THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль ЗоляЧитать онлайн книгу.
my child,” he said, “be courageous.”
“You are right, father,” exclaimed Marius, “it is courage I need. I was weak, this morning. I should have wrested the young lady from Philippe, and have taken her back to her uncle. An inner voice bade me perform that act of justice, and I am punished for not having obeyed its prompting. They talked to me of love, passion, marriage, and I allowed their words to move me.”
They remained a moment silent, and then Marius said suddenly:
“Come with me. Between us, we shall be strong enough to separate them.”
“I am willing,” the abbé replied.
And, without even thinking to take a cab, they followed the Rue de Bréteuil, the canal quay, the Napoleon quay, and then ascended the Cannebière. They walked hurriedly along, without speaking. When they reached the Coins Saint Louis, the sound of a fresh young voice caused them to turn their heads. It was Fine, the flower-girl, calling Marius.
Josephine Cougourdan, familiarly known by the pet name of Fine, was one of those Marseille brunettes, small and plump, whose refined features have preserved all the delicate purity of their Grecian ancestors. Her round head stood upon slightly drooping shoulders; her pale face bore an expression of disdainful scorn beneath her braided black hair; passionate energy was visible in her large melancholy eyes which were softened now and again by a smile. She was from twenty-two to twenty-four years of age.
When only fifteen she found herself an orphan with a young brother, not more than ten years old, dependent upon her. She bravely took her mother’s place, and three days after the funeral, whilst still suffering from her great grief, she was seated in a kiosk on the Cours Saint Louis making up and selling nosegays, sobbing the while.
The little florist soon became the spoilt child of Marseille. Her youth and grace secured her popularity. Her flowers, it was said, had a sweeter smell than those sold elsewhere. Gallants swarmed around her; she sold them her roses, violets, and carnations, but that was all. And it is thus that she was able to bring up her brother Cadet and apprentice him, when eighteen years old, to a master-stevedore.
The two young people lived on the Place aux Œufs, in the centre of the labouring-class quarter. Cadet was now a big fellow employed at the docks; Fine, grown handsomer and having arrived at womanhood, had the lively gait and careless caressing way of Marseillese women.
She was acquainted with the Cayols through having sold them flowers, and she would speak to them with that tender familiarity which springs from the warm air and gentle language of Provence. Besides which, if all must be told, Philippe had latterly so often bought her roses, that she had ended by feeling a slight tremor when he approached her. The young man, who was by instinct an admirer of the sex, laughed with her and gazed at her so intently that he made her blush, half declaring his love, the while, and all this simply not to forget the ways of wooing. The poor girl, who up till then had made short work of would-be lovers, fell a victim to this flirtation. At nighttime she dreamed of Philippe, and wondered, with anguish, whatever he could do with all the flowers she sold him.
When Marius approached her he found her high-coloured and troubled. She was half hidden by her nosegays and looked adorably fresh beneath the broad lappets of her little lace cap.
“Monsieur Marius,” she asked hesitatingly, “is what every one is saying this morning true? That your brother has eloped with a young lady?”
“Who told you that?” asked Marius, quickly.
“Why, every one. The rumour is all over the place.”
And as the young man seemed as troubled as herself, and stood there without speaking, Fine added with slight bitterness:
“I was told that Monsieur Philippe was a flirt. His tongue was too soft for his words to be true.”
She was on the point of weeping, but was forcing back her tears. With painful resignation she then added more gently:
“I can see that you are in trouble. If you should need me, do not fail to let me know.”
Marius looked her in the face and seemed to guess the agony of her heart.
“You are a brave girl!” he exclaimed. “I thank you, and will perhaps avail myself of your services.”
He heartily shook her hand, as he would have done to a comrade, and hastened to rejoin Abbé Chastanier who was waiting for him at the edge of the pavement.
“We have no time to lose,” he said. “The story is spreading all over Marseille. We must take a cab.”
Night was falling when they reached Saint Barnabé. They only found the gardener Ayasse’s wife, who was knitting in a low room. This woman quietly informed them that the gentleman and young lady had become alarmed, and had gone off on foot in the direction of Aix. She added that her son had accompanied them to guide them amongst the hills. The last hope was thus dead. Marius, completely overcome, returned to Marseille without hearing the encouraging words Abbé Chastanier addressed to him. He was thinking of the fatal consequences of Philippe’s madness; he was rebelling against the misfortunes about to befall his family.
“My child,” said the priest, as he left him, “I am only a poor man, but dispose of me as you will. I will go and pray to God for you.”
CHAPTER IV
HOW M. DE CAZALIS AVENGED HIS NIECE’S DISHONOUR
THE lovers had eloped on a Wednesday. On the following Friday all Marseille knew the story; the gossips on their doorsteps embellished the adventure with many dramatic details; the nobility was indignant, whilst the middle-class folk had a hearty laugh. M. de Cazalis, in his rage, had done everything to increase the racket and turn his niece’s flight into a frightful scandal.
Clear-sighted people easily accounted for his show of anger. M. de Cazalis was a deputy of the opposition and had been returned at Marseille by a majority composed of a few liberals, some priests, and members of the aristocracy. Devoted to the cause of legitimacy, bearing one of the most ancient names of Provence, bowing humbly before all-powerful Mother Church, he had experienced considerable repugnance in flattering the liberals and receiving their votes. In his eyes they were merely varlets, servants, fit only to be whipped in the public streets. His indomitable pride suffered at the thought of lowering itself to their level.
Yet he had been obliged to bow before them. The liberals noised abroad the services they were rendering, and for a time a pretence was made of disdaining their assistance; but when they talked of intervening in the election by naming one of their own party as a candidate, M. de Cazalis was forced by circumstances to bury his hatred in the depths of his heart, promising himself his revenge on some future occasion. Then the most shameless jobbery was resorted to; the clergy took the field, votes were secured right and left, thanks to innumerable civilities and promises, with the result that M. de Cazalis was elected.
And here was Philippe Cayol, one of the leaders of the liberal party fallen into his hands. At last he would be able to gratify his hatred on the person of one of the louts who had bargained with him for his return to the Chamber. He should be made to pay for all; his relatives should be ruined and plunged into despair; and as for him, he should be thrown into prison, precipitated from the height of his dream of love on to the straw of a dungeon.
What! a little nobody had dared to win the love of the niece of a Cazalis! He had led her away with him, and now they were both roving along the roads, attending the hedge-school of love. It was a scandal to be made much of. An ordinary person would perhaps have preferred to hush it up, to conceal the deplorable adventure as far as possible; but a Cazalis, deputy and millionaire, was possessed of sufficient influence and pride to proclaim the shame of a relative abroad without a blush.
What mattered a young girl’s honour! All the world might know that Blanche de Cazalis had eloped with Philippe Cayol, but no one should be able to say that she was his wife, that she had degraded herself by marrying a poor devil without a handle to his name. Pride