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

Nooks Beloved In Other Days; And Behind This Desire Of His There

Lurked A Vague Hope That She Would Bring Him Luck. And Thus They Went

As Far As The Pont Louis-Philippe,  And Remained For A Quarter Of An

Hour On The Quai Des Ormes,  Silent,  Leaning Against The Parapet,  And

Looking At The Old Hotel Du Martoy,  Across The Seine,  Where They Had

First Loved Each Other. Then,  Still Without Saying A Word,  They Went

Their Former Round; They Started Along The Quays,  Under The Plane

Trees,  Seeing The Past Rise Up Before Them At Every Step. Everything

Spread Out Again: The Bridges With Their Arches Opening Upon The

Sheeny Water; The Cite,  Enveloped In Shade,  Above Which Rose The

Flavescent Towers Of Notre-Dame; The Great Curve Of The Right Bank

Flooded With Sunlight,  And Ending In The Indistinct Silhouette Of The

Pavillon De Flore,  Together With The Broad Avenues,  The Monuments And

Edifices On Both Banks,  And All The Life Of The River,  The Floating

Wash-Houses,  The Baths,  And The Lighters.

As Of Old,  The Orb In Its Decline Followed Them,  Seemingly Rolling

Along The Distant Housetops,  And Assuming A Crescent Shape,  As It

Appeared From Behind The Dome Of The Institute. There Was A Dazzling

Sunset,  They Had Never Beheld A More Magnificent One,  Such A Majestic

Descent Amidst Tiny Cloudlets That Changed Into Purple Network,

Between The Meshes Of Which A Shower Of Gold Escaped. But Of The Past

That Thus Rose Up Before Their Eyes There Came To Them Nought But

Invincible Sadness--A Sensation That Things Escaped Them,  And That It

Was Impossible For Them To Retrace Their Way Up Stream And Live Their

Life Over Again. All Those Old Stones Remained Cold. The Constant

Current Beneath The Bridges,  The Water That Had Ever Flowed Onward And

Onward,  Seemed To Have Borne Away Something Of Their Own Selves,  The

Delight Of Early Desire And The Joyfulness Of Hope. Now That They

Belonged To One Another,  They No Longer Tasted The Simple Happiness

Born Of Feeling The Warm Pressure Of Their Arms As They Strolled On

Slowly,  Enveloped By The Mighty Vitality Of Paris.

On Reaching The Pont Des Saints-Peres,  Claude,  In Sheer Despair,

Stopped Short. He Had Relinquished Christine's Arm,  And Had Turned His

Face Towards The Point Of The Cite. She No Doubt Felt The Severance

That Was Taking Place And Became Very Sad. Seeing That He Lingered

There Obliviously,  She Wished To Regain Her Hold Upon Him.

'My Dear,' Said She,  'Let Us Go Home; It's Time. Jacques Will Be

Waiting For Us,  You Know.'

But He Went Half Way Across The Bridge,  And She Had To Follow Him.

Then Once More He Remained Motionless,  With His Eyes Still Fixed On

The Cite,  On That Island Which Ever Rode At Anchor,  The Cradle And

Heart Of Paris,  Where For Centuries All The Blood Of Her Arteries Had

Converged Amid The Constant Growth Of Faubourgs Invading The Plain.

And A Glow Came Over Claude's Face,  His Eyes Sparkled,  And At Last He

Made A Sweeping Gesture:

'Look! Look!'

In The Immediate Foreground Beneath Them Was The Port Of St. Nicolas,

With The Low Shanties Serving As Offices For The Inspectors Of

Navigation,  And The Large Paved River-Bank Sloping Down,  Littered With

Piles Of Sand,  Barrels,  And Sacks,  And Edged With A Row Of Lighters,

Still Full,  In Which Busy Lumpers Swarmed Beneath The Gigantic Arm Of

An Iron Crane. Then On The Other Side Of The River,  Above A Cold

Swimming-Bath,  Resounding With The Shouts Of The Last Bathers Of The

Season,  The Strips Of Grey Linen That Served As A Roofing Flapped In

The Wind. In The Middle,  The Open Stream Flowed On In Rippling,

Greenish Wavelets Tipped Here And There With White,  Blue,  And Pink.

And Then There Came The Pont Des Arts,  Standing Back,  High Above The

Water On Its Iron Girders,  Like Black Lace-Work,  And Animated By A

Ceaseless Procession Of Foot-Passengers,  Who Looked Like Ants

Careering Over The Narrow Line Of The Horizontal Plane. Below,  The

Seine Flowed Away To The Far Distance; You Saw The Old Arches Of The

Pont-Neuf,  Browny With Stone-Rust; On The Left,  As Far As The Isle Of

St. Louis,  Came A Mirror-Like Gap; And The Other Arm Of The River

Curved Sharply,  The Lock Gates Of The Mint Shutting Out The View With

A Bar Of Foam. Along The Pont-Neuf Passed Big Yellow Omnibuses,  Motley

Vehicles Of All Kinds,  With The Mechanical Regularity Of So Many

Children's Toys. The Whole Of The Background Was Inframed Within The

Perspective Of The Two Banks; On The Right Were Houses On The Quays,

Partly Hidden By A Cluster Of Lofty Trees,  From Behind Which On The

Horizon There Emerged A Corner Of The Hotel De Villa,  Together With

The Square Clock Tower Of St. Gervais,  Both Looking As Indistinct As

If They Had Stood Far Away In The Suburbs. And On The Left Bank There

Was A Wing Of The Institute,  The Flat Frontage Of The Mint,  And Yet

Another Enfilade Of Trees.

But The Centre Of The Immense Picture,  That Which Rose Most

Prominently From The Stream And Soared To The Sky,  Was The Cite,

Showing Like The Prow Of An Antique Vessel,  Ever Burnished By The

Setting Sun. Down Below,  The Poplars On The Strip Of Ground That Joins

The Two Sections Of The Pont-Neuf Hid The Statue Of Henri Iv. With A

Dense Mass Of Green Foliage. Higher Up,  The Sun Set The Two Lines Of

Frontages In Contrast,  Wrapping The Grey Buildings Of The Quai De

L'horloge In Shade,  And Illumining With A Blaze Those Of The Quai Des

Orfevres,  Rows Of Irregular Houses Which Stood Out So Clearly That One

Distinguished The Smallest Details,  The Shops,  The Signboards,  Even

The Curtains At The Windows. Higher Up,  Amid The Jagged Outlines Of

Chimney Stacks,  Behind A Slanting Chess-Board Of Smaller Roofs,  The

Pepper-Caster Turrets Of The Palais De Justice And The Garrets Of The

Prefecture Of Police Displayed Sheets Of Slate,  Intersected By A

Colossal Advertisement Painted In Blue Upon A Wall,  With Gigantic

Letters Which,  Visible To All Paris,  Seemed Like Some Efflorescence Of

The Feverish Life Of Modern Times Sprouting On The City's Brow.

Higher,  Higher Still,  Betwixt The Twin Towers Of Notre-Dame,  Of The

Colour Of Old Gold,  Two Arrows Darted Upwards,  The Spire Of The

Cathedral Itself,  And To The Left That Of The Sainte-Chapelle,  Both So

Elegantly Slim That They Seemed To Quiver In The Breeze,  As If They

Had Been The Proud Topmasts Of The Ancient Vessel Rising Into The

Brightness Of The Open Sky.

'Are You Coming,  Dear?' Asked Christine,  Gently.

Claude Did Not Listen To Her; This,  The Heart Of Paris,  Had Taken Full

Possession Of Him. The Splendid Evening Seemed To Widen The Horizon.

There Were Patches Of Vivid Light,  And Of Clearly Defined Shadow;

There Was A Brightness In The Precision Of Each Detail,  A Transparency

In The Air,  Which Throbbed With Gladness. And The River Life,  The

Turmoil Of The Quays,  All The People,  Streaming Along The Streets,

Rolling Over The Bridges,  Arriving From Every Side Of That Huge

Cauldron,  Paris,  Steamed There In Visible Billows,  With A Quiver That

Was Apparent In The Sunlight. There Was A Light Breeze,  High Aloft A

Flight Of Small Cloudlets Crossed The Paling Azure Sky,  And One Could

Hear A Slow But Mighty Palpitation,  As If The Soul Of Paris Here Dwelt

Around Its Cradle.

But Christine,  Frightened At Seeing Claude So Absorbed,  And Seized

Herself With A Kind Of Religious Awe,  Took Hold Of His Arm And Dragged

Him Away,  As If She Had Felt That Some Great Danger Was Threatening

Him.

'Let Us Go Home. You Are Doing Yourself Harm. I Want To Get Back.'

At Her Touch He Started Like A Man Disturbed In Sleep. Then,  Turning

His Head To Take A Last Look,  He Muttered: 'Ah! Heavens! Ah! Heavens,

How Beautiful!'

He Allowed Himself To Be Led Away. But Throughout The Evening,  First

At Dinner,  Afterwards Beside The Stove,  And Until He Went To Bed,  He

Remained Like One Dazed,  So Deep In His Cogitations That He Did Not

Utter Half A Dozen Sentences. And Christine,  Failing To Draw From Him

Any Answer To Her Questions,  At Last Became Silent Also. She Looked At

Him Anxiously; Was It The Approach Of Some Serious Illness,  Had He

Inhaled Some Bad Air Whilst Standing Midway Across The Bridge Yonder?

His Eyes Stared Vaguely Into Space,  His Face Flushed As If With Some

Inner Straining. One Would Have Thought It The Mute Travail Of

Germination,  As If Something Were Springing Into Life Within Him.

The Next Morning,  Immediately After Breakfast,  He Set Off,  And

Christine Spent A Very Sorrowful Day,  For Although She Had Become More

Easy In Mind On Hearing Him Whistle Some Of His Old Southern Tunes As

He Got Up,  She Was Worried By Another Matter,  Which She Had Not

Mentioned To Him For Fear Of Damping His Spirits Again. That Day They

Would For The First Time Lack Everything; A Whole Week Separated Them

From The Date When Their Little Income Would Fall Due,  And She Had

Spent Her Last Copper That Morning. She Had Nothing Left For The

Evening,  Not Even The Wherewithal To Buy A Loaf. To Whom Could She

Apply? How Could She Manage To Hide The Truth Any Longer From Him When

He Came Home Hungry? She Made Up Her Mind To Pledge The Black Silk

Dress Which Madame Vanzade Had Formerly Given Her,  But It Was With A

Heavy Heart; She Trembled With Fear And Shame At The Idea Of The

Pawnshop,  That Familiar Resort Of The Poor Which She Had Never As Yet

Entered. And She Was Tortured By Such Apprehension About The Future,

That From The Ten Francs Which Were Lent Her She Only Took Enough To

Make A Sorrel Soup And A Stew Of Potatoes. On Coming Out Of The

Pawn-Office,  A Meeting With Somebody She Knew Had Given Her The

Finishing Stroke.

As It Happened,  Claude Came Home Very Late,  Gesticulating Merrily,  And

His Eyes Very Bright,  As If He Were Excited By Some Secret Joy; He Was

Very Hungry,  And Grumbled Because The Cloth Was Not Laid. Then,  Having

Sat Down Between Christine And Little Jacques,  He Swallowed His Soup

And Devoured A Plateful Of Potatoes.

'Is That All?' He Asked,  When He Had Finished. 'You Might As Well Have

Added A Scrap Of Meat. Did You Have To Buy Some Boots Again?'

She Stammered,  Not Daring