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

Never Be Able To Find Her Way Down Again.

Inside The Studio There Was A Shuffling Of Heavy Feet,  A Rustling Of

Hands Groping In The Dark,  A Clatter Of Things Being Tumbled About,

Accompanied By Stifled Objurgations. At Last The Doorway Was Lighted

Up.

 

'Come In,  It's All Right Now.'

 

She Went In And Looked Around Her,  Without Distinguishing Anything.

The Solitary Candle Burned Dim In That Garret,  More Than Fifteen Feet

High,  And Filled With A Confused Jumble Of Things Whose Big Shadows

Showed Fantastically On The Walls,  Which Were Painted In Grey

Distemper. No,  She Did Not Distinguish Anything. She Mechanically

Raised Her Eyes To The Large Studio-Window,  Against Which The Rain Was

Beating With A Deafening Roll Like That Of A Drum,  But At That Moment

Another Flash Of Lightning Illumined The Sky,  Followed Almost

Immediately By A Thunder-Clap That Seemed To Split The Roof.

Dumb-Stricken,  Pale As Death,  She Dropped Upon A Chair.

 

'The Devil!' Muttered Claude,  Who Also Was Rather Pale. 'That Clap

Wasn't Far Off. We Were Just In Time. It's Better Here Than In The

Streets,  Isn't It?'

 

Then He Went Towards The Door,  Closed It With A Bang And Turned The

Key,  While She Watched Him With A Dazed Look.

 

'There,  Now,  We Are At Home.'

 

But It Was All Over. There Were Only A Few More Thunder-Claps In The

Distance,  And The Rain Soon Ceased Altogether. Claude,  Who Was Now

Growing Embarrassed,  Had Examined The Girl,  Askance. She Seemed By No

Means Bad Looking,  And Assuredly She Was Young: Twenty At The Most.

This Scrutiny Had The Effect Of Making Him More Suspicious Of Her

Still,  In Spite Of An Unconscious Feeling,  A Vague Idea,  That She Was

Not Altogether Deceiving Him. In Any Case,  No Matter How Clever She

Might Be,  She Was Mistaken If She Imagined She Had Caught Him. To

Prove This He Wilfully Exaggerated His Gruffness And Curtness Of

Manner.

 

Her Very Anguish At His Words And Demeanour Made Her Rise,  And In Her

Turn She Examined Him,  Though Without Daring To Look Him Straight In

The Face. And The Aspect Of That Bony Young Man,  With His Angular

Joints And Wild Bearded Face,  Increased Her Fears. With His Black Felt

Hat And His Old Brown Coat,  Discoloured By Long Usage,  He Looked Like

A Kind Of Brigand.

 

Directly He Told Her To Make Herself At Home And Go To Bed,  For He

Placed His Bed At Her Disposal,  She Shrinkingly Replied: 'Thank You;

I'll Do Very Well As I Am; I'll Not Undress.'

 

'But Your Clothes Are Dripping,' He Retorted. 'Come Now,  Don't Make An

Idiot Of Yourself.'

 

And Thereupon He Began To Knock About The Chairs,  And Flung Aside An

Old Screen,  Behind Which She Noticed A Washstand And A Tiny Iron

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Bedstead,  From Which He Began To Remove The Coverlet.

 

'No,  No,  Monsieur,  It Isn't Worth While; I Assure You That I Shall

Stay Here.'

 

At This,  However,  Claude Became Angry,  Gesticulating And Shaking His

Fists.

 

'How Much More Of This Comedy Are We To Have?' Said He. 'As I Give You

My Bed,  What Have You To Complain Of? You Need Not Pay Any Attention

To Me. I Shall Sleep On That Couch.'

 

He Strode Towards Her With A Threatening Look,  And Thereupon,  Beside

Herself With Fear,  Thinking That He Was Going To Strike Her,  She

Tremblingly Unfastened Her Hat. The Water Was Dripping From Her

Skirts. He Kept On Growling. Nevertheless,  A Sudden Scruple Seemed To

Come To Him,  For He Ended By Saying,  Condescendingly:

 

'Perhaps You Don't Like To Sleep In My Sheets. I'll Change Them.'

 

He At Once Began Dragging Them From The Bed And Flinging Them On To

The Couch At The Other End Of The Studio. And Afterwards He Took A

Clean Pair From The Wardrobe And Began To Make The Bed With All The

Deftness Of A Bachelor Accustomed To That Kind Of Thing. He Carefully

Tucked In The Clothes On The Side Near The Wall,  Shook The Pillows,

And Turned Back A Corner Of The Coverlet.

 

'There,  That'll Do; Won't It?' Said He.

 

And As She Did Not Answer,  But Remained Motionless,  He Pushed Her

Behind The Screen. 'Good Heavens! What A Lot Of Fuss,' He Thought. And

After Spreading His Own Sheets On The Couch,  And Hanging His Clothes

On An Easel,  He Quickly Went To Bed Himself. When He Was On The Point

Of Blowing Out The Candle,  However,  He Reflected That If He Did So She

Would Have To Undress In The Dark,  And So He Waited. At First He Had

Not Heard Her Stir; She Had No Doubt Remained Standing Against The

Iron Bedstead. But At Last He Detected A Slight Rustling,  A Slow,

Faint Movement,  As If Amidst Her Preparations She Also Were Listening,

Frightened Perchance By The Candle Which Was Still Alight. At Last,

After Several Minutes,  The Spring Mattress Creaked,  And Then All

Became Still.

 

'Are You Comfortable,  Mademoiselle?' Now Asked Claude,  In A Much More

Gentle Voice.

 

'Yes,  Monsieur,  Very Comfortable,' She Replied,  In A Scarcely Audible

Voice,  Which Still Quivered With Emotion.

 

'Very Well,  Then. Good-Night.'

 

'Good-Night.'

 

He Blew Out The Candle,  And The Silence Became More Intense. In Spite

Of His Fatigue,  His Eyes Soon Opened Again,  And Gazed Upward At The

Large Window Of The Studio. The Sky Had Become Very Clear Again,  The

Stars Were Twinkling In The Sultry July Night,  And,  Despite The Storm,

The Heat Remained Oppressive. Claude Was Thinking About The Girl

--Agitated For A Moment By Contrary Feelings,  Though At Last Contempt

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Gained The Mastery. He Indeed Believed Himself To Be Very

Strong-Minded; He Imagined A Romance Concocted To Destroy His

Tranquillity,  And He Gibed Contentedly At Having Frustrated It. His

Experience Of Women Was Very Slight,  Nevertheless He Endeavoured To

Draw Certain Conclusions From The Story She Had Told Him,  Struck As He

Was At Present By Certain Petty Details,  And Feeling Perplexed. But

Why,  After All,  Should He Worry His Brain? What Did It Matter Whether

She Had Told Him The Truth Or A Lie? In The Morning She Would Go Off;

There Would Be An End To It All,  And They Would Never See Each Other

Again. Thus Claude Lay Cogitating,  And It Was Only Towards Daybreak,

When The Stars Began To Pale,  That He Fell Asleep. As For The Girl

Behind The Screen,  In Spite Of The Crushing Fatigue Of Her Journey,

She Continued Tossing About Uneasily,  Oppressed By The Heaviness Of

The Atmosphere Beneath The Hot Zinc-Work Of The Roof; And Doubtless,

Too,  She Was Rendered Nervous By The Strangeness Of Her Surroundings.

 

In The Morning,  When Claude Awoke,  His Eyes Kept Blinking. It Was Very

Late,  And The Sunshine Streamed Through The Large Window. One Of His

Theories Was,  That Young Landscape Painters Should Take Studios

Despised By The Academical Figure Painters--Studios Which The Sun

Flooded With Living Beams. Nevertheless He Felt Dazzled,  And Fell Back

Again On His Couch. Why The Devil Had He Been Sleeping There? His

Eyes,  Still Heavy With Sleep,  Wandered Mechanically Round The Studio,

When,  All At Once,  Beside The Screen He Noticed A Heap Of Petticoats.

Then He At Once Remembered The Girl. He Began To Listen,  And Heard A

Sound Of Long-Drawn,  Regular Breathing,  Like That Of A Child

Comfortably Asleep. Ah! So She Was Still Slumbering,  And So Calmly,

That It Would Be A Pity To Disturb Her. He Felt Dazed And Somewhat

Annoyed At The Adventure,  However,  For It Would Spoil His Morning's

Work. He Got Angry At His Own Good Nature; It Would Be Better To Shake

Her,  So That She Might Go At Once. Nevertheless He Put On His Trousers

And Slippers Softly,  And Walked About On Tiptoes.

 

The Cuckoo Clock Struck Nine,  And Claude Made A Gesture Of Annoyance.

Nothing Had Stirred; The Regular Breathing Continued. The Best Thing

To Do,  He Thought,  Would Be To Set To Work On His Large Picture; He

Would See To His Breakfast Later On,  When He Was Able To Move About.

But,  After All,  He Could Not Make Up His Mind. He Who Lived Amid

Chronic Disorder Felt Worried By That Heap Of Petticoats Lying On The

Floor. Some Water Had Dripped From Them,  But They Were Damp Still. And

So,  While Grumbling In A Low Tone,  He Ended By Picking Them Up One By

One And Spreading Them Over The Chairs In The Sunlight. Had One Ever

Seen The Like,  Clothes Thrown About Anyhow? They Would Never Get Dry,

And She Would Never Go Off! He Turned All That Feminine Apparel Over

Very Awkwardly,  Got Entangled With The Black Dress-Body,  And Went On

All Fours To Pick Up The Stockings That Had Fallen Behind An Old

Canvas. They Were Balbriggan Stockings Of A Dark Grey,  Long And Fine,

And He Examined Them,  Before Hanging Them Up To Dry. The Water Oozing

From The Edge Of The Dress Had Soaked Them,  So He Wrung And Stretched

Them With His Warm Hands,  In Order That He Might Be Able To Send Her

Away The Quicker.

 

Since He Had Been On His Legs,  Claude Had Felt Sorely Tempted To Push

Aside The Screen And To Take A Look At His Guest. This Self-Condemned

Curiosity Only Increased His Bad Temper. At Last,  With His Habitual

Shrug Of The Shoulders,  He Was Taking Up His Brushes,  When He Heard

Some Words Stammered Amidst A Rustling Of Bed-Clothes. Then,  However,

Soft Breathing Was Heard Again,  And This Time He Yielded To The

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Temptation,  Dropping His Brushes,  And Peeping From Behind The Screen.

The Sight That Met His Eyes Rooted Him To The Spot,  So Fascinated That

He Muttered,  'Good Gracious! Good Gracious!'

 

The Girl,  Amidst The Hot-House Heat That Came From The Window,  Had

Thrown Back Her Coverlet,  And,  Overcome With The Fatigue Of A Restless

Night,  Lay Steeped In A Flood Of Sunshine,  Unconscious Of Everything.

In Her Feverish Slumbers A Shoulder Button Had Become Unfastened,  And

A Sleeve Slipping Down Allowed Her Bosom To Be Seen,  With Skin Which

Looked Almost Gilded And Soft Like Satin. Her Right Arm Rested Beneath

Her Neck,  Her Head Was Thrown Back,  And Her Black Unwound Tresses

Enwrapped Her Like A Dusky Cloak.

 

'Good Gracious! But She's A Beauty!' Muttered Claude Once More.

 

There,  In Every Point,  Was The Figure He Had Vainly Sought For His

Picture,  And It Was Almost In The Right Pose. She Was Rather Spare,

Perhaps,  But Then So Lithe And Fresh.

 

With A Light Step,  Claude Ran To Take His Box Of Crayons,  And A Large

Sheet Of Paper. Then,  Squatting On A