Complete Works of Emile Zola (13 page)

We were upon a large square of turf, planted with trees, with tall poplars, which arose like a jet of water, majestically, and balanced themselves languidly in the blue air. The turf was close and thick, dark in the shade and golden in the sunlight; one might have called it, when the wind agitated the poplars, a broad carpet of silk with changing reflections. All around extended cultivated lands, covered with shrubs and plants: there was a sea of leaves at the horizon. A white house, low and long, which was in the shade, at the edge of a neighboring grove of trees, stood out gayly against all this green. Further away, higher up, on the edge of the sky, across the shadows, were seen the first roofs of Fontenay-aux-Roses.

The verdure was of recent growth, it had virgin freshness and innocence; the young leaves, pale and tender, in transparent masses, seemed like light and delicate lace placed upon the great blue veil of the sky. The tree trunks themselves, the rough old trunks, appeared as if newly painted; they had hidden their wounds beneath fresh moss. It was a universal song, a bright and caressing gayety. The stones and the lands, the sky and the waters, all appeared neat, vigorous, healthy and innocent. The recently awakened country, green and golden beneath the broad azure sky, laughed in the light, intoxicated with sap, youth and purity.

And amid this youth, this purity, ran Laurence in the full light, amid the flowing sap. She plunged into the grass, drank in the pure air; she had again found her fifteenth year upon the bosom of this country which had not been green fifteen days. The young verdure had refreshed her blood; the young sunlight had warmed her heart, given roses to her cheeks. All her being had awakened in this awakening of the earth; like the earth, she had resumed her innocence under the mild influence of the season.

Laurence, supple and strong, ran wildly about, carried away by the new life which was singing in her being. She lay down, she arose, with vivacity, bursting out laughing; she stooped to pick a flower, then fled between the trees, afterwards returning all in a rosy glow. Her entire face was animated; its features, unbent and rendered supple, had a healthful expression of genuine joy. Her laugh was frank, her voice sonorous and her gestures caressing. Seated, with my back against the trunk of a tree, I followed her with my eyes, white amid the grass, her hat fallen upon her shoulders; I was pleased with the pretty dress, so neat and light, which she wore chastely, and which gave her the air of a turbulent schoolgirl. She ran to me, threw me, stalk by stalk, the flowers she had gathered — marguerites and gold buttons, eglantines and lilies of the valley; then, she started off again, shining in the sunlight, pale and dim in the shade, like an insect buzzing in the light, without the ability to pause. She filled the grass and leaves with noise and motion; she peopled the secluded corner in which we were; the spring had assumed more brightness, more life, since this woman, who had as if by enchantment become a spotless child, had been laughing amid the verdure.

Fresh, blooming, all of a quiver, Laurence came to me and seated herself at my side. She was moist with dew; her bosom rose and full quickly, full of young and fresh breath. From her came a delightful odor of grass and health. I had at last beside me a woman who lived abundantly, purely, looking straight at the light. I leaned over and kissed Laurence on the forehead.

She took the flowers, one by one, arranging them in a bouquet. The sun was ascending, the shadows were darker; around us reigned complete silence. Lying flat on my back, I gazed at the sky, I gazed at the leaves, I gazed at Laurence. The sky was of a dead blue; the leaves, already languishing, were sleeping in the sunshine; Laurence, with her head bent down, calm and smiling, was hurrying through her task with quick and supple movements. I could not take my eyes from that partially reclining woman, lost amid her skirts, her forehead in gilded shade, who seemed to me innocent and active, restored to her fifteenth year. I felt such peace, such deep joy, that I feared either to stir or speak; I lived in the thought that spring was in me, around me, and that Laurence was purity itself; I lost myself in this dream of the spotlessness of my sweetheart and the worthiness of my love. At length I loved a woman; that woman laughed, that woman existed; she possessed the healthful color and the frank gayety of youth. The miserable days of the past were no more, the future appeared to me with a calm and splendid brightness. My dreams of innocence and my love of light were about to be satisfied; from this hour, a life of ecstasy and tenderness would commence. I thought no more of the Bièvre, that black sewer upon the borders of which I had had the frightful temptation to sit down and embrace Laurence. I now wished to inhabit the white dwelling, down there, at the edge of the grove of trees, to live in it forever with my sweetheart, with my wife, amid the dew, amid the sunlight, amid the pure air.

Laurence had finished her bouquet and tied it with a sprig of grass. It was eleven o’clock, and we had not yet eaten anything. It was necessary for us to quit these trees, beneath which my soul had loved for the first time, and go in quest of an inn. I walked on ahead, across the country, through narrow paths bordered with fields of strawberry plants. Laurence followed me, holding up her skirts, forgetting herself at each hedge. Suddenly, at the turn of a road, we found what we were looking for.

The Coup du Milieu, the inn we entered, is situated in a corner of land between Fontenay and Sceaux, near the pond of Plessis-Piquet. From without, one sees only a grove, a patch of verdure, about twenty trees which have grown vigorously; on Sundays, a sound of knives and forks, of laughter and songs, floats from this immense nest. Within, when one has passed through the door surmounted by a broad sign placed across it, and when one has descended a gentle slope, one finds himself in an alley shaded by foliage, bordered by groves to the right and to the left; each of these groves is provided with a long table and two benches, fastened in the ground, reddened and blackened by the rain. At its further end, the alley widens; there is a glade, and a swing hangs between two trees.

The groves were silent and deserted. Men in blue blouses, peasants, were swinging; a huge dog was sitting gravely in the middle of the alley. Laurence and I sat down beneath an arbor, at a large table intended to accommodate twenty persons. It was almost dark under the leaves, the coolness was penetrating. In the distance, we saw, between the branches, the country shining in the sunbeams, sleeping beneath the first rays. The acacias of the grove had bloomed the previous day; the mild and sweet odor of their flower clusters filled the calm and caressing air.

A servant spread a napkin over the end of the table, in guise of a cloth; then we were served with what we had ordered, mutton chops, eggs, I cannot remember exactly what. The wine, contained in a small jug of bluish stone, rasped the throat; a trifle rough and sharp, it stimulated the appetite marvelously. Laurence literally devoured all that was placed before her; I did not recognize those beautiful and hungry white teeth, biting the bread, as my companion laughed aloud. Never had I eaten with such enjoyment. I felt myself light in soul and body; I surprised myself believing that I was yet a student of those old days, when we went to bathe in the little river and dine upon the grass of the bank. I loved the white linen on the black table, the shade of the foliage, the iron forks, the rude crockery ware; I looked at Laurence; I lived abundantly in the plenitude of my sensations, intensely enjoying everything which surrounded me.

At dessert, the chief cook came to receive our congratulations. He was a tall old man, a trifle bent, clad all in white. He wore a cotton cap, and had, pushed back upon his temples, two tufts of grayish and curled hair, among which a few curl papers had been forgotten. Laurence laughed for an hour at his excellent face, at once subtle and simple.

I cannot tell what we did to pass away the time until evening. The day was a day of sunshine, of bewilderment. I know not what paths we took, what shady spots we chose to rest in. There is, when I think of those hours of ecstasy, a dazzling splendor before my eyes. The remembrance of details is rebellious; my entire being has the sensation of a great felicity, of a grand light. It seems to me vaguely that Laurence and I forgot ourselves in the midst of a ravine, among the moss, seeing only a vast stretch of sky; we remained there, hand clasping hand, speaking but little, intoxicated with our new experience; our eyes, turned heavenward, were filled with brightness even to the point of blindness; we no longer saw anything save our hearts and our thoughts. But all this is, perhaps, a dream; my memory is treacherous — I am conscious only of having been blind, of having caught glimpses of thousands of stars amid the darkness.

In the evening, without knowing how, we again found ourselves at the Coup du Milieu. A crowd was there. Young women and young men filled the groves, making a great noise and confusion; white dresses, red and blue ribbons, stained the light green of the leaves; bursts of merry laughter gently rippled along amid the twilight. Candles had been lighted upon the tables, pricking with luminous points the growing obscurity. Some Tyrolese were singing in the middle of the alley.

We ate upon the end of a table, as in the morning, joining in the general laughter, making efforts to get out of ourselves. The noisy youth surrounding us frightened me a little; I thought I saw among my neighbors many Jacqueses and many Maries. Between the tree branches, I perceived a corner of the sky, pale and melancholy, as yet without stars; I experienced much difficulty in taking my eyes from the calm heavens to fix them upon the world of folly shouting around me. I remember now that Laurence appeared to be excited and troubled.

Then, silence was re-established; all the strangers had departed, and we were left alone. I had resolved to sleep at the Coup du Milieu that I might enjoy, on the morrow, the dew, the white brightness of the dawn. While the servants were making preparations to accommodate us, Laurence and I walked out into the garden, at the further end of which we seated ourselves upon a bench. The night was mild, starry and transparent; vague sounds arose from the earth; a horn, on a neighboring height, complained in a faint and caressing tone. The plain, with its great masses of black, motionless foliage, stretched out its mysterious limits; it seemed to sleep, quivering, agitated by a dream of love.

Our chamber was damp. It was on the ground floor, low, new and already degraded. Pieces of furniture were absent from their appointed places. On the ceiling lovers had traced their names by passing the flame of a candle over the plaster; the knotty and straggling letters spread out, broad and black. I took a knife, and, like a child, cut the date beneath a heart-shaped window which opened upon the country, without either grating or shutter.

The bed was excellent, if the chamber did not present a handsome appearance. In the morning, on awaking, while still half asleep, I saw, upon the wall facing me, a sight which I could not comprehend and which filled me with terror. The chamber was yet dark; in the midst of the darkness, on the wall, an enormous heart was bleeding. I imagined that I felt my breast empty, and despairingly began to search within me for my love. I felt my love biting at my vitals, and then I realized that the sun had risen and that its rays were pouring in copious floods through the heart-shaped window.

Laurence arose; we opened the door and the window. A current of coolness entered, bearing into the chamber all the odors of the delightful country. The acacias, planted almost at the threshold, exhaled a milder and sweeter perfume than on the preceding evening. The purity of dawn rested upon the sky and upon the earth.

Laurence drank a cup of milk, and, before returning to Paris, I expressed a desire to climb to the wood of Verrières, in order to carry back with me, in my heart, a breath of the pure air of the morning. Above, in the wood, we walked with lingering steps along the verdant paths. The forest was like a beautiful bride on the day after the wedding; it had delicious tears, a youthful languor, a damp coolness, lukewarm and penetrating perfumes. The sunlight at the horizon slipped along obliquely, between the trees, in broad sheets; there was I know not what mildness in those golden rays which rolled down to earth like supple and dazzling silken veils. And, amid the coolness, we heard the stir of the awakening wood, those thousands of little sounds which bear witness to the life of the springs and of the plants; above our heads floated the songs of birds, beneath our feet were the murmurs of insects; all around us were sudden cracklings, the gurgling noises of flowing waters, deep and mysterious sighs which seemed to issue from the knotty sides of the oak trees. We advanced slowly, feeling an intense and indescribable delight in lingering amid sunlight and shadow drinking in the fresh air, striving to seize the confused words which the hawthorns seemed to address to us as we passed by them. Oh! the gentle and smiling morning, all soaked with happy tears, all softened with joy and youth! The country had reached that adorable age when old Nature has for a few days the delicate grace of infancy.

I returned to Paris with Laurence on my arm, young and strong, intoxicated with light and spring, my heart full of dew and love. I loved worthily, as a true man should, and I believed that I was so loved in return.

CHAPTER XX.

A BITTER AVOWAL.

SPRING has vanished; I have awakened from my dream.

I know not the limit of my pitiful childishness; I know not what miserable soul dwells within me. The reality penetrates me, shakes me; my flesh is either acutely tortured or wildly delighted by what is; I am like a body of exquisite sonorousness, which vibrates at the slightest sensation; I have a sharp and clear perception of the society which surrounds me. And my soul is pleased to refuse the truth; it escapes from my flesh, it disdains my senses, it lives elsewhere amid deception and hope. It is thus that I walk through life. I know and I see, I blind myself and I dream. While I advance beneath the rain, in the midst of the mud, while I am profoundly conscious of all the cold, of all the dampness, I can, by means of a strange faculty, make the sun shine, be warm, create for myself a mild and delicate sky, without ceasing to feel the gloomy sky which presses down upon my shoulders. I do not ignore anything, I do not forget anything. I live doubly. I carry into my dreams the same frankness which I carry into real sensations. I have thus two parallel existences, equally alive, equally intense — one which passes here below, in my poverty, another which passes above, in the immense and deep purity of the blue sky.