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

Of Passionate

Love. He Turned And Looked At Her,  And Little By Little He Returned

Her Embrace; She Was Softening Him And Conquering Him.

 

'Listen!' She Continued. 'I Know That You Had A Frightful Thought;

Yes,  I Never Dared To Speak To You About It,  Because One Must Never

Bring On Misfortune; But I No Longer Sleep Of A Night,  You Frighten

Me. This Evening I Followed You To That Bridge Which I Hate,  And I

Trembled,  Oh! I Thought That It Was All Over--That I Had Lost You. Oh,

God! What Would Become Of Me? I Need You--You Surely Do Not Wish To

Kill Me! Let Us Live And Love One Another--Yes,  Love One Another!'

 

Then,  In The Emotion Caused Him By Her Infinite Passion And Grief,  He

Yielded. He Pressed Her To Him,  Sobbing And Stammering:

 

'It Is True I Had That Frightful Thought--I Should Have Done It,  And I

Only Resisted On Thinking Of That Unfinished Picture. But Can I Still

Live If Work Will Have Nothing More To Do With Me? How Can I Live

After That,  After What's There,  What I Spoilt Just Now?'

 

'I Will Love You,  And You Will Live.'

 

'Ah! You Will Never Love Me Enough--I Know Myself. Something Which

Does Not Exist Would Be Necessary--Something Which Would Make Me

Forget Everything. You Were Already Unable To Change Me. You Cannot

Accomplish A Miracle!'

 

Then,  As She Protested And Kissed Him Passionately,  He Went On: 'Well,

Yes,  Save Me! Yes,  Save Me,  If You Don't Want Me To Kill Myself! Lull

Me,  Annihilate Me,  So That I May Become Your Thing,  Slave Enough,

Small Enough To Dwell Under Your Feet,  In Your Slippers. Ah! To Live

Only On Your Perfume,  To Obey You Like A Dog,  To Eat And Sleep--If I

Could,  If I Only _Could_!'

 

She Raised A Cry Of Victory: 'At Last You Are Mine! There Is Only I

Left,  The Other Is Quite Dead!'

 

And She Dragged Him From The Execrated Painting,  She Carried Him Off

Triumphantly. The Candle,  Now Nearly Consumed,  Flared Up For A Minute

Behind Them On The Steps,  Before The Big Painting,  And Then Went Out.

It Was Victory,  Yes,  But Could It Last?

 

Daylight Was About To Break,  And Christine Lay Asleep Beside Claude.

She Was Breathing Softly,  And A Smile Played Upon Her Lips. He Had

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Closed His Eyes; And Yet,  Despite Himself,  He Opened Them Afresh And

Gazed Into The Darkness. Sleep Fled From Him,  And Confused Ideas Again

Ascended To His Brain. As The Dawn Appeared,  Yellowishly Dirty,  Like A

Splash Of Liquid Mud On The Window-Panes,  He Started,  Fancying That He

Heard A Loud Voice Calling To Him From The Far End Of The Studio.

Then,  Irresistibly,  Despite A Few Brief Hours' Forgetfulness,  All His

Old Thoughts Returned,  Overflowing And Torturing Him,  Hollowing His

Cheeks And Contracting His Jaws In The Disgust He Felt For Mankind.

Two Wrinkles Imparted Intense Bitterness To The Expression Of His

Face,  Which Looked Like The Wasted Countenance Of An Old Man. And

Suddenly The Loud Voice From The Far End Of The Studio Imperiously

Summoned Him A Second Time. Then He Quite Made Up His Mind: It Was All

Over,  He Suffered Too Much,  He Could No Longer Live,  Since Everything

Was A Lie,  Since There Was Nothing Left Upon Earth. Love! What Was It?

Nought But A Passing Illusion. This Thought At Last Mastered Him,

Possessed Him Entirely; And Soon The Craving For Nothingness As His

Only Refuge Came On Him Stronger Than Ever. At First He Let

Christine's Head Slip Down From His Shoulder On Which It Rested. And

Then,  As A Third Summons Rang Out In His Mind,  He Rose And Went To The

Studio,  Saying:

 

'Yes,  Yes,  I'm Coming,'

 

The Sky Did Not Clear,  It Still Remained Dirty And Mournful--It Was

One Of Those Lugubrious Winter Dawns; And An Hour Later Christine

Herself Awoke With A Great Chilly Shiver. She Did Not Understand At

First. How Did It Happen That She Was Alone? Then She Remembered: She

Had Fallen Asleep With Her Cheek Against His. How Was It Then That He

Had Left Her? Where Could He Be? Suddenly,  Amid Her Torpor,  She Sprang

Out Of Bed And Ran Into The Studio. Good God! Had He Returned To The

Other Then? Had The Other Seized Hold Of Him Again,  When She Herself

Fancied That She Had Conquered Him For Ever?

 

She Saw Nothing At The First Glance She Took; In The Cold And Murky

Morning Twilight The Studio Seemed To Her To Be Deserted. But Whilst

She Was Tranquillising Herself At Seeing Nobody There,  She Raised Her

Eyes To The Canvas,  And A Terrible Cry Leapt From Her Gaping Mouth:

 

'Claude! Oh,  Claude!'

 

Claude Had Hanged Himself From The Steps In Front Of His Spoilt Work.

He Had Simply Taken One Of The Cords Which Held The Frame To The Wall,

And Had Mounted The Platform,  So As To Fasten The Rope To An Oaken

Crosspiece,  Which He Himself Had One Day Nailed To The Uprights To

Consolidate Them. Then From Up Above He Had Leapt Into Space. He Was

Hanging There In His Shirt,  With His Feet Bare,  Looking Horrible,  With

His Black Tongue Protruding,  And His Bloodshot Eyes Starting From

Their Orbits; He Seemed To Have Grown Frightfully Tall In His

Motionless Stiffness,  And His Face Was Turned Towards The Picture,

Close To The Nude Woman,  As If He Had Wished To Infuse His Soul Into

Her With His Last Gasp,  And As If He Were Still Looking At Her With

His Expressionless Eyes.

 

Christine,  However,  Remained Erect,  Quite Overwhelmed With The Grief,

Fright,  And Anger Which Dilated Her Body. Only A Continuous Howl Came

From Her Throat. She Opened Her Arms,  Stretched Them Towards The

Picture,  And Clenched Both Hands.

 

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'Oh,  Claude! Oh,  Claude!' She Gasped At Last,  'She Has Taken You Back

--The Hussy Has Killed You,  Killed You,  Killed You!'

 

Then Her Legs Gave Way. She Span Round And Fell All Of A Heap Upon The

Tiled Flooring. Her Excessive Suffering Had Taken All The Blood From

Her Heart,  And,  Fainting Away,  She Lay There,  As If She Were Dead,

Like A White Rag,  Miserable,  Done For,  Crushed Beneath The Fierce

Sovereignty Of Art. Above Her The Nude Woman Rose Radiant In Her

Symbolic Idol's Brightness; Painting Triumphed,  Alone Immortal And

Erect,  Even When Mad.

 

At Nine O'clock On The Monday Morning,  When Sandoz,  After The

Formalities And Delay Occasioned By The Suicide,  Arrived In The Rue

Tourlaque For The Funeral,  He Found Only A Score Of People On The

Footway. Despite His Great Grief,  He Had Been Running About For Three

Days,  Compelled To Attend To Everything. At First,  As Christine Had

Been Picked Up Half Dead,  He Had Been Obliged To Have Her Carried To

The Hopital De Lariboisiere; Then He Had Gone From The Municipal

Offices,  To The Undertaker's And The Church,  Paying Everywhere,  And

Full Of Indifference So Far As That Went,  Since The Priests Were

Willing To Pray Over That Corpse With A Black Circle Round Its Neck.

Among The People Who Were Waiting He As Yet Only Perceived Some

Neighbours,  Together With A Few Inquisitive Folk; While Other People

Peered Out Of The House Windows And Whispered Together,  Excited By The

Tragedy. Claude's Friends Would,  No Doubt,  Soon Come. He,  Sandoz,  Had

Not Been Able To Write To Any Members Of The Family,  As He Did Not

Know Their Addresses. However,  He Retreated Into The Background On The

Arrival Of Two Relatives,  Whom Three Lines In The Newspapers Had

Roused From The Forgetfulness In Which Claude Himself,  No Doubt,  Had

Left Them. There Was An Old Female Cousin,* With The Equivocal Air Of

A Dealer In Second-Hand Goods,  And A Male Cousin,  Of The Second

Degree,  A Wealthy Man,  Decorated With The Legion Of Honour,  And Owning

One Of The Large Paris Drapery Shops. He Showed Himself Good-Naturedly

Condescending In His Elegance,  And Desirous Of Displaying An

Enlightened Taste For Art. The Female Cousin At Once Went Upstairs,

Turned Round The Studio,  Sniffed At All The Bare Wretchedness,  And

Then Walked Down Again,  With A Hard Mouth,  As If She Were Irritated At

Having Taken The Trouble To Come. The Second Cousin,  On The Contrary,

Drew Himself Up And Walked First Behind The Hearse,  Filling The Part

Of Chief Mourner With Proud And Pleasant Fitness.

 

  * Madame Sidonie,  Who Figures In M. Zola's Novel,  'La Curee.'

    The Male Cousin,  Mentioned Immediately Afterwards,  Is Octave

    Mouret,  The Leading Character Of 'Pot-Bouille' And 'Au Bonheur

    Des Dames.'--Ed.

 

As The Procession Was Starting Off,  Bongrand Came Up,  And,  After

Shaking Hands With Sandoz,  Remained Beside Him. He Was Gloomy,  And,

Glancing At The Fifteen Or Twenty Strangers Who Followed,  He Murmured:

 

'Ah! Poor Chap! What! Are There Only We Two?'

 

Dubuche Was At Cannes With His Children. Jory And Fagerolles Kept

Away,  The Former Hating The Deceased And The Latter Being Too Busy.

Mahoudeau Alone Caught The Party Up At The Rise Of The Rue Lepic,  And

He Explained That Gagniere Must Have Missed The Train.

 

The Hearse Slowly Ascended The Steep Thoroughfare Which Winds Round

Part 12 Pg 263

The Flanks Of The Height Of Montmartre; And Now And Then Cross

Streets,  Sloping Downward,  Sudden Gaps Amid The Houses,  Showed One The

Immensity Of Paris As Deep And As Broad As A Sea. When The Party

Arrived In Front Of The Church Of St. Pierre,  And The Coffin Was

Carried Up The Steps,  It Overtopped The Great City For A Moment. There

Was A Grey Wintry Sky Overhead,  Large Masses Of Clouds Swept Along,

Carried Away By An Icy Wind,  And In The Mist Paris Seemed To Expand,

To Become Endless,  Filling The Horizon With Threatening Billows. The

Poor Fellow Who Had Wished To Conquer It,  And Had Broken His Neck In

His Fruitless Efforts,  Now Passed In Front Of It,  Nailed Under An

Oaken Board,  Returning To The Earth Like One Of The City's Muddy

Waves.

 

On Leaving The Church The Female Cousin Disappeared,  Mahoudeau

Likewise; While The Second Cousin Again Took His Position Behind The

Hearse. Seven Other Unknown Persons Decided To Follow,  And They

Started For The New Cemetery Of St. Ouen,  To Which The Populace Has

Given The Disquieting And Lugubrious Name Of Cayenne. There Were Ten

Mourners In All.

 

'Well,  We Two Shall Be The Only Old Friends,' Repeated Bongrand As He

Walked On Beside Sandoz.

 

The Procession,  Preceded By The Mourning Coach In Which The Priest And

The Choirboy Were Seated,  Now Descended The Other Side Of The Height,

Along