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

Claude Hurried Forward. What Had He Been Thinking Of? What Was She To

Do Behind That Screen,  Without Her Stockings And Petticoats,  Which He

Had Spread Out In The Sunlight? The Stockings Were Dry,  He Assured

Himself Of That By Gently Rubbing Them Together,  And He Handed Them To

Her Over The Partition; Again Noticing Her Arm,  Bare,  Plump And Rosy

Like That Of A Child. Then He Tossed The Skirts On To The Foot Of The

Bed And Pushed Her Boots Forward,  Leaving Nothing But Her Bonnet

Suspended From The Easel. She Had Thanked Him And That Was All; He

Scarcely Distinguished The Rustling Of Her Clothes And The Discreet

Splashing Of Water. Still He Continued To Concern Himself About Her.

'You Will Find The Soap In A Saucer On The Table. Open The Drawer And

Take A Clean Towel. Do You Want More Water? I'll Give You The

Pitcher.'

Suddenly The Idea That He Was Blundering Again Exasperated Him.

'There,  There,  I Am Only Worrying You. I Will Leave You To Your Own

Devices. Do As If You Were At Home.'

And He Continued To Potter About Among The Crockery. He Was Debating

With Himself Whether He Should Ask Her To Stay To Breakfast. He Ought

Not To Let Her Go Like That. On The Other Hand,  If She Did Stay,  He

Would Never Get Done; It Would Mean A Loss Of His Whole Morning.

Without Deciding Anything,  As Soon As He Had Lighted His Spirit Lamp,

He Washed His Saucepan And Began To Make Some Chocolate. He Thought It

More _Distingue_,  Feeling Rather Ashamed Of His Vermicelli,  Which He

Mixed With Bread And Soused With Oil As People Do In The South Of

France. However,  He Was Still Breaking The Chocolate Into Bits,  When

He Uttered A Cry Of Surprise,  'What,  Already?'

It Was Christine,  Who Had Pushed Back The Screen,  And Who Appeared

Looking Neat And Correct In Her Black Dress,  Duly Laced And Buttoned

Up,  Equipped,  As It Were,  In A Twinkle. Her Rosy Face Did Not Even

Show Traces Of The Water,  Her Thick Hair Was Twisted In A Knot At The

Back Of Her Head,  Not A Single Lock Out Of Place. And Claude Remained

Open-Mouthed Before That Miracle Of Quickness,  That Proof Of Feminine

Skill In Dressing Well And Promptly.

'The Deuce,  If You Go About Everything In That Way!' Said He.

He Found Her Taller And Handsomer Than He Had Fancied. But What Struck

Him Most Was Her Look Of Quiet Decision. She Was Evidently No Longer

Afraid Of Him. It Seemed As Though She Had Re-Donned Her Armour And

Become An Amazon Again. She Smiled And Looked Him Straight In The

Face. Whereupon He Said What He Was Still Reluctant To Say:

'You'll Breakfast With Me,  Won't You?'

But She Refused The Offer. 'No,  Thank You. I Am Going To The Station,

Where My Trunk Must Have Arrived By Now,  And Then I Shall Drive To

Passy.'

It Was In Vain That He Told Her That She Must Be Hungry,  That It Was

Unreasonable For Her To Go Out Without Eating Something.

'Well,  If You Won't,  I'll Go Down And Fetch You A Cab,' He Ended By

Exclaiming.

'Pray Don't Take Such Trouble.'

'But You Can't Go Such A Distance On Foot. Let Me At Least Take You To

The Cabstand,  As You Don't Know Paris.'

'No,  Really I Do Not Need You. If You Wish To Oblige Me,  Let Me Go

Away By Myself.'

She Had Evidently Made Up Her Mind. She No Doubt Shrank From The Idea

Of Being Seen With A Man,  Even By Strangers. She Meant To Remain

Silent About That Strange Night,  She Meant To Tell Some Falsehood,  And

Keep The Recollection Of Her Adventure Entirely To Herself. He Made A

Furious Gesture,  Which Was Tantamount To Sending Her To The Devil.

Good Riddance; It Suited Him Better Not To Have To Go Down. But,  All

The Same,  He Felt Hurt At Heart,  And Considered That She Was

Ungrateful.

'As You Please,  Then. I Sha'n't Resort To Force,' He Said.

At These Words,  Christine's Vague Smile Became More Accentuated. She

Did Not Reply,  But Took Her Bonnet And Looked Round In Search Of A

Glass. Failing To Find One,  She Tied The Strings As Best She Could.

With Her Arms Uplifted,  She Leisurely Arranged And Smoothed The

Ribbons,  Her Face Turned Towards The Golden Rays Of The Sun. Somewhat

Surprised,  Claude Looked In Vain For The Traits Of Childish Softness

That He Had Just Portrayed; The Upper Part Of Her Face,  Her Clear

Forehead,  Her Gentle Eyes Had Become Less Conspicuous; And Now The

Lower Part Stood Out,  With Its Somewhat Sensual Jaw,  Ruddy Mouth,  And

Superb Teeth. And Still She Smiled With That Enigmatical,  Girlish

Smile,  Which Was,  Perhaps,  An Ironical One.

'At Any Rate,' He Said,  In A Vexed Tone,  'I Do Not Think You Have

Anything To Reproach Me With.'

At Which She Could Not Help Laughing,  With A Slight,  Nervous Laugh.

'No,  No,  Monsieur,  Not In The Least.'

He Continued Staring At Her,  Fighting The Battle Of Inexperience And

Bashfulness Over Again,  And Fearing That He Had Been Ridiculous. Now

That She No Longer Trembled Before Him,  Had She Become Contemptuously

Surprised At Having Trembled At All? What! He Had Not Made The

Slightest Attempt At Courtship,  Not Even Pressed A Kiss On Her

Finger-Tips. The Young Fellow's Bearish Indifference,  Of Which She Had

Assuredly Been Conscious,  Must Have Hurt Her Budding Womanly Feelings.

'You Were Saying,' She Resumed,  Becoming Sedate Once More,  'That The

Cabstand Is At The End Of The Bridge On The Opposite Quay?'

'Yes; At The Spot Where There Is A Clump Of Trees.'

She Had Finished Tying Her Bonnet Strings,  And Stood Ready Gloved,

With Her Hands Hanging By Her Side,  And Yet She Did Not Go,  But Stared

Straight In Front Of Her. As Her Eyes Met The Big Canvas Turned To The

Wall She Felt A Wish To See It,  But Did Not Dare To Ask. Nothing

Detained Her; Still She Seemed To Be Looking Around As If She Had

Forgotten Something There,  Something Which She Could Not Name. At Last

She Stepped Towards The Door.

Claude Was Already Opening It,  And A Small Loaf Placed Erect Against

The Post Tumbled Into The Studio.

'You See,' He Said,  'You Ought To Have Stopped To Breakfast With Me.

My Doorkeeper Brings The Bread Up Every Morning.'

She Again Refused With A Shake Of The Head. When She Was On The

Landing She Turned Round,  And For A Moment Remained Quite Still. Her

Gay Smile Had Come Back; She Was The First To Hold Out Her Hand.

'Thank You,  Thank You Very Much.'

He Had Taken Her Small Gloved Hand Within His Large One,  All

Pastel-Stained As It Was. Both Hands Remained Like That For A Few

Moments,  Closely And Cordially Pressed. The Young Girl Was Still

Smiling At Him,  And He Had A Question On The Tip Of His Tongue: 'When

Shall I See You Again?' But He Felt Ashamed To Ask It,  And After

Waiting A While She Withdrew Her Hand.

'Good-Bye,  Monsieur.'

'Good-Bye,  Mademoiselle.'

Christine,  Without Another Glance,  Was Already Descending The Steep

Ladder-Like Stairway Whose Steps Creaked,  When Claude Turned Abruptly

Into His Studio,  Closing The Door With A Bang,  And Shouting To

Himself: 'Ah,  Those Confounded Women!'

He Was Furious--Furious With Himself,  Furious With Everyone. Kicking

About The Furniture,  He Continued To Ease His Feelings In A Loud

Voice. Was Not He Right In Never Allowing Them To Cross His Threshold?

They Only Turned A Fellow's Head. What Proof Had He After All That

Yonder Chit With The Innocent Look,  Who Had Just Gone,  Had Not Fooled

Him Most Abominably? And He Had Been Silly Enough To Believe In Her

Cock-And-Bull Stories! All His Suspicions Revived. No One Would Ever

Make Him Swallow That Fairy Tale Of The General's Widow,  The Railway

Accident,  And Especially The Cabman. Did Such Things Ever Happen In

Real Life? Besides,  That Mouth Of Hers Told A Strange Tale,  And Her

Looks Had Been Very Singular Just As She Was Going. Ah! If He Could

Only Have Understood Why She Had Told Him All Those Lies; But No,  They

Were Profitless,  Inexplicable. It Was Art For Art's Sake. How She Must

Be Laughing At Him By This Time.

He Roughly Folded Up The Screen And Sent It Flying Into A Corner. She

Had No Doubt Left All In Disorder. And When He Found That Everything

Was In Its Proper Place--Basin,  Towel,  And Soap--He Flew Into A Rage

Because She Had Not Made The Bed. With A Great Deal Of Fuss He Began

To Make It Himself,  Lifting The Mattress In His Arms,  Banging The

Pillow About With His Fists,  And Feeling Oppressed By The Pure Scent

Of Youth That Rose From Everything. Then He Had A Good Wash To Cool

Himself,  And In The Damp Towel He Found The Same Virgin Fragrance,

Which Seemed To Spread Through The Studio. Swearing The While,  He

Drank His Chocolate From The Saucepan,  So Excited,  So Eager To Set To

Work,  As To Swallow Large Mouthfuls Of Bread Without Taking Breath.

'Why,  It's Enough To Kill One Here,' He Suddenly Exclaimed. 'It Must

Be This Confounded Heat That's Making Me Ill.'

After All,  The Sun Had Shifted,  And It Was Far Less Hot. But He Opened

A Small Window On A Level With The Roof,  And Inhaled,  With An Air Of

Profound Relief,  The Whiff Of Warm Air That Entered. Then He Took Up

His Sketch Of Christine's Head And For A Long While He Lingered

Looking At It.