Complete Works of Emile Zola (72 page)

PART III

CHAPTER I

THE CONSPIRACY

ONE calm evening in February, about two months after Philippe’s escape, Blanche was taking a very slow walk. Twilight was just setting in. Far away, the sea was quite pale, and it broke sluggishly over the boulders on the beach, barely making any spray under the impulse of the evening breeze. The warmth of approaching spring could already be detected in the clear air. In the grand blue sky of the south one sometimes meets with winter suns, possessing all the invigorating heat of those of summer.

The young woman was taking short strides beside the cliff, watching night falling over the waves which were turning a blackish blue, whilst their plaintive sounds were becoming softer. The unhappy girl was much changed. She was barely seventeen, and yet the terrible fatalities of which she had been the victim, had caused her to stoop and had overspread her youthful face with the paleness of death. All her strength, all her gay and thoughtless life had passed away in tears. She was about to become a mother, and she walked along with faltering footsteps, suffering more from mental trouble than from her position.

A few paces behind her came a tall, thin, stiff-limbed woman, who followed her as a convict-keeper does his prisoner. She did not allow her out of her sight and watched all her movements. This woman was the new guardian whom M. de Cazalis had given his niece during the previous few weeks.

The deputy was then at Marseille where he had hastened as soon as he had heard that a child was about to be born. He wished to be there on the watch. This child, this bastard which was about to make its appearance in his family, exasperated him. But his mind was made up, and he was only waiting to put into execution the plan he had long since decided on.

When he had been able to absent himself, and go privately to the cottage at Saint-Henri, he came to the conclusion that his niece was not close enough a prisoner. She must be completely shut up if he wished to carry out his intentions. The first guardian he had selected, appeared to him too weak and accommodating. He had heard that a young girl came almost daily to talk to Blanche, and that made him particularly anxious. It was then that he decided on entrusting the guardianship of the cottage to a vigilant gaoler, who would allow no one to enter it, and who would give him a faithful account of the least incidents that happened.

Madame Lambert, the stiff-limbed, thin woman, the convict-keeper, was admirably adapted for such a position. She was an old maid, brought up with exaggerated ideas of religious zeal, had the harsh character of narrow-minded people and the unrelenting cruelty of those who have never loved. She knew Blanche had given way to the dictates of her heart and that made her all the harder, all the more implacable, she whom all men disdained. She rigorously performed the duty M. de Cazalis had entrusted her with, watched over her prisoner with diabolical cunning, surrounded her with absolute solitude and dismissed all who approached too near.

The cottage thus became a sort of citadel in which she entrenched herself, and where she had Blanche at her mercy. Fine was pitilessly driven away: as soon as she appeared on the hill Madame Lambert placed herself at one of the windows and continued to spy her movements until she withdrew; so the flower-girl, in the end, was obliged to give up her visits. Then poor Blanche almost died of grief and despondency, for she felt herself throttled by the coils her gaoler set about her, and which were drawn tighter every day.

Abbé Chastanier was the only visitor admitted, and even when he came, Madame Lambert arranged to hear what he said to his penitent.

On that particular evening Blanche had obtained permission from her guardian to take a short walk on the sea-shore. She was in great uneasiness and suffered from fits of giddiness which were calmed by the fresh air. The two people continued to follow the cliff, the young woman wondering how she could baffle this supervision which interfered with her plans, the guardian glancing behind each rock in fear that someone would suddenly rush out and rob her of her prisoner. As they were about to return, they suddenly saw a dark form advancing towards them along the narrow path.

Night had completely set in. Madame Lambert was greatly afraid, and was advancing rapidly in front when she recognised Abbé Chastanier. The priest not having found Blanche at the cottage had come to look for her on the beach.

“Let us go in quick,” said Madame Lambert, sharply. “You will be more comfortable talking in the drawing-room. The breeze is becoming fresh.”

“We are very well here,” murmured Blanche. “Let us remain a little while longer.”

And she nudged Abbé Chastanier so that he might support her.

“Eh! yes,” he said in his turn, “it is quite a spring evening. The fresh air of the sea is beautiful, and will do our dear invalid a deal of good.”

Then he took the young woman’s arm and added gaily:

“We’ll walk along together, my dear child, like a couple of lovers! If you are afraid of catching cold, Madame Lambert, pray go in. We’ll rejoin you presently.”

And he continued along the path beside the cliff, leading Blanche, who was laughing at his adroit manoeuvre, along with him. The guardian took very good care not to go in; for she would have preferred to run the risk of catching twenty colds rather than lose sight of her prisoner for a quarter of an hour. She therefore proceeded to follow the pair at a distance of ten paces, full of anxiety, straining her ears to discover what they said, and angry against the waves, the sound of which prevented her hearing. She could listen at her ease in the cottage, either openly or hidden behind a door; but there, on the rocks, she did not dare, she was unable to exercise her calling of spy.

“How much I thank you,” said Blanche to the priest in a sad and grateful tone, “for having helped me to procure a moment’s conversation with you! My prison, as you see, becomes narrower and narrower every day.”

“Have hope, my dear child,” answered Abbé Chastanier, “you will soon be free, and you will then be able to act according to your faith and heart.”

“Oh! I was not thinking of myself, they can do what they please with my personality, without fear that I shall ever have the least idea of revolting. Besides, you know my resolution, your words have shown me the only road I can follow now.”

“It is not I, it is Providence that has brought you peace and hope.”

Blanche did not seem to understand, but continued becoming animated little by little:

“I have sacrificed all my pleasure, and am pleased to suffer, for I hope thus to obtain my pardon. At times I would like to invent harder punishment to hasten my penitence.”

“Then, my child, why do you complain of your solitude?” inquired the abbé gently.

“It is not a question of myself, my father. If I alone were threatened with imprisonment, perhaps for ever, I would be resigned to my fate, but I am trembling for the little creature I am about to bring into the world.”

“What is there to fear?”

“I hardly know. If my uncle had not some plan he would not shut me up like this. Look at all the precautions that are taken to isolate me, to prevent me communicating, with you even. I am certain that at this moment Madame Lambert is in despair.”

“You exaggerate.”

“No, you know what I say is true, and you are endeavouring to dispel my anxiety. All this, you see, strikes terror into me, and I fear for my child, I fear a misfortune that I feel there, in the dark.”

She preserved a painful silence, and then suddenly continued, in a broken voice:

“Will you help me to save my child?”

The priest was surprised and troubled at her cry. He hesitated without daring to answer.

“Be calm,” he said at length. “You know I am devoted to you.”

“I repeat,” continued Blanche, “that I have made the sacrifice of all my joy, but I wish my child to be happy.”

“What can I do for you?” asked Abbé Chastanier, moved by what she said.

Madame Lambert had approached little by little and was treading almost on their heels. Blanche heard the sound of her footsteps on the boulders and bending forward said to the priest in a low voice:

“Request Fine to come here tomorrow at about six o’clock in the evening and to pass beside me, without Madame Lambert being able to recognise her.”

The next day Blanche and her guardian were again strolling along the cliff at sunset. During the daytime the young woman had been complaining of a violent headache and had passed the whole afternoon shut up in her room. Then, towards evening, she had feigned giddiness and complained of feeling sick, in order to take the air beside the sea.

Madame Lambert who was full of distrust kept close to her, determined that she would not allow the same trick to be played her as on the preceding evening, whilst Blanche, from time to time, looked anxiously towards the Marseille road.

As night closed in she saw in the distance a woman wrapped in a Provençal cloak, and with her face hidden in a large calico hood, advancing from that direction. At her quick, light step, she guessed it was the person she was expecting. The woman came rapidly forward, and, as she passed by, knocked up against Blanche, who handed her a letter murmuring:

“Accomplish my wishes, I beseech you!” Fine’s sweet face appeared for a moment under the hood, with a kind, consoling smile, full of promise of devotedness, and then the flower-girl continued on her way as quickly as she had come.

Madame Lambert, thin and stiff, had neither seen nor understood anything.

CHAPTER II

M. DE CAZALIS HAS A PLAN

IT was as Blanche had said, if her uncle had not formed certain plans he would not have shut her up in this way. The desire to hide the young woman’s condition did not justify the excessive precautions that M. de Cazalis was taking to isolate her, and keep her completely in his power. The merciless part played by Madame Lambert, the grave and severe attitude of the deputy, the solitary life she was made to lead, all warned the unfortunate girl that she was threatened with some cruel event which was being prepared in the dark. Maternal instinct told her that it was not her they sought to strike, but the infant that was still unborn. They were no doubt awaiting this little creature’s birth, and then something terrible would take place which she could not foresee, but the thought of which made her tremble.

The fear which troubled Blanche was exaggerated. The solitude in which she lived caused her over-excitement and gave her horrible hallucinations. M. de Cazalis was not the sort of man to injure his reputation by martyrizing a child. He merely wished to make Blanche’s heir disappear as promptly as possible. But here, in a few words, is an account of the plan he had formed, along with the reasons that urged him to act as he did.

Blanche at her father’s death, was possessed of several hundreds of thousands of francs. She was then ten years old. She went to live with her uncle, who was appointed her legal guardian and who, from that time, administered her fortune. However, he did not make any great inroad into her wealth; but at the sight of so much gold in his hands, he lost his head, cut a great dash and spent almost all he possessed. When his niece ran away with Philippe, he was in a dreadful fright of being called upon to produce the accounts of his guardianship, for if this fortune had been taken out of his control he would have been reduced to absolute poverty, as he had been living for several months entirely on his niece’s money.

So long as the young girl remained with him, he knew he had nothing to fear. He could do what he pleased with her, bend her to his will like a piece of soft wax. The child’s weak character put him at ease. Such a doll would never dare to claim her own. He was counting on marrying her or placing her in a convent whilst giving her the least money possible, but the escapade of the two lovers had quite put him out of his reckoning. If he had burst into a passion, hunted them down, taken his niece violently back home, it was because he was afraid of a marriage between her and Philippe: he knew Philippe, and he knew he was a man to make him give up the last piece of gold. His interest was affected quite as seriously as his pride.

While he was protesting aloud against a misalliance, he shuddered as he confessed to himself in his mind, that this misalliance would not merely be a stain on his coat of arms, but that it would also make a terrible hole in his purse, through which all his luxury and power would disappear.

And now Blanche was to have an heir, and that heir would be more exacting than his mother. All his calculations were upset. He became merciless, insisted on dragging Philippe to the pillory, sought to render him infamous in order to cast some of the infamy on his child, and wished to deprive the infant of his rights before he even came into the world. When he heard that Philippe had fled and had thus escaped the infamy in store for him, his anxiety became absolute terror. He was ruined.

The struggle was becoming terrible. If he were compelled to produce the accounts connected with his guardianship, he would become literally penniless. Indeed, he would feel extremely happy if he escaped so easily, at the cost of poverty, for he was not sure that he had not made too wide and visible an inroad into Blanche’s patrimony.

In the one case if he kept both his niece and her money with him, he could continue to live in grand style and plunder the young girl in a legal way; in the other, if he were suddenly asked for a statement of accounts, if the capital placed in his hands were exacted in the child’s name, he would be obliged to ask for charity, in order not to die of hunger.

It is easy to conceive with what energy he accepted the battle and how eagerly he sought to triumph.

Blanche, for him, was nothing. At a simple look, on merely raising the voice, she trembled and consented to everything. But he shuddered at the thought of the child. That little creature who had not yet seen the light of day, made the all-powerful Cazalis turn pale. He caught himself hoping that it would be still-born. He would not have destroyed it, out of pride for his race, but he prayed Providence to do the work. The poor little creature would grow up, and some day, prompted by the Cayols, might demand his mother’s wealth. This thought brought cold drops of perspiration to the deputy’s forehead. The Cayols were his great terror. If they ever became possessed of the child they would rear it as an instrument of vengeance. Then he thought of all the misfortunes that would fall upon his head: he would have to disgorge, hand over a whole fortune to these people whom he would have liked to crush; and as for himself, he would, perhaps, have to go begging along the roads.