Nana, Émile Zola [reading list txt] 📗
- Author: Émile Zola
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aside, while my anxiety grew more and more intense.
The clicking of the scissors was the only noise in the room, so I
concluded that Marguerite had been overcome by fatigue and was
dozing. Twice Simoneau rose, and the torturing thought flashed
through me that he might be taking advantage of her slumbers to
touch her hair with his lips. I hardly knew the man and yet felt
sure that he loved my wife. At last little Dede began to giggle,
and her laugh exasperated me.
“Why are you sniggering, you idiot?” asked her mother. “Do you want
to be turned out on the landing? Come, out with it; what makes you
laugh so?”
The child stammered: she had not laughed; she had only coughed, but
I felt certain she had seen Simoneau bending over Marguerite and had
felt amused.
The lamp had been lit when a knock was heard at the door.
“It must be the doctor at last,” said the old woman.
It was the doctor; he did not apologize for coming so late, for he
had no doubt ascended many flights of stairs during the day. The
room being but imperfectly lighted by the lamp, he inquired: “Is the
body here?”
“Yes, it is,” answered Simoneau.
Marguerite had risen, trembling violently. Mme Gabin dismissed
Dede, saying it was useless that a child should be present, and then
she tried to lead my wife to the window, to spare her the sight of
what was about to take place.
The doctor quickly approached the bed. I guessed that he was bored,
tired and impatient. Had he touched my wrist? Had he placed his
hand on my heart? I could not tell, but I fancied that he had only
carelessly bent over me.
“Shall I bring the lamp so that you may see better?” asked Simoneau
obligingly.
“No it is not necessary,” quietly answered the doctor.
Not necessary! That man held my life in his hands, and he did not
think it worth while to proceed to a careful examination! I was not
dead! I wanted to cry out that I was not dead!
“At what o’clock did he die?” asked the doctor.
“At six this morning,” volunteered Simoneau.
A feeling of frenzy and rebellion rose within me, bound as I was in
seemingly iron chains. Oh, for the power of uttering one word, of
moving a single limb!
“This close weather is unhealthy,” resumed the doctor; “nothing is
more trying than these early spring days.”
And then he moved away. It was like my life departing. Screams,
sobs and insults were choking me, struggling in my convulsed throat,
in which even my breath was arrested. The wretch! Turned into a
mere machine by professional habits, he only came to a deathbed to
accomplish a perfunctory formality; he knew nothing; his science was
a lie, since he could not at a glance distinguish life from death—
and now he was going—going!
“Good night, sir,” said Simoneau.
There came a moment’s silence; the doctor was probably bowing to
Marguerite, who had turned while Mme Gabin was fastening the window.
He left the room, and I heard his footsteps descending the stairs.
It was all over; I was condemned. My last hope had vanished with
that man. If I did not wake before eleven on the morrow I should be
buried alive. The horror of that thought was so great that I lost
all consciousness of my surroundings—‘twas something like a
fainting fit in death. The last sound I heard was the clicking of
the scissors handled by Mme Gabin and Dede. The funeral vigil had
begun; nobody spoke.
Marguerite had refused to retire to rest in the neighbor’s room.
She remained reclining in her armchair, with her beautiful face
pale, her eyes closed and her long lashes wet with tears, while
before her in the gloom Simoneau sat silently watching her.
THE PROCESSION
I cannot describe my agony during the morning of the following day.
I remember it as a hideous dream in which my impressions were so
ghastly and so confused that I could not formulate them. The
persistent yearning for a sudden awakening increased my torture, and
as the hour for the funeral drew nearer my anguish became more
poignant still.
It was only at daybreak that I had recovered a fuller consciousness
of what was going on around me. The creaking of hinges startled me
out of my stupor. Mme Gabin had just opened the window. It must
have been about seven o’clock, for I heard the cries of hawkers in
the street, the shrill voice of a girl offering groundsel and the
hoarse voice of a man shouting “Carrots! The clamorous awakening of
Paris pacified me at first. I could not believe that I should be
laid under the sod in the midst of so much life; and, besides, a
sudden thought helped to calm me. It had just occurred to me that I
had witnessed a case similar to my own when I was employed at the
hospital of Guerande. A man had been sleeping twenty-eight hours,
the doctors hesitating in presence of his apparent lifelessness,
when suddenly he had sat up in bed and was almost at once able to
rise. I myself had already been asleep for some twenty-five hours;
if I awoke at ten I should still be in time.
I endeavored to ascertain who was in the room and what was going on
there. Dede must have been playing on the landing, for once when
the door opened I heard her shrill childish laughter outside.
Simoneau must have retired, for nothing indicated his presence. Mme
Gabin’s slipshod tread was still audible over the floor. At last
she spoke.
“Come, my dear,” she said. “It is wrong of you not to take it while
it is hot. It would cheer you up.”
She was addressing Marguerite, and a slow trickling sound as of
something filtering indicated that she had been making some coffee.
“I don’t mind owning,” she continued, “that I needed it. At my age
sitting up IS trying. The night seems so dreary when there is a
misfortune in the house. DO have a cup of coffee, my dear—just a
drop.”
She persuaded Marguerite to taste it.
“Isn’t it nice and hot?” she continued, “and doesn’t it set one up?
Ah, you’ll be wanting all your strength presently for what you’ve
got to go through today. Now if you were sensible you’d step into
my room and just wait there.”
“No, I want to stay here,” said Marguerite resolutely.
Her voice, which I had not heard since the previous evening, touched
me strangely. It was changed, broken as by tears. To feel my dear
wife near me was a last consolation. I knew that her eyes were
fastened on me and that she was weeping with all the anguish of her
heart.
The minutes flew by. An inexplicable noise sounded from beyond the
door. It seemed as if some people were bringing a bulky piece of
furniture upstairs and knocking against the walls as they did so.
Suddenly I understood, as I heard Marguerite begin to sob; it was
the coffin.
“You are too early,” said Mme Gabin crossly. “Put it behind the
bed.”
What o’clock was it? Nine, perhaps. So the coffin had come. Amid
the opaque night around me I could see it plainly, quite new, with
roughly planed boards. Heavens! Was this the end then? Was I to
be borne off in that box which I realized was lying at my feet?
However, I had one supreme joy. Marguerite, in spite of her
weakness, insisted upon discharging all the last offices. Assisted
by the old woman, she dressed me with all the tenderness of a wife
and a sister. Once more I felt myself in her arms as she clothed me
in various garments. She paused at times, overcome by grief; she
clasped me convulsively, and her tears rained on my face. Oh, how I
longed to return her embrace and cry, “I live!” And yet I was lying
there powerless, motionless, inert!
“You are foolish,” suddenly said Mme Gabin; “it is all wasted.”
“Never mind,” answered Marguerite, sobbing. “I want him to wear his
very best things.”
I understood that she was dressing me in the clothes I had worn on
my wedding day. I had kept them carefully for great occasions.
When she had finished she fell back exhausted in the armchair.
Simoneau now spoke; he had probably just entered the room.
“They are below,” he whispered.
“Well, it ain’t any too soon,” answered Mme Gabin, also lowering her
voice. “Tell them to come up and get it over.”
“But I dread the despair of the poor little wife.”
The old woman seemed to reflect and presently resumed: “Listen to
me, Monsieur Simoneau. You must take her off to my room. I
wouldn’t have her stop here. It is for her own good. When she is
out of the way we’ll get it done in a jiffy.”
These words pierced my heart, and my anguish was intense when I
realized that a struggle was actually taking place. Simoneau had
walked up to Marguerite, imploring her to leave the room.
“Do, for pity’s sake, come with me!” he pleaded. “Spare yourself
useless pain.”
“No, no!” she cried. “I will remain till the last minute. Remember
that I have only him in the world, and when he is gone I shall be
all alone!”
From the bedside Mme Gabin was prompting the young man.
“Don’t parley—take hold of her, carry her off in your arms.”
Was Simoneau about to lay his hands on Marguerite and bear her away?
She screamed. I wildly endeavored to rise, but the springs of my
limbs were broken. I remained rigid, unable to lift my eyelids to
see what was going on. The struggle continued, and my wife clung to
the furniture, repeating, “Oh, don’t, don’t! Have mercy! Let me
go! I will not—”
He must have lifted her in his stalwart arms, for I heard her
moaning like a child. He bore her away; her sobs were lost in the
distance, and I fancied I saw them both—he, tall and strong,
pressing her to his breast; she, fainting, powerless and conquered,
following him wherever he listed.
“Drat it all! What a to-do!” muttered Mme Gabin. “Now for the tug
of war, as the coast is clear at last.”
In my jealous madness I looked upon this incident as a monstrous
outrage. I had not been able to see Marguerite for twenty-four
hours, but at least I had still heard her voice. Now even this was
denied me; she had been torn away; a man had eloped with her even
before I was laid under the sod. He was alone with her on the other
side of the wall, comforting her—embracing her, perhaps!
But the door opened once more, and heavy footsteps shook the floor.
“Quick, make haste,” repeated Mme Gabin. “Get it done before the
lady comes back.”
She was speaking to some strangers, who merely answered her with
uncouth grunts.
“You understand,” she went on, “I am not a relation; I’m only a
neighbor. I have no interest in the matter. It is out of pure good
nature that I have mixed myself up in their affairs. And I ain’t
overcheerful, I can tell you. Yes, yes, I sat up the whole blessed
night—it was pretty cold, too, about four o’clock. That’s a fact.
Well, I have always been a fool—I’m
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