In the study Clotilde was buttoning her dress, holding her child, whom she had been nursing, still in her lap. It was after lunch, about three o'clock on a hot sunny day at the end of August, and through the crevices1 of the carefully closed shutters3 only a few scattered4 sunbeams entered, piercing the drowsy5 and warm obscurity of the vast apartment. The rest and peace of the Sunday seemed to enter and diffuse6 itself in the room with the last sounds of the distant vesper bell. Profound silence reigned8 in the empty house in which the mother and child were to remain alone until dinner time, the servant having asked permission to go see a cousin in the faubourg.
For an instant Clotilde looked at her child, now a big boy of three months. She had been wearing mourning for Pascal for almost ten months --a long and simple black gown, in which she looked divinely beautiful, with her tall, slender figure and her sad, youthful face surrounded by its aureole of fair hair. And although she could not smile, it filled her with sweet emotion to see the beautiful child, so plump and rosy9, with his mouth still wet with milk, whose gaze had been arrested by the sunbeam full of dancing motes10. His eyes were fixed11 wonderingly on the golden brightness, the dazzling miracle of light. Then sleep came over him, and he let his little, round, bare head, covered thinly with fair hair, fall back on his mother's arm.
Clotilde rose softly and laid him in the cradle, which stood beside the table. She remained leaning over him for an instant to assure herself that he was asleep; then she let down the curtain in the already darkened room. Then she busied herself with supple12 and noiseless movements, walking with so light a step that she scarcely touched the floor, in putting away some linen13 which was on the table. Twice she crossed the room in search of a little missing sock. She was very silent, very gentle, and very active. And now, in the solitude14 of the house, she fell into a reverie and all the past year arose before her.
First, after the dreadful shock of the funeral, came the departure of Martine, who had obstinately15 kept to her determination of going away at once, not even remaining for the customary week, bringing to replace her the young cousin of a baker17 in the neighborhood--a stout18 brunette, who fortunately proved very neat and faithful. Martine herself lived at Sainte-Marthe, in a retired19 corner, so penuriously20 that she must be still saving even out of her small income. She was not known to have any heir. Who, then, would profit by this miserliness? In ten months she had not once set foot in La Souleiade-- monsieur was not there, and she had not even the desire to see monsieur's son.
Then in Clotilde's reverie rose the figure of her grandmother Felicite. The latter came to see her from time to time with the condescension21 of a powerful relation who is liberal-minded enough to pardon all faults when they have been cruelly expiated22. She would come unexpectedly, kiss the child, moralize, and give advice, and the young mother had adopted toward her the respectful attitude which Pascal had always maintained. Felicite was now wholly absorbed in her triumph. She was at last about to realize a plan that she had long cherished and maturely deliberated, which would perpetuate23 by an imperishable monument the untarnished glory of the family. The plan was to devote her fortune, which had become considerable, to the construction and endowment of an asylum24 for the aged25, to be called Rougon Asylum. She had already bought the ground, a part of the old mall outside the town, near the railway station; and precisely26 on this Sunday, at five o'clock, when the heat should have abated27 a little, the first stone was to be laid, a really solemn ceremony, to be honored by the presence of all the authorities, and of which she was to be the acknowledged queen, before a vast concourse of people.
Clotilde felt, besides, some gratitude28 toward her grandmother, who had shown perfect disinterestedness29 on the occasion of the opening of Pascal's will. The latter had constituted the young woman his sole legatee; and the mother, who had a right to a fourth part, after declaring her intention to respect her son's wishes, had simply renounced30 her right to the succession. She wished, indeed, to disinherit all her family, bequeathing to them glory only, by employing her large fortune in the erection of this asylum, which was to carry down to future ages the revered31 and glorious name of the Rougons; and after having, for more than half a century, so eagerly striven to acquire money, she now disdained32 it, moved by a higher and purer ambition. And Clotilde, thanks to this liberality, had no uneasiness regarding the future--the four thousand francs income would be sufficient for her and her child. She would bring him up to be a man. She had sunk the five thousand francs that she had found in the desk in an annuity33 for him; and she owned, besides, La Souleiade, which everybody advised her to sell. True, it cost but little to keep it up, but what a sad and solitary34 life she would lead in that great deserted35 house, much too large for her, where she would be lost. Thus far, however, she had not been able to make up her mind to leave it. Perhaps she would never be able to do so.
Ah, this La Souleiade! all her love, all her life, all her memories were centered in it. It seemed to her at times as if Pascal were living here still, for she had changed nothing of their former manner of living. The furniture remained in the same places, the hours were the same, the habits the same. The only change she had made was to lock his room, into which only she went, as into a sanctuary36, to weep when she felt her heart too heavy. And although indeed she felt very lonely, very lost, at each meal in the bright dining-room downstairs, in fancy she heard there the echoes of their laughter, she recalled the healthy appetite of her youth; when they two had eaten and drank so gaily37, rejoicing in their existence. And the garden, too, the whole place was bound up with the most intimate fibers38 of her being, for she could not take a step in it that their united images did not appear before her--on the terrace; in the slender shadow of the great secular39 cypresses40, where they had so often contemplated41 the valley of the Viorne, closed in by the ridges42 of the Seille and the parched43 hills of Sainte-Marthe; the stone steps among the puny44 olive and almond trees, which they had so often challenged each other to run up in a trial of speed, like boys just let loose from school; and there was the pine grove45, too, the warm, embalsamed shade, where the needles crackled under their feet; the vast threshing yard, carpeted with soft grass, where they could see the whole sky at night, when the stars were coming out; and above all there were the giant plane trees, whose delightful46 shade they had enjoyed every day in summer, listening to the soothing47 song of the fountain, the crystal clear song which it had sung for centuries. Even to the old stones of the house, even to the earth of the grounds, there was not an atom at La Souleiade in which she did not feel a little of their blood warmly throbbing48, with which she did not feel a little of their life diffused49 and mingled50.
But she preferred to spend her days in the workroom, and here it was that she lived over again her best hours. There was nothing new in it but the cradle. The doctor's table was in its place before the window to the left--she could fancy him coming in and sitting down at it, for his chair had not even been moved. On the long table in the center, among the old heap of books and papers, there was nothing new but the cheerful note of the little baby linen, which she was looking over. The bookcases displayed the same rows of volumes; the large oaken press seemed to guard within its sides the same treasure, securely shut in. Under the smoky ceiling the room was still redolent of work, with its confusion of chairs, the pleasant disorder51 of this common workroom, filled with the caprices of the girl and the researches of the scientist. But what most moved her to-day was the sight of her old pastels hanging against the wall, the copies which she had made of living flowers, scrupulously52 exact copies, and of dream flowers of an imaginary world, whither her wild fancy sometimes carried her.
Clotilde had just finished arranging the little garments on the table when, lifting her eyes, she perceived before her the pastel of old King David, with his hand resting on the shoulder of Abishag the young Shunammite. And she, who now never smiled, felt her face flush with a thrill of tender and pleasing emotion. How they had loved each other, how they had dreamed of an eternity53 of love the day on which she had amused herself painting this proud and loving allegory! The old king, sumptuously56 clad in a robe hanging in straight folds, heavy with precious stones, wore the royal bandeau on his snowy locks; but she was more sumptuous55 still, with only her tall slender figure, her delicate round throat, and her supple arms, divinely graceful57. Now he was gone, he was sleeping under the ground, while she, her pure and triumphant58 beauty concealed59 by her black robes, had only her child to express the love she had given him before the assembled people, in the full light of day.
Then Clotilde sat down beside the cradle. The slender sunbeams lengthened60, crossing the room from end to end, the heat of the warm afternoon grew oppressive in the drowsy obscurity made by the closed shutters, and the silence of the house seemed more profound than before. She set apart some little waists, she sewed on some tapes with slow-moving needle, and gradually she fell into a reverie in the warm deep peacefulness of the room, in the midst of the glowing heat outside. Her thoughts first turned to her pastels, the exact copies and the fantastic dream flowers; she said to herself now that all her dual61 nature was to be found in that passion for truth, which had at times kept her a whole day before a flower in order to copy it with exactness, and in her need of the spiritual, which at other times took her outside the real, and carried her in wild dreams to the paradise of flowers such as had never grown on earth. She had always been thus. She felt that she was in reality the same to-day as she had been yesterday, in the midst of the flow of new life which ceaselessly transformed her. And then she thought of Pascal, full of gratitude that he had made her what she was. In days past when, a little girl, he had removed her from her execrable surroundings and taken her home with him, he had undoubtedly62 followed the impulses of his good heart, but he had also undoubtedly desired to try an experiment with her, to see how she would grow up in the different environment, in an atmosphere of truthfulness63 and affection. This had always been an idea of his. It was an old theory of his which he would have liked to test on a large scale: culture through environment, complete regeneration even, the improvement, the salvation64 of the individual, physically65 as well as morally. She owed to him undoubtedly the best part of her nature; she guessed how fanciful and violent she might have become, while he had made her only enthusiastic and courageous66.
In this retrospection she was clearly conscious of the gradual change that had taken place within her. Pascal had corrected her heredity, and she lived over again the slow evolution, the struggle between the fantastic and the real in her. It had begun with her outbursts of anger as a child, a ferment67 of rebellion, a want of mental balance that had caused her to indulge in most hurtful reveries. Then came her fits of extreme devotion, the need of illusion and falsehood, of immediate68 happiness in the thought that the inequalities and injustices69 of this wicked world would he compensated71 by the eternal joys of a future paradise. This was the epoch72 of her struggles with Pascal, of the torture which she had caused him, planning to destroy the work of his genius. And at this point her nature had changed; she had acknowledged him for her master. He had conquered her by the terrible lesson of life which he had given her on the night of the storm. Then, environment had acted upon her, evolution had proceeded rapidly, and she had ended by becoming a well-balanced and rational woman, willing to live life as it ought to be lived, satisfied with doing her work in the hope that the sum of the common labor73 would one day free the world from evil and pain. She had loved, she was a mother now, and she understood.
Suddenly she remembered the night which they had spent in the threshing yard. She could still hear her lamentation74 under the stars-- the cruelty of nature, the inefficacy of science, the wickedness of humanity, and the need she felt of losing herself in God, in the Unknown. Happiness consisted in self-renunciation. Then she heard him repeat his creed75--the progress of reason through science, truths acquired slowly and forever the only possible good, the belief that the sum of these truths, always augmenting76, would finally confer upon man incalculable power and peace, if not happiness. All was summed up in his ardent77 faith in life. As he expressed it, it was necessary to march with life, which marched always. No halt was to be expected, no peace in immobility and renunciation, no consolation78 in turning back. One must keep a steadfast79 soul, the only ambition to perform one's work, modestly looking for no other reward of life than to have lived it bravely, accomplishing the task which it imposes. Evil was only an accident not yet explained, humanity appearing from a great height like an immense wheel in action, working ceaselessly for the future. Why should the workman who disappeared, having finished his day's work, abuse the work because he could neither see nor know its end? Even if it were to have no end why should he not enjoy the delight of action, the exhilarating air of the march, the sweetness of sleep after the fatigue80 of a long and busy day? The children would carry on the task of the parents; they were born and cherished only for this, for the task of life which is transmitted to them, which they in their turn will transmit to others. All that remained, then, was to be courageously81 resigned to the grand common labor, without the rebellion of the ego54, which demands personal happiness, perfect and complete.
She questioned herself, and she found that she did not experience that anguish82 which had filled her formerly83 at the thought of what was to follow death. This anxiety about the Beyond no longer haunted her until it became a torture. Formerly she would have liked to wrest84 by force from heaven the secrets of destiny. It had been a source of infinite grief to her not to know why she existed. Why are we born? What do we come on earth to do? What is the meaning of this execrable existence, without equality, without justice, which seemed to her like a fevered dream? Now her terror was calmed; she could think of these things courageously. Perhaps it was her child, the continuation of herself, which now concealed from her the horror of her end. But her regular life contributed also to this, the thought that it was necessary to live for the effort of living, and that the only peace possible in this world was in the joy of the accomplishment85 of this effort. She repeated to herself a remark of the doctor, who would often say when he saw a peasant returning home with a contented86 look after his day's work: "There is a man whom anxiety about the Beyond will not prevent from sleeping." He meant to say that this anxiety troubles and perverts87 only excitable and idle brains. If all performed their healthful task, all would sleep peacefully at night. She herself had felt the beneficent power of work in the midst of her sufferings and her grief. Since he had taught her to employ every one of her hours; since she had been a mother, especially, occupied constantly with her child, she no longer felt a chill of horror when she thought of the Unknown. She put aside without an effort disquieting88 reveries; and if she still felt an occasional fear, if some of her daily griefs made her sick at heart, she found comfort and unfailing strength in the thought that her child was this day a day older, that he would be another day older on the morrow, that day by day, page by page, his work of life was being accomplished89. This consoled her delightfully90 for all her miseries91. She had a duty, an object, and she felt in her happy serenity92 that she was doing surely what she had been sent here to do.
Yet, even at this very moment she knew that the mystic was not entirely93 dead within her. In the midst of the profound silence she heard a slight noise, and she raised her head. Who was the divine mediator94 that had passed? Perhaps the beloved dead for whom she mourned, and whose presence near her she fancied she could divine. There must always be in her something of the childlike believer she had always been, curious about the Unknown, having an instinctive95 longing96 for the mysterious. She accounted to herself for this longing, she even explained it scientifically. However far science may extend the limits of human knowledge, there is undoubtedly a point which it cannot pass; and it was here precisely that Pascal placed the only interest in life--in the effort which we ceaselessly make to know more --there was only one reasonable meaning in life, this continual conquest of the unknown. Therefore, she admitted the existence of undiscovered forces surrounding the world, an immense and obscure domain97, ten times larger than the domain already won, an infinite and unexplored realm through which future humanity would endlessly ascend98. Here, indeed, was a field vast enough for the imagination to lose itself in. In her hours of reverie she satisfied in it the imperious need which man seems to have for the spiritual, a need of escaping from the visible world, of interrogating99 the Unknown, of satisfying in it the dream of absolute justice and of future happiness. All that remained of her former torture, her last mystic transports, were there appeased100. She satisfied there that hunger for consoling illusions which suffering humanity must satisfy in order to live. But in her all was happily balanced. At this crisis, in an epoch overburdened with science, disquieted102 at the ruins it has made, and seized with fright in the face of the new century, wildly desiring to stop and to return to the past, Clotilde kept the happy mean; in her the passion for truth was broadened by her eagerness to penetrate103 the Unknown. If sectarian scientists shut out the horizon to keep strictly104 to the phenomenon, it was permitted to her, a good, simple creature, to reserve the part that she did not know, that she would never know. And if Pascal's creed was the logical deduction105 from the whole work, the eternal question of the Beyond, which she still continued to put to heaven, reopened the door of the infinite to humanity marching ever onward106. Since we must always learn, while resigning ourselves never to know all, was it not to will action, life itself, to reserve the Unknown--an eternal doubt and an eternal hope?
Another sound, as of a wing passing, the light touch of a kiss upon her hair, this time made her smile. He was surely here; and her whole being went out toward him, in the great flood of tenderness with which her heart overflowed107. How kind and cheerful he was, and what a love for others underlay108 his passionate109 love of life! Perhaps he, too, had been only a dreamer, for he had dreamed the most beautiful of dreams, the final belief in a better world, when science should have bestowed110 incalculable power upon man--to accept everything, to turn everything to our happiness, to know everything and to foresee everything, to make nature our servant, to live in the tranquillity111 of intelligence satisfied. Meantime faith in life, voluntary and regular labor, would suffice for health. Evil was only the unexplained side of things; suffering would one day be assuredly utilized113. And regarding from above the enormous labor of the world, seeing the sum total of humanity, good and bad--admirable, in spite of everything, for their courage and their industry--she now regarded all mankind as united in a common brotherhood114, she now felt only boundless115 indulgence, an infinite pity, and an ardent charity. Love, like the sun, bathes the earth, and goodness is the great river at which all hearts drink.
Clotilde had been plying116 her needle for two hours, with the same regular movement, while her thoughts wandered away in the profound silence. But the tapes were sewed on the little waists, she had even marked some new wrappers, which she had bought the day before. And, her sewing finished, she rose to put the linen away. Outside the sun was declining, and only slender and oblique117 sunbeams entered through the crevices of the shutters. She could not see clearly, and she opened one of the shutters, then she forgot herself for a moment, at the sight of the vast horizon suddenly unrolled before her. The intense heat had abated, a delicious breeze was blowing, and the sky was of a cloudless blue. To the left could be distinguished118 even the smallest clumps119 of pines, among the blood-colored ravines of the rocks of the Seille, while to the right, beyond the hills of Sainte-Marthe, the valley of the Viorne stretched away in the golden dust of the setting sun. She looked for a moment at the tower of St. Saturnin, all golden also, dominating the rose-colored town; and she was about to leave the window when she saw a sight that drew her back and kept her there, leaning on her elbow for a long time still.
Beyond the railroad a multitude of people were crowded together on the old mall. Clotilde at once remembered the ceremony. She knew that her Grandmother Felicite was going to lay the first stone of the Rougon Asylum, the triumphant monument destined120 to carry down to future ages the glory of the family. Vast preparations had been going on for a week past. There was talk of a silver hod and trowel, which the old lady was to use herself, determined121 to figure to triumph, with her eighty-two years. What swelled122 her heart with regal pride was that on this occasion she made the conquest of Plassans for the third time, for she compelled the whole town, all the three quarters, to range themselves around her, to form an escort for her, and to applaud her as a benefactress. For, of course, there had to be present lady patronesses, chosen from among the noblest ladies of the Quartier St. Marc; a delegation123 from the societies of working-women of the old quarter, and, finally, the most distinguished residents of the new town, advocates, notaries124, physicians, without counting the common people, a stream of people dressed in their Sunday clothes, crowding there eagerly, as to a festival. And in the midst of this supreme125 triumph she was perhaps most proud--she, one of the queens of the Second Empire, the widow who mourned with so much dignity the fallen government--in having conquered the young republic itself, obliging it, in the person of the sub-prefect, to come and salute126 her and thank her. At first there had been question only of a discourse127 of the mayor; but it was known with certainty, since the previous day, that the sub-prefect also would speak. From so great a distance Clotilde could distinguish only a moving crowd of black coats and light dresses, under the scorching128 sun. Then there was a distant sound of music, the music of the amateur band of the town, the sonorous129 strains of whose brass130 instruments were borne to her at intervals131 on the breeze.
She left the window and went and opened the large oaken press to put away in it the linen that had remained on the table. It was in this press, formerly so full of the doctor's manuscripts, and now empty, that she kept the baby's wardrobe. It yawned open, vast, seemingly bottomless, and on the large bare shelves there was nothing but the baby linen, the little waists, the little caps, the little socks, all the fine clothing, the down of the bird still in the nest. Where so many thoughts had been stored up, where a man's unremitting labor for thirty years had accumulated in an overflowing132 heap of papers, there was now only a baby's clothing, only the first garments which would protect it for an hour, as it were, and which very soon it could no longer use. The vastness of the antique press seemed brightened and all refreshed by them.
When Clotilde had arranged the wrappers and the waists upon a shelf, she perceived a large envelope containing the fragments of the documents which she had placed there after she had rescued them from the fire. And she remembered a request which Dr. Ramond had come only the day before to make her--that she would see if there remained among this _debris_ any fragment of importance having a scientific interest. He was inconsolable for the loss of the precious manuscripts which the master had bequeathed to him. Immediately after the doctor's death he had made an attempt to write from memory his last talk, that summary of vast theories expounded133 by the dying man with so heroic a serenity; but he could recall only parts of it. He would have needed complete notes, observations made from day to day, the results obtained, and the laws formulated134. The loss was irreparable, the task was to be begun over again, and he lamented135 having only indications; he said that it would be at least twenty years before science could make up the loss, and take up and utilize112 the ideas of the solitary pioneer whose labors136 a wicked and imbecile catastrophe137 had destroyed.
The genealogical tree, the only document that had remained intact, was attached to the envelope, and Clotilde carried the whole to the table beside the cradle. After she had taken out the fragments, one by one, she found, what she had been already almost certain of, that not a single entire page of manuscript remained, not a single complete note having any meaning. There were only fragments of documents, scraps139 of half-burned and blackened paper, without sequence or connection. But as she examined them, these incomplete phrases, these words half consumed by fire, assumed for her an interest which no one else could have understood. She remembered the night of the storm, and the phrases completed themselves, the beginning of a word evoked140 before her persons and histories. Thus her eye fell on Maxime's name, and she reviewed the life of this brother who had remained a stranger to her, and whose death, two months before, had left her almost indifferent. Then, a half-burned scrap138 containing her father's name gave her an uneasy feeling, for she believed that her father had obtained possession of the fortune and the house on the avenue of Bois de Boulogne through the good offices of his hairdresser's niece, the innocent Rose, repaid, no doubt, by a generous percentage. Then she met with other names, that of her uncle Eugene, the former vice2 emperor, now dead, the cure of Saint-Eutrope, who, she had been told yesterday, was dying of consumption. And each fragment became animated141 in this way; the execrable family lived again in these scraps, these black ashes, where were now only disconnected words.
Then Clotilde had the curiosity to unfold the genealogical tree and spread it out upon the table. A strong emotion gained on her; she was deeply affected143 by these relics144; and when she read once more the notes added in pencil by Pascal, a few moments before his death, tears rose to her eyes. With what courage he had written down the date of his death! And what despairing regret for life one divined in the trembling words announcing the birth of the child! The tree ascended145, spread out its branches, unfolded its leaves, and she remained for a long time contemplating146 it, saying to herself that all the work of the master was to be found here in the classified records of this family tree. She could still hear certain of his words commenting on each hereditary147 case, she recalled his lessons. But the children, above all, interested her; she read again and again the notes on the leaves which bore their names. The doctor's colleague in Noumea, to whom he had written for information about the child born of the marriage of the convict Etienne, had at last made up his mind to answer; but the only information he gave was in regard to the sex--it was a girl, he said, and she seemed to be healthy. Octave Mouret had come near losing his daughter, who had always been very frail148, while his little boy continued to enjoy superb health. But the chosen abode149 of vigorous health and of extraordinary fecundity150 was still the house of Jean, at Valqueyras, whose wife had had two children in three years and was about to have a third. The nestlings throve in the sunshine, in the heart of a fertile country, while the father sang as he guided his plow151, and the mother at home cleverly made the soup and kept the children in order. There was enough new vitality152 and industry there to make another family, a whole race. Clotilde fancied at this moment that she could hear Pascal's cry: "Ah, our family! what is it going to be, in what kind of being will it end?" And she fell again into a reverie, looking at the tree sending its latest branches into the future. Who could tell whence the healthy branch would spring? Perhaps the great and good man so long awaited was germinating153 there.
A slight cry drew Clotilde from her reflections. The muslin curtain of the cradle seemed to become animate142. It was the child who had wakened up and was moving about and calling to her. She at once took him out of the cradle and held him up gaily, that he might bathe in the golden light of the setting sun. But he was insensible to the beauty of the closing day; his little vacant eyes, still full of sleep, turned away from the vast sky, while he opened wide his rosy and ever hungry mouth, like a bird opening its beak154. And he cried so loud, he had wakened up so ravenous155, that she decided156 to nurse him again. Besides, it was his hour; it would soon be three hours since she had last nursed him.
Clotilde sat down again beside the table. She took him on her lap, but he was not very good, crying louder and louder, growing more and more impatient; and she looked at him with a smile while she unfastened her dress, showing her round, slender throat. Already the child knew, and raising himself he felt with his lips for the breast. When she placed it in his mouth he gave a little grunt157 of satisfaction; he threw himself upon her with the fine, voracious158 appetite of a young gentleman who was determined to live. At first he had clutched the breast with his little free hand, as if to show that it was his, to defend it and to guard it. Then, in the joy of the warm stream that filled his throat he raised his little arm straight up, like a flag. And Clotilde kept her unconscious smile, seeing him so healthy, so rosy, and so plump, thriving so well on the nourishment159 he drew from her. During the first few weeks she had suffered from a fissure160, and even now her breast was sensitive; but she smiled, notwithstanding, with that peaceful look which mothers wear, happy in giving their milk as they would give their blood.
When she had unfastened her dress, showing her bare throat and breast, in the solitude and silence of the study, another of her mysteries, one of her sweetest and most hidden secrets, was revealed at the same time--the slender necklace with the seven pearls, the seven fine, milky161 stars which the master had put around her neck on a day of misery162, in his mania163 for giving. Since it had been there no one else had seen it. It seemed as if she guarded it with as much modesty164 as if it were a part of her flesh, so simple, so pure, so childlike. And all the time the child was nursing she alone looked at it in a dreamy reverie, moved by the tender memory of the kisses whose warm perfume it still seemed to keep.
A burst of distant music seemed to surprise Clotilde. She turned her head and looked across the fields gilded165 by the oblique rays of the sun. Ah, yes! the ceremony, the laying of the corner stone yonder! Then she turned her eyes again on the child, and she gave herself up to the delight of seeing him with so fine an appetite. She had drawn166 forward a little bench, to raise one of her knees, resting her foot upon it, and she leaned one shoulder against the table, beside the tree and the blackened fragments of the envelopes. Her thoughts wandered away in an infinitely167 sweet reverie, while she felt the best part of herself, the pure milk, flowing softly, making more and more her own the dear being she had borne. The child had come, the redeemer, perhaps. The bells rang, the three wise men had set out, followed by the people, by rejoicing nature, smiling on the infant in its swaddling clothes. She, the mother, while he drank life in long draughts168, was dreaming already of his future. What would he be when she should have made him tall and strong, giving herself to him entirely? A scientist, perhaps, who would reveal to the world something of the eternal truth; or a great captain, who would confer glory on his country; or, still better, one of those shepherds of the people who appease101 the passions and bring about the reign7 of justice. She saw him, in fancy, beautiful, good and powerful. Hers was the dream of every mother--the conviction that she had brought the expected Messiah into the world; and there was in this hope, in this obstinate16 belief, which every mother has in the certain triumph of her child, the hope which itself makes life, the belief which gives humanity the ever renewed strength to live still.
What would the child be? She looked at him, trying to discover whom he resembled. He had certainly his father's brow and eyes, there was something noble and strong in the breadth of the head. She saw a resemblance to herself, too, in his fine mouth and his delicate chin. Then, with secret uneasiness, she sought a resemblance to the others, the terrible ancestors, all those whose names were there inscribed169 on the tree, unfolding its growth of hereditary leaves. Was it this one, or this, or yet this other, whom he would resemble? She grew calm, however, she could not but hope, her heart swelled with eternal hope. The faith in life which the master had implanted in her kept her brave and steadfast. What did misery, suffering and wickedness matter! Health was in universal labor, in the effort made, in the power which fecundates and which produces. The work was good when the child blessed love. Then hope bloomed anew, in spite of the open wounds, the dark picture of human shame. It was life perpetuated170, tried anew, life which we can never weary of believing good, since we live it so eagerly, with all its injustice70 and suffering.
Clotilde had glanced involuntarily at the ancestral tree spread out beside her. Yes, the menace was there--so many crimes, so much filth171, side by side with so many tears, and so much patient goodness; so extraordinary a mixture of the best and the most vile172, a humanity in little, with all its defects and all its struggles. It was a question whether it would not be better that a thunderbolt should come and destroy all this corrupt173 and miserable174 ant-hill. And after so many terrible Rougons, so many vile Macquarts, still another had been born. Life did not fear to create another of them, in the brave defiance175 of its eternity. It continued its work, propagated itself according to its laws, indifferent to theories, marching on in its endless labor. Even at the risk of making monsters, it must of necessity create, since, in spite of all it creates, it never wearies of creating in the hope, no doubt, that the healthy and the good will one day come. Life, life, which flows like a torrent176, which continues its work, beginning it over and over again, without pause, to the unknown end! life in which we bathe, life with its infinity177 of contrary currents, always in motion, and vast as a boundless sea!
A transport of maternal178 fervor179 thrilled Clotilde's heart, and she smiled, seeing the little voracious mouth drinking her life. It was a prayer, an invocation, to the unknown child, as to the unknown God! To the child of the future, to the genius, perhaps, that was to be, to the Messiah that the coming century awaited, who would deliver the people from their doubt and their suffering! Since the nation was to be regenerated180, had he not come for this work? He would make the experiment anew, he would raise up walls, give certainty to those who were in doubt, he would build the city of justice, where the sole law of labor would insure happiness. In troublous times prophets were to be expected--at least let him not be the Antichrist, the destroyer, the beast foretold181 in the Apocalypse--who would purge182 the earth of its wickedness, when this should become too great. And life would go on in spite of everything, only it would be necessary to wait for other myriads183 of years before the other unknown child, the benefactor184, should appear.
But the child had drained her right breast, and, as he was growing angry, Clotilde turned him round and gave him the left. Then she began to smile, feeling the caress185 of his greedy little lips. At all events she herself was hope. A mother nursing, was she not the image of the world continued and saved? She bent186 over, she looked into his limpid187 eyes, which opened joyously188, eager for the light. What did the child say to her that she felt her heart beat more quickly under the breast which he was draining? To what cause would he give his blood when he should be a man, strong with all the milk which he would have drunk? Perhaps he said nothing to her, perhaps he already deceived her, and yet she was so happy, so full of perfect confidence in him.
Again there was a distant burst of music. This must be the apotheosis189, the moment when Grandmother Felicite, with her silver trowel, laid the first stone of the monument to the glory of the Rougons. The vast blue sky, gladdened by the Sunday festivities, rejoiced. And in the warm silence, in the solitary peace of the workroom, Clotilde smiled at the child, who was still nursing, his little arm held straight up in the air, like a signal flag of life.
The End
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1
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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motes
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| n.尘埃( mote的名词复数 )；斑点 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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19
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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20
penuriously
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| adv.penurious（吝啬的）的变形 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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22
expiated
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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27
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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28
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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disinterestedness
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30
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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31
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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33
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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36
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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37
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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fibers
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| 光纤( fiber的名词复数 )； （织物的）质地； 纤维，纤维物质 | |
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39
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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40
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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41
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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42
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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43
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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44
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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45
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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46
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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47
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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48
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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49
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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50
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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51
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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52
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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53
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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54
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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55
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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56
sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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57
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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58
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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59
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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60
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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62
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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63
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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64
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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65
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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66
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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67
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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68
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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69
injustices
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| 不公平( injustice的名词复数 )； 非正义； 待…不公正； 冤枉 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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71
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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72
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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73
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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74
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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75
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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76
augmenting
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| 使扩张 | |
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77
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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79
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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80
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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81
courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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82
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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83
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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84
wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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85
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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87
perverts
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| n.性变态者( pervert的名词复数 )v.滥用( pervert的第三人称单数 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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88
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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89
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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91
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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92
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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93
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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94
mediator
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| n.调解人，中介人 | |
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95
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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98
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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interrogating
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| n.询问技术v.询问( interrogate的现在分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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101
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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102
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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104
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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105
deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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108
underlay
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的过去式 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起n.衬垫物 | |
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109
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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110
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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112
utilize
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| vt.使用，利用 | |
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113
utilized
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| v.利用，使用( utilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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115
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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116
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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117
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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118
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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119
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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120
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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121
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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122
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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123
delegation
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| n.代表团；派遣 | |
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124
notaries
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| n.公证人，公证员( notary的名词复数 ) | |
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125
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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126
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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127
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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128
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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129
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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130
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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131
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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132
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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135
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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137
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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138
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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139
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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140
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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141
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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143
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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144
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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145
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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149
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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150
fecundity
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| n.生产力；丰富 | |
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151
plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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152
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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153
germinating
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| n.& adj.发芽（的）v.（使）发芽( germinate的现在分词 ) | |
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154
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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156
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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157
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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158
voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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159
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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160
fissure
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| n.裂缝；裂伤 | |
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161
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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162
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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164
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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165
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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166
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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167
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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168
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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169
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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170
perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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171
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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172
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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173
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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174
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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175
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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176
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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177
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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178
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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179
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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180
regenerated
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| v.新生，再生( regenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
purge
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| n.整肃，清除，泻药，净化；vt.净化，清除，摆脱；vi.清除，通便，腹泻，变得清洁 | |
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183
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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184
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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185
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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186
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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187
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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188
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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189
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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