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

Blazing Golden Sun. No,  It Was Not Like Herself,  That Girl Had Neither

Her Face Nor Her Body. How Silly To Have Fancied That Such A Horrid

Mess Of Colour Was Herself! And Her Friendship For The Young Fellow

Was Heightened By A Touch Of Pity; He Could Not Even Convey A

Likeness. When She Went Off,  It Was She Who On The Threshold Cordially

Held Out Her Hand.

'You Know,  I Shall Come Back Again--'

'Yes,  In Two Months' Time.'

'No,  Next Week. You'll See,  Next Thursday.'

On The Thursday She Punctually Returned,  And After That She Did Not

Miss A Week. At First She Had No Particular Day For Calling,  Simply

Taking Advantage Of Her Opportunities; But Subsequently She Selected

Monday,  The Day Allowed Her By Madame Vanzade In Order That She Might

Have A Walk In The Fresh,  Open Air Of The Bois De Boulogne. She Had To

Be Back Home By Eleven,  And She Walked The Whole Way Very Quickly,

Coming In All Aglow From The Run,  For It Was A Long Stretch From Passy

To The Quai De Bourbon. During Four Winter Months,  From October To

February,  She Came In This Fashion,  Now In Drenching Rain,  Now Among

The Mists From The Seine,  Now In The Pale Sunlight That Threw A Little

Warmth Over The Quays. Indeed,  After The First Month,  She At Times

Arrived Unexpectedly,  Taking Advantage Of Some Errand In Town To Look

In,  And Then She Could Only Stay For A Couple Of Minutes; They Had

Barely Had Time Enough To Say 'How Do You Do?' When She Was Already

Scampering Down The Stairs Again,  Exclaiming 'Good-Bye.'

And Now Claude Learned To Know Christine. With His Everlasting

Mistrust Of Woman A Suspicion Had Remained To Him,  The Suspicion Of

Some Love Adventure In The Provinces; But The Girl's Soft Eyes And

Bright Laughter Had Carried All Before Them; He Felt That She Was As

Innocent As A Big Child. As Soon As She Arrived,  Quite Unembarrassed,

Feeling Fully At Her Ease,  As With A Friend,  She Began To Indulge In A

Ceaseless Flow Of Chatter. She Had Told Him A Score Of Times About Her

Childhood At Clermont,  And She Constantly Reverted To It. On The

Evening That Her Father,  Captain Hallegrain,  Had Suddenly Died,  She

And Her Mother Had Been To Church. She Perfectly Remembered Their

Return Home And The Horrible Night That Had Followed; The Captain,

Very Stout And Muscular,  Lying Stretched On A Mattress,  With His Lower

Jaw Protruding To Such A Degree That In Her Girlish Memory She Could

Not Picture Him Otherwise. She Also Had That Same Jaw,  And When Her

Mother Had Not Known How To Master Her,  She Had Often Cried: 'Ah,  My

Girl,  You'll Eat Your Heart's Blood Out Like Your Father.' Poor

Mother! How She,  Christine,  Had Worried Her With Her Love Of

Horseplay,  With Her Mad Turbulent Fits. As Far Back As She Could

Remember,  She Pictured Her Mother Ever Seated At The Same Window,

Quietly Painting Fans,  A Slim Little Woman With Very Soft Eyes,  The

Only Thing She Had Inherited Of Her. When People Wanted To Please Her

Mother They Told Her,  'She Has Got Your Eyes.' And Then She Smiled,

Happy In The Thought Of Having Contributed At Least That Touch Of

Sweetness To Her Daughter's Features. After The Death Of Her Husband,

She Had Worked So Late As To Endanger Her Eyesight. But How Else Could

She Have Lived? Her Widow's Pension--Five Hundred Francs Per Annum

--Barely Sufficed For The Needs Of Her Child. For Five Years Christine

Had Seen Her Mother Grow Thinner And Paler,  Wasting Away A Little Bit

Each Day Until She Became A Mere Shadow. And Now She Felt Remorseful

At Not Having Been More Obedient,  At Having Driven Her Mother To

Despair By Lack Of Application. She Had Begun Each Week With

Magnificent Intentions,  Promising That She Would Soon Help Her To Earn

Money; But Her Arms And Legs Got The Fidgets,  In Spite Of Her Efforts;

The Moment She Became Quiet She Fell Ill. Then One Morning Her Mother

Had Been Unable To Get Up,  And Had Died; Her Voice Too Weak To Make

Itself Heard,  Her Eyes Full Of Big Tears. Ever Did Christine Behold

Her Thus Dead,  With Her Weeping Eyes Wide Open And Fixed On Her.

At Other Times,  Christine,  When Questioned By Claude About Clermont,

Forgot Those Sorrows To Recall More Cheerful Memories. She Laughed

Gaily At The Idea Of Their Encampment,  As She Called It,  In The Rue De

L'eclache; She Born In Strasburg,  Her Father A Gascon,  Her Mother A

Parisian,  And All Three Thrown Into That Nook Of Auvergne,  Which They

Detested. The Rue De L'eclache,  Sloping Down To The Botanical Gardens,

Was Narrow And Dank,  Gloomy,  Like A Vault. Not A Shop,  Never A

Passer-By--Nothing But Melancholy Frontages,  With Shutters Always

Closed. At The Back,  However,  Their Windows,  Overlooking Some

Courtyards,  Were Turned To The Full Sunlight. The Dining-Room Opened

Even On To A Spacious Balcony,  A Kind Of Wooden Gallery,  Whose Arcades

Were Hung With A Giant Wistaria Which Almost Smothered Them With

Foliage. And The Girl Had Grown Up There,  At First Near Her Invalid

Father,  Then Cloistered,  As It Were,  With Her Mother,  Whom The Least

Exertion Exhausted. She Had Remained So Complete A Stranger To The

Town And Its Neighbourhood,  That Claude And Herself Burst Into

Laughter When She Met His Inquiries With The Constant Answer,  'I Don't

Know.' The Mountains? Yes,  There Were Mountains On One Side,  They

Could Be Seen At The End Of The Streets; While On The Other Side Of

The Town,  After Passing Along Other Streets,  There Were Flat Fields

Stretching Far Away; But She Never Went There,  The Distance Was Too

Great. The Only Height She Remembered Was The Puy De Dome,  Rounded Off

At The Summit Like A Hump. In The Town Itself She Could Have Found Her

Way To The Cathedral Blindfold; One Had To Turn Round By The Place De

Jaude And Take The Rue Des Gras; But More Than That She Could Not Tell

Him; The Rest Of The Town Was An Entanglement,  A Maze Of Sloping Lanes

And Boulevards; A Town Of Black Lava Ever Dipping Downward,  Where The

Rain Of The Thunderstorms Swept By Torrentially Amidst Formidable

Flashes Of Lightning. Oh! Those Storms; She Still Shuddered To Think

Of Them. Just Opposite Her Room,  Above The Roofs,  The Lightning

Conductor Of The Museum Was Always On Fire. In The Sitting-Room She

Had Her Own Window--A Deep Recess As Big As A Room Itself--Where Her

Work-Table And Personal Nick-Nacks Stood. It Was There That Her Mother

Had Taught Her To Read; It Was There That,  Later On,  She Had Fallen

Asleep While Listening To Her Masters,  So Greatly Did The Fatigue Of

Learning Daze Her. And Now She Made Fun Of Her Own Ignorance; She Was

A Well-Educated Young Lady,  And No Mistake,  Unable Even To Repeat The

Names Of The Kings Of France,  With The Dates Of Their Accessions; A

Famous Musician Too,  Who Had Never Got Further Than That Elementary

Pianoforte Exercise,  'The Little Boats'; A Prodigy In Water-Colour

Painting,  Who Scamped Her Trees Because Foliage Was Too Difficult To

Imitate. Then She Skipped,  Without Any Transition,  To The Fifteen

Months She Had Spent At The Convent Of The Visitation After Her

Mother's Death--A Large Convent,  Outside The Town,  With Magnificent

Gardens. There Was No End To Her Stories About The Good Sisters,  Their

Jealousies,  Their Foolish Doings,  Their Simplicity,  That Made One

Start. She Was To Have Taken The Veil,  But She Felt Stifled The Moment

She Entered A Church. It Had Seemed To Be All Over With Her,  When The

Superior,  By Whom She Was Treated With Great Affection,  Diverted Her

From The Cloister By Procuring Her That Situation At Madame Vanzade's.

She Had Not Yet Got Over The Surprise. How Had Mother Des Saints Anges

Been Able To Read Her Mind So Clearly? For,  In Fact,  Since She Had

Been Living In Paris She Had Dropped Into Complete Indifference About

Religion.

When All The Reminiscences Of Clermont Were Exhausted,  Claude Wanted

To Hear About Her Life At Madame Vanzade's,  And Each Week She Gave Him

Fresh Particulars. The Life Led In The Little House At Passy,  Silent

And Shut Off From The Outer World,  Was A Very Regular One,  With No

More Noise About It Than The Faint Tic-Tac Of An Old-Fashioned

Timepiece. Two Antiquated Domestics,  A Cook And A Manservant,  Who Had

Been With The Family For Forty Years,  Alone Glided In Their Slippers

About The Deserted Rooms,  Like A Couple Of Ghosts. Now And Then,  At

Very Long Intervals,  There Came A Visitor: Some Octogenarian General,

So Desiccated,  So Slight Of Build That He Scarcely Pressed On The

Carpet. The House Was Also The Home Of Shadows; The Sun Filtered With

The Mere Gleam Of A Night Light Through The Venetian Blinds. Since

Madame Had Become Paralysed In The Knees And Stone Blind,  So That She

No Longer Left Her Room,  She Had Had No Other Recreation Than That Of

Listening To The Reading Of Religious Books. Ah! Those Endless

Readings,  How They Weighed Upon The Girl At Times! If She Had Only

Known A Trade,  How Gladly She Would Have Cut Out Dresses,  Concocted

Bonnets,  Or Goffered The Petals Of Artificial Flowers. And To Think

That She Was Capable Of Nothing,  When She Had Been Taught Everything,

And That There Was Only Enough Stuff In Her To Make A Salaried Drudge,

A Semi-Domestic! She Suffered Horribly,  Too,  In That Stiff,  Lonely

Dwelling Which Smelt Of The Tomb. She Was Seized Once More With The

Vertigo Of Her Childhood,  As When She Had Striven To Compel Herself To

Work,  In Order To Please Her Mother; Her Blood Rebelled; She Would

Have Liked To Shout And Jump About,  In Her Desire For Life. But Madame

Treated Her So Gently,  Sending Her Away From Her Room,  And Ordering

Her To Take Long Walks,  That She Felt Full Of Remoras When,  On Her

Return To The Quai De Bourbon,  She Was Obliged To Tell A Falsehood; To

Talk Of The Bois De Boulogne Or Invent Some Ceremony At Church Where

She Now Never Set Foot. Madame Seemed To Take To Her More And More

Every Day; There Were Constant Presents,  Now A Silk Dress,  Now A Tiny

Gold Watch,  Even Some Underlinen. She Herself Was Very Fond Of Madame

Vanzade; She Had Wept One Day When The Latter Had Called Her Daughter;

She Had Sworn Never To Leave Her,  Such Was Her Heart-Felt Pity At

Seeing Her So Old And Helpless.

'Well,' Said Claude One Morning,  'You'll Be Rewarded; She'll Leave You

Her Money.'

Christine Looked Astonished. 'Do You Think So? It Is Said That She Is

Worth Three Millions Of Francs. No,  No,  I Have Never Dreamt Of Such A

Thing,  And I Won't. What Would Become Of Me?'

Claude Had Averted His Head,  And Hastily Replied,  'Well,  You'd Become

Rich,  That's All. But No Doubt She'll First Of All Marry You Off--'

On Hearing This,  Christine Could Hold Out No Longer,  But Burst Into

Laughter. 'To One Of Her Old Friends,  Eh? Perhaps The