His Masterpiece by Emile Zola (most inspirational books of all time txt) 📕

Both Together At The Same Time. Some Passers-By,  Feeling Uneasy,

Turned Round To Look,  And At Last Gathered Round These Furious Young

Fellows,  Who Seemed Bent On Swallowing Each Other. But They Went Off

Vexed,  Thinking That Some Practical Joke Had Been Played Upon Them,

When They Suddenly Saw The Quartette,  All Good Friends Again,  Go Into

Raptures Over A Wet-Nurse,  Dressed In Light Colours,  With Long

Cherry-Tinted Ribbons Streaming From Her Cap. There,  Now! That Was

Something Like--What A Tint,  What A Bright Note It Set Amid The

Surroundings! Delighted,  Blinking Their Eyes,  They Followed The Nurse

Under The Trees,  And Then Suddenly Seemed Roused And Astonished To

Find They Had Already Come So Far. The Esplanade,  Open On All Sides,

Save On The South,  Where Rose The Distant Pile Of The Hotel Des

Invalides,  Delighted Them--It Was So Vast,  So Quiet; They There Had

Plenty Of Room For Their Gestures; And They Recovered Breath There,

Although They Were Always Declaring That Paris Was Far Too Small For

Them,  And Lacked Sufficient Air To Inflate Their Ambitious Lungs.

'Are You Going Anywhere Particular?' Asked Sandoz Of Mahoudeau And

Jory.

'No,' Answered The Latter,  'We Are Going With You. Where Are _You_

Going?'

Claude,  Gazing Carelessly About Him,  Muttered: 'I Don't Know. That

Way,  If You Like.'

They Turned On To The Quai D'orsay,  And Went As Far As The Pont De La

Concorde. In Front Of The Corps Legislatif The Painter Remarked,  With

An Air Of Disgust: 'What A Hideous Pile!'

'Jules Favre Made A Fine Speech The Other Day. How He Did Rile

Rouher,' Said Jory.

However,  The Others Left Him No Time To Proceed,  The Disputes Began

Afresh. 'Who Was Jules Favre? Who Was Rouher? Did They Exist? A Parcel

Of Idiots Whom No One Would Remember Ten Years After Their Death.' The

Young Men Had Now Begun To Cross The Bridge,  And They Shrugged Their

Shoulders With Compassion. Then,  On Reaching The Place De La Concorde,

They Stopped Short And Relapsed Into Silence.

'Well,' Opined Claude At Last,  'This Isn't Bad,  By Any Means.'

It Was Four O'clock,  And The Day Was Waning Amidst A Glorious Powdery

Shimmer. To The Right And Left,  Towards The Madeleine And Towards The

Corps Legislatif,  Lines Of Buildings Stretched Away,  Showing Against

The Sky,  While In The Tuileries Gardens Rose Gradients Of Lofty

Rounded Chestnut Trees. And Between The Verdant Borders Of The

Pleasure Walks,  The Avenue Of The Champs Elysees Sloped Upward As Far

As The Eye Could Reach,  Topped By The Colossal Arc De Triomphe,  Agape

In Front Of The Infinite. A Double Current,  A Twofold Stream Rolled

Along--Horses Showing Like Living Eddies,  Vehicles Like Retreating

Waves,  Which The Reflections Of A Panel Or The Sudden Sparkle Of The

Glass Of A Carriage Lamp Seemed To Tip With White Foam. Lower Down,

The Square--With Its Vast Footways,  Its Roads As Broad As Lakes--Was

Filled With A Constant Ebb And Flow,  Crossed In Every Direction By

Whirling Wheels,  And Peopled With Black Specks Of Men,  While The Two

Fountains Plashed And Streamed,  Exhaling Delicious Coolness Amid All

The Ardent Life.

Claude,  Quivering With Excitement,  Kept Saying: 'Ah! Paris! It's Ours.

We Have Only To Take It.'

They All Grew Excited,  Their Eyes Opened Wide With Desire. Was It Not

Glory Herself That Swept From The Summit Of That Avenue Over The Whole

Capital? Paris Was There,  And They Longed To Make Her Theirs.

'Well,  We'll Take Her One Day,' Said Sandoz,  With His Obstinate Air.

'To Be Sure We Shall,' Said Mahoudeau And Jory In The Simplest Manner.

They Had Resumed Walking; They Still Roamed About,  Found Themselves

Behind The Madeleine,  And Went Up The Rue Tronchet. At Last,  As They

Reached The Place Du Havre,  Sandoz Exclaimed,  'So We Are Going To

Baudequin's,  Eh?'

The Others Looked As If They Had Dropped From The Sky; In Fact,  It Did

Seem As If They Were Going To Baudequin's.

'What Day Of The Week Is It?' Asked Claude. 'Thursday,  Eh? Then

Fagerolles And Gagniere Are Sure To Be There. Let's Go To

Baudequin's.'

And Thereupon They Went Up The Rue D'amsterdam. They Had Just Crossed

Paris,  One Of Their Favourite Rambles,  But They Took Other Routes At

Times--From One End Of The Quays To The Other; Or From The Porte St.

Jacques To The Moulineaux,  Or Else To Pere-La-Chaise,  Followed By A

Roundabout Return Along The Outer Boulevards. They Roamed The Streets,

The Open Spaces,  The Crossways; They Rambled On For Whole Days,  As

Long As Their Legs Would Carry Them,  As If Intent On Conquering One

District After Another By Hurling Their Revolutionary Theories At The

House-Fronts; And The Pavement Seemed To Be Their Property--All The

Pavement Touched By Their Feet,  All That Old Battleground Whence Arose

Intoxicating Fumes Which Made Them Forget Their Lassitude.

The Cafe Baudequin Was Situated On The Boulevard Des Batignolles,  At

The Corner Of The Rue Darcet. Without The Least Why Or Wherefore,  It

Had Been Selected By The Band As Their Meeting-Place,  Though Gagniere

Alone Lived In The Neighbourhood. They Met There Regularly On Sunday

Nights; And On Thursday Afternoons,  At About Five O'clock,  Those Who

Were Then At Liberty Had Made It A Habit To Look In For A Moment. That

Day,  As The Weather Was Fine And Bright,  The Little Tables Outside

Under The Awning Were Occupied By Rows Of Customers,  Obstructing The

Footway. But The Band Hated All Elbowing And Public Exhibition,  So

They Jostled The Other People In Order To Go Inside,  Where All Was

Deserted And Cool.

'Hallo,  There's Fagerolles By Himself,' Exclaimed Claude.

He Had Gone Straight To Their Usual Table At The End Of The Cafe,  On

The Left,  Where He Shook Hands With A Pale,  Thin,  Young Man,  Whose

Pert Girlish Face Was Lighted Up By A Pair Of Winning,  Satirical Grey

Eyes,  Which At Times Flashed Like Steel. They All Sat Down And Ordered

Beer,  After Which The Painter Resumed:

'Do You Know That I Went To Look For You At Your Father's; And A Nice

Reception He Gave Me.'

Fagerolles,  Who Affected A Low Devil-May-Care Style,  Slapped His

Thighs. 'Oh,  The Old Fellow Plagues Me! I Hooked It This Morning,

After A Row. He Wants Me To Draw Some Things For His Beastly Zinc

Stuff. As If I Hadn't Enough Zinc Stuff At The Art School.'

This Slap At The Professors Delighted The Young Man's Friends. He

Amused Them And Made Himself Their Idol By Dint Of Alternate Flattery

And Blame. His Smile Went From One To The Other,  While,  By The Aid Of

A Few Drops Of Beer Spilt On The Table,  His Long Nimble Fingers Began

Tracing Complicated Sketches. His Art Evidently Came Very Easily To

Him; It Seemed As If He Could Do Anything With A Turn Of The Hand.

'And Gagniere?' Asked Mahoudeau; 'Haven't You Seen Him?'

'No; I Have Been Here For The Last Hour.'

Just Then Jory,  Who Had Remained Silent,  Nudged Sandoz,  And Directed

His Attention To A Girl Seated With A Gentleman At A Table At The Back

Of The Room. There Were Only Two Other Customers Present,  Two

Sergeants,  Who Were Playing Cards. The Girl Was Almost A Child,  One Of

Those Young Parisian Hussies Who Are As Lank As Ever At Eighteen. She

Suggested A Frizzy Poodle--With The Shower Of Fair Little Locks That

Fell Over Her Dainty Little Nose,  And Her Large Smiling Mouth,  Set

Between Rosy Cheeks. She Was Turning Over The Leaves Of An Illustrated

Paper,  While The Gentleman Accompanying Her Gravely Sipped A Glass Of

Madeira; But Every Other Minute She Darted Gay Glances From Over The

Newspaper Towards The Band Of Artists.

'Pretty,  Isn't She?' Whispered Jory. 'Who Is She Staring At? Why,

She's Looking At Me.'

But Fagerolles Suddenly Broke In: 'I Say,  No Nonsense. Don't Imagine

That I Have Been Here For The Last Hour Merely Waiting For You.'

The Others Laughed; And Lowering His Voice He Told Them About The

Girl,  Who Was Named Irma Becot. She Was The Daughter Of A Grocer In

The Rue Montorgueil,  And Had Been To School In The Neighbourhood Till

She Was Sixteen,  Writing Her Exercises Between Two Bags Of Lentils,

And Finishing Off Her Education On Her Father's Doorstep,  Lolling

About On The Pavement,  Amidst The Jostling Of The Throng,  And Learning

All About Life From The Everlasting Tittle-Tattle Of The Cooks,  Who

Retailed All The Scandal Of The Neighbourhood While Waiting For Five

Sous' Worth Of Gruyere Cheese To Be Served Them. Her Mother Having

Died,  Her Father Himself Had Begun To Lead Rather A Gay Life,  In Such

Wise That The Whole Of The Grocery Stores--Tea,  Coffee,  Dried

Vegetables,  And Jars And Drawers Of Sweetstuff--Were Gradually

Devoured. Irma Was Still Going To School,  When,  One Day,  The Place Was

Sold Up. Her Father Died Of A Fit Of Apoplexy,  And Irma Sought Refuge

With A Poor Aunt,  Who Gave Her More Kicks Than Halfpence,  With The

Result That She Ended By Running Away,  And Taking Her Flight Through

All The Dancing-Places Of Montmartre And Batignolles.

Claude Listened To The Story With His Usual Air Of Contempt For Women.

Suddenly,  However,  As The Gentleman Rose And Went Out After Whispering

In Her Ear,  Irma Becot,  After Watching Him Disappear,  Bounded From Her

Seat With The Impulsiveness Of A School Girl,  In Order To Join

Fagerolles,  Beside Whom She Made Herself Quite At Home,  Giving Him A

Smacking Kiss,  And Drinking Out Of His Glass. And She Smiled At The

Others In A Very Engaging Manner,  For She Was Partial To Artists,  And

Regretted That They Were Generally So Miserably Poor. As Jory Was

Smoking,  She Took His Cigarette Out Of His Mouth And Set It In Her

Own,  But Without Pausing In Her Chatter,  Which Suggested That Of A

Saucy Magpie.

'You Are All Painters,  Aren't You? How Amusing! But Why Do Those Three

Look As If They Were Sulking. Just Laugh A Bit,  Or I Shall Make You,

You'll See!'

As A Matter Of Fact,  Sandoz,  Claude,  And Mahoudeau,  Quite Taken Aback,

Were Watching Her Most Gravely. She Herself Remained Listening,  And,

On Hearing Her Companion Come Back,  She Hastily Gave Fagerolles An

Appointment For The Morrow. Then,  After Replacing The Cigarette

Between Jory's Lips,  She Strode Off With Her Arms Raised,  And Making A

Very Comical Grimace; In Such Wise That When The Gentleman Reappeared,

Looking Sedate And Somewhat Pale,  He Found Her In Her Former Seat,

Still Looking At The Same Engraving In The Newspaper. The Whole Scene

Had Been Acted So Quickly,  And With Such Jaunty Drollery,