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

The Smell Of Aromatic Herbs Which She Always Carried In Her Uncombed

Hair Seemed To Have Become Rancid. There Was No Longer The Sweetness

Of Camomile,  The Freshness Of Aniseed; She Filled The Place With A

Horrid Odour Of Peppermint That Seemed To Be Her Very Breath.

'Already At Work!' She Exclaimed. 'Good Morning.' And,  Without Minding

Claude,  She Kissed Mahoudeau. Then,  After Going To Shake Hands With

The Painter In Her Brazen Way,  She Continued:

'What Do You Think? I've Found A Box Of Mallow Root,  And We Will Treat

Ourselves To It For Breakfast. Isn't That Nice Of Me Now! We'll

Share.'

'Thanks,' Said The Sculptor,  'It Makes My Mouth Sticky. I Prefer To

Smoke A Pipe.'

And,  Seeing That Claude Was Putting On His Overcoat Again,  He Asked:

'Are You Going?'

'Yes. I Want To Get The Rust Off,  And Breathe The Air Of Paris A Bit.'

All The Same,  He Stopped For Another Few Minutes Watching Chaine And

Mathilde,  Who Stuffed Themselves With Mallow Root,  Each Taking A Piece

By Turns. And Though He Had Been Warned,  He Was Again Amazed When He

Saw Mahoudeau Take Up The Stick Of Charcoal And Write On The Wall:

'Give Me The Tobacco You Have Shoved Into Your Pocket.'

Without A Word,  Chaine Took Out The Screw And Handed It To The

Sculptor,  Who Filled His Pipe.

'Well,  I'll See You Again Soon,' Said Claude.

'Yes,  Soon--At Any Rate,  Next Thursday,  At Sandoz's.'

Outside,  Claude Gave An Exclamation Of Surprise On Jostling A

Gentleman,  Who Stood In Front Of The Herbalist's Peering Into The

Shop.

'What,  Jory! What Are You Doing There?'

Jory's Big Pink Nose Gave A Sniff.

'I? Nothing. I Was Passing And Looked In,' Said He In Dismay.

Then He Decided To Laugh,  And,  As If There Were Any One To Overhear

Him,  Lowered His Voice To Ask:

'She Is Next Door With Our Friends,  Isn't She? All Right; Let's Be

Off,  Quick!'

And He Took The Painter With Him,  Telling Him All Manner Of Strange

Stories Of That Creature Mathilde.

'But You Used To Say That She Was Frightful,' Said Claude,  Laughing.

Jory Made A Careless Gesture. Frightful? No,  He Had Not Gone As Far As

That. Besides,  There Might Be Something Attractive About A Woman Even

Though She Had A Plain Face. Then He Expressed His Surprise At Seeing

Claude In Paris,  And,  When He Had Been Fully Posted,  And Learned That

The Painter Meant To Remain There For Good,  He All At Once Exclaimed:

'Listen,  I Am Going To Take You With Me. You Must Come To Lunch With

Me At Irma's.'

The Painter,  Taken Aback,  Refused Energetically,  And Gave As A Reason

That He Wasn't Even Wearing A Frock-Coat.

'What Does That Matter? On The Contrary,  It Makes It More Droll.

She'll Be Delighted. I Believe She Has A Secret Partiality For You.

She Is Always Talking About You To Us. Come,  Don't Be A Fool. I Tell

You She Expects Me This Morning,  And We Shall Be Received Like

Princes.'

He Did Not Relax His Hold On Claude's Arm,  And They Both Continued

Their Way Towards The Madeleine,  Talking All The While. As A Rule,

Jory Kept Silent About His Many Love Adventures,  Just As A Drunkard

Keeps Silent About His Potations. But That Morning He Brimmed Over

With Revelations,  Chaffed Himself And Owned To All Sorts Of Scandalous

Things. After All He Was Delighted With Existence,  His Affairs Went

Apace. His Miserly Father Had Certainly Cut Off The Supplies Once

More,  Cursing Him For Obstinately Pursuing A Scandalous Career,  But He

Did Not Care A Rap For That Now; He Earned Between Seven And Eight

Thousand Francs A Year By Journalism,  In Which He Was Making His Way

As A Gossipy Leader Writer And Art Critic. The Noisy Days Of 'The

Drummer,' The Articles At A Louis Apiece,  Had Been Left Far Behind. He

Was Getting Steady,  Wrote For Two Widely Circulated Papers,  And

Although,  In His Inmost Heart He Remained A Sceptical Voluptuary,  A

Worshipper Of Success At Any Price,  He Was Acquiring Importance,  And

Readers Began To Look Upon His Opinions As Fiats. Swayed By Hereditary

Meanness,  He Already Invested Money Every Month In Petty Speculations,

Which Were Only Known To Himself,  For Never Had His Vices Cost Him

Less Than Nowadays.

As He And Claude Reached The Rue De Moscou,  He Told The Painter That

It Was There That Irma Becot Now Lived. 'Oh! She Is Rolling In

Wealth,' Said He,  'Paying Twenty Thousand Francs A Year Rent And

Talking Of Building A House Which Would Cost Half A Million.' Then

Suddenly Pulling Up He Exclaimed: 'Come,  Here We Are! In With You,

Quick!'

But Claude Still Objected. His Wife Was Waiting For Him To Lunch; He

Really Couldn't. And Jory Was Obliged To Ring The Bell,  And Then Push

Him Inside The Hall,  Repeating That His Excuse Would Not Do; For They

Would Send The Valet To The Rue De Douai To Tell His Wife. A Door

Opened And They Found Themselves Face To Face With Irma Becot,  Who

Uttered A Cry Of Surprise As Soon As She Perceived The Painter.

'What! Is It You,  Savage?' She Said.

She Made Him Feel At Home At Once By Treating Him Like An Old Chum,

And,  In Fact,  He Saw Well Enough That She Did Not Even Notice His Old

Clothes. He Himself Was Astonished,  For He Barely Recognised Her. In

The Course Of Four Years She Had Become A Different Being; Her Head

Was 'Made Up' With All An Actress's Skill,  Her Brow Hidden Beneath A

Mass Of Curly Hair,  And Her Face Elongated,  By A Sheer Effort Of Will,

No Doubt. And From A Pale Blonde She Had Become Flaringly Carrotty; So

That A Titianesque Creature Seemed To Have Sprung From The Little

Urchin-Like Girl Of Former Days. Her House,  With All Its Show Of

Luxury,  Still Had Its Bald Spots. What Struck The Painter Were Some

Good Pictures On The Walls,  A Courbet,  And,  Above All,  An Unfinished

Study By Delacroix. So This Wild,  Wilful Creature Was Not Altogether A

Fool,  Although There Was A Frightful Cat In Coloured _Biscuit_

Standing On A Console In The Drawing-Room.

When Jory Spoke Of Sending The Valet To His Friend's Place,  She

Exclaimed In Great Surprise:

'What! You Are Married?'

'Why,  Yes,' Said Claude,  Simply.

She Glanced At Jory,  Who Smiled; Then She Understood,  And Added:

'Ah! But Why Did People Tell Me That You Were A Woman-Hater? I'm

Awfully Vexed,  You Know. I Frightened You,  Don't You Remember,  Eh? You

Still Think Me Very Ugly,  Don't You? Well,  Well,  We'll Talk About It

All Some Other Day.'

It Was The Coachman Who Went To The Rue De Douai With A Note From

Claude,  For The Valet Had Opened The Door Of The Dining-Room,  To

Announce That Lunch Was Served. The Repast,  A Very Delicate One,  Was

Partaken Of In All Propriety,  Under The Icy Stare Of The Servant. They

Talked About The Great Building Works That Were Revolutionising Paris;

And Then Discussed The Price Of Land,  Like Middle-Class People With

Money To Invest. But At Dessert,  When They Were All Three Alone With

The Coffee And Liqueurs,  Which They Had Decided Upon Taking There,

Without Leaving The Table,  They Gradually Became Animated,  And Dropped

Into Their Old Familiar Ways,  As If They Had Met Each Other At The

Cafe Baudequin.

'Ah,  My Lads,' Said Irma,  'This Is The Only Real Enjoyment,  To Be

Jolly Together And To Snap One's Fingers At Other People.'

She Was Twisting Cigarettes; She Had Just Placed The Bottle Of

Chartreuse Near Her,  And Had Begun To Empty It,  Looking The While Very

Flushed,  And Lapsing Once More To Her Low Street Drollery.

'So,' Continued Jory,  Who Was Apologising For Not Having Sent Her That

Morning A Book She Wanted,  'I Was Going To Buy It Last Night At About

Ten O'clock,  When I Met Fagerolles--'

'You Are Telling A Lie,' Said She,  Interrupting Him In A Clear Voice.

And To Cut Short His Protestations--'Fagerolles Was Here,' She Added,

'So You See That You Are Telling A Lie.'

Then,  Turning To Claude,  'No,  It's Too Disgusting. You Can't Conceive

What A Liar He Is. He Tells Lies Like A Woman,  For The Pleasure Of It,

For The Merest Trifle. Now,  The Whole Of His Story Amounts Simply To

This: That He Didn't Want To Spend Three Francs To Buy Me That Book.

Each Time He Was To Have Sent Me A Bouquet,  He Had Dropped It Under

The Wheels Of A Carriage,  Or There Were No Flowers To Be Had In All

Paris. Ah! There's A Fellow Who Only Cares For Himself,  And No

Mistake.'

Jory,  Without Getting In The Least Angry,  Tilted Back His Chair And

Sucked His Cigar,  Merely Saying With A Sneer:

'Oh! If You See Fagerolles Now--'

'Well,  What Of It?' She Cried,  Becoming Furious. 'It's No Business Of

Yours. I Snap My Fingers At Your Fagerolles,  Do You Hear? He Knows

Very Well That People Don't Quarrel With Me. We Know Each Other; We

Sprouted In The Same Crack Between The Paving-Stones. Look Here,

Whenever I Like,  I Have Only To Hold Up My Finger,  And Your Fagerolles

Will Be There On The Floor,  Licking My Feet.'

She Was Growing Animated,  And Jory Thought It Prudent To Beat A

Retreat.

'_My_ Fagerolles,' He Muttered; '_My_ Fagerolles.'

'Yes,  _Your_ Fagerolles. Do You Think That I Don't See Through You

Both? He Is Always Patting You On The Back,  As He Hopes To Get

Articles Out Of You,  And You Affect Generosity And Calculate The

Advantage You'll Derive If You Write Up An Artist Liked By The

Public.'

This Time Jory Stuttered,  Feeling Very Much Annoyed On Account Of

Claude Being There. He Did Not Attempt To Defend Himself,  However,

Preferring To Turn The Quarrel Into A Joke. Wasn't She Amusing,  Eh?

When She Blazed Up Like That,  With Her Lustrous Wicked Eyes,  And Her