Complete Works of Emile Zola (74 page)

Blanche, little by little, recovered consciousness. As soon as she opened her eyes and recognised Fine beside her, she raised herself up, and with her heart full of joy and hope, fell on the girl’s neck and wept tears of happiness.

For a few moments neither was able to speak, but Fine, catching sight of the baby, took it up and kissed it. Then a stifled cry escaped Blanche’s lips.

“You’ll love him as if you were his mother, won’t you?” she asked.

The flower-girl gazed on the infant with that tender look of girls who are in love and dream of maternity. While contemplating Philippe’s son, she thought with a blush of Marius, and said to herself:

“I shall have a child like that.” Then she placed the babe on the bed and sat down beside Blanche.

“Listen,” the latter said, rapidly, “we have very little time before us. They may come upstairs and surprise us at any moment. You are quite devoted to me, are you not?”

Fine bent forward and kissed her on the forehead.

“I love you as a sister,” she answered.

“I know it, and it is for that reason that I confide in you. I am going to give you the most sacred legacy that any woman can leave behind her.”

“But you are not dead!”

“Yes, I am dead! In a few days, when I am well again, I shall belong to the Almighty. Do not interrupt me. I quit this world, and, before leaving it, I desire to give my child a mother, for he will soon have none, and I have thought of you.”

And Blanche gave Fine a warm pressure of the hand.

“You have done well,” said the flower-girl, calmly. “You know I always considered that your child would be, in a sort of way, mine.”

“I need not tell you to love him,” said the invalid with an effort. “Love him as you know how to love, with all your heart; love him for me and for Philippe, and endeavour to let him have a happier life than that of his parents.”

She was choking with sobs, but after a few moments continued:

“Although I have only to ask you, for you to love my child, I must implore you with joined hands to watch over him vigilantly. From tomorrow, hide him somewhere, in some out-of-the way corner; endeavour to prevent anyone suspecting the secret of his birth; in a word, swear to me that you will protect him against everyone and keep him always near you as a sacred trust.”

As she spoke she became excited and Fine had to make her a sign imploring her to lower her voice.

“Do you fear foul play?” inquired the flower-girl softly.

“I know not what I fear. It seems to me that my uncle hates this child, and I hand him over to you so that he may not remain in his power. As I am unable to be there to watch over him I desire to leave him to an honest person who will make a man of him. Besides if, even, I were not going to quit this world, I would refuse to keep him with me, because I am weak and cowardly, and would not know how to defend him.”

“Defend him against whom?”

“I know not. I shudder, that is all. My uncle is implacable. But do not let us speak of that. I give you my child and in future he will be in safety. I can now go away in tranquillity of mind. I was so afraid not to see you tonight and not to be able to hand you this poor little mite!”

There was a moment’s silence and Fine resumed in a hesitating voice:

“As you are giving me your last instructions, I may, and, indeed, I ought to put a question to you. I know you will not misinterpret my intentions. I think you possess a large fortune which M. de Cazalis is administering?”

“Yes,” answered Blanche, “but I have never troubled about the money.”

“Your son requires nothing now, and so long as he remains with us, he may be poor but we will bestow a wealth of tenderness and happiness on him. Still, some day, a fortune, in his hands, may be a powerful lever. You do not intend to deprive him of your estate?”

“I told you I was leaving the world, I shall be like one who is dead.”

“That is another reason for assuring his future. Ask M. de Cazalis for a statement of his account. Set your affairs in order before you disappear.”

Blanche shuddered.

“Oh! I shall never dare do that,” she murmured. “You have no idea of the terrible power my uncle exercises over me: a mere look crushes me. No, I cannot ask him for a statement.”

“However, your son’s interests require it.”

“No, I tell you, I have not the courage.”

Fine for an instant was silent and embarrassed. Her duty urged her to insist, she would have liked to overcome Blanche’s cowardly attitude.

“As you will not act yourself,” she continued at last, “allow others to watch over the interests of this poor little creature. You make no objection to the fortune, which you now appear to abandon, being, one of these days, claimed on his behalf?”

“You are cruel,” answered the young mother, with tears in her eyes, “you make me feel my weakness and powerlessness to act. You know that I give you all authority.”

“Then nothing is lost. Do not put your name to any document, do not sign away a single inch of your property. And, moreover, as soon as you are better, let me have the certificates establishing your son’s identity. In that way we shall be strong, and able to speak with authority when the time comes.”

Blanche seemed overcome with these questions of money. Had she been possessed of the least energy, she would not have withdrawn from the struggle, she would have lived for her child, protected him, herself, and defended his interests. The flower-girl guessed the tenor of her reflections and added in a lower voice:

“If I have caused you pain, if I have put all these questions to you, it is because there is a man who has claims on this child, and who one of these days will himself watch over his interests. I shall then want to give him an account of my mission and instruct him as to how he must proceed in order to complete it.”

Blanche burst out sobbing:

“I have never spoken to you of Philippe,” she exclaimed, “because I ought to think of him no more. He left within me a love that has devoured me and brought me to repentance. Tell him I have loved him to the point of quitting this world at the age of seventeen, and tell him I entreat him to labour for the welfare of our son. Whatever he does will have my approval.”

Just at that moment Fine heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She rose, hurriedly wrapped her cloak around her and took the child which the weeping mother was holding out to her, and passionately kissing again and again. This farewell was full of mute despair and anxious haste.

Blanche got out of bed to accompany Fine and close the door behind her. On the threshold she gave the little one a last kiss on the forehead. Then, she had only just time to pull back the bolt of her bedroom door and get into bed again. Her uncle entered softly.

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH M. DE CAZALIS RUNS THE RISK OF LOSING HIS HEAD WHILE LOSING HIS GREAT NEPHEW

M. DE CAZALIS had fallen half asleep downstairs in a sitting-room under Blanche’s bedroom. In this drowsy state, it had several times seemed to him that he heard people walking about overhead. A more distinct sound ended by awakening him with a start. He stood up, full of distrust, and went to make sure whether he had been dreaming or not. But all he feared was that Blanche might have risen to write a letter and thus inform her friends outside of what had occurred. It never entered his head that someone could have penetrated within the house, for he had kept an eye on the front door like a watch-dog.

He went upstairs determined to see what his niece was doing. As he heard nothing moving, he gently pushed the door open and cast a look round the room. By the pale glimmer of the night-light, he perceived Blanche with her eyes closed, and her face half hidden by the bedclothes, apparently in a heavy sleep. Encouraged by the silence, he resolved to be quite sure by making a minute inspection of the apartments; he first of all searched the dressing-room and found nothing suspicious; he returned to the bedroom and there was nothing there. He was already smiling at his childish alarm, when a thought flashed across his mind and he suppressed an exclamation. He had not seen the child.

Although he had already peered into every corner he renewed his search. He brutally shook the bed without Blanche opening her eyes, and it did not even occur to him from this circumstance that she was feigning slumber. His mind was a prey to the most excruciating agony, and in despair he ended by moving round like a wild beast, having but one idea, that of finding the new-born babe at any cost. In his anxiety he stooped down and looked under the articles of furniture, imagining his niece had hidden her son somewhere, to make him afraid and drive him mad. For nearly a quarter of an hour he ferreted about in a fury, returning to the same spot ten times over, unable to believe the dreadful truth.

When he was tired, when he had acquired the certitude that the child was neither in the bedroom nor dressing-room, he went and stood before the bed where Blanche was lying exhausted and motionless. He gazed in a stupid manner round the room, where the little one had been when he had last left his niece, and repeated methodically: “He was there and is there no longer.” These words found a painful echo in his brain.

At first he did not think of seeking a solution to this strange disappearance. He saw only the fact, and his fright showed him in a flash, all the consequences of that fact.

All his calculations were baffled. Blanche’s heir was no longer in his hands, and he would be compelled, some day or other, to give him a statement as to what he had clone with his mother’s money. That meant shame and misery; it would be ascertained that he had already made an inroad into his niece’s fortune and they would take away from him the riches which alone upheld his power. This frightful blow was the forerunner of a series of reprisals. He had no doubt as to the hand that had dealt it, he recognised a vengeance of the Cayols, and he was in terror at the thought that these people had now his honour at their command. He saw that he was at their mercy, and that they could inflict most terrible chastisement on him for his pride.

What irritated him above all was failing at the last moment. A few hours longer and Philippe’s son would have been placed beyond reach of the Cayols. He felt that if he had not given way to Blanche’s tears the child would already have been far away. This thought reminded him of all the precautions he had taken, and he said to himself that a clever plan had never so miserably failed. Little by little he became angry, and gave way to blind irritability at seeing himself duped in this cruel way.

Then he tried to understand how the child had been carried off and this mental investigation increased his anger. He understood that his niece must have had a hand in the conspiracy, and had half a mind to beat her.

“What have you done with him?” he inquired, in a gruff voice.

Blanche had been trembling between the sheets ever since her uncle had entered the room. She kept her eyes obstinately closed in order that she might not see him, and also to delay the scene she foresaw was coming. She listened with terror to the sound of his footsteps, she followed him in his fruitless search, and in a measure as the crisis drew nearer, she trembled more violently and became still more icy cold. When he came and stood beside the bed, and examined her, motionless, dumb with stupor, she imagined he was reflecting on the means of putting an end to her existence. His loud voice made her open her eyes; but her throat was dry, thick with agony, and she could not answer.

“What have you done with the child?” M. de Cazalis asked her again in a stifled voice.

She stammered, but was unable to pronounce a single word. Then her uncle accused and reviled her with brutal rage.

“You are not of my blood,” he exclaimed, “I disown you. I ought to have left you in the hands of that blackguard who carried you off. You are a worthy companion for him. What! You go in league with our enemies, you distrust me and prefer to confide your child to that family of tatterdemalions! Don’t deny it. I see it all. Look here! You are a vile creature. After having dishonoured our name, you do not flinch from placing us at the mercy of your lover. Oh! I was wrong. I ought to have seen that you had a filthy heart and should not have meddled with this dirty business. I hope they’ll make a rascal of your son, a scoundrel like themselves, a beggar who’ll come one of these days begging at our door and whom I’ll drive away.”

He spoke thus for a quarter of an hour, a prey to the fury that blinded him and which prevented him perceiving the stupidity of his behaviour. He showed no respect for anything, drenched his niece with foulness, wounded her so deeply that she rose up, trembling, powerful with courage in her indignation and grief. If he had contented himself with being imperious and cold, she would have shown weakness and have given him other arms against her; but as he was coarse, she became strong, and answered him firmly:

“You have guessed aright, sir, I have handed my son to those to whom he belongs. I am not obliged to give you the reasons that prompted me in my conduct, and I tell you that at this moment you are outstepping any rights you may have over me. However, you know I have come to a resolution: as soon as I have recovered I shall take the veil, we shall be strangers to each other. Cease, then, reviling me.”

“But why would you not leave me this child whom I would have loved as a son?” continued her uncle, who with difficulty restrained himself.

“I acted according to the dictates of my heart,” she continued. “Do not question me, I cannot answer you. I am willing to forget your abuse, and to thank you for having watched over my childhood. That is all I can do. You have nearly killed me, now leave me.”

M. de Cazalis understood that he had gone too far. He was afraid that his niece might guess the reason of his anger. This thought troubled him and suddenly calmed his irritation. He could not, however, resist speaking to her on a dangerous subject.

“There are accounts between us,” he stammered, “which must be settled.”

“Do not let us talk of that,” Blanche answered excitedly. “I have neither the strength nor the inclination to busy myself with such matters. As I have told you, I am dead to the world. I shall require nothing in the future. As to my son, he will apply to you later on, and set forth his claims if he chooses to do so. I have left his interests in honest hands. Only I must warn you that those of whom you spoke so brutally a little while ago, are decided on acting, in case you oppose my wishes. Now for mercy’s sake leave me.”