A Love Story

by Emile Zola

  But Henri pretended to be surprised. He assumed he was coming to meet his wife. Hélène allowed her daughter to answer, she was behind them, not speaking. As they all passed through the porch, a voice whined:

  ‘Can you spare... God bless you!’

  Each evening Jeanne slipped a ten-sou coin into Mother Fétu’s hand. When the latter saw the doctor alone with Hélène, she simply nodded her head understandingly, instead of coming out with her usual torrents of thanks. And once the church was empty, she began to follow them, dragging her feet, mumbling words under her breath. When it was a fine night, instead of going home by way of the Rue de Passy, the ladies sometimes went via the Rue Raynouard, thus lengthening their walk by five or six minutes. That evening Hélène took the Rue Raynouard, wanting darkness and quiet, yielding to the charms of that long and empty street lit at intervals by gaslight, without the shadow of a passer-by falling across her path.

  At that hour in this somewhat remote district, Passy was already asleep, breathing quietly like a provincial town. On both sides of the street stood rows of mansions, dark, sleepy boarding-houses for young ladies and dining premises where the kitchens were still lit up. No light from the window of a single shop shone through the darkness. And this solitude was a great delight to Hélène and Henri. He did not dare offer her his arm. Jeanne walked between them in the middle of the road, which was sandy like a path in a park. The houses petered out, clematis and lilacs in flower tumbled over long walls. Gardens stretched between the large houses, through a barred gate you occasionally caught a glimpse of dark green shrubberies, with light green lawns in between the trees. And you could almost make out the tubs full of iris scenting the air. All three walked more slowly in the warmth of this spring night which soaked them with its perfumes. And when Jeanne playing a childish game walked with her face lifted to the sky, she said over and over:

  ‘Oh, Maman, look at all those stars!’

  But behind them the footsteps of Mother Fétu seemed to be echoing theirs. She was drawing nearer. You could hear the last words of the Latin phrase ‘Ave Maria, gratia plena’, repeated time and again with the same mumbling inflection. Mother Fétu was telling her beads as she walked home.

  ‘I’ve got a coin left, shall I give it to her?’ Jeanne asked her mother.

  And without waiting for an answer she ran over to the old woman who was about to start her descent down the Passage des Eaux. Mother Fétu, invoking all the saints of paradise, took the coin. But at the same time she caught hold of the child’s arm. She kept hold of it, and changing her tone:

  ‘Is the other lady poorly then?’

  ‘No,’ answered Jeanne, surprised.

  ‘Oh, may Heaven preserve her! May God shower her with riches, her and her husband! Don’t go, little girl. Let me say an Ave Maria for your Maman and you will say amen with me... Your Maman will let you, you can catch them up.’

  Meanwhile Hélène and Henri stood nervously there, finding themselves suddenly on their own in the shadow of a line of tall chestnut trees bordering the road. They took a hesitant step or two. On the ground the chestnuts had dropped a shower of their delicate blossoms and they were walking on that pink carpet. Then they stopped, too choked to go any further.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Henri simply.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Hélène stammered. ‘Don’t say anything, I beg you.’

  But she felt his hand lightly touch hers. She drew back. Fortunately Jeanne was running back.

  ‘Maman, Maman!’ she cried. ‘She made me say an Ave so as to bring you luck.’

  And all three turned into the Rue Vineuse while Mother Fétu

  climbed down the Passage des Eaux, as she finished telling her rosary. The month wore on. Madame Deberle put in an appearance at services two or three times. One Sunday — the last — Henri once again dared to go and wait for Hélène and Jeanne. Their walk home was delightful. That month had passed in extraordinary sweetness. The little church seemed to have come to soothe them and make them fit for this passion. At the outset Hélène had settled down, happy to have this refuge in religion where she felt she could love someone without shame; but the secret feelings had been doing their work in her and when she woke out of her religious torpor she felt as if she was being invaded, bound by ties which would have torn the flesh off her body had she attempted to break them. Henri remained respectful. However, his feverish longing was written all over his face. She feared some uncontrollable outburst on his part. And she herself was afraid of her own feelings, shaken as she was by the sudden inrush of passion.

  One afternoon, coming back from a walk with Jeanne, she went up the Rue de l’Annonciation and entered the church. The little girl had complained of being terribly tired. Until the last day she had been unwilling to admit that the evening service was tiring her out because she enjoyed it so very much. But her cheeks were becoming pale as wax and the doctor advised Hélène to take her for long walks.

  ‘Sit there,’ said her mother. ‘You can rest. We shall only stay for ten minutes.’

  She seated her next to a pillar. She herself got down on her knees, a few chairs further along. At the back of the nave workmen were taking the nails out of the draperies, shifting pots of flowers, the Month of Mary celebrations having finished the day before. Hélène, her face in her hands, saw nothing and heard nothing, asking herself anxiously if she ought to confess to Abbé Jouve the terrible crisis she was going through. He would give her advice, give her back her lost tranquillity perhaps. But in the depths of her being an unquenchable joy was rising out of her very anguish. She nursed her sickness, trembling at the thought that the priest might cure it. Ten minutes went by, an hour. She was plunged deep into the struggle of her heart.

  And when she finally raised her head, eyes wet with tears, she saw Abbé Jouve next to her, looking at her with a sorrowful expression. He was directing the workmen. He had recognized Jeanne and come over.

  ‘What’s the matter, child?’ he asked Hélène, who had got up with a start and was drying her eyes.

  She couldn’t think what to answer, fearing to fall once more on her knees and burst out sobbing. He drew nearer and went on quietly:

  ‘I don’t want to question you but why not confide in me, as priest and not as friend?’

  ‘Later,’ she stammered, ‘later, I promise.’

  Meanwhile Jeanne had been patiently waiting, passing the time by studying the stained glass, the statues round the great door, the scenes from the Way of the Cross depicted in little bas-reliefs along the side naves. Gradually the cold church had enveloped her like a shroud. And in this lassitude which even prevented her from having any thoughts, a sense of unease came over her from the holy silence of the chapels, the prolonged echo of the least noise in this sacred place where it seemed to her she would die. But most of all she was sad to see them taking away the flowers. As the large bouquets of roses vanished, the altar was revealed, bare and cold. This glacial marble, with no candles, no smoke from the incense, made her blood run cold. One moment later the Virgin dressed in lace teetered, then fell backwards into the arms of two workmen. Jeanne uttered a little cry, flung out her arms and became rigid, twisted by the crisis that had been threatening for some days.

  And when Hélène, worried out of her mind, took her home in a cab helped by the distraught abbé, she turned back towards the church porch with tense, trembling hands.

  ‘It’s that church! It’s that church!’ she repeated, with a violence in which there was both regret and blame for the month of the love of God she had experienced there.

  Chapter 2

  By evening Jeanne was feeling better. She was able to get up. She insisted on doing so, to reassure her mother, and she trailed around in the dining room and sat down in front of her empty plate.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘You know I am a bit off colour. You eat. You must eat.’

  And seeing that her mother saw her turn pale and shiver, and unable to swallow a mouthful,
she eventually pretended to be a bit hungry. She promised faithfully she’d have a little fruit jelly. Then Hélène hurried to give her some while the child, still smiling, with a slight nervous tremor, contemplated her with her adoring expression. At dessert she tried to keep her promise. But there were unshed tears in her eyes.

  ‘I can’t swallow, you see,’ she said in a small voice. ‘You mustn’t scold me.’

  She felt a dreadful weariness annihilating her. Her legs seemed as if they were dead, an iron hand gripping her by the shoulder. But she was being brave, she was stifling the little cries caused by the throbbing ache in her neck. For one moment she forgot herself, her head was too heavy, and she curled up in pain. Her mother, seeing her sweet child so thin and feeble, could not finish the pear she was forcing herself to eat. Sobs choked her. She let her serviette drop, and went over to take Jeanne in her arms.

  ‘My child, my child...’, she stammered, heartbroken at the sight of the dining room where she had so often been delighted by the little girl’s appetite when she was in good health. Jeanne sat up and tried to smile again.

  ‘Don’t torment yourself, it’s nothing, I tell you. Now you’ve finished, you can put me back in bed... I wanted to see you at table, because I know you, you wouldn’t have eaten anything otherwise, not the smallest crumb.’

  Hélène carried her off. She had pushed her little bed next to hers in her bedroom. When Jeanne lay down, covered up to her chin, she felt a lot better. She complained only of a dull ache at the back of her head. Then she became more emotional, her love for Hélène seemed to have become more intense since her illness. Hélène had to kiss her, swearing that she loved her and promising to kiss her again when she came to bed.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if I’m asleep,’ said Jeanne. ‘I can feel you just the same.’

  She closed her eyes and fell asleep. Hélène stayed beside her, watching her as she slumbered. When Rosalie tiptoed in to ask if she could stop work, she nodded at her. Eleven o’clock chimed, Hélène was still there when she thought she had heard a soft tap on the door to the landing. Startled, she took the lamp and went to see who it was.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Me, open the door,’ came a muffled voice.

  It was Henri. She opened it quickly, no doubt thinking the visit quite natural, that the doctor had got to know about Jeanne’s attack, and was hurrying over, although she hadn’t called him because she felt a sort of embarrassment at the thought of involving him in the well-being of her daughter.

  But Henri did not allow her time to speak. He had followed her into the dining room, trembling, his face flushed.

  ‘I beg you to forgive me,’ he stammered, catching hold of her hand. ‘It’s been three whole days and I just had to see you.’

  Hélène had disengaged her hand. He stood there looking at her and went on:

  ‘Don’t be afraid, I love you. If you hadn’t opened the door I should have stayed outside till you did. Oh, I know it’s crazy but I love you, I love you...’

  She listened very solemnly and with a stern expression on her face, saying nothing, and to him this was torture. At this reception, all his passion came pouring out in a great flood.

  ‘Oh, why are we playing these terrible games? I am at the end of my strength, my heart is about to burst. I shall do something crazy, worse than I have done this evening. I shall capture you in front of everyone and carry you off...’

  An uncontrollable desire made him reach out to her. He had come closer, he was kissing her dress, his feverish hands were all over her. She remained frozen, standing stiff and straight.

  ‘So you haven’t heard?’ she asked.

  And as he had taken hold of her bare wrist beneath the open sleeve of the gown and was covering it with eager kisses, she made an impatient movement.

  ‘Leave me alone! You can see that I’m not even listening to you. I can’t think about things like that!’

  She calmed down and asked him a second time.

  ‘So you know nothing?... Well, my daughter is ill. I’m happy to see you, you will be able to set my mind at rest.’

  Taking the lamp, she led the way; but as she went into the room she turned to say harshly, looking at him straight in the eyes:

  ‘I forbid you to do that again here. Never, never!’

  He went in after her, still trembling, not properly understanding what she was telling him. In the bedroom at that time of night surrounded by the linen and the scattered clothes, he again smelled the scent of verbena that had so troubled him that first evening when he had seen Hélène with her hair dishevelled and her shawl slipping down over her shoulders. To find himself there on his knees, to drink in the scent of love wafting in the air, to spend the night adoring her and forget everything in the possession of his dream! His head was bursting, he leaned on the child’s little iron bed.

  ‘She’s asleep,’ said Hélène, in a whisper. ‘Look at her.’

  He didn’t hear, his passion would not be silenced. She leaned forward, he caught sight of her golden nape with its fine curly hair. And he shut his eyes so as to resist the need to kiss that spot.

  ‘Doctor, look, she’s burning... Please tell me it’s not serious?’

  So with the mad desire still beating in his head, he mechanically felt Jeanne’s pulse, acceding to the habit of his profession. But the struggle was too great, he stayed stock-still for a moment, apparently unaware he was holding that poor little hand in his own.

  ‘Has she got a high temperature?’

  ‘A high temperature,’ he echoed. ‘Do you think so?’

  The little hand was warming his own. Silence fell again. The doctor in him was awakening. He took her pulse. In his eyes a flame was dying. Slowly his face grew pale, he bent forward over Jeanne and studied her with an anxious expression. And he muttered:

  ‘The attack is very violent, you are right. Oh God, the poor child!’

  His desire was dead and his only concern was to be of use to her. He collected himself entirely. He sat down, and was questioning the mother about the events which had preceded this crisis, when the little girl woke up with a moan. She complained of a terrible headache. The pain in the neck and shoulders had become so bad that she couldn’t move without sobbing. Hélène kneeling on the other side of the bed encouraged her, smiled at her, her heart breaking to see her suffering like that.

  ‘Is someone there, Maman?’ she asked, turning and seeing the doctor.

  ‘A friend, you know who it is.’

  The child studied him a moment, thoughtful and as if she wasn’t quite sure. Then her face softened.

  ‘Oh yes, I know him. I like him.’

  And with a coaxing air:

  ‘You must make me better, Monsieur, mustn’t you? So that Maman will be happy. I’ll take whatever you give me, I promise.’

  The doctor had felt her pulse again and Hélène held her other hand; and between the two of them, she studied them, one after the other, with that little nervous tremor, as though she had never seen them so clearly before. Then, she stirred, in some discomfort. Her little hands tensed and tightened on them both:

  ‘Don’t go away; I’m scared... Look after me, stop all those people coming near... I only want you, I only want you two, close to me, oh, close by me, together...’

  She was pulling them nearer to each other in sudden jerky movements, repeating:

  ‘Together, together...’

  The delirium recurred several times. In the moments of calm, Jeanne sank into a sleep where she appeared not to be breathing, as if she were dead. When, with a start, she came out of these short periods of unconsciousness, she could not hear or see, her eyes were veiled in a white film. For a part of the night, which was particularly bad, the doctor stayed at her bedside. He only went down for a moment to swallow a draught of something himself. Towards morning when he left, Hélène anxiously went with him into the hall.

  ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘Her condition is very serious,’ he
replied. ‘But please believe I shall do what I can. Count on me. I’ll come again this morning at ten.’

  Going back into the room, Hélène found Jeanne sitting up, looking around her, as if lost.’

  ‘You left me, you left me!’ she cried. ‘Oh, I’m scared, I don’t want you to leave me by myself.’

  Her mother kissed her to console her, but she was still looking around.

  ‘Where is he? Oh, tell him not to go... I want him to be there, I want...’

  ‘He’s coming back, my angel,’ Hélène repeated, her tears mingling with her daughter’s. ‘He won’t leave us, I swear. He loves us too much... Look, be a good girl and go back to sleep. I’m staying here, waiting for him to come back.’

  ‘Really and truly?’ whispered the child, falling deeper and deeper into sleep.

  Then terrible days, three weeks of dreadful anguish began. The fever did not abate for a moment. Jeanne was only a little calmer when the doctor was there and she had given him one of her small hands to hold, while her mother held the other. She took refuge in them, she shared out her tyrannical adoration between them as if she had realized under what ardent and loving protection she had placed herself. Her exquisite nervous sensitivity, refined even more by her illness, no doubt alerted her that only a miracle of their love could save her. For hours she looked at them on each side of her bed with eyes that were grave and far-seeing. All human passion, half-perceived and guessed-at, was written in the gaze of this little girl who was drifting towards death. She did not speak, she squeezed their hands tight, begging them not to go away, giving them to understand how restful it was for her to see them there. When after an absence the doctor reappeared, she was ravished with joy, her eyes which had not left the door, lit up. Then, soothed, she fell asleep, reassured at hearing him and her mother moving around her, chatting softly.

  The day after the crisis, Doctor Bodin arrived. But Jeanne was in a sulk, and turned her head away, refusing to allow herself to be examined.

  ‘Not him, Maman,’ she murmured. ‘Not him, please.’