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

we have been obliged to wait on his lordship, but this is all at an end.”

      “Chuck him out, the beggar!”

      And as Daniel passed before the man who was washing the carriage, the man called out: “Hi, mate, come and give us a paw!” The whole group burst out laughing.

      Daniel had passed by, shuddering. These men recalled the schoolmates who insulted him. He felt himself deserted, as of old, and hastened to take refuge in solitude. His delicate sensitiveness was cut to the quick by the brutal words of these wretches, who, thinking they could do so with impunity, satisfied their base rancour. Then, seized with indignation, he retraced his footsteps, and looked these insolent fellows straight in the face. The men began to fear they had gone a little too far, they were silent, and rather embarrassed, ready to cringe even, if necessary. The young man fixed them thus, in silence, with an open, straightforward look. Then he walked on, and almost fainting after that moment’s energetic action, he slowly ascended the staircase.

      On the second landing he met Monsieur de Rionne coming down. He drew back against the wall. The master of the house, who barely knew him, stared at him, wondering what this strange youth wanted in his house.

      Daniel did not mistake that look. He understood its dumb enquiry; and, if he did not speak, it was that his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and that, besides, he could find nothing to say.

      Monsieur de Rionne, who seemed very disturbed himself, did not stop, and Daniel hastened to go up to his room.

      When there a grievous fact presented itself to him; it was that he could not possibly continue to remain in the house. He had not thought of that, and the idea of leaving was very painful. He laughed a melancholy laugh when he considered the matter, and felt he was certainly very simpleminded. His dear angel-mother was no longer there, and he would certainly be forcibly put out at the door if he refused to leave with a good grace.

      Out there in the garden he could still hear the laughter of the servants, and a damp sweat broke out on his forehead. He made up his mind to go away at once.

      Dreamingly he had seated himself. He was not thinking about himself, and gave no heed as to where he should sleep that night, or what he would do on the morrow. He cared little: he had all the courageous heedlessness of childhood.

      Not knowing life, he proposed going right forward, always right forward. Then he thought of Jeanne, and with bitterness asked himself of what assistance he could be to her when he left the house for good. Necessity was driving him out, whilst the dead woman’s wish seemed to keep him here ‘midst offence and ignominy. Then he understood that it could not be. Madame de Rionne had commanded him to walk with head erect, and ever dignified. Above all, he must get away, and after that he would seek means to accomplish his task. Then he uprose. His trunk was open, showing his clothes and linen that he had not yet had time to put in the cupboard. The table was covered with books and papers, and on a corner of the mantelpiece lay a purse containing a little money.

      He disarranged nothing — took nothing with him. The words of the insolent servants still rang in his ears, and all the things now seemed not to belong to him. He would have looked on himself as a thief if he had taken away the smallest object.

      He went out quite quietly, taking nothing but the clothes he stood up in, leaving the key in the lock of the door.

      As he crossed the garden he perceived little Jeanne playing on the path, and was unable to resist the temptation of embracing her before leaving.

      The child was frightened, and drew back. Then he asked her if she remembered him. She looked at him without answering. That strange-looking being smiling at her astonished her exceedingly, and no doubt she was trying to call him to mind. Then, as it seemed to worry her, she showed signs of getting up and running away as quickly as possible. Daniel held her gently back.

      “As you do not recognise me,” said he, “take a good look at me. Believe me, I love you very much, and it would make me very happy if you could love me ever so little. I wish to be your friend.”

      Jeanne could not understand much of this serious speech, but the tenderness of his voice reassured her. She began to laugh happily.

      “You must always recognise me now,” added Daniel, laughing also. “I am about to go away, but I shall come back. I shall have all sorts of beautiful things to tell you about if you are good. Will you kiss me, as you kissed your mother?”

      He bent down; but the little one, when she heard her mother spoken of, began to cry. She pushed Daniel away with childish anger, and called, “Mamma! mamma!” as loud as her tears would let her. The poor young man stood petrified, but as a servant came out of the house he moved away, deeply wounded at thus leaving the child to whose happiness he was about to devote his whole life.

      He found himself in the street stripped of everything, with a heavy task before him to accomplish. His affection and devotion alone sustained him. It was four o’clock in the afternoon.

      CHAPTER IV

      Table of Contents

      As the gates of the mansion closed behind Daniel they made a dull, grinding noise. He looked about him without seeing anything, and then began to walk with bowed head, musing, and not knowing whither his steps would lead him. The crying of Jeanne and the noise of the closing gates still echoed in his ears. He kept on saying to himself that the child neither recognised nor loved him, and that the gates groaned in a most extraordinary way as he left.

      So far grief had filled his whole being; reason had fled. Now reason was returning, was speaking, and he could judge clearly of matters, his position appeared to him in its true light at last A painful astonishment seized him at the reality. He put himself boldly face to face with his task. He saw himself on one side, mean and wretched, on the other with the delicate mission he had to carry out, and he trembled.

      His mission was this: He had the charge of a soul in his hands, he had to fight against the world and conquer it he had to watch over a woman’s heart and secure her happiness. To do that, he would go everywhere his protégée went; he would keep near her constantly that he might defend her against others and against herself.

      He must therefore rise to her level and even put himself above her level. He would live in the same house as she did, or at least would be admitted as a guest in the house she frequented. He would be a man of the world and thus would he be able to fight the world advantageously for her.

      Then he thought of himself and judged himself. He was ugly, timid, awkward, poor. He was now in the streets, without relations and without friends; he did not even know where he should go to eat and sleep that night. The servants were right to treat him as a beggar, for when hunger drove him he might perhaps have to make up his mind and beg for alms. He saw himself tramping along and laughed at the pitiable figure he would cut, so ridiculous did he seem to himself.

      And this was he, this vagabond, this child of misery and sorrow, he who was to be the protector of this little girl, clothed in silk, living in luxury and elegance. He told himself he must be dreaming, that he had lost his head, that Madame de Rionne never could have entrusted her child to a poor devil like himself, and that, in any case, he would not attempt this absurd task.

      And, thinking these things, he all the time ardently sought means to keep the vow he had made to the dying woman. Then his ideas took a new direction. Devotion and affection spoke louder in him than reason; he lost sight of himself and became once more a visionary. He regretted having left the mansion. Now he had come away, he knew not how to get in again. The noise of those gates had resounded in the depths of his heart, and he felt abashed.

      He made a thousand extravagant projects, as children and lovers do. He found out measures to gain his end, but they were measures that could never be realised; fixing on some new idea that surged in his brain, rejecting one impossible plan to immediately form one still more impossible.

      But what recurred to his mind again and again was the bitter