A Love Story

by Emile Zola

  Finally night came. It was about to strike six. Hélène, waking out of her uneasy afternoon somnolence, threw a shawl quickly around her shoulders.

  ‘Are you going out, Maman?’ asked Jeanne in surprise.

  ‘Yes, darling, an errand in the neighbourhood. I shan’t be long... Be a good girl.’

  Outside the thaw continued. A river of mud was flowing along the pavement. Hélène went into a shoe shop in the Rue de Passy where she had already been with Mother Fétu. Then she made her way back along the Rue Raynouard.The sky was grey and a mist was rising from the cobbles. The street was vanishing before her eyes, deserted and frightening, in spite of it not being very late, with occasional gas lamps staining the damp mist yellow. She hurried along, keeping close to the houses, hiding as though she were going to a rendezvous. But when she suddenly turned into the Passage des Eaux, she halted under the arch in real fear. The passage opened up below her like a black chasm. She couldn’t see the bottom, she could just see the flicker of the only street lamp lighting the middle of this narrow, dark passage. Finally she made up her mind and caught hold of the iron ramp to stop herself falling. She felt along the wide steps with her toes. To right and left the walls closed round, elongated out of all proportion by the darkness, while the bare branches of the trees above looked like vague outlines of gigantic arms, clutching at her with their gnarled hands. She shivered at the thought that the gate of one of these gardens might well open and a man attack her. Nobody passed her and she went down as rapidly as possible. Suddenly a shadow loomed out of the darkness; when the shadow coughed, her blood ran cold, but it was only an old woman struggling to walk up. Then she felt reassured, and was more careful to pick up the hem of her dress, which had been trailing in the mud. The mud was so thick that her boots stuck to the steps. At the bottom she turned her head as if by instinct. The wet branches were dripping into the passage, the street light shone like a lamp fixed to the wall of a mineshaft that flooding has made dangerous.

  Hélène went straight up to the small attic room she had so often visited, at the top of the big house in the passage. But she knocked in vain, there was no answer. She went down again, very uneasy. Mother Fétu was no doubt in the apartment on the first floor. But Hélène did not dare be seen there. She stayed five minutes in the alley, which was lit by a petrol lamp. She went up again, hesitated, and looked at the doors. And was just leaving when the old woman leaned over the balustrade.

  ‘What, is it you on the steps, dear lady!’ she cried. ‘Come in, come in! Don’t stay there to take cold... Oh! What a dreadful day, you can’t feel your fingers and toes.’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Hélène, ‘here is your pair of shoes, Mother Fétu...’

  And she looked at the door that Mother Fétu had left open behind her. You could see the corner of a stove.

  ‘I’m all alone, I swear,’ repeated the old woman. ‘Come in. This is the kitchen. Oh, you’re not too proud to mix with the likes of us poor people. That’s a fact.’

  So despite her disgust, and ashamed of what she was doing there, Hélène followed her in.

  ‘Here’s your pair of shoes, Mother Fétu.’

  ‘Dear Lord, how can I thank you? Oh, what nice shoes! Wait a minute, I’ll put them on. They are a treat, they fit like a glove... What luck! At least I’ll be able to walk in them and not be afraid of the rain. You’ve saved me, you’ve given me ten years lease of life, my dear lady. I’m not flattering you, that’s what I think, it’s as true as that lamp over there lighting the way. No, I’m not one to flatter.’

  She had grown more affectionate as she was speaking, taking Hélène’s hands and kissing them. There was some wine warming in a pan; on the table near the lamp, you could see the slim neck of a half-empty bottle of Bordeaux. Moreover there were only four plates, one glass, two skillets, and a cooking pot. You could see that Mother Fétu was camping out in this bachelor pad, and had heated the stove for herself alone. Seeing Hélène’s eyes move towards the saucepan, she coughed and then began whining.

  ‘I’ve got a pain in my belly again,’ she groaned. ‘The doctor can say what he likes, I must have a worm. So a drop of wine sets me up again. I’ve got lots of troubles, good lady. I don’t wish my ills on anybody, it’s too bad. So I look after myself a little bit now; when a body has been through what I have you are allowed to look after yourself a little bit, aren’t you? I was lucky enough to come across a really nice gentleman. God bless him!’

  And she put two big sugar lumps in her wine. She was getting fatter than ever, her small eyes were disappearing into her puffy face. A beatific happiness was slowing her down. Her life’s ambition seemed to be satisfied. This was what she was born for. As she was stirring her sugar, Hélène caught sight of some treats at the back of the cupboard, a pot of jam, a packet of biscuits, even some cigars stolen from the gentleman.

  ‘Well, goodbye, Mother Fétu, I’m going,’ she said.

  But the old woman pushed the saucepan to the corner of the stove and muttered:

  ‘Wait a minute. It’s too hot, I’ll drink it in a while. No, don’t go. I’m sorry I asked you into the kitchen. I’ll show you round.’ She took the lamp and went into a narrow passage. Hélène followed her with beating heart. The smoky corridor with cracks on the walls oozed damp. A door opened and now she was walking on a thick carpet. Mother Fétu had gone a few steps into the middle of an enclosed, silent room.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said, raising the lamp. ‘Nice, isn’t it?’

  Two square rooms were connected by a double door, both wings of which had been removed and replaced by a portière. Both rooms were decorated in the same pink cretonne pattern with little Louis XV medallions, cherubs with fat cheeks frolicking among garlands of flowers. In the first, there was a little table, two settees, armchairs; in the second, smaller room, a huge bed took up the whole space. Mother Fétu pointed out a crystal night light on the ceiling, hanging on golden chains. This lamp represented for her the height of luxury. And she started to explain:

  ‘You can’t imagine how funny he is. He turns all the lights on in the middle of the day and stays there smoking a cigar and staring into space. Apparently he enjoys that, this gentleman... Never mind, he must have spent a fortune!’

  Hélène was silent as she visited the apartment. She found it in bad taste. The rooms were too pink, the bed too big, the furniture too new. You felt it was an attempt at seduction, offensive in its crassness. A little milliner would have succumbed straight away. And yet a sense of unease crept over Hélène, while the old woman continued, with a wink:

  ‘He calls himself Monsieur Vincent. I don’t mind, as long as the man pays me.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mother Fétu,’ replied Hélène, in a strangled voice.

  She tried to leave, opened a door, and found herself in a succession of three bare little rooms in a state of disgusting filth. The paper was falling off the walls, the ceilings were black, plaster covered the broken tiles. The place oozed generations of poverty.

  ‘Not that way, not that way!’ cried Mother Fétu. ‘Normally that door’s closed. Those are the other bedrooms, the ones he hasn’t decorated. Heavens! It already cost him a pretty penny. Oh yes, it’s not so nice of course. This way, dear lady, this way.’

  And when Hélène went back through the boudoir with the pink furnishings, she stopped her and kissed her hands yet again.

  ‘Come now, I’m not ungrateful. I’ll always remember those shoes. They fit me and they are warm and I could walk three leagues in them! So what can I ask of the good Lord for you? O Lord, hear my prayer, let her be the happiest of women! You who know what is in my heart, know what I wish for her. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Amen!’

  A religious exultation had suddenly come over her, she made several signs of the Cross, genuflected to the big bed and the crystal night light. Then, opening the door to the landing, she whispered in Hélène’s ear in an altered voice:

  ‘Knock on the kitchen door when
ever you like. I’m always there.’

  Hélène, her head in a whirl, with a backward glance as though she was emerging from a bawdy house, went downstairs, climbed the Passage des Eaux again and found herself once more in the Rue Vineuse, without being conscious of having made her way there. It was only out in the street that she found the old woman’s last sentence surprising. Of course she would not go back to that house. She had no more alms to give her. Why on earth would she knock at the kitchen door? Now she was satisfied, she had seen what she had seen. And she felt contempt for herself and the others as well. What vileness it was to have gone there! She couldn’t rid herself of the vision of the two rooms with their cretonne. With one glance she had absorbed the tiniest details, even where the seats were and how the curtains hung in folds around the bed. But always after that the three other little rooms, the dirty, empty, deserted rooms, flashed before her eyes. And that vision, those leprous walls hidden beneath the fat-faced cherubs occasioned in her as much anger as disgust.

  ‘Well, Madame,’ cried Rosalie, who was watching out on the stairs, ‘the dinner won’t be fit to eat! It’s been burning for half an hour!’

  Seated at the table, Jeanne deluged her mother with questions. Where had she gone? What had she been doing? Then, as she received nothing but brief replies, she amused herself by playing dinner parties. She had sat her doll beside her on a chair. In a sisterly fashion she gave her half her dessert.

  ‘And, Mademoiselle, you must be sure to eat nicely. Wipe your mouth. Oh, the dirty little girl, she can’t even use her serviette properly. There, you look nice again. Here, have a biscuit. What do you say? You want some jam on it? Is that all right? It’s better like that. Let me peel you a quarter of the apple...’

  And she put the doll’s portion on the chair. But when her plate was empty she took the morsels back again, and ate them, speaking in the doll’s voice:

  ‘Oh, it’s delicious! I’ve never eaten such tasty jam. Wherever do you buy that jam, Madame? I’ll tell my husband to bring me a pot. Did you pick these beautiful apples in your garden?’

  She fell asleep as she was playing, staggering into her bedroom with her doll in her hands. She had not stopped since morning. Her little legs could go no longer, the game had completely worn her out; and even asleep she was still smiling, apparently dreaming she was still playing a game. Her mother put her to bed, limp, unprotesting, and in the middle of a great game with the angels.

  Now Hélène was alone in the room. She shut herself in, and spent a terrible evening by the fire that had gone out. Her will failed, unspeakable thoughts were doing their secret work in her. It was as if there was an unknown, wicked, sensual woman talking to her in a commanding voice and she could not disobey. When midnight struck, she struggled into bed. But once there her torment grew unbearable. She half-slept, tossing and turning as though on hot coals. Images, magnified by her insomnia, would not leave her. Then an idea planted itself in her brain. She tried to banish it but it was in vain, the idea took root, choked her, took hold of her whole being. At about two o’clock she got up, with the stiff gait of a sleepwalker, lit the lamp again and wrote a letter, disguising her writing. It was an imprecise denunciation, an unsigned note three lines long, asking Doctor Deberle to go to such and such a place that very day, at such and such a time, but not giving any explanation. She sealed the envelope, put the letter into the pocket of her dress, which was thrown over the armchair. And when she had lain down again she went to sleep straight away, lying there apparently not breathing, weighed down by a leaden sleep.

  Chapter 3

  The next day Rosalie was unable to serve coffee until nearly nine o’clock. Hélène had got up late, stiff and very pale because of the nightmare. She rummaged in the pocket of her dress, felt for the note, shoved it back, and came to sit at the table without a word. Jeanne too had a heavy head, and a grey, worried expression. She was reluctant to get out of her little bed, did not feel like playing that morning. The sky was the colour of soot, the room looked dark and murky, and sudden showers intermittently battered at the panes.

  ‘Mademoiselle is having one of her black days,’ said Rosalie to herself. ‘She can’t have two good days together. That’s what you get for jumping around so much yesterday.’

  ‘Don’t you feel well, Jeanne?’ Hélène asked.

  ‘No, Maman,’ said the little girl. ‘It’s that horrible sky.’

  Hélène was silent again. She finished her coffee and sat there absorbed, staring at the flame. When she rose she had just made up her mind that it was her duty to talk to Juliette, to make her cancel her afternoon rendezvous. But how? She did not know. But the need to try had suddenly struck her, and this, the only thought in her head, was obsessing her. Ten o’clock struck, she got dressed. Jeanne was observing her. When she saw her reach for her hat, she clasped her little hands together as though she felt cold, and a black look of pain spread over her face. Usually she was very jealous of her mother going out and leaving her, and insisted on accompanying her everywhere.

  ‘Rosalie,’ said Hélène, ‘hurry up and finish the room... Don’t go out. I’m coming back straight away.’ And she bent down and gave Jeanne a quick kiss without noticing her troubled countenance. As soon as she had left, the child, too proud to complain, gave a sob.

  ‘Oh, don’t spoil your pretty eyes, Mademoiselle!’ repeated the maid, to console her. ‘My sakes, they are not going to steal your Maman. You must let her do what she’s got to do. You can’t always be clinging to her skirts.’ In the meantime Hélène had turned the corner of the Rue Vineuse, making her way along the walls to shelter from the shower. It was Pierre who opened the door; but he seemed embarrassed.

  ‘Madame Deberle is at home?’

  ‘Yes, Madame; but I don’t know...’

  And as Hélène, being a close friend, was going in the direction of the salon, he saw fit to intervene.

  ‘Wait, Madame, I’ll go and see.’

  He glided into the room, opening the door just a fraction, and Juliette’s cross voice could be heard.

  ‘What? You allowed someone in? I strictly forbade you... It’s incredible, one can’t be undisturbed for a minute.’

  Hélène pushed open the door, resolved to fulfil what she perceived as her duty.

  ‘Ah, so it’s you!’ said Juliette, as she saw who it was. ‘I didn’t hear.’ But she was still cross. It was obvious that the visit was unwelcome.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’ asked the latter.

  ‘No, no. You’ll understand. We are working on a surprise. We are rehearsing “Le Caprice”* so we can perform it at one of my Wednesday soirées. Frankly, we chose the morning so that nobody could guess. Oh, stay now you’re here. You’ll have to keep it secret, that’s all.’

  And, clapping her hands and addressing Madame Berthier who was standing in the middle of the salon, she went on, without taking any further notice of Hélène:

  ‘Come on. To work! You are not putting enough subtlety into the sentence: “Secretly knitting your husband a purse would be thought by many, a little more than what the heroine of a romantic novel might do.” Do that again.’

  Hélène, most astonished to find her at this activity, had sat down at the back. They had pushed back the seats against the walls and tables, there was nothing on the carpet. Madame Berthier, a delicate blonde, spoke her monologue, raising her eyes to the ceiling, searching for her words, while in an armchair the sturdy Madame Guiraud, a fine-looking woman with black hair, who had taken on the role of Madame de Léry, was waiting for the right moment to make her entrance. These ladies, in their morning attire, had not removed either their coats or hats. And in front of them, holding the volume of Musset in her hand, Juliette, dishevelled, enveloped in a long white cashmere dressing gown, had adopted the confident attitude of a director indicating to the actors how they should say the words and how they should comport themselves on stage. The light was very dim, but through the little curtains of embroidered tulle, drawn up and
held back over the catches, you could see the garden disppearing into the damp night.

  ‘You are not showing enough emotion,’ declared Juliette. ‘You have to mean it more when you speak, each word must count. “And now, my dear little purse, we’ll put the finishing touches to...” Start again.’

  ‘I shall be hopeless,’ said Madame Berthier, languidly. ‘Why don’t you play my part? You would make a charming Mathilde.’

  ‘Me? No, in the first place it has to be a blonde. And then, I’m a very good teacher, but not an actress... Let’s get back to work.’

  Hélène stayed in her corner. Madame Berthier, concentrating on her part, had not even turned her head. Madame de Guiraud had acknowledged her presence by a slight nod. But she felt she was intruding and ought not to have sat down. What kept her there was not so much the thought that she had a duty to fulfil, as the peculiar feeling, muddled but deep-seated, that she’d had sometimes in that house. She found the indifferent manner in which Juliette had received her hard to bear. She was constantly on and off with her friendships; she would be all over someone for three months, throw herself at them, seemed to exist only for them; then one morning without a word of explanation she acted as if she didn’t know them any more. No doubt she was following the dictates of fashion, in that as elsewhere, the need to like people that others in her circle liked. These abrupt changes in her affections cut Hélène to the quick, her calm, open nature always dreamed things would last for ever. She had often come back depressed from the Deberles, truly despairing about how little you could rely on the affections of the heart. But that day, because of the crisis she was going through, the pain was even keener.

  ‘We are leaving out the Chavigny scene,’ said Juliette. ‘He’s not coming this morning. Let’s go to Madame de Léry’s entrance. You now, Madame de Guiraud... Your speech.’

  And she read:

  ‘ “Just imagine I show him that purse...” ’

  Madame de Guiraud had risen. Speaking in a high-pitched voice and adopting a very extravagant pose, she began: