Claude's Confession and Other Early Novels of Émile Zola. Эмиль Золя

I covered myself with it, I protected myself against Laurence who was approaching.

      “Do not advance,” cried I to her, harshly, “do not come here to soil this child who is sleeping. Remain where you are. I have to judge and condemn you.”

      “Claude,” she answered, in a meek voice, “let me kiss her.”

      “No, no, your lips are all bruised with Jacques’ kisses. You would profane the dead.”

      Jacques seemed to be asleep, his head in the sheet. Laurence fell upon her knees.

      “Listen, Claude,” she said, stretching out her hands towards me: “I know not what you see upon my lips, but do not speak to me with such harshness. I have need of gentleness.”

      I stared at this woman, who was humbly complaining, and I failed to recognize Laurence. I clasped Marie closer, fearing some weakness.

      “Arise and listen to me,” I cried out to Laurence: “I wish to make an end of this. You come from Jacques’ room. You should not have come here. You opened the wrong door.”

      Laurence arose.

      “Then, it is your intention to drive me away, is it?” asked she.

      “It is not I who drive you away. You have driven yourself away by accepting another asylum. Remain in that asylum.”

      “I have not chosen another asylum. You are deceived, Claude. There are no strange kisses upon my lips. I love you.”

      She advanced timidly, fascinating, her arms outstretched.

      “Do not approach, do not approach,” I cried again, with a movement of fright. “I do not wish you to touch me, I do not wish you to touch Marie. The poor dead girl protects me against you; she is here, upon my breast, asleep; she calms my heart. I feel myself terribly torn. I should, perhaps, have had the baseness to pardon you, if you had come into our chamber and there dragged yourself at my feet, for there you would have been all-powerful over me, by reason of that infamous love with which misery and abandonment have inspired me. Here, you can exert no influence over my heart, no influence over my body. I still have upon my lips Marie’s soul, her last breath and her last kiss. I do not wish your soiled mouth to take that soul from me.”

      Laurence paused, sobbing, gazing at me through her tears.

      “Claude,” murmured she, “you do not understand me, you have never understood me. I love you. I never knew what you wanted of me; I gave myself as I knew how to give myself. Why do you drive me away? I have done no evil; if you think I have done evil, you can beat me and we will still live in company.”

      I was weary, I felt my heart bleed; I was in haste to see this woman depart, I implored her in my turn.

      “Laurence,” said I, more gently, “in pity go away. If you have ever had any love for me, spare me further suffering. Our tenderness for each other is dead, we must separate. Go forth into life, where you will, but take the path that leads to goodness and happiness, if you can. Let me recover my hope and my gayety.”

      She folded her arms in despair, repeating several times, in a wild tone:

      “All is over, all is over!”

      “Yes, all is over,” answered I, with emphasis.

      Then, Laurence fell upon the floor in a mass, and burst into violent sobs.

      Pâquerette, who had tranquilly resumed possession of her armchair, looked at her with curiosity. The old wretch was filled with astonishment, chewing some lozenges which she had just found, Marie not having lived long enough to finish the box.

      “Ah! my child,” said she to Laurence, “have you also lost your senses? Great heavens I what fools lovers are in these days! In my time, people quitted each other gayly. Do you not see that it is greatly to your advantage to separate from Claude. He consents. Thank him, and depart at once.”

      Laurence did not hear her, she was striking the floor with her feet and with her fists, a prey to a sort of nervous crisis. Lightly clad, she twisted, panting, full of quivers which shook her all over. She bit her hair which had fallen over her face, she uttered half stifled cries, confused words which were lost amid her sobs.

      I saw her from head to foot, crushed and quivering; I felt neither pity nor anger.

      Then, she got upon her knees, and, her face convulsed, her flesh reddened and blued by tears, dragging herself towards me in her twisted and hanging skirts, she cried out:

      “You are right, Claude, I am bad. I prefer to speak the truth, to tell you everything. You will, perhaps, pardon me afterwards. Your eyes have rightly seen: my lips should be red with Jacques’ kisses. I went to him, I forced him to treason. I am a wicked wretch!” Her sobs convulsed her bosom. They mounted from the depths of her being in enormous and painful breaths, swelled her throat horribly, made her whole body undulate, burst from her lips in hollow and heartrending cries.

      “Have mercy upon me,” murmured she. “I did not know that Jacques’ kisses would separate us. I acted without reflection, without thinking of you. I grew weary sometimes, in the evening, when you came to this chamber. Then, I sought to amuse myself. That is the true state of the case; it admits of no other explanation. I do not wish to quit you. Pardon me, pardon me!”

      At this last hour, this woman was more impenetrable than ever. I could not understand this creature, cold and weighed down, nervous and suppliant. For a year I had lived beside her, and yet she was as much a stranger to me as on the first day of our acquaintance. I had seen her turn by turn old and young, active and sluggish, cold and loving, cynical and humble; I could not reconstruct a soul with these diverse elements, I stood dumb before her dull and grimacing visage which hid from me an unknown heart. She loved me, perhaps; she yielded to that craving for love and esteem which is found in the depths of the most depraved natures. But I no longer sought to understand her; I realized that Laurence would always remain a mystery to me, a woman made up of gloom and vertigo; I knew that she would remain in my life like an inexplicable nightmare, like a feverish night full of monstrous and incomprehensible visions. I did not wish to listen to her, I felt myself still in a dream; I was afraid of yielding to the madness of the darkness, I yearned with all my strength for the light.

      I made a movement of impatience, refusing with a gesture, firmly closing my lips. Laurence, fatigued, pushed her hair from her face; she looked straight at me, silent, disheartened, she no longer supplicated, for words had failed her. She begged me by her attitude, by her glance, by her disturbed countenance.

      I turned away my head. Laurence then arose painfully, and went to the door without taking her eyes from me. She stood for an instant, straight, upon the threshold. She seemed to me to have grown taller, and I almost weakened, almost threw myself into her arms, on seeing that she wore, at this last hour, the ragged remains of her blue silk dress. I loved that dress, I would have liked to tear a rag from it to keep in remembrance of my youth.

      Laurence, walking backwards, passed into the darkness of the stairway, addressing to me a final prayer, and the dress was now only a black flood which quiveringly glided over the steps.

      I was free.

      I placed my hand upon my heart: it was beating feebly and calmly. I was cold. Deep silence reigned within my being, it seemed to me that I had awakened from a dream.

      I had forgotten Marie, whose head still peacefully reposed upon my breast. Pâquerette, who had been dozing, suddenly arose and laid the body upon the bed, saying to me as she did so:

      “Look at the poor child! You have not even closed her eyes. She seems to gaze at you and smile.”

      Marie was gazing at me. She had an infant’s sleep, a supreme peace, the forehead of a pure and sainted martyr. She seemed happy at what she had understood before her death, when she had said that we were alone, that we could love each other. I closed her eyes that she might slumber in this thought of love, and kissed her eyelids.

      Pâquerette placed two candles upon a little table near the corpse; then she resumed her doze, curled up in her