Complete Works of Emile Zola (127 page)

His sufferings were all the keener for the poignant need that he felt of having somebody to love and only finding objects to hate. His nervous sensitiveness made him cry out with anguish at each fresh insult. “Good God,” he would often murmur, “what crime have I committed?” And, with his childish sense of justice, he would try to find out what it was that could bring down on him such cruel punishments; when he could find nothing, he would be filled with strange dread, he would remember Geneviève’s menacing lessons and think himself tormented by demons for unknown sins. On two occasions, he seriously thought of drowning himself in the school-well. He was then twelve years old.

On holidays he seemed to get out of a grave. The street children would often stone him to the gates of the town. He was now fond of the deserted park at La Noiraude where no one beat him. He never dared to speak to his father about the persecutions he had to endure. He complained only to Geneviève and asked her what was the meaning of that name Bastard which produced in him the burning sensation of a box on the ears. The old woman listened to him gloomily. She was annoyed that her pupil had been taken away from her. She knew that the school chaplain had induced M. de Viargue to let the child be baptised, and she looked upon him as positively doomed to the flames of hell. When William had confided to her his troubles, she exclaimed, without speaking directly to him: “You are the son of sin, you are expiating the crime of the guilty.” He could not understand, but the fanatic’s tone seemed to him so full of anger, that he never after made her his confidante.

His despair increased as he grew up. He at last arrived at an age when he knew what his fault was. His comrades, with their vile insults, had educated him in vice. Then, he wept tears of blood. They hit him through his parents, by telling him the shameful story of his birth. He knew of the existence of his mother by the coarse names which they gave to this woman all around him. The youngsters, once they set foot in the filth, wallowed in it with a sort of vanity; and the little dandies never spared the Bastard any of the vileness which they could invent out of the intimacy between the notary’s wife and Monsieur de Viargue. William was seized at times with an outburst of wild rage; beneath the blows of his executioners, the martyr revolted at last, fell on the first he could lay hands on and tore him like a wild beast; but, as a rule, he remained passive under the insult and simply wept in silence.

As he was entering on his fifteenth year, an event happened, the memory of which he kept all his life. One day, as the school was walking out and passing along one of the streets of the town, he heard his comrades sneering round him and murmuring in their malicious tone:

“Eh! Bastard, look; there’s your mother.”

He raised his head and looked.

A woman was passing along the causeway, leaning on the arm of a man with a weak placid face. This woman surveyed William with a curious look. Her clothes almost rubbed against him as she passed. But she had no smile, and screwed up her mouth with a sort of sanctified and crabbed grimace. The placid expression of the man who was with her never changed.

William, who was nearly fainting, did not hear the banter of his comrades who were bursting with laughter, as if this little adventure had been the greatest joke in the world. He stood savage and speechless. This hurried vision had frozen his life-blood, and he felt himself more miserable than an orphan. For the rest of his life, when he thought of his mother, he would see before him the image of this woman passing by with a sanctimonious scowl, leaning on the arm of her cuckolded and happy husband.

His great grief, during these wretched years, was to be loved by no one. The savage tenderness of Geneviève frightened him almost, and he found his father’s silent affection very cold. He would say to himself that he was alone, and that there was not a single being who had any pity for him. Crushed beneath the persecutions that he endured, he shut himself up with his inexpressible thoughts of kindness; his gentle nature carefully concealed, as a foolish secret at which people would have laughed, the treasures of love which it could not bestow at large. He would lose himself in the endless dream of an imaginary passion into which he would throw himself heart and soul for ever. And he would dream then of a blissful solitude, of a nook where there were trees and streams, where he would be all alone in company with a cherished passion; lover or comrade, he hardly knew which; he simply felt a longing desire for peace. When he had been beaten, and when still all bruised, he would summon up his dream, his hands clasped in a sort of religious frenzy, and he would ask Heaven when he would be able to hide himself and take his rest in a supreme affection.

Had his pride not sustained him, he would perhaps have become habituated to cowardice. But, fortunately, he had in him the blood of the De Viargues; the helpless weakness, to which he was a victim through his chance birth and the plebeian foolishness of his mother, would at times derive an accession of vigour from the pride which he had from his father. He would feel himself better, worthier and nobler than his tormentors; if he feared them, he had a calm disdain for them; under their blows his strength of pride did not desert him, and this exasperated the young brutes who did not fail to notice the contempt of their victim.

William, however, had one friend in the school. Just as he was promoted into the second form, a new pupil came into the same class as himself. He was a tall young fellow, vigorous and strongly built, and older than William by two or three years. His name was James Berthier. An orphan, with no other relatives than an uncle who was a lawyer at Véteuil, he had come to the school at this town to finish the studies which he had begun at Paris. His uncle wanted to have him near him, as he bad learnt that his dear nephew was rather precocious and was already, at seventeen, running after the young ladies of the Latin quarter.

James bore his exile in excellent spirits. He had the happiest disposition in the world. Without any remarkable qualities, he was what yon call a fine fellow. The frivolity of his nature was atoned for by a rough-and-ready sort of devotion. His entry into the school was an event; he came straight from Paris, and spoke of life like a youth who has already tasted the forbidden fruit. The pupils had a sudden respect for him when they learnt that he had slept with women. His easy manners, his strength, and his good fortune made him the king of the school. He would laugh aloud, he would gladly exhibit his powerful arms and protect the weak with the good-nature of a prince.

The very day of his arrival, he saw a big lout of a scholar hustling William. He marched up, and gave the fellow a good shaking, telling him at the same time that he would hear further from him if he bullied the youngsters like that. Then he took the victim’s arm and walked about with him during the whole of play-time to the scandal of the scholars who could not conceive how the Parisian could choose such a friend.

William was deeply touched with the assistance and friendship which James offered him. The latter had been seized with a sudden feeling of sympathy for the pained face of his new comrade. When he had asked him a few questions, he saw that he was going to have to exercise an active protection and this decided him.

“Will you be my friend?” he asked as he held out his hand to William.

The poor fellow almost wept as he grasped this hand, the first which had been offered him.

“I will love you deeply,” he replied in the timid tone of a wooer confessing his love.

The following play-time, a group of pupils came round the Parisian to tell him William’s history. They counted on making him thrash the Bastard by informing him of the scandal of his birth. James listened quietly to the dirty jokes of his comrades. When they had finished, he shrugged his shoulders and said:

“You’re a pack of idiots. If I catch one of you repeating what you have just said, I’ll box his ears.”

He only felt more sympathy for the pariah as he perceived the depths of his wounds. He had already had as a friend, at the Charlemagne college, a love-begot, a boy of rare and charming intelligence, who carried off all his form prizes and was beloved by his comrades and by his masters. This made him accept, as quite a natural thing, the story of the scandal which so raised the indignation of the young brutes of Véteuil.

“What geese those fellows are!” he said to William.

“They are ill-natured blockheads. I know all; but come now, don’t be afraid; if one of them touches you, tell me, and you’ll see.”

From that day, everybody felt a respect for the Bastard. One of the fellows having ventured to salute him with this name, he got such a smack that the whole school saw that there was to be no more joking and sought another victim. William passed through the second class and the rhetoric class in profound peace. He became ardently devoted to his protector. He loved him with the love one has for a first mistress, with absolute faith and blind devotion. His gentle nature had at length found an outlet, his long pent-up tenderness was bestowed in its entirety on the deity whose hand and heart had befriended him. His friendship was mingled with a feeling of gratitude so warm that he almost looked upon James as a superior being. He knew not how to pay his debt, and his attitude towards him was humble and respectful. He admired his slightest movements; this big energetic noisy fellow filled him with a sort of respect, when he compared him to his own timid and piteous nature. His easy manners, the stories which he told of his life in Paris convinced him that he had for a friend an extraordinary man who was destined for the highest career. And there was thus, in his affection, a singular mixture of admiration, humility and love, which always left him a feeling at once tender and respectful for James.

The latter accepted, like the good fellow that he was, his protégée’s adoration. He loved to show his strength and to be flattered. Besides, he was seduced by the devoted endearments of this weak proud nature who crushed the other pupils with his contempts. For the two years that they were at school together, they were inseparable.

When they bad got through the rhetoric class, James set out for Paris, where he was to attend the lectures at the School of Medicine. William, left alone at Véteuil, remained for a long time inconsolable at the departure of his friend. He had lost all aptitude for work, living at La Noiraude as in the heart of a desert. He was then eighteen. His father sent for him one day into his laboratory. It was the first time that he had passed the threshold of this room. He found the count standing in the middle of the huge sanctum, his breast covered with a long blue workman’s apron. He seemed to him terribly aged; his temples were bare, and his sunken eyes shone with a strange brilliancy in his thin face all seamed with wrinkles. He had always felt a deep respect for him; this day, he almost felt a dread of him.

“Sir,” said the count, “I have sent for you in order to tell you my plans with regard to yourself. Be kind enough to tell me if, by chance, you feel an inclination for any occupation.”

As William stood embarrassed and hesitating he went on: “That is well, my orders will be the more easy for you to carry out. I wish you, sir, to follow no profession whatever, neither doctor, lawyer, nor anything else.’’

And as the young man looked at him, with an air of surprise, he continued in a slightly bitter tone:

“You will be rich, you will have it in your power to be a fool and a happy man, if you are fortunate enough to understand life. I regret already that I have had you taught something. Hunt, eat, sleep, these are my orders. Still, if you have a taste for farming, I will allow you to dig.” The count was not joking. He spoke in a peremptory tone, in the certainty of being obeyed. He noticed that his son was casting a glance over the laboratory as if to protest against the life of idleness which he was imposing on him. His voice became threatening.

“Above all,” he said “swear to me that you will never spend your time on science. After my death, you will shut, this door and never open it again. It is enough that one De Viargue has buried himself here for a whole lifetime. I rely on your word, sir; you will do nothing, and you will try to be happy.”

William was going to withdraw, when his father, as if touched with sudden grief and emotion, took him by the hands and murmured as he drew him towards him:

“You understand, my child, obey me; be a simple-minded man, if it is possible.”

He kissed him hurriedly and dismissed him. This scene had a strange effect on William; he saw that the count must be suffering from a secret grief; in the few dealings that they had with one another, he showed him, from that day, a more affectionate respect. Besides, he conformed strictly to his orders. He stayed for three years at La Noiraude hunting, shooting, roving about the country, and taking an interest in trees and hills. These three years, during which he lived in companionship with nature, finished the work of predestination for the joys and sorrows which the future had in store for him. Lost in the green solitudes of the park, invigorated by the all-pervading thrill of nature beneath the foliage, he purified himself of his school-life, he increased in tenderness and pity. He took up the dream of his youth, he hoped again to find, on the brink of some fountain, a being who would take him in her arms and carry him away, kissing him like a child. Ah! what long reveries, and how sweetly the shadow and silence of the oaks fell on his brow.

But for the vague restlessness with which his unsatisfied desires filled him, he would have been perfectly happy. Nobody was persecuting him now: when he happened to pass through Véteuil, he saw his old comrades salute him with more cowardice than they had beaten him; it was known in the town that he would be the count’s heir. His only dread, a strange dread mingled with painful hope, was of finding himself face to face with his mother. He did not see her again, and he was sad; the thought of this woman would recur to him every day; her complete forgetfulness of him, was for him an inexplicable monstrosity the cause of which he would have liked to discover. He even asked Geneviève if he ought not to try to see her. The old protestant answered him rudely that he was mad.