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

Milky Pallor Of A Camellia.

'Yes,  It Feels Rather Warm,' She Said,  Seriously,  Though Mirth Was

Dancing In Her Eyes.

Thereupon Claude Continued,  With A Good-Natured Air:

'It's The Sun Falling Straight In; But,  After All,  A Flood Of Sunshine

On One's Skin Does One Good. We Could Have Done With Some Of It Last

Night At The Door,  Couldn't We?'

At This Both Burst Out Laughing,  And He,  Delighted At Having Hit Upon

A Subject Of Conversation,  Questioned Her About Her Adventure,

Without,  However,  Feeling Inquisitive,  For He Cared Little About

Discovering The Real Truth,  And Was Only Intent Upon Prolonging The

Sitting.

Christine Simply,  And In A Few Words,  Related What Had Befallen Her.

Early On The Previous Morning She Had Left Clermont For Paris,  Where

She Was To Take Up A Situation As Reader And Companion To The Widow Of

A General,  Madame Vanzade,  A Rich Old Lady,  Who Lived At Passy. The

Train Was Timed To Reach Paris At Ten Minutes Past Nine In The

Evening,  And A Maid Was To Meet Her At The Station. They Had Even

Settled By Letter Upon A Means Of Recognition. She Was To Wear A Black

Hat With A Grey Feather In It. But,  A Little Above Nevers,  Her Train

Had Come Upon A Goods Train Which Had Run Off The Rails,  Its Litter Of

Smashed Trucks Still Obstructing The Line. There Was Quite A Series Of

Mishaps And Delays. First An Interminable Wait In The Carriages,  Which

The Passengers Had To Quit At Last,  Luggage And All,  In Order To

Trudge To The Next Station,  Three Kilometres Distant,  Where The

Authorities Had Decided To Make Up Another Train. By This Time They

Had Lost Two Hours,  And Then Another Two Were Lost In The General

Confusion Which The Accident Had Caused From One End Of The Line To

The Other,  In Such Wise That They Reached The Paris Terminus Four

Hours Behind Time,  That Is,  At One O'clock In The Morning.

'Bad Luck,  Indeed,' Interrupted Claude,  Who Was Still Sceptical,

Though Half Disarmed,  In His Surprise At The Neat Way In Which The

Girl Arranged The Details Of Her Story.

'And,  Of Course,  There Was No One At The Station To Meet You?' He

Added.

Christine Had,  Indeed,  Missed Madame Vanzade's Maid,  Who,  No Doubt,

Had Grown Tired Of Waiting. She Told Claude Of Her Utter Helplessness

At The Lyons Terminus--That Large,  Strange,  Dark Station,  Deserted At

That Late Hour Of Night. She Had Not Dared To Take A Cab At First,  But

Had Kept On Walking Up And Down,  Carrying Her Small Bag,  And Still

Hoping That Somebody Would Come For Her. When At Last She Made Up Her

Mind There Only Remained One Driver,  Very Dirty And Smelling Of Drink,

Who Prowled Round Her,  Offering His Cab In A Knowing,  Impudent Way.

'Yes,  I Know,  A Dawdler,' Said Claude,  Getting As Interested As If He

Were Listening To A Fairy Tale. 'So You Got Into His Cab?'

Looking Up At The Ceiling,  Christine Continued,  Without Shifting Her

Position: 'He Made Me; He Called Me His Little Dear,  And Frightened

Me. When He Found Out That I Was Going To Passy,  He Became Very Angry,

And Whipped His Horse So Hard That I Was Obliged To Hold On By The

Doors. After That I Felt More Easy,  Because The Cab Trundled Along All

Right Through The Lighted Streets,  And I Saw People About. At Last I

Recognised The Seine,  For Though I Was Never In Paris Before,  I Had

Often Looked At A Map. Naturally I Thought He Would Keep Along The

Quay,  So I Became Very Frightened Again On Noticing That We Crossed A

Bridge. Just Then It Began To Rain,  And The Cab,  Which Had Got Into A

Very Dark Turning,  Suddenly Stopped. The Driver Got Down From His

Seat,  And Declared It Was Raining Too Hard For Him To Remain On The

Box--'

Claude Burst Out Laughing. He No Longer Doubted. She Could Not Have

Invented That Driver. And As She Suddenly Stopped,  Somewhat Confused,

He Said,  'All Right,  The Cabman Was Having A Joke.'

'I Jumped Out At Once By The Other Door,' Resumed Christine. 'Then He

Began To Swear At Me,  Saying That We Had Arrived At Passy,  And That He

Would Tear My Hat From My Head If I Did Not Pay Him. It Was Raining In

Torrents,  And The Quay Was Absolutely Deserted. I Was Losing My Head,

And When I Had Pulled Out A Five-Franc Piece,  He Whipped Up His Horse

And Drove Off,  Taking My Little Bag,  Which Luckily Only Contained Two

Pocket-Handkerchiefs,  A Bit Of Cake,  And The Key Of My Trunk,  Which I

Had Been Obliged To Leave Behind In The Train.'

'But You Ought To Have Taken His Number,' Exclaimed The Artist

Indignantly. In Fact He Now Remembered Having Been Brushed Against By

A Passing Cab,  Which Had Rattled By Furiously While He Was Crossing

The Pont Louis Philippe,  Amid The Downpour Of The Storm. And He

Reflected How Improbable Truth Often Was. The Story He Had Conjured Up

As Being The Most Simple And Logical Was Utterly Stupid Beside The

Natural Chain Of Life's Many Combinations.

'You May Imagine How I Felt Under The Doorway,' Concluded Christine.

'I Knew Well Enough That I Was Not At Passy,  And That I Should Have To

Spend The Night There,  In This Terrible Paris. And There Was The

Thunder And The Lightning--Those Horrible Blue And Red Flashes,  Which

Showed Me Things That Made Me Tremble.'

She Closed Her Eyelids Once More,  She Shivered,  And The Colour Left

Her Cheeks As,  In Her Fancy,  She Again Beheld The Tragic City--That

Line Of Quays Stretching Away In A Furnace-Like Blaze,  The Deep Moat

Of The River,  With Its Leaden Waters Obstructed By Huge Black Masses,

Lighters Looking Like Lifeless Whales,  And Bristling With Motionless

Cranes Which Stretched Forth Gallows-Like Arms. Was That A Welcome To

Paris?

Again Did Silence Fall. Claude Had Resumed His Drawing. But She Became

Restless,  Her Arm Was Getting Stiff.

'Just Put Your Elbow A Little Lower,  Please,' Said Claude. Then,  With

An Air Of Concern,  As If To Excuse His Curtness: 'Your Parents Will Be

Very Uneasy,  If They Have Heard Of The Accident.'

'I Have No Parents.'

'What! Neither Father Nor Mother? You Are All Alone In The World?'

'Yes; All Alone.'

She Was Eighteen Years Old,  And Had Been Born In Strasburg,  Quite By

Chance,  Though,  Between Two Changes Of Garrison,  For Her Father Was A

Soldier,  Captain Hallegrain. Just As She Entered Upon Her Twelfth

Year,  The Captain,  A Gascon,  Hailing From Montauban,  Had Died At

Clermont,  Where He Had Settled When Paralysis Of The Legs Had Obliged

Him To Retire From Active Service. For Nearly Five Years Afterwards,

Her Mother,  A Parisian By Birth,  Had Remained In That Dull Provincial

Town,  Managing As Well As She Could With Her Scanty Pension,  But Eking

It Out By Fan-Painting,  In Order That She Might Bring Up Her Daughter

As A Lady. She Had,  However,  Now Been Dead For Fifteen Months,  And Had

Left Her Child Penniless And Unprotected,  Without A Friend,  Save The

Superior Of The Sisters Of The Visitation,  Who Had Kept Her With Them.

Christine Had Come Straight To Paris From The Convent,  The Superior

Having Succeeded In Procuring Her A Situation As Reader And Companion

To Her Old Friend,  Madame Vanzade,  Who Was Almost Blind.

At These Additional Particulars,  Claude Sat Absolutely Speechless.

That Convent,  That Well-Bred Orphan,  That Adventure,  All Taking So

Romantic A Turn,  Made Him Relapse Into Embarrassment Again,  Into All

His Former Awkwardness Of Gesture And Speech. He Had Left Off Drawing,

And Sat Looking,  With Downcast Eyes,  At His Sketch.

'Is Clermont Pretty?' He Asked,  At Last.

'Not Very; It's A Gloomy Town. Besides,  I Don't Know; I Scarcely Ever

Went Out.'

She Was Resting On Her Elbow,  And Continued,  As If Talking To Herself

In A Very Low Voice,  Still Tremulous From The Thought Of Her

Bereavement.

'Mamma,  Who Wasn't Strong,  Killed Herself With Work. She Spoilt Me;

Nothing Was Too Good For Me. I Had All Sorts Of Masters,  But I Did Not

Get On Very Well; First,  Because I Fell Ill,  Then Because I Paid No

Attention. I Was Always Laughing And Skipping About Like A

Featherbrain. I Didn't Care For Music,  Piano Playing Gave Me A Cramp

In My Arms. The Only Thing I Cared About At All Was Painting.'

He Raised His Head And Interrupted Her. 'You Can Paint?'

'Oh,  No; I Know Nothing,  Nothing At All. Mamma,  Who Was Very Talented,

Made Me Do A Little Water-Colour,  And I Sometimes Helped Her With The

Backgrounds Of Her Fans. She Painted Some Lovely Ones.'

In Spite Of Herself,  She Then Glanced At The Startling Sketches With

Which The Walls Seemed Ablaze,  And Her Limpid Eyes Assumed An Uneasy

Expression At The Sight Of That Rough,  Brutal Style Of Painting. From

Where She Lay She Obtained A Topsy-Turvy View Of The Study Of Herself

Which The Painter Had Begun,  And Her Consternation At The Violent

Tones She Noticed,  The Rough Crayon Strokes,  With Which The Shadows

Were Dashed Off,  Prevented Her From Asking To Look At It More Closely.

Besides,  She Was Growing Very Uncomfortable In That Bed,  Where She Lay

Broiling; She Fidgetted With The Idea Of Going Off And Putting An End

To All These Things Which,  Ever Since The Night Before,  Had Seemed To

Her So Much Of A Dream.

Claude,  No Doubt,  Became Aware Of Her Discomfort. A Sudden Feeling Of

Shame Brought With It One Of Compunction.

He Put His Unfinished Sketch Aside,  And Hastily Exclaimed: 'Much

Obliged For Your Kindness,  Mademoiselle. Forgive Me,  I Have Really

Abused It. Yes,  Indeed,  Pray Get Up; It's Time For You To Look For

Your Friends.'

And Without Appearing To Understand Why She Did Not Follow His Advice,

But Hid More And More Of Her Bare Arm In Proportion As He Drew Nearer,

He Still Insisted Upon Advising Her To Rise. All At Once,  As The Real

State Of Things Struck Him,  He Swung His Arms About Like A Madman,  Set

The Screen In Position,  And Went To The Far End Of The Studio,  Where

He Began Noisily Setting His Crockery In Order,  So That She Might Jump

Out And Dress Herself,  Without Fear Of Being Overheard.

Amidst The Din He Had Thus Raised,  He Failed To Hear Her Hesitating

Voice,  'Monsieur,  Monsieur--'

At Last He Caught Her Words.

'Monsieur,  Would You Be So Kind--I Can't