by Émile Zola
‘How’s the latest effort going?’ said Claude.
‘But for this damned cold it would be finished,’ was the answer. ‘Have a look.’
He straightened up, once he was sure the stove was drawing properly, and moved over to the middle of the room where, on a table made of a packing-case reinforced with struts, stood a statue swathed in old white dust-sheets frozen so stiff that they clung to it and revealed its lines as if they were a shroud. This was his old dream, the one he had been unable to realize before, through lack of funds: an upright figure, the ‘Woman Bathing’, a dozen rough models of which had made their appearance in his studios in the last few years. In a fit of impatient revolt he had made his own framework, with broom-handles, not metal, in the hope that wood might be strong enough after all. From time to time he rocked it about to test them, and everything had always held firm.
‘Looks as if a breath of warm air’ll do it no harm,’ he said quietly. ‘These things have stuck to it. They’re like armour.’
The dust-sheets cracked as he touched them and broke like pieces of ice. He had to wait until the heat had begun to thaw them, and then, with infinite precautions, he began to peel them off, revealing first the head, then the bust, then the thighs, delighted to find it still intact and smiling like a lover contemplating the naked beauty of the woman he adored.
‘There! What do you think of that?’
Claude, who had not seen the statue since its early stages, nodded thoughtfully to avoid having to make an immediate reply. There was no doubt about it, Mahoudeau was weakening, being graceful in spite of himself; pretty-prettiness seemed to spring naturally from his stone-dresser’s fingers. Since his colossal ‘Grape-Picker’, his work had become less and less significant, apparently without his realizing it, for he still talked grandly about ‘temperament’ while his vision was clearly becoming impervious to anything but the merely pleasant. His mighty bosoms were now simply girlish, his legs long and slim and elegant, revealing his true nature through the gradual deflation of his ambition. There was still a certain exaggeration about his ‘Woman Bathing’, but its charm was already very obvious in the slight shudder suggested by the shoulders and the folded arms tilting her breasts. He had moulded those breasts with infinite love, spurred by his desire, keener than ever now that he was too poor to be anything but chaste, to create forms profoundly disturbing in their sensuality.
‘You don’t like it, do you?’ he asked in a cross voice.
‘Oh, yes, yes, I do. … I think you’re right to soften things down a bit if that’s the way you feel. Besides, that’s going to be a success. It’s going to go down very well, that’s quite certain.’
In the past Mahoudeau would have been horrified by such a compliment; now he was delighted. He was determined to make the conquest of the general public, he said, without abandoning any single one of his convictions.
‘It’s a hell of a relief to hear you say that!’ he cried. ‘If you hadn’t liked it and told me to break it up, I’d have broken it up. Oh, yes I would! … Another fortnight’s work, and I shall have to sell myself, body and soul, to pay the caster. … I think it should do pretty well at the Salon, don’t you? Might even get a medal, what?’ he went on, laughing and now very excited, and added: ‘As there’s no hurry, you say, why not take a seat? … I’d like it to thaw out completely before we go.’
The stove was getting red now and giving out a tremendous heat, and the statue, which was quite close to it, seemed to be coming to life as the hot air swept up its back from its calves to the nape of its neck, while the two friends sat examining and discussing it in every detail, lingering over every line and curve of its body. Mahoudeau was in transports of delight, and as he spoke made round, caressing gestures. Look at the curve of that belly, now, and that lovely fold in the flesh at the waist, the way it emphasizes the curve of the left hip!
Just at the moment Claude saw something which made him think his eyes must be playing him a trick. The statue was moving. A faint quiver ran through the body and the left hip grew taut as if the right leg was going to take a step forward.
‘And that smooth gradation down to the small of the back,’ Mahoudeau rambled on, not noticing what was happening. ‘The care I’ve taken with that! Just there, old fellow, the skin’s like satin!’
Little by little the whole statue was coming to life; the hips were beginning to sway and, as the arms relaxed, the bosom heaved as with a sigh. Suddenly the head dropped forward, the legs crumpled up and the statue began to fall forward in a living mass, with the same fearful anguish and the same rush of pain and despair as a woman flinging herself to her death.
Claude was just realizing what was happening when Mahoudeau gave a heart-rending shout:
‘Good God! It’s giving way! The bloody thing’s collapsing!’
As it thawed the clay had broken the soft wood of the framework and it could be heard splitting and cracking like fractured bones. At the risk of his life, Mahoudeau, with the same loving gesture that had fired his imagination as he caressed it from afar, flung wide his arms to receive it. For one second it quivered, then collapsed, face forward, snapped off at the ankles, leaving its feet fixed to the table.
With an anxious ‘Look out! You’ll be killed!’ Claude tried to hold him back, but, horrified at the thought of seeing it crumble at his feet, Mahoudeau went firmly forward with outstretched arms. It seemed to fall upon his neck, and he folded it in his embrace, hugging it to him as its virgin nudity came to life with the first stirrings of desire. He entered it, the love-filled breasts flattened against his shoulder, its thighs pressing against his own, while the head broke off and rolled along the floor. The impact was so sharp that it sent him toppling against the opposite wall, and there he lay, stunned, still clutching the mutilated body.
‘Of all the fools!’ muttered the furious Claude, convinced he was killed.
Slowly, painfully, however, Mahoudeau struggled on to his knees and then burst into tears. He had only grazed his face as he fell, and the blood was washed down his cheek by his tears.
‘This is where poverty gets you!’ he cried. ‘This is what happens when you haven’t enough in your pocket to buy a couple of rods! Oh! It’s enough to drive anybody to the river! Look at her now, just look at her now!’ he went on, sobbing as he might have done at a deathbed, and crying aloud like an agonized lover over the mutilated corpse of the creature he adored. With trembling hands he kept touching the shattered members that lay on the floor around him, the head, the body, the splintered arms; but what upset him most was the bosom, now completely flattened, with a great gaping wound, as if it had been operated on for some terrible disease. He could not leave it alone, and his fingers kept on probing the gash through which life had been spilled, while his bloodstained tears splashed red upon the wounds.
‘Give us a hand,’ he stammered. ‘We can’t leave her like this.’
There were tears in Claude’s eyes, too, for he was not indifferent to a brother-artist’s misfortune. He was only too ready to lend a hand, but Mahoudeau, once he had asked for assistance, said he preferred to pick up the bits alone, as though he were afraid another might handle them too roughly. Crawling slowly around on his knees, he picked them up one by one and lay them in position on a board. Soon the figure was made whole again, rather as some wretched woman who has died for love by flinging herself from the top of a building is conscientiously pieced together again before she is taken to the morgue, a sad yet somehow comic sight. His task completed, Mahoudeau, heartbroken, sat on the floor lost in contemplation. Gradually his sobs subsided and, after a time, he sighed:
‘Ah, well, I’ll have to do her reclining after all. … Poor old girl, after I’d gone to all that trouble to make her stand up … and a fine girl she was too!’
Claude was worried now about his wedding. Mahoudeau was obliged to change his clothes, and as he had only one frock-coat, the one he had been wearing, he had to make do with an ordinary jacket. Then, once the sta
tue was laid out and covered with a cloth, like a corpse, they rushed away, leaving the stove still roaring and thawing out the studio, bringing trickles of dirty water down its dusty walls.
When they reached the Rue de Douai they found only little Jacques, left in charge of the concierge. Tired of waiting, and thinking there might have been some misunderstanding and that Claude intended to go straight to the Mairie with Mahoudeau, Christine had started out with the three other witnesses. It was only in the Rue Drouot, on the Mairie steps, that Mahoudeau and Claude caught up with them. They all went in together and met with a surly welcome from the clerk on duty because they were so late. The whole ceremony was rushed through in a large, bare room, the Mayor mumbling his part of the service and the bride and bridegroom making short work of the sacramental ‘Yes’, while the witnesses looked about them and marvelled at the bad taste of the decorations. When they reached the street again, Claude took Christine’s arm in his, and that was that.
It was a clear, frosty day and pleasant for walking, so they made their way gently up the Rue des Martyrs to the restaurant on the Boulevard de Clichy, where a little private room had been booked. The lunch was a friendly affair; nobody said a word about the simple formality they had just accomplished, but talked all the time about other things, as if it was just another of their usual informal gatherings.
Thus it was that Christine, who was really deeply moved, in spite of her seeming indifference, had to listen for three whole hours to her husband and his witnesses growing more and more heated in their discussions of Mahoudeau’s unfortunate statue. Ever since the others heard what had happened to it they had gone over it again and again in the minutest detail. Sandoz thought it had ‘tremendous style’. Jory and Gagnière talked about the strength of the supports, the former worrying about the financial loss involved, the latter using a chair to demonstrate a method which might have kept the figure upright. Mahoudeau, still suffering from shock and beginning to show signs of drowsiness, complained of pains all over his body; he had not noticed it at first, but now he ached in every limb, his muscles were strained, and his skin as bruised as if he had been embraced by a woman of stone. The graze on his cheek had started to bleed again, and as Christine bathed it for him she felt as if his mutilated statue was sitting there at the table with them and that it was the only thing that counted, the only thing in which Claude had any interest, judging by his ceaseless flow of talk about it and the way he had felt when he saw its bosom and its limbs of clay lying smashed to pieces at his feet.
During dessert, however, there was a momentary diversion. Gagnière suddenly said to Jory:
‘By the way, I saw you with Mathilde on Sunday. … Oh, yes, indeed I did, in the Rue Dauphine.’
Jory, very red in the face, wanted to lie his way out of the difficulty, but first his nose twitched, then his lips, and finally, with a sheepish grin, he said:
‘Oh! did you? … I’d just met her by chance, like that. … Honest, I had. … I don’t know where she lives. If I did, I’d have told you.’
‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Mahoudeau. ‘I’d like to bet you’re the one who’s hiding her! … Ah well, you’re welcome to her; nobody’s going to claim her back.’
The truth was that Jory, contrary to all his usual prudence and avarice, was keeping Mathilde in a little room he had rented for her. She knew his vices, and that gave her a hold over him. Instead of relying for his pleasure on women he picked up in the gutter, because they were cheaper, he was gradually slipping into a regular domestic relationship with the ghoul from the shop in the Rue du Cherche-Midi.
‘Why be fussy,’ put in Sandoz, philosophical and indulgent. ‘You take your pleasure where you find it!’
‘Of course you do,’ replied Jory casually, lighting a cigar.
They continued to linger on at the end of the meal, and it was growing dusk when they accompanied Mahoudeau back to his studio, as he had decided he would be better if he went to bed. When they reached their own studio after collecting Jacques from the concierge, they found it very cold and so dark that it took them some time to find their bearings and light the lamp. The stove, too, had to be rekindled, and it was striking seven before the place began to feel reasonably cosy. For supper they ate up the remains of a bit of boiled beef, more to encourage the child to eat his soup than because they were hungry. Then, when they had put him to bed, they settled down under the lamplight, as on any other evening. Still, Christine did not bring out any work to do; she was much too upset to settle to any domestic task. She simply sat with her hands folded on the table, watching Claude, who had immediately plunged into his drawing: part of his picture, showing dockers unloading cement at the Port Saint-Nicolas. As she looked on, she could not help letting her thoughts wander regretfully back to the past; she felt herself giving way to deeper and deeper gloom, until her whole being seemed to be numb with pain at the thought of all the indifference, all the boundless solitude she had to face, even when they were together. They were together now, at that very moment he was only on the opposite side of the table, but how very far away she felt he was! He was down at the Ile de la Cité; he was remoter still, in the inaccessible infinity of art; he was so very remote that she knew she would never reach him again. Several times she tried to make conversation, but provoked no reply. Hour after hour went by, and, as she was weary of sitting doing nothing, she took out her purse and began to count her money.
‘Do you know how much we’ve got to start our married life?’ she asked.
Claude did not even look up.
‘We’ve got nine sous!’ she went on. ‘A wonderful start!’
Now he shrugged his shoulders and answered gruffly:
‘We’ll be rich one day, so don’t worry.’
Then there was silence again, and she made no further attempt to break it, but sat contemplating the nine sous laid out on the table. As midnight struck she shuddered, sick at heart now with waiting in the cold.
‘Shall we go to bed?’ she said timidly. ‘I’m all in.’
Claude was so engrossed in his work that he did not even hear her.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘the stove’s gone out, we shall both catch our deaths. … Do come to bed.’
The note of supplication in her voice made its impression; he gave a sudden start of annoyance and rapped out:
‘Oh, go to bed if you want to! Can’t you see I have something to finish?’
She lingered another moment or so, taken aback by his sudden flash of anger and on the verge of tears. Then, realizing she was not wanted and that the mere presence of her as a woman sitting there doing nothing annoyed him, she got up from the table and went to bed, leaving the studio door wide open. Half an hour, three-quarters went by; not a sound, not even of breathing, came from the bedroom, though Christine was not asleep; she was lying on her back in the dark, her eyes wide open. After a time, from the depths of her alcove, she risked just one more timid appeal.
‘Darling,’ she murmured, ‘I’m waiting for you. … Darling. Do please come to bed.’
The only reply was an oath. After that, nothing stirred; maybe she had dropped off to sleep. The studio meanwhile was growing colder and colder and the untrimmed lamp burning with a dull red flame, but Claude, still poring over his drawing, was apparently unconscious of the passage of time.
At two o’clock, however, he got up from the table, furious because the lamp was beginning to burn itself out. He had only just time to take it into the bedroom, as he had no wish to undress in the dark. There, finding Christine lying on her back, still wide awake, he remarked angrily:
‘You not asleep yet?’
‘No,’ she answered. ‘I’m not sleepy.’
‘Oh, I know,’ he retorted, ‘it’s just another reproach. … I’ve told you dozens of times I hate you to wait up for me.’
Then, as the lamp flickered out, he lay down beside her. She did not move; he, worn out by his labours, yawned a couple of times. They were both wide awake, but still the
y neither stirred nor spoke; they were both cold too, for his legs were numb and his whole body so thoroughly chilled that it seemed to have taken all the warmth out of the bedclothes. At last, just as his mind was beginning to wander and he was on the point of sleep, he gave a violent start and exclaimed:
‘It’s a good job she wasn’t badly smashed up below the waist, with a belly like that! What a beauty!’
‘A good job who wasn’t smashed up?’ asked the startled Christine.
‘Mahoudeau’s bather, of course!’
At this unexpected reply she turned quickly away, buried her face in the pillow, and, to Claude’s amazement, burst into tears.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ he asked. But she could not reply, for she was choking with emotion and her sobs shook the whole bed.
‘What is it?’ he insisted. ‘I haven’t said anything unkind, have I? … My dearest, please don’t cry.’
As he talked he gradually realized the cause of her great sorrow, and he admitted to himself that, on that day of all days, he ought to have gone to bed at the same time as Christine. But she couldn’t really blame him, he argued, for the notion hadn’t even struck him, and besides she knew him well enough now to realize what he was like when he was working on something.
‘Come on, darling,’ he went on. ‘We’ve been together a long time. Oh, I know; you’d planned it all in your little head. You wanted to play the bride, that’s it, isn’t it? … Come now, don’t cry any more. You know I didn’t mean to be unkind.’
He claimed her body and she gave it to him, but it was a vain embrace, for the passion that had once been theirs was dead. They knew, as they released their hold upon each other and lay side by side again, that from that moment they were strangers, that there was some obstacle between them, another body whose icy breath had touched them more than once even in the passionate early stages of their love. Never again would they be all-in-all to each other; the rift between them would never be healed. The wife had despoiled the mistress, and marriage seemed to have done away with love.
