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

Sergeants Who Sat Nearby,  Good-Natured Fellows Both Of Them,  Almost

Died Of Laughter As They Shuffled Their Cards Afresh.

In Fact,  Irma Had Taken Them All By Storm. Sandoz Declared That Her

Name Of Becot Was Very Well Suited For A Novel; Claude Asked Whether

She Would Consent To Pose For A Sketch; While Mahoudeau Already

Pictured Her As A Paris Gamin,  A Statuette That Would Be Sure To Sell.

She Soon Went Off,  However,  And Behind The Gentleman's Back She Wafted

Kisses To The Whole Party,  A Shower Of Kisses Which Quite Upset The

Impressionable Jory.

It Was Five O'clock,  And The Band Ordered Some More Beer. Some Of The

Usual Customers Had Taken Possession Of The Adjacent Tables,  And These

Philistines Cast Sidelong Glances At The Artists' Corner,  Glances In

Which Contempt Was Curiously Mingled With A Kind Of Uneasy Deference.

The Artists Were Indeed Well Known; A Legend Was Becoming Current

Respecting Them. They Themselves Were Now Talking On Common-Place

Subjects: About The Heat,  The Difficulty Of Finding Room In The

Omnibus To The Odeon,  And The Discovery Of A Wine-Shop Where Real Meat

Was Obtainable. One Of Them Wanted To Start A Discussion About A

Number Of Idiotic Pictures That Had Lately Been Hung In The Luxembourg

Museum; But There Was Only One Opinion On The Subject,  That The

Pictures Were Not Worth Their Frames. Thereupon They Left Off

Conversing; They Smoked,  Merely Exchanging A Word Or A Significant

Smile Now And Then.

'Well,' Asked Claude At Last,  'Are We Going To Wait For Gagniere?'

At This There Was A Protest. Gagniere Was A Bore. Besides,  He Would

Turn Up As Soon As He Smelt The Soup.

'Let's Be Off,  Then,' Said Sandoz. 'There's A Leg Of Mutton This

Evening,  So Let's Try To Be Punctual.'

Each Paid His Score,  And They All Went Out. Their Departure Threw The

Cafe Into A State Of Emotion. Some Young Fellows,  Painters,  No Doubt,

Whispered Together As They Pointed At Claude,  Much In The Same Manner

As If He Were The Redoubtable Chieftain Of A Horde Of Savages. Jory's

Famous Article Was Producing Its Effect; The Very Public Was Becoming

His Accomplice,  And Of Itself Was Soon To Found That School Of The

Open Air,  Which The Band Had So Far Only Joked About. As They Gaily

Said,  The Cafe Baudequin Was Not Aware Of The Honour They Had Done It

On The Day When They Selected It To Be The Cradle Of A Revolution.

Fagerolles Having Reinforced The Group,  They Now Numbered Five,  And

Slowly They Took Their Way Across Paris,  With Their Tranquil Look Of

Victory. The More Numerous They Were,  The More Did They Stretch Across

The Pavement,  And Carry Away On Their Heels The Burning Life Of The

Streets. When They Had Gone Down The Rue De Clichy,  They Went Straight

Along The Rue De La Chaussee D'antin,  Turned Towards The Rue De

Richelieu,  Crossed The Seine By The Pont Des Arts,  So As To Fling

Their Gibes At The Institute,  And Finally Reached The Luxembourg By

Way Of The Rue De Seine,  Where A Poster,  Printed In Three Colours,  The

Garish Announcement Of A Travelling Circus,  Made Them All Shout With

Admiration. Evening Was Coming On; The Stream Of Wayfarers Flowed More

Slowly; The Tired City Was Awaiting The Shadows Of Night,  Ready To

Yield To The First Comer Who Might Be Strong Enough To Take Her.

On Reaching The Rue D'enfer,  When Sandoz Had Ushered His Four Friends

Into His Own Apartments,  He Once More Vanished Into His Mother's Room.

He Remained There For A Few Moments,  And Then Came Out Without Saying

A Word,  But With The Tender,  Gentle Smile Habitual To Him On Such

Occasions. And Immediately Afterwards A Terrible Hubbub,  Of Laughter,

Argument,  And Mere Shouting,  Arose In His Little Flat. Sandoz Himself

Set The Example,  All The While Assisting The Charwoman,  Who Burst Into

Bitter Language Because It Was Half-Past Seven,  And Her Leg Of Mutton

Was Drying Up. The Five Companions,  Seated At Table,  Were Already

Swallowing Their Soup,  A Very Good Onion Soup,  When A New Comer

Suddenly Appeared.

'Hallo! Here's Gagniere,' Was The Vociferous Chorus.

Gagniere,  Short,  Slight,  And Vague Looking,  With A Doll-Like Startled

Face,  Set Off By A Fair Curly Beard,  Stood For A Moment On The

Threshold Blinking His Green Eyes. He Belonged To Melun,  Where His

Well-To-Do Parents,  Who Were Both Dead,  Had Left Him Two Houses; And

He Had Learnt Painting,  Unassisted,  In The Forest Of Fontainebleau.

His Landscapes Were At Least Conscientiously Painted,  Excellent In

Intention; But His Real Passion Was Music,  A Madness For Music,  A

Cerebral Bonfire Which Set Him On A Level With The Wildest Of The

Band.

'Am I In The Way?' He Gently Asked.

'Not At All; Come In!' Shouted Sandoz.

The Charwoman Was Already Laying An Extra Knife And Fork.

'Suppose She Lays A Place For Dubuche,  While She Is About It,' Said

Claude. 'He Told Me He Would Perhaps Come.'

But They Were All Down Upon Dubuche,  Who Frequented Women In Society.

Jory Said That He Had Seen Him In A Carriage With An Old Lady And Her

Daughter,  Whose Parasols He Was Holding On His Knees.

'Where Have You Come From To Be So Late?' Asked Fagerolles Of

Gagniere.

The Latter,  Who Was About To Swallow His First Spoonful Of Soup,  Set

It In His Plate Again.

'I Was In The Rue De Lancry--You Know,  Where They Have Chamber Music.

Oh! My Boy,  Some Of Schumann's Machines! You Haven't An Idea Of Them!

They Clutch Hold Of You At The Back Of Your Head Just As If Somebody

Were Breathing Down Your Back. Yes,  Yes,  It's Something Much More

Immaterial Than A Kiss,  Just A Whiff Of Breath. 'Pon My Honour,  A

Fellow Feels As If He Were Going To Die.'

His Eyes Were Moistening And He Turned Pale,  As If Experiencing Some

Over-Acute Enjoyment.

'Eat Your Soup,' Said Mahoudeau; 'You'll Tell Us All About It

Afterwards.'

The Skate Was Served,  And They Had The Vinegar Bottle Put On The Table

To Improve The Flavour Of The Black Butter,  Which Seemed Rather

Insipid. They Ate With A Will,  And The Hunks Of Bread Swiftly

Disappeared. There Was Nothing Refined About The Repast,  And The Wine

Was Mere Common Stuff,  Which They Watered Considerably From A Feeling

Of Delicacy,  In Order To Lessen Their Host's Expenses. They Had Just

Saluted The Leg Of Mutton With A Hurrah,  And The Host Had Begun To

Carve It,  When The Door Opened Anew. But This Time There Were Furious

Protests.

'No,  No,  Not Another Soul! Turn Him Out,  Turn Him Out.'

Dubuche,  Out Of Breath With Having Run,  Bewildered At Finding Himself

Amidst Such Howling,  Thrust His Fat,  Pallid Face Forward,  Whilst

Stammering Explanations.

'Really,  Now,  I Assure You It Was The Fault Of The Omnibuses. I Had To

Wait For Five Of Them In The Champs Elysees.'

'No,  No,  He's Lying!--Let Him Go,  He Sha'n't Have Any Of That Mutton.

Turn Him Out,  Turn Him Out!'

All The Same,  He Ended By Coming In,  And It Was Then Noticed That He

Was Stylishly Attired,  All In Black,  Trousers And Frock-Coat Alike,

And Cravated And Booted In The Stiff Ceremonious Fashion Of Some

Respectable Member Of The Middle Classes Going Out To Dinner.

'Hallo! He Has Missed His Invitation,' Chaffed Fagerolles. 'Don't You

See That His Fine Ladies Didn't Ask Him To Stay To Dinner,  And So Now

He's Come To Gobble Up Our Leg Of Mutton,  As He Doesn't Know Where

Else To Go?'

At This Dubuche Turned Red,  And Stammered: 'Oh! What An Idea! How

Ill-Natured You Are! And,  Besides,  Just Attend To Your Own Business.'

Sandoz And Claude,  Seated Next To Each Other,  Smiled,  And The Former,

Beckoning To Dubuche,  Said To Him: 'Lay Your Own Place,  Bring A Plate

And A Glass,  And Sit Between Us--Like That,  They'll Leave You Alone.'

However,  The Chaff Continued All The Time That The Mutton Was Being

Eaten. When The Charwoman Had Brought Dubuche A Plate Of Soup And A

Piece Of Skate,  He Himself Fell In With The Jokes Good-Naturedly. He

Pretended To Be Famished,  Greedily Mopped Out His Plate,  And Related A

Story About A Mother Having Refused Him Her Daughter Because He Was An

Architect. The End Of The Dinner Thus Became Very Boisterous; They All

Rattled On Together. The Only Dessert,  A Piece Of Brie Cheese,  Met

With Enormous Success. Not A Scrap Of It Was Left,  And The Bread

Almost Ran Short. The Wine Did Run Short,  So They Each Swallowed A

Clear Draught Of Water,  Smacking Their Lips The While Amidst Great

Laughter. And,  With Faces Beaming,  And Well-Filled Paunches,  They

Passed Into The Bedroom With The Supreme Content Of Folks Who Have

Fared Very Sumptuously Indeed.

Those Were Sandoz's Jolly Evenings. Even At The Times When He Was Hard

Up He Had Always Had Some Boiled Beef And Broth To Share With His

Comrades. He Felt Delighted At Having A Number Of Them Around Him,  All

Friends,  Inspired By The Same Ideas. Though He Was Of Their Own Age,

He Beamed With Fatherly Feelings And Satisfied Good-Nature When He Saw

Them In His Rooms,  Around Him,  Hand In Hand,  And Intoxicated With

Hope. As He Had But Two Rooms,  The Bedroom Did Duty As A Drawing-Room,

And Became As Much Theirs As His. For Lack Of Sufficient Chairs,  Two

Or Three Had To Seat Themselves On The Bed. And On Those Warm Summer

Evenings The Window Remained Wide Open To Let In The Air. From It Two

Black Silhouettes Were To Be Seen Rising Above The Houses,  Against The

Clear Sky--The Tower Of St. Jacques Du Haut-Pas And The Tree Of The

Deaf And Dumb Asylum. When Money Was Plentiful There Was Beer. Every

One Brought His Own Tobacco,  The Room Soon Became Full Of Smoke,  And