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

He Showed Himself Expansive,  Gave Particulars,  Full Of The Happiness

Of Life,  And Egotistically Delighted To Feel Fat And Victorious In

Front Of That Poor Vanquished Fellow. He Succeeded With Everything,  He

Said. He Had Given Up Leader-Writing,  Feeling The Necessity Of

Settling Down Seriously,  And He Had Risen To The Editorship Of A

Prominent Art Review,  On Which,  So It Was Asserted,  He Made Thirty

Thousand Francs A Year,  Without Mentioning Certain Profits Realised By

Shady Trafficking In The Sale Of Art Collections. The Middle-Class

Rapacity Which He Had Inherited From His Mother,  The Hereditary

Passion For Profit Which Had Secretly Impelled Him To Embark In Petty

Speculations As Soon As He Had Gained A Few Coppers,  Now Openly

Displayed Itself,  And Ended By Making Him A Terrible Customer,  Who

Bled All The Artists And Amateurs Who Came Under His Clutches.

It Was Amidst This Good Luck Of His That Mathilde,  Now All-Powerful,

Had Brought Him To The Point Of Begging Her,  With Tears In His Eyes,

To Become His Wife,  A Request Which She Had Proudly Refused During Six

Long Months.

'When Folks Are Destined To Live Together,' He Continued,  'The Best

Course Is To Set Everything Square. You Experienced It Yourself,  My

Dear Fellow; You Know Something About It,  Eh? And If I Told You That

She Wouldn't Consent At First--Yes,  It's A Fact--For Fear Of Being

Misjudged And Of Doing Me Harm. Oh! She Has Such Grandeur,  Such

Delicacy Of Mind! No,  Nobody Can Have An Idea Of That Woman's

Qualities. Devoted,  Taking All Possible Care Of One,  Economical,  And

Acute,  Too,  And Such A Good Adviser! Ah! It Was A Lucky Chance That I

Met Her! I No Longer Do Anything Without Consulting Her; I Let Her Do

As She Likes; She Manages Everything,  Upon My Word.'

The Truth Was That Mathilde Had Finished By Reducing Him To The

Frightened Obedience Of A Little Boy. The Once Dissolute She-Ghoul Had

Become A Dictatorial Spouse,  Eager For Respect,  And Consumed With

Ambition And Love Of Money. She Showed,  Too,  Every Form Of Sourish

Virtue. It Was Said That They Had Been Seen Taking The Holy Communion

Together At Notre Dame De Lorette. They Kissed One Another Before

Other People,  And Called Each Other By Endearing Nicknames. Only,  Of

An Evening,  He Had To Relate How He Had Spent His Time During The Day,

And If The Employment Of A Single Hour Remained Suspicious,  If He Did

Not Bring Home All The Money He Had Received,  Down To The Odd Coppers,

She Led Him The Most Abominable Life Imaginable.

This,  Of Course,  Jory Left Unmentioned. By Way Of Conclusion He

Exclaimed: 'And So We Waited For My Father's Death,  And Then I Married

Her.'

Claude,  Whose Mind Had So Far Been Wandering,  And Who Had Merely

Nodded Without Listening,  Was Struck By That Last Sentence.

'What! You Married Her--Married Mathilde?'

That Exclamation Summed Up All The Astonishment That The Affair Caused

Him,  All The Recollections That Occurred To Him Of Mahoudeau's Shop.

That Jory,  Why,  He Could Still Hear Him Talking About Mathilde In An

Abominable Manner; And Yet He Had Married Her! It Was Really Stupid

For A Fellow To Speak Badly Of A Woman,  For He Never Knew If He Might

Not End By Marrying Her Some Day Or Other!

However,  Jory Was Perfectly Serene,  His Memory Was Dead,  He Never

Allowed Himself An Allusion To The Past,  Never Showed The Slightest

Embarrassment When His Comrades' Eyes Were Turned On Him. Besides,

Mathilde Seemed To Be A New-Comer. He Introduced Her To Them As If

They Knew Nothing Whatever About Her.

Sandoz,  Who Had Lent An Ear To The Conversation,  Greatly Interested By

This Fine Business,  Called Out As Soon As Jory And Claude Became

Silent:

'Let's Be Off,  Eh? My Legs Are Getting Numbed.'

But At That Moment Irma Becot Appeared,  And Stopped In Front Of The

Buffet. With Her Hair Freshly Gilded,  She Had Put On Her Best Looks

--All The Tricky Sheen Of A Tawny Hussy,  Who Seemed To Have Just

Stepped Out Of Some Old Renaissance Frame; And She Wore A Train Of

Light Blue Brocaded Silk,  With A Satin Skirt Covered With Alencon

Lace,  Of Such Richness That Quite An Escort Of Gentlemen Followed Her

In Admiration. On Perceiving Claude Among The Others,  She Hesitated

For A Moment,  Seized,  As It Were,  With Cowardly Shame In Front Of That

Ill-Clad,  Ugly,  Derided Devil. Then,  Becoming Valiant,  As It Were,  It

Was His Hand That She Shook The First Amid All Those Well-Dressed Men,

Who Opened Their Eyes In Amazement. She Laughed With An Affectionate

Air,  And Spoke To Him In A Friendly,  Bantering Way.

Fagerolles,  However,  Was Already Paying For The Two Chartreuses He Had

Ordered,  And At Last He Went Off With Irma,  Whom Jory Also Decided To

Follow. Claude Watched Them Walk Away Together,  She Between The Two

Men,  Moving On In Regal Fashion,  Greatly Admired,  And Repeatedly Bowed

To By People In The Crowd.

'One Can See Very Well That Mathilde Isn't Here,' Quietly Remarked

Sandoz. 'Ah! My Friend,  What Clouts Jory Would Receive On Getting

Home!'

The Novelist Now Asked For The Bill. All The Tables Were Becoming

Vacant; There Only Remained A Litter Of Bones And Crusts. A Couple Of

Waiters Were Wiping The Marble Slabs With Sponges,  Whilst A Third

Raked Up The Soiled Sand. Behind The Brown Serge Hangings The Staff Of

The Establishment Was Lunching--One Could Hear A Grinding Of Jaws And

Husky Laughter,  A Rumpus Akin To That Of A Camp Of Gipsies Devouring

The Contents Of Their Saucepans.

Claude And Sandoz Went Round The Garden,  Where They Discovered A

Statue By Mahoudeau,  Very Badly Placed In A Corner Near The Eastern

Vestibule. It Was The Bathing Girl At Last,  Standing Erect,  But Of

Diminutive Proportions,  Being Scarcely As Tall As A Girl Ten Years

Old,  But Charmingly Delicate--With Slim Hips And A Tiny Bosom,

Displaying All The Exquisite Hesitancy Of A Sprouting Bud. The Figure

Seemed To Exhale A Perfume,  That Grace Which Nothing Can Give,  But

Which Flowers Where It Lists,  Stubborn,  Invincible,  Perennial Grace,

Springing Still And Ever From Mahoudeau's Thick Fingers,  Which Were So

Ignorant Of Their Special Aptitude That They Had Long Treated This

Very Grace With Derision.

Sandoz Could Not Help Smiling.

'And To Think That This Fellow Has Done Everything He Could To Warp

His Talent. If His Figure Were Better Placed,  It Would Meet With Great

Success.'

'Yes,  Great Success,' Repeated Claude. 'It Is Very Pretty.'

Precisely At That Moment They Perceived Mahoudeau,  Already In The

Vestibule,  And Going Towards The Staircase. They Called Him,  Ran After

Him,  And Then All Three Remained Talking Together For A Few Minutes.

The Ground-Floor Gallery Stretched Away,  Empty,  With Its Sanded

Pavement,  And The Pale Light Streaming Through Its Large Round

Windows. One Might Have Fancied Oneself Under A Railway Bridge. Strong

Pillars Supported The Metallic Framework,  And An Icy Chillness Blew

From Above,  Moistening The Sand In Which One's Feet Sank. In The

Distance,  Behind A Torn Curtain,  One Could See Rows Of Statues,  The

Rejected Sculptural Exhibits,  The Casts Which Poor Sculptors Did Not

Even Remove,  Gathered Together In A Livid Kind Of Morgue,  In A State

Of Lamentable Abandonment. But What Surprised One,  On Raising One's

Head,  Was The Continuous Din,  The Mighty Tramp Of The Public Over The

Flooring Of The Upper Galleries. One Was Deafened By It; It Rolled On

Without A Pause,  As If Interminable Trains,  Going At Full Speed,  Were

Ever And Ever Shaking The Iron Girders.

When Mahoudeau Had Been Complimented,  He Told Claude That He Had

Searched For His Picture In Vain. In The Depths Of What Hole Could

They Have Put It? Then,  In A Fit Of Affectionate Remembrance For The

Past,  He Asked Anxiously After Gagniere And Dubuche. Where Were The

Salons Of Yore Which They Had All Reached In A Band,  The Mad

Excursions Through The Galleries As In An Enemy's Country,  The Violent

Disdain They Had Felt On Going Away,  The Discussions Which Had Made

Their Tongues Swell And Emptied Their Brains? Nobody Now Saw Dubuche.

Two Or Three Times A Month Gagniere Came From Melun,  In A State Of

Bewilderment,  To Attend Some Concert; And He Now Took Such Little

Interest In Painting That He Had Not Even Looked In At The Salon,

Although He Exhibited His Usual Landscape,  The Same View Of The Banks

Of The Seine Which He Had Been Sending For The Last Fifteen Years--A

Picture Of A Pretty Greyish Tint,  So Conscientious And Quiet That The

Public Had Never Remarked It.

'I Was Going Upstairs,' Resumed Mahoudeau. 'Will You Come With Me?'

Claude,  Pale With Suffering,  Raised His Eyes Every Second. Ah! That

Terrible Rumbling,  That Devouring Gallop Of The Monster Overhead,  The

Shock Of Which He Felt In His Very Limbs!

He Held Out His Hand Without Speaking.

'What! Are You Going To Leave Us?' Exclaimed Sandoz. Take Just Another

Turn With Us,  And We'll Go Away Together.'

Then,  On Seeing Claude So Weary,  A Feeling Of Pity Made His Heart

Contract. He Divined That The Poor Fellow's Courage Was Exhausted,

That He Was Desirous Of Solitude,  Seized With A Desire To Fly Off

Alone And Hide His Wound.

'Then,  Good-Bye,  Old Man: I'll Call And See You To-Morrow.'

Staggering,  And As If Pursued By The Tempest Upstairs,  Claude

Disappeared Behind The Clumps Of Shrubbery In The Garden. But Two

Hours Later Sandoz,  Who After Losing Mahoudeau Had Just Found Him

Again With Jory And Fagerolles,  Perceived The Unhappy Painter Again

Standing In Front Of His Picture,  At The Same Spot Where He Had Met

Him The First Time. At The Moment Of Going Off The Wretched Fellow Had

Come Up There Again,  Harassed And Attracted Despite Himself.

There Was Now The Usual Five O'clock Crush. The Crowd,  Weary Of

Winding Round The Galleries,  Became Distracted,  And Pushed And Shoved

Without Ever Finding Its Way Out. Since The Coolness Of The Morning,

The Heat Of All The Human Bodies,  The Odour Of All The Breath Exhaled

There Had Made The Atmosphere Heavy,  And The Dust Of The Floors,

Flying About,  Rose Up In A Fine Mist. People Still Took Each Other To

See Certain Pictures,  The Subjects Of Which Alone Struck And Attracted

The Crowd. Some Went Off,  Came Back,  And Walked About Unceasingly. The

Women Were Particularly Obstinate In Not Retiring; They Seemed

Determined To Remain There Till The Attendants Should Push Them Out

When Six O'clock Began To Strike. Some Fat Ladies Had Foundered.

Others,  Who Had Failed To