned; the room so still and silent was filled with the echoes of her despair. Then leaving the doors open, she rushed down three flights of stairs in her slippers, consumed with the thought that she alone could bring back a doctor. After the house-porter had opened the door HÃ©lÃ¨ne found herself upon the pavement, with a ringing in her ears and her mind distracted. However, she quickly ran down the Rue Vineuse and pulled the door-bell of Doctor Bodin, who had already tended Jeanne; but a servantâafter an interval which seemed an eternityâinformed her that the doctor was attending a woman in childbed. HÃ©lÃ¨ne remained stupefied on the footway; she knew no other doctor in Passy. For a few moments she rushed about the streets, gazing at the houses. A slight but keen wind was blowing, and she was walking in slippers through the light snow that had fallen during the evening. Ever before her was her daughter, with the agonizing thought that she was killing her by not finding a doctor at once. Then, as she retraced her steps along the Rue Vineuse, she rang the bell of another house. She would inquire, at all events; some one would perhaps direct her. She gave a second tug at the bell; but no one seemed to come. The wind meanwhile played with her petticoat, making it cling to her legs, and tossed her dishevelled hair. At last a servant answered her summons. âDoctor Deberle was in bed asleep.â It was a doctorâs house at which she had rung, so Heaven had not abandoned her! Straightway, intent upon entering, she pushed the servant aside, still repeating her prayer: âMy child, my child is dying! Oh, tell him he must come!â The house was small and seemed full of hangings. She reached the first floor, despite the servantâs opposition, always answering his protest with the words, âMy child is dying!â In the apartment she entered she would have been content to wait; but the moment she heard the doctor stirring in the next room she drew near and appealed to him through the doorway: âOh, sir, come at once, I beseech you. My child is dying!â When the doctor at last appeared in a short coat and without a neckcloth, she dragged him away without allowing him to finish dressing. He at once recognized her as a resident in the next-door house, and one of his own tenants; so when he induced her to cross a gardenâto shorten the way by using a side-door between the two housesâmemory suddenly awoke within her. âTrue, you are a doctor!â she murmured, âand I knew it. But I was distracted. Oh, let us hurry!â On the staircase she wished him to go first. She could not have admitted the Divinity to her home in a more reverent manner. Upstairs Rosalie had remained near the child, and had lit the large lamp on the table. After the doctor had entered the room he took up this lamp and cast its light upon the body of the child, which retained its painful rigidity; the head, however, had slipped forward, and nervous twitchings were ceaselessly drawing the face. For a minute he looked on in silence, his lips compressed. HÃ©lÃ¨ne anxiously watched him, and on noticing the motherâs imploring glance, he muttered: âIt will be nothing. But she must not lie here. She must have air.â HÃ©lÃ¨ne grasped her child in a strong embrace, and carried her away on her shoulder. She could have kissed the doctorâs hand for his good tidings, and a wave of happiness rippled through her. Scarcely, however, had Jeanne been placed in the larger bed than her poor little frame was again seized with violent convulsions. The doctor had removed the shade from the lamp, and a white light was streaming through the room. Then, opening a window, he ordered Rosalie to drag the bed away from the curtains. HÃ©lÃ¨neâs heart was again filled with anguish. âOh, sir, she is dying,â she stammered. âLook! look! Ah! I scarcely recognize her.â The doctor did not reply, but watched the paroxysm attentively. âStep into the alcove,â he at last exclaimed. âHold her hands to prevent her from tearing herself. There now, gently, quietly! Donât make yourself uneasy. The fit must be allowed to run its course.â They both bent over the bed, supporting and holding Jeanne, whose limbs shot out with sudden jerks. The doctor had buttoned up his coat to hide his bare neck, and HÃ©lÃ¨neâs shoulders had till now been enveloped in her shawl; but Jeanne in her struggles dragged a corner of the shawl away, and unbuttoned the top of the coat. Still they did not notice it; they never even looked at one another. [Illustration] At last the convulsion ceased, and the little one then appeared to sink into deep prostration. Doctor Deberle was evidently ill at ease, though he had assured the mother that there was no danger. He kept his gaze fixed on the sufferer, and put some brief questions to HÃ©lÃ¨ne as she stood by the bedside. âHow old is the child?â âEleven years and six months, sir,â was the reply. Silence again fell between them. He shook his head, and stooped to raise one of Jeanneâs lowered eyelids and examine the mucus. Then he resumed his questions, but without raising his eyes to HÃ©lÃ¨ne. âDid she have convulsions when she was a baby?â âYes, sir; but they left her after she reached her sixth birthday. Ah! she is very delicate. For some days past she had seemed ill at ease. She was at times taken with cramp, and plunged in a stupor.â âDo you know of any members of your family that have suffered from nervous affections?â âI donât know. My mother was carried off by consumption.â Here shame made her pause. She could not confess that she had a grandmother who was an inmate of a lunatic asylum.[*] There was something tragic connected with all her ancestry. [*] This is Adelaide Fouque, otherwise Aunt Dide, the ancestress of the Rougon-Macquart family, whose early career is related in the âFortune of the Rougons,â whilst her death is graphically described in the pages of âDr. Pascal.â âTake care! the convulsions are coming on again!â now hastily exclaimed the doctor. Jeanne had just opened her eyes, and for a moment she gazed around her with a vacant look, never speaking a word. Her glance then grew fixed, her body was violently thrown backwards, and her limbs became distended and rigid. Her skin, fiery-red, all at once turned livid. Her pallor was the pallor of death; the convulsions began once more. âDo not loose your hold of her,â said the doctor. âTake her other hand!â He ran to the table, where, on entering, he had placed a small medicine-case. He came back with a bottle, the contents of which he made Jeanne inhale; but the effect was like that of a terrible lash; the child gave such a violent jerk that she slipped from her motherâs hands. âNo, no, donât give her ether,â exclaimed HÃ©lÃ¨ne, warned by the odor. âIt drives her mad.â The two had now scarcely strength enough to keep the child under control. Her frame was racked and distorted, raised by the heels and the nape of the neck, as if bent in two. But she fell back again and began tossing from one side of the bed to the other. Her fists were clenched, her thumbs bent against the palms of her hands. At times she would open the latter, and, with fingers wide apart, grasp at phantom bodies in the air, as though to twist them. She touched her motherâs shawl and fiercely clung to it. But HÃ©lÃ¨neâs greatest grief was that she no longer recognized her daughter. The suffering angel, whose face was usually so sweet, was transformed in every feature, while her eyes swam, showing balls of a nacreous blue. âOh, do something, I implore you!â she murmured. âMy strength is exhausted, sir.â She had just remembered how the child of a neighbor at Marseilles had died of suffocation in a similar fit. Perhaps from feelings of pity the doctor was deceiving her. Every moment she believed she felt Jeanneâs last breath against her face; for the childâs halting respiration seemed suddenly to cease. Heartbroken and overwhelmed with terror, HÃ©lÃ¨ne then burst into tears, which fell on the body of her child, who had thrown off the bedclothes. The doctor meantime was gently kneading the base of the neck with his long supple fingers. Gradually the fit subsided, and Jeanne, after a few slight twitches, lay there motionless. She had fallen back in the middle of the bed, with limbs outstretched, while her head, supported by the pillow, inclined towards her bosom. One might have thought her an infant Jesus. HÃ©lÃ¨ne stooped and pressed a long kiss on her brow. âIs it over?â she asked in a whisper. âDo you think sheâll have another fit?â The doctor made an evasive gesture, and then replied: âIn any case the others will be less violent.â He had asked Rosalie for a glass and water-bottle. Half-filling the glass with water, he took up two fresh medicine phials, and counted out a number of drops. HÃ©lÃ¨ne assisted in raising the childâs head, and the doctor succeeded in pouring a spoonful of the liquid between the clenched teeth. The white flame of the lamp was leaping up high and clear, revealing the disorder of the chamberâs furnishings. HÃ©lÃ¨neâs garments, thrown on the back of an arm-chair before she slipped into bed, had now fallen, and were littering the carpet. The doctor had trodden on her stays, and had picked them up lest he might again find them in his way. An odor of vervain stole through the room. The doctor himself went for the basin, and soaked a linen cloth in it, which he then pressed to Jeanneâs temples. âOh, madame, youâll take cold!â expostulated Rosalie as she stood there shivering. âPerhaps the window might be shut? The air is too raw.â âNo, no!â cried HÃ©lÃ¨ne; âleave the window open. Should it not be so?â she appealed to the doctor. The wind entered in slight puffs, rustling the curtains to and fro; but she was quite unconscious of it. Yet the shawl had slipped off her shoulders, and her hair had become unwound, some wanton tresses sweeping down to her hips. She had left her arms free and uncovered, that she might be the more ready; she had forgotten all, absorbed entirely in her love for her child. And on his side, the doctor, busy with his work, no longer thought of his unbuttoned coat, or of the shirt-collar that Jeanneâs clutch had torn away. âRaise her up a little,â said he to HÃ©lÃ¨ne. âNo, no, not in that way! Give me your hand.â He took her hand and placed it under the childâs head. He wished to give Jeanne another spoonful of the medicine. Then he called HÃ©lÃ¨ne close to him, made use of her as his assistant; and she obeyed him reverently on seeing that her daughter was already more calm. âNow, come,â he said. âYou must let her head lean against your shoulder, while I listen.â HÃ©lÃ¨ne did as he bade her, and he bent over her to place his ear against Jeanneâs bosom. He touched her bare shoulder with his cheek, and as the pulsation of the childâs heart struck his ear he could also have heard the throbbing of the motherâs breast. As he rose up his breath mingled with HÃ©lÃ¨neâs. âThere is nothing wrong there,â was the quiet remark that filled her with delight. âLay her down again. We must not worry her more.â However, another, though much less violent, paroxysm followed. From Jeanneâs lips burst some broken words. At short intervals two fresh attacks seemed about to convulse her, and then a great prostration, which again appeared to alarm the doctor, fell on the child. He had placed her so that her head lay high, with the clothes carefully tucked under her chin; and for nearly an hour he remained there watching her, as though awaiting the return of a healthy respiration. On the other side of the bed HÃ©lÃ¨ne also waited, never moving a limb. Little by little a great calm settled on Jeanneâs face. The lamp cast a sunny light upon it, and it regained its exquisite though somewhat lengthy oval. Jeanneâs fine eyes, now closed, had large, bluish, transparent lids, which veiledâone could divine itâa sombre, flashing glance. A light breathing came from her slender nose, while round her somewhat large mouth played a vague smile. She slept thus, amidst her outspread tresses, which were inky black. âIt has all passed away now,â said the doctor in a whisper; and he turned to arrange his medicine bottles prior to leaving. âOh, sir!â exclaimed HÃ©lÃ¨ne, approaching him, âdonât leave me yet; wait a few minutes. Another fit might come on, and you, you alone, have saved her!â He signed to her that there was nothing to fear; yet he tarried, with the idea of tranquillizing her. She had already sent Rosalie to bed; and now the dawn soon broke, still and grey, over the snow which whitened the housetops. The doctor proceeded to close the window, and in the deep quiet the two exchanged a few whispers. âThere is nothing seriously wrong with her, I assure you,â said he; âonly with one so young great care must be taken. You must see that her days are spent quietly and happily, and without shocks of any kind.â âShe is so delicate and nervous,â replied HÃ©lÃ¨ne after a momentâs pause. âI cannot always control her. For the most trifling reasons she is so overcome by joy or sorrow that I grow alarmed. She loves me with a passion, a jealousy, which makes her burst into tears when I caress another child.â âSo, soâdelicate, nervous, and jealous,â repeated the doctor as he shook his head. âDoctor Bodin has attended her, has he not? Iâll have a talk with him about her. We shall have to adopt energetic treatment. She has reached an age that is critical in one of her sex.â Recognizing the interest he displayed, HÃ©lÃ¨ne gave vent to her gratitude. âHow I must thank you, sir, for the great trouble you have taken!â The loudness of her tones frightened her, however; she might have woke Jeanne, and she bent down over the bed. But no; the child was sound asleep, with rosy cheeks, and a vague smile playing round her lips. The air of the quiet chamber was charged with languor. The whilom drowsiness, as if born again of relief, once more seized upon the curtains, furniture, and littered garments. Everything was steeped restfully in the early morning light as it entered through the two windows. HÃ©lÃ¨ne again stood up close to the bed; on the other side was the doctor, and between them lay Jeanne, lightly sleeping. âHer father was frequently ill,â remarked HÃ©lÃ¨ne softly, continuing her answer to his previous question. âI myself enjoy the best of health.â The doctor, who had not yet looked at her, raised his eyes, and could scarcely refrain from smiling, so hale and hearty was she in every way. She greeted his gaze with her own sweet and quiet smile. Her happiness lay in her good health. However, his looks were still bent on her. Never had he seen such classical beauty. Tall and commanding, she was a nut-brown Juno, of a nut-brown sunny with gleams of gold. When she slowly turned her head, its profile showed the severe purity of a statue. Her grey eyes and pearly teeth lit up her whole face. Her chin, rounded and somewhat pronounced, proved her to be possessed of commonsense and firmness. But what astonished the doctor was the superbness of her whole figure. She stood there, a model of queenliness, chastity, and modesty. On her side also she scanned him for a moment. Doctor Deberleâs years were thirty-five; his face was clean-shaven and a little long; he had keen eyes and thin lips. As she gazed on him she noticed for the first time that his neck was bare. Thus they remained face to face, with Jeanne asleep between them. The distance which but a short time before had appeared immense, now seemed to be dwindling away. Then HÃ©lÃ¨ne slowly wrapped the shawl about her shoulders again, while the doctor hastened to button his coat at the neck. âMamma! mamma!â Jeanne stammered in her sleep. She was waking, and on opening her eyes she saw the doctor and became uneasy. âMamma, whoâs that?â was her instant question; but her mother kissed her, and replied: âGo to sleep, darling, you havenât been well. Itâs only a friend.â The child seemed surprised; she did not remember anything. Drowsiness was coming over her once more, and she fell asleep again, murmuring tenderly: âIâm going to by-by. Good-night, mamma, dear. If he is your friend he will be mine.â The doctor had removed his medicine-case, and, with a silent bow, he left the room. HÃ©lÃ¨ne listened for a while to the childâs breathing, and then, seated on the edge of the bed, she became oblivious to everything around her; her looks and thoughts wandering far away. The lamp, still burning, was paling in the growing sunlight. CHAPTER II. Next day HÃ©lÃ¨ne thought it right and proper to pay a visit of thanks to Doctor Deberle. The abrupt fashion in which she had compelled him to follow her, and the remembrance of the whole night which he had spent with Jeanne, made her uneasy, for she realized that he had done more than is usually compassed within a doctorâs visit. Still, for two days she hesitated to make her call, feeling a strange repugnance towards such a step. For this she could give herself no reasons. It was the doctor himself who inspired her with this hesitancy; one morning she met him, and shrunk from his notice as though she were a child. At this excess of timidity she was much annoyed. Her quiet, upright nature protested against the uneasiness which was taking possession of her. She decided, therefore, to go and thank the doctor that very day. Jeanneâs attack had taken place during the small hours of Wednesday morning; it was now Saturday, and the child was quite well again. Doctor Bodin, whose fears concerning her had prompted him to make an early call, spoke of Doctor Deberle with the respect that an old doctor with a meagre income pays to another in the same district, who is young, rich, and already possessed of a reputation. He did not forget to add, however, with an artful smile, that the fortune had been bequeathed by the elder Deberle, a man whom all Passy held in veneration. The son had only been put to the trouble of inheriting fifteen hundred thousand francs, together with a splendid practice. âHe is, though, a very smart fellow,â Doctor Bodin hastened to add, âand I shall be honored by having a consultation with him about the precious health of my little friend Jeanne!â About three oâclock HÃ©lÃ¨ne made her way downstairs with her daughter, and had to take but a few steps along the Rue Vineuse before ringing at the next-door house. Both mother and daughter still wore deep mourning. A servant, in dress-coat and white tie, opened the door. HÃ©lÃ¨ne easily recognized the large entrance-hall, with its Oriental hangings; on each side of it, however, there were now flower-stands, brilliant with a profusion of blossoms. The servant having admitted them to a small drawing-room, the hangings and furniture of which were of a mignonette hue, stood awaiting their pleasure, and HÃ©lÃ¨ne gave her nameâMadame Grandjean. Thereupon the footman pushed open the door of a drawing-room, furnished in yellow and black, of dazzling effect, and, moving aside, announced: âMadame Grandjean!â HÃ©lÃ¨ne, standing on the threshold, started back. She had just noticed at the other end of the room a young woman seated near the fireplace on a narrow couch which was completely covered by her ample skirts. Facing her sat an elderly person, who had retained her bonnet and shawl, and was evidently paying a visit. âI beg pardon,â exclaimed HÃ©lÃ¨ne. âI wished to see Doctor Deberle.â She had made the child enter the room before her, and now took her by the hand again. She was both astonished and embarrassed in meeting this young lady. Why had she not asked for the doctor? She well knew he was married. Madame Deberle was just finishing some story, in a quick and rather shrill voice. âOh! itâs marvellous, marvellous! She dies with wonderful realism. She clutches at her bosom like this, throws back her head, and her face turns green. I declare you ought to see her, Mademoiselle Aurelie!â Then, rising up, she sailed towards the doorway, rustling her skirts terribly. âBe so kind as to walk in, madame,â she said with charming graciousness. âMy husband is not at home, but I shall be delighted to receive you, I assure you. This must be the pretty little girl who was so ill a few nights ago. Sit down for a moment, I beg of you.â HÃ©lÃ¨ne was forced to accept the invitation, while Jeanne timidly perched herself on the edge of another chair. Madame Deberle again sank down on her little sofa, exclaiming with a pretty laugh, âYes, this is my day. I receive every Saturday, you see, and Pierre then announces all comers. A week or two ago he ushered in a colonel suffering from the gout.â âHow silly you are, my dear Juliette!â expostulated Mademoiselle Aurelie, the elderly lady, an old friend in straitened circumstances, who had seen her come into the world. There was a short silence, and HÃ©lÃ¨ne gazed round at the luxury of the apartment, with its curtains and chairs in black and gold, glittering like constellations. Flowers decorated mantel-shelf, piano, and tables alike, and the clear light streamed through the windows from the garden, in which could be seen the leafless trees and bare soil. The room had almost a hot-house temperature; in the fireplace one large log was glowing with intense heat. After another glance HÃ©lÃ¨ne recognized that the gaudy colors had a happy effect. Madame Deberleâs hair was inky-black, and her skin of a milky whiteness. She was short, plump, slow in her movements, and withal graceful. Amidst all the golden decorations, her white face assumed a vermeil tint under her heavy, sombre tresses. HÃ©lÃ¨ne really admired her. âConvulsions are so terrible,â broke in Madame Deberle. âMy Lucien had them when a mere baby. How uneasy you must have been, madame! However, the dear little thing appears to be quite well now.â As she drawled out these words she kept her eyes on HÃ©lÃ¨ne, whose superb beauty amazed and delighted her. Never had she seen a woman with so queenly an air in the black garments which draped the widowâs commanding figure. Her admiration found vent in an involuntary smile, while she exchanged glances with Mademoiselle Aurelie. Their admiration was so ingenuously and charmingly expressed, that a faint smile also rippled over HÃ©lÃ¨neâs face. Then Madame Deberle stretched herself on the sofa. âYou were not at the first night at the Vaudeville yesterday, madame?â she asked, as she played with the fan that hung from her waist. âI never go to the theatre,â was HÃ©lÃ¨neâs reply. âOh! little NoÃ«mi was simply marvellous! Her death scene is so realistic! She clutches her bosom like this, throws back her head, and her face turns green. Oh! the effect is prodigious.â Thereupon she entered into a minute criticism of the actressâs playing, which she upheld against the world; and then she passed to the other topics of the dayâa fine art exhibition, at which she had seen some most remarkable paintings; a stupid novel about which too much fuss was being made; a society intrigue which she spoke of to Mademoiselle Aurelie in veiled language. And so she went on from one subject to another, without wearying, her tongue ever ready, as though this social atmosphere were peculiarly her own. HÃ©lÃ¨ne, a stranger to such society, was content to listen, merely interjecting a remark or brief reply every now and then. At last the door was again thrown open and the footman announced: âMadame de Chermette! Madame Tissot!â Two ladies entered, magnificently dressed. Madame Deberle rose eagerly to meet them, and the train of her black silk gown, heavily decked with trimmings, trailed so far behind her that she had to kick it out of her way whenever she happened to turn round. A confused babel of greetings in shrill voices arose. âOh! how kind of you! I declare I never see you!â âYou know we come about that lottery.â âYes: I know, I know.â âOh! we cannot sit down. We have to call at twenty houses yet.â âCome now, you are not going to run away at once!â And then the visitors finished by sitting down on the edge of a couch; the chatter beginning again, shriller than ever. âWell! what do you think of yesterday at the Vaudeville?â âOh! it was splendid!â âYou know she unfastens her dress and lets down her hair. All the effect springs from that.â âPeople say that she swallows something to make her green.â âNo, no, every action is premeditated; but she had to invent and study them all, in the first place.â âItâs wonderful.â The two ladies rose and made their exit, and the room regained its tranquil peacefulness. From some hyacinths on the mantel-shelf was wafted an all-pervading perfume. For a time one could hear the noisy twittering of some sparrows quarrelling on the lawn. Before resuming her seat, Madame Deberle proceeded to draw down the embroidered tulle blind of a window facing her, and then returned to her sofa in the mellowed, golden light of the room. âI beg pardon,â she now said. âWe have had quite an invasion.â Then, in an affectionate way, she entered into conversation with HÃ©lÃ¨ne. She seemed to know some details of her history, doubtless from the gossip of her servants. With a boldness that was yet full of tact, and appeared instinct with much friendliness, she spoke to HÃ©lÃ¨ne of her husband, and of his sad death at the Hotel du Var, in the Rue de Richelieu. âAnd you had just arrived, hadnât you? You had never been in Paris before. It must be awful to be plunged into mourning, in a strange room, the day after a long journey, and when one doesnât know a single place to go to.â HÃ©lÃ¨ne assented with a slow nod. Yes, she had spent some very bitter hours. The disease which carried off her husband had abruptly declared itself on the day after their arrival, just as they were going out together. She knew none of the streets, and was wholly unaware what district she was in. For eight days she had remained at the bedside of the dying man, hearing the rumble of Paris beneath her window, feeling she was alone, deserted, lost, as though plunged in the depths of an abyss. When she stepped out on the pavement for the first time, she was a widow. The mere recalling of that bare room, with its rows of medicine bottles, and with the travelling trunks standing about unpacked, still made her shudder. âWas your husband, as Iâve been told, nearly twice your age?â asked Madame Deberle with an appearance of profound interest, while Mademoiselle Aurelie cocked her ears so as not to lose a syllable of the conversation. âOh, no!â replied HÃ©lÃ¨ne. âHe was scarcely six years older.â Then she ventured to enter into the story of her marriage, telling in a few brief sentences how her husband had fallen deeply in love with her while she was living with her father, Monsieur Mouret, a hatter in the Rue des Petites-Maries, at Marseilles; how the Grandjean family, who were rich sugar-refiners, were bitterly opposed to the match, on account of her poverty. She spoke, too, of the ill-omened and secret wedding after the usual legal formalities, and of their hand-to-mouth existence, till the day an uncle on dying left them some ten thousand francs a year. It was then that Grandjean, within whom an intense hatred of Marseilles was growing, had decided on coming to Paris, to live there for good. âAnd how old were you when you were married?â was Madame Deberleâs next question. âSeventeen.â âYou must have been very beautiful.â The conversation suddenly ceased, for HÃ©lÃ¨ne had not seemed to hear the remark. âMadame Manguelin!â announced the footman. A young, retiring woman, evidently ill at ease, was ushered in. Madame Deberle scarcely rose. It was one of her dependents, who had called to thank her for some service performed. The visitor only remained for a few minutes, and left the room with a courtesy. Madame Deberle then resumed the conversation, and spoke of AbbÃ© Jouve, with whom both were acquainted. The AbbÃ© was a meek officiating priest at Notre-Dame-de-Grace, the parish church of Passy; however, his charity was such that he was more beloved and more respectfully hearkened to than any other priest in the district. âOh, he has such pious eloquence!â exclaimed Madame Deberle, with a sanctimonious look. âHe has been very kind to us,â said HÃ©lÃ¨ne. âMy husband had formerly known him at Marseilles. The moment he heard of my misfortune he took charge of everything. To him we owe our settling in Passy.â âHe has a brother, hasnât he?â questioned Juliette. âYes, a step-brother, for his mother married again. Monsieur Rambaud was also acquainted with my husband. He has started a large business in the Rue de Rambuteau, where he sells oils and other Southern produce. I believe he makes a large amount of money by it.â And she added, with a laugh: âThe AbbÃ© and his brother make up my court.â Jeanne, sitting on the edge of her chair, and wearied to death, now cast an impatient look at her mother. Her long, delicate, lamb-like face wore a pained expression, as if she disliked all this conversation; and she appeared at times to sniff the heavy, oppressive odors floating in the room, while casting suspicious side-glances at the furniture, as though her own exquisite sensibility warned her of some undefined dangers. Finally, however, she turned a look of tyrannical worship on her mother. Madame Deberle noticed the childâs uneasiness. âHereâs a little girl,â she said, âwho feels tired at being serious, like a grown-up person. There are some picture-books on the table, dear; they will amuse you.â Jeanne took up an album, but her eyes strayed from it to glance imploringly at her mother. HÃ©lÃ¨ne, charmed by her hostessâs excessive kindness, did not move; there was nothing of the fidget in her, and she would of her own accord remain seated for hours. However, as the servant announced three ladies in successionâMadame Berthier, Madame de Guiraud, and Madame Levasseurâshe thought she ought to rise. âOh! pray stop,â exclaimed Madame Deberle; âI must show you my son.â The semi-circle round the fireplace was increasing in size. The ladies were all gossiping at the same time. One of them declared that she was completely broken down, as for five days she had not gone to bed till four oâclock in the morning. Another indulged in a diatribe against wet nurses; she could no longer find one who was honest. Next the conversation fell on dressmakers. Madame Deberle affirmed no woman tailor could fit you properly; a man was requisite. Two of the ladies, however, were mumbling something under their breath, and, a silence intervening, two or three words became audible. Every one then broke into a laugh, while languidly waving their fans. âMonsieur Malignon!â announced the servant. A tall young man, dressed in good style, was ushered in. Some exclamations greeted him. Madame Deberle, not taking the trouble to rise, stretched out her hand and inquired: âWell! what of yesterday at the Vaudeville?â âVile!â was his reply. âWhat! vile! Sheâs marvellous when she clutches her bosom and throws back her headââ âStop! stop! The whole thing is loathsome in its realism.â And then quite a dispute commenced. It was easy to talk of realism, but the young man would have no realism at all. âI would not have it in anything, you hear!â said he, raising his voice. âNo, not in anything! it degrades art.â People would soon be seeing some fine things on the stage, indeed! Why didnât NoÃ«mi follow out her actions to their logical conclusion? And he illustrated his remark with a gesture which quite scandalized the ladies. Oh, how horrible! However, when Madame Deberle had declared that the actress produced a great effect, and Madame Levasseur had related how a lady had fainted in the balcony, everybody agreed that the affair was a great success; and with this the discussion stopped short. The young man sat in an arm-chair, with his legs stretched out among the ladiesâ flowing skirts. He seemed to be quite at home in the doctorâs house. He had mechanically plucked a flower from a vase, and was tearing it to pieces with his teeth. Madame Deberle interrupted him: âHave you read that novel whichââ He did not allow her to finish, but replied, with a superior air, that he only read two novels in the year. As for the exhibition of paintings at the Art Club, it was not worth troubling about; and then, every topic being exhausted, he rose and leaned over Julietteâs little sofa, conversing with her in a low voice, while the other ladies continued chatting together in an animated manner. At length: âDear me! heâs gone,â exclaimed Madame Berthier turning round. âI met him only an hour ago in Madame Robinotâs drawing-room.â âYes, and he is now going to visit Madame Lecomte,â said Madame Deberle. âHe goes about more than any other man in Paris.â She turned to HÃ©lÃ¨ne, who had been following the scene, and added: âA very distinguished young fellow he is, and we like him very much. He has some interest in a stockbroking business; heâs very rich besides, and well posted in everything.â The other ladies, however, were now going off. âGood-bye, dear madame. I rely upon you for Wednesday.â âYes, to be sure; Wednesday.â âOh, by the way, will you be at that evening party? One doesnât know whom one may meet. If you go, Iâll go.â âAh, well! Iâll go, I promise you. Give my best regards to Monsieur de Guiraud.â When Madame Deberle returned she found HÃ©lÃ¨ne standing in the middle of the drawing-room. Jeanne had drawn close to her mother, whose hands she firmly grasped; and thus clinging to her caressingly and almost convulsively, she was drawing her little by little towards the doorway. âAh, I was forgetting!â exclaimed the lady of the house; and ringing the bell for the servant, she said to him: âPierre, tell Miss Smithson to bring Lucien here.â During the short interval of waiting that ensued the door was again opened, but this time in a familiar fashion and without any formal announcement. A good-looking girl of some sixteen years of age entered in company with an old man, short of stature but with a rubicund, chubby face. âGood-day, sister,â was the girlâs greeting, as she kissed Madame Deberle. âGood-day, Pauline! good-day, father!â replied the doctorâs wife. Mademoiselle Aurelie, who had not stirred from her seat beside the fire, rose to exchange greetings with Monsieur Letellier. He owned an extensive silk warehouse on the Boulevard des Capucines. Since his wifeâs death he had been taking his younger daughter about everywhere, in search of a rich husband for her. âWere you at the Vaudeville last night?â asked Pauline. âOh, it was simply marvellous!â repeated Juliette in parrot-fashion, as, standing before a mirror, she rearranged a rebellious curl. âIt is annoying to be so young; one canât go to anything!â said Pauline, pouting like a spoiled child. âI went with papa to the theatre-door at midnight, to find out how the piece had taken.â âYes, and we tumbled upon Malignon,â said the father. âHe was extremely pleased with it.â âReally!â exclaimed Juliette. âHe was here a minute ago, and declared it vile. One never knows how to take him.â âHave you had many visitors to-day?â asked Pauline, rushing off to another subject. âOh, several ladies; quite a crowd! The room was never once empty. Iâm dead-beatââ Here she abruptly broke off, remembering she had a formal introduction to make âMy father, my sisterâMadame Grandjean.â The conversation was turning on children and the ailments which give mothers so much worry when Miss Smithson, an English governess, appeared with a little boy clinging to her hand. Madame Deberle scolded her in English for having kept them waiting. âAh! hereâs my little Lucien!â exclaimed Pauline as she dropped on her knees before the child, with a great rustling of skirts. âNow, now, leave him alone!â said Juliette. âCome here, Lucien; come and say good-day to this little lady.â The boy came forward very sheepishly. He was no more than seven years old, fat and dumpy, and dressed as coquettishly as a doll. As he saw
{'title': 'A Love Episode by Émile Zola', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}