His Masterpiece Émile Zola (e textbook reader TXT) 📖

a loss of his whole morning. Without deciding anything, as soon as he had lighted his spirit lamp, he washed his saucepan and began to make some chocolate. He thought it more distingué, feeling rather ashamed of his vermicelli, which he mixed with bread and soused with oil as people do in the South of France. However, he was still breaking the chocolate into bits, when he uttered a cry of surprise, “What, already?”

It was Christine, who had pushed back the screen, and who appeared looking neat and correct in her black dress, duly laced and buttoned up, equipped, as it were, in a twinkle. Her rosy face did not even show traces of the water, her thick hair was twisted in a knot at the back of her head, not a single lock out of place. And Claude remained open-mouthed before that miracle of quickness, that proof of feminine skill in dressing well and promptly.

“The deuce, if you go about everything in that way!” said he.

He found her taller and handsomer than he had fancied. But what struck him most was her look of quiet decision. She was evidently no longer afraid of him. It seemed as though she had re-donned her armour and become an amazon again. She smiled and looked him straight in the face. Whereupon he said what he was still reluctant to say:

“You’ll breakfast with me, won’t you?”

But she refused the offer. “No, thank you. I am going to the station, where my trunk must have arrived by now, and then I shall drive to Passy.”

It was in vain that he told her that she must be hungry, that it was unreasonable for her to go out without eating something.

“Well, if you won’t, I’ll go down and fetch you a cab,” he ended by exclaiming.

“Pray don’t take such trouble.”

“But you can’t go such a distance on foot. Let me at least take you to the cabstand, as you don’t know Paris.”

“No, really I do not need you. If you wish to oblige me, let me go away by myself.”

She had evidently made up her mind. She no doubt shrank from the idea of being seen with a man, even by strangers. She meant to remain silent about that strange night, she meant to tell some falsehood, and keep the recollection of her adventure entirely to herself. He made a furious gesture, which was tantamount to sending her to the devil. Good riddance; it suited him better not to have to go down. But, all the same, he felt hurt at heart, and considered that she was ungrateful.

“As you please, then. I shan’t resort to force,” he said.

At these words, Christine’s vague smile became more accentuated. She did not reply, but took her bonnet and looked round in search of a glass. Failing to find one, she tied the strings as best she could. With her arms uplifted, she leisurely arranged and smoothed the ribbons, her face turned towards the golden rays of the sun. Somewhat surprised, Claude looked in vain for the traits of childish softness that he had just portrayed; the upper part of her face, her clear forehead, her gentle eyes had become less conspicuous; and now the lower part stood out, with its somewhat sensual jaw, ruddy mouth, and superb teeth. And still she smiled with that enigmatical, girlish smile, which was, perhaps, an ironical one.

“At any rate,” he said, in a vexed tone, “I do not think you have anything to reproach me with.”

At which she could not help laughing, with a slight, nervous laugh.

“No, no, monsieur, not in the least.”

He continued staring at her, fighting the battle of inexperience and bashfulness over again, and fearing that he had been ridiculous. Now that she no longer trembled before him, had she become contemptuously surprised at having trembled at all? What! he had not made the slightest attempt at courtship, not even pressed a kiss on her fingertips. The young fellow’s bearish indifference, of which she had assuredly been conscious, must have hurt her budding womanly feelings.

“You were saying,” she resumed, becoming sedate once more, “that the cabstand is at the end of the bridge on the opposite quay?”

“Yes; at the spot where there is a clump of trees.”

She had finished tying her bonnet strings, and stood ready gloved, with her hands hanging by her side, and yet she did not go, but stared straight in front of her. As her eyes met the big canvas turned to the wall she felt a wish to see it, but did not dare to ask. Nothing detained her; still she seemed to be looking around as if she had forgotten something there, something which she could not name. At last she stepped towards the door.

Claude was already opening it, and a small loaf placed erect against the post tumbled into the studio.

“You see,” he said, “you ought to have stopped to breakfast with me. My doorkeeper brings the bread up every morning.”

She again refused with a shake of the head. When she was on the landing she turned round, and for a moment remained quite still. Her gay smile had come back; she was the first to hold out her hand.

“Thank you, thank you very much.”

He had taken her small gloved hand within his large one, all pastel-stained as it was. Both hands remained like that for a few moments, closely and cordially pressed. The young girl was still smiling at him, and he had a question on the tip of his tongue: “When shall I see you again?” But he felt ashamed to ask it, and after waiting a while she withdrew her hand.

“Goodbye, monsieur.”

“Goodbye, mademoiselle.”

Christine, without another glance, was already descending the steep ladder-like stairway whose steps creaked, when Claude turned abruptly into his studio, closing the door with a bang, and shouting to himself: “Ah, those confounded women!”

He was furious⁠—furious with himself, furious with everyone. Kicking about the furniture, he continued to ease his feelings in a loud voice. Was not