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

wept, no longer had any wishes but the one of remaining for ever in this paradise of love, a love unrecognised but satisfied.

      He had not long been able to resist the temptation of writing again to Jeanne, and his letters were now written in a tender and peace-giving strain. “Let us live thus,” he said to her; “let me simply be to you what man is in the sight of the Deity: a prayer, a worship, a humble breath.” Then he showed her heaven open, and led her away from this wicked world.

      Jeanne obeyed this pure spirit whom love for a mortal had taken hold of. She accepted him as a guardian, an invisible stay, to keep her from evil.

      Daniel often betook himself to Jeanne’s house, and he had a bitter satisfaction, as it were, in the extraordinary situation he had created. After every fresh letter, he went to read on Jeanne’s face the emotions she had experienced from it. He studied with ecstasy the progress that love made in her. He never gave a thought to the awakening. She loved him, she was full of him — that was sufficient. If he revealed his name, if he tore away the veil that hid him, she would perhaps recoil from him. He was still nothing but a timid child, sensitive to a degree, and afraid of the full light of day. The only love that suited him happened to be this secret passion.

      He now would beg of George to accompany him to Jeanne. He no longer dared to remain alone with her; he would have stammered and blushed when he spoke, thinking that she read through him. Besides, when George was there he could remain silent; his friend amused Jeanne whilst he dreamed of his love.

      During the space of these three months George, notwithstanding that he struggled against his infatuation, had yielded to the temptation of loving the young woman with the deep passion that grows in meditative natures. He hid the state of his heart from every one, even Daniel; above all, Jeanne.

      When he found out the truth, there was no time for flight. So he gave way, having no courage to renounce his first love; he continued going to the little blue boudoir, spending some delicious moments there, not daring to ask himself what the end would be.

      At times Jeanne looked him full in the face without wavering. She seemed to wish to penetrate the depths of his being and seek some hidden thought there. Under her questioning glance he grew troubled, and then on the lips of the young wife he saw a smile, which was tender but discreet.

      One day when the two friends presented themselves at her house they were greeted with most unexpected news. Lorin had just died suddenly in London. They went home very much upset. They could not mourn for Lorin; all they thought of was that the little blue boudoir would be closed to them for some time to come. This death, which gave the woman whom they both loved her freedom, gave them more fear than hope. They found themselves very well as they were, and dreaded any change in what their hearts were accustomed to. No reciprocal confidences had passed between them. They led the same life, but now they both had their own secret and they deferred till later their mutual confession. They let a few weeks pass by; then they ventured to go again to Jeanne’s. Nothing seemed changed. The young widow, looking rather pale perhaps, received them with her usual cordiality, and only showed herself more reserved to George. It was Daniel this time who was obliged to keep the conversation going.

      Lorin, having made some disastrous speculations, had left his wife only a remnant of his fortune.

      Monsieur de Rionne, who lived at his daughter’s like a parasite, was delighted at his son-in-law’s death. He had ended by conceiving a downright hatred for the man who kept such a tight hold of his money. He could never drag a sou from him, and all he received was board and lodging. When Lorin was dead he demanded money right out, of Jeanne. She willingly surrendered to him the remains of a fortune that burdened her, only keeping for herself what was sufficient to live on quietly.

      Daniel, who was made acquainted with these matters, loved Jeanne all the more for her conduct. Every day she grew in his esteem; he rejoiced at seeing the dead woman’s wish at last fulfilled. One evening, as the fever of love was on him, he wrote another letter.

      The next day he was stupefied on receiving a note from Jeanne, asking him to come to her at once. He started, without saying anything to George, and rushed there like a madman, his head all in a whirl.

      The young widow no longer lived in the vast flat she had occupied with her husband. She now resided on the second storey of a house of humble exterior, and she received Daniel in a little bright room, furnished unpretentiously. She did not even notice his wild look. He could hardly breathe, and was unable to find a word to say. When she had made him sit down, she said to him, with touching familiarity: “You are my best, my only friend. I am sorry that I have overlooked your affection so long. Will you forgive me?”

      And she took his hand, looking at him with tears in her eyes. Then, without giving him time to answer, she continued:

      “You love me, I know. I have a secret to confide to you, and a service to ask of you.” Daniel became very pale. His wretched awkwardness was returning. He imagined that the young widow had found out everything, and was on the point of speaking to him of his letters.

      “I am listening,” he murmured, in a broken voice.

      “I have been receiving letters for several months,” she said. “You must know who wrote them. I depend on you to tell me the truth.”

      Daniel felt ready to faint. A rush of blood flew to his face.

      “You do not answer,” continued Jeanne. “You do not wish to betray your friend’s trust. Well, I myself then will speak out. These letters are from Monsieur George Raymond. Do not deny it; I know all! I have read his love in his looks; I have thought of every one about me, and I have found that no one but he could write to me thus.”

      She stopped, thinking what she would say next Daniel, utterly dumbfounded, stared at her aghast.

      “I consider you as a brother,” she said, in a slower tone. “I wished to unburden my heart to you.... Your friend wrote to me again, yesterday. He must not continue doing so, for his letters are useless now. I tell you again, I know all; the joke would become cruel and ridiculous if carried any further. Tell your friend to come.... Come with him.” And her looks of emotion completed her confession — Jeanne loved George.

      Daniel, frozen up, had suddenly recovered an awful calm. It seemed to him that his soul had departed, and only his body continued to live.

      In a quiet voice he conversed of George with Jeanne; he promised to fulfil the part of a brother with which she entrusted him.

      Then he found himself in the street, and went home. After that the animal side of his nature awoke in him, and he had a frightful access of despair and folly.

      Daniel, at last, had rebelled. His body wept; his heart refused the sacrifice. He could not make up his mind to efface himself thus. He had always kept in the background, living in the shade, condemning himself to silence. But now he must have a supreme reward; he did not feel he had enough virtue to sacrifice himself again, to die without declaring his love and abnegation.

      What! he had been able to deceive himself to such a point. He laughed idiotically, with rage and shame. During long months he had selfishly enjoyed a love that did not belong to him; he had lost himself in the contemplation and worship of Jeanne, and Jeanne’s heart was full of the thought of another. He pictured himself once more in that little blue room, studying the young woman’s face, taking to himself her affectionate looks, her tender smiles, and he called to mind his ecstasy, his hopes, his unlimited confidence. All a lie, a cruel jest, an atrocious deceit! Those affectionate looks, those tender smiles, were all for George; he it was whom Jeanne loved, he it was who made her so sweet and kind. “Well,” she had said, “I have thought of every one about me, and I have found no one but George who could write to me thus.” He, Daniel, had no existence for her; he was there simply as an accompaniment, a background. He had been robbed of his devotion, robbed of his love; he was being despoiled still more, and there was nothing left to him, nothing but his tears and his solitude.

      Above all, it was he whom Jeanne selected to confess her love to; he whom she entrusted to give her to another! Verily, there was needed nothing more but this additional suffering, this last mockery. Did they