His Masterpiece by Emile Zola (read along books .txt) 📖

End

To The Other The Slanting Sun Powdered The Houses On The Right Bank

With Golden Dust,  While,  On The Left,  The Islets,  The Buildings,  Stood

Out In A Black Line Against The Blazing Glory Of The Sunset. Between

The Sombre And The Brilliant Margin,  The Spangled River Sparkled,  Cut

In Twain Every Now And Then By The Long Bars Of Its Bridges; The Five

Arches Of The Pont Notre-Dame Showing Under The Single Span Of The

Pont D'arcole; Then The Pont-Au-Change And The Pont-Neuf,  Beyond Each

Of Whose Shadows Appeared A Luminous Patch,  A Sheet Of Bluish Satiny

Water,  Growing Paler Here And There With A Mirror-Like Reflection. And

While The Dusky Outlines On The Left Terminated In The Silhouettes Of

The Pointed Towers Of The Palais De Justice,  Sharply And Darkly

Defined Against The Sky,  A Gentle Curve Undulated On The Right,

Stretching Away So Far That The Pavillon De Flore,  Who Stood Forth

Like A Citadel At The Curve's Extreme End,  Seemed A Fairy Castle,

Bluey,  Dreamlike And Vague,  Amidst The Rosy Mist On The Horizon. But

Claude And Christine,  With The Sunlight Streaming On Them,  Athwart The

Leafless Plane Trees,  Turned Away From The Dazzlement,  Preferring To

Gaze At Certain Spots,  One Above All--A Block Of Old Houses Just Above

The Mail. Below,  There Was A Series Of One-Storied Tenements,  Little

Huckster And Fishing-Tackle Shops,  With Flat Terrace Roofs,  Ornamented

With Laurel And Virginia Creeper. And In The Rear Rose Loftier,  But

Decrepit,  Dwellings,  With Linen Hung Out To Dry At Their Windows,  A

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Collection Of Fantastic Structures,  A Confused Mass Of Woodwork And

Masonry,  Overtoppling Walls,  And Hanging Gardens,  In Which Coloured

Glass Balls Shone Out Like Stars. They Walked On,  Leaving Behind Them

The Big Barracks And The Hotel De Ville,  And Feeling Much More

Interest In The Cite Which Appeared Across The River,  Pent Between

Lofty Smooth Embankments Rising From The Water. Above The Darkened

Houses Rose The Towers Of Notre-Dame,  As Resplendent As If They Had

Been Newly Gilt. Then The Second-Hand Bookstalls Began To Invade The

Quays. Down Below A Lighter Full Of Charcoal Struggled Against The

Strong Current Beneath An Arch Of The Pont Notre-Dame. And Then,  On

The Days When The Flower Market Was Held,  They Stopped,  Despite The

Inclement Weather,  To Inhale The Scent Of The First Violets And The

Early Gillyflowers. On Their Left A Long Stretch Of Bank Now Became

Visible; Beyond The Pepper-Caster Turrets Of The Palais De Justice,

The Small,  Murky Tenements Of The Quai De L'horloge Showed As Far As

The Clump Of Trees Midway Across The Pont-Neuf; Then,  As They Went

Farther On,  Other Quays Emerged From The Mist,  In The Far Distance:

The Quai Voltaire,  The Quai Malaquais,  The Dome Of The Institute Of

France,  The Square Pile Of The Mint,  A Long Grey Line Of Frontages Of

Which They Could Not Even Distinguish The Windows,  A Promontory Of

Roofs,  Which,  With Their Stacks Of Chimney-Pots,  Looked Like Some

Rugged Cliff,  Dipping Down Into A Phosphorescent Sea. In Front,

However,  The Pavillon De Flore Lost Its Dreamy Aspect,  And Became

Solidified In The Final Sun Blaze. Then Right And Left,  On Either Bank

Of The River,  Came The Long Vistas Of The Boulevard De Sebastopol And

The Boulevard Du Palais; The Handsome New Buildings Of The Quai De La

Megisserie,  With The New Prefecture Of Police Across The Water; And

The Old Pont-Neuf,  With Its Statue Of Henri Iv. Looking Like A Splash

Of Ink. The Louvre,  The Tuileries Followed,  And Beyond Grenelle There

Was A Far-Stretching Panorama Of The Slopes Of Sevres,  The Country

Steeped In A Stream Of Sun Rays. Claude Never Went Farther. Christine

Always Made Him Stop Just Before They Reached The Pont Royal,  Near The

Fine Trees Beside Vigier's Swimming Baths; And When They Turned Round

To Shake Hands Once More In The Golden Sunset Now Flushing Into

Crimson,  They Looked Back And,  On The Horizon,  Espied The Isle Saint

Louis,  Whence They Had Come,  The Indistinct Distance Of The City Upon

Which Night Was Already Descending From The Slate-Hued Eastern Sky.

 

Ah! What Splendid Sunsets They Beheld During Those Weekly Strolls. The

Sun Accompanied Them,  As It Were,  Amid The Throbbing Gaiety Of The

Quays,  The River Life,  The Dancing Ripples Of The Currents; Amid The

Attractions Of The Shops,  As Warm As Conservatories,  The Flowers Sold

By The Seed Merchants,  And The Noisy Cages Of The Bird Fanciers; Amid

All The Din Of Sound And Wealth Of Colour Which Ever Make A City's

Waterside Its Youthful Part. As They Proceeded,  The Ardent Blaze Of

The Western Sky Turned To Purple On Their Left,  Above The Dark Line Of

Houses,  And The Orb Of Day Seemed To Wait For Them,  Falling Gradually

Lower,  Slowly Rolling Towards The Distant Roofs When Once They Had

Passed The Pont Notre-Dame In Front Of The Widening Stream. In No

Ancient Forest,  On No Mountain Road,  Beyond No Grassy Plain Will There

Ever Be Such Triumphal Sunsets As Behind The Cupola Of The Institute.

It Is There One Sees Paris Retiring To Rest In All Her Glory. At Each

Of Their Walks The Aspect Of The Conflagration Changed; Fresh Furnaces

Added Their Glow To The Crown Of Flames. One Evening,  When A Shower

Had Surprised Them,  The Sun,  Showing Behind The Downpour,  Lit Up The

Whole Rain Cloud,  And Upon Their Heads There Fell A Spray Of Glowing

Water,  Irisated With Pink And Azure. On The Days When The Sky Was

Clear,  However,  The Sun,  Like A Fiery Ball,  Descended Majestically In

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An Unruffled Sapphire Lake; For A Moment The Black Cupola Of The

Institute Seemed To Cut Away Part Of It And Make It Look Like The

Waning Moon; Then The Globe Assumed A Violet Tinge And At Last Became

Submerged In The Lake,  Which Had Turned Blood-Red. Already,  In

February,  The Planet Described A Wider Curve,  And Fell Straight Into

The Seine,  Which Seemed To Seethe On The Horizon As At The Contact Of

Red-Hot Iron. However,  The Grander Scenes,  The Vast Fairy Pictures Of

Space Only Blazed On Cloudy Evenings. Then,  According To The Whim Of

The Wind,  There Were Seas Of Sulphur Splashing Against Coral Reefs;

There Were Palaces And Towers,  Marvels Of Architecture,  Piled Upon One

Another,  Burning And Crumbling,  And Throwing Torrents Of Lava From

Their Many Gaps; Or Else The Orb Which Had Disappeared,  Hidden By A

Veil Of Clouds,  Suddenly Transpierced That Veil With Such A Press Of

Light That Shafts Of Sparks Shot Forth From One Horizon To The Other,

Showing As Plainly As A Volley Of Golden Arrows. And Then The Twilight

Fell,  And They Said Good-Bye To Each Other,  While Their Eyes Were

Still Full Of The Final Dazzlement. They Felt That Triumphal Paris Was

The Accomplice Of The Joy Which They Could Not Exhaust,  The Joy Of

Ever Resuming Together That Walk Beside The Old Stone Parapets.

 

One Day,  However,  There Happened What Claude Had Always Secretly

Feared. Christine No Longer Seemed To Believe In The Possibility Of

Meeting Anybody Who Knew Her. In Fact,  Was There Such A Person? She

Would Always Pass Along Like This,  Remaining Altogether Unknown. He,

However,  Thought Of His Own Friends,  And At Times Felt A Kind Of

Tremor When He Fancied He Recognised In The Distance The Back Of Some

Acquaintance. He Was Troubled By A Feeling Of Delicacy; The Idea That

Somebody Might Stare At The Girl,  Approach Them,  And Perhaps Begin To

Joke,  Gave Him Intolerable Worry. And That Very Evening,  As She Was

Close Beside Him On His Arm,  And They Were Approaching The Pont Des

Arts,  He Fell Upon Sandoz And Dubuche,  Who Were Coming Down The Steps

Of The Bridge. It Was Impossible To Avoid Them,  They Were Almost Face

To Face; Besides,  His Friends Must Have Seen Him,  For They Smiled.

Claude,  Very Pale,  Kept Advancing,  And He Thought It All Up On Seeing

Dubuche Take A Step Towards Him; But Sandoz Was Already Holding The

Architect Back,  And Leading Him Away. They Passed On With An

Indifferent Air And Disappeared Into The Courtyard Of The Louvre

Without As Much As Turning Round. They Had Both Just Recognised The

Original Of The Crayon Sketch,  Which The Painter Hid Away With All The

Jealousy Of A Lover. Christine,  Who Was Chattering,  Had Noticed

Nothing. Claude,  With His Heart Throbbing,  Answered Her In

Monosyllables,  Moved To Tears,  Brimming Over With Gratitude To His Old

Chums For Their Discreet Behaviour.

 

A Few Days Later,  However,  He Had Another Shock. He Did Not Expect

Christine,  And Had Therefore Made An Appointment With Sandoz. Then,  As

She Had Run Up To Spend An Hour--It Was One Of Those Surprises That

Delighted Them--They Had Just Withdrawn The Key,  As Usual,  When There

Came A Familiar Knock With The Fist On The Door. Claude At Once

Recognised The Rap,  And Felt So Upset At The Mishap That He Overturned

A Chair. After That It Was Impossible To Pretend To Be Out. But

Christine Turned So Pale,  And Implored Him With Such A Wild Gesture,

That He Remained Rooted To The Spot,  Holding His Breath. The Knocks

Continued,  And A Voice Called,  'Claude,  Claude!' He Still Remained

Quite Still,  Debating With Himself,  However,  With Ashen Lips And

Downcast Eyes. Deep Silence Reigned,  And Then Footsteps Were Heard,

Making The Stairs Creak As They Went Down. Claude's Breast Heaved With

Intense Sadness; He Felt It Bursting With Remorse At The Sound Of Each

Part 4 Pg 79

Retreating Step,  As If He Had Denied The Friendship Of His Whole

Youth.

 

However,  One Afternoon There Came Another Knock,  And Claude Had Only

Just Time To Whisper Despairingly,  'The Key Has Been Left In The

Door.'

 

In Fact,  Christine Had Forgotten To Take It Out. She Became Quite

Scared And Darted Behind The Screen,  With Her Handkerchief Over Her

Mouth To Stifle The Sound Of Her Breathing.

 

The Knocks Became Louder,  There Was A Burst Of Laughter,  And The

Painter Had To Reply,  'Come In.'

 

He Felt More Uncomfortable Still When He Saw Jory,  Who Gallantly

Ushered In Irma Becot,  Whose Acquaintance He Had Made Through

Fagerolles,  And Who Was Flinging Her Youth About The Paris Studios.

 

'She Insisted Upon Seeing Your Studio,  So I Brought Her,' Explained

The Journalist.

 

The Girl,  However,  Without Waiting,  Was Already Walking About And

Making Remarks,  With Perfect Freedom Of Manner. 'Oh! How Funny It Is

Here. And What Funny Painting. Come,  There's A Good Fellow,  Show Me

Everything. I Want To See Everything.'

 

Claude,  Apprehensively Anxious,  Was Afraid That She Might Push The

Screen Aside.