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

Fermenting Within Him,  Ill At Having Nobody To Whom He Might Shout The

Thoughts Which Made His Brain Almost Burst.

However,  The Winter Went By,  And Claude Had The Consolation Of Being

Able To Paint Some Lovely Snow Scenes. A Third Year Was Beginning,

When,  Towards The Close Of May,  An Unexpected Meeting Filled Him With

Emotion. He Had That Morning Climbed Up To The Plateau To Find A

Subject,  Having At Last Grown Tired Of The Banks Of The Seine; And At

The Bend Of A Road He Stopped Short In Amazement On Seeing Dubuche,  In

A Silk Hat,  And Carefully-Buttoned Frock Coat,  Coming Towards Him,

Between The Double Row Of Elder Hedges.

'What! Is It You?'

The Architect Stammered From Sheer Vexation:

'Yes,  I Am Going To Pay A Visit. It's Confoundedly Idiotic In The

Country,  Eh? But It Can't Be Helped. There Are Certain Things One's

Obliged To Do. And You Live Near Here,  Eh? I Knew--That Is To Say,  I

Didn't. I Had Been Told Something About It,  But I Thought It Was On

The Opposite Side,  Farther Down.'

Claude,  Very Much Moved At Seeing Him,  Helped Him Out Of His

Difficulty.

'All Right,  All Right,  Old Man,  There Is No Need To Apologise. I Am

The Most Guilty Party. Ah! It's A Long While Since We Saw One Another!

If You Knew What A Thump My Heart Gave When I Saw Your Nose Appear

From Behind The Leaves!'

Then He Took His Arm And Accompanied Him,  Giggling With Pleasure,

While The Other,  In His Constant Worry About His Future,  Which Always

Made Him Talk About Himself,  At Once Began Speaking Of His Prospects.

He Had Just Become A First-Class Pupil At The School,  After Securing

The Regulation 'Honourable Mentions,' With Infinite Trouble. But His

Success Left Him As Perplexed As Ever. His Parents No Longer Sent Him

A Penny,  They Wailed About Their Poverty So Much That He Might Have To

Support Them In His Turn. He Had Given Up The Idea Of Competing For

The Prix De Rome,  Feeling Certain Of Being Beaten In The Effort,  And

Anxious To Earn His Living. And He Was Weary Already; Sick At Scouring

The Town,  At Earning Twenty-Five Sous An Hour From Ignorant

Architects,  Who Treated Him Like A Hodman. What Course Should He

Adopt? How Was He To Guess At The Shortest Route? He Might Leave The

School; He Would Get A Lift From His Master,  The Influential

Dequersonniere,  Who Liked Him For His Docility And Diligence; Only

What A Deal Of Trouble And Uncertainty There Would Still Be Before

Him! And He Bitterly Complained Of The Government Schools,  Where One

Slaved Away For Years,  And Which Did Not Even Provide A Position For

All Those Whom They Cast Upon The Pavement.

Suddenly He Stopped In The Middle Of The Path. The Elder Hedges Were

Leading To An Open Plain,  And La Richaudiere Appeared Amid Its Lofty

Trees.

'Hold Hard! Of Course,' Exclaimed Claude,  'I Hadn't Thought About It

--You're Going To That Shanty. Oh! The Baboons; There's A Lot Of Ugly

Mugs,  If You Like!'

Dubuche,  Looking Vexed At This Outburst Of Artistic Feeling,  Protested

Stiffly. 'All The Same,  Papa Margaillan,  Idiot As He Seems To You,  Is

A First-Rate Man Of Business. You Should See Him In His

Building-Yards,  Among The Houses He Runs Up,  As Active As The Very

Fiend,  Showing Marvellous Good Management,  And A Wonderful Scent As To

The Right Streets To Build And What Materials To Buy! Besides,  One

Does Not Earn Millions Without Becoming A Gentleman. And Then,  Too,  It

Would Be Very Silly Of Me Not To Be Polite To A Man Who Can Be Useful

To Me.'

While Talking,  He Barred The Narrow Path,  Preventing His Friend From

Advancing Further--No Doubt From A Fear Of Being Compromised By Being

Seen In His Company,  And In Order To Make Him Understand That They

Ought To Separate There.

Claude Was On The Point Of Inquiring About Their Comrades In Paris,

But He Kept Silent. Not Even A Word Was Said Respecting Christine,  And

He Was Reluctantly Deciding To Quit Dubuche,  Holding Out His Hand To

Take Leave,  When,  In Spite Of Himself,  This Question Fell From His

Quivering Lips:

'And Is Sandoz All Right?'

'Yes,  He's Pretty Well. I Seldom See Him. He Spoke To Me About You

Last Month. He Is Still Grieved At Your Having Shown Us The Door.'

'But I Didn't Show You The Door,' Exclaimed Claude,  Beside Himself.

'Come And See Me,  I Beg Of You. I Shall Be So Glad!'

'All Right,  Then,  We'll Come. I'll Tell Him To Come,  I Give You My

Word--Good-Bye,  Old Man,  Good-Bye; I'm In A Hurry.'

And Dubuche Went Off Towards La Richaudiere,  Whilst Claude Watched His

Figure Dwindle As He Crossed The Cultivated Plain,  Until Nothing

Remained But The Shiny Silk Of His Hat And The Black Spot Of His Coat.

The Young Man Returned Home Slowly,  His Heart Bursting With Nameless

Sadness. However,  He Said Nothing About This Meeting To Christine.

A Week Later She Had Gone To Faucheur's To Buy A Pound Of Vermicelli,

And Was Lingering On Her Way Back,  Gossiping With A Neighbour,  With

Her Child On Her Arm,  When A Gentleman Who Alighted From The

Ferry-Boat Approached And Asked Her:

'Does Not Monsieur Claude Lantier Live Near Here?'

She Was Taken Aback,  And Simply Answered:

'Yes,  Monsieur; If You'll Kindly Follow Me--'

They Walked On Side By Side For About A Hundred Yards. The Stranger,

Who Seemed To Know Her,  Had Glanced At Her With A Good-Natured Smile;

But As She Hurried On,  Trying To Hide Her Embarrassment By Looking

Very Grave,  He Remained Silent. She Opened The Door And Showed The

Visitor Into The Studio,  Exclaiming:

'Claude,  Here Is Somebody For You.'

Then A Loud Cry Rang Out; The Two Men Were Already In Each Other's

Arms.

'Oh,  My Good Old Pierre! How Kind Of You To Come! And Dubuche?'

'He Was Prevented At The Last Moment By Some Business,  And He Sent Me

A Telegram To Go Without Him.'

'All Right,  I Half Expected It; But You Are Here. By The Thunder Of

Heaven,  I Am Glad!'

And,  Turning Towards Christine,  Who Was Smiling,  Sharing Their

Delight:

'It's True,  I Didn't Tell You. But The Other Day I Met Dubuche,  Who

Was Going Up Yonder,  To The Place Where Those Monsters Live--'

But He Stopped Short Again,  And Then With A Wild Gesture Shouted:

'I'm Losing My Wits,  Upon My Word. You Have Never Spoken To Each

Other,  And I Leave You There Like That. My Dear,  You See This

Gentleman? He's My Old Chum,  Pierre Sandoz,  Whom I Love Like A

Brother. And You,  My Boy; Let Me Introduce My Wife. And You Have Got

To Give Each Other A Kiss.'

Christine Began To Laugh Outright,  And Tendered Her Cheek Heartily.

Sandoz Had Pleased Her At Once With His Good-Natured Air,  His Sound

Friendship,  The Fatherly Sympathy With Which He Looked At Her. Tears

Of Emotion Came To Her Eyes As He Kept Both Her Hands In His,  Saying

'It Is Very Good Of You To Love Claude,  And You Must Love Each Other

Always,  For Love Is,  After All,  The Best Thing In Life.'

Then,  Bending To Kiss The Little One,  Whom She Had On Her Arm,  He

Added: 'So There's One Already!'

While Christine,  Preparing Lunch,  Turned The House Up-Side Down,

Claude Retained Sandoz In The Studio. In A Few Words He Told Him The

Whole Of The Story,  Who She Was,  How They Had Met Each Other,  And What

Had Led Them To Start Housekeeping Together,  And He Seemed To Be

Surprised When His Friend Asked Him Why They Did Not Get Married. In

Faith,  Why? Because They Had Never Even Spoken About It,  Because They

Would Certainly Be Neither More Nor Less Happy; In Short It Was A

Matter Of No Consequence Whatever.

'Well,' Said The Other,  'It Makes No Difference To Me; But,  If She Was

A Good And Honest Girl When She Came To You,  You Ought To Marry Her.'

'Why,  I'll Marry Her Whenever She Likes,  Old Man. Surely I Don't Mean

To Leave Her In The Lurch!'

Sandoz Then Began To Marvel At The Studies Hanging On The Walls. Ha,

The Scamp Had Turned His Time To Good Account! What Accuracy Of

Colouring! What A Dash Of Real Sunlight! And Claude,  Who Listened To

Him,  Delighted,  And Laughing Proudly,  Was Just Going To Question Him

About The Comrades In Paris,  About What They Were All Doing,  When

Christine Reappeared,  Exclaiming: 'Make Haste,  The Eggs Are On The

Table.'

They Lunched In The Kitchen,  And An Extraordinary Lunch It Was; A Dish

Of Fried Gudgeons After The Boiled Eggs; Then The Beef From The Soup

Of The Night Before,  Arranged In Salad Fashion,  With Potatoes,  And A

Red Herring. It Was Delicious; There Was The Pungent And Appetising

Smell Of The Herring Which Melie Had Upset On The Live Embers,  And The

Song Of The Coffee,  As It Passed,  Drop By Drop,  Into The Pot Standing

On The Range; And When The Dessert Appeared--Some Strawberries Just

Gathered,  And A Cream Cheese From A Neighbour's Dairy--They Gossiped

And Gossiped With Their Elbows Squarely Set On The Table. In Paris?

Well,  To Tell The Truth,  The Comrades Were Doing Nothing Very Original

In Paris. And Yet They Were Fighting Their Way,  Jostling Each Other In

Order To Get First To The Front. Of Course,  The Absent Ones Missed

Their Chance; It Was As Well To Be There If One Did Not Want To Be

Altogether Forgotten. But Was Not Talent Always Talent? Wasn't A Man

Always Certain To Get On With Strength And Will? Ah! Yes,  It Was A

Splendid Dream To Live In The Country,  To Accumulate Masterpieces,  And

Then,  One Day,  To Crush Paris By Simply Opening One's Trunks.

In The Evening,  When Claude Accompanied Sandoz To The Station,  The

Latter Said To Him:

'That Reminds Me,  I Wanted To Tell You Something. I Think I Am Going

To Get Married.'

The Painter Burst Out Laughing.

'Ah,  You Wag,  Now I Understand Why You Gave Me A Lecture This

Morning.'